by Angus Wells
He slowed as he saw the narrow ribbon of light grow wider, than become blocked by the dark shape of a body, the curtain falling back into place behind as the man climbed silently down the steps. He grinned again as he thought that ghost-talkers, like any mortal men, were after all prone to the ordinary weaknesses of excess, assuming the shaman attended those offices he had just satisfied. He was too far distant, and the encampment too night-shrouded, that he could make out which it was, but then he paused, confused, as he saw the figure went not toward the latrines, as he anticipated, but in the opposite direction,-and furtively it seemed. He wondered then what brought the man out, creeping like a thief in the night through his own camp, and found himself moving stealthily, watching, wary; then dismissed his own presentiment as groundless.
This quest, as he had thought earlier, changed him: he saw shadows where there were none, found suspicion where only friendship existed. No doubt the shaman had some business that required the darkness for its doing, or went to Dachan on some pressing errand. He shook his head, telling himself the prickling he felt along his spine was nothing, the night wind, or the aftermath of wine. But still he held to the shadows as he went back, not yet quite awake enough it immediately registered that his course took him naturally after the furtive figure.
He was a fool, he told himself. He saw some innocent errand and read into it alarums: sleep and wine fogged his mind, rousing phantoms. He stopped, wiping a hand through the damp grass, transferring its moisture to his face, the cool wetness dissolving sleep.
Sleep, but not suspicion, for as his eyes and mind cleared he realized that Dachan’s wagon lay across the stream, not this way, and surely, did the ghost-talker go seeking some herb, some night-blooming flower, it must lie beyond the camp, and he would take a horse. Thieflike himself now, he trod with instinctive caution, taking care to make no sound as he went after the shaman, curiosity and embarrassment mingling, for surely there was some innocent explanation.
Then he saw the man’s direction—toward the wagon where Bracht and Katya slept—and shook his head, laughing softly at his misplaced suspicions: the ghost-talkers had kept their promise and spent the midnight hours communicating with their fellows. They had gleaned some piece of information and one of them brought it to the wagon. No more than that: he translated help as threat. Feeling guilty now, he paced swifter forward, opening his mouth to call out, to save waking his sleeping comrades.
Then his mouth snapped shut and his eyes narrowed, doubt flaring anew. Always before the ghost-talkers had acted in unison. He had not seen them apart; they spoke together, as though a single mind commanded the two mouths. Yet this man was alone, and if he carried news of such import it could not wait for morning, would he come alone? Surely, were that the case, they would come—as always—together.
Calandryll saw the figure reach the ladder’s foot and pause, peering round, as does a man wary of discovery, not as one come with helpful news. His suspicion seemed no longer groundless, for there was something mightily wrong in this stealthy approach: cat-footed, he drew closer, hugging the shadows the surrounding wagons cast. The shaman started up the ladder and alarm replaced all thoughts of tact as Calandryll saw him reach beneath his long robe and moonlight glitter on steel. He burst from the shadows, caution discarded, running toward the man as his shout split the silence of the night.
The figure sprang down as the moon emerged from its mask of cloud and he saw Morrach’s face; saw, too, the dirk the ghost-talker clutched. He halted his headlong charge, slithering to a crouch, arms spread wide and defensive as the long knife angled toward his belly. Beneath its mask of paint, Morrach’s face was twisted in an ugly leer, and in his eyes there burned an unholy light, radiating pure hatred. Calandryll felt it, as if the shaman’s glare fell hot upon skin gone suddenly cold. The man was no longer the friend, the ally, who utilized his strange powers to aid the quest, but clearly an enemy; no less clearly intent on slaying Calandryll.
He sprang back as the blade slashed for his belly, and heard a feral growl burst from Morrach’s mouth. He shifted again as the man closed the distance between them, the dirk probing, hungry to kill, his mind racing even as he danced clear of the thrust. Morrach seemed possessed, driven by some inner fury, mumbling and growling as he slashed and cut, not expertly, but with such ferocity that Calandryll had no chance to close and grasp his wrist, but could only avoid the vicious attack.
He shouted again, and heard voices raised in answer, dulled with sleep and not particularly alarmed. Likely, he thought as he sprang aside, sucking in his belly to avoid a sweeping blow, the Lykard assumed two warriors woke and quarreled drunkenly. He cursed them for their lack of concern and yelled once more, louder.
“Bracht! Ware magic!”
“Aye, and greater than any this vessel commands.”
Spittle flew on Morrach’s words, and the knife darted out, swift as a striking serpent. Calandryll gasped, shocked bad enough only those reflexes honed and hardened on the quest’s long road saved him from mortal wound. He spun clear, feinted to his left, and chanced a kick at Morrach’s knife hand. The ghost-talker made no attempt to avoid the blow, but neither did it affect him. Indeed, it felt as though Calandryll’s foot landed against dead flesh that absorbed the kick, feeling nothing, the reaction spilling his balance so that he slipped on the damp grass, falling.
He heard a triumphant shriek and rolled desperately aside, fetching up against the wagon’s ladder as Morrach crashed down, the dirk driving hard and deep into the soil. The shaman sprang instantly to his feet, his long tunic swirling as he rounded once more on his intended prey. Calandryll felt the wooden steps at his back and feinted to the right, blocked by Morrach; feinted leftward, and was again blocked.
“Mine!” The voice was animal, as though whatever power utilized the ghost-talker’s body animated unwilling cords. “At last it ends!”
The dirk drove forward, low and angled up, seeking the soft entry of the belly, below the cage of ribs. Calandryll twisted, his shirt torn by the blade, and locked both hands around the wrist.
He felt himself hurled back, propelled by a terrible strength, far greater than the ghost-talker’s wiry body could naturally possess. Fingers closed on his throat, and as he felt his windpipe shut and stared in horror at eyes that blazed madness, he knew with a dreadful certainty that he faced not Morrach, but Rhythamun.
He gasped the warlock’s name and heard it answered, triumphant: “Aye, fool! Thought you I’d not know when these feeble things looked to oppose me? You thought they’d the power to halt or hold such as I?”
He strained against the arm that drove the dirk steadily closer to his belly, wine-scented breath fetid in his nostrils. In the glaring eyes he saw Rhythamun’s hate, as though the sorcerer looked out from the shelter of Morrach’s skull, glorying in his impending victory.
“Three only may succeed, fool. But soon there shall be but two, for you die now.”
He felt the dirk’s point touch flesh. He felt his lungs strain, empty, his head pound. The painted face blurred behind a curtain of red; the muscles in his shoulders and arms burned, weakening under the remorseless pressure. He felt hope take flight, leaving him.
Then, suddenly, the pricking in his belly was gone and his heaving chest filled with welcome air. He fell against the ladder, pushing himself aside, anticipating a killing thrust. Instead, he heard the clash of steel on steel, and as his watered vision cleared, saw Bracht, dressed in no more than a breechclout, facing Morrach with extended falchion. He felt hands on him and heard Katya’s voice, urgent in his ear.
“Calandryll, your sword!”
He snatched the blade and darted forward.
“Rhythamun!” he croaked as light flared from the surrounding wagons. “Bracht, Rhythamun possesses him!”
“Then Rhythamun dies in this body,” came Bracht’s grating answer.
And insane laughter from Morrach.
“Think you it be that easy? Then strike—and see.”
> The ghost-talker’s arms rose, wide to either side, inviting Bracht to attack. The shaman capered, leering horribly, making no attempt at defense as the Kern raised the falchion. Calandryll stared, aghast, aware that Lykard tumbled from their wagons now, torches raised, and voices, in alarm, demanding explanation.
“No!” he cried, loud as his bruised throat allowed, seeing the warlock’s intention, guessing that the fell gramarye employed would likely continue to animate the body even after death; and that did Bracht succeed, the slaying of a ghost-talker might likely turn the ni Larrhyn against them all. “No, don’t slay him!”
Bracht halted his stroke, confused. The horrid laughter tittered into silence, and Morrach’s face turned toward Calandryll.
“You learn wisdom, but it shall avail you naught. One or the other, it matters not.”
He sprang at Bracht, the dirk probing for the Kern’s chest. Bracht turned the blow, stepping aside, moving beyond the range of the far shorter blade, confused as he risked a glance Calandryll’s way. “Not slay him? Then what?”
Calandryll came closer, calling hoarsely for the puzzled Lykard to stand back. Katya moved past him, long-legged in only her shirt, the saber held ready, so that all three formed a loose circle around the figure of the shaman. From the crowd, Calandryll heard Dachan shout, “What is this? In Ahrd’s name, Morrach, what is this?”
“Rhythamun possesses him,” answered Calandryll. “By some sorcery, he owns Morrach.”
“He lies! They all lie! Slay them, in Ahrd’s name!”
“Morrach? Where’s Nevyn?” Dachan yelled. “Is this magic? Who speaks the truth here?”
“I do,” said Morrach’s mouth; “I do,” said Calandryll.
“Put down your weapons,” Dachan ordered. “No man may raise his hand against the drachomannii.”
“Aye,” echoed Morrach. “On pain of death. But they did—slay them, then.”
“I do not understand this,” Dachan said.
“What’s to understand?” asked Morrach. “Slay them.”
Dachan faltered, looking from one to the other. Calandryll said urgently, “Ask why he comes at this hour, with knife in hand. Ask why he comes alone.”
Dachan frowned at that, eyes narrowing. “Find me Nevyn,” he ordered. And: “I say again—put down your weapons.”
“Aye, put them down,” said Morrach.
The encircling Lykard pressed a little closer, their torches glinting on the swords they held, lifted now. Warily, Bracht lowered the falchion. And with a shriek of dreadful triumph, Morrach launched himself forward, slashing at the Kern’s throat.
On the instant, the falchion rose, clashing loud against the dirk, forcing it up. Katya sprang then, like a great blond feline, the saber cutting at the shaman’s back. Dachan and all his folk roared in outrage. Calandryll screamed, “No!” and brought the straightsword round in a sweeping arc that sent Katya’s sword rattling clear of the man.
“My thanks,” mocked Rhythamun, from Morrach’s lips, and the ghost-talker’s body turned, swift as Katya, to send the dirk thrusting once more at Calandryll.
Unthinking, his action simple reflex, Calandryll deflected the blow. Dirk and straightsword met. Sparks flashed, and on Morrach’s face, the leering smile was transformed. Surprise glittered in the burning eyes even as the knife darted again. Again Calandryll turned the attack, and this time Morrach groaned, as if pained.
Realization dawned and Calandryll cried, “Praise Dera! Hold him!”
He smashed another blow aside as Bracht and Katya leapt forward, clutching the shaman’s arms.
Morrach was still possessed, still commanded an unnatural strength, enough that man and woman both were lifted off their feet, but their weight, combined, slowed him and prevented him, for the moment at least, from using the dirk.
A moment was all Calandryll needed. Even as Dachan shouted, and the Lykard moved forward to prevent him, he raised the straightsword and brought the flat of the blade down against the shaman’s wrist.
Morrach screamed then, his hand snapping open, the dirk tumbling to the trampled grass. Calandryll stepped closer, pressing the sword to the man’s chest. Morrach struggled, flinging his captors about, his mouth stretched wide, a thin, high keening wailing out, his eyes no longer burning hateful, but agonized now, as if the blade glowed red-hot, its touch seared him. Calandryll lifted the straightsword from the chest to the man’s face, the flat across his parted lips.
Abruptly, Morrach’s shrieking became an awful bubbling moan. His body stood suddenly rigid, eyes and mouth both opened wide. A red mist, like fog lit with internal fires, spewed from between his lips, swirling about the blade. The Lykard halted their advance, staring. Calandryll breathed the heady scent of almonds and shouted Dera’s name like a battle cry as he swung the straightsword through the mist. It writhed, fleeing the steel, streaming from the ghost-talker’s mouth to coalesce, glowing, in the air above him as the fire dimmed and quit Morrach’s eyes. The last of it gone from the shaman, Calandryll held the sword defensive, ready to strike again, and for an instant a face, contorted in dreadful rage, took shape within the vapor. Then it faded, the almond scent with it, stirred by the night wind, and was gone. Morrach shuddered, moaned once, and went limp, his eyes closing, his head falling to his chest.
Calandryll stared at where the apparition had been, its afterimage burning still on his vision, thinking that he had, for the first time, seen Rhythamun’s true face. He lowered his blade as Dachan said, close and ominous, “Ahrd, if you’ve slain him . . .”
“I’ve not.” Calandryll lifted the shaman’s chin so that the ketoman might see Morrach still breathed. “I’ve saved him. Dera willing, he’s himself again.”
Dachan frowned, perplexed, and gestured for men to take the unconscious ghost-talker. “This requires explanation,” he said, no longer so hostile, but still not yet assured. “You say Rhythamun possessed him?”
“Aye,” answered Calandryll. “And Dera saved him. And us.”
He prayed, silently, that he spoke the truth.
THE ghost-talkers’ wagon grew crowded when they carried Morrach back, finding Nevyn stretched out among the scattered paraphernalia of their art, an ugly bruise darkening the blue paint upon his forehead. Morrach was settled on cushions, sleeping babelike, Nevyn groaning as Dachan’s lieutenants sought to wake him with water-soaked cloths and burning feathers. Calandryll, Bracht, and Katya were summoned inside by the puzzled ketoman, and more lamps were lit as the ni Larrhyn clustered all about, anxious to learn what strange thing had happened this night, and if their shamans lived.
“When he and Nevyn communed with their fellow ghost-talkers, then Rhythamun must have learned what they did and somehow seized control of Morrach.” Calandryll gestured at the unconscious shamans, speaking in the Envah, that Katya might understand what was said. “I warned you he’s a sorcerer of terrible power. I’d wager he used a gramarye to send his spirit back, and took hold of Morrach—had him overcome his fellow and sent him to kill us. Or one of us, at least, for he said that one would suffice; that save we be three we must fail.”
“To possess a ghost-talker?” Dachan studied him a while, troubled, seeming not yet entirely convinced. “To make Morrach his creature, his murderer?”
“I know not the way of it,” Calandryll answered, “but that he did . . . You saw his animus quit the body.”
“Aye.” Dachan shuddered at the memory.
“And Morrach urged Bracht to slay him,” pressed Calandryll. “What should you have done then?”
Dachan was silent a moment, his eyes hooded, his dark face suddenly haggard. “Likely slain you on the spot,” he said at last. “Or ordered you executed.”
“Again,” murmured Bracht, prompting a shamefaced smile from the Lykard. “Rhythamun is mightily cunning, my friend.”
“And will stop at nothing to halt us,” said Calandryll. “Though we may learn from this night’s events.”
He was about to elaborate, but a woman cal
led out then that Nevyn woke, and all their attention turned to the shaman.
“Ahrd!” Nevyn opened bleary eyes, sitting up. “What happened?”
“Morrach sought to murder these three, or one of them.” Dachan indicated the questers. “They say he was possessed by Rhythamun.”
“Ahrd’s holy tree!” Nevyn shook his head, and groaned; a man lifted a cup to his lips and he drank, turning when he was done to observe his supine fellow. “Morrach? He lives?”
“Calandryll drove out the warlock’s spirit, or so it looked.” Dachan shrugged again, helplessly. “There is much I cannot understand.”
Nevyn raised inquiring eyes to Calandryll, who said, “My sword was blessed by Dera. She told me it should then hold power over magic, and so it does.” He shook his head as Nevyn looked again at Morrach. “No, he lives yet—I put the flat against him when I saw he was possessed.”
“He used no edge,” Dachan confirmed. “He claims this Rhythamun seized Morrach while you tranced.”
Nevyn sighed and took a compress to hold against his face. “We looked to fulfill our promise,” he murmured. “To commune with our fellows and obtain word of Rhythamun. Aye, that must be the way of it. Ahrd, but he’s powerful then!”
“Do you explain?” asked Calandryll.
Nevyn nodded, regretting the movement, wincing, and said, “We opened the way, from ghost-talker to ghost-talker, northward. Between the last of the Lykard camps and the first of the Valan there was a . . . disruption . . . a darkness that intruded. Ahrd, but that must have been Rhythamun! It grew; I remember that. And that it was . . . evil. I looked to end the contact, and when I emerged, Morrach was on his feet. I spoke to him—he struck me. After that I knew nothing, until now. Rhythamun must have possessed him, as Calandryll says.” He groaned, not now in pain, but in something close to fear. “If he can do that . . . can possess one of us . . . what can he not do?”