Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  "I cannot halt the war. Horul, but I'm by no means sure I should! It's a conundrum to defeat the wisest mage—does battle commence, then likely Rhythamun becomes insuperable; does Anwar-teng fall ..."

  His voice trailed off, exhausted. Callandryl said, hoarse, "Then likely Rhythamun wins."

  Bracht said softly, "Ahrd!"

  Ochen said, "And so I gamble. I hope that we may enter Anwar-teng before full battle is joined. I hope the wazir-narimasu shall lend you such aid that you defeat Rhythamun before he grows too strong. I pray Horul that I do the right thing."

  There was anguish in his voice, doubt writ clear on his face. Calandryll said, "You do what you can,- what you must," seeking to reassure him, and Ochen laughed, once, a harsh, bitter sound, and said, "Aye, and in the doing, do I betray my clan? Do I grant the insurgents entry to Anwar-teng?"

  "What if you be wrong?" asked Bracht, offering support. "What if Rhythamun does still own the body of this Jabu Orati, and rides with this horde?"

  Ochen looked up at the Kern, a rictal smile stretching his lips. "Then we had best hope he be soon found," he answered, "and sleep wary this night. But I doubt I'm wrong."

  Katya spoke then, for the first time. "I believe you right," she said gently. "In all you do."

  Ochen nodded his thanks, but Calandryll saw he took little enough comfort from their reassurances. He struggled for some formula that would resolve the wazir's dilemma, but could find none, save: "Surely the defeating of Rhythamun, of the Mad

  God, is a duty higher than that owed your clan. Surely it's a duty owed Horul, owed all the Younger Gods. Dera, should Tharn be woke the Makusen shall likely exist no more! Do we defeat Rhythamun, then all the world stands in your debt/7

  "But still," Ochen said softly, "my blood is Jesseryte blood, and all my life I've served the Makusen. To deceive my fellows so sits hard with me."

  "There's no deceit," said Katya. "As Bracht says—it may be that Rhythamun remains within these ranks, and therefore such investigation as you've suggested is needful."

  "But I perceive it as deceit," Ochen returned, "for I remain convinced he's gone on."

  "Two days is scarce time enough to swing the balance of this war," Bracht said. "You take overmuch blame upon yourself."

  "Perhaps." Ochen shrugged. "But then again, perhaps I had done better to speak honestly with my peers."

  "No." The Kern began to protest, but the wazir raised a hand, effecting a wan smile, and said, "No more, my friends, I beg you. I know you look to convince me, but this is a matter for my own conscience and none other. I must wrestle with it alone, and I am mightily wearied. Do we find our beds?"

  Bracht would have argued further, but Katya took his hand, drawing him away. Calandryll said, "Until the morrow, then," and turned toward Cennaire, offering his arm, courtly, bringing her to the partitioned sleeping quarters. He would have kissed her, but both entrances stood open and so he bowed, smiling for all he was concerned at Ochen's discomfort, bidding her good night. She answered in kind and stepped into the chamber, dropping the entry curtain behind her. He stood a moment, frowning, then went to join Bracht.

  There was no brazier and the chamber was shadowy, the canvas wall vibrating softly under the wind's caress. The sounds of the vast encampment came through. Calandryll yawned as he shed his swordbelt, resting the scabbard against the frame of the low bed. He tugged off his boots and padded to the washstand. As he splashed chill water on his face he heard Bracht say,-low, "Ahrd, but it pains me to see the old man so torn. I've grown fond of him."

  "Aye." Calandryll stretched on the bed. The pillow was hard, but after so many nights with only his saddle it seemed a great luxury: his eyes grew heavy. "He's proven a true friend."

  Bracht said something else, but he failed to discern the words, nor could he summon the energy to question his comrade. Sleep beckoned and he could barely murmur the protective cantrips taught him before he gave in and allowed slumber sway.

  DAWN came bright, the sun a white:gold disk at the horizon's rim, the sky poised undecided between blue and grey, the wind died away, the air sharp-edged. Smoke rose in myriad columns over the camp, and the odors of cooking food mingled with the scent of almonds as the wazirs went about their searching. Of Chazali there was no sign, and the questers ate their breakfast with Ochen, brought them in the pavilion by two kotu-ji.

  Immediately they were done, they found the Nakoti commissary and secured such supplies as they should need for the remainder of the journey to Anwar-teng. None made reference to Ochen's doubts of the previous night, and the ancient mage seemed to have set his misgivings behind him. He was, however, somewhat subdued, and when Calandryll solicitously inquired the reason, he replied that such constant use of magic as he had employed to clear their path to the army had wearied him.

  "Horul willing," he declared as he heaved himself awkwardly astride his mount, "the snow shall be frozen hard enough I may rest a little as we ride." Then he chuckled, a measure of his customary good humor returning. "As much as my ancient bones can rest upon so unyielding a creature as a horse."

  "Do I break trail?" Bracht suggested, and Ochen waved his agreement, looking about a moment as though he bade kinsmen and friends farewell. The Kern tapped heels to the black stallion's flanks and trotted out, the others behind, past the ranks of tents and men, the mules and horses, the wagons, all spread in orderly formation, as if some nomadic people wintered on the desolate flatlands.

  It took the better part of a hour to clear the camp, and then they traveled virgin snow, crusted hard and scoured by the wind. Their pace varied, swift where snow was frozen, supporting the weight of animals and men, slower where the horses must plunge through drifts banked up and soft.

  By noon, when the pale sun hung overhead like an impassive, watchful eye, the great encampment was lost behind them, ahead the glittering sweep of the unbroken snowfield. It shone bright in the sun's harsh light, threatening the fresh hazard of snowblindness, and Bracht called a halt, fetching kindling from his saddlebags to start a small fire. They brewed tea and ate sparingly of the provisions, and when they were done the Kern took sticks from the flames, allowing the blackened tips to cool and then daubing the charcoal around his eyes. He applied the same rough protection to each of their faces, and they stared at one another, laughing at the clownish effect.

  "Dera, but we resemble a flock of owls," Calandryll declared, chuckling. "Do we also possess their legendary wisdom?"

  "In Kandahar the owl is a symbol of death," Cennaire observed, instantly regretting it.

  "Here, it may save our lives." Bracht flung the last stick away. "We'll have little chance of success do we go blind."

  That night, and for fifteen more, they camped on the snowfield, in tents secured from the commissary, Katya and Cennaire in one, the three men in the other. Their fire was, of necessity, small, and even wrapped in the heavy cloaks Chazali had given them—their blankets draped protective over the horses—they were chilled. At least the wind remained quiescent, as if they had traveled in a matter of days from autumn's ending to dead of winter. Darkness came early and dawn late, and the air lay still, keen as a knife's edge in nostrils and mouths, numbing on exposed skin. By day the sky was a blue so pale it seemed almost white, blending immutable with the land. By night it was a black so dense the new-filled moon and the stars seemed not to pierce the obfuscation, but to struggle against a darkening that was wholly unnatural. Despite the protective gramaryes he employed, Calandryll could no longer entirely fend off the olfactory manifestation of Tharn's sending. The charnel stench intruded on his senses as if the reek became so strong it found chinks in his occult armoring, and he found he must once more struggle against the horrid feeling of desolation, of despair, that threatened to leech out his will. Almost, it seemed the land lay already under the dominion of the Mad God.

  On the morning of the sixteenth day they struggled up a snow-encrusted ridge that ran like the backbone of some buried monster across their path. Stone sh
owed, dull grey and shocking after so long traversing the blank whiteness of the snowfields, along the crest. There, as if the stone marked a boundary, the snow ended; beyond, the ridge sloped gently down, rock giving way to winter-dulled grass that spread over a shallow river valley. The river ran, grey-blue and broad, from a great expanse of water. On the north bank, diminished by distance, stood a hold. On the grass before the citadel, along both banks of the river and partway along the shore of the lake, stood an array of tents, horse herds like shifting shadows on the land, men too far away to see.

  "Anwar-teng," Ochen said.

  "And none too easy to reach," murmured Bracht.

  "Save these approaching riders," said Cennaire, whose eyes were the keenest there, "be a welcoming party."

  16

  The stone concealing at their backs: it seemed impossible any should have sighted them.

  "Can you be sure?" Bracht asked.

  Cennaire said, "There are twenty horsemen. Kotu-zen by their armor, and riding hard toward us."

  The Kern mouthed a curse. Ochen said, "Magic! The turncoat wazirs use their powers to espy intruders, Horul damn them."

  Calandryll said, "Do we follow this ridge along, might we avoid them? Might we reach Anwar-teng before they reach us?"

  "Thaumaturgy guides them," Ochen replied. "Likely they'll follow wherever we go."

  Bracht was already unshipping his bow from its protective wrappings, adjusting the quiver against his saddle. "Then we must fight," he declared.

  Ochen nodded absently, turning to Cennaire. "Are there more?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "No, only these twenty."

  The wazir nodded, thinking a moment. Then: "Do we follow the ridge toward Lake Galil, and fight only when we must."

  Bracht glanced up at the sky and said, "It's a while before the light goes, and until then they've the advantage of us."

  Calandryll and Katya brought bows from their packs; strung them. Ochen said, "Let us gain what time we may. Do we close on Anwar-teng, perhaps we'll find help from that quarter."

  "Do we stand here debating?" asked Bracht. "Or do we ride?"

  They rode. Pell-mell across the downslope of the ridge, grateful for the sounder footing of the grass, thankful they need not flee across the snow. Bracht led the way, the black stallion stretching into a furious gallop, Katya urging on her grey behind, then Ochen, bouncing and cursing in the saddle, followed by Cennaire, Calandryll alongside.

  Cennaire turned, peering northward, and shouted, "They change direction to head us off."

  Calandryll returned her, "How far?" and she answered, "A league, perhaps."

  And they on fresher horses than our poor tired beasts, he thought. How long before they intercept us! Ahead, the ridge curved a little, turning north before petering out onto the grass that swept gentle down to the lakeshore. There were tents there: the rebel forces. It seemed they ran from one danger into another. It seemed impossible they should reach Anwar-teng unscathed; nor any more likely they could fight a way through the armies sieging the citadel. Dera, Horul, he thought, do you aid us now! Have we come so far, only to fall here!

  There was no answer, only the furious drumming of the hooves, the gusty breath of near-blown horses. The sun looked down, indifferent, from the bleak sky and it seemed the fetid reek grew stronger, anticipatory. The kotu-zen drew closer, enough that now he could just make them out, twenty black shapes galloping hard at an angle toward the questers’ path, guessing—or told by sortilege—their intention.

  They reached the ridge's ending and Bracht snatched on the reins, the stallion wickering irritably as it halted. Katya was taken by surprise, almost colliding as she steered her grey around the curvetting black, turning to come back alongside the Kern.

  "What do you do?"

  Bracht flung out his bow, indicating the terrain ahead, the shadow line of tents along the lake. "Do we go on, we're caught. Better we face them here." A savage smile stretched his lips. "They're only a score, and we've the advantage of height here."

  "And do we defeat them?" Calandryll dragged the chestnut to a stiff-legged halt. "What then? There shall surely be more sent out."

  "Can we stand them off until dusk we've darkness for our ally." Bracht sprang down, bringing his quiver from the saddle. "And perhaps Ochen's sorcerers. Or his magic."

  Calandryll looked to the wazir, undecided. Ochen studied the land ahead and nodded. "Bracht understands these matters better than I," he called. "And have the rebels seen us, then likely the wazir-narimasu, also."

  "And your magic?" Katya asked. "Can you use that now?"

  "That should be hazardous still," Ochen said. "It may be they take us for scouts, and so better if you can defeat them without my aid."

  "Then do we see our mounts safe among these stones." Battle joy flashed in Bracht's blue eyes. "For it's a long walk to Anwar-teng."

  Without awaiting a response he led the stallion in among the lithic detritus that marked the ridge's end, tethering the snorting beast. The others followed suit, leaving the animals protected by the rocks.

  Swift, Bracht barked orders, sending Katya and Calandryll out on a line where the stones looked down onto the grass. Cennaire and Ochen crouched at the center, a little way back. Calandryll glanced at the Kand woman and smiled, she answered him with a wave, her dark eyes worried as she watched him take his position.

  It was a place easily defended. The slope, for all it was gentle, must slow the riders somewhat, and if they chose to match the questers with arrows, they must fight without cover. Did they attempt to charge, bringing the fight to close quarters, they must climb the gradient under fire. Calandryll set his quiver close at hand, upright against a boulder, and nocked a shaft, waiting.

  It was not long before the twenty kotu-zen showed distinct on the plain: it seemed an eternity. They came on at a gallop, slowing as they saw their quarry had not broken cover, reining in to study the cuesta. Their armor was dark crimson, marked on chest and back with the sigils of their clan. Longbows stood in scabbards behind their saddles, all wore swords; two held long-hafted war axes. They conferred, out of bowshot, heads turning to survey the ridgetop, faces hidden behind their helmet veils. One motioned with the ax he carried, sending the rest into line on either side. For a heartbeat that seemed to Calandryll to stretch out for long moments there was a silence broken only by the stamping of impatient hooves. He drew his bowstring taut, sighting down the shaft. There was a shout, soon followed by a medley of war cries, and the riders charged.

  They came within bowshot: Calandryll loosed his shaft. Saw it imbed in crimson armor even as he snatched another from the quiver, nocking and sighting in a single fluid motion, wondering in the instant that action took how strong was Jesseryte armor. The man he hit seemed unaffected, even when the second arrow sprouted from his breastplate.

  "Their faces!" Bracht roared. "Aim for their faces!"

  Calandryll adjusted his aim, and saw a veil pierced. Likely the hit man screamed: battle shouts and hoofbeats hid all other sound. He saw the Jesseryte sway in his saddle, sword dropping from his hand. He nocked and swung leftward, bowstring throbbing as the shaft was flighted. His target rose in the stirrups, rigid as his head flung back, tumbling over his horse's hindquarters. The first warrior still sat his mount, urging the animal on, his fallen sword replaced with a wide-bladed dagger. Calandryll fired again, the range far shorter now, the arrow driving deep into armor, the Jesseryte shuddering as it hit, then slipping sideways from the saddle, dragging his horse's head round before his gauntleted fingers let go their hold. The horse screamed angrily, bucking, almost on the rocks, then cantered away, downslope. Its rider lay awhile on his side, then staggered to his feet, retrieving his dagger. The broken lengths of three arrows protruded from his breastplate, another from his face. Calandryll thought he saw blood running from under the veil as the kotu-zen began to weave an erratic course toward the boulders.

  Seven men lay dead; twelve were still mounted, their armor decora
ted with shafts. They seemed less deterred by the slaughter of their comrades than enraged. They spun their mounts, thundering partway back down the slope to turn and charge again. The wounded man continued his solitary advance, halted by the arrow Katya sent with dreadful accuracy into the right eye hole of his veil. Calandryll heard his scream then, shrill as he fell to his knees, a hand beginning to reach up, then halting, suddenly, his head dropping forward. He pitched onto his face and lay still.

  Three more died in the charge, flung from their horses as feathered shafts sprouted lethal from their veils, driving hard through the vulnerable links into the softer flesh beneath, finding targets in eyes and mouths and brains. The rest turned back, regrouping out of bowshot.

  Bracht shouted, "Cennaire, do you see them reinforced?"

  She came from where she waited with Ochen, running to Calandryll's side, looking out toward the distant huddle of tents, and answered, "No. There's none others approach."

  "Good, for I run short of shafts." Bracht laughed, a wild cry of battle lust, and glanced at the sky. "Dusk draws closer. Do we stand off these few left and then, save we've slain them all, slip away."

  Calandryll felt Cennaire's hand resting on his shoulder and turned his head a little, to rub his cheek against her grip. She smiled grimly and stroked a hand over his long hair as he called to Ochen, "Shall they not know us gone, with magic to aid them?"