by Angus Wells
“He heeds us,” said Bracht flatly. “He heeds you to find the Arcanum and me to guard you. We’re useful to him.”
“Dera!” snapped Calandryll, “Your suspicions are groundless.”
“I heard the byah” Bracht said doggedly.
“Which warned of Azumandias. Or Tobias, for all I know.”
Bracht shrugged, his eyes unrelenting.
“You think he’d use the book to raise the Mad God?” Calandryll shook his head helplessly. “Only a crazy man would attempt so lunatic a thing—and Lord Varent is obviously sane.”
Bracht shrugged again, not speaking, stretching on his back to stare at the darkening sky. Calandryll signed.
“What do you propose then? After we’ve secured the book?”
“I don’t know,” Bracht admitted. “But until Varent convinces me of his honesty, I’d not hand him so powerful a thing as the Arcanum.”
Calandryll plucked a second handful of grass; flung it from him, watching the yellowed blades flutter on the breeze.
“Perhaps you believe he spies on us through the talisman?”
Bracht shook his head, ignoring the sarcastic tone.
“No,” he said evenly, “I think the stone gains power from the wearer. I think it uses your eyes, your ears.”
“And what,” Calandryll asked wearily, “brings you to that conclusion?”
“You have the talent,” Bracht said, his voice calm. “I could not use it, remember? Varent said then I lack the aptitude. But you are able to disappear; you wore it when that storm arose; it mends your knee. I believe you channel its magic,”
Calandryll gaped, dumbstruck.
“Do you say I am a magician?”
“I believe you have occult power. That ability Varent spoke of.”
“Then do you mistrust me as you mistrust all magicians?”
Bracht chuckled then, shaking his head. “I trust you, Calandryll, and I believe you honest.”
Something hung on the tail of his words: Calandryll frowned, staring at him.
“But?”
“Power corrupts.”
“You think me corrupted?”
“No.” Bracht rose on one elbow to smile at his companion. “But I think you may be seduced by Varent’s promises.”
For a moment Calandryll felt resentment return. It seemed the Kern judged him; the blunt statement suggesting Bracht weighed him and found something wanting. Then he dismissed the thought, refusing it a hold: his background set him closer to Varent, to the man’s way of life, than Bracht could understand. The Kern’s doubts were no more than that. He was, after all, a wandering mercenary, outcast from his own land, almost a barbarian. Likely he viewed all Lysse with suspicion. He was a friend though, of that Calandryll had no doubt—Reba’s prophecy had foretold his coming, as it had foretold Varent’s—but still there were differences between them, and likely would always be. He touched the stone, grateful for the relief it gave his damaged knee, and thought to take the additional precaution of applying the healing ointment too: he rubbed the stuff in, rewinding the bandage as Bracht checked the animals. Dusk was falling rapidly into night now and the gaheen eased, the air losing that furnace intensity imparted by the wind. A hear-full moon hung above the eastern horizon and stars began to appear in the great sweep of dark blue above them, the land assuming a spectral quality, the road a band of blackness flanked by silvered grass. They mounted and continued in the direction of Nhurjabal.
Bracht held them to a steady canter as the moon rose higher, the shod hooves drumming on the packed dirt. Distances that had seemed of little account on the maps Calandryll had studied assumed a physical reality as they progressed through the night. From Mherut’yi to Nhur-jabal, assuming they stuck to the road, was roughly the same distance as from Secca to Aldarin, the journey to Kharasul was as much again. From the west coat of Kandahar to the swamps of Gessyth was a journey he preferred not to contemplate: few Seccans traveled much beyond the city walls and he began to feel very lonely as he followed the silent Kern through the night. The terrain was flat and empty of features, the sweep of the plain rendered the more immense by darkness. To Calandryll, it felt as though they traversed a limbo, the only living creatures in that great spread of land, or ghosts, doomed to ride forever, their destination always unattainably ahead.
After a while Bracht slowed to a walk, resting the animals, then picking up the pace again, alternating until the moon was lost in the grey opalescence of approaching dawn. He called a halt then, riding a little way off the road to a stand of gnarled and windswept trees where they dismounted and hobbled the horses. It seemed they had left the gaheen behind, for the air was still, the grey mist undisturbed by any breeze. Calandryll rubbed his mount down and left it to crop as he wrapped himself in the saddle blanket and stretched on the hard ground.
He woke to find the sun on his face, still low in the sky, but warm, five curious birds studying him from the branches of the stunted trees, taking flight as he pushed to his feet and groaned at the protest of saddle-stiffened muscles. Bracht was already awake, combing his long hair. Calandryll wondered how the freesword could so easily ignore the pangs of hunger as he thought longingly of Mother Raimi’s breakfasts. He stretched, kneading limbs deadened by the long hours in the saddle. Looking around, he saw that they camped on the great plain still, the land bleak, arid, as if kin to the desert wastes to the north. There was no sign of habitation, the occasional clumps of trees the only disruption of the terrain, and those sad echoes of the luxuriant timber of Lysse. He drank a little water and rubbed a moistened hand over his face, telling himself that at least the gaheen no longer blew. Nor was there any sign of pursuit, and Bracht set an easier pace as they continued along the road.
Around midmorning they forded a small stream, where they watered the horses and filled their canteens, taking time to strip and wash the dust away before continuing westward.
THE character of their surroundings began to change after a while, imperceptibly at first, no more than a thickening of the grass, its color changing subtly to a healthier green. The road began to climb at a gradual angle and then to dip, and the flat plain gave way to an undulating landscape mounded with small hillocks. The stands of timber grew more numerous, the trees less stunted by arid soil and wind, and wildflowers appeared in bright clusters. In the afternoon they saw cattle browsing in the distance, great heavy-muscled beasts with wide-spread horns and dark hides. A bull watched from a hummock, raising his head to bellow a challenge and they quickened their pace. As the sun neared its setting they saw a solitary building, its white walls painted rose by the waning light. It had the look of farm and fortress both: a low, square structure, surrounded by a chest-high fence of sturdy palings, the windows cut deep, with heavy shutters.
“Well ask their hospitality,” Bracht decided.
Calandryll, thinking of cool water and hot food, nodded enthusiastic agreement.
They rode toward the building, slowly for fear of alarming the occupants, halting at the gate. Through its arch they could see a well and a stone-built barn beyond the house. Pigs and chickens rooted in the yard and a huge red dog barked furiously from the porch. A man appeared, murmuring something that silenced the hound, and two youths, so similar in looks they could only be his sons, stepped out to flank him. They both held short, deeply curved bows, red-fletched arrows nocked to the strings. The man studied the newcomers for a moment, then beckoned them on, coming to meet them by the well, the dog at his heels. The archers remained on the porch.
The man was tall and thin, his face weather-beaten to the color and texture of ancient leather, his eyes set deep and dark beneath craggy brows, eyeing them with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. A broad-bladed knife was sheathed on his waist, the belt cinching a robe of faded green, his left hand resting idly on the hilt.
“Greetings, strangers.”
His voice sounded like his face looked: harsh and hard.
“Greetings,” Calandryll returned in the lan
guage of Kandahar, “We’ve ridden far and should welcome a decent meal and a bed. We can pay.”
“From Mherut’yi?”
The farmer’s face remained expressionless. Calandryll nodded.
“Not many travel overland from Mherut’yi.”
Calandryll shrugged.
“We have business inland.”
“Better to take ship to Mhazomul or Ghombalar, and a riverboat inland.”
“Our business is … delicate. We prefer to avoid the obvious trade routes.”
The man’s eyes narrowed.
“You don’t look like merchants.”
“We come to negotiate trade contracts. I am called Calandryll. This,” he indicated his companion with a wave, “is Bracht.”
“You’re Lyssian?”
“I am. My comrade is from Cuan na’For.”
“He speaks our language?”
“No,” Calandryll shook his head, “but he understands the Envah.”
The man nodded and turned his head slightly.
“Denphat, check the roof.”
The younger bowman grunted an affirmative and disappeared back inside the house. Moments later he appeared on the roof, moving slowly along its perimeter with his eyes fixed on the surrounding terrain.
“Nothing I can see,” he called.
“Then come down.” The man gestured at the well. “Those horses heed watering—help yourselves. I am called Octofan.”
“Our thanks, Octofan,” smiled Calandryll, dismounting.
The farmer nodded and walked around them to the gate. He swung it shut and dropped a bar in place, sealing the opening. Denphat and the other youth continued to study them in silence down the length of their shafts. The red dog watched them with parted lips, as if ready to attack on a word or any sudden movement.
“You’re cautious,” Bracht said, emptying a bucket into the trough beside the well.
Octofan shrugged without speaking, waiting until the horses had drunk their fill, then leading them to the long, low structure of the barn. The red dog followed at his heels. His two sons came after, standing in the doorway as their father indicated stalls.
“Put them up here. Help yourselves to hay.”
He stood back as they stripped of? the saddles and led the horses into the pens, patient as they rubbed the animals down and forked hay into the mangers. When they were done he said, “There’s a washhouse at the back. Food’ll be ready soon.”
They washed under the wary eyes of his sons, then Octofan beckoned them onto the porch and escorted them into the building. It was cool and airy inside, the floor the same thick stone as the walls, the odors of meat and vegetables rising from pots on a cooking range tended by a grey-haired woman in a worn blue gown. She turned to examine them, her face expressionless as Octofan’s. Calandryll bowed; Bracht ducked his head.
“Ill not have swords at my table,” she said.
“My wife, Pilar.” Octofan indicated a row of hooks by the door. “Hang them there. These are my sons, Denphat and Jedomus.”
The youths had lowered their bows on entering the house and now they loosened the strings, setting the bows down on a table by the wall, nodding silently to the unexpected guests. Bracht and Calandryll unbuckled their swordbelts and hung them on the pegs.
“Sit down. Jedomus, bring that pot of ale.”
They settled at the long table that occupied the center of the room. Octofan took the head, his sons to either side, and filled clay pots with dark beer. Calandryll and Bracht drank gratefully.
“They’ve come from Mherut’yi,” Octofan informed his wife as she set a loaf of steaming bread before him. “On some Lyssian business.”
“They’re not …?” Pilar’s raised brows framed a question.
“They offered to pay.”
The woman nodded as though this confirmed something. Calandryll fetched a coin from his satchel.
“Is one var sufficient? We’d purchase provisions for the journey, too.”
Octofan began to slice the bread, using the knife he wore. He said, “Three varre is ample.”
Calandryll pushed the coins across the table. Octofan picked them up, examined them, and dropped them into a pocket of his robe. Pilar brought a pot of stew from the range and began to dole it into bowls. Calandryll felt his mouth water as the rich odor struck his nostrils. His stomach rumbled and he smiled apologetically.
“You came without provisions?”
Octofan spooned stew as he spoke. Calandryll followed suit, too hungry to concern himself with good manners and not sure how to explain their lack of supplies. Bracht saved him.
“We were attacked,” he said, adjusting the truth, “and lost our supplies.”
The farmer and his wife exchanged glances. Octofan said, “The road from Mherut’yi to Kesham-vaj is plagued by brigands.”
Bracht nodded. Pilar said, “Sathoman,” in a low, angry voice.
“Sathoman is their leader?” asked Bracht.
“Aye,” Octofan grunted. “Sathoman ek’Hennem, may Burash rot his soul.”
“He’s the reason for your caution?”
Bracht indicated the bows Denphat and Jedomus had discarded: Octofan nodded.
“Sathoman ek’Hennem is a noble gone bad. The lictor of Mherut’yi didn’t warn you?”
Bracht shook his head. “We found the lictor … unfriendly.”
“Philomen,” said Pilar, her tone dismissive. “He’s no better than Cenophus. They’re supposed to patrol the roads—protect folk like us—but what do they do? They sit safe in their keeps and barely venture out save to gather the Tyrant’s taxes. And when they do that, they eat us out of house and home. Nor ever pay for what they take.”
She smiled briefly at Calandryll.
“Cenophus is a lictor?” Bracht asked casually.
“Lictor of Kesham-vaj,” said Octofan. “He claims our land falls under Philomen’s jurisdiction, save when it’s time for tax-gathering.”
“And this Sathoman is a local brigand?” murmured the Kern.
“The son of Mandradus ek’Hennem,” said Octofan. “Mandradus was Lord of the Fayne until he took the wrong side in the Sorcerer’s War. He fell at the Battle of the Stone Field and the Tyrant declared his lands and all possessions forfeit. Sathoman swore he’d revenge his father’s death and declared himself rightful master of the Fayne. He claims it’s his right to extract a toll from travelers. And herdsfolk, too, Burash damn him!”
“Lictor and Sathoman both claim their tax,” Pilar added bitterly.
“Does the Tyrant not act against outlaws?” Calandryll asked.
Octofan glanced at his wife and laughed sourly.
“The Tyrant sits safe in his palace, and Nhur-jabal is a long way from the Fayne. So long as his taxes come, he’s content to leave such matters to his lictors.”
“And neither Cenophus or Philomen have the taste for battle?” Bracht said softly.
Octofan fixed suddenly suspicious eyes on the Kern. “You’ve not heard of the Sorceror’s War?”
“I come from Cuan na’For,” Bracht returned, “and I’ve traveled in Lysse. I know little of Kandahar.”
“The Tyrant Iodrydus declared sorcery outlawed,” Calandryll supplied. “Save for those wizards licensed by himself, he placed severe limitations on their employment—the lords of Kandahar were required to give up their court magicians, and they rebelled. It was called the Sorcerer’s War.”
Bracht nodded thoughtfully. “Does this Sathoman still employ a wizard?” he asked.
“A mage called Anomius,” said Octofan. “Neither Cenophus or Philomen will risk his magic. You were lucky you didn’t face him when Sathoman’s cutthroats attacked you.”
‘Indeed,” the Kern murmured.
“And Sathoman’s stronghold is nearby?” inquired Calandryll.
“To the north,” Octofan said, “Though he spreads his net wide, across all the Fayne.”
“Hopefully we’ll not encounter him,” said Calandryll, remembering to a
dd, “again.”
“Few survive an encounter with Sathoman, with or without Anomius,” Octofan offered dourly. “You’ll not likely escape a second time.”
“Is he likely to be on the road?” Bracht asked.
Octofan shrugged, pushing his emptied plate away. Pilar rose and began to collect the dishes.
“Who knows where Sathoman will be? Perhaps you’ll meet him, perhaps not. Best pray to Burash you don’t.”
He rose to fetch a pipe and a pouch of the narcotic tobacco to the table. Denphat and Jedomus pushed their chairs back and left the room. Calandryll saw that both took a bow. He shook his head as Octofan offered a pipe; Bracht did the same.
“Why does the Tyrant not send his own wizards to aid the lictors?” asked the Kern.
Octofan sucked smoke, holding his breath a moment before releasing it in a sweet, blue cloud and saying, “Most fled Iodrydus’s edicts, and those who remain the Tyrant prefers to keep close. Some few ward the larger towns, but he’d heed an army of sorcerers to dig Sathoman out of Fayne Keep—I suppose that so long as the lictors collect his taxes he sees no advantage in it.”
“And so folk like us suffer,” Pilar said from where she scrubbed dishes. “Cenophus collects taxes; Sathoman collects what he wants. At least he leaves us enough to live on. Just.”
“Is it not the way?” asked Octofan, his voice slightly slurred. “The farmers always suffer.”
“It’s different in Lysse,” Calandryll offered.
“You live in walled cities.”
It sounded like an accusation and Calandryll could think of no suitable response: he shrugged. Octofan slumped in his chair, drawing deep on the pipe, filling the room with its smoke. Pilar finished her cleaning and took a chair at his side, filling a pipe of her own. Bracht helped himself to more ale. Calandryll yawned, pleasantly full and growing drowsy. In a while the door opened and Denphat and Jedomus came in. They set their bows down and helped themselves to their father’s tobacco. Outside the moon painted the yard with silver light. The red dog scratched on the porch and the pigs grunted. Somewhere a cow lowed; a bull snorted. Finally Octofan set his pipe aside and rose loose-limbed to his feet.
