Kings of Sorcery

by Robert Ryan

  The night wore on. It grew cold and cloudy. A patter of rain fell several times, but then it faded away. Horta hoped it would stay that way, but no weather was going to stop him or slow him down. Nothing would, but he did expect trouble ahead. Not that it would stop him either. Not now, not in these circumstances. And anyway, it was about time that the sullen villages saw a glimpse of the true power he wielded.

  Horta was tired by the time he reached the village, and his arthritic knee ached. If he was not in a bad temper before, he was doubly so now.

  He went straight to the king’s stables. These were set well away from the hall, but they were guarded by a few soldiers. The horses inside belonged mostly to the king’s messengers, but there were others there too. These were owned by lords too old to ride to war and to their wives. Horta needed them, for he needed speed. And as much as he hated riding, he would forget that now. Time was pressing and he would never catch up to the army afoot.

  He swung open the doors, his weary acolytes behind him. The few men that were inside, young stable hands and soldiers stood up from where they had been playing dice.

  “A dozen horses,” Horta commanded. “Saddle them swiftly. We ride to the king.”

  The men before him looked uncertain, but the oldest of them answered. His hair was gray, but his eyes were steely. He was a man who had once seen fighting. Horta read that look about him, and he did not like it. He wanted no resistance now.

  “These horses belong to the king’s messengers. We have orders to guard them, and none but the messengers are allowed to use them.”

  “Stand aside, old man. In the name of the king.”

  “It’s in the name of the king, and at his order that I guard them. I’ll not stand aside. If you must have them, seek leave from Lord Hralfling who sits in the king’s hall. He’s in charge here.”

  Already this was taking too long, and Horta acted swiftly. The use of magic was his, but surprise would serve him well now. He swung a swift punch that caught the old man flat footed. He tumbled to the ground, but rose up again nearly in the same motion with a knife in his hand.

  Tanata was already moving though, and he struck the man a second blow that felled him.

  Horta kicked the knife away from his opponent’s hand and signaled the Arnhaten through. “Find yourselves horses and saddle them swiftly!”

  Some of the stable hands helped the old man up while the soldiers fled the building. They would return with others of their kind no doubt, but Horta hoped to be gone before then.

  He found his own favorite horse and saddled it himself. It was beneath him to do servants work such as that, but the situation demanded it. He was ready more quickly than the acolytes. He at least had ridden from time to time, but the others had done so only rarely. But soon they were all gathering before the doors.

  Horta saw vague movement through the crack where the two doors stood ajar. But there was room enough to ride through and nothing would stop him.

  He urged his mount forward and the others filed behind him. With a kick of his foot he opened the doors wider and rushed through. There were soldiers gathering there, and he saw the glint of cold metal in the night. None of these barbarians liked him, and they would not likely hesitate to use blades, advisor to the king or no.

  He kicked his mount again, and it leapt forward. Behind him came the thud of many hooves. Ahead, the soldiers were trying to group together and block his path. They were waving arms and swords now, trying to make the horses shy and stop.

  Horta slipped a hand into one of his many pouches, and he drew out a large pinch of grainy powder. With a muttered prayer and a jerk of his arm he cast it out before him.

  The powder turned to fire and smoke in the air. Sparks of many colors streaked toward the men and they jumped away in astonishment, opening a gap. Through this Horta charged, and the Arnhaten thundered after him.

  He was on his way, and nothing would stop him, but fear rode in the saddle beside him. Would he be too late?

  14. You Need Swear No Oath

  Tinwellen had been right, Brand realized. The whole Duthgar knew where he was, which was what he wanted, and rebellion was ablaze through the land.

  Since dawn, warriors had been coming to the fortress to join him. They looked warily at the old structure, but men on the walls rather than ghosts reassured them. That, and the Dragon Banner of the chieftains of the Duthgar that rippled lazily in the air.

  They came at first by their hundreds. And then they numbered in their thousands. He had a true army now. This was no mere band of rebels, but a force to be reckoned with. Well led, they could achieve much. And they brought food and equipment with them.

  They also brought tidings. Unferth was on the move. He had indeed commenced to march from the south, and he would not take long to reach here. If he knew yet that his enemy had secured a fortress, no word told. Still less what he thought about it. Brand wished he could see his face when he heard that news.

  More pressing was the possibility that Unferth had sent spies ahead of him. It was possible. Even among the Duthenor there would be those who would serve an enemy for gold or the promise of status to come. Against this, Brand took precautions.

  The new men were spread out. No larger group that came in together was allowed to stay together. They were watched, and Brand had his own men throughout them to listen and report back anything suspicious. This had not happened, but he would not expect it yet either. There was little any traitor could do for the moment, except perhaps to send word back to Unferth of numbers of soldiers and the state of the fortress. But now only trusted men were allowed to leave.

  Against the possibility of the fortress’s water supplies or food being poisoned, guards were set of trusted men. Against sabotage to the gate, men were also set to watch. If Unferth had sent agents for these tasks, he would likely be disappointed. But Brand doubted the man had the luxury of time to plan such things before he marched, and may only now be discovering the exact whereabouts of his opponent anyway.

  One question worried him more than any of the many other concerns he had. Would Unferth attack the fortress? This was the center of his strategy. Despite the new men coming in, he was still at a numerical disadvantage. He needed the walls of the fortress to balance the odds. But that did not mean Unferth would do as expected. On the other hand, if he did not attack and win quickly, revolt could spread through the land. Then he would have to march to stamp it out, probably to several places at once. If he did so, Brand could leave the fortress and crush the enemy piecemeal.

  No. Unferth would come. He had to. Having, for the hundredth time satisfied himself of that, Brand left his accustomed position on the battlements to see for himself the many tasks underway.

  Tinwellen joined him as he came down the stairs.

  “What now, O mighty warlord?” she said. Her eyes gleamed with humor as she spoke.

  “Now, we check the gate,” he said.

  “I’m glad you said that. I’ve been fretting over the gate ever so much.”

  Despite her sarcasm, she slipped her arm around his and he led her through the gate tunnel.

  “I know you’re joking,” he said. “But the gate is important. We’ll not hold the fortress long without it.”

  She grinned at him, her teeth white in the dim light of the tunnel.

  “I know, city boy. I know it well. But you drive yourself too hard. All work and no play is a bad way to prepare for battle. You need something to take your mind off things.”

  She slowed her step in the middle of the tunnel, at its darkest point. But Brand had seen the bones of dead men here. He knew how they had died, for he had seen men die in terror like that before. Arrow and spear coming through the walls. Nowhere to go except forward, and men waiting there to kill too. She had not seen that, and did not understand it. The remains had been taken away before she arrived.

  He kept moving ahead, and he felt her reluctance. Almost, she seemed to stamp her foot, but he might have imagined that.
It was dark. Nevertheless, she came along with him and did not let go. If she was offended, she did not show it. But he knew too well that she was not one to trifle with.

  There was movement ahead, and the sound of men’s voices. Suddenly Shorty loomed up out of the dark.

  “Ah, perfect timing. We’ve just put the last finishing touches on things.”

  “Let’s have a look, then,” Brand suggested.

  His old friend led them the rest of the way along the tunnel. The light grew swiftly, and the gate stood there, closed.

  Brand was impressed. “The smiths have done a good job.” It was hard to believe that this was the same gate that he had seen lying in ruin on first entering the fortress. The metal had been straightened, and the rust removed. “It looks like it’s newly forged.”

  He stepped forward and gripped one of the thick bars. There was no weakness there, and he grinned. Unferth would not like this at all. A walled fortress with a good gate? He could picture the anger of the man building up. It would be one thing to learn that his enemy had encamped in such a place, but quite another that the fortress had been made sound and was no ruin of ancient and crumbling defenses.

  “Want to see it in action?” Shorty asked.

  “By all means.”

  Brand led Tinwellen back a little. The workmen came away from the gate too, some into the tunnel but most outside beyond the wall.

  Shorty brought both hands to his mouth and hollered to the tower above. “Raise the gate, lads!”

  A call came back in answer. “Raising the gate!”

  Within a few moments a tremor ran through the metal, and the gate rose on two great chains that disappeared up through the lintel and into the gate mechanism above. The chains moved smoothly, and the gate rose steadily. For all that it must have been extraordinarily heavy, it rose as easily as a man might open a cottage door until the gate was fully open.

  Shorty flashed him a grin. “Not a sight that Unferth will ever see.”

  “I should think not,” Brand replied.

  Shorty hailed the men above again. “Lower the gate!”

  “Lowering the gate!” came the reply. This time there was a tremendous blast from several horns. It was a warning for all to keep clear. Then swift and smooth the gate dropped. With a mighty clang that boomed through the tunnel the metal rim at the bottom slammed home into its shallow footing of stone on the ground. It was likewise secured within parallel furrows on each side, greased in order to ensure the gate rose and dropped with ease.

  Brand could not have been happier. The gate had worried him, but it was as good now as it was when the fortress had first been built.

  “Good work!” he called out to all the men gathered there. “Excellent! Let Unferth crack his head against that!”

  The men cheered and shook each other’s hands. But Tinwellen gave him a sultry look and moved to press her back against the bars, arms flung out and a grin on her face.

  “O, great lord! You have me prisoner now. What will you do with me?”

  The soldiers erupted with laughter, and Brand tried hard to suppress his own grin. He moved in close and took her by the hand.

  “I’ll think of something,” he said, winking at Shorty.

  The men cheered again, even louder than before. Brand led Tinwellen back into the tunnel, and the cheering seemed to not only follow them but to get louder.

  They walked ahead, but this time Tinwellen quickened her step as they went through the darker parts of the tunnel. Truly, he could never quite guess what she was going to do next. And maybe he liked that.

  “There are quite a few things I need to check on yet,” he said as they came back into the courtyard.

  “Lead on,” she replied, slipping her arm through the crook of his again.

  The next few hours went well. If Tinwellen was bored of inspecting the many things that needed checking, she did not show it.

  Brand went first to the various wells that had been found. Some were shallow and some deeper. This was good, because it indicated different sources of underground water. If one went dry, the others might keep producing.

  He did not doubt that there had been a great quantity of water available when the fortress had been built. Otherwise, it would not have been positioned were it was. Water was critical to an army, and the original army that held this fortress was much larger than the one that occupied it now. But all of that was long, long ago. Since then, the underground water levels could have fallen. It was just as likely that they had risen too, but one was a problem and the other was not. Still, all the signs looked good.

  Next, he inspected the kitchens. These had been cleaned and fires burned day and night. An army needed a lot of feeding, and soldiers manned the battlements in shifts day and night. Cooks had been selected too, and though these no longer wore armor or sword, both were piled neatly in corners and ready for use if needed.

  The kitchens had been well designed. They were spacious, and there were stone-lined ovens and fire-pits. Each had a chimney too, and these drew the smoke well to send great plumes of blue-white clouds to hang above the fortress when the air was still. They had needed much clearing of debris though to unblock them, the cooks told him.

  Brand toured the battlements as well. These were cleaned now, free of debris and little structural work had been needed anywhere. Long poles were stacked in many places, to be used to dislodge scaling ladders. There were axes also, for the severing of ropes thrown over the ramparts with grappling hooks. Fresh made timber buckets were there as well, some containing water and others sawdust. These were to clean the rampart floor of blood, and then to dry the surface once more so that soldiers could better keep their footing.

  Away over the Duthgar everything seemed peaceful, but that would change. In the foreground, the land was barren now and clear of tree and shrub. It was a good killing area. Further out, the pine-clad ridges marched away. Brand’s heart was in places like that, with the scent of resin in the air and the mysteries of forest paths that led to the high places or down into secret valleys. But war was his life now, and he drew his gaze, and his thoughts, back to his responsibilities.

  In many places along the battlements mock battles were being fought to get the defenders used to siege warfare. What these men learned now as a game, Unferth’s would learn later at a cost of blood. He could not pity them. The general who pitied the enemy lost. At least, he could not pity them until he won, if that came to pass. Truly, he had less choice in things than he had ever thought. Necessity drove him, as it always had and always would.

  The soldiers were good with the long poles, dislodging ladders swiftly. It would be harder with the weight of people on them, and the fear of death breathing down their necks. But they were hard men, and they understood this.

  In other places, groups of archers took turns to fire at targets below. There were too few archers for Brand’s liking, but it was a skill that needed learning like all others. He could put bows into the hands of many other men, but ten who could shoot with accuracy and speed were worth more than a hundred without skill. He would make do with what he had.

  There were more spearmen, and this too was a skill, but not so great as archery. Strong men, and athletic, as most Duthenor were, could hurl a javelin with great force. One by itself might be dodged and avoided. But thrown as a unit as these men were training to do, to dodge one was to step into another, and to raise a shield to protect the face was to expose the legs.

  Tinwellen also took in the training, and seemed impressed by it.

  “You leave nothing to chance, do you?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Brand said with determination. “But the chances of the world are many, and no general can foresee them all.”

  The expression on her face indicated she agreed with that, but she only nodded solemnly and did not reply. Brand led her back along the rampart to the gate towers, and there descended the stairs at the back of the wall into the courtyard.

  Even as they reached
the bottom a new batch of men was coming in, several hundred strong. Two lords led them. Their fine armor and jewel-hilted swords identified them as such, but their clothing was of a finer cut also. They saw Brand, and recognized him by the Helm of the Duthenor that he wore, for they strode over quickly and bowed.

  “Lord Garvengil at your service,” the first said.

  “And Lord Brodruin, also at your service,” the second added.

  “Pleased to meet you, gentlemen.” Brand only glanced at them. Most of his attention was on the men the lords had led into the fortress. They seemed well equipped, and they were all tall and strong. They would be a good addition to the defense, but Brand could not help wondering how young they were. Some at least would not yet have seen their twentieth winter, and it disturbed him. How many would die beneath the same Dragon Banner now marked by Haldring’s blood? Too many, and every one would be on his conscience. But war gave generals few choices.

  Garvengil drew his gaze off the Helm of the Duthenor down to the hilt of Brand’s Halathrin-wrought sword. The blade was a legend, but it was a true fighting weapon and the hilt was not decorated in the fashion lords seemed to favor these days. But still Brand sensed a little of the man’s unease, even awe.

  Brand clapped him on the shoulder, and his companion as well.

  “Thank you for coming. You and your men will make a great difference.”

  “It’s nothing but our duty,” Brodruin replied.

  That much was true, Brand knew. But he knew also that these men might not have come at all unless they believed he had a chance of winning. It was only the recent victory against Unferth that had swayed them, but still, they were here, and that was what mattered.

  “When shall we swear our oaths?” Garvengil asked.

  Brand was confused. “What oaths?”