Dark Magic

by Angus Wells

  “As shall you,” said the Kand, “if I am satisfied.”

  “Such outcome appears impossible,” said Calandryll. “How may we provide the proof you demand?”

  “The cargo first.” Ek’Nyle’s gaze fastened hard with suspicion upon his face. “Then I shall decide.”

  “And if you cannot?”

  “Why, I have two choices.” The smile returned, as if the man relished his authority and the power it gave him. “The one is to execute you; the other to send you to Nhur-jabal, that the Tyrant’s sorcerers may question you.”

  Calandryll felt his hands clench involuntarily into fists, aware that ek’Nyle caught the movement, cursing himself for that small betrayal. Then, in the vexillan’s words, he saw an opportunity to turn the debate in a more favorable direction; it was a slim chance, and more than a little hazardous, but his patience wore thin and recklessly he asked, “And is there not a sorcerer here in Vishat’yi? If not, a spae-wife. Either would surely divine our honesty.”

  To his right he heard Tekkan’s sharp intake of breath; to his left saw Bracht’s warning glance. It was a dangerous gambit: sorcerer or spaewife, either might reveal the true purpose of their quest, and in the doing betray them to ambition, perhaps involve them in further delay should the Tyrant’s wizards take a hand. Against that danger he balanced the conviction that this officious vexillan would hold them here indefinitely, out of suspicion or spiteful amusement, and each day—each hour!—they lingered weighted the scales heavier in favor of Rhythamun.

  “Your suggestion appears to alarm your comrades,” ek’Nyle remarked. “Why might that be?”

  “I’ve no liking for magic or its practitioners,” Bracht grunted truthfully.

  “And you?” the Kand asked Tekkan. “Do you object?”

  The Vanu shrugged, shaking his head, his expression bland.

  “Then perhaps that is the way,” ek’Nyle murmured, studying their faces for sign of further reaction, but finding none for both composed themselves despite their doubts. “Sorcerer and spaewife, we have both. But first, this cargo . . .”

  He rose in a swirl of scarlet, snapping orders as he came around the table, a squad of pikemen falling in about the three as he strode from the barbican and back across the cobbles to the wharf where Katya and the other Vanu folk waited, ringed round by watchful soldiers. Calandryll glanced sidelong at his companions as they were herded to the warboat, seeing Bracht’s blue eyes clouded with doubt, Tekkan’s grey impassive.

  Gulls rose raucous as they came near, and over the smooth water of the anchorage the mist faded, a pale sun breaking through the overcast. The air was cold and from the heights above the city a wind skirled, fluttering the banners atop the barbicans and the mastheads of the ships. Tekkan called in his own language and several flaxen-haired Vanus sprang to the warboat’s deck, the rest forming a chain as the baled dragon hides were passed onto the quay. Quindar ek’Nyle watched patiently as the hides were stacked, then, nostrils pinching at the pungent odor, inspected the topmost bale.

  “In this you have not lied,” he allowed when he was satisfied. “And in return you ask for supplies and the use of this anchorage?”

  The hides were worth far more. From them armor could be fashioned, tough as any metal out of Eyl, and without the seasonal influx of traders prices must surely rise. Even so, Tekkan nodded and said, “And such materials as we need to make the repairs.”

  The vexillan smoothed his oiled beard a moment, then shrugged. “You may commence your repairs. After all, are you proven false in the other matter this boat shall become part of the Tyrant’s fleet.”

  “When shall this proving take place?” Calandryll demanded, hard put to conceal his irritation.

  Ek’Nyle turned him a speculative glance and answered, “When Menelian is ready. Until then you’ll remain here.”

  His chin jutted in the direction of the barbican and Calandryll saw that they should be held prisoner until the sorcerer came. He sighed in affectation of aristocratic vexation, though frustration gritted his teeth. Across the piled hides he saw Katya watching, unnoticed by ek’Nyle among the other Vanu women. Her grey eyes were troubled but she forced a faint smile of encouragement and he thought that at least she was not held. If worst came to worst, perhaps she might be able to take the warboat out. His gaze traveled past her, across the harbor to the boom, and all his fears returned: while that barrier hung across the exit there could be no flight. He started as a pike tapped his back, urging him away, ek’Nyle already pacing toward the ominous tower.

  Reluctantly he fell into step, following the vexillan inside the barbican, where a door of wood and metal was opened, ek’Nyle offering a brief bow devoid of apology as he ushered them into a cold stone chamber.

  “I shall ask that Menelian attend you,” he declared. “Until then you will remain here.”

  Before Calandryll had opportunity to protest that such quarters ill befitted the son of Secca’s Domm, the door was closed, the sound of oiled bolts sliding into place horribly final. He looked around, seeing a small chamber all of grey blocks, a single window granting sight of a rectangle of brightening sky cut vertically by thick metal bars. Around the lower part of the wall the blocks were extended inward to form a continuous bench and at the center of the floor a hole gaped dark, the acrid stench rising from it attesting to its use. Bracht grunted and availed himself of the facility: a tacit comment on their plight.

  Tekkan settled himself on the bench and said softly, “Was it wise to bring a mage into this?”

  “Ek’Nyle would surely have thought of it sooner or later,” Calandryll retorted, his irritation spilling over so that his response came out harsh. “And if not—would you rather we went in chains to Nhur-jabal?”

  Tekkan favored him with an imperturbable look and shook his head, prompting a pang of guilt. “Forgive me,” Calandryll asked. “These delays sit ill.”

  “With us all,” Tekkan murmured.

  “Your magic would prove useful now,” Bracht said, stretching on the stones, head pillowed on his arms.

  “My magic?” Calandryll laughed bitterly. “Whatever magic I worked was the gift of Rhythamun, channeled through the stone he gave me and lost with its going. And I thought you had no love of such thaumaturgy.”

  “I’d sooner put my faith in honest swordwork, true,” Bracht answered evenly. “But I come to think that perhaps fire must be fought with fire. Could you wreck that door as you turned those canoes off Gash’s coast I’d accept such usage. And in Mherut’yi your magic freed me from a similar prison—I’d not object to another such demonstration.”

  “I fear I must disappoint you.” Frustration set an edge to Calandryll’s voice. “I’ve no magic in me now, nor any answer to this cursed delay save patience.”

  “Which,” Bracht returned, “you lately lack.”

  Calandryll stared at the freesword with narrowed eyes. That the Kern’s comment was true did nothing to assuage the anger he felt rising; rather, it fueled his ire. He clenched his fists and drove them hard against his thighs, fixing Bracht with a stare no less cold than ek’Nyle’s.

  “I’d halt Rhythamun,” he snapped. “I’d hunt him down and slay him before he locates Tharn’s tomb and raises the Mad God. I believed you shared that aim.”

  “Gently, gently,” Tekkan said, concern in his voice. “That aim is common to us all. Let us not quarrel over such shared purpose.”

  Calandryll ignored the boatmaster, his eyes locked with Bracht’s. The freesword rose to a sitting position, adjusting his falchion across his knees. “I share that aim,” he said carefully, “as you well know.”

  “I know you’d have the coin promised you!” Inside his head a calmer voice told him he spoke wildly, that these accusations were unjustified, that Bracht was a proven comrade. Even so, he found it impossible to still his tongue; it seemed a madness impelled him to strike out, careless of what he said. “I know you lust after Katya and must pursue this quest until the Arcanum is destroyed a
nd Rhythamun defeated so that you may press your suit. Otherwise . . .”

  He shrugged, raising balled fists to slam them, again, hard against his thighs, shaking his head as if in dismissal of the Kern.

  Bracht studied him a moment, swarthy face creased by a frown. When he spoke his voice remained soft. “As we entered this harbor Katya suggested that Tharn stirs,” he said. “That the god, dreaming, sows the seeds of disruption, of disillusion. I think she was right.” His voice hardened then and he added, “Did I not, we’d set blade to blade and I’d slay you.”

  Calandryll’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword at that, his body shifting unconsciously to a fighting crouch. Then he froze, his mouth falling open so that he gaped at Bracht, amazement in his eyes, and something close to fear. He shuddered, straightening, hand snatching back from the sword’s hilt as though from the jaws of a serpent.

  “By all the gods!” He heard the words come out hoarse, horrified by his actions. “I think you speak the truth. Forgive me, friend!”

  He wiped a hand over his face, sweat beading there despite the chill that pervaded the cell, and folded his arms across his chest, licked at lips gone dry.

  “I think Katya was right. Or Rhythamun leaves some foulness in his wake. Or these delays drive me down into madness.”

  Bracht stood up, crossing the flags to set a hand on Calandryll’s shoulder. “You are forgiven,” he said lightly, and gestured at their confines. “Imprisonment sits hard with me, too. And I’d no sooner linger here than you; all this serves to shorten tempers.”

  “Even so.” Calandryll shook his head, looking into Bracht’s eyes.

  “Even so,” the freesword said, “we shall not succumb. Does Tharn send magicks out of his dreaming, or Rhythamun lay gramaryes to thwart us, we shall resist them. We must!”

  “Aye!” Calandryll nodded enthusiastically, all anger drained away. He felt very weary as he grasped Bracht’s hand. “And do I speak such madness again, you’ll bring me to my senses, no?”

  “Aye, that I’ll do,” Bracht promised. “And you the same for me.”

  He led Calandryll to the bench and saw him seated, an arm companionable about his shoulders. Calandryll muttered, “But you take it well. You chafe at imprisonment, I know; yet you hold your temper.”

  Bracht glanced at the bare walls and grinned tightly. “I like this no better than you,” he agreed, “but I’ve learned the hunter must sometimes be patient. And . . .”

  He paused; Calandryll looked at him, seeing doubt in the blue eyes, in the set of the wide mouth. “And?” he prompted.

  “Anomius claimed to divine a power in you,” Bracht said slowly, choosing his words with obvious care, “the spaewife in Kharasul, too, and you wore Rhythamun’s stone for half a year. Mayhap that . . . opens you to occult blandishment.”

  The words fell like cold water on Calandryll’s ears, awakening him to fresh fears. “I’ve no power,” he mumbled helplessly. “Were that so, I’d blast away that door and free us. But I cannot! That power they discerned came from the stone.”

  “Mayhap,” Bracht said, “and mayhap the stone served to render you vulnerable to sendings.”

  “Then I am a danger to our quest.” Calandryll felt moisture on his face, unsure whether it was sweat or tears. “A danger to you all.”

  “No!” Bracht’s voice was earnest; his hand tight on Calandryll’s shoulder. “Remember what I’ve taught you of swordplay—that even the best have some weakness; but aware of it, compensate. This—if it be true!—is no different.”

  Tekkan moved to his other side, his lilting voice measured: “And if it be true, then likely you still possess the power we’ve seen you use. Be that so, you’ve a formidable weapon at your beck.”

  “Hardly at my beck.” Calandryll shook his head. “I say again—that power came from the stone.”

  “Did you not tell me Rhythamun advised you the art of magic is hard-learned?” Bracht demanded. “Then mayhap you need to learn its usage. Just as you needed to learn swordskill.”

  “Which benefits us little here,” Calandryll returned.

  “But later,” the freesword said. “Quit of this place do we not go to Aldarin? To that palace Rhythamun used in Varent’s form? There was a library there, no? A chamber filled with books, you said. Well, likely we’ll find books there that deal with magic, and you may take them and read them and perhaps learn to use the art.”

  “Think you we’ll have time enough, and I the talent?” Calandryll muttered doubtfully, then snorted bitter laughter. “And then I should be a mage, should I not? And you’ve no love of wizards.”

  Bracht’s answering chuckle was genuine. “For you I’ll make an exception,” he declared. “Mayhap you’ll be the flame to fight Rhythamun’s fire. And against that one I’ll accept any allies.”

  “We’ve yet to escape this impasse.” Calandryll was cheered by his comrades’ loyalty, but still stone walls stood firm barrier against optimism. “And Quindar ek’Nyle seemed in no hurry to free us.”

  Bracht shrugged. “I’ll not believe our quest ends here,” he said stoutly. “We’ll be freed ere long.”

  Tekkan nodded solemn agreement and said, “If Tharn does stir, then surely the Younger Gods must sense it; if Rhythamun works his magicks to raise the Mad God, then his successors must sense that, too. And surely they’ll not bow readily to Tharn—mayhap they’ll aid us. Cleave to hope, Calandryll! We live yet, and living may still hope to succeed.”

  Calandryll sighed, ducking his head in acceptance if not agreement. For all their reassurances it seemed to him hopeless optimism to think they should find godly aid. Using Varent’s body Rhythamun had succeeded in all his aims to date. He had obtained the chart that showed the way to Tezin-dar; had snatched the Arcanum; was even now likely on his way to the resting place that book revealed. And never had the gods intervened to halt the madman. Not Dera, goddess of his own homeland, or Burash, the god of Kandahar. Only Ahrd had taken a hand, and that no more than cryptic warning of deceit. To put their trust in the Younger Gods seemed vain to him: this seemed a thing of humankind, of him and Bracht and Katya, and none others.

  Miserably he asked, “What shall Katya do while we languish here?”

  “I told her to see to the warboat’s repairing,” Tekkan advised him. “To haul and caulk as swift she may. That and lay in those supplies we need to cross the Narrow Sea. Beyond that . . . well, does this mage prove us true and we’re set free, we sail for Lysse; if not, she’s to take the boat on alone.”

  “Each augury we’ve heard has spoken of three,” Calandryll protested. “In Secca, Reba foretold two companions; in Kharasul, Ellhyn scried the same. The guardian in the Syfalheen village awaited three. How shall Katya succeed alone?”

  “She’ll not,” said Bracht firmly. “I’ve little enough liking for magic, but I trust such scryings—three were prophesied and three there shall be. We shall be quit of this place ere long.”

  His tone was positive and Calandryll forced a smile, even though he could not share the Kern’s optimism. A mood of black melancholy gripped him, heightened by his unusual—and unexpected—display of temper, and he thought Bracht spoke to reassure, rather than from any real belief. It seemed to him their way was fraught with danger, obstacles strewn in their path to hinder and delay, as if fate itself, laughing at the gods, contrived to impede their progress. Time was of the essence and yet at every juncture speed was denied them. Perhaps Tharn did stir and somehow pluck the strings of destiny to hamper them. If that was so, what chance had they of success? And yet they must succeed, else the Mad God would rise and all the world come down in ruin. He shivered at the thought, the specter of despair looming ominous.

  Then the clattering of his teeth became a grinding as anger rose anew, directed now not at his companions, but himself, and Rhythamun; at Tharn, too. If the god or the wizard worked to set this black mood on him he would deny them. He would not succumb! He would not concede them that victory! He clenched his jaw, hi
s smile grim now, nodding to Bracht.

  “Aye.” His voice was hard with anger. “We’ll quit this hole and sail for Aldarin. To the ends of the earth if need be.”

  “Aye!” Bracht’s hand fastened tight on his shoulder, the pressure comforting. “No pompous Kand shall halt us. Nor wizards; nor any other thing, be it of man’s making or magicks.”

  “Amen to that,” murmured Tekkan.

  THEIR resolution waned somewhat as the day progressed. Outside they heard the city come alive, but the single window was set too high to afford them any view save of the sky, wintry and grey, and the door was not opened until noon, when a single dish of spicy meat and vegetables was delivered to them. The soldier who set the bowl down was accompanied by three others, and beyond them, before the door closed again, the prisoners saw more standing alert in the chamber outside. They ate and settled back on the bench as noonday passed into afternoon and then twilight dimmed the sky. Neither candles nor flambeaux were brought them and soon the cell was dark, the air grown chill again. They spoke, in increasingly desultory fashion, seeking to maintain their optimism, but for Calandryll each passing hour renewed his melancholy, until it began to seem that they should sit forgotten in Vishat’yi forever. He fought the mood, but it was inexorable as the mounting cold and he felt his spirit numb, hope fading. In time, with little else to do, they stretched out and slept as best they might, the stone hard and cold, inspiring miserable dreams.

  Then sound and light intruded and they woke, Bracht and Calandryll reaching instinctively for their swords.

  “I’d not advise that.”

  The voice of Quindar ek’Nyle was aloof, his words emphasized by the pikes angled toward them, torchlight glinting on the blades. The vexillan stood slightly behind five of his men, wrapped in a cloak of fur-lined scarlet now, his expression calm. Straight-sword and falchion slid back into the scabbards and he smiled coldly.

  “Come—Menelian shall examine you.”