by Angus Wells
“He’s a powerful enemy,” Calandryll agreed. “But still we may turn this to our profit.”
“How so?”
It was Nevyn who spoke, but the question was writ clear on every face there as all turned toward him.
“We know now that he may use the ghost-talkers against us,” he said slowly. “In what he did to Morrach, he showed his hand.”
“Poor comfort, that,” Bracht murmured. “Must we then avoid all camps along our way?”
“Perhaps; perhaps not,” Calandryll replied. “Messages can be sent to warn of what Rhythamun can do, so that all the ghost-talkers of Cuan na’For are alert to his stratagems. Perhaps he has some gramarye he can employ to intercept that message, or—knowing he failed here—he’ll guess it; but I think he’ll likely avoid the camps now.”
“And ride the harder for that,” said Bracht.
“But likely without further aid,” returned Calandryll. “Knowing Daven Tyras can expect no ready welcome, he’ll surely be forced to hide, for fear the drachomannii unite against him,”
“Which we shall,” promised Nevyn. “And now we know he’s able to insinuate his foul magicks into our minds, we can ward against him.”
Calandryll nodded, a thin smile on his lips. “You see? By revealing his power, he weakens himself. I think he must travel alone now.”
“He’s likely still the warriors Jehenne sent with him,” Dachan reminded them. “And if he can possess a ghost-talker . . .”
“He’s the use of their horses,” Bracht said. “At the least.”
“But not the hospitality of the camps,” Calandryll argued. “Even does he shift his shape again, he must ride in the form of a ni Larrhyn, no? Nevyn, once we’re gone—not earlier!—can you send word of all this?”
The shaman grunted confirmation.
“Then let word be sent,” urged Calandryll, “that all the camps beware the ni Larrhyn riders.”
“To slay them?” asked Dachan, tugging on a plait, his expression dour. “There’s little honor in that.”
“No.” Calandryll shook his head. “I’d see no more innocent folk slain for Rhythamun’s sake. Say only that they be turned back—given no aid; neither horses nor more food than they need to reach the last camp they left behind them. Do any seek to go on, then they must be Rhythamun, or his creatures. Thus, we may deny him further assistance.”
Dachan nodded; Nevyn said, “It shall be done.”
“A day, at least, after we depart,” Calandryll warned.
“And you shall have all the aid we can give,” promised Dachan. “Spare mounts, supplies, an escort—ask and it shall be yours.”
“My thanks.” Calandryll ducked his head in gratitude. “But I think there’s no need. Speed is our ally now, and packhorses will only slow us.”
“No more than hunting,” said Bracht doubtfully.
“We’ll not stop to hunt”—Calandryll’s grin stretched wider, and he chuckled, beginning to enjoy this turning of the tables—“for we’ll find our food in the camps along the way to the Cuan na’Dru.”
“With ghost-talkers likely to turn against us?”
Bract’s voice was harsh. Calandryll motioned him silent, grinning at his startled visage. “Listen,” he urged. “Rhythamun knows—for now, at least—that we are here. He knows we live still, and therefore that we shall continue after him. The ghost-talkers along the way shall be warned against him, against all of Jehenne’s warriors, but”—he raised his hand again as Bracht opened his mouth to argue further—“if the ghost-talkers we encounter seek no communication while we are in their camps, nor send any word of where we are, or where we go, Rhythamun can learn no more. At best he may discover where we’ve been, but only that.”
Bracht frowned, digesting the notion. Beside him, Katya pursed her lips and spoke for the first time.
“There’s sense in that, I agree. But what if he possesses a ghost-talker before we come on a camp? Then we might well ride into the arms of a murderer who wears the face of a friend.”
“I suspect he can only exercise his magic while the ghost-talkers employ theirs.” Calandryll looked to Nevyn for confirmation: received it in a nod, soon followed by a groaned curse. “And it looked to me that Morrach fought the gramarye. Even though Rhythamun’s magic overcame his will, still the signs were on his face. You saw his eyes?”
“They burned with madness,” Katya said softly. “As though some demon looked outward from inside his skull.”
“As did the eyes of the dire-wolf we slew,” Calandryll murmured. “I think that save he possess a man utterly, taking the body for his own, his evil shines like some fell beacon, and so must be noticed.”
“There’s more,” Nevyn said eagerly, then winced. “Ahrd, but my head hurts!”
“Can you not mend it?” asked Dachan.
“Not yet.” The shaman grinned ruefully. “Until these three are gone, I’ll not employ my powers in the least, for fear . . .” He glanced significantly at Morrach, still unconscious, and Dachan grunted his understanding. “Until then I’ll suffer. Now listen—it seems to me that Calandryll speaks sense, and you’ve no need to fear further assault from my brethren. Had Rhythamun been able to possess us both, do you not think he’d have sent me with Morrach?”
“I wondered at that,” Calandryll said. “When I saw only the one man come from the wagon.”
“Aye.” Nevyn remembered not to duck his head. “Do we not always act in concert? Is there any camp with but one of us?”
Dachan and Bract, both, shook their heads.
“Always two, at the least,” said Nevyn. “In the larger camps, three, even four sometimes; but never the one. Do you not see it? Were Rhythamun able to seize Morrach and me together, then he’d surely have sent us both about his filthy business, but he did not. Therefore, I believe he could not: he is able to possess only one.”
“Aye.” Calandryll grinned. “I see it.”
“You’ve a quick mind,” complimented Nevyn, and turned smiling to the others. “Two, at least, in each camp, and Rhythamun able to use but one of them. The closest camp to this is five days ride distant, so before our friends arrive there, word can be sent. And even does Rhythamun learn of their coming, and take possession of one ghost-talker, then surely the other must know it. Such magic cannot hide itself, but must be seen.”
“And the one possessed be taken,” said Calandryll. “Even such strength as Morrach commanded cannot stand against a whole camp.”
“Aye, he’d be held until you came,” said Nevyn, smiling. “And do you use your blessed sword again, the gramarye shall be expelled.”
“So we may ride free,” said Calandryll.
“Save he dream up some other kind of obstacle,” Bracht muttered.
“As doubtless he will,” Calandryll retorted, chuckling, pleased with himself now. “But shall that sway us?”
“No,” said Bracht firmly, and began himself to chuckle. “In Ahrd’s name, it shall not!”
“Morrach wakes.”
The woman’s voice recalled their attention to the second ghost-talker and all fixed a wary gaze on the shaman. Nevyn, with a grunt of discomfort, knelt at his side; Calandryll drew his sword, a precaution. Morrach’s lips parted to emit a sound part sigh, part moan, and his eyes fluttered open, blinked, and then flung wide as he cried out, his shout filled with loathing. Nevyn took him by the shoulders, speaking softly, urgently, in their own language, and Morrach whimpered, clinging to his fellow as does a child awakening from a nightmare cling to its father. For a while Morrach trembled, his teeth rattling, his long face drawn, his eyes glazed, seeming to search inside himself. Then, slowly, his shuddering eased and ceased, he clenched his teeth, took a long, deep breath that whistled out like a hymn of thanks, and raised his head.
“Ahrd be with me.” He stared around, drinking in the sight of the familiar wagon, the familiar faces. “Is there wine?”
A man filled a cup and the shaman drank it down greedily, wiped his mouth, and pa
ssed it back, rising to prop himself against the wagon’s side.
“Ahrd be with me,” he repeated, in the Envah now, “and grant I never more know such horror. Better you cut me down.”
“Better you live,” Nevyn said. “As do you, thanks to Calandryll and the goddess Dera.”
Morrach stared at Calandryll’s blade, a hand extending, almost reluctantly, to touch the steel. When all his wary fingers found was cold metal, he sighed, essaying a tentative smile.
“You’ve my thanks for that. Ahrd! I looked to murder you.”
“Rhythamun looked to murder me,” returned Calandryll. “Or any one of us.”
Morrach nodded and said, “I know. I felt him in me.” He shuddered at the memory, his eyes hollow, and turned his face to Nevyn. “Are you bad hurt, my brother?”
“A sore head,”—Nevyn smiled—“no more.”
“Praise Ahrd for that,” murmured Morrach. “And none others came to harm?”
“None,” confirmed Nevyn. “Now do you tell us what you know?”
Morrach’s eyes said that he had sooner forget, but he ducked his head in agreement and said, “We tranced. We spoke with Tennad of the ni Brhyn, and as we spoke there came a darkness—a fell clouding of the aethyr, as if some malign thing invaded—that came into me.”
He broke off, shuddering anew at the recollection. Nevyn murmured for more wine and passed him the cup, waiting as his fellow drank. Morrach drained the cup and held it in both hands, tight, his knuckles tensing white as he continued.
“I knew it for Rhythamun’s animus—I fought against it, but it was too powerful. Ahrd, but it was strong! It overcame me. I became its puppet! I saw you knew and struck you down. Forgive me. I left you, not caring whether you lived or died, and went seeking these three.” He released his grip on the cup just long enough to gesture at the questers. “I—or Rhythamun, in me—thought to find them sleeping. To slit all their throats, or as many as I might. But then Calandryll came at me and we fought; and then all three were there, and I heard myself call for Bracht to slay me, the animus thinking that did he put his sword in me, Dachan would command him slain and thus their quest be ended. That there are three is important—Rhythamun knows that, that there must be three. Then Calandryll touched me with his sword and I . . . Ahrd, but I knew pain then! It was like fire in my veins.” He stared in wonder at the blade, shaking his head and smiling. “Cleansing fire, for even as I burned, I felt the animus quit me. The next I knew, I was here.”
“Praise Ahrd you wake entire,” said Nevyn.
“Praise Ahrd—praise Dera!—Calandryll bears such a sword,” said Morraeh. “And that he had the wit to use it as he did. A slower-minded man would have cut me down.”
Calandryll sheathed the blade then, confident now that Rhythamun’s fell gramarye was utterly dispelled. “He sought to use you,” he said. “But he overreached himself.”
Swiftly, Nevyn explained all they had discussed, and when he was done, Morraeh nodded, smiling firmer. “Aye,” he declared, “it must surely spin fate’s wheel against him. What shall he do now, think you?”
“He travels ever northward, toward the Jesseryn Plain,” Calandryll replied. “The god, Horul, rules there, and so it’s an unlikely site for Tharn’s tomb. More probably, he looks to cross the plain and the Borrhun-maj, too. It’s our belief the Mad God lies beyond.”
“How shall you find him on the Jesseryn Plain?” asked Morraeh, his face twisting in disgust as he added, “What if he takes another’s body there?”
“Ahrd willing, we shall emerge from the Cuan na’Dru ahead of him, and it seems the shape-shifting takes time and effort. I think he’ll hold the form of Daven Tyras for a while, and so we’ll recognize him.” Calandryll paused, frowning as an unwelcome thought crossed his mind, and said hesitantly, “Though without the aid of the ghost-talkers to the north to warn us where he goes, we must guess at his path.”
“Does he look to reach the Jesseryn Plain, there are few enough descents into the Kess Imbrun,” offered Dachan. “And only one convenient to the path he seems to take.”
“The Daggan Vhe,” murmured Bracht, amplifying as Calandryll’s eyes flashed a question, “the Blood Road—where the warriors of Cuan na’For met the last invasion of the Jesserytes.”
“Then we’d best ride hard for the Daggan Vhe,” Calandryll said.
Bracht nodded and turned to Dachan: “In this your offer of help would be useful.”
“Name it,” said the ketoman.
“Food to see us through to the next camp, and one good horse apiece,” Bracht asked, adding for Calandryll’s benefit, “our supplies we can distribute, so no one animal is overburdened. We ride one, leading the fresher mount. That way we shall travel faster.”
Calandryll voiced agreement, and a request of his own: “An escort, too. Of warriors who know those Jehenne sent with Daven Tyras—against the possibility that Rhythamun ensorcels them and sends them back to oppose us. To the edgewoods of the Cuan na’Dru, at least.”
“Pray Ahrd no ni Larrhyn need raise sword against kin,” Dachan murmured, “but aye, you shall have all that. When shall you depart?”
Calandryll glanced toward the wagon’s entrance, suddenly aware the last of the night had passed as they talked, that between the curtains there stood a band of light, herald of the burgeoning day. He looked to Bracht and Katya, who nodded as he said, “Now.”
Dachan, in turn, nodded, barking orders that sent warriors hurrying from the wagon. Katya said, “I’d bathe, if we’ve time. I’ve the feeling it shall be long ere we enjoy that comfort again.”
“Swift, though,” Bracht warned. “We bathe and eat, then we’re on our way.”
“I’d accompany you,” Morrach announced, “save I fear my talents should prove more danger than aid.”
“Better you remain for that reason,” Calandryll agreed, smiling, that there be no sting in his words. “And you’ve messages to send, besides. Nor, I suspect, is Nevyn’s head yet sound enough for hard riding.”
“Aye,” Nevyn answered, grinning. “There’s truth in that.”
“We shall pray to Ahrd,” promised Morrach. “That he ward you, and grant you success.”
“Our thanks, then.” Calandryll rose, bowing. “And farewell.”
He quit the wagon, Bracht and Katya at his back, the Lykard crowding round separating to grant them passage, with awe-filled eyes and shouts of good wishes. They went to the stream, bathing hastily, and emerged from the shelters to find breakfast awaiting them, and Dachan with their own horses, saddled and ready, with three spare mounts, those, too, saddled, and all the bags filled.
“I’ve chosen twenty to side you,” the headman advised them as they ate. “All know the warriors Jehenne sent, and they’ve my orders to obey you. Be it needful, then they’ll slay the others.”
“Ahrd willing, it shall not come to that,” said Bracht.
“I’ve the feeling Rhythamun runs now,” said Calandryll, “and likely won’t spend time holding warriors to his geas.”
Dachan nodded, his lean face expressing the hope Calandryll spoke true. “I’d ride with you myself,” he said, “but with Jehenne only recently dead, I had best remain here.”
Calandryll swallowed a last mouthful of bread and smiled. “You do enough already,” he told the Lykard. “And you’ve our thanks for that.”
“One thing more,” Bracht asked, standing. “I’d send word to my parents that I live, and that the feud is dead.”
“It shall be done,” promised Dachan, clasping them each in turn by the hand. “The ni Errhyn shall know. Ahrd, once the bards are done composing, all Cuan na’For shall know! The god go with you, my friends.”
“And with you,” Bracht said, and grinned at his companions, fiercely. “So, do we ride? We’ve a mage to meet.”
NOW Calandryll learned, truly, what it meant to ride fast. Without need to husband their horses’ strength, or avoid contact with the Lykard, they sped across the grasslands. Where before they
had alternated their pace, cantering at times, but as often moving at no more than a trot, now they held to a steady canter, each with a riderless mount in tow. As one animal tired, so they transferred to the other, back and forth, as would, Bracht explained, a warband striking into hostile territory. They ate and drank in the saddle, thundering remorselessly northward, sending herds of wild horses scattering from their path, the dog packs running yelping from so large a group. They slowed only when the sun set, rendering the footing treacherous, and then proceeded at a fast walk until full night fell and they made camp, dining on the ample provisions Dachan had provided. At first light they went on, and in two days reached the next camp, sighting the wagons clustered in the lee of a small hurst just as the sun sank beneath the western horizon.
They were welcomed there, with respect and curiosity, and brought before the ketoman, Vachyr, and the drachomannii, of whom there were two, Dewin and Pryth. These confirmed that word had come from Morrach and Nevyn, warning of Rhythamun’s gramaryes, and that it had been passed on. Of the sorcerer who wore the form of Daven Tyras, they could say no more than that he had gone through the camp long days earlier, and that none of his escort had returned.
They slept the night in Vachyr’s camp and rode out as it woke, continuing for five days before coming on a group of the ni Brhyn led by a warrior named Ranach. Here, too, they were made welcome, fed and offered the use of the headman’s wagon, Rachan embarrassed by his familial connection with Daven Tyras. This camp numbered three ghost-talkers—Ovad, Telyr, and a woman named Rochanne—who reported much as had Dewin and Pryth: that none of their kind had sensed further interference in the aethyr, nor knew where Rhythamun was now. It seemed that the sorcerer had disappeared, for since that last sighting in the ni Brhyn camp none had encountered him, neither in Lykard territory nor Valan. Indeed, after possessing Morrach, he looked to have disappeared from the face of the world.
