Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

He aped the Jesseryte's bow, awaiting a reaction. The kotu-zen swallowed, clearly taken aback. He seemed to find the idea preposterous. Finally he said, "Such is not our way."

  Bracht opened his mouth to argue, but Katya murmured, "I'd not offend our hosts. Best we leave it," stilling his protest.

  Now the kotu-zen appeared embarrassed, stroking a gauntleted hand over the oiled mustache he wore. Calandryll smiled, seeking to put the man at ease, and suggested, "Perhaps there is some private yard where we might practice?"

  The warrior thought a moment, then nodded, albeit a trifle reluctantly.

  "And gear we might borrow?" added Bracht.

  Again the kotu-zen nodded, grunting an affirmative, and spun on his heel to snap out brisk orders that sent two men running to fetch jerkins of padded leather, instructing another to conduct the out- landers to a more suitable ward. Calandryll and Bracht shouldered the jerkins, voicing their thanks, and followed their armored guide from the practice yard. Behind him, Calandryll heard someone mutter, "Barbarians," and another, the voice disbelieving, "Their women fight?"

  Bracht chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief; Calandryll threw him a warning glance, indicating their guide and gesturing the Kern to silence. These folk did, indeed, seem strange, but they were no less allies—vital allies—and it was as well to honor their customs. And we, he thought as they strode more of the dim-lit corridors, likely seem as odd to them.

  They were brought to a small yard, the sky a rectangle of blue above, the walls high all around, and windowless, as if the place were chosen for its obscurity, that none might witness this breach of etiquette that put blades in the hands of women. Their guide bowed, unspeaking, and left them there.

  "Strange folk," Bracht murmured as he tugged on a jerkin. "Do they cosset their women, then?"

  "It looks so." Calandryll shrugged. "But while we go among them, we'd best respect their ways."

  "Then best hope we go unopposed." Katya laughed. "For are we attacked, I shall likely shock them more."

  "Or turn their ways over"—Bracht grinned—"do their women take your example."

  Cennaire, whose life was somewhat more attuned to the ways of the Jesserytes, found it not at all odd that women should not fight, and started in surprise when Bracht handed her a thick-padded jerkin.

  "You say you've no blade skill?" he queried, and when she shook her head, "then as well you learn a little."

  The suggestion alarmed her, for she thought such practice might well reveal her superior strength, and she hesitated, her pause misinterpreted by Calandryll, who said gallantly, "No harm shall come you."

  "And your life perhaps be later saved," added Katya, she, too, thinking Cennaire's reluctance stemmed from some natural delicacy. "Look you, I'll work with you. Best we start with knives, I think."

  There seemed no ready escape and Cennaire could only agree. She donned the jerkin, gingerly drawing the dagger sheathed on her waist, thinking that did she forget herself, she could likely cut clear through the leather Katya wore to wound the Vanu woman. Katya, thinking her unnerved by the blade, murmured encouragement, explaining how the weapon should be held, how her feet be placed to balance her weight.

  "Forward and up," she advised, pantomiming the move. "Drive the point in below the ribs, toward the heart. Your thumb should rest against the quil- lon. When you strike, strike from the shoulder, with all your weight behind the blow. Now, try it."

  Cennaire obeyed, holding back her full strength, and was surprised to find her thrust deflected, turned aside by a seemingly casual flick of Katya's wrist that sent her arm out to the side, the tip of the flaxen-haired woman's dagger touching lightly on her jerkin.

  "No signals," Katya warned. "Your eyes told me of your intention, and your feet. Give no warning of your move. Now, look you ..."

  She proceeded to demonstrate and Cennaire found herself intrigued by the lethal ballet, realizing that strength alone was not enough, and that she might learn much from this tutor. She applied herself, following Katya's instructions, seeing how a movement of the wrist could turn a blow, how a feint could deceive and unbalance an attacker. It was not unlike the learning of dance steps, and at that she had always been adept; equally, it was a matter of anticipating her opponent's intentions, and in that, too, her past life stood her in good stead. Soon she found herself enjoying the lesson, her only concern that she limit herself to what a mortal body might accomplish.

  She was barely aware of the clangor of steel on steel as Calandryll and Bracht set to with their swords, intent on Katya, on the intricacies of step and counterstep, attack and parry and riposte, finding it a fascinating game. One, she thought, that · might well prove most useful in the uncertain future. It occurred to her that did she but become adept, she would likely be unbeatable: to the advantage of strength she could add those preternatural senses that would allow her to forecast her opponent's moves, and thus few could defeat her. And if they did, what matter? A blade between her ribs could not kill her. She resisted the temptation to experiment, however, intent for now on learning the basic skills of this deadly art without such secret reserves.

  Time passed unnoticed, so intent was she on the lesson, until Katya called a halt, smiling. "Enough for now," she cried as Cennaire stood poised to attack again. "You learn fast."

  "Sufficient practice and she could be a passable tradeswoman," Bracht said, and Cennaire turned to find the Kern and Calandryll watching, their own weapons sheathed now.

  "The gods grant she's no need," said Calandryll, his face grave, as if he feared for her future safety.

  "Did I not do well?" she asked.

  "Excellently," he replied. "But even so ..."

  He shrugged, then staggered as Bracht slapped him on the back, chuckling. "Ahrd," the Kern declared cheerfully, "do you subscribe to this odd notion of our hosts now?" and Calandryll grinned ruefully, shaking his head.

  Katya said, "Were the world not so disordered there'd be no need. But given where we go and who we go against, it's as well Cennaire be able to protect herself."

  Calandryll nodded, sobered by that reminder, and they shed their jerkins, returning along barely remembered corridors to the yard where the kotu-zen had drilled.

  The sun stood beyond its zenith now and the place was emptied of the black-armored warriors, men in tunics of grey cotton—presumably, Calandryll decided, denoting some lower caste— busily tending an array of weaponry. Fletchers feathered arrows, others worked on mail armor, two grinding wheels filled the air with the shriek of sharpened steel. It seemed the keep readied for the war, though all fell still as the outlanders entered, the grey-clad men watching them in silence, reinforcing the somewhat unnerving feeling that they were, indeed, strangers in this land.

  None spoke until Calandryll asked where they should stow the practice gear, and then a man stepped forward, bowing deferentially, offering to take the jerkins, as if so humble a task were beneath the dignity of the four.

  "Ahrd, but all this subservience sets my teeth on edge," Bracht muttered in the Envah.

  "I think they rank us kotu-zen," Calandryll returned. "And it seems the kotu-zen enjoy such privilege."

  The Kern snorted, glancing round at the still- silent onlookers, who appeared to await further instructions, or for the departure of the visitors, before commencing their duties. “I’m more at ease with the ways of Cuan na'For," he murmured. "Even Secca was not so formal."

  "Still, we're here." Calandryll grinned and handed the waiting man his jerkin. "And in a foreign land we'd best accept foreign ways."

  Bracht grunted, but made no further comment, merely tossing the padded leathers into the waiting arms. Katya and Cennaire passed theirs over and the man scurried off.

  "Do we find the dining hall again?" Katya suggested. "I've an appetite."

  "Save we lose ourselves in this maze," Bracht agreed, his earlier good humor a little waned. "The sooner we take the road, the better."

  "Bracht," Katya advised Cennaire with deliberate so
lemnity, "is never entirely happy save he sits his horse awhile each day."

  "So Calandryll suggested," Cennaire replied, smiling.

  And was abruptly struck by the odd thought that she felt at ease with these three, as if they were, truly, comrades. She held her smile, frozen, as the concomitant thought came hard on the heels of that first, instinctive, feeling: that it would be a sad thing were she forced to slay them.

  She drove the notion away, assuming a careless gaiety, as they quit the yard and found the dining hall.

  The great room was no better lit than before, and deserted by all save Ochen, who sat alone at the high table, platters of cold meat, cheeses, and bread before him, a cup of wine in his age-gnarled hand.

  He greeted them cheerfully, motioning them to the seats on either side, explaining that the midday meal was taken some time past, the cold cuts left for their delectation.

  "I fear," Calandryll said, filling a cup with pale wine, "that we breached some protocol with our sword practice."

  The wazir nodded, chuckling. "The kotu-zen are a trifle rigid in their sense of etiquette," he declared. "But no matter,- it need not concern you."

  "We've much to learn," Calandryll apologized.

  "No less do we," said Ochen. "We've closed ourselves away so long our customs stultify somewhat. The notion that a woman should bear a sword is anathema to some here. Yet did you not"—he smiled in Katya's direction, managing to encompass Cennaire in the same look—"I think perhaps Rhythamun should already have won the day." ,

  "And we two be likely slain," Bracht agreed, raising a cup in toast to the warrior woman. "Had Katya not come to our aid in Kharasul, I think the Chaipaku might well have left us dead."

  Katya smiled, more intent on the food than flattery. Calandryll said, "Even so, I'd not offend our hosts. Have you time, some outline of your customs would be welcome."

  "I've time now," Ochen returned. "The keep is cleansed; better, I've set the walls with occult defenses. Chazali and Temchen look to the physical aspects, so save you've some better way to pass the afternoon ..."

  Calandryll feared Bracht would suggest they put the horses through their paces, and said quickly, giving the Kern no time to speak, "Aye, that would be useful."

  "Well then." Ochen topped his cup, sipped, leaning forward with elbows on table. "Some little I think you know already, from Chazali."

  "Who is kotu," Calandryll said, nodding. "The warrior caste."

  "All here are kotu," Ochen explained. "But even among the kotu there are degrees of rank. Chazali, Temchen—those warriors you encountered this morning—are kotu-zen, who are the highest of the caste."

  "And wear the black armor?" asked Calandryll.

  "Indeed," said Ochen, his wrinkled face splitting in a deeper smile. "Only the kotu-zen may wear such armor, which in turn is marked with the insignia of their rank and clan. Did my magic allow, rd invest you with knowledge of our written language. But, sadly, that is beyond my powers."

  "The gift of your tongue is great enough." Calandryll returned the wazir's smile. "Who, then, are the men clad in mail and leather?"

  "Kotu-anj," said Ochen. "They are usually foot soldiers, though they may ride as need dictates."

  "The men I saw, across the Kess Imbrun," Cennaire interjected, "they wore mail and leather. The one Rhythamun . . . took ... he was so dressed."

  "Then he was kotu-anj," Ochen murmured, thoughtful now. "Which must render him the harder to find—the kotu-zen are relatively few in numbers, the kotu-anj many."

  Bracht mouthed a curse, met with a rustling of the wazir's tunic as he shrugged, saying, "That shall not prevent our hunting him down, Horul willing. But do we forget Rhythamun and his foul intent for the moment? We can do nothing now— nothing until dawn—so let us speak of more palatable matters."

  Calandryll was content enough with that: his curiosity about this strange land was mightily aroused. "The servants," he said, "those men we met in the grey tunics—are they kotu?"

  "All here are kotu," Ochen repeated. "These keeps that ward our borders may be manned only by warriors. Hence there are no women, save"—he ducked his head to Katya, Cennaire—"such honored guests as you. Those who serve at table, who perform the more menial duties, are kotu-ji. They aspire to become kotu-anj, but must first prove themselves."

  "And the kotu-anj," asked Calandryll, utterly intrigued now by this multilayered society, "do they aspire to become kotu-zen?"

  "They cannot," Ochen told him. "The kotu-zen come only from the highborn families. Theirs is a privilege of blood right."

  "Ahrd, but you inhabit an odd land." Bracht shook his head, frowning. "In Cuan na'For all men are equal. Or can make themselves so."

  Ochen's wrinkles assumed a vaguely apologetic expression. "So it has been down the centuries," he murmured blandly. "I think that perhaps Cuan na'For is a freer land than most, for are Lysse and Kandahar not ordered in similar degrees of rank?"

  "The Tyrant rules Kandahar," said Cennaire.

  "And the cities of Lysse are ruled by their domms," Calandryll added. "After them, the great families."

  "And Vanu?" Ochen asked of Katya. "What of that mysterious land?"

  "All are deemed equal," she replied, "and all choose who shall speak for them in our councils, that the voice of every man and woman be heard."

  "To each his own," Ochen murmured, seeming a little taken aback by so revolutionary a notion. Then he chuckled: "Horul, but a fresh wind should blow through this land did our women take up such ideas,* or the lesser castes."

  He appeared to find the idea greatly amusing, for he sat awhile shaking his head and rocking slightly, his eyes narrowed to slits as his smile grew broader. It seemed to Calandryll he found the notion not without appeal, as if he might even welcome the wind of change.

  "And the wazirs?" Calandryll asked. "Where does your caste stand in all of this?"

  Ochen sobered a little, though still his smile was wide. "We are privileged above all, I think," he answered, "for any—man or woman—gifted with the occult talent may become wazir, no matter their family's station. The talent is noticeable in childhood and those so gifted are watched carefully, until it is agreed they should train as ki-wazir. Sometimes the gift fades, but those who go on to become wazir are considered equal with the highest of the kotu-zen. Save for the wazir-narimasu, who stand with the Shendii—the greatest of all."

  "But still, for all their greatness," Bracht remarked, "unable to defeat these rebels who threaten Anwar-teng."

  "So it is," Ochen confirmed. "But look you, did the wazir-narimasu turn to the dark ways their ability to hold closed the gate should be gone, and then . . . Then did Tharn awake, how should they deny the god entry into the world?"

  Bracht frowned, swirling wine around his cup, then said, "// the Mad God wakes, why should he come back by way of Anwar-teng? Might he not cross the Borrhun-maj? Or do the wazir-narimasu guard that road, too?"

  "A good question," Ochen said, grave now, no longer beaming, "and no, the wazir-narimasu do not guard that road. The First Gods set such magicks about the Borrhun-maj that not even Tharn may come that way."

  Now Calandryll frowned. "But you believe

  Rhythamun might reach Tharn by that route," he said carefully. "Across the mountains or by way of Anwar-teng, you said. How is that possible, be there such wardings and guardians in attendance?"

  "I say the crossing of the Borrhun-maj is nigh impossible for any mortal man," replied the wazir slowly. "And the existence of the gate in Anwar- teng is a secret kept close. But ..." He paused, sighed, his face suddenly ancient beyond even the years etched there. "But . . . Rhythamun has the Arcanum, no? And that book is both guide and guardian—with that, Rhythamun doubtless knows of the gate, and holds the means to survive the crossing of the Borrhun-maj."

  The import of his words struck deep, like a honed blade. Calandryll swallowed, his next question voiced gruff: "Say you then, does he succeed in reaching either goal—teng or mountains—the day is hi
s?"

  Ochen looked into his eyes, at each waiting face, solemnly, and shook his head once, a small movement, suggestive of doubt. "It may be," he said softly, "but not necessarily so. To use the hold's gate, he must first reach Anwar-teng, enter the city. Guised as he is in stolen shape, he can likely do that, but it will not be easy. More likely—does he choose that path—he'll league himself with the rebels, hoping the siege proves successful and he find entry in the confusion. Should he choose to attempt the Borrhun-maj, then still he must travel there, and even bearing the Arcanum I think his progress must be slowed. Horul willing, we shall intercept him ere then."

  "And if we do not?" It was Bracht who spoke, blunt as ever: Calandryll sat silent, momentarily awed by the terrifying prospect of failure. "If he remains ahead of us, crosses to . . . whatever lies beyond?"

  "Then those who can must go after him," Ochen said. "The crossing alone is not the end of it. Even does he reach Tharn's resting place, still he must work the gramaryes of raising."

  “Those who canl” asked Katya. "What mean you by that?"

  "That such magicks ward the gates as deny entry to most," the wazir answered. "There have been those of my calling, in the past, who dared the attempt, seeking to destroy the Mad God. Instead, it was they who were destroyed."

  Bracht snorted sour laughter,* drained his cup. "The odds stack daily higher against us."

  "Would you turn back then?" asked Ochen, his voice deceptively mild. "It is not too late."

  "All men must die." The Kern stared at the ancient sorcerer as if puzzled, or affronted. Reaching for the decanter, he shook his head. "Is that reason to give up?"

  "No," murmured Calandryll, the single negative echoed by Katya, who added, "Think you we should survive?"

  "You've encountered a gate before, no?" Ochen met the gaze of her grey eyes with the tawny twinkle of his own. "And lived to tell the tale, no? Did the spaewife in Lysse not speak of three? And in Gessyth, did the Old Ones not say the same? I think perhaps you three in all the world might survive."

  "We three?" Calandryll looked to Cennaire, almost reached out to take her hand. "Are we not four now? Five, do you take a part."