by Robert Ryan
Fate was not his to control, however. If there was such a thing. But he knew he would blame himself for the smallest of mistakes, for any life lost that wasn’t necessary, and perhaps even for those that were. Who was he to decide what was necessary and what was not? Yet someone had to, and he trusted himself more than any other to make those decisions.
And he trusted himself now. The sense of unease increased. He lifted high his hand in a clenched fist, and behind him the army came to a standstill. Nothing moved within the woods. All was silent. But he waited, and the silence deepened until the air grew heavy with it.
“What is it?” whispered Taingern in his ear.
Brand gave the only answer he could. “I don’t know. But something comes.”
He drew his sword then. The leadership group around him did the same. And the hiss of thousands of swords leaping from the scabbards of the soldiers echoed them like muted thunder.
And still, nothing happened.
The tension deepened, and Brand embraced it. The army was forgotten. The people around were forgotten. There was just him and the forest, and the sense of a presence within it. He knew then that the Lady of the Land had changed him in some manner, or woken something within him. He was not quite as he was. He knew there was something coming, even before it was there.
Ahead, on the road, a figure came into view. The darkness of the forest shrouded it, and it held its head down. But Brand perceived who it was.
“It is the witch from the swamp,” he whispered.
Shorty peered ahead. “Last time we saw her it was some creature of the gods pretending to be her.”
“This is her,” Brand answered confidently. “At least, what she was.”
Shorty gave him a strange look. “What does that mean?”
“You’ll see.”
The figure glided toward them, not seeming to walk but coming closer anyway. Brand knew she had no need to walk. She was not there at all.
She came to a stop before him. Slowly, she raised her head and studied him a moment. If her lank hair and bushy brows worried her, she gave no sign. But her eyes were less rheumy than they were, and the warts were gone.
“You will have learned now that my foretelling is true, lòhren.”
Brand inclined his head. If she gave no greeting, nor would he. “I didn’t doubt them, not really. But you also said we wouldn’t meet again.”
She cackled then, hoarse and throaty. But there was an edge of bitterness to it. “I did say that, didn’t I? And yet here I am. But my foretelling is never wrong. Quite the mystery, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” Brand replied. “You lied. Or you are dead, and not really here at all except as a vision.”
She looked at him sternly a moment. “Aye, you have the right of it. Not much slips past a lòhren, eh? But which is it?”
“You are dead, lady.” Even as he spoke, he moved his hand through her image and it passed through unobstructed. Gasps came from behind him, but Brand ignored them.
“How rude!” she said.
Whether that referred to his calling her dead, or moving his hand through her image, Brand was not sure. But he had no time to play games.
“Why have you come, lady? What troubles your spirit?”
She stood taller then. Almost she looked him eye to eye, and her hair was less lank than it was, and her face younger. The spirit of a dead woman could appear however it wanted to, and apparently she was tired of looking like a crone.
“Well, I’m certainly dead. And I didn’t think we’d ever meet again. I think that prophecy was close enough. The truth is, I should have helped you. Perhaps if I’d joined forces with you, I’d still be alive.”
“Perhaps,” Brand answered.
She stood even taller. “Too often I thought only of myself. I had reasons. But now. Well, now I will help you, just a little. It’s all I can.”
“Why?”
The witch grimaced. “Sooner hide a strange scent from a dog than hide the truth from a lòhren, as the saying goes. Well, if you want the truth, it’s this. It’s not for you. What I say now is for revenge. And if I get it, it’ll be sweet.”
Brand nodded. “That, I can believe. Nor do I spurn it. Speak, and I shall listen.”
The witch seemed surprised at his ready acceptance, but she should not have been. Brand knew himself to be practical. He also knew he needed help.
“Three things I shall say,” the witch replied after a pause. “I can do no more. First, this. Your enemy may yet be your friend. When despair grips you, hold tight to that thought.”
Brand did not know what that meant. He had too many enemies, and none would ever be a friend. But still, he committed the foretelling to memory.
“Second,” the witch continued. “The breath of the dragon blows across the land. All things become possible. Change comes, and change can be shaped. Make it yours. Seize opportunity from your enemies before they seize it from you.”
Again, Brand did not know what to make of this. It was good advice though. Fortune favored the bold, and he knew it.
“Third,” the witch stated, and her voice had grown strong and her visage that of what she must have been in youth. “Self-sacrifice is victory. Offer yourself up in order to grasp victory from defeat.”
Brand considered her, and she returned his gaze silently.
“Good advice all, I’m sure. But how am I to use it?”
“Ask no more! I can say nothing else. But remember my words. They won’t help you now. They won’t help you in the future. That’s not what foretelling is for. Hold onto hope, that is all. And you will see by the end.”
Brand knew this was true. Her talent was real, but that did not mean she could tell him what to do and what not to do. Her words would not change anything, and would not really help. But perhaps they would shape his thoughts in those critical moments when the time came. Perhaps they might make a difference. It would be a fool who did not heed her.
He offered a slight bow. “Thank you, lady.”
She swept a hand through her hair. It was luxurious now, and longer. Nor were her eyes as they were. They were sharp and bright, and they bored into his own as if that was the way she read the future.
“I have done what I can, small though it is. This time, truly, you will see me no more. Good luck. You’ll need it.”
Even as she spoke the image of her began to fade. He caught a faint whisper of her voice. I come, she said. But she was not speaking to him. In moments, she was gone.
All around, the forest seemed to grow a little lighter, and the calls of birds and the chirping of insects seemed suddenly loud.
“Did you make any sense of her foretelling?” Shorty asked.
Brand sighed. “Not a bit. But I wasn’t meant to. As she said, it was to give me hope. And hope we have. The task at hand isn’t doomed, else she would have said so. Victory is possible, though it will be difficult.”
That was not quite what she said. He had put a more positive light on it, but it was still the gist of things.
He signaled the army forward, and the sound of swords being sheathed in scabbards was like a raspy rush of wind. Then, once more, the soldiers followed as he stepped ahead.
7. All the World is Yours
Horta came to the woods he was looking for. They were not large, but the growth of pines was thick and old. They cast deep shadows, and within their concealment the god-king would find respite from the sunlight that hurt him.
Char-harash shuddered when they entered the shadows. It was a strange sight. A dead man walking, or a god coming into his own. A being of great power, and yet one scared of sunlight, even hurt by it. Why should that be?
There were no answers to such questions, but Horta would ponder it anyway. That was the way to discover hidden truths.
“Just a little further,” Horta said. Char-harash seemed ready to lie down where he was, but there was a better place ahead.
The god-king had grown weak. The war hammer seemed in dang
er of dropping from his hand, and the long strides that he had started with a little while ago were now a decrepit shuffle.
But they came very soon to the place that Horta sought. It was just below the highest part of the hill, yet still the tree-growth was thick. The god-king had the cover he wished, but there was a glade at the very top where Horta could go to study the lands about and see what was happening.
A spring seeped away from beneath a boulder, and it would supply them water, if they used it carefully.
Char-harash wandered a few paces off the dim trail, and there he lay down beside another boulder. It seemed that he slept, and Horta had no desire to disturb him.
In silence, he and Tanata established a camp. They tethered the horses nearby, and fed them a little of the oat supplies they had. Later, Tanata would take them to the clearing at the top of the hill to graze.
While Tanata replenished their water bags from the spring, Horta himself built a ring of stones around a slight depression, and there he gathered dry timber for a fire, which he lit. The timber would not smoke much, and what smoke was given off would be dispersed by the tree canopy above. No one was likely to discover them because of it, and he was tired of cold meals and a cheerless camp.
For the first time in a while, he felt a sense of relief. If Brand hunted him, the pursuers he sent would struggle to find him. This was not his land, but he was no novice at hiding his trail. Nor would they be discovered here by chance. It was an isolated spot, and farmers and hunters must come only rarely.
He allowed the sense of relief to wash over him as Tanata sat nearby. But then his glance fell to the sleeping god-king, and his heart was troubled again.
Tanata followed his gaze. “I did not know that gods slept. Do they?”
Horta shook his head slightly. It might have meant that they did not. Or that he did not know himself. It was the latter, but Tanata did not have to know that. It, too, was troubling. Was Char-harash a man, or a god? The legends said he would become a god. If so, what was he now? Was he even alive or was he dead? What were his powers? Would they grow? Surely they must, but then again he had shrugged off the sleep of death and risen from the tomb himself. That was power beyond any mere man or magician. Truly, the forces of the universe must be in flux and the god-king attuned by his own talents and the spells of his funeral rites to draw on them.
He talked a little while with Tanata, softly so as not to wake Char-harash, and then they too lay down near the fire and slept. The last few days had been tiring.
It seemed that Horta had just drifted off though, when the voice of the god-king rang through the camp.
“Wake!” commanded Char-harash. “Wake!”
Horta rose from the ground, his head turning and his eyes darting about seeking some enemy. But there was no one. Tanata staggered up as well, fear on his face and his eyes wild. Yet they were alone with Char-harash, though evidently the god-king had rested. For he had risen and stood over them, though he stayed clear of the fire and took turns staring at them as though they had done something wrong.
Char-harash, having got their attention, stepped away from them and the fire.
“I must know what transpires in the land,” he said.
Horta gave a bow, or at least the suggestion of one. He was not best pleased, and still his heart hammered in his chest.
“I will tell you what—”
“That is not what I want. I would speak to a fellow god, and I shall summon one. Stay silent, but be ready to serve.”
Horta bowed again. This time he did so more deeply. He had recovered, and it would not do to displease his new master. Death would come of that, swift and sure. He had no doubt about it.
Char-harash began to chant, and Horta understood the words. It was the rite of summoning, but here and there the phrases were different and the inflection altered. Horta had been taught by his masters, every one of them, that the words must be spoken exactly the same. He had learned that the words were said just as their ancestors said them long ago. But it was not true. Toward the end, the words became quite different indeed, and Horta wondered what else he had learned that was not correct.
Even so, he slipped a norhanu leaf in his mouth and began to suck upon it. That at least was sure knowledge. The leaf eased fear and gave strength. Both of which he might need. But his store was growing low, and that disturbed him. He would have to begin to eke it out until he could replenish his supply, but he had a feeling he would need more of it than he ever had before.
The gods appeared in fire, smoke and mist. Shemfal came first, bat-winged and terrible. Su-sarat followed, in her human form rather than serpentine. And last came one Horta had never summoned. But it was Jarch-elrah, human-bodied and jackal-headed. Black was the fur over his dog-like face, and his long ears twitched. He was the god of the grave, and rumor claimed him mad.
Horta sucked harder on the norhanu leaf. These were gods who hated each other, and the thought of summoning more than one at a time frightened him greatly.
“Hail, brothers and sister,” intoned Char-harash. “We must speak and plan, for the hour is come foretold in antiquity.”
But the gods did not look at him. Instead they studied each other with hooded eyes. Jarch-elrah barked, although Horta soon realized it was a laugh, if a mad one. Shemfal gazed at Su-sarat, and there was murder in his eyes. Su-sarat grinned at him, licking her lips as though testing the air with her tongue.
Horta knew the history between these two, and he groaned. But Char-harash looked sternly upon them.
“Heed me!” he commanded. And the two gods stepped away from each other and turned to face him, even if they kept glancing warily at their enemy.
“You do not yet have the power,” Su-sarat said. “You have no right of command.”
“I will have it,” Char-harash claimed. “Soon. And then you will obey me. Learn to now, or it will be harder for you then.”
Shemfal stood taller, and a pale light glimmered in his eyes. “The powers flux and alter. No one knows yet who will ride on their flows to ascendancy. Prophecy says it will be you, but prophecy is words in the air. Empty until the deed follows. The witch is right. You have no right of command.”
“Then heed wisdom,” Char-harash answered. “The prophecy is true. I shall ascend. But so will we all. Your time comes again, and my first with it. But an obstacle stands in our way that will hinder the conquest of our children. Will you let this stand? Will you let ancient enmity destroy your future as well as your past?”
The gods did not answer. Silent they stood, brooding powers like a storm ready to burst over the land. Among them, only Jarch-elrah moved, his ears twitching and the teeth of his snout bared in a snarl. Or perhaps a grin. The mad god was hard to read, and Horta held his breath.
“I will listen,” Su-sarat replied at length.
Shemfal glared at her, hatred burning like cold fire in his eyes. “I also shall listen.”
Char-harash turned to the jackal-headed god. He did not speak nor demand an answer. He merely looked at him.
The god of the grave gave answer. “I also shall listen, but I care not who rises to ascendancy. I care only to run and to hunt, and to find and to eat. And to voice my thoughts upon the wind.”
The god lifted high his head and loosed a screeching howl.
Horta shuddered. The sound chilled his blood, and there was a thread of madness twining through it.
Char-harash spoke as though he found none of this strange. Perhaps that was fitting. He was stranger than them all.
“Set me free,” he said. “Death still chains me, but my children come. Blood and slaughter will follow in their wake, and I shall gather strength. All of us will prosper and gain worshippers as our name spreads across the lands. Our children are the key. When they come, truly I shall be born again. But Brand stands in their way. He and a ragtag army. Destroy him. Destroy his followers. Then the future will be ours.”
Su-sarat hissed. “You make it sound easy. But Brand has powe
r. Defeating him is like attacking a mountain.”
Shemfal laughed. “I hear your words, but I sense the true meaning of them. He has not fallen to your wiles and tricks. But where duplicity fails, might succeeds.”
Jarch-elrah did not speak. But he grinned, and his black ears twitched.
“It does not matter how it is done,” Char-harash said. “Destroy Brand, and then all the world will be yours to grow in and play with. Even to fight among yourselves, if you wish. But destroy his army. Aid our children that come. Lend strength to their sword arms. Give wisdom to their commanders. Put courage in their hearts and victory in their minds.”
Shemfal gave a sharp nod. “I shall do so.”
Char-harash turned to Su-sarat. She grinned at him. “I shall do so.”
Next, the god-king turned to Jarch-elrah. The god of the grave gave no answer, save that he lifted his head and howled once more. It was answer enough.
The three gods disappeared in fire, smoke and mist. Char-harash slumped as though the energy had gone out of him. A thing of skin and bone he seemed, which in truth he was. He ignored Horta as though he were just another tree in the forest or a piece of rock, and he walked warily around the fire and cast himself back down in the deep shadows to rest again.
Horta kept sucking the norhanu leaf. He was addicted, but it did not matter. He had the strength of will to overcome it, but not in these circumstances. Unfortunately, he only saw things getting worse. How could they get better? He shook his head and sat down wearily by the fire.
Tanata joined him, but they did not speak. Horta did not mind, for he had much to ponder.
Clearly, much more was going on than he understood, and he did not like that. Char-harash had great powers, for to summon three gods at once was unheard of. But he was dead, and he was strange too. All the gods were. But dead was dead, and obviously great magic must yet be needed to resurrect him fully. Once, Horta thought he understood the process. He had delved deep into the dark arts and ancient lore of his people. He knew things that would burn the souls of others, even an acolyte like Tanata. But he knew less than he thought, and what he did not know was troubling.