Angus Wells - The God Wars 01

by Forbidden Magic (v1. 1)

  "Did she say anything more?" Bracht asked.

  The landlord shook his head: "No. Just wanted to know if I'd seen you."

  "And you told her no," Bracht said.

  "I did," the landlord nodded. "We mind to our business here in Kharasul. Should I have done otherwise?"

  "No," Bracht said. "And should she come again, let your answer remain no."

  "My word on it," the landlord promised.

  "Our thanks," Bracht smiled, and beckoned Calandryll to the stairs.

  They found their room and latched the door. Calandryll peered from the window, but if the inn was watched he could see no sign of the observers and turned to face Bracht. The Kem's face was thoughtful as he tugged off his boots.

  "So, the woman snaps closest on our heels. Best we find this boat Xanthese offers and quit Kharasul as swift we may."

  "I thought her lost when the magic took her," Calandryll murmured "Who is she? Does she act for Azumandias?"

  Bracht shrugged.

  "For Azumandias or herself, what matter? She's another hound baying on our heels."

  "A hound with a warboat at her command," Calandryll said glumly.

  "Hope then that Xanthese's boat runs swift," Bracht said, stretching on the bed with head in cupped hands and a contemplative smile on his face. "But she was lovely, was she not?"

  Calandryll stared at him, frowning, hearing frank admiration in his voice. "You sound moonstruck," he said; accusingly.

  "I was ... impressed," Bracht admitted, unabashed. "Cuan n'For has its share of warrior women, but I've not seen her like. Nor is she of the clans."

  "Neither from Lysse," said Calandryll, "and certainly not a Kand. Might she be Jesseryte?"

  "Those folk are small and dark and ugly," Bracht informed him. "I know not from where she comes."

  "Perhaps from beyond the Borrhun-maj," Calandryll said, vaguely irritated by the Kem's tone. It seemed to him that Bracht hankered almost to encounter the woman, "Perhaps from Vanu."

  "Then she would be a goddess." Bracht laughed. "Certainly she's the look of a goddess."

  "A moment since she was a hound; you elevate her fast."

  Peevishly, he tossed his boots aside, set his sheathed sword besiae the bed. Bracht chuckled, smiling at him.

  "I give her just due, no more. Should she seek to thwart us I'll fight her as I would any man. But I admit she intrigues me. And you must admit that she is somewhat fairer than most who've sought to halt us."

  That was indisputable: Calandryll thought of Anomius's homely features and nodded, a smile stealing across his lips.

  "That I must admit."

  "Then we're agreed," Bracht said. "And come noon we'll seek this boat Xanthese offers and—our gods willing—leave her behind."

  They composed themselves for sleep then, lightly, with blades at their sides, aware that the game's pace quickened and departure from Kharasul grew momentarily more vital. Tne room was no less stifling, the air dense , with the jungle odors and those of the streets, the shutters not holding out all the insects that swarmed the night, sufficient entering that Calandryll found slumber hard as they buzzed about his head. He drifted, thinking himself back on the dinghy, floating down the Shemme, then once again on the Sea Dancer, that recollection bringing the woman's face before the eyes of his drowsing mind. She was lovely; but she was also an obstacle, another player in their world-shattering game. In sleep he found himself tom between admiration for her beauty and regret that she had not drowned when the maelstrom took her boat.

  He woke thick-headed from the ale he had drunk and the narcotic fumes inhaled, eyes heavy from poor sleep. Bracht, more accustomed to taverns and shallow slumber, was in both better condition and mood when they rose, suggesting that they avail themselves of the bath before taking food. Water and a tisane recommended by the landlord restored him somewhat, and after eating they lounged about the inn awaiting the approach of noon and their meeting with the mysterious Xanthese.

  "Surely," Calandryll suggested, "did he intend treachery he would not arrange to meet us in the day."

  "Perhaps." Bracht toyed with a mug of wine. "It would seem so, but then perhaps he seeks to allay our suspicions."

  “Do you trust no one?" asked Calandryll, eliciting a cheerful smile from the Kem, who shook his head and said, “Few. Very few."

  Calandryll thought to speak of Varent then, and touched the red stone at his throat, its cold surface reminding him of their agreement so that he held silence, letting his thoughts wander as they idled the morning away. Whether Varent played some devious game, as Bracht believed, or was true, as remained his opinion, he set aside in the face of more immediate concerns. If Xanthese's offer was sound and not some trap, then likely they had the means to reach Gessyth soon within their grasp. That was the paramount thing: to quit Kharasul, leaving Anomius—if he lived—and any other hunters behind. Wizards and woman, both. To gain the coast of Gessyth and strike inland for Tezin-dar. Without, he reminded himself, falling victim to cutthroat pirates. That would be difficult: likely they would need to sleep turn and turn about, one always on watch; but he could see no other way with honest sailors taken by the Tyrant or awaiting the shifting of the winds. They had come this far, he told himself, against odds he would have thought a while ago insurmountable. They had eluded the woman once and he had survived attack by a Chaipaku; he had rescued Bracht from Philomen's jail and they had survived capture by Sathoman ek'Hennem; they had escaped the clutches of Anomius and evaded seizure by the Tyrant's sorcerers: surely they must now succeed in departing this city. And if the woman sought to take them, let her beware. Let treacherous corsairs beware! They dealt not with some soft Lyssian prince warded by a hired man, but with two hardened swordsmen—he would find Tezin- dar and broach the defenses of the city; bring out the Arcanum and return to Lysse in triumph.

  Perhaps then, he thought, he would compose a volume describing his travels. A work to rival Medith and Sar- nium, bound in the finest hide, with a transcription of Orwen's map, and others. That would be a fine ending to this adventure. It did not occur to him that Nadama featured not at all in these contemplations.

  “You seem pleased."

  Bracht's voice woke him from the reverie and he blushed, grinning his embarrassment.

  "I thought that we near the ending of this quest," he said.

  "The ending?" Bracht shook his head. "We've a way yet to go before we speak of endings, and I suspect the hardest part lies ahead."

  The flight of fancy fell soundly to earth and Calandryll nodded solemnly, embarrassed afresh by the reminder that some part of him remained, as his brother had so contemptuously declared, a dreamer. Then, briefly, he was reminded of Secca, of Tobias wed to Nadama, she now, perhaps, bearing an heir, and he frowned; then smiled as he realized the memory brought no pain. Indeed, it lifted a weight, for if Nadama should carry Tobias's child, then Secca had an heir and his brother no further cause to send the Chaipaku against him. He turned to his comrade and asked, "Do we find Xanthese soon?"

  Bracht looked to the window, assessing the position of the sun, and nodded.

  "Noon's an hour off, but aye—let's find this tavern and see how the land lies."

  The Peacock was situated only a few streets away, in an alley linking the tavern quarter with the harbor. It seemed salubrious enough, fresh sawdust on the floor and clean mugs hung behind the serving counter. Its clientele was a mixture of sailors, merchants and soldiers, those latter reassuring Bracht and Calandryll, their presence rendering treachery, at this juncture at least, unlikely. They called for wine and found a table by the inner wall from which they could watch the door. As the harbor bell tolled noon Xanthese entered.

  He paused, squinting, and saw them across the common room, nodding a greeting as he approached.

  "Good day, sirs." He settled himself on a chair facing them, smiling as a third glass was brought and Calandryll poured him wine. "Your health—and success to your venture. Whatever it may be."

 
"You have news for us?" Bracht asked.

  The scarred man winked, downing a generous measure of the wine and smacking his lips appreciatively before replying.

  "I do, sirs; and good news. A captain of my acquaintance—a reliable man—is willing to take you north. For a suitable reward."

  "How much?" asked Bracht.

  "Ah, sirs, there remains the small matter of my own fee." Xanthese's smile became apologetic. "It is customary in these affairs."

  "How much?" Bracht repeated.

  "Ten varre."

  Bracht glanced at Calandryll and ducked his head. Calandryll brought coins from his satchel, pushing them across the table.

  "My thanks, good sirs," Xanthese said, the coins disappearing beneath his tunic. "As for the captain, he asks five hundred. For that he guarantees you passage to Gessyth, and your return."

  "He'll wait for us?" Bracht was suspicious.

  Xanthese nodded enthusiastically. "Should he remain here ..." He lowered his voice, glancing toward the soldiers in their scarlet puggarees, "Well, he'll find his craft taken for less and him no say in it. And every chance of disaster should the Fayne lord raise a navy. He'd sooner stand off Gessyth's coast than that."

  Bracht nodded. Calandryll asked, "What guarantee do we have of his honesty? How shall we know he'll not rob us once at sea?"

  "Sirs!" the little man declared, his disfigured face assuming an expression of hurt. "I give you my word he's an honest sailor, with no thought of such treachery."

  "Even so," Bracht said.

  "I see that you are cautious men," Xanthese murmured, "and I cannot blame you for that. May I suggest a solution to this doubt? There are traders in this city of Kharasul renowned for their honesty—I believe I can persuade my captain to accept a token payment whilst you leave the remainder with a merchant, the balance to be paid on your safe return. Would such resolve your misgivings?"

  He studied them as they exchanged glances. Calandryll said, "It seems a reasonable answer." Bracht ducked his head in agreement and Xanthese beamed afresh.

  "Sirs, to further prove the honesty of our arrangement I shall leave you to find a merchant with whom to deposit your coin." He raised his hands as if they protested, shaking his head vigorously. "I'll not give you a name. No— ask of some other and know that Xanthese does not lie."

  "So we shall," Bracht said. "Now, how is this captain called and where do we find him?"

  The scar-faced man leaned closer across the table, lowering his voice again as though afraid the soldiery might leam of their transaction.

  "He is called Menophus ek'Lannharan and his boat the Sea Queen. He awaits you even now, at the harbor."

  "When can he sail?" Calandryll asked.

  "On the tide, do you wish it," replied Xanthese. "He'd as soon be gone as wait anchored for the lictor to claim his service."

  "And what boat does he command?"

  "A warboat," Xanthese said, "a swift warboat. With sturdy oarsmen to fight the wind and sail aplenty to ride her back."

  "And the lictor will allow him to sail?"

  Xanthese grinned, conspiratorial now. "Need the lictor know? Come with me and I'll effect introduction. Then, doubtless, you'll wish to settle matters with a trader. That done, Menophus stands at your command and you can be out of Kharasul harbor before the sun sets."

  Calandryll looked to Bracht for confirmation: the freesword smiled briefly. Calandryll said, "So be it. Let's meet this captain."

  "As you bid, good sirs."

  Xanthese rose, draining his cup, and led the way out the door.

  He brought them down the alley, turning where it crossed another, deeper into the jumbled ways behind the harbor. Calandryll shifted the satchel to his back, hand on scabbard, aware of the buildings looming overhead, quiet, shuttered against the noonday heat, the sky a thin strip of hazy blue high above. Sea gulls screamed from the waterfront, but in that narrow road the only sounds were the dramming of their boots and the drone of insects. Xanthese hurried before him, Bracht at his back, their route running parallel to the water, the alleys tortuous as the warren of the Beggars Gate, but, at this hour, unpopulated.

  "Best we avoid the Rotor's men," Xanthese called over his shoulder. “Menophus would as soon no questions be asked. Nor you, either, lest I miss my guess."

  Neither Calandryll or Bracht offered answer and the scarred man took them deeper into the maze until they came to an open place, where the blank walls of storehouses formed a little square with no other exit than the alley down which they had come. Shuttered windows like eyes closed against sight of treachery stood high on the walls and cobblestones glistened in the hot sun. Xanthese scurried to the far side of the square, his shortsword suddenly in his hand, his face no longer obsequious, but harsh, set in lines of undisguised hatred.

  Calandryll heard the slide of steel on leather as Bracht drew the falchion, his own blade loosed but an eye's blink later.

  "To the side! Put a wall at your back!"

  Bracht's voice brooked no debate, no hesitation, and he sprang to obey, suddenly aware of the soft footsteps that padded in the alley behind.

  Five men appeared at the mouth, dressed as was Xanthese in loose tunics and breeks, for all the world like sailors or wharf rats, each bearing a shortsword. They spread across the exit and Xanthese moved to join them.

  "You die for this!"

  Bracht addressed himself to their betrayer, his threat met with a contemptuous smile.

  "You think so?" Xanthese was changed. The fawning manner was gone and he seemed taller, even commanding, as if before he had played a part and now revealed himself. "It shall be you who dies, Kern. You and the Seccan puppy."

  "At the hand of a cringing wharf rat?" Bracht laughed. "I think not."

  "A cringing wharf rat?" Xanthese chuckled, and for an instant he assumed his earlier demeanor, mocking the freesword. Then, subtly, features and stance shifted again and he was menacing. "You face Chaipaku now, Kern!"

  Calandryll gasped, unable to stem the wash of naked terror that flooded him. He could see it now, in the cold eyes and the professional way they held their swords. This was no ambush organized by some opportunistic thief: these men were of the Brotherhood. He felt sweat slicken his palms even as an awful chill slid unpleasantly down his spine.

  "Aye, that frightens you." Xanthese looked to him now. "And so it should."

  He heard himself ask, his voice husky, "Why?"

  "Your brother sought our service." A dagger not much shorter than the sword appeared in Xanthese's left hand. "It seems he considers you a threat. But then you killed one of us—Mehemmed? He was young—he was told to watch you, to discover where you went—but you slew him and now you pay the price."

  "I slew him," Bracht said. "He was careless and I gutted him like a pig. As he deserved."

  Xanthese laughed again, the sound echoing off the high walls.

  "Do you seek to anger me, Kern? Do you seek to make me careless? You cannot. I am older than Mehemmed and I shall lay your entrails at your feet and watch you die. I shall enjoy that."

  From the corner of his eye Calandryll saw Bracht's lips draw back from his teeth, the expression as much snarl as smile.

  "I've not had much practice of late," he said. And sprang forward.

  He was fast—his move took Calandryll by surprise— but the Chaipaku were equally swift. Shortswords and ! daggers rose to meet the assault, steel clashing loud on steel, and Bracht sprang back to the protection of the wall, shirt cut, the falchion defensive before him. Xanthese wiped a thread of blood from his scarred cheek and nodded, his own smile feral now.

  "Good. But not good enough. And I doubt the puppy's so skilled."

  The raw contempt in his voice grated against Calan- dryll's terror, stirring anger. The words were true—he knew he stood no chance against these assassins, even with Bracht at his side:—and he must die here, but rising like the sun to dispel his fear he felt the heat of rage. He was no threat to Tobias, had no desire to usurp his br
other, and yet that false assumption must now leave him dead in this lonely square, the way to the Arcanum left open for Azumandias to take. He cursed his brother and the Chaipaku with heartfelt rage, determining to sell his life as dear he could.

  The six Chaipaku advanced.

  And Bracht said softly, "Use your magic now. Destroy them with a storm, or fire—but destroy them."

  He shook his head helplessly, gaze darting from the assassins to the Kem, and said, "I know not how to summon it!"

  "Even I cannot defeat six of the Brotherhood." The falchion shifted like a living thing in the freesword's hand. "Magic must aid us, or we die here. If you must, render yourself unseen."

  Calandryll hesitated, unwilling to leave his comrade. Even aided by the spell Varent had taught him it seemed unlikely he could slay so many Brothers: the spell offered escape only for him.

  "Use it!" Bracht urged. "One of us at least may survive."

  He waited still, loath to take that path, and said, "I'd not desert you."

  "Better that than die," Bracht snapped. "Use it!"

  He opened his mouth to utter the spell, but even as he voiced the first strange syllables the assassins closed, their advance so swift the words died stillborn on lips that faltered, gasping as blades flashed in the noonday sun and death sprang ferocious toward him. He forgot the spell as he instinctively raised his own sword, thinking only of defense.

  Steel clashed on steel, sparks shining bright, and he danced back, aware of fleeting pain against his ribs, of a warmth and wetness he knew was blood even as he parried. Fear grew, and anger with it, a mounting rage that his brother's groundless jealousy should threaten his quest, should intervene now, to leave him dead in Kharasul after so perilous a journey, after surviving so many dangers. It grew, becoming a consuming thing, as great as the fear provoked by the grinning faces of the Chaipaku as they advanced, confident of slaying him.

  And halted as he roared and hurled himself against them, careless of their blades, his own a whirling, thrusting thing propelled by a force he did not understand. It seemed then that he was possessed, for he did not know what he did, only that they fell back before him as if driven by a silent wind so strong it sent them stumbling across the square, their quarry become their attacker. He went after them, riding tne magical wind, offensive now, their swords desperate in defense.