Dark Magic (5 page)

L
IKE
some weary beast the Vanu warboat crept past the cliffs into the mouth of the Yst. Her black sail was lowered and what sound the sweeps made was drowned by the tumult of the river as it fought the sea for mastery of the bay. Salt shone white on the snarling dragonshead of the prow, and on the weather-worn boards of her flanks, the shields hung there; she seemed to limp. Nor were those on board in better shape. The journey south from Gessyth, beating against a contrary wind, the wintry storms, the rounding of the cape, these had taken their toll on a crew depleted by the denizens of the swamplands and the cannibals of Gash. Both Calandryll and Bracht had taken their turns at the oars on that journey, and while that labor had hardened muscle it had also allowed them time to contemplate what lay ahead, to think on the obstacles they must face, the advantage their quarry gained through use of magic while they must transport themselves by physical means. It seemed impossible that they should succeed, but to concede the victory had occurred to none of them. Most likely Rhythamun—or Varent, whatever name he took now—was returned to Aldarin, to gather his resources
before commencing his search for the resting place of the Mad God. Therefore they must go back to Lysse, to pick up his trail and follow wherever it should lead. The magical stone Katya wore pointed them in that direction, but before they dared attempt the crossing of the Narrow Sea they needed to haul the boat and take on fresh supplies. On that Tekkan was insistent, and Tekkan was the helmsman—the three questers, Katya, Calandryll, and Bracht, must curb their impatience and hope they were not too late; the quarry not flown.

It was scant solace, Calandryll thought as he scanned the cliffs that fanned to either side of the bay, but the best they had. Varent den Tarl—Rhythamun! he reminded himself bitterly—had thought his seizure of the Arcanum, the demise of its ancient guardians, would close the occult gate, sealing his unwilling dupes forever within the ruins of Tezin-dar. And he might well have been right had Bracht not reacted so swiftly, propelling them back through the portal to re-emerge from the stones close to the Syfalheen village. From there they had returned to the warboat and commenced this journey into new unknowns. He shoved a hand through hair grown long, bleached near pale as Katya’s flaxen mane by weeks of sun and sea wind, and wondered what chance they had of victory.

In the body of Varent den Tarl, Rhythamun enjoyed influence and power in Aldarin, and he had told Calandryll that the cantrips of transportation could work only in relation to places already known. Ergo—Calandryll forced himself to think logically, like the scholar he had once hoped to become—Rhythamun must return to his palace in Aldarin. There, perhaps, they would find such clues as might lead them to the sorcerer. That hope was all they had, but between them and its investigation lay obstacles that seemed—at times such as this!—insurmountable.

His eyes narrowed as he saw signal flags along the heights: Sathoman ek’Hennem raised the banners of revolt in Kandahar, and likely the Tyrant’s legions
would find questions aplenty to put to such wanderers as they, likely find use for the warboat. He raised a hand, tanned and weathered, pointing to the signalers.

“I see them,” Bracht confirmed, the black tail of his hair swinging as he raised his head, right hand light on the falchion at his waist. “Likely we’ll be met.”

“But perhaps not by enemies.” The grey of Katya’s eyes clouded as she spoke, revealing the doubt behind her optimism.

“I think we’ve few friends in Kandahar,” Bracht returned, teeth gleaming white against the deep tan of his face. “And enemies enough.”

“Still, we’ve a cargo of dragon hides,” returned the warrior woman, “and those should win us favor.”

Of them all, hers was perhaps the fiercest determination, for the defeat of Rhythamun had been her quest from the beginning. For her there had been no betrayal, no souring of trust as believed-in friendship stood revealed as foulest treachery. From distant Vanu she had come, sent by the northern holy men in quest of the Arcanum that it might be forever destroyed, the resting place of the Mad God lost to those like Rhythamun, who would again bring the world down into the chaos of the godwars. In her that purpose burned with a fierce, bright flame, unsullied.

It burned no less in Calandryll, but in him it was darkened, befouled by treachery, by the knowledge that Rhythamun—in Varent’s form and guise of friendship—had tricked him, had played on trust and hope and youthful dreams of glory to make him a dupe. To know that his had been the agency through which the mage had attained the forbidden book was a scouring current of bitterness that stripped away the mantle of innocence he wore when first he fled Secca. His lips stretched in a grim smile as he thought on it: for him this quest meant more than the saving of the world; revenge now played its part.

“What amuses you?” he heard Bracht ask, and answered, “I think on the past; and what I was.”

“Best look to the future,” advised the freesword, “for it approaches fast.”

Calandryll looked to where his comrade pointed and saw two galleys driving toward them, ghostly in the early morning mist. Small arbalests were mounted on the foredecks and bowmen manned the rails. Atop the closer cliff a knot of soldiers gathered. Katya turned, sunlight glinting on her mail shirt, and called in the lilting tongue of Vanu to Tekkan. The helmsman answered with an order that slowed his rowers, the warboat riding the tide as the galleys shifted course to either side.

One hung back, its arbalest menacing as its companion came alongside. Calandryll saw the scarlet puggaree that marked the archers as Tyrant’s men wound about the conical helmets of dragon hide. From the foredeck an officer shouted.

“Name yourselves or we sink you.”

“I am Tekkan of Vanu,” came the answer. “Come with a cargo of hides to serve the Tyrant.”

“Vanu?” There was disbelief in the officer’s voice. “What do Vanu folk do in Kandahar?”

“Trade, I’d hope,” Tekkan returned. “And bring passengers safe home to Lysse.”

Across the distance separating the two craft Calandryll saw confusion on the swarthy face and shouted, “I am Calandryll den Karynth, second son to Bylath, Domm of Secca. Do you grant us harborage?”

The Kand’s frown deepened beneath the beak of his helm and he stroked his oiled beard. Then he nodded and bellowed, “Move ahead. No tricks, I warn you, lest we send you to Burash.”

Tekkan relayed the command to his rowers and the warboat plunged again into motion, flanked by the galleys, the Kand archers staring with unfeigned curiosity at the flaxen-haired Vanu.

“So far,” Bracht murmured, “the gods favor us.”

“Or toy with us,” Calandryll said.

“You become a skeptic.” Bracht slapped a hard hand to Calandryll’s shoulder. “Ahrd knows, but perhaps I liked the innocent better.”

Calandryll grunted and forced a smile: Bracht spoke the truth. “That innocent died,” he said. “In Kandahar or Gessyth, I know not—only that he’s gone.”

“We shall find him.” There was no need to name the sorcerer. “In time, we shall find him.”

“Shall we?” Calandryll glanced at the Kern and Bracht grinned, nodding.

“Two thousand and five hundred varre, he owes me—aye, we shall find him.”

Once Calandryll would have found offense in such pecuniary consideration. Now he grinned back, despite the chafe of impatience, and said, “On my safe return to Aldarin, that was.”

“And so it shall be,” Bracht promised. “My word on it.”

“Does your word hold sway in Kandahar?” A measure of pessimism returned. “Shall the Tyrant’s soldiery listen to you?”

Bracht shrugged, leather-clad shoulders rising, and said gently, “We shall see. Ahrd willing, we’ll not delay here overlong.”

“The Sea God holds sway here,” Calandryll retorted. “This is the domain of Burash, not your tree god.”

“Even so.” Bracht’s voice softened, bantering no longer. “I think that Ahrd plays a part in this. Why else send the by ah to us?”

His intention was to reassure, but mention of the tree spirit that had appeared to warn of treachery served only to remind Calandryll how soundly Rhythamun had deceived him. His mood blackened again and he turned away, studying the escorting galleys.

Bracht looked to Katya and found concern in her eyes. Gently she said, “I think perhaps Tharn stirs,
dreaming, and sends doubts to weaken our purpose. We must stand firm.”

As with Bracht, Calandryll knew she meant well, but still he could not bring himself to answer or turn to face her. Instead, he grunted a noncommittal sound and fixed his gaze on the city ahead.

They drew close to Vishat’yi now, the cliffs rising steeper, cut through on the west with a great inlet, the settlement spreading upward to either side. A makeshift boom defended the anchorage, heavy chains suspended from moored boats, and where moles thrust out from north and south, huge catapults stood cocked, ready to rain missiles on any approaching vessels. Beyond the moles stood two barbicans, defensive walls spreading back from the harbor to the city proper. That in turn was become a redoubt, streets sealed with barricades and the highlands topped with more catapults. Within the sea walls only a handful of vessels rode the tide, most fishing boats, a few galleys, three wearing the rakish lines of corsair craft. On the moles stood waiting soldiers in dragon-hide armor, their helms and cuirasses marked with the Tyrant’s colors.

The boom was drawn back enough the Vanu boat could enter, a galley ahead, the other to her stern, and Tekkan swung her round against a wharf where archers and pikemen thronged, their eyes hard and suspicious.

The commander of the escort—a navarch, Calandryll saw as he sprang ashore—saluted as a tall man whose breastplate and helm were overlaid with golden scales came forward. A scarlet cloak was draped about his shoulders and from his waist hung a sheathed scimitar. He answered the navarch’s salute with a peremptory nod, his stern visage turned toward the newcomers. They spoke briefly and the senior officer beckoned the visitors to him. For long moments he studied them, the hook of his nose and his cold green eyes reminiscent of a falcon considering its prey. When he spoke his voice was harsh.

“I am Quindar ek’Nyle, vexillan of this city. You say you are of Vanu? That you come with dragon hides and passengers?”

Tekkan set himself to the front, meeting the cold green stare with no hint of submission as he bowed a formal greeting. “I and my crew are of Vanu,” he said calmly. “I am named Tekkan and, yes, I carry a cargo of hides and two passengers.”

“Who are?” ek’Nyle demanded.

“Calandryll den Karynth of Secca in Lysse,” Tekkan answered. “Son to that city’s Domm; and his bodyguard, Bracht ni Errhyn, a freesword of Cuan na’For.”

“A curious cargo,” ek’Nyle retorted, his voice dubious. “I’d hear of its provenance. Come, you three—you shall explain yourselves.”

He spun on polished heels, clearly accustomed to instant obedience, and strode toward the barbican. Katya moved to follow, but Tekkan motioned her back, indicating that only Calandryll and Bracht should accompany him as the soldiery parted, forming an avenue of suspicious faces, pikes held at the ready, as if they anticipated treachery.

The vexillan’s stride was long and brisk and he was inside the fortification before they reached the door, seating himself behind a scarred table as they entered. Guards stood outside, and more were stationed along the interior walls, their hide armor dull as old blood in the light that shone down from three high windows. There was an air of palpable tension, increased by the absence of chairs so that the three were forced to stand facing ek’Nyle as he lounged back, studying them, his hands toying with a curved dagger. The place reminded Calandryll of the fortalice in Mherut’yi. He trusted the civil war had prevented any word of his and Bracht’s escape reaching this bastion.

“So,” ek’Nyle said at last, “explain yourselves.”

They had agreed on their story beforehand, and that in such circumstances Tekkan should act as spokesman; he said, “I am a boatmaster, come out of
Vanu to learn what transpires in the world—a voyage of exploration, if you like. Harboring in Seeca, I made the acquaintance of Lord Calandryll, who himself was embarked on a scholarly journey and bought passage with us. We cruised your coast and found our way to Gessyth, where we learned no ships had come, thus allowing us to take on a cargo of dragon hides that I’d now trade.”

The vexillan’s green eyes remained inscrutable as he said, “Trade?”

“Aye,” Tekkan answered, “we’ve need of repairs and supplies, and I understand the Tyrant fights a war—the hides should command a good price.”

“You’d profit from our troubles?”

The question was put flatly; beneath its surface lay a threat. Tekkan shook his head, essaying a smile. “I’d aid the Tyrant,” he said, “and hope for a reasonable return. No more.”

Ek’Nyle grunted, his gaze shifting to Calandryll.

“The son of Secca’s Domm, eh?”

“I have that honor,” Calandryll returned.

“I think you Lyssians hold scant regard for Kandahar,” the vexillan said. “Indeed, I’ve heard rumors that you build a navy to bring against us.”