by Wilf Jones
With Seama’s help, Piedoro was brought to more comfortable ground and revived. The wizard was attending to Edro’s splinters when they heard the hunt begin. His strategy to cope with that was simple: with a little magic and a lot of common sense they hid up until it was finished.
When the first morning had come he set out to explore, leaving the recovering twins to make a start at building a raft. Before evening he knew all about the compound and about the slaughter of the animals that had come ashore.
‘You mean the horses?’ Angren demanded. ‘Slaughtered?’
‘Yes, the horses.’ Seama spoke quietly, but Angren shouted, furious and anguished:
‘They survive the sea to be murdered by madmen! It’s disgusting. Why? Why should they kill horses?’ His anger would have cut their throats; his anger was for his friend, for what they had done to him with their wanton violence. In himself he felt guilty. This was the first time he’d thought of the horses since the shipwreck. He had found little time to develop a relationship with Bayling but that didn’t make him feel any better about it; but what about Bellus and the Mule? Angren thought of Bellus as an old friend, what must she have been to Seama?
‘They’re bored with pig meat,’ Seama told them, his voice flat, emotionless, ‘and consider horse-flesh something of a delicacy. I don’t know which animals drowned and which were killed, but I found no survivors. I didn’t see Bellus but by the time I arrived there was already a pile of hide and bones; I couldn’t get close enough to see properly.’
Angren could think of nothing to say. Seama was holding himself in check and now was not the time to push him. Bibron too seemed to understand both Seama’s anguish and also his need to put it by for now.
‘Did you see what they were building, Seama?’
Seama looked up at him, confused. His thoughts had been elsewhere.
‘Building? Oh, the stand, you mean. Yes they were preparing for a visit I think. There’s a place less than a mile from the village, an open bowl of land. They had made a platform… there were tables and racks.’
‘Racks?’
‘Yes, Angren, by the look of it you were all to be questioned. Publicly. There was a throne too which I presumed was for their overlord, whoever that might be. The horse meat was most likely for a feast to greet him. He was on his way here earlier today, with a large company of men, but I managed to put him off.’
Seama explained that throughout the second day on the island he had used his skills to keep the twins hidden as they struggled with their task. So complete was his spell that it was possible to continue their raft building heedless of the noise. But for some reason he could not fathom this simple work drained him, and when the day was done he had found it difficult to sleep for a second night in succession. Early on this morning, as the prisoners in the compound were waiting for their chance to escape, despite the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him, Seama once again drew upon his power to finish off the raft with binding spells. Then, leaving the twins on guard, he set out upon his mission to free the captives.
His first job had been to raise a fire. Using sight he was soon aware of the procession from the north of the island. If the extra men had reached the village there would have been no possibility of escape. The obvious answer was an ‘uncontrollable’ forest fire to block their path. The Halfi were terrified: the fire charged after them as they ran away as though it had a mind of its own. Seama was an adept at harnessing the wind to his own advantage, but the effort cost him dearly, and that cost him time. It was after noon before he reached the open bowl. Here the majority of the villagers were making the final preparations for the day’s entertainments. Seama had begun to make his way around the clearing when he saw the two guards come running to bring news of the prisoner’s escape. Most of the men picked up their weapons and ran off quickly in the direction of the village. Try as he might Seama couldn’t catch up with them. By the time he arrived the houses had already been fired. Where he had hoped to use a little magic and a lot of stealth, the Partians were already fighting a losing battle. Time was short and a demon from Halfi myth was all he could think of.
‘Was it real, Mr. Wizard?’ asked Bibron, ‘I don’t fancy the idea of them things wandering around as they please.’
‘It was real to the Halfi, they’re a religious folk, but it just was me. Or to be more precise, it was an illusion that used me as the base and reference point. What is more, it was unbelievably hard work.’
‘I’ve never seen you like this Seama,’ Angren said. He didn’t like it one bit: Seama was supposed to be invincible. ‘Are you ill? Can we do—’
‘All I need is rest, Angren. I have been using the power for three days solid without an hour of proper sleep. It was too much. When we get to the raft, Bibron, I expect you and your men to get us off this damned island and over to Gothery. I won’t be able to help you.’
‘If you’ve saved my boys, Seama, then I owe you. We’ll get us across.’
There was little more to tell about Tumboll at this time. Seama took them to the raft and they put to sea immediately. This time there were no monsters to contend with, no fogs to obscure their way and, happily, a small natural breeze took them under its gentle wing, making the oars redundant. As they sailed away from the island they were gladdened somehow to see the raging fire and the black smoke. It was some payment for the lives lost.
Though nothing could gladden Seama he was determined at least to prevent himself from grieving openly. Constant action had allowed him no time to think over the past few days but here on the cradling River he was in danger of surrendering to emotion. He would not allow it: his companions depended upon him. There was work to do. Something about this whole affair was very wrong. This episode was no accident. And if there was purpose to their capture he’d like to know what it was. He plunged his mind into working out the possibilities. He considered it one way, he considered it another. His thoughts, hampered by weariness, tumbled over themselves dizzily. When he realized he was getting nowhere he shifted his attention to memory exercises, essential regular work for any professional wizard, and he found them easier to manage. He recited to himself the great list of True Names that filled the Books of Lore: he sought solace in repetition. Whatever happened, he could not, would not allow his brain to idle.
He avoided conversation: someone was bound to bring the talk round to… At one point he even started to run through his multiplication tables. He didn’t want to fall asleep but it was inevitable. Eventually his head, full of irrelevancies, fell forward upon his chest and his eyes closed.
He was vulnerable when he awoke. Confused by sleep, he had no time to return to the mental disciplines that had sustained him, and without warning the tears began to flow. He cried silently but so grievously he thought the pain would never stop. His thoughts slid back to that wondrous day when Bellus was foaled. Great-hearted Bellus! She had been the mainstay of his love for twenty years, and now she was gone.
II
INTRUSIONS
The Creation And The Beginning Of Strife
An extract from ‘The Song of Ages’ attributed to The Keepers of the Truth, published Astoril 3069 by Gombret and Son.
Time, called Zurvan, was God all alone, and so he created Man; and he created the world and the stars that Man might have a home. But because he could not both create and then Rule, for that would deny his Divine Purpose, God could not share the world and stars with Man and must dwell apart.
And yet Zurvan would not leave Man alone and Fatherless with no hand to guide him. Of himself he made a son. The Son would rule the world and the stars and he would be as a Father to Man. Everything That Could Be was in The Son as he dwelled in the Womb of Time but that whole became divided into a spirit and person of Good, and a spirit and person of Evil. That Good Child of Zurvan was called Ohr’mazd, and the foul opposite Ah’remmon. Aware of both as th
ey dwelled in the Womb of Time and knowing his plan was spoiled, Zurvan vowed that whichever of The Twain, whose names and nature were yet hidden from him, would present himself as first born, he would be King of All That Is. Now Ohr’mazd was Understanding and Ah’remmon was Ignorance. That Good One of Knowledge, whose brightness reveals, told the words of the Father to the Evil One, whose darkness encloses. And hearing those words the Spirit of All Lusts ripped himself untimely from Time’s Womb.
Zurvan beheld a mean and black and noisome creature and was dismayed for the child of his womb was not the child of his present thought. Where was the child generous, bright and clean smelling? At last Ohr’mazd came forth in his glory!
Loathsome Ah’remmon, seeing the other, was in doubt, knowing his own power to be less. Quickly he said: ‘Have you not made this vow: that whichever of my two sons shall first come before me, him shall I make King?’ And Zurvan, that is Time, meaning not to violate his oath said to Ah’remmon: ‘Oh False One! Yes, Kingship shall be granted you for nine thousand years, but over Ohr’mazd you shall have no dominion. And after nine thousand years Ohr’mazd shall reign and do whatsoever pleases him, for his shall be the time of Long Dominion.’
At Zurvan’s word Ah’remmon grew feared and angry and said: ‘The Kingship is mine according to your vow; this world you have made is mine according to your gift; and Men, created for your purpose, will serve me as their God. Is this not all of your making?’
Zurvan was wrath with Ah’remmon. ‘Deceiver you are by your lust deceived,’ he said. ‘My purpose cannot be denied. Thy brother, Ohr’mazd, does know my mind. In your despite he will see my creation to its end. Have you your Kingship but know this, False One: thy reign cannot last.’
Now Ah’remmon’s fear had come to fury at these words. ‘Father,’ cried the Master of Lies, ‘Am I nothing to thee? You have made us both, my brother and I, and yet you have love for one only and would see the other destroyed. And so I make this vow that will last through all the ages of the world: My Brother will be my enemy and I will not suffer his rule; If I die he will die and all your hope is lost.’ Ah’Remmon’s face shone with triumph at this oath, for having spoken he knew it must become true, but that radiance was as fire to burn all it might touch and yet it gave off no light. ‘What say’st my brother to this?’ said he, ‘Have you no words to comfort our Father?’
Ohr’mazd in his wisdom spoke then nothing but turned his bright countenance upon Ah’remmon and smiled. At that smile all of Creation sang with hope, for the Light of Ohr’mazd banished all the darkness that Ah’remmon sought to wreath about the world. And The Spirit of all Lusts could not endure that smile and must turn and flee, seeking darkness to hide his shame. Never again would he look upon the face of Ohr’mazd.
TEA AND TOASTED RABBIT
Black Hills, Segyllin Part 3057.7.24
Tregar had all but done with the first leg of his journey. For five days he had ridden hard after the kindness of Torhead, taking little rest, knowing that Seama was very likely taking less.
He was a strange man, the Wizard Beltomé, a man of terrible power and enviable skill but that surely was only a part of it. Though he counted Seama a good friend there was a barrier between them that Tregar found hard to fathom, a barrier indeed that seemed to stand between Seama and the rest of humanity. Seama went his own way whatever friendship or society or authority might seek to demand. Even in his dealings with the Council, Seama maintained an uncommon degree of independence. Yes, he worked tirelessly in the Council’s name but only because the work suited his purpose. Luckily for all, Seama’s intentions were benevolent. There was no politicking or machination here, no desire to order things according to his will. In fact Seama consistently rejected all attempts to draw him into any position of governance, and though the Council had asked, more than once, for him to have-done with his wanderings and to take up The Staff of Power, Seama always refused. ‘There has been no Tap-Rod for over a hundred years,’ he’d said, ‘and we have managed very well without one.’ He’d caused quite a furore, just a few years back, by insisting, in Parleyment, that the appointment would be a waste of his best qualities. There were hard words all round. Some members said it was an insult to the office for Seama to suggest he had ‘better things to do’. The story of the confrontation had taken wing all over the continent and opinions on the matter were given breath from Garassa to Nai’vedya. There was debate about the viability of Errensea’s pre-eminence over a continent of four proper and equal nations; doubts were spoken about the justifiability of giving ultimate power into to one hand alone; in sceptical Gothery there were parties, revitalized by the issue, dedicated to denying even the basis of the dispute, braying out their call to clear reason over occult powers. It was all to little point. Lots of huffing and puffing for weeks on end but nothing was changed: Errensea stood resolute and Seama wouldn’t move an inch.
All ridiculous of course. People rarely listened to what was actually spoken. Tregar was convinced there was nothing flippant in Seama’s response: he was being honest. The problem Tregar had was in deciding what those ‘better things’ Seama had to do might be, and what it was that made him so determined to do them. The clue, he decided, was in the eyes. There was a look of yearning there, a look of terrible need sometimes that Tregar thought disturbing. Seama was looking for something not to be found in Errensea and the search for it controlled his every thought and deed. Tregar’s interpretation was that the Wizard Beltomé was the victim of a life-spell: a geas.
A life-spell is an attempt to infect the ‘nature’ of the victim; commonly invoked at birth it would attempt to alter the whole course of the victim’s life. The geas controlled behaviour. A naturally quiet man would rage when faced with authority; a blithe man would find himself plotting to betray his friends. The geas was very often used by those wishing to curse and bring destruction upon the children of their enemies. Very often. But there were other circumstances, other uses. Tregar held to the belief that the spell could be used to good purpose. In fact he believed it need have nothing to do with an external force at all and that it could be self-imposed.
Tregar hadn’t discussed this notion with others and it could easily have been wrong, but it seemed clear to him that Seama Beltomé had quite deliberately given himself a geas. It took the form of a quest, but a quest with no obvious end, that drove him on and on through the years, that drew him away from anything that might be considered an easy option and pushed him towards toil and danger. Tregar wondered if Seama was still aware of this spell or whether he believed the decisions he made and the actions he performed were quite normal. He wondered if Seama knew where his life was leading him. Perhaps this nonsense about the Dedicae was something to do with it. And this book of Haslem’s too. Tregar wondered if it was all linked. Seama’s unstoppable need to conquer evil was almost legendary and it gained him respect. Was it now beginning to have undesirable effects? Was the man so concerned with a final victory over evil he had come to invent a final enemy? The more Tregar considered Seama’s theory in this light, the more ridiculous it seemed. What if it was completely wrong? How would Seama react? A life-spell is a hard spell to break, and hard on the victim when broken.
Or so said the Books of Lore! Tregar had never been driven by anything more than average ambition. This is not to say that Tregar was a poor wizard. Far from it, but it was true that after the ventures of youth he was content to sit back and fall into the settled life of Mador’s court. His duties, mainly to do with healing, were not dull as such, but they were infinitely less demanding than the problems regularly confronted by Seama Beltomé. Tregar did not envy him those problems: healing was honour enough for a boy from Great Spurl. He had found much satisfaction in his life.
And now this!
He had shaken out his old fur cloak and oiled his favourite boots. Back on the road he wanted the comforts of familiarity and his cloak and boots had been with him t
hrough many an escapade. He’d found the old breeches too but decided to leave them at home this time as they seemed to have shrunken around the waist.
What a pity his old horse, Wanderer, was gone. Fine hunter though he was, Sirrah wasn’t much used to long journeys that didn’t lead home. No doubt this campaign would improve his character: he was far too proud of himself.
‘What did ye think of Bellus then? I saw you! Trying to show off like that. I doubt she was impressed, my young bucko. You’re a wee bit short on experience for that one I’d think. Still, we’ll see what you’re made of. There’s a way to travel, Sirrah, and battles to fight when we get there maybe. I hope you’re looking forward to it. Now then, I’ve a sore backside and you’re getting to stumbling, so what say we have a break?’
The horse did not reply. He was too tired to think straight and the pictures in his mind were of nothing but food and water and rest.
