Dark Magic

by Angus Wells

  The prisoners ate and waited: they could do no more.

  Then, as dawn became morning, the curtain was flung back and they were summoned. A dozen warriors surrounded them, bringing them to the camp’s center, where Jehenne stood, the drachomannii at her back, a knot of Lykard, men and women, to either side, their faces grave. These, as if accorded some special status, occupied the square formed by the wagons. The other folk—the entire camp, it seemed—looked on from a little distance, all silent.

  “The kinfolk of the dead,” Bracht murmured, indicating those closest to Jehenne with a jut of his chin. “Best I speak—does she allow.”

  The escort halted, shoving the prisoners forward, and for long moments, Jehenne studied them without speaking. The sun struck fire from her red hair, sparking over the platelets that decorated her leathers. Her left hand was clasped loose about the hilt of her sword, her right fisted at her side. Her eyes were alight with horrid anticipation, her smile predatory.

  “Judgment is delivered,” she said at last, slowly, savoring the words, a gourmet at a ghastly feast. “For the insult given me, and the slaying of Lykard warriors, his trespass on our grazing lands, Bracht ni Errhyn is condemned to death.”

  She paused; still all the onlookers remained silent. It seemed even the horses were still. Overhead, Calandryll heard a raven croak.

  Then, her eyes intent on Bracht’s face, as if hungry for sight of fear there, she said, “You shall be taken from here and crucified.” Her right arm came up, her fist opening to display the nails she held. They were long, sharp-tipped, with heavy, flattened heads. “With these shall you be nailed to Ahrd’s tree—the god shall judge you then! Be it his will, these nails shall find no purchase, and you go free. Be you truly guilty, then you shall hang there until death release you, your bones testament to your iniquity. So are you judged.”

  Calandryll heard breath come sharp from between Brack’s teeth, but the Kern’s face remained impassive, and though his tanned skin paled a fraction, he showed no overt sign of fear. Instead, he ducked his head, once, meeting her gaze to demand, “And my comrades? My offer of werecoin?”

  Jehenne’s full lips pursed then, her eyes narrowing, angered by her victim’s stoic acceptance. For his part, Calandryll felt his stomach turn, his skin grow cold, not sure whether in awful sympathy or fear for his own life. He squared his shoulders, standing straight, determined to show no more weakness than Bracht demonstrated. Though his eyes were fixed on Jehenne’s face, from the corner of his right he saw Katya glaring at the woman, her proud features flushed with rage.

  “That is accepted.” Jehenne’s voice was thick, throbbing with barely controlled fury, her knuckles white as she clutched the nails. “They shall watch you hung on the tree and then may depart. But heed me—do either of you come again across my grass, you shall die as he does!”

  Her face was a beautiful harpy’s mask as she signaled, and a man came forward to hand Bracht his saddlebags. The Kern fetched out the leathern pouch containing the money, passing it to the closet ghost-talker. The shaman loosed the drawstrings, spilling bright coins into his companion’s hands, and announced formally, “Werecoin is paid; gold for blood. Let there be no talk of vengeance.”

  Bracht smiled then, and nodded, as though satisfied; Calandryll thought Jehenne would spit her ire. “A boon,” Bracht said.

  “No!” Jehenne’s voice was strident. “Nothing!”

  “It is the custom.”

  This from a ghost-talker, echoed by the other. Among the Lykard closest to the woman a grey-haired man said, “It is the way, Jehenne,” the rest murmuring agreement.

  Jehenne snarled aloud and gestured reluctant acceptance.

  “I’d know of Daven Tyras,” Bracht said. “Where does he go?”

  The woman laughed, injecting the sound with contempt. “You pursue that fiction? Do you think any here believe your lies?”

  “Where does he go?” Bracht repeated. “That I speak the truth of the shape-shifter, I think you know. Do you league with gharan-evur now, Jehenne? Do you worship the Mad God, as does he?”

  Calandryll was unsure whether Bracht sought genuinely to glean information, or to enrage the woman. If the latter, he succeeded, for her face grew mottled and fire danced in her eyes, her lips stretching tight over grinding teeth. In that instant, she seemed truly insane, and he thought she might draw her blade and end the Kern’s life there and then.

  Instead, in a voice barely controlled, she said, “No gharan-evur, he, but a man of vision. He rides for the north, escorted by chosen warriors, to speak with the Valan and the Yelle on my behalf.”

  Bracht’s eyes narrowed at that, and Jehenne laughed triumphantly, enjoying his puzzlement. “Aye,” she continued, gloating, “to parley with the ketomannii of those clans, to bring them my offer of alliance.”

  “Alliance?” Bracht asked. “To what end?”

  Again Jehenne laughed.

  “Why, that all the clans of Cuan na’For join together in one great force and ride south. Beyond the Gann Peaks, Lysse lies soft—ripe for the taking.”

  Calandryll gasped, seeing in this a grand and terrible design: further evidence that Tharn’s malign will influenced men, thus furthering his own resurrection. Civil war in Kandahar; in Lysse, Tobias speaking for invasion; now this talk of war between Cuan na’For and Lysse. It seemed that madness grew apace throughout the world, men preparing for such blood-baths as would make dreadful offering to the Mad God. “Insanity!” he heard Bracht shout, and thought that on the faces of more than a few of the assembled Lykard he saw doubt.

  Then Bracht said, “The Asyth will refuse such madness; my father will never agree.”

  “Then your father, and all your clan, if need be,” Jehenne returned, “will perish. All those who deny the dream will perish.”

  “You are seduced by a warlock!” Bracht shouted. “Daven Tyras is a shape-shifter, a father-slayer, whose goal is the raising of the Mad God! You deliver your clan to damnation, woman.”

  “Silence!” Jehenne’s voice was a whiplash, accompanied by a curt gesture that brought the guards closer, their hands firm on the prisoners. “You wriggle like some grubbing worm, but none will heed your lies.”

  Calandryll stared, sure now that she was Rhythamun’s creature. Whether consciously or unwittingly made scant difference: in her ambition, her lust for vengeance, she gave herself over to the mage, aiding him in his dreadful purpose. He felt himself hauled back, the guards pressing close, but in the moments before their bulk hid him from the onlookers, he thought he saw the doubt grow. Had that been Bracht’s purpose? To reveal to all the ni Larrhyn the path their leader chose? It seemed a philosophical question as he was manhandled away and set upon his horse, Katya to his right, beyond her, Bracht.

  Horsemen closed about them, driving them across the stream, through the cluster of carts, toward the farther wall of the valley. As they began to climb, Calandryll saw Jehenne in the lead, distinctive on her great white horse, the two ghost-talkers behind, then a group of folk who, unlike the guards, seemed to talk among themselves. They topped the ridge and lifted to a canter over the grass, a hurst barely visible in the distance across the flat prairie. The morning was as yet early, but already warm, the sun a bright disc above, shining indifferent from a sky of startling blue, broken by a handful of orphan clouds. When Bracht spoke none moved to silence him, as if their escort respected the condemned’s last farewells.

  “This is a good day to die, though I’d sooner it were in different manner.” His smile, Calandryll thought, was grim, belying his cheerful tone. “No matter—you’re saved, so listen. No,” this softly, to Katya, “weep not, but heed me—does Rhythamun truly carry word of this mad alliance to the Valan and the Yelle, then he must linger in Cuan na’For and you’ve the chance to find him.”

  “We two?” Katya’s voice was strained.

  “If need be,” Bracht said firmly. “And be you still set on entering the Cuan na’Dru, then I urge you ride wary. Seek
first the oaks of the edgewoods and ask leave of Ahrd that you may go into his forest. Do you encounter the Gruagach, and they prove unfriendly, then turn and ride hard away. Do not go where the Gruagach forbid. I’d have your word on that.”

  Katya moaned an affirmative; Calandryll said, “Aye.”

  As he spoke, he noticed that their escort attended Bracht’s words, their customarily impassive faces registering some measure of surprise, as if this talk of the Cuan na’Dru and the Gruagach impressed them. No less, he thought, it fed the seeds of doubt Bracht looked to sow. For all the good that did, he told himself as the distant hurst came nearer, for none seemed likely to argue Jehenne’s judgment, and Bracht, therefore, should still be nailed to the tree.

  “We’ve come a long way, we three,” the Kern said, “and I’d have you know I could not want for better comrades.”

  “Nor I,” said Katya, the simple words coming slow and choking from a throat constricted by grief.

  “I’ll never know a truer friend,” said Calandryll, his own voice husky now. “And be it in my power, your death shall not go unavenged.”

  Bracht nodded, casting a wary glance in the direction of the guards. “Let Rhythamun’s defeat be your revenge,” he murmured, then grinned. “Save that opportunity we spoke of present itself.”

  Calandryll ducked his head in silent promise.

  “So, Jehenne being in somewhat of a hurry, I think,” Bracht added, “I bid you both farewell. May Ahrd and all his kindred gods go with you, and when I’m on the tree, do not linger. Jehenne’s leagued with madness now and might well renege on her promise.”

  Calandryll saw some of their escort frown at that, but none spoke. “Farewell,” he said.

  “Farewell,” said Katya, and on her cheeks he saw tears glisten, silver as her mail. “And know this—that did we bring the Arcanum back safe to Vanu, then I’d have wed you; did my father say me nay, even so I’d wed you.”

  “Then I die content,” Bracht said solemnly.

  They fell silent then, the steady pounding of the hooves measuring out the distance to the hurst. Calandryll felt his own cheeks wet, and raised a hand to wipe them, his teeth pressed hard together, praying desperately that some miracle take shape, that Ahrd intervene, that a byah emerge from the ever-closer woodland to deny Jehenne.

  None came, only the trees, no longer a blur on the heat-hazed prairie but a distinct shape now, a small copse, leafed green with fresh spring growth, dominated by the single oak that thrust gnarled limbs like widespread arms outward from the edge. Jehenne halted there, beneath the shadow of the tree, studying the great trunk awhile before dismounting, tossing her reins to a warrior who led the horse away. The drachomannii, likewise, sprang down, falling to their knees with raised arms and spread fingers, chanting a prayer. The escort slowed and reined in a little way off, beckoning the prisoners from their saddles, awaiting Jehenne’s word before bringing them closer.

  She stood spraddle-legged, hands on hips, her face triumphant as she watched them brought before her.

  “I’d ask Ahrd’s mercy,” Bracht said, answered with a brief nod.

  He shook off the hands that held him and paced toward the oak. The ghost-talkers rose, stepping back, and he set both hands against the rutted trunk, murmuring low, then knelt with upraised arms and bowed head. Now! Calandryll shouted into the throbbing silence of his mind. Now save him! Ahrd, if you’d see us victorious over Rhythamun, send a byah now. Deny Jehenne and save this man who quests to save you and all your kin.

  Only bird song and the gentle rustle of wind-stirred leaves answered him, and he saw Bracht rise, turning from the oak to face the red-haired woman.

  “So, my peace is made—do what you will. But remember your promise, that my comrades ride free.”

  Calandryll felt Katya’s hand fasten tight on his forearm, her fingers digging hard into the muscle. He covered it with his own and they stared, aghast, as Jehenne reached beneath her tunic, extracting the two nails. She passed them to the ghost-talkers and called for warriors to take Bracht, to hold him against the tree.

  “There’s no need.”

  His voice was defiant and Calandryll saw Jehenne’s lips thin as the Kern set his back to the trunk, his arms lifted to either side.

  So vast was the ancient growth that even then wood showed, grey-green, past his hands, the branches overhead casting gentle shadows across his face. He braced himself square, and cried in a firm voice, “Go to it, then, and Ahrd curse your soul.”

  Jehenne snarled, disappointed by his courage, and snapped harsh orders that sent two muscular warriors to the tree to clutch Bracht’s wrists and hold him fixed against the trunk. In their free hands they carried hammers, the shafts wrapped with leather, the heads dull metal, and heavy. Jehenne passed a nail to each ghost-talker and the shamans came forward to set the points against Bracht’s palms. The warriors raised their hammers. Jehenne smiled, green eyes fixed intent on Bracht’s face, and said in a voice filled with horrid gloating, “Now go to it.”

  As one, the drachomannii intoned, “Ahrd’s will be done,” and the hammers fell.

  Calandryll stared in dreadful fascination, unable to turn his gaze or close his eyes, transfixed by the awful spectacle. He felt his own palms tingle, his hands tightening involuntarily into fists. Beside him, Katya moaned deep in her throat, and her grip tightened unnoticed on his arm.

  Bracht shuddered as the metal pierced his hands. His head snapped back, hard against the tree, tendons bulging down the length of his neck as he clenched his teeth, refusing to cry out. His eyes opened wide, bright with pain, and sweat burst from his forehead.

  The hammers rose, and fell again.

  Blood sprang red from Bracht’s palms, trickling over the skin, dripping onto the oak’s trunk. His mouth stretched in ghastly facsimile of a smile. The nails extended a finger’s length from his hands.

  Once more, the hammers fell. Once more, Bracht’s body shuddered. But still the nails remained extended, as if they found no purchase in the wood. The warrior to Bracht’s left paused, casting a puzzled look at the ghost-talker by his side. Jehenne shouted, “Strike harder!”

  Both hammers lifted; fell. The nails went no deeper.

  Now both the warriors faltered in their work, looking to each other, to the ghost-talkers. Calandryll felt hope flicker, a tiny kindling, and called silently on Ahrd, pleading for mercy, for a miracle. “Harder!” screamed Jehenne.

  The hammers thudded, metal on metal, with all the weight of the warriors’ thick arms behind the blows: uselessly, for neither nail seemed able to enter the oak’s wood, but went no deeper than the depth of Bracht’s palms. Calandryll’s gaze was locked on his comrade’s face, so he did not see Jehenne’s expression, but he heard her strangled cry, as though she, not her victim, were racked with pain. Then all who watched gasped in awe, staring dumbstruck as, slowly, the nails moved, outward.

  The warriors holding the hammers stepped back a pace, staring, awe and something close to fear in their eyes, and Jehenne shrieked, “No! Strike again, and harder!”

  The two men stood irresolute. One, tentatively, lifted his hammer, halted by a ghost-talker, who raised a commanding hand and said, “No. Leave be.”

  All stood in silence then as the nails moved, inexorably, pushing clear of Bracht’s palms, falling loose. Red-tipped, they fell to the grass at the Kern’s feet, and where they had pierced his flesh there came a green exudation, as if the unbroken bark of the tree oozed sap to expel the nails and fill the wounds. It bulged from the holes, running like some gentle balm over the skin, covering the blood, dripping to join the crimson spotting on the grass below. Calandryll gaped as he saw the agony go out of Bracht’s body. The eyes, no longer filmed with pain, cleared; the wide-stretched mouth relaxed, the awful rictus grin becoming an almost beatific smile. Loud and clear, Bracht cried, “Praise Ahrd!” Then his eyes closed and he slid down the trunk, crumpling limp on the sward.

  Calandryll felt his forearm burn as blood flowed aga
in to nerves numbed by Katya’s grip, that released as the warrior woman ran to Bracht’s side, cradling his head, her grey eyes triumphant as she stared at the green-painted wounds. The exudate congealed now, crusting over the holes, melding with the broken skin so that it seemed no nails had driven through. In moments no trace of wound was left in either hand, only faint stigmata, pale marks of new-grown, greenish flesh.

  “Ahrd has judged this warrior and found him innocent.”

  The ghost-talker stared, no less awed than any there, at Bracht.

  His fellow drachoman echoed him: “So it is. Ahrd rejects the nails—this man is judged innocent.”

  “No!”

  Jehenne’s shout was a banshee scream of frustrated rage. Calandryll saw her blade flash from the scabbard, lifted high as she darted forward. He thrust out a foot, tripping her, and she sprawled headlong on the grass. Cat-quick, she recovered, rolling and springing to her feet, fury and madness blazing in her green eyes as she continued toward the unconscious Bracht. Katya, no less swift, set down his head, rising in a crouch, ready to defend him bare-handed. Calandryll hurled himself forward, crashing into the woman, to send her down again as all around the watching Lykard began to shout. He clutched her wrist, an arm locking about her throat as she shrieked and struggled to throw him off. He was aware of boots stamping close by, then of hands upon him, dragging him clear, thinking the ni Larrhyn would give Jehenne her way, roaring, “Ahrd judged him! Ahrd claims him guiltless!”

  As he was lifted to his feet he saw that others held Jehenne, and that her sword was taken from her, and that while she fought the restraining hands, they held her firm, the dark faces of the Lykard confused and frightened.

  “Slay him,” she moaned, spittle flecking her contorted lips. “I command you to slay him! Slay them, all three!”

  “You blaspheme.”