Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  "For now, aye." Ochen nodded, agreeing, looking himself toward Cennaire. "It is my belief the Younger Gods brought you four together, and you shall have all the aid I may command. But be it needful you go beyond this world . . . then—there—I cannot know."

  "You'll not make the attempt?" demanded Bracht. "Be it needful?"

  "All men must die." Ochen succeeded in aping the Kern's earlier expression, even mimicking his tone. "No, I do not tell you I'll not make the attempt. Only that I may not survive it."

  "I think perhaps you've the blood of Cuan na'For in your veins." Bracht's teeth flashed white in the gloom, his blue eyes crinkling as he laughed approval of the old man's courage. "Was there insult in my words, I apologize."

  "You need not," said Ochen, "but I thank you."

  "Likely, then, we three alone,- be it necessary." Calandryll turned from the wazir to Cennaire, back. "Shall Cennaire be safe, do we attempt this crossing?"

  Ochen looked to the Kand woman, not speaking for a moment. Cennaire met his unfathomable gaze, wondering what thoughts passed behind his furrowed brow, what doubts, what judgments. Then he smiled again and ducked his head, saying: "It may be the three axe become four. But fear not, the lady Cennaire rides under wardship of the clan Makusen, and shall be safe."

  "Perhaps," Calandryll suggested, "it were better she remain in Pamur-teng."

  "No!" Cennaire blurted. "I go where you go."

  What motivated her then, she was not sure. Whether fear of Anomius's wrath were she left behind, or genuine reluctance to leave Calandryll's side, she did not know,- only that, somehow, she must remain with the questers. That above all else,- the reasons, could she ever define them, could come later.

  "Lady . . . Cennaire." Now Calandryll did take her hand, earnestly. "It may be you cannot go where we must. And surely Pamur-teng must be a safer refuge than the battlefield or the Borrhun- maj."

  "I'll not leave you," she returned, fervent in her confusion, willing him to accept.

  He squeezed her hand, smiling gently, and said, "If we must go through this gate, or attempt the mountains, either might destroy you. I'd not have that on my conscience."

  "Then do not; let it be on mine," she answered, wondering if—as Anomius had once, cynically, suggested—she did indeed grow a conscience. "But still Pd go with you."

  His smile brightened, as if some scarcely dared for hope was confirmed by her words. Almost, she felt guilty as he took her other hand and said, "I'd not see you face such hazard. No, this task is ours, as it was scried. You've no need to put your life in jeopardy."

  His eyes were alight, yet still grave: she had no need of preternatural senses to know his ardor then, and almost cried out that she had no life to risk, only the hope of becoming again her own woman, free to choose her own course, masterless. She shook her head, seeking the words that might persuade him, frightened of revelation and of failure, no longer certain which she feared most.

  Ochen came to her rescue. "Pamur-teng is a long ride distant," he murmured. "Do we reserve such decisions until then?"

  Gratefully, Cennaire nodded. Bracht and Katya exchanged glances, partly surprised, partly amused. Calandryll let go her hands, once more blushing as he saw his comrades' speculative stares. Less confidently, he agreed: "Until we reach Pamur-teng."

  "Which journey/' Bracht opined, "may well prove hazardous enough itself."

  "How so?" Calandryll turned to face the Kern. "We ride with Ochen, with Chazali's warriors as escort. Think you the rebels, or these tensai, shall threaten us?"

  "The rebels, no." Ochen answered in Bracht's stead. "Perhaps the tensai, do they grow bold enough. But I suspect your comrade thinks of another danger."

  Calandryll frowned incomprehension, met with Ochen's bland stare, Bracht's grim chuckle.

  "Do you forget the gramaryes Rhythamun leaves behind?" asked the Kern, his visage abruptly serious. "The dire-wolf in the Gann Peaks? His possession of Morrach? The affliction in this keep? Think you he'll not set his trail with similar obstacles?"

  "Dera!" Calandryll gasped, nodding, and sighed. "Aye, I'd put those things behind me."

  "It may well be," Bracht warned, "that more lie ahead."

  6

  THE sun was only a little way risen when they quit the keep, the air offering a chilled reminder that summer aged, ground mist swirling ethereal about the fetlocks of the horses, a brumous sea that dulled the steady pounding of their hooves. Chazali, his jet armor glistening beetle-bright, led the way, a retinue of fifty kotu-zen in loose formation behind, protective about Calandryll and the others, Ochen riding with them, the brightest of all in a brilliant traveling robe of gold and silver. The Jesseryte warriors were armed with swords and long, recurved bows, and it seemed to Calandryll they were a formidable enough force to deter any save the largest of tensai bands. Of defense against Rhythamun's magic, he was less confident, remembering Ochen's suggestion that the mysterious power discerned in him rendered him more vulnerable on the occult plane. Still, he told himself as they cantered briskly northward, Ochen had also suggested that forewarned was forearmed, and the wazir's own power was surely protection against fell sortilege. Such doubts he relegated to the hinder part of his mind, concentrating on the way ahead.

  There, the mist began to dissipate, melted by the climbing sun and the wind, revealing a flat landscape of grass duller than the lush verdancy of Cuan naTor, as if thirsty. There was no formal road, but the passage of centuries had eroded the green for a width of some fifty paces, exposing a swath of yellowish-brown earth packed hard as stone by hooves and wheels and tramping feet. It ran straight for leagues, a ribbon that passed beyond Calandryll's vision, lost in the featureless blur of the horizon. Overhead, birds wheeled on the thermal currents rising from the Kess Imbrun, dark specks against the steely blue expanse of sky, that marked to the east by narrow streamers of white cloud.

  There was something indefinably forbidding about the terrain, a brooding sensation that reminded Calandryll of the unpleasant presentiment he had felt on approaching the keep. It seemed, almost, that the land waited, aware of their passage, watching silently like some vast beast, and he shivered involuntarily despite the burgeoning warmth.

  "You feel it, too?" .

  He turned, startled, to find Ochen close by his side, looking up, the ancient face shaded by the brim of a fanciful cap, though not so much he missed the inquiring gleam in the wazir's slitted eyes.

  "I felt ..." He shrugged, unable to express the sensation clearly.

  "Watched?" the old man asked. "As though hidden eyes are on you?"

  Calandryll nodded, glancing swiftly to Bracht and Katya, riding side by side, apparently unconcerned.

  Surely were there anything tangible, the Kern's keen senses would have noticed, but neither one showed any hint of foreboding, only pleasure at the freedom of the open country, of being again ahorse.

  "What is it?" he queried, growing nervous, thinking that if Ochen felt it, then it was not an imaginary experience.

  "The land is troubled," Ochen called over the steady drumbeat of the hooves. "The aethyr is disturbed. War spills blood, and that is felt in the occult realm. Linked as you are to the aethyr, so you feel the land's bane."

  Calandryll frowned. "I've not known such feelings ere now," he shouted. "Save on entering the keep; and that was surely the aftermath of Rhythamun's magicks."

  "Moment by moment we draw closer to those portals Tharn may use," Ochen returned. "And that same spilled blood strengthens the god. You feel that, I think."

  "Then shall it get worse?" The thought was ugly, disconcerting. "Shall it grow daily stronger?"

  "Likely it shall." Ochen's equanimous agreement was alarming. "But doubtless you'll learn to live with it; learn to accommodate it."

  Calandryll swallowed, tasting dust on his tongue, and wiped his mouth. "None others seem aware of this."

  "They are not," called Ochen. "But they are not invested with that power residing in you."

  Calandry
ll grimaced: did this strange power sorcerers discerned in him offer any advantages, he had yet to find them; so far, it appeared chiefly a disadvantage.

  Ochen saw his expression and smiled, albeit a trifle solemnly. "I believe," he declared, "that when the time comes, you'll find that strength a greater boon than bane."

  "When the time comes?"

  He waited for an answer, but the wazir gave none, only nodded, still smiling, and allowed his mount to drift a little distance away, deliberately precluding further conversation. Calandryll watched him awhile, thinking that Bracht had spoken aright when he complained of the riddles spoken by mages. Even so, the explanation went some little way to easing his discomfort, for it was one thing to feel watched, unaware of the reason, and another to know the cause. He still felt as if invisible eyes bore into his back, but Ochen's words—as likely had been the intention—rendered the experience more bearable and he squared his shoulders, endeavoring to ignore the sensation.

  It grew easier as the day grew older, though there was little enough to occupy his attention. The landscape continued monotonous, a flat plain devoid of features other than the brown line of the track that ran ever onward through the grass,- the'Jesserytes seemed indisposed to conversation, the which, anyway, was difficult at the pace Chazali set; Bracht and Katya appeared lost in their delight at the ride; and Cennaire seemed too occupied with holding her seat to risk the distraction of words. As the hours passed, Calandryll became familiar with the feeling, resisting the impulse to rise in his stirrups to scan the surrounding countryside, settling more easily on his saddle, letting the chestnut gelding match the gait of the accompanying horses.

  They halted at noon, where a low well of yellow stone stood beside the trail, and Calandryll found himself seated next to Chazali, the kiriwashen unlatching his face-concealing veil from the downsweeping cheek pieces of his helmet and pushing back the metal that he might eat. Hoping he gave no offense, and intrigued by the custom, Calandryll ventured to ask why the Jesserytes favored such masks.

  Chazali swallowed bread, meticulously brushing crumbs from his short beard, and said, "That those we slay shall not take our image with them into the next life," in a tone that suggested the answer was obvious.

  He appeared to consider that explanation enough until he caught Calandryll's dubious frown and expanded: "Must I slay a man, he is likely to curse me for it. Does he die with my face in his eyes, his ghost will remember and perhaps come back to haunt me. Is it not so in Lysse?"

  "No." Calandryll shook his head. "We believe the dead are gone from this world. Save a necromancer call them back, they go to face Dera's judgment and may not return."

  "That is odd," Chazali said, carefully polite. "I had wondered why you rode unmasked."

  "Does Horul not judge your dead?" Calandryll wondered.

  "When it is their time, aye," answered Chazali, seeming now a little disturbed by the tenor of the conversation. "But these are matters better answered by a wazir—Ochen might explain better than I."

  It was clear enough indication of reluctance on the part of the kiriwashen and Calandryll let it go, determining that he would question Ochen later, for that part of Him—albeit diminished somewhat by the exigencies of the quest—that remained scholarly hungered for knowledge of the strange people become his allies.

  The afternoon passed without event; without, indeed, any change in the terrain or the pace of their passage. The Jesseryte horses, for all they were of lesser stature than the Kernish animals, were hardy beasts, cantering tirelessly onward, devouring the leagues between the well found at noon and that beside which they halted as the sun touched the western horizon.

  The moon, a sliver cut now from its fullness, rode above the eastern skyline, the first stars glinting faintly in the blue velvet twilight. The kotu- zen, although usually attended by kotu-ji, seemed entirely familiar with the necessities of travel, stringing the horses on a picket line and starting cookfires with taciturn efficiency. A guard was mounted, the bows broken out from their stowage, and food set to cooking. Darkness fell as they began to eat, the night still save for the strengthened wind that rustled, eerily to Calandryll's thinking, through the grass. The familiar stamp and snort of horses, the cheery blaze of the fires, even the silent, sable-armored warriors, were comforting—the sensation of brooding, watchful eyes increased with the coming of the night, as if the darkness coagulated, solidifying beyond the fireglow into a vital, physical presence.

  It was the desire to stay that feeling no less than genuine curiosity that prompted Calandryll to engage the wazir in a dialogue.

  "These wells," he began, as casually as he was able, "do they mark all the road?"

  "Aye." Ochen drew his robe closer about his slender frame, the fantastic embroidery painted crimson by the fires, his gnarled hands lost in the wide sleeves. "Between all the tengs—at least, as often as is possible—the trails are set with wells that riders may find each noon and evening. That"—he chuckled—"was one gift the Great Khan gave us. It was on his order the wells were dug— that his armies might always find water."

  "The Great Khan," Calandryll murmured. "You never speak his name."

  A hand, the painted nails glinting bright, emerged from the wazir's sleeve to shape a gesture in the empty air as he shook his head. "Nor is it written," he said. "Nor do any of the monuments he built to himself stand still. Such was decreed by the Mahzlen and the wazir-narimasu: that all the Great Khan wrought should be forgotten, never again repeated. When he died, his body was burned and the ashes cast into Lake Galil, that they might be carried out of the land."

  Calandryll nodded, feeling the wind stroke his hair. For an instant he thought spectral fingers brushed him, and fought the urge to duck his head. Instead, he settled a hand about the hilt of his sword, finding reassurance in the contact, and said, "Fd not give offense, but I spoke this noonday with Chazali, about the veils worn by your warriors."

  He repeated what the kiriwashen had told him, and Ochen bowed his head a moment, then said, "I think your Dera is very different to our Horul, as your land is different to mine. Our lives are different, and perhaps so are our deaths—here we believe that none lives a single life, but several, the number determined by the deeds performed in each existence. When a body dies, the spirit enters Zajan-ma—that place beyond this, where spirits not yet sundered from their worldly existence dwell—and there await rebirth: his, or her, next cycle upon the land. Horul sets each soul a task that the reborn must dispense before they go on. Finally, when the cycle is completed, those souls who have satisfied Horul are granted eternal rest in Haruga-Kita."

  "This is very different," Calandryll agreed. "But still I do not understand why it is so important a warrior's face be hidden."

  "Because," said Ochen, his voice patient, his expression amused, "there are some spirits that wax vengeful. The Zajan-ma is a place of waiting— think of it as a chamber with many doors, from which a soul sufficiently misguided, sufficiently determined, may flee. So, does that spirit know the face of its body's destroyer, it might seek revenge. Might return to haunt the one who slew its body. Better, then, it does not see the face; and that is why the kotu conceal their faces."

  "And yet," Calandryll murmured, "you do not cover your face. But you have told us your magic may be used belligerent."

  "This," Ochen returned with massive confidence, "is my final cycle upon the land. Those gifted with the occult talent are in their last existence and need no longer fear the petty vengeances of ghosts."

  "What of us?" Calandryll gestured to where Bracht and Katya lay upon their blankets, speaking softly, privately, together,- to Cennaire, who sat a little way off, listening to the conversation. "Shall we go to Haruga-Kita, do we die along this road? Or shall we come back?"

  Ochen's face grew thoughtful then and for a time he stared at the sparks drifting from the fires. "I do not know," he said at last. "Perhaps you shall each go to your own gods. Or perhaps this is your last life. I know only the beliefs o
f my own land."

  Calandryll thought a moment, then asked: "Are you afraid of dying?"

  "Of dying, no," answered Ochen soberly. "Of the manner of it, aye. I am no more immune to pain than any other man, and I should much sooner breathe my last in some comfortable bed, with friendly faces all about me, than, oh, say slain along this road by tensai arrows."

  "Think you that is likely?" Mention of the tensai shifted Calandryll's thoughts from the metaphysical to the more immediate dangers of the journey. "Would tensai attack such a band as this?"

  "Were theirs large enough," said Ochen, "or hungry enough."

  His tone remained cheerful, dismissive of such danger, or philosophical. Calandryll's grip tightened on the hilt of the straightsword, his eyes moving automatically from the wazir's face to the guards pacing the camp's perimeter, the moonlit shadows beyond. Ochen saw his gaze and chuckled.

  "Fear not," he said. "At least, not yet. We stand too close to the keep that danger should threaten. Do tensai look to attack, that will come later."

  "Later?" Calandryll found poor reassurance in the sorcerer's words. "How much later?"

  "Perhaps two days," returned Ochen. "Ere long this flat country breaks up into hills and valleys, better watered than this plain, more fertile. There are villages there, settlements of gettu the tensai find easy prey. Usually, the warriors of Pamur-teng hold the bandits in check, but with this cursed war ..." He paused, his manner become suddenly somber. "I fear the patrols are called to fight, and the tensai thus ride free. Horul! The Mad God thrives on blood and chaos, and it would seem this land of mine descends into that morass."

  "Do the gettu not fight?" Calandryll asked.

  "The gettu? They are farmers," Ochen said, his tone akin to Chazali's, earlier. Then he shook his head, chuckling, and said, "Forgive me, I forget how little you know these Jesseryte domains. The gettu do not fight because Horul has assigned them the duty of farming, not that of bearing arms. Theirs is to raise crops, cattle—those things farmers do—not to fight; and so they rely on the kotu to defend them. Does that prove impossible, they give the tensai what the tensai demand."