Forbidden Magic

by Angus Wells

  The following morning he rose early and wandered the town again, familiarizing himself with its pattern until he was confident he knew the fastest route out. The townsfolk had the habit of sleeping through the worst of the heat, leaving the place largely deserted for hours after the noonday meal. Despite Suleimana’s advice he decided that he would not delay: there was no time to waste, lest Azumandias or the Chaipaku find him. If he could only effect Bracht’s escape they should be able to ride clear before Philomen even knew they were gone. The Kern’s gear was already transferred to his room: it remained only to free his comrade.

  ON the appointed day he sought Suleimana again. The healer examined his knee and pronounced it on the way to mending. The cut on his stomach was almost gone, only a narrow red line attesting to the wound.

  “Exercise the knee,” she advised, “but not too much. There’s no heed to return here—you can apply the unguent yourself. Smear it on the bruise every two days, and change the bandage, and you’ll be fit enough by the time the podesta releases you.”

  He smiled his thanks, thinking that he would not wait so long, and paid her. Then, barely able to suppress his mounting excitement, he returned to the hostelry. It was the hottest time of the day and the folk of Mherut’yi kept themselves behind closed shutters until the worst of the heat had abated, the streets deserted until the ferocity of the gaheen eased a little. He ate and announced his intention of following the local custom by sleeping the afternoon away, asking that he not be disturbed. Behind his closed door he gathered their gear in a single bundle and counted out what he owed Mother Raimi. His sword was belted on his waist and he slung Bracht’s falchion over his shoulder. Then he mouthed the spell Varent had taught him and felt his skin tingle, the scent of almonds powerful in his nostrils. Still unaccustomed to the use of magic, he found it hard to believe that he was truly invisible as he started toward the door, and paused as it dawned on him that he no longer limped. His knee no longer ached. In fact, it felt sound as ever and he grinned as he threw the staff to the bed: it seemed the faint fire of the red stone flowed through the damaged tissue, healing and strengthening. Still smiling, he traversed the corridor, slipping silently out into the empty street.

  Mherut’yi slumbered in the noonday sun, even the dogs seeking respite from the savage heat, and he was thankful for the solitude as he made his way briskly to the stable. There was no sign of Dahammen as he entered, nor as he saddled both horses and led them out, breathing prayers to Dera and Burash both as he took the reins and headed for the harbor. The narrow alley between two warehouses provided a hiding place for the animals, it’s mouth shaded as he studied the fortalice. A solitary guard stood by the open door, leaning on his pike, the tails of his scarlet puggaree drawn across his nose and mouth. Calandryll took a deep breath and set out across the cobbles.

  The guard rested in the scanty shade of the blockhouse wall. Calandryll drew steadily closer, afraid the pounding of his heart beat loud enough to alert the soldier. He halted close enough to touch the man, staring at him. The Kand stared idly back, seeing nothing. The grin returned to Calandryll’s lips as he tiptoed past into a spacious, shadowy chamber that occupied most of the stronghold’s lower level. It was some kind of guardroom, to judge by the tables, still littered with food, at the center, and the bunks, each one holding a sleeping soldier, set along the walls. A narrow flight of stone steps led up to the second level and he guessed that Bracht was held there: he began to climb.

  He paused again at the head, studying this second story. Grey stone surrounded a bare central area, a further flight of steps leading to the roof, heavy doors set deep in the walls. One, across the hall, was cut with a small grille and he guessed that was the cell holding Bracht. He started toward it, then stopped as a door to one side opened and Philomen emerged.

  The lictor wore a flowing robe of a scarlet to match his puggaree, but his head was bare now, oiled black hair loose to his shoulders, his feet bare. He paused at the door, turning to speak, and Calandryll heard a feminine voice answer, the indistinct words eliciting a smile from Philomen. He crossed the open space, still smiling, and Calandryll flattened against the wall, holding his breath, as the lictor passed directly before him. The man’s eyes looked straight at him—through him—and Calandryll voiced silent thanks to Varent for the spell. He watched as Philomen entered a room across the hall, reappearing moments later with a flagon of wine that he carried into the chamber. The woman laughed as the door closed, and Calandryll let out his breath in a long, slow sigh.

  He crossed to the grille and peered in. Sunlight shone bright through the bars covering the outer window, illuminating a spartan chamber containing tiered bunks. Bracht lay on a bunk to one side of the window, asleep. Calandryll examined the door. It was held by a sturdy lock: there was no sign of the key. He called Bracht’s name softly, praying no other would hear. Bracht sat up and said, “Calandryll?”

  He nodded, raising a finger to his lips before he remembered the Kern could not see him.

  “Aye,” he whispered. “Here.”

  Bracht climbed from the bunk, approaching the door. He seemed no worse for his incarceration, only irritated.

  “You use Varent’s spell?”

  “Aye,” he repeated.

  Bracht grunted and said, “Then get me out of here.”

  “I heed the key.”

  “The lictor has it. He keeps it on his belt.”

  “Dera!” he muttered.

  “You’re invisible,” Bracht said.

  “But Philomen’s behind a closed door. With a woman.”

  The Kern glowered at the empty air beyond the grille, his blue eyes angry.

  “Then he’s other things on his mind. And I’d not stay here any longer. Get me out!”

  Calandryll nodded, sighing.

  “Wait here.”

  “I can do little else,” said Bracht.

  ‘I’ll try,” Calandryll promised, and crossed to the door he had seen the lictor use.

  He pressed his ear to the wood, but could hear nothing through its bulk. He saw a ring set above a lock like that on Bracht’s cell and hoped no key was turned on the inside. He took the ring in his hand, took a deep breath, and eased the ring a half circle round. The soft click! of falling tumblers seemed to echo off the stone walls. He held his breath, ready to spring back should the lictor appear. Then, heart pounding, he gently thrust the door inward. Bars of light striated a darkened room. He saw the corner of a bed. Two pairs of bare feet, entwined. Heard the panting of the woman and Philomen’s heavier breathing. He eased the door a fraction wider and slipped inside.

  Instantly, he was overcome with acute embarrassment. He felt an insane desire to giggle as he saw hirsute buttocks moving rhythmically above the paler hue of the woman’s thighs. Her arms clutched the lictor to her and her face showed over his shoulder. Calandryll saw that she was pretty in a nondescript way, her eyes wide, unfocused in pleasure.

  Philomen’s scarlet robe lay crumpled on the floor, beside it a gown of purple and white. The lictor’s armor hung from a stand by the shuttered window; his sword-belt on a peg. On the belt was a bunch of keys. Calandryll swallowed and trod carefully toward them.

  He heard Philomen’s breathing quicken and the woman moan, “Oh, Philomen! Philomen!”

  He glanced over his shoulder, cheeks warm, and snatched the keys from the belt. He froze as they jangled, but the pair on the bed were too entranced to allow extraneous sound to intrude on their preoccupation and he jammed his prize beneath his own belt.

  “Philomen!”

  The woman’s voice was louder as he returned to the door.

  “Philomen!”

  He slipped through as the lictor groaned, his last sight of the Kand the hairy buttocks.

  Philomen’s heavy breathing became a gasp of pleasure that drowned the sound of the closing door and Calandryll hurried to Bracht’s cell. He tried three keys before he found the one he heeded and sprung the door open. Bracht jumped back as the w
ood threatened to smash against his face, eyes narrowing as he tried to define Calandryll’s outline.

  Calandryll dropped Bracht’s sword on the bunk. As he released the falchion it became visible. The Kern grinned, buckling it on his waist.

  “Ahrd,” he murmured, “I’d not thought to be so grateful for Varent’s magic.”

  “We still have to get out,” Calandryll said. “And the lower hall’s full of soldiers.”

  “Awake?” Bracht crossed to the door.

  Calandryll said, “The lictor is across the hall,” and grinned despite the tension, “but occupied. The guards sleep below. One mans the door.”

  Bracht nodded, smiling grimly.

  “One I can deal with easily.”

  “I’d not see him killed,” Calandryll said.

  “If I can silence him …” The Kern shrugged.

  “He’s not our enemy.” The thought of seeing an innocent man die sat ill with Calandryll. Bracht said, “Would you see our quest ended here? Do you think you can cross Kandahar alone? With the Chaipaku hunting you?”

  “Even so,” Calandryll protested.

  “You’ve a delicate conscience,” murmured the free-sword, “but this is not the time to debate it. You’ve bought horses?”

  He nodded again, unthinking, and said, “Yes. Across the square.”

  “Good,” Bracht murmured, “Come.”

  He drew his sword and stepped out of the cell. Calandryll eased the door shut, locked it, then quietly secured the lictor’s door before dropping the keys inside the cell. At the head of the stairs Bracht halted, beckoning. Calandryll drew close.

  “Invisibility has its advantages,” the Kern whispered, “but I can’t know where you are. Stay close.”

  Calandryll said, “I’m at your back.”

  Slowly, step by step, they descended to the guardroom. Calandryll felt his heart thud against his ribs, his eyes darting over the supine soldiers, willing them to remain asleep.

  They reached the stairway’s foot, sunlight a bright promise outlining the rectangle of the exit. Then, from above, a furious shout rang through the fortalice and a locked door was rattled in its frame. The sleeping guards stirred. Bracht snapped, “Philomen wakes!”

  The soldiers, too, rising groggily from their bunks as the lictor’s angry bellowing grew louder, their eyes widening as they saw the prisoner with sword in hand, impossibly freed from his cell.

  Calandryll shouted, “Take the man on the door. I’ll hold them.”

  Bracht paused an instant and he shoved the Kern forward. “They cannot see me,” he gasped. “Go!”

  Bracht grunted and sprang to meet the startled watchman, ducking under a clumsy pike swing to drive the hilt of his falchion against the Kand’s jaw. Calandryll was grateful the freesword heeded his wish and left the man alive even as he snatched a halberd from its rack against the wall and flailed the haft in a sweeping arc across the ankles of three charging soldiers. They went down in a sprawling mass, their shouts echoed by their slower companions, who saw impossibility piled on impossibility, a halberd swinging of its own accord. One cried, “Sorcery!” and several halted their pursuit, faces wary, hands shaping protective signs. Calandryll flung the halberd at them and darted to a table, upending it to send plates and food and wine flagons tumbling over the floor. The panic he read in the Kands’ eyes encouraged him, and he darted about the room, hurling missiles at random. It must seem, he thought, that some occult force came to Bracht’s aid, and he sought to enhance that impression with a strident howling. Several of the guardsmen cowered in unfeigned terror; a braver few moved after Bracht.

  Calandryll saw that the Kern had overpowered the man at the door and was now running for the warehouses. He seized another pike and flung it underhand at the pursuing soldiers. Two tripped and more fell over them, piling in the doorway. Calandryll turned a second table and sprang across the fallen guards. One began to rise and he kicked the man, unthinking, in the chest, then raced after Bracht.

  The freesword was astride one horse, the reins of the other in his hand, his eyes intent on the confusion in the fortalice. Calandryll halted, mouthing the releasing spell. The air shimmered, once more redolent of almonds, and he became visible again. Bracht passed him the reins and he swung into the saddle.

  “Can you ride?” the Kern demanded urgently. “Is your knee healed?”

  Calandryll said, “It seems the stone heals me.”

  “So be it.” Bracht nodded, still suspicious for all that magic had freed him. “Now let’s ride—fast and far.”

  Calandryll heeded no further bidding. The soldiers’ fear of magic, and the confusion he had wrought, was soon overcome by the more immediate fear of their lictor’s wrath: they were flooding in an angry tide from the fortalice.

  “Follow me,” he shouted, heeling his mount to a gallop.

  They charged through the quiet streets, the habit of siesta masking their escape as they traversed Mherut’yi and reached the outskirts.

  “We ride for Nhur-jabal?” Bracht asked. “Which way?”

  Calandryll pointed to where the highway led out of the little town, a ribbon of packed dirt winding into the heart of Kandahar. Bracht nodded.

  “You did well,” he called over the pounding of the hooves. “I owe you thanks.”

  Calandryll beamed, flattered by the freesword’s praise: proud of himself.

  THEY rode as hard as they dared in the oppressive heat, a dust cloud marking their flight, Bracht setting the pace, sweat shining on the horses’ hides as they thundered away from Mherut’yi. When the town was lost in the haze behind them the Kern slowed, but he did not permit a halt until the rim of the sun touched the distant buttresses of the Kharmrhanna Range and twilight’s blue shadows crept across the land. He turned off the dirt highway then, finding a hollow in the desolate terrain that afforded partial shelter from the gaheen. The wind still assaulted them, beading their faces with sweat, plastering shirts to prickling backs and dusting them with its burden of grit. It clung to their damp skin, lodging in their eyebrows, finding its way into their mouths and under their clothes, reminding them of the luxury of water and soap as they huddled hungry, watching the horses crop on the sparse grass that filled the hollow. Calandryll had filled two canteens, but packed no food, deeming that too obvious an announcement of his intentions, and his stomach grumbled a protest as he crouched under the lee of the slope.

  “We’ll ride through the night,” Bracht decided, apparently unaffected by the discomfort. “Perhaps tomorrow we can buy food; or hunt something.”

  “Can we risk buying it?” Calandryll wondered. “What of Philomen?”

  “The lictor?” Bracht chuckled. “Unless some other key can be found, hell be with his woman a while longer than he anticipated. Then he must organize his men, and I doubt hell stray far from Mherut’yi. Hell make some token pursuit then turn back. If we put sufficient distance between us tonight, we should be safe.”

  “From him, at least,” Calandryll nodded. “But what of the Chaipaku?”

  The Kern shrugged. “Against them, we must be on our guard,” he said, his smile fading. “I’d not anticipated the Brotherhood’s intervention.”

  “Tobias must have employed them.” Calandryll shuddered. “But how could they know so fast?”

  The elation he had felt at their escape waned as he thought of Mehemmed: the prospect of crossing Kandahar with the Chaipaku hunting him was daunting. Bracht glanced at him and shook his head. “The ways of the Brotherhood are mysterious. Who knows how they communicate? But there’s little point in brooding on it.”

  Calandryll tore moodily at the stubbly grass, his expression troubled now.

  “But if we must pass through Nhur-jabal … the other towns along the way to Kharasul … how can we avoid them?”

  “Perhaps we can’t,” Bracht offered, “but we heed not concede them the victory. We’ve defeated one—we can do it again.”

  “You can,” Calandryll said morosely. “Had you not h
eard me, I’d be dead.”

  “But you’re not,” said Bracht. “You survived his attack.”

  “Barely.” He touched his throat, where the red stone hung beneath his shirt. “And were it not for Lord Varent’s magic, I’d be scarce fit enough to ride.”

  “And were it not for you, I’d still languish in Philomen’s keep,” the freesword returned. “Ahrd, man! We’ve escaped capture by that warboat and a Chaipaku attack. We’ve left Mherut’yi behind us. We can cross Kandahar if we’re careful.”

  “And Kharasul?” Calandryll demanded. “What then?”

  “Then we find a ship to take us north,” said Bracht, “just as we planned. We sail for Gessyth and find Tezindar. We take the Arcanum and …”

  He fell silent. Calandryll frowned as he gestured at the red stone. “And?” he prompted, vexed by the Kern’s suspicions.

  “I’ve yet to be convinced of Varent’s honesty,” Bracht continued. “I still believe the byah spoke of him. I say we take the Arcanum and hold it safe until we can be certain he intends to destroy it as he says.”

  Calandryll sighed his frustration: he had thought Bracht’s doubts forgotten. “Were it not for Lord Varent I’d still languish in my father’s keep,” he said. “Were it not for Lord Varent, we’d be prisoners on that warboat—or dead. Were it not for Lord Varent, you’d still be in Mherut’yi.”