Angus Wells - The God Wars 03
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Authors: Wild Magic (v1.1)
Also by Angus Wells
THE BOOKS OF THE KINGDOMS
WRATH OF ASHAR
THE USURPER
THE WAY BENEATH
THE GODWARS
FORBIDDEN MAGIC
DARK MAGIC
Available wherever
Bantam Spectra Books are sold
The uwagi was suddenly rigid,
shoulders flung back, the ghastly features straining upwards, howling at tfie
clouded sky, the taloned hands opening and then clenching as the body shuddered
and seemed to shift, another image imposed over its brutish form: the shape of
a Jesseryte warrior, the veil of his helmet thrown back to reveal a face,
indistinct, beastly and human, both, that smiled malign mockery.
Calandryll stared, seeing the form
of the Jesseryte imposed on the flickering shape of the uwagi, one then the
other, dream-like, like the shifting, darting movements of a fish glimpsed
through rippling, sunlit water.
He braced himself, favoring his
bruised leg, the straightsword extended, knowing beyond doubt what—
who
!—possessed the were-thing.
And Rhythamun chuckled and said, A
tidy trap, no? Use that blade and you die, leaving me the victory. Do not use
it, and my pets rend you limb from limb. You've seen their work, I think—shall
you enjoy that fate? No matter, for I take the day. The day and the Arcanum,
both, with all the world to follow when I raise Tharn. And for you, suffering
beyond your imagination."
WILD MAGIC
A Bantam Book / June 1993
Map
by Claudia Carbon
All
rights reserved.
Copyright
© 1993 by Angus Wells.
Cover
art copyright © 1993 by Kevin Tweddell.
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photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and re-
trieval system, without permission in writ ing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
ISBN
0-553-29130-0
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For Carole Blake . . .
Is
she not pure gold . .
WHEN she saw the riders
approaching, she felt genuinely thankful, for her own sake, as if she were
truly lost. She watched them, crouched in the grass, until she was certain they
were not clansmen, then rose, waving and calling.
They came toward her at a canter: a
beautiful woman, whose flaxen hair streamed out, glinting in the morning sun,
mounted on a grey horse,- a darkskinned Kern astride a big black stallion, his
hair black and bound in a long tail, his eyes hard and blue as he sighted her,-
a younger man, tanned dark, but Lyssian to judge by his features and the sun-
bleached mane that he wore in the Kernish style, his expression puzzled.
She ran toward them and they slowed,
eyeing her curiously, hands lightly touching their swordhilts, glancing round
as if anticipating some trick, wary of ambush.
"Praise all the gods you've
come," she cried. "My name is Cennaire."
Calandryll stared, torn between
surprise and suspicion, wondering how she came here, and in equal measure how
she could appear so lovely. Hair tangled and dusted with tares fell in raven
folds about a dirt-smudged face, that discoloration seeming only to emphasize
the lush redness of her full lips, her great brown eyes. She wore traveling
gear of soft brown leather, disheveled and stained, the tunic loose, so that as
she approached he saw full breasts outlined against her dirtied shirt, long
legs beneath the breeks. He thought her the loveliest woman he had ever seen.
He reined his horse to a halt and bowed from the saddle, letting go his
swordhilt: he perceived no danger. He smiled as he dismounted, ignoring
Bracht's warning grunt, the open suspicion in Katya's grey eyes.
"Cennaire?" He moved a pace
toward her. "I am Calandryll."
Cennaire repeated his name, softly,
scarcely needing to feign the relief she felt at finding her long- sought
quarry. So this was Calandryll den Karynth, this muscular young man. From
Anomius's description she had anticipated something else—a foppish princeling,
an effete scholar—but this man had the look of a freesword, hard and lean as
the blade he wore, his movements gracefully economic as he came closer. His
eyes were brown and concerned, his hair a ponytailed mane of sun-bleached gold:
he was handsome. She made a faint moaning sound and went to him, throwing
herself against him, his brown leathern shirt warm against her cheek, redolent
of sweat and horseflesh, the arms he put around her comforting, his very
presence after so long alone ill this wilderness—after what she had
witnessed—reassuring. It was easy to play her part.
Calandryll held her, not sure what
else to do, murmuring soft comforts as he felt her tremble against his chest,
wondering that sunlight could strike such sparks from hair so black, aware that
his companions dismounted now, still wary.
"How came you here?"
Cennaire raised her head from the
refuge of Calandryll's chest, looking to the speaker. Shirt and breeks of soft
black leather, iet hair drawn back from a hawkish face in which eyes of a
startling blue surveyed her impassively, a falchion of Kernish style sheathed
on the narrow waist: this must be Bracht. And the woman, her hair near silver,
her eyes grey and grave, clad in a shirt of fine mail and breeks that
emphasized the length and shapeliness of her legs, that must be the Vanu woman,
Katya. Her right hand, like Bracht's, touched lightly on the hilt of her sword,
that a gently curved saber.
Cennaire drew in a rasping breath
and moved a little back from Calandryll's embrace, sensing without needing to
look into his eyes that he regretted that loss of contact. Rapidly, almost
babbling, she blurted out the bones of the story Anomius had suggested,
fleshing that skeleton with embellishments of her own.
She was, she told them, a Kand,
formerly possessed of some wealth, that invested in partnership with a Lyssian
trader out of Gannshold. She had looked to protect her investment with her
presence, she said, and so gone out with the caravan, circuiting the western
quadrant of Cuan na'For. They had journeyed peacefully, until they came to the
Kess Imbrun, moving eastward, and were attacked by raiders come south out of
the Jesseryn Plain. She affected a shudder here, and essayed a tear, letting
her voice trail away as she spoke of the running fight and how she became
separated from her companions, who must now surely he dead.
When she was done with her tale she
sighed and sniffed and asked if she might moisten her lips. Calandryll passed
her his canteen and she drank, watching their faces.
Calandryll, she thought, was
disposed to believe her without undue questioning. Of Bracht, she was less
sure; and of Katya, not at all. She thought it did not much matter: these were
honorable folk, and would hardly leave her abandoned. Nor did they have spare
mounts, to give her one and send her on her way. She thought they must surely
take her with them, which was exactly as Anomius desired. And, if she was to
free herself of the ugly little wizard's domination, what she desired. Still,
as she passed the canteen back and smiled her thanks, she thought on the trump
she held, and chose to play it.
"Burash!" she said as
Bracht eyed her quizzically, Katya enigmatically. "That alone was
horrible—to see so many die. But then . . ."
She thought on what she had seen and
had no need of dramatic artifice to shiver, to lower her voice to a horrified
whisper, the sentence tailing off.
"Then?" Bracht demanded.
"Dera!" Calandryll
protested. "Can you not see she's distraught? Hungry, too, no doubt."
"I am," Cennaire agreed,
lying, "but I'll tell your friend my talc first."
Calandryll made a sound pitched
somewhere between agreement and irritation, and she smiled at him, thinking
fleetingly of how easy it was to mold a man's emotions. Or some men's, she
corrected herself—Bracht appeared impervious. Because, she decided, he loved
the Vanu woman, that notion giving rise to another: what was it like to command
such love? She pushed those brief musings away and told the truth, entire and
unadorned.
"My horse died nearby/
7
she said huskily, "and I came here. I thought I was saved when a rider
approached, but something ... I cannot say what, for I did not properly
understand it . . . prompted me to caution. I sensed evil in him ... a malign
aura . . . and hid myself. As well I did, for I was right.
”
She paused, frowning as she relived
the experience. She had all their attention now.
“
He lit a fire and
brought meat from his saddlebags. I watched him eat. Burash, it was ghastly! He
roasted pieces of a man and ate them!
”
Calandryll said,
"Rhythamun!" The single word was invested with massive loathing.
Katya's full lips pressed tight together, thinned with revulsion. Bracht spat
his contempt and said,
“
Go on.
”
Cennaire wiped her mouth as if to
rid herself of some unpleasant taste, the movement instinctive, her own
revulsion real.
“
I was afraid,
”
she continued, still
telling only the truth. "Afraid that he should sense my presence and
afraid to flee, lest he see me. I remained hidden in the grass, watching. I
could think of nothing else to do."
"How did he look?"
demanded Bracht curtly. "Describe him."
"Sand-haired," she
returned, "with a broken nose. His eyes were brow'n."
The three exchanged confirming
glances. Bracht motioned for her to continue.
"He used magic," she said.
"It must have been magic, for some time later five Jesseryte warriors came
up out of the chasm and he set them to fighting. The air smelled of almonds
when he spoke. They fought until only one was left alive and— Rhythamun, did
you name him?—healed his wounds. 7 hat one threw the bodies into the chasm; the
horses jumped on a word. Then . . ." She closed her eyes, shaking her
head.
Calandryll placed strong hands on
her shoulders, his tanned face grave. "Then what?" he asked, far
milder than Bracht's harsh questions.
"That one he possessed!"
she gasped. "He chanted some gramarye and the almond scent came strong
again. Something passed between them . . . as though flame flowed from his
mouth into the Jesserytc. Then the sand-haired man fell down. Oh, Burash!"
She turned toward Calandryll,
throwing herself into his arms, pressing her cheek afresh against his chest.
"He—the Jesserytc now—threw the
body after the others. Then he took the one remaining horse and went down the
trail."
She heard Calandryll say, "The
Daggan Vhe. He's gone onto the Jesseryn Plain."
"Aught else?" asked
Bracht.
"There was a book,"
Cennaire said. "It was the only thing he took."
She felt Calandryll stiffen, his
voice urgent as he demanded, "Tell us of the book."
She shrugged helplessly, certain now
that the thing she had seen was that volume for which Rhythamun would so
casually shed blood. Or Anomius. ·
"It was small," she
murmured, "and bound in black. But it seemed to radiate a dreadful power."
Calandryll said, "The
Arcanum."
"I know not what it was
called," Cennaire lied, "only that he seemed to value it."
"Aye," said Calandryll
bitterly. "He values it."
"The warrior whose shape he
took," Bracht rasped. "Can you describe him?"
"He was short," she told
the Kern. "With bowed legs and oily hair. Armored; he wore a helmet, a
veil of metal over his face."
Bracht chopped air with an impatient
hand: "You describe every Jesserytc horseman on the Plain. Tell us of his
face, that we shall know him."
"You'd go after him?"
For all she knew—anticipated
accompanying them—that this should be the way of it, still Cennaire found it
easy to put surprise in her question: it seemed an impossible pursuit.
"We must," Calandryll told
her, gentler than the Kern. "Can you describe him?"
She shook her head. "Not
well—he looked not very different from the others. His face was broad, his eyes
slitted." She paused a moment, frowning in genuine concentration. "He
wore a mustache, and I think he was young."
"Ahrd!" Bracht snapped.
"The god who made the Jesserytes lacked imagination—she describes a
thousand of them. More!"
Katya motioned for him to be
patient, speaking for the first time. "How long ago was this?" she
asked.
Her voice was calm, deliberately
soothing in counterpoint to the Kern's urgency. Cennaire smiled wanly: one
woman thanking another for her support, and said, "Three days ago."
