Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  "We owe them as much." Ochen dismounted, calling over his shoulder for torches to be fashioned. "Albeit briefly."

  He walked, chanting, to the gates, arms raised as brands were quickly made, sparks struck. He gestured, and the kotu-zen ran once more among the rude huts, putting them to the torch. The timber was dry: within moments fire began its cleansing work, a roiling tower of black smoke insulting the azure purity of the sky. Calandryll pinched his nostrils against the stink of burning flesh, aware that ‘ the oppressive sense of evil magic faded as the wazir ended his incantation. Ochen lowered his arms, his chant dying, and walked wearily back to his horse.

  THE road climbed after, the terrain no longer a succession of valleys but a series of tremendous steps, as though terraced, each gradual ascent leading to a wide shelf before rising again. Spruce, hemlock, and larches rose tall and dark, the shadows between them the more menacing for the carnage left behind, the knowledge that further assaults must surely wait ahead.

  They went on past noon, riding until the pall of smoke was no longer visible before a halt was called, and that to rest the animals, for none present had much appetite for food, as if the taint of the uwagis' work lingered, sour.

  "Ahrd," Bracht muttered as he watched the black stallion forage, "but I think I'd sooner they joined in battle than this."

  "Aye." Calandryll nodded. "This kind of warfare plays hard on the mind."

  "It's as Ochen says," Katya remarked. "They look to wear us down."

  "And succeed," said Bracht. "Shall we sleep this night, think you?"

  The Vanu woman shrugged, sighing, shaking flaxen hair from her face. Like Bracht's, like Calandryll's, her eyes were dulled, hollowed by the dark crescents beneath. Of them all—save Ochen, who seemed inured by his occult talent—only Cennaire showed no sign of exhaustion. Her eyes remained bright, her complexion vital, and Calandryll, intending a compliment, said, "Adversity favors you, it seems."

  "How so?" she asked, instantly cautious.

  "Lady," he murmured, smiling, "you appear fresh as these pines. While we ..." He chuckled ruefully, wiping at his eyes.

  Alarm grew: Cennaire had not thought that so small a thing might betray her. Nervous, she glanced from one to the other, seeing them all weary, the badges of fatigue stamped clear on their faces, in their eyes. Deliberately, she let her shoulders slump, her mouth slacken a trifle, and shook her head.

  "You are kind, sir. But"—she shaped a yawn— "I'd as soon a good night's sleep as any here."

  "Perhaps tonight," he said gallantly, echoed by Bracht's disbelieving snort.

  She smiled, hoping it was suitably convincing, aware that Katya looked her way, the grey gaze thoughtful, and rubbed at her eyes. She was grateful that Chazali called for them to mount then, preventing further conversation, further examination. I must be more careful, she told herself. I must remember to act always ordinary, to show no sign of what I am. And beneath that precautionary consideration ran another thought, an undercurrent faint as the rustling of the breeze among the timber: that she might sooner tell them everything, throw herself on their mercy, swear allegiance to their cause and so terminate this endless subterfuge.

  Then, No! To do that was to risk too much. To risk everything; to chance losing all hope of regaining her heart; perhaps to risk death. Certainly to risk Calandryll's revulsion: she wondered why that troubled her so.

  THE day closed toward evening. The breeze died away, the pines silent, ominous as the light grew dusky. Cloud thickened overhead, squadrons of birds winged roostward. The road widened a little, and Chazali bellowed over the steady drumbeat of the hooves that they should find a site soon, halt for the night.

  And from where Ochen rode, behind the kiriwashen, there came a warning shout, a flash of light, silvery gold lanced through with crimson, like darting flame.

  Confusion then: arrows that sang from the twilit trees, and the dreadful yammering screams of the uwagi, the shrilling of struck horses. Chazali's breastplate was suddenly decorated with shafts. A horse went down, its rider tumbling, rising with sword in hand, roaring* a battle shout as he charged headlong at the trees. Arrows burned, tinder in the fiery light that lashed from Ochen. A racing, howling creature evaporated in a gust of noisome flame. The archers among the kotu-zen loosed answering shots: men screamed and died. Things once men slashed with nails become talons, fangs that thrust from elongated jaws, at men and animals, indiscriminate.

  Chazali bellowed, heeling his horse to a charge, curved blade raising high, falling, rising again. A man shrieked, staggering a scant few steps from the shelter of the trees, blood gouting from his riven chest, a sundered arm flapping useless at his side.

  In the fading light the shape of fallen pines showed across the road, a barrier too high to jump, bowmen there.

  Chazali shouted again, bringing his horse round, hard, back to the road. Red light like serpents' tongues darted from where Ochen stood, and where it struck uwagi died, exploding in eruptions of hideous fire.

  Then they were in close, the tensai not altered by Rhythamun's fell magic holding back, the wazir, afraid of destroying friend with foe, forced to concentrate his gramarye on the human, unchanged attackers.

  Bracht's falchion shone silver in the magical radiance, hacking down, darting swift as Ochen's bolts, the black stallion shrilling, kicking, deadly as its rider. Katya's saber moved no slower, though she fought her untrained mount even as she struck. Both blades and hooves clove flesh, gore spouting from the howling grey shapes that closed like rabid wolves on the grouping kotu-zen. But with scant effect, as if the changeling creatures lived beyond pain, ignoring wounds that would have felled any mortal thing, driven by Rhythamun's sorcery.

  Where Calandryll struggled to control his panicked chestnut, the uwagi carved a path through the kotu-zen. Men were dragged from their mounts; horses fell, screaming. Calandryll's straightsword was lifted, about to fall even as Ochen shouted, “No! For Horul's sake—remember, lest you die!"

  He remembered: sheathed the blade and drew his dirk instead. Drove the lesser blade into a snarling face that tore itself away, careless of the wound that severed its cheek, returning to the attack even as he struck again. Uselessly: the uwagi crushed against the gelding, the sheer force of its assault sending the animal stumbling, its footing lost. Calandryll caught brief sight of jet armor, a sword that stabbed past him to score a red hole in a chest covered with thick-sprouting hair. Then hands, horribly strong, clutched his wrists and dragged him from the saddle of the falling horse. A blow landed hard on his temple. The gelding's weight pressed down on him. Light burst in his eyes, painful. He thought he shouted; knew vaguely that he was held, hauled from under the horse.

  THE fight was brief, more skirmish than battle. The tensai—those yet human—were not enough to stand against Chazali's kotu-zen. Their armor was makeshift, a random assortment of bits and pieces owned when they became outlaw or looted from their victims, their weapons not much better. They were more accustomed to preying on defenseless villagers than trained warriors and they did not last long. The kotu-zen grouped defensive at first, then dismounted and moved out into the trees on foot: those brigands who did not flee were cut down. Eleven of Chazali's men were slain, and five horses. Five tensai were taken alive. Four throats were slit on Chazali's order—the fourth was brought to Ochen, thrown down on his knees before the wazir.

  Katya and Bracht pushed urgently through the watching kotu-zen, blades naked in their hands, anger and fear in their eyes.

  "Calandryll's taken!" Bracht wiped blood from his falchion,- set the point on the tensai's cheek. "Where? Do you tell me, or do I prick out your eyes?"

  The Jesseryte warriors murmured approvingly; the outlaw moaned. Blood dribbled from a cut across his forehead, more from a wound on his shoulder. Then a flow from his cheek as the Kern's blade dug deeper. The acrid stench of urine soiled the evening.

  "Where?"

  Ochen said, "Wait! There's an easier way to this."

  "Sa
ve I carve out his answers, I see none," Bracht snarled. "And in a while he'll see not at all."

  "Trust me," the wazir said. "Put up your blade."

  The Kern eyed him a moment. Katya said, "And Cennaire. Where is she?"

  "Wait!" Ochen's voice became commanding. He motioned them away. Reluctantly, Bracht sheathed his sword, though his hand remained menacingly on the hilt. Ochen said, "This way lies truth, without subterfuge."

  He gestured to Chazali, who took hold of the tensai's unbound hair and yanked the head back. Ochen set a hand under the tensai's chin, raising the man's face. Tears streaked the dirt there, mingling with the blood as the wazir fixed his eyes, tawny gimlets now, on the captive's.

  He spoke softly, the words sending the almond scent swirling on the cooling air, his free hand moving to shape sigils, and the prisoner's body went slack, the fear-filled eyes becoming vacant, unfocused.

  "He came to us and we thought to take his horse, his armor . . . But we could not . . . He had such power . . . Like a wazir . . . More ... A wazir- narimasu!"

  The man shuddered, spittle flecked his lips,- Ochen passed a hand across his face, the perfume of almonds stronger.

  "He had power ... He slew too many of us, nor could we flee him then . . .Only obey him ... He made uwagi and left us with a duty ... To halt the followers. Three, he said, outlanders, not Jesserytes . . . Strangers ... A woman and two men, from the lands beyond ... He put their faces in the minds of the uwagi . . . We could not disobey . . . The uwagi would have slain us, did we . . . We could not . . . Only obey . . ."

  "Where?" Bracht demanded. "Where have they taken Calandryll?"

  The tensai shook his head, as best he could with his hair bunched in Chazali's fist. The tendons down his neck stood out; the veins there throbbed; tears and blood mingled down his cheeks, drool streamered from his gaping lips.

  "I know not . . . the uwagi obey him . . . Only him.”

  "He knows no more than that," Ochen said.

  "Their camp?" Bracht stared at the wazir. "Shall they not take Calandryll there?"

  Unless Calandryll is already dead hung unspoken on the air.

  Ochen gestured again and the tensai said, "We've no camp any longer . . . only riding, following you . . . The uwagi were commanded to take him . . . You . . . The Kern or the woman with the pale hair . . . One should be enough, he said . . . Which one, no matter ... It would end then."

  "He knows no more."

  Ochen glanced at Chazali, nodding, and the kiriwashen drew his knife and severed the tensai's throat.

  "Ahrd!" Bracht kicked the twitching body, grief in his cry, frustration. "To horse, then! After them!"

  "We'd not catch them." Ochen swept an arm to indicate the forest, the darkened sky. "These woods are too thick, and night comes on."

  "I'll not desert him!" Bracht turned toward his horse. "Must I go alone, still I'll go. Katya, are you with me?"

  "Wait." The warrior woman set a hand on the Kern's arm, her grip hard, her eyes clouded doubtful, troubled. "Must we go, then aye. But first a word."

  "A word?" Bracht shook loose of her hold, set foot to stirrup. "Calandryll's taken, and be we no longer three, then likely Rhythamun takes the day. Takes the world for his master! I say we ride, woods or no, and Ahrd damn the uwagi."

  "Wait!" Katya clutched at his shoulder, strong enough to drag him back. The stallion whickered, stamping impatient hooves, yellow teeth snapping at the bit. Katya swung Bracht round, pointing at the Jesserytes. "These folk know the forest better than we. Ochen knows the uwagi better than we. Do we learn what we can, and then decide."

  Bracht stood tense, blue eyes locked with grey, his hawkish features planed in furious lines. Katya met his gaze unflinching, and slowly, almost resentfully, his head lowered in acceptance.

  "So?" Katya let go the Kern's shoulder, turned to Ochen, Chazali. "What advice have you?"

  The metal mask concealing the kiriwashen's face turned toward the wazir, conceding precedence. Ochen scraped painted nails through the strands of his beard. In the dying light his features were graved with apprehension. "Do I seek him with my magic," he said, "then I slay him."

  "That much we know," Bracht snapped, "and so must seek him ahorse. On foot, if needs be."

  "These woods are no easy place for horsemen," Ochen returned. "And night comes on to render tracking difficult. In Horul's name, my friend! Do you not think I'd be riding now, did I believe we had chance to take him back?"

  "You say he's lost?" Bracht shook his head in helpless denial. Katya reached out to take his hand. "We can do nothing?"

  "What I must say is hard," Ochen replied. "For me, no less than you. Listen—the uwagi have taken Calandryll, and it may well be that he is already dead ..."

  “No/” Bracht shouted his rejection.

  "Save," Ochen continued, "that Rhythamun looks to gloat."

  "He's that fondness," Katya murmured, a spark of burgeoning hope lighting in her eyes. "In Aldarin, and when he possessed Morrach ..."

  ''And such pride may be his weakness/' said Ochen. "That he'll seek to sport with Calandryll."

  "Sport?" Bracht stepped a pace toward the wazir, his body rigid, fury stark in his eyes, so that Chazali, too, moved a defensive pace forward, halted by Ochen's upraised hand.

  "Be it so, then Calandryll perhaps lives still," the wazir said. "Which is likely our only hope. Save ..."

  He paused, frowning, thoughts dancing across the wrinkles that striated his gnarled visage.

  "Save?" demanded Bracht.

  "He's what tutoring in the occult I was able to give him," Ochen said. "And perhaps his sword, too. Has he his sword still?"

  Bracht spun, roughly shouldering the kotu-zen aside as he went to Calandryll's horse. Behind, Chazali shouted, "Calandryll's blade! Did he bear it with him? Do you seek it!"

  "I saw the uwagi take him," a warrior said, "and he wore it then. I stabbed the creature when Calandryll held back his blow."

  Another said, "His mount went down, but I thought he had the sword still."

  Bracht returned: "I found no sign of it."

  "Then we've hope." Ochen nodded. "He heard my warning."

  "That he may not use his blade?" Bracht gestured helplessly. "You name that hope?"

  "Does he use it, then he destroys the uwagi and himself, both," Ochen said slowly, as if he tracked a thought to its source, to its conclusion. "Rhythamun is horribly cunning—and daily stronger—and looks to trick us, to beguile us. But . . . Calandryll is no fool, and does he only remember all I've taught him, all we've learned of these foul creatures, then perhaps there remains a chance."

  He paused, nodding to himself, as if confirming his own musings. Impatiently, Bracht said, "Do you elaborate?"

  The sorcerer nodded more, but this time to the Kern. "Aye," he murmured. "Think on this—does Calandryll retain his sword and his senses, then he knows he can destroy his captors." He raised a hand as Bracht began to protest. "Wait, bear with me a moment—he knows, too, that does he use that blade, he destroys himself."

  "Then Rhythamun needs only the sacrifice of his creations," Bracht grunted, "and I suspect he's little enough concern for them. He needs only one to throw itself on Calandryll's blade."

  "Save he looks to gloat," said Katya. "And so delays."

  "Aye." Ochen's nodding became enthusiastic. "Save he looks to gloat, which I believe may prove his undoing."

  "How so?" Bracht demanded. "Even be you right, and the uwagi have not yet slain Calandryll, then still he's captured. Does he defend himself, he dies. You say we cannot go into the forest after him—so Rhythamun has time to gloat. And then slay him. I say we seek him now!"

  "I think," said Ochen, "that did the uwagi hear us coming—as undoubtedly they should—that our enemy would forgo his pleasure and have Calandryll slain."

  "Ahrd!" Bracht pounded a frustrated fist against his thigh. "You say we lose, no matter what we do."

  "No!" Ochen shook his head, his voice gaining a measure of conf
idence. "I say we've a chance; that Calandryll's a chance. Perhaps even two."

  More gently than Bracht, Katya said, "Do you explain?"

  Ochen ducked his head in agreement. "But first—Chazali, do you see the fallen cleared away and a fire built? We must halt here awhile. Our dead I shall attend when I may." The kiriwashen nodded and issued the orders, no less intrigued than Bracht or Katya. Ochen continued, "So, does Calandryll yet hold his sword and his wits, he's hope of survival. Rhythamun, does he look to gloat, must travel the aethyr for that pleasure—and on that plane I may be able to delay him. The wazir-narimasu are alerted to Calandryll's presence, and they can likely aid me—together we might slow Rhythamun and win Calandryll a little time."

  "Which must surely leave him to the mercies of the uwagi," Bracht said, angry. "Who are commanded to slay him.

  Katya touched the Kern's arm, motioning him to patience. "You spoke of two chances," she said.

  "Aye," Ochen returned. "You say Cennaire is gone?"

  "Cennaire?" Bracht asked, surprised.

  "Aye," said Ochen.

  "Her horse is there." Katya stabbed a thumb in the direction of the animals milling, still nervous, at the center of the road. "But she? I did not see her body."

  "The uwagi took her I suppose," Bracht said, "and slew her. Likely she lies within the trees." He frowned. "A pity—I'd grown to like her. She had courage."

  "Without doubt," said Ochen, and turned to Chazali. "Do you ask your men to seek the body of the lady Cennaire?"

  The kiriwashen issued fresh orders. Bracht said, "We talk and talk, and hunt corpses. When do we act?"

  "When I know what I must know," said Ochen. "Soon, but until then I beg your patience."

  The Kern shook his head, looking to Katya. "I've no stomach for this," he declared. "Do we mount and ride in search of Calandryll?"

  "And see him slain?" she asked. "No, Bracht, wait. This is not Cuan naTor, that things be simpler. We know Rhythamun stronger here, Tharn stronger—I tell you, we should listen to Ochen."

  "Who bids us do nothing," Bracht snarled. "Save leave our comrade to his fate. I'd sooner act!"