Forbidden Magic

by Angus Wells

  Bracht was the first to wake when Anomius came again, nudging Calandryll until he stirred from a fitful dream of fiery monsters and trees that spoke, to open bleary eyes on the small figure of the warlock standing in the doorway. Instinctively, he glanced at the red stone, and saw that it held no glow to reveal magic, guessing from that the door spell was removed.

  Anomius tapped a warning finger to his fleshy lips and beckoned them to their feet.

  “Sathoman celebrates his victory still,” the warlock murmured, “and most of his men are drunk. This is, I think, a most propitious time to leave. But first …”

  He moved his hands, muttering, a finger extending toward Bracht. The Kern sprang back, mouthing a curse, then shook his head, eyes glazing momentarily. Anomius smiled amiably. Calandryll saw the stone flicker.

  “A simple spell, my friend. We have a journey to go, we three, and I’d not chance your forgetting your vow.”

  “Curse you!” Bracht snarled. “What have you done to me?”

  “A geas, no more,” Anomius said. “I’d place the same upon Calandryll, save that the stone prevents me.”

  “What have you done to me?” Bracht repeated furiously, hand fastening on the falchion’s hilt.

  “Draw that—or any other weapon—against me,” the wizard beamed, “and you must turn the blade on Calandryll. Attempt to slay me, and your comrade dies.”

  The Kern stared at him, rage etched on his face. Calandryll said, “And I? Should I come against you?”

  Anomius studied him, still smiling, and shook his head.

  “Your ethics are … less pragmatic … than those of Cuan na’For, Calandryll den Karynth. I doubt you’re the man to slit my throat whilst I sleep, or slide a blade between my ribs as my back turns.”

  “You insult me,” Bracht rasped.

  “I take no more than understandable precautions,” Anomius replied evenly. “After all, do you not betray Varent den Tarl? You heed me to escape Sathoman’s vengeance, but after? What guarantee—other than your word, which you no doubt gave to your former employer, too—do I have that you’ll not betray me likewise?”

  His argument—given that they had, not long ago, discussed his murder—was irrefutable. Calandryll could think of no counter; Bracht’s lips clamped tight, his eyes blazing dangerously.

  “This is no time to debate the matter,” Anomius declared. “We ride together and I’ll protect myself—accept it, or remain here. Likely Sathoman will remember you when he sobers; if you prefer to await his justice …” He shrugged. “If not, then let’s be gone. I’ve horses waiting and I’d distance myself from Kesham-vaj before my lord learns of my departure. Which is it to be?”

  Calandryll glanced at Bracht: the Kern shrugged.

  “We ride.”

  “Then come,” said Anomius, beckoning: they followed the sorcerer from the shed.

  The fires, no longer fueled by Anomius’s magic and damped by the steady rain, smoldered fitfully now. Thick banks of cloud masked the sky above the plateau, the moon losing its struggle to pierce the canopy, the ground before Kesham-vaj dark. Those few of ek’Hennem’s men not carousing within the town sheltered in their tents, and the three fugitives reached the horses unnoticed. Bracht’s chestnut and Calandryll’s roan snickered greetings as they stowed their gear behind the saddles, the Kern taking time to check each animal before they mounted. Anomius hauled himself laboriously astride a dark grey gelding and led the way out of the encampment.

  They moved at a walk for fear of calling attention down on their escape, past empty tents, the spitting remnants of a bonfire, a line of picketed animals stamping fretful in the rain. Drizzle and darkness were their allies, those and the victory that relaxed the brigands’ vigilance, the slow clopping of the hooves muffled by wet ground and the susurration of the rain, the handful of sentries still posted along the perimeter huddling under cover, consoling themselves with ale and wine brought them by sympathetic comrades. They circled the tents to put Kesham-vaj at their backs, crossing fields deserted with the coming of the rebel army, farmhouses standing dark and empty, the animals eaten by ek’Hennem’s army. When the town was no more than a blur of light behind, they angled toward the road, quickening their pace.

  “How long before we’re missed?” Bracht shouted through the rain hiss and hoofbeats.

  Anomius, none too happy with their speed, wiped a hand over his face and answered, “Morning, perhaps. If we’re lucky, noon or later.”

  “Shall we be off this highland by then?” asked the Kern.

  The wizard nodded. “If we ride all night. And if we can pass the sentinels.”

  “Sentinels?” Bracht swung his chestnut closer to the grey. “What sentinels?”

  “Sathoman has twenty men posted at the western edge,” the wizard said. “To watch and warn against attack.”

  “Ahrd damn you!” Bracht cursed. “You said nothing of watchers there.”

  “Can you not use magic against them?” asked Calandryll.

  “No major conjuration.” Anomius shook his head. “I raised fire demons today, and that takes a toll. That and quelling my opponent’s counterspells. I can work no major sorceries until my strength is recovered.”

  “You set a spell on me,” Bracht said. “Or was that a lie?”

  “No lie,” Anomius returned, “but a small spell. To overcome a score of men—or bring us past them unseen—is more than I can do now.”

  “Is there another way down?”

  Calandryll saw their escape ending soon after it had begun as the wizard shook his head again and said, “Not off this highland. Only the Tyrant’s road. But another way … perhaps.”

  He loosed his left hand from its nervous grip on the saddle horn just long enough to gesture at his pack.

  “I have a bow. By night … they’ll not expect attack from this quarter.”

  “You’d see your comrades slain?”

  Calandryll stared at the sorcerer’s face, glistening in the rain, feeling a loathing for this unwelcome ally.

  “I’d have the grimoire,” Anomius replied, unmoved. “If a handful of outlaws must die for that, so be it.”

  “And when Sathoman learns of it?”

  Bracht felt no compunction: Calandryll realized that Anomius had been correct in his assessment of their ethical differences.

  “He’ll not for a day, at least,” said the wizard; then grinned maliciously, “and when he does—and finds us gone—he’ll likely assume you succeeded in forcing me to free you.”

  “And send men after us,” snapped the Kern. “If we’re alive to chase.”

  “Of course,” Anomius agreed, “but by then we’ll be off this highland and there are places to hide below. And my strength will be restored—you heed only concern yourselves with the men ahead.”

  “You’ve much faith in my sword skill,” Bracht grunted.

  “We’ll find a way,” Anomius replied evenly. “Between us, we’ll find a way.”

  Bracht mouthed a curse that went unheard in the night. Calandryll, riding on Anomius’s left, looked across the sorcerer at the Kern. Bracht’s face was cold and hard, resolved, as if the attacking of twenty men was already accepted and he thought only of the doing of it, that and the heed to get down off this open plateau to the hiding places of the land below.

  They rode on, Bracht setting the pace, Anomius bouncing uncomfortably in the grey’s saddle, a miserable bundle of dark, rain-sodden clothes, silent now that the decision was made. Calandryll thought of his words: “I can work no major sorceries until my strength is recovered.” Perhaps that offered some hope of escaping his clutches—if the working of conjurations exhausted him to the point at which he could fashion only simple spells, then perhaps they might flee him at some time when his occult powers ebbed low. Perhaps: for now there was the problem of passing the sentinels to consider. Twenty, Anomius had said. Bracht could hardly take twenty men with the bow: likely it would come to swordwork. It came to him that he had never killed a man. He b
egan to wonder if he could.

  As the night gave way to dawn he found out.

  KESHAM-VAJ lay lost in the darkness behind them, the land around stretching flat, broken only by the half-seen shapes of windblown trees, the plateau’s rim was hidden in the softening grey that marked the transition between night and day. The rain had ceased, the air cool, fresh with the pleasant scent of wet grass. Anomius slowed his mount, raising a cautious hand.

  “We approach the descent. Sathoman’s men may hear the horses.”

  Bracht reined in, Calandryll following suit as the Kern swung to the ground.

  “Give me the bow.”

  Anomius groaned as he hiked an awkward leg over his saddle and slid down, reaching up to slide the bow from its wrappings on his saddle. It was heavy-curved, like those Denphat and Jedomus had carried, short enough to be used effectively from horseback. Bracht took it and bent it against his knee, settling the loose string in place. Anomius passed him a quiver of twelve arrows and the Kern examined each one, sighting down the shafts and checking the fletching. He pronounced himself satisfied and turned to the wizard.

  “Where will they be?”

  “The road’s edge is marked by a pillar,” Anomius said, “Like that where you found Arrhiman and Laphyl. Beyond the pillar the road descends steeply, through a cut. Before the rim, the ground is open for half a bow shot. They’ll be there.”

  “Armored?”

  “Yes,” Anomius nodded, “but that bow can pierce armor.”

  “Not fast enough,” Bracht grunted, “but perhaps enough to divert them. Is there any magic you can use against them?”

  “Some,” the wizard admitted. “But minor spells that I can work only at close range against single men.”

  “Then we must ride through them.” Bracht’s face was grim in the pale grey light. “Calandryll, your task is to scatter their horses. Likely they’ll be on a picket line—get close and send them running. Then return here. Sorcerer, you’ll wait with our mounts ready. When Calandryll returns, you both come fast.”

  “And you?” Calandryll asked.

  “I’ll do what I can to confuse them and meet you on the rim. Come forward at full gallop. Anomius—you’ll use what magic you can then.”

  The wizard nodded. Calandryll said, “What if you’re … delayed?”

  Bracht grinned, shrugging. “Leave that worry to me, my friend,” he advised. “Once the horses are scattered you heed only make the road. If worst comes to worst, I’ll meet you lower down. If not … go on.” He cut short Calandryll’s protest with a curt gesture, turning to Anomius. “Wait here, sorcerer. Keep the horses quiet if you can.”

  He beckoned to Calandryll, nocking a shaft. Calandryll flung the black cloak across his saddle and drew his sword. His mouth was dry and in his stomach something rebelled, fluttering nervously. Bracht smiled, tightly, and began to move down the road.

  A little way along they heard the muted sounds of a waking camp; the snorting of tethered horses and the low-voiced conversation of the guards; saw the dull glimmer of a fire; the dark bulk of a stone column thrusting against the brightening sky. Bracht raised a hand, pointing to the road’s edge.

  “The horses are there. Use Varent’s spell if you must, but turn them loose and set them running. I’ll come at them from the farther side.”

  Calandryll nodded silently. Bracht placed a hand on his right shoulder, staring at his face.

  “They’ll not let us past, do you understand?” His voice was soft, but urgent. “Likely they’ll be grouped tight—when I fire, they’ll scatter, and some may come after the animals. Kill them. Those left will be on our heels—or carry word to Sathoman.”

  Calandryll ducked his head once, not trusting himself to speak.

  “Leave me time to get close,” Bracht said, “and loose the horses when the first man falls.”

  He moved swiftly across the road, disappearing into the undergrowth. Calandryll mouthed the words Varent had taught him and felt his skin tingle briefly, the scent of almonds mingling with the freshness of the morning. He began to pace through bushes glistening silvery with raindrops, crouching sword in hand, eyes and ears straining. Birds began to sing, welcoming the dawn, and the rising sun limned the eastern sky with red and gold, its light driving off the insubstantial grey. That cleared to reveal a column of dark stone set beside the road where it fell away from the plateau, hidden by the rim. At the foot of the column the fire flared as branches were added, the sleeping watchers rising, shaking water from their bedding. One walked around the column to fumble with his breeks. Calandryll heard him sigh as he began to relieve himself. Two others busied themselves about the fire and those who had taken the last watch flung themselves down close to the warmth. He saw the horses pegged some little distance off, snickering a greeting to the light, and crept toward them.

  There was no warning of Bracht’s attack, only the dull thudding sound of an arrow striking home, the exhalation of the man standing by the column as he pitched forward, a shaft protruding between his shoulders. He struck the stone and fell sideways into a bush, the shrubbery supporting him so that he hung with one arm outflung as if in supplication; or accusation. A man by the fire glanced up, his view obscured by the pillar. Calandryll saw him clearly, a short, plump-featured man, streaks of grey in his black beard, his breastplate decorated with a blue sea horse. He frowned, rising, and stepped a few paces out, peering toward his fallen comrade. Calandryll saw his eyes widen in alarm and his mouth open to shout a warning cut short by the shaft that suddenly jutted from his chest. He toppled backward, across the fire, sparks scattering as his companions yelled and drew their swords. He broke clear of the bushes and ran for the horses.

  They sensed his presence and set to stamping, tugging on the picket line. He slashed it through, hacking to right and left, severing the individual ropes, careless of the plunging hooves, the screaming of the panicked animals. He waved his arms, forgetting they could not see him, and used the flat of his blade to send them charging clear.

  A Kand screamed shrilly as an arrow pierced his throat; another fell with a shaft buried deep in his ribs. Three ran toward the scattering horses, one succeeding in snatching up the trailing line. Calandryll charged him, sword raised, slashing the hand that held the horse, reversing the cut to send the man down with bloodied face, spinning to attack the others, who gaped and flailed their blades wildly at their invisible opponent.

  He slew them both, mercilessly, all notions of honor forgotten in the urgency of the moment, remembering he was unseen only when they lay dead at his feet. Then disgust gripped him and he voiced the counterspell, becoming visible again. He began to run back down the road, to where Anomius waited, his black-swathed shape clear now in the burgeoning light.

  Suddenly he was confronted by burly Kand wielding a saber, a buckler of dragon hide thrust before his torso. He snarled, eyes furious beneath the green headdress he wore, and swung the saber in a vicious arc at Calandryll’s head. Calandryll parried the blow and riposted, his sword turned by the shield. He deflected a second cut, sliding his blade in over the Kand’s sword arm to prick the unarmored shoulder. The brigand fell back behind his shield: Calandryll pressed the attack.

  He felt no compunction now, no hesitation: this was honest combat, man to man, both visible, and a fury gripped him as he moved forward, intent only on removing this obstacle to his freedom. He cut at the brigand’s head and ducked the counterstroke, driving the straight-sword in at the belly, below the cuirass. The Kand danced back, and Calandryll feinted an attack to bring the shield out, using that opening to hack at the exposed chest. His blade scored the leathery armor and he darted clear as the saber threatened his side, turning, spinning, to slash the man’s sword arm. It dropped and he drove his blade in hard, into the Kand’s side. The brigand yelped as the steel bit home; Calandryll twisted the blade free and cut deep into the man’s heck, stepping back as he fell, the morning abruptly bright with the blood that jetted from the wound. He watched as
the brigand went down on hands and knees, shaking his head as though realization of his dying came slowly, perhaps not before he slumped facedown, still.

  Calandryll left him where he lay, running to the wizard, already in the saddle, springing astride the roan and seizing the reins of Bracht’s horse. His heels rammed against the roan’s flanks and the gelding sprang forward, the chestnut snorting a protest as the reins snapped tight. He was dimly aware of Anomius beside him as he sent his mount headlong for the pillar, seeing Bracht come running from the bushes, the falchion a glittering thing that sent two brigands down as the Kern reached the road.

  He slowed enough that Bracht could mount on the run and they galloped toward the rim, where the road fell out of sight.

  More brigands blocked their way and for long moments all was confusion, shouting men struck down by charging horses, swords, and the fire that sparkled from Anomius’s outflung hand. Then they were past the pillar and thundering down a road that dropped away from the rim of the plateau in a steep descent that called for concentration as the horses squealed and fought against the reins, dangerously close to tumbling on the gradient. Arrows whistled past them, rattling off the sheer faces to either side, and they crouched low until they rounded a slight curve and found the protection of the scarp.

  The sun had topped the eastern edge of the highland now and they could see they went down a cut, the road masoned from naked stone, high walls rising to either side, ending on a sweeping shelf where the slope grew gentler, the road winding down to a broad river at the plateau’s foot.

  They took it at a run, slowing only when trees set a barrier at their backs, halting the near-winded horses when Bracht declared them out of arrow’s range.