Kings of Sorcery

by Robert Ryan

  “Dismiss Laigern. But then change your schedule.”

  “Aye,” the old man replied knowingly. “I think it was time I did just that. Best of luck to you.”

  “And to you,” Brand said.

  He mounted his horse. Dusk was falling, but there was still a little daylight left. The guards, quiet until now, cheered him and wished him well as he left. They were glad that he had beaten Laigern, and even happier that the man would be replaced.

  He rode higher into the hills. The sun dropped below the horizon, but to the north two riders appeared and angled toward him.

  5. By Sword and Magic

  Horta was in the old woods, the woods sacred to the Duthenor. Their dark trunks marched away out of sight, their limbs creaked and scratched. The men he sought to avoid, the Duthenor themselves, came here but once a year. Now was not the time, and he and the Arnhaten would have the solitude they required for what now must be done.

  That the woods were sacred meant nothing to Horta. Yet it was a strange place, and it gave him an eerie feeling. Especially now, at night, with the stars blocked out from above. That was not natural, not what he was used to. Even the snow was better than that, for the stars had shone on his people for millennia. By them they navigated, under their influence they cast auguries, by their light they hunted and feasted and sang their songs of power.

  Even so, cut off from the nighttime sky, he still felt power about him. Not for nothing had the Duthenor designated this wood as sacred. There were places in the world where the magic of creation still ran strong, and this was one. Best of all, he had need of such power now and it would aid him in what he did.

  A bonfire burned before him in a clearing. The Duthenor would not light flame in a place such as this, nor bear steel blades. Horta shook his head at their ignorance. Superstitious fools. They did not understand the true powers of the world, had no knowledge of the beings who ruled it, did not know their names nor their functions and even less upon whom to call in times of need.

  But he did. He knew the lore. Bitter had been his life to gain it through long years of servitude. And many had been the enemies along that journey. He shifted position where he sat cross-legged on the grass, and he heard the Runes of Life and Death rattle in their pouch.

  The bonfire had caught swiftly, nor would it last long. The timber used was pine, and though there were trunks in it, they would not burn till morning.

  “It is time,” Horta said to the Arnhaten.

  They stood. Slowly they began to circle the fire, casting on green branches broken down from the sacred trees. The sap-filled needles smoked heavily, and soon the forest meadow lay under a pall of seething, roiling smoke.

  Horta gestured, and his disciples started to chant. It was an old ritual, laden with memories of his homeland, and it reminded him that he missed it and of how much he hated his self-imposed exile in this cold, damp northern land.

  They continued the slow procession around the bonfire. Each time Horta reached the northern end, he cast a pinch of special herbs onto the flames. The herbs were a mixture of hallucinogens, and he was careful not to use too much. But likewise, he must use enough. But this too was part of the ritual, handed down over the eons and tested. He followed the ceremony to perfection. There was little room for error, and none in what was yet to come.

  He breathed in of the air, and he felt his mind steady. Nervousness left him, though in the back of his mind fear still lurked, even if it seemed a separate thing from him. So too his conscience. He was about to unleash terror and death into the world. Brand would be the focus of it. A part of him did not wish this, for the man was no personal enemy. He was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time, but this was a weakness he must overcome. Morals and regrets had no place in the great task that he must accomplish. He must rise above such frailties to serve a greater good.

  Horta removed a single leaf of the norhanu herb from one of his pouches. This too was hallucinogenic, and he was wary of it. Yet it broke down the barriers of the mind and aided the release of a magician’s powers. He slipped it into his mouth, tasting the bitterness of the waxy leaf but not chewing it. That would have too strong an effect too quickly. Moreover, it might kill him.

  The night grew darker. The pall of smoke lessened as the fire burned. They cast no more green leaves upon it. Yet it was time now for the next part of the rite.

  Horta stood still now at the northern end of the bonfire. The Arnhaten circled until they drew near him, and then they also stood still, gathering to each side of him. From another of his many pouches he gathered powder, and cast a small handful into the flames.

  The fire roared to life. Red sparks shot up into the smoke-laden air, followed by trails of green. A stench wafted to him, but he did not hold his breath against it or falter. Now was not a time to waver or show weakness. Twice more he cast the powder, a little more each time.

  Now, he began to chant, his words rising up with the smoke and heat-shimmer of the fire, up into the night and toward the hidden stars. The Arnhaten chanted with him, intoning the ancient words that he uttered as an echo.

  Upon the gods he called, the old gods that ruled air earth and sky. The gods that existed before humankind and would endure beyond the fall of civilizations and the descent of man into oblivion once more.

  Horta chanted, his voice resonant with power, not summoning a specific god, but beseeching their aid and asking that one would appear and hear his request.

  And in the play of twining flames a form took shape. Vague it was, though it grew more distinct. It was manlike, but where a human head should have been was a flaring mane and the regal head of a lion, eyes sparking fire. And the eyes seemed human.

  Horta recognized the god. It was Hathalor.

  “Hail, great lord!” he exclaimed. “I beseech thee! O Master of the Hunt, Ruler of the Wastes, Voice of the Night. I beseech thee! If you are willing, lend me of your power.”

  The lion-headed god roared. Fire was his breath and thunder rumbled through the sacred woods.

  “Hear me!” Horta continued. “Hear me, O Father of the Desert, Stalker in the Silence, King of the Hunt.”

  The god raised his arms toward the heavens. The trees leaned, the boughs bent to an otherworldly breeze, and the stars glittered in the now open patch of sky above.

  “I beseech thee, Hathalor. Lend me of your power!”

  Horta ceased to chant, and bowed his head, waiting.

  “I hear you, Horta,” answered the god. “Speak.”

  Horta did not waste time. Time was precious, and the god could grow bored at any time and leave.

  “Great lord. A man comes. He is mortal, but he has power. He threatens all I strive to achieve. I beseech thee, crush him with the shadow of your thought. Let the dark eat his mind and the crawling worms devour his body.”

  The god looked at him, his gaze a window into other worlds.

  “And why should I do this thing?”

  Horta could not hold the gaze of the god, but he answered swift and truthfully.

  “Because I serve the gods with loyalty and devotion. I would rebirth them into the world of men once more. Not just in white-walled Kar-fallon, but in Alithoras from shore to shore, atop all mountains, within all woods, across all lands and in the hearts of all people.”

  The god looked at him, the weight of his gaze as a mountain.

  “The old gods you would rebirth into the world, as well as a new. Is that not so?”

  “It is even as you say, great lord. The old gods I serve, as have my kind since the stars first arose, but the new god calls also. And the Kar-ahn-hetep shall once more conquer by sword and magic. And in conquering, the old gods and the new god shall walk among men together, for knowledge of them shall pass wherever sword slashes and the travails of battle pass.”

  The lion-headed god pinned him with his eyes that turned red and green like the fire in which his visage stood.

  “You take much upon yourself, Horta.”

  �
�I am called to do so.”

  The god considered that. “It may be thus. Therefore, I will send hunters after this threat you fear, this man called Brand. But first they must feast on human flesh.”

  “It shall be so, great lord.”

  The fire died down, the image of the god flickered away and the Arnhaten gathered close around Horta, uncertain. Yet the hallucinogenic smoke they had inhaled dulled their sense of fear. He looked at them, glad of the old rituals. Nothing in them was done without purpose, and the old masters anticipated the will of the gods. Yet in this case, the smoke alone would not be enough.

  He dipped into his pouch once more with strangely steady hands, and withdrew a norhanu leaf. This he passed to Asaba.

  “Consume it,” he said. “It will calm your nerves.”

  The Arnhaten took the leaf and sucked upon it. The disciples moved closer to the fire, but it was dying swiftly, dwindling to ash and embers. The night was old about them, and the sacred woods of the Duthenor alive with power.

  But something else stalked the woods also. Wolves. Horta glimpsed their gray pelts and the glinting of their eyes.

  He turned to Asaba. “I have a task for you.”

  The disciple replied, his voice slurred. “Yes … master. What shall I do?”

  “Do you feel magic run through your veins?”

  “I do, master,” Asaba answered softly.

  “Then swallow the leaf. It will enhance what you feel.”

  Asaba seemed to struggle to focus on him. “But is that not dangerous?”

  Horta placed a hand on his shoulder. “It is dangerous to the weak, but you are strong, are you not? Do you not feel strength thrumming through your body?”

  Asaba seemed confused, and he did not answer. Yet as Horta watched the man chewed and swallowed the leaf.

  “Ah,” the magician said. “Such power. With it you shall ride the night and destroy our enemy. You are the first and greatest of the Arnhaten.”

  No answer did Asaba give, but he sighed dreamily. And his eyes were now black.

  In the woods, the wolves began to howl. Horta studied the darkness hemming them in, and when he returned his gaze to Asaba he sensed the magic surging within him, wild and unpredictable. The Arnhaten trembled, and he swayed rhythmically from side to side. White foam frothed at his mouth, but the man did not seem to notice.

  “It will be soon now,” Horta said. He took his hand from Asaba’s shoulder and stepped away. “Stay clear of him,” he instructed the others. “Be still. Watch, and learn. For the power of one of the old gods is loose in the world this night. Do not move, and you shall survive it.”

  The wolves came into the clearing on padded feet, their eyes alert and their long snouts sniffing. No one moved. All was still, except for the gentle swaying of Asaba. The wolves sniffed at him and growled.

  Asaba slowly straightened. A dozen wolves circled him, drawing close. He raised his arms, and power flashed in his black eyes. Not for nothing had he been chosen to join the Arnhaten, but his courage was raised by the norhanu leaf. Without it he would have fled. Yet standing still or running, the result would have been the same. Horta watched dispassionately.

  Several of the wolves leaped at him. Some tore at his legs, but one jumped high, its jaws snapping and gnawing at his throat.

  Crimson blood sprayed. Asaba tried to scream, but his voice was torn away by the frenzy of the wolf. He staggered, clutching at his throat, and the rest of the wolves went for him, dragging him down into their scrabbling midst.

  The wolves swarmed over the thrashing figure beneath them. The struggle soon ceased, and the wolves tore into the body, snarling at each other with reddened snouts. Bones cracked and blood spilled onto the ground, visible even in the dim light of the fire.

  When the frenzy of feeding died down, the wolves began to howl. They had eaten of human flesh, but they had absorbed something more also. In their howls was something not quite wolf-like. There were words in their baying, something human, some form of communication amongst themselves. They were now more than wolves, for they had taken up some of the nature of the human they had devoured, and the touch of a god was upon them.

  Horta looked at their eyes, and he saw that the amber they should have been had a tinge of blue. Like Asaba’s had been. And they returned his gaze as though they knew who he was and what he had done. One of them, the leader no doubt, had the touch of the god more heavily upon him. His eyes were completely blue, and a fierce intelligence shone in them.

  Then, as though each wolf caught the same scent of prey simultaneously, they turned as one and padded away into the woods, passing out of sight.

  It was silent for some moments. No one looked at what was left of Asaba, but one of the Arnhaten eventually spoke.

  “What did we just witness?” he asked.

  “The power of a god,” Horta replied. “And the beginning of a hunt that will end with the death of Brand.”

  6. The Touch of Magic

  The two riders headed toward Brand, and he watched them carefully. It paid to be cautious in the wild.

  They came closer, and he knew beyond doubt who they were. One was a short man, but he would stand tall beside any hero of the land, past or present. He was boisterous, swift to speak his mind and too fond of wine and gambling. Brand liked him anyway.

  The other was taller, green-eyed and with pale, slightly freckled skin. He rode like a king, though there was hardly a drop of aristocratic blood in him. When he spoke, it was quietly. He rarely offered opinions, but when he did, Brand listened. He was a man to listen to, and he had served his land with the same courage as the other, could stand beside any hero of the ages.

  And they were his friends. His sword brothers. No two men were ever more different, and no man had ever had better friends.

  They pulled their horses up when they reached him, and they looked him over.

  “I’d hate to see the other man,” the first said.

  “You’d hate to fight him too, Shorty. But he’s not of concern any longer.”

  The second man raised an eyebrow. “You fought him hand to hand by the looks of it. Why? The sword is your best weapon.”

  “Yes, well, I didn’t really want to kill him. Though he deserved it. And it’s nice to see you too, Taingern.”

  The other man bowed his head slightly, but it did not stop him raising his other eyebrow.

  “None of it matters now, my friends. What’s done is done, and the future lies ahead of us.”

  “Right now,” Shorty said, “the future holds a warm campfire and some hot food. At least, that’s the one I’m looking forward to.”

  “Then let’s start,” Brand said. “This is as good a place to camp as we’ll likely find before nightfall.”

  His two friends grew uneasy. “Not here,” Taingern said.

  “Definitely not here,” Shorty agreed. “Not in the open. We’ve found a better place, not too far away. It’s a small cave at the side of a low hill.”

  Brand’s instincts suddenly flared to life. There was something out of place, here.

  “What’s wrong with camping in the open? Outlaws?”

  “Let’s talk as we ride,” Taingern suggested. “It’s growing dark quickly, and the cave is a little way off.”

  They nudged their mounts into a trot, and Brand followed them. These were men who knew what they were about, and if they wanted to camp in the cave then the cave it was.

  Shorty let his mount fall in close beside Brand’s. “We’re just being careful. You warned us about the outlaws, though as yet we’ve seen no sign of them. But there are other things in this land. There are … wolves.”

  Brand was surprised. “There have always been wolves here. Same as back in Cardoroth. In neither place do they attack people.”

  Shorty grunted. “So I’ve always believed. But the wolves of the Duthgar are different, or else they’ve changed since last you were here. These ones might.”

  Brand was worried. These were not the sor
t of men who would be scared of wolves, either four or two legged. But neither of his friends seemed talkative, and he guessed that they were intent on getting to the cave. He would find out more when they reached it and had set up their camp for the night.

  The three of them rode across the green grass of the hillsides as the light of the sun faded and night seeped over the land around them. The stars kindled in the sky and the air turned chilly. It was spring, but summer still seemed far away.

  It was not long before they came to the cave. It was not a hidden entrance, but it was narrow and easily defendable by even one person. Brand approved of it as a place to hold against an enemy, and he wondered how different he would be if he had not been forced all his life to make such considerations. He could not guess, for that was all he had ever known.

  The cave was more spacious inside. With difficulty, they led the horses in and tethered them to rocks on the back wall. After rubbing them down and giving them grain, they started a fire in the center of the floor. Shorty and Taingern had previously gathered dry timber for it. Rocks were positioned here in a circle, and they were blackened. This was a place used many times over the years, but most recently the occupants were likely to have been outlaws. This did not concern Brand overly, but his companion’s reticence to speak of the wolves disturbed him.

  When they had got the fire going to a point that they could separate away some embers and commence cooking a stew of meat and vegetables, Brand broached the subject as they sat around the warming flames.

  “Tell me about the wolves,” he asked.

  There was silence for a moment, and his two companions exchanged glances. It was Shorty who answered though.

  “You’ll hear for yourself, soon enough. It started last night about this time. There was a great howling, but not from a pack together. They were all spread out, as though searching for something.”

  “And what else?” Brand prompted.

  Taingern answered him this time. “They sounded like wolves, but not quite. If I did not know better, I would have said that it was men imitating wolves. There were words within the howls…”