Dark Magic

by Angus Wells

  “What do they say?” demanded Katya, frowning as Kythan swung back a gate, advising them that their mounts should be safe inside the corral.

  “That we should leave our animals here awhile,” Calandryll explained, “and drink ale with them.”

  “Ale?” The flaxen head swung in irritation. “Do we not seek Rhythamun? Shall we waste time in some tavern?”

  “Trust me.” Bracht led his stallion into the corral. “We’ll have answers soon enough.”

  The warrior woman’s frown deepened a moment and her grey eyes flashed dangerously, as though a storm gathered in the orbs, but then she muttered something in her own language and dropped limber from the gelding, leading the horse after Calandryll’s chestnut into the corral.

  Gart and Kythan studied both animals as they waited by the gate, nodding their approval. Gart asked, “Where did you find them?”

  “In Aldarin,” Bracht replied.

  “But out of Cuan na’For lest I misjudge them,” said Kythan. “Their cost?”

  Bracht named the sum and Kythan grinned. “You’d pay less here,” he advised.

  “We found ourselves in Aldarin,” Bracht said, shrugging. “In need of mounts.”

  “There’s the cost of herding them so far south,” said Gart.

  “The herdsmen to pay.” Kythan nodded.

  “The journey back,” said Gart.

  “Too far,” Kythan observed.

  “Not worth the trouble,” Gart agreed, “no matter the price.”

  Their pecuniary discussion continued as they closed the gate and led the way along the wall to an open-fronted tavern; Calandryll wondered if all Kerns suffered avarice. Certainly it had seemed when Bracht first agreed to escort him to Gessyth that coin had been the freesword’s chief consideration and he recalled how he had accused Bracht of greed. Indeed, when they had returned to Aldarin, his comrade had shown concern for his promised reward, reminding Calandryll of his mercenary leanings. But now . . . this talk of—how was she called?—Jehenne ni Larrhyn, of werecoin to be paid in settlement of some dispute, appeared to set a different stamp on Bracht’s intentions. Perhaps, he thought, he would learn now why the Kern had fled his homeland. And, he trusted, of Daven Tyras.

  It seemed the taverns of the quarter were divided in some clannish configuration, the patrons of this one cut from similar stamp to Bracht and the two older men, while in others Calandryll saw differences of clothing and coloration suggestive of different origins. Here, he guessed, the Asyth held sway, for around them sat men mostly dressed in breeks and tunics of black leather, blue of eye, their hair dark and gathered in loose tails like Bracht’s and, he remembered, his. Some called greetings, but softly, as if wary that unfriendly ears—on Lykard heads? Calandryll wondered—might overhear, and when Bracht answered them, he made a warning gesture so that none approached, leaving the three alone with the two brothers. They found a table and called for ale.

  “What news?” Bracht indicated the north with a glance toward the bulk of the citadel.

  “Your father, your mother—both thrive.” Gart drank deep, smacking his lips in appreciation. “Mykah offered the ni Larrhyn horses in compensation, but they were refused.”

  “Jehenne would still sooner have you, it would seem,” said Kythan with a sly grin. “The answer she returned was that you and two strong nails alone would suffice.”

  He paused to drink, carefully dramatic. Gart nodded and explained: “You because it was agreed, the nails to crucify you.”

  “Do you truly intend to go home, you’d as well delay awhile,” Kythan advised, serious now. “Once our stock is sold we shall go back, and some others of the clan—you’d find safety in numbers.”

  “Or take the Lyssian road to Forshold.” Gart nodded. “For the Lykard rove more easterly of late.”

  Bracht’s eyes spoke a question at that and Gart shrugged, saying, “The creatures of Hell Mouth stir, it seems, and neither the drachomannii nor blades hold them to the pass.”

  “They venture out?”

  Calandryll heard surprise in Bracht’s voice, perusing his memory for what he knew of Hell Mouth. It was the name the folk of Cuan na’For gave the Geff Pass, he recalled, and when he had suggested they might depart Gessyth by that route Bracht had warned against such a direction, speaking of strangeling creatures therein. And now they stirred? What, he wondered, did that portend—some further indication that the Mad God sent out his malign influence? He saw Gart duck his head in confirmation and concentrated his attention on the Kern’s words.

  “It would seem so, from what we’ve heard. Though as yet the Asyth lands go untouched, the Lykard speak of horses taken, and men; they ride well clear these days. Closer to the Asyth grazing.”

  “No matter.” Bracht shaped a dismissive gesture. “We must go on, and without delay, save we find the man we seek.”

  “Ah,” said Kythan, “I sense a tale unfolding here. Wait . . .”

  He drained his mug, Gart swiftly following suit, and shouted for more ale. When it was brought, both brothers drank and leaned forward, their eyes intent on Bracht’s face, clearly eager to hear his story. How much, Calandryll wondered, would his comrade reveal? How much should be told? So far it had seemed the wiser course to hold their knowledge of Rhythamun and his fell purpose to themselves; neither had the occasion arisen when revelation seemed profitable. But now? He was not sure.

  “A man named Daven Tyras,” Bracht said.

  Recognition showed on both faces. Kythan nodded; Gart said, “A half-blood trader in poor horses?”

  Bracht grunted agreement. Kythan said, “His mother of Lykard stock, his father out of Lysse?”

  “He’s here?” demanded Bracht, his voice harsh.

  Whatever protocol governed these matters, it appeared Bracht had broken it by so direct a question: the brothers seemed momentarily taken aback, as if the correct approach was to skirt around the subject, to come gradually upon it.

  Even so—perhaps impressed by Bracht’s fierce look—the two Kerns shook their heads and Gart said, “No. He passed through Gannshold some weeks ago. Three? Four?”

  “Four,” said Kythan. “We’d just sold that roan stallion.”

  “Aye—four, then,” Gart agreed.

  Bracht cursed, for all it was what he had expected. Calandryll felt a hand upon his arm and turned to find Katya frowning curiously, clearly frustrated by her lack of understanding. “I heard the name,” she said. “What news?”

  “That he went north four weeks ago,” Calandryll explained, and heard the warrior woman curse in her own language.

  Bracht said, “Wait,” and returned his attention to the brothers.

  “Tell me what you know of him.”

  Gart and Kythan exchanged a look as if confirming their shared memories, then Gart said, “You know his face?”

  Succinctly, Bracht repeated Darth’s description of Daven Tyras, and what else they had learned on the way northward. Gart nodded agreement, drank, wiped foam from his lips, and said, “He still rides the piebald gelding, but he left Gannshold in company with some Lykard of his mother’s family—the ni Brhyn—more than that, we cannot tell you.”

  He shrugged, aped by Kythan, who asked, “You have some quarrel with the half-blood?”

  Bracht paused an instant, then ducked his head, saying, “He stole a thing.”

  “A thing,” Kythan murmured, “that brings you north with a warrior woman out of Vanu and a Lyssian disguised as a clansman, eh? This must be a very important thing . . .”

  The question was indirect, but nonetheless there; Bracht nodded, smiling briefly, and with scant humor. “It is a book,” he said. “We . . .”

  His words were drowned by the spluttering of the brothers. Gart coughed ale, choking, and Kythan pounded him vigorously on the back, his own chin wet with the ale that dribbled from his gaping mouth.

  “A book?” It seemed a matter of utter incredulity. “You’d risk Jehenne ni Larrhyn’s vengeance for a book?”

&
nbsp; “What use have you for a book?” Gart’s expression suggested such a thing was beyond comprehension. He wiped at his ale-soaked shirt, sipped again, as if that action would restore normality. “Have you learned to read while you sojourned in Lysse?”

  “No,” Bracht said, “but I took payment to find it. And I am vowed to bring it safe to Vanu.”

  “You find employment with her?”

  Katya frowned afresh as the brothers turned toward her, fidgeting impatiently. Calandryll motioned her to silence as Bracht said, “No. She is bound by the same vow—that we bring the book to her land.”

  “This has the makings of a tale to fill the winter nights,” Kythan remarked. “Such a tale as the bards unfold—Bracht ni Errhyn rides in search of a . . . book . . . in company with Katya of Vanu and a guised Lyssian.”

  His eyes moved to Calandryll, once more asking an unspoken question. Bracht grinned conspiratorially, answering: “In a while Tobias den Karynth, now Domm of Secca, will come to Gannshold. He will post Calandryll outlaw, claiming him a father-slayer.”

  The brothers’ eyes narrowed at this and Bracht quickly added, “He is not! Tobias employed the Chaipaku to poison his father and set the blame at Calandryll’s feet while Calandryll rode with me.”

  “A father-slayer is . . .” Gart used a word Calandryll did not understand, though the expression of disgust that contorted his weather-beaten features suggested clear enough its meaning.

  “Aye,” said Bracht, “and as we’ve traveled the length of Lysse, it was needful to employ this masquerade.”

  “Which you’d prefer we keep to ourselves,” said Gart.

  “In pursuit of a book,” said Kythan.

  “Aye,” said Bracht, answering both men.

  “The Chaipaku,” said Gart; a trifle nervously, Calandryll thought. “Does the Brotherhood, too, seek you?”

  “No longer,” Bracht said.

  “No longer?” Now Kythan forgot the indirection seemingly demanded by Kernish protocol. “Northward, Jehenne ni Larrhyn would see you crucified; you ride with a man hunted by the Domm of Secca; and you tell us the Chaipaku, too, have sought you? You’ve a talent for enemies, Bracht.”

  Calandryll saw his comrade shrug, grinning as if his fellow Kern lavished praise upon him. “The tale is lengthy,” he said, “and for another time. For now, it’s the thing that we find Daven Tyras.”

  “Gone through the pass these four weeks hence,” said Gart, “as we told you. Now? Likely he’s with the ni Brhyn.”

  “Can Daven Tyras read?” Kythan asked wonderingly.

  Bracht nodded. Gart said, “This book must be a thing of great value. The length of Lysse, you say? And northward into the arms of the Lykard? And all that you may bring this book to Vanu, where no clansman has gone before?”

  Again Bracht nodded, not answering the question that danced in Gart’s eyes. Instead he asked, “Are there folk of the ni Larrhyn here who might carry promise of werecoin to Jehenne?”

  The brothers grunted agreement, heads turning toward a tavern some distance away along the wall. Calandryll followed their gaze and saw the drinkers there were lighter of hair, which they wore in two long plaits dangling either side of their heads.

  “Ni Larrhyn and ni Brhyn, both,” said Gart. “Among other families—and all likely to seek your life should they learn you’re here.”

  “Jehenne has made it known that should it prove overly difficult to deliver you alive, your head will suffice,” Kythan amplified. “Providing it is preserved well enough she can recognize you. Though her preference is that she see you nailed to a tree.”

  Calandryll started at this news; it began to seem they rode headlong into dangers more immediate than confrontation with Rhythamun, his trail hedged with obstacles. Fate seemed to weight the dice of fortune against them. In his ear Katya hissed, “What is it? What is said?” and he gestured her to silence again as Bracht smiled coldly and said, “Is Gannshold no longer neutral? Does the covenant no longer hold?”

  “In most things,” said Gart, and shrugged elaborately. “But in this? Jehenne is powerful now, and very angry. It is not impossible some of the hotter-headed warriors could forget the covenant.”

  “Chador died while you’ve been awandering,” said Kythan, “and Jehenne leads the ni Larrhyn now. She has promised much to the warrior who delivers her you. Or your head.”

  “I had not thought her affections so fierce.” Bracht’s expression grew sour as he looked to where the fairer-haired men sat. “Even so, I have werecoin aplenty—nigh on five thousand varre.”

  “That much?” Gart’s mouth gaped open.

  “Ahrd!” gasped a wide-eyed Kythan.

  “An approach might be made?” Bracht asked.

  “For so much it might,” Gart said slowly.

  “That’s more werecoin than was ever offered,” said Kythan.

  “But still, perhaps, not enough.” Gart’s wrinkles deepened. “Jehenne’s anger runs hot. Your father offered the forty horses you took, and then forty more of her own choosing, with saddles and bridles for each, but still she refused. You and two nails, she said; save that Mykah himself deliver her your head.”

  “How did he reply?” wondered Bracht.

  “That should you return she might come aseeking,” said Gart. “But that she had best ride in company with all her clan, for should she look to take you by force every warrior of the Asyth would stand against her.”

  Bracht grinned hugely at that, slapping his thigh and saying, “The fire burns hot in my father still.”

  “He’d not give you over to the ni Larrhyn,” Gart said, “even does it, come to clan war.”

  “I’d not see that.” Bracht’s grin faded. “Daven Tyras is my quarry . . . the book he holds.”

  He shook his head, lips thinning as he thought a moment, then turned to Calandryll, speaking in Lyssian.

  “How much of this do you understand?”

  “Most, I think,” Calandryll replied.

  “And Katya?”

  “None,” she snapped. “I hear the name, Daven Tyras, but what you say . . .” She shook an angry wave of flaxen hair, like sunlight dancing over the stormy grey of her eyes.

  “I ask that you be patient.” Bracht touched her hand an instant. “After, I’ll explain all.” He turned again to Calandryll. “I think perhaps we must tell them.”

  He waited on an answer as Calandryll paused. Need they keep their quest secret from the brothers? Did Gart and Kythan understand the import of their quest, then likely they would lend what aid they could. They seemed stout-hearted enough, and if Bracht trusted them . . . He ducked his head: “Do you think it needful.”

  “I think it might well smooth our passage,” Bracht said.

  “Then, aye,” Calandryll agreed.

  The brothers understood the exchange, he guessed, for their eyes switched back and forth as he and Bracht spoke, curiosity writ clear on their faces, that expression transforming to expectancy on his agreement.

  Bracht turned to them and said, “What I tell you is for your ears alone. Do you give your word on that?”

  Solemnly they nodded, each in turn raising a hand in the splay-fingered gesture, then clenching a fist. “In Ahrd’s holy name,” said Gart, echoed by Kythan.

  “Then listen well,” said Bracht. “The book I seek is called the Arcanum. It was fashioned by the First Gods and lost in Tezin-dar . . .”

  “Tezin-dar?” Kythan frowned. “Where is Tezin-dar?”

  “The whole of this story is longer than I’ve time for now,” Bracht said. “Do you hear me out and I’ll tell you what’s needful.”

  “A half-told tale is kin to a three-legged horse,” Kythan complained. Then shrugged as Bracht sighed. “Even so, I’ll curb my tongue and hear you out—for promise of a full account later.”

  “You’ll have it,” Bracht promised, “do I live to tell it. Now—Tezin-dar is a city ages old, in Gessyth, warded by magic. The book—the Arcanum—was hidden there by Yl and Kyta, afte
r the godwars.” He ignored the grunts of surprise—or disbelief?—the brothers vented, motioning them to remain silent. “When the First Gods sent their sons down into limbo they left behind this book, which reveals the resting places of Tharn and Balatur. It was taken from Tezin-dar by a mage, Rhythamun, who wore another’s form and who would use the book to raise the Mad God.”

  Again he paused as Gart and Kythan gaped and grunted in wonderment, continuing: “Fate—or the Younger Gods, I know not which for sure—brought we three together, bound to hunt Rhythamun and take the book from him, to deliver it to Vanu that the holy men of that place may destroy it. Rhythamun wore the body of a lord of Aldarin then, and we followed him there, where we learned of his taking another—Daven Tyras!”

  “A gharan-evur,” Gart said softly, disgust in his voice.

  “Aye, such he is,” Bracht said, “and we have hunted him across Lysse, and now it seems we must go into Cuan na’For, Jehenne ni Larrhyn or no. Does Daven Tyras—Rhythamun!—succeed, then Tharn shall rise and all the world, all the Younger Gods, go down into chaos.”

  He broke off, sipping ale. For long moments the brothers stared at him, as if he were mad, then Gart said, “Did any other tell me this tale, I’d name him crazed.”

  Kythan said, “Surely the Mad God does not rest in Cuan na’For.”

  “I—we—think not,” Bracht answered. “Likely Rythamun must only cross Cuan na’For to some farther place. Mayhap beyond the Borrhun-maj. Wherever—we must go after him.”

  “You three alone?” asked Gart dubiously.

  “So it was scried.” Bracht nodded.

  “And if he succeeds, he will raise the Mad God?” The older man shook his head, puzzled. “By Ahrd, he must be crazed.”

  “He is,” Bracht said.

  “He would destroy Ahrd?” asked Kythan softly, aghast at thought of such blasphemy. “How shall we aid you?”

  “Aye,” said Gart. “How?”

  Whatever reservations they had entertained were banished, doubt converted to awestruck certainty. From their eyes, their faces—over which flitted expressions both horrified and resolute—Calandryll saw that they accepted the truth. Where they had previously doubted the wisdom of risking encounter with Jehenne ni Larrhyn, of even alerting the Lykard to Bracht’s presence in Gannshold, there was now the realization that those chances must be taken, lest Rhythamun succeed; lest their god and all his kin fall to Tharn’s madness.