The voice of the man who stood with Raven was deep and serious. “It is such ambition, Argor, that Raven seeks to stifle. You should know better, even, than to joke about it.”
Argor coughed apologetically, shook his blond-maned head as he glanced despairingly at Silver. “Aye, Spellbinder, you are right. I must keep my ambitions in their place.”
The voice of Spellbinder echoed through the dry arena. “The heat wilts us all. Soon I shall break this spell and send you home.”
Argor nodded. “This is a good time to do it, Spellbinder. Our friend here has had enough, and I myself feel uneasy. Break the spell so I may return to my body and check that all is well.”
“Next time, friend Argor,” said Spellbinder, “I shall have a refined magic that will bring you here in solid form. The spell is hard to find, but I shall bind it eventually. So it goes.”
“And so go I,” said Argor with a grin.
“It would be far better if he was here in person,” agreed Silver loudly, waving his broad bladed sword about his head. “If I could fight a man of substance I should fight like ten. This was no test.”
Argor struck through his neck again and laughed as he vanished.
Silver sheathed his sword and turned towards the dark tunnel from which Raven and the enigmatic Spellbinder would emerge.
When she came out into the light he again found his heart thundering as if he gazed upon his first woman. He felt like kneeling to her, and in some darker corner of his spirit he felt like ravishing her.
Tall, she was, taller by far than the women of his tribelands in the far north. Her hair hung rich and golden to her waist, great locks and curls of it, tumbling as a cascade of shimmering yellow water about her shoulders and breasts. Her eyes were wide, all seeing, all knowing. Her lips were full and moist, parted now in a smile of pleasure and friendliness that made Silver’s stomach knot. To be so close to such beauty was a gift he could never have imagined appreciating quite this much.
Raven was dressed in a short cotton tunic, green and travel weary, hugging the fullness of her hips and breasts as if it sought to follow every contour of her, every thrusting bud and sensuous cleft in her. Honeyed skin, slightly tanned by the wind and sun, helped to give her the proud bearing that might be expected of a Kahrsaamian noblewoman, and yet Silver knew she hailed from Ishkarl her servitude, her time in bondage from her earliest childhood, had marked he out in certain ways as a woman of Lyand, the city state where she had spent her growing years; yet no woman of that dreaming city, nor any woman of the Altanate, could boasts such radiant beauty, such calming assurance and powerful bearing.
She walked towards Silver and kissed him gently on his stubbled cheek. She drew her sword from its decorated scabbard and held the green-jewelled pommel towards the warrior. Silver touched the gold and bronze of the hilt with all the tenderness that he might use to explore the woman who carried the weapon. When he had finally kissed the jewel Raven sheathed the blade again and grinned. “Well done my friend. Well done indeed. To have convinced Argor of your use to me was necessary for the warriors that ride with me. For myself, I needed no such convincing.”
“My thanks Raven. I shall serve you well. My sword arm is swift as an arrow, my war cry is louder than thunder, my—”
She touched a gentle finger to his lips, silenced him and yet did not reprove him. He stared into her eyes for a second, then bit her finger quickly, surprising her so that she yelped.
“Where is Spellbinder?” asked Silver.
“Listening to voices,” said Raven cryptically. “Come and help me on with my boots.”
They walked to the shaded side of the arena and Raven pulled her boots, and certain items of equipment, from the niche in the wall where she had placed them before the testing.
Silver watched her as she buckled on a belt of lethal, gleaming throwing stars, Xandronian weapons with which she was highly skilled. She strapped an Ishkarian sleeveshield on to her arm, ran it back so that its evilly pointed edge did not protrude, and would not cut her hand. She saw Silver staring at her. “Such weapons are of sudden and unexpected use,” she said, “but this,” she patted her sword, “is closest to my heart. Help me with my boots.”
Silver bent to help her pull up the soft leather thigh-length boots that would protect her from scorching when she rode. As his hands tugged at the material he found himself longing to caress the firm flesh and smooth skin on her legs, and perhaps she sensed his longing and laughed. “A lustful man is a weak man, Silver.”
“A week is all I ask,” said the warrior quickly. “One week to show you such passion as no woman has ever known.”
He straightened up, grinning. Raven shook her head delightedly. “Is tribal love, then, so different from what we of Lyand are used to?”
“Infinitely!” exclaimed Silver. “As different as salt from sand, as heartfelt as the forging of a personal blade, ands sensuous as the mating run of a female Xand—”
Raven’s laugh was explosive. “A female Xand?” she cried, and Silver too began to chuckle, staring at her all the while.
“Raven!”
The sudden cry, Spellbinder’s sudden anguish, sobered them immediately.
Silver glanced towards the tunnels that led down from the high tiers of seats. A figure emerged from the darkness and stood for a moment at the edge of the dry arena, watching them. He said, darkly, “Raven, there is trouble. I sense it.”
He walked across the arena. Silver found himself staring at the tall man who came there, admiring his build and his searching, steel-eyed gaze, the striking shape of his face, and the immense confidence that the warrior manifested in every movement he made.
He wore a cuirass of dark metal, much carved with runes and symbols; his tanned arms were naked to the sun, and around each wrist was fastened a golden torque. Beneath the breastplate he wore a crimson tunic that reached midway down his thighs, so that the muscles and ridges of his powerful legs could be seen before bone-trimmed boots hid the power of the warlock from the casual eye. Around his waist was buckled a wide belt of black hide, and from the belt dangled narrow slings and a straight bladed sword of dark Quwhon steel, shimmering bright and naked in the sun. A black cloak was fastened around his shoulders, bound to the cuirass by a wide, gleaming green-jewelled brooch the skirt of the cloak whirled around his calves as he walked.
Pale blue eyes stared deeply into Silver’s mind; thin lips, in a high-boned, lean face framed by straight-worn black hair, pared in a shallow smile.
“Well fought,” said the warlock.
Silver inclined his head. Though he had seen Raven before, this was his first sight of the magician Raven had so often talked about in their brief acquaintanceship. He was awestruck by the man. To carry a sword of Quwhon steel! Silver knew how difficult it was to mine the precious ore from the coast of that frightening land. Dark forces jealously guard the substance of Quwhon, and each sword’s-worth of iron won from the land was won at a frightening price in men’s lives.
“What trouble?” asked Raven quickly. “What trouble have you sensed?”
“I know not,” said Spellbinder.
As he spoke so a dark shadow passed across the arena. Silver glanced up into the sky, and Raven too stared out of the ruined building and into the blue heavens.
A great bird drifted there, dark and angry as it circled the three people below, and finally soared down, screeching loud.
Vast, like a nightmare raven, it settled suddenly gentle on Raven’s outstretched arm, its talons wrapped around her flesh like cords of flexible steel. Its wings were stretched out, and they beat at the air, taking the greatest part of its weight so that Raven might support it there. Its great red eyes stared first at Silver, then at Spellbinder. Its curved beak opened and a loud, shrill cry drifted into the hot air.
Spellbinder listened closely. Then the bird flapped vigorously and rose above the arena. Raven’s golden hair blew wild with the wind from the bird’s wing-beat, and she held the locks and curls away from her face
as she watched the bird depart. Then she stared at Spellbinder. “He brought news of the Altanate.”
“Aye, Raven. You learn the bird’s speech well.”
His blue eyes narrowed as he watched the black raven vanish into the brilliance above.
“Bring Argor back,” said Raven. “Perhaps he can tell us what is occurring there.”
Spellbinder glanced at her, then nodded abruptly. He tossed back his cloak and drew his gleaming sword from the slings that held it. He laid the weapon across the sand and then, crouching, he rested his hand upon the blade. He murmured softly and his eyes closed.
After a moment he stood, reaching as he rose for a handful of sand from beneath the sword. This he flung high into the air and as it fell swiftly to the ground, the cloud of dust formed into the familiar broad-shouldered shape of Argor.
His face was a mask of disbelief, and fear. He regarded Spellbinder stonily. “Release me, quickly. It is not safe to be without control!”
“What has happened Argor?” Raven’s tone was urgent, pleading.
Argor, more transparent and ghostly than before, shook his head. “Your friend Lifebane, the Sea Wolf,” he said. “He has sailed a ship up the river Lym and taken Krya, the Altan’s wife. The loss has only just been found, and Quez M’rystal is almost manic in his anger. He has already slaughtered two hundred men and women of Kragg origin who are in the land for trade or other purpose. There is total panic. No one knows what he will do or who he will kill next. He is raising a great army and recalling every ship of his fleet to go and attack Kragg.”
“Lifebane has done this?” cried Raven, hardly able to believe what Argor was telling them. “What does he stand to gain by such a senseless kidnap? He surely has no designs on the Altanate itself!”
Argor shook his head. “Who knows? The Sea Wolf defies all understanding, and I for one shall give little benefit of doubt to a pirate. Release me, Spellbinder. My body stands immobile in a street and I fear for it.”
Spellbinder waved his hands, index fingers extended, and the apparition that was Argor faded.
Raven found herself staring hard at Spellbinder. “Gondar Lifebane,” she said, “our friend, if a little axe-happy. I thought I knew him better.”
“Do you, then, believe him guilty of some plan of conquest?”
Raven shrugged. “The sea wolves are unpredictable, and given to acting upon whims. But I do not understand why he would do such a thing. He holds no grudge against Quez M’rystal—no more than he holds against any other kingdom, at any rate. He hates the Ghost Isle with a vengeance, but they threaten his sea-faring activities. The Altanate is not an aggressive sea-power…or wasn’t when last we were there.”
“Aye,” said Spellbinder thoughtfully, “when last we were there. After that fiasco I think we would be hard put to gain the trust and understanding of the Altan. Lifebane knows this, and it makes sense to suppose that if he has designs and plans of conquest he will strike where it will be most difficult for us to counter-strike.”
Raven shook her head angrily. “I cannot criticise you for doubting a man who is our friend, but you doubt this man against all the odds. Lifebane does not covet the lands of the Altanate; he covets no land at all. He is a pirate! He covets only that which can be sunk or chased within fifty yards square of sail. It makes no sense.”
“It makes no sense to us now,” said Spellbinder thoughtfully. “But sense it will make when we know everything. I’ll say only things: that if Lifebane has kidnapped the Altana, Krya M’rystal, then he has a reason for it, and a good reason in his book.”
Raven nodded. Silver stood quiet, watching them, unfamiliar with the characters about whom they discoursed.
After a while the girl said, “We must go at once to Ghorm and take the ship we have chartered. Never mind the slave raid.”
But Spellbinder disagreed. “No, Raven. Since Argor left, and those others not prepared to fight for a woman, our band is small, and not as strong as it should be. Silver will help a lot,” he smiled and clapped the northerner on the shoulder. “But we need recruits to our army as much as you, Raven, need practice in war. You must take Silver and the others and attack the train from Lyand as planned. I shall go to Lyand itself, where I know of ears, eyes and noses that can sense information from as far off as Quwhon. I shall ride thence to Ghorm and meet you there.”
“Lyand will be dangerous. Take care.”
Spellbinder smiled grimly. “I, at least, have my magic with which to fight opposing forces, but you, Raven, you must enter Ghorm with the utmost wariness. We shall meet there, the All Mother willing. But even should we not, fear not for me, nor for yourself. You are guided and watched by farseeing eyes and benevolent hearts.”
Raven reached out and gripped Spellbinder’s powerful arm; she frowned as he met his icy gaze. “I don’t understand,” she said, “why should there be a risk of never meeting again. What is it, Spellbinder? What else have your strange senses detected?”
He smiled and leaned forward to kiss her hard on the lips, briefly, sensuously. “Even after so short a time together, Raven, you know me well, you sense my disquiet with all the talent of a mother sensing frustration in her growing son.”
“Tell me, then. Tell me what has really happened.”
“I truly know not, Raven. I merely sense…” His eyes looked faraway, as if he reached beyond the arena with his mind. “There is a new force of evil in the world…suddenly…suddenly arrived as if out of nowhere. I sense it as I watched Silver dueling with our friend Argor. But the touch was tenuous and uncertain and there is something I must do to make my suspicions more solid, more real. I must go to Lyand. You, Raven, must attack the slave train.” He stared at her strangely, then again leaned towards her and taking her face in his long, lean hands, he kissed her gently. She yielded to him willingly, her own hands resting on his waist, keeping him there.
“Raven,” he said, “I believe you are already being drawn into the web of Chaos to fight something new, something powerful. You must at all times follow your instincts, do that which you sense is correct. I am only here to aid you when you stumble, or when you are lost, or in despair—the route you travel will come from within you, and from the wishes of those who guide your desires.”
Raven smiled, nodded almost imperceptibly. “Those mysterious puppeteers, whoever they are, wherever they are…”
Spellbinder drew away and wrapped his cloak around his body. “Ride well, fight hard, and I shall see you in Ghorm, or else in the North. Silver,” he turned to the tribesman, “know that you fight beside a woman whose destiny is greater than the world itself. Question not, and led your very life to her if she wishes, for your life without her is as transient and worthless as an incoming wave. Heed me well.” Silver raised his iron-bright hand in acknowledgement. Spellbinder turned and walked from the arena.
By the time Silver and Raven had passed from the tunnel to where their horses were tethered in the shade of a crumbled entrance, the warlock was already just a faint shape on the distant horizon, riding north like the wind.
Two
“A weapon must be chosen with the eye and with the hand and with the heart. If there is the slightest doubt about it, the weapon must be rejected.”
The Books of Kharwhan
On this day, when the sun was high and hot, and dock-side carrion birds were reluctant, even, to settle on the piled corpses of those imported slaves who had died in transit, a slave-train left Lyand, bound south for the city of Yr. A brick and mortar metropolis sprawled in the fertile centrality of the desert, Yr was a city rich because of its trade in clothing and harnessing, fashioned from the animal herds that roamed the Southern Wastelands. It was a city famous, too, for its games, and for the training of circus warriors.
It was to those death games that this slave-train was headed. Fifteen strong and warlike captives, chained and wretched, walked between the mounted slavers, themselves as mixed a bunch of men as the slaves they herded. Hounds snapped and howled
at the metal links that held them back; great beasts, black of body, blood red of eye, they longed to kill the ragged, pitiful men and women who trudged southwards, away from the fertile plain and into the low hills and drifting sands of the Wastelands.
There were men of Ishkar, broad of shoulder and thickly ridged with muscle; there were men from the Haamscir, tall and grey eyes, proud yet shadowed by the bitterness that followed their humiliation. Women there were from Xandrone, red haired, slender legged; and two whining maidens taken from a Kragg sea-vessel that had imprudently sailed without adequate protection: the pirates had been piratised, their gentle wares taken as rough spoils—they seemed out of place among the hardened warriors who were their companions in misery.
There were others in the train, and one of them, a man, seemed to come from no recognisable land around the Worldheart Ocean. He was tall, and lean, his thinness giving lie to his strength. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his hair hung long and white, rich hair, not white with age but as naturally bleached as the face of the moon. His eyes, narrowed against the sun, were without color, without pigmentation; they were that same shimmering white as the steel that sometimes emerged from the Tirwand iron forges—moon-steel, they called it, and it was a rare enough fluke to be precious.
There was a woman in the train from the dark tribes far to the north west. Her black hair was cut short so that it swirled about her neck but left her shoulders bare and blistering in the heat; she wore a thin cotton shift, all decorative leathers and gems ripped from her long before. There were scars on her shoulders and on her calves too, the tell-tale signs of a warrior woman. She was full of anger, full of pain: the anger was because of her capture, of her humiliation. The pain was because of her rape the day before. Her fists clenched suddenly, convulsively, and it was not the biting pressure of the chains that made her fingers curl; she missed the feel of a gilt and bronze trimmed sword hilt—her fingers ached for the touch of an ivory handled dirk.
Her brown eyes, narrowed by sun and fatigue, watched the slave-master—a man called Shigarra—as he rode pompously ahead of the train.
A Time of Ghosts Page 2
