Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (52 page)

 
          
"Leave
me time to get close," Bracht said, "and loose the horses when the
first man falls."

 
          
He
moved swiftly across the road, disappearing into the undergrowth. Calandryll
mouthed the words Varent had taught him and felt his skin tingle briefly, the
scent of almonds mingling with the freshness of the morning. He began to pace
through bushes glistening silvery with raindrops, crouching sword in hand, eyes
and ears straining. Birds began to sing, welcoming the dawn, and the rising sun
limned the eastern sky with red and gold, its light driving off the
insubstantial grey. That cleared to reveal a column of dark stone set beside
the road where it fell away from the plateau, hidden by the rim. At the foot of
the column the fire flared as branches were added, the sleeping watchers
rising, shaking water from their bedding. One walked around the column to
fumble with his breeks. Calandryll heard him sigh as he began to relieve
himself. Two others busied themselves about the fire and those who had taken
the last watch flung themselves down close to the warmth. He saw the horses
pegged some little distance off, snickering a greeting to the light, and crept
toward them.

 
          
There
was no warning of Bracht's attack, only the dull thudding sound of an arrow
striking home, the exhalation of the man standing by the column as he pitched
forward, a shaft protruding between his shoulders. He struck the stone and fell
sideways into a bush, the shrubbery supporting him so that he hung with one arm
outflung as if in supplication; or accusation. A man by the fire glanced up,
his view obscured by the pillar. Calandryll saw him clearly, a short,
plump-featured man, streaks of grey in his black beard, his breastplate
decorated with a blue sea horse. He frowned, rising, and stepped a few paces
out, peering toward his fallen comrade. Calandryll saw his eyes widen in alarm
and his mouth open to shout a warning cut short by the shaft that suddenly
jutted from his chest. He toppled backward, across the fire, sparks scattering
as his companions yelled and drew their swords. He broke clear of the bushes
and ran for the horses.

 
          
They
sensed his presence and set to stamping, tugging on the picket line. He slashed
it through, hacking to right and left, severing the individual ropes, careless
of the plunging hooves, the screaming of the panicked animals. He waved his
arms, forgetting they could not see him, and used the flat of his blade to send
them charging clear.

 
          
A
Kand screamed shrilly as an arrow pierced his throat; another fell with a shaft
buried deep in his ribs. Three ran toward the scattering horses, one succeeding
in snatching up the trailing line. Calandryll charged him, sword raised,
slashing the hand that held the horse, reversing the cut to send the man down
with bloodied face, spinning to attack the others, who gaped and flailed their
blades wildly at their invisible opponent.

 
          
He
slew them both, mercilessly, all notions of honor forgotten in the urgency of
the moment, remembering he was unseen only when they lay dead at his feet. Then
disgust gripped him and he voiced the counterspell, becoming visible again. He
began to run back down the road, to where Anomius waited, his black-swathed
shape cleat now in the burgeoning light.

 
          
Suddenly
he was confronted by burly Kand wielding saber, a buckler of dragon hide thnist
before his torso. He snarled, eyes furious beneath the green headdress he wore,
and swung the saber in a vicious arc at Calandryll's head. Calandryll parried
the blow and riposted, his sword turned by the snield. He deflected a second
cut, sliding his blade in over the Kand's sword arm to prick the unarmored
shoulder. The brigand fell back behind his shield: Calandryll pressed the
attack.

 
          
He
felt no compunction now, no hesitation: this was honest combat, man to man,
both visible, and a fury gripped him as he moved forward, intent only on
removing tbis obstacle to his freedom. He cut at tbe brigand's head and ducked
the counterstroke, driving the straight- sword in at the belly, below the
cuirass. The Kand danced back, and Calandryll feinted an attack to bring the
shield out, using that opening to hack at the exposed chest. His blade scored
the leathery armor and he darted clear as the saber threatened his side,
turning, spinning, to slash the man's sword arm. It dropped and he drove his
blade in hard, into the Kand's side. The brigand yelped as the steel bit home,-
Calandryll twisted the blade free and cut deep into the man's neck, stepping
back as he fell, the morning abruptly bright with the blood that jetted from
the wound. He watched as the brigand went down on hands and knees, shaking his
head as though realization of his dying came slowly, perhaps not before he
slumped facedown, still.

 
          
Calandryll
left him where he lay, running to the wizard, already in the saddle, springing
astride the roan and seizing the reins of Bracht's horse. His heels rammed
against the roan's flanks and the gelding sprang forward, the chestnut snorting
a protest as the reins snapped tight. He was dimly aware of Anomius beside him
as he sent his mount headlong for the pillar, seeing Bracht come running from
the bushes, the falchion a glittering thing that sent two brigands down as the
Kem reached the road.

 
          
He
slowed enough that Bracht could mount on the run and they galloped toward the
rim, where the road fell out of sight.

 
          
More
brigands blocked their way and for long moments all was confusion, shouting men
struck down by charging horses, swords, and the fire that sparkled from
Anomius's outflung hand. Then they were past the pillar and thundering down a
road that dropped away from the rim of the plateau in a steep descent that
called for concentration as the horses squealed and fought against the reins,
dangerously close to tumbling on the gradient. Arrows whistled past them,
rattling off the sheer faces to either side, and they crouched low until they
rounded a slight curve and found the protection of the scarp.

 
          
The
sun had topped the eastern edge of the highland now and they could see they
went down a cut, the road masoned from naked stone, high walls rising to either
side, ending on a sweeping shelf where the slope grew gentler, the road winding
down to a broad river at the plateau's foot.

 
          
They
took it at a run, slowing only when trees set a barrier at their backs, halting
the near-winded horses when Bracht declared them out of arrow's range.

 
          
Timber
grew thicker here than on the eastern ascent, trees encircling high meadows
lush with grass and blue streams tumbling down to join with the wider channel
below. Spread out below them they saw the heartland of
Kandahar
, dense forest presenting a patchwork of
myriad greens, sewn with the silver-blue threads of rivers, savannah misty in
the distance, the line of the Kannek-mi a ribbon of blackness between land and
sky. It was a beautiful vista: it filled Calandryll with sudden remorse.

 
          
He
turned in his saddle, eyes swiveling inexorably to the scene of carnage hidden
above them.

 
          
"I've
never ..." he paused, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat,
"... never killed a man."

 
          
Bracht
nodded.

 
          
"The
next will be easier."

 
          
Calandryll
was not sure he wanted the next to be easier; not sure he wanted a
next
to come. He spat, shaking his head as if that physical movement might dislodge
the memories of steel biting flesh, of blood, and the screams of dying men,
telling himself it was foolish to think he might secure the Arcanum without
bloodshed; hypocritical to think that only Bracht's hands would be stained. It
made no difference, and his stomach churned with the knowledge that men had
fallen to his blade.

 
          
"Forget
them," Bracht advised. "Do you think they'd spare a thought for
you?"

 
          
"I
am not them," he returned.

 
          
"No;
for sure you are not." Bracht smiled, echoing his own thoughts, "But
did you believe we'd reach Tezin-dar with blades unblooded? Why did you
practice your sword- work, save to use it? This world of ours is a bloody
place, and a man does what he must to survive in it."

 
          
The
Kern's voice was gently earnest: Calandryll showed him a brief smile of
gratitude, knowing that he sought only to reassure, to assuage a troubled
conscience. He murmured, "But they were not our enemies. They were simply
men who happened to be in the wrong place."

 
          
"Yes,"
Bracht said, "in our path. They would not have let us past. They would
have killed us, or sent us back to be killed by Sathoman. And then Azumandias
would reach Tezin-dar and bring out the book. Would you rather that?"

 
          
"Does
it not trouble you?" he asked.

 
          
"No,"
Bracht said, bluntly.

 
          
"Do
you wait here, engaged in philosophical debate, until they catch their mounts
and come after us?"

 
          
Anomius's
question brought his attention back to their immediate plight. He looked to
Bracht for advice, and the Kern nodded.

 
          
"Will
they pursue us, or wait on Sathoman's orders?"

 
          
"How
many were left?" asked the wizard.

 
          
"I
slew five, I think." Bracht replied. "And wounded more."

 
          
Calandryll
said, "Four."

 
          
"Then
likely they'll wait on Sathoman." Anomius beamed, using the tails of his
headdress to wipe sweat from his yellow skin. "You did well, my
friends—but still I suggest we continue at our best pace."

 
          
"A
day to get down this." Bracht walked his horse to the road's edge,
studying the way ahead. "And by then Sathoman will know we've
escaped."

 
          
"He'll
likely search Kesham-vaj first," Anomius said, "but when word comes
from above he'll know the road we've taken. He'll not risk pursuing us far into
the heartland, but I'll feel safer once we're into the woods."

 
          
"We've
a day's advantage, then," nodded the Kern, "more if he's unwilling to
take the road by night. How many might he send after us?"

 
          
Anomius
shmgged. "He's the Fayne to hold—perhaps the Tyrant's army marching
against him—He'll not send too many."

 
          
Bracht
expressed his impatience with an irritable gesture.

 
          
"How
many is 'not too many'? Curse you, wizard, I'd know the odds!"

 
          
"A
score he could spare," Anomius replied, equably. "Perhaps
thirty."

 
          
"Thirty
on our heels!" .

 
          
Bracht's
voice was flat with anger. The sorcerer smiled, showing stained teeth.
"You forget you have an ally now," he said. "One who can deal
easily with thirty men."

 
          
"As
you dealt with the twenty up there?" Bracht stabbed a thumb back at the
plateau. "I do not remember your helping much there."

 
          
"As
I told you—the raising of fire demons is taxing." Anomius refused to allow
the Kem's anger to disturb his complacency. "But by dawn my full strength
will be returned—I can leave ... guardians ... behind us."

 
          
He
smiled as he said it, the expression horribly threatening in its confidence;
Calandryll wondered what form the wizard's guardians might take, preferring not
to ask.

 
          
"So,
shall we descend?" Anomius inquired, as mildly as if he suggested a
pleasurable day's riding. "There are places aplenty to hide below."

 
          
Without
waiting for a reply he heeled his horse, bouncing in the saddle as he commenced
the descent, like a bundle of black rags set insecurely on the grey's back.