Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (58 page)

 
          
The
spur of the Kharm-rhanna holding the pass was clearer now, wooded slopes dark
green in the afternoon sun, the gash cut by the Shemme standing bright: a
gateway out of
Kandahar
. Anomius prepared to mount.

           
Bracht said, "Can we not
eat?"

 
          
The
wizard turned an angry face on the Kem.

 
          
"Would
you taste my power again?"

 
          
"I'd
eat," Bracht answered. "We've a long ride ahead and hunger sits ill
on my belly."

 
          
Anomius
raised a threatening hand, then thought better of it and smiled.

 
          
"Later—perhaps
when we reach the pass."

 
          
Bracht
looked up to where the foothills hung against the sky and shrugged, making no
move to mount.

 
          
"Remember,"
Anomius murmured, his voice falsely affable, "that distance from me means
agony."

 
          
He
dragged himself astride the grey and heeled the horse to a trot through the
sleepy village. Calandryll tinned to Bracht.

 
          
"Dera,
would you have him work his magic on you again? Do you seek deliberately to
anger him?"

 
          
"I
tire of his commands."

 
          
Bracht
grinned and swung astride the chestnut without further explanation. Calandryll
mounted and followed him, alarmed now: fearing that perhaps Anomius's magicks
had addled the Kem's mind.

 
          
They
passed through the village into farmland, increasing their pace as the trail
wound among fenced fields; the land climbing steadily toward the hills. Anomius
kicked the grey to a swift canter and Bracht speeded to come alongside the
black-robed man.

 
          
"Slower,"
he urged. "You'll wind your mount."

 
          
As
if to emphasize his point he reined the chestnut back, prompting an angry grunt
from the sorcerer. "An exhausted horse is useless," he called.
"Slow down."

 
          
In
answer, Anomius turned in his saddle, extending bis hand again. Calandryll
shouted a warning, but even as it passed his lips Bracht jerked upright,
holding his seat with difficulty. His lips stretched back from chattering teeth
and his suddenly shaking arms sent his horse dancing, circling its own tail.
Bracht slumped in the saddle as Anomius lowered his hand, the chestnut shaking
its head, snorting nervously.

 
          
"Enough!"
the wizard yelled, his voice shrill. "Do you seek to delay me? Do you wish
me to bind you with more spells?"

 
          
Bracht
shook his head; Calandryll saw that he smiled. Or that pain stretched his lips
in parody. They rode on, the trail steeper now, climbing up past hill meadows
to meet the timberline, the afternoon growing older, their way soon shadowed by
tall trees, the sun fleeting through the branches.

 
          
"Must
we ride hungry?" Bracht demanded. "You allowed we'd halt to
eat."

 
          
And
once again Anomius hurled magic at him, rocking him in the saddle until he
moaned his acceptance that they should continue. Calandryll feared more
seriously that his comrade was addled by the sorcerer's attacks, for be saw
that as the pain faded Bracht still grinned, the expression wolfish, as if he
found some secret satisfaction in the suffering.

 
          
Then
they rounded a curve in the trail and saw they stood upon a shelf thrusting out
from the foothills above the Shemme. The river shone silver in the sun, flanked
on both sides by high walls of black rock, the spur they crossed angling away
northeast to meet the Kharm-rhanna where Nhur-jabal stood upon its bluff, as
much guardian of this valley as of that behind them. The trail wound down,
serpentine in its descent, the north-facing slopes devoid of timber, to a
cluster of buildings.

 
          
Anomius
chuckled and heeled his horse onward. Bracht reined back, holding his position,
and shouted, "Best approach with caution, mage."

           
Again the wizard flung magic at him:
again the Kem smiled his awful grin.

 
          
They
reached the riverside as the sun drew close to the mountain peaks, the valley
shadowed, but not yet full dark, boats visible at the waterside. Anomius made
directly for the anchorage, his horse's hooves loud on the cobbles that
streeted the little settlement.

 
          
Then
he reined hard in, mouthing a curse as three men appeared before him. The grey
horse reared and the wizard struggled to retain his seat, fighting the animal
to a standstill and launching himself with unusual agility from the saddle.

 
          
Calandryll
stared, hearing Bracht laugh, casting one swift glance at the Kem: seeing his
face alight with anticipation, lips curved in a wolfish smile. Then all his
attention was focused on the three men facing Anomius. Two were tall, the third
short. All wore long robes of black and silver, marked with cabalistic designs,
their headdresses black, each pinned with a silver star. They bore no weapons;
nor needed any he saw as they raised their hands, light sparkling there, the
stone at his throat pulsing fiery, the air thick with the scent of almonds.

 
          
"Do
you think to defy the Tyrant?"

 
          
He
could not tell which spoke, for their lips moved in unison, the question
mmbling thunder.

 
          
"Do
you think to escape his justice?"

 
          
"Do
you think to pass us?"

 
          
His
horse began to prance and he felt Bracht's hands on him, dragging him
unceremoniously from the saddle as Anomius shrieked in fury and met the light
that burst from the six outthrust hands with his own fell fire. He stumbled
after the freesword as the horses screamed in panic no less than his own and
fled the explosion that burst where pale light met red. The smell of burning
hung on the air as Bracht thrust him down behind stacked bales, close to the
water, and it seemed the heat of it must sear his lungs, the air reeking, the
stone he wore fierce against his skin.

 
          
Then
suddenly unnatural night descended, a foul darkness, stinking of decay, and in
it shapes moved, malign things that shuffled and snorted, clacking dagger
fangs, eyes glowing redly. The sun was hidden in the occult clouding, the only
illumination the bright white light that burned about the three men—sorcerers,
he knew,- the Tyrant's men, sent from Nhur-jabal—and that growing, taking forms
that moved to meet the shadow beasts of Anomius's conjuring, clashing with
them, the air loud with their unnatural shrieking. Darkness and light met in
awful battle, rending, tearing. He felt Bracht's hand on his shoulder, urging
him on, away from the cover of the bales toward the water. He heard Anomius
scream: he could not tell whether in pain or outrage. Then it seemed that
tatters of black fell, seething, to the cobbles and the light grew brighter
until the sun shone again, orange now, and closer to its setting. He saw the
Tyrant's sorcerers standing before Anomius. One, the tallest, clutched his side
as though wounded. Anomius snarled, parchment face contorted, feral, and raised
both hands.

 
          
Fire
burned from his fingertips and the hurt man screamed, wreathed in flame,
consumed so that only dark ashes drifted to the cobbles. The others answered
with blinding light that drove the bulbous-nosed little man back across the
harbor, defensive now, fire a wall before him, holding off the light. It seemed
he grew within that fire, becoming tall as the golem he had created, and massy
as that creature, a hulking man-beast with flaming hair and hands that spat
incandescence, his strength increasing, for now the two warlocks staggered
back, weaving spells to fend off his magic as he advanced, roaring, toward
them.

 
          
Light
and flame met once more. Calandryll saw the bales behind which he had sheltered
take fire, sparks dancing high, thatch igniting on the nearby buildings. He
felt Bracht yank him back, closer still to the water. He saw Anomius's face
turn toward him, furious, a hand extended. Fire burst from the fingers and he
raised his own hands, unaware that he clutched the red stone: a defensive
talisman, but surely useless against the wizard's awesome power.

 
          
He
screamed as the flames washed over him, hearing Anomius's shout through the
dinning.

 
          
"You'll
not escape me! The book is mine and I shall have it!"

 
          
His
lungs were filled with fire, his ears with the roaring of the flames, his
nostrils with the stench of scorching flesh that he knew for his own. The red
stone was a coal in his hand.

 
          
He
knew that he died, and was grateful for the darkness that took him: it was
blessed relief from the agony.

 
         
So
this was death, this gentle ending of pain. It surprised him, even though he
had not thought overmuch of what followed after life. To dwell in peace with
Dera, the priests of Lysse said, and mostly left it at that, though if pressed
they would elaborate a little: to be at one with the Goddess,- to serve her and
bask in her love down all the ages of eternity; to know no suffering, no want;
to be. without need, content. Vague, and now it seemed the afterlife was not so
different from the preceding existence: a blue sky spread above him, streaked
with high cloud, long mare's tails blown out by a wind that he felt warm on his
face, a sensation of drifting, as if home on some ethereal vessel, a distant
sound, as of water running to some unseen destination. Perhaps, he thought,
this was transition; a passage necessary between the world of flesh and that of
the spirit, Dera awaiting him at the journey's end. He breathed in air that
tasted no different to that left behind, save that it lacked the stink of
burning, and sighed, content for the moment to ride between the worlds,
grateful that the agony of Anomius's awful fire was gone. He raised a hand and
saw it whole, uncharred where he had thought to find roasted flesh, bones
blackened by magic, and realized that he lay supine. He sat up.

 
          
And
cried out as Bracht's voice said,"So you wake at last. I thought perhaps
you' sleep until we reach the sea." He turned to find his comrade smiling
at him, seated a little above him, and gaped, saying, "He slew you, too?
We are both dead then."

 
          
Bracht's
laughter surprised him no less than the similarity of world and afterlife, and
he frowned his incomprehension.

 
          
"We
are not dead," the Kern said. "Look about you."

 
          
Slowly,
he craned his head round. Steep walls of rugged granite rose on both sides,
tall pines thrusting from declivities where sufficient soil had gathered to
support such dendrous life, and between those walls ran a river, not so wide as
the Yst but broad enough. They floated down it, he saw now, in a small boat,
Bracht at the tiller, he in the bilge. He eased himself up, onto the midships
thwart, the movement rocking the craft.

 
          
"Careful!"
Bracht warned. "I've little enough skill for this and Ahrd knows, I'd not
drown now."

 
          
He
stared at the freesword, blinking, thinking to find himself in some trap set by
Anomius, or the Tyrant's wizards, and dabbled a cautious hand in the stream.
The water was cold and wet: true water as best he could tell; he brought his
hand to his lips and tasted it, splashed his face and shook his head.

 
          
"We
are not slain?"

 
          
"We
live," Bracht said firmly, smiling still. "We go down the Shemme—to
Kharasul, if all goes well."

 
          
"Anomius?"
he gasped. "The Tyrant's sorcerers?"

 
          
"Two
nights and a day behind us," Bracht said. "If they live, though all
may be dead for what I know. You've slept that time through, like a babe—save
that you breathed I thought my plan had failed."

 
          
"Plan?"
he mumbled, confused. "You had a plan?"

 
          
Bracht
nodded, grinning. "And one that worked, it seems, for there's been no sign
of pursuit."

 
          
The
stony walls, the river, the sky, all took on a new reality as he studied them
with eyes he now accepted were alive. "Tell me," he asked. Bracht
chuckled, shrugging, his expression both pleased and a little embarrassed.
"I'd have told you sooner," he declared, "save that I suspected
your knowing might have thwarted it."

 
          
Calandryll's
eyes narrowed. "You brought his anger down deliberately," he said,
aware that his voice held
accusation.                                                                                                             
.

 
          
"I
did," Bracht nodded, "I thought long on it and it seemed the only way
to rid us of the cursed wizard. There was risk, I knew, but I saw no other
way."

 
          
"Tell
me," he repeated.

 
          
"On
the
Sea Dancer,
when the warboat came, you denied all knowledge of what
happened, but we both saw the woman and her boat swept away—as if some power
rose up to protect us. Or you. In Mherut'yi, after the Chaipaku attacked, your
injury was healed when you wore the stone. When Sathoman took us, Anomius said
he could not touch you with his glamours—that you were protected by the
stone."

 
          
"He
might have removed it," Calandryll said, and fell silent as Bracht raised
a hand, continuing.

 
          
"But
he did not. He left you with it and believed your story of the grimoire, even
though he had never heard of such a book; even though he seems as widely read
as you."

 
          
"How
do you know that?" Calandryll wondered.

 
          
"In
the forest, when I hunted down that first deer," Bracht grinned, "I
made my kill early. I'd have returned with the meat but that I heard you
talking and thought to listen—it's the habit of Cuan na'For to walk wary.
Anomius spoke of books and libraries and denied all mention of the grimoire—yet
still he believed in its existence and never thought to question further. That
seemed odd to me. At first I thought it merely greed that drove
him
—
his lust for ultimate
power—but then I began to wonder if that stone you wear worked on him. You
remember that I spoke of a design? That by traveling with the wizard we crossed
Kandahar faster than we might alone? I was not sure, save that the stone imbues
you with some power you—nor I!—understand.

 
          
"A
more cautious man—a man in less haste—would not have ventured so close to
Nhur-jabal, knowing that sorcerers of equal strength resided there and might—as
Anomius himself warned—sense the presence of magic. We might have crossed the
river farther down and come to the Shemme by a more circuitous route, but it
seemed that greed consumed the wizard the closer we came and he forwent caution
in his haste. I decided then to attempt it—by bringing his anger on me I
prompted him to work magic that was sensed in Nhur-jabal. I saw that valley and
guessed the Tyrant's sorcerers would meet us at the pass, or at the river,
brought down by Anomius himself."

 
          
He
paused, his grin fading for a moment, replaced with a look close to
embarrassment as he studied Calandryll's face.

 
          
"The
rest was a chance I felt we must take. The war-boat, the Chaipaku, Anomius's
failure to touch you—all convinced me that the stone unleashes power in you
when danger threatens. I trusted in it to protect you then. It
did."   .

 
          
Calandryll
gaped, not sure whether he wished to laugh or rail against the Kem for flirting
with such danger. It came to him that Bracht had never spoken for so long; that
the tanned features were grave, as if seeking his forgiveness,- and that Bracht
had pondered lengthily on the matter and taken the only course he saw to escape
Anomius. He said, "What happened then?"

 
          
"You
saw them join in magical battle?" Bracht asked, and when he nodded,
"Anomius became as one with the demons he raised against Kesham-vaj. He
said then that such occult workings leeched his strength; the Tyrant's wizards,
too, I thought, must feel that weakening. I counted on that to see us
clear—that and the stone.

 
          
"Anomius
turned his hand against you and you were lashed with fire. I saw the stone bum,
like a shell about you. For a moment I thought us both slain, but then I Knew
we lived and I was protected, too. Because I held you, I suppose. I threw you
into the nearest boat and cut the lines. We drifted clear as the wizards
fought, and the last I saw of them was fire in the sky. The town burned, I
think."

 
          
Calandryll
stared at his reckless comrade:
It’s the habit of Cuan na’For to walk wary
?
He smiled, seeing scorched hair, leather shirt cracked as if brought too close
to flame.

 
          
"You
risked much," he said. "I thought I died."

 
          
"I
feared you had," Bracht returned solemnly, then grinned again. "But
then you breathed and I saw no sign of burning on you and knew you
were
protected."

 
          
"So
now you think me mage?"

 
          
"No."
Bracht shook his head. "I think you have some power beyond your
understanding; certainly beyond mine. The stone would appear to release it, and
it saved us both, so I'll revise my opinion of magic where you're concerned."

 
          
"My
thanks," Calandryll said dryly.

 
          
Bracht
grinned and said, "It served us well. And if magic dogs us, we're better
warned—and likely Gessyth's a place even less hospitable than Kandahar, so it
may well aid us again."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded, then asked, "A day and two nights you say we've been on the
river?"

 
          
"Aye,"
Bracht replied, "and without food. What little we had left went with the
horses. Our gear, too."

 
          
"The
map?" Calandryll felt alarm renewed. "The money?"

 
          
"The
satchel is there." Bracht pointed to where the sack had pillowed
Calandryll's head; patted his waist. "And what Varent paid me I still
carry. We have our clothes and our blades, but all else is lost."

 
          
It
seemed a small price to pay to be rid of Anomius: Calandryll shrugged it off.

 
          
"We
can buy what we need in Kharasul. With map and coin—and the stone—we've
enough."

 
          
"Save
food," Bracht said. "That was no lie when I told the wizard I was
hungry."

 
          
"Surely
there must be villages along the Shemme?"

 
          
"We
passed one yesterday," Bracht agreed, "but I've no knowledge of boats
or river craft—I cannot stop this thing."

 
          
Calandryll
began to laugh then, his mirth rocking the dinghy: he lived and Anomius was
left behind; the notion of Bracht manning the tiller for a day and two nights
as the little vessel floated, unstoppable, down the Shemme struck him as hugely
amusing.

 
          
"I'll
take the helm," he said, "I have some knowledge of boats."

 
          
Cautiously,
Bracht passed the rudder to Calandryll, announcing his intention of sleeping as
he stretched along the bilge. Calandryll settled on the stem thwart and guided
the craft westward.

 
          
Glancing
at the sun he saw that noon approached, and a little while after the disk had
passed its zenith he saw a settlement on the bank ahead. He steered the dinghy
to a mooring on a stone quay and woke Bracht. Together they found a tavern,
where they ate a meal of fish taken from the river, and then obtained
sufficient provisions to see them through to Kharasul. No mention was made in
tavern or township of occult sightings, nor of Tyrant's craft come seeking
fugitives, and they decided they had made good their escape. Anomius was either
slain by the Tyrant's sorcerers or taken prisoner—in which event it seemed most
probable he would face execution: a fate they could not regret—and no mages in
black and silver appeared to bar their going as they set course again. Perhaps
they were assumed dead, slain in the glamorous battle: that suited their
purpose well enough and, with bellies filled, they felt cheerful as they
continued down the river.