"I knew," Anomius said, beaming at Calandryll and Bracht, "that this would be the place to pass the night."
"Only place between Kesham-vaj and Bhalusteen," the landlord chuckled, "unless you want a bed in some forester's cottage."
He removed himself then, bustling off to arrange their baths and the meal. Anomius's smile faded as he left, a frown creasing his sallow brow.
"If there's truth in his story," he murmured, "we must avoid this army. The Tyrant will send sorcerers, and sorcerers will recognize me for one of their own."
"A fire-breathing giant?" Bracht asked, his voice bland. "An ax-wielder?"
"Rumors have their uses," the wizard responded, ignoring the freesword's mocking tone. "But another mage will know me on the instant; and ranked against several, even I might lose the battle. We must avoid this army— if it does exist."
"It must surely march from Nhur-jabal," Calandryll suggested, "and there's but the one road suitable to so large a force. How can we avoid it when we must pass through Nhur-jabal to reach Kharasul? Unless you use magic."
"How so?" asked Anomius. "The very use must reveal me."
"Lord Varent used a spell by which he traveled on the instant," Calandryll said. "Unseen from one place to another."
Anomius sniffed noisily, lips downtumed.
"The occult talent manifests in many guises," he returned, "and no mage possesses exactly the same powers as another. My own skill—as you've seen—is for aggressive magic. From what you've said of this Varent, I'd hazard a guess his talent is defensive—likely the reason he hesitated to pursue the grimoire himself. No, I cannot transport us to Kharasul by occult means."
"Then we must ride careful," Bracht offered.
"And beware the Tyrant's puppets," Anomius nodded, turning to smile at Calandryll, "for they'll sense the power in that stone our young friend wears as readily as they sense mine. And he'll suffer the same fate."
"But I'm no mage," Calandryll protested.
"But you have a latent talent," insisted the wizard, "and they'll see it in you and offer you the choice I rejected: lifelong service to the Tyrant or immediate execution."
Calandryll frowned, both alarmed and intrigued by the wizard's statement. Bracht had made the same suggestion, back on the Sea Dancer after the waterspout had taken the warboat, and he had rejected it. Now, for the second time, Anomius had told him he possessed occult talent; and now, even though he was unsure he agreed, and had not an inkling of how to employ such talent if it did exist, it seemed the very suspicion must put him at risk. He turned to the wizard, about to question him, but the landlord appeared again, forestalling such potentially dangerous conversation.
The bowls of soup set before them served as well as his presence to curtail any discussion. The rich, gamy odor reminding them all of hunger so that they ate in silence, concentrating on the food. Trout fresh from the river followed, and then thick steaks of venison, finally wild strawberries, all washed down with wine that was, as the fat man had promised, of excellent vintage. Folk from the little settlement came in as they ate, respecting their privacy until they had finished, but then plying them with questions as to the affairs of the Fayne. Calandryll and Bracht were content to play the parts assigned them by Anomius, leaving the mage to answer, learning more of the affairs of Kandahar as they sipped wine, listening.
The domain claimed by Sathoman ended on the plateau and they were now in the province called the Ryde, its capital Bhalusteen; beyond that the Kyre, ruled by the Tyrant's city, Nhur-jabal. The Ryde was mostly woodland, peopled by hunters and foresters, whose regard for Tyrant and Sathoman alike was, it seemed, warily contemptuous. The lictor's attempts at raising levies were laughed at, though the notion of an army marching through the woods seemed to irritate them. That Anomius and his "bodyguards" had crossed the Fayne without difficulty surprised them, but they took it to mean the rumors of war were unfounded, turning to grumble amongst themselves at the intrusion of the Tyrant's army. That, it appeared, was no rumor. Finally they exhausted their inquiries and the travelers were left in peace to take their baths and find their beds.
Calandryll had hoped for an opportunity to speak alone with Bracht, to formulate some plan to rid them of Anomius, but the landlord escorted them all to a single room, where three beds were made ready, and the wizard declared himself satisfied with that arrangement.
He smiled as the door closed, wandering, murmuring, from portal to window, hands tracing elaborate patterns that set the red stone to flickering and filled the chamber with the smell of almonds.
"So," he beamed when he was done, "we are secure. I trust you'll not argue my precautions, but I'd not have you flee in the night."
"What have you done?" demanded Bracht, his dislike of magic showing on his face.
"A few simple spells, my friend," Anomius informed him, loosing his grubby robe to reveal a no less grubby shirt beneath. "No one may enter,- or leave. And one other—having observed our young companion in battle, I find myself less confident of the delicacy of his ethics, so in the event that he overcome his natural scruples and seek to slay me while I sleep, I've augmented the spell already set on you, requiring you to protect me."
"Against Calandryll?" Bracht shook his head. "I'd not turn my blade against Calandryll."
Anomius tugged off his boots. His legs were paler than his face, like old parchment left too long in lightless rooms. Beneath his shirt a paunch swelled, prompting Calandryll to think of a small, ugly toad.
"But you will," he declared confidently, "for you'll have no choice. Should Calandryll attack me, you'll slay him."
Bracht stared at the wizard, his tanned face a mask of rage; Calandryll saw a hand drop to the falchion and said, "I'll not attack you, Anomius. Do we not need one another?"
"I need you to lead me to the grimoire," the wizard nodded, unwinding his headdress, "and without me, you've little chance of crossing Kandahar safely. But still..."
"I've no great love for magic," Bracht said angrily, "and less for spells set on me."
"Perhaps when I trust you," Anomius replied, "I shall remove it. But until such time, I fear you must suffer the ensorcellment. Now I bid you good night."
He climbed beneath the sheets and in moments the room grew loud with his snoring. Calandryll looked at Bracht, shrugging helplessly; the Kem mouthed a curse and flung himself down. Weary, too weary to argue or discuss their situation, Calandryll shucked off his clothes and clambered gratefully into his own bed.
After uncomfortable nights in captivity and the hard ride down from the plateau, sleep came quickly, bringing, for Calandryll at least, a confusion of dreams. He found himself reliving the skirmish on the plateau, seeing the frightened faces of the brigands as they died, not knowing who slew them, only that they fell to an invisible sword, becoming, in the instant of their dying, Sathoman, who raised his massive blade and roared a battle shout, that sound transforming him into the flaxen-haired woman, who leveled a blaae from the deck of the warboat and called out, her words lost in the rush of swirling water that carried her up and up until she was no more than a dot against a sky filled with the flames of a burning town through which monstrous creatures strode, reaching down to pluck him from the smoke-filled streets even as he mouthed Varent's spell and ran, invisible, from their grasping talons into the arms of Anomius, who laughed and said, "I am your true companion—the one Reba spoke of." He tore free and plunged through roiling smoke, pursued now by black-clad men, masked so that only cold eyes filled with implacable hate were visible, his lungs binning, his legs weakening and slowing until he knew that he ran without moving and his pursuers must catch him unless he could somehow reach the great oak that rose before him, its branches stirred by a howling wind, their rustling a message he could not decipher. He strained toward it, knowing that it offered the safety of tmth, but the ground before him sloped abruptly and he felt himself falling, down and down, tumbling into a pit toward a pinpoint of light, bright as the sun ...
.
.. Or the faint presentiment of dawn that filtered through the shutters, welcome herald of the new day. He lay, breathing fast, the knowledge that he was awake, in a room in a tavern in Kandahar, Bracht stirring in the bed
beside his, Anomius still snoring, though softer now, coming slowly as he opened his eyes and pushed tangled sheets from his legs. He rubbed his face and rose, crossing to the window, reaching for the shutter.
His cry brought Bracht fast from the bed, falchion raised, poised to attack or defend. He shook his head, rubbing at a hand still burning from Anomius's spell.
"I forgot,” he grinned; ruefully.
Bracht grunted, sheathing his blade, and spilled water into a jug, splashing his face.
"You touched the window?"
Anomius peered bleary-eyed from his pillows, yawning noisily, Calandryll nodded. The mage raised a hand and once more the almond scent wafted on the cool air.
"Now that spell is lifted." Anomius sat up, turning his watery gaze on the Kern. "But not the other—best remember that."
Bracht ignored him. Calandryll threw the shutters open, seeing mist hung low along the riverbank, the young ostler scratching his head as he plodded sleepily toward the stables, the tree-thick slope rising above, its upper edge lost in grey. He turned away, using the bowl, ana ran fingers through his hair, thinking that soon he must tie it back, like Bracht's. He dressed, and with his comrade waited for Anomius to swathe himself in his grubby robe.
The wizard's toilet was brief and soon they were seated in the common room, breaking their fast with hot bread and steaming tea. The landlord presented them with his reckoning and they went out to the stable, saddling their rested animals and leading them down to the ferry through mist that swirled and began to break as the sun rose and a breeze got up.
The raft stirred in the current as they walked the horses on board, the ferryman a wiry Kand, bare-chested despite the early morning chill. He took their coin and suggested they speed their passage by helping him with the ropes: Anomius held the horses while Bracht and Calandryll each seized a line and began to haul the flat- bottomed vessel across.
The mist was blown away and the sky become blue as they grounded on the farther bank, watching as the ferryman commenced his return journey. He was in mid-
stream when Bracht pointed to the road descending from the plateau.
"Riders!" The freesword's voice was urgent. "Twenty or thirty."
"Sathoman must have discovered our absence sooner than I'd anticipated," Anomius said.
"And those men must have ridden through the night. Curse you, wizard! I told you it was foolishness to delay." Bracht's tone was angry. Anomius merely smiled, rubbing at his bulbous nose. "We're safe from them here— did I not promise you a night's rest would restore my powers?"
"They've but to reach the ferry and cross," Bracht said. "Our lead is cut and if we run, we'll likely charge headlong into the Tyrant's advance guard."
"They'll get no farther than this spot," the wizard replied. "Do you not trust me?"
The Kern's face was answer enough: Anomius shrugged, shaking his head as if disappointed by such lack of faith.
"Watch," he said calmly. "Watch, and learn what I can do."
13
The wizard handed Bracht his reins and walked to the water's edge, stooping there, his hands delving in the rich mud. He scooped up a ball of the sludge, kneading it as he ambled casually back to where they waited. Calandryll saw that he worked the stuff into crude semblance of human shape, setting the mannequin down where the ground was dry to complete his rough sculpture, The approaching riaers were hidden in the timber and the mage worked without hurry. Squatting over the tiny figure, he spat, working the saliva into the blank face, then drew a small dagger from the folds of his robe and pricked his thumb, squeezing a droplet of blood onto the mud doll. His ragged nails etched an approximation of eyes, a mouth, and then he took a twig, setting that in the shapeless right hand. He began to murmur a spell: Calandryll saw the red stone at his throat pulse fiery, smelled the now-familiar scent of almonds. Anomius straightened, wiping his hands on his robe, smiling as he turned to glance at his unwilling companions.
"Watch," he commanded, and pointed at the figurine. It seemed then that fire sprang from his fingers, washing over the mannequin, the wet mud drying on the instant, baked hard in the supernatural flame. The horses shied, plunging, ears flattened back and eyes rolling, and for an instant Calandryll's attention was diverted. He calmed the roan as best he could, clinging tight to its bridle, and returned his gaze to the little mud figure. It was no longer little: it grew even as he watched, elongating, thickening, the twig it held enlarging in proportion. It was the size of a child, then large as a youth; man-sized, and still growing. It sat up, flakes of dried mud falling from its back, the indentations that were its eyes deep pits now, that glowed with an unholy fire, the twig a cudgel. Anomius spoke again and the thing rose to its feet, clumsy at first, swaying, arms waving, flailing the branch, still growing. It peered around, a massive, redeyed golem, taller now than Sathoman, towering over the frightened horses, the twig become a staff, thicker around than a normal man might hold. It took a step, a second, as if testing its ability to move, and raised the great club it held, scything the air. Across the river, the ferryman stared in awe, then shouted something and took to his heels, running for the inn. The golem heard him, the globular head swinging ponderously to stare over the sunlit water, an inarticulate cry, neither animal or human, bursting from the ragged gash of its mouth as the club rose, crashing down into the river in a great silver burst of spray.
Anomius spoke again, in a language hard for human tongue to shape, and the creature ceased its roaring, tinning to face him. The horses screamed in protest and the wizard motioned them away, beckoning the golem. Calandryll and Bracht, their eyes wary on the monster, led the horses back into the shade of the timber. On the slope across the river Sathomen's men came into view again, riding hard. Anomius brought the monster clear of the bank, under the shade of a massive cypress, the grey head touching the lower branches. It had stopped growing now and the wizard craned back his head, peering up at the burning eyes, speaking softly. The golem made a grunting sound and turned to face across the river, standing with the club upraised, a misshapen colossus.
"We need dally no longer." The wizard favored his creation with a last admiring glance and walked to where Bracht and Calandryll waited. "They'll not get past him."
He took his reins from the nervous Kem and clambered astride the grey horse. Calandryll and Bracht mounted, letting Anomius take the lead as they followed the road into the forest.
"There are twenty, perhaps thirty, of them," Bracht called. "How can you be sure none will get by ... that?"
Anomius chuckled gaily.
"The ferry will take no more than what? Six riders at a time? My little pet will slay them all—I doubt they'll make more than one attempt. But if they do ..." He laughed again, "Well, he'll slay them six by six. Have faith, my friends—you ride with the greatest sorcerer in all Kandahar. I'm only sorry we lack the time to wait and watch him at work. He was a splendid creation, do you not agree?"
Neither offered answer and the wizard chuckled to himself, urging the grey horse to a faster pace along the wide roadway cut through the forest. Trees stood tall to either side, oaks and beech and ash spreading limbs across the trail so that they rode through dappled light, occasional shafts of brilliance lancing from a sky mostly hidden behind the foliage, the shadows painted with the woodland's green. Ferns grew luxuriant along the verges, and grass, lush and thick, the air sweet-scented and loud with bird song, game trails evidence of deer and hares, and the hunting creatures that preyed on them. They held a steady pace, not speaking, until the morning was well advanced, and then halted where a stream bisected the road, spanned by an ancient stone bridge, its masonry green with moss. Frogs splashed from the bank as they took the horses down to drink, and a wide-winged heron croaked a protest at their intrusion, flappin
g heavily away downstream to some more private hunting ground.
They rested there, eating fruit and cheese purchased at the inn and filling their canteens while the horses cropped the grass along the waterside, then started off once more, the sun overhead now, warm, summer approaching fast in this more southerly latitude.
The going was easier than the crossing of the Fayne. There was no gaheen to dry the air and fray tempers, none of the scorching heat that had marked the journey from Mherut'yi to Kesham-vaj, and a plentitude of streams and grazing tor the animals. Several times they saw deer start from the road ahead, darting into the cover of the timber and Bracht promised to bring them fresh venison should Anomius allow him time to hunt.
Calandryll rode mostly lost in thought, trusting to
Bracht's keen eye to warn of danger as he pondered the problem set by the wizard. The creation of the golem assured him that Anomius's powers were fully restored: flight seemed impossible, but somehow they must rid themselves of the mage before reaching Tezin-dar. Should he come into possession of the Arcanum he would, Calandryll felt certain, take Azumandias's path: would seek to raise the Mad God. And in the doing, destroy the world. He was not, Calandryll thought, sane, and by some means he must be left behind. Or destroyed.
That thought rang bell-like in his mind: Anomius must be destroyed.
Its cold clarity chilled him, for he recognized that its very formulation, his instinctive acceptance of its logical outcome, meant that he had changed. Anomius had sensed it—had said that Calandryll would now kill him without compunction—but he had not accepted that the wizard was correct. Now he knew Anomius was right: had he the chance he would slay the warlock with a clear conscience. He was no longer the mild scholar mocked by Tobias, despaired of by his father. This quest had changed him; beyond the inevitable hardening of rough living, beyond the slaying of men in battle, it had changed his basic ethics. The young man who had mooned over Nadama—it came to him that he could no longer clearly recall her face, that realization in itself shocking—existed no more. The boy who had suffered Tobias's jibes was gone. He had hardened in ways more than physical: he snorted cynical laughter to think how that would please Bylath; how it would confirm to his brother that he was, indeed, a man to fear. Secca seemed now a distant memory, a life left behind, shed as a serpent shed its skin, reborn. He was by no means sure that ends justified means, but he^was certain that he must prevent Anomius from finding the Arcanum. And if the only way to ensure that was by slaying the wizard he would, as the man had sensed, cut his throat while he slept; and deal with any qualms of conscience after the deed.
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