Forbidden Magic

by Angus Wells

  “You can sleep in the barn. I’ll see you provisioned in the morning.”

  “Thank you.” Calandryll was grateful for the dismissal: he wanted nothing more than to sleep now. He bowed in the direction of the table: “My thanks for a fine meal, Goodwife.”

  Pilar nodded, smiling languidly, saying nothing. Bracht handed him his swordbelt and Octofan took a lantern, opening the door. The red dog stirred, growling, and the farmer gestured it to silence, leading the way across the yard to the barn. He lit them inside and left them there among the sweet scents of hay and horseflesh. Moonlight entered from narrow windows cut high in the front wall, revealing the straw mounded at the far end. They spread their blankets and stretched on the makeshift bed: it was mightily comfortable after the hard ground of the Fayne. He closed his eyes, but Bracht’s soft voice denied him instantaneous sleep.

  “So, to the dangers of the Chaipaku and Azumandius we can add a brigand and a renegade wizard.”

  “At least,” he replied, “sorcery’s outlawed in Kandahar. That should please you.”

  “Then you’d best keep that red stone well hid,” Bracht chuckled. “Lest we add the Tyrant to our list.”

  “Aye,” he mumbled, burrowing deeper into the straw.

  HE was not sure at first what woke him, thinking that the sun rose and shone into his eyes, then that someone held a lantern close to his face. Close enough he could see the red glow of its flame through his shuttered lids and feel its heat against his chest. He stirred, throwing a protesting arm across his face. Surely it was not yet dawn—did Octofan come to wake him? He grunted and opened his eyes to darkness, the blue-velvet stillness of the earliest hours, yet lit by a faint red glow. Not before his eyes, but below them. From his throat! Where the red stone hung. He gasped, right hand scrabbling for his sword’s hilt even as he rolled from his blanket, his mind screaming Chaipaku!

  He was on his feet, unsteady in the shifting straw, sword drawn, knees bent in the fighter’s crouch Bracht had taught him before he was fully awake. He saw the aisle of the barn, the sleeping horses in their pens, the yard beyond the door lit by a moon preparing to vacate the sky. He spun, stumbling in the straw, and saw the Kern’s dark form, filled for an instant with the awful dread that his comrade was slain in his sleep, almost laughing with the relief Bracht’s soft snore brought. He turned full circle, his wary eyes finding nothing amiss, no sign of imminent danger. No black-robed figure prepared to attack, nor lictor’s soldiers. A horse broke wind; out in the night an owl hooted.

  He blinked, racing mind calming, and touched his left hand to the stone. It was warm to the touch, and when he drew it from beneath his shirt its glow was fiery. He let it drop, Varent’s words loud in the ears of his mind: Should you encounter some glamour; the flame within will burn bright and the stone grow hot. Should that happen, you will know that wizardry is close.

  He sniffed, but smelled only horses and hay: no scent of almonds. He took a step to the side, a step closer to Bracht, and kicked the sleeping Kern ungently. Bracht’s steady breathing faltered, then quickened. He moved suddenly off the blanket, the falchion glittering in the waning moonlight as it slid from the sheath, rising defensively as the freesword came to his feet. He stared about, caught Calandryll’s wide-eyed gaze, and frowned a question.

  “Magic,” Calandryll said, slow and soft, “There’s magic abroad.”

  He touched the stone again and Bracht nodded as he saw its glow.

  “Where? I see nothing.”

  Calandryll shook his head.

  “I don’t know. But the stone …”

  “Aye.”

  Bracht moved off the piled straw onto the firmer ground between the pens. His blue eyes darted over the horses; returned to Calandryll, then up to where the loft hung heavy with baled hay.

  “There. By Ahrd, what is it?”

  His voice was hushed. Calandryll looked to where the falchion’s tip pointed, and gasped.

  In the darkest corner of the barn, farthest from the door, where the moonlight that filtered through the openings in the wall could not reach, something hung glowing. It was like the witch fire he had seen dancing on the masts of ships before a storm, silver as a polished blade, but not flickering: solid; unmoving. It was shaped like man and bird conjoined, its form growing clearer as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. It sat—or perched, he was not sure which—on the edge of the loft. Prehensile toes gripped the edge of the platform, bent knees concealing the body, which hunched forward as though strained by the bulbous head. Ethereal wings were folded behind, framing that strange skull—if the thing had such corporeal substance as bone beneath its shimmering hide—which seemed all eyes, huge and round and impenetrably black. There was no indication of a nose, but below the dominant orbs he saw a slitted mouth, and on either side of the head, great fan-shaped ears.

  He gaped. The thing stared back. Then, sudden and silent, it rose, launching itself from the loft.

  The wings spread like silver sails, curved and angled, more bat’s than bird’s; the legs stretched behind in facsimile of a tail and he saw vestigial arms folded across the narrow chest. It swooped toward him and he ducked, raising the straightsword as does a man swatting at a fly. The creature darted effortlessly clear, its blank eyes never leaving his face, rising to swoop again, this time over Bracht’s head.

  The Kern swung the falchion viciously and again the weird creature avoided the blow. Calandryll thought he heard a whistle, almost beyond the range of human hearing, trill from the lipless mouth. Then the wings beat and it sped for the door, through into the night beyond. He saw Bracht spin round, running after, and followed, in time to see the thing climbing into the sky above the sleeping farmhouse, lost against the panoply of stars.

  He looked at the talisman: it glowed no longer.

  “It’s gone,” he said, hearing his voice shake.

  “What was it?” Bracht lowered the falchion. “Have you seen its like?”

  Calandryll shook his head. “Not seen, but I’ve read of such beings. They are called quyvhal—sorcerous creatures used as spies by wizards.”

  From the porch the red dog growled a warning. Bracht stared at the sky, then turned back into the barn. “I think,” he said, “that perhaps Azumandias has found us. Or the one called Anomius.”

  “Sathoman’s wizard?” Calandryll frowned. “Why should he seek us? How could he know we are here?”

  “This journey of ours raises more questions than I can answer,” Bracht shrugged. “Perhaps the mage sensed our presence. Or perhaps he looks for us for reasons of his own. Perhaps he allies himself with Azumandias. Or Varent, for all I know.”

  “Should we flee?”

  “I think not.” Bracht shook his head. “If whoever sent that thing could find us here, he—or she, perhaps?—can find us again. We heed those provisions Octofan promised, so we’d do as well to wait for the dawn.”

  Calandryll glanced at the sky. After the appearance of that strange creature dawn felt a long way off. “At least it didn’t attack us,” he said.

  “No,” Bracht agreed, “but why did it spy on us? We ride watchful from now on.”

  “Perhaps Octofan can shed some light on it,” Calandryll suggested.

  “Perhaps Octofan told it of us,” said Bracht. “And if he knew of the sender he may be an enemy. I think we’d best keep silent.”

  Calandryll nodded and stretched on the straw, all thought of sleep forgotten. It seemed they must regard all they encountered with suspicion, every Kand a potential enemy: it was an oppressive thought. He was glad when the velvety darkness opalesced into the misty grey of dawn, and gladder still when the sun broke through and he heard the strident crowing of a cock announce the commencement of the day.

  Pilar appeared, nodding a brief greeting as she began to collect eggs, and then Octofan, stretching and yawning, Denphat and Jedomus at his back. They, in turn, greeted the two wayfarers before going about their farmyard tasks, none seeming suspicious as Bracht and Calandryll avai
led themselves of the washhouse and prepared their horses for departure, seeing the two sons ride out to tend the cattle as Pilar called them to a substantial breakfast and her husband presented them with provisions sufficient to carry them through to Kesham-vaj: dried meat and a sack of vegetables, flour and salt, a little sugar.

  “You can buy more there,” he said, “if Sathoman doesn’t stop you along the way. The town’s some three or four days’ ride from here if you make a good pace.”

  “Are there other holdings?” Bracht asked.

  Octofan shook his head.

  “Not close to the road. There was a caravanserai, but Sathoman burned it down and Anomius cursed it and it was never built again. Folk avoid it.”

  Calandryll nodded, studying his face, but saw no hint of treachery in the deep-set eyes. He thanked the farmer and they carried the sacks out to the waiting animals. Octofan lifted the bar and swung the gate open. “Burash ward you,” were his parting words as they quit his yard, following the track down to the road.

  The sky was a soft blue, empty of cloud save to the northwest, where piling billows marked the line of the mountains, the sun a golden coin still low to the east. The irritation of the gaheen was replaced with a gentle breeze, pleasantly cooling, that rustled the grass verging the road, and magic seemed a thing of the night, driven off by the dawning of a bright hew day. Birds sang from the trees dotting the rolling landscape, and high above them more flew, spiraling and swooping against the blue. There seemed no danger in that gentle countryside, though the land rolled and ridged in a manner that could hide riders between the folds, their presence unmarked until they chose to appear. Calandryll saw that Bracht rode with a hand close to the falchion’s hilt, his eyes scanning the way ahead, turning in his saddle from time to time to study the road behind.

  They saw only Denphat and Jedomus, who waved from a low hillside where they herded cattle back toward the farm, soon lost among the ridging. All morning, until they halted to rest the horses and eat, they saw no other sign of human life, only the scattered cattle and watchful hares, the birds above. Nor any other until late in the afternoon.

  THE sun westered toward its setting, shadows long across the land and the air still, silent but for the buzz of insects. Birds still hung above them and ahead they saw a descending spiral, falling from the azure to a place hidden behind a ridge. The road ran up the eastern face, through a small stand of timber where black birds perched, lost after that: Bracht reined in.

  “Carrion eaters.” He pointed toward the black column, eyes narrowed in suspicion and distaste. “We’d best ride cautious. And not straight on.”

  He turned his mount off the road, cutting through the high grass parallel to the ridge. Calandryll followed, glancing warily at his chest, where the red stone hung. It remained dull: no hint of fire warned of wizardry, and he decided that if peril lay ahead it was danger of man’s making, not occult origin. He set a hand to his sword’s hilt, easing the blade in the scabbard, ready to draw. He saw Bracht halt and brought his own mount alongside. The Kern gestured him down, passing him the reins of both animals.

  “Wait here,” Bracht’s voice was low, a murmur lost in the rustling of the breeze, “whilst I climb the ridge.”

  He frowned a protest, but the freesword’s hand gestured him to silence.

  “I am paid to guard you. Perhaps Sathoman waits on the other side; perhaps there is nothing more than a dead cow—but those birds come down to feed on something, and I’ll take a look. Wait for my signal. And if it’s to run, get on that horse and ride back to Octofan’s holding! Do you understand?”

  Calandryll nodded and watched as the Kern began to climb the gentle slope. He dropped on his belly as he approached the crest, worming his way upward until he was able to peer over, to see whatever lay beyond. After a while he rose, beckoning Calandryll forward. Calandryll mounted and urged his horse up the slope, leading Bracht’s. The Kern walked down to meet him, taking the reins. Both animals began to fret, sawing at their bridles with flattened ears and rolling eyes, snorting nervously.

  “Dismount,” Bracht ordered curtly.

  Calandryll obeyed.

  “What is it?”

  Bracht simply led the way to the crest and inclined his head to the hollow beyond.

  “The blood’s fresh enough they can smell it. Hold firm lest the beast run.”

  Calandryll felt his horse begin to plunge as the Kern spoke, fighting it to a standstill even as he stared, not sure the trembling he felt came from the animal or himself.

  Ravens and crows came down out of the sky to strut the trampled grass about the road where it dipped between the ridges. The air was loud with their croaking, the grass shadowed by their wings. They moved among the corpses of some twenty men and as many horses, perching on arrow-feathered chests, bloodied armor, tearing and tugging, too intent on their feasting to attend the watchers on the ridge. Swords jutted like grave markers from the ground, and lances with scarlet pennants a brighter red than the gore that decorated the animals and the dead soldiers. Calandryll saw that they wore the scarlet puggarees of lictor’s men, the same conical helms and leathery breastplates as Philomen’s guards.

  “What happened here?” he asked softly, grimacing as the breeze shifted a fraction, carrying the charnel reek to his nostrils.

  “I think perhaps Cenophus came looking for taxes; or Sathoman,” Bracht answered. “I think he found Sathoman.”

  He walked a little way long the ridge top, toward the trees, pointing.

  “See? There, where those two lie?” He indicated two soldiers fallen close to the road, close to arrow-studded horses. “They were the scouts. Ambushed from the cover of the trees. Thirty, forty men hid to either side of the road. As the soldiers approached the hollow, they attacked.”

  Calandryll followed his pointing hand, seeing trampled grass, dung busy with flies beyond the bodies. Bracht Drought his hands together.

  “They struck from both sides at once. With archers in the timber. Those,” he indicated three men fallen halfway up the slope, five others some distance off along the hollow to the north, “tried to escape. The rest had no chance.”

  “They were slaughtered,” whispered Calandryll.

  “Their officer was careless,” said Bracht. “He led them into ambush.”

  Calandryll tore his gaze from the carnage to the Kern’s face. It was cold, unmoved by the massacre. He shuddered: Bracht had likely seen such sights before; he had not and he was abruptly aware of the sickly sweet odor of recent death, the sound the beaks made as they ripped at flesh. He spat and swallowed, fighting the bile that rose in his throat.

  “This happened no more than yesterday,” Bracht said.

  “How can you know?”

  He hoped his voice came out steadier than it sounded, willing himself to look, not to turn and vomit.

  “They’re still fresh. There’s meat still on them.”

  Calandryll groaned.

  “What do we do?”

  “Likely it was Sathoman attacked them. We’ve not met him on the road, so he’s either between us and Kesham-vaj or out there.” Bracht indicated the rolling landscape, the hollows shadowed now as the sun fell lower in the sky. “We seek to avoid him. Wait here.”

  Before Calandryll had opportunity to protest the Kern was in the saddle, moving at a trot along the ridge. He paused among the trees, his presence bringing a chorus of alarm from the bloated crows, walking slow across the dirt of the road, then on. Calandryll clutched his nervous mount, nervous himself now, anticipating a return of the ambushers, wishing Bracht would return. He watched as the black-clad man went down the ridge and up the farther side, his worry growing as Bracht disappeared from sight, his relief expressing itself in a long sign as the Kern showed again, on the road, where it topped the ridge.

  He halted on the crest and waved Calandryll over.

  Calandryll mounted and brought his animal at an angle down the slope, unwilling to ride in among the bodies. Crows and rave
ns screamed protest as he passed by them, some taking flight, most too bloated to fly. He reached the road and joined Bracht on the crest.

  “They’re ahead of us.” The Kern pointed to the southwest. “They grouped along the hollow and took the road toward Keshamvaj.”

  “Dera!” Calandryll gasped. “They lie between us and the town?”

  “Perhaps,” Bracht shrugged. “Perhaps they turned off. Octofan said Fayne Keep lies to the north.”

  “Please Dera—please Burash!—they’ve done that,” Calandryll hoped.

  “Ill know if they have,” Bracht said. “Or if they haven’t. Meanwhile, we’d best move on.”

  Calandryll was more than happy to accept the suggestion: he wanted to be a long way from the bloody hollow when they made camp.

  The horses seemed of like mind, for they rose eagerly to a canter, calming only when the scene of slaughter was well to the rear. By then the sun was close to its setting, the sky darkening in the east, lit by the globe of a full moon. The dark spiral that marked the hollow was lost against the encroaching night and Calandryll felt a littler easier until Bracht slowed his mount to a walk, staring up.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “that we are observed.”

  Calandryll craned his head back, seeing only the open sky and the solitary shape of a bird hanging there: he shook his head, frowning.

  “Since we left the holding we’ve seen birds overhead,” Bracht said. “All day. Now all are gone save that one.”

  “So?” asked Calandryll.

  “So night approaches and birds roost,” Bracht replied. “But not that one.”

  Calandryll looked up. The bird still hung there, wings spread to catch the updraft. He brought the red stone from under his shirt and said, “It does not glow. It shows no sign of magic.”

  “Even so,” Bracht looked around, “tonight we keep a watch.”