Kings of Sorcery

by Robert Ryan

  Gormengil gave no reply, nor was there a change to his smooth movements as he circled the other man. There would not be any sign of anger from him. Gormengil was coldblooded, and all the more so in a fight. He was ice itself, and no taunting would get under his skin. But he would remember, and if he had the victory, Vorbald would regret the insult.

  The men circled each other, blades weaving slowly before them, eyes fixed on their enemy. It was like a dance, for every move was full of grace built on years of hard work and practice.

  Gormengil skipped forward, his blade lunging. Vorbald skipped back, keeping the same distance between them.

  “You speak of dogs,” Gormengil said quietly. “You should know. You run away like one.”

  Vorbald did not like it. But he kept his mouth shut and offered no taunt himself.

  Unferth felt sweat trickle down his back. There was tension in the air, for one man at least would die tonight. But they were in no hurry to engage again, each uncertain as to the outcome. They had begun in confidence, but it had ebbed away as no advantage presented itself. So evenly matched were they that chance would determine the outcome of the fight, and this was a thing neither of them wished.

  Suddenly Vorbald charged. He danced forward on light feet, but there was nothing light in the stroke of his sword. It was a mighty slash, leveled at his opponent’s neck where helm ended and chain mail began. Many men wore a chain mail coif that trailed beneath their helm and protected this vulnerability. Not Gormengil. Nor did he need it.

  Gormengil did not dance back, but rather he edged forward a half step. This threw his opponent’s timing off, and parried the strike with a deft move for the full force of the blow could not be delivered. Then, with a second deft move, he drove the pommel of his sword direct into Vorbald’s helm.

  There was a crash as the blow landed, and Vorbald staggered back. He moved to lift his sword between them again, but he was not quick enough. Gormengil followed through, drawing in close and headbutting the other man before following up with another strike of the sword pommel. This one took Vorbald under the chin, and he toppled like a felled tree.

  Gormengil was not done. As the other man sprawled on the ground he stamped on his sword arm, crushing the man’s wrist beneath his boot and ensuring he released the weapon.

  Vorbald screamed. Gormengil ground the heel of his boot in deeper. And then he let go his own blade and drew a fine-pointed dagger. Dropping to his knees and pinning the other man with his weight, he slid the point of the dagger through the eye socket of his opponent’s helm.

  Vorbald screamed again, and he thrashed in an attempt to dislodge his opponent. But Gormengil was no small man, and Vorbald was badly weakened. The blade penetrated, but stuck, and Vorbald cried out piteously.

  Gormengil twisted the blade slowly, seeking a way through the eye into the brain. He hefted his weight upon the blade, and bone suddenly gave way.

  Vorbald spasmed and then grew still, blood seeping down onto the ground from out of his helm. A moment Gormengil looked at him, and then he drew forth his dagger. It had snapped, and he stood slowly before casting the broken and bloodied blade near the feet of Unferth.

  “Sire,” he said softly, no emotion in his voice. “Death is loosed this night, and ere the war is over it will be loosed again.”

  Unferth knew it as a threat. Knew it as a threat against himself, and anger burned inside him. But he could not prove the words were directed so.

  “Fetch my coin chest,” he commanded the lord beside him. “A king always pays his debts. And he rewards those who serve him just as they deserve.”

  11. Word Spreads Like Fire

  The rider sped across the slope and angled toward the road leading to the fortress. Whoever it was could ride with supreme skill, for the slope was uneven, steep and dotted with outcrops of rock and boulders. A mistake by either horse or rider was death. Yet the rider came on, weaving a course around all obstacles and somehow finding a safe path.

  “He’ll kill himself riding like that,” Sighern said.

  Brand did not answer straightaway. His attention was on the rider alone, and he was gripped by their skill and their courage. But he was also curious.

  “Whoever it is,” he said without taking his gaze off the scene, “has great skill. But why do it? What drives them? What danger lies behind?”

  Shorty slowly shook his head. “There are men out there felling timber. And there are scouts. If the enemy was upon us, then we would have heard long since.”

  “I think so too,” Brand agreed.

  They watched as the horse gathered its legs beneath it, and then leapt a line of tumbled stones that would be waist high to a man. The rider bent low in the saddle, helping the horse keep its balance. It landed on the other side, slipping before righting itself, and then speeding on at a nudge from its rider.

  But the jump had caused the rider’s hood to fall back, and a tumbled mass of dark hair came free. A moment Brand looked, amazed and lost for words.

  “Tinwellen,” he cried after a moment, and even as he did so she turned the horse onto the road and raced along it, shooting toward the fortress like a dark arrow with a cloud of dust rising behind her.

  The others looked at Band. “She was the daughter of the merchant who owned the trading caravans I used as cover to enter the Duthgar. But she shouldn’t be here, or anywhere near here.”

  Explanations would have to wait. He leapt down the stairs at the rear of the battlement two at a time, and the others followed fast behind.

  Brand came to the courtyard beneath the gate towers. The tunnel through the wall opened before him, but there he waited. Within the confines of that dark space the clatter of hooves roared and the movement of a rider could be seen speeding through the narrow way.

  And then Tinwellen was there, all dark hair and curves, excitement in her eyes and a flash of recognition as she saw him there.

  She pulled her horse to a stop. It was a fine animal, though worked hard just now. Its coat was black, but sweat frothed over its flanks and it drew in long breaths of air loudly. It trembled also, close to exhaustion. Even so, it stood proudly. Brand admired it, but it was not one that he had ever seen in the merchant’s caravan.

  But prouder than the horse was she who rode it. Tinwellen sat there, her eyes haughty and a look of calm on her face as though she had strolled in here by accident and now looked around with mild curiosity. Still, there was the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. She had enjoyed the ride, dangerous as it was.

  Brand stepped forward and ran a calming hand over the horse’s withers, but he was looking up at Tinwellen all the while.

  “I hadn’t thought to see you again, but I’ve missed you.” She dismounted gracefully, and looked him in the eye. “Of course you have. I’m not easy to forget, am I?”

  He grinned at her. She had not changed at all, except perhaps that there was a darkness in her eyes that had not been there before.

  He signaled a soldier to take and care for her mount. “Who could forget you? But I wonder why you’re here? And where is the caravan?”

  “So, you care for me after all, city boy?”

  Brand ignored the looks from the others. They seemed surprised that she called him that. And well they might be, but it was what she had called him when he was in hiding, and he did not mind it even now.

  “You know I do,” he answered quietly.

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “Well, you have a strange way of showing it. First, you lie to me about who you are, and then you run off without even a hug, still less a kiss.”

  If the others were looking at him before, they did so doubly now. But he did his best to ignore that. She had made him sound churlish, but under the circumstances he did not mind. Perhaps, he had even earned it.

  “None of this answers why you’re here now. What’s happened?”

  She stood tall and proud, but that glint of darkness in her eyes was stronger now. She was not the same as she had been, and he felt t
hat something terrible may have happened. Almost, she seemed to sway before him, but she steadied herself and fixed him with her gaze as though nothing had happened.

  “Very well. I’ll tell you. Much has passed, but in short this is what you need to know. Unferth has imprisoned my father. The king suspects that he knew who you were and helped you into the Duthgar.”

  Brand had a sinking feeling in his stomach. He had feared something like this, but it was still hard to hear. It did not matter that he had kept his identity secret and told no one. The old man may have guessed, perhaps, who he was and what his intentions were. But he had not known. But Unferth would not care about the truth.

  “I’m sorry. That was one of the reasons I told none of you anything.”

  “Well, it’s hardly your fault.” The look she leveled at him indicated she was only being polite.

  “What of the others?”

  “The guards were taken by surprise one night. They had no chance to fight back. Laigern may have arranged that, but I can’t be sure.”

  Brand fumed, but he tried not to show it. Laigern would be exactly the type to betray them. And again, it could be laid at his door. The two of them had a feud going, and that would have played a part in things. Perhaps he should have killed him when he had the chance.

  Tinwellen seemed to read some of his emotions. She reached out and touched his arm. “It’s not your fault. But will you help me? I have nowhere else to turn.”

  He held her gaze, wishing he had more time to think things through and decide what could be done, but her question demanded an immediate answer.

  “Of course I’ll help. Though it may be that the only thing I can do is win the war against Unferth. If I do that, then after they will be freed.”

  She gave a shrug. “That will be soon enough. They’re safe for now I think, and nothing is likely to change until after the war anyway.”

  It was a somewhat cold response. Brand had thought she would be frantic for him to attempt a rescue, but he supposed that the situation had hardened her. She saw the practicalities of things, and that the best way to help really was to win the war. But then there would be a final reckoning with Laigern.

  “How did you escape? And how did you know where I am?” he asked.

  She looked at him with an air of mystery. “I can do what I can do, and I know the things I know, city boy. And better would you be if you didn’t doubt it.”

  Brand was beginning to remember the manner of her speech. She always liked to keep an edge, so he merely looked at her thoughtfully and said nothing.

  After a few moments she grew exasperated. “Very well! If you must know, I had made … friends with one of the lords at the hall we were staying at. He hid me while the others were taken, and he gave me the horse afterward so that I could escape.”

  It seemed likely enough, although there was much that she glossed over. She was certainly more than friendly with the lord, but that was not important. Brand had other thoughts on his mind.

  “And how did you know where I was?”

  She seemed annoyed at him now, and she drew herself up. “The lord asked me to marry him, you know.”

  Brand grinned at her. “I’m not surprised. But that doesn’t answer my question.”

  She narrowed her eyes, realizing that he was not going to play her game. Or worrying that he was, only that he was playing it better.

  “The whole Duthgar knows where you are, city boy. Or it will soon enough. Word spreads like fire about what you’ve done, and rebellion rises like smoke from the ground everywhere. There’s no place that doesn’t smell of it.”

  Brand had thought as much. Still, it was good to hear news from someone who had traveled the land and who knew what was what and why it was so. There was little that Tinwellen ever missed.

  He reached out and touched her hand. “You should go from here swiftly, then. You know what’s coming, and this will be no safe place. I’ll send a few men with you, and when the battle here is done, I’ll get word to you to return. Then we’ll free your father.”

  “Safety? Do I look like I need to be kept safe? I can look after myself, thank you very much! But at any rate, this much is true. The most dangerous place in the world right now is with you – but it’s also the safest. Who better would I trust in a such a time?”

  Brand did not know what to say, and she softened her tone.

  “I’ll not leave your side. I’m as safe as I can be, right here. And in turn, I offer my loyalty.”

  Suddenly, knives flashed in her hand, swift as a serpent striking, the points upright and the blades still. She knew how to use them.

  “I’m not without defenses, and I’ll guard your back as well as you guard mine.”

  A moment she held his gaze, and as though satisfied that she had made her point, she swung away and imperiously called a servant over.

  “Take me somewhere that I can freshen up. On Lord Brand’s orders.” Even as the man led her off, she turned to Brand and winked at him.

  They watched her walk away, her figure swaying just so slightly at each step, her every movement one of controlled grace.

  “That’s a whole lot of girl, right there,” Shorty commented. “You do make some very interesting friends, Brand.”

  Brand did not answer. Tinwellen had been as she always was, but he had forgotten just how strong her presence was.

  “I’m sorry,” Sighern said into the quiet. “I don’t like her.”

  Shorty shook his head. “What’s not to like? And the way she pulled those knives. Very impressive.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Brand said. “We have things of greater importance to discuss.”

  Taingern tried hard not to show any amusement, but the corners of his lips twitched.

  “See, Brand? I for one am always serious. I’d never talk about any of your female companions. Especially one so good with a set of knives.”

  Brand ignored him. If he responded, his two old friends would keep going all day.

  “This much is what is serious,” he said. “There’s rebellion in the Duthgar. That’s to our benefit, and to Unferth’s detriment. Whatever he does, he must act quickly.”

  “True enough,” Shorty replied. “If we thought he’d come to you and attack before, he has all the more reason now. If he doesn’t stop you fast, he may as well grab a horse and ride for the hills. They’ll be the only friends he has.”

  It was good news, in its way. But on the other hand, if Unferth defeated him then he could turn his army on the Duthgar. Whatever rebellion was arising would die swiftly then.

  They talked a little while longer, and then Brand asked for some food to be brought out to them. They sat down at one of the rough tables that had been placed in the courtyard, nothing more than sawn logs for seats and a wide plank for the table itself, but it was comfortable enough.

  Tinwellen returned, and Brand offered her a seat, which she took graciously. This much he liked about her; she was at home around a campfire in the rough company of men, or in the courtyard of a fortress surrounded by soldiers and the threat of war. But he did not doubt that she would be equally at home in the hall of a lord somewhere, or even the palace of a king.

  “So,” he said, “what’s happening in the Duthgar? Tell me all you know.”

  She sipped delicately at some watered wine. “Rebellion, or the talk of it, is everywhere. Swords are sharpened in every hall, every cottage and every hut. And your name is on everybody’s lips.”

  “And word of the battle?”

  “Ah, yes. That too. Your victory is well known, and not just in these parts. Further south it’s talked about as well. Unferth has a man … his name is Horta.”

  “Yes, I know about Horta.”

  “He’s one to watch,” she warned.

  “You’ve met him?”

  “I meet lots of people. And I understand those I meet well. He’s a dangerous man, in his way. But maybe not so dangerous as you.”

  “And what of Unferth?�
� Sighern asked. “Does he march to war?”

  She glanced at the boy, an eyebrow raised as though wondering what he was doing there, but she answered.

  “He’ll attack.”

  “But has he already marched?” Sighern persisted.

  “Not when I left the south. But I left swiftly, and I traveled swifter still. He’s coming, that much I promise you.”

  A man brought some food over. This was mostly for Tinwellen, as the others had eaten lunch not long ago. Whatever she thought of bread without butter and some dry cheese for a meal, she did not say.

  “I don’t doubt that Unferth will come,” Brand said. “What I’d like to know is will he come with everything he has, or will he leave soldiers behind to help quell rebellion?”

  Tinwellen shrugged. “I’m no soldier, Brand. But I know that when there’s a fire in the camp all men come running to put it out. Else the camp burns down.”

  He thought as much himself. He would soon be facing everything Unferth could throw at him, and he felt gladder than ever to be behind these walls. But it nagged at him that they had fallen once, and he knew that it might be so again.

  12. The Wise Man Reads the Future

  Horta sat in thought. The goddess was gone, and his acolytes recovering from the form of possession that she had forced upon them. But Arnhaten were sturdy, and they would recover. If not, then the weakest of them would perish, thereby rendering those who remained a smaller, but stronger group.

  She had demanded her price for help, and he agreed. He had no choice. That did not mean that he had to like it, but it was done now, and nothing would change it. He must accept the situation for what it was. Only then could he proceed with a calm mind to the next step. That was the important thing. He must think only of his great goal; all else was of little importance. And to achieve that, he must think clearly and act wisely.

  What then should be his next step? He had sent word to the Kar-ahn-hetep, and within time an army would come to support him. When that happened, he would be strong. His enemies would be irrelevant, for though diminished as his people were, yet still they were far greater than the Duthenor. Even if they chose to resist, they would be felled like trees before a horde of woodcutters.