Dark Magic

by Angus Wells

  “Varent dead, eh?” Anomius nodded thoughtfully. “And our quarry asking questions about a horse trader? I think Varent must shift his shape. Aye! For reasons I’ve yet to comprehend, he takes the body of Daven Tyras.”

  “I’ve his description,” Cennaire said.

  Anomius ducked his head. “Good. And the grimoire?”

  “None I’ve spoken with know anything of that. Only that Calandryll and Bracht were employed by Varent to find some book.”

  “That much I knew—it was the grimoire. But why should Varent shift his shape? Why take the body of this Daven Tyras?”

  Cennaire shrugged.

  “There’s more to this than I first thought,” Anomius murmured. “Our quarry league with Vanu folk; Varent takes another’s form; and it would seem now they must go north, to Gannshold. Why?”

  Having no answer, Cennaire said nothing, only waited.

  After a while Anomius said, “You’ve done well enough. Now go to Gannshold—find Daven Tyras. Find the grimoire.”

  “And the three?” asked Cennaire.

  “Find the one and you’ll find them,” Anomius told her. “But the grimoire first! Secure that and then slay them.”

  Dutifully, Cennaire nodded. The image in the mirror faded, and then the glass was no more than that: a glass such as ladies use, innocent. She used it to tidy her hair and then went to inquire where and how she might arrange sea passage to Gannshold.

  OF all the cities of Lysse, Gannshold was acknowledged the oldest, and that venerability was chronicled clear in the lines of the ancient walls, like the rings that chart the age of trees. First built when Lysse and Cuan na’For both were young, and quarrelsome in the way of youthful rivalry, the city’s core was the great citadel that sprawled across the egress of the pass through the western edge of the Gann Peaks, its ramparts climbing the stone to either side, machicolated and teethed with bartizans that still, in these more peaceful times, bore mangonels and heavy arbalests in memory of the days when the horse clans ventured bellicose to the south. Below that grim reminder lay the buildings of the earliest settlement, themselves protected by a vaulting, betowered wall, and beyond that another, lower, more houses between the two. The approach to this final outer wall was itself defended naturally by the terrain, the road running up straight across a wide, bare slope flanked to either side by craggy outthrusts of the mountains, ending on a glacis overlooked by twin watchtowers. Gannshold was said to be inpregnable and, indeed, the city had never been conquered, standing now, by custom and common consent, aloof from the internecine struggles that sometimes racked the land it warded.

  Viewed from the open space of the glacis, it presented a solemn face to the three riders as they drew nearer the gates.

  The sun was a little way past its zenith, on a day clear-skied and warm, bathing the sprawling city in light that softened the harsh outlines of the fortifications, spilling over walls and rooftops to brighten the hard, blue-tinted granite and the darker slate, etching stark the outlines of the siege engines and the high columns of the towers and bartizans. The gates themselves stood open, massive structures banded with age-blackened metal that granted ingress down a short tunnel to a plaza from which but one avenue gave exit, that and the opening of the passage guarded by soldiery in the blue and black of the hold. They were efficient in their examination of the newcomers, and briskly courteous, demanding their names and the nature of their business, which Bracht—elected spokesman—explained was personal, a return to Cuan na’For after time spent wandering Lysse. The captain of the watch accepted this readily, accustomed to the peregrinations of Kern mercenaries, and waved them on to the inner city with no more than a casual reminder that they yet remained on Lyssian soil and were, consequently, subject to Lyssian laws.

  Bracht voiced acknowledgment and led the way from the plaza, along the avenue to a network of wider, bisecting streets set out, Calandryll realized as they progressed deeper into Gannshold, on a grid pattern occasioned by the embrace of the mountains. What he knew of this vast guardian city came solely from books and he stared about as the Kern, familiar with the place, steered them onward. The buildings, denied lateral expansion, grew upward, rising far higher than the structures of Secca or Aldarin, climbing five, even six, stories, so that it seemed they rode down canyons, overshadowed, those not lit by the sun pooled with darkness even this close to noon. Balconies jutted above, adding their own weight to the sense of enclosure, and what open spaces there were, were jammed with stalls and thronging crowds, as many dark-haired Kerns visible as there were the fairer folk of Lysse. There seemed to be no parks or gardens and before long he experienced a mild claustrophobia, realizing how attuned he had grown to the open spaces they had traveled. It dampened his natural curiosity, and he wondered how long they should remain here.

  Long enough, he supposed, to ascertain whether Daven Tyras yet lingered, or—the more likely, it seemed—their quarry had departed. Had he gone, then they must learn what they might of his going—whether he traveled with companions, and in which direction if he had spoken of a destination; some clue to guide them across the prairies beyond the mountains. If he remained—Calandryll was not sure; a confrontation, he supposed, though how that might end he could not guess, despite Dera’s assurance that he contained within himself the means to defeat the warlock. That promise was a mystery, for while it seemed he did possess the ability to summon the Younger Gods—for all he knew not how—their words were enigmatic, leaving him unenlightened. Perhaps, he thought, that revelation would come at need, as magic he understood no better than the godly promises had aided him before. He could only hope, and press on, holding as firm he could to that faith.

  He was brought from his reverie by the shadow of the inner wall, falling on his face as he approached so that he looked out again, seeing the rampart stretch out across their path to meet a narrowing of the surrounding cliffs: the true mouth of the pass into Cuan na’For.

  Like its predecessor, this barrier was crenellated and surmounted with bartizans, but unmanned and constructed of older stone, the hard granite enlivened by ivy that clambered in great masses over the blocks. Once it had been faced with an open area, a killing ground for the defenders, but now, between the wall and the closest buildings, that space was filled with impermanent structures, rickety constructions of wood and jumbled stone erected against the solidity of the wall. It smelled of unwashed bodies and waste, as if the detritus of Gannshold, both human and organic, were deposited here.

  “The Beggars Gate,” Bracht said, lifting the pace a little as ragged folk pressed in with outthrust hands and pleas for coin. “Well find lodgings beyond.”

  “Beyond,” Calandryll saw, meant the inner city, for between two ramshackle hutments stood an open gate and another short tunnel gave access to a wide avenue flanked by older houses, overlooked by the massive bulk of the citadel. That loomed, like an ancient but still watchful sentinel, over all the surrounding buildings, austere despite the sunlight that bathed its ramparts, glittering on the helms and pikestaffs of the soldiery patrolling its towering walls. For all that ominous presence, this part of Gannshold was brighter, more airy, than the outer sections. The streets were wider, the buildings lower, as if the original inhabitants had enjoyed more room, or been fewer in number, than those come later, crowding their dwelling places into what space was left. Soldiers manned the end of the tunnel, but idly, offering Calandryll and his companions no interruption: they were there, he guessed, to deny the beggars entrance.

  Certainly, they entered a more salubrious section, some houses even boasting tiny gardens, though Bracht brought them swiftly past these to a quarter filled with taverns and lodging houses, where Kerns outnumbered Lyssians and the smell of horses was strong. He eased his stallion to the side of a square occupied entirely by drinking houses, clear of the traffic, and reined in.

  “The Equestrian Quarter lies there.” He pointed toward an avenue whose ending seemed to devolve on open space, the breeze wafting from
it redolent of dung and horse sweat. “And likely Daven Tyras is known there, and in these taverns,”

  “But you think him gone.”

  Katya looked toward the avenue, her grey eyes narrowed; Bracht nodded and said, “Aye. I cannot believe he lingers here.”

  “We’ve but the one way to find out,” Calandryll said.

  “And two to approach him if he does remain—head on, or cautiously.” Bracht’s face was solemn as he eyed his companions. “Do we take counsel?”

  Calandryll returned the Kern’s stare no less earnestly. His impulse, come this far, was to press on as swift they might to a conclusion. If Rhythamun yet dwelt, in Daven Tyras’s form, in Gannshold it seemed the better course to seek him out, to trust the gods and look to slay the man before he had opportunity to proceed. No less, were he departed as Bracht suspected, to go after him. But hard-learned caution bade him be wary where Rhythamun was concerned, and he paused before replying, aware that Bracht and Katya, both, waited on his word. It seemed the decision was passed to him, as if the telling of Dera’s promise had elected him leader in the final confrontation. He sighed; like the Kern, he doubted Rhythamun remained still in Gannshold, but if he did . . . He frowned, unable to decide the better course. To learn what they could of the man whose form the warlock had stolen before seeking him out? Or go now, hoping that the element of surprise—and the unknown power the gods had promised—would win them the day? He looked up, as if seeking an answer from the sky. It stood high and blue above, the black shapes of choughs wheeling about the peaks and the towers of the citadel, none offering answer.

  “We’re weeks behind him,” he said slowly, knowing that he prevaricated, “and likely you’re right—he’s gone north.”

  “But if not . . .” Katya murmured.

  “He’ll not likely expect to see us,” Bracht finished for her.

  Calandryll nodded, sucking in a deep breath, seeing his comrades’ eyes upon him, waiting. Briefly, resentment flared that the decision should rest with him. In so much else he deferred to Bracht, and Katya’s pursuit had been the longer—why should they now lay this burden on him? Because, said a voice inside his mind, the gods say you hold the means of Rhythamun’s defeat Shall you falter now? He licked his lips, the stirring in his belly akin to that preceding battle: they had ridden hard and far to this place, to this potential conflict.

  “Aye,” he said at last, “let’s seek him now.”

  Bracht’s response was a fierce, tight grin, a single grunt of acceptance. Katya said, “So be it,” and loosened her saber.

  “Then this way,” the Kern said, turning his mount back into the press of traffic, leading them toward the avenue.

  They passed into shadow, then into sunlight again as the road ended at a great square filled with the clamor and the odors of horses and men. Calandryll was reminded of the Equestrian Quarter in Aldarin, but this was far larger, the smell of it heady, the noise deafening, flies rising in buzzing black clouds from the dung underfoot, the traders here nearly all Kerns or half-bloods, the corrals a sea of tossing equine heads. To find a single man in so much confusion seemed an impossible task.

  “The season aids us,” Bracht shouted over the din, gesturing at the apparent chaos. “So early, there are fewer traders. Come foaling time . . .”

  What else he said was lost under the clatter of hooves as two Kerns drove a bunch of horses past. Calandryll nodded, leaning across to put his mouth close to Bracht’s ear.

  “Where do we begin?”

  “With men I can trust,” the Kern answered. “But leave that part to me—there are ways these things are done,”

  Calandryll frowned and would have questioned his companion further, but Bracht gave him no choice, heeling the black stallion into the maelstrom of men and beasts. Calandryll and Katya followed close behind, dispute—or conversation—denied by the sheer volume of sound. It seemed the Kern rode directionless, merely wandering among the pens, but his eyes roved constantly over the crowd, as if he sought in the teeming throng some particular person. Did he, Calandryll wondered, discarding the thought with a puzzled shake of his head, hope to spot Daven Tyras in all this confusion? No, he realized, as Bracht glanced back, beckoning, and led them toward a stockade built out from the wall of the citadel itself.

  On the fence two men sat watching a herd of yearlings. Neither were young, their sleek, dark hair streaked with grey, their faces weathered as much by the years as the seasons. Both wore the leather breeks, the high boots and tunics common to the folk of Cuan na’For, and from their belts hung swords and dirks. Their eyes, as they turned to study the approaching trio, were set in nests of wrinkles, but clear and of the same startling blue as Bracht’s.

  The Kern reined in, his right hand lifted, palm outward and with the fingers spread. Calandryll remembered that he had offered a similar greeting to the great oak that had disgorged the byah with its warning of Rhythamun’s treachery. He saw the salute returned, both men swinging to face Bracht, their eyes traveling from him to Calandryll, on to Katya. It was the most cursory of examinations and yet Calandryll felt he had been studied and judged in the moment: he was abruptly aware of his disguise, convinced these two saw past the black-dyed hair to his Lyssian origins.

  Bracht confirmed his belief.

  “I am Bracht ni Errhyn of the clan Asyth,” the Kern announced ceremoniously. “This, Katya, Tekkan’s daughter, of Vanu; this, Calandryll den Karynth of Lysse.”

  “I know you, Bracht ni Errhyn,” returned the older of the pair no less formally, addressing himself as much to Calandryll and Katya. “I am Gart ni Morrhyn of the Asyth, and this”—he indicated his fellow with a sideways nod—“is Kythan ni Morrhyn, my brother. We give you greeting.”

  “And we you,” Bracht said, his face grave as he added, “I am pleased to find you in good health.”

  “Innocence and honest natures are our allies,” said Gart with patently assumed gravity, “and we anticipate a lengthy old age.”

  Bracht smiled, chuckling at that and shaking his head. Calandryll watched them, listening carefully, familiar enough with the tongue of Cuan na’For that he could follow most of what they said, what he understood intriguing. He saw some protocol was followed, ritual greetings giving way to banter, and that these two brothers were no strangers to Bracht. For the moment he and Katya were excluded from the conversation, Kern addressing Kern, Gart and Kythan not realizing, he suspected, that he understood what they said.

  “Have you come looking for more Lykard horses, Bracht ni Errhyn?” asked Kythan with a solemnity that was belied by the twinkle in his eye. “Or perhaps to pay werecoin?”

  Bracht’s answering smile was brief and taut. “I have werecoin aplenty,” he said, “and I hope to settle that matter; but later, have I the chance.”

  “I do not believe Jehenne ni Larrhyn is very interested in werecoin,” Kythan said, no longer attempting solemnity, his grin open now, “but in some more . . . personal . . . restitution.”

  “The Lykard were ever vengeful.” Gart nodded.

  “I had thought that affair might be forgotten,” Bracht said, “and Jehenne with another.” The sentence elicited a chuckling and an enthusiastic shaking of heads, as if this were a matter of great amusement.

  “The memory of the clan Lykard is long,” said Gart.

  “And Jehenne ni Larrhyn’s a prodigious thing,” added Kythan. “Were you contemplating a ride northward I should ride hard, were I in your saddle. You and your stranger comrades, all.”

  His eyes moved to Katya as he spoke, framing a silent question.

  Bracht shook his head once and said, “Jehenne need find no quarrel with her.”

  Gart shrugged. “She rides with you and she is beautiful. Do you tell me you have not . . .”

  “No,” Bracht said quickly, turning a troubled glance Katya’s way, for all she sat her horse in silence, unaware of what was said. Calandryll, sensing a pattern emergent, wondered what the Kern might tell her; for his own part fascina
ted by the exchange.

  Gart’s brows rose; Kythan said, “Does your blood thin in this southern clime, then?”

  “I have taken a vow,” Bracht answered. “There is an understanding between us.”

  “Were I in your saddle”—Kythan grinned—“I’d welcome an understanding with one such as she.”

  Calandryll saw Bracht’s mouth tighten a fraction at the sally, but the Kern held his temper in check and forced a smile. It seemed he accepted such ribaldry better from his own kind than from others. “That blade she wears, she can use,” he said. “While yours, save I miss my guess, is rusty and likely worn from excessive misuse.”

  Both older men laughed uproariously at this and Gart nodded eagerly, slapping his chortling brother so hard upon the back that Kythan was almost dislodged from his perch. “I trust your blade’s as sharp as your tongue,” he stuttered through his laughter, “for do you encounter any of the ni Larrhyn family you’ll need a keen edge.”

  “Or a fast horse,” said Kythan. “That black’s still sound?”

  “I ride the wind,” Bracht declared, “and do the Lykard but give me opportunity, I’ve werecoin enough to assuage even Jehenne’s temper,”

  “Do they give you the opportunity,” said Gart, more seriously, “which is a gamble I’d think on long before easting those particular dice. But come—we sit here agossiping when we might better loosen our tongues with ale. You’ve varre, you say? Then I say we match you coin for coin and cup for cup. I’d hear of your adventuring, and what—save madness—brings you back to Lykard territory.”

  Calandryll understood sufficient of the conversation he was able to recognize that no mention was yet made of Daven Tyras; equally, from the energetic way both older men sprang from the fence, that little choice was left save to drink with them. He curbed his impatience, forgetting that not long ago he had delayed, following Bracht’s example as the Kern dismounted.