Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (23 page)

 
          
Then
gasped, clutching at his sword, as a voice said, "Bracht
understands."

 
          
It
was as if the tree itself spoke, or the woodland, for the words were soft as
the rustle of wind through leaves, the faint rattle of stirred branches. He
felt his skin prickle and saw the Kem draw his falchion, light glinting on the
polished blade as he spun, ready to meet an attack, and realized that his own
blade was out, raised in defense.

 
          
Gentle
laughter whispered across the clearing and the same voice said, "I offer
you no harm. Rather, I would protect you."

 
          
They
both turned, eyeing the surrounding ring of beeches, seeing no one. Calandryll
looked to the oak, anticipating some hidden archer; a volley of shafts. The
voice said, "Put up your swords; you are safe here," and Bracht
lowered his blade, studying the tree.

 
          
"Ahrd?"

 
          
His
voice was hushed. Calandryll, raised in worship of Dera, was less ready to
accept such an explanation.

 
          
The
voice came again, out of nowhere, out of everything around them. It seemed to
emanate from the air itself, from the oak, from the sunlight.

 
          
"Put
up your swords. There is no danger here, not for you.”

           
Bracht sheathed the falchion; less
readily, Calandryll returned his straightsword to the scabbard. The sun seemed
to shine brighter then, filtering through the widespread boughs to fill the
glade with a gentle, green-hued radiance. Calandryll sniffed, anticipating the
scent of almonds, that olfactory warning of sorcerous materialization: he
smelled only the rich, woodland odors. They grew stronger as the light
increased, momentarily dazzling him so that he was not sure of what he saw,
could only guess, still suspecting trickery. It seemed the great bole of the
oak shifted as though filled with some inner, mobile life, the wrinkled wood
bulging, roots wavering from the soil, a shape forming that came out of the
tree itself, stepping confidently toward them. He set a hand to the hilt of his
sword; felt Bracht's grip on his wrist, stilling him. The figure came closer,
growing clearer with each step, and he gaped, staring at it.

 
          
It
was formed in roughly human guise, but clearly no fleshly being, as though
crude-carved from the oak, a dendriform thing. Its skin was the seamed grey of
ancient wood, green-leaved twiglets sprouting from the gnarled round of its
head, cracks for eyes and mouth, the torso a wooden trunk extending narrow arms
that ended in thin twigs, the legs like roots, their bases thick with earth and
dead leaves.

 
          
"You
came to me in peace and I would send you away in like manner," it said.

 
          
"Ahrd?"
Bracht repeated softly.

 
          
"Not
Ahrd," said the creature, "but Ahrd's kin, as you thought."

 
          
Bracht
raised a hand, the fingers spread wide in a gesture Calandryll recognized as
obeisance. The gentle laughter sounded again, serene as the oak itself; strong,
too, as that massive growth. It washed over them, warm as sunlight, reassuring:
he felt his doubts dissolve.

 
          
The
being halted, facing them, and he saw that the twin columns of its legs did,
indeed, penetrate the soil, driving down roots as if seeking the sustenance of
the earth. He stared at that part of it he thought of as a face and it seemed
to smile, though that might have been no more than the play of sunlight on the
gnarled surface.

 
          
"Listen,"
it advised, "and be warned. Deception cloaks your path and you must choose
your friends with care. Beware the face of lies and hold no secrets one from
the other, for you are bound as root to branch and the one may not survive what
you face without the other. Remember that when the deceiver spins his web:
trust is your ally and your strength."

 
          
"You
speak of Varent?" asked Bracht.

 
          
"I
speak of wizards and of gods," the creature answered.

 
          
"You
speak in riddles," Calandryll said. "Can you not speak clearer?"

 
          
The
twigs atop the thing rustled as though in negation. "I cannot," it
declared. "There are ... limitations. Were Bracht not born of Cuan na'For,
I could not speak at all. Now go—I can tell you no more."

 
          
The
voice faded, soft as a dying breeze. The tree being turned, roots tearing from
the soil, and walked away. Calandryll stared, watching as it trod ponderously
to the oak, seeing it embrace the great trunk, the light shimmer again as it
merged, becoming one with the tree as if it had never been. He looked at
Bracht, who raised his hand again, toward the tree, spreading his fingers, then
bowed and walked toward the horses.

 
          
"This
is a holy place," the Kern murmured.

 
          
"It
is a strange place," Calandryll allowed.

 
          
"You
saw the soul of the tree," said Bracht. "You heard Ahrd's kin
speak."

 
          
"I
saw a creature formed of magic." Calandryll looked back: the oak stood
noble in the clearing, but now it seemed no more than a very ancient tree and
his doubts returned. "But I have seen much magic lately."

 
          
"You
doubt its warning?" Bracht demanded.

 
          
"I
heard riddles," he returned.

 
          
"It
spoke of Varent."

 
          
Bracht's
voice was firm. Calandryll studied his face and shrugged.

 
          
"Or
of Azumandias."

 
          
"You
are of Lysse," said Bracht. "What do you know of Ahrd?"

 
          
"I
know the tribes of Kern worship it—him?—though few have seen the tree,"
Calandryll answered. "Do you not call it the Holy Tree? It is supposed to
lie within the Cuan na'Dru, is it not? And none dare enter there."

 
          
"You
worship Dera—have you ever seen her?" Bracht countered.

 
          
Calandryll
shook his head. "No, but Dera was born of the First Gods—who can doubt
her?"

 
          
"She
is a goddess of Lysse," Bracht said. "Ahrd is the god of Cuan
na'For."

 
          
"We
are in Lysse," Calandryll responded.

 
          
"You
say that was not a warning sent by Ahrd?"

 
          
Calandryll
heard the conviction in the Kem's voice; read it in his eyes. He shook his head
helplessly.

 
          
"I
am not sure what it was. Perhaps Azumandias sent the thing to confuse us."

 
          
"Varent
said Azumandias could not find us. How could he know we should come to this
place?"

 
          
"I
know not." Calandryll felt confused. "You say it warned us against
Varent?"

 
          
"Aye,
I
do."                                                                              
.

 
          
Bracht
nodded. Calandryll stared at him, confusion mounting. "Why do you mistrust
him?" he asked.

 
          
Now
Bracht shrugged.

 
          
"He
has an air—something about him."

 
          
"That
you dislike. Is that reason enough for your suspicion?”

 
          
"Suspicion
has often kept me alive," Bracht said.

 
          
"But
still you accept his coin."

 
          
Accusation
crept into his voice, Bracht ignored it.

 
          
"Why
not? He pays me well."

 
          
Calandryll
snorted, growing angry.

 
          
"And
so you accept his commission. Even though you distrust him."

 
          
"I
may be wrong," Bracht admitted. "But now ... I heard the
byah
speak."

 
          
“Byah!”
Calandryll frowned.

 
          
"The
spirit of the tree. Ahrd's manifestation."

 
          
"Ahrd
is a god of Kern," said Calandryll, "and we are in Lysse. You cannot
be sure Azumandias did not send the thing."

 
          
"I
know,"
Bracht said, simply.

 
          
"Dera!"
Calandryll raised his arms in frustration. "Whoever sent it—Ahrd,
Azumandias; Dera herself for all I know!—it spoke in riddles that you choose to
hold against Varent. How can you say for sure it did not warn against
Azumandias?"

 
          
Bracht
shrugged; Calandryll sighed.

 
          
"If
you believe that, why don't you leave his service?"

 
          
"I
gave my word," Bracnt said, frowning as if he considered the question
unnecessary.

 
          
"To
a man you don't trust?"

 
          
"Until
he proves me right," Bracht nodded.

 
          
"I
don't understand you."

 
          
The
Kern grinned tightly. "Is there no honor in Lysse?"

 
          
"Of
course," Calandryll answered stiffly, sensing insult.

 
          
"I
took his coin and gave my word in return," Bracht explained. "Until
he shows himself treacherous I'm bound by that."

 
          
"It
might be too late then," Calandryll said.

 
          
"Perhaps,"
Bracht nodded, "but still—I gave my word."

 
          
"And
that binds you."

 
          
"Yes,"
Bracht said, "it binds me. What am I without it?"

 
          
Calandryll
studied his face. The Kern's answering stare was guileless and after a few
moments the younger man shook his head, seeing that Bracht would not be shaken
from his conviction: his honor was a binding thing, and he would serve Varent
until such time as the ambassador showed himself false. But that time would not
come,- of that, Calandryll was certain. Varent's purpose was honorable and
sooner or later Bracht must accept that. Of the
byah's
purpose he felt
less certain. He had felt no doubts when the tree creature spoke, but now that
it was gone he was less confident. Its warning had been ambiguous: it had
offered no direct hint that it spoke of Varent, so why should it not have
referred to Azumandias? That seemed, to him, the logical conclusion if it was
as Bracht believed, a manifestation of Ahrd. But how could the Holy Tree hold
power in Lysse? Might it not, as he had suggested, be some further trick of
Azumandias's? He determined to discuss the apparition with Varent as soon as he
was able.

 
          
"Come."

 
          
Bracht's
voice roused him from his musings and he mounted the gelding, following the Kem
back through the forest to the ridge where they had first descended into the
dense timber.

 
          
The
column was close, winding through the birch-lined avenue, Varent riding
alongside the wagon in conversation with Darth. "I think," Bracht
murmured as the cart approached, "that my suspicions are better kept to
ourselves."