The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [173]
Salamander held the falcata vertically in front of the image. He sailed free of the cliff edge and began to drift downward, but he kept glancing back to ensure that the silver cord played out smoothly, and that it glowed thick and strong behind him. Down below, the priestesses had gathered some hundreds of yards from the main body of the army. No doubt their servants pitched the holy camp well away from the noise and pollution of the fighting men. He drifted toward them, and as he did he heard the first chant of recognition.
In a cloud of silver auras the priestesses ran free of the tents and campfires to huddle together out in the open meadowland, well away from the river and its treacherous water veil. He could just discern them lifting up their arms toward the image as they chanted a welcome. Salamander arranged a scowl, as fierce and disapproving as he could make it, on his face and thus the image’s face. He turned toward the north and raised his falcata to point in that direction. The chanting changed, the voices shaking on the notes.
He kept the saber pointing north while he made the image stamp its feet and wave its arms in an astral temper tantrum. Below him the chanting stopped. Voices cried out in fear and called out questions to the goddess, questions that he had no way of answering except to point back the way the army had come.
Behind him the silver cord had stretched out dangerously thin. Salamander turned the image around and sailed back to the cliff, following the cord to his body. For a moment he hovered inside the image while the priestesses below cried out once again. He understood just enough of the Gel da’Thae tongue to know that they were begging Alshandra to return and speak to them. Instead, he slid down the cord to his body and transferred his consciousness back to his physical being. Before he broke the trance, he banished the Alshandra image.
Salamander sat up, exhausted and sweating despite the cool evening wind. Rori crouched nearby like a cat with all four legs tucked under him and his tail wrapped neatly around his haunches. His silver scales glimmered in the gathering twilight.
“Ye gods,” the dragon said. “I could just make out that Alshandra-thing floating around. I take it that you created it.”
“I did, yes.” Salamander paused to grab his water bottle and drink. With a stream so close by, he allowed himself to finish off the contents before he spoke again. “You know how children play with their dolls and little toy warriors? They hold them up and dance them around and speak for them? That’s what I’m doing with this false Alshandra, though, alas, I cannot make her speak. It would make my task a fair bit easier if only I could.”
“What would you have her say?”
“Go back, go back, you impious creatures! I forbid you to take Cerr Cawnen!”
The dragon rumbled with laughter. “Too bad life is never so simple and kind.”
“Just so.” Salamander stretched his aching arms and shoulders. “But I’ll wager I’ve given them something to chew over among themselves. At best, mayhap the fighting men will turn superstitious and lose their morale.”
“They’re superstitious already, believing what they do. As for their morale, you’ve made it sink, I wager.”
“Splendid! On the morrow I’ll make another appearance, but I’m going to wait till they’re on the move.”
At intervals throughout the day, Dallandra had been scrying for Salamander, though she’d not attempted to contact him mind to mind, an operation that would siphon off some of his magical energies when he needed every pulse of them he could muster. She’d seen, therefore, both of his workings with the Alshandra image. Unfortunately, she’d received only a confused impression of the army’s reactions, as she’d never seen any of the Horsekin or their priestesses in the flesh. She could only hope that the sight of their angry goddess had terrified