Kings of Sorcery

by Robert Ryan

  He must learn more. He knew also that Brand possessed magic himself, though he had not been forced to summon it. What was it like? What powers did he have? This must be discovered. Brand intrigued him, and he must learn more of him. In that way he would ensure the next attack was successful.

  He made a decision. Knowledge was the root of effective action, and he must discover more of his enemy. He withdrew a norhanu leaf from one of his pouches and reluctantly placed it under his tongue. The taste was bitter, but the effect was swift. Within minutes the color of the fire in the hearth changed, becoming red, and the air about him swirled and shimmered with shadowy shapes. This, he knew, was illusion. Yet it was but the first step to what he must do.

  The air grew cold. He was unsure if this were the hated climate of the Duthgar or the effect of the leaf. Each time he took it the effects were different. He stoked the fire anyway, and then sat back again to wait.

  The trance state crept upon him, yet a part of his mind remained lucid. This part he brought to the fore. Others would succumb to the drug, but long years of hard training gave him some control. He began to chant, no more than a mutter let loose in the smoke-hazed room, but it would be enough to invoke aid again.

  He called upon the gods once more, yet this time he specifically spoke the name of one that would best suit his need: the falcon god of the flat deserts.

  “O mighty Har-falach, hear me. I have need of thy aid. Hear me, and answer my humble call.”

  The room grew colder. The red flame in the hearth dimmed, and the bleating of the sheep faded from his mind.

  A second time he called, but now he withdrew a tiny statuette from a pouch. It was made of a dull stone, highly polished and smooth to touch. It was an ancient thing, fashioned to resemble a man with angled wings and the head of a hawk.

  “Hear me, O mighty one. Hear me, winged messenger of the gods. I call upon thee for aid.”

  The fire snuffed out. The room grew black as the tomb. Fear stabbed Horta’s heart, for he felt a presence with him and thought he sensed the movement of air above.

  “I beseech thee, Ruler of the Skies. Take my mind where I wish. Let me sit here, yet also walk in another place. Show me my enemies that I may know them. Lend my thought wings.”

  The room began to spin. Nausea gripped Horta, and a rushing filled his ears. Then it seemed to him that he fell from a great height. Blinding light stabbed like a thousand knives into his watering eyes. For some moments he was blinded, and then he began to see.

  He stood upon an old track, dusty and surrounded by trees and hills. The sun was up, just barely, and its light lit the road but night lingered in the shadowy stands of trees to either side.

  He knew where he was. He had seen this track through the eyes of the wolves, but of his enemy there was no sign. He walked forward to find them. They would not be far.

  Ahead was the sound of hooves and the jingle of harness. Horta smiled. The enemy was coming to him. He came to a stop and waited with patience.

  The riders saw him, hesitated and then walked forward toward him. Horta assessed them all in turn. The unknown boy with them was irrelevant. He was less than nothing and posed no threat. And yet Brand had allowed him to come. That must have some import. Brand saw something that he did not, and for that reason the boy must be assumed to be dangerous. He had a role to play in all this, if he lived to fulfil it.

  Next, Horta’s gaze fell on the short one. Here was a great warrior, and one swift to fight and slow to ask questions. Yet he was far more cunning than he looked, and inside him beat a heart that would drive him to deeds of loyalty beyond other men. He was dangerous.

  Horta flicked his gaze to the tall one, pale skinned and freckled. He carried himself like a lord, yet somehow humility also exuded from him. He was a deadly warrior, yet would sooner study philosophy than ever draw a blade. He was at least as dangerous as the short one.

  Finally, Horta turned his attention to his true enemy. Brand sat easily in the saddle. He was a man sure of himself, confident in his skills. His eyes were a pale blue, and though there was no sign of alarm in them, yet they gazed out at the world with an acuity that missed nothing, underestimated nothing, nor was daunted by anything. He was a man with no give to him. Had he a shovel and a reason to do so, he would move a mountain.

  Horta shivered. This was a man of destiny, someone who worked the threads of fate himself rather than waited for them to be woven. There were few such as he, but it changed nothing. He must die, and that was an end to it.

  Something else occurred to him then, some further insight. Brand was much like himself. He did what he did for duty, and nothing would stop him. Yet his heart was elsewhere. He did not wish to be who he was. Perhaps that could be used against him.

  The riders drew up before him, and he sensed a little of Brand’s magic. But not enough to determine its exact nature.

  Horta gravely inclined his head. The riders did likewise, never taking their eyes off him.

  “Greetings, friend,” Brand said. “It’s a lonely road, and a long one.”

  It was the customary greeting among the Duthenor for strangers meeting on the road. Horta nodded again, adjusted the portion of bearskin that he wore over his shoulders, and then sat cross-legged upon the dusty track.

  “Greetings, and may your travels be swift and your night’s rest long.” It was the ritual response. The exchange was intended to declare that no hostility existed between strangers on the road.

  “We have just eaten,” the Short one said. “But we have a little food if you’re hungry. Traveling by foot is hard going.”

  Brand gave a slight shake of his head. “This man came here by other means than his legs, and an image of a man needs no food.”

  Horta felt a cold stab of fear. Never before had anyone detected the difference between him and an image of the gods. It shocked him, but he would not show it.

  “It is even as you say,” he answered. “An image of light and air, no matter how real seeming, needs no sustenance.”

  A slight smile played over Brand’s face, and Horta cursed himself for a fool. The man had not known he was an image, merely surmised it.

  “What do you wish?” Brand asked. The man’s blue eyes gazed at him casually, but Horta sensed that for all his seeming ease he could unleash turmoil with steel or magic in the blink of an eye. Here at least was a worthy adversary, and an intriguing one.

  “What do I want? From you? Nothing but your death.”

  Brand’s expression did not change There was no anger, or fear, or bluster. He merely answered.

  “That is a gift I will not give.”

  “So I see,” Horta replied. “The wolves were not enough. Yet the hawk plucks the rabbit from the field, and makes the gift his own.”

  “I am no rabbit.”

  Horta allowed himself a laugh. He liked this man. Nothing disturbed him. Nothing put him off balance. But there was no reason to show his admiration. It served no purpose.

  “You mean nothing to me. Nor does this land. But I have a task, nearly achieved now, and your presence threatens it. Leave the Duthgar, and live. Stay, and die. The choice is yours.”

  Brand regarded him silently a moment, and then shook his head.

  “No. It’s my duty to return. It’s my duty to free my people.”

  “Then you will die.”

  “Perhaps. Or maybe you will discover that this rabbit has claws.”

  Horta regarded Brand in turn. Then he stood, gracefully rising without the accustomed pain he would have normally felt in his left knee.

  “So be it.” He turned his gaze to the short one. “Thank you for your hospitality, even if not needed.”

  Brand’s horse grew agitated, and he bent down to stroke its withers and whisper in its ear.

  “What exactly is the task you mentioned?”

  “Ah, I cannot say much. But it is the noblest of tasks, and it is a duty even as is yours. I shall not fail in it. The stars sing of it, and the earth ca
lls for it. It is ordained.”

  Horta awaited no answer. He had learned little, but he would learn no more even if he talked for an hour. He willed it, and his image faded and his mind flew back to his body.

  It was dark again, dark as the void, and his mind spun. Then he heard the distant bleating of sheep and felt the warmth of the fire in the hearth before him. He was back in the cottage.

  He felt weak and nauseous. His glance fell to the small pallet bed within the room, and he wanted to rest. But he could not. His task was too important, Brand too great a threat. The wolves had not been enough, and he must act again and swiftly. More would be needed, and he knew now which god it would be best to call upon. From him, and that which he would send to kill, there would be no escape.

  It was all a pity, for Horta truly liked Brand. But fate could not be turned aside. He sighed, then got up out of the chair, his limbs stiff from long sitting. He must gather the Arnhaten again. At once.

  11. The Helm of the Duthenor

  Brand led the small group of riders on through the morning. He rode silently, for he had met his true enemy at last and had much to consider. What occupied most of his attention was whether or not the man was his true enemy. He had a great duty to fulfil, which suggested that he served someone else. Perhaps.

  It did not take long before they left the rugged hills and forests behind. Soon the track sloped downward, the forest thinned to isolated stands of trees and the land became cultivated.

  They passed many farms now, and even several villages. Smoke rose from chimneys, sheep bleated on the hillsides and cattle roamed the lower slopes. There were people too. Shepherds, farmers in fields and tradesmen in the villages.

  Brand felt at last like he had returned home. It was one thing to stand on the soil of the Duthgar, another to be among its people. And though they were wary of strangers, as was proper, they still gave a friendly greeting or wave. Not few of them looked long and hard at the horses too. They were fine mounts of a quality rarely seen in a land known for foot warriors rather than cavalry.

  The Helm of the Duthenor was safely hidden away within a sack attached to Brand’s saddlebag. It was in easy reach should a battle break out, though that was unlikely for the moment. More importantly he was not identified yet. Nothing would mark him more for who he was, except his ring and sword. The first was hard to see, and the blade of the second was sheathed. He was not ready to declare himself just yet, though he would do so when he reached the lord’s hall, and that would be soon. But what reaction would he get when he did so?

  The hall came into sight. It was small, for this was one of the most remote and thinly populated districts of the Duthgar. It showed signs of poor maintenance also, and the doorward when they came to the entrance was slovenly. Brand had heard that many of the true lords had been overthrown by the usurper, but this hall was not one of them if Galdring ruled it.

  Despite his appearance, the doorward was polite enough, and he helped them hitch the horses. As they did so, Brand gave the hessian sack carrying the Helm of the Duthenor to Sighern, asking him to carry it for him.

  When they were done with the horses, the doorward bid them state their names and business at the hall.

  This was a moment Brand had long imagined, returning to the Duthgar and declaring himself. But it was anticlimactic when he did so.

  “I’m Brand, and once I knew the father of the lord who rules here. The son should still recognize the name.”

  The doorward shrugged. “If you say so, but it’s best not to displease him. He doesn’t take kindly to being bothered for no purpose.”

  Brand raised an eyebrow. His name had not even been recognized, despite it only being used in the lineage of the chieftains of the Duthgar. No matter. The lord would know him, though what his reaction would be was hard to say. That he still ruled indicated he had not overtly opposed the usurper.

  The doorward opened the building’s great door and led them up the hall. Men seated at the mead benches to each side eyed the strangers carefully. It would be rare to see so many strangers, and neither Shorty nor Taingern had the look of Duthenor warriors about them. They were obviously foreigners, yet that they were warriors nonetheless would have been noted instantly.

  They passed the firepit in the middle of the hall and walked up toward where the lord sat at a small table with some courtiers and guards. They were drinking and playing a game of stones.

  The doorward came to a halt. Slowly he turned around, and Brand saw his eyes narrow and then widen. He had finally recognized the name.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  Brand gazed serenely back at him. “You heard it right the first time.”

  The man grew suddenly nervous. He looked surprised, scared and happy all at the same time. Then he masked his face so that it was expressionless and addressed Galdring.

  “Hail, lord. I bring visitors to the hall who have business with you.”

  Galdring looked up with a bored expression on his face.

  “What are their names?”

  “Their leader is Brand.”

  The doorward said no more. Silence gradually fell over the hall, for if the doorward had not instantly recognized the name then many others did.

  Galdring stood. He was not much older than Brand. His blond hair was long and tied back with a gold band, the sword strapped to his belt bejeweled at the hilt. And his eyes were piercing bright with authority. Once he would have impressed Brand, but he did not do so now. While he lived in luxury, outlaws plundered his district.

  “That is a dangerous name to bear,” Galdring said at last. “The more so if it is true.”

  “It’s true, Galdring. But you overestimate the danger. What should the rightful heir to the chieftainship of the Duthenor have to fear just for revealing his name in the Duthgar?”

  Galdring was about to speak, but a black-haired man beside him placed a hand on his shoulder and silenced him. Brand understood at once where the true power in this hall lay.

  The black-haired man took a step forward. “If you’re who you say you are, you’re a dead man. Perhaps you’re a dead man anyway, just for claiming it. Either way, you’re a fool.”

  Brand held his gaze. “I’m Brand, as I said. And I’ve returned to the Duthgar to bring justice. Unferth shall pay for his crimes. But I was talking to the lord of this hall, and not you. Not to the usurper’s lackey, not to one who serves a traitorous cur.”

  They were hard words, and words that would lead to a fight. But Brand knew such a fight was inevitable. He knew also that the story of his coming to the hall, and the words spoken would spread like a raging grassfire throughout the Duthgar. He must appear strong and in control. Otherwise he would not gather an army.

  The black-haired man drew his sword. “Kill him!” he ordered.

  But Brand was expecting that, and a throwing knife came quick to hand from within a sheath at his belt. The black-haired man was the leader, and the first to die. With lightning speed Brand flung the knife. It arced through the air in a silver flash to strike the man’s neck. Red blood spurted, but Brand was moving again before it hit.

  He drew his sword, and even as its blade flashed he heard gasps. There was no other like it in the stories the Duthenor told, and the Halathrin-wrought blade confirmed his identity better than words. Two men moved at him from beside the now dead leader. The doorward drew his own blade, but he did not turn on Brand. Rather he slew one of the two men. Brand leaped at the other, deflected a clumsy stab and hewed the man’s head from his neck.

  There was no further threat from in front of him. Brand spun and saw that Taingern and Shorty had killed a man each that had acted on the black-haired leader’s instructions.

  No one else moved. No doubt Unferth had more supporters in the hall, yet the unleashing of sudden death had shocked them to stillness. And their leader was taken from them.

  Into the silence Galdring spoke. “You fool. You think you have won something here? You are already
marked for death, but now all of us shall also pay that price. Unferth will kill every one of us.”

  Brand bent down and cleaned his bloodied blade on the trousers of the dead man before him. Then he sheathed it.

  “You are wrong, Galdring. I can hear your heart quake from here with fear, and it speaks rather than your mind. I am Brand, and I have returned. Unferth shall die, and the Duthgar shall be free. This I swear, as the rightful chieftain of the Duthenor.”

  Brand spoke to the lord of the hall, but he knew all others would hear his words. They would be carried to Unferth and all over the Duthgar. It would unsettle the usurper and instill hope all over the land.

  Galdring slumped back in his chair. For the first time, Brand noticed that a young woman was beside him, so like in appearance that she must be his sister. She was a shield-maiden, dressed in chainmail armor and with a sword at her side. But the blade would not have been as sharp as the glare she gave him.

  The lord of the hall laughed bitterly. Then he turned to Brand once more. “All this, and yet there is no proof that you are even who you say you are.”

  “Of a time,” Brand replied, “the word of a Duthenor warrior was taken as a matter of honor. This land has fallen, in more ways than one. Yet these tokens I will give. The first you have seen, which is the sword, and you know how I acquired it, even as a child from Unferth who stole it from my father. The second is this ring.” He thrust up his hand so that the ring handed down through his line was visible. Galdring looked at it carefully, but said nothing. “And last, and greatest is this.” He gestured to Sighern and the boy came forward bearing the hessian sack.

  Brand took it, and let slip the cloth to reveal the shining Helm of the Duthenor. Then he placed it upon his head. It was battle accoutrement, yet to the Duthenor it was a crown.

  Then he spoke, and his voice rang through the hall. “This is the helm of my ancestors, the Helm of the Duthenor. A thousand years ago it was stolen from us by Shurilgar, betrayer of nations. But I reclaimed it, at no small risk. I wear it now, and by these three tokens I proclaim myself, and I send warning to Unferth. His reign draws to a close. His past deeds will catch up with him. Justice, long delayed, is coming.”