by Robert Ryan
Brand gazed at the corpse. Could this be his enemy? Was it possible? Or was there some subterfuge in action that he had not yet laid bare?
“Speak!” he commanded. “You are discovered, and I know an enemy when I see one.”
In truth, he did not expect what happened next. He had spoken only to hear the sound of his own voice amid the crushing weight of the dark and the suffocating sense of inevitable death.
And yet the withered hand twitched, gripping the sword. Some movement stirred the hair beneath the helm, and the face moved, lips forming words though the flesh was dried and the tongue a husk.
Hurlak gee, mishrak ammon hul. Far geru arhat!
Brand stepped back. Fear stabbed into his body like a lightning bolt, and his heart thundered in his chest. That it was only his mind here and not his body did not matter. He knew that these things were happening to him where he slept far away.
He did not understand the words, but he knew a command when he heard one. Here was a man who ruled others, and expected to be obeyed. And then the voice whispered in his mind, and he understood the meaning of the words.
Kneel, mortal. You are in the presence of a god. I speak, and you obey!
Brand felt a desire to obey. Like a weight over his mind it fell, and his left knee buckled. But then he remembered what the man, or god, or whatever it was, had done in his dreams. Invoking images of his dead parents was too much.
“Eat dust and die,” Brand answered. “I’m not your subject.”
The corpse shuddered, and after a moment Brand realized it was laughter. And then the dried-out mouth began to work again.
“In my time, it was said that you could judge a man by his enemies. There is truth to this, and you are a fitting opponent for such as I. Almost.”
Whoever this was, he had a high opinion of himself. But Brand was not impressed.
“Don’t enter my dreams again,” he warned.
The corpse laughed once more, and it was as disturbing a sight and sound as anything Brand had ever encountered before.
“You are in no position to make threats. Your enemies far outnumber you. One of your allies, nay, one of the closest of your companions, will betray you. Horta will rise against you, bringing his magic to bear as a storm of destruction. And you think yourself safe in a fortress, but doubt gnaws at your soul for you know that it has fallen before. No, it is best that you do not threaten me.”
Brand considered the corpse. “You know a lot. For a dead man.”
“Dead? You are ignorant of the great mysteries. Who are you to speak of death, or life, or the boundaries between? You know little of what has been, or what could yet be in the future.”
“Then tell me this. Who are you?”
“I am Char-harash. Once I led an empire. Once, I commanded powers of magic that would still Horta’s heart. Once … but the past is an empty thing. It is a cup of memories sipped from at whiles while the mind contemplates the future.”
Brand grew weary of holding his sword upright. But he rested its point lightly against the ground rather than sheath it.
“And what do you see in your future, Char-harash?”
“I see godhood. In life, I was on the brink. In death, I am on the brink of life. In but a little while I shall live again. This husk of flesh will be renewed, this body enlivened. I shall walk the world again, and I, and my brethren to be, will bend it to our wills.”
A faint sense of unease stirred in Brand. It was not just these words, it was something else. Why should his enemy speak so freely?
Char-harash, or what was left of him, was not done.
“You are strong,” his enemy continued. “But you are ill-tutored. Serve me, and I will educate you in the mysteries. Obey me, and the world will tremble at your thought. I can give you powers that you have never dreamed of. There is a place by my side for such as you.”
Brand had heard this sort of thing before. It held little temptation for him. What more could a man want but a smile from the girl he loved and a hearty meal? Everything else was empty.
“What point is there in serving a corpse?”
The voice of Char-harash came in answer, cold as death.
“A corpse now, but a god to be.”
Brand’s unease grew. He had taunted this spirit, and it did not respond with anger. Yet if he was any judge of character, Char-harash was spiteful and vindictive. Or had been in life. Death was not likely to have improved him. Why then had he not reacted with violence?
“You should have left me alone,” Brand declared. “No offers of power will sway me. No bribe will tempt me, for you have nothing of true value to give. Instead, you attacked me in my dreams and now insult my honor. And you threaten the land I love. For these things, you have made of me an enemy.”
Char-harash laughed once more, and Brand felt his stomach churn. But something was wrong over and above that. What was it?
This much Brand knew. His enemy was willing to talk to him, to threaten or to tempt, it did not seem to matter which. For that, there must be a reason.
A wave of weakness overwhelmed him. At first, he thought his enemy had attacked him in some way, but it was not so. This was something that originated from within himself. And then he understood.
He was here, but it was only his dream-self. Perhaps what some would term a spirit. It was something that he knew was possible, but of which he knew little. And an echo of some instinctive fear ran through him. If the spirit was separated from the body too long, the body would die.
Char-harash was trying to kill him, and that it was not done with an open attack made the danger no less real.
17. Patience
Horta hated riding, but the Arnhaten that came behind him hated it more. They bounced in their saddles and cursed and moaned. Of them all, only Tanata endured the ride in silence.
Through the land they had raced, and ever Horta feared he would be too late. If Gormengil had killed Unferth, the army might already have fallen apart. If Unferth had killed Gormengil, it mattered less. Yet Gormengil was respected, and a king who killed his own heir might lose the support of those he led. Especially when that support had become tenuous.
All things were possible right now, and different destinies vied with each other. Horta could almost feel the land itself hold its breath. He had lived a long time, but seldom had he felt this way before. All hopes were on the cusp of birth, and all catastrophes hovered like a dagger at his neck, ready to slit his throat.
The High Way made the riding easier, if it could be called that. It allowed quick and sure progress, even at night. And it was nighttime now. A village lay on their left as they clattered past, all lit up with lights in every window while the occupants finished their meals and prepared for bed. They were oblivious of the need that drove him, and he kicked his horse ahead a little faster. They were oblivious, but he was not.
For two days they had followed in the wake of the army. But the signs indicated it was close now. Very close. There would be no stopping until they reached it, and if a horse died beneath them, ridden beyond what it had to give, so be it.
The night was not yet old when they saw lights in the distance. Campfires. Thousands of them, and Horta felt a surge of energy thrill through him. He must not be too late.
Despite the sense of urgency upon him, he slowed the column to a walk. There would be sentries, and to go rushing through in the dark was to risk being speared or shot by arrow.
The column, which had spread out hundreds of feet, began to bunch together now. Tanata drew alongside him.
“Master, there are men nearby.”
Horta did not get a chance to answer. No sooner had Tanata spoken than a group of four men reared up before them, spears in hand.
“Halt!” came a quick command, and Horta sharply drew the reins of his horse in.
One of the four men stepped a pace closer. He did not lower his spear.
“Who comes towards the king’s camp? What’s your business here?”
“I am Horta, advisor to the king, and my business with Unferth is none of your concern.”
The soldier stepped a few paces closer, but the spear remained poised to throw or jab. Horta held his breath, but it had nothing to do with the spear.
The man peered up at him. “I recognize you,” he said, at last lowering his spear. “You and your men may ride through.”
Horta gave a silent prayer of thanks to the gods, and relief washed over him. He had called the king by name, and stated that his business was with him. Surely, if Gormengil had killed Unferth, the soldier would have said something knowing who he intended to see.
Luck had favored him. Or the quick ride had been worth it. Or, possibly, the runes of life and death had been wrong. Of the three possibilities, he knew the first was the most likely.
He nudged his horse forward without answering the soldier. The man was nothing to him now. All that mattered was what lay ahead, for while Gormengil had not yet made an attempt to usurp the throne, he knew the danger was still there, for the runes were never wrong. And he must still find a way to avert that disaster.
Or had Gormengil made the attempt and failed? That was possible too, and the soldier may not have mentioned it. But he did not think so. There had been a certain amount of tension in the air, but that was natural for sentries stopping travelers entering the camp. Had some sort of assassination attempt been made on the king, the anxiety of the sentries would have been much greater.
They passed through several more guard lines. The smell of smoke and cooking meals hung in the air, and the light and noise of the camp was close to hand.
Horta dismounted. A camp was no place to ride in the dark. The Arnhaten did likewise, and he led them forward through the rows of men. The army seemed vast, and Horta felt as though every set of eyes was turned on him. They all knew who he was, and they all disliked him. Had it not been known that he was an advisor to Unferth, he and his men would long since have been accosted.
The ranks of men, and the fires, and the occasional tent seemed endless. So too the hostile gazes. Yet at length, Horta found his way to the center of the encampment. There were more tents here, for the wealthier camped closer to the king. There were more horses also.
Horta turned to Tanata. “You will come with me when I speak to the king. Stay on your guard.”
“What shall I be on guard against?”
Horta hesitated. But the man had proved his intellect and worth.
“Watch the king. And watch Gormengil. See if you can discern how things stand between them. Watch Gormengil especially, for my attention must be only on the king.”
Tanata inclined his head, and asked no further questions. He was proving to be the perfect disciple.
They came to the king’s tent. Outside were long rows of picket lines for other horses, and Horta and Tanata handed their reins to two of the Arnhaten.
“Stay close by,” he commanded them.
He led Tanata to the tent flap where a group of soldiers stood guard. “Tell the king that Horta has come,” he commanded. “And I would speak with him.”
The men gazed at him with cold eyes, but their leader moved through the tent flap and disappeared. He returned a few moments later. “The king grants you audience.”
The tone in which the man spoke was superior, and Horta did not like it. But he swallowed his pride. Soon, if all went well, these men would learn what true power was, and who wielded it. He moved through the tent flap himself, and put such petty thoughts behind him.
It was lit inside by several braziers that gave off a ruddy light. The smell of smoke was strong, and the air was cloying. Horta saw Unferth straightaway, and relief washed through him. It was one thing to deduce the man was still alive, but another to see him.
But Gormengil was there also. Indeed, most of the Callenor war leaders were. They were seated around a crude trestle table. That, some sawed logs for chairs, and the braziers were the only furniture. But all over the ground lay various animal rugs.
Unferth glanced up at him. “I thought war was not to your liking, Horta. But you have decided to come and serve your king anyway?”
Horta bowed. “I am no soldier, and little used to the ways of fighting,” he lied. “But it may be, in my own small way, that I can help.”
“Then join us at the table. You wield no sword, but you have a sharp mind.”
Horta understood what was happening here. It was a war council, and it was evident that they faced some difficulty, judging from the looks on their faces. He glanced carefully at Gormengil as he sat, for he was the one whose emotions must be gauged most, but typically for the man, he was the one who masked what he felt the best. His face may as well have been carved from stone.
Horta was not comfortable on a sawed log for a seat. He would have preferred to sit on the ground. This, at least, Tanata was able to do, and he took up a position close behind him. No one at the table even looked at him. It was a slight, but these barbarians knew nothing of civilized ways. To slight the servant was to slight the master.
Despite his discomfort, Horta listened carefully as the king spoke.
“Brand has dug himself into a hole like a rat.” The words were for Horta, bringing him up to date with what the others in the room already knew. “He has occupied an ancient fortress called Pennling Palace. It’s a wretched dump, falling apart and reputed to be haunted, but he thinks the walls will keep me from him.”
Horta knew the place. His wanderings had taken him across the Duthgar, but he had never ventured inside. The place had a bad reputation, and there was something about it that triggered his instincts.
Gormengil leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table where he sat next to the king.
“The fortress is old,” he said, “and I’ve not been inside. But the walls are still standing, and they are strong.”
Unferth grunted. “I don’t care about walls and gates. We have the greater army. We’ll storm the walls and demolish whatever barricade they’ve put up for a gate.”
“It’s not that simple, my king,” Gormengil said. “The walls are an advantage to the enemy. And it’s clear that Brand isn’t going anywhere, so we may as well take the time to gather more men. Then we can be sure of defeating him.”
Horta understood. The runes had been right, and Brand had done the unexpected. He also understood that the king’s advisors were divided in how they should react. Worst of all, Unferth and Gormengil were on opposite sides of that divide.
Unferth seemed angry. “It’s as simple as I say it is. My army outnumbers his. The walls offer a barrier, but they’ll not stop me from crushing him, and all who support him.”
The reply Gormengil gave was softly spoken, and his voice was void of emotion. But still Horta’s blood ran cold to hear him speak.
“You underestimate Brand. You always have, otherwise he would already be dead. I urge you, don’t take his skill as a general cheaply this time. Gather more men. Take your time. Be sure of victory before you rush in, foolishly.”
Unferth went white. Then his face blossomed red in rage. He stood, and with a casual movement backhanded Gormengil. It was unexpected, and the sudden violence caused men to reel back off their seats and stagger upright.
Gormengil fell to the ground, but then he rose in a smooth motion, his body swaying to and fro like a rearing serpent. It was not dizziness that made him move so, but a martial technique to help avoid being struck while rising from the ground. Horta knew a great fighter when he saw one, and he increased his estimate of Gormengil. And even struck down, the man’s face showed no emotion, but his eyes were cold as death.
Gormengil had his right hand on his sword hilt. Unferth reached for the wicked-looking axe he now carried with him. The men around the table stepped further back.
Horta acted swiftly. He drew powder from one of his pouches, and cast it onto the table where it exploded in flashes of multicolored sparks. Then swifter than either the king or the heir he moved, leaping across the
table and gripping Gormengil’s wrist.
“Stay!” he commanded. “Discord among us is to Brand’s favor. Are you all children to squabble while the realm falls around you?”
No one answered. Slowly, Gormengil released his grip on the sword hilt. Unferth seemed in a rage, but he blinked a few times and then his eyes focused on Horta.
“Children, are we? Is that how you speak to your king?”
“I speak the truth,” Horta answered. “And you know it. If you wish lickspittles to serve you, too scared to voice an opinion, then strike off my head now. Otherwise, heed my words!”
A long moment Unferth looked at him. “You are more than you seem. But you’re right. Discord among us is only to Brand’s advantage.” He deliberately avoided looking at Gormengil as he spoke, but his gaze flickered to the man at the last and his hands still tightly gripped the haft of the axe.
Horta bowed. “Let me take Gormengil aside, sire. I’ll teach him of my wisdom. And then let me speak with you. I sense the magic of Brand at work, sowing disharmony among us.” It was not true, but Unferth did not know that, and it would distract him from Gormengil.
Unferth gave a nod of approval, and Horta drew the heir to the throne away. They walked out of the tent and into the semi-dark of the camp. Horta hesitated, and then led the younger man to the picket line of horses where they could speak without being overheard.
Horta swung toward him. “Are you a fool? We’ve discussed much, and one day you’ll be king, but you’re not ready yet. If you’re not careful, Unferth will have you killed and your dreams will be dust.”
The dark eyes of Gormengil gazed back at him, unblinking. “We’ve discussed many things. Some of it treasonous. You know that as well as I. Yet all I did tonight was offer good counsel to the king.”
“It’s not what you said. It’s how you said it. He knows you wish the throne. He knows you hold him in contempt. Wait. Bide your time. Strike when you’re ready and sure of victory. That’s what I counsel you. Is it not what you advised the king to do? If you’ll not listen to me, will you not at least follow your own polices?”