Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  "Is such his name? I had thought none lived so long."

  "He changes shape/' said Katya. "His presence became known to the holy men of Vanu. He has lived for centuries, taking one body after another. He has the form of a Jesseryte now."

  "Horul!" Ochen shook his head. "And you quest after him?"

  "He tricked us." Calandryll encompassed Bracht, Katya, with a glance. "We found the way to Tezin- dar—that we might secure the Arcanum and bring it to Vanu, that the holy men might destroy it—but Rhythamun duped us and seized the book. We three have followed him since. We made a vow, to the Guardians of Tezin-dar."

  "And now he is on the Jesseryn Plain." Ochen looked to Temchen, Chazali, whose faces sat grim. "And even in his limbo, Tharn senses his coming and lends what aid he may. War in Kandahar, you say? The Domm of Lysse waxing bellicose? Tharn calls for blood and his lust shakes the world."

  "Cennaire knows his face—Rhythamun's." Calandryll nodded in the direction of the Kand woman. "Do you lend us your aid, perhaps we may catch him."

  "Perhaps." Ochen fixed Cennaire with a hooded stare. "Perhaps it is not so easy."

  "You would not aid us?"

  The mage turned to Bracht and said, "Warrior, I promise you all the aid it is in my power to command. But that may not be enough. No, wait." The same authority that earlier had stilled sword strokes rang in his voice: Bracht frowned, quenching whatever comment formed. "I have told you that your coming was foreseen, and so it was—that three should enter this land in friendship—but Tharn moves to cloud the aethyr, camouflaging his disciple's purpose, easing the passage of this Rhythamun.

  "For that reason were you brought to me bound, gagged—for fear you were not those scried, but agents of that other. This land is closer than most to that limbo the god now occupies—we are not immune to his fell workings"—a bitter laugh interrupted his discourse—"no; though since the Great Khan fell we had thought it so. Aye, Bracht, we looked to invade your land then. Because the Khan was tainted by Tharn's dreaming magicks, and led his clan out from Kesh-teng to conquer all the Plain and bring all the clans under his single rule. For a while he enjoyed success, but then the wazirs of that time, and such clans as escaped the taint, fought him. And won—Kesh-teng exists no longer! It was razed, and only dust remains. We believed such threat could never again bespoil the Plain. But we were wrong—like Kandahar, we fight a war."

  Sorrow, and more than a little anger, etched the lines upon his face deeper then, and his voice faltered, as if this announcement pained him beyond speaking. He dropped his head, motioning for Chazali to continue.

  The kiriwashen said, "The tengs of Zaq, Fechin, and Bachan form an alliance. Pamur-teng, Ozali- teng, and Anwar-teng stand in opposition. A madness stalks our land: the rebel horde now closes on Anwar-teng."

  Anwar, Calandryll realized, meant "the Gate." An ugly suspicion stirred: he asked, "What importance does Anwar-teng have?"

  Ochen composed himself with visible effort, taking up the tale again. "With the ending of the Great Khan's tyranny the land was, for some while, in disarray. Families vied for supremacy, outlaw bands roamed at will. Order was restored only when the wazir-narimasu—the greatest of the sorcerer- priests—leant their support to the Soto-Imjen, declaring that clan supreme by birth and blood. Even then, that the Soto-Imjen should not wax prideful as had the Great Khan, the clan was required to renounce its ancestral hold and reside in Anwar-teng, sworn to the defense of that place. They took up residence in the holy city, peace reigned . . ." He paused, barked a single, bitter laugh. "Until recently! But I run ahead of my tale—that none should again seek to establish himself supreme, it - was decreed that while the Khan should be of the Soto-Imjen, each hold should send representatives— Shendii—to Anwar-teng to sit in the Mahzlen, the Great Council, advised by the wazir-narimasu. Our Khan is now Akija Soto-Imjen, who is but seven years of age. Therefore, a regent was named— Nazichi Ojen-Canusi, of Bachan-teng—which was thought a wise decision until Nazichi declared himself Khan! He looks to establish the Canusi in place of our rightful ruler, and in his support the representatives of Zaq-teng, Fechin-teng, and Bachan- teng withdrew from the Mahzlen. Now the armies of those holds march out in battle array.

  "Anwar-teng lies under siege. Do the insurrectionists take that place, then they possess a dreadful threat to hold over those loyal to the Soto-Imjen and the Mahzlen."

  "The loyal Shendii would die in battle first," Chazali declared, his voice dour as his face. "Or take their own lives before surrender."

  "Whichever," Ochen said, "chaos must surely follow. Do the rebels take Anwar-teng, they will next move against Pamur-teng and Ozali-teng. Such bloodshed must be food and drink to Tharn; and such warfare must render the finding of this Rhythamun mightily difficult."

  "Ahrd!" Bracht's voice was soft. "We ride into another war."

  "But you say Anwar-teng houses these wazir- narimasu/" Calandryll said, "and that they are your most powerful sorcerers. Can they not defeat the attackers?"

  "Were it so simple." Ochen spread helpless hands. "But the wazir-narimasu are sworn to peace. Theirs is another duty, and they are bound by such gramaryes as divest them of all power do they turn to warfare. Thus are they helpless in this matter."

  Calandryll was about to speak, to put another question, but Bracht forestalled him. "And you," the Kern demanded, "the wazirs like you—are you so bound?"

  "No." The old man shook his head. "We may use our talents in hostile manner,* though we prefer we should not."

  "Save those traitors with the rebellious tengs," Chazali grunted. "Their conscience is not so fine."

  "Then why," Bracht began, halting as Ochen once more raised a hand, anticipating the question.

  "Fd ride with the loyal armies," the wazir declared, "as would Chazali and Temchen, were there not other matters—likely of greater import. This keep"—he waved a hand, indicating the chamber, the walls beyond—"is manned by one hundred chosen men. By turn and turn about each teng sends a century to guard the Daggan Vhe. For this turn, it was the task of Pamur-teng, which sent its soldiers honestly. A century of warriors out of Pamur-teng occupied this keep—all are dead now. Slain by fell wizardry.

  "Your coming, as I have told you, was scried. A messenger was sent, to alert the kutushen here that you might be met and brought to me. No word came back, and with my art I saw slaughter done. It was obscure—clouded by Tharn's design, I believe!—but of such a magnitude that Chazali deemed it wise to come here. We found only corpses, a keep held by occult creatures."

  "Rhythamun warded his back!" gasped Calandryll.

  "So it would seem." Ochen spoke gravely. "There were such creatures in possession as took all my power to defeat, and not a few lives."

  "They slew fifty of my warriors," Chazali added, grim-voiced. "And my men do not die easily."

  "But Rhythamun was recently shape-shifted," Katya protested, looking from kiriwashen to wazir. "And that must surely weaken him. How was it possible he could raise such things?"

  "It is my belief," Ochen replied in somber tones, "that as he draws closer to Tharn, so his strength waxes. No less, as all the world—or so it seems— turns warward, so does the Mad God's dreaming power increase. The disciple feeds his master and the master strengthens the disciple. Close as this land is to Tharn's limbo, the war we fight must greatly aid him."

  "And make our way harder," Bracht offered.

  "Wait, please." Questions swarmed in Calandryll's mind, like troubled bees, fast buzzing, so that it was difficult to find the words that might dispel his growing alarm. It seemed a pressure built within the confines of his skull, a dull ache starting there, and he rubbed at his temples, frowning. "Cennaire saw Rhythamun take the form of a Jesseryte warrior, saw him summon men across the Daggan Vhe. They must have come from here, no? So it must be the body of a warrior out of Pamur-teng he possesses. Shall you not know him, then?"

  Ochen might have shrugged—beneath the widespread shoulders of his tunic it was hard to te
ll— and answered bluntly, sadly, "The men we found were riven, butchered like meat: they were beyond recognizing one from the other. And this Rhythamun did not linger—I'd know—but traveled on about his filthy purpose."

  "To the Borrhun-maj?" Calandryll stared at the seamed face, wondering why his head pounded so. "Or to some other place?"

  Before Ochen had chance to reply, Bracht spoke: "Shall this war not slow him? If he wears the body of a warrior out of Pamur-teng, then must he not find himself ranked with others? Forced to play a part?"

  "Perhaps. But that shall be no great hardship, nor much hindrance. Does he but play the part of simple warrior, then he must find himself marching northward—to the relief of Anwar-teng—and that is the direction he seeks, is it not?"

  Bracht mouthed a curse, scowling reluctant agreement. Katya frowned and asked, "Shall your fellow sorcerers not scry him for what he is, and employ their powers to thwart him?"

  "It may be so," Ochen replied. "I pray it be so! But I fear the god he seeks to raise will strengthen those magicks with which he conceals himself. He may well defeat such scrying; defeat their power, even."

  "Then when the army of Pamur-teng joins with the others," asked the warrior woman, "shall there not then be sufficient wazirs as shall know him and defeat him?"

  "Then, aye," Ochen conceded. "But then he shall stand even closer to his master, his strength duly augmented. And in the midst of battle it cannot be difficult for him to elude pursuit. And it is entirely possible those wazirs of the hostile tengs might aid him, should he go to them."

  "Knowing what he is?" Katya's eyes grew wide, aghast at the notion. "Knowing what he would do?"

  "They move against Anwar-teng," Ochen said slowly, "and that alone is a madness surely born of Tharn's influence. Be they seduced by the god, then perhaps . . . aye, they might."

  Storm built afresh in the grey eyes; it seemed, almost, lightning flashed there as Katya shook her head in horrified denial, frightened acceptance. "Is all the world gone mad?" she whispered.

  "Perhaps," came the sorcerer-priest's answer, "save for a few still sane. See you now why I set these protections about us?"

  Katya nodded; Calandryll fought the throbbing pain inside his head to say: "All roads, it seems, lead to Anwar-teng. Why?"

  Ochen paused, his expression troubled. Calandryll heard the soft intake of Temchen's breath, saw Chazali's impassive features stiffen, and guessed he struck to the heart of the matter. He waited, shafts of stabbing pain behind his eyes, as the mage looked to the kiriwashen, to the kutushen, wishing he knew better how to read those inscrutable visages, for he sensed hesitation, a heartbeat of doubt, as though this were a matter they would prefer be left alone. He saw Chazali incline his head a fraction—granting permission? Agreeing whatever unseen question he read in Ochen's look? Calandryll was unsure. In a voice calmer than he felt, he said, pressing, "Truth was promised between us, an honest exchange."

  "Aye." Ochen turned to face him, solemn. "That was so, and truth you shall have—though none others beyond our lands, and none too many here, have ever been granted this revelation.

  "The Borrhun-maj is but one entryway to that limbo where the Mad God lies. Anwar-teng guards another."

  4

  The light entering from the circular opening in the roof no longer a vertical column pooling over the angles of the table, but slanted now, limning Ochen with dramatic intensity. His silver hair glittered, the lines mapping his ancient face deepened, emphasizing the gravity of his expression. Calandryll stared at him, struck momentarily dumb, numbed by the import of the aged sorcerer's announcement. The drumming ache within his skull grew worse and he closed his eyes an instant against the pain. Motes of dust danced in the light; silence hung heavy in the chamber. It was Katya who broke it, her voice somber.

  "If Anwar-teng is a gateway ... if Rhythamun should reach it ..."

  She broke off, eyes wide, fearful. Bracht took up the stream of her thought, his voice harsh: "He's won! And he might well change his shape again, ensuring he stands on the victor's side. Rebel or loyal . . . Ahrd! It can make little difference to him. He needs but enter the city.”

  "And reach the gate."

  Katya spoke softly, awed, and it seemed to Calandryll her words came muffled, slow as the sonorous beat of a distant drum, pounding against his senses, each syllable striking a fresh spark of agony. He thought his skull must burst- and stretched his jaw to fashion a response that came out a strangled moan. The pain consumed him, and he felt his muscles gripped with a strange torpor, his vision clouding, as if blood vessels burst behind his eyes, so that faces, the sunlight, blurred into a misty red. He fought a terrible lassitude, despondent thoughts filling his head. He had believed they found valuable allies in their quest, such men as could speed their passage across the Jesseryn Plain, bring them to Rhythamun. With Ochen's aid and all the might of Chazali's warriors at their back it had seemed they had at last an advantage, such as could grant them the upper hand in that ultimate confrontation. Now all that was dashed, the tables, so it seemed, once more turned in favor of their quarry. For all the Younger Gods gave what help they could, still there seemed a greater design worked to hinder them, to advance Rhythamun on his way. With hostile armies marching, Anwar-teng besieged, how could they hope to find the warlock? How prevent him broaching the gate? Once more the odds seemed impossible, too great to dare hope. For a dismal while he thought perhaps they had better concede the victory—there seemed scant likelihood now of thwarting Rhythamun's foul intent.

  He struggled against the assailing doubts and it was as though he battled with hot and bloody fog, tendrils of awful despair swirling, mocking, reassembling even as he sought to drive them off. The chamber dimmed before his eyes, Ochen's face no longer lit but lost, all become ensanguined, mias- mic, hopeless, and he trapped there, a helpless fly in some painful psychic web.

  He groaned, starting, as he became aware of a hand upon his shoulder, firm, that touch like a rope thrown to a drowning man, faint words cutting through the pain.

  "What ails you?"

  He heard Bracht's voice as if from a great distance and shook his head, unable to form an answer, feeling sweat cold down his back, the aching pressure of tight-clenched teeth, overwhelming despair.

  "Gramaryes."

  That was Ochen's voice, faint as a whisper, followed by light and the indistinct mumble of words in a tongue unfamiliar. The bloody fog dissipated and his vision cleared, sharpened, until he saw the mage on his feet, hands moving in strange, intricate patterns, seeming to paint sigils on the empty air. The scent of almonds wafted sweet and he was unsure whether he truly saw streamers of crimson brume dull and fade, or if that was merely an imposition of a mind that demanded physical explanation of the inexplicable. He watched with tear-blurred eyes as the sorcerer completed his incantation, clapped his hands three times, and resumed his seat.

  "I should have foreseen this cunning. He left more than monsters behind." Ochen drew the wine jug closer, filled Calandryll's cup, pressed shaking hands about the porcelain. "For those who stand close to the occult, he left other devices. But gone now,- from this chamber, at least, and soon from all the keep."

  Calandryll held the cup in both his hands, wondering at the effort it took to raise so slight an object to his lips. He drained the wine in rapid gulps, not speaking until all was gone.

  "Dera, what say you? That I am easy prey to his magicks?"

  Ochen studied him awhile, thoughtfully. "I say that some stand closer to the aethyr than others,- that in some there is a . . . power . . . that may be used. Sometimes against them."

  "Menelian discerned as much," Bracht murmured, a steadying hand on Calandryll's shoulder, concern in his eyes.

  Calandryll looked to the Kern, to Ochen, and reached for the jug, his grip firmer now as he poured. "I am no sorcerer," he argued.

  "No—you are no sorcerer," the wizard said, agreeing. "But still there is that in you that might make you such. The talent is raw, I th
ink, and you've not the knack of its usage, but you stand close to the aethyr."

  "And thus I am vulnerable?" Calandryll wiped wine from his lips and barked a sour laugh, frightened. "Do you say that? That Rhythamun may better cast his spells on me than on my comrades? What does that make me, then? A lodestone to his fell magicks? Perhaps a threat to those about me?"

  "Perhaps," said Ochen bluntly, "but listen—this blade"—he tapped the sheathed straightsword— "what is it? A sword in most hands, and no more, to be used for good or ill—that depends on the wielder. Your goddess blessed it, gifted it with that power you know it holds, and that power that rests in you is much the same."

  "Save that Rhythamun's gramaryes touch me deeper, it would seem." Still his voice was harsh, edged with doubt. "Does that not render me a danger?"

  "It need not." Ochen shook his head, speaking calmly. "Aware, you are forewarned, armed against his trickery."

  "But why now?" Calandryll demanded. "Ere now I've stood closer to him, faced his creations even, but not felt that ..."

  He shuddered, remembering skull-bursting pressure, the cloying sensation of dread and despair, of hopelessness. Ochen waved a hand and said, "Because he waxes stronger, because he draws closer to Tharn. Because the Mad God grows stronger. Because"—a smile now, incongruously mischievous— "the god fears such as you."

  Calandryll gasped, wine dribbling unnoticed down his chin. "Why should Tharn fear me?" he muttered. "Why am I singled out?"

  "I think because of that power," Ochen replied. "And you are not singled out—I suspect the god fears all who move against him."

  "But surely he rests in limbo." The notion that Tharn should be aware of his existence was frightening: to oppose a man, albeit a warlock of dreadful strength, was one thing; to believe that he opposed, directly, a god was an entirely—daunting!— concept. "How can he know of me? Of us?"

  He turned, encompassing Bracht and Katya with his gaze, seeing their faces stern, Cennaire's beyond no less grave.