The Sword of the South - eARC

by David Weber

  “The Council of Semkirk, lad,” Bahzell said. “They’d not be so very happy about that at all, at all. I’m thinking they’d have no choice but to stand by and watch if someone was after being so cork-brained as to be challenging our Wencit to a formal duel. They’d not like it, you understand, but it’s little choice they’d have. But a sorcerous attack without challenge? In the middle of a city with never a wizard of its own? No, they’d not be standing for that, and I’d not like to be the black wizard as got the lot of them set them on my trail.”

  “What’s the Council of Semkirk?” Kenhodan was puzzled. Semkirk was the god of wisdom and mental and physical discipline. It was true that, before the Fall of Kontovar, he’d been the patron of white wizardry, as well, but the art of wizardry had fallen on hard times since. He rather doubted any of the Gods of Light would have desired the worship of most of sorcery’s present practitioners.

  “The council of mishuki and magi sworn to destroy black sorcery and any who practice it,” Bahzell replied grimly.

  “Magi? Isn’t that just another name for wizards?”

  “I’m thinking your memory is after having some holes,” Bahzell said gently, yet with an edge in his voice. Not one aimed at him, Kenhodan was sure, but it sounded like hurt…or fear. “No one’s been after using ‘mage’ that way in centuries.”

  “No? Then what does it mean now? And why should wizards be afraid of mishuki? They’re only weaponless combat experts, aren’t they?”

  “As to fearing mishuki, why, I’m more than a little fearful of such as they!” Bahzell’s levity felt strangely flat, and he went on more slowly. “As for magi, now, that’s another matter. A mage is after being a mental adept, one as can be doing some of the things a wizard can, although it’s not the same thing at all, at all.”

  “Indeed,” Wencit said dryly.

  “Magi can duplicate some wizard’s powers,” Bahzell said slowly, “but sorcery’s after being the furthest thing from their way. And most folk think of them as natural allies against wizards. There’re after being…exceptions, though.” His voice was suddenly very low. “And a mage pays for his power.”

  His soft voice faded, lost in the faint background noise of shouting longshoreman as they swayed the last of Wave Mistress’ cargo aboard. Kenhodan felt the hradani’s withdrawal without understanding it, but something in Bahzell’s face kept him from probing. Instead, he simply waited, and finally Bahzell shook himself and resumed more briskly.

  “But to be answering your question, lad, both mage and mishuk follow Semkirk, and his Council’s a powerful thing. Black wizards fear it like death, with good reason, and I’m thinking the Council would be after taking violent exception to our unnatural ends. Especially if someone else was after going with us.”

  “Then why hasn’t it already gone after Wulfra?” Kenhodan demanded.

  “Because the Council bears the King Emperor’s commission,” Wencit said sternly, “and such responsibilities have limits which may not be overstepped. Magi may be born anywhere in Norfressa, Kenhodan, but all of the major academies are either located in the Empire of the Axe or—like the Jâshân Academy in the Empire of the Spear—were founded by and associated with one of the Axeman academies. Whether the Council likes it or not, it’s firmly associated with the Axe in the mind of every Norfressan, and the King Emperor recognized that two hundred years ago when he formally vested it with the authority to investigate charges of black wizardry anywhere in his territory.

  “But because he gave them that authority within the Empire, and because that means they act in his name when they exercise it, they can never act beyond his borders without the permission of the ruler whose land they’d enter…or on the King Emperor’s direct orders. Obviously Fallona won’t ask them to attack someone she thinks is her friend! And the King Emperor can’t send them in against her will unless he has an ironbound case. Mind you, if he had that ironbound case, he probably would; black wizardry’s something the Axe has never tolerated anywhere on—or near—its soil. Of course, that would be an act of war, however justified it might be, and he could be confident Soldan would invade Angthyr to ‘protect’ it.”

  “And so far, Wulfra’s avoided any open violations of the Strictures where there’s eyes as might see and tongues as might wag,” Bahzell observed gloomily.

  “Indeed she has,” Wencit agreed. “Officially, her magic’s white as the snow, though it stinks of the dark to another wizard, and I doubt she could hide the evidence of her use of the Dark if anyone with mage or wizard’s training got close enough to Castle Torfo to see it. But as baroness, she has the authority to bar magi from Torfo unless the Queen herself overrules her, which means none of the Council’s wizard sniffers are likely to get close enough to provide the proof of that. That means it would be my word against hers, and more than a wizard’s word—even if one of the wizards is me—is needed to launch the Council at someone’s throat. Wulfra won’t give me that. She was leagues away when Alwith attacked us. She had nothing to do with such a heinous act! Why, if she wanted me dead, she’d use the Duel Arcane, exactly as the Strictures allow!”

  Wencit’s irony was withering.

  “I’m assuming from your tone that she’s…unlikely to do anything that open,” Kenhodan said. “If she were, though, how would it work?”

  His curiosity was obvious, and Wencit’s nostrils flared.

  “Not well for her,” he said flatly. “The Duel Arcane is a formal challenge to combat to the death between two wizards. The Strictures permit it, although mass combat’s forbidden, along with anything which might endanger non-wizards. I’ve…had a few of those of my own, over the centuries, but if another wizard wanted to challenge me formally, the Council would have to be consulted.

  “You see, after the flight to Norfressa, they were too few white wizards to police the new lands against black wizardry, and even if there’d been more of us, it really wouldn’t have mattered. I told you what it cost us to strafe Kontovar. After that, there was no one to form a new White Council with me, and there were few new wizards in the years that followed. The refugees saw to that; enraged and terrified people take few chances. It was almost three hundred years before any of the new rulers in Norfressa were willing to trust even me, Kenhodan, outside of the House of Kormak, at least, and even Kormak and his son were unwilling to trust me openly, for fear of how their people might have reacted. It took that long for the survivors’ children to forgive me for the Council of Ottovar’s failure—my failure—to prevent the Fall. By that time, virtually all knowledge of the art had been lost in Norfressa, and to be honest, none of the new realms wanted that knowledge rediscovered. Yet they knew at least some scraps of various wizards’ libraries had made it out of Kontovar—some people will seek any means to power, however dark, after all. So when the magi emerged, we turned to the Council of Semkirk to assume the duties the White Council could no longer discharge. In fact, the two councils merged, after a manner of speaking. I’m the last member of the White Council, whose authority’s never been revoked, and I’m also the only non-mage member of the Council of Semkirk. I can do—and I’ve done—things in my persona as the Last Lord of the Council of Ottovar that the magi can’t do, though, because for the reasons I’ve already explained, the Council of Semkirk’s authority—its ‘reach,’ if you will—is far less extensive and far more hemmed in by restrictions than the White Council’s authority was under the House of Ottovar.”

  “But there’s still provision for the Duel Arcane?” Kenhodan asked. Wencit nodded, and the red-haired man shrugged. “So why doesn’t someone challenge you and have done with it?”

  “I’m thinking there’d be few dark wizards left if it so happened they were stupid enough to be doing that!” Bahzell snorted.

  “I see.” Kenhodan considered that statement. “Look,” he said finally, “I understand that sorcery isn’t something you can explain in an afternoon, Wencit. But if I’m going to be mixed up with wizards, can’t you give me at leas
t some idea about how it works?”

  “I imagine I could give you a fair idea in a decade or two,” Wencit said.

  “Once over lightly’s all I need, thank you!”

  “All right, let’s see how simpleminded I can make it.”

  Wencit steepled his fingers under his beard and smiled, then cleared his throat.

  “Wizardry is a human talent,” he began, “All wizards have been either entirely human or at least partially so, just as all sarthnaisks—‘stone herds’—have been dwarvish or half-dwarvish, and there are three kinds of them. Once there were four, but the ancestors of the elves traded their special art for long life when Ottovar and Gwynytha declared the Strictures. So, these days, there are first, warlocks and witches, then come wand wizards—often called ‘sorcerers” or ‘sorceresses’—and, finally, wild wizards. Of the three, the first two are most feared by normal folk, but the wild wizard is most feared by those of the art.

  “Warlocks have an inborn sensitivity to the art. Not so great as the elves once had, but enough for them to use it as naturally as their hands or feet, without formal training. But that actually makes them less powerful than wand wizards, because they’re untrained. To be honest, the vast majority of them don’t even realize they’re using the art at all. They simply think they have an odd ‘talent’ or two that works for them. Only a relative handful of them ever actually progress to a deliberate, conscious manipulation of the art.

  “Because of that, because they’re untrained, they’re actually less powerful than wand wizards. True wizardry requires discipline and acquired skills, which warlocks simply don’t have. But that lack of training also means they seldom know the Strictures, and they often gravitate towards the dark side of the art. Few of them would knowingly lend themselves to the sort of foulness Wulfra embraces, but the best of them are varying shades of gray.

  “Wand wizards, on the other hand, have little native sensitivity. More than non-wizards, but less than warlocks. Sorcerers gain their mastery through long, hard, sometimes fatal study. They used to be well taught in their responsibilities along the way, but even then the difficulty of their studies often led them to use a little of the dark side to survive perilous moments…physically at least. But there’s no such thing as ‘a little’ of the dark. If you use it even once, you open a chink in your armor; it’s always easier to slip a second time. The step from white wizardry to blood magic and death magic is seldom a one-time choice, Kenhodan. It comes from slow, steady corruption, and that’s what makes it entirely too easy for all too many wand wizards to slide into the black ranks one step at a time. Few escape that fate today. Indeed, I’ve known men and women who could have been powerful wand wizards but renounced their birthright, agonizing as that was, rather than risk falling into evil.

  “The last sort, the wild wizards, are another case entirely. They have no native sensitivity at all, nor do they suspect even for an instant that they might ever become wizards, so they’re totally untrained for it when it happens. Instead, their power wakes suddenly, usually under terrible stress.”

  He sighed sadly and reached for Brandark’s whiskey bottle. He poured the amber liquid into his tumbler and held it up against the light from the starboard quarter windows. He gazed at it for a moment, then threw it back in a single swallow and returned his gaze to Kenhodan.

  “Wild wizards are very…elemental,” he said. “Their power comes on them only if they have no alternative. When all hope is gone, when grief and despair bite deepest, then a wild wizard feels the birth of the power he never knew he had. It can never be anticipated…and it always comes with a price of pain, or grief—or hate—which few sane people would willingly pay.

  “Only a strong personality can assimilate such power,” Wencit said softly. “Not even another wild wizard can help in that moment. The new wizard’s alone, and the wild magic will destroy him unless he has a powerful will and realizes what’s happening. Yet if he survives, he comes into such power as neither warlock nor sorcerer can ever wield.”

  “And what is the ‘wild magic’?” Kenhodan asked, green eyes intent.

  “It can’t be described,” Wencit said bluntly. “Other wizards command tiny part of the force that binds the entire world together, and they learn to do that by carefully and cautiously learning specific incantations, spells, workings…ways to bridle and constrain that force. But wild wizards need no bridles, no spells to chain the wild magic to their will. They ride it. They can tap at all, if you will, and that means they can manipulate the very essences of objects, creatures…persons. They can bind and unbind them, or reduce them to dust and rip the life from them.

  “But it’s a raw, brutal application of power. There’s little finesse to the wild magic, and the wild wizard’s strength is limited only by the stress he can endure. Most dangerous of all is the young wild wizard, because his body’s strong enough to absorb and channel so much power. Wild wizards live a very long time, but as they age their failing bodies finally limit their power, though even in old age they remain frighteningly strong. In combat, they generally disdain technique, at least until failing strength requires subtlety to compensate. Until then, they simply throw raw power at opponents. Their control’s instinctive, not a product of training, and their power’s virtually limitless.”

  “But it can be trained?”

  “Of course it can, once you know you’ve got it!” Wencit snorted. “It simply never awakens that way. Nor does it need to.”

  “I can see that.” Kenhodan pursed his lips. “Can non-wizards recognize wild wizards?”

  “Oh, yes,” Wencit said softly.

  “How?”

  “By their eyes,” Wencit said, almost whispering. “By their eyes.”

  * * *

  Harlich of Torfo and Thardon of the Purple Lords stood in the shadow of a warehouse wall and studied Wave Mistress.

  Short, chunky Thardon looked reassuringly harmless with his plump face and curly hair. Not even the dark violet eyes and angled eyebrows of the half-elven could change that, and he’d used that appearance to good purpose upon occasion. His companion was different, for no shadow could hide the lean, angular menace of Harlich’s sparse frame. Of course, once one knew them, it was another matter. Harlich’s brown eyes were merely hard and thoughtful; Thardon’s purple gaze flickered with a hungry light.

  “So that’s the redoubtable Brandark’s ship,” Harlich mused.

  “Yes.” Thardon’s nod was choppy, abrupt with compulsive energy. “My informant says the bullion’s already on board. They sail within the hour.”

  “I see. And a full company of Axe Brothers?”

  “Almost. They’re one platoon understrength, but they’re drawn from Captain Forstan’s company. Picked men, I hear, though I haven’t probed them to check. Too much chance of Wencit noticing.”

  “To be sure.” Harlich seldom hid his contempt for Thardon’s penchant for stating the obvious. Now he tapped his teeth, brow furrowed.

  “We’ve found them,” Thardon sulked. “There has to be a way! Once they put to sea, there won’t be any place for them to find help.”

  “True, but opportunity doesn’t guarantee success, or someone would have killed Wencit centuries ago. Admittedly, they’d be isolated—but so would we, Thardon. And three-score Axe Brothers seem adequate protection, I think.”

  “Not against the art!”

  “No, but what about Wencit? Or do you fancy stepping out on the wharf to challenge him?” Harlich waved gently at the bright sunlight beyond their band of shadow. “Feel free, Thardon. I’ll be happy to notify your next of kin.”

  Thardon flushed. The taller wizard’s disparagement was a burden he’d grown accustomed to without ever accepting. Someday he’d show Harlich how far he could be pushed…but not today. Not unless he wanted to challenge Wulfra by violating her orders. Or—even worse!—to anger her mysterious patron. And so he gritted his teeth and held his tongue with difficulty.

  “Still, your idea has some me
rit,” Harlich finally conceded. “It’s a matter of using our advantages at the proper time. That bullion, now. That might be turned to use. It could provide an excellent cover, if we can capitalize on it. And I rather think we can, Thardon.”

  “How?” Thardon asked sullenly.

  “Come, now! We have the madwind, and not even Wencit can use the art and keep someone’s sword out of his throat at the same time. What we need, Thardon, is someone to supply the sword.”

  “Who?”

  “I think Tolgrim might be our man. You can find him, can’t you?”

  Thardon’s face lit with understanding.

  “It may take a few days,” he said.

  “No matter. If Tolgrim’s ships are available, we can speed them on their way. After all—” Harlich smiled gently “—the Strictures prevent Wencit from meddling unduly with nature. Not us.”

  Thardon nodded and turned away, but Harlich gripped his shoulder. The tall wizard’s eyes were bleak, but his lips shaped another gentle smile.

  “Yes?” Thardon asked impatiently.

  “I’m sure Tolgrim will be eager to seize the bullion, Thardon, and I see no reason to cool his ardor. Don’t overburden him with information.”

  “You mean—?”

  “Precisely. There’s no need to mention the Axe Brothers or Bahzell. After all, we wouldn’t want to cause our good pirate to fret, would we?”

  Thardon nodded slowly, and for once the smile with which he favored his companion was bright with understanding and approval.

  * * *

  Wind whipped Kenhodan’s hair as Wave Mistress nosed out of the bay and crewmen darted about, adjusting downhauls and braces. A steep hill loomed out of the sea to the west, craggy flanks yielding unwillingly to wind-blighted trees. The Isle of Cardos’ forbidding slopes shielded the harbor from the worst of the sometimes savage northwesterlies, and its weather-gnawed sides showed what the northern winter could do.

  Beyond Cardos, a stiff breeze whipped out of the eye of the north, overpowering the easterly which had wafted them from the wharf. The wind bit with the last feeble fangs of Vonderland’s ice, and Kenhodan burrowed deep into his borrowed coat as he sniffed the salt air.