Kings of Sorcery

by Robert Ryan

  Char-harash leveled the wooden rod at him. “Sleep,” he commanded. And Unferth slept.

  The night wore on, and Unferth dreamed once more, but he did not meet again the golden-robed lord who promised to help him. When he woke, he felt better rested than he had in years. And calm too, considering that he marched to war.

  He put the night’s dreams from his mind. Reality called instead, for today would be a day of history, for he himself would ride to war and the armor and weapon of his great ancestor that founded the Callenor realm would once more inspire terror among their foes.

  His manservant entered the room, bearing a tray of food. He did not speak, having long since learned to answer questions only. Unferth wished he had more like him: well trained, silent and obedient.

  He quickly ate a meal of bread, thickly sliced ham and soft cheese. While he did so, the manservant waited nearby should he want something. But all Unferth wanted to do was ride. He dismissed him, finished eating and then looked at the armor. It was laid out on a chest before him, and it sent a thrill up his spine.

  Reverently, he pulled the mail-shirt over his head, placed the gauntlets on his hand and the helm on his head. Then he took up the weapon of his forefathers. It felt good in his hand. Taking a deep breath, he flung open the door and strode down the length of the hall and outside.

  Warriors gazed at him, and then bowed. There was fear in their eyes, or so he thought. If not, there should be. He knew he looked the part of a battle king. And soon the Duthenor would see him, and tremble at the folly of even thinking about rebellion.

  He led a procession of his closest friends and best warriors down out of the hall and into the field beyond the village. Here his army was gathered, or at least the first part of it.

  Over a thousand men waited. Others would swell the army in the next village and the next. But it was these men who saw him first, and their eyes were riveted to him. This was a sight most had not seen in their lifetime.

  Unferth came to a standstill near where his mount was tethered. He stood before it so all could see him. The chain mail shirt he wore was of the finest steel, each ring wrought and linked by cunning skill beyond the reach of mortal blacksmiths. It was lighter than it should be, stronger than it seemed, invincible to blade or dart. The dwarves of the Anast Dennath mountains had made it, and spells were woven into the metal at both forging and joining. So at least the legends claimed. But what drew the eye was that each link was lacquered red, crimson as bright blood, and no amount of time nor strike by any enemy had ever tarnished it.

  Upon his head rested a mighty helm. This also was fashioned by the dwarves, and spells were upon it too. Engraved into the same red-lacquered metal was a single rune: karak, which meant victory in their tongue. From the eye slit Unferth gazed out and saw his army. Pride and strength filled him.

  He raised high now in a sudden thrust the weapon of his forefathers. It was made of the same metal as the rest, though lacquered black rather than red. The weight was somewhat less than it should be, for it was a double-bladed axe. Each half swept back like wings, but there was a stabbing spike in the center, slightly curved like a beak so that it could also hook and gouge. This was a weapon of legend to the Callenor, for it was made for their founding chieftain. And it was made in the image of the symbol he took as his own: a raven.

  Unferth gave the axe a flourish, and then he slipped the haft through a leather thong on his horse’s saddle and mounted.

  The men began to chant. The Crimson Lord! The Crimson Lord! The Crimson Lord!

  He liked it. Once more he felt confidence and invincibility flood through his veins. He would destroy Brand. And yet even as he thought of his enemy the whisper of doubt returned. He knew it would always be there. The only way to silence it would be to kill his opponent.

  He kicked his horse forward and the army began to move with him, still chanting.

  4. The Trickster

  Horta was pleased. The place he had chosen was fitting for his purpose. And it would need to be, for the summoning of a god was no task to carry out unless all was in order.

  Idly, he slipped a norhanu leaf into his mouth and sucked upon it. Too often he did so now, for useful as the herb was it also was a poison. But these were dangerous days. To survive them, he must take risks that otherwise he would not dare.

  The hilltop was perfect. He hated this green land, swept often by wind and rain and trailing mists. But from here, he could see all around for miles. The air was sweet and pure, and it carried the scent of grass and herb and flower. Birds wheeled to and fro, and on a lower ridge he had glimpsed a herd of deer. Down below the halls and villages of men were so distant as to nearly not be there at all. That was good, very good indeed.

  “Is all well, master?”

  Horta did not turn to look. He did not like the Arnhaten to speak with him at times like this. Yet, now that Olbata was gone, he must look to another of his disciples for a chief helper.

  After a while, he glanced at the other man. It was Tanata. He was a quiet person, secretive and sly. He had the makings of a magician, although he seemed very young for the dark arts that must be learned.

  Horta sighed. “All is well, Tanata.” He may as well begin to teach the lad what he knew.

  “Then why do you look sad?”

  Horta looked out once more at the view. “Because it is not easy to be a magician. Oh, to be sure, the spells and rituals are easy enough. Anyone can learn them and carry them out.”

  “Then what is hard?”

  “Doing what must be done is hard, even when you know it must.”

  “It does not sound hard, master.”

  “And yet it is. Perhaps you need to be an old man to know that.”

  Tanata did not reply to that, and Horta shivered in the silence. He had a sense that one day, years from now, a young man would ask Tanata the same question. He wondered if his disciple would give a better answer.

  Horta brushed the pensive mood from his mind. It was not like him, and it would only hinder what he had to do.

  “See!” he said, rousing himself and sweeping out a long arm. “All about us is nature. The hand of man is distant. How will this help us in what we intend?”

  Tanata did not answer straightaway. He considered the question, and Horta felt his mood lighten. Here was one who might have the temper to learn the mysteries.

  “We seek to summon a god,” Tanata answered at length. “And the gods are connected to the land, born from it even. There is power in the land. It lives, and its life will aid us.”

  Horta was surprised. It was a good answer. “And why avoid proximity to the works of men?”

  “Because human life is fleeting. Human minds are filled with emotions that roil and seethe and disrupt the peace of nature. The land is the great power, and it is to this we must connect to perform our rites.”

  Horta turned his gaze full upon the young man. “And you? Do you feel the power of the land?”

  Tanata gave a slight nod. “When I close my eyes, I feel it. When I am alone, I feel it.”

  “And now?”

  “I feel nothing at the moment.”

  It was another good answer. Many others would have lied.

  “Do not concern yourself with that. Your senses will strengthen over time. It is enough to know the theory. Practice will make your senses keener as the years pass. And you have many long years of study ahead of you.”

  The young man bowed, but remained silent and gave no foolish response. Horta was growing to like him.

  He walked toward the flat patch of ground near the very top of the hill where the Arnhaten were gathered. What the boy had said about the land was true, but it was especially true just now. The god he intended to summon was Su-sarat. She was an old god, strongly connected to the land. She was the serpent god, the Trickster, and her symbol was the puff adder. The ancients had named her well, for she was tricksome as her namesake that flicked its tongue or tail to attract prey and then struck with killing v
enom. Tricksome indeed, but she was the one needed when other, and more direct, methods had failed.

  He approached the spring that bubbled up water from the patch of ground he had chosen for the ceremony. There would be no fire here. The gods had their preferences, and Su-sarat would like the winding trail of water that turned and twisted its way down the hill. Serpentine it was, and more than many of the gods she had a greater affinity for the animalistic form she took.

  “Gather round,” Horta commanded the Arnhaten.

  They came to him, but he saw doubtful looks on some of their faces. The fate of Olbata had bred discontent. So too had Brand’s continuing survival. It eroded faith in the power of the gods. But they would see. A mortal might defy divinity for a time, but not for long.

  “The sacred words of the summoning chant are the same,” Horta told them. “But we will not stand or walk. Instead, we will sit in a line, a sinuous line like a snake. And I will be at its head, facing you.”

  He gestured and Tanata took the lead position of the line facing him. Some of the others did not like this. They knew it for a sign of favor, and much as they did not like how things had turned out lately, they still lusted after knowledge of the mysteries. Tanata would have to be careful, otherwise one of them might kill him if a secret opportunity arose. It had been the same for Olbata. They did not mourn his passing, only the manner of it. The same could have been done to them.

  Slowly, he began to chant. His words were not the same as the Arnhaten. They joined him, voicing the sacred rite, but his words were the ones of greater power. His words were the ones lifted into the heavens and shot like an arrow from a bow toward a target. Yet the Arnhaten were the bow, for by their power they sped his arrow.

  “Hear me, O Mistress of the Sands. Hear my call, Dancer in the Night. Thy servant needs you. Come to me, Queen of Secrets, I beseech thee!”

  The water issuing from the spring frothed and bubbled, and it surged down the slope of the hill with a hiss of steam. A sulfurous odor wafted into the air, and the earth began to tremble. Even seated, the chanting Arnhaten swayed, the line of them like a serpent themselves.

  Horta continued. Once begun, the Rite of Summoning must always be finished, else it was considered an insult to the god. He was not so foolish as to risk that.

  He lifted his voice higher, his words rising and falling, turning and twisting through the air with the thrum of his own power. He knew what would happen next, for he once had been an Arnhaten and sat in a line as did these. He knew what would happen, and yet it shocked him still.

  The column of disciples began to transform. An image lay over them, vague and faint, of a massive serpent. As the chanting continued, the image grew stronger, and soon it was an image no more.

  Su-sarat lay before him, her dark serpentine body coiling and sliding over the grass. Yet her head was perfectly still, the slit-like orbs of her eyes fixed upon him and her pink tongue probing the air for his scent.

  She raised herself, showing the bright yellow of her belly. From there she could strike, and that would be death, but Horta had long since schooled himself to such risks.

  Slowly, he bowed his head. “O mighty Su-sarat, the earth is graced by your form. I am humbled by your beauty.”

  Thus had the words of greeting been handed down to him. It was not his place to dispute them, but rather to uphold custom.

  The goddess towered above him, her head serpentine, and yet there was something human in it also.

  “Why dost thou thus? You call upon me, yet only when my brothers have failed thee.”

  “O great one,” Horta answered. “Brute force has not availed me, and so I call upon you, last but not least. Yours is the strength I need, for it is built on wisdom and understanding and knowledge of the frailties of men.”

  Su-sarat licked the air, and tension hung between them.

  “Great goddess,” Horta continued, cold sweat beading on the skin of his face. “You are a trickster, a mistress of deceit and a veiler of the truth. Yours is the power I need, for you can succeed where others have failed.”

  Her shadow fell over him. “Do you disparage my brothers?”

  “Nay, Lady. I speak only the truth. The fault is mine, for I did not explain how dangerous my enemy is.”

  The sky seemed to dim, and he felt the cold breath of her mouth upon his face. Then followed the wet flick of her tongue against his fever-hot skin.

  “I taste your fear.”

  Horta did not know what she meant. Fear of Brand? Fear of death? Fear of failing to carry out his great task? All could be true.

  “O great one, I live to serve. If I have displeased you, strike me down. If you take mercy upon me, I beseech you, aid me in my task as only you can.”

  Silence fell. She made no answer. Sweat dripped from Horta’s brow, but he dared not move to wipe it away.

  “Tell me of Brand,” Su-sarat commanded. “He intrigues me.”

  Horta tried not to show any relief. It was best when dealing with gods to be humble and yet confident. Flattery was wise, also.

  “Brand is just a man. And yet, in some manner, he is touched by fate. He is a skilled warrior, and he possesses the use of magic. Without these things, and luck, he would not have defeated the emissaries of your brothers.”

  Su-sarat swayed in the air, at least her upper body and head. The rest of her coiled restlessly over the grass.

  “And why is Brand, as you say, touched by fate?”

  “I do not know, mistress. But that he is, I am sure.”

  “Perhaps you say this merely because he thwarts you?”

  “The man does thwart me, and this happens so seldom that, truly, he must be touched by fate to do so.”

  “Ah, Horta. I remember you. I know you. I have watched your rise among magicians. You are too soft, and a streak of kindness runs through you. Yes, Brand is touched by fate. He has a destiny. Yet still, had you but tried hard enough, you could have killed him. You needed no aid from gods for this. Had you convinced Unferth to send a greater army your enemy would now be lying dead on a battlefield.”

  Horta felt a swell of pride. The goddess had noted him, and watched. Yet pride was an empty emotion, useless for the most part and dangerous beside.

  “You are correct, for your wisdom is as great as your beauty. I had thought Unferth under my control, but that was prideful of me. He still rules the Duthgar, unwisely, and I did not assert my wishes upon him. Brand is just a man, though an accomplished one, and he should have died by sword long since. I am rebuked.”

  Su-sarat hissed, and the noise of it filled the air. Horta realized it was her laughter.

  “Do not fear, Horta. You have failed in this, yet still do you serve the gods well. For this, and because Brand intrigues me, I will help you.”

  Horta bowed his head. “And the price, mistress?” It was a fool who never agreed on the price with a god first. Afterwards, it was too late.

  “The usual price is blood, Horta.”

  So it was. And he would do what he must, but it was too soon to lose Tanata. He had been near invisible before, but after Olbata had had been taken, the man had proved to be everywhere at just the right time. It was no coincidence either that he had not drawn attention to himself until now. Olbata or one of the others may have killed him. He was patient as well as useful. The man could go far, if he lived.

  Su-sarat moved above him, her yellow belly glistening before him. The movement sent her coils roiling, and the tip of her tale rattled like the puff adder of his faraway home.

  “The usual price is blood,” the goddess repeated. “A death for a death. And yet, truly, this Brand intrigues me greatly. I will not kill him, but have him for a slave instead. I would hear the words of flattery that you use, but voiced from his mouth. Would this displease you, Horta?”

  It was not usual for one of the gods to talk thus to a man, even a great magician. But Su-sarat was capricious. She obeyed no rules save her own, followed no guide except her own cold heart. Ho
rta wished Brand dead, and yet, bent to her will and in her service, he would be a threat no more.

  “It would not displease me, O Mistress of the Sands. And for your service, what price do you set?” He had not forgotten, nor would ever fail to set the price before the bargain was made. The lore of magicians was clear on that point, and the story of the one magician who had failed to do so a matter of legend.

  “This is my price, Horta.” Her figure loomed over him, and then she bent her head forward until the cold breath of her mouth was upon his ear, and the whisper of her voice filled his mind.

  5. A Place of Ill Omen

  Brand looked solemn, but there was a glint in his eye. “I have a plan, but it won’t be liked. Not one bit, but it will serve us well.”

  Taingern gave a faint shrug. “The worst plans are often liked best, and the best the least. Until the day of reckoning, at any rate.”

  Brand knew the truth of those words. Taingern, as ever, was philosophical. But he understood better than most the hearts of people. He would know also that once a disliked plan proved successful, everyone would claim to have supported it. Such was life.

  “Well then,” Shorty said. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Unferth is likely to attack us, thinking that his best option. And it is. Therefore, we must do the opposite of what he expects.”

  “He expects us to march toward him, and a battle at some point, wherever our forces draw close.”

  “Exactly,” Brand agreed. “So I’ll deny him that.”

  Shorty scratched his head. “How? Will you try to play cat and mouse with him as you’ve done so far, building your army as you move into unexpected places?”

  “I could try that, but the larger my army the harder that becomes. Sooner or later, he’ll corner me and force a battle with superior numbers.”