by Angus Wells
“Bracht is no fool.” Anomius glanced, nodding, in the Kern’s direction. “Kesham-vaj commands this highland and Sathoman has the bulk of his army here. Such a force heeds a secure base—we heed Kesham-vaj intact. As for magic—yes, there’s a wizard of some small ability in the town. It seems dead Cenophus learned something of our plans and sent word to the Tyrant, who answered his lictor’s request with a mage. I could, of course, overcome him, but likely our warring powers would destroy all Kesham-vaj. I prefer to whittle him down and present Sathoman with a town entire. It’s a matter of time; no more than a few days.”
“But Sathoman grows impatient,” said Calandryll, encouraged by the wizard’s loquacity.
“Always impatient,” Anomius nodded. “Had I not counseled the division of his forces, he’d have all his army here. But—fortunately for him—he bows to my better judgment: by now Mherut’yi, too, is under siege.”
“Wise counsel,” Calandryll applauded.
“Yes,” Anomius agreed.
“You’ll be the greatest sorcerer in Kandahar,” Calandryll said. “Perhaps in all the world.”
“Undoubtedly.” The wizard beamed; then frowned: “Perhaps? How do you mean—perhaps?”
Calandryll paused, gathering his thoughts. He felt the bait taken, but the reeling in demanded great care. For all Anomius’s pride, his overweaning ambition, he was no fool to step careless into so flimsy a snare.
“I’ve thought on what you said, and I’d not see Bracht suffer,” he declared. “I doubt that even protected by the stone I could deny you.”
“Wise,” Anomius murmured approvingly. “That stone’s a minor obstacle to one of my ability.”
“Indeed,” Calandryll nodded, “Nor a thing to be damaged, for it’s a key to power and set with protective magicks.”
The wizard’s small eyes grew smaller still.
“Explain yourself, Calandryll den Karynth—I find you interest me.”
“I lied earlier, just as you surmised. I thought to deceive you, but clearly that’s impossible.”
“Quite,” said Anomius.
“I did not steal the stone—it was given me by a sorcerer of Lysse, Lord Varent den Tarl. He helped me escape Secca and in return I, and Bracht, undertook a quest on his behalf. You’ve seen the map—would you study it again?”
Anomius’s sallow features glowed with fascination. He gestured at where their gear was tossed and the satchel rose in the air, floating to his hands. He drew out the chart, smoothing it over his knees.
“You know, of course, of the chartographer Orwen,” Calandryll said.
“Of course,” Anomius agreed. A fraction too readily, Calandryll thought, as if the ugly little man sought to conceal ignorance.
“Who was commissioned by the domm, Thomus, to make a map of Gessyth. A map showing the location of Tezin-dar.”
“You say this is it?” Anomius tapped the sheet. “This is no ancient map, but something hew.”
“A copy,” Calandryll said quickly. “A copy of the chart I took from Secca’s archives, and another. The two combined show the way to Tezin-dar. I drew it myself.”
“And this Varent den Tarl employed you and the Kern to go there? To what purpose? Why not journey there himself?”
“Not all magicians have your courage,” Calandryll said. “Lord Varent prefers to remain safe in Lysse while we undertake his mission.”
Anomius snorted contempt.
“And should you succeed, what are you to fetch him?”
Now was the moment; Calandryll heard it in the warlock’s voice, saw it in his eyes. He licked his lips, knowing that his life and Bracht’s hung on the precarious thread of his words: knew that death was the price of failure. The balance was delicate: to speak of the Arcanum was to give the mage too much, to risk the entry of another player in the world-shattering game—and one who, at the moment, held the upper hand—but he must offer Anomius something, some prize of sufficient worth he might be tempted from Sathoman’s service, tempted to free them. He was unaccustomed to such maneuvering, to this juggling of truth and half-truth and deceits, but he must find the bait with which to hook the wizard’s interest. And swiftly, for their lives depended on it.
“There is a grimoire,” he said carefully, feigning reluctance, “that Lord Varent claims is old as time. A book of gramaryes written when the world was young and the Elder Gods ruled. He believes it lies in Tezin-dar; he believes it contains forgotten spells. He said that the wizard who owns it must wield power unimaginable.”
“Ah!” Anomius raised a hand, halting him. “I repeat—why should he entrust you two with such a mission?”
“I speak and read the Old Tongue,” Calandryll said; quickly, “And so am able to read the map.”
“The Old Tongue?” Anomius leaned forward, elbow on knee, chin on hand. “That’s a long-forgotten art.”
“And yet I can,” Calandryll returned. “Do you?”
Anomius shook his head, irritation sparking in his eyes. Calandryll shrugged as best he could with hands bound at his back.
“Because I speak it, and because Lord Varent lacks your daring, he preferred that I should make the journey on his behalf. Bracht accompanies me as bodyguard.” He saw irritation replaced with interest again and continued swiftly, “The one half of the map I did steal—from the archives of my father’s palace—my father would have me a priest and Lord Varent offered the better bargain: to bring him that half of the map that he might match it to the half he owned, and he would bring me safe out of Secca. Yet with the way to Tezin-dar shown, he was reluctant to venture the journey himself. He urged me to undertake it—with Bracht—and bring him the book.”
“He would trust you to fetch it?” Anomius’s yellow brow wrinkled, a finger rubbing at his swollen nose. “Would he not fear you’d keep it to yourself?”
“To what end? I have no knowledge of magic—as you discerned yourself,” Calandryll said. “If I possess any occult talent, it is unknown to me.”
“And yet you wear a sorcerer’s stone,” said Anomius.
“Given me by Lord Varent. I have no skill with magic.”
Anomius smiled as if pleased to have scored that minor victory. “This Varent would seem a coward,” he murmured, “to send others out to seek what he desires. But no matter—tell me of the stone.”
“Protection, so he told me,” Calandryll said, forcing doubt, confusion, aside to concentrate on his deception, “as you saw. Save by the application of great magic, it may not be removed from me.”
“That much I recognize,” Anomius agreed. “Though I could do it, the magicks required would render the stone useless. And it has another purpose, no?”
“I think you must be a greater mage than Lord Varent,” Calandryll flattered. “Aye—the stone will lead me to the grimoire. And when it has, Lord Varent said the book is guarded by magic, against which the stone shall furnish protection.”
“So,” Anomius said gently, his voice soft, “if what you say is true, you are the lodestone that points to the book.”
“Aye,” Calandryll said eagerly.
“And the book offers the mage who owns it power unlimited.”
“So Lord Varent said.”
“Yet to obtain the book, you are heeded.”
“Aye.”
“But not the Kern.”
Calandryll’s answer froze on his readied tongue. Like a fish taken by the hook, Anomius was caught, but still he fought, still he was cunning: still the fisherman must use all his wiles to reel him in.
“He is.”
Think! Buy time, but think! Give this dangerous little man no reason to slay Bracht—think!
“We are bonded,” he said; slowly, then faster as logic came to his aid. Logic and an extension of the tenuous web of half-truths he wove: the whole truth now. “You saw that yourself—our destinies are linked. In Secca I consulted a spaewife—Reba was her name; she was blind—and she foretold that I should encounter a true companion: Bracht. She scried an aug
ury, that we should travel together. I think that to separate us must be to break that web she discerned and halt the journey. Without Bracht, I shall not find the grimoire.”
“I sensed a joining,” Anomius admitted, “and honest auguries are not to be trifled with.”
“And,” Calandryll added quickly, “she said I should meet another. Might that be you?”
The watery eyes fastened on his face. Like leeches, he thought. Anomius said, “Perhaps,” and he felt the line reel in a little further.
“I never trusted Varent.” That Bracht should speak surprised him: he turned toward the Kern. “A man—wizard, or no—should take his own chances. Not skulk safe behind city walls whilst others risk their lives for his advantage. I’ve more respect for a man who faces his foes.”
Like you hung on the tail of the sentence. Anomius nodded. Calandryll licked dry lips. The shed filled up with silence as the wizard turned his colorless gaze from one to the other.
“What do you say?” he asked at last. “Do you offer me this grimoire?”
The fish broke water, the line taut: heart pounding, Calandryll extended the net.
“I tell you only the truth—obviously, there is no hiding it from you. I say that we go to seek the grimoire in Tezindar. That it offers powers beyond a sorcerer’s dreams—but that only we may find it.”
“Your loyalty to this Varent is somewhat …” Anomius shrugged, “… tenuous.”
“Lord Varent sleeps safe in Aldarin whilst we sit, bound, in a cowshed in Kandahar facing death. What would you do?”
“I’d not have entrusted a beardless youth and a Kern freesword in the first place,” Anomius said. “But no matter. You say you speak and read the Old Tongue … and you’ve that stone—You give me cause to ponder. A man faced with death is likely to make wild promises, but there’s such in what you say that you shall live a little longer while I think on your future.”
He rose, black robe rustling, pausing at the shed’s door.
“Best that you say nothing of this matter to any other.”
The watery eyes held a threat: Calandryll nodded, Bracht grunting agreement. Anomius quit the shed and the light died with his departure, revealing a sky no longer star-pocked, darkening into the ultimate nigrescence that prefaces dawn. Calandryll looked down at the red stone, wondering if some invisible eavesdropper was left behind, but the stone merely pulsed faintly, indicating the magic that barred the door, and he turned to Bracht, his breath a long, slow sigh of released tension.
“Is he hooked, do you think?”
The fires outside bathed the Kern’s stern features in shifting light, his smile a flash of teeth, white against the reddened tan.
“I think you gave him reason to keep us alive a while. I think you a more accomplished liar than I had suspected.”
“Dera!” Calandryll returned the smile. “I thought each moment he’d slay us. Or dismiss the bait—give us to Sathoman.”
“There’s that to consider still,” Bracht murmured, his smile fading. “Sathoman’s bent on conquering the Fayne, and becoming Tyrant.”
“A wizard with a grimoire of … what did I say? Unimaginable power … would make a useful ally.” Calandryll rested his head wearily against the rough stone, staring at the doorway. “Perhaps Sathoman will consider that. Or Anomius choose to betray him.”
“Both choices leave us in jeopardy still,” Bracht said. “Think on it—should Sathoman agree to send his wizard after this imagined grimoire, it’s not likely he’ll do it until he holds Kesham-vaj and Mherut’yi, both. And then he’d likely send men in escort. We should travel under guard while perhaps Azumandias comes closer to the Arcanum. If Anomius decides to leave his master, he’ll heed to get us out by some clandestine means. And then we shall travel with a crazed wizard; who’s likely, at the end, to seize the Arcanum for himself.”
“I’d thought no farther than escape from this place,” Calandryll admitted, “and I could see no other way.”
“Nor I,” Bracht allowed. “Save that the stone work some magic to whisk us free.”
“It would seem not,” Calandryll murmured. “Save that it prevents Anomius from extorting the truth.”
“At least we’re not given to Sathoman,” Bracht said. “At least we live another day. And while we live, we can hope.”
He yawned, working himself to a more comfortable position against the wall, and closed his eyes. Calandryll, too, sought sleep, but found such respite elusive. The cords were tight about his wrists and with nothing else to occupy his mind he realized that numbness was replaced with a painful tingling. His hands were swollen and his arms ached; the wall was hard against his back, rough stone probing tensed muscles, nubs forming small focuses of discomfort. No matter how he shifted he could not find ease, and after a while he gave up, staring dully at the doorway.
IN time the darkness became grey, then brighter. A few birds began to sing. The wind shifted around and he coughed as smoke from the bonfires wafted into the shed. The brightness grew, dissolving slowly to reveal a blue sky marked along its edges with heavy swells of cloud, the threat of rain. He saw the ek’Hennem soldiery stir, those who had maintained the nightlong vigil seeking tents, or simply throwing themselves to the ground, others taking their places about Kesham-vaj. Sathoman emerged from a splendid pavilion, all green and gold and white, still armored, his hair and beard wild, and stretched hugely, turning to bellow orders. Anomius, who looked to have had no more sleep than the prisoners, came to his side; words were exchanged and the would-be Lord of the Fayne glanced once, blackly, in the direction of the cowshed. Then shouting caught his attention and he set off at a run toward the town, Anomius trotting behind, his robe gathered up to expose pale, spindly legs.
A small black cloud hung low over Kesham-vaj, and it seemed to Calandryll that lightning played within it. It drifted across the town toward the closest fires, slowing and halting, then disgorging such a weight of rain the fires were instantly doused. Men stared up, then screamed as the lightning flashed, descending in vicious tendrils to strike them down. A peal of thunder dinned over the besiegers’ camp and the cloud drifted on, sweeping over fire after fire, spilling fresh floods over each, the white-silver bolts blasting more men, the morning filled with the deafening blast of its thunder. Sathoman paused, waiting for Anomius, their conversation clearly angry, the giant gesturing furiously at the cloud, the mage answering with placatory gestures. Calandryll watched as he raised his hands, pale white arms revealed now, and the air about him shimmered. It seemed then that a wind tore at the cloud, like wolves on a sheep, black streamers tearing loose, the lightning dying, until it was no more than a ragged collection of dark streaks, tatters that broke and faded against the blue sky.
“Perhaps the Tyrant’s mage is stronger than Anomius suggested,” Bracht said. “Perhaps our captors face defeat.”
“Shall that be to our advantage?” Calandryll wondered. “Or not?”
“Who can say?” The Kern flexed cramped shoulders, grunting. “I think our wisest course is to suborn Anomius.”
“Azumandias may help us there,” Calandryll murmured.
“How so?”
“If Anomius decides he wants the grimoire, he’ll not welcome rivals, I think. When next we speak I’ll tell him of Azumandias—warn him that another seeks the book.”
“It might well spur him into action,” Bracht agreed, grinning. “You’ve a head for intrigue, my friend.”
Calandryll returned his comrade’s smile, though his eyes remained troubled. It was a slender hope at best, that Sathoman’s wizard should choose to quit his master to risk the journey to Tezin-dar in search of a fictitious grimoire, its existence based only a fragile platform of lies and half-truths. But it was their only hope.
“Look,” Bracht said, catching his attention. “What does he do now?”
They clambered to their feet and went to the door to gain a better view. Anomius stood with Sathoman beside a smoldering fire. The black cloud had drenc
hed the timber and now dark smoke oozed fitfully from the wet wood. The wizard moved his hands and the smoke thickened, dark tendrils creeping like draggled serpents over the ground, twisting and joining to become a solid column that slithered menacingly toward the town. He went to a second doused pyre and performed the same ritual, producing more oily tentacles, those mingling with the first, the column growing denser, moving implacably toward Kesham-vaj. A third and then a fourth bonfire were treated in the same way, until two snakes of smoke converged on the barricades. Soon the defenses were hidden beneath the oily pall, the smoke like flowing water, filtering through gaps, rising to surge over the piled obstacles and fill the streets beyond with reeking darkness. Torches showed dimly in that obscuration, and frightened cries rang out. Sathoman laughed and clapped Anomius on the back, his enthusiasm sending the diminutive sorcerer staggering forward. Then both men turned to the giant’s pavilion and disappeared inside.
Calandryll and Bracht settled against the wall again. The morning dragged slowly on, their stomachs reminding them they had not eaten in some time, nor been offered water, the pain of bound hands and cramped shoulders a constant thing, going almost unnoticed now.
Toward noon the smoke serpents began to roil and dissipate, breaking up like the cloud, and Anomius visited them again.
“You saw my little trick?” he asked proudly. “I find it especially satisfying to turn an opponent’s magic against him. There’ll be red eyes and roughened throats in Kesham-vaj now. Could your Varent den Tarl do that?”
“I think not,” Calandryll said. “I think Lord Varent a lesser mage.”
“And your father,” Anomius beamed, flattered, “does the Domm of Secca employ sorcerers of like power?”
“None to match you.”
Anomius nodded, still smiling, hugely pleased with himself. “I’ve his measure now,” he declared. “I think tonight I’ll test him further. Perhaps tomorrow Sathoman’s impatience shall be ended.”
“You’ll take the town?”
The wizard beamed and tapped his bulbous nose.
