Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (20 page)

 
          
Shuddering
heaves racked him and he felt Bracht grasp his shoulders as tears filled his
eyes and he spat sour bile between his feet.

 
          
"You
fought well," he heard the mercenary say, "and thought fast."

 
          
He
nodded wordlessly, wiping at his eyes as cold terror chilled him. He had not
thought—had not had time—to be afraid until now, but now the hideous enormity
of the sorcerous attack struck home. The beasts had materialized as readily as
Varent had appeared on his balcony, and they had clearly intended to kill
him—would have succeeded had Bracht not reacted so swiftly, or he not thought
to use fire against them. Where had they come from? Were they Azumandias's
creatures? If they were, then Varent's enemy must already suspect his part in
the quest; must—the thought induced another wave of nausea—know where he was;
be able, perhaps, to see him.

 
          
Could
that be possible? He spat and swallowed, gagging at the bitter taste, and
stared wildly around.

 
          
"They're
gone," Bracht said, mistaking his purpose. "We defeated them."

 
          
"Dera!"
he gasped. "Can he find us? I must speak with Varent."

 
          
"Can
who find us?" Suspicion rang in the Kem's voice. "What have you
withheld?"

 
          
Now
guilt joined Calandryll's fear: surely Bracht had a right to know what they
faced. But Varent had urged secrecy upon him, and if Bracht suspected the true
nature of their quest, then he might rescind his promise. Calandryll shook his
head.

 
          
"No
one," he mumbled. "I hope Lord Varent may offer some explanation; no
more than that."

 
          
What
friendship he had seen in the mercenary's eyes departed; they grew cold as a
winter sky. He fastened a hand in the lacings of Calandryll's gambeson and
hauled the younger man upright, his face set in angiy lines.

 
          
"I
have agreed to escort you to Gessyth in search of this ...
book.
No
sooner do I leam my charge is a runaway from Secca than I'm attacked by demons.
They howl and bum, but none hear them, none come to aid us, and you speak of
someone finding us. There's more here than I've been told—and I'd now
what."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded helplessly, frightened by the Kem's cold anger. It seemed his wits
deserted him in the aftermath of the sorcerous onslaught: he could think of no
ready explanation.

 
          
"Please,"
he muttered. "Please, Bracht, we'll go to Lord Varent."

 
          
The
Kern held him at arm's length, his eyes still wintry. Then he granted,
releasing his grip.

 
          
"Now."

 
          
Calandryll
tottered on weakened knees, unable to do more than mumble his acceptance.

 
          
"Come."

 
          
Bracht's
tone was cold, brooking no disobedience as he strode toward the door, and
Calandryll went after him, feeling sweat cool on his face as they stepped into
the moonlit courtyard. "Wait," he asked as he saw the well, drawing
up a bucket of fresh water that he used to rinse his mouth and bathe his face.

 
          
He
felt a little better composed after that and followed the grim-faced Kem into
the caravanserai.

 
          
The
common room was deserted save for two drudges curled by the banked fire. Bracht
ignored them, leading the way to the stairs that climbed to the sleeping
quarters. He found Varent's room and hammered on the door. It opened to reveal
the ambassador wearing a robe of saxe blue silk and a curious expression.
"You need not have returned my sword until morning," he murmured,
"but come in. You'll take a glass?"

 
          
Without
awaiting a reply he filled three cups. Calandryll accepted gratefully, drinking
deep, then spluttering as fire burned in his throat.

 
          
"Distilled
wine," said Varent sympathetically. "A powerful brew and best sipped,
but a most excellent nightcap."

 
          
Calandryll
fought his coughing to silence and took a second cautious mouthful. Bracht
tossed his down in a single swallow and faced Varent. His eyes were cold and
hard, his tone, when he spoke, no less so.

 
          
"We
were attacked," he announced. "By demons."

 
          
"Demons?"
Varent's eyebrows formed twin arches over his dark eyes. "I heard
nothing."

 
          
"There
were four of them," said Calandryll, "but we dispatched them."

 
          
"Thank
Dera," Varent declared earnestly. "Do you sit down and tell me
exactly what happened."

 
          
Succinctly,
Bracht outlined the attack. Varent listened in silence, then nodded
thoughtfully, turning to Calandryll.

 
          
"Might
your father, or your brother, have done this?"

 
          
It
did not occur to him that so ready an explanation would provide ample reason
for the appearance of the creatures and without thinking he shook his head.

 
          
"How
could they know where I am? Even if they did, they would not send demons
against me. There are no wizards of such ability in Secca."

 
          
"Are
you sure?"

 
          
He
failed to recognize the undertone of irritation in Varent's question and
nodded.

 
          
"Absolutely."

 
          
The
ambassador's dark eyes clouded for a moment and he reached for the decanter,
topping their glasses. His gaze met Calandryll's, angry, and the younger man
saw that he had made a mistake: to claim Bylath or Tobias as the originators of
the creatures would have explained his admission to Bracht, avoided further
amplification. He shrugged, sighing: the alcohol calmed his fluttering stomach,
but in place of terror came a great weariness; he found he longed to sleep.

 
          
"At
least you survived," Varent murmured.

 
          
"But
were still attacked," said Bracht, his voice cold, "which prompts me
to wonder why."

 
          
"Why?"
Varent said.

 
          
"Yes,"
insisted the Kem. "Whoever sent those creatures must wish us
dead—why?"

 
          
Varent
raised a hand to indicate the mercenary should elaborate. He appeared at ease,
his features composed in lines of concern and relief, though in his dark eyes
there remained the glitter of suppressed irritation.

 
          
"You
came to me with the offer of a small fortune," Bracht went on, "and
then I never thought to wonder why you sought me out. It did not occur to me
that the young man I'd saved suggested it, but now I leam he flees his father
and you want him to obtain some antique document from Gessyth. No sooner do we
meet than creatures from the pit attack us, and when they are defeated
Calandryll wonders if some mysterious       
can find us—presumably to send the beasts against us. There's more to this
quest than you've revealed and I'd know what we face. Or part company
now."

 
          
"Despite
your given word?" asked Varent.

 
          
"I
gave my word thinking to face mortal dangers, not the creations of
sorcery."

 
          
Bracht's
voice was cold, his expression unyielding. For long moments he and Varent
locked eyes, then the ambassador sighed. "You've proved yourself a doughty
swordsman," he admitted. "Very well—Calandryll is a scholar and can
read the Old Tongue. Few can boast that accomplishment and he is one of the few
capable of recognizing what I want. Your task, as ever, is to guard him."

 
          
"He
mentioned this mysterious book," Bracht nodded. "A valuable document,
I believe?"

 
          
"To
a collector," agreed Varent smoothly.

 
          
"Valuable
enough that someone sends demons to thwart us?"

 
          
Varent
shrugged. "It would seem so," he conceded.

 
          
Bracht
shook his head, steel in his eyes as he studied the ambassador.

 
          
"I
have taken your coin and given you my word, but," he paused ominously,
“I
will not swallow lies!
Now, do you tell me the truth, or do we part company
here and now?"

 
          
Calandryll
saw Varent's handsome features stiffen; his hand tightened on the cup he held,
and when he spoke his tone matched Bracht's, ice for ice.

 
          
"I
am the Lord Varent den Tarl of Aldarin and no man calls me liar."

 
          
"Should
you choose to challenge me, I'll meet you gladly," Bracht returned, his
gaze unwavering.

 
          
They
stared at one another, engaged in a silent battle of wills. Calandryll realized
he held his breath; then Varent smiled.

 
          
"You've
a prickly sense of honor for a freesword, Bracht."

 
          
The
Kern did not answer the smile: his face remained cold as he said, "I've a
keen sense of survival, Varent. And when demons attack me, I want to know
why."

 
          
"Perhaps
they sought Calandryll."

 
          
"Perhaps,
but as you point out—I am hired to guard him."

 
          
"Indeed."
Varent ducked his head; sighed. "So be it— I had thought to keep this
secret, but I perceive I deal with a man a cut above the usual mercenary."

 
          
"I'd
know my enemies," said Bracht, the compliment ignored.

 
          
"Then
know that your enemy is a mage called Azumandias," Varent said, undeterred
by the freesword's hostility. "A wizard of some power, who lusts for the
same thing I seek. It is called the Arcanum and it is rumored to lie in the city
of Tezin-dar, which—as you perhaps know—is supposedly a fable."

 
          
He
paused, sipping the distilled wine; Bracht waited, not yet mollified.

 
          
"Azumandias
is a fanatic," Varent continued in a solemn tone, fixing the Kem with his
eyes. "A madman, who seeks the book that he might use it to raise the Mad
God, Tham. Should he succeed in that, the world is ended. I seek to prevent his
insanity."

 
          
"A
book can do this?" Bracht demanded; he seemed unimpressed.

 
          
"The
Arcanum makes it possible," said Varent. "It is the key to the
resting places of Tham and Balatur. Azumandias already has the spells that will
rouse the Mad God—he cannot be allowed to obtain the Arcanum!"

 
          
"The
Mad God is a thing of the past, banished to oblivion by the First Gods."

 
          
Disbelief
rang in the Kem's voice: Varent shrugged, spreading his hands.

 
          
"So
the world believes. But Azumandias—and I—know better. If he should succeed in
locating the book, he will uncover Tharn's resting place and use his magic to
wake the god."

 
          
Bracht
stared at the ambassador; reached for the decanter, helping himself.

 
          
"And
this book, this Arcanum, lies in Tezin-dar? A legendary place? It seems to me
we hunt the wind."