Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  "But I'd not deceive you and tell you it shall be so, for I do not know. You've the chance, and I pray Horul you succeed; but shall you win or lose, I cannot say with any certainty."

  It was as Reba, in far off Secca, had told him, and he ducked his head in acknowledgment, knowing he asked too much, dared hope too high: the future was no straight road, but a branching thing. But still he could not help but feel a measure of disappointment. He squeezed Cennaire's hand, seeking to comfort her for what he thought must be a blighting of her hopes, and was surprised to hear her say, "We can ask no more. That we be truly now four is enough."

  "Said well," Kyama complimented. "And now I'd ask you excuse me, for I am wearied by this scrying."

  "Aye." Ochen stood. "We've a long road ahead, and I suggest we all of us find our beds."

  Did his eyes linger a moment, amusement twinkling there, on Calandryll and Cennaire? Calandryll knew not, only that the suggestion was greatly welcome: he sprang enthusiastically to his feet. "Our thanks for what you've done." He bowed to Kyama, to Ochen, offering Cennaire his hand as she rose.

  IN his chamber he shed his borrowed finery for the robe Kore had provided, waiting as long as his racing heart allowed for Bracht and Katya to find their beds, then slipped silent on bare feet from his room to the balcony. The glassed doors of Cennaire's chamber stood ajar beneath closed drapes. He eased through.

  She lay beneath the sheets, her hair loosed now, spread raven over the pillows. The cosmetics were gone from her face, and she was smiling. He shed the robe and went toward her, thinking that did his heart beat faster it must surely explode. She said, soft, "Do we not speak of the future, and what may be, but only of now."

  Calandryll answered, "Aye," and went to her.

  15

  SNOW met them a day out of Pamur-teng; not a full-blown storm, but clear enough warning they rode headlong into winter. It came in flurries, gusted on the fierce wind coming down from the north, from the Borrhun-maj, a wind strong enough it should have driven off the cloud that hung low and grey across all the sky, but did not. The overcast remained, sullen, foreshortening the horizons, denying the pale sun passage through its drab barrier, the land below gloomy for want of light. Between dawn and dusk the day remained somber, depressing, as if the elements themselves contrived to Rhythamun's purpose.

  Chazali set an urgent pace, eager to join the army sent ahead from his home hold, marching now a little east of north, on a line that would bring the warriors of the Makusen directly to Anwar-teng. Bachan-teng lay due north, the bulk of its warriors, as best the kiriwashen was informed, still within their hold, poised to march against either the Makusen forces or those advancing out of Ozali-teng. He hoped, he had told the questers as they made swift war council on the morning of their departure, that the engagement of forces should occupy Bachan-teng sufficiently they might slip by unopposed. How they should pass through the siege lines to enter Anwar-teng, they chose to leave for later decision, when they might better view the obstacles in their way.

  That decision had come swift enough: the alternative was to delay while the kotu-anj of the Makusen were examined in hope of identifying Rhythamun in his Jesseryte form—did he remain in that stolen body. It seemed as likely he should have taken another's shape, or gone on alone; and that must mean granting him further advantage by the search. Better, they had decided, to alert the sorcerers traveling with the army that one among the kotu-anj was perhaps a warlock, and trust that were it so, the wazirs should uncover him and halt him there. Better they should reach Anwar-teng, consult with the wazir-narimasu, that the most powerful of all the Jesseryte mages be able to lend what help was in their power.

  "Can you not alert them to the danger?" Bracht had asked. "Speak with them from here?"

  And Ochen had shaken his head, his wizened visage troubled, and said, "Were I able, I should have done that ere now, my friend. But I cannot— Tharn waxes daily stronger, and those misguided wazirs who lend their support to the rebels find their powers increased. Between the Mad God and them, communication through the aethyr is made impossible now. Anwar-teng stands alone in terms both physical and occult."

  "But not for long," Chazali had declared, his voice flat with barely suppressed anger, "for the loyal tengs march, and soon enough shall fall on the insurgents, and the Khan and the Mahzlen be freed."

  Ochen had nodded at that, but said nothing, and on his face Calandryll had thought to see doubt, as if the sorcerer found it impossible to share the certitude of the kiriwashen. He had found, however, no opportunity to discuss that doubt, for Chazali had shortly announced their departure, impatient, albeit he was clearly loath to quit his family so soon after arriving, to join the Makusen army, the sooner to restore his homeland to order and balance.

  They had found their horses then, and ridden out of the kiriwashen's palatial home, an image blazened on Calandryll's senses. The Lady Nyka stood with her children at the center of the atrium, beside the fountain. The sun was not yet high, and the surrounding walls cast gloomy shadow over the little group, for all their robes were brilliant. Chazali had taken up his daughters, Taja and Venda hugging him, near to tears. Rawi had stood manfully holding back his disappointment, bowing formally, then hurling himself into his father's arms, declaring that should Chazali fall in battle he would be avenged.

  "Aye, of that I've no doubt," Chazali had said, pride in his voice. "But for now you've a duty here, and that important."

  Then he had embraced his wife, and stroked her cheek with a tenderness Calandryll had not before seen in him, and donned his helm, swiftly locking the veil in place, as if he would hide tears.

  He had mounted, barked a command, and led his men out through the gates at a brisk trot. Calandryll had looked back a moment, and seen Nyka and her children standing forlorn, watching: four innocents caught up, like all the world it seemed, in the crazed machinations of the Mad God and his insane acolyte. Calandryll had looked to Cennaire then, seeing her lovely face set purposeful, and wondered if they should survive; and pushed the thought away, seeking to fix his mind on thoughts of victory.

  They had quit Pamur-teng to a dinning chorus from the folk who lined the narrow streets, the shouting echoing from the great gates until those closed behind them, ponderous, sealing off the vast citadel. Chazali had driven hard heels against his horse's flanks then, lifting the animal to a gallop that carried them swift across the valley to the northern hills, not speaking or looking back, riding like a man who seeks to leave memories behind him.

  ON the third day out of the hold the snow began to fall unceasing. The sky assumed a livid hue, like diseased flesh, the wind easing a little, as if its task were done, sufficient cloud piled across the heavens that it might rest awhile. The flakes came drifting down careless at first, sizzling on the fires as they broke their fast, then thicker as they rode out, blowing directly into faces that stung with the cold, melting on the heated bodies of the horses, limiting vision so that they progressed blindly into the pale opacity. Chazali called no halt, neither slowed their pace, but continued on at a steady canter even as the masking veils of the kotu-zen were painted with the flakes, and the folds and edges of their jet armor, so that they resembled strange creatures, all black and white.

  At least the Jesseryn Plain was firm enough to withstand the onslaught, Calandryll thinking that had they ridden the gentler terrains of Lysse or Cuan na'For, the ground should soon be mired, the snow transforming the land to a marshy consistency that would surely have slowed their progress. As it was he began to wonder how long the storm should last, how deep the snow might layer on the unyielding soil.

  That night, as they built fires from what little timber was available from the hurst that did its poor best to fend off the wind, he asked Chazali how they should fare, did the snowfall continue unabated.

  "Poorly," was the kiriwashen's curt answer. "For a few more days we may go on unhindered, but does this Horul-damned snow keep up, it will begin to bank and slow us."


  "Shall it?" Calandryll asked. "Keep up?"

  Chazali had raised his veil, and paused a moment to wipe his face, looking up at a sky gone too early black, then grunted. "Likely," he said. "It's the look of a long fall. And the feel of thaumaturgy— such a storm should not come so early in the season."

  He had excused himself then, pacing off, soon hidden behind a curtain of white, to inspect the guards he set, and Calandryll had gone to the warmth of the fire.

  Bracht and Katya sat there, and Cennaire, all huddled in cloaks, preparing tea and warm food. The tent found them in Pamur-teng throbbed in the night wind. Calandryll took a place beside the Kand woman, sharing the oiled canvas she had spread. He told them what Chazali had said, and Bracht shrugged.

  "Does it slow our progress, then surely it must slow Rhythamun," he suggested.

  "Save Rhythamun likely employs sorcery to aid his progress," Calandryll returned.

  "Is Rhythamun able to employ magic to speed his progress," Cennaire suggested, "then might not Ochen?"

  Their faces turned to Calandryll, acknowledging his larger understanding of such occult matters. He frowned, uncertain, and said, "I am not sure. He tells me that the employment of such gramaryes as benefit individual folk are like beacons in the aethyr, and so might alert Rhythamun to our location."

  "And enable him to attack you on that plane?" Cennaire shuddered, snow falling from her cloak's hood as she shook her head, alarm widening her eyes. "I'd not see that. Even must we go slow."

  Calandryll smiled at her concern, for all he knew frustration at the prospect of delay. "I am but a novice in such matters," he said. "Best we ask Ochen himself."

  "Ask me what?"

  The wazir came out of the snow, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak his face like some small animal peering from the burrow of the hood. He settled on a corner of the spread canvas, extending his hands toward the fire, turning inquisitive eyes from one to the other. Calandryll outlined the gist of their conversation.

  "Calandryll speaks aright," he said. "Do I speed our passage with cantrips, I risk sending Rhythamun notice of our position. Save it becomes unavoidable, I'd not chance that."

  "And does it become needful?" Calandryll asked. "Do we find our way blocked?"

  Beneath the voluminous folds of his cloak Ochen shrugged. "Then perhaps I must risk it," he said quietly. "I'd sooner not, but should it prove the only way ..."

  Cennaire voiced a small, inarticulate sound of helpless negation. Calandryll smiled at her, turned to Ochen. "Surely we must reach Anwar-teng as soon we may," he said. "Is that not of paramount importance?"

  Ochen nodded. "Aye—so long as we may reach the hold intact." He laughed, the sound empty of humor. "The choice would seem to be betwixt skillet and fire: we must reach Anwar-teng swiftly, but without alerting Rhythamun, and perhaps it shall prove impossible to do the one without the other. He's an advantage in that."'

  "Ahrd!" Bracht exclaimed. "Does everything favor him?"

  "Here, now," Ochen said, "Tharn favors him. The god would be freed, he senses his minion drawing ever closer—he does all he can to aid Rhythamun."

  "Did Chazali speak aright, then?" asked Calandryll. "Is this storm of occult origin?"

  "It's the dimensions of wizardry," Ochen returned. "Cold winds, rain, those are the natural characteristics of the season. This snow comes too early and too hard, as if between one day's ending and the next's dawning we plunge into winter."

  "And little we may do about it," murmured Bracht sourly.

  "Save press on," said Calandryll.

  "Aye." The Kern gave him a brief, grim smile. "Save press on as we have always done."

  They ate then, electing by common, unspoken consent to leave the subject of Rhythamun, and talked instead of the war, the battle plans of the loyal tengs.

  It remained a conversation that offered scant reassurance, for no matter how sound the strategy its execution must surely lead to a great letting of blood—which should strengthen Tharn. And did the god wax strong enough, and Rhythamun gain entry to his limbo, then all was for naught. It came full circle back to Rhythamun: whatever the outcome of the war, its prosecution must inevitably aid the Mad God.

  It was a notion dismal as the sullen sky, and it weighed heavy on Calandryll's mind even as Ochen tutored him further, his responses abstracted enough the wazir called an early end to the lesson, sending him thoughtful to his bed.

  He woke to a world become pristine under a blanket of snow. It lay thick over the ground, to his knees as he went shivering out, the tents white hummocks, the black armor of the kotu-zen a stark contrast; and the fall continued. The wind had died in the night and now the flakes came vertical from a sky all forbidding grey, silent and thick, promising to drift, to block the road. He cursed as he saw it, knowing they must be slowed, that Rhythamun thereby win further advantage.

  They blew their fire to fresh life and took a hurried breakfast, tending horses irritable at such discomfort, likely thinking, did they think at all, that the stables of Pamur-teng offered warmth and better food than the grain doled out. And then Ochen surprised them.

  They were mounting as the wazir came up. "I've spoken with Chazali," he announced, "and we're agreed we must make all speed to join the army. Therefore, I shall employ my magic to clear us a path."

  Cennaire spoke before any other had chance: "What of Calandryll?" There was urgency in her voice, fear. "Shall you not endanger him?"

  "I think not," Ochen answered her. "Not while we ride with the kotu-zen. Does our enemy investigate the occult plane, he'll find a party coming from Pamur-teng, aided by such sorcery as all the wazirs must now surely employ. Horul willing, he'll look no deeper, but assume us only latecomers. All well, the size of this group shall camouflage us. Even so." He paused, looking to where Calandryll sat the chestnut gelding. "Do you employ those protections I've taught you."

  Calandryll nodded.

  "Then we proceed," said Ochen.

  He heeled his mount to where Chazali waited, moving a little way ahead as the kiriwashen formed his men in column of twos. Then he extended a hand, his painted nails glittering even in that dull morning, shaping sigils on the air, that redolent of almonds as he murmured his cantrip. It was a powerful gramarye. The air shimmered, pale light forming an aura about the slumped shape of the wazir, growing, the nimbus an ethereal, golden mist that swept abruptly forward as his voice rose to a shout and he pointed, as might a man send out a questing hound. It seemed then a silent wind, hot, rushed before them. Snow swirled in whirling white clouds, dissolving, a path clearing, a tunnel shaping, invisible save as the falling flakes defined it, denied entrance by the spell. Ochen lowered his hand, urging his horse forward.

  They followed the glow, a friendly will-o'-the- wisp, riding the path it plowed, the exposed ground hard, frozen grass crackling under the hooves. Calandryll voiced the protective cantrips, his senses alert to warning of occult attack even as he smiled reassurance at Cennaire, where she rode beside him, concern writ clear on her lovely face.

  Within the aegis of the gramarye it seemed they rode through a spring day, almond-scented, the light that preceded them leaving warm air behind, even though the snow still fell all about, the land scape to either side carpeted deep in whiteness, the trail behind rapidly filling. Chazali brought his mount alongside Ochen's and their pace quickened, a hard canter once more. Calandryll, closer attuned to the occult by the spell he wove, again caught the charnel reek that came from the north. He voiced a second cantrip and the air was cleansed, but still he rode wary, knowing Ochen gambled, that his soul was the stake, did the gamble fail.

  By noon he felt more comfortable. No attack materialized, and their speed seemed such that they must soon catch up with the army. But then, he thought, after—what thenl We five ride on alone, and does the snow continue this gramarye becomes as much hazard as help. He pushed the thought away: let tomorrow take care of itself. Only let us halt Rhythamun. Only let us wrest the Arcanum from him.

  F
or two more days they followed the light of Ochen's magic without attack or hindrance, and then, as if conceding the struggle, the snowfall abated. The sky cleared, the miserable grey replaced with a hard, steely blue. The sun shone silvery gold, offering no warmth, and the wind got up again, a wolf wind that howled out of the north, knife sharp, raising drifting clouds of icy particles from the deep-drifted snow. It was a relief to all their spirits, to see the sun, to see clear again, but still the wazir must maintain his gramarye, for the land was laden heavy from the storm, and save he clear their way, they must flounder through chest-deep banks.

  THEY found the army where the land lay flat, a ridge line of low hills far off to the west, beyond them, Ochen said, Bachan-teng. Ahead, the ground was trampled in a vast swath, a great roadway chopped through the white blanket by magic and men, more men than Calandryll had ever seen gathered in one place. They spread across the flat in a line of darkness that reminded him of his first sight of the Cuan na'Dru, stretching out to east and west almost farther than his eyes could see. Before them went a sweeping cloud of golden light that shimmered brilliant in the afternoon sun, snow shifted from the horde's passage as if by some inconceivable shovel. The icy air was sweet with the perfume of almonds, so strong it almost overcame the odors of horse droppings and metal, oil and wood, canvas and men's sweat; all the myriad, mingled smells of an army on the march.

  Cavalry—at least a thousand men, he thought— formed the rearguard, more flanking the baggage train and the plodding infantry. The vanguard stretched beyond sight, led, he assumed, by the assembled wazirs, whose magic cleared the way. The sheer enormity of the Makusen forces was imposing; the thought that this was but one army, from a single teng, that it joined with another of similar size, that the rebels must field equal numbers, was more than his mind could hold. It seemed as if half the world must march to this war.