by Angus Wells
“I’ve scant love of magic,” Bracht returned coldly, “and little enough for its practitioners. You and these other sorcerers—do you not lust for that power the Arcanum can bestow?”
“Burash, no!” Menelian raised hands in rejection. “To raise the Mad God is rank insanity.”
“Rhythamun thinks not,” Bracht said. “And if Anomius knew that what we sought was no grimoire but the Arcanum, I think he’d harbor the same mad lust.”
“I think Rhythamun must be insane,” Menelian retorted, “and Anomius . . . Anomius is a miserable worm.”
“A worm your Tyrant has freed,” Bracht pressed.
“Because he holds the key to Sathoman ek’Hennem’s defeat,” Menelian sighed. “Without his aid Kandahar must suffer the ravages of civil war. Only he can unlock the gramaryes he left to defend the Fayne Lord; without him the Tyrant must fight a long campaign . . . a bloody campaign that must surely cost Kandahar dear. Listen, warrior! If I were your enemy—if I sought the Arcanum—do you think I’d free you? No! I’d use my power to bend you to my will, not aid you. Not warn you.”
“I’ve heard no warnings yet,” Bracht said.
The sorcerer smiled grimly. “No, so hear me now— Anomius set conditions on his aid, and against the better judgment of wiser men there were those who agreed to them. My masters are divided on this and did those who spoke for Anomius’s release know what I tell you, or what I do here, my life should be forfeit. More than my life! So hear me and trust me, for the sake of all the world.”
His eyes locked with Bracht’s and after a while the freesword nodded.
“One of Anomius’s conditions was that word be sent to all the vexillans and lictors of Kandahar—to watch for a black-sailed Vanu warboat carrying you two. That you be apprehended and sent under guard to Nhur-jabal. The other, that he should have a criminal condemned to death.”
His gaze shifted from Bracht’s stern face to Calandryll, to Tekkan, and the look chilled Calandryll.
“That demand was met and he took a woman to make his creature. He made of her a revenant. Do you understand what that means?”
Tekkan frowned, shaking his head; Bracht shrugged and murmured softly, “A creature undead, no? Slain and resurrected to serve its master.”
Calandryll felt the ale he had drunk curdle in his belly. In Secca he had read something of revenants, in the ancient tomes and erudite manuscripts that had occupied so much of his time before fate cast him as a hunter, and the memory filled him with dread. More modern scholars denied the existence of such creatures, and even in the old texts they were infrequently mentioned, always with loathing. Their creation was deemed a guarantee of hellish suffering for the maker, the act considered an abomination that must ensure eternal damnation, while the creatures thus made were possessed of superhuman powers. He felt chill fingers trace his spine: to fear the Chaipaku was dread enough; to find himself the object of a revenant’s quest was raw terror.
“You know,” he heard Menelian say, and nodded, his mouth suddenly too dry that words might form.
“And shall you trust to blades to protect you?”
The sorcerer looked to Bracht, his voice hollow, not waiting for an answer before he explained: “I know not how the mages of your land do it, or even if they stoop so low, but a revenant is a creation of foulest necromancy, and that an art spurned by all civilized sorcerers. The creature’s heart is cut from the living body, ensorcelled, and held hostage by its creator. It answers only to its creator and must do his will. It knows not human hunger nor thirst—only the fulfillment of its purpose, which is the satisfaction of its creator’s wishes. A blade offers it no harm—it is dead! That falchion you wear, Bracht, you might carve its head from its body and still its arms would seek you, the teeth look to bite you. Bind it and it will snap the ropes like thread; chains as easily. It has no life you can take from it! Only by finding its heart and destroying that can it be slain. And that heart will be well hid by the revenant’s maker. It is an obscenity!”
He paused, seemingly stilled by the enormity of what he described. Bracht stared at him, his own face grim now. Then he smiled thinly and said, “I have never met anything that cannot be killed. You speak of warnings and tell us that we are hunted by some undead creature Anomius made. You say it cannot be slain—this is no warning: it is a threat.”
“A dreadful threat,” Menelian agreed, “but not of my making. And still I say it is a warning.”
The Kern’s tanned face creased in disbelief. The chill fingers that had tracked Calandryll’s spine encompassed his body, tapping against ribs and chest, clutching hard about his throat as he gasped, “How so?”
“Aye,” Bracht echoed. “How so?”
“Because it must yet find you!” said Menelian. “Anomius raised her—raised it!—in Nhur-jabal. He knew only that you had sailed for Gessyth. Not where you might reappear, nor, I pray, where you go. Until he knows that, he cannot set his creature loose, for it must have some scent to follow, some clue to your whereabouts.”
“Then prove your honesty and leave him wondering,” said Bracht bluntly. “Let this undead thing seek us. Set us free and we’ll sail for Lysse and leave it behind.”
“We must repair the warboat,” Tekkan reminded, “and that will take some while.”
“And ere long messengers will bring word from Nhur-jabal,” Menelian said. “And my authority is not so great as to override the orders Quindar ek’Nyle will receive.”
“So you say we are doomed,” Bracht returned. “Is this a warning that proves your friendship?”
“If you cannot sail before word comes, mayhap I can delay Quindar’s response.” The sorcerer nodded. “Perhaps long enough you might sail free.”
“And if not?”
Bracht’s right hand touched the hilt of his dagger, eliciting a wan smile from Menelian. “You say I threaten you?” he asked.
The Kern smiled back, coldly, and said, “In this matter I think any man who fails to aid me must be my enemy.”
“Burash, but I’d heard the folk of Cuan na’For think in straight lines!” Menelian snorted. “But not so blindly. Listen—the season hinders travel in Kandahar and word will be slow in coming. I’ll buy you what time I can, but once the Tyrant’s proclamation reaches Vishat’yi, the vexillan will hold you and send word back. When that word reaches Nhur-jabal, Anomius will unleash his creature and she’ll come for you.”
“Use your magic to destroy her,” Bracht said. “That will prove you friend.”
“If that were possible I would,” returned Menelian, “but I am uncertain I possess such power. A revenant is a hard enemy, my friend, and this thing is created by a talent greater than mine. Magic works better against the living than the dead and I do not know if I should succeed.”
“Surely there is some defense.” Calandryll shook off the cold dread that held him, gesturing Bracht to silence. “I have read something of such creatures, and it is not impossible. Is it?”
The question hung plaintive on the warm air and as he voiced it he realized he trusted the sorcerer.
“Could the heart be found,” Menelian agreed, “then it might be controlled. But Anomius holds its heart, and while he enjoys the Tyrant’s favor none may move against him. Until Sathoman ek’Hennem is defeated, and Anomius no longer of use, I think he’s the better hand in this. While he has that organ, the revenant will do his bidding—it has little other choice, save to have him end its existence. Likely, it will have no love for him, but still it must obey.”
“But it has no sorcerous power, if I remember aright,” Calandryll said. “It need not eat or drink or sleep, save that it chooses, and it’s possessed of great strength, but otherwise it commands no magic.”
Menelian nodded confirmation as Bracht barked cynical laughter and muttered, “How much more should it need?”
“You say it’s a woman?” Calandryll asked. “Know you how she looks?”
“No.” Menelian shook his head. “Only that Anomius has
created her.”
“But knows not where we are.” Calandryll forced himself to ignore the naked dread the thought of the revenant induced, forced himself to think calmly. “And if we depart Vishat’yi before she comes, then we’ve the Narrow Sea between us and her.”
“There’s that,” the mage allowed.
Bracht grinned then and said, “Then delay word as long as you can. Let us sail free to Lysse’s coast and we’ll look to stay ahead of this monster.”
“You choose to trust me then?” Menelian asked.
Bracht shrugged. “What other choice have I?” he asked.
“None, I think,” the sorcerer replied, “but to convince you further . . .”
He rose, going to the door, through which he called, bringing a servant to whom he spoke briefly. The man saluted and Menelian returned to the fireside. “I’ve sent my man to the harbor,” he explained, “with word that you are proven friendly in my eyes and Quindar ek’Nyle is to offer every assistance in readying your warboat. I suggest you remain here tonight, and in the morning I’ll bring you to the waterfront.”
“Katya remains with the boat,” Bracht murmured, his blue eyes troubled. “Shall she be safe there?”
“I believe so,” Menelian said. “As best I know Anomius seeks only you and Calandryll—and as I said, it will take a while before word comes, longer to return it to Nhur-jabal.”
“Do we work the clock round we can sail in two days,” Tekkan said. “Shall that be sufficient?”
“I believe so.” The sorcerer nodded. “In Nhur-jabal there are those who will delay Anomius as long as possible, though even so he’ll set his hound on your trail eventually. All being well, she’ll come here, seeking to sniff you out.”
“And when she finds us gone?” asked Bracht.
“She’ll likely learn enough to follow,” Menelian told him. “But even then she must still cross the Narrow Sea. Your best hope is to stay ahead of her. Does opportunity arise, there are those within the inner circle will destroy her heart if they can.”
The Kern ducked his head, grinning sourly. Calandryll asked, “What of you? Shall you not find yourself in danger?”
“Perhaps.” Menelian shrugged. “But leave me that worry—that you go free to hunt down Rhythamun is of greater import.”
Calandryll studied the mage, still more than a little surprised to find aid from such a quarter, but now more ready to accept his sincerity. “There’s another thing,” he said. “The revenant is not the only hunter on our trail—the Chaipaku seek us, too.”
“Burash!” Menelian shook his head, brows arching. “You collect enemies apace. What part does the Brotherhood play?”
Succinctly Calandryll explained the attack in Mherut’yi and the ambush in Kharasul. When he was done, Menelian sighed and said, “So your brother would see you slain, eh? And with so many Chaipaku killed, they’ll claim blood debt now. Still, so long as you remain with me you’re safe.”
“But Katya is not,” said Bracht. “Can we bring her here? Or do you let me go to her?”
“Best she come here,” Menelian returned. “A moment, if you will.”
Again he rose and summoned a servant, giving instructions that Katya be fetched. His face no longer wore its cheerful expression, but was etched with concern, his mouth downturned as he resumed his seat.
“I think,” he murmured glumly, “that Rhythamun’s desire to awaken Tharn communicates, and even from limbo the Mad God influences our world.”
“Be that so,” asked Calandryll, “does Balatur not feel it, too? Or Yl and Kyta? Surely if Tharn can affect the world even as he dreams, then so must his brother god; the more their parents?”
“I think that Yl and Kyta are passed beyond caring of this world,” Menelian answered sadly. “I suspect that gone into the Forbidden Lands they think no more of what men do. And Balatur? Mayhap your very quest reveals his influence.”
“Which seems little enough,” Bracht grunted.
Menelian smiled wanly and shrugged. “Do you evince the same mistrust of the gods as you apply to sorcerers?” he wondered.
“I trust in Ahrd, not your southern gods,” the Kern returned, “and in all our wanderings only he has sent us aid.”
Menelian’s eyes narrowed, framing a question. Calandryll told him of how the byah had appeared to warn of Varent’s treachery and the sorcerer nodded. “I suspect the Younger Gods are weakened by man’s indifference,” he said. “They were ever less powerful than those who preceded them, and since their genesis we have turned more and more to our own resources, paying only lip service to the effigies of the gods. But still . . . if Ahrd sent a byah to warn you, then mayhap Burash will aid you now; and Dera when you reach Lysse.”
“If we reach Lysse,” Bracht muttered.
Menelian turned toward the Kern at that, his face grave. “You must!” he said. “And with all my power I shall seek to aid you—Rhythamun cannot be allowed to raise the Mad God.”
“We’re pledged to halt him,” Bracht said dourly, “and if that be possible, we shall. But it seems we receive little enough help from those gods Tharn would destroy.”
“Or help so subtle you cannot see it,” said Menelian, that response eliciting a shrug from the freesword.
“We do what we must,” Tekkan offered. “What we can.”
Calandryll nodded and stood up, taking Bracht’s tankard to the keg and refilling it with his own. “What else is there?” he asked.
“Aye.” Bracht took the pewter mug and drank deep. “What else?”
“Only hope,” Calandryll said, realizing that the dark melancholy had left him, replaced by resolution, albeit grim. He wondered if that were some spell of Menelian’s, but decided not: no magic scented the air and the sorcerer appeared as rueful—as wary!—as any there. Perhaps it was the knowledge that men who had previously seemed hostile now came to his aid, that even among the Tyrant’s sorcerers, allies were to be found. He was not sure, only of the fact that he felt more optimistic, despite all the weighting of the odds against them.
“I drink to hope,” he said, raising the tankard to his lips.
“To hope,” Tekkan echoed.
“Aye,” said Menelian. “To hope and victory.”
Slower, Bracht followed suit, lifting his tankard and muttering, “To hope and victory.”
Then the door opened and Calandryll recognized the source of the freesword’s hesitancy: Katya entered, a dampened cloak about her shoulders, the hood thrown back to reveal the flaxen splendor of her hair. She looked at them, her grey eyes solemn, then lighting with laughter as she smiled and said, “So. While I attend needful duties you three sit drinking ale.”
Menelian rose, bowing graciously. Bracht was already on his feet, his dour expression gone, burned off by her smile.
“We spoke of the Chaipaku,” he said, “and I got to fearing that . . .”
“They might come for me?” The warrior woman shook her head. “No, not yet. And with all my folk about me? And that pompous vexillan’s soldiers, too? Sit down, Bracht. No! While you’re on your feet, fill me a mug and bring me a platter of that meat.”
“My daughter, Katya,” Tekkan said. “Katya, this is Menelian, a sorcerer in the Tyrant’s employ.”
She smiled at the mage, murmuring a greeting. It occurred to Calandryll, as she draped her cloak carelessly over a chair and took a place beside her father, that she enjoyed the subservience of the Kern as he dutifully forked food onto a plate and filled a tankard with ale, bringing both to her like some serving man, or love-struck swain. The sorcerer, too, he saw, studied her with open admiration.
“My thanks,” she said as Bracht delivered her a platter and a mug, stretching leather-clad legs toward the fire, light glinting bright off the fine mail of her hauberk, “this is better fare than Quindar offers.”
Bracht said, “Quindar?” in a tone that announced suspicion of so casual a use of the vexillan’s first name.
“Aye, Quindar ek’Nyle.” Katya smiled.
“And most helpful since word came from Menelian.”
The wizard succeeded in bowing from a sitting position and said, “I offer what aid I can, Lady.”
“Which is much, I think.” Katya’s smile was radiant and Calandryll saw Bracht’s face flush with jealous anger as Menelian beamed a reply. Dimly, as if dredged from some deep and almost forgotten receptacle in his mind, he remembered that once he had experienced that same jealousy when Nadama den Ecvin had favored Tobias with such smiles. Now Nadama’s face was blurred in his memory and he felt only a vague alarm that the Kern’s love of Katya might jeopardize their quest as she said, “Since your man brought word, Quindar has granted us freedom of the harbor. Even set his men to helping us, so that lanterns are strung and repairs already started.”
“That’s good news,” said Tekkan.
“Aye.” Katya nodded, glancing at Bracht as she added, “Though I’d sooner have stayed with the warboat than taken dinner with Quindar.”
Calandryll saw the Kern’s flush darken, the muscles lining his jaw bunch tight as he ground his teeth. In other circumstances so dramatic a reaction from a man more usually taciturn might have amused him; now he felt only frustration with the freesword, and with Katya for the game she seemed to play. “We’ve news,” he said, his tone ominous enough that Katya’s face grew solemn.
Succinctly, Menelian outlined their conversation, his words freezing the smile on Katya’s lips, her eyes growing stormy grey as she heard him out. When he was finished, she nodded and said solemnly, “If all goes well, we can be ready to sail before two days are passed.”
“It should be enough.” The sorcerer nodded. “Do the gods favor us, you’ll be gone before Quindar receives orders to apprehend you. And in the other matter”—his lips stretched in a thin smile—“I’ll do what I can to delay the hunt.”
The flirtatious gaiety that had possessed Katya was dissolved by the ghoulish threat of the revenant. Her own smile was no longer bright, but become grim, and Calandryll saw her suppress a shudder. Still, he was surprised to see her look to Bracht, not Menelian, as she murmured, “I’d not thought such creatures existed. In Vanu they are tales to frighten children.”
