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

by Robert Ryan

  He knew the answer. At least, he knew one way to try, one way that he might bring the odds back to something approaching even. Kurik had told him he would need help. The wizard-priest had offered it. Brand had wanted no part of help from a dead man, from a spirit bound to the world in torture and perhaps in lust for revenge, but now … now he must needs take all the help he could get. If it was not too late. Kurik had warned him that his spirit would not remain in the world for long after his release from the spell that bound him.

  It was a task that could not wait, though Brand did not relish it. He stood on shaky legs and dressed. His helm he left behind, but his sword he belted to his waist. Even in a fortress held by his own army it was wise to be prepared. Then he moved silently through the barracks and deeper into the fortress.

  He was glad to have the sword, for he felt from early on that someone was following him. He should make his way back to the soldiers while he could and get help. But if he did that, whoever followed him might slip away and remain unknown. It was better to go ahead and see if he could trap them. Knowledge was power, and ignorance death.

  He moved ahead. The ways were dark, but he found a torch in a corridor and took it with him. It provided not just light, but would also serve as a weapon.

  Down he went, into the depths of the fortress. And his stalker came with him. Whoever it was moved near silently, but not quite silent enough. No one could move silently in such a place of stone and corridors that took sound and threw it around from wall to wall. He made no effort to move quietly himself. Doing so would only serve to warn the person who followed that he was being cautious.

  He reached the underground cavern where the body of water lay to his left. There, on the softer ground, he could move silently, and he ran ahead, wedging the torch into some sand and then running back into the shadows. Whoever followed would pause, not wishing to get too close to the light but probably not being able to see that no one held the torch up.

  Brand drew his sword and squatted low to the ground. He held the blade behind him so that no flicker of light glimmered from its surface, and he kept his head down. It was the skin of a man’s face that often revealed him in the dark, for being paler than his clothes it was more easily seen.

  He waited several tense moments, slowing his breathing as much as he could so that he could not be heard. Whoever followed him came forward more quickly than he had guessed. They were sure of themselves to follow so closely, and such confidence spoke of skill. Then again, it could be overconfidence as well.

  A shadow moved before him, dark as the perpetual night in this cave. And then it came to a stop. A moment it hesitated, and Brand tensed.

  But before he could act, he heard a slow laugh that he knew well.

  “Stand up, Brand. I see you there. You would not attack me, would you?”

  It was Tinwellen, and Brand was amazed at her courage but also angry at her following him.

  He stood and moved toward her. “How did you even see me?”

  She laughed softly again, and her hands moved in the dark, perhaps sheathing her knives. “Is it just me you underestimate? Or is it all women? Don’t you know that girls see better in the dark than boys?” She hesitated, and then added, “I can show you exactly how well I see in the dark, if you like. That might be fun.”

  Brand could see the flash of her brilliant smile clearly amid the shadows and his anger evaporated. “Hopefully, I underestimate no one. But why on earth did you follow me? What I do down here could be dangerous.”

  “Why must I keep telling you this? I have your back.”

  It was a simple answer, and a powerful one. But she spoke again before he could reply.

  “What are you doing down here, anyway?” She looked around distastefully at what could be seen of their surroundings.

  He told her then all about Kurik, and what had happened here before. And especially about the spirit’s offer to help, and why he thought he needed it now.

  “You worry too much,” was all she said.

  “It’s my job to worry. If I don’t, who will?”

  “Things will sort themselves out. You were right to refuse help the first time. Who wants help from a ghost? And how far can you trust him? Better to leave well enough alone. Come back up to the fortress with me and I’ll take your mind off all your worries.”

  He did not doubt that she would do that, and more. But the stakes had grown too high now. He could not turn away an offer for help. Other people would pay for any such mistake as that, and he already had enough on his conscience.

  “You go back up. I have business here that I cannot put aside.”

  She stamped her foot. “I’m not going anywhere, except with you. If you’ll not listen to reason, then I guess I’ll just have to keep watching your back. Otherwise anything could happen to you down here and no one in the world would know.”

  That much was true, and not for the first time he wished that he had found Taingern and Shorty before rushing down here.

  But all he said though was a simple thank you to Tinwellen. “I appreciate your coming with me. But the night moves on, and I have a feeling that time is running out.”

  He led her forward then. Deftly, he picked up the torch and then proceeded along the edge of the water into the next chamber.

  “This was where he was bound,” he whispered to Tinwellen.

  She looked around, and her eyes gleamed in the torch light, but she said nothing.

  “Kurik!” Brand called. “Can you hear me? I would speak with you again.”

  He knew there were rites involved with summoning the dead, but he did not know what they were, or want to know. But what he did now was no summoning. Either the spirit of Kurik yet lingered in this world, or it did not. Either it would help, or it would not. Both were beyond his control.

  For long moments, nothing changed. Then the dark grew darker, and the shadows thicker. The torch in Brand’s hand still burned, but it seemed that its flame gave neither light nor warmth. The smoke coiling from it filled the air, spilling out to cover the floor of the chamber.

  The smoke before Brand swirled and eddied. Then it took shape, forming the image of a man. It was Kurik, or the spirit of him at least.

  “Hail, Brand of the Duthenor. You have called upon me, as I knew you must.”

  Brand gave a bow. “Hail, my lord. Your wisdom is greater than mine. You offered help, and I spurned it. Now I see better why it is needed. And, if you are still willing, I will accept it.”

  Kurik made no answer. It seemed as though he was deep in thought. Perhaps that was so. Or perhaps he saw some vision of the future. But after a moment his head came up and his eyes, dark shadows that they were, blazed.

  “My help you have requested. And you shall have it, such as it is. My power is spent, and my time nearly gone. Yet still I may avail you aid, though it is but the shadow of what once I could have done.”

  “And what will you do, my lord?”

  Kurik gazed at him, and then he turned those shadowy eyes upon Tinwellen. A while he studied her, and she returned his gaze without fear. At that moment Brand was proud of her, for few in her position could have done the same.

  The spirit turned again to Brand. “I will do what I can, little though it be. But it is best you don’t know what it is. The future is dark and untrodden. A misstep now could put you on the wrong path. I dare not risk that. But remember my warnings from when first we met. Keep them close to your heart, and keep hope also. You will need it.”

  The spirit of the dead man faded away as a movement of air pulled apart the smoke. It was not reassuring to Brand. He needed help, but what help could be given by a dead person whose ghost was not able to withstand a breeze? Yet still, it did not pay to underestimate anybody.

  Tinwellen sniffed. “He seemed a stuffy old man to me. He’ll be no help to you at all. And why on earth do you call him lord?”

  Brand grinned at her. “I call him lord because it seems to me that he deserves it. As for h
elp, time will tell what form it takes.”

  She frowned at him. “Why are you smiling?”

  “Because you’re here. Who else would stare back at the spirit of a dead man and call him stuffy after he was gone? Others would have fled, screaming.”

  That was the type of thing she seemed to want to hear, for her eyes sparked and her smile dazzled him.

  “I told you. I have your back. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “And I have yours.”

  They retraced their steps up into the fortress then. All the while Brand considered how lucky he was. His friends had always been few, but they were people of character and strength. None more so than Tinwellen.

  19. The Breath of the Dragon

  Horta slept, but it was a restless sleep troubled by strange dreams. And then the goddess Su-sarat came to him, and she spoke.

  “Wake, Horta.”

  And he woke, yet still remained in the dream. He was in the desert, in a place that he knew of old as a youth. Here he had hunted and ridden his chariot. In this place he had met his first great love, and here he had lost her also. It was dark, and he could see little, but each ridge and hill, each sweep of arid land and stunted bush, he knew them all, knew where they were in the dark even if he could not see them. And the scent of the desert air at night was like wine that intoxicated him.

  The voice of the goddess whispered to him out of that darkness. “Horta, Unferth does not sleep and I cannot enter his mind. But I must learn of his plans. Speak to me.”

  Horta cast his gaze about. The goddess was nowhere to be seen, yet she was everywhere. Never had one of the gods visited him thus, nor had he heard of something similar from another magician.

  “I am your servant, Su-sarat. Ask, and I will obey.”

  He did not like this. There was no ritual to follow here, no way to know if he was saying or doing the right thing.

  Her voice came again out of the night. “Will Unferth attack the fortress, or will he wait?”

  “He will attack, Great Mistress. Fear drives him, and his hatred for Brand also. He will attack, and he will throw all that he has against the enemy.”

  The night was still, thoughtful almost. “And his army is great? It will succeed?”

  “How can it not?”

  The goddess did not answer that. But she did speak again.

  “And how long before Unferth reaches the fortress?”

  “Soon, O Holy One. It will be soon. If not tomorrow, then the day after.”

  To this, she offered no answer, but her presence remained all around him. The air throbbed with it. So he risked voicing a question of his own.

  “Has Brand fallen into your thrall yet?”

  The brooding air about him tensed, and he guessed his mistake. Maybe. He should have given her one of her titles. The gods liked them.

  “He resists me, even though he does not know why he does so. It is … desirable. Yet I shall have him in the end and that end is close. I am nearly there.”

  “Who are you in his group, O Dancer in the Night?” He gave her the title the lore said she liked most. But the lore was not always right.

  “It does not matter,” she answered. “I could be anyone, and my influence is hidden. That is all you need to know, magician.”

  He pondered that answer. The word magician had been a rebuke. It was meant to put him in his place, and he knew it. His role was one of servant and not questioner.

  “I am blessed, O Queen of Secrets,” he intoned, “to hear your words. Your will is supreme, your desires will come to fruition. You are a god, and the world orders itself to your thought. I am but a humble servant, and I would draw on your wisdom if I may?”

  “Sweet are your words, Horta. Even if they are flattery. But you have earned something at least from me. Ask, and I will give answer.”

  Horta bowed. But he spoke swiftly. When a god gave permission to do something, it was best to take them up on it straightaway.

  “Gormengil, heir to the throne, is a man of immense ambition. I believe he will attempt to displace Unferth. This could be disastrous at the moment, but I fear he may act despite my urgings not to.”

  “And your question, Horta?”

  “Simply this. Should I kill him?”

  The presence around him stirred, as though in thought.

  “You would already have killed him, had that been best. You keep him alive, because in the future he is one who would serve Char-harash better than Unferth.”

  She made it a statement, rather than a question.

  “That is exactly so, O Holy One.”

  The night deepened around him. He sensed doubt, fleeting but present. Then it was masked. He hoped the goddess had not realized he sensed it, for that might be his own death. But it troubled him that there should be any doubt at all. The gods were always sure of themselves.

  “This Gormengil feels it,” she said at last. “The breath of the dragon blows over the land. Change lurks in every shadow. Possibility stirs everywhere, and none know for sure what will be. But in the end, who cares if it is Unferth who bows before the gods returned, or Gormengil? Kill him, or help him. It matters not to me.”

  Horta was surprised. That she cared nothing for Unferth or Gormengil was irrelevant, but that she had spoken of the gods returning rather than just Char-harash ascending to godhood, that was something that he had not considered. Yet the gods derived their power in no small part from those who worshipped them. If Char-harash was resurrected, if he led armies over the land as he would no doubt do, then the ways of the Kar-ahn-hetep would spread everywhere. And so too their gods. All of them.

  “Did you not know?” the goddess whispered from the night. “You seek to raise one god, but with him shall come the others. The old ways are returning. The old battles will be new again.”

  And then her presence faded and she was gone. Horta continued to contemplate what she had revealed though. It was more, much more than he had anticipated. If the old gods returned, there would be catastrophic war among them as there was of old. It would wreak destruction across all the world. But he had proceeded thus far, and he could not turn back now.

  20. Blade and Hilt

  Brand was tired, for he had gotten little sleep the night before. But excitement banished his lethargy.

  All morning he had watched from the courtyard as new recruits entered the fortress. Often, he spoke with them, or their leaders. He learned where they were from and what part of the Duthgar was home to them. He listened to their changing accents, for even in such a relatively small land there were changes, especially between the eastern and western districts. To the west were other tribes. The Callenor was one, closely associated with the Duthenor through a long history, but there were others.

  And it was to his surprise that one group of soldiers, only twenty strong, were from one of these tribes. He heard them talking as they came in, and he knew those accents though he had not heard them since his childhood. They were men of the Norvinor tribe.

  They looked skilled warriors. In appearance, they were slightly shorter than the men of the Duthenor usually were, and their hair was black. They wore chain mail that was longer than common, coming down to their knees nearly, and their swords were of a larger kind. They looked grim men, and proud, yet they sang as they marched and there was something jaunty about them despite their appearance. There was curiosity in their eyes too, for they would not have seen a fortress such as this, nor, maybe, even heard the rumors about it.

  Brand went over to meet them, and they ceased to sing. Before he could introduce himself, their leader bowed. “Hail, Brand, rightful chieftain of the Duthenor.”

  Brand was surprised. “You know me?”

  The man grinned. “No, but even in our land the legendary Helm of the Duthenor is spoken of in stories. We knew it for what it was the moment we saw you.”

  Brand wore it so often now that he often forgot it was even there. The man continued. “Bruidiger, I’m called. And I lead these men to y
our service.”

  Brand thrust out his hand, and Bruidiger took it in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist.

  “I thank you and your men for your service. But I have to say I’m surprised to see any Norvinor warriors here. You’re far from home, and this isn’t your battle.”

  Bruidiger shrugged. “Both of those things are true, and it’s only chance that brings us here. We were hired by a merchant to guard his caravan as he came through our lands, and we saw him safely to your own, for he heads through them to Cardoroth. But then we heard what was happening here, and we lingered, intrigued. Then we heard you had returned, and there was friendship once between your father and mine. So I came to help, and my men came to help me.”

  Brand remembered his father speaking well of the Norvinor, but he had not known he had a friend among them. It was interesting, and he wished to talk to Bruidiger further, but this was not the time nor place.

  “If it pleases you, later I’d like to have a good talk. But for now, you and your men must be tired. There’ll be a man at the barracks to find you a place to rest and get you a meal. But I’ll find you this evening, if I get a chance.”

  Bruidiger bowed again. Brand signaled one of his own men over, and he led the small band away. He wished he had a thousand more of them, for they had the look of hard warriors about them, men who had seen a fight or two and come out the other side victorious.

  A little while later another group came through, and this one was several hundred strong. They were from the south of the Duthgar, lands near to the High Way and down into a valley famous for the quality of its cheese. Brand had been there once, and he spoke highly of their home, and they liked that he did. But they gave him sobering news in return. Unferth was close behind them. There would be no more warriors entering the fortress after them.

  Brand sent word for all the captains of the army to come out into the courtyard, and there he addressed them when they had gathered.