The Crimson Lord (The Dark God Rises Trilogy Book 2)

by Robert Ryan

  Brand was appalled. He did not know why he did what he did, but he knelt on one knee.

  “No, my lord. I don’t know who you are or what you did, but no one deserves this. I will set you free, if I can. I swear it.”

  “Free?” The word was a whisper in his mind, but it was a scream of hope and anguish at the same time. “Free?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  There was silence for a moment. Brand sensed his companions behind him, restless and uncertain. Could they hear the wizard’s voice? He thought so. And he understood as well that this man spoke a different language, but sending his thoughts mind to mind provided meaning.

  “I am tired,” the wizard said. “And I am bound. I cannot help you.”

  “I will do what is needed.”

  The wizard moaned again, a spasm of pain racking his body. “The staff is the key,” his whispered thought came.

  Brand did not hesitate. He reached out, albeit slowly, and traced a finger along the surface of the ancient timber that jutted through the other man’s body.

  Feelings of agony and despair washed over him, and a sense of roiling powers. Almost he snapped his hand away, but he forced himself to keep the contact.

  There was magic in the staff, and it drew from the wizard himself. This part of what he felt reminded him of Aranloth, as well it might. Aranloth was of the same ancient Letharn race as this man, of the same order of wizards. There was great similarity there, but wizardry was only one of the powers that he sensed.

  Sorcery he felt also, vile and terrible. And the two forces had been combined by the sorcerer himself after defeating the wizard. This he had achieved by the use of a third magic. The source of this power was all around them, for it originated in the land itself, and the lake nearby was a reservoir of it. There were places all of the earth where the natural forces were stronger, and this was one such. And the latent power of it was greater by far than any single person could hope to match.

  But how to reverse the spell? Surely the wizard himself must have made the attempt? And yet it was the power of the sorcery, the binding of all these forces together that bound the wizard himself, both to life and to death, that held him transfixed between worlds as well as transfixed to the wall.

  Brand understood. The spell worked in two ways. It had a magical aspect as well as a physical. By sorcery, the wizard had been impaled upon the staff, and the end of it driven into the stone. The key to unraveling the spell was to physically remove the staff, an act the wizard was not capable of. It was yet another form of torture, for the means of the wizard’s release was a simple matter, and yet for all this time beyond him.

  Gently, Brand gripped the staff. He hoped that he understood things correctly. With as great a care as he could, he began to pull.

  The staff moved, but did not dislodge. And the wizard screamed. Whether the sound was in his mind or came from those blistered lips, Brand could not tell.

  He pulled again, this time with all his might. He must end this now, but the staff did not come loose. The wizard shrieked in agony.

  Again Brand tried, and this time the staff slid through the stone with a grinding motion. Faster it moved, and then the length of it came free.

  Even as Brand held the staff and pulled it clear, it turned to dust in his hands. The spell unraveled all around him. Sorcery collapsed. Wizardry faltered and blew away like mist before a wind. And the enormous power of the land itself flowed back into the lake from whence it came.

  A moment the body of the wizard remained where it was, pinned still by the metal spikes to the wall. Then, no longer caught by the spell, it fell to the floor as a heap of tattered cloth and ancient dust.

  Brand stepped back, and the others with him. So died, at long last, a great man. Mighty he had been in life, and without knowing how he knew, Brand guessed the man was not only a wizard but also in command of this fortress and the men who defended it. They had been given no quarter, and fought to the end. They may or may not have been good men; he did not know. But they had courage, and he admired that.

  “I have never seen the like,” Taingern said softly.

  “Nor I,” Brand agreed. “And I want never to see it again. This was a deed of cruelty that defies belief.”

  “Then the dead are gone?” Sighern asked.

  It was a good question, and it raised others that were important. That the wizard was transfixed between worlds, he could understand, but why did the spirits of the dead defenders haunt this place? They were not caught in the spell.

  “We shall see,” Brand replied.

  They retraced their steps then, and the body of water, now on their right, had changed. No longer was it black, but rather it was silvery in the flickering light of the torches.

  Brand paused. The water began to churn and bubble, and he heard the cries of the long-dead. A thousand, thousand faces he saw in the water, arms stretching forth, fingers grasping at the air. Mist rose from the lake surface, but it was pulled one way and then another by unseen forces.

  The lake broke its bank, lapping up onto the pebbly shore. The light of the torches flickered wildly, and Brand sensed the desire of his companions to flee. But they held that desire in check, as did he.

  Finally, one figure rose full up above the water. Tall he was, robed in white and a staff in his hands. Like a king he stood, and the glance of his eyes was stern as a statue of stone.

  He glided over the water, his body unmoving but some force tugging at his robes, flapping the cloth crazily. It was the wizard, or at least the spirit of him, set free. But when he came to the margin of water and land, he ceased to move, and he fixed Brand with his kingly gaze.

  “Brand of the Duthenor,” he proclaimed. “You have freed me. It was a good deed, and better than you know.”

  Brand met the wizard’s gaze. “How so, my lord?”

  The spirit shook his head. “You know so little. Many things happened in my time, but things happen now also. Evil creeps through the world, and it may slither beside you without you knowing it. Even for one such as you, who rides upon the breath of the dragon, the task ahead will be hard. But these things I will tell you, for you will have need of them.”

  The wizard closed his eyes as though in thought. The spirits in the water all around him moved and flowed just beneath the surface. Then his eyes opened again.

  “These things you should know. There is great power in the lake. Mother-earth is strong here, and the Letharn harnessed her power, sometimes not wisely, to defend our lands. I was one who did so. And at the end, I used that power least wisely of all, to enhance the strength of my warriors. It was not enough, but by that act I bound them to me in death. As I was trapped, so too were they. They who served me willingly with their lives in life, were bound unwillingly in death. You freed us all, and for that a debt is owed.”

  Brand thought about that. It made sense. And he saw how the sorcerer had grasped the opportunity to punish both the wizard and all who followed him at the same time.

  “This also you should know,” the wizard continued. “Great though my power was, the strength of the gods of the Kar-ahn-hetep was greater. They humbled me, who had not ever known defeat. Be wary of pride, therefore, lest you be humbled also. Be wary of he that is known as Horta, for he is successor to those who defeated me, and his cunning and his power is great. And he seeks to raise a new god of the south that shall scourge the land. He is your enemy.”

  The Kar-ahn-hetep Brand did not know, but Horta he had met. He would not underestimate him.

  The wizard raised an arm, ethereal as mist, and he pointed straight at Brand. Otherworldly was the specter, but the command of his voice brooked no argument.

  “Heed me well! This too I shall tell you, third but not least. You are hunted. The Trickster will deceive you, one of the gods of your enemies. Be wary of her most of all, for she does not come with armies nor might of arms nor the regalia of power. Yet her arts are the deadliest, and she can take any form, be anyone, find any way i
nto your confidences. She will make you your own enemy, and there is none greater in life. Heed me well, Brand of the Duthenor.”

  This was unexpected. It was the last thing he needed, for already he had too much to contend with. But he knew good advice when he heard it.

  “I hear you, and I take your advice.” Brand bowed his head as he said the words.

  The otherworldly wind that tore at the robes of the wizard intensified. “Three things I have told you,” he said, lowering his arm. “One was that I owed you a debt. Call upon me in your need. And you will have need. Dead though I am, I am not without power, for a while at least. I will do as I can, though it will not be a great deed. This I owe you.”

  Brand had little desire for help from the dead. He did not think he would use that offer, for help such as that might be perilous, and he did not think he would ever have a need so great as to risk it. But still, it was nobly offered.

  “Farewell, until that hour,” the wizard said. His form began to fade, and he receded further back toward the center of the lake.

  “What is your name?” Brand called. “I should know that much about you, at least.”

  As though from faraway the fading figure answered. “I was a wizard-priest, cousin to the emperor. Kurik, my name was in life.”

  The spirit descended into the water, and with a ripple that went out in a circle he disappeared from sight.

  Brand sighed. A great evil had been redressed, yet still he remained uneasy. There was so much that he did not know, not least of all the intentions of Horta. What had the spirit said? That he seeks to raise a new god who will scourge the land? It was a troubling thought, and he realized he was playing a game for which he did not know the rules nor even the identity of the other players. He had returned to the Duthgar to right a wrong and bring justice. He had come back to topple Unferth from the rulership of the Duthenor that he had usurped. Instead, he now found himself fighting a war. And a war against gods. Truly, if there was such a thing as destiny, his was a twisted fate devised by a madman gripped in the vice of a fever-induced dream.

  Brand laughed to himself, and his companions eyed him strangely.

  9. Calm Before the Storm

  Out over the battlements Brand gazed. It was midmorning. It was a clear day of blue sky and sunshine. It was a calm day, yet the men worked unstintingly and brought the fortress into shape, into the shape it must have, for a storm would soon break upon it.

  Brand glanced up at the Dragon Banner of the Duthenor. A breeze stiffened it somewhat, and the rippling cloth made the feet of the dragon seem to move as though it walked.

  The banner belonged to him, and had belonged to his line before him. It was the symbol of the Duthenor and the sign of his own house, but more precious to him was the blood that stained it. He looked away lest he cry.

  Haldring was lost to him. She had died for his cause, and not victory nor fulfilment of justice would ever bring her back.

  He missed her, and he wondered what she would make of what was happening now, and what advice she would give him. Probably, she would tell him that he was doing it all wrong. And he would listen to her, strive to justify to her every minute detail of what he did, and where he could not do so he would change his plan to her satisfaction.

  But she was not here, and he would have to get by as best he could. Taingern and Shorty were skilled men, although they did not know the Duthgar as had she nor understand the Duthenor well either. He wondered if he did now himself. Too long he had been away, and much had changed. His home did not feel like home anymore. It felt instead like a nightmare rising from the ashes of his dreams.

  “You seem thoughtful,” Sighern said.

  Brand glanced at his companion, his sole companion for the moment as Shorty and Taingern were supervising the many tasks at hand to bring the fortress into fighting shape.

  “Thoughtful perhaps,” he answered. “Or maybe just reminiscing. Old men do that.”

  The boy raised an eyebrow. “You’re not even middle-aged yet.”

  “No. But suddenly, I feel like it.”

  The boy gazed at him seriously. “You’ve been thinking of Haldring. You blame yourself for what happened, even though it was not your fault, and you know it. You know also that leading an army, at least one that fights, will result in death. And you worry now that you’ve not done all that you could to prevent more, but at the same time you know that soon these walls will run red with blood. You know these things, and you accept that as commander of an army you have responsibility for minimizing death, but no capacity to stop it, but still you will treat every death as though it were caused by you.”

  Brand returned the boy’s gaze. He had to stop thinking of him as such. He had insight and wisdom beyond his years.

  “And if you’re right? What is the remedy for my problem?”

  “There is no remedy. Not all the ills in life can be cured. Warriors will die … or live. You do what you must, and to the best of your skill. No man can do more. The harm that comes from your decisions, you’ll learn to accept. You’ve done so in the past, and you’ll do so in the days ahead. The Duthgar will have a glorious future, and that will be because of what you do now, mistakes and all.”

  Brand looked away and out over the battlement to the lands beyond. It seemed to him that sometimes Sighern was a stranger. Where had a boy acquired such wisdom, such depth of understanding? Not for the first time, Brand wondered about him.

  “What you say might be right, but neither of us may live to see it.”

  Sighern shrugged. “There’s truth to that. But I have a feeling that both of us will survive this. I don’t doubt it, for a moment.”

  Brand fell silent again. He had much to think on, not least of which was whether or not he had missed any vital task that needed doing.

  Out below, many men were working. They cut down the stunted trees that grew around the fortress. The work there was going well, and most of the trees were already gone, having been cut into smaller logs and hauled within the fortress to provide fuel for cooking fires.

  The stumps of the trees were partially dug out and fires lit around them to catch the roots. They would smolder slowly for days yet, but when they burned out all that would be left was a clear killing field. From where he stood, Brand saw firsthand the advantage of that. Had he a bow, he could shoot a clean shot for a good way out beyond the fortress, and there was no hiding place or cover for the enemy. He wished he had more bowmen though, and ones better trained to the nuances of war rather than hunting. But he had what he had, and he would make the most of it.

  Spearmen would also hurl javelins from up here, but their range was much less. Foragers had been sent into the woods around about to collect what timber they could turn into javelins. Ash was best, but other woods would suffice. And forges had been found and cleaned in the fortress too. The smiths would forge arrow and spear heads from whatever metal could be salvaged. In a stroke of luck, ancient bins of iron ore had also been found near the smithies, ready to be used in another age of the world and untouched since. How much the world must have changed since then. And how little.

  Brand could not quite see the gate, though it was immediately below him. Shorty would be there, supervising repairs just as Taingern was away in the woods somewhere organizing the parties that were gathering timber.

  Luck had favored them with the gate. It looked a mess, and yet with the forges repaired the smiths said they would be able to beat it into rough shape again, strengthen the weaker areas and repair the mechanism by which it was raised and lowered as a portcullis.

  Barracks for the soldiers had been found and cleaned. Of these, there were far more than were required. The Letharn had garrisoned many more men here than he had at his disposal. At least, they had the space for them. That was a disquieting thought. Even with all those men, they had still been overrun. Sorcery had been involved there though, powerful and directed by an attacker without mercy. Yet, might that not happen now also? What might Horta be
capable of?

  He put those thoughts aside. He must be prepared for anything, but he could not guess in advance what it would be. Horta was beyond his control, and he must focus now only on what he had influence over.

  The kitchens had been found, and some of those were being cleaned and repaired. An army fought best on a good ration, especially well-cooked food. It would be quite an improvement on the trail rations they had been eating so far, and so too the roofs over their heads and protection from the elements. All factors to raise morale. And yet the Duthenor had no experience of siege warfare, nor any liking of the idea. That might change though when the attack finally came and they saw firsthand the advantages of facing your enemy when they had to find a way through a barrage of missiles, and then scale a wall to get to you. Yes, the Duthenor would begin to like it very quickly then.

  Lunch time drew near, and Shorty and Taingern reported on their progress. They ate a quick meal of fresh-baked bread, direct from the fortress ovens that had been fired. With this was some cheese and watered wine.

  “The work goes well,” Shorty said. “The men go at it hard, harder than most soldiers in Cardoroth.”

  Brand laughed. “That’s because in Cardoroth they were professional soldiers. Most of the men here have to work for a living, and many of them are farmers. Few jobs are tougher than that, and the work breeds good warriors.”

  “True enough,” Taingern agreed. “I’ve seen the Duthenor fight now, and though they may not quite have the technique and discipline of professional soldiers, they’re not far behind. But whatever they do for a living, each of them is a warrior born in their hearts.”

  That was certainly true. Brand thought back to his days as a child. Every story he ever heard, every hero he ever looked up to, they were warriors all. The Duthenor were a warlike race. Necessity had forged them so.

  Shorty sipped at his watered wine. No doubt he would have preferred beer, but there was little of that.