by Robert Ryan
In truth, Horta had not known where to go. It was only when the question had been asked that he understood the answer. Until then, he had just been getting away.
“Is anywhere safe for us now?”
“No, lad. Nowhere is safe. But some places are safer than others. We need the wilderness to hide us. And we have a place to guard until our army arrives. We go now to the tomb of the god-king.”
Tanata accepted that news in silence. Although, perhaps he thought one place was as good as any other. Or perhaps he was still in shock from all that had happened. Horta would not blame him for that. He felt it himself. But his disciple had learned other things in the few nights of fleeing that at least Horta had known before. He had learned that the tomb of the god-king had been found, and that his time of resurrection approached. That had been as great a shock as anything Brand had done.
They slipped away into the dark. The slope was behind them, and the tall pines just a clump of darker shadows. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and Horta felt fear upon him.
He resisted the urge to gallop. The dog was far away, and no one would come to investigate. He might be on a farmer’s field, but the Duthenor went seldom abroad at night. They preferred the warmth of their hearth fires, and the comforts of home. Things that Horta did not have, and anger replaced his fear.
He wondered again how it had come to this. His plans lay scattered. The men who followed him lay dead. The barking of a dog caused him fear. Nothing, it seemed, had gone right since last he had cast the Runes of Life and Death.
At least he had supplies. Enough to last a good while, and he would need them because there was nowhere he could go to buy any. He must disappear from sight until the army he waited on arrived.
So it went for the next several days. Traveling by night, and avoiding the habitations of men. Riding well clear of roads, and hugging the shadows like a thief. He liked none of it, but eventually they arrived at the tomb of the god-king one night in the gray hours before dawn.
Tanata deserved to see what he had risked so much for, so they dismounted and tethered their horses at the base of the hill. Together, they walked up the slope and then cleared away by hand the soil that Horta had left there to obscure the man-made stone of the tomb entrance.
Quickly, the cartouche of the great king was revealed. Three stars, one ascendant over the other two. They gleamed in the shadowy air, and Tanata trembled.
“That is enough for now,” Horta said. “When our people arrive, the resurrection will begin.”
He began to push dirt back to hide the stone once more, but the stars gleamed with sudden light. The earth trembled, and he lost his footing.
Even as he tried to stand, the earth groaned and roosting birds all around screamed into the night. Something was very wrong, and with a feeling of dread he began to understand.
4. Homecoming
Brand was at the fore of his army again. His Halathrin-wrought blade was sheathed in its old scabbard, and it felt good at his side once more. Better than ever.
Less welcome were the looks people gave him. Word of what had happened in the sacred woods was spreading. It could not be helped. But few now spoke to him, or looked at him as just a man. He had become more in their sight. He was a leader who spoke to the Lady of the Land, and one destined to contend with gods. No wonder they did not look at him straight. Even Shorty and Taingern seemed distant. With them, he knew it would pass. But the rest? He was not so sure.
The army marched down the High Way, and all about were lands that Brand knew well. This was where he had grown up. If the Duthgar was his home, then here was his home within a home. He knew every cottage, every copse, every stream and field.
Then came the moment he had yearned for nearly all his life, and yet also dreaded. The hall of his parents came into view. The hall of his ancestors into antiquity, and the seat of power within the Duthgar.
A road wound down to it from the hills on the other side, but the hall was also set on a hill, the highest for many miles around. The stone-crafted terrace before it was as he remembered. Up and down those stairs and platforms he had run and jumped as a child while his father’s hall guards watched from their seats near the doorway above.
Brand’s gaze turned to the hall. Proud it stood, the largest and fairest in the Duthgar. The broad gables were decorated, and the long-sloping roof designed to shed snow gave it the characteristic shape of any hall, even if bigger. The doors he could see too, huge slabs of oak bound by black iron.
But he would not pass through them, and the thought of that was grievous. He wanted to, but destiny, if there were such a thing, made no allowances for his wants and wishes.
The enemy was coming, and speed was critical. He must meet them before they came to the lands he loved. Not just the Duthgar, but all the tribes of the greater Duthenor people. He would not see the enemy ravish them. He would give them no opportunity to burn fields and homesteads. Nor to destroy villages while he waited and gathered more men. Those same men could come to him while he marched, and already riders had been sent ahead to give warning and to ask for help.
He thought that help would come. Though the tribes were different, once they had been closer. In times of war, before even they came to these parts of Alithoras, they had banded together under a war leader. They would do so again. They must do so again.
They drew level with the hall, and his gaze lingered on it. Would the chance ever come again to see it? He was not sure. The Lady of the Land had foretold he would be a king. But of whom? Of the combined Duthenor tribes? Perhaps. But she had also said that of his line would spring the hope of the north. What did that mean? And yet he had always yearned to explore the northern mountains of Alithoras. They drew him like a moth to light. But for any of that to happen, he must live. At the moment, that did not seem likely.
The hall passed from view. He set his gaze forward, and forced himself to think of the task at hand. He had not had the homecoming that he dreamed of, but he had something else. The sword of his forefathers was at his side. So too his friends, and an army at his back. And the memories of his youth would be with him all the days of his life.
The High Way soon began to take on a downward slope.
“What’s ahead of us?” Taingern asked. “The land seems to be changing.”
Brand was grateful for something to take his mind off things. He wondered if Taingern guessed that, and asked the question to distract him. He was always sensitive to other people’s moods.
“The high plateau that runs through the Duthgar comes to an end here. Pretty much, the Duthgar ends with it. Beyond, and to the east, lie the lands of the Callenor.”
“And what of the road?”
“It begins to deteriorate quickly from here. At least it used to, and I doubt that has changed.”
“Does it still head southward?” Shorty asked.
“No. Soon, it’ll turn south-west. It hugs the end border of Callenor lands, and of the tribes beyond them. Truly, it’s not much of a road, but it must still have been traveled by the Letharn. Better to say really that those lands border it, for the road was built long before any of our people came here.”
They walked their horses ahead. The going was easy, for the road was still good and the downward slope helped. But soon the way narrowed, and the road ran in half loops instead of a straight line. This was to find the least steep gradient and to help stop the road from eroding.
At each corner, the land below came into view. It was lush like the Duthgar, but flatter. Yet soon the expansive view disappeared. A great forest grew up, all of tall pines and shades of green mixed with shadows.
“You didn’t mention that,” Taingern said.
Brand knew what he was thinking. The way ahead was a good place for a trap or ambush. He did not believe the enemy was here yet, but he could not rule it out. And he trusted the Callenor, more or less. At least those with him, but he was entering their lands now, with an army, and he could not be sure of the reception he would rec
eive.
“Time to send out scouts,” he said.
“Time to proceed slowly,” Shorty answered.
5. A Time of Change
Horta and Tanata fell back a little way down the slope. It seemed that the hill itself had buckled and moved.
“Earthquake!” Tanata yelled.
Horta wished that were true, but he knew it was not. Dread gripped him. Fear such as he had seldom felt stabbed at his chest, and his breath came in painful gulps. This was no earthquake. It was what he had striven to achieve, but it was too early, and he was not prepared. Nor did he understand how it was coming to pass without the proper rites and invocations of power.
“Stand back!” he yelled, but even though he did so, he never took his eyes from the flat stone of the tomb entrance.
The earth stilled. But the birds in the dark treetops continued to shriek. Then came a sudden booming, muffled by dirt and stone. It thrummed through the air and Horta felt it beneath his feet.
Three times that dreadful sound tolled, like a mighty bell beneath water. And on the third, fire darted from the cartouche and smoke rose, greasy and black.
The stone of the tomb entrance cracked, and then it fell into rubble. A dust cloud rose, and the air became choking, but neither Horta nor Tanata moved.
Before them lay a gaping hole in the side of the hill, and in the darkness of that pit something moved.
Horta knelt, and seeing that Tanata stood motionless and dazed, he grabbed him and pulled him to his knees.
“Kneel,” he whispered, “and pray for your life. Glory is now ours, or death.”
Out of the pit a figure emerged, and Horta slipped a norhanu leaf into his mouth and bit into it to release its powers. This was all wrong. It should not be happening. Not like this.
The figure clambered into view. Dirt covered it. A once-white burial shroud clung to it like a husk, and even above the smell of dust Horta caught the strong odor of oils, herbs and resins used in the preservation rites of the dead.
“O Great Lord!” he cried. “Your humble servant is here to aid you.”
Horta bowed his head, even though he was kneeling, but still his gaze looked up. It was never wise to take your gaze off kings or gods.
Char-harash towered above him. In his right hand he hefted a mighty war hammer, blackened by the blood of ages past. His left was a claw of withered flesh.
The god-king looked down as though upon a beetle, deciding whether to ignore it or crush it beneath his feet. Or to use it for some menial purpose. Horta did not care for that look at all.
“I know you,” rasped Char-harash. His voice was hollow, and it smelled of the tomb. “You have served me. Rise! Rise and live. You will walk in my shadow and serve me still in the days to come.”
Horta stood. He beckoned with his hand for Tanata to do the same, for the god seemed to ignore his presence. Better to have company to face what was to come than to be alone.
“O Great Lord,” Horta answered, and it was a sign of his shock that he could think of none of the ceremonial titles that he should use. “How have you risen from the dead? Your people come. An army marches to aid you. I, with my own hands would have performed the rite of resurrection. But you bestir yourself of your own will, without rite or ceremony or invocation. How is it possible?”
Char-harash fixed him with his hollow eye sockets. It seemed that there was a glimmer of light within their dark recesses, but Horta knew the eyes were removed during the embalming process. Yet still, that stare pinned him just the same.
“Am I not a god? Do not even fate and destiny learn to bow before me as the long years pass? These things are true, yet also the stars and planets shine upon me from the void. Even now, in their endless trek across the skies, they align and the powers that form and substance this world shift. Some forces wane. And others, myself and my brother and sister gods, wax. Our power begins to increase, and the world trembles!”
Char-harash flung out a skeletal arm, though still the bonds of muscle and tendon and ligament held it together. “See!” he cried, and his bony claw of a hand pointed. “There is Ossar the Great, and there shimmers Erhanu the Green, and brighter than them all shines blessed Murlek. These give me strength. These sustained me through the darkness, and they draw me into the light once more as their forces twine and spill down upon this world. As water they are to the parched throat. They are the blood in my veins and the beating heart in my chest.”
Horta had heard those names before. Though the names had changed through the ages since last Char-harash had seen them. But he had no heart in his chest. That, and the rest of his internal organs were removed to stop his body rotting. Yet here he stood, and Horta feared him. If the god spoke, who was he to deny the truth of his words?
This much also Horta knew. There was power in the land, and there was power in the light that shone from the distant void. And well might it be that some change there had woken the ancient spells laid upon the corpse of the king who would be a god.
Char-harash was not done speaking though. He hefted his war hammer high. “Life begins to run through my body once more. Strength returns. And even as I wake from the long sleep, so too do my brothers and sisters stir. The light of the void and the breath of the dragon touches us, calls us, beckons us towards the destiny we have chosen for ourselves. The time of change is here, and all things are possible.”
“All the gods grow in power?” Horta asked.
“All,” answered the god-king. “The gateways of the universe open and close. But now, safety! I grow weary.”
Even as he spoke the first rays of the dawn sun shone over the land, and Char-harash flinched as though they stung him. He seemed less like a god now, the more he could be seen. And evidently the clear light of day hurt him.
“Follow me, Great Lord,” Horta asked. “I know a place of safety nearby.”
“It must be a place of shadows!” hissed Char-harash.
“It is such a place, Great Lord.”
Horta signaled Tanata to gather the horses, and when that was done they mounted. Almost he offered the god-king a horse to ride, but the horses were restless in his presence, shying away from him. For his part, Char-harash eyed them with disdain.
So Horta led the strange procession away, and they traveled in silence. This he liked, for it gave him time to think. Much had happened, and many things that he did not understand, at least fully.
He led them along a winding trail that climbed higher among the hills. Char-harash kept up with them, striding beside the horses, and he looked at everything he saw with arrogance. Or contempt. Truly, the gods, old or new, were in some ways the same no matter their differences. And at heart, Horta was sick of them. They demanded so much, and gave so little in return. If he had his youth again, he would walk a different path down the ways of his life. He would abstain from magic and gods and plotting. He would stay in the desert lands that he loved. The wild lands where no man walked, for that was the place to live a life.
But his youth was spent, and his choices diminished. Now, all that was left to him were the ways of Horta the Magician.
6. The Witch
Brand led the army forward into the forest. Hruidgar headed the scouts, and he had sent men forth to investigate. They had not returned, but the army could not delay. At any rate, the men left signals that the hunter could see. The stem of a certain plant broken and bent one way or the other signaled safety or danger. There were others, but the hunter alone knew them. And so far, all was well.
But Brand went slowly anyway. He led, and he kept watch. He also kept one hand near his sword in case of threat. It was not wise for the general to ride before the army. He could fall if there was an ambush. He could be targeted by a bowman from far away. Certainly, he would be known as the leader by any eyes that watched secretly, because men came to him to report and left to carry out orders. Yet, balanced against this was the example he set the men. He was not afraid. And for the whole army to see, with him rode men of both
the Duthenor and Callenor tribes. So too the few men from the Norvinor tribe that had joined him. It was a display of unity, and it would help bind the tribes together. Until recently, they had been at war.
“It’s a gloomy place,” Sighern muttered.
Brand glanced around. They had now entered the forest, but the road still descended, and at this point quite steeply.
“Gloomy, perhaps. And yet I like it all the same. The forest is a world to itself, and I like the feel of them. Better to me than a city, any day.”
Hruidgar glanced at him. He did not speak himself, but if anyone knew what Brand meant, it was him.
Yet it was gloomy in this forest, and it was large enough to swallow an army. Or a hundred armies. That the men who followed were nervous also was evident. They did not speak much among themselves as they marched, and all that could be heard was the tread of thousands of booted feet.
Brand was confident though. If an enemy was ahead, the scouts would find them.
For some while they continued, slowly but surely. Then scouts began to return. They reported no enemy. This was good news, and the leadership group that rode with Brand was relieved. Yet somehow unease grew within him, and he did not know why.
It was possible that an attack, if it came, would not be with swords but with magic.
“Stay alert,” he said. His mood infected the others. They saw no reason for it, but they had learned to trust his instincts. Their hands were never far from their sword hilts, and if their gazes lingered in shadowy patches of the woods before, they stared twice as hard now.
But nothing happened. The road dropped down further, seeming to plunge into the forest that it cut through. More scouts returned, easy in their manner and reporting nothing ill.
Brand led his horse, still holding to the practice of walking as his men must walk. They seemed to like it, and he thought of them now. Stretched out along the winding road and vulnerable. He was their leader, and everything he did influenced their lives. Even their deaths, for surely many, many would die. It was his task to see that the fewest of them paid that sacrifice as was possible.