by Angus Wells
He climbed beneath the sheets and in moments the room grew loud with his snoring. Calandryll looked at Bracht, shrugging helplessly; the Kern mouthed a curse and flung himself down. Weary, too weary to argue or discuss their situation, Calandryll shucked off his clothes and clambered gratefully into his own bed.
After uncomfortable nights in captivity and the hard ride down from the plateau, sleep came quickly, bringing, for Calandryll at least, a confusion of dreams. He found himself reliving the skirmish on the plateau, seeing the frightened faces of the brigands as they died, not knowing who slew them, only that they fell to an invisible sword, becoming, in the instant of their dying, Sathoman, who raised his massive blade and roared a battle shout, that sound transforming him into the flaxen-haired woman, who leveled a blade from the deck of the warboat and called out, her words lost in the rush of swirling water that carried her up and up until she was no more than a dot against a sky filled with the flames of a burning town through which monstrous creatures strode, reaching down to pluck him from the smoke-filled streets even as he mouthed Varent’s spell and ran, invisible, from their grasping talons into the arms of Anomius, who laughed and said, “I am your true companion—the one Reba spoke of.” He tore free and plunged through roiling smoke, pursued now by black-clad men, masked so that only cold eyes filled with implacable hate were visible, his lungs burning, his legs weakening and slowing until he knew that he ran without moving and his pursuers must catch him unless he could somehow reach the great oak that rose before him, its branches stirred by a howling wind, their rustling a message he could not decipher. He strained toward it, knowing that it offered the safety of truth, but the ground before him sloped abruptly and he felt himself falling, down and down, tumbling into a pit toward a pinpoint of light, bright as the sun …
… Or the faint presentiment of dawn that filtered through the shutters, welcome herald of the hew day. He lay, breathing fast, the knowledge that he was awake, in a room in a tavern in Kandahar, Bracht stirring in the bed beside his, Anomius still snoring, though softer now, coming slowly as he opened his eyes and pushed tangled sheets from his legs. He rubbed his face and rose, crossing to the window, reaching for the shutter.
His cry brought Bracht fast from the bed, falchion raised, poised to attack or defend. He shook his head, rubbing at a hand still burning from Anomius’s spell.
“I forgot,” he grinned; ruefully.
Bracht grunted, sheathing his blade, and spilled water into a jug, splashing his face.
“You touched the window?”
Anomius peered bleary-eyed from his pillows, yawning noisily; Calandryll nodded. The mage raised a hand and once more the almond scent wafted on the cool air.
“Now that spell is lifted.” Anomius sat up, turning his watery gaze on the Kern. “But not the other—best remember that.”
Bracht ignored him. Calandryll threw the shutters open, seeing mist hung low along the riverbank, the young ostler scratching his head as he plodded sleepily toward the stables, the tree-thick slope rising above, its upper edge lost in grey. He turned away, using the bowl, and ran fingers through his hair, thinking that soon he must tie it back, like Bracht’s. He dressed, and with his comrade waited for Anomius to swathe himself in his grubby robe.
The wizard’s toilet was brief and soon they were seated in the common room, breaking their fast with hot bread and steaming tea. The landlord presented them with his reckoning and they went out to the stable, saddling their rested animals and leading them down to the ferry through mist that swirled and began to break as the sun rose and a breeze got up.
The raft stirred in the current as they walked the horses on board, the ferryman a wiry Kand, bare-chested despite the early morning chill. He took their coin and suggested they speed their passage by helping him with the ropes: Anomius held the horses while Bracht and Calandryll each seized a line and began to haul the flat-bottomed vessel across.
The mist was blown away and the sky become blue as they grounded on the farther bank, watching as the ferryman commenced his return journey. He was in midstream when Bracht pointed to the road descending from the plateau.
“Riders!” The freesword’s voice was urgent. “Twenty or thirty.”
“Sathoman must have discovered our absence sooner than I’d anticipated,” Anomius said.
“And those men must have ridden through the night. Curse you, wizard! I told you it was foolishness to delay.” Bracht’s tone was angry. Anomius merely smiled, rubbing at his bulbous nose. “We’re safe from them here—did I not promise you a night’s rest would restore my powers?”
“They’ve but to reach the ferry and cross,” Bracht said. “Our lead is cut and if we run, we’ll likely charge headlong into the Tyrant’s advance guard.”
“They’ll get no farther than this spot,” the wizard replied. “Do you not trust me?”
The Kern’s face was answer enough: Anomius shrugged, shaking his head as if disappointed by such lack of faith.
“Watch,” he said calmly. “Watch, and learn what I can do.”
THE wizard handed Bracht his reins and walked to the water’s edge, stooping there, his hands delving in the rich mud. He scooped up a ball of the sludge, kneading it as he ambled casually back to where they waited. Calandryll saw that he worked the stuff into crude semblance of human shape, setting the mannequin down where the ground was dry to complete his rough sculpture. The approaching riders were hidden in the timber and the mage worked without hurry. Squatting over the tiny figure, he spat, working the saliva into the blank face, then drew a small dagger from the folds of his robe and pricked his thumb, squeezing a droplet of blood onto the mud doll. His ragged nails etched an approximation of eyes, a mouth, and then he took a twig, setting that in the shapeless right hand. He began to murmur a spell: Calandryll saw the red stone at his throat pulse fiery, smelled the now-familiar scent of almonds. Anomius straightened, wiping his hands on his robe, smiling as he turned to glance at his unwilling companions.
“Watch,” he commanded, and pointed at the figurine.
It seemed then that fire sprang from his fingers, washing over the mannequin, the wet mud drying on the instant, baked hard in the supernatural flame. The horses shied, plunging, ears flattened back and eyes rolling, and for an instant Calandryll’s attention was diverted. He calmed the roan as best he could, clinging tight to its bridle, and returned his gaze to the little mud figure. It was no longer little: it grew even as he watched, elongating, thickening, the twig it held enlarging in proportion. It was the size of a child, then large as a youth; man-sized, and still growing. It sat up, flakes of dried mud falling from its back, the indentations that were its eyes deep pits now, that glowed with an unholy fire, the twig a cudgel. Anomius spoke again and the thing rose to its feet, clumsy at first, swaying, arms waving, flailing the branch, still growing. It peered around, a massive, red-eyed golem, taller now than Sathoman, towering over the frightened horses, the twig become a staff, thicker around than a normal man might hold. It took a step, a second, as if testing its ability to move, and raised the great club it held, scything the air. Across the river, the ferryman stared in awe, then shouted something and took to his heels, running for the inn. The golem heard him, the globular head swinging ponderously to stare over the sunlit water, an inarticulate cry, neither animal or human, bursting from the ragged gash of its mouth as the club rose, crashing down into the river in a great silver burst of spray.
Anomius spoke again, in a language hard for human tongue to shape, and the creature ceased its roaring, turning to face him. The horses screamed in protest and the wizard motioned them away, beckoning the golem. Calandryll and Bracht, their eyes wary on the monster, led the horses back into the shade of the timber. On the slope across the river Sathomen’s men came into view again, riding hard. Anomius brought the monster clear of the bank, under the shade of a massive cypress, the grey head touching the lower branches. It had stopped growing now and the wizard craned back his head, peering up
at the burning eyes, speaking softly. The golem made a grunting sound and turned to face across the river, standing with the club upraised, a misshapen colossus.
“We heed dally no longer.” The wizard favored his creation with a last admiring glance and walked to where Bracht and Calandryll waited. “They’ll not get past him.”
He took his reins from the nervous Kern and clambered astride the grey horse. Calandryll and Bracht mounted, letting Anomius take the lead as they followed the road into the forest.
“There are twenty, perhaps thirty, of them,” Bracht called. “How can you be sure none will get by … that?”
Anomius chuckled gaily.
“The ferry will take no more than what? Six riders at a time? My little pet will slay them all—I doubt they’ll make more than one attempt. But if they do …” He laughed again, “Well, hell slay them six by six. Have faith, my friends—you ride with the greatest sorcerer in all Kandahar. I’m only sorry we lack the time to wait and watch him at work. He was a splendid creation, do you not agree?”
Neither offered answer and the wizard chuckled to himself, urging the grey horse to a faster pace along the wide roadway cut through the forest. Trees stood tall to either side, oaks and beech and ash spreading limbs across the trail so that they rode through dappled light, occasional shafts of brilliance lancing from a sky mostly hidden behind the foliage, the shadows painted with the woodland’s green. Ferns grew luxuriant along the verges, and grass, lush and thick, the air sweet-scented and loud with bird song, game trails evidence of deer and hares, and the hunting creatures that preyed on them. They held a steady pace, not speaking, until the morning was well advanced, and then halted where a stream bisected the road, spanned by an ancient stone bridge, its masonry green with moss. Frogs splashed from the bank as they took the horses down to drink, and a wide-winged heron croaked a protest at their intrusion, flapping heavily away downstream to some more private hunting ground.
They rested there, eating fruit and cheese purchased at the inn and filling their canteens while the horses cropped the grass along the waterside, then started off once more, the sun overhead now, warm, summer approaching fast in this more southerly latitude.
The going was easier than the crossing of the Fayne. There was no gaheen to dry the air and fray tempers, none of the scorching heat that had marked the journey from Mherut’yi to Kesham-vaj, and a plentitude of streams and grazing for the animals. Several times they saw deer start from the road ahead, darting into the cover of the timber, and Bracht promised to bring them fresh venison should Anomius allow him time to hunt.
Calandryll rode mostly lost in thought, trusting to Bracht’s keen eye to warn of danger as he pondered the problem set by the wizard. The creation of the golem assured him that Anomius’s powers were fully restored: flight seemed impossible, but somehow they must rid themselves of the mage before reaching Tezin-dar. Should he come into possession of the Arcanum he would, Calandryll felt certain, take Azumandias’s path: would seek to raise the Mad God. And in the doing, destroy the world. He was not, Calandryll thought, sane, and by some means he must be left behind. Or destroyed.
That thought rang belllike in his mind: Anomius must be destroyed.
Its cold clarity chilled him, for he recognized that its very formulation, his instinctive acceptance of its logical outcome, meant that he had changed. Anomius had sensed it—had said that Calandryll would now kill him without compunction—but he had not accepted that the wizard was correct. Now he knew Anomius was right: had he the chance he would slay the warlock with a clear conscience. He was no longer the mild scholar mocked by Tobias, despaired of by his father. This quest had changed him; beyond the inevitable hardening of rough living, beyond the slaying of men in battle, it had changed his basic ethics. The young man who had mooned over Nadama—it came to him that he could no longer clearly recall her face, that realization in itself shocking—existed no more. The boy who had suffered Tobias’s jibes was gone. He had hardened in ways more than physical: he snorted cynical laughter to think how that would please Bylath; how it would confirm to his brother that he was, indeed, a man to fear. Secca seemed now a distant memory, a life left behind, shed as a serpent shed its skin, reborn. He was by no means sure that ends justified means, but he was certain that he must prevent Anomius from finding the Arcanum. And if the only way to ensure that was by slaying the wizard he would, as the man had sensed, cut his throat while he slept; and deal with any qualms of conscience after the deed.
But how? Anomius protected himself well, and it was unlikely he would allow his guard to slip. Should Calandryll slay him, then the glamour placed on Bracht must set comrade against comrade—and of that struggle there could be only one outcome: Bracht would win. And—if he were prepared to sacrifice himself—Bracht alone could not locate the Arcanum, it would lie waiting for Azumandias. It seemed an impasse, a deadlock born of the wizard’s cunning, and he ground his teeth in frustrated anger as he grappled with the problem, for there seemed no solution.
Bracht’s voice snapped him from his contemplation and he saw that they rode across a tree-encircled meadow, oaks spreading gnarled branches like suppliant hands all around.
“I said,” the Kern repeated, “that if the Tyrant’s army advances on the Fayne we’d best ride careful. With open eyes.”
Calandryll grinned an apology, reining his horse a little so that Anomius gained distance. Lowering his voice, he said, “I was thinking of the warlock. Of how we might rid ourselves of his company.”
“I, too,” Bracht returned, studying the black-shrouded figure bobbing on the grey’s saddle, “but with little success. You?”
Calandryll shook his head.
“I’d slay him if I could, but …”
Bracht nodded, understanding.
“And I cannot. Somehow, then, we must escape him.”
“In such manner that he’s not able to follow us.”
“I think,” Bracht said, “that we can only wait for now, and watch. If opportunity arises …”
“Aye,” Calandryll agreed, thinking that it was a forlorn hope.
“At least he aids our passage across Kandahar. Perhaps in Kharasul, or on the sea, we might lose him.”
“Unless his presence attracts the attention of the Tyrant’s sorcerers and we find ourselves prisoners again.”
“There’s that,” Bracht murmured, then smiled. “But we had little hope of unhindered passage when we began this journey.”
“I’d not,” Calandryll returned, “anticipated civil war. Nor the Tyrant’s wizards ranged against us.”
Such thoughts had occurred to Anomius, too, it seemed, for when they halted that night, in a clearing ringed by great, straight-trunked beeches, he prepared once more to work his magic.
DUSK wove shadows among the timber, the aerial denizens of the forest winging to their roosts, wary rabbits watching from the edges of the glade, squirrels furtive in the branches as the sorcerer stood with arms outthrust, his voice raised in a singsong chant. Calandryll and Bracht turned from their tending of the horses to watch, seeing Anomius delve inside his robe to produce a small pouch of leather. Still chanting, he loosed the drawstrings and upended the sack over one palm. Something pale, like the shimmer of frost in early morning light, fell onto his hand and he blew gently on the glowing object, then set it carefully down. Like the golem back on the riverbank, it grew until they saw once again the creature that had watched them in Octofan’s barn. It crouched on stubby legs, arms thin as a malnourished child’s wrapped about its knees, the misshapen head cocked first to one side and then the other as it fastened huge black eyes on Anomius. He gestured at the sky and they saw the silvery wings spread wide, the creature rise, running awkwardly to gain the speed necessary for flight, the wings beating, bearing it aloft, no longer ungainly, but a graceful, swooping creature of the air. It circled the wizard twice, then rose into the rapidly darkening sky, climbing swiftly above the treetops, a receding glow that soon disappeared beyond t
he beeches.
“He’ll tell us where the army lies,” Anomius promised, settling himself comfortably on the grass.
“And warn the Tyrant’s wizards that magic’s abroad?” Calandryll asked.
Anomius shrugged negligently. “Likely they’ll assume him a spy of Sathoman’s—they know I’m lieged to the Fayne lord, so they’ll think him sent from the highlands.”
“And if they send out their own quyvhals?”
“Aha!” Anomius clapped his hands delightedly. “You are familiar with the quyvhal?”
Calandryll dropped his saddle; spread his blanket.
“I have read or them. Both Sarnium and Medith mention them; Corrhum, too.”
Anomius nodded, smiling. “I knew you were a remarkable young man,” he complimented. “We must talk of this—Sathoman and his followers are more interested in conquest than erudition and I long for civilized discourse.”
Once—in a life left behind—such a compliment might have flattered Calandryll. Had flattered him, when Varent paid it, but now he said only, “We must get a fire going.”
“By all means,” the wizard agreed, “but after, let us talk. Perhaps over roast venison?”
This latter was directed at Bracht, who met the tacit suggestion with a look of surprise.
“You’re not afraid I’ll flee?”
Anomius shook his head.
“You gave your word as a warrior of Cuan na’For—nor do I believe you’d quit your comrade.” He chuckled, his smile a challenge. “And the spell I set upon you would bring you back. Stray too far and you’ll know pain beyond your imagining.”
“The deer may not know my limitations.”
Calandryll saw fury spark in the Kern’s blue eyes. Anomius shrugged again and said, “Find one within the aegis of my spell, then.”
Bracht stared at him a moment longer, then nodded, stringing the bow. Calandryll moved to join him, but the wizard waved him back. “We heed but one deer and you’ve no bow.” He accepted, mind returning to the thoughts of that afternoon as Bracht faded into the undergrowth. Was the sorcerer’s desire to keep him there based on heed, rather than the wish for conversation? They could neither of them attack him, save that they fight together, but were they able to escape the wizard’s observation … might his spells be useless then? He said, “I’ll gather wood,” and when Anomius nodded, set to scouring the edges of the clearing for the makings of a fire.
