The Sorcery Within

by Dave Smeds

  “What do you want from me?"

  “To adopt the twins as your heirs. They will grow up with the amenities of landed gentry, and it will not seem unusual when they are provided with special education and training. I will send one of the men I spoke of earlier to look after them, and teach them what they will need to know. Raise them well, and our pact will be fulfilled. You need not actually leave the estate to them, if that is disagreeable to you, nor do you need to cater to us royalists in commerce or military dealings. For this you will receive the pearl, which as you can see is worth as much as your entire hold, and a generous yearly stipend."

  Dran stroked the pearl. “Surely you realize that I could never convert this into cash?"

  “It is a token, Lord Dran. If I thought you could be bought, I would never have made this offer. You would be just as likely to sell me out to Gloroc."

  “That is true. At the same time, by helping you I am opening myself up to the Dragon's retribution."

  “Yes. You are."

  Suddenly Dran smiled. “The Worm is getting too bold. I would enjoy putting a thorn in his side."

  “Then we are agreed?"

  “I have spent too much time without an heir. Why not have two?"

  “Tongues may wag,” Lerina said. “Even though you were nowhere near when the children were conceived."

  “Scandal doesn't seem to have disturbed you,” Dran said good-naturedly. “If anything, I would consider such gossip a compliment to my virility. Though my chamberlain will be aghast."

  “Poor Uncle Ossatch,” Lerina murmured.

  “Oh, he'll be glad to see his great-nephew and niece looked after,” Dran declared, and turned to Keron. “When will you send your man?"

  “As soon as I return to the capital."

  * * * *

  Musicians lifted conch shells to their lips and began the dirge. The pallbearers climbed the steps of the dais, the first of them closing the casket lid. They waited for the signal from Keron, then lifted their burden and followed the admiral from the great, royal Hall of Final Respects. No burial at sea for this man. That ritual was respectable enough for commoners, but Obo of Mirien had been one of the greatest servants of King Pranter, a fine and capable wizard, and deserved interment within the walls of the Lesser Mausoleum.

  Keron strode impassively between the ranks of grievers, many of them from the royal houses of Firsthold, capital of Elandris. Obo's reputation had reached many ears, though the man himself had forever hidden in the background of court life—his face would not have been recognized by most of those present. In fact, Keron mused cynically, the turnout would never have been this large had not the king himself briefly come to pay his respects. To those seeking to curry favor, the funeral had become the place to be.

  They passed the Greater Mausoleum, its marble columns stretching almost to the city dome. Perhaps one day Keron would himself be brought to that place, attired in finery as magnificent as that he wore today, to join the ranks of the Blood who had lived and died since Alemar Dragonslayer had built this, the first of his cities beneath the sea. At the Lesser Mausoleum, the Keeper of the Tomb was waiting.

  Keron saluted the old man. “I give to you this servant of the king,” he said ritually.

  “What name shall be entered in the Record of the Dead?"

  “Obo Iremshan, son of Ibo and Phelopeen."

  “Let him pass, and find his place among the generations who have labored for the House of Olendim."

  The pallbearers approached the threshold, which they did not cross. An equal number of the Keeper's assistants received the coffin as it came forward. They carried it inside, to the niche within which it would be deposited and sealed, marked by a plate of brass containing Obo's name, age, rank, and the nature of the tasks he had accomplished for the rulers of Elandris.

  It was done. Keron turned, thanked the pallbearers, and ambled down the steps, a dark expression tainting his features. The crowd had already largely dispersed. Lady Nanth joined him as he reached street level. He held her hand and walked with her toward the vast palace.

  “My condolences, Admiral,” stated Lord D'rul, a former naval commander who had served with Keron's father. “And congratulations on your promotion."

  Keron thanked the man tersely and quickly excused himself. He could read D'rul's motives. Upon his return to the capital, Keron had found himself raised not simply to rear admiral in charge of the northern fleet, but admiral of the entire navy, following the recent assassination of one of his cousins. It was obvious that Keron was very much in the king's favor. Furthermore, most at court had come to suspect—correctly so—that Keron possessed one of the talismans of Alemar Dragonslayer. So he was now the object of courtiers and hangers-on. All the bilge of the empire wanted to be his friend.

  “He was a good man,” Nanth said of the deceased. “It was so sudden. He seemed in good health only last week."

  “Obo was old. I am relieved he got to die of natural causes."

  “He healed so many. He couldn't save himself, though."

  “He only worked with wounds. The Lesser Art, he called it. Nor do I think he wanted to thwart nature."

  “I will miss him."

  “So will I,” Keron stated emphatically.

  Nanth and he seldom talked about important matters. She would obviously have liked to continue, but they had reached the palace door that would take Keron to his offices. “I have business to attend to, my lady. Obo left some final wishes. I will see you at home soon."

  She opened her mouth, but he had turned a corner before she could protest. He cringed a little at his gruffness, but in truth he couldn't enjoy Nanth's company until the matter on his conscience was cleared.

  He greeted his secretaries and locked himself within his sanctum. He found a cup of hot tea waiting for him. He raised it up to toast the bald figure on the other side of the room.

  “Now you are dead, and are free to serve me,” Keron said.

  Obo smiled and raised his own cup. “And a fine retirement it will be, I hope. The tension in this city could be cut with a kitchen knife. Too much for this tired old frame. If I had stayed much longer, I would soon have died in truth."

  “Your need and mine have come to terms,” Keron said. “It gives me hope, master wizard. Teach my children well."

  “I will,” Obo said seriously. “You will be proud of them."

  “If I ever see them again,” Keron murmured. As full admiral, no doubt he would be unable to leave the capital for a decade or more. “Give my love...” He choked on the phrase.

  “I will,” Obo said kindly. “She will understand, if she's half the woman you've described. She'll realize that all men have their duty."

  “I forgot mine, for a month,” Keron said, in a haunted tone of voice. “Now I'll pay for that lapse the rest of my life."

  In a voice more fatherly than he had ever heard Obo use, the wizard said, “Do not blame yourself. If not for the Dragon, you could have chosen another path. Blame Gloroc. It is he who warps the lives of every man in the kingdom."

  Blame the Dragon he would. But it wouldn't be enough. Keron had known of his lack of choice before he had met Lerina. Still he had loved her. If the fates willed it, he might have his vengeance on Gloroc one day, but he could never erase the fact that he had cruelly toyed with the life of an innocent young woman.

  * * *

  XXIII

  RET A JHEHEPH was a rich man. Half the wagons in the caravan belonged to him; the other half to the traders who had paid his stiff fees. If he were so inclined, he could ride within his own personal coach, cushioned in velvet and canopied in fine Cilendri silk. Furthermore, where other merchants endured the journey from Azurajen to Surudain without the comfort of their wives’ company, Jheheph always brought at least five of his favorite concubines and provided each with accommodations nearly as luxurious as his own. The oeikani beneath his saddle was of the most exclusive, thoroughbred stock. Ret a Jheheph was used to having his way.


  A man was blocking the path of his caravan.

  The stranger was alone, waiting atop a hardy desert oeikani, in the center of the wide, shallow rut through which the wagons were travelling. Ret a Jheheph recognized the white garb. He smiled. He had been expecting this.

  The Zyraii rider maintained his position, though the caravan's pace did not slacken. As the gap between him and the lead wagon shrank, the assistant caravan master looked questioningly at Jheheph.

  “Continue on,” he commanded.

  Finally, when the caravan was only a few dozen yards away, the Zyraii began walking his animal backward. Jheheph shrugged. They were close enough. He signalled a halt.

  Jheheph himself rode to the head of the line, a slave beside him with a broad feather fan to ease the effects of the sun. He waited casually on his thoroughbred. Soon another slave brought a platter of dates. Jheheph ate one very slowly, and spat the pit out in the direction of the Zyraii.

  “You are in the way, Po-no-pha."

  “I am Shigmur of the T'lil,” the rider replied. “You are entering my tribe's land."

  “So?"

  “Tribute is required."

  Jheheph smiled. “Surely you are mistaken. The Alyr and the Olot took no tribute."

  “We are not Alyr or Olot. Pay the tithe, or you may not cross our land."

  Jheheph raised his hand. Abruptly, two archers hidden in the lead wagon stood up and fired arrows.

  The Zyraii ducked to the side. One of the shafts missed entirely, the other caught him through the veil. He was moving instantly. The archers fired again, but the rider weaved out of the way. By the third set of shots, he had gained speed and was soon out of range.

  “Too bad,” Jheheph muttered.

  “Do we chase him?” the assistant master asked.

  “No. We'll be seeing him again."

  * * * *

  R'lar broke the arrow and pulled it out of Shigmur's cheek. It was a clean wound, in through the mouth and out by way of a cheek. All things considered, it was as minor an injury as he could have hoped for. Granyet brought a bandage.

  “That was a true feat of haiya!" R'lar exclaimed.

  Others added their congratulations. Alemar and Elenya hid their own incredulousness. Even Lonal, up at the crest of the hill with the lookouts, was gazing at Shigmur with envy.

  No wonder the Zyraii people had a reputation for being fierce.

  The twins climbed up to the vantage point. The caravan was emerging from a series of low, weather-pocked hills and was now threading its way west, to the rugged terrain in which the Zyraii were hidden, across the small flatland that marked the border of T'lil territory, where Shigmur had issued his challenge. This was the main trade route between Azurajen and Surudain.

  “Where is the end of it?” Elenya asked, trying to determine where the line of wagons stopped. “Are they all this big?"

  “No,” Lonal answered. “This is the largest I have seen."

  They waited. Finally the tail end reached the valley floor. In the meantime, the lead wagons reined up. Their passengers climbed out and began setting up camp, though it was still early in the afternoon.

  “They won't dare the hills at night,” Lonal deduced.

  “It was as the Olot and the Alyr told us,” one of the seconds said. “They have no intention of paying us our rightful tithe."

  “They smell the fort two days behind them, and it gives them confidence,” Lonal said.

  “What can you do about it?” Alemar asked.

  “We will fight."

  “What?” Elenya exclaimed. “Where are you going to get the warriors? Can't you see how many men-at-arms are riding next to those wagons?"

  “It is a matter of honor. They have ignored our rights. We can't let the precedent be set. The T'lil is the last tribe on this route with the might to challenge them. We'll attack tonight."

  * * * *

  Ret a Jheheph sent away his concubine. He would have no women tonight. He was waiting for a different kind of excitement. He sucked his pipe and waited, in a soft chair, staring out at the moonlit terrain.

  He could almost hear the minds of the barbarians. He sniggered. They would not have any ideas that he had not already anticipated.

  Not far away, three men waited next to a dim lantern. At first glance, one would not say that they resembled each other. The first was obese, with a heavy black beard and clothing similar to a guard. The second was gaunt and balding, wearing gauzy, effeminate robes. The third was small, wrinkled, and very brown, dressed in only a loin clout and headband. Nevertheless, they were the same in one respect.

  They all waited, Jheheph with the calm of the man whose money has always bought him what he wanted, the three others with the vigilant attitude of craftsmen called upon to perform their very best work.

  Suddenly the sentries began to shout.

  In the muted light of the moons, Jheheph could see a line of shadowy, four-legged shapes bearing toward the caravan from all directions. Within a few moments, he could hear the beat of oeikani hooves.

  The small brown man cried out and pointed at the sky.

  For a moment, it seemed as if stars were falling. Then the streaks became fire arrows, which landed between and upon the wagons and coaches. The sentries ducked behind cover and wielded their own bows, sighting their targets whenever the riders lit fresh arrows.

  Just as he had predicted. Jheheph smiled.

  Women began pouring out of the wagons and tents, collecting in the center of the encampment, out in the open. They knew the Zyraii code would save them from harm—as long as they stayed out of the battle and out of the way. Jheheph's concubines lorded it over the slave girls.

  Most of the fire arrows did no damage. Some struck the dust, some bounced off the starched hides placed on the wagons specifically to fend off such attacks, others changed direction at the last instant and fell wide. The three men by the lantern concentrated, keeping their eyes on the sky, focused on each new volley.

  A few wagons were not so lucky. Their owners rushed to try and smother the flames with blankets or sand. But their efforts were often futile; the Zyraii had treated their missiles with oil. Soon several wagons became bonfires.

  None of Jheheph's own were touched, however. He sucked another lungful from his pipe, enjoying the narcotic buzz, amused by the frantic activity around him. After all, the less merchandise that arrived in Surudain, the more valuable the remaining goods would be. And those would be his.

  The three men were sweating now, though they had never risen from their positions. They were stretching their skills to the limit. A pity, thought Jheheph. Good sorcerers were scarce in the Eastern Deserts. Moreover, those with real talent were seldom for hire; they seemed to have their own methods of making themselves rich. But these would do. If he could make it through the Zyraii web just once without being forced to pay the tithe, all the merchants of the Sea of Azu would flock to be part of his caravans.

  * * * *

  The twins answered Lonal's summons, joining him on the hilltop from which he had chosen to observe the battle. They could see fires burning below them, but not nearly as many as there should have been.

  “They are using sorcery,” Lonal stated.

  Alemar nodded. “They are creating wards around the wagons. Certain magicians have the talent."

  “Whatever it is, it's effective. I need your help."

  Alemar exchanged glances with Elenya. They had been expecting this, ever since they had first detected the spells. They had agreed upon an answer.

  “No."

  Lonal scowled. “You mean you don't have the skill?"

  “No, we could probably do something. We simply don't wish to."

  “I see,” the war-leader said flatly. “You were willing to fight the Buyul."

  “We had no choice. They attacked us."

  “You're trying my patience. If you won't be warriors, you might as well stay in camp and be shepherds."

  “If necessary,” Alemar said.
/>
  Lonal turned toward Elenya and met the same determined refusal in her expression.

  “To hell with you, then,” Lonal told them. “We will fight without your help."

  * * * *

  As Shigmur's oeikani deftly avoided a shrub, the war-second realized how much easier it was to see his surroundings. He glanced to the horizon. Motherworld had risen. He lit one more arrow and let it fly, then retreated out of bowshot. The rest of the Zyraii riders did the same.

  The caravan had suffered, but not greatly. Shigmur had seen some of his own shots swing wide, and knew that his tribe's marksmanship was not to blame. He saw several Zyraii bodies on the ground nearer the wagons, and even more dead oeikani. Their archers were good. Furthermore, the night had never become properly dark. Serpent Moon and Urthey had not set, and now Motherworld was up, bright and more than half-full, with the Sister soon to follow. Not only would they would be easier targets now, but he could see some of the caravan guards mounting their oeikani in order to chase them. It was at this point Lonal had planned the retreat.

  Shigmur waited for the horn notes from the hills. Soon they came. Carry on, they said.

  So be it. Shigmur lifted out another arrow, making sure he got none of the oil on his hands, and reached for his striker. The T'lil began to close in again.

  * * * *

  Why didn't they stop? Jheheph was no longer amused. The barbarians had lost the advantage of the dark. His own mercenaries were out among them now, breaking their formation. Yet the fire arrows kept falling. Suddenly, Jheheph jumped to his feet.

  “That's one of my wagons!” he yelled. His slaves tried to snuff the blaze, but it got away from them. A cargo of rare birds and their cages began to go up in smoke.

  The caravan master ran over to the sorcerers. “Do something!” he cried.

  The thin, effeminate man was startled. The arrow he was warding struck the coach of one of Jheheph's concubines. Jheheph was incensed.