The Lords of Anavar (4 page)

"You did tell us you would know if we followed."

"I recall doing so, yes. We decided to wait for your company."

"Thank you, good Gerrand. We shall be delighted to join your party."

"Excellent. There are bandits waiting for us near the end of the pass. Your assistance will be helpful." He smiled at Ells, who shook his head.

"We are not the swordsmen you hope for. Neither of us are skilled. These swords are more ornaments than weapons. I have never fought with it."

"If you can wave it around and appear dangerous it will be a great help. I plan to create a spell to multiply your images to make the bandits believe we have many fighters. If they are frightened off, we shall be fine."

"If they aren't frightened?"

Gerrand shrugged his shoulders. "Then we wing it."

"Wing it? Sorcerers wing it?" asked Ells.

"When we must."

When they broke camp Gerrand led them with Faeya Ryr between Ells and Farmoush and the servants in the rear. Ells looked up at the bright sun breaking through the clouds. The shadows thrown on the path were long and dark, but shifted as the clouds moved overhead. He felt his palms dampen and looked toward his comrade, Farmoush who sat staring straight ahead, licking his lips. The woman next to him rode calmly, as if on a holiday. Ells began to wonder about her. Faeya Ryr was young enough that her fame as a Mage had not spread far. Ells did not know of her talents. He only knew that the great Gerrand wished for him to protect her. As they rode he became aware of shadowy figures riding with them. He tried to get a look at them, but their images flickered and changed. Then he understood; they were images of himself and Farmoush overlapping each other.

As they reached the middle of the pass, several men appeared in front of them. Each wore a mask and held their swords ready. Behind the servants appeared four more men. Gerrand waited for the bandits to speak. The leader stood forward holding the warding stone high. Gerrand could feel it draining his strength, but he resisted it. He risked a glance at Faeya Ryr who swayed in her saddle and caught the eye of the bandit leader.

"Ah, you have a magician with you. Good, good. Now we are on even ground. My eleven men against your fifteen."

"You mean your twenty, don't you?" asked Gerrand. "There are more still on the hill."

The bandit's expression tensed for a moment, and then he smiled again. "You guess wildly my friend. And such guesses reveal a desperate man. I am not a novice in magic although I have little skill. I do know a false image when I see it and your lady magician is suffering from the effects of the warding stone. I would say that you have little to barter with."

"Then we shall ride through you!" shouted Farmoush. He spurred his horse.

"Wait, you fool!" shouted Gerrand. "Not yet!"

Farmoush rode into the bandits, who did not startle easily. He swung his sword once before he fell, his side opened by a bandit. They laughed at his twitching body.

"Systin!" cried Ells.

"Hold!" shouted Gerrand. "It is not desperate yet."

The bandits closed in on them. Gerrand raised his arms as Festic Ells encountered the first of the bandits. Ells' blade shuddered as he blocked one blow. The air shimmered and Ells felt his ears popping. A thunderclap knocked him from his horse and he got to his feet dazed. He noticed flecks of blood on his sleeve.

Several bandits were unhorsed but they stumbled to their feet. The illusion was gone completely.

"Now your tricks are gone!" shouted the leader. "Despite the blast we outnumber you still." Somehow a few bandits managed to get behind them and Gerrand knew they could not fight out.

"What is your ransom?" asked Gerrand.

"Ransom? Why we shall take everything and kill you. It is too bad the pretty lady is a Mage otherwise we might keep her, but it is bad luck."

"Very bad," agreed Gerrand. "Tell me bandit, who leads after you are dead?"

"My brother. Why?"

Gerrand leveled his staff and shouted. "Arrat Decese!" A flare of light shot from the tip of the staff and pierced the bandit and the man behind him. They both fell dead.

"Who leads now?"

The bandits scrambled away and their new leader called to them and they vanished into the hills.

Festic Ells wiped his sleeve.

"That is not your blood," said Gerrand, wearily. His face was beaded with sweat. "It proved difficult to complete the spell with the warding stone. I'm afraid I could not fully contain the results."

"Bandits?" Ells' mouth dropped. He looked around them. Faeya Ryr helped one of her servants to his feet. The other two were securing the loads on the pack animals. No other bodies could be seen. Flecks of red and grey dotted the area. He shook his head. Then he saw Systin Farmoush's body. He knelt in the dirt next to his friend.

"Oh, my friend. I shall miss your companionship on my journeys. You were a rare individual." He removed a chain from around Farmoush's head. He looked long in silence. Then he shook his head and looked to Gerrand. "Do we have time to bury him?"

"Of course," said Gerrand. "I shall help you."

Gerrand paused as if listening. Faeya Ryr looked at him.

"Riders," said Gerrand. "And I think our bandits are with them."

They moved off the road behind some large rocks. Festic Ells remained next to his friend's body. When the riders appeared, Gerrand moved out to greet them.

"Gerrand?" said their leader. He was a tall man, precisely dressed and armed with a sword with a gold handle. The bandits trailed behind, tied to their horses.

"Bors Taria! What a pleasant surprise. You have encountered the remainder of the bandits who ambushed us. Unfortunately, one of our party was killed."

"I see." He looked around the area. "You were quite thorough with the rest of them."

"I muddle through."

"Well, that is your opinion. Mine is different, and more importantly, so is the opinion of Queen Beatrice. You are too valuable to travel unguarded. My men will escort you and your beautiful companion to your destination."

"Oh, how rude of me. Bors Taria, allow me to present Faeya Ryr."

"Ah, the Mage from Cothos. I had heard of you, but no one thought to tell me how exquisite you are."

"Thank you," said Faeya Ryr.

"My men will help bury your companion. He deserves that respect."

"Thank you," said Festic Ells. "He had been my friend for so long."

Faeya Ryr patted his shoulder.

Two hours later the terrain sloped down to grassland leading to a small forest over which the turrets of the Council's castle viewed the surrounding area. Gerrand sighed. It had proved a harder journey than he hoped. His age hampered him and he did not want to admit it to the others. Even his jaw ached from the tension. He felt sure Faeya Ryr knew of his difficulty. She seemed to know so much about him.

The castle sat on a hill unprotected by soldiers yet it seldom found trouble from thieves or mercenaries. The legend of its occupants kept the wary away. If anyone dared to enter uninvited, no tales were told. The hill was still and solid rock supported the castle walls on two sides. A wall ran around the lower quarter of the hill with a guardhouse and gate to the road from Finald.

The road wound up a hill opening to a broad avenue leading to the door. Here they took their leave of Festic Ells, who continued on toward Curesia. He watched them long before he vanished over the next hill.

"I will leave you here," said Bors Taria.

"Thank you for your escort," said Gerrand.

"You are welcome. Faeya Ryr." He bowed in his saddle and then turned his horse and rode away.

"Like him?" asked Gerrand.

"Too young and healthy for my taste. He would be hard to keep under my thumb."

"What?"

"Come on, they are expecting us."

The steep hill to the castle slowed their horses and Gerrand let them slow. He needed to gather his thoughts prior to joining his brethren. The Council watched him closely, looking for weakness. Perhaps it was paranoia, but Gerrand knew better. He knew the type of mind that became a Mage.

At last they reached the castle. The white washed stone gave it a pristine appearance from a distance but up close the romance was lost. Four turrets rose on the far corners of the structure with a shorter turret used by the Council Guard to oversee the gate. There were dozens of loopholes at various levels below the parapets for archers to fire at attackers. It appeared a castle for war, not a home for renowned scholars. King Pertam of Wierland had deeded the castle to Gerrand and the Mage's Council six hundred years ago and it showed its age. Gerrand mused that an army could take the castle easily if not for the deterrent of magic. The Council made sure no one forgot the magic. The keep sat in the middle of the courtyard, a winding stair leading to the entrance. It rose high above the walls and gave the appearance of a tower overlooking the surrounding countryside, so it did appear to be an appropriate home for Mages.

The gate was closed but no one appeared on the wall. It was silent. Gerrand snorted and sat on a small pile of rocks gathered near the entrance. He rubbed his feet slowly. Faeya Ryr grabbed his walking stick, walked directly to the edge of the moat and pounded on the ground. The sound reverbed hollowly through the courtyard inside. She sat next to Gerrand and waited. The servants checked the horses and supplies. Several faces appeared at the windows. Gerrand waved. Shouts and sounds of running filled the courtyard.

The drawbridge lowered with a muted thud. The giant oak door groaned and screeched, then rose silently. Faeya Ryr peered into the murky depths of the interior.

Gerrand walked through the arch and headed for the keep. Faeya Ryr and the servants followed.

"So, you are here at last," said Tyman Stile, walking through the doorway of the keep. He wore his black hood up, even in the warmth of the sun. His large brown eyes noticed everything, even the flecks of blood on Faeya Ryr's sleeve. "A few days later than I hoped but your tardiness does not upset the schedule. Come on in. We shall have our meeting tomorrow morning."

"Hello to you, too," said Faeya Ryr.

"You're an ass, Stile," said Gerrand. Stile ignored Gerrand and re-entered the keep.

"Manners, please," said Yanor in his thick Kekag accent. "We are here to help one another."

Gerrand shook his head at the long hair and beard of Yanor, still resisting gray. The tall pointed hat, coarse cloak and wild beard reminded Gerrand of a crazed monk he once encountered who sat on large rock, waiting for the moon to rise. Yanor seldom joined his brethren preferring solitude for his studies.

"What brought you out of your cave?" asked Gerrand.

"Do be pleasant," said Zae Pol. She wore a long tight blue gown; her curly black hair held back by a thin gold band across her forehead. She flashed a warm smile at the sorcerer. "It is good to see you, Gerrand. And little Faeya Ryr. Did the old man give you much trouble?"

"Nothing I could not handle." She glared at Zae Pol. Pol turned to Gerrand.

"And the mighty Gerrand? Were you docile in the young woman's company?"

"I don't know where you are going with this, Zae, but yes, I behaved myself. No gossip this time."

"Pity. The way Tyman sulks and mutters to himself, this place could use some spicing up. I've never seen him so worried."

"He may have reason to be," said Gerrand.

"What do you know?" Her expression turned serious. Gerrand looked at Zae Pol and considering answering her but thought it imprudent.

"It must wait for the meeting. I am too tired to discuss it."

"Thank you very much." She shook her head and strode away.

"What was that about?" asked Faeya Ryr. "Did I offend her?"

"I am not sure. Perhaps she is jealous of you. Ha! We must stay alert and see where the currents are flowing in this place."

"Come, let's go into the hall," said Tyman Stile. He peered out of the doorway at them. "There is food and drink awaiting you. Tomorrow we shall begin our meetings."

"You said that already. Everyone is here?" asked Gerrand.

"All except Cehana and Petyr Wolk. I have news that Cehana will arrive in the morning. Of Wolk, I am not sure. Techna Vole reported seeing him on the road, but Wolk would not talk to him, despite many requests. Techna said there is no personal trouble between them. I know of no other reason Wolk would not speak. Do you, Gerrand?"

Gerrand paused, meeting Tyman Stile's eyes. "No. I cannot say I do."

"I wonder," said Tyman Stile, after a moment. "You keep so many things back."

"Let's not argue," said Yanor. "We shall have time enough for that tomorrow."

"Yes, you are right," agreed Tyman Stile. He put out his arm for Faeya Ryr to walk with him, but she grabbed Gerrand's arm instead. Tyman Stile's eyes flashed for a moment, then led the others into the hall. Faeya Ryr's servants followed, staring at the high parapets and the grim faces of the guards watching them. The drawbridge rose with a hollow thump.

"They are here, father," said Artus Endria, standing near the window of his father's study. A youngish man without facial hair, Artus held the least position in the Council, but his mind proved sharper than most. His sheltered upbringing under the tutelage of his father heightened his skills if not his self-image. Artus was seldom out of sight of his father, and could be embarrassingly shy around new people especially women. What he lacked in social graces he had in abundance of potential. Even from across the sea Gerrand kept an eye on the young man thinking he might surprise them all someday. The FarSee was one of the spells Gerrand guarded most. No one in the Council knew that he could watch all of them at any time. Truly, it was a princely gift from Macelan.

Tall and angular, Artus strongly resembled his father. His long fingers constantly drummed or manipulated something even as he paced instead of sitting. It proved difficult for neither Artus to rise in the ranks of Mages for he did not politic nor gossip, relying only upon his skills and honestly. But it proved insufficient for the Council. The backstabbing among the Mages was legendary and Artus did not benefit from the combativeness of his father. The other members ignored Artus as much as possible. Only when Gerrand was around did Artus' voice become heard. Although grateful for it Artus found it another instance of not pulling his own weight. His confidence was underdeveloped.