Kings of Sorcery

by Robert Ryan

  No one moved. Shock gripped them. But instead of falling Tinwellen hissed. And Brand wondered that there was no blood, but at the same time he sensed the presence of magic, of a spell unraveling.

  Tinwellen swayed, and her figure blurred. In her hands the knives dissolved into the air and were gone. Her lustrous dark hair grew longer still, but paler. The complexion of her skin darkened. Taller she stood, more queenly, and her eyes were black pits of malevolence.

  A moment she stood thus, as surprised as any. But her disguise was gone, the magic that transformed her broken. It was the Trickster of which Kurik had warned him, and had never been Tinwellen at all.

  Brand raised his sword and summoned his magic. Before him stood a goddess of the old world, and who knew what powers she commanded.

  But she made no move to attack. “Fool! You could have had endless joy. Instead, you will die in a meaningless place in a forgotten land.”

  “All men die,” Brand answered. “Now begone, Trickster. Or we shall see if cold steel can find the colder heart of a goddess.”

  She gazed at him, seemingly in surprise. “How do you know me? No! Never mind. Now I know. He that led the spirits of the dead told you.” She drew herself up, and now she looked like a queen to whom all other queens would bow. “Put away your sword. You will not need it against me. This game is up, and another begins. You will die here soon, and even if you do not, then know the futility of all you do. An army of the Kar-ahn-hetep marches even as we speak. Great warriors are they, and their numbers will overrun the Duthgar. And then the Dark God will rise, and on his conquest of lands and realms the old gods will return from memory to stride the lands that are theirs once more. Die, Brand. Despair, and die!”

  So speaking, the goddess raised her hands and the figure that was hers, or one of her many likenesses, turned to pale smoke and then vanished.

  Brand lowered his sword and rested his weight upon it. His gaze fell to Sighern. “Once more, it seems, you have proved your worth. Your eyes saw deeper than mine, and I thank you.”

  Brand wasted no time. Nothing felt right, but it rarely did.

  He feared he was not fit for what he intended, but he must do it and he must win. Else the bloodshed would be catastrophic. And he knew one thing more, for he believed what the Trickster said about the army marching toward him, but he dare not think of that. Not yet.

  He walked through the gate of the fortress and past the pole topped with Unferth’s head, his stride seemingly sure, but he knew how weak his legs were, how close to falling he was, and that the roar in his head continued. He kept his gaze off the head, lest he vomit. Nausea accompanied the roaring.

  With him came Sighern. He carried a flag, but it was not the Dragon Banner. Instead, it was a red cloth, the sign of parley in the Duthgar, and a light drizzle fell that dampened it. With him was also Hruidgar the Huntsman. Shorty and Taingern remained inside. They would lead the Duthenor if Brand fell.

  They did not ride. They walked in order to be sure nothing they did could be taken as an attack. And, although Brand told no one, he feared he would fall dismounting from a horse.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Hruidgar asked. “Do the Callenor even know what the red flag means? Can we trust them?”

  “It may not be a good idea,” Brand answered. “But it’s the best I have. And I don’t know what the red flag signifies to them. But the Callenor are men like the Duthenor. They have honor, even if Unferth did not.”

  Hruidgar gave him a long look, but the man said nothing.

  Brand liked him for that, so he offered something more. “Regardless, they know who I am by my helm. They will let us pass through until we reach Gormengil.”

  “And what then?”

  “Then what will be will be.”

  Ahead of them, the faces of the enemy became clear. They were hard men, and war had treated them harshly. But they said nothing, and offered no word of scorn nor greeting. They simply gazed silently, showing nothing of what they felt, and parted to allow Brand and his small entourage through.

  It remained the same as they walked through the heart of the army. Men stared at them, but said nothing. Yet a ripple of movement was always ahead of them, opening a way. Until they reached the center of the camp. Once there, the enemy closed around them again, and it was not a comfortable feeling.

  But Brand had found what he sought. Here was a tent, and a makeshift table before it. Men were gathered there, and one of them was Horta. He had wished the man dead, but he was not. Yet still, he seemed haggard and his eyes held a hint of fear. The ghost of Kurik had treated him as harshly as war had treated the Callenor. Brand met his gaze and allowed himself the faintest of smiles. The other man looked away.

  There was no more time for such games. One figure, and one figure alone, now drew his gaze and held all his attention. Gormengil stood from where he had sat at the table and faced him. In his hands he held the wicked-looking raven axe. It had two blades, and each was swept back like wings but there was a stabbing spike in the middle, curved slightly to resemble a beak. It could be used to stab, but also to hook and gouge. Brand knew the weapon, or at least some of the legends of the Callenor about it. A shiver of fear ran through him.

  The red-lacquered chain mail he wore stood out. Supposedly, it was invincible to blade or dart. Time would soon reveal the truth of those stories. But it was the helm that stood out most of all. This, like the rest, was fashioned by the dwarves, and spells were cast upon it. Engraved into the same red-lacquered metal as the chain mail was a single dwarven rune: karak. Legend said it signified victory in their language. But whose? In a fight, always one lost and the other won. The rune would not change that, nor give the wearer of the helm advantage. Even so, it was an unlucky omen to see borne by an opponent.

  Through the grim-looking eye slit of the fabled helm, Gormengil’s dark eyes gazed out, cold and implacable. Brand shivered again. Had he at last met his match? Had he finally risked too much in overconfidence?

  Gormengil spoke, his voice cold as his eyes and strangely shaped by the metal of the helm.

  “Have you come to offer surrender?”

  “Not that. Never that. And why should I when the ghosts of the fortress serve the Duthenor?” It was a lie, but the enemy did not know that.

  Gormengil nodded gravely, as though he expected such an answer and approved.

  “Then why come at all?”

  “To give you what you want.”

  There was a silence then, deep and undisturbed. Eventually, Gormengil moved, tilting his head slightly to one side.

  “I want many things. As many as there are stars in the sky.”

  Brand laughed, but he was not sure how loud. The laughter and the roaring in his ears seemed one and the same thing.

  “Life will teach you, if you live it long enough, that less is more. As it is in all things. But no matter. I have come to give you that which we nearly had on the rampart. I have come to fight you, man to man.”

  The dark eyes of Gormengil gleamed. “I had feared that fight would not come. Some said you were killed by an axe blow.”

  “I’m a hard man to kill.”

  “That I know. But no man lives forever.” Gormengil’s dark eyes studied him, boring into Brand like a force of nature before he spoke again. “And what terms do you propose?”

  “Terms? We have no need of terms. You will not surrender, though I offer you peace if you do. No. We have no need of terms. Let the victor discuss such things with whomever leads his opponents when our fight is done. All I ask as that the men with me be allowed to leave unharmed to return to the fortress.”

  Gormengil nodded. “That I grant.”

  They said no more, for no more was needed. Brand drew his Halathrin-wrought blade, and the faint drizzle covered it in an instant sheen of moisture. In the distance, thunder rumbled and a wind picked up, scattering rain-scented dust into the air.

  Gormengil adjusted his helm and stepped forward. The axe he carried
lightly, and every move he made was one of the true-born warrior. Had Brand been well, he knew he could still kill this man. But he was not well.

  A space was cleared for them. Silence fell so deep that Brand thought he could hear his own heart thud in his chest. Or perhaps that was thunder growing closer. He could not tell over the roaring in his ears.

  Brand struck first. The quicker he finished this fight, the better. The longer it went on, the worse he would fare.

  His blade flashed. Like lightning it shattered the gloomy air, but no thunder followed. A strike that should have hit his enemy’s head merely cut air as Gormengil dodged to one side.

  “You disappoint me, Brand. I had heard that you were a great warrior. It seems that your legend is nothing more than words.”

  Brand stood still and fought off a wave of dizziness from his sudden movement. “The blow I took to the head nearly killed me. I’m not at my best.”

  Let Gormengil make of that what he would. No warrior would admit such a weakness in the middle of a fight. But Brand knew his opponent was good enough to see some of the difficulties he was having. Let him wonder then if what he said was truth, or a ruse.

  Gormengil began to circle him warily. The axe was held high, yet not so high as to deter another slash at his head. For that reason Brand made no such blow. Instead, he dropped low and sent a wicked strike at his opponent’s knees.

  The sword was always going to be quicker than the axe. It was the nature of the weapons, so Gormengil nimbly leapt back. Yet still the axe dropped low to block the blow, and it did so swiftly. From this, Brand learned two things. His opponent was unused to fighting with an axe, else he would have trained his reaction to simply be one of retreat, still holding the axe high and ready to strike. And that the axe was lighter than it looked.

  But Gormengil had learned something too. Even as Brand slashed at his legs he had struggled to rise. His legs felt weak, and even when he regained his normal stance he swayed where he stood. Gormengil had learned his weakness was likely not feigned.

  The Callenor warrior came at him then, the raven-axe flying through the air. It moaned and whistled strangely. Brand paid that no heed. He had expected it. He had not expected the speed and power of his opponent though.

  Gormengil fell upon him like a toppling mountain. Brand dodged and weaved, using his feet to move away rather than blocking with his sword. Swords did not block axes, yet still he should have had time to see a gap and strike back. Yet no such opportunity came.

  Gormengil wove the axe through the air in deadly arcs, but they were tight and narrow. Where the weight of the weapon should have slowed him at the end of a slash and made it hard to change direction and send back a reverse cut, it did not.

  Brand saw no opening to attack. Instead, he was forced to strike at Gormengil’s gauntleted hands in the hope of injuring him. This was a lesser tactic, for no death blow could be delivered that way.

  Gormengil stayed his attack, and grinned at Brand. “Not easy, is it? I found a way to defeat Unferth, though. But now I know I’m better than you. Better than the fabled—”

  The axe was light, but it still tired his opponent’s arms and he was stalling for a rest. Brand gave him none, driving forward in a straight thrust that had killed people before. But he was not as fast as he could be, nor did the power of the strike drive up from his legs as much as it should have. Gormengil brushed it aside with a sweep of the twin blades, and held his ground where he stood. He was an image of supreme confidence, and once more Brand felt a cold shiver run up his spine.

  “Your head will sit upon a pole next to Unferth’s soon,” Gormengil taunted. Then he came forward to attack again. This time he did so carefully, driving one deadly swing after another at Brand, but only one at a time, meting them out judiciously so as to preserve his strength.

  Brand backed away. The rain began to fall now, no mere drizzle but a heavy torrent that fell in waves, lightened, and then came again heavier than before. Thunder rumbled with it, and a bolt of lightning slivered through the air to strike a tree on the pine-clad ridges above them.

  Nothing stopped the combatants. It seemed that the whole army watched them, and no storm nor danger would force people away to seek shelter. They all knew that Brand had been injured on the battlements. They all knew Gormengil was a great fighter. And a battle unfolded before them the like of which they had never seen. For though Brand was disadvantaged, yet he always seemed to avoid the deadly blows directed at him. Though he stumbled and fell, he righted himself at the last minute. Though he swayed with dizziness, he dodged blow after blow that should have killed him. And though his knees buckled beneath him, yet still he somehow stayed on his feet and defied his opponent. The Callenor admired that, for they saw there was no give in Brand. But they knew it could not last.

  Nor were they wrong. Brand knew it, and knew that it was all he could do to just defend himself. Attacking was beyond him, for he had neither the strength nor the speed. The roaring in his ears grew so loud he was not sure if it was him or if thunder rumbled continuously. But he must go on, and he must find a way to win.

  The raven-axe whistled through the air. Brand was not quick enough. He was struck a mighty blow on his helm and toppled to the ground. Yet still he did not give up. Even as Gormengil came in for the kill, he thrust upward with his sword. The strike was fast, but his enemy was quicker. The axe whistled again, and Brand’s sword was caught between one of the blades and the stabbing beak. Gormengil gave a sudden twist, and the blade was stuck fast.

  Too late Brand realized what Gormengil had done, and the true purpose of the axe’s beak. It was like a sword breaker. The work of the dwarves was cunning, and his sword was trapped.

  Gormengil pushed both axe and sword to the ground, and then he stomped upon the blade. Great as it was, Halathrin-wrought and imbued with magic, it could not endure such force from that angle. The blade broke. The hilt was ripped from Brand’s hand. A sudden light flashed, blindingly bright and lightning arced from the sky to strike a tree on the ridge. Thunder rolled across the field, and Brand’s heart lurched at the loss of a weapon that was sacred to his people and that had been borne by his forefathers since the founding of the Duthgar. He felt also the shadow of death fall upon him.

  Gormengil towered over him, the axe raised high. The roaring in Brand’s ears rose to a crescendo. The axe whistled down, cutting for his neck, and Brand could not escape it.

  But it was not in his nature to give up. His sword was broken, yet the helm he wore was Halathrin-wrought also. One final gamble he took. Tilting his head he took the full force of the blow on his helm. He felt the weight of it crashing down, and he felt his head knocked to the side. His vision faded out so that he saw nothing, yet still he drew a dagger and stabbed upward.

  The blade hit something, but he did not know what. He rolled to the side, far too slow to avoid another blow, but it never came. He staggered to his feet, and his vision swam. The blackness receded, bit by bit, and he saw Gormengil before him.

  But his enemy made no move to attack. He had dropped the axe and instead clamped both hands against a wound in his thigh. Even so, blood spurted and Brand knew his dagger had struck the great artery in his enemy’s leg. It was a killing blow unless a tourniquet was applied immediately.

  Summoning the last of his strength and trusting to luck, Brand dived and rolled. All in one motion he dropped his dagger, grabbed the haft of the axe and rose again. There he swayed, half seeing his enemy, but suddenly one stroke away from victory.

  Gormengil seemed a man little given to showing his emotions, but fear and shock showed on his face. He was going to die. Victory had turned to defeat, and all his dreams were ash.

  Brand had little liking for him, but he could not just watch him die. Still less did he wish to strike him down with the axe, though he knew Gormengil would not hesitate to do the same. But he was not Gormengil, and though what he was about to do could prove costly, he saw no other choice.

  Bran
d lowered the axe, resting it upon the ground and leaning on it like a walking stick to keep his balance. “Quickly!” he called. “Get this man a tourniquet!”

  For a single moment, nothing happened. All that moved was the rain falling in sheets. Then men were running to the tent. There would be cloth in there, or clothes, or rope. Something to try to stop Gormengil bleeding out where he stood.

  But even as the men moved the air sizzled. It was a strange sound, and frightening. The hair on Brand’s neck stood on end. Light flashed near the tent as a bolt of lightning hit the ground and the crack of thunder came with it like a blow.

  Warriors reeled away. Dirt flew into the air. Steam hissed and spurted, and Brand watched, stunned, as a figure formed amid the roiling turmoil. It was the Trickster. And as she strode forward Brand heard a moan from his left. It was Horta.

  But the Trickster ignored him. She ignored everyone. Like a queen she walked, her gaze on Gormengil only. And when she reached him, she placed a hand upon his shoulder. Only then did she deign to look at anyone else and speak.

  “Thus I claim what is owed to me,” she said to Horta. “The chieftain of the Callenor.” And then her gaze turned to Brand. “Even if it is not what I sought.”

  She flung up her arm, and lightning sizzled again, stabbing up from her fingertips into the cloud-dark sky. Light flashed, searingly bright, and when Brand opened his eyes once more neither the goddess nor Gormengil were there.

  Brand leaned wearily on the axe and gazed around him while the rain fell. Of Horta, there was no sign. Had the goddess taken him, or had he fled? Probably the latter.

  “Well,” Brand said, “the fight is done, and I am the victor. Will you honor the pledge to let us go freely back to the fortress?”

  One of Gormengil’s captains stepped a few paces forward. He was older than the others, with a short gray beard. He had the look of a lord about him, but most if not all Gormengil’s captains would have been.