Kings of Sorcery
Page 22
Kar-fallon: Kir. “Death city.” A great city of the Kar-ahn-hetep that served as their principal religious focus. Their magician-priests conducted the great rites of their nation in its sacred temples.
Kar-karmun: Kir. “Death-life – the runes of life and death.” A means of divination that distills the wisdom and worldview of the Kar-ahn-hetep civilization.
Kirsch: See Kar-ahn-hetep.
Laigern: Cam. “Storm-tossed sea.” Head guard of a merchant caravan.
Letharn: Hal. “Stone raisers. Builders.” A race of people that in antiquity conquered most of Alithoras. Now, only faint traces of their civilization endure.
Light of Kar-fallon: See Char-harash.
Lòhren: Hal. Prn. Ler-ren. “Knowledge giver – a counselor.” Other terms used by various nations include wizard, druid and sage.
Lòhrengai: Hal. Prn. Ler-ren-guy. “Lòhren force.” Enchantment, spell or use of mystic power. A manipulation and transformation of the natural energy inherent in all things. Each use takes something from the user. Likewise, some part of the transformed energy infuses them. Lòhrens use it sparingly, elùgroths indiscriminately.
Lord of the Ten Armies: See Char-harash.
Magic: Mystic power. See lòhrengai and elùgai.
Norhanu: Kir. “Serrated blade.” A psychoactive herb.
Olbata: Kir. “Silence of the desert at night.” An inner door disciple of Horta.
Pennling Path: Etymology obscure. Pennling was an ancient hero of the Duthenor. Some say he built the road in the Duthgar known as the High Way. This is not true, but one legend holds that he traveled all its length in one night on a milk-white steed to confront an attacking army by himself. It is said that his ghost may yet be seen racing along the road on his steed when the full moon hangs above the Duthgar.
Ruler of the Thousand Stars: See Char-harash.
Runes of Life and Death: See Kar-karmun.
Shadowed wars: See Elù-haraken.
Shemfal: Kir. “Cool shadows gliding over the hot waste – dusk.” One of the greater gods of the Kar-ahn-hetep. Often depicted as a mighty man, bat winged and headed. Ruler of the underworld. Given a wound in battle with other gods that does not heal and causes him to limp.
Shenna: Kir. “Royal rectangle.” A kind of cartouche.
Shenti: A type of kilt worn by the Kar-ahn-hetep.
Shorty: A former Durlindrath (chief bodyguard of the king of Cardoroth). Friend to Brand. His proper name is Lornach.
Shurilgar: Hal. “Midnight star.” An elùgroth. One of the most puissant sorcerers of antiquity. Known to legend as the Betrayer of Nations.
Sighern: Duth. “Battle leader.” A youth of the Duthgar.
Sorcerer: See Elùgroth.
Sorcery: See elùgai.
Stillness in the Storm: A mental state sought by many warriors. It is a sense of the mind being detached from the body. If achieved, it frees the warrior from emotions such as fear and pain that hinder physical performance. The body, in its turn, moves and reacts by trained instinct alone allowing the skill of the warrior to flow unhindered to the surface. Those who have perfected the correct mental state feel as though they can slow down the passage of time during a fight. It is an illusion, yet one that offers a combat advantage.
Taingern: Cam. “Still sea,” or “calm waters.” A former Durlindrath (chief bodyguard of the king of Cardoroth). Friend to Brand.
Thurgil: Duth. “Storm of blades.” A farmer of the Duthgar.
Tinwellen: Cam. “Sun of the earth – gold.” Daughter of a prosperous merchant of Cardoroth.
Unferth: Duth. “Hiss of arrows.” The name is sometimes interpreted to mean “whispered counsels that lead to war.” Usurper of the chieftainship of the Duthenor. Rightful chieftain of the Callenor.
Ùhrengai: Hal. Prn. Er-ren-guy. “Original force.” The primordial force that existed before substance or time.
Wizard: See lòhren.
Wizard-priest: The priests of the Letharn, who possessed mighty powers of magic.
About the author
I’m a man born in the wrong era. My heart yearns for faraway places and even further afield times. Tolkien had me at the beginning of The Hobbit when he said, “. . . one morning long ago in the quiet of the world . . .”
Sometimes I imagine myself in a Viking mead-hall. The long winter night presses in, but the shimmering embers of a log in the hearth hold back both cold and dark. The chieftain calls for a story, and I take a sip from my drinking horn and stand up . . .
Or maybe the desert stars shine bright and clear, obscured occasionally by wisps of smoke from burning camel dung. A dry gust of wind marches sand grains across our lonely campsite, and the wayfarers about me stir restlessly. I sip cool water and begin to speak.
I’m a storyteller. A man to paint a picture by the slow music of words. I like to bring faraway places and times to life, to make hearts yearn for something they can never have, unless for a passing moment.
THE CRIMSON LORD
BOOK TWO OF THE DARK GOD RISES TRILOGY
Robert Ryan
Copyright © 2019 Robert J. Ryan
All Rights Reserved. The right of Robert J. Ryan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Trotting Fox Press
1. A Magician of Power
Unferth sat still, a mask over his features. A king should at least look as though events moved at his control, but he worried that even the guise of orderly rule had slipped away from him.
Frustration made him want to smash his hand against the table. But he could not, for it would only prove that he was angry and therefore not in perfect control. This fed the anger that burned inside him even more. And that anger was red hot, raging and desperate to be unleashed.
But deeper inside, in his innermost thoughts that he shared with no one, was something colder than ice. It was the thing that troubled him most. Fear.
It was an ever-present whisper. It was the voice of doubt. It was the rasp of steel blades drawn in a nightmare from which he could not wake. Fear. It sent a chill through him that nothing ever warmed. And unlike the fear of most men that was formless and vague, his had a specific name. Brand.
Brand haunted him. Even as a child, having escaped the killing of his parents, Brand had been like a sore that would not heal. If only he had been there that night, if only he had died as he was supposed to, the world would be a better place. Unferth knew it, knew that the sun would have shone upon him and he would have ruled both the Callenor and the Duthenor in a noontide of glory.
But Brand was a shadow upon him, and the shadow lengthened year by year. And now came this. A final insult like a crack that could widen and destroy the life he had worked so hard for. Why did other men have it so easy while he must he fight tooth and claw like an animal for what was his?
His fury boiled over. Despite the look of calm he knew he should maintain, he smashed his hand against the table anyway. The sudden noise stilled everything about him. The hall became quiet, and his counselors turned surprised gazes upon him. Fools! They did not understand. They never would.
He spoke slowly, showing as much restraint as he could.
“Why do you all debate this? Horta has told you what happened. Brand defeated the force sent against him. Outnumbered, he found a way to grasp victory.” That he must say those words humbled him, and the voice of doubt in his mind was more than a whisper now. “We’ll not beat him by debating among ourselves. You can be sure that already he moves against us. What shall we do? That is the question we must answer, and swiftly. Otherwise, he’ll be here in this hall with a sword to our necks. Do none of you understand that?”
“We understand the possibility of it,” one of the men said. “But where is the proof of it?”
Unferth shook his head, dismayed. “Horta has told you it is so. What more do you need?”
There it was. Unferth knew he was losing control, and he must act decisively to regain it. Not long ago, his very word was law. Now, though he knew Horta would be proved right in what he claimed, the men awaited their own proof. The irony was that the military loss they yet did not believe was the thing that emboldened them.
Horta adjusted the bearskin serape that hung over his shoulders. If he was offended, he gave no sign. But he never did.
“Brand won a great victory,” the magician assured them. “Of that, you can be certain. I would tell you how I know, but it would burn your souls to ash. Believe, and you have an opportunity to act quickly and turn adversity into triumph. Delay, and the kingdom will slip through your fingers.”
“Easy for you to say,” said another warrior at the table. “But why should we believe you?”
Unferth ground his teeth. He knew Horta’s powers. He knew something of the magic the man possessed. Very likely, it would burn the souls of most men to ash.
A look passed between them. Horta’s gaze said that magic was his province, and controlling the Callenor was Unferth’s. The magician’s disciple, Olbata, sat beside his master and stared at the men around the table, his eyes dark with hidden thoughts.
Once more Unferth slammed his hand down on the table, and this time he shouted with it.
“Fools!” He looked around, turning his cold gaze on the counselors. It was the gaze of a man who had killed, the gaze of a man who might yet hold the power of life and death over them. And their mood for defiance washed away, at least for the moment.
But he did not have a chance to speak. The fire in the pit at the center of the hall flickered and smoked. The air grew suddenly chill, and an acrid odor filled it.
Unferth looked at Horta, thinking he had begun to work magic. But there was dread in the other man’s eyes. It was the first time he had ever seen Horta display fear. He had always thought the man possessed a heart of stone.
Horta stood and moved to the back of the room, drawing Unferth with him. Unferth did not resist.
All around the table men seemed confused. Some drew their swords. A sudden wind roared to life, and within it came another sound, regular and forceful like the beating of vast wings.
Unferth pressed his back against the wall. Even as he did so the wind died away and the great door to the hall crashed open with a booming clatter of oak planks and hinges. Timbers rattled, the hall itself shook, and within the opening a thing of huge shadows hulked. There it stood a moment, surveying those in the room. Its head swiveled, and Unferth thought that it sniffed at the air.
Horta, his own back to the wall, moved. Briefly Unferth glimpsed the man withdraw a leaf from one of his many pouches with trembling hands and slip it into his mouth. Then the man whispered in his ear. “Do not move nor speak, no matter what happens, and all will be well.”
The mass of shadows in the doorway began to move. The intruder walked like a man, though it limped. Ten feet high it stood, at least, and as it came into the room the fire in the pit flared to life with a crackle of popping wood and colored smoke.
With the leaping flames came greater light, and Unferth saw the thing clearly. It had wings, vast and bulky that were furled behind it and still part-hidden by shadow. It had the form of a man, but its head was that of a bat.
“Shemfal,” whispered Horta beside him. Unferth did not know who or what this creature was, but the name slipped into his mind like a dagger of fear.
On the creature came, striding like a king. Yet the limp marred his presence, and Unferth wondered what power walked the world that could give injury to such as this.
One of the warriors at the table screamed a battle-cry and leapt at the thing. His bright sword flashed through the air, but Shemfal, barely seeming to move, brushed the blade aside with his arm and then smote the man a hammer-like blow.
The warrior fell dead. Others had drawn their swords, but they milled about in fear and did not attack. They saw no way to defeat such a creature, and neither did Unferth. But he must trust in Horta. The magician had said all would be well.
Shemfal came to a stop. His dark eyes, round and burning with a fierce gaze beneath pointed ears, turned to Horta.
“The price must be paid, mortal.”
“Indeed, great lord.”
Horta said no more, but his glance turned to Olbata. So also the gaze of Shemfal.
The massive wings of the creature unfurled slightly, and he pointed with a bony hand, black talons dripping from the ends of his fingers like curved daggers.
“You are mine, mortal. Come hither.”
Olbata trembled. He swung to Horta, his mouth working several times before words were voiced.
“Why? Did I not serve you well?”
Horta turned a cool gaze upon him. “Yes, you did. Yet also, you knew the risks. Knowledge does not come without cost. You are unlucky to pay the price, for it was no fault of your own. But the risk was always there. Do not dishonor yourself by trying to fight your fate. It is written now.”
“It is written in my blood!”
Horta did not answer, merely looking at his pupil as though at an ant beneath his feet.
Unferth admired him in that moment. He was so calm, so assured of the rightness of his actions. Whatever lay behind this, no one understood fully but Horta. And yet Unferth guessed that this creature had been summoned from the pit and constrained to perform an errand. Now, it sought payment for the deed done. Such was the way of demons, which this thing must surely be.
Olbata swung back to the creature and swiftly began to chant. He raised his hand, a tiny statuette in his fingers, and this he held high as some sort of talisman.
Shemfal laughed. His wings beat and he darted forward, one hand snaking out to grab his victim by the throat.
Olbata screamed, but the sound was muffled. With another beat of wings Shemfal hovered in the air a moment, and then he glided toward the fire pit.
The flames roared once more as though in greeting. The demon descended, Olbata thrashing as tongues of fire licked his flesh. And then the fire pit was no more. In its place opened a fissure in the earth, and down in its depths Unferth glimpsed a mighty cavern, lit by flickering flames and wreathed in shadows. A dark throne rose in the center, and all manner of wicked things moved and writhed about it.
Fire flared once more, and Olbata’s screams died away in a puff of greasy smoke. When that cleared, the vision of the underworld was gone and the fire pit burned as it always had. Silence filled the hall, but the beating of Unferth’s heart thundered in his chest.
Here though was an opportunity to assert control again, and he took it. Despite his terror, he wore a guise of nonchalance.
He stepped forward with confidence and ease. Righting a chair that had been spilled when the men rose from the table and drew their swords, he sat down and leaned back comfortably.
“Our meeting is not yet over,” he said. “Come, sit down. We must continue.”
The men returned to the table. One by one, reluctantly, blades were sheathed.
“See,” Unferth said. “Horta is a magician of power. If he tells us Brand beat the army we sent, it is so. Do not doubt it.”
One of the warriors scraped his chair loudly as he sat. “If Horta is a magician of such power, how is it that Brand still lives?”
Unferth felt his frustration rise again. This time it was intensified by his terror at what had just happened, and he wanted to reach out and throttle the man questioning him. Was he not a king? Was it right that they contended with his every word?
Horta was the one who answered the man though, his voice smooth and measured.
“That will be remedied,” the magician said. “Twice now I have tried to kill Brand, and he has survived. The man’s life is charmed. But his luck mus
t run out soon.”
“How will you do it?” Unferth asked.
Horta shrugged. “I have … ways. Best that you do not know them, for they would only serve to give you nightmares.”
Unferth believed him. He had no real desire to know the details. Almost, he could feel sorry for Brand.
The magician’s gaze showed nothing, but there was a hint of amusement to the curl of his lips. He knew exactly what Unferth was thinking.
“This much I will say,” Horta continued, now addressing all of the men at the table. “I will look after Brand, but whether I kill him or not there is yet his army to defeat. It will not disperse now, even at his death. That is a problem you must deal with.”
It was sound advice, and Unferth knew it. The Duthenor were raised against him now, and everything he had striven for could be lost. He would not let that happen.
“Horta has summed up the situation well,” he said. “We must defeat Brand’s army, but how best shall we do that?”
The men seemed sullen, and most kept glancing at the fire pit. Horta excused himself and walked away. Unferth watched him go, knowing that he would gather his disciples and initiate some dreadful rite of magic. What its nature would be, Unferth did not even want to contemplate. But he had a feeling that the little magician took Brand’s survival as a personal insult now. Brand, at least, would be one less problem soon.
“Well?” he said to the men. “How shall we defeat the enemy? Shall we march against them, or let them come here and spend themselves against our defenses?”
2. The Blood of a Hero
It was the morning after the battle. It was the dawn of a new day, after a great victory. And yet Brand found little joy in his triumph. Others had paid for it with their blood.