Dark Magic

by Angus Wells

  Kern and Kand spoke together. Bracht said, “Ahrd willing, we’ll leave her behind,” while Menelian said, “They seldom do. Only the foulest madmen raise them.”

  “And likely stay ahead of her,” Bracht said.

  “And I’ll use my magic to confuse her,” said Menelian.

  “And if she finds us I’ll slay her. Somehow.”

  “Though I’ll likely keep her off your path. Would that I might accompany you, to ward you.”

  Calandryll looked from freesword to sorcerer, torn between amusement and a feeling of disgust. Had he once vied so with his brother over a woman? Did neither realize that the import of their quest outweighed Katya’s smile? Or would they each boast away the hours until the revenant came, or Xenomenus sent word to bring them prisoner to Nhur-jabal? Would Katya allow that?

  His answer came on her widespread yawn. “Forgive me,” she said, “but while you talked here, I worked; and now I’m mightily tired.”

  Instantly, Menelian was on his feet. “I’ve rooms at your disposal, though I’d ask you to linger a moment. Your father spoke of a magical stone . . .”

  Katya glanced at Tekkan, and when he nodded, she drew the dull red fragment from beneath her shirt.

  “This?”

  The sorcerer stepped closer, his eyes moving from the stone to the collar of her hauberk, where tanned flesh was exposed. Bracht frowned as he asked, “May I?” extending a tentative hand.

  Katya ducked her head and Menelian touched the stone, eyes closing a moment. From between his fingers, Calandryll saw a faint red light glow, then fade as the wizard released his grip.

  “Rare, indeed,” Menelian said softly, “and imbued with a singular purpose. The holy men of Vanu must possess much power—this is, as you say, a lodestone of the occult. None in Kandahar could create such a thing.”

  “It guides us true?” Bracht’s voice was harsh, his eyes angry as they fixed on the mage.

  “It is locked with another,” Menelian said, addressing the Kern, but his gaze on Katya as she slid the gem back beneath her shirt, “and in such a way as must surely hold you on course.”

  “To Lysse, then,” Bracht said. “Away from here.”

  “So it would seem,” agreed Menelian, a measure of regret in his voice as he studied the woman. Then he smiled, shifting his gaze to enfold the others. “Allow me to show you to your chambers. The hour is, indeed, late.”

  “Aye.” Tekkan rose, his weathered features grave. “And we’d best make an early start.”

  “Come then.” Menelian offered Katya his arm. “I’ve chambers enough for all. Four?”

  The warrior woman glanced at Bracht and said lightly: “Aye, four.”

  Bracht’s face was sullen as he watched her take the sorcerer’s proffered arm.

  Menelian escorted them to rooms on the upper level of the house, set side by side along the inner wall, with tall windows opening onto balconies that overlooked a garden where fading moonlight shone on the fog that coiled dense grey tendrils about luxuriant shrubbery and tiled walks. Calandryll found himself mightily tired, wanting only to fall into the wide bed and sleep, confident now of Menelian’s honesty. Dawn was not far off, the sky already paling, and he knew that the rising of the sun must see him on his feet: the repairing of the warboat would need every willing hand, and the sooner that was done, the sooner they might quit Vishat’yi; leave Kandahar behind and go on after Rhythamun. He unbuckled his swordbelt and tossed the sheathed blade onto the bed. Beside it stood a table with an ewer: he splashed water on his face and sighed. His eyes were heavy, his limbs leaden; he wanted only to sleep, thinking that for at least a day or two he might enjoy such luxury unhindered by dread—after that he must think of Anomius’s creation and wonder how far behind she was, what form she might take. He dried his face, staring blankly into the past as he struggled to recall what he knew of revenants, of their strengths and the weaknesses through which they might be undone. The texts, once so important to him, seemed vague now, misted over like the garden below by all that had transpired since his departure from Secca. He yawned again, hugely, deciding to set concern aside awhile and find refuge in sleep.

  He started as the door opened, surprised to find the straightsword in his hand, the point directed at Bracht’s belly as the Kern entered.

  “Dera!” he grunted, little pleased with the intrusion, “but I might have stuck you.”

  Bracht shrugged. “Perhaps—I’ve taught you well.”

  He brushed the angled blade aside and walked to the window, bracing his hands against the frame as he stared moodily out. His stance was unusually slumped, as if a weight rested upon his shoulders. Calandryll sighed and sheathed the sword. “Are you not tired?” he asked.

  “Aye.” The Kern turned from his inspection of the garden to seat himself upon the bed. “But I’d speak awhile before I retire.”

  Calandryll saw that he was intent on talking and resigned himself to a night with little, or no, sleep.

  “About what?”

  “Our quest,” the Kern answered, “and Menelian.”

  Calandryll stifled a burgeoning yawn, gesturing for Bracht to explain.

  The freesword leaned back, one heel hooked against the bed’s edge, his sinewy hands cupped about his knee. “Do you trust him?” he demanded.

  Calandryll nodded. “Aye. I see no reason we should not; I thought you shared that.”

  “He’s a mage,” Bracht murmured, as if that were response enough.

  “But one who brings us warning of danger. One who aids us in readying the warboat. One prepared, it seems, to risk his own life to further our purpose.”

  Bracht nodded reluctantly, his swarthy face etched with lines of doubt. “Why?” he demanded. “What wizards we’ve yet met have sought to bend us to their own purpose—first Rhythamun, then Anomius. Why should this one be different?”

  “Mayhap for the very reasons he stated,” Calandryll returned. “Because he’d no more see the Mad God returned than you or I. Because he serves the Tyrant, and if Rhythamun succeeds, then likely all the Tyrants and Domms, the Khans and the Kings, will be thrown down. It’s in his own interest to prevent that.”

  “Mayhap,” Bracht allowed, “but still . . .”

  “Dera!” Calandryll shook his head, bemused by the frees word’s obstinacy. “Did he seek to obtain the Arcanum for himself, then why send word to ek’Nyle to aid us in repairing the boat? Why not use his magic to bind us here and leech our minds of all we know? He could do that easily, I think; but he has not. Rather, he seeks to speed us on our way.”

  Bracht grunted. “Time shall prove that,” he muttered.

  Calandryll studied his comrade’s glum face, sensing some other reason behind the Kern’s doubt. “It shall,” he agreed. “If Menelian aids the repairing, then we’ll be gone from Vishat’yi ere long—come dawn we’ll go to the harbor and see for ourselves.”

  “And meanwhile?” Bracht muttered. “Do we remain here as his guests?”

  Realization came gradually, drawn slowly from Calandryll’s memories of his own feelings as he had watched Nadama and Tobias. He felt a flush of irritation, followed swiftly by amusement—Bracht was disconcerted by the attentions Menelian had paid Katya, and by the woman’s response. He felt strangely aged as he set a hand to the Kern’s shoulder, their positions curiously reversed.

  “You do not believe Menelian will betray us,” he said gently.

  “No,” Bracht allowed, “not really. But . . .”

  “And can you believe Katya would betray our quest?”

  The Kern shook his head, staring resolutely at the far wall.

  “She’s pledged to bring the Arcanum to Vanu,” Calandryll said, “to the holy men, that they may destroy it.”

  “Aye.” Bracht nodded. “But . . .”

  “But what?” Calandryll demanded. “Your feelings are known to her and she has not rejected them—only asked that you do not press her on that matter until our quest is done.”

  Aga
in, Bracht ducked his head in acceptance, but now he turned his face to Calandryll and in his eyes the younger man saw genuine concern.

  “He’s a handsome man, Menelian,” the Kern said morosely.

  “Aye.” Calandryll suppressed laughter, making his voice solemn. “And wealthy, I’d wager. Cultured, too.”

  “He admires her,” Bracht said. “You saw the way he looked at her.”

  “I did,” Calandryll agreed, “and I believe she enjoyed that attention. Quindar ek’Nyle, too, would seem impressed by her.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Bracht said glumly. “Who’d not be?”

  “Indeed,” said Calandryll, still solemn. “Just as you are.”

  “I love her,” Bracht said.

  “She knows that,” Calandryll replied.

  “Then why . . . ?” the Kern demanded, cut short by Calandryll’s raised hand.

  “Why does she not spurn such small attentions? Arouse ek’Nyle’s anger by refusing to eat with him? Glower at Menelian’s smile? Reject the arm he offers her?”

  “Aye,” Bracht declared fervently.

  “Because she enjoys them,” Calandryll said, no longer able to hide his laughter. “Dera, man! She’s spent more than a year on board that warboat—do you not think she could have found herself a lover among the crew had she wished?”

  Bracht frowned, then shrugged his agreement.

  “But she did not,” Calandryll said. “And even though it’s plain to any with eyes in their head that she’d accept your suit, she sought your vow to hold off until our quest is done. Do you truly believe she’ll now renege because Menelian pays her a compliment or two?”

  “I . . .” Bracht grunted, then shrugged again.

  “Am sometimes a fool,” Calandryll finished for him. “I do not think that wealth or power sway Katya. I think she’s a woman with a mind of her own, and that’s made up on such matters.”

  “Truly?” Bracht asked.

  “Truly,” answered Calandryll. “And in your favor.”

  The Kern’s mouth hinted a reluctant smile. “I’m more at home on the grass of Cuan na’For,” he said slowly, gesturing to encompass the room and the building beyond, “than among such surroundings.”

  “As, I suspect, Katya would be,” said Calandryll.

  “Then you think I’ve nothing to fear?”

  Calandryll stared at the freesword, shaking now with laughter. “Save the Tyrant’s soldiery, the Chaipaku, Rhythamun, Anomius and his revenant” —he chuckled—“no. Nothing at all.”

  Bracht’s face was solemn as he stared back, then he, too, began to laugh. “Then all is well,” he said.

  “Good.” Calandryll shook his head, both amazed and amused that in the midst of their perils Bracht should find that one thing so troubling. Had he once thought a woman’s regard so important? “Now, shall we sleep?”

  The freesword nodded cheerfully, rising to glance at the window, where tendrils of mist curled, the sky a pearly grey. “There’s little point,” he said, “the sun will be up ere long.”

  Calandryll groaned and stretched full-clothed on the bed, determined to snatch what sleep he could.

  THE fog that had risen in the early hours was drifted thick throughout Vishat’yi by sunrise, layered across the cleft holding the city in a moist, grey-white blanket that hid the heights with their catapults and the harbor at the mouth of the Yst alike. The streets were ill-lit ravines of shade and shadow, ghostly as Calandryll and his comrades left Menelian’s home, silent at this hour, and tinged red by the dull glow of the hearth fires and lamps that showed around the edges of shuttered windows and blank-faced doorways. Lanterns made scant inroads on the brume, and footfalls were muffled as they made their way to the waterfront, Calandryll red-eyed from lack of sleep, clutching the cloak Menelian had provided tight about him, grateful to the sorcerer for the ample breakfast that had awaited his rising. Warm food and the bitter herbal infusion the Kands favored at that hour had done enough to dispel his weariness that he was at least able to attempt civilized conversation, though he could not match his companions’ cheerfulness. Bracht, seemingly invigorated by their discussion, was once more his dourly confident self, while both Tekkan and Katya had enjoyed several hours of slumber, and Menelian evinced an energy Calandryll suspected must derive from magical sources. Forgoing any escort, he bade them wait a moment at his gate, murmuring softly as his hands wove shapes in the air, producing a corona of bright yellow-silver light that pierced the gloom surer than any lantern. With that radiance probing ahead, he brought them unhesitatingly through the fog, down flights of narrow stairs and along winding, grey-shrouded alleys, to the sea, where dim torches glowed and sounds came faint from the wharves. He led the way, Katya to one side, Tekkan to the other, Calandryll and Bracht bringing up the rear with hands on swordhilts and heads swinging constantly from side to side: even under the protection of a sorcerer, it seemed that in such obfuscation the threat of attack was dangerously present.

  Indeed, the sight of Quindar ek’Nyle was welcome reassurance, waiting as he did at the head of a troop of armored soldiers, affecting a deep bow as he greeted Katya, a more cursory salute to the others.

  “Your Vanu folk work hard,” he said, addressing the woman but glancing sidelong at Menelian. “Since word came down they’ve not halted.”

  Katya smiled graciously. Menelian said, “I’d not see potential allies delayed longer than need be, vexillan.”

  “Allies?” Ek’Nyle’s saturnine features framed a question and the sorcerer answered, “Indeed. As I advised you, Lord Calandryll is a prince of Lysse and might well persuade his father—the Domm of Secca!—to lend us ships to use against the rebels.”

  The vexillan’s eyes swung to Calandryll, who nodded, thinking that this explanation they had devised over breakfast was as good as any to justify such haste to work.

  “Indeed. As you know . . . Quindar . . . Secca and Aldarin raise a navy to defend our sea lanes. Those ships might well be put to your aid against this tiresome rebel lord.”

  It was easy to affect the somewhat bored drawl of a princeling with his head still fogged as the air around him, the vacant smile he assumed not entirely unfeigned.

  “Aye.” Ek’Nyle ducked his head, the plume surrounding his helmet shedding droplets of moisture. “I trust you’ll forgive my earlier suspicion, Lord Calandryll. I had no way of knowing . . .”

  Calandryll raised a negligent hand. “No matter, vexillan. Not now that we understand one another.”

  Ek’Nyle forced a smile. “May I offer you warmer quarters?”

  “I’ll stay with my vessel,” Tekkan said.

  “And I,” Katya added.

  “I think perhaps I shall remain, too,” said Calandryll. Then thought to maintain his part: “Awhile, at least. Such ship work might prove interesting.”

  “As you wish.” The vexillan bowed, though his expression was curious. “I’ll leave you to it—I’ve duties to attend.”

  Menelian said, “Go to them, Quindar. I’ll see our guests have all they need,” and after a moment’s hesitation, as if he debated with himself, the soldier nodded, beckoning his men away.

  In moments they were hidden in the fog, the clatter of their boots dulling rapidly, like faint footsteps receding down a tunnel. Menelian smiled, gesturing at the lanterns.

  “So you’ve the freedom of the harbor—shall we see how work progresses?”

  Once more he offered Katya his arm, and Calandryll was dully thankful to see Bracht accept the gesture without argument. He followed the sorcerer along the wharf, braziers marking its edge with sullen light, the slow slap of waves its foot, to where brighter radiance glowed out of the pervading fog. This light came from far larger fire buckets, set along three sides of a stone-walled anchorage, and from glassed lanterns strung on lines across the depths between the walls. It was, he saw, a dry dock, cut off from the tide’s aggression by a lock of stout timber, and in it stood the Vanu warboat, held erect by a framework of solid piles. T
he crew moved like busy ants about the clinkered flanks, their industry arousing feelings of guilt for even what little sleep he had enjoyed. The odor of heated tar mingled with the scorched smell of the braziers’ coals and the salty thickness of the harbor fog, and to that was added the cleaner scent of fresh-cut wood, rising from the saws of carpenters, their buzz joining the dull echo of hammers and the lilting voices of the Vanu folk.

  “It would appear that all goes well,” Menelian said.

  Tekkan grunted, more intent on his vessel than the mage’s comment, and went down the steps that descended into the dock.

  He returned a while later, his weathered features evincing satisfaction at what he had seen.

  “You vexillan took you at your word,” he said. “Does nothing interrupt, then we can sail with tomorrow’s dawn.”

  “Excellent.” Menelian smiled approval, then turned to Katya. “Though I confess myself loath to lose such pleasant company.”

  “So things go.” Katya favored him with a bland smile and wrapped her cloak about her shoulders in such a way as to deny him her arm.

  Calandryll saw Bracht grin. “What may we do?” he asked.

  “Little, I think,” said Tekkan. “Boat work’s needed here, and unskilled hands are more hindrance than help.”

  “Mayhap, then, I may make a suggestion,” Menelian offered. “This fog will not lift for a while and my home is more comfortable than this cold harbor, also I’ve a small library that may provide some clue to the defeating of Anomius’s creation. Shall we return there?”

  “I’ll remain here,” Tekkan said.

  “Best we three stay together,” Bracht suggested, his tone casual, but his eyes seeking Katya.

  “Shall it be safe?” wondered Calandryll. “Should we not all stay close by the harbor?”

  Menelian shrugged. “I believe you’re safe enough under my protection, and I can ward you better within my own precincts.”

  “We’ve our archers here.” Tekkan nodded. “Surely enough to defend the warboat. I think our friend is right, and I’ve sufficient hands at my disposal that yours will make no difference.”