Angus Wells - The God Wars 01

by Forbidden Magic (v1. 1)

  Octofan shook his head.

  "Not close to the road. There was a caravanserai, but Sathoman burned it down and Anomius cursed it and it was never built again. Folk avoid it."

  Calandryll nodded, studying his face, but saw no hint of treachery in the deep-set eyes. He thanked the farmer and they carried the sacks out to the waiting animals. Octofan lifted the bar and swung the gate open. "Burash ward you," were his parting words as they quit his yard, following the track down to the road.

  The sky was a soft blue, empty of cloud save to the northwest, where piling billows marked the line of the mountains, the sun a golden coin still low to the east. The irritation of the gaheen was replaced with a gentle breeze, pleasantly cooling, that rustled the grass verging the road, and magic seemed a thing of the night, driven off by the dawning of a bright new day. Birds sang from the trees dotting the rolling landscape, and high above them more flew, spiraling and swooping against the blue. There seemed no danger in that gentle countryside, though the land rolled and ridged in a manner that could hide riders between the folds, their presence unmarked until they chose to appear. Calandryll saw that Bracht rode with a hand close to the falchion's hilt, his eyes scanning the way ahead, turning in his saddle from time to time to study the road behind.

  They saw only Denphat and Jedomus, who waved from a low hillside where they herded cattle back toward the farm, soon lost among the ridging. All morning, until they halted to rest the horses and eat, they saw no other sign of human life, only the scattered cattle and watchful hares, the birds above. Nor any other until late in the afternoon.

  The sun westered toward its setting, shadows long across the land and the air still, silent but for the buzz of insects. Birds still hung above them and ahead they saw a descending spiral, falling from the azure to a place hidden behind a ridge. The road ran up the eastern face, through a small stand of timber where black birds perched, lost after that: Bracht reined in.

  “Carrion eaters." He pointed toward the black column, eyes narrowed in suspicion and distaste. "We'd best ride cautious. And not straight on."

  He turned his mount off the road, cutting through the high grass parallel to the ridge. Calandryll followed, glancing warily at his chest, where the red stone hung. It remained dull: no hint of fire warned of wizardry, and he decided that if peril lay ahead it was danger of man's making, not occult origin. He set a hand to his sword's hilt, easing the blade in the scabbard, ready to draw. He saw Bracht halt and brought his own mount alongside. The Kem gestured him down, passing him the reins of both animals.

  "Wait here," Bracht's voice was low, a murmur lost in the rustling of the breeze, "whilst I climb the ridge."

  He frowned a protest, but the freesword's hand gestured him to silence.

  "I am paid to guard you. Perhaps Sathoman waits on the other side; perhaps there is nothing more than a dead cow—but those birds come down to feed on something, and I'll take a look. Wait for my signal. And if it's to run, get on that horse and ride back to Octofan's holding! Do you understand?"

  Calandryll nodded and watched as the Kem began to climb the gentle slope. He dropped on his belly as he approached the crest, worming nis way upward until he was able to peer over, to see whatever lay beyond. After a while he rose, beckoning Calandryll forward. Calandryll mounted and urged his horse up the slope, leading Bracht's. The Kern walked down to meet him, taking the reins. Both animals began to fret, sawing at their bridles with flattened ears and rolling eyes, snorting nervously.

  "Dismount," Bracht ordered curtly.

  Calandryll obeyed.

  "What is it?"

  Bracht simply led the way to the crest and inclined his head to the hollow beyond.

  "The blood's fresh enough they can smell it. Hold firm lest the beast run."

  Calandryll felt his horse begin to plunge as the Kem spoke, fighting it to a standstill even as he stared, not sure the trembling he felt came from the animal or himself.

  Ravens and crows came down out of the sky to stmt the trampled grass about the road where it dipped between the ridges. The air was loud with their croaking, the grass shadowed by their wings. They moved among the corpses of some twenty men and as many horses, perching on arrow-feathered chests, bloodied armor, tearing and tugging, too intent on their feasting to attend the watchers on the ridge. Swords jutted like grave markers from the ground, and lances with scarlet pennants a brighter red than the gore that decorated the animals and the dead soldiers. Calandryll saw that they wore the scarlet puggarees of Actor's men, the same conical helms and leathery breastplates as Philomen's guards.

  "What happened here?" he asked softly, grimacing as the breeze shifted a fraction, carrying the charnel reek to his nostrils.

  "I think perhaps Cenophus came looking for taxes; or Sathoman," Bracht answered. "I think he found Sathoman."

  He walked a little way long the ridge top, toward the trees, pointing.

  "See? There, where those two lie?" He indicated two soldiers fallen close to the road, close to arrow-studded horses. "They were the scouts. Ambushed from the cover of the trees. Thirty, forty men hid to either side of the road. As the soldiers approached the hollow, they attacked."

  Calandryll followed his pointing hand, seeing trampled grass, dung busy with flies beyond the bodies. Bracht brought his hands together.

  "They struck from both sides at once. With archers in the timber. Those," he indicated three men fallen halfway up the slope, five others some distance off along the hollow to the north, "tried to escape. The rest had no chance."

  "They were slaughtered," whispered Calandryll.

  "Their officer was careless," said Bracht. "He led them into ambush."

  Calandryll tore his gaze from the carnage to the Kem's face. It was cold, unmoved by the massacre. He shuddered: Bracht had likely seen such sights before; he had not and he was abruptly aware of the sickly sweet odor of recent death, the sound the beaks made as they ripped at flesh. He spat and swallowed, fighting the bile that rose in his throat.

  "This happened no more than yesterday," Bracht said.

  "How can you know?"

  He hoped his voice came out steadier than it sounded, willing himself to look, not to turn and vomit.

  "They're still fresh. There's meat still on them."

  Calandryll groaned.

  "What do we do?"

  "Likely it was Sathoman attacked them. We've not met him on the road, so he's either between us and Kesham-vaj or out there." Bracht indicated the rolling landscape, the hollows shadowed now as the sun fell lower in the sky. "We seek to avoid him. Wait here."

  Before Calandryll had opportunity to protest the Kem was in the saddle, moving at a trot along the ridge. He paused among the trees, his presence bringing a choms of alarm from the bloated crows, walking slow across the dirt of the road, then on. Calandryll clutched his nervous mount, nervous himself now, anticipating a return of the ambushers, wishing Bracht would return. He watched as the black-clad man went down the ridge and up the farther side, his worry growing as Bracht disappeared from sight, his relief expressing itself in a long sigh as the Kem showed again, on the road, where it topped the ridge.

  He halted on the crest and waved Calandryll over.

  Calandryll mounted and brought his animal at an angle down the slope, unwilling to ride in among the bodies. Crows and ravens screamed protest as he passed by them, some taking flight, most too bloated to fly. He reached the road and joined Bracht on the crest.

  "They're ahead of us." The Kem pointed to the southwest. "They grouped along the hollow and took the road toward Kesham-vaj."

  "Dera!" Calandryll gasped. "They lie between us and the town?"

  "Perhaps," Bracht shrugged. "Perhaps they turned off. Octofan said Fayne Keep lies to the north."

  "Please Dera—please Burash!—they've done that," Calandryll hoped.

  "I'll know if they have," Bracht said. "Or if they haven't. Meanwhile, we'd best move on."

  Calandryll was more than happy to
accept the suggestion: he wanted to be a long way from the bloody hollow when they made camp.

  The horses seemed of like mind, for they rose eagerly to a canter, calming only when the scene of slaughter was well to the rear. By then the sun was close to its setting, the sky darkening in the east, lit by the globe of a full moon. The dark spiral that marked the hollow was lost against the encroaching night and Calandryll felt a littler easier until Bracht slowed his mount to a walk, staring up.

  "I think," he said slowly, "that we are observed."

  Calandryll craned his head back, seeing only the open sky and the solitary shape of a bird hanging there: he shook his head, frowning.

  "Since we left the holding we've seen birds overhead," Bracht said. "All day. Now all are gone save that one."

  "So?" asked Calandryll.

  "So night approaches and birds roost," Bracht replied. "But not that one."

  Calandryll looked up. The bird still hung there, wings spread to catch the updraft. He brought the red stone from under his shirt and said, "It does not glow. It shows no sign of magic."

  "Even so," Bracht looked around, "tonight we keep a watch."

  They found a place where a timbered ridge curved sharply, the angled flanks providing cover on two sides, hiding them from the road. Bracht set Calandryll to gathering wood while he scouted the environs, returning to announce the absence of obvious danger, crouching to shape a small fire, not large enough that its glow might be seen above the banks. Shadow filled the declivity and above, the sky grew dark. Calandryll peered upward, but if the bird Bracht had seen was there, it was lost against the burgeoning night.

  "They're still ahead of us," Bracht said, "Around forty men, holding to the road as if Kesham-vaj is their destination."

  "How far ahead?" Calandryll asked as the Kem struck tinder to the twigs, coaxing a little flame into life.

  "A day." Bracht shrugged, "Perhaps two—they set an easy pace."

  Calandryll watched as he spilled water into a pot, added vegetables. Soon a simple stew bubbled, and cakes of journey bread baked over the fire.

  "Why do they ride for Kesham-vaj?" he wondered. "Surely brigands would not dare attack a town."

  Bracht stirred the pot, his face underlit by the flames, hard-planed, his blue eyes thoughtful.

  "If that was Cenophus back there, perhaps Kesham-vaj stands undefended. In Mherut'yi, Philomen commanded no more than twenty men—perhaps all Kesham-vaj's soldiery died there on the road and Sathoman looks to invest the town."

  "Then Kesham-vaj is an obstacle," Calandryll murmured. "If Sathoman lays siege—or holds the town—he's not likely to grant us passage through."

  "No," Bracht agreed, "but the road's our swiftest way to Nhur-jabal, and a detour will cost us time. You have that map Varent provided?"

  Calandryll nodded and brought the chart from his satchel, spreading it close to the flames.

  "The caravanserai is here." He tapped the mark, tracing the dark line of the Tyrant's road, "And the highway here. Kesham-vaj, here, then the road runs on to Nhur- jabal."

  "And these?" Bracht asked, indicating the thinner inscriptions that ringed the area. "What do they tell you?"

  Calandryll studied the markings. "The land rises steadily," he said. "The caravanserai lies at the foot of a plateau. Kesham-vaj a little distance from the rim. The plateau spreads to here," he traced a line, "and then descends into hilly country before rising again to Nhur-jabal."

  "This is the road?" Bracht drew a finger along the darker line; Calandryll murmured an affirmative. "Then if Sathoman posts men on the crest, they'll see us coming. Horsemen must be in clear sight; in arrow range. What's this?"

  He tapped a shaded section that circled half the plateau's southwestern perimeter.

  "Woodland," Calandryll said. "With no trails marked."

  "And time needed to cross it," grunted Bracht. "Nhur- jabal is here?"

  He set a fingertip on the point where the Kharm-rhanna Range thrust a spur into the heart of Kandahar.

  "Yes," Calandryll confirmed. "See here? The road from Kesham-vaj runs arrow-straight to Nhur-jabal. The country between is broken—hills and woodland. There might well be trails, but they're not shown."

  Bracht grunted again, resting back on his heels, staring into the fire.

  "We'll chance the road," he decided after a while, "but by night. With any luck, Sathoman will be occupied with the town and we'll gain the highland unnoticed. Then ride around."

  "And if they sight us?" Calandryll wondered.

  Bracht grinned.

  "Then we turn tail and run. Back down the slope and then south to circle through the woods. With a town to take, they'll likely not bother chasing two men."

  He seemed satisfied with his plan, and with no better strategy to offer, Calandryll nodded agreement. The Kem tasted his stew and pronounced it ready: they ate and Bracht suggested Calandryll take the first watch.

  The night was warm enough, and the fire, small though it was, cheerful. Calandryll settled with his sword across his knees, watching the stars spread out above. From time to time he glanced at the red stone, but it gave no sign of nearby magic and he decided that the bird Bracht had seen was only that: a bird. The revulsion he had felt at sight of the massacre faded, and in time he grew bored, rising to climb the ridge and study the night-black land spread before him. There was no sign of life, no fires burning to mark the men ahead, nor sounds to warn of danger, and he returned to the fire and his vigil, waking Bracht at the agreed hour.

  The Kem roused him while grey dawn still filled the declivity, passing him a mug of tea and a bowl of warmed-over stew. They ate and saddled their animals, returning to the road as the sun eased its way above the horizon.

  "It's still there."

  Bracht pointed upward, to where the solitary speck hung, seemingly motionless, against the brightening sky. Calandryll narrowed his eyes, seeking to define the shape, but it was too high, no more than a hint of wings, a fanshaped tail. He checked the talisman, but still it gave no indication of sorcery, and he could only shrug, wondering if his companion was overly cautious.

  By noon he began to share Bracht's doubts, for the bird still paced them and it seemed that any normal avian must surely have lost interest by now.

  That night they camped by a stream, sheltered by willows, again taking turns on watch, and as dawn broke the bird was there again, an irritation now, setting the hairs on Calandryll's neck to prickling with the feeling of eyes upon him.

  It remained as they sighted the ruins of the caravanserai, fire-blackened by the roadside. The white stone of the walls was scorched where flame had scoured the interior, the roof fallen in, the windows dark pits, their sills smeared with melted glass like frozen tears. Weeds overtook the yard, and grass, trod down by horses, their dung not yet so old the flies failed to gather, the well poisoned by a long-rotted carcass. Bracht entered the desolate place on foot, emerging to announce that Sathoman's men—if it was them they followed—had camped within the tumbled stones a night past. Calandryll studied the wreckage, wondering what manner of man this rebel lord was, that he would destroy a travelers' resting place, even to the extent of fouling the well. It was a mournful relic in a lonely land, and he was glad when they had left it behind.

  By late afternoon they saw the plateau bulking ahead. The road approached the foot and then turned, winding in a zigzag up the scarp, wide enough to permit wagons to pass, paved for most of its way, and all of it under easy bow shot from any archers posted at the summit. The cloud they had seen billowing over the Kharm-rhanna had drawn closer, offering some chance of obfuscation of the waning moon. Bracht reined in among a stand of slender birches, their pale leaves rustled by the wind that drove the cloud, studying the road.

  "I'd sooner tne moon was gone," he remarked, "but if all goes well, that cloud should aid us. We'll wait here 'til full dark and then go on. Best get what sleep you can."

  Calandryll unsaddled his horse and tethered it, stretching on the g
rass, listening to the buzz of insects, staring up through the trees. The bird was still there, a silent, omnipresent observer, but when he tinned to inform Bracht, the Kern as asleep. He shrugged and sighed, too nervous himself to find such easy respite.

  As dusk fell they ate cold meat and journey bread, secured their packs, and sacrificed a blanket to the wrapping of bits and buckles, the muffling of the hooves. The promised cloud drifted across the rim of the plateau, silvered by the moon, but laying a filigree pattern of shadows and shifting light over the way ahead.

  "Slow and quiet," Bracht warned as they mounted, "and when we close on the crest, we go on foot. Be ready to silence your horse."

  Calandryll nodded, dry-mouthed, and followed the freesword out from the trees, toward the ascent ahead. By night it looked far longer, a killing ground for bowmen, and he wondered hopelessly if they had not done better—wiser, at least—to chance the delays of a detour. No, he told himself, pushing pessimism and fear aside, they must reach Kharasul and take ship for Gessyth swift as they might. If Azumandias had sent the mysterious woman to take them—and she had survived the magical storm—her war- boat was likely already closing on Cape Vishat'yi, and if she should reach Kharasul before them... He pushed that fear aside, too: danger lay ahead, likely waiting for them, and he must concentrate on the task in hand, without digression.

  He rode after Bracht, matching the Kern's easy pace.

  The road angled upward, winding to left and right, the stones of its paving grooved where wagon wheels had cut the blocks, the blanket-swathed hooves thudding dully. Small trees and bushps thrust out from the scarp, affording some small measure of cover, the wind stronger, scudding cloud in welcome streamers across the moon so that they moved spectral, lit and then shadowed, like phantom riders toiling toward some waiting destiny. It seemed a breath-held eternity, each moment lived in anticipation of warning shout, a bowstring's twang, the whistle of an arrow, the flash of pain that would tell of shaft finding target. And yet, in a way he did not properly understand, it was easier than facing magic. Sorcery, for all he used Lord Varent's stone, remained a mystery, a dark, unknown thing. He had faced the demons, back in Lysse, a lifetime ago it seemed, and his stomach had emptied after; and that thing in Octofan's bam, though it had offered no harm, had left him unnerved. There was that element of the unknowable in sorcery, the notion that dark powers might rise to do far worse than harm his flesh. Now, as he climbed behind Bracht, he thought only of physical hurt, of attack against which he might, no matter in how small a way, take some measure of defense. He rode on, halting when the Kem halted, dismounting to take the reins of both horses as Bracht continued on foot.