by Stan Nichols
‘I’ve not told you anything you couldn’t have found out for yourself. You look for a solution in magic, Reeth, but take little interest in its workings.’
‘I see it as a malevolent force.’
‘It’s the foundation of our culture.’
‘Yours, not mine. Not Qalochian. For you, magic is a needful, benevolent thing. To me it’s deceiving and pernicious. It helps maintain injustice.’
To Kutch that seemed close to blasphemous. ‘My master always said that magic has no morality, any more than the weather does. The people who command it decide if it’s light or dark, as suits their purpose. Your argument should be with them.’
Caldason’s severity mellowed a little. ‘I grant there’s wisdom in that. But if there was no magic the temptation wouldn’t exist.’
‘I intend using my skills only for good.’
‘I don’t doubt it. And when you speak on the subject you show more passion and insight than you do about anything else. You shed the half-child and talk more like a man.’
The youth’s cheeks coloured, underlining the point.
‘I can see magic’s your calling,’ Caldason added. ‘But who can say what enticements the future might bring?’
Kutch tried steering back to the issue he thought more important. ‘Tell me what’s wrong. I’m not advanced enough to help, I know that, but I’d be better armed to find you somebody who could.’
‘What I suffer from tends to… trouble people.’
‘It wouldn’t vex me. Together, we could -’
‘
No.
I don’t form attachments. I’ve no need of them. Anyway, I have to move on, you know that.’
Kutch was disappointed, but knew the futility of arguing with the man. ‘You’ll not go before my master’s funeral?’
‘I promised you I wouldn’t. But let’s make haste, I want to be out of these parts today.’
They pushed on, exchanging few further words.
Twenty minutes later they reached a wood. This they skirted, their journey taking them by the cultivated fields that served the village. A handful of farmers tended the fledgling crops. Though none of them acknowledged their passing, the duo had the distinct feeling of being watched. Beyond the meadows the hamlet itself came into sight, nestled prettily in the palm of a shallow valley. Even from this distance the indigo power line that slashed through the settlement could be plainly seen.
But the village wasn’t their destination. When the path forked they took the coastal road. A short climb brought them to the cliff’s edge. Beyond its rim and far below lay a vast expanse of calm, shimmering ocean.
On the grassy ribbon of land running to the lip of the cliff stood a funeral pyre and atop it lay the seer Domex, resplendent in the robes of his calling, hands crossed on his chest. Paraphernalia was heaped about his body – a grimoire, journals and scrolls, pouches of herbs and a sceptre were among the personal belongings that would accompany him to the next world.
The whole of the pyre was encased in a glistening, transparent half bubble, rainbow-hued like an oil and water mix.
Kutch’s first act was to remove the protective barrier. He took a small, flat runestone from his belt pouch and approached the pyre. Mouthing a barely audible incantation, he placed the stone against the bubble. The magical shield soundlessly discharged itself into non-being.
He looked around. The cliff-top was deserted, as were the modest hills on either side. ‘No mourners,’ he said, his voice catching. ‘I’d hoped somebody would turn up, given how much he did to help the people hereabouts.’
‘I expect they were too afraid to come because of the circumstances of his death,’ Caldason told him. ‘Don’t be too hard on them.’
Kutch nodded. He dug into his pouch again and brought out a sheet of parchment. His hands trembled slightly as he unfolded it. ‘There are some words that need to be spoken,’ he explained.
‘Of course.’
Falteringly, and in a soft tone, the apprentice began reading his lament in the old tongue. When he stumbled over a particular phrase, eyes brimming, just a boy after all, Caldason laid a hand on his heaving shoulder. It seemed to strengthen Kutch and he carried on more or less evenly.
What was being said meant nothing to Caldason, though somehow its rhythm and feeling conveyed something of its poignancy to him. His gaze went to the horizon and he contemplated the scurrying clouds and distant sea-birds.
At last the dirge was over. Kutch screwed up the parchment and tossed it onto the pyre.
After what he thought was a decent interval, Caldason asked, ‘How do we apply the flame?’
‘I have to do it,’ Kutch sniffed, ‘and it has to be kindled using the Craft.’ He gave the Qalochian a shy, lopsided grin. ‘I’ve been a bit worried about that bit.’
‘You’ll be fine.’
‘Right.’ He cleared his throat noisily and straightened. Caldason took a step back to give him room.
Kutch started some kind of low-throated chant, attended with a series of increasingly complex hand gestures. He gazed at the pyre intently, brow creased. At first his utterances and movements were uncertain, then his confidence visibly grew and his voice rose.
All at once the wood stack and corpse were bathed in dazzling white light. Flames erupted, burning with unnatural, magic-fuelled intensity. The pyre blazed.
‘Well done,’ Caldason said.
They stood together for some time, watching the fire do its work.
Then Caldason gently tugged at Kutch’s arm. The youth turned and looked to where Reeth was pointing.
On the top of an adjacent hill stood a lone figure, staring down at them. The distance was too great to make out much detail, but they could see he was an older, distinguished looking man. His tailored white robe was of a quality denoting rank. The wind ruffled his three-quarter length cape. His posture was straight and proud, his expression sombre.
‘Any idea who that is?’ Caldason wanted to know.
Kutch blinked at the stranger. ‘No, I don’t think I’ve seen him before. Perhaps he’s someone who owed Domex a debt of gratitude.’
‘It seems your master wasn’t forgotten after all.’
They watched the figure for a while, then returned their attention to the blaze, its heat stinging their faces. When Caldason looked again a moment later, the stranger was gone.
The pyre roared and crackled, belching thick, inky smoke.
Mesmerised by the sight, Kutch fell into a reflective mood. ‘You know, if my master had lived I really think he might have been able to help you.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I’ll never forgive myself for my cowardice, Reeth.’
‘I thought we agreed you weren’t to blame,’ Caldason replied firmly. ‘There’s no way you could have stood against his killers, get that into your head.’
‘I’m trying to. It isn’t easy. I keep thinking that if only I’d -’
Caldason raised a hand to quiet him. ‘That’s enough. Don’t sully the moment with regrets. They serve no purpose, believe me.’
‘I still think he could have done something for you. He was a great man, Reeth.’
‘I have a feeling I need the kind of help I’ll never be able to find.’
‘Who’s being a doubter now?’
They both wrapped themselves in their own thoughts then.
The warmth sent ash and cinders billowing above the pyre. Orange sparks danced in the smoke.
‘Phoenix,’
Kutch whispered, half in reverie.
‘What was that?’
‘Phoenix,’ he repeated, as though it were some kind of epiphany.
‘I don’t -’
‘Why didn’t I think of it before?’
‘What the hell are you talking about, Kutch?’
‘Covenant, of course. Don’t you see? If anybody can help you, they can!’
‘Covenant’s a myth. A story mothers tell to frighten their sucklings.’
‘M
y master didn’t think so.’
‘He was wrong. They don’t exist.’
A succession of noisy pops and cracks issued from the pyre as it consumed wood and bone.
‘They do, Reeth,’ Kutch insisted, eyes shining, ‘and I’m going to prove it to you.’
7
They saw a bird, flying low and fast, wings beating frantically. It had the shape and size of a raven, but was betrayed by its colour; a burnished silver that made their eyes ache. In an instant it was gone, lost to sight among trees and rolling hills in the direction of the hamlet.
Caldason and the boy dismissed it.
Kutch took up the thread as they tramped on. ‘My master was adamant on the subject,’ he persisted. ‘He said Covenant was real and I believe him.’
‘Real once,’ Caldason allowed. ‘But they were suppressed. A long time ago.’
‘They tried to stamp them out, yes. Some escaped and Covenant grew again.’
‘Well, I’ve never met a member.’
‘That doesn’t mean they don’t exist!’
‘I’m not trying to pick an argument with you, Kutch. If Domex told you they’re still around, fine. But what makes you think a bunch of unlicensed sorcerers could help me?’
‘Because they’re much more than that. Some say their magic’s a strain that goes back to the time of the Founders themselves.’
Caldason didn’t reply. His silence could have been thoughtful, or it might have been disbelieving. Kutch couldn’t tell.
Far behind them now, a column of whitish smoke rose lazily from the cliff-top pyre. Kutch glanced back at it. His shoulders sagged, and a host of cares pinched his features.
‘What do you know about their leader?’ Caldason asked, perhaps to distract him.
‘Phoenix?’ Kutch bucked up a little. ‘Probably no more than you’ve heard yourself. You know; that he, or she, is somebody with great skill in the Craft, and can’t be caught. Can’t be killed either.’
‘How can that be?’ Caldason said, real interest in his eyes.
‘What does it matter? The important thing is that Covenant could be your best chance of aid. They don’t just have the magic, Reeth. They’re patriots, and they oppose Gath Tampoor. Which means they’re a thorn in the paladins’ side. Makes you natural allies, I’d say.’
Caldason’s expression hardened. ‘You know what I think about allies. And I’m no patriot. Not as far as Bhealfa’s concerned anyway.’
The ground began to level. They were in sight of the hamlet’s outlying buildings.
‘You should go and find them,’ Kutch ventured.
‘Where?’
‘Valdarr.’
‘Do you know where in Valdarr?’
‘No… no, I don’t. But it’s the biggest city. It makes sense Covenant would be there, doesn’t it? We could -’
‘There’s no
we
, and you’re just guessing they can be found there. If I go looking for Covenant, I’ll be doing it by myself.’
‘Why can’t I come with you?’ the boy pleaded.
‘I’ve
told
you. I travel alone.’
‘I wouldn’t get in your way, and I can shift for myself.’
‘No. People around me tend to end up dying.’
‘I know it’d be dangerous, with you an outlaw and all,
and
a Qalochian, but -’
‘They don’t just die the way you think. There’s ways other than violently.’
Kutch didn’t understand. But they’d reached the edge of his settlement, putting their conversation on hold. ‘This is a quicker way to the house,’ he announced morosely, leading Caldason into a side street.
The street became an alley, darkened by overhanging upper storeys of houses. It narrowed, twisted, intersected other byways, all deserted. Then they turned into a downward-sloping, cobbled lane, lined to the right by stables, to the left by mean cottages.
Twenty or thirty paces ahead, with his back to them, someone walked briskly in the same direction they were heading.
‘It’s him,’ Kutch whispered. ‘The man at the funeral.’
Caldason regarded the figure and nodded, adding, ‘He takes risks.’
‘How?’
‘He’s far from young, and by the cut of his clothes, moneyed. Yet no sign of bodyguards.’
‘He has protection. There’s a defensive shield around him. Good quality, too.’
‘Damned if I can see it, Kutch.’
‘You have to know how to look. Come on, let’s talk to him.’
Reeth caught his arm. ‘Why?’
‘Aren’t you curious to know who he is?’
‘Not greatly. If a man looks like a threat, or like somebody who could help me, I’m curious. I doubt he’s either.’
‘He was the only one at my master’s funeral apart from us.’ Kutch shook loose his arm. ‘I’d like to know why.’
Reeth shrugged. ‘All right. But I’m not for lingering, remember.’
They quickened their pace.
Kutch was right. As they approached, Caldason spotted an indistinct sheath of agitated air, a finger’s span deep, enveloping the stranger’s body. It shimmered like a heat haze.
The man heard their footfalls, stopped and turned. The questioning look on his distinguished, grey-maned features mutated into apprehension.
Kutch stretched his hands placatingly, palms up. ‘We mean you no harm!’
Tensely, the stranger retreated a step or two, staring at them but saying nothing.
Reeth glanced around. ‘This isn’t right.’
‘What isn’t?’ Kutch asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You have to know how to look,’ Caldason replied dryly.
Something fell into their field of vision, a blur of glistening silver.
The fraudulent bird they had glimpsed earlier descended with wings fluttering languorously. Time seemed to slow to a glacial pace as it came to rest on the stranger’s outstretched arm. There was a flurry of radiant feathers. The creature’s eyes, vivid crimson, fixed upon him.
‘Treachery!’
the bird screeched.
Then it raised its wings as though to take off. Instead it soundlessly imploded, crushing to a tiny ball of pulsing brilliance that immediately consumed itself.
Blinking, the stranger assumed the pair facing him were the object of the warning. He made to run.
‘No!’ Kutch shouted, still dazed. ‘We don’t want to hurt you!’
Caldason’s attention hadn’t been on the glamour or the stranger. He was scanning the doorways and stables. Face hard, gaze intense, he began drawing his sword.
Kutch noticed. He managed a puzzled, ‘What -?’ before he saw why.
Men were emerging from dingy stables and out of shadowed nooks. There were a good half-dozen of them, and if there was any doubt about their intent, the blades in their hands dispelled it.
All but one had a look Caldason had seen many times. The mark of predators. Street pirates. Men who killed for coin, or for the sport of it. The exception appeared to be unarmed and his garb was less martial. Unlike the others, he wore a cloak, and held a staff too short for a weapon, embellished in gold.
Fanning out, the brigands moved to surround the trio. The man Kutch and Reeth had been following seemed more self-possessed, but still suspicious of the pair’s allegiance. He looked from them to the encircling ambushers, then back again, undecided.
Ever watchful, Caldason reached over his shoulder and slowly unsheathed his second blade.
As he freed it there was a flash of fierce white light.
It lasted no more than a second but dazzled them all. Fiery motes in his eyes, Caldason found its source. The unsuitably dressed brigand had his ornate staff in a raised hand. He was pointing it at the elderly stranger.
Kutch cried out something unintelligible. Reeth saw that the stranger now stood unprotected. His buffer of magic was gone, the radiant bubble had dispersed.
A negating glamour. Caldason hoped they didn’t have anything worse.
One of the ambushers on the right began to move their way, sword raised. A bandit on the opposite side did the same. The rest stood their ground.
Caldason shoved Kutch hard, propelling him towards the stranger. The boy exclaimed, stumbled, almost collided with the old man.
‘Stay!’
Caldason snapped, as though commanding a dog.
Then the pincer closed on him.
He remained perfectly still, immobile as a rock. Kutch, watching fear-flushed, unbelieving, saw that Caldason’s eyes were shut, and that he looked incongruously serene. But that lasted only a second, before the waves struck.
A sword in each hand, he parried both incomers, side-on, blocking expertly to the right and left. Then he swung out and round to face the pair.
They engaged him again instantly. Four blades rent the air. Steel clamoured in earnest as the three of them enacted that lissome dance, old as malice, which could only end in death.
At first it seemed to Kutch that Reeth did no more than hold the attackers at bay. But he soon realised his error. Caldason was deploying a strategy. For although they attacked him with equal ferocity, his response was two-tiered. The man on his right he held off. The one to the left, he fought. As they jockeyed to challenge him, his blades flashed from one to the other; defensive to offensive, soft to hard.
When it happened, it was quick and brutal. From the storm’s eye, Caldason lashed out at the man he’d worn down. To those looking on it was as though he quickly wiped his blade across the brigand’s chest. But the gash was deep. It liberated a cataract of blood. The victim made a sound, part outcry, part groan of pain, and let slip his sword. He swayed, then fell, broken.
It was the only sound any of them had made. Kutch was struck by how strange that seemed; no words exchanged, no shouted challenges or muttered threats. Just silence, save grunts of effort and clashing steel. It seemed the assassins plied their trade gravely and had no need of discourse.
Now there was general movement. As Caldason took on his other opponent, a fresh brigand waded in to join the fight. And Kutch had his own troubles. Two bandits were coming towards him and the stranger. The last of the band, his magic-eating staff marking him out as a sorcerer rather than a combatant, held back.