Kings of Sorcery

by Robert Ryan

  He swung around. His acolyte stood before the god-king, his head tilted up to expose his own throat. Char-harash bent toward him, the gold knife in his hand held high.

  Time ceased to move. Horta watched, transfixed. Not by the sight before him; he had seen men die before. But by the thought in his heart. It was blasphemy. It was death, for a man did not defy gods. It was an overturning of all that he had ever believed and striven for. If he acted on it.

  Time moved again. The gold knife began to descend in an arc of cold death. The hollow eyes of Char-harash fixed on Tanata like a hawk on a mouse, and the dry tongue in his withered mouth licked his leathery lips.

  Horta’s hand was already in one of his pouches, and he had drawn a fistful of powder. Shouldering Tanata away and uttering a word of power, he flung what was in his hand straight at Char-harash.

  Dust filled the air. It enveloped the god-king, but did not cover the surprise on his face.

  Horta dived away. Char-harash made to leap from the boulder after him, but a thunderous boom rang out, and light flashed as though lightening tore at the earth.

  And then Char-harash screamed. It was a horrible sound, as though all the agony the world had ever known was given voice all at once.

  Horta lay in a heap on the ground. A wave of heat rolled over him and away, and he looked up through watery eyes.

  Char-harash was like a torch. The white shroud of his burial was gone, but his body had caught alight and burned. All of it, from the stubby toes to his leathery face. The oils and resins and tar used to preserve his body in ancient days was flammable.

  The god-king screamed, and fell to his knees on the blackened boulder. Greasy smoke coiled from his eye sockets, and sparks flew from his mouth.

  Horta rolled away. But Char-harash screamed and leapt from the boulder, a streak of flame and roiling smoke billowing behind him. The earth shook as he landed, and he came for Horta.

  Staggering, the god-king moved toward him. Horta got to his knees, but Char-harash towered above like a bonfire. And in his hand he still held the gold knife, heated red-hot as an ember.

  The knife rose to kill him. This was the price of disobedience. He would be sacrificed himself. Yet still it would not save the god-king. Nothing could now. Those flames could not be put out, and already the corpse was falling apart.

  The knife fell. But Tanata had come up beside them, and he held the war-hammer of Char-harash. With a clumsy movement he smashed at the god-king’s arm and fended the blow away.

  Char-harash turned on him and screamed, his open mouth gushing flame. But the hammer struck again, this time an overhead blow. It took Char-harash on the shoulder and sent him spinning. But the head of the hammer tore through his body also. An arm fell away. The head twisted at an unnatural angle. The torso was a ruin like a split tree trunk, and newly exposed embalmed tissue was fresh fuel for flames.

  Char-harash tottered. He screamed again, though there was no sound now except the roar of flame. And he fell into a writhing heap.

  There, on the forest floor, the god burned. And he did not cease burning, for the substances used in embalming did not flare and go out. Rather they would burn and smolder for hours.

  Warily, Horta stood. Together the two men looked down on the remains of the god they had killed. If indeed Char-harash was yet dead. The body still moved. Whether that was the residue of life within him, or the heat of combustion, Horta did not know.

  But there was magic to account for also. Chemicals had preserved the body, but magic had bound the spirit of Char-harash to it. That magic had endured through long ages, and Horta thought it would endure fire also. Until the body was consumed by the flames and become ashes scattered on the wind.

  “Not a good way to die,” Tanata said quietly.

  “Neither was a spear through the body,” Horta answered without pity. “But he suffered that. And he will suffer this.”

  27. The Hunter Becomes the Hunted

  Taingern took his thousand men north into Callenor lands before the sun rose. With him were many scouts, and chief among them Hruidgar.

  Much depended on the hunter. But more on Taingern himself, and he knew it. If he failed in his mission, Brand would likely die. And his army with him.

  That was intolerable. The world needed Brand, and therefore it would not happen. He knew it for a vain thought, but thought was the root of action, and he would prove it.

  He did not go far into Callenor lands. His task was to come around behind the flanking force and surprise them. That could be achieved in two ways. He could head north, traverse a great loop and come around again, all the while traveling at forced marches. Then, spent, engage the three thousand soldiers of the enemy’s flanking army.

  Or, he could wait where he was, resting and preparing, then when sufficient time had elapsed, and Brand’s army and the flanking force had moved on, cut at a direct angle behind them. This meant covering far less ground and keeping his soldiers fresher. But it was also riskier. If he mistimed his march, the scouts of the flanking force would observe him.

  But he chose this option. Decisively. He would take that risk, because he must face three thousand enemy with one thousand. For that, his men would need to be fresh.

  Additionally, he knew his men liked the thought of resting while the enemy marched. It gave them a sense of superiority. It deepened the idea that they would outthink the enemy, and thereby outfight them.

  Victory, just like thought, occurred in the mind first. Actions followed later.

  Taingern knew others thought him cautious. The men were surprised at this plan, even if they liked it. But he knew himself better than all others. Only Brand and Shorty understood him. He was neither cautious nor adventurous. He merely did what was required. No more and no less. Usually, that gave him the appearance of caution.

  But he could risk everything at need. And seldom had he, or those he cared for, had a greater need.

  Hruidgar, perhaps, was beginning to understand him. But he knew better than most what was required here, and how it could be done.

  The scouts were pivotal to everything. They must advance ahead of his force, identify where the enemy lay without being seen. Or, if seen, kill the observers. Without fail. All it took was one man to return to the flanking army with news of his presence, and surprise would be lost and with it the chance of success.

  He waited until noon. The scouts were out long before that though. Giving a hand signal to the men, for nothing would be announced by horn in their current situation, he led the men back the way they had come this morning.

  It did not take long to reach their old camp of last night. It was an empty place now, the army gone ahead with Brand toward the enemy and the destiny that awaited them.

  Taingern turned that word over in his head. Destiny. If ever a man had one, it was Brand. But he denied it. A person made their own future, he always said. Perhaps that was so. But personal skill and courage only took you so far. The rest was design, or luck. But if there was no such thing as destiny, how then did prophecy work? And he had seen foretelling after foretelling come true about Brand.

  His thoughts were disturbed as Hruidgar came and reported to him at the old camp, as arranged.

  The hunter was not one for formalities. There were no bows or greetings. Taingern did not care. He had been on the receiving end of them for years, and knew them for empty gestures. The informality of Duthenor warriors, even to their leaders, was refreshing.

  “So far, so good,” Hruidgar said. “My men report seeing scouts following Brand.”

  “And the flanking force?”

  “They’re too far away yet. But they’ll know their main force approaches. They’ll want to stay as close as possible to Brand now. They’ll go as close as they dare.”

  That was certainly true. Taingern did not think the main enemy host would delay. The battle was coming soon. It would be tomorrow.

  “And have any of our scouts been seen?”

  “Three, that I
know of. But the enemy scouts who did so are dead.” He gestured backward with his thumb. “The land out there is alive with my men. For the most part, the Kirsch scouts are staying between their flanking force and Brand. They’re not concerned by the possibility of anything behind them.”

  Taingern nodded. “Let’s hope we can keep it that way. Until it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Hruidgar grinned. “We just might pull it off. Then we’ll see how they deal with a surprise attack themselves.”

  Taingern was not so keen. Once Hruidgar’s work was done, his own would begin. And though surprise was a great advantage, he still had to lead his group against an enemy three times its size.

  “It’s safe for you to move out and cross the enemy’s backtrail now,” Hruidgar said. “But don’t hasten. If there’s any real catching up to do, it’s better to do so with a night march.”

  “Of course,” Taingern agreed. He knew the men would not like it, but they knew as well that the night would hide them. And they knew too that everything depended on surprise.

  “Are you going back out now?”

  Hruidgar looked grim. “I’ve got a personal score to settle with these Kirsch scouts. I’m going back out, and if I find any stragglers, they’d better watch out.”

  He said no more then, but just turned and walked away. Taingern liked it. The man had no sense of etiquette at all, but so long as he did his job, that did not matter. In fact, it reminded him of Shorty.

  Taingern led his men on. They marched at an easy pace, in no hurry. But he made sure word was passed around that there would be a night march.

  It was late in the afternoon, very late, when they finally crossed the trail of the flanking army. The signs of their passage were clear, and it confirmed that they were heading after Brand. Not that this had ever been in much doubt, but the possibility existed that their purpose was something else.

  Night fell slowly, but Taingern did not halt the march. He followed the trail of the enemy, and he increased the speed of travel, bringing him closer to those he pursued. Ahead, his scouts were now concentrated. They ensured, or tried to ensure, that no enemy scout saw them. But as word continued to come in, it appeared that although the enemy was not watching closely behind them, further scouts had been observed and eliminated. Taingern just hoped that none had seen his approach unobserved.

  The night grew chill, but the men did not feel it. He hoped that lasted, for there would be no campfires when they finally rested. Nor would there be any meals. There would be cold rations only. He made sure the men understood why this was so. Secrecy would preserve their lives. It was worth some minor discomfort, and the word back was that they agreed. This, and the secrecy of a night march, fed into the feeling that they were outthinking and outmaneuvering the enemy.

  After some while, the dark grew ominous. Taingern ordered that the men walk quietly, and only spoke in whispers. It was an excessive precaution, but he felt it wise. The chances of the world were many, and all it took was one unseen enemy scout to hear a noise in the distance and come to investigate for the fate of realms to change.

  It was a strange countryside, shifting between flats and small hills, alternating between woods and open ground. But the enemy had been careful to move as much as possible through the trees and had stuck to lower ground to avoid being seen.

  Taingern followed in their trail, and he felt like a fox hunting a scent through the night. So it went, save for the regular rest breaks. But he was in no hurry. Word came back to him from the scouts that the flanking force was close ahead. But from Hruidgar, there was no word, and this was a worry.

  Toward midnight Taingern called a halt. The battle would follow tomorrow, both his and Brand’s, and the men needed sleep. They encamped in a creek valley, overgrown by trees. And the enemy was only a mile away, themselves in a wood, but one that bordered the ancient road whence Brand would be traveling.

  It was a restless sleep, what sleep the men could even get. The camp was nervous, for everyone knew that battle and death, for them or the enemy, would play out tomorrow. But though they were fewer, and though they had marched part of the night, yet still their presence was a secret. If they could preserve that, then victory was possible when daylight came.

  Daylight came swiftly. The scouts brought word that the enemy remained where it was. This indicated that they had found the place where they would launch their flanking attack on Brand. Soon after, word came that Brand was himself encamped on the road. Nor was he moving.

  The three armies were coming together now, and Taingern felt the shadow of war and battle upon him. But it was good news too. Had they been forced to march again, during daylight and this close to the flanking force, the chances of being observed would have greatly increased. Now, they could rest and gather their strength. And they could do it close to the enemy in a good place of concealment. All that concerned Taingern was that Hruidgar still had not returned. If he had been taken prisoner, all their plans might be at risk.

  They ate a cold meal for breakfast, but still a good one. No one went hungry, for that was a bad way to face a day that would bring a clash of arms. But they laid low, keeping quiet as possible. No one was allowed to leave camp except for scouts, and these now had been reduced to the bare minimum.

  Only the best scouts now kept an eye on the enemy. The fewer there were out and about the less chance of them being observed. But that did not mean the remainder of the scouts were inactive.

  These guarded the camp. And just as well. Two enemy scouts had been located and killed as they approached. Taingern could have wished otherwise, but it was what it was. They may not have seen his army and taken word back to their commander, but by their absence, and those who had been killed before them, suspicion would be raised. Taingern just hoped that the battle commenced before the enemy commander had time to consider the issue and act on it.

  So it seemed to prove. For, at last, Hruidgar returned. He had been wounded, though not badly, and obviously at least one more enemy scout was dead. More fuel for suspicion, because the enemy must sooner or later realize their scouts were being killed and wonder why, but the news he brought was otherwise good.

  “It’s time, Taingern.”

  “The enemy is on the move?”

  “Not yet. But soon. And they won’t be going far. Everyone is converging on this spot, and the battle is about to be fought.”

  “How soon?”

  Hruidgar glanced skyward. “It’s noon now. At best, you have an hour to make your move.”

  Taingern considered that. It was enough time to cover the distance between the two armies. If only they could do it unobserved.

  “How sure are you the flanking force is ready to attack?”

  Hruidgar grinned, but the look on his face was a very grim amusement.

  “They look as nervous as a rabbit caught in the open by a fox, and hoping he isn’t hungry.”

  It was good enough for Taingern. If Hruidgar said the enemy were close to moving, it was high time he did as well. He trusted the hunter, but the enemy, even if nervous, were not rabbits.

  He gave a hand signal, and the men, awaiting this, stood and fell in behind him. Taingern looked at them as they did so. They, too, seemed nervous. And no wonder. Odds of three to one were very bad indeed. But they trusted to his leadership, and so far he had not let them down.

  He vowed that it would remain so, and led them forward. As best he could, he tried to keep them out of sight, but the trees thinned in places, and any enemy could see his force, if they happened to be there. But Hruidgar, walking beside him, seemed unconcerned. Taingern matched his look, and slowly and surely they covered the distance. Then, faint and far away, came dim noises of battle.

  Taingern quickened his pace, and he led his men on. Today would be a day of victory. Or of death. He was not sure which, but if needs be, he would die as close as he could get to Brand.

  28. Advance!

  Brand staggered, and the black blade of Gormengil whi
spered past his throat. But then Gormengil staggered too.

  Through his magic, Brand still sensed how his opponent was supported by the gods, and by faraway Char-harash. The god-that-would-be stood upon a boulder, and he hungered for blood. His strength had weakened, and he drew a man toward him. And Horta was there also. But the magician had done the unthinkable, and attacked him. The pain of fire roared through Brand.

  He withdrew his magic. But he had seen enough. Char-harash was mortally wounded, though it would take a long time for the magic that bound him to scatter, and all the while he would suffer unendurable pain.

  The witch, once again, had been right. Your enemy may yet be your friend. Brand steadied himself, but Gormengil was still under the shadow of Char-harash’s pain, and the dismay of the other gods had momentarily left him uncontrolled.

  Gormengil swayed where he stood, and for once his eyes were not so dead.

  “Free me,” Gormengil pleaded softly, but Brand heard it above the din of battle and his Halathrin-wrought blade leaped out, severing the head of his enemy from its body.

  Gormengil collapsed before him, but there was no blood. A great roar rose among the five tribes, and Brand thought it was for his winning of the duel. But only for a moment. He soon saw that battle had at last broken out in the woods to the south, and the flanking force had been attacked and driven into the open. There they were trying to make a stand, and yet some had already begun to flee to join Wena’s force.

  Taingern had fulfilled his task. But he still needed to win that battle. And Brand still needed to win his own.

  It was not just the gods that felt dismay. The Kirsch must also feel it, for their secret attack had been foiled and their plan was unraveling before their eyes. On such chances and such moods the fate of battle rested. This, if ever there was one, was the time for Brand to grasp victory from defeat.

  “Advance!” he cried. “Advance!”

  Horns blew, sending his order all along the lines of his army, and they began to step forward. They would leave the advantage of the earthwork rampart behind, but that was a defensive position. Victory required attacking.