Kings of Sorcery

by Robert Ryan

  Passing another homestead, Brand turned his head to speak to the boy. “Did Unferth truly do nothing?”

  “Nothing at all,” Sighern said. “And the raids were carried out over a few weeks. There was time for him to act, had he chosen. The rumor was that he sent the raiders himself. It’s said that he’s short of coin, and certainly taxes have been going up.”

  Brand let it go. There was nothing he could do now to help the people of this district. All he could do was work to ensure others did not suffer the same fate.

  They crested yet another hill, and the farming lands were behind them once more. Ahead, the countryside was ungrazed by livestock. It was uncleared also, and the track continued through a patchwork of woods and scrubby hillsides. The sun was lowering, and midafternoon lay dozily upon the land. But a sound rose far behind them that sent chills up their spines and destroyed any thought of rest. Wolves. Howling wolves.

  Brand drew his mount to a stop and looked behind him, but there was nothing to see.

  “Some have our fresh scent,” Taingern said calmly. “And they gather the pack to them.”

  Brand thought he was right. He looked back at Sighern. “I’m not familiar with this part of the Duthgar. How far is it to the nearest lord’s hall?”

  “Not far,” the boy said. “A day’s ride from here.”

  Brand refrained from cursing. “That’s going to be further than you think, with the wolves behind us. This may be your last chance, Sighern. You can leave now if you want. The wolves are after me and will follow where I ride.”

  The boy shook his head. “No. I’m coming with you.”

  Brand grinned at him. “Then it will be a ride such as you won’t ever forget. And let us hope there are good men at the hall.”

  “There are,” Sighern answered. “It’s Galdring’s hall, but it’s small with few men.”

  Brand thought he recognized the name. “Is he the son of Baldring?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Then let us hope the son is as loyal as the father was.”

  Brand waited for no answer. He nudged his mount into a canter with the others and they began to ride. It was not as swift as he would like, but they had to preserve the horses. They would be riding through the whole night.

  Behind them, once more, the howling pierced the quiet afternoon. This time it appeared to be split up, with the chase fanning out to left and right behind them. No sound came from ahead, but that did not mean there were not wolves there also. Wolves were known to herd their prey into a trap, and these wolves were smarter than most. Brand was sure of that.

  “Can the horses run all night?” Sighern called out from behind him.

  “They’re fine animals, but they’ll need to be rested at times too. We shall see.”

  9. A Long Night

  Brand led the way as the small group of riders cantered through the night. It was difficult going, for the dark created dangers. A horse could kill itself, and its rider, by placing a hoof in an unseen hollow. Yet the track remained clear and free of obstacles, so far as Brand could tell, and the risk was necessary.

  The wolves continued their hunt. Fanned out behind the riders they gave vent to their eerie howls from time to time, and each time it seemed a little closer.

  “They grow more eager!” Taingern called as they rode.

  Brand sensed it also. The wolves had their scent, and knew their quarry was on the run. This caused them to chase harder, and excitement was in their howls that bordered on frenzy. Something other than hunger drove them, and Brand knew what it was. Sorcery. It explained something else too. Wolves on the hunt did not howl. These wolves were different. They were sure of bringing their quarry to bay, and the purpose of the howling was to instill fear.

  The track took them into higher ground. Behind, the land was wrapped in the shadows of night, and the patches of woodland were darker still. And those patches grew increasingly thick. It was a long way from civilization, from help of any kind.

  Despite the gathering pursuit, Brand took good care of the horses. Every hour he signaled the riders to dismount and lead the animals by foot. Then they were rested briefly. He knew the wolves took no such rest, yet the horses might need speed at the end. A horse could outrun a wolf, but not for long. But at the end of the pursuit that could mean the difference between life and death.

  They rode in this fashion until the middle of the night had come and gone. Ever the wolves gained on them, until at last the howling seemed just behind and grew in such frenzy that Brand feared the wolves might have even sighted them.

  “Ride!” he called, and finally he led the others into a gallop. The horses needed little urging. Fear was on them now, and this lent them strength and speed even after their many hours of cantering. But it could not last.

  They rushed through the night. The sound of the hooves of the horses was as thunder in Brand’s ears and the wind of their passage whipped at him. On they went, and the wolves came after them.

  It was a race, and the prize was life. The muscle, bones and will of the horses was pitted against that of the wolves. The horses strained, sweat foaming at their sides, and the wolves fell away. But already the horses began to tire, and Brand’s most of all for two riders weighed it down.

  “How far away is the hall?” Brand asked.

  Sighern thought for a moment. “It’s hard to tell in the dark, and I’ve been this way only twice. But it’s at least an hour away, probably more.”

  Brand looked around. There was no lightening of the sky in the east yet. Dawn was still some way off, and he did not think that light would hinder the wolves. It would make them easier to fight, though.

  “We’ll not get to the hall in time,” Brand called to the others. “Look for a good place to make a stand.”

  They rode on, the flanks of the horses white with sweat and their pace slowing. All about them was forest. It was dark and grim and filled with fear. The wolves had not given up the chase. They would never give up, for sorcery drove them. He sensed frustration in their occasional howls, and though they had fallen back it was not by far. Even now they were gaining ground as the horses slowed.

  “There!” cried Shorty.

  Brand saw straightaway the spot his friend had meant. He had been looking to the left where the forest had grown thick, but to the right there was a steep bank, almost a cliff. The ground before it was clear of trees, and the wall of dirt and rock rose at least fifteen feet high. The wolves could not come at them from that side. It was the best defense they would find.

  They drew the straining horses in and dismounted. Swiftly they drove in their picket stakes and tied the horses up. If the men were killed, the horses would die also, there would be no escape from the wolves. But Brand did not intend to die. Not if he could help it.

  “Keep watch,” Brand told the boy. “Yell if you see anything.”

  He did not wait for an answer but signaled Shorty and Taingern to him. “We need wood for a fire.”

  They ran across the track and into the forest on the other side. There they quickly gathered some fallen branches and old pine cones lying on the ground. The wolves were close now, the howling filling the night all around them.

  They ran back. Sighern had realized what they were doing and drawn a flint from his few possessions. Even as they dropped the branches and cones into a pile on the ground he was kneeling and striking sparks. His hands trembled, and he tried again and again but at last one of the cones caught fire and a curl of smoke rose in the air, fueled by a tiny flame that grew and then, slowly, began to spread.

  The cone began to blaze, and they each grabbed other cones and held them to the first. When they caught, they spread them through the pile of branches. The fire took, growing rapidly.

  In its flickering light they drew their blades. It was none too soon.

  “There!” yelled Taingern. The others looked where he pointed. Along the track they had just ridden themselves, some gray shadows loped toward them. The wolves dr
ew up and stopped before they came into the light of the fire.

  “Over there too!” Sighern said. There were wolves now in the timber across the path where they had gathered their firewood.

  “Well, Sighern,” Brand said. “Do you regret coming with us now?”

  Before the boy could answer some of the wolves on the track leaped forward. They crossed the ground swiftly, all bristling fur, snarling lips and white fangs. The men stood in front of the shying horses, and Brand stepped before Sighern. They faced the left, toward the wolves, but these wheeled away as the ones in the forest leaped in to attack instead. It had been a distraction, and Brand realized these wolves were intelligent. Unnaturally so.

  Yet the men were not caught by surprise. Shorty guarded their left flank, Taingern the right. And Brand held the middle. The main attack came against him.

  The blade of his forefathers swept in shining arcs through the night. Blood spurted. Wolves yelped in pain. Animals fell dead. To either side Shorty and Taingern fended off attacks. But again and again the wolves came for Brand. They crawled and bit and scrambled over each other to reach him. And died.

  Yet one slipped through, leaping high for his neck while his blade swept low. The creature smashed into him, knocking him back. Even as he fell he twisted so that his neck avoided snapping jaws. Then he crashed into the ground.

  The wolves swarmed over him, but even as they snarled in fury, Sighern loosed a battle cry. “For the Duthgar!” he yelled, and his sword cut and chopped.

  The boy now stood before Brand, protecting him from death. Yet he was not skilled with the sword and the wolves gathered to him. One clamped its jaws to his left leg, and another, though its neck streamed blood from a previous blow, bit down at his sword arm.

  But Brand was up again, his glittering sword in his right hand and a burning branch in his left. This he thrust into the face of the wolf that hung on Sighern’s arm. Taingern impaled the animal attacking the boy’s leg.

  Swift as the attack began, it ended. The wolves loped back into the rim of firelight, and there they padded in agitation. Some whined with pain. Others barked and yelped. And one, blue-eyed and calm, stood motionless in their midst.

  “They will come again,” Shorty warned.

  Brand summoned his magic. It came to life within him, woke from the dormancy of his everyday life. He sent out faint tendrils toward the wolves.

  He sensed some of the dark sorcery that went into their making. He became connected to them, and merged his mind into the magic that gave them purpose. It was a strange feeling to him, for this was a power beyond his experience. It did not have the feel of anything that he knew.

  And then he sensed another presence. His enemy was connected to the wolves also. He who had made them of dark sorcery and horror was within their minds, was looking out through their eyes.

  Brand softly withdrew. It would be best, if they were able, to fight these creatures with swords alone. He did not want to reveal his own power just yet. It would give his enemy a measure of him. Better to keep that a surprise for when it was needed later.

  The wolves rushed in to attack once more. Snarling filled the night and gray shapes hurtled through the dark. Swift steel met them.

  With the wolves came a wave of hatred, for the magic that made them drove them on against blades, against the certainty of death. The creatures knew what swords could do, knew the skill of the men who wielded them, and they came on anyway, unable to stop themselves. Brand felt sorry for them even as his sword rose and fell.

  The bodies of the dead animals piled up. Ever the blue-eyed wolf was in the thick of the attack, but ever it evaded the fate of its packmates. Yet like a wave that spent itself against a rocky shore, the attack lost force and dwindled.

  But this only drove the remaining wolves into a greater frenzy. One leaped high and crashed into Brand. He staggered back, then surged forward flinging the snarling animal back into the pack. He felt blood wet his shoulder and a slow throb began.

  Sighern now fought to his right, unwilling to be protected, and though unskilled his sword swept among the pack with speed and strength. But one of the wolves slipped through his defenses and tore at his hip with wicked fangs. The boy fell, but Brand turned and his sword flashed, the Halathrin steel hewing the head from the beast in a single cut.

  The boy struggled up. Taingern killed another that leaped for him while Sighern did not have his blade up. He swayed where he stood, blood coloring the right side of his trousers.

  But even as the men stood, their swords weaving through the air ready to defend, they realized all the wolves were dead. All, bar one. Before them crouched the blue-eyed leader, snarling and growling, the lips of its muzzle pulled back horribly and blood welling from a sword slash to its chest.

  Brand faced it. “Die, shadow spawn,” he muttered. Then he stepped forward to attack.

  But the wolf growled back at him, and there were words in its snarling voice.

  “Die yourself!” And it rushed at him.

  Brand was so taken by surprise that the wolf was able to crowd him, ducking under a weak sword blow and fixing its jaws to his leg. The leg gave way beneath him and he fell, exposing his throat. The wolf released the grip on his leg and pounced in for a killing snap of its jaws.

  But Brand was swifter. His sword came up, tearing through fur and skin, and driven by the leaping weight of the creature, it slid through its belly, disemboweling it. Still it struggled to reach his neck, but Sighern kicked it away and Brand’s sword flashed again, this time severing an artery in its neck.

  The creature lay there, panting. Blood bubbled from its throat, and the pale eyes fixed on him until life faded out of them.

  “Well done, lad,” Brand said to Sighern.

  The boy flashed him a grin, but Brand saw the blood on his trousers and knew he was wounded. They all were.

  Brand set Taingern to watch in case there were more wolves, and while he did so the other two tended to each other’s wounds, washing them first with water and then applying a salve and bandages. Then Shorty watched while Brand looked after a wound on Taingern’s sword arm.

  “A nasty fight,” the freckled man said, indifferent to the pain the salve caused as Brand applied it to the jagged rent in his skin.

  Brand worked quickly, one eye watching the shadows beyond the reach of the fire’s light.

  “They all are. But I fear there are worse fights to come.”

  After that they watched the dark for a little while, and Sighern moved back to pat the horses and calm them.

  “The boy surely has guts,” Shorty said quietly.

  Brand nodded. Twice Sighern had helped him, and he may have died without that aid. It was a debt that he owed, but it puzzled him too. Few boys not yet full grown would willingly place themselves in such danger. Brand would not forget it. But where did such courage come from?

  The forest was now silent about them. Nothing stirred. But Brand did not trust it. Perhaps all the wolves were dead, but what else may yet be sent against them?

  The fire was dying down, but they dared not risk leaving the light nor the cover of the cliff face to gather more wood. Brand glanced at it, careful not to look directly into the flames and destroy his night vision. It would last until dawn. Just.

  And dawn was not far off. They sat down and waited for it, but they did not sheathe their swords. No one was willing to risk sleep, even if they could so soon after an attack such as they had endured.

  They spoke no more than a few hushed words now and then, and no one mentioned the blue-eyed wolf. But Brand thought about it. Sorcery had been invoked of the darkest kind, and he wondered what power his enemy had. Whoever it was must be someone of enormous skill. And also someone willing to do whatever it took to obtain their goals. It was a dangerous combination.

  The forest lightened. Dawn came, and with it a growing sense of unease. The long night might be over, but a new day with new dangers was beginning.

  They ate a cold breakfa
st of stale bread and cheese, unwilling to waste time cooking anything. All they wished was to leave their camp, where the bodies of the dead wolves lay nearby and the memory of a bad night was strong. And all the while Brand’s sense of unease grew.

  They removed the picket stakes and mounted. At last they were leaving, and they nudged the horses out onto the track. The sun was well up now, but even as they began to ride they stopped. A little way ahead of them a strange figure walked the dusty path directly toward them.

  10. The Noblest of Tasks

  Horta stirred from his trance, the shadow of death upon him.

  He had broken the link with the last wolf, knowing even as it leaped that it must die. He had no wish to experience what that felt like. Not again. One of his master’s had made him do so, repeatedly. It was supposed to inure him against the fear of dying. Perhaps it did, although that master certainly had fear in his eyes when at last Horta had learned all he could teach, and killed him.

  The fire in the hearth popped, and a plume of smoke swirled upward. Horta felt the warmth of the flames, and eased back a little in his chair. He was alone in the small cottage set aside for him by the king. It was away from the village, surrounded by pastureland and sheep. The Arnhaten dwelt close to the king’s hall, working in the village to support their keep. He did not miss them. The peacefulness of this place was near to the quiet of the desert wastes of his youth. Only the constant bleating of the sheep marred it.

  Brand had surprised him. He had lived. So too his companions. It was worrisome, for the magic had been potent, and the wolves, though not powerful, were smart. Most of all, they were driven by the touch of the god. They attacked relentlessly, and that should have seen them overpower the men, no matter that all the pack died to accomplish it.

  But the men were skilled. They fled when that was the best course of action, and fought when they had to. They did neither with fear, or anger or uncertainty. Each step they took was measured and spoke of confidence. They were men who had endured great dangers in the past, and learned from it. But this much he had known already.