by Angus Wells
They found a place where a timbered ridge curved sharply, the angled flanks providing cover on two sides, hiding them from the road. Bracht set Calandryll to gathering wood while he scouted the environs, returning to announce the absence of obvious danger, crouching to shape a small fire, not large enough that its glow might be seen above the banks. Shadow filled the declivity and above, the sky grew dark. Calandryll peered upward, but if the bird Bracht had seen was there, it was lost against the burgeoning night.
“They’re still ahead of us,” Bracht said, “Around forty men, holding to the road as if Kesham-vaj is their destination.”
“How far ahead?” Calandryll asked as the Kern struck tinder to the twigs, coaxing a little flame into life.
“A day.” Bracht shrugged, “Perhaps two—they set an easy pace.”
Calandryll watched as he spilled water into a pot, added vegetables. Soon a simple stew bubbled, and cakes of journey bread baked over the fire.
“Why do they ride for Kesham-vaj?” he wondered. “Surely brigands would not dare attack a town.”
Bracht stirred the pot, his face underlit by the flames, hard-planed, his blue eyes thoughtful.
“If that was Cenophus back there, perhaps Kesham-vaj stands undefended. In Mherut’yi, Philomen commanded no more than twenty men—perhaps all Kesham-vaj’s soldiery died there on the road and Sathoman looks to invest the town.”
“Then Kesham-vaj is an obstacle,” Calandryll murmured. “If Sathoman lays siege—or holds the town—he’s not likely to grant us passage through.”
“No,” Bracht agreed, “but the road’s our swiftest way to Nhurjabal, ana a detour will cost us time. You have that map Varent provided?”
Calandryll nodded and brought the chart from his satchel, spreading it close to the flames.
“The caravanserai is here.” He tapped the mark, tracing the dark line of the Tyrant’s road, “And the highway here. Kesham-vaj, here, then the road runs on to Nhur-jabal.”
“And these?” Bracht asked, indicating the thinner inscriptions that ringed the area. “What do they tell you?”
Calandryll studied the markings. “The land rises steadily,” he said. “The caravanserai lies at the foot of a plateau. Kesham-vaj a little distance from the rim. The plateau spreads to here,” he traced a line, “and then descends into hilly country before rising again to Nhur-jabal.”
“This is the road?” Bracht drew a finger along the darker line; Calandryll murmured an affirmative. “Then if Sathoman posts men on the crest, they’ll see us coming. Horsemen must be in clear sight; in arrow range. What’s this?”
He tapped a shaded section that circled half the plateau’s southwestern perimeter.
“Woodland,” Calandryll said. “With no trails marked.”
“And time heeded to cross it,” grunted Bracht. “Nhur-jabal is here?”
He set a fingertip on the point where the Kharmrhanna Range thrust a spur into the heart of Kandahar.
“Yes,” Calandryll confirmed. “See here? The road from Kesham-vaj runs arrow-straight to Nhur-jabal. The country between is broken—hills and woodland. There might well be trails, but they’re not shown.”
Bracht grunted again, resting back on his heels, staring into the fire.
“We’ll chance the road,” he decided after a while, “but by night. With any luck, Sathoman will be occupied with the town and we’ll gain the highland unnoticed. Then ride around.”
“And if they sight us?” Calandryll wondered.
Bracht grinned.
“Then we turn tail and run. Back down the slope and then south to circle through the woods. With a town to take, they’ll likely not bother chasing two men.”
He seemed satisfied with his plan, and with no better strategy to offer, Calandryll nodded agreement. The Kern tasted his stew and pronounced it ready: they ate and Bracht suggested Calandryll take the first watch.
The night was warm enough, and the fire, small though it was, cheerful. Calandryll settled with his sword across his knees, watching the stars spread out above. From time to time he glanced at the red stone, but it gave no sign of nearby magic and he decided that the bird Bracht had seen was only that: a bird. The revulsion he had felt at sight of the massacre faded, and in time he grew bored, rising to climb the ridge and study the night-black land spread before him. There was no sign of life, no fires burning to mark the men ahead, nor sounds to warn of danger, and he returned to the fire and his vigil, waking Bracht at the agreed hour.
The Kern roused him while grey dawn still filled the declivity, passing him a mug of tea and a bowl of warmedover stew. They ate and saddled their animals, returning to the road as the sun eased its way above the horizon.
“It’s still there.”
Bracht pointed upward, to where the solitary speck hung, seemingly motionless, against the brightening sky. Calandryll narrowed his eyes, seeking to define the shape, but it was too high, no more than a hint of wings, a fan-shaped tail. He checked the talisman, but still it gave no indication of sorcery, and he could only shrug, wondering if his companion was overly cautious.
By noon he began to share Bracht’s doubts, for the bird still paced them and it seemed that any normal avian must surely have lost interest by now.
THAT night they camped by a stream, sheltered by willows, again taking turns on watch, and as dawn broke the bird was there again, an irritation now, setting the hairs on Calandryll’s heck to prickling with the feeling of eyes upon him.
It remained as they sighted the ruins of the caravanserai, fire-blackened by the roadside. The white stone of the walls was scorched where flame had scoured the interior, the roof fallen in, the windows dark pits, their sills smeared with melted glass like frozen tears. Weeds overtook the yard, and grass, trod down by horses, their dung not yet so old the flies failed to gather, the well poisoned by a long-rotted carcass. Bracht entered the desolate place on foot, emerging to announce that Sathoman’s men—if it was them they followed—had camped within the tumbled stones a night past. Calandryll studied the wreckage, wondering what manner of man this rebel lord was, that he would destroy a travelers’ resting place, even to the extent of fouling the well. It was a mournful relic in a lonely land, and he was glad when they had left it behind.
By late afternoon they saw the plateau bulking ahead. The road approached the foot and then turned, winding in a zigzag up the scarp, wide enough to permit wagons to pass, paved for most of its way, and all of it under easy bow shot from any archers posted at the summit. The cloud they had seen billowing over the Kharmrhanna had drawn closer, offering some chance of obfuscation of the waning moon. Bracht reined in among a stand of slender birches, their pale leaves rustled by the wind that drove the cloud, studying the road.
“I’d sooner the moon was gone,” he remarked, “but if all goes well, that cloud should aid us. We’ll wait here ‘til full dark and then go on. Best get what sleep you can.”
Calandryll unsaddled his horse and tethered it, stretching on the grass, listening to the buzz of insects, staring up through the trees. The bird was still there, a silent, omnipresent observer, but when he turned to inform Bracht, the Kern as asleep. He shrugged and sighed, too nervous himself to find such easy respite.
As dusk fell they ate cold meat and journey bread, secured their packs, and sacrificed a blanket to the wrapping of bits and buckles, the muffling of the hooves. The promised cloud drifted across the rim of the plateau, silvered by the moon, but laying a filigree pattern of shadows and shifting light over the way ahead.
“Slow and quiet,” Bracht warned as they mounted, “and when we close on the crest, we go on foot. Be ready to silence your horse.”
Calandryll nodded, dry-mouthed, and followed the free-sword out from the trees, toward the ascent ahead. By night it looked far longer, a killing ground for bowmen, and he wondered hopelessly if they had not done better—wiser, at least—to chance the delays of a detour. No, he told himself, pushing pessimism and fear aside, they must reach Kharasul and take s
hip for Gessyth swift as they might. If Azumandias had sent the mysterious woman to take them—and she had survived the magical storm—her war-boat was likely already closing on Cape Vishat’yi, and if she should reach Kharasul before them … He pushed that fear aside, too: danger lay ahead, likely waiting for them, and he must concentrate on the task in hand, without digression.
He rode after Bracht, matching the Kern’s easy pace.
The road angled upward, winding to left and right, the stones of its paving grooved where wagon wheels had cut the blocks, the blanket-swathed hooves thudding dully. Small trees and bushes thrust out from the scarp, affording some small measure of cover, the wind stronger, scudding cloud in welcome streamers across the moon so that they moved spectral, lit and then shadowed, like phantom riders toiling toward some waiting destiny. It seemed a breath-held eternity, each moment lived in anticipation of warning shout, a bowstring’s twang, the whistle of an arrow, the flash of pain that would tell of shaft finding target. And yet, in a way he did not properly understand, it was easier than facing magic. Sorcery, for all he used Lord Varent’s stone, remained a mystery, a dark, unknown thing. He had faced the demons, back in Lysse, a lifetime ago it seemed, and his stomach had emptied after; and that thing in Octofan’s bam, though it had offered no harm, had left him unnerved. There was that element of the unknowable in sorcery, the notion that dark powers might rise to do far worse than harm his flesh. Now, as he climbed behind Bracht, he thought only of physical hurt, of attack against which he might, no matter in how small a way, take some measure of defense. He rode on, halting when the Kern halted, dismounting to take the reins of both horses as Bracht continued on foot.
Time passed, the wind chill at this elevation, and Bracht returned, a solidity emerging from the darkness, hair and face and clothes all better suited to such work than Calandryll’s, his boots silent as he came up, setting his mouth close to Calandryll’s ear.
“There were two guards.” Were two? “The rest are camped beyond, outside the town. We crest the rim and ride south, around.”
He passed the Kern the reins and they led the horses up the final slope, the road angling at the last past a great stone pillar to devolve upon the flatland of the plateau. Beside the pillar, resting against the stone as if at ease, sat a man, a bow across his outthrust legs, his chin on his chest. Moonlight lit him briefly and Calandryll saw the dark stain that covered his chest. Across the way, between a clump of bushes and a windblown tree was another, lounging, it seemed, with his back against the tree, an arm flung careless over a bough. A closer inspection revealed loose, lifeless legs, the string of his bow wound supportive about the trunk, the same dark stain beneath the dropped chin.
“You killed them both,” he whispered.
“Yes. They’d have seen us else.” Bracht favored him with a curious stare, as though he had stated the obvious. “Now come; this way.”
He turned from the two dead brigands as the Kern moved along the rim of the plateau, not yet daring to mount, Sathoman’s men too close to risk a gallop. Kesham-vaj stood some little distance off, a huddle of low, stone houses, similar to Mherut’yi, but larger, and lit far brighter by the fires that burned inside and those beyond the buildings. In a ring around the town the brigands had erected tents, and bonfires, invisible from below, but atop the plateau providing sufficient light he could see the horses tethered on picket lines and the groups of men who watched, waiting like hungry wolves for their prey to weaken. Sparks cascaded upward, incongruously cheerful, and he heard voices raised, shouting across the distance between the fires and the town.
“We must walk around.” Bracht’s whisper tore him from his study. “Likely most of the night. But by dawn we should be clear. If they see us, mount and run westward.”
He nodded and trailed after the Kern, through the scrub that decorated the rim, glancing constantly at the fires. He was unaware of the red stone at his throat, too intent on moving in silence, too aware of the brigands’ proximity, to notice when the stone began to glow.
He felt its heat in the instant that Tight burst before them, as though some separate bonfire was lit directly in their path, smelling almonds then and cursing as his horse shied, rearing and screaming, seeing Bracht’s animal do the same, the freesword clinging grimly to the reins, falchion in hand even as he swung into the saddle. He felt a hot wind gust, hurling him to the ground, hooves flailing above him as the horse fought free of his grip and charged madly into the night. He saw Bracht turn, fighting his panicked animal, and lift from the saddle as if plucked by some giant, unseen hand.
The Kern thudded to the ground and the same wind sent him rolling, over and over until he struck Calandryll, and the gusting shifted, blowing from above, downward, pressing them flat, helpless against its force. The timbre of the shouting about the bonfires altered as men came running, and the light faded, the wind dying as threatening swords ringed them and a mild voice announced in faultless Lyssian, “I have been waiting for you. I am called Anomius.”
“INTRIGUING,” Anomius continued, as if no time had passed, no cords been bound about their wrists or angry hands dragged them to the ruins of a building, once a cowshed by its smell, lit by the glow of the fires outside, all shifting shadow within. “A warrior of Cuan na’For and a young noble, unless I miss my guess, of Lysse traveling together. With a magic stone, a small fortune in gold coin, and a map of Gessyth that purports to show the location of fabled Tezin-dar. Intriguing. Absolutely intriguing.”
He paused, studying them speculatively, a small man, unimpressive in his soiled black robe, strands of age-yellowed hair escaping from beneath his headdress to coil about a sallow face in which watery eyes sat too close to bulbous nose. They stared back, not speaking, resting against the wall.
“Adventurers? Seekers after the lost city’s gold? Or something else? Rumor has it that Tezin-dar holds secrets forgotten since the gods fought. Power then? Do you seek the gramaryes of the Old Ones?” He smiled, pale lips exposing stained teeth, eyes twinkling with something that might have been amusement—or madness-speaking again without awaiting reply, more interested, it seemed, in his own musings than in any response. “And yet not versed in the occult arts—no warlocks, for sure. Are stone and map stolen, then? Trophies? Happenstance thefts from some Lyssian mage, taken up in hopes of fortune? And the coin—from the same source?” He chuckled softly, a twittering, avian sound, and shook his head. “That stone might have saved you, boy, had you known better how to use it. It warned you of my little watcher, did it not? Back there in the cowherd’s barn? You frightened him, you know, for he’s a timid creature. But my bird you could not frighten. Did you see him, watching you, his eyes mine? No matter: you are come here and now I shall have answers of you.”
“Arrhiman and Laphyl are dead.”
A figure blocked the doorway, hiding the light, the voice angry. Anomius shrugged carelessly and stepped aside.
“My lord Sathoman ek’Hennem, Lord of the Fayne.”
“Burash!” Sathoman grunted, “Give me light. Am I a bat that I can see in the dark?”
“I forget, my lord, that you lack my ability.”
Anomius raised a hand and brilliance sparkled in his palm, spreading to illuminate the shed. Calandryll stared at the renegade lord. Sathoman was huge, perhaps the largest man he had seen, his head close to what remained of the roof. He stood bareheaded, a mane of reddish hair falling about a dark and furious face, mingling with beard and thick mustaches so that he appeared wild, like some beast, or changeling. Heavy brows overhung deep-set eyes, the black glinting in the light of the wizard’s magical torch. He wore a cuirass of dragon’s hide, red as his hair, and vambraces of the same hue on muscle-corded arms, greaves on columnar legs. A longsword was sheathed on his waist, and a hand ax. He eyed the prisoners: Calandryll felt as must a sheep, inspected by a butcher.
“Kill them.”
Sathoman turned away, halted by the wizard’s soft voice.
“Unwise, my lord; yet.”
“What?”
The great head swung to face Anomius, hairy lips parted in a snarl of animal ferocity. The wizard smiled, untroubled.
“My lord, I warned you of their coming. Arrhiman and Laphyl were careless—they should not have let the Kern get close.”
“The Kern slew them? Then kill him. Have your way with the other.”
“I think not,” Anomius said. “I sense a joindure here—a shared purpose—and something else. I think the one useless without the other.”
“Riddles,” Sathoman barked. “Burash’s eyes, mage, why must you always talk in riddles?”
“It is my way,” Anomius replied, unabashed.
“And it is my way to execute those who slay my people,” roared the giant. “Arrhiman and Laphyl lie with slit throats and I’ve a town to take. Burash, man, we’ve planned this long enough! It was your magic brought that cursed lictor out where we could kill him, and now I heed you to pave a way into Kesham-vaj. Kill them—or watch as I do it.”
He drew his sword. The blade glittered in the unnatural light: Calandryll felt his stomach clench, his mouth dry. From the corner of his eye he saw Bracht tense and knew that even bound, the Kern would not go easily.
“My lord—wait!” Anomius heeded to crane back his head to meet the giant’s eyes, but in his manner there was nothing of subservience; rather, Calandryll sensed, he focused his will on Sathoman. “Now or tomorrow, what does it matter when they die? We have them and they shall not escape. You’ve my word on that—and you know my word is good.”
Beneath the mild tone there was a hint of steel: Sathoman faltered, chewing at his mustaches. Calandryll licked his lips.
“They offer no threat, not now,” the wizard said. “Kesham-vaj shall be yours, and from Kesham-vaj you’ll hold the road. Command the way into the Fayne. You’ll hold the Tyrant at bay—Kesham-vaj’s the gate to the northern Reaches, just as I told you. I’ll give you Kesham-vaj; and Mherut’yi, after. You’ll rule the Fayne undisputed, and all the eastern coast from the Shann Desert to Mhazomul. These two are no threat to that.”
