by Angus Wells
A cheerful blaze begun, Anomius motioned him to the blanket and he squatted, setting a kettle to heat water for tea.
“So” the wizard declared, his tone conversational, amiable, as though they were two friends idling away the hours before sleep, “you have read the classics.”
“The library in Secca is extensive,” he murmured, “and I’ve a love for books.”
“Mandradus built a sizable library.” Anomius’s voice was nostalgic. “But Sathoman has little concern for books. You’ve read Dashirrhan?”
“No.” Calandryll shook his head, busying himself with the kettle. “Though I’ve heard of him. Wasn’t he a mage?”
“One of the greatest,” Anomius nodded, “and a historian, to boot. His Treatise on Magick and Gramaryes is a marvelous work. It mentions Tezin-dar, of course. But oddly says nothing of the grimoire we seek.”
His voice was mild, but behind his seeming affability Calandryll heard the scrape of steel: he shrugged, adding herbs to the infusion.
“Yet your Lord Varent den Tarl sent you seeking the book. Even thought it is not mentioned by Dashirrhan. Or Samium. Or Medith.”
Calandryll assumed an expression he hoped was guileless. “I know only what I’ve told you,” he said.
Anomius scratched thoughtfully at his grandiose nose. The eyes he turned on Calandryll reflected the fire’s light, suddenly akin to the glowing orbs of the golem.
“Perhaps Varent lied to you. Or you to me.”
“Would you not know, had I lied?”
He forced himself to return the wizard’s stare, eyes locking for long moments. Then Anomius smiled, chuckling.
“The stone protects you, boy—I cannot see past it. Were you to remove it, however …”
“I cannot!” Quickly, Calandryll shook his head, desperately extemporizing. “Lord Varent made that clear to me, in Secca, when he explained what we must do. The stone itself is magical, and Lord Varent set further spells on it—he impressed upon me that should I remove it, or it be removed, I can no longer locate the grimoire. To remove the stone is to lose the book.”
Anomius was silent for a while. Calandryll stirred the kettle, hoping the lie was convincing. Then the wizard sniffed. “So be it—I shall not attempt to coerce knowledge.” He chuckled again, his casual tone returning. “But tell me more of this mysterious grimoire.”
“I have only Lord Varent’s word,” Calandryll said, resisting the impulse to express his relief with a sigh. “He said that the grimoire is one of the forgotten books—that it contains gramaryes used by the gods themselves, and must invest its owner with power unimaginable. He risked my father’s wrath, perhaps even war between our cities, to bring me out of Secca, and—as you’ve seen—he furnished the coin to finance our travels. I took him on his word.”
Anomius’s eyes flickered, hooding: Calandryll hoped he saw greed rekindled.
“And so you set out for Gessyth. You and the Kern, alone.”
“Lord Varent feared a larger party must alert Azumandias. That he would endeavor to seize the map.”
“You forget the stone. You say the map is useless without the stone.”
“Azumandias has no heed of it. Lord Varent said his powers are such that he could locate the grimoire without its aid.”
“Then so might I.”
Despite the fire’s warmth a chill raised hairs on Calandryll’s heck: he shrugged, fighting alarm to answer the wizard with some kind of logic, some reasoning that would persuade him.
“Perhaps. But if not …”
Birdlike laughter twittered, then Anomius’s voice grew cold with threat. “If this Azumandias has no heed of the stone, then likely nor do I,” he said. “And if I have no heed of the stone, I have no heed of you or the Kern.”
“No,” Calandryll agreed, the chill joined by sweat now, “but I think that without the stone it must be harder to find the grimoire. And surely Tezin-dar is guarded—Medith speaks of sentinels; Samium of demons at the portals.”
“Aye,” Anomius nodded, “there is that.”
“So likely the finding must be rendered easier by the stone.”
Again the wizard nodded.
“You argue well, Calandryll den Karynth. Stop trembling now, for I’ll keep you with me. Unless I find you’ve lied.”
He ducked his head, licking lips gone suddenly dry.
“And when you’ve the book?”
“If what you say is true I’ll be the mightiest sorcerer in all the world.”
“And us?”
Anomius shook his head; effected a casual wave.
“You’ll find me generous. Why should I harm the two who bring me to such power? You’ll be under my protection.”
“In Kandahar?” he asked. “What of Sathoman? What of the Chaipaku?”
“With such power at my command you’ll be safe from both,” Anomius promised. “I’ll make Sathoman Tyrant and buy off the Brotherhood. Perhaps I’ll make you Domm of Secca; Bracht Overlord of Cuan na’For. You see? You’ve as much to gain from this as I. We’re allies, we three.”
It seemed the moment of danger passed: lust for power seduced the wizard. Calandryll smiled and said, “And yet you don’t trust us.”
The birdlike laughter trilled again. “Our alliance is born of necessity, rather than choice,” the wizard tittered. “Neither you or the Kern seem overfond of my company—would you not, in my place, tread cautiously?”
“I would,” Calandryll agreed; honestly.
“Nonetheless we remain allies, so we’d as well make the best of it.”
“Aye,” he said.
“So we travel together and there’s an end to it. Serve me well and you’ll be well rewarded. Seek to betray me and …”
The wizard’s right hand moved and flame gouted high, the kettle seething. It was demonstration enough: Calandryll sprang back, measuring his length on the grass as Anomius laughed.
“Now let’s forget such depressing matters and speak of books, of learning,” he said cheerfully. “We’ll while away the time until Bracht returns with scholarly talk. What do you say to Sarnium’s proposition that life began north of the Borrhun-maj?”
Relieved, Calandryll bent his mind to these easier matters and they talked until Bracht appeared, a bloody haunch of venison slung on his shoulder.
“Well done,” Anomius applauded, “this talking’s given me a rare appetite.”
The Kern drew his knife and began to carve the meat, spitting strips over the fire.
“Your creature’s not returned?” he demanded.
“Unless he finds urgent heed hell not be back until dawn.” Anomius replied, “The quyvhal range far, and they love the night.”
“And if he sights the Tyrant’s army?”
“He’ll tell me where it stands and we’ll avoid it.”
“And was Calandryll’s question answered?”
“Which one?” Anomius asked.
“What if the Tyrant’s warlocks send their own quyvhal?”
“The creatures have no magical aptitude of their own,” the wizard beamed. “They are eyes in the night, no more—should one sight us it will see three travelers feasting on roast venison, not magic.”
“You knew of Calandryll’s stone through the creature,” argued Bracht. “When it found us in Octofan’s bam.”
“Calandryll made reference to the stone then and the quyvhal reported that to me,” Anomius responded. “That was how I Knew.”
Bracht grunted, satisfied, accepting the tea Calandryll offered. He sipped and glanced at the wizard again.
“The army likely lies between us and Nhur-jabal,” he said after a while, “so to avoid it we must take the forest trails. Do you know them?”
“I have ways to know them,” Anomius answered easily, more intent on the sizzling venison then the free-sword’s question.
“And the Tyrant’s road is the swiftest path to the coast, but passes through Nhur-jabal.”
“Yes.” Anomius nodded absently. “What of it
?”
“Do all the Tyrant’s sorcerers ride with the army?”
“I doubt it,” the wizard murmured, and snorted scornfully. “The Tyrant is a cautious man and hell remain safe in his palace with sufficient of his pets to ease his mind.”
“Then how do we get by them?” Bracht demanded. “They’ll know you for a sorcerer, will they not?”
“Cautious as ever,” chuckled Anomius. “And correct—yes, if I go to Nhur-jabal they’ll sense my presence.”
“Then how do we reach Kharasul?”
“The road’s but one way.” Anomius tapped his nose, smiling. “Nhur-jabal lies in the foothills of the Kharmrhanna, where the Tannyth river comes down from the mountains. Above and below the city the river divides—the Yst flows down to Cape Vishat’yi and the Shemme runs west to Kharasul. We must cross south of Nhur-jabal and take passage down the Shemme.”
Bracht frowned, turning the meat. “A boat?” he demanded. “There’s nowhere to run on a boat.”
“If we avoid Nhur-jabal well not heed to run,” said Anomius. “The Shemme’s fast flowing and we’ll be past before they know it. Trust me, my friend. And if that venison’s cooked, pass me some—I grow faint from hunger.”
As if to emphasize his request his belly rumbled sonorously: Bracht plucked a strip of meat from the flames and passed it across the fire. Anomius took it and began to chew noisily, oblivious of the juices that dribbled down his shallow chin and dripped onto his robe. More fastidious, Calandryll and Bracht used their daggers to carve the meat, using slabs of journey bread for platters.
The night grew older and the moon showed above the glade, a waned yellow-white disk against the star-spread blue-black of the sky. There was no sign of the quyvhal and, with hunger satisfied, they rolled themselves in their blankets and slept.
It seemed that Calandryll had come to terms with the bloody necessities of the journey, for his slumber was dreamless, untroubled until the red glow of the stone penetrated his closed lids and he woke, eyes opening to find Anomius squatted before the silvery shape of his magical observer.
Dawn was close, the moon gone and the stars lost in the nebulous grey that replaced the blue velvet of night. Dew glistened on the grass and he heard a horse snort, stamping once. The quyvhal was settled on its haunches, the huge black eyes intent on the wizard’s face, the slit-ted mouth open, emitting a high-pitched whistling sound in which Calandryll could discern no words. He saw Bracht awake, like him watching the strange conversation. The fluting ended and Anomius reached out, patting the oversized head, the quyvhal arching its back as might a cat caressed by its owner. Then the wizard opened the leather sack and murmured softly, and the quyvhal shrank, dwindling to a glimmer of pale light that hopped into the bag, Anomius tightening the drawstrings and tucking the pouch beneath his robe. He moved closer to the fire, adding timber, and saw that he was observed.
“The army lies between us and Nhur-jabal,” he declared as the fire sprang to fresh life, “perhaps three days off, by my pet’s reckoning. A squadron of cavalry guided by foresters forms the advance guard, half a day ahead of the main body.”
Calandryll yawned, stretching; Bracht moved to the fire, setting water to heat.
“Back at the inn the landlord spoke of a town—Bhalusteen—within a few days’ ride,” the Kern murmured. “Must we avoid it?”
“The army will reach Bhalusteen today,” Anomius nodded, hands scratching vigorously beneath his robe, “so, yes—we’d best take the forest trails.”
“We heed supplies,” said Bracht.
“There will be hamlets.”
Anomius appeared unconcerned; Bracht turned to Calandryll.
“You have the map?”
Calandryll fetched the chart of Kandahar from his pack, spreading it on his knees. Bracht and Anomius moved closer, peering over his shoulders.
“We are here.” The wizard set a ragged nail to a spot a little way past the course of the Narn, below the contour lines indicating the plateau. “Bhalusteen is here; Nhur-jabal, here. We must travel southward, then swing west again when the army’s behind us.”
He described a course that swung in a wide curve through the great central forest, avoiding settlements and marked trails, running well wide of the road. Calandryll saw that it brought them out in the foothills of the Kharmrhanna, south of Nhur-jabal, where the Shemme separated from the Tannyth.
“We’ll lose time,” Bracht said. “Why not return to the road beyond Bhalusteen?”
“Because there’ll likely be a mage left in every town of any size along the way,” Anomius replied, “and while I could undoubtedly overcome them, such conflict will delay us longer than a detour.”
And leech your powers, Calandryll thought. Aloud he said, “There are no trails marked where you propose we go.”
The wizard’s answering smile was smug. Leaning closer to the fire he said, “I told you—I have ways to know them.”
Those ways he demonstrated after they had eaten.
THE horses were saddled and the fire stamped to a charred memory, their gear stowed ready for departure. The daylight inhabitants of the forest began to stir as the sun broke through the overcast, blue replacing the grey, banks of white cloud riding a warm south wind high above. Anomius delved in his saddlebags, producing a phial from which he sprinkled a pinch of brownish powder that he clutched in his left hand. His right he raised before him, chanting. For an instant, the birdsong risen in greeting of the hew day faltered, then redoubled as feathered forms descended from the trees to flutter about the sorcerer. In moments he was surrounded by a storm of multicolored shapes, finches and thrushes, dunnocks, cuckoos, pipits and pigeons, warblers, nuthatches, woodpeckers and tree creepers all flocking to his call. They scattered on a word as a wide-winged goshawk swooped toward the black-robed figure, settling like a well-trained falcon on his outthrust arm. He cooed softly, opening his left hand, bringing it close to the bird’s bright eyes, then blowing, the brown powder swirling about the proud head. The goshawk emitted a single harsh cry and shifted on the wizard’s arm, rocking gently to and fro as though momentarily stunned. Anomius murmured softly and flung his arm up, like a falconer setting his bird to course. The hawk spread its blue-grey wings and soared aloft, circling the clearing once, then winging above the trees to disappear westward. The mage smiled, staring after the bird, and walked to where Bracht held his horse.
Calandryll saw that his watery eyes seemed brighter, but curiously unfocused, as though he looked beyond his immediate surroundings to sights invisible to mortal eye. He mounted with even less grace than usual and smiled down.
“Now we can find the trails; and know where the Tyrant’s army stands. Follow me.”
He shook the reins, urging the grey horse across the glade, away from the road. Bracht and Calandryll moved after him, intrigued.
It seemed the goshawk was their guide, for several times that day they saw the bird ahead, swooping among the dense timber, and the wizard led them unerringly to forest paths they might have missed, taking them down game trails and streambeds hidden beneath overhanging foliage, riding without hesitation at thickets that appeared impenetrable until branches were swept aside to reveal the narrow and secret ways of the woodlands. He saw, Calandryll realized, through the hawk’s eyes, for when they halted at noon, by a spring that fed a little rivulet trickling among leafy oaks, he informed them that the army had reached Bhalusteen and made camp there, and that at least six sorcerers accompanied the force.
“The Tyrant flatters me,” he declared proudly. “Six warlocks sent against one—my fame grows, I think.”
“And when they reach the highland?” Calandryll asked, curious that the little man could so easily forget his loyalties. “What of Sathoman then?”
Anomius shrugged, a negligent gesture of dismissal. “Even with six warlocks, the gaining of those heights will be hard,” he said. “A handful of men can hold the rim, and then—if heed be—fall back on Kesham-vaj. Sathoman will have Mherut-yi b
y now, and he’s still Fayne Keep as his last retreat. And that fortress is warded by spells the six will find mightily difficult to overcome. Sathoman must manage without me for a while.”
“He’ll not thank you, though,” Calandryll said.
“Should he be defeated he’ll find it a temporary reversal,” the wizard answered. “Once I’ve secured the grimoire I shall return and fulfill my promise—he’ll be lord of all Kandahar before I’m done, and he’ll thank me well enough for that.”
He spoke no more until nightfall, his attention focused on the strange communion with the vigilant goshawk, leaving them the chance to talk, low-voiced, of escape.
“He promised reward,” Calandryll informed Bracht, “In return for our aid.”
“And should he discover the grimoire exists only in your imagination?” the Kern returned. “What then? His anger? Or worse—his taking of the Arcanum?”
“That must not happen,” Calandryll said firmly.
“If he accompanies us to Tezin-dar how can it not?” asked Bracht. “If we bring him there, then he must surely realize that there’s no grimoire to be had, but a larger prize. And I trust him no more than Varent.”
Calandryll shook his head helplessly. “How can we escape him?” he wondered. “He binds us with his magic. You cannot flee him or slay him; and if I attempt his murder, you’re bound to kill me.”
Bracht nodded grimly. “The Tyrant’s sorcerers might defeat him, were we able to bring him close.”
“And—if Anomius spoke the truth—recognize whatever power I have,” Calandryll said, “and thus bind me to the Tyrant’s service. Or execute me.”
“There must be something we can do.” Bracht’s tone suggested that he did not see what. “Some way to escape him.”
