by Angus Wells
Black blood welled from the sundered ribs and the feathered legs were slimed with the stuff, the taloned feet leaving seething imprints on the floor as it came forward. Both arms were outthrust, the stump of the wrist sending thin spurts of blood at his face, the remaining hand clawed, ready to seize him and drag him in range of the champing jaws. Charnel breath offended his nostrils and he sensed more than he heard the whistle of the sword that descended at his back and flung himself sideways.
He landed heavily against a stall as the sword struck the stone floor of the bam, sparks showering in pyrotechnic display, and for an instant the two awful creatures faced one another. Then both turned toward Calandryll.
He pushed away from the stall, running back along the aisle. It seemed the perverted beasts were impervious to wounds: Bracht still fought with a creature that bled from its ravaged throat, bone showing where the falchion had opened its ribs, great gashes across its belly; the two that lumbered after him should be dead: one was split from abdomen to sternum, the other wore Varent’s saber in its back. But all lived. The only one that took no part in the battle was the creature Bracht had set aflame: that had ceased its howling and now lay in a crumpled, charring mass at the center of the barn. Calandryll snatched a lantern from its peg and flung it at the armed monstrosity.
Savage delight filled him as burning oil bathed the aberration in long tongues of flame. He saw its advance falter, the lupine jaws part in a roar of agony: he took a second lantern and hurled it at the handless beast. That, in turn, yowled and began to beat at the fire that wreathed its grey torso. Swiftly, he darted across the aisle, grabbing a third lantern, a fourth, sending them both in whirling arcs at the flaming horrors.
The barn was abruptly lit with hellish effulgence. Pale moonlight was lost in the glow of the ghastly living torches that roared and staggered in an agonized dance that filled the place with flickering red light, shadows capering wildly as the jet sword flailed, striking the unarmed monstrosity.
He looked to Bracht. The mercenary was agile as a cat, and his proficiency with a blade was indisputable, but the ghastly thing that pressed him was supernaturally strong, and undaunted by its wounds. Pure sword skill kept the Kern alive, but in time even he must tire, and then fall victim to the sweeping blows of the black sword. Calandryll glanced round: there were no more lanterns. He could think of nothing save to shout, “Fire slays them!”
Bracht answered with a tight grin, sidestepping a blow that would have gutted a slower man, and danced backward. The abomination came after him: he parried a cut and retreated down the barn. The monster followed: Bracht paused, luring it on. He parried a vicious attack, riposted a cut to the belly, and continued his retreat.
Each dancing, backward step brought him closer to the flaming creatures. Calandryll shouted, “Ware the flames!” and he risked a glance at the burning monsters.
The survivor scuttled forward, jet blade raised high. Calandryll screamed, “No!” as Bracht seemed to slip on the seething floor, lurching a step back, then falling to his knees as the dark sword descended. The Kern rolled, falchion ramming upward into the monster’s feathery groin, the force of the thrust combining with the momentum of the beast’s own attack to lift it off its feet, tumbling it over the mercenary into its burning companions. It toppled against the closest creature, embracing the thing as it fought to regain its balance, howling as it felt the fire touch its hide. Its howling grew fiercer as the flames took hold and it spun in a wild circle, black sword striking the other, that in turn flailing mindlessly so that for a moment the two things fought one another.”
Bracht rose smoothly to his feet, poised to counter an attack that failed to materialize. Instead, all three creatures staggered in helpless circles, ripping at their own skin, dark blood spitting and sizzling, the wounds they opened in themselves seeming to fuel the flames until they fell down, wailing now, and crumpled into ash.
Through the stink of their spilled blood Calandryll caught the waft of almonds and saw the fiery air shimmer. Then, suddenly as they had come, they were gone. The scent of almonds faded; the stench of burning blood dissipated. Clean moonlight lit the barn and the air once more smelled of hay and leather. It was as if no battle had been fought.
“Ahrd!” Bracht sighed, shaking his head. “What were those things?”
Calandryll shrugged. Varent’s saber lay unsullied on the floor and he stooped to retrieve the blade. It should have been nicked, should have been stained, but it was pristine. He looked to where the dark sword had imbedded in the pillar, but that, too, was gone, the wood unmarked where it had struck. He shook his head, staring at Bracht. Then felt his belly roil and doubled over, emptying his dinner onto the stone.
Shuddering heaves racked him and he felt Bracht grasp his shoulders as tears filled his eyes and he spat sour bile between his feet.
“You fought well,” he heard the mercenary say, “and thought fast.”
He nodded wordlessly, wiping at his eyes as cold terror chilled him. He had not thought—had not had time—to be afraid until now, but now the hideous enormity of the sorcerous attack struck home. The beasts had materialized as readily as Varent had appeared on his balcony, and they had clearly intended to kill him—would have succeeded had Bracht not reacted so swiftly, or he not thought to use fire against them. Where had they come from? Were they Azumandias’s creatures? If they were, then Varent’s enemy must already suspect his part in the quest; must—the thought induced another wave of nausea—know where he was; be able, perhaps, to see him.
Could that be possible? He spat and swallowed, gagging at the bitter taste, and stared wildly around.
“They’re gone,” Bracht said, mistaking his purpose. “We defeated them.”
“Dera!” he gasped. “Can he find us? I must speak with Varent.”
“Can who find us?” Suspicion rang in the Kern’s voice. “What have you withheld?”
Now guilt joined Calandryll’s fear: surely Bracht had a right to know what they faced. But Varent had urged secrecy upon him, and if Bracht suspected the true nature of their quest, then he might rescind his promise. Calandryll shook his head.
“No one,” he mumbled. “I hope Lord Varent may offer some explanation; no more than that.”
What friendship he had seen in the mercenary’s eyes departed; they grew cold as a winter sky. He fastened a hand in the lacings of Calandryll’s gambeson and hauled the younger man upright, his face set in angry lines.
“I have agreed to escort you to Gessyth in search of this … book. No sooner do I learn my charge is a runaway from Secca than I’m attacked by demons. They howl and burn, but none hear them, none come to aid us, and you speak of someone finding us. There’s more here than I’ve been told—and I’d now what.”
Calandryll nodded helplessly, frightened by the Kern’s cold anger. It seemed his wits deserted him in the aftermath of the sorcerous onslaught: he could think of no ready explanation.
“Please,” he muttered. “Please, Bracht, we’ll go to Lord Varent.”
The Kern held him at arm’s length, his eyes still wintry. Then he grunted, releasing his grip.
“Now.”
Calandryll tottered on weakened knees, unable to do more than mumble his acceptance.
“Come.”
Bracht’s tone was cold, brooking no disobedience as he strode toward the door, and Calandryll went after him, feeling sweat cool on his face as they stepped into the moonlit courtyard. “Wait,” he asked as he saw the well, drawing up a bucket of fresh water that he used to rinse his mouth and bathe his face.
He felt a little better composed after that and followed the grim-faced Kern into the caravanserai.
The common room was deserted save for two drudges curled by the banked fire. Bracht ignored them, leading the way to the stairs that climbed to the sleeping quarters. He found Varent’s room and hammered on the door. It opened to reveal the ambassador wearing a robe of saxe blue silk and a curious expression. “You need not have re
turned my sword until morning,” he murmured, “but come in. You’ll take a glass?”
Without awaiting a reply he filled three cups. Calandryll accepted gratefully, drinking deep, then spluttering as fire burned in his throat.
“Distilled wine,” said Varent sympathetically. “A powerful brew and best sipped, but a most excellent nightcap.”
Calandryll fought his coughing to silence and took a second cautious mouthful. Bracht tossed his down in a single swallow and faced Varent. His eyes were cold and hard, his tone, when he spoke, no less so.
“We were attacked,” he announced. “By demons.”
“Demons?” Varent’s eyebrows formed twin arches over his dark eyes. “I heard nothing.”
“There were four of them,” said Calandryll, “but we dispatched them.”
“Thank Dera,” Varent declared earnestly. “Do you sit down and tell me exactly what happened.”
Succinctly, Bracht outlined the attack. Varent listened in silence, then nodded thoughtfully, turning to Calandryll.
“Might your father, or your brother, have done this?”
It did not occur to him that so ready an explanation would provide ample reason for the appearance of the creatures and without thinking he shook his head.
“How could they know where I am? Even if they did, they would not send demons against me. There are no wizards of such ability in Secca.”
“Are you sure?”
He failed to recognize the undertone of irritation in Varent’s question and nodded.
“Absolutely.”
The ambassador’s dark eyes clouded for a moment and he reached for the decanter, topping their glasses. His gaze met Calandryll’s, angry, and the younger man saw that he had made a mistake: to claim Bylath or Tobias as the originators of the creatures would have explained his admission to Bracht, avoided further amplification. He shrugged, sighing: the alcohol calmed his fluttering stomach, but in place of terror came a great weariness; he found he longed to sleep.
“At least you survived,” Varent murmured.
“But were still attacked,” said Bracht, his voice cold, “which prompts me to wonder why.”
“Why?” Varent said.
“Yes,” insisted the Kern. “Whoever sent those creatures must wish us dead—why?”
Varent raised a hand to indicate the mercenary should elaborate. He appeared at ease, his features composed in lines of concern and relief, though in his dark eyes there remained the glitter of suppressed irritation.
“You came to me with the offer of a small fortune,” Bracht went on, “and then I never thought to wonder why you sought me out. It did not occur to me that the young man I’d saved suggested it, but now I learn he flees his father and you want him to obtain some antique document from Gessyth. No sooner do we meet than creatures from the pit attack us, and when they are defeated Calandryll wonders if some mysterious he can find us—presumably to send the beasts against us. There’s more to this quest than you’ve revealed and I’d know what we face. Or part company now.”
“Despite your given word?” asked Varent.
“I gave my word thinking to face mortal dangers, not the creations of sorcery.”
Bracht’s voice was cold, his expression unyielding. For long moments he and Varent locked eyes, then the ambassador sighed. “You’ve proved yourself a doughty swordsman,” he admitted. “Very well—Calandryll is a scholar and can read the Old Tongue. Few can boast that accomplishment and he is one of the few capable of recognizing what I want. Your task, as ever, is to guard him.”
“He mentioned this mysterious book,” Bracht nodded. “A valuable document, I believe?”
“To a collector,” agreed Varent smoothly.
“Valuable enough that someone sends demons to thwart us?”
Varent shrugged. “It would seem so,” he conceded.
Bracht shook his head, steel in his eyes as he studied the ambassador.
“I have taken your coin and given you my word, but,” he paused ominously, “I will not swallow lies! Now, do you tell me the truth, or do we part company here and now?”
Calandryll saw Varent’s handsome features stiffen; his hand tightened on the cup he held, and when he spoke his tone matched Bracht’s, ice for ice.
“I am the Lord Varent den Tarl of Aldarin and no man calls me liar.”
“Should you choose to challenge me, I’ll meet you gladly,” Bracht returned, his gaze unwavering.
They stared at one another, engaged in a silent battle of wills. Calandryll realized he held his breath; then Varent smiled.
“You’ve a prickly sense of honor for a freesword, Bracht.”
The Kern did not answer the smile: his face remained cold as he said, “I’ve a keen sense of survival, Varent. And when demons attack me, I want to know why.”
“Perhaps they sought Calandryll.”
“Perhaps, but as you point out—I am hired to guard him.”
“Indeed.” Varent ducked his head; sighed. “So be it—I had thought to keep this secret, but I perceive I deal with a man a cut above the usual mercenary.”
“I’d know my enemies,” said Bracht, the compliment ignored.
“Then know that your enemy is a mage called Azumandias,” Varent said, undeterred by the freesword’s hostility. “A wizard of some power, who lusts for the same thing I seek. It is called the Arcanum and it is rumored to lie in the city of Tezindar, which—as you perhaps know—is supposedly a fable.”
He paused, sipping the distilled wine; Bracht waited, not yet mollified.
“Azumandias is a fanatic,” Varent continued in a solemn tone, fixing the Kern with his eyes. “A madman, who seeks the book that he might use it to raise the Mad God, Tharn. Should he succeed in that, the world is ended. I seek to prevent his insanity.”
“A book can do this?” Bracht demanded; he seemed unimpressed.
“The Arcanum makes it possible,” said Varent. “It is the key to the resting places of Tharn and Balatur. Azumandias already has the spells that will rouse the Mad God—he cannot be allowed to obtain the Arcanum!”
“The Mad God is a thing of the past, banished to oblivion by the First Gods.”
Disbelief rang in the Kern’s voice: Varent shrugged, spreading his hands.
“So the world believes. But Azumandias—and I—know better. If he should succeed in locating the book, he will uncover Tharn’s resting place and use his magic to wake the god.”
Bracht stared at the ambassador; reached for the decanter, helping himself.
“And this book, this Arcanum, lies in Tezin-dar? A legendary place? It seems to me we hunt the wind.”
“It is no fable,” Varent said earnestly. “Tezin-dar exists and the Arcanum is there; of that I am certain. Calandryll secured me a map that—with one I already hold—will show the location of Tezin-dar. Go there with Calandryll and bring me the Arcanum—or see the world destroyed.”
Bracht sipped the distilled wine. Calandryll studied his face, willing him to agree. He asked, “Why do you not go there yourself? Why does Aldarin not raise an army to secure the book?”
Varent smiled briefly.
“Your wits are quick as your sword, my friend, but that I cannot do. Like you, Aldarin’s Domm is by no means sure the Arcanum exists, and should I endeavor to persuade him to such a venture word would undoubtedly reach Azumandias. An army is a clumsy thing: its raising would give my enemy time to use his magicks against me; perhaps enable him to secure the charts. No, I cannot risk that. Secrecy is my greatest weapon—the Arcanum must be destroyed and with your aid Calandryll may find Tezin-dar and bring out the book before Azumandias has chance to thwart us.”
“Why?” Bracht demanded, suspicion in his voice.
“Why? I do not understand,” said Varent.
“Why bring out the book?” the Kern amplified. “Why not destroy it there?”
“If it were only that easy,” Varent murmured regretfully, “but the Arcanum is a magical thing itself. Spells re
nder it indestructible by normal means. Only magic may destroy it.”
“And you have such magic?”
Varent nodded: “I do.”
Bracht lounged in his chair, feet thrust out, his expression speculative. “You ask much,” he said. “You ask that I escort the errant son of Secca’s Domm to Gessyth—itself a place of unknown dangers—to find a city men call legend and secure a book you say may raise the Mad God. Already demons have opposed us, sent—you say—by a crazed warlock who seeks the book himself. What other dangers might we face along the way?”
“I cannot tell you.” Varent fixed the mercenary with a dark stare, his handsome face grave. “I can only ask that you agree to do this. In return I offer my undying gratitude. And five thousand varre.”
Calandryll was unable to stifle a gasp of surprise: it was a fortune. Bracht’s face remained calm, revealing nothing. He said, “That is a very high price.”
Varent nodded. “Enough to compensate you for the additional dangers?”
Bracht smiled then, a tight grin empty of humor. “You offer much, Varent.”
“The fate of the world lies in the balance,” answered the ambassador. “Do you accept?”
Bracht ducked his head.
“Half when we reach Aldarin; the rest on my return. Whether we secure the book, or not.”
Varent’s lips pursed, and for a moment Calandryll thought he would argue, but then he shrugged and smiled and said, “Done. Your word on it?”
“You have it.”
“Excellent!” Varent was once more affable. “I am delighted we are able to settle this … misunderstanding.”
“Yes.” Bracht rose. “And now I would sleep. Hopefully undisturbed.”
“I doubt Azumandias will attack again,” Varent said. “Not for some days—the raising of such creatures as you described requires effort, and likely his strength is depleted. Besides, I’ll change our route so he’ll not be able to guess our whereabouts. And once in Aldarin, you’ll be protected.”
“Good.”
Bracht moved to the door. Calandryll rose to follow him, glancing at Varent. The ambassador waved a hand, dismissing him, and he went with the Kern into the darkened corridor.
