Dark Magic

by Angus Wells

  “Surely he’s not yet reached the Kess Imbrun,” Bracht said as they sat by Rachan’s fire.

  “Save he employ sortilege, no,” said Rochanne. “Through use of magic, he might; but it would seem he prefers to travel in human form.”

  “Stolen form,” grunted Ovad, his lined face sour with distaste.

  “He told me once that he was able to transport himself through use of magic,” Calandryll offered. “But only did he know his destination.”

  “The gharan-evur are limited by their choice,” said Telyr. “A mage with the power to work that spell could readily assume a form that might travel faster than can a man—become a bird, a horse—but does he shed the body of Daven Tyras, then he becomes trapped in his new shape until he finds another.”

  “And to take that requires time,” Katya murmured.

  “Aye.” Telyr favored the Vanu woman with a curious glance. “You know something of this.”

  “The holy men of my country told me something of it,” she replied. “But I know only that the shape-shifter must become familiar with his victim before he may affect the possession.”

  “He spent time with Daven Tyras,” Calandryll said.

  “And so will likely hold that form,” Telyr declared. “To take the form of a beast would be easy—to shed it, far harder.”

  “Magic’s worked easier by men,” agreed Ovad. “I believe hell hold the body he has until he finds one more useful to him.”

  “What of his own?” asked Calandryll, remembering the image that had formed as Rhythamun’s animus quit Morrach’s body. “In Dachan’s camp I saw his face.”

  “You saw his pneuma,” answered Telyr. “The face of his spirit.”

  “The gharan-evur forsake their natural form,” Rochanne expanded. “Their physical being is left behind when they work their filthy magicks. What you saw was Rhythamun’s true face, revealed in the aethyr.”

  Ovad spat into the fire, clearly finding such discussion unpleasant. “Rhythamun exists only as pneuma,” he said. “As an elemental force—a spirit. The body he was born with is long gone into dust, so what physical shape he has is that of his latest victim.”

  “So most likely he’ll remain Daven Tyras,” said Calandryll thoughtfully. “Until he finds another—likely some luckless Jesseryte.”

  “Aye.” Ovad nodded. “I’d guess it so.”

  His two fellow ghost-talkers voiced their agreement; Calandryll said, “Then it must be as I thought—he avoids the camps.”

  “Guessing we’re alert to his gramaryes,” said Telyr. “Aye, I’d reckon it so.”

  “Then we’ve still an advantage.” Calandryll looked to Bracht, smiling tightly. “He’ll not have reached the Kess Imbrun yet, not traveling in human form.”

  Bracht ducked his head, returning the smile; like a wolf, Calandryll thought, scenting its quarry on the wind.

  “And he must eat,” the Kern said, glancing at the three ghost-talkers. “No?”

  “Daven Tyras must eat,” Telyr confirmed.

  “And none to feed him,” Bracht said, musing. “All the camps warned against him, closed against him.”

  “By now every ghost-talker in Cuan na’For will know what he is,” said Rochanne. “Hell find no welcome betwixt the Gann Peaks and the Kess Imbrun, nor from the Eastern Sea to the Valt.”

  Bracht’s smile grew wider. “I wonder then,” he said softly, “what the men with him make of their sudden outlawry.”

  “Dera, aye!” Calandryll gasped. “I’d not thought of that. Might they turn against him?”

  “Do they attempt to enter a camp, they’ll learn what he is,” said Telyr, “and save he binds them with magicks, they’ll go against him. No warrior of Cuan na’For would side with the gharan-evur.”

  “Nor are likely to overcome him,” grunted the skeptical Ovad. “A warlock such as you’ve described could slay six with ease.”

  “And take the shape of one,” said Rochanne.

  “But still with need to eat,” Bracht said. “And consequently slowed by his need to hunt.”

  “And does Ahrd grant us passage through the Cuan na’Dru,” Calandryll said, “then we may well emerge ahead of him. We can reach the Daggan Vhe before he does, and so—even does he wear a new face—we need but halt the single man attempting to reach the Jesseryn Plain.”

  “He’d not attempt the same passage?” Katya wondered. “You’re sure of that?”

  “The Gruagach would never grant him entry,” Rochanne said in a tone of utter conviction. “And I’d doubt me even such a mage as Rhythamun could defeat them. No, it’s my belief he’ll look to skirt the forest.”

  “All rests with Ahrd, it seems,” said Telyr, “and the Gruagach.”

  Bracht glanced at his hands then, and Calandryll thought that upon his comrade’s face he saw a flicker of doubt, but the Kern’s voice was firm as he said, “If the god’s green sap truly runs in my veins, then surely they must aid us,”

  “You can but attempt it,” Telyr murmured.

  “Aye.” Bracht ducked his head, his smile resolute. “That we shall.”

  “And we pray for you,” Rochanne promised.

  THEY left that camp as early mist skirled among the alders of the hurst, soon burned off by a sun that heralded the beginnings of summer. They held pace as before, league after league consumed beneath the pounding hooves, racing steadily northward, toward the Cuan na’Dru. For days they traveled through an empty, sun-washed landscape, and then, as they broke camp one morning, they saw stormheads build great grey cloud castles in the sky to the north. By mid-morning their pace was slowed by driving rain, thunder booming, the grass beaten down under the onslaught. The streams they forded were angry, swollen by the downpour and foaming, but still, driven by the urgency of the quest, they rode as swift they might, reluctant to concede the slightest advantage to their quarry.

  It seemed now they had, for the first time, a genuine chance to gain on Rhythamun, to beat him to the Kess Imbrun and take the Arcanum from him. How they should do that, Calandryll was not sure, and did not much welcome the time the storm afforded him for such contemplation. The cloudburst transformed the sunny grasslands to a dark and miserable vista, locked in a gloomy twilight punctuated only by the stark scintillation of lightning, driving thoughts inward as frustration at this slowing of their progress grew. He endeavored to push doubt from his mind, but it was as though the suddenly dismal landscape, the seemingly endless curtain of water that flooded down, forced unwilling introspection on him. That Ahrd’s strange guardians should allow them passage through the Cuan na’Dru he did not doubt; every ghost-talker he had spoken with was of the same opinion: that Bracht’s failed crucifixion marked him as one favored by the god. And had Burash not come to save them from the Chaipaku and bring them swifter than any dared hope across the Narrow Sea? And Dera appeared on the road to Gannshold, to set that power in his blade that could overcome magic? Perhaps that, he thought, was the answer: that he should face Rhythamun in combat, his goddess-blessed sword against the sorcerer’s fell thaumaturgy.

  The thought frightened him. That he realized as a great peel of thunder echoed across the sky and his horse danced in alarm. Rhythamun’s power he had seen, and for all the mage’s gramaryes had not yet succeeded in defeating him, or in halting the quest, still he felt the stirrings of raw terror at the prospect of confronting the warlock in open fight.

  Faith, he told himself, as he urged the nervous horse on. The Younger Gods are on our side, and surely we must win.

  Surely . . . But in his heart, deep, there lingered a doubt he could not entirely snuff out.

  No matter; he wiped rain from his eyes, knowing that he had no choice. Even should he die in that battle, he was committed. To turn from it was unthinkable, would unman him. Bracht had not turned from the crossing of Cuan na’For, for all it held the threat of dreadful death; and Katya had exiled herself from all she knew to pursue their goal. His determination, then, could be no weaker. Onward in faith, he told
himself. To the Cuan na’Dru and beyond, to the Kess Imbrun. To the aptly named Blood Road, where, perhaps, all this long quest should end.

  As if in approval of his resolve, he saw the sun then, at that exact moment, striking from between looming banks of black cloud, shedding light over the grassland, a great, radiant shaft, such as had illuminated Dera as the goddess stood beside the Gannshold road.

  “Aye, faith,” he said, unaware he spoke aloud.

  And then the heavens vented one final blast of sound and the rain blew away to the south, the sky above cleared to a high, fierce blue, and the wind was warm again. Birds began to sing, and from the prairie came the sweet perfume of rain-washed grass, rising with the vapor that drifted up as the sun shone hot.

  It was late in the afternoon, the sun westering, and before them stood a ridge, misted as the soaking grass dried. They crested the summit and by common, unspoken consent halted there, Calandryll staring in awe at what lay before them.

  The grass ran down gently to flat land, and then ended where a wall of green darkness spread beyond the limits of sight across the prairie. From east to west and farther north than the keenest eye could range, it seemed as though shadow was painted over the grass, as though the northern limits of Cuan na’For were marked by that vast darkness, as though a great and silent black sea lay there. Calandryll heard Bracht say, “The Cuan na’Dru,” softly, his voice reverent. He stared, daunted by the immensity of it. He had thought the woodlands of Kandahar were large, but they were no more than copses set beside this enormous forest, its extent unimaginable, limitless, it seemed. Silent, he followed Bracht down the slope as the setting sun washed the treetops in red light, the great forest seeming to blaze.

  They camped that night on the grass, by a little beck that meandered careless, babbling softly, and at dawn set off again, riding hard. The escorting Lykard, Calandryll saw, were solemn-faced, as though wary of approaching this holy place, and, indeed, he felt the presence of it, as if the dark swath that filled all the horizon now cast its spiritual shadow over the land.

  Three long bowshots away, close on noon, the escort slowed pace and the leader, Nychor, brought his mount alongside the three questers.

  “By your leave, we’ll ride no closer,” he declared. “Without the drachomannii to intercede . . .”

  Bracht nodded, understanding. “Wait here,” he said, reining in. “At least until we enter.”

  Nychor smiled his gratitude. “Well watch you approach,” he promised, “and do the Gruagach grant you entry, wait until tomorrow’s dawn.”

  His tone, and the way he eyed the forest, suggested he doubted that permission would be given. Bracht smiled, himself by no means easy, and passed the rein of his spare mount to Nychor.

  “Take these back to Dachan, with our thanks.” He turned to Calandryll and Katya. “So, come.”

  Not waiting for a reply, as though anxious to confront a test without delay, he drove his heels against the black stallion’s flanks and galloped forward. Swiftly, his companions tossed reins to the nervous Lykard and thundered after him.

  It seemed to Calandryll the air grew quiet as they came closer to the Cuan na’Dru. Insects darted over the grass and birds flew above, but their noise seemed subsumed, swallowed by the stillness of the forest. A wind blew, soft, the constant rustling of the prairie barely discernible, even the drumming of hooves dulled, overwhelmed by the silence of the trees that now filled all his vision. Rowan and blackthorn grew about the perimeter, and ash, elder, like outguards or acolytes to the greater trees that rose over the lesser species. The oaks dominated, mere saplings among their cousins of the edgewood, but rising vast-trunked a little farther in, with massive limbs imperiously out-thrust, all hung with leaves like shining green jewels. They were majestic, and he felt their power.

  Bracht slowed to a walk some distance off, and then reined in. Calandryll and Katya followed suit, none speaking as they dismounted, leading the horses slowly forward until the Kern raised a hand, wordlessly bidding them halt.

  “Wait here.”

  He gave Katya his reins, and for a moment she clutched his hand. Calandryll saw his face was grave, set in somber lines. Then he nodded once and released her grip, walking forward, much as he had, Calandryll thought, gone to his execution. The sun stood overhead now, and all the forest shone green, patterns of shifting shadow dappling the ground between the outermost trees as Bracht approached. Calandryll watched him skirt a clump of blackthorn, moving cautiously toward the closest oak.

  He reached the tree, a youngster by its size, but still massy, and fell to his knees, his arms flung out, the fingers of both hands spread wide. What he said was spoken too soft to hear, and too far distant, but after a while he rose and pressed both hands against the furrowed bark, his head bowed. For long minutes he stood thus, then turned away, walking back to his companions. His face, Calandryll saw, was still set in solemn lines, impassive, unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was equally muted.

  “I know not if Ahrd deigned to hear me. We must wait.”

  “Not enter?” Katya asked, her question met with an expression almost of outrage.

  “Without permission?” Bracht shook his head. “That would be sure death.”

  He turned, silently pointing. Calandryll looked to where he gestured and saw, almost hidden among the tangling of undergrowth, the long grass, the white of bones, the dulled glint of metal. His eyes alerted, he saw the edgewoods were a boneyard, that the mortal remains of men lay there, all twined with roots, become part of the wood. There, a rib cage thrust up; there brambles wove a thorny mask over a skull; an elder hoisted a carapace of bone, the branch extending from the socket where once an eye had sat; the parts of a man hung from a blackthorn.

  Glum doubt assailed him, and must have expressed itself on his face, for Bracht said, “Some were slain by the Gruagach; others were sacrificed,” and shook his head as Calandryll gasped in horror, explaining, “not lately. Long and long ago. Now only those foolish enough to enter without permission fall prey.”

  “To the Gruagach,” Calandryll said very softly.

  “Aye.” Bracht smiled, briefly and without much humor. “Do you see now why I was reluctant to enter here?”

  “I do,” Calandryll murmured. “But now?”

  “Now we can only wait,” Bracht answered. “If we are to cross the Cuan na’Dru, it must be with the Gruagach’s consent.”

  “How shall we know that?” Katya demanded. “That they grant us the crossing?”

  “We shall know,” Bracht said. “They’ll come to us, or not.”

  “When?” asked the warrior woman. “How long must we wait?”

  “Until they come.”

  Bracht shrugged; Katya said, “And if they do not come?”

  “Then we’ve a long ride. Nychor and his men wait until the dawn: I think they’ll come ere then, but if not . . .”

  “We must ride around?” Katya flung out an arm, gesturing at the vastness of the woodland stretched before them. “Around this? Be we forced to such a detour, Rhythamun must surely escape us.”

  Bracht ducked his head, and as the warrior woman’s face grew dark with frustration said, “Be that the way of it, then that way we must go.”

  Katya’s grey eyes narrowed, her lips pursing as if she would argue, but Bracht preempted her. “Heed me,” he said in a tone that closed her mouth tight on any argument, “I’ll not allow you to go in there, save with the consent of the Gruagach. I’d not see your bones join those others so foolish as to make that attempt.”

  “You’d prevent me?” she asked, her gaze speculative as she studied his determined face. “With force?”

  “I would,” Bracht said. “You mean too much to me that I’d see you die so senselessly.”

  “Then,” said Katya, a smile of resignation curving her lips, “I suppose we must wait.”

  THEY took the opportunity to eat. Cold food, for none wished to offend the god by taking kindling from his forest, and afterward busi
ed themselves with grooming the horses and checking gear. It was makework: a means of passing hours that dragged slowly by without indication Bracht’s prayers had been heard, each of them wondering if consent would be given, if the Gruagach would come; and what those strangeling creatures would prove to be. They spoke little, for when they did, it seemed inevitable their conversation should veer to discussion of Rhythamun’s progress, and then frustration mounted, which Bracht sought to quell, for fear Ahrd take offense and deny them help. Off to the south they could see the Lykard setting up shelters for the night, their horses cropping contentedly, though all the time the warriors turned nervous faces to the forest, wondering no less than the three what should be the outcome of their unprecedented request.

  The afternoon aged toward evening, the lengthening of the day as summer neared serving to fuel their impatience. Katya strode restlessly along the forest’s edge, constantly peering inward as irritable fingers drummed a tattoo against her scabbard. Calandryll joined her for a while, but her nervousness served only to renew his own doubts and he chose to settle on the grass, endeavoring with scant success to sleep. Bracht seemed the only one calm, squatting cross-legged, his face fixed phlegmatic on the timber, as though he momentarily anticipated some sign, or was resigned to the waiting.

  The sun closed on the horizon, that dark with its covering of trees, and a new moon climbed the eastern sky. The air assumed the blue shades of dusk; birds flocked homeward to their bosky roosts. And Bracht’s stallion whickered a challenge, stamping, its ears flattening back on its plunging head. The chestnut and the grey, too, began to fret.

  Instantly, Bracht was on his feet.

  Calandryll rose to join him, and Katya came running from her inspection of the woodland, all of them staring toward the timber.

  The Cuan na’Dru was draped with shadow now, ghostly, forbidding in its sheer immensity. Ghostly, too, were the shapes that moved within the darkness, flitting from trunk to trunk, silent despite the detritus littering the forest floor. They were impossible to define: they moved too furtive, leaving only an impression of huge eyes, limbs longer than a man’s, a preternatural agility.