Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (11 page)

           
"Your coming, as I have told
you, was scried. A messenger was sent, to alert the kutushen here that you
might be met and brought to me. No word came back, and with my art I saw
slaughter done. It was obscure—clouded by Tharn's design, I believe!—but of
such a magnitude that Chazali deemed it wise to come here. We found only
corpses, a keep held by occult creatures."

           
"Rhythamun warded his
back!" gasped Calandryll.

           
"So it would seem." Ochen
spoke gravely. "There were such creatures in possession as took all my
power to defeat, and not a few lives."

           
"They slew fifty of my
warriors," Chazali added, grim-voiced. "And my men do not die
easily."

           
"But Rhythamun was recently shape-shifted,"
Katya protested, looking from kiriwashen to wazir. "And that must surely
weaken him. How was it possible he could raise such things?"

           
"It is my belief," Ochen
replied in somber tones, "that as he draws closer to Tharn, so his
strength waxes. No less, as all the world—or so it seems— turns warward, so
does the Mad God's dreaming power increase. The disciple feeds his master and
the master strengthens the disciple. Close as this land is to Tharn's limbo,
the war we fight must greatly aid him."

           
"And make our way harder,"
Bracht offered.

           
"Wait, please." Questions
swarmed in Calandryll's mind, like troubled bees, fast buzzing, so that it was
difficult to find the words that might dispel his growing alarm. It seemed a
pressure built within the confines of his skull, a dull ache starting there,
and he rubbed at his temples, frowning. "Cennaire saw Rhythamun take the
form of a Jesseryte warrior, saw him summon men across the Daggan Vhe. They
must have come from here, no? So it must be the body of a warrior out of
Pamur-teng he possesses. Shall you not know him, then?"

           
Ochen might have shrugged—beneath
the widespread shoulders of his tunic it was hard to tell— and answered
bluntly, sadly, "The men we found were riven, butchered like meat: they
were beyond recognizing one from the other. And this Rhythamun did not
linger—I'd know—but traveled on about his filthy purpose."

           
"To the Borrhun-maj?"
Calandryll stared at the seamed face, wondering why his head pounded so.
"Or to some other place?"

           
Before Ochen had chance to reply,
Bracht spoke: "Shall this war not slow him? If he wears the body of a
warrior out of Pamur-teng, then must he not find himself ranked with others?
Forced to play a part?"

           
"Perhaps. But that shall be no
great hardship, nor much hindrance. Does he but play the part of simple
warrior, then he must find himself marching northward—to the relief of
Anwar-teng—and that is the direction he seeks, is it not?"

           
Bracht mouthed a curse, scowling
reluctant agreement. Katya frowned and asked, "Shall your fellow sorcerers
not scry him for what he is, and employ their powers to thwart him?"

           
"It may be so," Ochen
replied. "I pray it be so! But I fear the god he seeks to raise will
strengthen those magicks with which he conceals himself. He may well defeat
such scrying; defeat their power, even."

           
"Then when the army of
Pamur-teng joins with the others," asked the warrior woman, "shall
there not then be sufficient wazirs as shall know him and defeat him?"

           
"Then, aye," Ochen
conceded. "But then he shall stand even closer to his master, his strength
duly augmented. And in the midst of battle it cannot be difficult for him to
elude pursuit. And it is entirely possible those wazirs of the hostile tengs
might aid him, should he go to them."

           
"Knowing what he is?"
Katya's eyes grew wide, aghast at the notion. "Knowing what he would
do?"

           
"They move against
Anwar-teng," Ochen said slowly, "and that alone is a madness surely
born of Tharn's influence. Be they seduced by the god, then perhaps . . . aye,
they might."

           
Storm built afresh in the grey eyes;
it seemed, almost, lightning flashed there as Katya shook her head in horrified
denial, frightened acceptance. "Is all the world gone mad?" she
whispered.

           
"Perhaps," came the
sorcerer-priest's answer, "save for a few still sane. See you now why I
set these protections about us?"

           
Katya nodded; Calandryll fought the
throbbing pain inside his head to say: "All roads, it seems, lead to
Anwar-teng. Why?"

           
Ochen paused, his expression
troubled. Calandryll heard the soft intake of Temchen's breath, saw Chazali's
impassive features stiffen, and guessed he struck to the heart of the matter.
He waited, shafts of stabbing pain behind his eyes, as the mage looked to the
kiriwashen, to the kutushen, wishing he knew better how to read those
inscrutable visages, for he sensed hesitation, a heartbeat of doubt, as though
this were a matter they would prefer be left alone. He saw Chazali incline his
head a fraction—granting permission? Agreeing whatever unseen question he read
in Ochen's look? Calandryll was unsure. In a voice calmer than he felt, he
said, pressing, "Truth was promised between us, an honest exchange."

           
"Aye." Ochen turned to
face him, solemn. "That was so, and truth you shall have—though none
others beyond our lands, and none too many here, have ever been granted this
revelation.

           
"The Borrhun-maj is but one
entryway to that limbo where the Mad God lies. Anwar-teng guards another."

           
The light entering from the circular
opening in the roof no longer a vertical column pooling over the angles of the
table, but slanted now, limning Ochen with dramatic intensity. His silver hair
glittered, the lines mapping his ancient face deepened, emphasizing the gravity
of his expression. Calandryll stared at him, struck momentarily dumb, numbed by
the import of the aged sorcerer's announcement. The drumming ache within his
skull grew worse and he closed his eyes an instant against the pain. Motes of
dust danced in the light; silence hung heavy in the chamber. It was Katya who
broke it, her voice somber.

           
"If Anwar-teng is a gateway ...
if Rhythamun should reach it ..."

           
She broke off, eyes wide, fearful.
Bracht took up the stream of her thought, his voice harsh: "He's won! And
he might well change his shape again, ensuring he stands on the victor's side.
Rebel or loyal . . . Ahrd! It can make little difference to him. He needs but
enter the city.”

           
"And reach the gate."

           
Katya spoke softly, awed, and it
seemed to Calandryll her words came muffled, slow as the sonorous beat of a
distant drum, pounding against his senses, each syllable striking a fresh spark
of agony. He thought his skull must burst- and stretched his jaw to fashion a
response that came out a strangled moan. The pain consumed him, and he felt his
muscles gripped with a strange torpor, his vision clouding, as if blood vessels
burst behind his eyes, so that faces, the sunlight, blurred into a misty red.
He fought a terrible lassitude, despondent thoughts filling his head. He had
believed they found valuable allies in their quest, such men as could speed
their passage across the Jesseryn Plain, bring them to Rhythamun. With Ochen's
aid and all the might of Chazali's warriors at their back it had seemed they
had at last an advantage, such as could grant them the upper hand in that
ultimate confrontation. Now all that was dashed, the tables, so it seemed, once
more turned in favor of their quarry. For all the Younger Gods gave what help
they could, still there seemed a greater design worked to hinder them, to
advance Rhythamun on his way. With hostile armies marching, Anwar-teng
besieged, how could they hope to find the warlock? How prevent him broaching
the gate? Once more the odds seemed impossible, too great to dare hope. For a
dismal while he thought perhaps they had better concede the victory—there
seemed scant likelihood now of thwarting Rhythamun's foul intent.

           
He struggled against the assailing
doubts and it was as though he battled with hot and bloody fog, tendrils of
awful despair swirling, mocking, reassembling even as he sought to drive them
off. The chamber dimmed before his eyes, Ochen's face no longer lit but lost,
all become ensanguined, mias- mic, hopeless, and he trapped there, a helpless
fly in some painful psychic web.

           
He groaned, starting, as he became
aware of a hand upon his shoulder, firm, that touch like a rope thrown to a
drowning man, faint words cutting through the pain.

           
"What ails you?"

           
He heard Bracht's voice as if from a
great distance and shook his head, unable to form an answer, feeling sweat cold
down his back, the aching pressure of tight-clenched teeth, overwhelming
despair.

           
"Gramaryes."

           
That was Ochen's voice, faint as a
whisper, followed by light and the indistinct mumble of words in a tongue
unfamiliar. The bloody fog dissipated and his vision cleared, sharpened, until
he saw the mage on his feet, hands moving in strange, intricate patterns,
seeming to paint sigils on the empty air. The scent of almonds wafted sweet and
he was unsure whether he truly saw streamers of crimson brume dull and fade, or
if that was merely an imposition of a mind that demanded physical explanation
of the inexplicable. He watched with tear-blurred eyes as the sorcerer
completed his incantation, clapped his hands three times, and resumed his seat.

           
"I should have foreseen this
cunning. He left more than monsters behind." Ochen drew the wine jug
closer, filled Calandryll's cup, pressed shaking hands about the porcelain.
"For those who stand close to the occult, he left other devices. But gone
now,- from this chamber, at least, and soon from all the keep."

           
Calandryll held the cup in both his
hands, wondering at the effort it took to raise so slight an object to his
lips. He drained the wine in rapid gulps, not speaking until all was gone.

           
"Dera, what say you? That I am
easy prey to his magicks?"

           
Ochen studied him awhile,
thoughtfully. "I say that some stand closer to the aethyr than others,-
that in some there is a . . . power . . . that may be used. Sometimes against
them."

           
"Menelian discerned as
much," Bracht murmured, a steadying hand on Calandryll's shoulder, concern
in his eyes.

           
Calandryll looked to the Kern, to
Ochen, and reached for the jug, his grip firmer now as he poured. "I am no
sorcerer," he argued.

           
"No—you are no sorcerer,"
the wizard said, agreeing. "But still there is that in you that might make
you such. The talent is raw, I think, and you've not the knack of its usage,
but you stand close to the aethyr."

           
"And thus I am
vulnerable?" Calandryll wiped wine from his lips and barked a sour laugh,
frightened. "Do you say that? That Rhythamun may better cast his spells on
me than on my comrades? What does that make me, then? A lodestone to his fell
magicks? Perhaps a threat to those about me?"

           
"Perhaps," said Ochen
bluntly, "but listen—this blade"—he tapped the sheathed
straightsword— "what is it? A sword in most hands, and no more, to be used
for good or ill—that depends on the wielder. Your goddess blessed it, gifted it
with that power you know it holds, and that power that rests in you is much the
same."

           
"Save that Rhythamun's
gramaryes touch me deeper, it would seem." Still his voice was harsh,
edged with doubt. "Does that not render me a danger?"

           
"It need not." Ochen shook
his head, speaking calmly. "Aware, you are forewarned, armed against his
trickery."

           
"But why now?" Calandryll
demanded. "Ere now I've stood closer to him, faced his creations even, but
not felt that ..."

           
He shuddered, remembering
skull-bursting pressure, the cloying sensation of dread and despair, of hopelessness.
Ochen waved a hand and said, "Because he waxes stronger, because he draws
closer to Tharn. Because the Mad God grows stronger. Because"—a smile now,
incongruously mischievous— "the god fears such as you."

           
Calandryll gasped, wine dribbling
unnoticed down his chin. "Why should Tharn fear me?" he muttered.
"Why am I singled out?"

           
"I think because of that
power," Ochen replied. "And you are not singled out—I suspect the god
fears all who move against him."

           
"But surely he rests in
limbo." The notion that Tharn should be aware of his existence was
frightening: to oppose a man, albeit a warlock of dreadful strength, was one
thing; to believe that he opposed, directly, a god was an entirely—daunting!—
concept. "How can he know of me? Of us?"

           
He turned, encompassing Bracht and
Katya with his gaze, seeing their faces stern, Cennaire's beyond no less grave.

           
"I do not think that gods sleep
as men do, nor is their dreaming harmless." Ochen's tunic shifted,
rustling; perhaps he shrugged. "We speak of matters that have occupied the
wazir-narimasu for centuries, and I am too humble a mage to pretend full
knowledge of such affairs, but I suspect that just as Tharn is aware of those
who seek to raise him, so is he aware of those who stand against that end. Perhaps
not of you, personally, but in the way that a dog—forgive me—is aware of the
fleas that roam its hide."

           
"So now," said Bracht
softly, "we face an enemy greater even than Rhythamun."

           
"Have you not all down your
road?" The slitted eyes turned on the Kern. "Has your way not always
been opposed?"

           
"By men," Bracht said.
"Sometimes by creatures of the occult."

           
"And you have overcome those
obstacles." Ochen nodded, confirming his own observation. "Neither
have you faltered."

           
"We had not thought to face the
god himself," Calandryll murmured. "Rhythamun, aye. But the Mad God
himself?"

           
"Shall you turn back
then?" Ochen wondered. "My promise remains—safe passage across the
Kess Imbrun."

           
"No!"

           
The denial was voiced unthinking,
echoed by Bracht and Katya. The Kern said, "We've come too far."

           
Ochen chuckled, the sound musical,
and clapped his hands in approval. "Perhaps it shall not come to
that," he said. "Perhaps we shall halt this Rhythamun before he
reaches Anwar-teng. Or"—an afterthought—"the Borrhun-maj."

           
“Wei”
asked Bracht.

           
"Of course." The silvered
head fragmented shards of brilliance as it nodded. "Did you think to go on
alone? What aid is ours to give, you shall have in full measure."

           
Across the table, their faces
shadowed now, Chazali and Temchen grunted their agreement.

           
"I propose," said Ochen,
"that we quit this place as soon we may. Do I employ myself, I can banish
the last of Rhythamun's gramaryes ere long, and then we may proceed to
Pamur-teng. The warriors march by now, but there may be news; if not, then we
go on to join the armies."

           
"At Anwar-teng?"
Calandryll wondered.

           
"There they march," Ochen
confirmed. "There, I think, Rhythamun must surely go."

           
"And should he avoid the hold?
Make for the Borrhun-maj ?"

           
"Anwar-teng is closer, its defenses
made by men, not gods." Ochen stroked a moment at his mustache, musing.
"Does he go past the hold, then I shall know—and we shall pursue
him."

           
"The wazir-narimasu,"
offered Katya, "shall they not deny him access to this gateway?"

           
"As best they may," Ochen
replied, "but theirs is a way of peace, and I fear this close to Tharn,
Rhythamun may find the strength to overcome them."

           
"How is this gate so easily
broached?" Bracht clenched a fist, opened it, frustrated.

           
Ochen sighed and said,
"Anwar-teng was built to guard the gate, to conceal it. The secret has
been ever close-kept, and few know of its existence—the wazir-narimasu, the
clan sorcerers, none others ere now. Until I deemed it needful neither Chazali
nor Temchen thought Anwar-teng more than the hold of the Soto-Imjen, of the
Mahzlen. It was never thought any should be so crazed as to seek entry, and so
the wazir-narimasu look to prevent exit rather than ingress."

           
"Shall Rhythamun know it?"

           
Calandryll clutched straw, snatched
from him by Ochen's solemn answer: "I think he must. Even does he not
already, then I think Tharn will find a way to alert him."

           
"Ahrd!" Bracht's hand was
fisted again, crashing angrily against the table's top, wine jug and cups
rattling, the action eliciting grunts of disapproval from the two armored
officers. "Does all favor the gharan-evur?"