Forbidden Magic

by Angus Wells

  Timber grew thicker here than on the eastern ascent, trees encircling high meadows lush with grass and blue streams tumbling down to join with the wider channel below. Spread out below them they saw the heartland of Kandahar, dense forest presenting a patchwork of myriad greens, sewn with the silver-blue threads of rivers, savannah misty in the distance, the line of the Kannek-mi a ribbon of blackness between land and sky. It was a beautiful vista: it filled Calandryll with sudden remorse.

  He turned in his saddle, eyes swiveling inexorably to the scene of carnage hidden above them.

  “I’ve never …” he paused, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, “… never killed a man.”

  Bracht nodded.

  “The next will be easier.”

  Calandryll was not sure he wanted the next to be easier; not sure he wanted a next to come. He spat, shaking his head as if that physical movement might dislodge the memories of steel biting flesh, of blood, and the screams of dying men, telling himself it was foolish to think he might secure the Arcanum without bloodshed; hypocritical to think that only Bracht’s hands would be stained. It made no difference, and his stomach churned with the knowledge that men had fallen to his blade.

  “Forget them,” Bracht advised. “Do you think they’d spare a thought for you?”

  “I am not them,” he returned.

  “No; for sure you are not.” Bracht smiled, echoing his own thoughts, “But did you believe we’d reach Tezin-dar with blades unblooded? Why did you practice your sword-work, save to use it? This world of ours is a bloody place, and a man does what he must to survive in it.”

  The Kern’s voice was gently earnest: Calandryll showed him a brief smile of gratitude, knowing that he sought only to reassure, to assuage a troubled conscience. He murmured, “But they were not our enemies. They were simply men who happened to be in the wrong place.”

  “Yes,” Bracht said, “in our path. They would not have let us past. They would have killed us, or sent us back to be killed by Sathoman. And then Azumandias would reach Tezin-dar and bring out the book. Would you rather that?”

  “Does it not trouble you?” he asked.

  “No,” Bracht said, bluntly.

  “Do you wait here, engaged in philosophical debate, until they catch their mounts and come after us?”

  Anomius’s question brought his attention back to their immediate plight. He looked to Bracht for advice, and the Kern nodded.

  “Will they pursue us, or wait on Sathoman’s orders?”

  “How many were left?” asked the wizard.

  “I slew five, I think.” Bracht replied. “And wounded more.”

  Calandryll said, “Four.”

  “Then likely they’ll wait on Sathoman.” Anomius beamed, using the tails of his headdress to wipe sweat from his yellow skin. “You did well, my friends—but still I suggest we continue at our best pace.”

  “A day to get down this.” Bracht walked his horse to the road’s edge, studying the way ahead. “And by then Sathoman will know we’ve escaped.”

  “He’ll likely search Kesham-vaj first,” Anomius said, “but when word comes from above he’ll know the road we’ve taken. He’ll not risk pursuing us far into the heartland, but I’ll feel safer once we’re into the woods.”

  “We’ve a day’s advantage, then,” nodded the Kern, “more if he’s unwilling to take the road by night. How many might he send after us?”

  Anomius shrugged. “He’s the Fayne to hold—perhaps the Tyrant’s army marching against him—He’ll not send too many.”

  Bracht expressed his impatience with an irritable gesture.

  “How many is ‘not too many’? Curse you, wizard, I’d know the odds!”

  “A score he could spare,” Anomius replied, equably. “Perhaps thirty.”

  “Thirty on our heels!”

  Bracht’s voice was flat with anger. The sorcerer smiled, showing stained teeth. “You forget you have an ally now,” he said. “One who can deal easily with thirty men.”

  “As you dealt with the twenty up there?” Bracht stabbed a thumb back at the plateau. “I do not remember your helping much there.”

  “As I told you—the raising of fire demons is taxing.” Anomius refused to allow the Kern’s anger to disturb his complacency. “But by dawn my full strength will be returned—I can leave … guardians … behind us.”

  He smiled as he said it, the expression horribly threatening in its confidence; Calandryll wondered what form the wizard’s guardians might take, preferring not to ask.

  “So, shall we descend?” Anomius inquired, as mildly as if he suggested a pleasurable day’s riding. “There are places aplenty to hide below.”

  Without waiting for a reply he heeled his horse, bouncing in the saddle as he commenced the descent, like a bundle of black rags set insecurely on the grey’s back.

  “Sorcerer he may be,” Bracht grunted, “but never a horseman.”

  IT took most of that day to reach the river they had seen, its waters darkening as twilight gathered, night creeping stealthily over the bottomlands, transforming the forest ahead to a looming, shadowy mass, lightless and forbidding. The road ran alongside the river, halting abruptly at a cluster of buildings where lights showed in windows and dogs barked warning of their approach. They reined in, surveying the settlement.

  “There’s a ferry,” Anomius told them, “and a tavern. We’ve the advantage of Sathoman for now, and I’d rest overnight—by dawn my strength will be replenished.”

  “By dawn Sathoman could be riding down that hill,” Bracht objected, “and I’d not lose our advantage.”

  The diminutive sorcerer raised a hand, his voice petulant as he said, “I am not accustomed to riding and I’d take my leisure here.”

  “Ana I’d cross,” said the Kern.

  “Tomorrow,” said Anomius, hand moving to point at Bracht, “and I’d not argue with you.”

  Calandryll heard the threat in his voice and thought of the men who had gone down to that strange fire that burst from the warlock’s fingers. He edged his horse between them, sending Bracht a warning glance. “A night’s comfort is tempting,” he said, “and surely Sathoman cannot catch up so fast.”

  “A diplomat,” Anomius complimented, and turned an oily smile on Bracht. “Come, my friend, what’s one night? We’ll sleep here and cross at dawn. And I’ll ensure Sathoman cannot cross after us.”

  Bracht glanced at Calandryll, then shrugged. “So be it; but we leave at first light.”

  “Good,” Anomius murmured, favoring the Kern with a watery look as he lowered his hand, “such questers as we should not argue. I’ll arrange our quarters and leave the horses to you—you’ve more experience of such matters.”

  He rode imperiously into the courtyard of the inn, where the dogs set up a racket at his arrival. He looked at them as he had looked at Bracht and pointed a finger: yelping, the dogs turned tail and ran.

  “He’d likely have done worse to you,” Calandryll remarked as they watched the little man drop from his horse. “We’d best remember that.”

  “Or leave him behind,” the Kern grunted.

  “How?” Calandryll gestured at the ferry lying idle on the riverbank. “He’ll know if we attempt to cross and use his magic against us.”

  “Then when we can,” Bracht said.

  “Yes, when we can,” Calandryll agreed, “but let him use his powers to aid us first. Let him set this spell to ward our trail and then we’ll flee his company at the first opportunity.”

  Bracht grunted reluctant assent and they led the horses to the stable. A youthful ostler appeared, eyeing them with open curiosity.

  “Are you ek’Hennem men?” he asked nervously. “Word’s out the rebel lord’s abroad up there.”

  His eyes rose to the rim of the plateau, tinged red with the rays of the setting sun. Tinged red, Calandryll thought, with blood. He said, “No. We’re honest travelers in search of beds; no more.”

  “I thought …” the youth
grinned apologetically. “You’ve the look of warriors, the both of you.”

  Bracht chuckled and tossed him a coin. “Rub them down,” he ordered as they pulled their gear from the saddles. “Carefully. And feed them oats.”

  The boy nodded, gathering the reins as they crossed the yard, watched by the dogs lurking warily by the veranda.

  Inside, the tavern was pleasantly cool, unlit logs piled in the hearth, empty save for Anomius and the owner, a fat man, the purpled veins on nose and cheeks attesting to his fondness for his own wares. He brought them tankards of dark ale, lingering by their table, curious as the stable boy, but less easily satisfied.

  “You’ve come from Kesham-vaj?” he asked.

  “Indeed we have.”

  Anomius’s response was swift and amiable, accompanied by a hooding of his pale eyes that clearly warned his companions against speaking up.

  “Heard there’s trouble up there. Heard Sathoman ek’Hennem’s gone to war.”

  “From whom?”

  The landlord assumed a vague expression, hands wiping absently on his stained apron. “Folks,” he shrugged. “Folks say he’s raised an army and plans to take the Fayne. Not that he doesn’t own it already. More or less.”

  “And how do you feel about such a claim?”

  “He’s welcome to it.” The landlord studied them as if weighing where their sympathies lay. “His father was Lord of the Fayne and he’s that right by blood. Battle of the Stone Field or no.”

  Anomius smiled pleasantly.

  “Of course, the Tyrant feels different,” the man continued, encouraged by the wizard’s smile, “and I’ve heard he’s got an army marching against Sathoman. The lictor was out of Bhalusteen this week past, talking about raising levies.”

  “Successfully?”

  The landlord answered the question with a wink, a finger to veined nose.

  “Down here we mind our own business. The Tyrant wants to go to war with Sathoman, let them fight it out themselves, we say. The Tyrant’s got his warlocks to call on—why’d he heed ordinary folk?”

  “Does Sathoman not employ a wizard?” Anomius asked, his parchment features radiating innocent curiosity.

  “That he does, and a mighty powerful one, I’ve heard.” The answer spread Anomius’s smile wider across his face. “They say he’s a giant. He breathes flame and fights with a huge ax and magic, both. If you came by way of Kesham-vaj you’re lucky you didn’t cross his path. You did say you came that way?”

  “We did. But there was no sign of fighting—the town was quiet.”

  “Just shows, doesn’t it?” the landlord remarked, shaking his head. “Rumors get started and folk start worrying about nothing. I saw you three come in and I began to wonder if you weren’t ek’Hennem men, looking the way you do. No offense, friends.”

  “Nor any taken,” the wizard smiled. “We’re merely travelers. I hope to conduct business in Nhur-jabal and these are my bodyguards.”

  The landlord nodded, eyeing Bracht and Calandryll.

  “Well, they look tough enough—and if they brought you safe across the Fayne, they must be good at their work. You saw no sign of Sathoman?”

  “None. Perhaps he lurks in Fayne Keep, awaiting the Tyrant’s army.”

  “Be hard to winkle him out from that fortress. Still, if there is an army on its way I should turn a coin or two.”

  “Indeed,” Anomius murmured, “and more from us if you’ve baths to offer. We’d wash the trail away and spend the night. In the morning we’ll heed the ferry.”

  “I’ve rooms and baths, and the ferry crosses at dawn.” The fat man’s chins wobbled as he nodded, inquiries diverted by the prospect of profit. “And I can offer you a better meal than anything in Kesham-vaj. With a fine selection of wines, too.”

  “I knew,” Anomius said, beaming at Calandryll and Bracht, “that this would be the place to pass the night.”

  “Only place between Kesham-vaj and Bhalusteen,” the landlord chuckled, “unless you want a bed in some forester’s cottage.”

  He removed himself then, bustling off to arrange their baths and the meal. Anomius’s smile faded as he left, a frown creasing his sallow brow.

  “If there’s truth in his story,” he murmured, “we must avoid this army. The Tyrant will send sorcerers, and sorcerers will recognize me for one of their own.”

  “A fire-breathing giant?” Bracht asked, his voice bland. “An ax-wielder?”

  “Rumors have their uses,” the wizard responded, ignoring the freesword’s mocking tone. “But another mage will know me on the instant; and ranked against several, even I might lose the battle. We must avoid this army—if it does exist.”

  “It must surely march from Nhur-jabal,” Calandryll suggested, “and there’s but the one road suitable to so large a force. How can we avoid it when we must pass through Nhur-jabal to reach Kharasul? Unless you use magic.”

  “How so?” asked Anomius. “The very use must reveal me.”

  “Lord Varent used a spell by which he traveled on the instant,” Calandryll said. “Unseen from one place to another.”

  Anomius sniffed noisily, lips downturned.

  “The occult talent manifests in many guises,” he returned, “and no mage possesses exactly the same powers as another. My own skill—as you’ve seen—is for aggressive magic. From what you’ve said of this Varent, I’d hazard a guess his talent is defensive—likely the reason he hesitated to pursue the grimoire himself. No, I cannot transport us to Kharasul by occult means.”

  “Then we must ride careful,” Bracht offered.

  “And beware the Tyrant’s puppets,” Anomius nodded, turning to smile at Calandryll, “for they’ll sense the power in that stone our young friend wears as readily as they sense mine. And he’ll suffer the same fate.”

  “But I’m no mage,” Calandryll protested.

  “But you have a latent talent,” insisted the wizard, “and they’ll see it in you and offer you the choice I rejected: lifelong service to the Tyrant or immediate execution.”

  Calandryll frowned, both alarmed and intrigued by the wizard’s statement. Bracht had made the same suggestion, back on the Sea Dancer after the waterspout had taken the warboat, and he had rejected it. Now, for the second time, Anomius had told him he possessed occult talent; and now, even though he was unsure he agreed, and had not an inkling of how to employ such talent if it did exist, it seemed the very suspicion must put him at risk. He turned to the wizard, about to question him, but the landlord appeared again, forestalling such potentially dangerous conversation.

  THE bowls of soup set before them served as well as his presence to curtail any discussion. The rich, gamy odor reminding them all of hunger so that they ate in silence, concentrating on the food. Trout fresh from the river followed, and then thick steaks of venison, finally wild strawberries, all washed down with wine that was, as the fat man had promised, of excellent vintage. Folk from the little settlement came in as they ate, respecting their privacy until they had finished, but then plying them with questions as to the affairs of the Fayne. Calandryll and Bracht were content to play the parts assigned them by Anomius, leaving the mage to answer, learning more of the affairs of Kandahar as they sipped wine, listening.

  The domain claimed by Sathoman ended on the plateau and they were now in the province called the Ryde, its capital Bhalusteen; beyond that the Kyre, ruled by the Tyrant’s city, Nhur-jabal. The Ryde was mostly woodland, peopled by hunters and foresters, whose regard for Tyrant and Sathoman alike was, it seemed, warily contemptuous. The lictor’s attempts at raising levies were laughed at, though the notion of an army marching through the woods seemed to irritate them. That Anomius and his “bodyguards” had crossed the Fayne without difficulty surprised them, but they took it to mean the rumors of war were unfounded, turning to grumble amongst themselves at the intrusion of the Tyrant’s army. That, it appeared, was no rumor. Finally they exhausted their inquiries and the travelers were left in peace to take their bath
s and find their beds.

  Calandryll had hoped for an opportunity to speak alone with Bracht, to formulate some plan to rid them of Anomius, but the landlord escorted them all to a single room, where three beds were made ready, and the wizard declared himself satisfied with that arrangement.

  He smiled as the door closed, wandering, murmuring, from portal to window, hands tracing elaborate patterns that set the red stone to flickering and filled the chamber with the smell of almonds.

  “So,” he beamed when he was done, “we are secure. I trust you’ll not argue my precautions, but I’d not have you flee in the night.”

  “What have you done?” demanded Bracht, his dislike of magic showing on his face.

  “A few simple spells, my friend,” Anomius informed him, loosing his grubby robe to reveal a no less grubby shirt beneath. “No one may enter; or leave. And one other—having observed our young companion in battle, I find myself less confident of the delicacy of his ethics, so in the event that he overcome his natural scruples and seek to slay me while I sleep, I’ve augmented the spell already set on you, requiring you to protect me.”

  “Against Calandryll?” Bracht shook his head. “I’d not turn my blade against Calandryll.”

  Anomius tugged off his boots. His legs were paler than his face, like old parchment left too long in lightless rooms. Beneath his shirt a paunch swelled, prompting Calandryll to think of a small, ugly toad.

  “But you will,” he declared confidently, “for you’ll have no choice. Should Calandryll attack me, you’ll slay him.”

  Bracht stared at the wizard, his tanned face a mask of rage; Calandryll saw a hand drop to the falchion and said, “I’ll not attack you, Anomius. Do we not heed one another?”

  “I need you to lead me to the grimoire,” the wizard nodded, unwinding his headdress, “and without me, you’ve little chance of crossing Kandahar safely. But still …”

  “I’ve no great love for magic,” Bracht said angrily, “and less for spells set on me.”

  “Perhaps when I trust you,” Anomius replied, ‘1 shall remove it. But until such time, I fear you must suffer the ensorcellment. Now I bid you good night.”