by Angus Wells
Sacrifices fir the Sea God, Burash
The assassin kicked bones aside to expose manacles set into the rock, snapping them about Bracht and Calandryll’s ankles before cutting the cords that bound their hands.
Bracht stooped instantly, testing the chains. From above came laughter and the priest’s booming voice.
“Too stout to break, those bonds. Save Burash grant you mercy, you pay for your affront.”
The water rose, creeping up their legs, overtopping their boots. Lapping ripples touched Calandryll’s face and he spat salt water from his mouth, craning his head back, seeking to hold lips and nose clear of the flow. He heard Bracht shout, “Courage!,” the cry abruptly cut off by a dreadful choking.
In moments, the level was risen above Calandryll’s head, his ragged breath sucking in not air, but water. He floated, turned this way and that as blind panic set him to thrashing, arms flailing wild as he sought hopelessly to thrust his head upwards, into the air.
Calandryll felt death touch him. . . .
DARK MAGIC
by Angus Wells
Please be sure to ask your bookseller
for these other Bantam Spectra books
by Angus Wells:
The Books of the Kingdoms
WRATH OF ASHAR
THE USURPER
THE WAY BENEATH
The Godwars
FORBIDDEN MAGIC
DARK MAGIC
For Janna Silverstein . . .
. . . “Talent alone cannot make a writer.
There must be a (wo)man behind the book.”
NHUR-JABAL meant, in the language of Kandahar, Great Watchtower, and so it seemed the city was. It rose in great terraces of stone against the older rock of the Kharm-rhanna, where the mountains thrust deep into the heart of the land, where the three great rivers—the Shemme, the Tannyth, and the Yst—fell down from the peaks, dividing about the city brooding above like some lithic sentinel, a hypabyssal guardian. Tier upon tier climbed the steep slopes, the buildings like battlements, cut through with roadways and bridges and great sweeps of stairs, all rising toward the single massive edifice that dominated the heights, walled and turreted and towered, the pennants of the Tyrant fluttering purple and gold from the ramparts. It seemed so high that from the topmost towers an observer might stare out across all of the Tyrant’s domain. To Kharasul in the west and Vishat’yi in the south, Mherut’yi to the east, on the edge of the Narrow Sea. And it was to that latter direction eyes looked now, troubled. All Nhur-jabal was a defensive wall about the Tyrant’s citadel, that great fortress the final bastion of authority in Kandahar, from its founding by Cederus to now, when Xenomenus ruled. And the rule of Xenomenus was threatened.
To the west the flag of rebellion waved, raised by Sathoman ek’Hennem, Lord of the Fayne, and a wilier enemy than Tyrant or any who advised him had anticipated. Already he controlled the eastern reaches of Kandahar, from Mherut’yi to Mhazomul down the coast, inland to Kesham-vaj and Bhalusteen; already he had defeated an army, proclaimed Xenomenus upstart and usurper; already, in the east, folk hailed him Lord and named him Tyrant. That they would turn as readily against him was small consolation to the hereditary ruler: to achieve that end he must be defeated. Not driven back to his lonely keep, but roundly and soundly—above all, visibly—defeated. Xenomenus wanted the Fayne Lord’s head on a pikestaff, to be carried from town to town until all Kandahar knew he was beaten and dead. And yet—the corpses feeding the crows about Kesham-vaj testimony to this—Sathoman ek’Hennem still lived, and triumphed, and threatened to bring down the Tyrant, neither the legions nor the sorcerers at Xenomenus’s command able to deliver the rebel to just fate.
It was a dilemma that seemed emphasized by the cold wind that wafted down from the Kharm-rhanna, winter’s breath, and Xenomenus shivered as he peered eastward.
Instantly, galvanized by the tremor, a flunky stepped forward, draping a cloak of purple brocade about his master’s narrow shoulders. Xenomenus accepted it unaware, feeling no warmer, the cold pervading him less physical than an emanation of doubt, turning from the parapet where he stood to face the throng attending him. Sunlight sparked bright from the rings covering his fingers as he gestured dismissal to the servants and sycophants. He waited until they were gone from earshot into the tower, the doors of glass swung shut, then touched the band of jewel-studded silver encircling his smooth forehead as if to draw inspiration from that badge of his office and looked to those who remained.
There were seven, all older than he by several years, three at least attendant on his father, three who had known his grandfather. They were of sundry shape and size: tall and short, most slender, but two obese, their physiognomy no less varied, their hair ranging in color from glossy black to age’s weary yellow. Some wore a patrician look; others might have been tradesmen. All wore robes of black, the subfusc woven with cabbalistic emblems in silver thread. Xenomenus frowned, not knowing the expression lent him a petulance that was echoed in his voice.
“Well, gentlemen”—he laid a deliberately scornful emphasis on the honorific—“it would appear your colleagues have as yet found this hedge rabble too much for them.”
“My lord, they had not anticipated the gramaryes left by Anomius.” The speaker paused, continuing when Xenomenus offered no response, “And the Faye Lord struck with unprecedented swiftness.”
“Swift enough he commands the eastern coast.” The Tyrant drew his cloak tighter about him, contesting the nervousness these men, for all they served him and no other, induced. “Swift enough he holds a third of my domain. Too swift, it would seem, for you.”
“Our divinations warned of this,” said the oldest, his voice dry as his wrinkled skin, like some withering tree, “and had . . .”
Xenomenus’s hand chopped air, silencing the comment. A younger man glanced warily at the reckless oldster, clearing his throat to signal caution. “Lord Xenomenus,” he ventured, “what Rassuman says is, in part at least, true—we divined a stirring in the occult fundus, but vague . . . not of such proportion as this.”
“But you are the Tyrant’s sorcerers!” Now Xenomenus paused and cleared his throat, hearing the petulance in his voice, carefully deepening his tone.
“If you of all the mages in this world could not discern the pattern, then who might?”
“Indeed,” Rassuman murmured, concealing a sour smile.
“The vagueness itself is a portent,” the younger wizard said, “a thing we have debated long.”
“And do you grace me with your conclusions?” the Tyrant snapped.
The wizard ducked his head, not quite a bow. “In part it was Anomius’s doing,” he said evenly, fixing Xenomenus with a stare, “but that obfuscation was enabled by some other agency, something within the occult fundus too deep for even our powers to penetrate.”
The Tyrant’s frown became one of perplexity and he asked, “What do you say?”
“I—we—are not sure, my lord. Such vision was, and is, denied us. It would seem that perhaps the gods themselves cloud the matter.”
“Do you say Burash turns against me?” Xenomenus’s swarthy features paled, his eyes slitting, a hand rising involuntarily to the coronet. Swiftly the seven sorcerers shook their heads, murmuring reassuring negatives. Xenomenus said, “Then what? Or whom? Do you explain yourself, Cenobar.”
The wizard nodded, his face a carefully bland mask. “As best I may, Lord Tyrant, but even we are fallible.” He ignored the twisted smile of agreement that met his comment and continued, “Certainly Anomius left behind him such cantrips as gave great aid to Sathoman ek’Hennem, but even so there was a clouding mightier than such as he might produce. It was as if powers greater even than Burash stirred, and in their stirring raised up vapors to blind our occult sight.�
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“Greater than Burash?” the Tyrant gasped. “What power is greater than our Sea God?”
“There were gods before Burash,” said Rassuman.
“The First Gods are gone,” said Xenomenus, “gone of their own volition into the Forbidden Lands. And their offspring banished into limbo, bound there by their parents’ machinations. Tharn and Balatur play no part in our world.”
“Aye, so all know.” Cenobar nodded. “But still we could not see, still something clouded these events.”
Xenomenus sighed, his shoulders slumping beneath the brocade, and when he spoke again his voice was plaintive.
“And so this hedge lord takes my land? So he flaunts my authority and threatens to bring my realm into civil war?”
“On that we yet have some say, Lord Tyrant.”
Xenomenus turned to the new speaker, a grossly fat man, whose beard and robe retained hints of his last meal: “Then say on, Lykander.”
“It is our opinion, my lord, that Burash stands with us in this affair, and that while we were not able to prognosticate the uprising we may yet quell it.”
Xenomenus cheered at this, his face brightening. “This is such talk as I would hear,” he enthused. “How shall it be done?”
“Anomius is the key,” said Lykander.
“A dangerous key,” said Cenobar, interrupting, falling silent as Xenomenus raised a hand.
“Dangerous, aye,” agreed the fat sorcerer, “but not so powerful as to stand against all of us.”
“He slew Zytharan,” said another, “and left me maimed.”
Lykander glanced at the twisted hand offered in evidence and said, “But still you heal apace, Andrycus, and your hand will soon be whole again. I say we must use him.”
Xenomenus saw himself usurped, the debate among the wizards, and clapped his hands. “You bear the scars of battle, Andrycus,” he said, “and I mourn Zytharan’s demise. But still I’d hear how that puking traitor may win us a victory over the rebels he once served.”
Lykander smoothed his beard, dislodging crumbs, and said, “There is some dissension among us on this matter, Lord Tyrant. Some adhere to my belief that we must use Anomius to unlock ek’Hennem’s hold; others deem him too dangerous.”
“Yet all serve me,” said Xenomenus softly. “Is that not so?”
“Indubitably,” said Lykander.
“Our loyalty is unquestioned,” said Cenobar, “but still . . . to free Anomius? Better had we slain him when we took him on the Shemme.”
“Then perhaps we should never take Fayne Keep,” said Lykander, “for surely Anomius is the only one may open the way to that place.”
Xenomenus clapped again. “I would hear this plan,” he declared. “The rebels wax stronger by the day, and I’d not waste one listening to your arguments. If Anomius can aid us, then surely you seven can bind him with such spells as must render him harmless. To me—to us!—at least.”
“I believe it may be done,” said Lykander.
“May I speak, my lord?” asked Cenobar, and when the Tyrant gestured his permission: “I agree that without Anomius the taking of Fayne Keep must be a long and bloody process; even that his aid must surely swiften the downfall of the rebels. But I am uncertain that path is the wiser—I fear that do we free Anomius, we unleash a greater evil.”
“Clouded auguries,” Lykander grumbled.
“Clouded, aye,” said Cenobar, “but ominous for all of that.”
“Then enlighten us,” said Xenomenus, “as to these auguries.”
“I cannot, Lord,” Cenobar admitted, scowling as Lykander chuckled behind his hand. “Only say that I fear the freeing of Anomius shall unleash some evil worse even than rebellion.”
“What evil is worse than such threat to me?” The Tyrant’s eyes flashed affront and Cenobar offered no response, merely ducked his head as Xenomenus motioned for Lykander to continue.
“My lord,” the fat man declared, pacing a step forward as though to separate himself from his fellow sorcerers, “we know that Anomius has laid such cantrips about Fayne Keep as to render that hold virtually impregnable; also that it was his skill gave Kesham-vaj to the rebels. To take back the one, to breach the other, must cost us dear in time and lives, and for all the time it takes, so Sathoman must wax stronger. Even now hedge wizards flock to his aid . . .”
“Petty charlatans,” grunted Cenobar, “weak occultists of no real account.”
“Save in numbers,” Lykander returned, “and as time passes so their numbers grow.”
“Time!” Xenomenus barked. “Always we come back to time! To its lack, to its dwindling—I shall hear out Lykander. Cenobar, you others, be silent.”
Lykander smiled through his soiled beard, smoothed his grubby robe over the swell of his belly, and said, “You put it precisely, my lord: time is of the essence. Ere Sathoman can augment his strength we must strike against him—and our keenest weapon is Anomius. He knows Sathoman, knows the rebel’s ways, the intricacies of his mind; more, he knows what spells and cantrips remain in force. He set them and therefore can undo them. I say we must use him.”
Xenomenus hooked thumbs in silver-chased belt and asked, “Then why have you not? He is our prisoner and you are the Tyrant’s sorcerers—why have you not probed his mind for these secrets?”
The smug smile that had decorated Lykander’s face dissolved, replaced with a placatory turning of his lips. “He is unusually powerful, my lord. Indeed, against any one of us, singly, he should prove victorious.” He paused, preempting the question shaping on the Tyrant’s mouth. “Even acting in unison we may not safely extract that information. His skill is such that he has wound defenses about his own mind—do we attempt their destruction we must surely destroy his mind and all it holds. But”—again he stilled Xenomenus’s protest—“there is a way. Of that I am convinced. Anomius is mightily ambitious, and already he has turned his coat against Sathoman, fleeing Kesham-vaj even in the hour of victory.”
“Aye.” Xenomenus interrupted now, furrows vertical between his eyes. “Why did he do that? And were there not two with him then? What became of them?”
“We know not,” said Lykander, “only that they were not wizards and seem to have escaped down the Shemme. I deem them of no account, my lord, and Anomius has refused to speak of them.”
“So,” Xenomenus murmured. “Do you then go on—tell me how Anomius may be safely used.”
“His loyalty is to himself,” Lykander said, “which is to say, he will serve whoever may promise him the most. At this moment that is you, Lord Tyrant. Offer him freedom and I believe he may be persuaded to our cause. We seven may bind him about with such cantrips as shall consume him should he renege, and thus he shall offer you no harm, but rather serve you in bringing down Sathoman ek’Hennem, the alternative—should he refuse—being execution.”
“This can be done?” asked Xenomenus. “You can bind him safely?”
“We seven together,” Lykander promised, “aye.”
The Tyrant looked to the others and one by one they nodded.
“And what should I promise him? Freedom alone cannot be sufficient, for what freedom I dare offer must be limited.”
“That is true,” Lykander agreed. “Perhaps a place among us?”
Xenomenus cocked his head, oiled ringlets falling black upon his shoulder, his eyes suspicious. “To become my man? When his bent for treachery is so well established?”
“Bound by our magicks,” Lykander reminded, “harmless, therefore. And once Sathoman is defeated and Fayne Keep reduced—well, then his usefulness is done . . .”
Now Xenomenus smiled. “And could you destroy him?”
“Aye, my lord. When he is no longer of use.”
Again the Tyrant looked to the rest, his gaze demanding confirmation, and again, one by one, they ducked their heads, murmuring agreement. Xenomenus nodded in turn and spun about, going to the balcony, where he stood staring out across the land, eastward. The sun moved toward its setting an
d across the broad width of the Yst, fog rose above the water, the walls of the river valley growing misted, the great forest beyond blurring as twilight approached. After a while he faced them again and spoke his decision.
“Offer him freedom. Tell him that his service shall be rewarded. Does he ask for wine—give it. Does he want jewels, or women, or boys—supply them. In return I’ll have his allegiance, for what that’s worth, and he shall join with you to bring down this Burash-damned rebel. But mark you! Bind him with such magicks as shall ensure my safety and that of all my line: I’d not unleash a viper in my palace! Nor, when his usefulness is spent, nurture it. Once his purpose is served, destroy him.”
“My lord is wise,” said Lykander, bowing as best his girth allowed. “It shall be done.”
“Better destroy him now,” muttered Cenobar.
“Better destroy Sathoman ek’Hennem,” returned the Tyrant coldly. “Better end this threat to Kandahar.”
Cenobar’s eyes hooded as Xenomenus nodded confirmation of his own decision, stepping aside as the Tyrant paced across the balcony to the glass doors, pausing the instant it took a servitor to open the portal He disappeared inside, leaving the seven warlocks to mutter among themselves, not hearing Cenobar as he turned to Rassuman and said, “I think we shall unleash a greater threat to Kandahar and all the world than Sathoman ek’Hennem offers.”
Lykander heard him and said, “How so? Secured by our magic Anomius shall be no danger, and do we but use him to bring down ek’Hennem we are all of us favored in the Tyrant’s eyes.”
Cenobar offered no reply save a thin and doubting smile; the fat sorcerer beamed. “The Lord Tyrant has commanded us, my friends. Do we then prepare our cantrips and approach our prisoner.”
AS the Tyrant’s citadel surmounted Nhur-jabal with gold and purple and silver splendor so, nadir to its zenith, the Tyrant’s dungeons drove deep beneath, into the dull and miserable places of the city, catacombs of suffering. And deepest of all, where weight of rock dulled sound and spirits, the sheer impenetrability of the stone leeching hope, stood a door of ancient wood, set across with rusted metal, bolted and barred, and inscribed with sigils of dreadful strength. Beyond that door was a narrow staircase curving down into the utter gloom of a circular chamber, at its center a great round disc of solid steel, engraved, like the door and the walls of the place, with the symbols of magic. Beneath that disc was a vertical shaft carved into the stuff of the mountains, six times the height of a tall man, its walls sheer and smooth as ice, impossible to climb, and in that shaft lay Anomius.