by Robert Ryan
“Speak, witch. And your death will be swift. Defy me, and you will endure torment beyond your imagination.”
Harlach laughed. She was scared, but threats had no effect on her.
“Listen, boy. I was steeped in evil before you were spawned under a rock. Time was when you would be on your knees before me, begging to serve. Do not think to frighten me.”
The elf looked at her, no sign of what he felt on his face.
“That time is gone, if ever it existed. Tell me what I want to know. Tell me of the warrior called Brand.”
“Go to hell!” Harlach cried. She raised her hand. Fire spurted from it, a rush of crimson tongues.
But the elf was swifter. It ducked and rolled and came again to its feet. Its left hand knocked her arm aside, its right gripped her throat and squeezed. And its eyes bored into her own, probing her mind.
She felt its magic then. Her own rose in defense, but the elf swept it away. His eyes filled her vision, and she sensed her mind drawn into them, sensed him sifting through her thoughts and memories.
She resisted. He forced his will upon her. Pain tore at her brain, and she felt blood dribble from nose and ears. She could not stop him. His was the greater power, but hatred gave her strength, and the certain knowledge of her death added to it. If she could not prevail, then she would do something for Brand, some small thing that perhaps would give him a chance at life. Through him, she might yet have vengeance.
While the creature read her mind, she read his and saw how he would attack Brand, saw like pieces on a gameboard the greater strategy that was afoot, and who the true players were. She shuddered at the enormity of it.
She went limp, and though pain ripped through her, she allowed the elf to find all that he sought. All, save for one thing alone. This she concealed in her mind within a wall of flame. And when the creature probed it, seeking out what she hid, she turned that flame upon herself, burning out her mind and ending her life.
The last thing she sensed was the chagrin of the elf. He had failed to dig out that final secret, and he did not like it. He was one that could not abide being thwarted. Disappointment rushed through him also. He had been looking forward to tormenting her.
With a bloody smile on her lips, her spirit fled into the great dark.
22. The God-king
Horta did not like to ride. Riding was for peasants. Of old, when he had the need to travel from his estate he did so by sedan chair, the four litter-bearers mindful, for fear of death, to make the experience smooth.
Not so the horse. It jumbled him around like a sack of vegetables on its way to market. It was unfitting, as all of this land, its people and its ways were.
But despite his discomfort, the mount helped spare his arthritic knee and allowed him to cover a great deal of ground, and all the while his gaze never faltered. He looked around him wherever he went, studying the countryside, scrutinizing the ridges and cliff faces and the sides of hills. Always he looked for signs of digging or tunneling, or at least places where such things could be concealed.
And his heart quickened now, for the side of the hill that he approached was a little too steep, and recent rains had eroded soil that exposed rock beneath. The rock was smooth, unnaturally so.
He drew closer. Had his years of searching become fruitful at last? Too long he had wandered around, almost aimlessly, until he had come to an old storyteller west of the Duthgar who told him a tale of an ancient battle. Much was myth, much was a mixture of other stories and other battles far too recent, but some of the details, just enough, rang true. They told of a battle between that ancient race of tyrants called the Letharn, and their great enemies, the Star People. Could that be a twisted name for his own race, the Kar-ahn-hetep, the Children of the Thousand Stars?
He had thought so, and so it had proven. But the site of battle was in the place called the Duthgar, and there he must seek permission of its king to explore. The Duthenor did not let foreigners roam freely. So he had met Unferth, convinced him to allow him to wander the lands in return for his services. Unferth, fool that he was, did not know what a magician was capable of. But Horta had proved it to him, and worked his way into his confidences quickly.
It had not taken long to find the remnants of the battlefield after that. And he knew he was close then, knew his time was coming.
He studied the surface of the newly-exposed rock before him. It was smooth. Almost too smooth and too flat to be natural. His breath caught in his throat. Were there not faint chisel marks in the stone?
Quickly, he retrieved a shovel that was strapped to his saddlebag, and his hands trembled as he began to dig away more dirt.
Long he had looked, and long were the years since the great battle had been fought. More than ten thousand. Up from the south-west his people had come, warlike, their swords glittering in the sun, their armies marching as ranks of gods. Against the Letharn they struck, two mighty empires clashing in a war that spanned a continent. Blood had flowed. Rivers of it. Men fought men, sword clashed against sword, the spells of the magicians contended with the magic of the wizard-priests of the Letharn.
Sweat dripped from Horta’s brow, but he felt a cold chill pass through him. He almost thought he had been called to this place, such was the certainty in his mind that he had discovered what he had long sought. And then there was a mark upon the stone. It was a rectangle, nothing within it and nothing without: but it was certainly carved by man and not nature.
His heart leapt. Reaching into dim memory, he drew forth long-forgotten words. It was a simple spell, primitive even. But it was known only to him and his kind. He uttered the words and passed his hand over the stone. And waited.
Of old, the kings of his people built mighty tombs. They were massive things, fortresses of stone, guarded by men, magic and traps. The dead kings rested in eternal peace, their bodies preserved so that they might keep their form in the afterlife. But the great king, the greatest to have ever lived, and the last of the Kar-ahn-hetep, he had no such tomb prepared for him. He was yet young when he set out in war against the Letharn. He was yet young though he led his warriors for ten years of war, surging against the enemy. And the enemy had fallen back. A thousand miles they withdrew, ceding land after land, country after country.
But what fate gave fortune stole back. The Letharn strengthened their positions, and held them. Then they began to creep forward, retaking lands they had lost. The great king could not abide this. West he went with one of his armies, and then north. He tried to catch his enemies by surprise, but was surprised in turn.
Battle followed, mighty and terrible. He who should have ruled the world was slain. But his loyal magicians saved his body from the enemy, and the army fought a fighting retreat. So the secret lore told.
Horta held his breath. The stone grew slowly darker under his impatient gaze, and then paled. The rectangle turned into a cartouche, what the ancients termed a shenna. Within it, the sign of the great king sparked as though the sun shone through the stone itself. Three stars, one ascendant over the other two, glittered momentarily and then blinked out.
He had found what he was looking for. No more was needed. He felt the weight of destiny on his shoulders, felt the call of his blood. It was for this that he was born. It was his life’s work, nearly come to fulfillment, but not quite yet.
This was a tomb. Not the great tomb that should have existed for such a king, but a hiding place, a place to preserve his body from the enemy and from time itself.
The army had fled, pursued by the Letharn. The magicians took the body of the king, and by their arts of magic and the science of their lore, they preserved it. But death was upon them, for the enemy pursued relentlessly.
In the night, the magicians led a hundred men from the army. They excavated a tomb and hid it; a place safe from the enemy. There they laid the king to rest with what rites they could, and preserved a memory of their deed. So Horta had learned, for he was descended from one of those magicians.
&nbs
p; Yet nearly all of the hundred men were killed. None could know the secret of the king’s last resting place and live, for treasures were buried with him, and he himself was a treasure greater than them all. But even kings had enemies, especially kings, and these would seek to destroy him if they could, to deprive him of his enjoyment of the afterlife by maiming his earthly remains. But the secret story came down, even to Horta and others like him. They all searched, but he was the finder.
The magicians of ancient days were mighty. After the great battle, their empire crumbled around them and their arts fell into decline. Yet, in the peak of their powers, the magicians were supreme, and they could preserve the dead in a state very close to living. And the years would not have destroyed this.
Upon that knowledge, a prophecy was born. The king would be resurrected. The king would live again. The god-king, for such he was called, would return when the Kar-ahn-hetep were at their lowest ebb, and he would lead them to glory and conquest again. And now, the Letharn were no more. Who would oppose them as they swept across land after land, their swords red with blood and victory lighting their eyes?
Horta shuddered. What glory would be his if he made this come to pass? What rewards would the god-king bestow upon him? What power would he not command as the first lieutenant of a god, returned from death to rule the world?
And Horta knew he could bring this to pass. He knew the spells. He knew forbidden rites that even the ancients had shunned and feared. For he was mighty also, perhaps the greatest to have lived since those far off days of old. And he was of the house of the god-king, and blood called to blood. It mattered not that the laws of magic forbade what he intended. Prophecy was stronger than law.
But this he could not accomplish all at once. The god-king would be vulnerable after so long a sleep of death. He would need aid and succor until his strength grew. He would need an army to protect him, and to fulfill his will. It would not be fitting to wake him without servants.
Horta frantically worked with his shovel, piling dirt back over the stone. The time was not yet right to wake the god-king. First, he must summon an army loyal to his own house so that they might destroy any opposition. They must clear the way before the god-king came.
And Brand was a threat, and even Unferth. But the first would die soon, and the second would fall to unexpected war. The Duthgar would be ruled by the Children of the Thousand Stars. It would form the cradle for an ancient civilization to be born anew.
Horta hastily retied his shovel to the saddlebag and leaped upon his horse. He must send word back to his people, at least to his own sept. They would flock to his call. The Duthgar would fall, and the god-king would rise and have an army at his command. Small it would be at first, but it would grow. And the world would tremble.
23. I do a Man’s Work
The time of skulking was over.
Brand veered west toward the High Way. The army followed, greater by far than it was before. Battle drew near, and lives would be lost. It was all on him, and that was pressure that made for poor decision making. So he did not think about it. At least, he distanced himself from it as best he could. Yet he must also keep it in his thoughts to some extent. Otherwise, he would forget that his choices had become life and death for other people.
It was a tight balance, the kind that a person needed in order to walk a narrow mountain trail with a vast drop into oblivion on the left, and a steep hill of snow to the right that could gather into a deadly avalanche. And all the while the trail beneath their boots was treacherous with ice.
The army passed through an empty land, and there seemed no sign of people, no indication of habitation. But the Duthgar was like that. It was a settled land, kept and cultivated, but still many parts were not. These were wild and remote areas, notwithstanding that at any time a farming district could begin nearby.
But he knew this land, remembered it well. Here there were rolling fields of grass and clusters of trees. Soon, when they neared the road, the farms would begin again.
He called a halt a mile or so short of where they started. The men settled for a rest, and Haldring approached him.
“It’s soon, is it not, to stop for a break?”
“It is, but I need news. What’s been happening? What has Unferth done and where is his force? He’ll have sent one to defeat me, of that I’m sure.”
“Really?” she countered. “How do you know that he hasn’t drawn his forces to him and decided to wait for you to attack. That way his men would be better rested and closer to their supplies of food.”
Brand did not think so at all, but he could not fault her argument. She might even be right.
“Taingern? Shorty? What do you think?”
Shorty gave a shrug. “What does it matter either way? Thinking about it won’t change anything.”
“What do you say, Taingern?”
“I think he’ll try to hunt you down. He’ll have sent an army, but where will it have gone? It’s probably bypassed us already and traveled along the High Way further north, back where we came from.”
“I hope so,” Brand said. “But we know nothing for sure, and though knowing may not change anything, I’d rather know than not. So we’re back where we began. It’s time to get news. The army can wait here until I have it.”
Brand looked around him, ready to pick someone to move forward into the farms and gather news. But Sighern had heard the conversation and stepped forward quickly.
“I’ll go,” he said.
Brand hesitated, uncertain.
Shorty clapped the boy on the shoulder. “You’re game lad, but I think you’re too young for this.”
“I may be young, but I do a man’s work. You can’t deny that.”
Shorty nodded slowly. “No, I’ll not deny that. You do a man’s work. You fight like one anyway. Better than many.”
Brand felt everyone’s gaze on him, the boy’s most of all. Responsibility was heavy on him, and deaths would be on him soon as well when battle was joined. And he could not send a boy into danger, no matter how great his courage. The answer would have to be no, but what he said instead was yes, and it surprised him more than anyone else.
Sighern looked proud, and Brand did not have the heart to take it back, no matter that he did not understand what had just happened. Twice now this had occurred, and it worried him. Was this what it was to ride the dragon’s breath? To have some sort of fate or destiny guide him, even force him, down a path that he did not understand? Or was it his own instinct surfacing and taking control?
But the decision was made now, and Brand accepted it. Quickly he explained to Sighern what was required, and then the boy was gone, walking off into the countryside with the gaze of the whole army upon him.
Haldring looked grim. “You’ve sent him into danger,” she said. “He’s too young for the task and many others would have been better suited.”
Brand did not know what to say, so he just voiced his thoughts. “I think you’re right. But there’s something about him. He’s everything a Duthenor should be, and more. He is, perhaps, even made for greatness. There’s a destiny upon him.”
Haldring did not look happy, but she said no more. Nor did Taingern and Shorty, but he felt their gazes upon him, burning with curiosity. Those two had seen this before, but he had no answers to give them.
Sighern walked at a fast pace. He was young, and this was an adventure of a type he had not believed possible just a short while ago. It gave him strength. That Brand believed in him was everything. He was a hero, and a man worthy to follow. And Sighern knew he would follow him anywhere, undertake any task asked of him.
He had a sword belted at his side. He knew how to use it. He had the trust of Brand, and the responsibility to do the right thing for the army. News was needed, and he would gather it. Who better than someone his age? He would not be taken for a warrior, and people would speak freely to him. An older man asking questions would draw suspicion, and the supporters of Unferth were everywhere. But a
boy? They would not think him a scout for an army. He grinned to himself and pushed on. All was right with the world.
He soon passed a few farms, but they seemed small and there was no one in sight. It would be better to move up to the High Way where he could find out what was needed from those who would have heard or seen things first hand.
It did not take him that long to reach it. Straightaway he noticed that the grass of the road was trampled by the passage of many feet. It would take an army to cause so much damage. But how many men were there and which way had they gone?
He had no answer to the first question. He would have to talk to someone for that. But studying the tracks he soon realized they headed north, back were Brand had come from.
Sighern set off on the road following them. It might be that he had already discovered all that Brand needed. But he would be questioned when he returned and it would be better to be able to give numbers. How big was the army sent against them? Brand would want to know that. And also how long ago it had come through here. The tracks looked quite fresh to him, but again it would be better to get confirmation.
Ahead, a village came into view. It was quite small, little more than a gathering of huts. As Sighern approached, he thought of how best to go about his task. He could just ask anyone what he wanted to know, but the best people for him to speak to would be boys of his own age.
Just before the village, he saw a small creek running south-eastward. It was more a gulley than a creek, but it grew bigger as it went and other gulleys joined it. Further along, tall trees overshadowed its banks. If he lived here, that’s where he would go to fish and hunt and while away the time. And if he were sheepherding, he would find a paddock close by. He bet the boys of this village would think the same way, and he turned his feet off the road and toward it.
