Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (50 page)

 
          
"You
gave him your word, and as he said—you hold that high. You took Lord Varent's
commission on that, despite your doubts."

 
          
Bracht
nodded, smiling. "I promised to bring him to the grimoire," he said.
"Only that."

 
          
"So?"
Calandryll was confused. "Does that not bind you to his service?"

 
          
"The
grimoire is a fiction," Bracht answered. "In his arrogance he failed
to question you on that—how can I bring him to a thing that does not exist?
Besides, he offered no payment for my services."

 
          
Calandryll
stared at the Kern, who faced him with solemn mien. Then they both began to
laugh.

 
         
Throughout
the morning they watched as Sathoman's men commenced the construction of
several massive bonfires. Toiling squads hauled fresh-cut timber in carts and
on makeshift sleds from all over the plateau, building the huge pyres facing
the barricades, just beyond arrow range. The defenders, apparently sensing some
pending occult attack, made one sally, but that was driven back by the archers
still posted about Kesham-vaj, while the remainder of the brigand army
concentrated on fetching wood and stacking it in accordance with the warlock's
instructions. By early afternoon, when it seemed there could not be a tree left
on the highland, Anomius called a halt and the rebels stood down. Food and
water were brought to the prisoners, but although Anomius came to release the
door spell, he said nothing, merely smiling and tapping his excessive nose in a
conspiratorial manner. They ate by the door, fascinated by the preparations for
the assault.

 
          
It
began in late afternoon.

 
          
Anomius,
protected by a squad of shield-bearing warriors and bowmen, went to each
bonfire in turn, mouthing unheard words and moving his hands in complex
gestures that set the air about him to shimmering. Calandryll saw that the red
stone glowed fiercer as the wizard performed his rituals. Sathoman stood
beneath the shadowing canopy of his pavilion, his huge hand clenching and
unclenching on his sword's hilt, his eyes fixed on the tiny sorcerer, a look of
savage anticipation on his bearded face. Anomius completed his rites and nodded
to a soldier, who bellowed orders that sent a man running to each pyre, torch
in hand. The stacked timber ignited, flame climbing hungrily over the wood, the
air shining and shimmering as the heat grew, blue smoke climbing wind-tossed
toward the cloudy sky. Anomius walked to where Sathoman stood and they spoke a
moment, then the giant nodded and settled a dragon-crested morion on his head,
beckoning his lieutenants to follow as he strode to where the main body of his
force stood ready. Anomius waited until he had taken his place at the head of
the phalanx, then raised his arms, wide spread, palms outward. The stone pulsed
stronger: Calandryll tugged it from his shirt as it burned against his chest.
The scent of almonds hung cloying in his nostrils. Then flame burst from
Anomius's palms, twin balls of fire hanging in the air, his hands transformed
to living torches. He brought his arms down, shouting a single word, and
incandescent tongues licked out, streaking toward the bonfires, whose roaring
changed in timbre, becoming less the crackling and booming of flame-consumed
wood than the throaty growling of some living creatures. Each one burned
higher, burned fiercer, great sheets of fire lofting, writhing as if possessed
of some sensate energy. And from those conflagrations stepped beings of pure
flame, manlike and beast-shaped simultaneously, malformed, malign things that
emanated rage and evil as they stood, towering, burning heads turning on
columnar necks as if seeking victims to satisfy their dreadful appetites.

 
          
Anomius
spoke again, and though his words were lost beneath the booming of the fires it
seemed the flame beasts heard him, for each one turned in the direction of
Kesham-vaj and began to move ponderously toward the town. Where they trod the
ground burned, the trampled grass scorching, the earth itself left black and smoking
in their wake. The scent of almonds grew sickeningly sweet; the stone blazed,
itself like fire now. Calandryll watched dumbstruck as arrows rained from the
defenses, useless, burning even before they touched the fiery apparitions. For
each entry into Kesham-vaj there was one flame beast, and they marched
implacably toward the barricades, high as houses, looming above those few
defenders brave—or desperate—enough to remain.

 
          
Those
who did perished as the occult creatures reached down, fiery paws indiscriminate
as they tore at the barriers, wood and flesh alike burning on their touch.
Between the houses the barricades were demolished in a moment, timber
blackening and collapsing into ash that swirled within the flaming forms of the
creatures, striping them with black and streaks of gray. Metal melted where
they were, spears and sword blades running like ice in flame, sizzling in
molten droplets to the charred ground, the wielders—those not themselves
consumed— running in terror.

 
          
A
clarion rang and Calandryll saw Sathoman raise his great sword aloft, bellowing
a war cry as he began to run straight for the closest fire beast.

 
          
For
one wild instant Calandryll thought the brigand lord would himself charge to
his death, but as he approached the creature it turned and stalked ahead,
driving the defenders before it, and, still screaming his war shout, Sathoman
led his men into Kesham-vaj.

 
          
Then
the afternoon was loud with the clamor of battle, the ek'Hennem forces
converging on the town in a savage human wave on the heels of the fire beasts.
Calandryll saw Anomius raise his hands again and the flickering shapes of the
monsters he had created flashed and were gone, leaving the field to mortal
combat, the heady almond scent clearing, leaving only the wood-smoke smell of
the fires. The wizard sagged, shoulders slumping beneath his shabby robe, his
chest heaving. A man brought him a stool and he collapsed onto the chair, head
hanging, threatening to dislodge his headdress. He remained thus, seemingly
exhausted by his conjurations, until a squad of Sathoman's men herded a robed
figure from the town. Then he straightened, sitting upright on the stool as the
man was brought before him.

 
          
This,
Calandryll guessed, was the sorcerer sent by the Tyrant to defend Kesham-vaj.
He was a more impressive sight than Anomius, taller and narrow-featured,
standing defiantly straight although obviously no less fatigued by his work
than the smaller man. His hands were bound and a knotted leather thong gagged
his tongue. Unbound grey hair hung about his face, falling to the shoulders of a
silvery robe streaked with soot and charred about the hem. As if conscious of
the difference in their heights, Anomius remained seated, studying the enemy
wizard with head cocked to one side. Then he gestured, murmuring something to
the soldiers, and they stood back, forming a loose half circle about the bound
man. Anomius gestured again and the wizard was abruptly wreathed in flame, a
single choking cry erupting from his lips. In no more time than it had taken
Anomius to mouth the spell, the flame was gone, the rival sorcerer with it. A
handful of ashes fluttered in the air, caught by the wind and blown away.
Anomius spoke again and the soldiers spun as if pleased to quit the wizard's
presence, trotting back to the fight.

 
          
It
went on until dusk, the clash of steel on steel gradually dimming, the shouting
fading until silence hung over the plateau. Then the clarion sounded again and
a great shout went up.

 
          
“I
think," Bracht said, "that Sathoman is now Lord of the Fayne in more
than name."

 
          
"And
has the time to think of us," Calandryll returned. "Anomius had best
act swiftly, unless he's changed his mind."

 
          
Bracht
ducked his head in silent agreement, his hawkish features thoughtful. "If
he's not," he said, "tonight would be the time to go—while Sathoman
basks in his triumph. And if we do, we'd best lay some plan for the
future."

 
          
Calandryll's
eyes framed a question.

 
          
"Anomius
is our only hope of escaping this," Bracht's gesture encompassed tne shed
and the town together, "and likely a wizard can ease our passage through
Kandahar
. But when we reach Kharasul? Are we to take
ship with him? Do we take him as companion to Tezin-dar?"

 
          
"Dera,
no!" Calandryll shook his head vigorously. "Should Anomius learn of
the Arcanum he'll seize it for himself—and that, I think, must be akin to
handing the book to Azumandias."

 
          
"Then
we must escape him," Bracht said.

 
          
"If
we can," Calandryll agreed.

 
          
"Even
sorcerers must sleep." Bracht tapped his sword hilt, a cold smile on his
lips. "And surely even sorcerers can be slain."

 
          
Calandryll
stared at the Kem, aware that they discussed what seemed no better than
cold-blooded murder. It seemed a long road from Secca to this, the changes in
his life perhaps more costly than he wished to pay. But the Arcanum was the
prize—the salvation of the world itself the stake in this game—and he nodded
reluctant agreement.

 
          
"If
we must."

 
          
The
sounds of revelry came from Kesham-vaj as the ek'Hennem army celebrated its
victory, and for the moment at least it seemed the prisoners were forgotten.
The moon, full now, rose to shine fitfully through the gathered cloud and a
light rain fell, damping the dying fires. Whatever spell Anomius had cast on
the cowshed did nothing to hold out the drizzle and Calandryll and Bracht
crouched, miserable and wary, beneath the scant shelter of the broken roof.
Food was brought them by a dirty, grinning soldier, Anomius lifting his spell
just long enough for the man to thrust the meal inside. Calandryll thought the
wizard would speak with them, but he merely glanced at them as before and
turned away. In the moonlight, his face was drawn, his eyes like reddened ditch
water ringed with purple shadow, giving no sign of his intentions. They ate
listening to the drunken shouting of the victors, wondering if the wizard
intended to renege on his promise. Of Sathoman ek'Hennem there was no sign, and
that at least was favorable: they composed themselves to sleep with blades at
their sides, their gear set close by in optimistic readiness.

 
          
Bracht
was the first to wake when Anomius came again, nudging Calandryll until he
stirred from a fitful dream of fiery monsters and trees that spoke, to open
bleary eyes on the small figure of the warlock standing in the doorway. Instinctively,
he glanced at the red stone, and saw that it held no glow to reveal magic,
guessing from that the door spell was removed.

 
          
Anomius
tapped a warning finger to his fleshy lips and beckoned them to their feet.

 
          
"Sathoman
celebrates his victory still," the warlock murmured, "and most of his
men are drunk. This is, I think, a most propitious time to leave. But first..

 
          
He
moved his hands, muttering, a finger extending toward Bracht. The Kem sprang
back, mouthing a curse, then shook his head, eyes glazing momentarily. Anomius
smiled amiably. Calandryll saw the stone flicker.

 
          
"A
simple spell, my friend. We have a journey to go, we three, and I'd not chance
your forgetting your vow."

 
          
"Curse
you!" Bracht snarled. "What have you done to me?"

 
          
"A
geas, no more," Anomius said. "I'd place the same upon Calandryll,
save that the stone prevents me."

 
          
"What
have you done to me?" Bracht repeated furiously, hand fastening on the
falchion's hilt.

 
          
"Draw
that—or any other weapon—against me," the wizard beamed, "and you
must turn the blade on Calandryll. Attempt to slay me, and your comrade
dies."

 
          
The
Kern stared at him, rage etched on his face. Calandryll said, "And I?
Should I come against you?"