The Horse Lord

by Peter Morwood

  Even so, Aldric should not have laughed aloud when the wizard announced he was a taiken-master—for one thing, if it was true his mirth was most unwise. The young man knew, as did every warrior, that there had not been a true master since Baiel Sinun died two hundred years ago, and said so. Gemmel was unruffled and his response took Aldric unawares.

  "Sinun was passable," he said blandly. "Not as good as some, but he taught me some moves and I him." Before Aldric could recover sufficiently to start asking questions, Gemmel had found a pair of foils and shown him the truth of his words. The lean old man had taken him off-guard three times within the first four passes, and that was something not even Joren had ever done.

  Despite his apparent age—and Aldric had not the nerve to ask what it might be in years—Gemmel's gaunt frame concealed a wiry strength and his hands the kind of skill harpers exaggerated about. Gemmel was not a master—he was a genius, a virtuoso, perhaps the finest swordsman Aldric had ever met, seen or heard of. Without false modesty, the eijo knew himself to be good—in latter years he had beaten Joren several times and that needed more than luck—but against Gemmel Errekren he was like a child with a stick trying to harm a battle-harnessed kailin.

  Whenever Aldric thought about fencing now, he could see the wizard, eyes glittering like emeralds, whirling and stamping like some dementedly graceful dancer. Gemmel, when his wizardly dignity was set aside, was opinionated, excitable, quick to argue and impatient to a fault. Taiken-master or not, he had no time for any of the rituals Aldric associated with swordplay. He knew, from the ymeth-trance, that the boy could fight and not merely duel—he had done so against Baiart so long ago, after all. So when Aldric took up a stylised guard-position with both hands on his hilt, Gemmel copied him and then shot out a free hand and slapped him across the face.

  "Two-handed rubbish!" the old man barked. "Had I a dagger, your throat was cut. Only one hand on the hilt, except when you need both. Secure your index finger—thus—over the quillon. The hilt-loops will guard it."

  "What hilt-loops?"

  "I know what I'm talking about! These are only foils, remember. Again!" His moustache bristled with the intensity of his passion.

  Aldric was slapped frequently during the fencing lessons; his teeth were rattled and more than once his nose was caused to bleed. He bore it as calmly as he could, because he had seen early on what Gemmel-altrou was doing—having lost one son already, he was trying to teach another how to stay alive.

  There came a day when the boy's cheek was opened by an accidental stroke. It was not a dangerous cut, not even unsightly although he would bear its mark to the day he died. But it meant he was too fast for the wizard to slap any more. As the realisation dawned, a grin twisted the stream of blood on his face into grotesque tributaries. Gemmel grounded his blade and leaned on the pommel, watching as Aldric saluted politely. He had no objection to saluting; as he said, in a real fight only the winner can salute.

  "You'll have a scar when that heals," he observed. Aldric looked at his right cheek in the polished sword-blade and was forced to agree. "Make sure it's the only one you ever receive in single combat." The old man's voice grew severe. "Being wounded in a melee is excusable; if you heed my teaching at all, being wounded in single combat will be damned careless! Remember that."

  This fierce tuition was to continue for three hours a day on six days out of every seven. Aldric did not enjoy it, but he had not expected to do so, even though without a doubt he was improving. When Gemmel lectured him on other subjects while they fought and he could remember the discourse; when he was able to think out the often abstruse questions and answer them—sometimes even correctly; when a sudden flurry of Jouvaine or of Low Drusalan words no longer left him floundering in a morass of bad translation and worse parrying: then he knew within himself that he was growing more skilled.

  As Gemmel had so waspishly pointed out, Aldric had intelligence. He had guessed long ago that whatever the sorcerer was planning, it was more than simply helping an eijo who happened to look like his son to achieve a difficult task. All the lessons in languages, politics and geography added up to something on a scale Aldric preferred not to think about. Even so, one day soon he was going to ask for a full explanation, and not hints and guesses. One day… probably after a meal when he had bolstered his courage with a cup of wine—or perhaps two. Interrogating Gemmel when he did not feel like answering questions was definitely a two-cup enterprise and more probably three. As a smile began to form around his mouth, Aldric fell asleep. For once, he did not dream.

  "Where can he, be?" Kalarr cu Ruruc's voice was a soft, introspective murmur, but it stung Duergar like the shrillest accusation of guilt. He shrugged and made helpless gestures, but on looking up from the books on which he had been working he found that the other sorcerer was ignoring him. The tall, lean figure was outlined against a window of coloured glass, his red elyudlas blending eerily into the carmine-tinted sunlight. "Where… ?" he breathed again.

  Duergar did not know, despite hunting Baelen Forest and beyond for almost two years before abandoning his search. In all that time there had been no trace of Aldric Talvalin after his trail went cold at a strange cottage. It had been magically concealed, an insignificant lesser charm which might well have been cast by the Alban himself—Duergar had seen the little cache of dubious books hidden in the youngster's room—but he privately opined that the boy was long since dead from the arrow he had taken as he fled from Dunrath. Kalarr, however, was not so easily convinced, even though had Aldric been alive no power on earth would have stopped him from coming back in a quest for revenge. There were times when Duergar felt that his… colleague… was trying to find something other than just the eijo, irritation though he might prove. What that something might be, the necromancer did not yet know, although he was trying to find out—without cu Ruruc's knowledge.

  Aldric was not his only problem. Locked in his desk were five letters, four of them enciphered but one, the latest, written in dangerously unequivocal plain language—and the language was plain indeed. Warlord Etzel was losing patience with his agent's carefully worded excuses; he wanted action and an end to subtlety. The Alban Royal Council, stated the letter, was blatantly financing an insurrection by two prominent Jouvaine city-states and arms of Pryteinek manufacture had been seized in the province of Tergoves, right at the heart of the Empire. Where was the political instability he had been sent to foster? it demanded. Why had his much-vaunted seizure of a fortress not borne fruit before now? What, snarled the spiky letters, did Duergar Va-thach think he was doing?

  The Drusalan necromancer was perfectly aware of what he was doing—but by the letter's interrogative tone, nobody else was. Not yet, anyway. Except of course for Kalarr, who seemed to derive cynical amusement from Duergar's intended treachery. As always whenever he thought of things which cu Ruruc found humorous, the necromancer put one hand to the sword-hilt which he wore now like a tau cross, around his neck on a chain. Its cold metal afforded him little comfort, and less when he realised Kalarr had caught the gesture. For some reason his mouth curved slowly into a smile that was thin and yet so heavy with malign significance that it made Duergar's stomach clench like a fist inside him.

  Although the necromancer had requested that his companion start something—anything—to justify his rebirth and aid Duergar's mission, Kalarr had… not actually refused, but been so evasive that the Drusalan's wishes were never carried out. The ancient charm which imbued cu Ruruc's sword-hilt with power over its previous owner should have allowed Duergar to command, not merely request—but the necromancer was strangely reluctant to test his strength even though at present he was unable to define his reasons. He had not recalled all the spies sent out after Aldric and was certain Kalarr remained unaware of the fact.

  Duergar was equally unaware that Kalarr had posted spies of his own, under the same orders: find Aldric Tal-valin and bring him, with everything in his possession no matter how insignificant, straight back to Dunrath.
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  It was the wrist-band from the sword, of course. What Duergar had read from an old grimoire given to him by Etzel was a spell of summoning, where any artifact of a sorcerer's previous existence may be used near the place of his death to restore him whole and entire. There had been a rider to the incantation, stating that if such an artifact were the last thing touched before death, it would grant control to whoever held it. While a skilled sorcerer, Duergar knew nothing of Alban military history—otherwise he would have known that a dying man may drop a sword from his fingers but not the metal band clasped about his wrist. It was the sort of niggling oversight which slew many otherwise careful wizards, and when Kalarr no longer had need to pretend subservience he would make sure it slew another. All he needed was to destroy the wrist-band, render it inaccessible by sealing it within a sphere of magic or sinking it in deep water—or best of all, lay his hands on the Echainon spellstone.

  If he did that, it would negate the charm of the wristband and bring into his grasp a means of focusing his own considerable power, as he had been able to do so many years before, until that stupid day when fear of loss had made him conceal the spellstone under a sheath of bronze on the band of his war sword. The stone's power had been muted by its metal shroud, but he had never foreseen a time when he would not be granted the few seconds needed to free it—until that last suicidal charge by Clan Talvalin's cavalry which had burst his battle-line heedless of their losses and had swept him dying to the ground. He could not remember the then-arluth's name, but if he closed his eyes he could still recall the man's wide blue eyes, the bloodied teeth bared in a fixed snarl under his sweeping blond moustache, the helm buckled and scored—and the shining taiken which had lopped his hand in two through the palm. Kalarr could remember the sword's name: Isileth, it was called, so long, long ago. It had ruined his hand and even as he killed the Talvalin arluth with a lethal blast of sorcery the long blade had come whirring back towards his face. There had been a flare of red and black, pain, heat, cold dark silence and the deep fall which never reached bottom…

  Kalarr drew a shuddering breath and massaged his right hand with his left; the palms of both were damp with sweat. It was fitting that he should now hold the Talvalin citadel, but at the same time terrifying that a Talvalin should hold his spellstone. A Talvalin who in defiance of the kailin honour-codes read books of sorcery, who failed to kill himself when it was expected of him—what might such a man not do to achieve the vengeance he had brooded on for three years? If he regained the spellstone Kalarr would be invincible; he would show Duergar, and Rynert of Alba, Emperor Droek and his Warlord, show the Earth and the Sun and the Moon the dark majesty of a true Overlord, for after half a thousand years there would be no wizard with enough schooling in the Old Magics that he knew to defy him, once his spells were amplified through the stone of Echainon.

  If he regained the stone… Even without it he was a power to be feared, but the spellstone was held by one whom he could not judge by any of the rules with which he was familiar. What if this boy, this Aldric, somehow bent the stone to fulfil his own desires? He could pay an enchanter to use it on his behalf if he had not the skill himself. Any enchanter… Kalarr shot a sidelong glance of horrid suspicion at Duergar's bowed head and considered several possibilities—but killing him now would be too soon, for his own deep-laid plans would benefit most from the confusion of an imminent invasion and the Drusalan had not yet sent the proper secret codes. But when he did…

  A bead of perspiration trickled slowly past Kalarr's eye, tickling the skin and making him blink. His teeth showed and in a sudden excess of frustration he flung the window wide and roared: "Where are you, Tal-valin?" into the afternoon air. Duergar started, but only the hollow echoes of cu Ruruc's voice came distortedly back from the citadel walls. Kalarr bowed his head as the door of the chamber opened, then shifted his sombre gaze as the man in the shadows bowed low.

  "Is anything wrong, my lord?" he said humbly. Ka-larr's face twisted.

  "No!" he barked. "Get out!" The man bowed again as he backed through the door.

  "As my lord pleases," said Baiart Talvalin.

  For the first time in longer than he could remember; Aldric snapped out of sleep with an alarm tocsin's clangour in his mind. Without taking time to think about it, he rolled sideways off the bed with one hand already reaching for the holstered telek behind the headboard. It cleared leather as he hit the floor and emitted a small, sinister double click as he wrenched its cocking lever back. The spring-gun had a magazine of eight stubby steel darts, and inside twelve paces would put each one through an unarmoured target just as fast as he could crank them out. It was the favoured weapon for places where a sword had insufficient range but a crossbow or longbow was too powerful—such as bedrooms. Such as now.

  "Very impressive," said Gemmel from the doorway. "All I had to do was think hard about attacking you and your sense of danger did the rest."

  "That wasn't very clever," Aldric replied severely, disarming the telek cautiously—it was all too easy to put a dart through one's own foot. "You've trained me not to ask questions in a situation like that one. If I hadn't remembered where I was…" Gemmel was not very concerned and said as much.

  "The day you take me off guard when I set up the ambush, I'll give up sorcery for keeping chickens," he grinned. Aldric snorted and returned the telek to its hiding place.

  "Don't be too impressed with this sixth sense of mine, by the way," he pointed out. "I've noticed it doesn't always work."

  "Such things seldom do. Don't rely on it, that's all."

  "I don't, altrou"

  "Wise of you. But enough of this dazzling conversation. It's time you found out what has been going on in the world these past few years, because within the next few days you're going to rejoin it."

  "You mean I'm leaving? But… why?"

  "Strange; I would have thought you much more eager to be away."

  "I am eager, but… well, this is one of the situations where you don't like me not to ask questions. Isn't it… ?"

  "… and that, I guess, is why Kalarr hasn't given Duergar any assistance so far—and why I think that Duergar himself doesn't want to risk forcing the issue yet. But he isn't a fool; if he hasn't already worked out what the true controlling talisman is, a look at any contemporary sword will show him what it must be. Whether he has any notion about the spellstone I cannot say—but if he does enough research a process of elimination should tell him. I doubt if Kalarr will."

  "But altrou, you're a wizard." Aldric's finger tapped the table to emphasise his words, making the cabochon stone wobble slightly in its velvet-lined case. Cold azure fire spilled out and made a dancing shadow-show on the young eijo's intense features. "Why not use the stone yourself—let it focus your power instead of his?"

  Gemmel smiled wanly and shook his head. "Sorcery isn't as easy as picking up another man's sword," he said. "You could probably use a Jouvaine estoc, but a man skilled with it would defeat you easily. With any of the seven spellstones I would be the same; I could control them, but they're not one of my fields of study. An expert could turn them against me without even touching the stones himself. And Kalarr cu Ruruc is an expert."

  "So then, what do I do?"

  "You find out why I gave you such an elaborate education."

  They talked over dinner, or rather Gemmel talked and Aldric listened while he ate. The youngster never bothered to ask where food came from; he simply enjoyed it. This meal was a rich stew of three meats, served peasant-style with fresh vegetables on separate dishes and a little bowl of hot red spicy sauce which by the matching colour of Aldric's face he was using liberally. Without the elaborate high-clan table manners Aldric took care to observe at all times, Gemmel finished in half the time and lit his pipe. Not that he was a gluttonous eater, merely that he saw no reason to use salt only left-handed, in three shakes only and setting down the cellar before another three, knife in right hand only and never lift drink with the left. Aldric did—it was a
link with what had once been and he was unwilling to break that link, because there was so little else left to him.

  "Since I can't use the spellstone, you must get me something I can make use of. I spent this morning trimming down a list made last week, and you'll be glad to hear you won't have to go as far as I had feared at first. Look…" The old man cleared dishes to one side and spread a map on the table. "I marked the locations of various talismans on this, and although the closest is here"—his finger touched a red dot in the central Jou-vaine provinces—"that's much too close to the Imperial frontier. The provinces are usually lax in the matter of magic, but right now two city-states are in rebellion and Imperial law is stringently enforced. The fact that you come from the country funding the rebels wouldn't be in your favour, and looking for a sorcerous talisman would virtually guarantee your summary execution. However," and a pleased smirk appeared on Gemmel's face, "this ban on enchantments has rebounded on Warlord Etzel. Duergar Vathach isn't his only agent and a Vreijek overlord caught one inside his city walls. The man was… induced to say who sent him, and since he was a wizard of some small cult his confession of Etzel's name has that worthy embroiled in a scandal it will take him some time to live down. I was afraid that if old Droek should die Etzel would have tried to usurp Ioen's authority, but now he won't have enough support to risk the attempt. Indeed, the wonder of it is that he is still in office."

  "Altrou, why are the Imperial lords so much against magic?" Aldric was genuinely interested, because Alba had no such ban and yet the clan-lords had never bothered to use sorcery. Perhaps the two facts were related.

  "Not just the lords, Aldric. The common people have been taught that magic is irreligious and disrespectful to Heaven."

  The young Alban instantly noticed what Gemmel had hinted. "So that's the teaching. What's the fact?"

  With a little shrug the old enchanter poured himself wine and took a careful sip. "I travelled, before I came to Alba. We travelled—my son and I. For no other reason than to see other countries, other cultures. Curiosity, if you like. We came to a village in Tergoves province which for some reason was being… 'disciplined' is the Empire's word. I would have left, for we could do nothing, but Ernol tried to rescue a girl and killed two troopers in the process. We fled. Later that afternoon the soldiers came.