Dark Magic

by Angus Wells

  He was still smiling as he returned to the fire and took the tea Bracht offered, savoring the brew as he watched the light strengthen, filtering in shafts of golden blue through the timber.

  “You’re mightily cheerful,” Katya remarked, and he nodded, beaming, answering “Aye,” encompassing their camp with a gesture. “This life is good.”

  “As well you think it so,” said Bracht dryly, “for there’s much of it ahead. By nightfall we’ll be on the grass and in ni Larrhyn territory, and there we shall need to mount a watch—against human wolves.”

  “Are the Lykard so fierce?” he asked, and Bracht nodded.

  “They are,” he said. “And I think that with Jehenne leading the ni Larrhyn now, that family will be the fiercest.”

  Even that sobering warning failed to dampen Calandryll’s good humor and he hummed a half-forgotten song as he struck his tent and stowed it with the others on the packhorse, saddling his chestnut and taking the rearmost position as Bracht led them onward through the timber.

  They rode until midmorning through the trees, then over more rock where only scrub grew, picking up a stream and following its course down through clefts and gorges to a wide cirque where a lake pooled blue, reflecting the firs that ringed its circumference. There they halted and ate, leaving the lake behind as they climbed a narrow chine, seeing the final, lowest stretch of cordillera ahead, beyond that, still misty, the grass of the plains, an ax-sharp cut showing where they should emerge onto the grassland.

  Between the chine and the last line of hills the trees grew thick, the trail patterned by the sunlight that shone through the interwoven canopy of branches, the air resinous and drowsy with the buzz of insects. The hills ahead were lost behind the trunks and it was a shock to find themselves in the mouth of the cut, the timber ending dramatically on grey stone. The sun was moved toward its setting by now and Bracht announced that they would traverse the ravine and make camp at its farther end, heeling the black stallion into the defile.

  The horse snickered nervously, tossing its head and stamping; behind, the packhorse whickered, plunging on the tether. Abruptly, Calandryll felt his chestnut quiver and curvet, threatening to unseat him. He heard Bracht curse and as his mount spun, prancing, he saw Katya’s grey demonstrate the same reluctance to enter the cleft. It was all he could do to stay in the saddle, fighting the protesting animal to a standstill that left it with flattened ears and wildly rolling eyes, teeth champing against the bit. It pawed the rocky ground, snorting, and he backed it a little, feeling its protestations diminish as it moved farther from the ravine. Katya came back to join him, and her mount, likewise, calmed as it drew away from the shadowed stone. His eyes met the warrior woman’s, hers clouded with a doubt he knew must be reflected in his own, and they both looked to where Bracht still fought the nervous stallion.

  “Something must lie within,” Calandryll shouted. “The horses sense it, or smell it.”

  “Come back,” Katya called.

  Cursing soundly, Bracht turned the stallion and trotted back to join them, the wild-eyed packhorse needing no encouragement, but matching the black stride for stride.

  “What?” snapped the Kern, turning in his saddle to peer into the depths. “I saw nothing.”

  “It must lie farther in,” Calandryll said. “Out of sight.”

  Bracht leaned forward to stroke the stallion’s neck, soothing the great beast, and it tossed its head once and was still. The packhorse moved to the farthest extent of its tether, as far from the rock as it could get, seeking the proximity of the other animals, where it stood trembling.

  “Something must be there,” Katya said, fingering her saber.

  Bracht grunted, eyeing the gloomy passage. “Save we spend two days or more riding these hills to the main pass, we’ve no choice but to enter.” His voice, like his expression, was dour. “And the light will be gone ere long.”

  Calandryll looked skyward and saw the Kern was right: the sun lay close to the western peaks; soon the defile would lie in total darkness. He felt a great reluctance to attempt the passage by night.

  “Perhaps we should camp here and go through when the sun stands high.” He glanced at Bracht, at Katya, awaiting their response.

  “Does anything malign lurk within, then likely it will emerge by darkness”—Bracht shook his head— “and here shall be no safer than there.”

  “And time is our enemy,” Katya said, though with no great enthusiasm. “To find the other pass will delay us too long.”

  And perhaps the other pass is guarded, Calandryll thought, then promptly wondered why that word guarded sprang so readily to mind. Perhaps, he decided, because their way had been so far untroubled, unopposed. They had crossed Lysse without hindrance, quit Gannshold without obstruction. Perhaps it had been too easy. It was an uncomforting thought and he answered with a reluctant nod when Bracht said, “I think we have little choice.”

  “But wary,” cautioned Katya.

  “Aye,” the Kern agreed, and turned to Calandryll again. “Do you sense aught of magic here?”

  Calandryll sniffed the air. Horse sweat, pine scent, stone, and the mounting chill were all his nostrils found and he shook his head.

  “Mayhap the Lykard slaughtered some beast,” Bracht murmured, “and the smell of blood unnerves the horses.”

  “Your stallion, too?” asked Katya, and Bracht grunted a negative.

  “We must lead them,” he said, “and carry torches. If some beast haunts the way, flame will likely drive it off.”

  For no reason he could properly justify, Calandryll felt the certainty that whatever waited within the cleft was no mere beast to be frightened by flaming brands; but even so, it seemed, as Bracht had said, that little choice was left them: he joined the Kern in gathering branches, fashioning the sappy pine into stout flambeaux.

  On Bracht’s command they sacrificed a blanket to the making of blindfolds, that they secured over the horses’ eyes. The reins were given into Katya’s hands, her protests overridden by the Kern, who pointed out that of them all, he was the most adept with a blade, and that Calandryll’s sword was blessed by Dera, and thus—were the unknown obstacle of sorcerous origin—likely their most effective weapon.

  So it was that the two men went first into the defile, falchion and straightsword unsheathed, torches flaming in their left hands, Katya following some little way behind, cursing softly in the Vanu tongue as she struggled with the still-unwilling animals.

  The air inside the cut was cold, the walls high and smooth, cutting off the sun even though the sky above remained blue. Calandryll realized he sweated as moisture chilled on his face and chest. He thought the beating of his heart must surely pound loud enough to be heard over the sputtering of the torches; his mouth was dry, and on the nape of his neck he felt the short hairs prickle. He held his torch forward, his sword at the ready, eyes probing the gloom ahead.

  It seemed little affected by the light of the flambeaux, as if unnatural darkness held sway between the confining walls, and he was grateful for Bracht’s presence. The Kern stepped resolutely out, his hawkish features lit red by the flames, his eyes narrowed in a grim visage, frowning as his nostrils flared, like a cautious animal testing the air. He glanced briefly at Calandryll, raised brows framing a silent question, and Calandryll nodded: through the piny odor of the torches he caught the scent of almonds.

  Then that brief warning was overcome with another, a foul, charnel-house reek, as if flesh corrupted, its decay wafting thick along the cut, rotten and ripe so that he gagged, spitting.

  “Magic!” he heard Bracht shout, what confirming answer he might have given stilled in his throat by the dreadful roar that gusted out on the Kern’s cry.

  It bellowed, echoing deafeningly off the stone, dinning ferociously against their eardrums, drowning the screaming of the blindfolded horses, Katya’s yell. The sound of it seemed to magnify the darkness so that they stood lost in a fell night, swathed in a blackness so dense the torches were onl
y pinprick lights, dulled by the stygian gloom and fetid stench that washed all around.

  Faintly, near lost in that awful roaring, he heard Bracht shout, “Ahrd stand with us now!” and, unsure whether he voiced a prayer or a battle cry, answered, “Dera defend us!”

  It seemed then that the roaring became a terrible choking growl, or laughter, and the darkness swirled, like mist shifted by the rushing passage of some great body, a mass so large it pushed aside the gloom. Through it—from it—charged a thing he could not at first define, only start back, sword defensive before him as corpse breath blew against his face and he stared in horror at the apparition crouching to spring.

  It wore the body of a wolf, but no wolf known to man. It was huge, its jaws mantraps edged with dagger teeth, its eyes red and lit with a malignant intelligence. Its pelt was grey and ragged, torn, with yellow bone visible through the cuts, sinews exposed along its bunched legs, bone and raw muscle about the jaws. It looked a thing resurrected, some atavism, a dire-wolf long dead but now invested with a kind of life that it might halt them. It sprang.

  Calandryll screamed a helpless challenge, raising his blade even as he knew the creature must over-whelm him with its bulk alone, that those horrendous jaws must fasten on his head and crush his skull. He was only dimly aware of Bracht thrusting from the side, the falchion slashing viciously at flesh that parted to spill out writhing maggots, the torch in the Kern’s left hand scorching hair that lent its own rank stink to the fetid reek of the monster’s rotting body. It was pure instinct that bent Calandryll’s knees, dropping him below the snapping jaws, turning him to the side, away from the dead thing’s charge as he drove the straightsword into a shoulder that flapped tatters of unsavory skin, wounds that should have bled but did not.

  He heard the beast’s growl change then, and Bracht shout, “Ware Katya! Ware the horses!”

  The Kern darted back, interposing himself between the wolf-thing and the woman, but the creature ignored him, spinning to face Calandryll again, as if whatever intelligence animated its defunct body fixed on him alone. He crouched, torch and sword ready, no longer afraid—too invigorated by fear to recognize its presence—seeing the exposed muscles bunch anew. Bracht struck again, from the creature’s rear, carving bloodless wounds over the hindquarters, hacking with the falchion, driving the torch hard against the rump. Uselessly: claws long as a man’s fingers scrabbled on stone as the beast launched itself once more at Calandryll, and he flung himself aside, letting it go past now, so that he and Bracht again stood between it and Katya. The horses screamed, fighting her hold on the reins, plunging so that she was lifted off her feet, swinging helplessly as she sought to prevent them fleeing wild back into the hills.

  Calandryll saw sudden advantage in the confines of the ravine as the monstrous dire-wolf landed; its bulk was great enough it faced a moment northward, unable to turn as he sprang forward, driving his sword hard and deep between two bare ribs. It howled then, in pain as much as rage, and he turned the blade savagely, dragging it corkscrewed out to strike again as the thing turned, slashing across a shoulder.

  The massive jaws snapped shut and he thrust his torch at the face. The jaws opened, closing on the flambeaux, snatching it from his hand. Smoke gusted between the teeth, the monster’s throat lit red as its eyes, flames darting through the holes in its corrupted flesh. It dropped the torch, the brand guttering and dying, and the growling seemed again to become laughter, the eyes fixing—contemptuous, he thought—on his face. Certain now that he would die, uncaring now, he slashed the straightsword in an arc across the grim muzzle. The creature howled, and in its scream he heard more pain than rage. At his side he heard Bracht yell, “Your blade! Dera’s magic works against it!” and cut again, once, twice, carving lines that should have bled, had life and not magic animated the thing, over the snarling face.

  The dire-wolf faltered, crouching, but this time not springing to the attack; almost, it seemed, cowering. Calandryll danced a step toward it, thrusting, and saw it retreat. He laughed, a cry near wild as the beast’s howling, and feinted at the muzzle. The head turned, jaws snapping, and he rode his blow in beneath the great maw, into the throat, carving a hole there, snatching back his arm as the thing flinched and twisted, threatening to tear his blade from his grip. He backed away, motioning for Bracht to leave him room and waited as the monster poised to spring.

  He saw the huge body tense. He saw the great dead legs straighten, propelling the creature forward and up, the red eyes hidden by the parted jaws. And dropped to a crouch, ignoring Bracht’s cry as the gloom grew darker, the air above him filled with the hurtling body. He rammed the straightsword upward, into the chest, rising with the blade, all his strength, all his weight, all his trust in the goddess, behind the blow.

  The sword drove quillons-deep into the wolf-corpse and the defile filled with its awful howl. Then silence as its bulk bore him down and he was crushed beneath the stinking fur, struggling, close to panic, to escape the weight, choking on the stench. He could not breathe, nor fight clear. His head swam; his stomach rebelled, and he thought that he must vomit, drown in his own bile. He was unaware of Bracht’s hands on his flailing wrist, dragging him from the writhing, still howling beast until his lungs were filled with cleaner air and his vision cleared enough that he could see the carrion creature’s death throes.

  He saw then that he had guessed aright: that the edge cuts delivered served only to irritate the beast; that the implantation of the goddess-favored sword destroyed it. He watched as the jaws stretched back from the fangs, agonized, and the red light in the eyes dulled, the great legs kicking ever feebler.

  Then gasped, starting a horrified pace backward as the twice-dead thing spoke.

  “So, again you survive. My congratulations—you prove more tenacious than I had anticipated, but no matter. I know now that you pursue me and so can leave further obstacles in your way. And worse than this, I promise. Better that you concede me the game, for you cannot win and only death awaits you do you continue. Go back now, fools! Go back while you still have your petty lives. Enjoy what time you have left, for now I wax wrathful and when Tharn rises you shall be called to account.”

  The voice was Rhythamun’s.

  RHYTHAMUN’S voice faded; the corpse-wolf decayed, hide shriveling over bones and maggot-infested organs that crumbled into dust; the carrion stench dissipated. Calandryll snatched up his sword from the powdery relict, passing the blade through the flame of Bracht’s torch: an act of cauterization, of cleansing. Both stood staring at the dessicated remains, startled from their distasteful observation by Katya’s shout.

  “Now that’s done, do you help me with these horses before they run free?”

  So pragmatic was her demand that Calandryll found himself laughing as he turned, running with Bracht to where the warrior woman still fought the still terrified animals. They each seized reins, calming the beasts as best they could and leading them at a trot past the remnants, the hooves scattering the dust, leaving no trace behind. The sky yet held a little of the day’s light and farther along the defile they removed the blindfolds, mounting and riding hard, in silence, to where the gulley opened on the grass of Cuan na’For.

  By then the sun was gone and twilight descended over the prairie, the cordillera ending as abruptly as they had begun, cedar and cypress covering the gentle slope that ran down to the edge of the great grass sea. They made camp among the timber, by mutual assent riding out some distance from the pass to find a place where a narrow stream offered clean water and the dense clustering of trunks would conceal their fire. Calandryll plunged his face into the water, grateful for its cleansing cold, rinsing a mouth in which he could still taste the filth of the wolf-thing. Even then he thought he still smelled the creature’s rank scent on his tunic and breeks, and would have stripped them off and washed them had they the time. But that commodity—the more so now!—was short-supplied: Rhythamun knew they lived and came after him, and now, more than ever, they must be on t
heir guard. He cursed himself as he dried his face, that glum as he walked to the fire and squatted close to its flames, letting the sweet-scented smoke drift about clothing that held too near a memory of the fight with the resurrected dire-wolf.

  “You slew the thing.” Bracht turned spitted meat in the cheerful flames. “Why brood on it?”

  “I should have guessed,” he returned, inwardly directed anger rendering his answer curt. “In Aldarin I should have guessed, when Rhythamun spoke through the stone.”

  “Guessed what?” Bracht asked.

  “That he would never leave the way so open.”

  “He thought us lost in Tezin-dar,” Katya said. “Trapped there by the closing gates.”

  “He thinks farther ahead, more subtly.”

  Calandryll scowled into the fire; Bracht said gently, “Do you explain?”

  “He hoped we should be lost in Tezin-dar.” Calandryll reached out, passing a hand through the flames. “Perhaps even thought we were, but still that would never be enough for him. He had to know—and so he left the stone, imbued with his magic. I was a fool to touch it. I should have known.”

  “We deal with sorcery,” Bracht said, “and that is ever devious.”

  “Still I should have known—that more than vanity, pride, whatever reasons I ascribed, lay behind that manifestation. Do you not see?”

  Bracht shook his head; Katya studied Calandryll’s face, her eyes intent. He continued: “The talisman was linked with me; connected by his magic. In my hand it came to life, he appeared before us”—this with a glance at Katya, who ducked her head in agreement—“and then I thought mere pride governed his sortilege, that he worked his magicks solely to mock us. But he planned deeper—when I touched the stone, I told him we survived; that we were come back to Aldarin. And in telling him, I warned him—he must then consider the likelihood of our pursuing him, and consequently devise stratagems against us.”