Dark Magic

by Angus Wells

  The man favored the Kern with a sour look and began to mumble something about freeswords, thinking better of it as Bracht casually fingered the hilt of his dirk, still smiling with his mouth. Instead he gave them directions, scowling as he was dismissed with a careless wave.

  “Unfriendly folk,” Bracht murmured.

  “Aye.”

  Calandryll was not yet disposed to conversation, but when Katya joined them moments later she and Bracht made up for his silence. She greeted them with a smile, enthusiastically spooning the porridge delivered to their table, talking cheerfully of their departure, and before long Calandryll shook off his sleepiness, his comrades’ vitality awakening his own spirits. It was, indeed, heartening to think that soon they would put this grey and gloomy city behind them.

  Their bellies filled, they settled their account with Rhythamun’s coin and fetched their horses from the stable. The fog still hung thick upon the upper city, but as they descended the long avenue leading to the waterfront a breeze got up, blowing in off the Narrow Sea to tatter the mist and send it skirling in heavy tendrils about the streets. They found the Sailmakers Gate and negotiated the purchase of three small tents, fashioned of stout canvas, with sturdy groundsheets, that they lashed behind their saddles. Then, with no further reason to remain in Wessyl, they rode back up the avenue and found the same gate through which they had entered. None looked back as they trotted northward through the fog.

  THE moorland remained enshrouded throughout the day, slowing their progress so that they elected to pass the night in the caravanserai they encountered a little while before sunset. They found a better welcome there, the landlord willing enough to talk, and from him they discovered that a man answering to their description of Daven Tryas had passed by some time before, also that Tobias and his retinue were now not long ahead. They quit the hostelry at dawn, the fog dissipated during the night and the day coming clear and cold, the sky a pale blue save where the sun bathed the welkin with gold. They made better time, passing the night in the tents and the next day drawing close to Eryn.

  The road curved to the northwest here, following the coastline around the innermost recess of the great bight to enter the shipyard city. From there it ran due north to Gannshold and Calandryll, drawing on his memories of books and maps long studied in Secca, calculated they should find it again several leagues inland. Of the country they must cross he knew little, beyond that it climbed over stony moors to the Gann Peaks, a lonely and largely unpeopled terrain, the domain of isolated wildfowlers and huntsmen, where hospitality would be hard found.

  “Likely swift as the road,” Bracht declared as they turned off the raised flagstones onto a sweep of coarse grass dotted with stunted heather. “And an unlikely place to encounter your brother.”

  Calandryll agreed, heeling the chestnut gelding to match pace with the Kern’s stallion as Bracht gave the big horse his head.

  They thundered over the grass, hooves leaving a trail of divots, the moorland spreading wide before them, a harlequin pattern of green brightened by the blue of heather and the gold of broom, silver where little streams bisected the moss and grass. Curlews sang their bubbling song and snipe chippered; lapwings and redshanks scattered at their passage, and overhead buzzards and peregrines circled hopefully. It felt good to gallop through so free a landscape and Calandryll gave himself over to the exhilaration of the ride.

  When all three animals had had their fill of running they slowed to a steady canter, halting when the watery sun reached its zenith to rest awhile and eat before proceeding on until twilight. They camped then, in the fold of a low hill that broke the cooling assault of the wind, a stream tinkling by its foot, their fire cheerful as night fell, the horses hobbled and cropping contentedly on the sturdy grass. Bracht produced snares from his saddlebags and set them out on the far side of the hill, promising they should eat hare or rabbit on the morrow, and Calandryll thought that he could live happily in such a way forever, the comforts he had taken for granted in his father’s palace seeming now like some dream. He chuckled as he stretched out in his tent, listening to the wind, wondering where Tobias slept this night and what his brother might think of him now.

  Probably that he was a greater threat than ever, he decided, for he felt now that he could defeat Tobias in honest fight, thinking then of what Bracht had said, that likely someday there must come an accounting. Perhaps, he mused as sleep weighted his eyes, but on some other day, when matters of far greater importance were settled. Save that he represented a dangerous hindrance to their quest, Tobias seemed of little moment now, a problem to be confronted at need, not dwelt upon. His ambition seemed petty in light of the threat facing all the world, and even the knowledge that he had commissioned the assassination of their father failed to stir in Calandryll any very fierce response. He wondered if he should feel some deeper emotion about that slaying, but could not: it was as though Bylath, on that far-off day when he had struck his younger son and so clearly demonstrated his contempt, had severed all ties between them, electing his own fate. Perhaps someday he would confront Tobias with that crime and demand he answer, but for now matters of far greater weight occupied him and he set such thoughts aside. He became with each passing day, it occurred to him as he folded his cloak warmer about his chin, more like the pragmatic Kern who had befriended him a year ago. It felt far longer—as if he had known Bracht all his life—and on that thought he slept.

  Morning saw the Kern’s promise fulfilled and they breakfasted on two plump hares before continuing on across the empty landscape toward Gannshold. Neither fog nor rain conspired to hinder them and they made good time over the moors, the ground rising steadily as they drew ever closer to the mountains ahead, the gorse and heather interspersed now with stands of scrubby, windswept juniper and cotton-wood. They encountered no one save a distant figure that watched them from a ridge, wary, as though suspicious of interlopers, and in two more days they came to the road again.

  It was late in the morning, the sun close to its midmost point, shining out of a sky the color of a duck’s egg and streaked with long mare’s-tails of cirrus blown out by the high north wind. They cantered at a steady pace, thinking that soon they should halt to eat and rest the animals, Gannshold now only a few days distant. Bracht was a little way ahead, topping a low rise, when he slowed the stallion to a walk, lifting a hand in warning. Calandryll and Katya reined in, coming alongside the Kern, who indicated with a nod the sight that had prompted his caution.

  The road dipped before them, running straight across a shallow valley, a stream at its center spanned by a small bridge. The approach to the bridge was lined on either side with a procession of colorful wagons and carriages, their teams set out on picket lines to graze, as on the grass beside the water servants bustled about a pavilion of black and green stripes under the laughing eyes of women in luxurious traveling gowns and men in light armor.

  From the carts and the poles set about the pavilion fluttered pennants in the same colors, black and green: those of Secca.

  Calandryll gasped, scanning the crowd, recognizing the insignia that decorated the silver breastplates and halfhelms of the soldiers, the livery of the servitors. In a low voice, as if afraid he might be overheard, he said, “Tobias.”

  Bracht nodded. “Nor any way to go save forward.”

  “Can we not ride around?”

  Calandryll looked inland, thinking that they could quit the road here and cross the stream farther up the valley; knowing even as he said it that so obvious a detour must surely arouse suspicion.

  Katya confirmed his doubt with a gesture at the archers set about the perimeter of the gathering, who even now nocked their bows, staring at the three riders. “They see us,” she remarked coolly. “Do we seek to avoid them, they’ll likely seek to know why.”

  “And look to run us down,” Bracht added, his eyes moving to the mail-clad lancers standing to the rear of the bowmen. “Taking us for scouts for some robber band.”

  Calandr
yll mouthed a curse as a sergeant shouted something, pointing toward them, his words relayed so that a familiar figure detached itself from the throng around the tent, striding proudly to the fore of the crowd.

  Sunlight sparkled on polished armor as the man raised a hand to shade his eyes, peering toward the low ridge. His head was bare, the leonine mass of his reddish-brown hair tousled by the wind, and despite the distance between them, sufficient that individual features were blurred, Calandryll knew that he looked on his brother. He felt cold fingers of anticipation scratch his spine, convinced that at any moment Tobias must recognize him and send the lancers of the Palace Guard galloping to attack, that the bows must be drawn to shower arrows on him. He licked lips gone dry as Tobias turned to speak with those closest to him, and saw a woman move to his side, her auburn hair gathered in a snood. His brother draped an arm about her shoulders, saying something that brought a smile to her full lips and a flurry of laughter from the attendant entourage. Calandryll recognized Nadama, and in some part of his mind not numbed by dread saw that she was still lovely. He was absently pleased to find that sight of her brought no pang of loss, but perhaps that was simply because fear of recognition outweighed all else.

  “Best we proceed,” Bracht decided.

  “He’ll surely know me,” Calandryll objected.

  The Kern glanced at him, appraisingly. “Shall the Domm of Secca pay so much attention to a wandering freesword?” He shook his head, answering his own question. “Come—they’ve seen us now and to avoid them must surely bring them after us. If worst arrives at worst, we ride through.”

  Confidently, he heeled the stallion up to a trot, leaving Calandryll no choice but to follow, down the slope toward the bridge. Toward the brother who sought his death.

  As a drowning man clutches at the merest straw, so he sought the talisman of Dera’s promise, but still he felt his heart beat faster as they drew nearer the watching crowd. It seemed his skin prickled as he saw the half-drawn bows, thinking that it needed but a word from Tobias to lift him, pincushioned with shafts, from the saddle; that his horse was wearied by the morning’s ride while the chargers of the Palace Guard were rested, fresh.

  From the corner of his mouth Bracht said, “You are Calan, a warrior of Cuan na’For. Remember only that.”

  Calandryll’s own mouth was too dry to venture a response. Silently, he cursed the arrogance that left the road so narrowed by his brother’s train: the vehicles occupied sufficient space that he could not even find refuge between his companions, but must fall into single file to pass between the blockage. That was typical of Tobias, he thought, to assume ownership where he had no right. Anger rose to join his trepidation.

  “Better,” Bracht murmured. “Hold that prideful expression.”

  Ahead the bowmen clustered in a watchful knot. From beside the stream servants called, announcing the readiness of the midday meal.

  If the lancers of the Palace Guard come out, Calandryll thought, they will surely know me. If Tobias or Nadama see me close, they will surely know me. He clenched his teeth, heart drumming madly against his ribs; faster, it seemed, than the hooves of his mount clattered on the flags of the road, and louder. He did his best to stare ahead, to act the part assigned him, only to find his eyes drawn irresistibly toward the onlookers, as if some psychic magnet tugged his gaze toward Tobias. His brother had aged, he saw, his handsome face harder, lines etched about his patrician mouth, his eyes containing something more than his remembered arrogance, something cold and implacable.

  They were almost level with the archers now and Bracht slowed again as the soldiers pressed in on the road, soothing the big stallion as he snorted and pranced, sensing his rider’s tension. Katya’s grey caught the mood and curvetted nervously: Calandryll held his chestnut on a tight rein as the gelding whickered, stamping. The sergeant who had first warned of their approach stepped forward, a hand casual upon his sword’s hilt. Behind him his men waited. Behind them Tobias stared hard at the three riders. For a moment his eyes met Calandryll’s and the younger brother thought that surely his time had come, that the order must be given to attack and he must fall here, on this stretch of lonely road, his quest undone, the way left clear for Rhythamun. Then Tobias’s haughty gaze passed over him, and the Domm leaned closer to Nadama, spoke into her ear. She laughed again, teeth bright between the red of her lips. Calandryll felt sure the comment was about him: he tensed, thinking that if one bow lifted toward him he would draw sword and put heel to horse.

  Instead, Tobias turned away, drawing Nadama with him as they moved toward the pavilion: three itinerant Kerns of only transitory interest to the Domm of Secca.

  “Careful, lest he bite. Armed men make him nervous.”

  Bracht favored the sergeant with an easy smile, loosing just enough rein that the stallion could turn his head and bare yellow teeth at the soldier. The man stepped out of his path, eyeing the Kern and his comrades with the dispassionate suspicion of the professional soldier.

  “You’ve a fine animal.” His eyes traveled leisurely over the black horse, on to the grey and the chestnut. “All of you.”

  “Aye,” Bracht agreed, “we prize our beasts in Cuan na’For.”

  The sergeant nodded and motioned for his men to clear the road. Calandryll rode past him, certain that at any moment recognition must dawn, the prickling that had afflicted his chest reasserting itself across his back as he went by the archers. He saw Tobias and Nadama disappear inside the pavilion. Then he was past the last of the bowmen and clattering onto the bridge, lifting the chestnut to a canter as, ahead, Bracht gathered speed, conscious of sweat cold on face and ribs.

  Katya moved to his side as they crossed the valley, smiling. “You can let out your breath now,” she advised.

  He had not known he held it until he heard himself sigh, and then he shuddered, breathing deep, sucking in great lungfuls of air as the road rose again, climbing the farther slope over the ridge that cut off sight of the pavilion and the clustered wagons and all the folk who might have known him. He shook his head, not yet ready to speak, confused by the emotions that racked him. Fear had been there, that he could readily admit, but fear was no longer unfamiliar and he had learned to control it, and knew that what he felt was more than fear. It was, perhaps, the presence, the sight, of his brother—the knowledge that had Tobias recognized him, he would not have hesitated to order his execution—forcing upon him the stark realization that he no longer had home or family in a manner no longer abstract but immediate and physical. Perhaps equally the sight of Tobias and Nadama together, the real and physical reminder that the woman he had once loved now chose his brother. It had been easy enough to accept those facts distanced by geography and time, but to see them—to know them—for reality was to confront their immediacy. He shook his head again, suddenly aware that his eyes blurred tearily, and raised a hand to wipe the moisture from his cheeks. Not speaking, Katya reached across to touch his shoulder and he smiled thinly, grateful for her silent sympathy.

  Bracht grinned and said, “I disguised you well—they saw only a warrior of Cuan na’For,” then gestured that they speed their pace.

  “Or Dera blinded them,” Calandryll murmured, feeling guilt now, that he had doubted the promise of the goddess. He heeled the chestnut to a gallop, giving himself over to the act of riding as he sought to match the longer stride of the Kern’s stallion, letting the wind blow away his confusion.

  They rode thus until the horses began to tire and then halted to eat, confident that Tobias and his retinue lay leagues behind them. From the size of the Seccan party and its leisurely manner it was obvious they would reach Gannshold long before the city could be posted with Calandryll’s likeness, and that was a comfort that cheered him: by the time night descended on the moorlands and they made camp he had put away his disharmony and once more found calm, consigning both his brother and the woman he had once thought he loved to the hindmost part of his memory.

  THE next day the Gann Peaks lo
omed dark across the horizon, and in another the moors gave sway to foothills, all dotted with thickening pine and larch that spread a patterned canopy of myriad greens, all glossy with the promise of spring, over the slopes. The road rose steadily through the timber, climbing ever upward toward the beckoning mountains, built through deep cuts walled with blue-grey granite and across arching bridges over couloirs where streams foamed fierce, curving in serpentine terraces up slopes where pines grew precarious and along valleys bright with flowers. By day raptors hung in the sky above and at night owls hooted. On the third day they came to the gates of Gannshold.

  KESHAM-VAJ still smoldered, the sky lit red by the fires that still burned, the night still redolent of almonds and the carrion stench of corpses. Inside the Tyrant’s great pavilion censers filled the air with the sweeter odor of incense and roasting meat was only a little tainted by the malodorous aftermath of battle. Xenomenus, by habit fastidious, waved a perfumed handkerchief about his face, beaming hugely as his captains reported the great victory.

  The rebel forces withdrew in disarray, scurrying like rats desperate to abandon a sinking ship from the plateau. They retreated eastward, into the Fayne, likely to group on Sathoman ek’Hennem’s keep, looking to establish a defensive line between the Tyrant’s armies and the coastal cities they still held. Cavalry and mounted archers harried them, and the Fayne Lord still lived, still lofted the banner of rebellion, but this day’s victory belonged to Xenomenus and ere long blockaded Mhazomul and Mherutyi must fall. It was a question of pressing onward, of cutting supply lines to isolate the coastal settlements totally, starve out the defenders. It would not be done overnight; indeed, it might not be done inside this year’s ending, even—this with wary, sidelong glances at the blackrobed sorcerers who stood behind the Tyrant—with the aid Xenomenus commanded. It was a beginning, a glorious beginning, with the summer to march and fight, that progress inevitably slowed by winter, but come the next year’s spring—summer at the latest—and all Kandahar should once more bow to its rightful ruler and Sathoman ek’Hennem’s head decorate the walls of Nhur-jabal.