Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  Then faltered.

  His progress toward the occult barrier slowed. He hung a moment, suspended; with a tremendous effort turned the eyes of his pneuma back from the haar, toward the place of men.

  He saw only the bleak, night-black steppe of the northernmost reaches of the Jesseryn Plain, no light there save what the moon and stars cast, lonely.

  Then, far off, a beacon. A warm, golden glow like the sun rising through chill mist, calling travelers home, promising warmth and food, friendship and safety.

  Like a swimmer treading water, he fixed his gaze on the light, only dimly aware that the laughter faded, more intent on summoning the last reserves of his strength to make the final effort, to go back.

  Something, someone, called him. Not in words, but in terms of pure emotion, lending strength to his own outrage, encouraging his efforts, urging him on. It seemed impossible, hopeless, and a seductive whisper from beyond the fog, from somewhere else, told him it was so, that he had best surrender, or be forever lost. That voice hinted at reward, at pleasures undreamt of; and dreadful punishment did he continue to resist. The other, the voice of the golden light, cried Lies, and Strength, and Courage, and he struck out, reversing his direction, moving away from the haar, that, like the laughter, fading irresolute. Had he looked back then, he would have seen the jagged peaks of the Borrhun-maj become again no more than mountains, impressive, vast, but only snow-clad stone now. But he did not look back, too intent on return, feeling himself drawn by different pressures, benign. The laughter became a memory tinged with disappointment and frustration, and that lent him resolve as he felt his passage speeded, his pneuma winging southward again, steady toward the light of the beacon.

  He crossed the steppe, saw Lake Galil; felt Anwar-teng beneath him, the hold seeming to emanate a gust of warm and comforting wind that strengthened his passing, like a friendly draught filling the sails of a homebound ship.

  Briefly, he felt psychic hands clutch at him, a pang of fear replaced by hope as their grip proved weak, unable to halt him. A sensation of angry disappointment, of malign frustration, radiated from somewhere, from someone—from Rhythamun!— far below, and he reveled in that small triumph.

  He sped faster and faster, uncaring now, confident again, heady and gleeful with the velocity, winging steadily closer to the light, to safety.

  And halted with an abruptness that left him dizzy as he hovered, looking down on his supine body, Ochen beside it—beside him—kneeling with upraised hands, mouth moving in near-silent muttering.

  Bracht and Katya and Cennaire crouched close to the wazir; all the camp was awake, Chazali and his warriors watching, grim sentinels, only the guards not intent on the sorcerer and his occult working.

  Calandryll descended, reclaiming his corporeal form.

  And opened his eyes to see Ochen smiling, shoulders sagging in exhausted relief.

  "Horul, but I thought you lost then."

  "Ahrd! What happened?"

  "Praise all the gods you've returned."

  They spoke together, tumbled words, Ochen and Bracht and Katya. Only Cennaire was silent, her eyes huge and awed, studying him with ... he was not sure . . . anxiety, welcome, reverence? He smiled wanly, opening his mouth to speak, finding it dry, blinking as sweat ran into his eyes. He shivered, feverish a moment, and Bracht carried a cup to his mouth, an arm about his shoulders as the Kern bled water between his lips.

  The water was refreshing, the solidity of Bracht's arm a comfort; he rested back against that support, drinking deep, and sighed, a long, shuddering sound.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  To feel his lips move, to know that cords vibrated in his throat, to be aware of the coolness of the water on his tongue, to hear his own voice again, all were wondrous sensations. No less the fire's warmth, the reality of the hard ground under him, the scents of leather and human skin, horses and woodsmoke. To know himself returned was unimaginable joy: he laughed.

  Ochen set hands about his chin then, turning his face—the feel of the dry, warm flesh was in itself a comfort—and stared deep into his eyes. For an instant he felt himself almost lost again, falling into the tawny light of the sorcerer's gaze. But this was not like before—this light was akin to the beacon that had brought him back. He heard the wazir speak, softly, the words arcane, unintelligible.

  Then Ochen said, "All is well. No taint remains."

  "Taint?" Calandryll thrust abruptly forward, away from Bracht's arm, hearing his voice come harsh. "How say you, taint?"

  "I suspect," the wazir said gently, "that our enemy sought to ensnare you. Perhaps to delude and seduce you. But he failed—no ill remains."

  Calandryll swallowed, his throat dry again,- Bracht proffered the cup, refilled, and he took it, able now to drink unaided. Ochen said, "Do you describe to me what happened and I can better explain it."

  Calandryll nodded and told his story.

  Ochen listened in grave silence, and when the telling was done said, "Rhythamun waxes ever more powerful—I warned of that, no? He closes on those portals through which Tharn's dreaming comes strong, and the Mad God knows it—reaches out to aid his minion. God and man, both, sought then to draw your pneuma from you, to deliver you into limbo. Had you entered that mist you saw— had you traversed that barrier between the worlds—I doubt you'd have returned."

  "Then you've my thanks," Calandryll whispered. "For I'd not the strength to resist."

  "But resist you did." Ochen laughed, an accolade, triumphant, his eyes sparkling between the narrow slits of the lids. "I gave you some help, aye; so did the wazir-narimasu of Anwar-teng, but you it was who defeated the enemy's intent."

  "I was caught," Calandryll protested. "I was a leaf blown on the wind, no more."

  "Much more," said Ochen. "Far more. There's a strength in you that withstands the blandishments of Rhythamun. Even Tharn's wiles! Horul, but they must be chagrined now!"

  "You speak of this power in me?" Calandryll frowned, lost. "Was it not that allowed Rhythamun to suck out my pneuma?"

  "Aye," said Ochen. "At least, it was your contiguity with the aethyr let him find you, but that same power gave you the strength to fight him— and Tharn—and that's a mighty gift."

  "You name it gift?" asked Calandryll. "That a mage such as Rhythamun is able to part my soul from body? That seems more curse to me."

  "Were you not so powerful as to resist, aye." Ochen nodded, absently patting Calandryll's shoulder, as might a parent or a pedagogue, explaining. "But you were able. Do you not see? No, of course not—forgive me, I assume knowledge you've no way of having. So, listen—most men—those not so gifted—would have been drawn out and forever lost. A 'normal' man, such as Bracht"—this was with an apologetic smile to the Kern—"is armored against such depradation by his very normality. He stands distant enough from the aethyr that he is, in effect, invisible. You, however, stand close—as I told you before—and so Rhythamun is able to find that part of you that exists on the occult plane."

  He paused, and Bracht muttered, "Ahrd be thanked that I be normal. I stand with Calandryll on this—it seems more curse than blessing."

  "Are the two not often the mutual faces of the same coin?" Ochen said. "The power in you, Calandryll, allows Rhythamun knowledge of you, and that knowledge waxes greater the closer he draws to his master. But equally, that same power grants you the ability to fight him better. Had you not that power, you should have crossed the barrier and been lost—we should now observe a body bereft of its animus, a wasting husk.

  "But you possess that power! Horul, do you not see it? You withstood the blandishments of the Mad God! You were able to fight the machinations of Rhythamun!"

  "I felt anger," Calandryll said, shrugging. "Anger and disgust at all Tharn stands for. No more than that."

  "Which anger and disgust, righteous as they are, afforded you the power to deny the god," said Ochen. "I think that is a very great power."

  "When first we saw the Vanu warboat ..." Bracht spo
ke slowly, thoughtfully. "When we believed Katya our enemy . . . You called up that tempest to drive her off."

  "And in Gash, when we were attacked," now Katya took up the theme, her grey eyes wide and wondering, "then you drove back the canoes. It was as though you summoned up a terrible wind."

  "And in Kharasul," Bracht said, "when Xanthese and his Chaipaku looked to slay us ... As in Gash, you fought like a man possessed."

  "Or in fear of his life," said Calandryll.

  "The spaewife there—Ellhyn—she said there was a power in you," Bracht murmured. "Do you not remember?"

  "Varent's—Rhythamun's—stone." Calandryll shook his head. "That gave me the power."

  "That is not what Ellhyn said." Katya studied him with wide, thoughtful eyes. "I recall her words."

  There is power in you that you could use without the stone, did you know the way of it.

  "So," he admitted, "do I. But even so ..."

  "And in Vishat'yi," Bracht pressed, "Menelian said the same, or so you advised us."

  "And did you not bring Burash himself to our aid?" Katya added. "When the Chaipaku would have drowned us?"

  Calandryll threw up protesting hands: to fight these arguments was as hard as the struggle against Tharn's summons, Rhythamun's force,- harder, for they came from friends.

  "So be it," he allowed. "So it is, if you all say so—there's some power in me I cannot understand. Only that it renders me prey to magic. That it enables Rhythamun to find me; to draw me out like some vampire leeching my blood, my soul."

  "Against that," Ochen said gently, "there are cantrips of defense that I can teach you, be you willing."

  "Willing?" Calandryll hawked bitter laughter. "Should I refuse such gramaryes as relieve me of that fear? I'd sooner go sleepless than bed down each night wondering if I must journey to Tharn's domains."

  "And yet," the wazir said, "there's some advantage may be gained from that."

  "Advantage?" Calandryll fixed the ancient face with a disbelieving stare, wary of what thoughts lay behind those musing eyes. "I'd sooner keep my soul, Ochen, be it all the same to you."

  Ochen smiled, bowing his head. "I'd not see you lose your soul," he declared, his voice earnest, "but I think you able to go where few others may. I am not without occult resources, but even I could not have resisted that tide that swept you along."

  "You brought me back," Calandryll said, almost a shout, for he began to sense the direction of the mage's thinking; and liked it not at all. "Had you not used your talent, I'd be lost."

  "I tell you again” Ochen said; carefully now, his voice pitched low, insistent, “that it was your power as much as mine that brought you back. Alone, I could not have done it.”

  “You were aided by the wazir-narimasu. You said as much.” Calandryll's response came hoarse, trepidation mounting apace. "Your magic and theirs, you said.”

  "Nor did I lie," promised the wazir. "But still, had you not that unknown power, ours should not have been sufficient to stand against those forces that looked to destroy you. To destroy the threat you mean to them."

  "What say you?" asked Calandryll, softer, almost resigned: he felt sure he would not enjoy the answer.

  "That you are better able than any wazir in this land to confront, to observe, Rhythamun," Ochen replied. "I do not pretend to understand how this is so—save it be some gift of the Younger Gods; or some duty imposed on you—only that I believe you may go to, and return from, places none others may."

  "I do not understand." Again Calandryll shook his head. "You speak in riddles."

  He looked to Bracht for support, and found none, for the Kern, like all of them, was intent on the wazir.

  "There is much of riddling in sorcery," Ochen agreed with what Calandryll felt was an altogether unseemly cheerfulness. "It is a riddle in itself, I sometimes think. But heed—you were able to come close to Tharn and yet return. Rhythamun sent you there, to end your threat, and so may you go to him. You've the power for it, and he knows it . . ."

  "I'd put my blade in him, were I able," Calandryll snapped.

  "Aye." Ochen nodded absently, caught in the flow of his own thoughts. "And perhaps it shall come to that; but edged steel is not the only way to destroy Rhythamun. Could we draw out his pneuma, as he did yours, then so might we ensnare him just as he endeavored to trap you."

  Presentiment, trepidation, fear, all came together in unwelcome understanding: Calandryll said, "You'd ask me to hunt him on the occult plane?"

  "Only after I've taught you the cantrips of protection," said Ochen. "Only when you're armored with such sortilege as can wholly defend you. And only with the aid of the wazir-narimasu."

  "You ask much of me." Calandryll ducked his head, staring at the straightsword that rested, sheathed, beside him,- touched the hilt. "I'd face him man to man. But there ... ?"

  "It may be that," Ochen said. "Perhaps you shall face him at sword's point. But were you able to defeat him within the sphere of the aethyr ... Is it not his defeat you seek?"

  Calandryll looked up, feeling himself almost defeated, and nodded: "Aye."

  "We speak," said Ochen, "of a future some time distant. There's much you need to learn before such attempt may be safely made. I need teach you the cantrips, the gramaryes . . . until you know them sound, I'll round you with protections. Only when I know you safe, would I ask you attempt the aethyr. And that not until we close on Anwar- teng."

  "Then round me," Calandryll said wearily, "for I'm mightily tired now, and I'd sleep—be it safe."

  "Safe for now," Ochen promised. "He'll not make another attempt this night, and we'll speak again on the morrow."

  Calandryll nodded, and lay back. Ochen left him,-

  Chazali and his watching warriors returned to their blankets; Bracht and Katya murmured reassurances that he answered with a yawn. Cennaire said, "You are very brave," and he smiled, thinking that a wonderful compliment, for he felt very afraid.

  7

  IT was some comfort that they must stand far closer to Anwar-teng before Ochen would ask him to go voluntarily into that strange bodiless state, for he felt entirely inadequate to the task, and not at all eager to again face those malign forces he had felt buffet him. He did not properly comprehend why that proximity was necessary, save—as Ochen explained, somewhat vaguely as they broke their fast and struck camp—that the power of the wazir-narimasu was limited by the hostility surrounding the hold, that emotion strengthening the Mad God's estivatious sendings, and that without their anchoring support it was too hazardous an undertaking. It was enough for Calandryll that the attempt should be delayed. Besides, there was much else to occupy him.

  In the days and nights that followed he was largely in Ochen's company, to the exclusion of all other, become once more a scholar, his thirst for knowledge reawakened, titillated by the recondite vistas the wazir gradually revealed, no longer abstract but of practical, perhaps even vital, importance.

  Tutored by the patient sorcerer, he learned better to understand the nature of the aethyr, to see that plane not as some arcane dimension, but as one simultaneous with the physical. It was, Ochen expounded, as though two worlds existed contiguous, one—the aethyr—invisible to most inhabitants of the other, only those gifted with the talent able to perceive the existence of the neighboring plane through such windows as their thaumaturgical skills created. Likewise there were doors could be built, through which the inhabitants of one plane might enter the other.

  "And like any door," he explained one night as all around them the camp settled to sleep and Calandryll struggled to hold open weary eyes, "they may close behind you. Be barred, even, against your going back. Such is what Rhythamun attempted."

  "And doubtless would again," Calandryll returned around a stifled yawn. "Save this mystic door be propped open."

  "Which it may be," Ochen assured, seeming not the least tired, so that Calandryll wondered if he needed sleep at all. "One adept in the sorcerous arts does that instinctively. But such a level
of skill requires years of tutelage."

  Calandryll nodded sleepily, and Ochen chuckled and said, "Enough for now. Go find your bed, rest— and we'll speak again come dawn."

  That seemed not far off as Calandryll stretched himself blear-eyed on his blanket, for the moon was past its zenith and closing on the western horizon. He sighed, luxuriating in the prospect of at least a few hours' sleep, and looked to where Cennaire lay, little more than an arm's length from his makeshift bed. He did not know she watched him from under hooded lids, marveling at all she had heard; only that he was disappointed they had so little opportunity now to speak together.

  No more was he able to converse much with Bracht or Katya, for each morning he woke to Ochen's cheerful summons, given barely sufficient time to perform his ablutions and snatch a plate of food before the wazir embarked again on his tutoring.

  He learned, slowly, how to recognize those occult pressures that warned of aethyric scrutiny, and to wrap his tongue around the complex syllables of the protective cantrips. Not yet so well that Ochen failed to ward him round with gramaryes each night, nor yet so well that he might defend himself, but enough he began to believe that in time he should be able to master the sortilege, and that was a reassurance. So, too, was his preoccupation with the task, for he practiced dutifully as he rode, and that inured him to the still-present feeling of observation, that now better understood as he learned more about the occult plane and the interaction of aethyr and mundane.

  It was both boon and bane, for even as he came to accept that he did, indeed, possess some power unfathomable, some occult talent that would, as time passed and he learned to employ it, stand him in good stead to battle Rhythamun in the realm of the aethyr, so he began to comprehend the enormity of that other world. He had pursued the wizard thinking purely in terms of the physical—that he and his comrades must overtake the sorcerer and face him with naked steel. Now, his knowledge daily broadening, he began to understand that Rhythamun—the essence, the animus, of that being—barely existed in physical terms, save what he stole. Now it came to him that he and his comrades—for still those prophecies that had brought them together surely pertained—must confront the warlock on another level. Rhythamun, he realized, had become over the centuries of his evil existence a creature of almost purely aethyric energy, his fell powers waxing ever stronger as he drew ever closer to Tharn. Calandryll began to doubt that steel alone might end the threat.