Angus Wells - The God Wars 01

by Forbidden Magic (v1. 1)

  Philomen's scarlet robe lay crumpled on the floor, beside it a gown of purple and white. The lictor's armor hung from a stand by the shuttered window; his sword- belt on a peg. On the belt was a bunch of keys. Calandryll swallowed and trod carefully toward them.

  He heard Philomen's breathing quicken and the woman moan, "Oh, Philomen! Philomen!"

  He glanced over his shoulder, cheeks warm, and snatched the keys from the belt. He froze as they jangled, but the pair on the bed were too entranced to allow extraneous sound to intrude on their preoccupation and he jammed his prize beneath his own belt.

  "Philomen!"

  The woman's voice was louder as he returned to the door.

  "Philomen!”

  He slipped through as the lictor groaned, his last sight of the Kand the hairy buttocks.

  Philomen's heavy breathing became a gasp of pleasure that drowned the sound of the closing door and Calandryll hurried to Bracht's cell. He tried three keys before he found the one he needed and sprung the door open. Bracht jumped back as the wood threatened to smash against his face, eyes narrowing as he tried to define Cal- andryll's outline.

  Calandryll dropped Bracht's sword on the bunk. As he released the falchion it became visible. The Kern grinned, buckling it on his waist.

  "Ahrd," he murmured, "I'd not thought to be so grateful for Varent's magic."

  "We still have to get out," Calandryll said. "And the lower hall's full of soldiers."

  "Awake?" Bracht crossed to the door.

  Calandryll said, "The lictor is across the hall," and grinned despite the tension, "but occupied. The guards sleep below. One mans the door."

  Bracht nodded, smiling grimly.

  "One I can deal with easily."

  "I'd not see him killed," Calandryll said.

  "If I can silence him ..." The Kem shmgged.

  "He's not our enemy." The thought of seeing an innocent man die sat ill with Calandryll. Bracht said, "Would you see our quest ended here? Do you think you can cross Kandahar alone? With the Chaipaku hunting you?"

  "Even so," Calandryll protested.

  "You've a delicate conscience," murmured the freesword, "but this is not the time to debate it. You've bought horses?"

  He nodded again, unthinking, and said, "Yes. Across the square."

  "Good," Bracht murmured, "Come."

  He drew his sword and stepped out of the cell. Calandryll eased the door shut, locked it, then quietly secured the lictor's door before dropping the keys inside the cell. At the head of the stairs Bracht halted, beckoning. Calandryll drew close.

  "Invisibility has its advantages," the Kem whispered, "but I can't know where you are. Stay close."

  Calandryll said, "I'm at your back."

  Slowly, step by step, they descended to the guardroom. Calandryll felt his heart thud against his ribs, his eyes darting over the supine soldiers, willing them to remain asleep.

  They reached the stairway's foot, sunlight a bright promise outlining the rectangle of the exit. Then, from above, a furious shout rang through the fortalice and a locked door was rattled in its frame. The sleeping guards stirred. Bracht snapped, "Philomen wakes!"

  The soldiers, too, rising groggily from their bunks as the lictor's angry bellowing grew louder, their eyes widening as they saw the prisoner with sword in hand, impossibly freed from his cell.

  Calandryll shouted, "Take the man on the door. I'll hold them."

  Bracht paused an instant and he shoved the Kem forward. "They cannot see me," he gasped. "Go!"

  Bracht grunted and sprang to meet the startled watchman, ducking under a clumsy pike swing to drive the hilt of his falchion against the Kand's jaw. Calandryll was grateful the freesword heeded his wish and left the man alive even as he snatched a halberd from its rack against the wall and flailed the haft in a sweeping arc across the i ankles of three charging soldiers. They went down in a sprawling mass, their shouts echoed by their slower companions, who saw impossibility piled on impossibility, a halberd swinging of its own accord. One cried, "Sorcery!" and several halted their pursuit, faces wary, hands shaping protective signs. Calandryll flung the halberd at them and darted to a table, upending it to send plates and food and wine flagons tumbling over the floor. The panic he read in the Kands' eyes encouraged him, and he darted about the room, hurling missiles at random. It must seem, he thought, that some occult force came to Bracht's aid, and he sought to enhance that impression with a strident howling. Several of the guardsmen cowered in unfeigned tenor; a braver few moved after Bracht.

  Calandryll saw that the Kem had overpowered the man at the door and was now miming for the warehouses. He seized another pike and flung it underhand at the pursuing soldiers. Two tripped and more fell over them, piling in the doorway. Calandryll turned a second table and sprang across the fallen guards. One began to rise and he kicked the man, unthinking, in the chest, then raced after Bracht.

  The freesword was astride one horse, the reins of the other in his hand, his eyes intent on the confusion in the fortalice. Calandryll halted, mouthing the releasing spell. The air shimmered, once more redolent of almonds, and he became visible again. Bracht passed him the reins and he swung into the saddle.

  "Can you ride?" the Kem demanded urgently. "Is your knee healed?"

  Calandryll said, "It seems the stone heals me."

  "So be it." Bracht nodded, still suspicious for all that magic had freed him. "Now let's ride—fast and far."

  Calandryll needed no further bidding. The soldiers' fear of magic, and the confusion he had wrought, was soon overcome by the more immediate fear of their Actor's wrath: they were flooding in an angry tide from the fortalice.

  "Follow me," he shouted, heeling his mount to a gallop.

  They charged through the quiet streets, the habit of siesta masking their escape as they traversed Mherut'yi and reached the outskirts.

  "We ride for Nhur-jabal?" Bracht asked. "Which way?"

  Calandryll pointed to where the highway led out of the little town, a ribbon of packed dirt winding into the heart of Kandahar. Bracht nodded.

  "You did well," he called over the pounding of the hooves. "I owe you thanks."

  Calandryll beamed, flattered by the freesword's praise: proud of himself.

  10

  They rode as hard as they dared in the oppressive heat, a dust cloud marking their flight, Bracht setting the pace, sweat shining on the horses' hides as they thundered away from Mherut'yi. When the town was lost in the haze behind them the Kem slowed, but he did not permit a halt until the rim of the sun touched the distant buttresses of the Kharm-rhanna Range and twilight's blue shadows crept across the land. He turned off the dirt highway then, finding a hollow in the desolate terrain that afforded partial shelter from the gaheen. The wind still assaulted them, beading their faces with sweat, plastering shirts to prickling backs and dusting them with its burden of grit. It clung to their damp skin, lodging in their eyebrows, finding its way into their mouths and under their clothes, reminding them of the luxury of water and soap as they huddled hungry, watching the horses crop on the sparse grass that filled the hollow. Calandryll had filled two canteens, but packed no food, deeming that too obvious an announcement of his intentions, and his stomach grumbled a protest as he crouched under the lee of the slope.

  "We'll ride through the night," Bracht decided, apparently unaffected by the discomfort. "Perhaps tomorrow we can buy food; or hunt something."

  "Can we risk buying it?" Calandryll wondered. "What of Philomen?"

  "The lictor?" Bracht chuckled. "Unless some other key can be found, he'll be with his woman a while longer than he anticipated. Then he must organize his men, and I doubt he'll stray far from Mherut'yi. He'll make some token pursuit then turn back. If we put sufficient distance between us tonight, we should be safe."

  "From him, at least," Calandryll nodded. "But what of the Chaipaku?"

  The Kern shrugged. "Against them, we must be on our guard," he said, his smile fading. "I'd not anticipated the
Brotherhood's intervention."

  "Tobias must have employed them." Calandryll shuddered. "But how could they know so fast?"

  The elation he had felt at their escape waned as he thought of Mehemmed: the prospect of crossing Kandahar with the Chaipaku hunting him was daunting. Bracht glanced at him and shook his head. "The ways of the Brotherhood are mysterious. Who knows how they communicate? But there's little point in brooding on it."

  Calandryll tore moodily at the stubbly grass, his expression troubled now.

  "But if we must pass through Nhur-jabal... the other towns along the way to Kharasul ... how can we avoid them?"

  "Perhaps we can't," Bracht offered, "but we need not concede them the victory. We've defeated one—we can do it again."

  "You can," Calandryll said morosely. "Had you not heard me, I'd be dead."

  "But you're not," said Bracht. "You survived his attack."

  "Barely." He touched his throat, where the red stone hung beneath his shirt. "And were it not for Lord Varent's magic, I'd be scarce fit enough to ride."

  "And were it not for you, I'd still languish in Philomen's keep," the freesword returned. "Ahrd, man! We've escaped capture by that warboat and a Chaipaku attack. We've left Mherut'yi behind us. We can cross Kandahar if we're careful."

  "And Kharasul?" Calandryll demanded. "What then?"

  "Then we find a ship to take us north," said Bracht, "just as we planned. We sail for Gessyth and find Tezin- dar. We take the Arcanum and ..."

  He fell silent. Calandryll frowned as he gestured at the red stone. "And?" he prompted, vexed by the Kern's suspicions.

  "I've yet to be convinced of Varent's honesty," Bracht continued. "I still believe the spoke of him. I say we take the Arcanum and hold it safe until we can be certain he intends to destroy it as he says."

  Calandryll sighed his frustration: he had thought Bracht's doubts forgotten. "Were it not for Lord Varent I'd still languish in my father's keep," he said. "Were it not for Lord Varent, we'd be prisoners on that warboat— or dead. Were it not for Lord Varent, you'd still be in Mherut'yi."

  "He needs us," said Bracht flatly. "He needs you to find the Arcanum and me to guard you. We're useful to him."

  "Dera!" snapped Calandryll, "Your suspicions are groundless."

  "I heard the byah,” Bracht said doggedly.

  "Which warned of Azumandias. Or Tobias, for all I know."

  Bracht shrugged, his eyes unrelenting.

  "You think he'd use the book to raise the Mad God?" Calandryll shook his head helplessly. "Only a crazy man would attempt so lunatic a thing—and Lord Varent is obviously sane."

  Bracht shrugged again, not speaking, stretching on his back to stare at the darkening sky. Calandryll sighed.

  "What do you propose then? After we've secured the book?"

  "I don't know," Bracht admitted. "But until Varent convinces me of his honesty, I'd not hand him so powerful a thing as the Arcanum."

  Calandryll plucked a second handful of grass; flung it from him, watching the yellowed blades flutter on the breeze.

  "Perhaps you believe he spies on us through the talisman?"

  Bracht shook his head, ignoring the sarcastic tone.

  "No," he said evenly, "I think the stone gains power from the wearer. I think it uses your eyes, your ears."

  "And what," Calandryll asked wearily, "brings you to that conclusion?"

  "You have the talent," Bracht said, his voice calm. "I could not use it, remember? Varent said then I lack the aptitude. But you are able to disappear; you wore it when that storm arose, it mends your knee. I believe you channel its magic."

  Calandryll gaped, dumbstruck.

  "Do you say I am a magician?"

  "I believe you have occult power. That ability Varent spoke of."

  "Then do you mistrust me as you mistrust all magicians?"

  Bracht chuckled then, shaking his head. "I trust you, Calandryll, and I believe you honest."

  Something hung on the tail of his words: Calandryll frowned, staring at him.

  "But?"

  "Power corrupts."

  "You think me corrupted?"

  "No." Bracht rose on one elbow to smile at his companion. "But I think you may be seduced by Varent's promises."

  For a moment Calandryll felt resentment return. It seemed the Kern judged him, the blunt statement suggesting Bracht weighed him and found something wanting. Then he dismissed the thought, refusing it a hold: his background set him closer to Varent, to the man's way of life, than Bracht could understand. The Kern's doubts were no more than that. He was, after all, a wandering mercenary, outcast from his own land, almost a barbarian. Likely he viewed all Lysse with suspicion. He was a friend though, of that Calandryll had no doubt— Reba's prophecy had foretold his coming, as it had foretold Varent's—but still there were differences between them, and likely would always be. He touched the stone, grateful for the relief it gave his damaged knee, and thought to take the additional precaution of applying the healing ointment too: he rubbed the stuff in, rewinding the bandage as Bracht checked the animals. Dusk was falling rapidly into night now and the gaheen eased, the air losing that furnace intensity imparted by the wind. A near-full moon hung above the eastern horizon and stars began to appear in the great sweep of dark blue above them, the land assuming a spectral quality, the road a band of blackness flanked by silvered grass. They mounted and continued in the direction of Nhur-jabal.

  Bracht held them to a steady canter as the moon rose higher, the shod hooves drumming on the packed dirt. Distances that had seemed of little account on the maps Calandryll had studied assumed a physical reality as they progressed through the night. From Mherut'yi to Nhur-jabal, assuming they stuck to the road, was roughly the same distance as from Secca to Aldarin, the journey to Kharasul was as much again. From the west coat of Kandahar to the swamps of Gessyth was a journey he preferred not to contemplate: few Seccans traveled much beyond the city walls and he began to feel very lonely as he followed the silent Kem through the night. The terrain was flat and empty of features, the sweep of the plain rendered the more immense by darkness. To Calandryll, it felt as though they traversed a limbo, the only living creatures in that great spread of land, or ghosts, doomed to ride forever, their destination always unattainably ahead.

  After a while Bracht slowed to a walk, resting the animals, then picking up the pace again, alternating until the moon was lost in the grey opalescence of approaching dawn. He called a halt then, riding a little way off the road to a stand of gnarled and windswept trees where they dismounted and hobbled the horses. It seemed they had left the gaheen behind, for the air was still, the grey mist undisturbed by any breeze. Calandryll mbbed his mount down and left it to crop as he wrapped himself in the saddle blanket and stretched on the hard ground.

  He woke to find the sun on his face, still low in the sky, but warm, five curious birds studying him from the branches of the stunted trees, taking flight as he pushed to his feet and groaned at the protest of saddle-stiffened muscles. Bracht was already awake, combing his long hair. Calandryll wondered how the freesword could so easily ignore the pangs of hunger as he thought longingly of Mother Raimi's breakfasts. He stretched, kneading limbs deadened by the long hours in the saddle. Looking around, he saw that they camped on the great plain still, the land bleak, arid, as if kin to the desert wastes to the north. There was no sign of habitation, the occasional clumps of trees the only disruption of the terrain, and those sad echoes of the luxuriant timber of Lysse. He drank a little water and rubbed a moistened hand over his face, telling himself that at least the gaheen no longer blew. Nor was there any sign of pursuit, and Bracht set an easier pace as they continued along the road.

  Around midmorning they forded a small stream, where they watered the horses and filled their canteens, taking time to strip and wash the dust away before continuing westward.

  The character of their surroundings began to change after a while, imperceptibly at first, no more than a thickening of th
e grass, its color changing subtly to a healthier green. The road began to climb at a gradual angle and then to dip, and the flat plain gave way to an undulating landscape mounded with small hillocks. The stands of timber grew more numerous, the trees less stunted by arid soil and wind, and wildflowers appeared in bright clusters. In the afternoon they saw cattle browsing in the distance, great heavy-muscled beasts with wide-spread horns and dark hides. A bull watched from a hummock, raising his head to bellow a challenge and they quickened their pace. As the sun neared its setting they saw a solitary building, its white walls painted rose by the waning light. It had the look of farm and fortress both: a low, square structure, surrounded by a chest-high fence of sturdy palings, the windows cut deep, with heavy shutters.

  "We'll ask their hospitality," Bracht decided.

  Calandryll, thinking of cool water and hot food, nodded enthusiastic agreement.

  They rode toward the building, slowly for fear of alarming the occupants, halting at the gate. Through its arch they could see a well and a stone-built bam beyond the house. Pigs and chickens rooted in the yard and a huge red dog barked furiously from the porch. A man appeared, murmuring something that silenced the hound, and two youths, so similar in looks they could only be his sons, stepped out to flank him. They both held short, deeply curved bows, red-fletched arrows nocked to the strings. The man studied the newcomers for a moment, then beckoned them on, coming to meet them by the well, the dog at his heels. The archers remained on the porch.

  The man was tall and thin, his face weather-beaten to the color and texture of ancient leather, his eyes set deep and dark beneath craggy brows, eyeing them with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. A broad-bladed knife was sheathed on his waist, the belt cinching a robe of faded green, his left hand resting idly on the hilt.

  "Greetings, strangers."

  His voice sounded like his face looked: harsh and hard.