Kings of Sorcery

by Robert Ryan

  Brand thought on that. Shorty had said it bluntly, as he always did. But his insights were correct. He wondered how long Shorty had seen his plan to unite the tribes into one kingdom. Probably from the beginning.

  “What do you think?” he asked Taingern.

  His other friend answered quietly. “The kingship is yours, if you want it. But you don’t. The Duthgar was your home, but it isn’t any more. More than you ever dreamed of is within your grasp, but it has been before, and you left it behind. You have another destiny. But you also have a problem. Only you can unite the tribes. The lords quarrel among themselves for precedence, and without you, hostility will break out. Who else is there that can unite them all?”

  Brand knew that was truly the question. There was no one. But then again, he had given thought to it before. Nothing was impossible, and he had a few ideas. But Shorty was right. They had to win the battle ahead first. When that was done, if it was, then things would be clearer.

  His musings were interrupted though. Hruidgar, that strange hunter he had made head of the scouts, approached.

  “What news?” Brand asked.

  “Nothing. To the south my men report empty wilderness, as expected. So too the south-west. To the north, well, we don’t go too far because they’re Callenor lands. But we’ve seen no forces there, hostile or friendly.”

  “The Callenor will join us I think, but just as the Duthenor in the Duthgar it will be smaller groups at a time. Keep the scouting up there, because I don’t want any surprises, but I don’t fear they’ll attack us.” He swept his hand out to the south-west. “Out there is the true enemy. Somewhere. They’re coming for us. Time to send the scouts further afield, I think.”

  Hruidgar nodded and ambled away. He never was one to speak much, but he knew what he was about when it came to organizing the men he had picked and been given charge of.

  The army went ahead. The land changed again, and northward rose in a series of sweeping slopes. They were not steep, and they caught the sunlight. Here was established vineyard after vineyard, and the place was famous even in the Duthgar. This was the origin of the wine the Duthenor drank. They had a taste for it, even if they preferred beer and mead more.

  The vineyards were not as grand as what Brand had seen in Cardoroth, nor of the same quality. But with time and attention, they could be.

  It was rumored the people here were prosperous, for they profited well off the expensive wine. But profit or not, they had a good life and it was said their autumn harvest festivals were the best in the lands all around.

  Not for the first time, Brand wished he made a simple living like that. For all his power, they lived the better life.

  12. The Old Masters

  Horta had rested through much of the day, for the flight from Gormengil’s army, or the army that had become Brand’s depending on how he looked at it, had been wearying in the extreme.

  It was night now, but only just. He felt fresher than he had for days, and though the exhaustion of physical effort had fallen away, the mental strain of fear of pursuit had not left him. But it was reduced. He and Tanata had taken turns through the day to climb to the open glade at the crest of the hill and observe the countryside for miles all about. There had been no sign of any search.

  Dusk had just given way to full night. Tanata had woken too, and he threw more wood on the fire. It was time to cook some dinner. This was a chore for the acolyte, but in truth Tanata had proven a surprisingly good cook. Even with the limited supplies he had to work with, he turned out edible meals. And he liked doing so. How unusual that someone who was learning the great mysteries of the universe should also like the mundane.

  But Tanata had proven a surprise in so many ways. Not least his acceptance of their new situation, and his seeming lack of anxiety. The man was confident, although part of it was an act. His brethren had been killed around him. He now served a dead man, not quite come back to life, who would yet become a god. He took it all in his stride, as the Duthenor would put it. But there were shadows under his eyes and he whimpered in his sleep without knowing. The fear was there, but masked to near perfection. It was an admirable trait.

  In the shadows, Char-harash woke and stirred. The god seemed to stumble upright, and then he strode over.

  “Food,” he said, his voice harsh and dry. “I must have food.”

  “We have supplies, O Great One. Tanata will prepare something.”

  The god-king seemed to consider that, then he shook his head. To Horta, it seemed the gesture was filled with frustration.

  “I need more than you have. Stay by the fire, and do not go out into the dark.”

  Char-harash ignored them then, and he moved away into the night and disappeared from sight.

  Horta felt the eyes of Tanata upon him, and he knew the unspoken question in the other man’s gaze, but he ignored it.

  “Prepare something for us,” he said, turning his own gaze back toward the shadow-haunted forest.

  Tanata did not answer. He merely went about his task quietly and efficiently, but Horta, despite not answering the unspoken question, could not ignore it in his own secret thoughts.

  He put more timber on the fire, leaving a section of embers alone so that Tanata could use it to heat their cooking pot. It was a night for a large fire, but he could not risk making it any larger than it was for fear of being seen, however unlikely that was.

  Unwillingly, his thoughts turned to Char-harash. Could he not eat normal food? Would it not sustain him? That seemed to be the case, else he would have eaten in the camp. But why go out into the dark? Had he need of living flesh to eat? Would he hunt some beast and eat it raw, thereby increasing his life force?

  A still-beating heart, and the blood pumping from it, of a sacrifice was part of the Rite of Resurrection. It was said to help bring the dead back to life. But there was great magic involved in that rite also, and he had always taken the blood to be symbolic rather than necessary. Yet he could be wrong. It was possible Char-harash, having exited the tomb by himself, now undertook what was necessary to sustain himself in his own way.

  But no magic had been invoked at the tomb, at least that Horta had sensed. That must still be to come. Or, possibly, the god-king had worked his own spells and used the influence of the heavenly forces to fortify himself before anyone arrived.

  Anything was possible, and Horta did not like not knowing the answers. Was Char-harash alive in any true sense of the word? Could he really become a god? And if so, what kind of god would he be? If he needed to feast on living flesh now, would that always be so?

  Horta had no answers, and he ate the food Tanata prepared in a melancholy silence. The answers to all his questions would come, eventually. But still, the urge to use the Runes of Life and Death pulled at him now. If ever there was a time for foretelling, this was it.

  They finished eating, and Tanata cleaned up. The night wore on about them, and Char-harash did not return. But it seemed that the dark was alive with unseen eyes all about them.

  Horta made up his mind. “I shall cast the runes,” he said to Tanata.

  The young man merely nodded. He had expected it. Perhaps it was what he would have done, or maybe he had come to know his master well. Whatever the case, Horta was pleased, and glad that at least one of his acolytes still lived. Serving a god by himself would be a lonesome task.

  Horta moved a little way from where he sat so that he did not look directly into the fire. He motioned Tanata to join him, and allowed him to sit level with him rather than behind. It was not something that his masters had ever done with him, but the times were changing, and the old ways were not always the best.

  He began to chant, and his words flitted up into the night the way that smoke and sparks from the fire rose in a swirling plume.

  Forces gathered around him. Dark forces fit for summoning only at night. He felt their presence disturb the natural air. He could not see them, but much of magic was like that. The unseen was the most powerful.
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  And despite not seeing them, he could still put names to them. All his masters that had gone before him, and no few of his enemies as he had risen through the ranks of magician society. Ten there were, and they came now at his summons to do his bidding and reveal the future, as they were constrained to do.

  But with their presence they also brought hatred. Enmity thrummed through the magic that bound them. He felt them strain against it.

  He continued to chant, his voice louder now and the strength of his will greater. Each word he uttered with perfect clarity. Last time he had cast the runes, there had been some mistake. He would make none now.

  Certain that all was well, he exclaimed the last words of the invocation in a commanding voice. Then he sat in silence. A moment he hesitated, for fear came upon him every time he was about to cast the runes. Knowing the future was a dangerous business.

  He did not pause long though. This was a task that he did not like, but one that he had performed many times. He knew the pattern of it, and the ceremony that had come down of old. None among the Kar-ahn-hetep knew it better than he.

  He slid his hands into the pouch that contained the runes. They were cold to touch, which disturbed him. Normally that was not so. They were fashioned of bone, not metal.

  It did not matter. He would cast them and read the future, whatever it was. The wise man looked forward to nothing, and the wise man feared nothing. What would be would be.

  He shook the bones in the pouch ten times, as ritual demanded. This was to ensure the caster could not choose certain runes deliberately.

  His fingers seemed numb from the cold now, but he took hold of the bones that he felt and withdrew them from the pouch.

  All around him the spirits of the dead flew, but they were hushed and invisible, nothing more than a whisper of pressure somewhere on his mind.

  Then he cast the runes, flinging them to the ground as he always did, careful to let them fall where they would and not try to guide them in any way. But no sooner had he done so than a great tumult broke out.

  The spirits screeched through the air, and the flame of the fire dipped and wavered. Even Tanata gasped, and Horta glanced at him quickly. The man was pale as snow.

  Horta did not understand what was happening. It was then that he saw the runes, and the blood drained from his own face. The spirits raged all about him, but he was heedless of their presence. He had eyes for the runes only.

  He studied them. The finger bones of dead men lay there, and nothing in all the world mattered save them. He counted them. And then he counted them again. There were ten, and there was no mistake.

  A cold fear settled into the marrow of his bones. His heart thrummed, and his mouth worked silently. He had no words to express his dismay.

  Ten bones. It signified one thing, and one thing only. Catastrophe of the highest order. The ten bones must never be cast at once. Never. And if they were, which legend recorded only perhaps once before, it meant, death, destruction and calamity. Had the sky fallen upon him in a ruin of shattered stars he would not have been more surprised.

  But he was Horta, a magician of power. Let fate be what it would be, he would face it with courage. He stood up slowly, drawing Tanata with him, and guided him to stand further back.

  Then he drew powder from one of his many pouches, and cast it at the bones. Fire flared and sparked to life, flashing brilliant white in the dark, making the campfire seem pale. Twice more he did so, uttering words of power.

  Smoke rose, dark and acrid, and the very earth seemed to melt and roil. The bones were destroyed, what they revealed blotted from his sight, and the spirits of the dead that the runes entrapped were loosed. No more would they be constrained to serve him, and their faces billowed up in the smoke and leered at him.

  Then, with cries of glee, the images of the old masters faded away on the night. The fire died, but tendrils of smoke still rose from the blackened patch of ground. Horta watched them, silently.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Come away, master.”

  With slow steps, Tanata led him to the other side of the campfire, and then he urged him to sit down and rest. When he had done so, the acolyte fetched him a cup of water.

  “Drink, master. All will be well.”

  It was a lie, and they both knew it, but it was well meant.

  Horta sipped from the cup. The water tasted like ashes in his mouth, for that was what his life had become. Catastrophe was coming, and he would be at the center of it. But what shape would it take?

  Something of his old spirit returned. If catastrophe was to be his lot, so be it. He would still make the most of it. The true man endured disasters and came out the other side. This is what he would do, no matter what.

  He straightened, and took another drink of water. Then he looked at Tanata.

  “We will not speak of this again. Erase it from your mind. Banish it from your thoughts.”

  “Yes, master,” Tanata replied. But Horta saw from the look in his eyes that he would never be able to do so. He knew the meaning of ten runes all at once, just as well as Horta himself did. And what man could foreknow coming disaster, and ignore it?

  They sat in silence after that, sheltering close to the fire. Horta built it up into a blaze, for it was a night where warmth and light were needed. He would take the risk of being seen by any of the Duthenor that searched for him.

  In truth though, he did not fear the Duthenor. Had Brand sent men after him, they would have found him by now. Or else they searched, but had found no trail to follow. And if they had not found one in the first few days, then they would not find one now.

  Whatever disaster was to come, Horta did not think it had anything to do with the Duthenor. It would come from the gods.

  Even as he thought that, Char-harash moved stealthily from the shadows and entered the camp. He sniffed at the air, as though he smelled the unnatural fire that had burned here.

  He seemed to dismiss it from his mind though. With a glance at his two servants, but not a word of greeting, he strode over to the other side of the camp where he had slept before and lay down.

  Horta exchanged a glance with Tanata, and he saw that the other man had observed the same thing he had.

  Char-harash was stronger than he had been when he left.

  Horta should have been happy with that knowledge. The coming of the god had been all that he had striven to achieve for years. But instead, he wished only for the tranquility of the desert wastes. All the more so, because he feared he would never experience it again.

  13. Nothing is Destined

  The vineyards became larger as Brand led the army forward along the road. They covered the slopes, and the neat rows of vines continued for mile after mile. But eventually, they came to an end.

  The land changed soon after, and steep hills rose all about. The road turned and twisted, climbing the steepest, and at its top were ruins.

  “Those are old,” Shorty said.

  It was true. Brand noted the collapsed walls and piles of rubble. The stone itself seemed weathered, its surfaces roughened by wind and rain and cracked by frost.

  “It was here before the Callenor ever came to these lands,” Furthgil advised them. “We stay away from them, but there’s no rumor of ghosts as with Pennling Palace.”

  The reference to Pennling Palace was apt, and Brand guessed this building was constructed by the Letharn too. It was not so large, or grand, but from what remained of it there was no doubt it was a fortification too. And one that was perhaps older, when the Letharn border stretched deeper into foreign lands.

  They kept going, for Brand knew that haste would serve him well. It always had in the past. Travel quicker than the enemy expects, was his motto. It was advice given to him by his father, but he had also studied it in the records of the great campaigns of Cardoroth, and other nations whose wars were recorded in Cardoroth’s libraries.

  Give the impression of the expected but execute the unexpected, was his other favorite mo
tto. This too had been used to great success in many campaigns, but for the moment at least, he saw no way to implement the tactic. The Kirsch were coming, and he was going to meet them before they had a chance to ravish the Duthgar or its allies. It was a simple strategy, and its best chance of success was to bring battle to the enemy before they anticipated it.

  But for all that speed was necessary, he raised his fist and halted the progress of the army as he had done at the coming of the witch.

  But this was no witch. Now, he felt the presence of a god. Su-sarat was nearby, even if she had not revealed herself yet.

  How Brand knew this, he was not sure. But his instincts were sharper since he had met the Lady of the Land, and he trusted them.

  A fine mist rose from the ground before him, and it formed into the image of Tinwellen, the guise the goddess had used to trick him in the Duthgar.

  After a moment, she stood there, dark hair gleaming and eyes smoldering, but she was not alone. Gormengil stood next to her. He had once been a chieftain. He had once been a man. But he was something more now, or less. He gazed at Brand with dead eyes that did not blink, nor was there any expression on his face.

  Su-sarat spoke, and her voice was high and clear.

  “We meet once more, Brand of the Duthenor. Have you brought all these men to worship me, as you should? Have you come to worship me yourself?”

  “Neither,” Brand answered. “We have come for battle and victory.”

  The goddess laughed, and the sound of it was a joy to hear.

  “I speak of love, Brand. And you speak of violence. Is there a future for humanity if that is your true nature?”

  Brand grinned. “Pretty words. And from a pretty lady. But they disguise reality, and I have better things to do than bandy words with a trickster.”