Kings of Sorcery

by Robert Ryan

  At length, he recovered. Standing, he surveyed the countryside all around again, but there was no sign of any enemy. Not that he could see much anyway. Dusk had nearly given way to night.

  He walked over to the man he had killed, and he knelt next to him. In the last of the light he studied his clothes and weaponry. All were different from anything in the Duthgar. They were different from anything he had seen before. Without doubt, he was of that race of men that the stories called the Kirsch.

  But what amazed him most was the man’s footwear. They were not boots, but something he had heard of in stories. Sandals.

  He stood and shook his head. The clothes and weapons were well made, but sandals were foolish. Perhaps they would serve in hotter climes, but when summer faded, which it nearly had done, frost and snow would set in. Sandals would lead to frostbite. But not only that, a sandaled foot was vulnerable in battle compared to a booted one.

  Hruidgar gave a low whistle. His mount was some way off, having been scared by the fight. It was no war horse, nor ever would be. But its ears pricked and it studied him. Then it shook its head and the reins dangled down loosely.

  He needed that horse. It was speed, which was the one thing he required above all else. He had much yet to do before he returned to the camp and gave Brand warning.

  The horse looked at him, but it did not trot over. No matter. He would go to it. But slowly and carefully. He could not afford to spook it.

  He took a few steps, and spoke quietly. Night was all around him now, dark and dangerous. The black mare was one with it, and though she was no warhorse, she stepped quietly when walking and had a turn of blistering pace when pressed to it. Both might be needed in the long hours to come.

  He stepped closer again, talking softly and calmly. The blood that was on him would not help. He had cleaned it off as best as possible, but she could smell the stain of it on him, and she did not like it.

  But she responded to his voice and took a few halting steps toward him.

  He paused himself. “That’s right, girl. Come over here. We have a long way to go, you and I, but I’ll see you there safely if you do the same for me.”

  She shook her head again and stepped closer once more. He stayed where he was. She was a quiet animal and well-trained, but if he scared her now he could end up searching for her half the night.

  He kept talking and she stepped over to him, stretching out her neck and sniffing at him.

  Slowly and carefully he reached out and gripped the reins. When they were in his hand, he breathed a sigh of relief and patted her shoulder.

  “Good girl,” he said. “Remember our bargain. I’ll look after you, and you look after me.”

  He mounted then, and looked around into the dark. There was little to see. Even the corpse of his enemy was just a darker shadow among many on the ground. Best not to think about that. It could have been him. And it might yet be if he was not careful.

  What to do next? It was a pressing question. His goal must be to find the enemy encampment, for surely there must be one. Where the scouts were, the army could not be that far behind. His task had not changed. He must estimate their numbers and try to deduce their intent.

  He nudged the mare forward, staying clear of the corpse. His thoughts were all about the enemy somewhere ahead, but a part of him knew there would be other scouts out in the dark. Perhaps there was no one around for ten miles. Or perhaps there were a dozen moving in on him now. It was impossible to tell.

  He did what he had done before though. He moved quietly, or rather he allowed the horse to pick her own way and move at her own pace. It was slow, but it was near silent. And now and then he guided her to a different angle to avoid being predictable. But all the while he moved southward.

  The enemy was in that direction. If they were more to the south-west, it did not mater. His scouts were roaming that territory, and they would discover the enemy if they were there. But here, it was just himself and those other few men he had sent this way. But of them, there had been no sign and he feared they were all dead.

  The night grew cool. Autumn was drawing on, and though the days were still warm the night made promises of the winter yet to come.

  He scented the air often for smoke, for surely the enemy encampment would have cooking fires. But he detected nothing. That did not mean much. The air was near still, and the scent of smoke would not travel far. And if anything, the breeze was coming from the north. Not that there was much of it.

  Instead of smoke, he must listen carefully for the dull noise of an army ahead. He would hear them before he saw them. But the closer he drew, the greater his danger would be. Once he was in proximity to any encampment, it was not just scouts that he had to look out for but sentries. If he stumbled into one by accident, he would be dead before he could blink.

  He could not slow the horse further, but he pulled her up often just to stare into the dark and listen. But he heard nothing save the hoot of owls and the scuffling of small animals in the leaf litter beneath trees. He did not fear the noise came from scouts. A scout would be silent until the attack came.

  It grew even cooler, and he drew up the hood of his cloak. It was a risk, for the cloth dulled his hearing and reduced his sight. But all life was a risk, and he felt that his luck was in. He had, after all, survived the ambush by the enemy scout.

  The oaks about him began to grow thickly now. It was nearly a forest here, and he did not think the enemy would establish a camp in such a place. The commander would prefer a spot in the open where a view was obtained of the surrounding countryside. Trusting to his luck again, he urged the mare forward at a faster walk. The night was wearing on, and better for him if he found the enemy at night. He could get closer that way, undetected. During the day it would be harder.

  The oaks loomed over him, and the shadows were deep. It was the middle of the night, and drowsiness set in. He wanted to lie down and sleep beneath the cover of the trees, but duty pressed on him. Brand needed to know what was going on here, and swiftly.

  The yearning for sleep passed. The oak wood around him thinned, and the glitter of stars lit the sky again. They were old friends to him, and he knew them well and the stories that were told of them in the Duthgar. Different stories were told in Esgallien, and other lands between. But some of those stars and the stories of them had been the same wherever he traveled.

  He did not look at them tonight though. His eyes searched the shadows ahead, and his ears listened to his backtrail. But it was smell that told him what he wanted to know.

  The air was perfectly still now, and the scent of old smoke was suddenly heavy upon it. The enemy camp was close, and though he had thought to hear it first, he had been wrong.

  But if he could smell it, it must be close indeed. Not even the faintest breeze blew now, and there was nothing to bring the smoky air to him. Gently, he pulled the mare to a stop.

  If he were afoot, he would have hunkered down here in the grass and waited. But he must trust to the night and the dark coat of the horse to hide him. Yet still, he did not know where the enemy was, only that they were close.

  Dimly, he saw the land ahead of him slope downward. Where he waited now must be some sort of ridge, though he had not known it in the deeps of the trees. He knew it now though, and knew also that it was a likely spot for an enemy lookout.

  Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. And he could not wait here until first light revealed him to the world. He nudged the horse forward again, and soon he came to the edge of a drop.

  It was not steep. But spread out below was a vast area of flat lands, blanketed by the night. Except for many hundreds of fires. Here, at last, was the enemy he had sought.

  But how big was the army? Certainly, there would be many more men than fires. But how many?

  The only way to find out was to go there and see at close range. But he did not move. Fear gripped him. There could be scouts anywhere. There would be sentries. The stupidity of trying to go down there undetected overwh
elmed him.

  But that was the shadow of fear upon him. In truth, he had skill. He could do what was required. He must do what was required.

  He nudged the mare forward. It was colder than before, but he flipped back his hood. He would need his every sense to survive this, and he could not afford to dim them.

  Quickly, he checked his knives and made sure they were all in place. He had many of them, and he was a good thrower. But preparation was king. So he strung his bow for the first time. Almost, he notched an arrow, but that was going too far. If he needed to act quickly, it would be at close range and the knives would serve him better.

  Lastly, he drew a leather pouch from his belt and dipped his fingers into it. It contained powdered charcoal, moistened by oil. This he smeared onto his face. It was the most likely aspect of him to be seen, for the horse was black and his clothing dark. It was the face of a person that glimmered palely in the shadows, revealing them.

  For good measure, he smeared some on the back of his hands too. It never harmed to be too careful. Then he gave all his attention to the night around him as he moved down the slope and toward the enemy.

  18. The Enemy

  Far away the approaching dawn colored the horizon gray. But daylight was still a long way off. Even so. Hruidgar hastened as much as he dared. He had to get close to the army, and then back into the trees before first light. Otherwise, he would have a whole regiment sent to kill him. Or worse, take him prisoner for questioning.

  Travel was easier once he reached the flatter land below the slope. But there were few trees here and not much that offered cover. He relied on the soft walk of the mare to make little noise, and his senses to detect the presence of anybody in the dark with him.

  The glittering stars were not quite so bright. The horizon had become grayer. Even, he thought that he could see further through the dark than he could before. He wanted to urge the horse into a canter, for time was running out on him. But that would be foolish. He gritted his teeth and pressed on as he was.

  Suddenly, he paused. Drawing the mare to a standstill, he waited in silence. Had he heard something? Had some sense warned him of hidden danger?

  He felt vulnerable atop his mount. Being higher, there was greater chance of standing out against the lighter sky and being seen. He wanted to dismount. Yet if he did that, and he was attacked, he could not flee.

  And flee he would have to try to do if detected. There would be no fighting here, if he could avoid it. To fight here was to risk alerting others, and in a matter of moments he could be fighting a hundred men.

  So he waited where he was, and listened, while his gaze swept the mysterious night.

  Then a noise came from off to his left. It was a man clearing his throat. It was not loud, and perhaps the man was not even conscious that he made the noise, but he did, and it had saved Hruidgar’s life. On such chances turned his fate.

  Hruidgar continued to wait. It was several minutes more before the man once again cleared his throat. The noise came from the same place as it had before, and there was no sign of anyone else. How far away were the sentries placed? Would there be one line of them or two?

  He had no answers to any of his questions. The only thing to do was move forward again. But now, he dismounted. He could not risk being seen. Being heard was already likely enough.

  But the horse moved quietly, and the grass here was short and soft. Somehow, he moved ten paces, then twenty and finally fifty without any sign of being detected.

  He realized that a cold sweat had broken out over his face, and his hands were clammy. His face did not matter, but clammy hands were dangerous. The bow could slip in his grip when he needed speed and strength.

  Wiping his hands dry, one at a time on his trousers, he mounted again. Moving forward, he saw the army begin to take shape before him. The fires had died down, but they gave off a cumulative light, and he could see the silhouettes of tents and the rough shapes of men that lay beside the dying fires.

  The tents were few. The men by the fires many. He drew closer, his gaze taking in everything that he saw. There were banners held high by spears stuck into the ground, but they were too distant and the night too dark to see any detail. Of cavalry, he saw no sign. It was an army of infantry, which was a good thing for Brand, and something he would wish to know.

  Then he set to counting. He was close enough now, as close as he dared go. He eased the mare to a stop, but he did not dismount. He needed his higher position to see better.

  He divided the army into eighths, and counted one portion. Then he did the same again, using a different portion. His count was close to the same, both times. Then he multiplied by eight. Three thousand of the enemy were gathered here.

  It was an army. By the standards of the Duthgar, a great army. But was it all of the Kirsch, or just some of them? He did not know, and had no way of finding out.

  It was not likely to be all of them though. It was not a large enough force to take on Brand by itself, though stranger things had happened. Probably, the enemy had split into two. This was supposed to be a surprise flanking force. That meant that the real army was likely to the south, as expected, and that it was bigger than this.

  The realization was not comforting. Once again, Brand would be outnumbered. Yet at least he would not be surprised. So long as word made it back to him.

  That was his job now, and Hruidgar knew it. Nothing else mattered. He had to reach Brand. But he had made it safely this far, and going out should be easier than coming in had been.

  But he had to hurry too. Movement in the camp had begun, and preparations for a meal started. The fires were being fed the remainder of the dry wood that had been collected last night. Soon enough, the enemy would be on the move again.

  Worse, the eastern horizon was lit orange by the rising sun. Daylight was close to hand, and he would have to hurry to make it back to the relative safety of the woods before he could be seen.

  He used his knees to signal the horse to turn, and then he nudged her forward. Safety lay ahead, but to get there he must pass through the sentry line again.

  Following the same path that he entered, he left. It did not seem as though the sentries patrolled the perimeter of the army. They stayed in place where they had been stationed. This would help him, or at least so he hoped. He could not be sure he was taking precisely the same path.

  He eased ahead, conscious of the lightening sky behind him. All was quiet. Shortly, he reached the place where he had heard the sentry clear his throat on the way in. But there was no sign of him now. He brought the horse to a stop and waited, surveying the dark, but he could not wait long.

  Satisfied, as best he could be, that he had retraced his route exactly, he nudged the mare forward again. But even as she moved a figure loomed up out of the dark.

  It was the back of a sentry, but the man must have heard something for he turned even as Hruidgar watched. A moment they each looked at the other, both shocked to see what they did.

  The sentry fumbled for his sword. It was a mistake, for he should have yelled. Or better, dived away and shouted a warning.

  Hruidgar lifted his bow, notched an arrow and drew and fired in one motion.

  The sentry wore armor. He was no scout, sent into the wild to find and observe the army. He was a warrior, and well-protected. There had been only one killing shot, and that was to the neck.

  The arrow flashed, a dark streak in the dawn shadows. It hissed through the air, and then struck with a thud. The sentry reeled back, blood gushing from his torn throat, and then he toppled and lay still.

  Hruidgar swiftly notched another arrow and then waited, perfectly still, listening for other sentries. Had they heard anything?

  His heart thudded in his chest. The horse stamped restlessly, but no call came from another sentry asking if all was well, nor any sign that someone walked across to investigate.

  But still, Hruidgar waited. Fear gripped him, but after some while a greater fear took over. He had to g
et out of here, and swiftly. Dawn was at hand.

  He slipped the arrow back into his quiver, and he dismounted. Walking the horse forward, he came to the man he had killed. He knew what he had to do. Should he be left there, his body would soon be found and an alert given. That an intruder had seen them would be known, and it was best for Brand that the enemy thought themselves undiscovered.

  It would be best for him to. If they knew he was here, men would be sent after him.

  Quickly, he bent down and pulled the arrow from the dead man’s throat. He cleaned it, and returned it to his quiver. Then he lifted the man over his horse’s withers ahead of the saddle.

  There was blood on the grass, and this he washed away as best he could with some water. He tried to leave no sign that a man had been killed there. It was possible that the other sentries would think he had deserted during the night.

  It was the best he could do. He mounted again, and nudged the horse forward. He did not notch an arrow again. If he were discovered, he would kick the horse into a gallop and escape that way. However, he did slip a knife into his hand in readiness.

  But he passed through the sentry line without further trouble. Yet still the knife remained in his hand for several hundred feet. He looked ahead to see any sign of the enemy, and he looked behind for any pursuit. There was nothing, and his nerve gave out at last. He heeled the mare forward into a trot, hoping to reach higher ground and the shelter of the oak trees before daylight revealed him to all the world.

  The dead man draped over the shoulders of the horse before him bounced to and fro. It made Hruidgar sick, not least because in dying the man had soiled himself. But it was necessary to hide his body. This was war, and it was kill or be killed.

  And yet the Kirsch had begun it. They had no business here, and Hruidgar hoped with all his heart that Brand could defeat them. If anyone could, it would be him. Even so, he would be outnumbered, and he would face gods. Could a man prevail against such odds, no matter who he was?