Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (54 page)

 
          
The
domain claimed by Sathoman ended on the plateau and they were now in the
province called the Ryde, its capital Bhalusteen; beyond that the Kyre, ruled
by the Tyrant's city, Nhur-jabal. The Ryde was mostly woodland, peopled by
hunters and foresters, whose regard for Tyrant and Sathoman alike was, it
seemed, warily contemptuous. The lictor's attempts at raising levies were
laughed at, though the notion of an army marching through the woods seemed to
irritate them. That Anomius and his "bodyguards" had crossed the
Fayne without difficulty surprised them, but they took it to mean the rumors of
war were unfounded, turning to grumble amongst themselves at the intrusion of
the Tyrant's army. That, it appeared, was no rumor. Finally they exhausted their
inquiries and the travelers were left in peace to take their baths and find
their beds.

 
          
Calandryll
had hoped for an opportunity to speak alone with Bracht, to formulate some plan
to rid them of Anomius, but the landlord escorted them all to a single room, where
three beds were made ready, and the wizard declared himself satisfied with that
arrangement.

 
          
He
smiled as the door closed, wandering, murmuring, from portal to window, hands
tracing elaborate patterns that set the red stone to flickering and filled the
chamber with the smell of almonds.

 
          
"So,"
he beamed when he was done, "we are secure. I trust you'll not argue my
precautions, but I'd not have you flee in the night."

 
          
"What
have you done?" demanded Bracht, his dislike of magic showing on his face.

 
          
"A
few simple spells, my friend," Anomius informed him, loosing his grubby
robe to reveal a no less grubby shirt beneath. "No one may enter,- or
leave. And one other—having observed our young companion in battle, I find
myself less confident of the delicacy of his ethics, so in the event that he
overcome his natural scruples and seek to slay me while I sleep, I've augmented
the spell already set on you, requiring you to protect me."

 
          
"Against
Calandryll?" Bracht shook his head. "I'd not turn my blade against
Calandryll."

 
          
Anomius
tugged off his boots. His legs were paler than his face, like old parchment
left too long in lightless rooms. Beneath his shirt a paunch swelled, prompting
Calandryll to think of a small, ugly toad.

 
          
"But
you will," he declared confidently, "for you'll have no choice.
Should Calandryll attack me, you'll slay him."

 
          
Bracht
stared at the wizard, his tanned face a mask of rage; Calandryll saw a hand
drop to the falchion and said, "I'll not attack you, Anomius. Do we not
need one another?"

 
          
"I
need you to lead me to the grimoire," the wizard nodded, unwinding his
headdress, "and without me, you've little chance of crossing
Kandahar
safely. But still..."

 
          
"I've
no great love for magic," Bracht said angrily, "and less for spells
set on me."

 
          
"Perhaps
when I trust you," Anomius replied, "I shall remove it. But until
such time, I fear you must suffer the ensorcellment. Now I bid you good
night."

 
          
He
climbed beneath the sheets and in moments the room grew loud with his snoring.
Calandryll looked at Bracht, shrugging helplessly; the Kem mouthed a curse and
flung himself down. Weary, too weary to argue or discuss their situation,
Calandryll shucked off his clothes and clambered gratefully into his own bed.

 
          
After
uncomfortable nights in captivity and the hard ride down from the plateau,
sleep came quickly, bringing, for Calandryll at least, a confusion of dreams.
He found himself reliving the skirmish on the plateau, seeing the frightened
faces of the brigands as they died, not knowing who slew them, only that they
fell to an invisible sword, becoming, in the instant of their dying, Sathoman,
who raised his massive blade and roared a battle shout, that sound transforming
him into the flaxen-haired woman, who leveled a blaae from the deck of the
warboat and called out, her words lost in the rush of swirling water that
carried her up and up until she was no more than a dot against a sky filled
with the flames of a burning town through which monstrous creatures strode,
reaching down to pluck him from the smoke-filled streets even as he mouthed
Varent's spell and ran, invisible, from their grasping talons into the arms of
Anomius, who laughed and said, "I am your true companion—the one Reba
spoke of." He tore free and plunged through roiling smoke, pursued now by
black-clad men, masked so that only cold eyes filled with implacable hate were
visible, his lungs binning, his legs weakening and slowing until he knew that
he ran without moving and his pursuers must catch him unless he could somehow reach
the great oak that rose before him, its branches stirred by a howling wind,
their rustling a message he could not decipher. He strained toward it, knowing
that it offered the safety of tmth, but the ground before him sloped abruptly
and he felt himself falling, down and down, tumbling into a pit toward a
pinpoint of light, bright as the sun ...

 
          
...
Or the faint presentiment of dawn that filtered through the shutters, welcome
herald of the new day. He lay, breathing fast, the knowledge that he was awake,
in a room in a tavern in
Kandahar
, Bracht stirring in the bed

 
          
beside
his, Anomius still snoring, though softer now, coming slowly as he opened his
eyes and pushed tangled sheets from his legs. He rubbed his face and rose,
crossing to the window, reaching for the shutter.

 
          
His
cry brought Bracht fast from the bed, falchion raised, poised to attack or
defend. He shook his head, rubbing at a hand still burning from Anomius's
spell.

 
          
"I
forgot,” he grinned; ruefully.

 
          
Bracht
grunted, sheathing his blade, and spilled water into a jug, splashing his face.

 
          
"You
touched the window?"

 
          
Anomius
peered bleary-eyed from his pillows, yawning noisily, Calandryll nodded. The
mage raised a hand and once more the almond scent wafted on the cool air.

 
          
"Now
that spell is lifted." Anomius sat up, turning his watery gaze on the Kern.
"But not the other—best remember that."

 
          
Bracht
ignored him. Calandryll threw the shutters open, seeing mist hung low along the
riverbank, the young ostler scratching his head as he plodded sleepily toward
the stables, the tree-thick slope rising above, its upper edge lost in grey. He
turned away, using the bowl, ana ran fingers through his hair, thinking that
soon he must tie it back, like Bracht's. He dressed, and with his comrade waited
for Anomius to swathe himself in his grubby robe.

 
          
The
wizard's toilet was brief and soon they were seated in the common room,
breaking their fast with hot bread and steaming tea. The landlord presented
them with his reckoning and they went out to the stable, saddling their rested
animals and leading them down to the ferry through mist that swirled and began
to break as the sun rose and a breeze got up.

 
          
The
raft stirred in the current as they walked the horses on board, the ferryman a
wiry Kand, bare-chested despite the early morning chill. He took their coin and
suggested they speed their passage by helping him with the ropes: Anomius held
the horses while Bracht and Calandryll each seized a line and began to haul the
flat- bottomed vessel across.

 
          
The
mist was blown away and the sky become blue as they grounded on the farther
bank, watching as the ferryman commenced his return journey. He was in mid-

stream when Bracht
pointed to the road descending from the plateau.

           
"Riders!" The freesword's
voice was urgent. "Twenty or thirty."

 
          
"Sathoman
must have discovered our absence sooner than I'd anticipated," Anomius
said.

 
          
"And
those men must have ridden through the night. Curse you, wizard! I told you it
was foolishness to delay." Bracht's tone was angry. Anomius merely smiled,
rubbing at his bulbous nose. "We're safe from them here— did I not promise
you a night's rest would restore my powers?"

 
          
"They've
but to reach the ferry and cross," Bracht said. "Our lead is cut and
if we run, we'll likely charge headlong into the Tyrant's advance guard."

 
          
"They'll
get no farther than this spot," the wizard replied. "Do you not trust
me?"

 
          
The
Kern's face was answer enough: Anomius shrugged, shaking his head as if
disappointed by such lack of faith.

 
          
"Watch,"
he said calmly. "Watch, and learn what I can do."

 
         
The
wizard handed Bracht his reins and walked to the water's edge, stooping
there, his hands delving in the rich mud. He scooped up a ball of the sludge,
kneading it as he ambled casually back to where they waited. Calandryll saw
that he worked the stuff into crude semblance of human shape, setting the
mannequin down where the ground was dry to complete his rough sculpture, The
approaching riaers were hidden in the timber and the mage worked without hurry.
Squatting over the tiny figure, he spat, working the saliva into the blank
face, then drew a small dagger from the folds of his robe and pricked his
thumb, squeezing a droplet of blood onto the mud doll. His ragged nails etched
an approximation of eyes, a mouth, and then he took a twig, setting that in the
shapeless right hand. He began to murmur a spell: Calandryll saw the red stone
at his throat pulse fiery, smelled the now-familiar scent of almonds. Anomius
straightened, wiping his hands on his robe, smiling as he turned to glance at
his unwilling companions.

 
          
"Watch,"
he commanded, and pointed at the figurine. It seemed then that fire sprang from
his fingers, washing over the mannequin, the wet mud drying on the instant,
baked hard in the supernatural flame. The horses shied, plunging, ears
flattened back and eyes rolling, and for an instant Calandryll's attention was
diverted. He calmed the roan as best he could, clinging tight to its bridle,
and returned his gaze to the little mud figure. It was no longer little: it
grew even as he watched, elongating, thickening, the twig it held enlarging in
proportion. It was the size of a child, then large as a youth; man-sized, and
still growing. It sat up, flakes of dried mud falling from its back, the
indentations that were its eyes deep pits now, that glowed with an unholy fire,
the twig a cudgel. Anomius spoke again and the thing rose to its feet, clumsy
at first, swaying, arms waving, flailing the branch, still growing. It peered
around, a massive, redeyed golem, taller now than Sathoman, towering over the
frightened horses, the twig become a staff, thicker around than a normal man
might hold. It took a step, a second, as if testing its ability to move, and
raised the great club it held, scything the air. Across the river, the ferryman
stared in awe, then shouted something and took to his heels, running for the
inn. The golem heard him, the globular head swinging ponderously to stare over
the sunlit water, an inarticulate cry, neither animal or human, bursting from
the ragged gash of its mouth as the club rose, crashing down into the river in
a great silver burst of spray.

 
          
Anomius
spoke again, in a language hard for human tongue to shape, and the creature
ceased its roaring, tinning to face him. The horses screamed in protest and the
wizard motioned them away, beckoning the golem. Calandryll and Bracht, their
eyes wary on the monster, led the horses back into the shade of the timber. On
the slope across the river Sathomen's men came into view again, riding hard.
Anomius brought the monster clear of the bank, under the shade of a massive
cypress, the grey head touching the lower branches. It had stopped growing now
and the wizard craned back his head, peering up at the burning eyes, speaking
softly. The golem made a grunting sound and turned to face across the river,
standing with the club upraised, a misshapen colossus.

 
          
"We
need dally no longer." The wizard favored his creation with a last
admiring glance and walked to where Bracht and Calandryll waited. "They'll
not get past him."

 
          
He
took his reins from the nervous Kem and clambered astride the grey horse.
Calandryll and Bracht mounted, letting Anomius take the lead as they followed
the road into the forest.

 
          
"There
are twenty, perhaps thirty, of them," Bracht called. "How can you be
sure none will get by ... that?"

 
          
Anomius
chuckled gaily.

 
          
"The
ferry will take no more than what? Six riders at a time? My little pet will
slay them all—I doubt they'll make more than one attempt. But if they do
..." He laughed again, "Well, he'll slay them six by six. Have faith,
my friends—you ride with the greatest sorcerer in all
Kandahar
. I'm only sorry we lack the time to wait
and watch him at work. He was a splendid creation, do you not agree?"

 
          
Neither
offered answer and the wizard chuckled to himself, urging the grey horse to a
faster pace along the wide roadway cut through the forest. Trees stood tall to
either side, oaks and beech and ash spreading limbs across the trail so that
they rode through dappled light, occasional shafts of brilliance lancing from a
sky mostly hidden behind the foliage, the shadows painted with the woodland's
green. Ferns grew luxuriant along the verges, and grass, lush and thick, the
air sweet-scented and loud with bird song, game trails evidence of deer and
hares, and the hunting creatures that preyed on them. They held a steady pace,
not speaking, until the morning was well advanced, and then halted where a
stream bisected the road, spanned by an ancient stone bridge, its masonry green
with moss. Frogs splashed from the bank as they took the horses down to drink,
and a wide-winged heron croaked a protest at their intrusion, flapping heavily
away downstream to some more private hunting ground.

 
          
They
rested there, eating fruit and cheese purchased at the inn and filling their
canteens while the horses cropped the grass along the waterside, then started
off once more, the sun overhead now, warm, summer approaching fast in this more
southerly latitude.

 
          
The
going was easier than the crossing of the Fayne. There was no gaheen to dry the
air and fray tempers, none of the scorching heat that had marked the journey
from Mherut'yi to Kesham-vaj, and a plentitude of streams and grazing tor the
animals. Several times they saw deer start from the road ahead, darting into
the cover of the timber and Bracht promised to bring them fresh venison should
Anomius allow him time to hunt.

 
          
Calandryll
rode mostly lost in thought, trusting to

 
          
Bracht's
keen eye to warn of danger as he pondered the problem set by the wizard. The
creation of the golem assured him that Anomius's powers were fully restored:
flight seemed impossible, but somehow they must rid themselves of the mage
before reaching Tezin-dar. Should he come into possession of the Arcanum he
would, Calandryll felt certain, take Azumandias's path: would seek to raise the
Mad God. And in the doing, destroy the world. He was not, Calandryll thought,
sane, and by some means he must be left behind. Or destroyed.

 
          
That
thought rang bell-like in his mind:
Anomius must be destroyed.

 
          
Its
cold clarity chilled him, for he recognized that its very formulation, his
instinctive acceptance of its logical outcome, meant that he had changed.
Anomius had sensed it—had said that Calandryll would now kill him without
compunction—but he had not accepted that the wizard was correct. Now he knew
Anomius was right: had he the chance he would slay the warlock with a clear
conscience. He was no longer the mild scholar mocked by Tobias, despaired of by
his father. This quest had changed him; beyond the inevitable hardening of
rough living, beyond the slaying of men in battle, it had changed his basic
ethics. The young man who had mooned over Nadama—it came to him that he could
no longer clearly recall her face, that realization in itself shocking—existed
no more. The boy who had suffered Tobias's jibes was gone. He had hardened in
ways more than physical: he snorted cynical laughter to think how that would
please Bylath; how it would confirm to his brother that he was, indeed, a man
to fear. Secca seemed now a distant memory, a life left behind, shed as a
serpent shed its skin, reborn. He was by no means sure that ends justified
means, but he^was certain that he must prevent Anomius from finding the
Arcanum. And if the only way to ensure that was by slaying the wizard he would,
as the man had sensed, cut his throat while he slept; and deal with any qualms
of conscience after the deed.

 
          
But
how? Anomius protected himself well, and it was unlikely he would allow his
guard to slip. Should Calandryll slay him, then the glamour placed on Bracht
must set comrade against comrade—ana of that struggle there could be only one
outcome: Bracht would win. And—if he were prepared to sacrifice himself—Bracht
alone could not locate the Arcanum, it would lie waiting for Azumandias. It
seemed an impasse, a deadlock bom of the wizard's cunning, and he ground his
teeth in frustrated anger as he grappled with the problem, for there seemed no
solution.

 
          
Bracht's
voice snapped him from his contemplation and he saw that they rode across a
tree-encircled meadow, oaks spreading gnarled branches like suppliant hands all
around.

 
          
"I
said," the Kern repeated, "that if the Tyrant's army advances on the
Fayne we'd best ride careful. With open

 
          
Calandryll
grinned an apology, reining his horse a little so that Anomius gained distance.
Lowering his voice, he said, "I was thinking of the warlock. Of how we
might rid ourselves of his company."

 
          
"I,
too," Bracht returned, studying the black-shrouded figure bobbing on the
grey's saddle, "but with little success. You?"

 
          
Calandryll
shook his head.

 
          
"I'd
slay him if I could, but..."

 
          
Bracht
nodded, understanding.

 
          
"And
I cannot. Somehow, then, we must escape him.

 
          
"In
such manner that he's not able to follow us."

 
          
"I
think," Bracht said, "that we can only wait for now, and watch. If
opportunity arises ..."

 
          
"Aye,"
Calandryll agreed, thinking that it was a forlorn hope.

 
          
"At
least he aids our passage across
Kandahar
. Perhaps in Kharasul, or on the sea, we
might lose him."

 
          
"Unless
his presence attracts the attention of the Tyrant's sorcerers and we find
ourselves prisoners again."

 
          
"There's
that," Bracht murmured, then smiled. "But we had little hope of
unhindered passage when we began this journey."

 
          
"I'd
not," Calandryll returned, "anticipated civil war. Nor the Tyrant's
wizards ranged against us."

 
          
Such
thoughts had occurred to Anomius, too, it seemed, for when they halted that
night, in a clearing ringed by great, straight-trunked beeches, he prepared
once more to work his magic.

 
          
*
      
*
     
*

 
          
Dusk
wove shadows among the timber, the aerial denizens of the forest winging to
their roosts, wary rabbits watching from the edges of the glade, squirrels
furtive in the branches as the sorcerer stood with arms outthrust, his voice
raised in a singsong chant. Calandryll and Bracht turned from their tending of
the horses to watch, seeing Anomius delve inside his robe to produce a small
pouch of leather. Still chanting, he loosed the drawstrings and upended the
sack over one palm. Something pale, like the shimmer of frost in early morning
light, fell onto his hand and he blew gently on the glowing object, then set it
carefully down. Like the golem back on the riverbank, it grew until they saw
once again the creature that had watched them in Octofan's bam. It crouched on
stubby legs, arms thin as a malnourished child's wrapped about its knees, the
misshapen head cocked first to one side and then the other as it fastened huge
black eyes on Anomius. He gestured at the sky and they saw the silvery wings
spread wide, the creature rise, running awkwardly to gain the speed necessary
for flight, the wings beating, bearing it aloft, no longer ungainly, but a
graceful, swooping creature of the air. It circled the wizard twice, then rose
into the rapidly darkening sky, climbing swiftly above the treetops, a receding
glow that soon disappeared beyond the beeches.