by Angus Wells
The oubliette was lightless save for the brief moment every few days that moldered bread and stale water were lowered to the prisoner. The stone walls were damp, trickling puddles over the uneven floor, and nothing lived there, not spiders or rats or even those insects that customarily inhabit such dank, forgotten holes. They, at least, would have provided some diversion from the tedium that, to a sorcerer bereft of his powers, was far worse than mere physical imprisonment. Anomius had known cantrips were placed upon the dungeon, but not how strong they were: mighty enough that he was, in occult terms as much as physical, blind and deaf. He could work no magic here, bring no light to brighten the darkness, nor send out his mind to hear—perhaps sway!—some nearby mortal; the pouch containing such artifacts as he used was taken from him, his quyvhal lost with all his wizardly powers. How long he had lain in the darkness he was not sure, though it seemed all summer must have passed. That he remained alive was small consolation, though it occurred to him that some reason beyond mere vengeance must exist for that, and he pondered on it when he was not contemplating his own revenge on those he deemed responsible for this indignity.
It was that cogitation that staved off complete madness, the wizened mage like some drunken dancer or acrobat precariously treading a rope stretched over the pit of insanity.
He thought, as he crouched in his blindness, of Calandryll and Bracht, his days filled with imagining of their destruction, cursing them softly, a litany of raw and pure hatred. He saw now how they had duped him, tempting him with seditious promises into freeing them and bringing them safe out of Kesham-vaj. How the Kern had tricked him into using his magic too close to Nhur-jabal, where the sorcerers loyal to the Tyrant must sense his powers and set an ambush. The Kern was more cunning than he had thought; and the Lyssian youth had been protected by that undefinable magic Anomius had sensed in him. The cursed boy did not even know how powerful he was! Oh, he wore that stone about his neck and that afforded him some defense, but not in itself sufficient to withstand the probing of so great a thaumaturge as Anomius. No, there was more—some greater power behind it—and in time Anomius intended to discover what that power was.
He wondered if they had succeeded in their quest. Perhaps escaped down the river to Kharasul, from thence to Gessyth and fabled Tezin-dar. Perhaps they had secured the grimoire Calandryll had used to bait his seduction. Anomius did not—could not—believe the book was a fiction. It must exist: else he was no more than a dupe, and that was beyond contemplation. He was Anomius! The greatest warlock Kandahar had known, or ever should know, and he ground yellowed teeth in frustration as he promised himself awful revenge, and in the promise found hope.
He was not slain; he was fed, albeit poorly; therefore he was allowed his life for a reason. What?
He saw it as though bright sunlight pierced the blankness of the oubliette, and his cursing became mingled with laughter. Of course: Sathoman prevailed. The ploys and plans and plots he had hatched, the glamours he had left, the cantrips he had worked—all were successful. Sathoman held not just the Fayne, but all Anomius had promised. He was no longer a mere outlaw lord, but leader of one faction in true civil war, a valid threat to the Tyrant. And all Anomius had left behind could be undone only by him: that guaranteed his life.
Whenever such logic interrupted his vengeful musings his laughter overtook his cursing, rising in shrill crescendo so that above, where guards and turnkeys lived in light, men turned to one another, thinking that at last the prisoner had gone down into utter madness and sought to shutter their ears, hoping that soon the Tyrant would order the lunatic’s death.
They were, therefore, surprised when the seven sorcerers of the inner cabal came in solemn person to lift the magicks sealing the outer door and descended themselves into the gloomy crypt. There, they formed a circle around the lid of the oubliette and chanted words of such arcane power that the musty air itself seemed to hum, filling with the sweet almond scent of worked magic. A nervous argus was commanded to draw back the bolts holding the lid and, with two of his stouter fellows to aid him, to raise the disc. It came up slowly and thudded noisily over on its hinges, and as torchlight gleamed about the rim of the hole there came a single scornful chuckle from out of the shadows within. For all the stony chill of that place, the gaolers felt sweat on brows and hands as they were ordered to lower down a rope and bring up the prisoner.
Anomius rose into the light like some pallid grub. Small and sallow when he had been dropped into the shaft, he now seemed shrunk in, his skin pale as uncooked pastry, stretched taut over the bones. His hair had fallen out, his scalp glistening sickly in the radiance of the flambeaux, and his soiled robe was ragged and befouled with the wastes of his near-starved body. Grimed hands hid eyes that seemed huge above his hollowed cheeks, and the watery blue malevolence they held as he squinted at the encircling wizards. He smiled and the turnkeys fell back in alarm behind the protection of the seven warlocks, whose chant grew louder, seven hands pointing in accusation at the crouched figure of the prisoner mage. The scent of almonds grew stronger, and Anomius chuckled and stroked the bulbous protrusion of his nose, and said hoarsely, “So you come at last. I’d have food and wine ere we speak.”
Even the sorcerers were startled by this confidence, for though he stood filthy and thin-ribbed before them he radiated a supreme self-assurance that belied his mendicant appearance.
It was Lykander who said, “First we’d ensure safety.”
Anomius shrugged, bony shoulders rising beside scrawny neck, but offered no protest or comment beyond another scornful chuckle as the fat mage ushered Cenobar and the one named Andrycus forward to set bracelets of dark metal about his sticklike wrists. They touched the joindures of the circles and white fire flashed briefly, sealing the ensorcelled manacles in place, Anomius wincing as he was burned. Then all seven joined again in the voicing of spells, the almond scent thickening, heady, then dispersing.
“So it is done,” Lykander said, “and you are bound to fealty. Raise cantrip or demon against us, or the Tyrant, or any who serve him and you condemn yourself to unpleasant death.”
Anomius nodded calmly and asked, “And my powers? When shall you restore them?”
Lykander’s round face was bland as he asked, “Think you we shall?”
The question elicited a rattling laugh from the filthy figure. “You bring me up from the darkness,” Anomius said, “and for that you must have some reason . . .”
“Perhaps we bring you to the executioner,” Cenobar interrupted, then swallowed, taken aback by the look of sheer contempt Anomius flung his way.
“I think not. I think you have at last seen what I saw long ago, and so you must restore me what you took.”
“Which is?” Cenobar demanded, seeking to reassert himself.
“That I made Sathoman ek’Hennem,” Anomius declared harshly, “and that only I may undo him. That without my aid your Tyrant—and you!—shall likely lose all Kandahar to the Fayne Lord. Ergo, you must restore my power.”
Cenobar opened his mouth to speak again, but Lykander forestalled him: “And shall you aid us?”
“Have I a choice?”
Anomius studied the moon-faced mage with lithic calm. Lykander ducked his head and said softly, “Aye—you may refuse and die.”
“I am not so great a fool.”
The same contempt that had irked Cenobar washed over Lykander. He said, “I have never believed you a fool. A turncoat, yes; a venomous worm inflamed by mad ambition, yes. But not a fool.”
“Then you already know my answer.” Anomius smiled. “Now bring me out of this foul place and give me wine and food, and after I am satisfied we may speak of civil war and victory.”
It seemed almost that he commanded, the Tyrant’s sorcerers moving to his bidding, for they parted on his word and motioned him toward the stairs where the gaolers watched in awe, the torches they held trembling as the pale blue eyes swung toward them.
“I am weakened,” Anomius murmured, “and I
doubt I may climb those steps unaided. Do you give me your arm?”
Swift, his hand clamped upon Cenobar’s wrist. The younger mage jerked back as though the hand were a serpent, his fine lips curling in distaste. Anomius smiled satisfaction. Lykander said, “Lend him your strength, Cenobar,” and strode ponderously toward the stairs. Cenobar fell into step behind, assuming a blank expression, though fury burned in his dark eyes. Behind them, the rest formed an almost ceremonious procession as they climbed up from the crypt.
THEY brought Anomius to that part of the citadel given over to them, an inner sanctum redolent of their magicks, to a chamber where great panes of leaded glass revealed bright stars, the moon a silver crescent like white fire glimpsed through slit velvet. A generous fire burned in a stone hearth and heavy rugs covered the flagstones. Glass-encased lanterns shed warm yellow light over walls of polished wood and a circular table patterned with cabbalistic signs, large enough to seat three times their number. Cenobar saw Anomius settled in a cushioned chair and ostentatiously brushed at his sleeve. Anomius lounged back, no less ostentatiously waiting. Lykander tapped a bronze gong and while the single note yet hung in the air, a servant appeared.
“Do you have some preference?” the fat wizard asked sarcastically.
Anomius probed a nostril a moment and said, “Good red wine; that quickly. Roasted meat—venison, I think. Or beef. Perhaps a salmagundy; and fresh bread. After, a compote.”
Lykander nodded to the servant, gesturing for his fellows to seat themselves. They all took chairs separated by some distance from Anomius, studying him with mixed expression across the great table. He in turn stared back, none of his confidence lost, but rather seeming to wax with each passing moment. After a while Lykander said, “So you foresaw that we should free you? Albeit in limited fashion?”
“I hardly thought you’d set me loose to wander Kandahar.” Anomius paused as the servant brought in a decanter of crystal and a single glass. “You do not drink with me?” He filled the glass as Lykander shook his head. “No matter. Aye, I divined that you must eventually come begging my aid.”
“Begging?” snapped Cenobar.
“Asking, does it suit your pride better,” Anomius returned, and drank deep, smacking his lips. “Aye, that I foresaw. You need me to undo those magicks I laid that have surely brought Sathoman close to victory. To achieve that end you must give me back my power. I suggest you do that now.”
“Eat first,” Lykander said, “and talk. You must understand our need of caution in this matter.”
“Oh, yes,” said Anomius, wine-flushed beneath his grime. “But of what shall we talk? The defeating of Sathoman? I’ll aid you in that.”
“So readily?” asked Lykander.
Anomius raised a hand, turning it so that firelight and starlight alternated on the black metal. “I am bound to serve you,” he said. “That, or—as you so delicately pointed out—die. I prefer to live: I have things to do of my own purpose.”
For a moment his confident expression shifted, his ugly face contorting, becoming a mask of unsullied rage.
“And what,” Lykander said, “might those things be?”
“I was betrayed.” As swiftly as it had come, so the rage bled from his face. “And I would have my revenge. You need not concern yourselves—it is not a thing that coincides with the Tyrant’s desire to rid himself of Sathoman. In that I shall lend you all my efforts; but in return I’ll have your help.”
“Unwise,” said Cenobar, echoed by Rassuman and Andrycus.
“Refuse and I choose death,” Anomius said, extending both wrists to expose the confining bracelets. “Burash! Do you so doubt yourselves that you still fear me while I wear these things?”
“You may not leave this place, save accompanied by two of us,” Lykander declared. “You will do our bidding. The consequences of treachery you know—do you accept these strictures?”
“I anticipated no others.”
Anomius beamed as servants came in with a platter of roasted venison and the other foods he had requested. He began to eat, grease joining the dirt upon his face and his robe. The sorcerers watched in silence, granting Lykander the role of spokesman.
“Then your powers shall be restored,” the fat mage promised. “After you have eaten. Perhaps after you have bathed?”
“The restoration first,” Anomius grunted, the words spraying particles over the table. “Then the bath. With perfumed oils and women to tend my needs. A comfortable bed, and robes suitable to my station. After all, do I not become a power in Kandahar? One of you?”
The faces across the marquety displayed offense at this, but none gave argument. Lykander promised, “Those things you may have; now tell me of this other thing, of this revenge you seek.”
Anomius broke bread to wipe up gravy, belched loudly and downed more wine.
“I’d seek out two men,” he said, his voice grown cold. “A freesword of Cuan na’For who goes by the name of Bracht, and a Lyssian youth named Calandryll den Karynth. They were in my company when you took me, and I suspect they escaped along the Shemme—they sought transport to Gessyth, so Kharasul was their likely destination.”
“Were they your acolytes?” Lykander demanded.
“No!” Anomius shook his head. “They were treacherous dogs and I’d see them dead. It was their trickery gave you me.”
“Duped by mere mortals?” Cenobar murmured, smiling as Anomius favored him with a poisonous glare.
“Do they threaten our . . . alliance . . . it may not be,” said Lykander.
“They play no part in the affairs of Kandahar,” Anomius returned. “This matter is a personal thing—but do you refuse me, then we have no alliance and Sathoman shall run free.”
“Assurances must be given,” Lykander said.
“Readily,” Anomius agreed. “I’ll open my mind to you and you shall see this thing poses no threat to your precious Tyrant.”
Lykander ducked his head, chins spreading over his chest. “And what help do you need of us?” he wondered.
“A fresh-slain body,” Anomius answered, pushing aside the emptied platter of venison and reaching for the salmagundy. “Of preference undamaged, a man or woman in their prime. A strong body to become my hound.”
“A revenant?”
Cenobar’s dark features paled and beside him Andrycus gasped; Rassuman shaped a gesture of warding. Even Lykander’s plump lips pursed in disgust.
“It were best I attend the slaying,” Anomius said, undeterred. “Or even perform the act myself, but the corpse must be fresh.”
“If these two roam Kandahar they may be found,” Cenobar protested. “Their descriptions can be posted among the lictors and the legions. And they may be brought to you.”
“And do your lictors consort with Sathoman?” Anomius demanded. “Do your legions have eyes in Mherut’yi and Mhazomul and Kesham-vaj?”
No answer came and he shook his head, turning from the salmagundy to the compote casually as if they discussed some trivial matter of etiquette. “No. What I need for this is one of my own creation.”
“You ask that we aid you in foulest blasphemy,” Cenobar cried. “Lykander, this cannot be!”
The plump wizard gave no immediate response but studied Anomius with a mixture of disgust and fascination, as if he looked on something horrifying—that very horribleness rendering it intruging.
“Necromancy is the foulest thaumaturgy,” Cenobar insisted. “Shall we stoop to dark magic merely to please this creature?”
“Would you have my aid or no?” Anomius wondered, his eyes on Lykander, unwavering. “Without this you shall have nothing of me.”
“Xenomenus bade us give him whatever he might demand,” Lykander said slowly, turning from the gaunt figure across the table to study his companions. “And I take him at his word—he’ll refuse else.”
“Xenomenus spoke of wine and wealth,” cried Cenobar. “Women or boys; not this.”
“But still Xenomenus would defeat Sathoma
n,” Lykander said. “And without Anomius . . .”
“He’d put all our souls in peril,” Cenobar argued.
“Surely mine alone,” Anomius murmured, licking the compote’s sugar from his lips. “And that I’ll chance.”
“Let us vote on it,” suggested Rassuman.
“Aye,” Lykander agreed, “and should the vote be ‘nay’ and he refuse to aid us, then let those who deny him advise the Tyrant.”
Faces paled then and eyes dropped, finding interest in hands and tabletop. Anomius wiped his mouth, smiling, and poured another glass. Lykander drummed fat fingers, summoning attention, and the seven sorcerers raised their heads, the voting silent, the scent of almonds brief on the warm air. In moments it was done and Lykander nodded, turning again to Anomius.
“We’d have your aid, outlaw, so you shall have your body. But be warned—you shall be held accountable for its actions! Be they contradictory to our wishes, it and you shall burn together.”
“I ask no more,” Anomius declared.
“Then it shall be provided,” Lykander said, his voice somewhat less confident now, “and your magical powers shall be restored.”
“Excellent.” Anomius sat back, emitting another belch, his smile satisfied. “You choose well, my friend.”
“I am not your friend,” Lykander said softly.
BATHED and perfumed, dressed in a robe of silver-threaded black, Anomius was a more prepossessing figure than the sorry creature extracted from the oubliette. He remained ugly and small, but the restoration of his powers invested him with an aura of strength and a semblance of dignity so that it appeared the ranks of the Tyrant’s sorcerers were augmented as the eight similarly dressed men went down into the dungeons, guided by the chief argus, impressive in his kilt and cuirass of crimson dragon hide.
