Kings of Sorcery

by Robert Ryan

The enemy drew closer. Flashes of metal shot through the air. The movement of a great mass of men was visible. And the chariots also. These were deployed as cavalry often were, broken into two units and forming the outer wings of the force.

  Brand, once again, set his mind to how they would be used. Their disposition was a clue. There were only two hundred and fifty to each side. Was that enough to use separately?

  He did not think so. Despite being placed to each flank of the army, they would both be used in the same manner. Just like cavalry, they would charge, draw close to their opponent’s ranks, and send forth volleys of arrows. Then they would be on their way again. Moments later, the second group of them would do the same thing. In this way they would take turns at harassing his army and intimidating it. When their general thought they had been softened enough, he would charge with the infantry and try to destroy all opposition.

  That would be their plan. But how to counter it?

  The enemy might suppose the speed and movement of the chariots made them harder to hit with return fire. This was so, and that the chariot driver also carried a shield would work into this. But they would not be expecting the stronger longbows of the five tribes.

  Brand could use this by ensuring his archers shot the moment the enemy came into range, and before they expected attack. This would go some way to unbalancing their own attack. Also, the Duthenor and other tribes were skilled with shields. They would raise them high as a protective roof when the enemy finally drew close enough to shoot. They would not be as harassed or intimidated as the enemy general hoped.

  The enemy would drive home their full offensive then, and that would be the real test. Against this, Brand arranged the Duthenor at the center of his defense. They had fought much lately, and they were hard men who would not be broken easily. The Callenor and other tribes he placed on the wings, but some also in the center. That way all the tribes fought together.

  Under a warm noon sun, the enemy drew to a halt half a mile away.

  “Will they attack or send an envoy first?” Furthgil asked, stroking his silver beard.

  “It would be normal practice to send an envoy,” Brand answered. “But who can say? These warriors are not like us.”

  They did not have long to wait. Five chariots came forward, and the lead one held a banner. It was a black scorpion, tail raised, against a white background.

  The chariots drew up a hundred paces from the army, and two men dismounted and stood before them. The one on the left wore simple clothes. He was not dressed as the other Kirsch, and appeared taller and of another race. The one on the right was a commander of some sort. His bearing said as much, and his armor, though strange to Brand’s eyes, was expensive and trimmed with gold as was the scabbard of his sword.

  The tall man on the left spoke, casting his voice loudly and speaking in somber tones.

  “The Kar-ahn-hetep have come,” the man declared. “These lands are now theirs. Who speaks for you, and leads you, conquered thralls?”

  It was not a gracious speech. And the accent was strange, dominated by whatever language the Kirsch spoke, but there was a hint of other accents in it too, some not unfamiliar to Brand’s ear. He also noted how he had been placed in the position of one answering to the names of conquered and thrall.

  “I lead this army,” he replied. “This army of free men, unconquered. And if you think words alone can make us thralls, you are mistaken. The price for that will not be foolish boasts voiced into the air, but paid in spilled blood. If you have the heart to try.”

  There was silence for a moment, and then the tall man spoke again.

  “Proud words, but in vain. You cannot stand against us. Surrender, and offer yourselves up to the mercy of the god-king to be. That you may know him, his hallowed name is Char-harash, Lord of the Ten Armies, Ruler of the Thousand Stars, Light of Kar-fallon and Emperor of the Kar-ahn-hetep! Kneel now to his emissary, Wena, and he will intercede on your behalf.”

  Brand did what no one expected. He laughed, and the shock of it showed on the faces of the foreigners.

  “Char-harash? A god to be? You set a lot of store in a dead man. Yes, I’ve met him, or his spirit at any rate. He’s a thing of dried rags and half-rotting flesh in a tomb. You can kneel to the shell of a man if you want, and pretend he’s a god, but I’m a free man and I will not. Nor will my people. They are free also.”

  Brand drew himself up. And he cast his voice back over to the enemy, carried on a thread of magic that made it loud and deep.

  “You are not welcome. Go back whence you came, and take your bickering gods with you. We will not endure them here. Should you not heed this warning, blood will flow in rivers and the might of your army will be crushed. Heed my words, for they are no threat but prophecy.”

  Brand fell silent, and he let the threads of magic that had supported his voice drift away. His concentration was on the second man on the right. So far, he had been silent. But unless Brand missed his mark, he was the commander of the enemy host.

  The emotions on the other man’s face were hard to read because of the distance, but even so Brand thought he saw shock or outrage at his reply gradually turn to anger.

  The herald would have spoken again, but the second man stopped him with a swift gesture. He stood forth a few steps, and he laughed.

  Brand knew it was false. This was a man of show, and not very good at it. But that did not mean his military leadership was poor.

  “You will see,” the man replied haltingly, and with a heavy accent. “You will see, and you will regret.”

  That was all he said. But his voice was confident, and Brand knew the man believed what he said. But even as he turned and remounted the chariot, his head swiveled to the south and the woods that lay there. All was silent there now, and nothing moved. But Brand sensed his enemy’s expectation.

  The chariot turned and sped back to the army, and the four chariots with it followed in its wake. When the commander reached its ranks, trumpets blew and a tumult sounded.

  Shorty grunted. “That Wena doesn’t say much. But what he has his herald say, I don’t like. He’ll please me better when I thrust a sword in his guts.”

  “Which one – Wena or the herald?” Brand asked.

  “Both!”

  Brand did not really listen to the reply. He knew Shorty only spoke to relieve the tension of the men. His thoughts were on the wood, and especially on Taingern. So much depended on him.

  24. First Blood is Spilled

  Char-harash sat atop a boulder in their forest camp, and Horta watched him carefully. For some while the god-king had been excited, muttering to himself and shaking his head. Horta began to wonder if he was sane.

  But that was a stupid thing to ponder. He was to be obeyed, no matter what. And if he was not sane? What dead person come back to life in a far later age than he had lived would be? Horta considered it all. Why should he care one way or the other? So long as he remained careful, he would enjoy the spoils of victory at the side of a god.

  The god-king turned to him, and fixed him with those dry sockets that served as eyes.

  “The battle prepares,” he said. “Listen, and learn, for I shall show you now of the old magic.”

  Char-harash turned away then, and fixed his gaze to the south-west, though there was nothing to see there but trees. But in moments, he began to chant.

  His voice was different. It was softer, almost as though he mumbled. It was not a summoning of a god or a beseeching of divine aid. That would not be fitting anyway for one that would be a god himself. Horta did not know what it was, for it was not like any rite that he had ever heard or read of.

  Yet there was magic in the words. He felt the power of it build and grow. He tried to memorize what he heard, but Char-harash continued to mumble and he could not catch all that was said.

  That too was a difference. Most of the rites that Horta knew rose to a crescendo as the power was unleashed. Yet not so here. It was almost as though the god-king drifted a
way to sleep. And, after a little while, his mumbling grew so soft as to be inaudible. Then it ceased altogether.

  Nothing happened. Char-harash continued to sit there, but now his head was bowed. Perhaps he was meditating.

  But suddenly his head snapped up and his back stiffened. He spoke again, his voice strong now, though with a faraway cast to it.

  “The Children attack!” he proclaimed. “The Sons of the Thousand Stars bring war as once they did of old. These lands that once were nearly ours will assuredly fall this time.”

  Horta exchanged a glance with Tanata. Could the god somehow sense what was happening elsewhere? But they dared not speak, for Char-harash was not done.

  “I feel the rush of blood in my veins, and what it is to be a man in battle. The battle cry that rises in their throats, rises in mine. The thrumming of their hearts sets mine afire, and the hatred in their minds as they charge is as kindling to my spirit.”

  Horta understood now. Somehow, Char-harash saw events exactly as they were transpiring elsewhere.

  This was the final throw of the dice, and the culmination of everything that Horta had so long worked for. His people were coming, and his god had wakened and walked the earth once more. Yet he felt empty inside, for he knew what was to come.

  “Horses and chariots fly over the earth,” Char-harash declared. “The hooves are thunder and the wheels rumble. Sharp are the points of the arrows to be shot, and they glitter with the fire of the sun. Ah! The glory of battle is here and the earth will be wetted with the blood of my enemies.”

  This now was the hour of Brand’s downfall, and Horta should be pleased. Yet he was not. Had he been in Brand’s place, would he not have done the same things?

  “First blood is spilled!” Char-harash proclaimed, and there was excitement in his voice. “Now also my brothers and sister come, and they lend their wills to mine.”

  The god-king sat even more upright, as though his back were a rod that had just been thrust upward, and his bony hands clawed at the stone of the boulder. It seemed that he struggled, either living out the battle being contested or striving for the strength to maintain the magic that he wrought.

  “Now I see afar,” Char-harash said, and there was hatred in his voice, “he who leads the enemy. Brand! How I hate him! But his day has come. He shall be as dust beneath the sandaled feet of my children.”

  Suddenly Char-harash sprang upward to stand upon the boulder. He was a towering figure, and menace and power radiated from him. For once, he appeared to be the god that he claimed.

  “The enemy is struck. Ah! The glory of it! Blood flows, and yet it is but a taste of all that is to come. Kingdom after kingdom. Nation after nation. Land after land. All will fall to me!”

  The god-king stood there, radiant in his power, but in the blink of an eye he seemed lesser again. He fell to one knee and held up his hands imploringly. “No! My strength lessens, and the vision fades.”

  With head bowed once again, but his dark eye sockets still visible, he turned his dead gaze on Tanata.

  “Come to me, my child.”

  Horta looked at his acolyte. Tanata trembled all over. There was fear in his eyes, and had he been able he would have run. Yet some power held him, and he stepped, slow pace after another, toward his god.

  With certainty, Horta knew what would come next. Life gave power. Sacrifice nourished the god, and this was the first of many.

  25. Worthy of That Axe

  Brand watched, and it seemed that the very earth trembled at the charge of the enemy host. No trial of strength and resolve was this. It was a full attack, and no reserves were left behind. This was army against army, steel against steel and man against man. The stronger would prevail. The weaker would perish.

  Afar, he heard the trumpets of the enemy. But they were drowned by the rushing of the chariots. They would strike first, unleashing their arrows, but such was the confidence of Wena in victory that the army followed. One attack only the chariots would launch, and Brand, despite the cold that had seeped into his bones, rejoiced at the mistake. The enemy did not know the danger of his archers and their longbows, and Wena would not learn of it until it was too late to halt the charge.

  But still, though the longbows would take a great toll, it would not stop such a charge as this.

  The chariots roared closer. They came from each wing of the enemy, but the left group had begun sooner and would reach first. When they had passed, then the right group would take their place.

  The faces of the chariot drivers were visible now, and so too the warriors standing beside them. Hard men all, and skilled. Brand marveled at the horsemanship and the balance of the men to ride such a vehicle and yet still be able to use their weapons.

  Closer they came, and Brand studied the small recurve bows they held. He glanced at his own archers. They had moved, according to plan, to the front rank of his army. There they stood. Proud men, and hard also. No less than the enemy, nor suffering from lesser skill. Arrows they had notched already, and in moments death would flash through the gap between opposing forces.

  Brand waited. Fear thickened the air all around him. It was always thus in battle. A horn blew in his front ranks, and others took up the note. The archers did not draw their bows. Rather, they kept their right hand at rest and pressed the weight of their body through the left. This bent the limbs of the great bows that only strong men, trained since their youth, could shoot.

  And then they shot. Long arrows hissed through the air. One hundred yards. Two hundred yards. Further still, and the enemy, unready, rode into a storm of death.

  Hurriedly the drivers raised their shields, protecting them and their passenger. But caught by surprise, many shields were not well placed. Arrows slew men. Armored horses died also. Chariots and beasts fell in tangled wrecks, and screams ripped the air.

  The enemy came on. Arrows flew again. The charioteers were better prepared now. Not so many died, yet still screams roiled up into the heavens. A litter of dead and dying lay behind the wheeled charge, and this would do little for the morale of the infantry that followed.

  Three times the archers shot, sending death to the enemy. Then they raced back between the ranks of the army. Now, the charioteers were in range with their own bows, and these they fired as the chariots wheeled in a part circle.

  Shorter arrows, less deadly, now flew. Less deadly, but deadly enough. Despite the raised shields men still died. But fewer than among the enemy.

  Brand watched, calm as ever. He would die today, or he would live. Victory would be his, or loss. His army would conquer, or be vanquished. All he could do, as with all his men, was try.

  He glanced to the other group of chariots. These, coming in a little later, had not been so devastated by his archers. But he saw fear on the faces of drivers and warriors. Their charge was not so swift. They too drew close and unleashed their attack. More of Brand’s men fell. But not many.

  The chariots raced away. Brand’s archers, having sheltered behind the last rank of infantry, sprang forward again. They would have little time, but the enemy infantry came on, and they would receive at least two flights of arrows.

  Brand willed speed to his archers. And they did not disappoint him. They moved with alacrity and precision, coming to the front once more and firing a hail of arrows at the charging host.

  Men went down, only to be trampled by those who came after. It mattered not if they were dead or alive. But many were dead, for the arrows found targets between lifted shields. No shield wall could be properly held during a charge, and it was yet another mistake of this Wena. The enemy should have approached at a steady march, thus protecting themselves better.

  Three volleys Brand’s archers managed before the enemy was nearly upon them, and they withdrew once more through the ranks of their comrades.

  Those ranks closed swiftly, shield to shield and man to man. Then, with a mighty roar, the two forces came together in a deafening clash. Men died on both sides. Blood spurted and guts sp
illed to the earth. The dying screamed and the living yelled their defiance.

  The center of the army where the Duthenor mostly stood began to buckle back, ceding the advantage of the ditch rampart. This was where the enemy attacked the most fiercely, and Brand surmised that Wena had done as he had also done, placing the most experienced warriors in the center.

  Sighern held the banner of the five tribes higher. He looked at Brand, and Brand read the question in his eyes. He wanted to know if it was time for Brand and his leadership group to bolster the men by joining them.

  “Not yet,” Brand told him above the din of battle. “The men will hold this charge.”

  He hoped it was true. The line buckled further. But if he joined in now there would be nothing to give later. And also, he must keep an eye on all his enemies.

  The three gods of the Kirsch that he had met before were there now, behind their army and urging it forward. What plan had they concocted? What sorcery would be sent against him? He must keep himself free as long as possible to face that threat.

  The buckling line steadied and then, slowly, pushed back. The Kirsch screamed their battle cries, fighting inch by inch, for they sensed how close they had been to overrunning their opponent.

  But they had not. And the quick victory they had sought, even expected, did not happen. Almost, Brand could feel Wena’s chagrin.

  The three gods were not still. They moved about behind the ranks of the Kirsch, urging them ahead and filling them with purpose. If not, with fear, for the men redoubled their efforts.

  Again, the line began to buckle. This time it was the left wing. Brand’s gaze flickered to the woods. Should the second army of the Kirsch attack on that flank now, all was lost. But there was no sign of movement there.

  Shorty too was looking in that direction.

  “We hold!” Sighern cried. “We hold and push them away again!”

  Brand turned back to the battle. The left wing was creeping forward once more, and a great shout went up from those ranks. The joy of battle was upon them, for they had faced death, defied it, and now turned it onto their enemies instead.