by Angus Wells
The sword lowered. Sathoman glowered at the diminutive mage, then sheathed the blade.
“Why plead for them?”
“Not for their lives, my lord. I plead for a little time, no more. I’d know why a Lyssian and a Kern travel Kandahar. Indulge my curiosity—it shall cost you nothing, and perhaps gain you some advantage.”
“You’ll give me Kesham-vaj?”
“Within days, my lord. My word on it.”
The giant grunted, shrugged.
“After …” Anomius smiled, “Kill them at your will.”
Sathoman nodded slowly, shaggy head turning to settle angry eyes on the prisoners. “So be it, mage. They’re yours for the moment. But I’d make an example of them.”
“Of them and Kesham-vaj both, my lord.” Anomius inclined his head slightly. Sathoman favored him with a brief, feral smile and spun on his heel, striding into the night. The wizard returned his attention to Calandryll and Bracht.
“So impatient—all blood and fire, like his father before him. Burash knows, it took me long enough to persuade him to this plan and with success in sight he wants it now. Always now! He’d slay you and regret the loss later—if regret were in his nature.”
He sighed sadly, shaking his head as if discussing the behavior of a willful child, folding his hands inside the voluminous sleeves of his robe, for all the world like a pedagogue.
“But we have a little time and much to learn. Shall we commence with names? Who are you?”
Calandryll stared at him, confused by his manner. Anomius clicked tongue against teeth. Bracht said, “Do you not know, wizard? Does your power not extend to so simple a thing?”
Anomius sighed again, his parchment features mournful.
“The folk of Cuan na’For were ever obstinate. You’ve witnessed what I can do—would you have me draw out your names with magic? You might not enjoy the experience.”
“I take no joy of bonds or threats of death,” Bracht snarled defiantly.
“So be it.”
Anomius withdrew a hand from his sleeve. Leveled a finger tipped with a blunt, chipped nail at the Kern, and murmured soft words. Bracht gasped, mouth opening. Calandryll felt the red stone pulse heat against his chest, aware of its glow even as he stared, aghast, at his comrade. Bracht struggled against the sorcerer’s will: his lips drew back from gritted teeth, tendons standing out along his heck, sweat on cheeks and brows, a strangled growling that gradually shaped words bursting unwillingly from his straining throat.
“I am … Bracht … ni Errhyn … of … the clan … Asyth … of … Cuan na’For.”
“Excellent,” murmured Anomius, lowering his hand.
Bracht coughed, spat, his chest heaving.
“And you?”
The warlock turned to Calandryll.
“I am Calandryll,” he said quickly, seeing no point in struggle against that power, “late of Secca.”
Anomius frowned.
“Your family?”
“I am outcast,” he said. “I have no family.”
“Come,” said Anomius gently, “we all have family. To whom were you born?”
“Deny him!” Bracht rasped. “Fight him! We’re dead once he’s done.”
The wizard swung a negligent hand in the Kern’s direction and Bracht shouted, head slamming back against the rough stone of the wall. He began to tremble, palsied, spine arching, his legs thrusting straight, heels drumming furiously against the dirty floor. Spittle flecked his lips and the whites of his eyes showed bright, surrounding the blue. Anomius closed his hand in a fist and Bracht screamed, back bending until he was supported on heels and head alone. It seemed his spine must snap, or his heart burst.
“No!” Calandryll yelled. “I’ll tell you!”
Anomius nodded and gestured, and Bracht slumped, panting, stretched on the floor.
“Calandryll den Karynth. My father is Bylath, Domm of Secca.”
Interest sparked in the wizard’s small eyes. His head cocked, birdlike, to one side, a finger stroking his turgescent nose.
“So, the son of Secca’s domm. But outcast, you say?”
“Yes,” Calandryll nodded, eyes flicking from the gasping Bracht to the wizard, “My father would make me a priest—I fled that fate with my comrade. We took ship to Kandahar to escape. The money, the stone—I stole them.”
Watery eyes came closer, suspicious, the warlock’s finger raised in mute threat.
“And the map? How came you by a map men say does not exist?”
“I stole that, too,” he extemporized. “I was … am … a scholar. I’d read of Tezin-dar and thought to seek the lost city. To win fame.”
Anomius sniffed noisily, finger extending to touch Calandryll’s chin, tilt back the head. Then the mage winced, snatching back his hand as though from unseen flame, eyes hooding as they studied the young man.
“I am not sure I believe you. I sense occult power in you, but no matching knowledge.”
“I am no sorcerer,” he said quickly.
“No,” Anomius agreed, “were you magician, you’d not have fallen so easily to my snare. But still … you hold things back. Tell me about this stone.”
“I stole it,” he repeated. “From a palace magician.”
Again the warlock’s tongue clicked against his teeth. He shook his head, leveling his finger.
“Tell me the truth.”
Calandryll felt a shock akin to buffeting wind. It seemed that probing fingers explored the contours of his brain, the touch urging truth, softly, but threat behind the caress. He felt his mouth open unbidden, his tongue move to shape the words. Then he felt the stone grow warm against his chest, red glow spreading about his face. The pressure inside his skull eased and was gone. Anomius frowned.
“So.” His voice was thoughtful; soft, like a serpent’s hiss. “So, the stone protects you. And well—I cannot touch it, nor you. Yet, at least. In time, who knows? Meanwhile, your comrade enjoys no such protection—shall you witness his suffering in silence? Shall you watch him die? I sense a bond between you—linked destinies. Shall he be the key that loosens your tongue?”
He pointed at Bracht. Calandryll said, “Slay him and I’ve no reason to speak.”
The wizard chuckled, the sound obscene.
“I heed not slay him, Calandryll den Karynth. Only turn him a little on the spit of agony. I think his screams might well unlock you.”
“A hired man?” Calandryll struggled to make his tone scornful. “A Kern freesword? He’s a mercenary; a mere bodyguard. And one who led me into your trap. Why should I care for his suffering?”
“But you do,” said Anomius. “I sense that—and no denial of yours persuades me otherwise. I think I’ll put fire in his lungs and listen to his screaming a while. Or shall I melt his eyes? Which do you prefer to witness, Calandryll den Karynth?”
Desperately Calandryll sought some answer, some delaying tactic with which to forestall the warlock. He doubted neither Anomius’s ability or intent: did he not speak, he would see Bracht writhe in agony, or die; yet to reveal their purpose in Kandahar seemed likely to end their quest here, in a dune-reeking cowshed. Did Anomius but grasp that what they sought was the Arcanum, surely he would seek the book for himself, or ally with Azumandias: it seemed already clear that he had scant concern for human suffering. He heeded time; his mind raced, close to panic, but time was not a commodity the warlock offered.
Until a brigand appeared in the doorway, glancing warily at the prisoners, eyeing the wizard nervously.
“Lord Sathoman asks that you attend him, mage.”
“Why?”
Anomius turned to face the man, his question mildly put, but still prompting the brigand to step back a pace.
“The defenders make a sally—Lord Sathoman would have you deal with them. An example, he said.”
Anomius sighed, head swinging to face Calandryll again.
“It would appear our … conversation … must wait. While I am gone, think on what you’ve seen;
and what I can do.” He waved the messenger back, pausing in the doorway to mutter a spell. Calandryll felt the stone warm briefly; smelled almonds. “This place is bound by magic. Do not attempt to leave it, on peril of your lives. Remember that Sathoman will treat you unkinder than I.”
He walked away, leaving them in the shadows. Calandryll sighed his relief and looked to where Bracht lay.
“Are you hurt?”
It seemed inadequate; Bracht grunted, forced a grin.
“No. Though I’d not suffer that again. You?”
Calandryll shook his head.
“It seems the stone protects me.” He studied the Kern’s face. “But if he makes good his threat …”
“A hired man?” Bracht got his legs under him, wriggling up the wall to a sitting position. “A mere bodyguard?”
“I could think of nothing else. I thought he might leave you be.”
Bracht snorted grim laughter.
“Sadly, not. The cursed wizard saw through that. I think in time he’ll have his answers, by one means or another.”
“Should I tell him,” Calandryll mused, “what then? What might he do?”
“Slay us both, I think,” Bracht said. “The man’s mad. Likely he’d take the map and seek the Arcanum for himself.”
“Would Sathoman let him go? It seems this would-be lord heeds his magic.”
Bracht shook his head: “You heard Anomius—Sathoman seeks to establish himself as Lord of the Fayne. It seems Kesham-vaj’s the gateway to the north. Sathoman takes the town to command the road, and once established here it’s likely more dissidents will flock to his cause. He takes Mherut’yi and commands the coast—it’s civil war we see fomenting and the next step must be to seize the Tyrant’s crown. Sathoman will not release the mage.”
“Then if we told Sathoman,” Calandryll suggested.
“He’d have no reason to hold us. We’d die.”
“And if I refuse to tell him, you die.”
“We face a quandary.”
Bracht pushed awkwardly to his feet, crossing to the doorway. Calandryll joined him, warning: “Remember his magic.”
The Kern nodded grimly. “I’ve reason enough. But I’d see what goes on.”
TOGETHER they peered into a night that aged toward dawn. Beyond the encircling tents the light of the besiegers’ fires revealed a town unwalled, but barricaded, carts and wagons, furniture, barrels, anything portable, piled in jumbled heaps between the houses, blocking the entry points. The party they had followed down the Tyrant’s road had been no more than a skirmishing band, for Kesham-vaj was ringed with a horde of armed and armored men. They were spread all round, but where the road entered the town they clustered thickest and it was at that point Anomius went to work.
A group bearing shields moved forward, the sorcerer at the center, marching slowly toward a knot of defenders come out from behind their blockade.
“They sought to stampede the horses.” Bracht ducked his head to where the animals fretted on the picket lines, snorting and stamping, made nervous by the fires and the sounds of battle. “They failed.”
Calandryll saw that the defenders retreated under a hail of arrows that ceased on a word from Anomius. The wizard raised both hands and the shield wall parted, the little black-robed figure stepping out, careless of the danger; or supremely confident of his own invulnerability. He stood for a moment with hands held high and then fire blossomed in the air above him. It drifted slowly forward, growing. The defenders turned and began to run. The fire, still growing, swept quicker after them, catching them. Men screamed and fell. The fire reached the barricade and faltered, as though held back, then died. On the road charred shapes smoldered.
“Why not burn the barricade?” Calandryll wondered.
Bracht shrugged. “Perhaps Sathoman wants the town intact. A burned ruin’s little good for a stronghold,” he suggested.
“But Anomius could surely use other spells.” Calandryll stared at the sorcerer, speaking now with the giant rebel. “I think perhaps Kesham-vaj is protected by magic.”
“Octofan said wizardry was outlawed by the Tyrant.”
Bracht hobbled to the rear of the shed, easing down the wall. Calandryll settled beside him, his expression thoughtful.
“Save for those sorcerers employed by the Tyrant himself. What if one were in Kesham-vaj? If it’s so important a town—and the Tyrant knew, as he must, that Sathoman uses Anomius—perhaps he set a wizard to guard the place.”
“Perhaps,” Bracht allowed, “but what good to us?”
“I don’t know,” Calandryll admitted. “Unless it means Sathoman’s defeat.”
“Which will likely mean our deaths,” Bracht said. “If Sathoman withdraws, I doubt he’ll carry prisoners with him.”
Calandryll nodded, fighting to banish fear, panic, the depression that threatened to overwhelm him. He sought calm, to still his mind and think, to impose scholarly logic on his racing thoughts. Swords would not see them clear of this impasse, so reason was all he had left: he must use it to find a way out.
“Anomius knows I lie,” he said slowly, seeking to use the words themselves to unravel his half-formed thoughts, “and if I continue to lie, he’ll torture you.”
Bracht began to protest, but Calandryll shook his head for silence.
“Listen—we’ve no means of escaping save that the warlock or Sathoman release us, and they’re not likely to grant that boon. But Anomius is interested in the map. Perhaps that’s the key to unlock this trap.”
“How so?” Bracht asked. “Tell him of our quest and he’ll either take the map for himself—and kill us—or laugh at our foolishness—and kill us.”
“Perhaps; perhaps not.” Calandryll frowned, concentrating. “He spoke of forgotten gramaryes, and why should he aid Sathoman save in lust for power? He’s cast his lot with a rebel lord who seeks to rule the Fayne and likely—as you said!—all Kandahar. Why do that unless he, too, seeks power? And if he does, then surely the secrets of Tezin-dar must offer him powers undreamt of.”
“You’d give him the means to raise the Mad God? I’d as soon hand the book to Varent.”
Bracht stared at Calandryll, eyes narrowed. Calandryll shook his head.
“Not that, but perhaps the promise of unimagined power.”
“And warrant of our deaths with it.”
“Not if he believes he heeds us. He cannot touch the stone, remember. And the stone wards me from his magic. Perhaps it shields me enough that I may ensnare him—promise him the gramaryes of Tezin-dar in return for our freedom. Persuade him that he heeds us; that he’s better served joining us than aiding Sathoman.”
“That’s a desperate plan,” Bracht said softly.
“I can think of no other,” Calandryll returned.
“Nor I,” the Kern admitted, “but it’s a snare that must surely leave us in his power—if he takes the bait.”
“It might at least see us clear of Sathoman,” Calandryll said. “And whilst we remain here time passes—perhaps Azumandias finds a way to Tezin-dar.”
Bracht nodded, then hissed a warning. Calandryll turned to see Anomius approaching.
The wizard gestured at the doorway and stepped through, spelling light into the shed once more. Calandryll thought that perhaps his shoulders slumped a fraction; that perhaps the practice of magic tired him: certainly, he appeared less vital, and a petulant expression showed on the parchment features.
“So impatient,” he murmured, “Now, now, now; always now. He will not wait and I must use magic where arrows would serve as well. I’ve promised him Keshamvaj—you heard me promise that, did you not?—but he’d have it now. Not tomorrow, not in time, but now!”
“The virtue of patience is a rare commodity,” Calandryll said.
“A philosopher?” Anomius cocked an inquistive eyebrow. “No doubt the benefit of your father’s palace. You’ve an education, eh? These men of the ek’Hennem have so little. No more than bandits, were the truth told.”
“Why do you serve a hedge lord?” Calandryll ventured. “Surely the Tyrant himself would prize your allegiance?”
“A hedge lord?” Anomius chuckled softly. “Best not let him hear that, lad. But yes—of now he is little more than that. But after he’s taken Kesham-vaj—ah, then he’ll be more. Much more!”
“Tyrant, perhaps?” Calandryll asked.
Anomius stared at him, lips pursed, then smiled, nodding to himself, his mood brightening. He turned, calling for a stool to be brought, and settled himself before them, fussily arranging the folds of his grubby robe.
“My lord Sathoman ek’Hennem is a mighty warrior,” he declared when he was comfortable, his manner pedagogic again. “Men rally to him for what he is, not just the title. When his father died on the Stone Field it was young Sathoman—a youth no older than you at the time—who gathered the ek’Hennem army and swore to deny Iodrydus tenure of Fayne Keep. And he succeeded. Three times he withstood siege—aided, of course, by me!—and after that the Tyrant left him be. Now he rules the Fayne. Almost, at least: the Tyrant’s lictors still lay claim to the towns, but that shall soon end. Once Kesham-vaj has fallen well hold the road. Take Mherut’yi and our back’s protected—all the Fayne will acknowledge Sathoman. Mhazomul, Ghombalar, Vishat’yi we can take at leisure—isolate Nhur-jabal! Yes, I’ll make Sathoman Tyrant of Kandahar before I’m done.”
He paused, scratching vigorously beneath his robe, his smile dreamy; demented.
‘And that should answer your other question. Of course the Tyrant would prize my services—did he not put me to death for aiding the ek’Hennem cause—but then I should be merely one more sorcerer at court. When I install Sathoman as lord of all Kandahar I shall be paramount sorcerer. All Kandahar shall hail me and the Tyrant’s puppet mages shall bow before me!”
“Why did you halt your fire at the barricade?” Calandryll wondered. “Surely you could have razed the town?”
The warlock’s expression darkened a fraction. He sniffed; rubbed at his bulbous nose.
“You saw that, eh? Why do you think?”
“Bracht said you’d have no use for a ruin.” Calandryll smiled apologetically. “I wondered if perhaps there’s magic in the town’s defenses.”
