"Likely," replied the wazir. "But we've little other choice, save to go back."
"And have them find us out on that snow?"
Bracht shook his head. "No, my friends. We stand or fall here."
Further debate was curtailed by the enemy. They charged with drawn bows now, sending long, crimson-painted shafts winging before them. Calandryll ducked, pushing Cennaire back, as three arrows rattled off the boulders to either side. He heard Bracht shout, "Hah! They replenish our quivers," and brought his own bow to bear.
The defenders still enjoyed the advantage of height, the attacking kotu-zen forced to expose themselves as they rose in their stirrups to use their longer bows. Two more were slain, the charge turned back again.
"Here!"
Calandryll found Cennaire beside him, her out- thrust hand clutching gathered Jesseryte shafts. He took them with a grunt of thanks and waved her back to cover, forgetting in the heat of the moment that arrows offered her no harm.
The riders charged a fourth time. The waning afternoon filled with the susurration of exchanged fire. Calandryll found his quiver emptied and nocked a crimson shaft. He noticed the head was viciously barbed. Then saw it lift a man from his saddle, spilling him down among the bodies already littering the slope. Horses went riderless now, milling on the gradient, some turning to canter away from the fight, others running wild alongside the remaining attackers, halting only at the rocks, to rear and flail their forehooves, shrilling madly, as if they joined the surviving kotu-zen in outrage at the slaughter.
The questers resisted the impulse to shoot the animals, less from any altruistic motives than the need to conserve ammunition: for all they sent the
Jesserytes' own shafts back, still they stood perilously close to finding themselves without arrows.
A final headlong rush saw three more crimson- armored bodies dispatched to Zajan-ma—and the four surviving warriors into the rocks.
They dropped their bows as they came close, springing limber from their plunging animals for all the weight of their armor. The riderless beasts afforded them cover, a living, surging barricade of flesh and muscle they drove before them, in among the stones, swords in hand.
Calandryll tossed his bow away, the straight- sword flashing from its scabbard to parry a blow that would otherwise have divided his skull. His riposte glanced off a red breastplate and he flung himself to the side as the heavy Jesseryte sword endeavored to carve his ribs. He struck again, the blow slowing his attacker even though it failed to sunder the man's helmet. He was driven back, seeking some chink in the crimson armor,- finding none. The Jesseryte advanced, fulvous eyes glaring from behind the masking veil. Through the rocks, Calandryll saw a second come running to take position beside the first, the two moving apart, that they should attack from both sides. He heard the clamor of steel on steel, on armor,- heard Bracht's bellowed curse. From the corner of his eye he caught fleeting glimpses of the Kern and Katya retreating back through the jumbled stones, forced like himself onto the defensive by the seemingly impregnable armor of the kotu-zen.
He stepped past a boulder and damned his ill luck as he realized he now stood in a cleared spot, wide enough the two Jesserytes might easily flank him. Then something clattered off a helmet and one man staggered, loose kneed, his sword arm dropping. There was a second impact and his veil drove inward. Red gouted from the eye holes and the kotu-zen fell down. Calandryll parried an attack. Saw his attacker halt as a stone bounced from the sweeping cheek-piece of his helmet, then totter as another struck his breastplate. A third whistled past Calandryll's head to strike the helmet where it protected the warrior's brow. For an instant the head was snapped back by the force of the blow: Calandryll lunged, driving the straightsword up, the point piercing the Jesseryte's jaw, his brain. The man grunted and collapsed, his weight threatening to wrest the sword from Calandryll's hand.
He snatched it loose and saw Cennaire standing with a rock in each hand, poised to throw, her expression fierce. "Lady," he cried, "you save me once again."
She smiled, fleetingly, and darted away, to where Katya faced an opponent, driven back against a semicircle of boulders, unable to retreat farther, or to find a weakness in the man's armor. Calandryll followed her, in time to see her hurl the stone with terrible force, sending the kotu-zen staggering sideways. She flung another missile, that crashing against the crimson helmet, the man groaning and dropping to his knees. Katya sprang toward him then, her saber darting, searching out the vulnerable places in his armor, severing his throat.
Cennaire scooped up new stones and ran to where Bracht dueled, the falchion a blur in the dimming light, fending off the attack of the Jesseryte's heavier blade. One stone smashed with deadly accuracy against the kotu-zen's helm, the second against his knee. He toppled, one leg twisted at an unnatural angle, and Bracht leapt astride him, a hand tugging back the helmet as the other slashed the falchion across the windpipe.
"My thanks." The Kern raised his bloodied sword in salute. "Now do we quit this place ere they send more."
They hurried to the horses, Ochen there before them, reins gathered in his hands, muttering oaths as he manhandled the recalcitrant beasts toward them. Overhead, the sky darkened swifter than it should, as if a storm gathered. To the west the sun painted a band of sanguine light across the horizon; to the east the moon was hidden behind the strange obfuscation. To the north fires pricked the plain with myriad distant glows. They mounted, studying the way ahead, all with the same thought: that it should be mightily difficult to pass unscathed through the massed ranks of the enemy.
"I think," said Ochen, "that the time has come to take a chance."
Bracht laughed hugely at that and said, "We've not already?"
"I'll chance the use of magic." Ochen's answering smile was fleeting. "I'll attempt to contact the wazir-narimasu."
"Do we wait," asked Calandryll, "or do we ride?"
"Ride," said the mage. "Ride and pray."
They heeled their horses down the slope, Bracht in the lead, holding the stallion to a fast canter, reserving the animal's strength for a final gallop. The sky assumed a midnight hue, unlit by moon or stars, though sullen light played, balefire that flickered a morbid red. The reek of Tharn's malignity grew, with it the sense of horrid, hopeless oppression. Riding hard on Ochen's heels, Calandryll caught the brief waft of almonds. He turned, reassuring himself that Cennaire remained alongside, and voiced a half-spoken prayer.
Do you Younger Gods hear me now. Do you aid us, be it in your power, that we enter Anwar-teng unharmed.
The fires ahead came closer; brighter, threatening. The sounds of men and animals drifted over the grass. The pounding of their horses7 hooves counted out the minutes, the steady diminishment of the distance between them and the hostile ranks before. Calandryll rode with straightsword in hand, thinking that did the Younger Gods, the wazir- narimasu, not come to their aid, they must surely die outside the walls of Anwar-teng. Overhead, the balefire seethed, the air sullied with its stench, as if flesh corrupted, burned. They drew closer to the encircling fires . . .
. . . Closer still, enough now that they heard the alarums ringing strident from the enemy camp. Bracht shouted, /7Gallop! Ride for your lives!77 and gave the black stallion its head.
. . . And a riderless horse joined their charge, a great horse, taller than the stallion, its hide a jet in which starlight danced, as if it were composed not of flesh but elemental matter. Its eyes flashed fiery, and where its hooves struck the ground, brightness like splintered shards of sun erupted, silent despite the tremendous speed of its passage. It overtook them, and it seemed they were caught up in the vortex of its passing, their mortal mounts dragged onward, hooves seeming no longer to touch the earth, but to run above it, on the air itself, unhindered by the limits of physical existence. Calandryll said, "Horul! Praise be!"
And in his mind—in all their minds—there came a silent voice:
What aid is mine to give you shall have. Was that not promised!
Did you doubt thenl Think that I and all my kin should forsake youl Nay, we stand with you as best we may. Remember that where you go.
Ahead, riders came out to meet them, lancers and mounted bowmen.
Misguided fools, came Horul's thoughts, contempt and pity mingled. They know not what they do.
Arrows lofted and disappeared in sparkling coruscations as they neared the god. The lancers charged and the leading horsemen were bowled over, flung back against their fellows as if by an unimaginable wind. Several yelled in terror and turned from the god's headlong rush. Behind him the questers thundered through the perimeter of the camp, fires flung wild beneath their hooves to ignite pavilions, stacked bales of hay. The insurgents' horses shrilled their fear, plunging on the picket lines, tethers snapping as they bucked and reared, freeing them to run wild through the confusion that gripped the bivouac.
The walls of Anwar-teng loomed above, beacons bright with promise of refuge along the ramparts. A blue radiance, pale, but strengthening steadily, rose from the citadel to confront the balefire that gathered concentrated overhead. The charnel reek of Tharn's manifestation was opposed by the sweet scent of almonds. From the embrasures along the walls shafts flew, and faint through the tumult of pandemonium that rose from the besiegers came shouts of encouragement.
The teng's gates creaked open, blue light bright there, and armored men, archers, running a little way clear to form an avenue into which the god brought the questers.
Horul halted, rearing, within the aegis of the gates. Vast hooves pawed air, and from the flared equine nostrils fumed brilliance, like tumbling starlight.
I leave you now. Where you soon go I cannot follow, nor any of my kindred, save in spirit. Know that you go with our blessings, with our gratitude, and our hope that you succeed, that you return safe.
The warriors of Anwar-teng—their armor a blue to match the radiance overhanging the hold, Calandryll dimly noticed—drew back. Horul's great haunches bunched and the god sprang skyward, light trailing behind, the hooves striking silent on the air. The balefire gathered before him, as if malign power massed in opposition within the aethyr. The gates swung to even as Calandryll followed the god's progress, the thud of their closing overwhelmed an instant later by a tremendous thunderclap, a fireglow that leapt across the heavens, momentarily bathing Anwar-teng and all the surrounding plain, Lake Galil, in fierce red light.
Then darkness as eyes near blinded adjusted to the ensuing gloom. Calandryll felt the chestnut move und^r him, blinking as he struggled to regain sight, finding a kotu-zen leading him into the bowels of the citadel. He rubbed at his eyes and called, "Cennaire?" hearing her answer him, her voice hushed, awed, from close behind. Ahead, as sight returned, he saw Katya, Bracht at her side, Ochen before them, deep in conversation with the three brilliantly robed men who strode briskly alongside the wazir's horse.
None spoke further as they proceeded into the hold, down avenues and roadways crepuscular for all the lanterns hung from the high, surrounding buildings, toward the center.
A square there, entered by four roads extending toward the cardinal points of the compass, the buildings that formed its walls each marked with the horsehead emblem of the Jesserytes' god. They dismounted—none came to aid them, but rather stood back respectful—and on Bracht's insistence saw their animals safely stabled. Then haste, Ochen and the three robed men bringing them swift down corridors and across dim-lit halls, up winding stairways, to a great chamber set high, its ceiling pierced like that chamber in the keep with a roundel of clear glass. Through it, Calandryll saw the sky was once more dark and baleful, layered with ominous light, though here there was no sense of oppression, no redolence of Tharn's fell emanation. He looked about.
As if in deference to stranger custom, the chamber was lit with lanterns and candelabras, their glow reflecting off bare stone walls, the plain wood floor. It was a simple chamber, unadorned, at its center a round table, that ringed with faldstools, more standing empty than were occupied by the men who waited there, studying the incomers with wondering, narrow eyes. The three who had met the questers at the gate moved away, taking places among their fellows, and Ochen stepped forward, bowed, and named the questers one by one.
Calandryll studied the men seated around the. table. All were old, their faces wrinkled, to greater or lesser extent like Ochen's, most white-haired, though a few yet boasted grey, and some even departing vestiges of the Jesserytes' characteristic black locks. All wore robes of splendid color, the spectrum displayed in magnificent combinations.
The introduction done, a man at the table's farthest limit motioned the newcomers to seat themselves. He, it seemed, was elected spokesman, for when they took their places the rest remained silent as he said, "We bid you welcome to Anwar- teng, friends. We are the wazir-narimasu, and I am named Zedu. We owe you thanks for what you have attempted ..."
"Have attempted?" Calandryll caught the ominous meaning of that past tense and interrupted, courtesy dismissed as sudden fear arose. "How mean you, have attempted?"
Zedu studied him a moment, and in the slanted, fulvous eyes, Calandryll thought he saw despair. None others spoke, the silence filling up with menace. Zedu sighed, summoning his next words with obvious effort, each one a hammer blow, driving another nail into the coffin of hope.
"A day agone a rider came to Anwar-teng. A messenger from the loyal holds, he claimed; slipped through the rebel lines by dint of cunning. Jabu Orati Makusen, he named himself."
"Ahrd!" Bracht's cry was loud; his fist thudded on the table. "Rhythamun! He came here."
Calandryll heard Cennaire's sharp intake of breath; was aware of her hand, tight upon his arm. He heard Katya, her voice harsh with urgency, demand, "And you hold him? In the names of all the gods, tell me you hold him."
Zedu's face, the faces of his fellow sorcerers, gave mute answer: Calandryll felt a hand clench within his belly, tight and hard on his entrails. His mouth was abruptly dry, and as he saw Zedu's head move in negative gesture, an inarticulate cry burst from his lips.
"We do not hold him. Horul forgive us, but . . ."
The mage's answer was drowned by Bracht's shout: "You let him go? Ahrd's holy blood! How? Did you not know him for what he is?"
The faldstool clattered to the floor as the Kern rose, fists bunched in helpless anger, his eyes blazing cold and blue at the wazir-narimasu who sat shamefaced before his wrath. Katya reached out, touching his arm, urging him to calm even though her own grey orbs flashed stormy.
"Tharn waxes powerful," Zedu went on, apology in his tone, a recrimination directed inward. "Even dreaming, he sends what fell aid he may to those who'd see him risen. He contaminates the minds of men . . ."
"And fuddles yours?" Bracht snatched the stool upright, set it down with angry force. He turned to Ochen. "Help, you promised, from these hedge- wizards. They'll know Rhythamun for what he is, you said."
Ochen gave no answer, his ancient face ashen now, his eyes wide with horror, his head slowly shaking, as if he would deny all that he heard. Bracht retook his seat, glaring furiously at the assembled mages. They offered no response to his insult; could only sit, eyes downcast, withered by the Kern's scorn, his outrage.
Had this news come outside the walls of Anwar- teng Calandryll thought he should likely have sue- cumbed to desolation. Here, though, he could think clearer, as if the magicks of these shamefaced sorcerers created an atmosphere of calm, in which he was able to overcome despair, to think beyond disappointment and rage. To Bracht he said, "Do we hold in our tempers and hear Zedu out?"
"To what end?" Bracht snarled. "He tells us Rhythamun is come here unrecognized, and roams free. To where think you he roams?"
Calandryll motioned the furious Kern to silence, turning back to Zedu. "Do you continue?" Even as he spoke, he knew the answer to Bracht's rhetorical question.
The wazir-narimasu smiled wan thanks. "We were duped," he said. "Perhaps, were we less concerned with this accursed war, we should have known Jabu Orati M
akusen for what he was." He snorted, a bitter sound, filled with selfcondemnation. "We grew prideful, I think, believing none should pass our scrutiny, even when our attentions were focused on those forces gathered beyond our walls. So it was this man was granted entry, Tharn's fell power like a concealing shroud about him. Horul, but he wasted no time! That communion he holds with the Mad God was his guide, and he found the gate . . .
"Aye, he found the gate and went through it!"
His voice faltered into silence. Calandryll drew deep, rasping breath. It seemed the tissues of his throat congealed, that his heart hammered on his ribs, driving blood in hot and heavy pulses through his skull. Hoarse, he asked, "When?"
"Today," came the low-voiced response. "At sunset, when Tharn's power waxes strongest."
"As we fought," he heard Bracht gasp. "Ahrd, but that attack was intended to delay us, were we not slain. Even as Horul came to our aid, Rhythamun moved ahead of us."
We stand with you as best we can. Remember that where you go.
Rhythamun gone through the gate, the Arcanum with him. Had that been Horul's meaning? Had the god known, even as he delivered them safe to Anwar-teng, that the citadel was but a waystation along their road? He struggled to order his thoughts, to achieve a balance, a coherency of purpose, that they not concede the struggle. Had they not talked of crossing the Borrhum-maj? Of pursuing Rhythamun wherever the warlock ventured? Of entering the gate themselves, should it be needful?
Aye, they had. But that had been before, when hope—albeit faint—existed of overtaking their foe. Of confronting him on mortal terms. Now that hope was gone and two poor choices waited stark for the taking: to give up, to concede Rhythamun the victory,- or to pursue him into that limbo where the Mad God lay, where the power of both master and servant must surely wax overwhelming. The thought, no longer some far-off notion but forbidding reality now, was frightening. Ochen had spoken of the wazir-narimasu lending their powers to the quest, of schooling him further in those skills the wazir deemed he needed, were he to confront Rhythamun on the occult plane. There should be no time for that now—were they to clutch what slender strands of hope remained, they must go unprepared into limbo.
Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 Page 38