Forbidden Magic

by Angus Wells

  “I cannot see it.” Calandryll looked to where the wizard jounced awkwardly on the grey horse. “He has us caught.”

  “The warboat had us caught,” Bracht said, “but we escaped that.”

  He glanced at Calandryll as he spoke, his eyes expressing hope and something close to apprehension. Calandryll said, “This occult talent he says I have? I told you then I had no knowledge of it, and nor do I now. What happened then I cannot comprehend—if you ask me to use magic against him, I know not how.”

  “It would seem our only hope,” Bracht said. “Save that some other agency intervene.”

  Calandryll laughed briefly, cynically.

  “Such as Azumandias? Or the Tyrant’s sorcerers? It seems that all this journey brings us from pan to fire.”

  “And yet we move toward our goal,” Bracht said. “Were it not for Anomius we’d hang now on Sathoman’s gallows. Did he not guide us through these woods we’d ride head-on into the Tyrant’s army. There’s that, at least.”

  “You think there’s some design in this?”

  Calandryll grinned, the angling of his lips expressing disbelief rather than humor. Bracht shrugged and said, “Perhaps not, but we do cross Kandahar fast.”

  That much, at least, was true, for they traveled as swiftly as they might along the road. Swifter, given that the road must bring them to the army and that meeting, certainly, delay them if not halt them altogether. Anomius, thanks to his magic, was a successful guide, bringing them in the days that followed around the Tyrant’s squadrons, avoiding the scouts who flanked the army and the wizards left behind in the settlements along the way. Twice they hid from outriders, and three times swung wide of their elected path to avoid outlaw bands, but always they progressed steadily south and then west, drawing ever closer to their destination. By day the wizard rode ahead, seeing through avian eyes, and by night he sent out his quyvhal, the spectral creature returning each dawn to report in its strange, fluting voice. What supplies they heeded, they obtained from the hamlets they found deep in the forest, small clusters of wooden houses occupied by hunters and charcoal burners, each with a few pigs, or some sheep grazing land cleared for that purpose, a milch cow or two, and little plots where vegetables grew. The folk they met were incurious, content to accept that they were travelers bound for Nhur-jabal with no wish to meet the Tyrant’s army on the road. Indeed, it seemed that gave them a kind of bond, for the forest dwellers were private folk with little interest in the doings of such lords as the Tyrant or Sathoman ek’Hennem, preferring to live their lonely lives apart from the ways of Nhur-jabal and the rivalries of the nobility. Their hospitality was plain, but freely given, and the travelers made good speed. As the spring became summer they came in sight of Nhurjabal.

  THE terrain grew irregular, the Kharmrhanna like a great rocky wave, sending ripples into the heart of Kandahar, the woodland climbing and falling into dells until they stood upon the rim of a great river valley. Across the sweep of lowland the forest thinned, breaking like a green dendroid sea on the rocks of the Kharmrhanna, green giving way to blue-black granite. The great mountain range that divided Kandahar from the jungles of Gash bulked dark across the western sky, the upper peaks lit by the setting sun, burning defiantly fiery as night advanced from the east, the land below already overtaken, shadowed saved for the distant sparkling lights of the villages and towns alone the banks of the Tannyth River. The land fell away before them to the wide ribbon of the southward-flowing Yst, foothills dim beyond to west and north. Across the river, as though suspended in the night, they saw the lights of Nhur-jabal, standing on the farther scarp of the valley. They made camp there, where the timber still afforded plentiful cover, and in the morning studied the city revealed by the hew day’s light.

  The goshawk was released from Anomius’s enchantment, their path clear enough no winged forerunner was heeded, only cunning and a fair helping of luck. To the north lay the Tyrant’s road, emerging from the forest to cross the Tannyth on a massive stone bridge, running on into the foothills to meet Nhur-jabal, where the city stood on a bluff dominating the valley below, protected at its rear by the crags of the Kharmrhanna, the Tyrant’s citadel a guardian over all. Stone-built houses spread across the bluff, tumbling down the sides like some frozen, rocky waterfall, fortresslike in their lofty isolation, their keep the palace that towered above the city, elevated on a shelf that thrust from the mountains, walled and towered, drawbridges granting access to the inner courts. The Tannyth ran eastward past the foot of the bluff, and across the valley they saw the gap that marked the exit of the Shemme, that river sparkling faintly in the morning sun.

  “There’s a town beyond the pass.”

  Calandryll offered the map to Bracht, who nodded, studying the terrain ahead.

  “We’ll find a boat there,” Anomius said, “and ride the river to Kharasul. Thence to Gessyth and Tezin-dar.”

  Anticipation lent his voice an unusual stridence, and when Calandryll looked at his sallow face he saw the watery eyes burned greedily. “Can the Tyrant’s sorcerers not sense you so close to Nhur-jabal?” he asked, studying the valley warily.

  Anomius shrugged, fidgeting as though he wished only to be gone, to cross careless of the danger. He seemed oblivious of the great city sprawling so close.

  “We must take a ferry across the river,” Bracht said, pointing, “and there are settlements on both banks. Horsemen from Nhur-jabal could intercept us at the pass.”

  Anomius chopped the air impatiently, parchment features creased in vexation. “Do you dawdle now, all is lost,” he complained irritably. “We have no choice save to take the ferry and find the pass. Come—we ride.”

  “Wait!” Bracht raised a calming hand. “If the Tyrant’s cautious as you say, he’s likely got soldiery down there. And if his warlocks learn of your presence …”

  “A risk we must take,” Anomius snapped, interrupting. “Come!”

  “Better to attempt it by night,” the Kern said.

  “The ferry stands moored by night,” returned the wizard. “And we’ll attract more attention if we seek to cross then.”

  Bracht studied the valley with a practiced eye. “A day’s ride across,” he murmured, ignoring Anomius’s angry glare. “The morning, at least, to reach the ferry; the afternoon to gain the pass. The horses could use rest. The final stretch is uphill, and if we must run they might well falter.”

  “We take the chance,” the wizard barked. “I’ve too much to gain to dally now.”

  “Still I say that darkness is our friend,” Bracht declared, making no move to mount.

  Calandryll stared at him, seeing the tanned features set in obstinate lines. He glanced at Anomius and saw anger writ clear on the wizard’s face. It occurred to him that the Kern provoked the sorcerer with deliberate intent, and wondered why.

  Anomius raised a hand, extending a threatening finger at Bracht.

  “Do you mount and ride, or suffer my anger?”

  “The horses are wearied,” Bracht said. “We ran them hard through the forest, and if we must flee fresh-mounted men they heed a day to rest.”

  “Curse you, freesword!” Anomius snarled, and Bracht was thrown back, staggering against the chestnut horse, which shied, snickering in alarm. Calandryll saw the red stone flicker, caught the scent of almonds on the moist morning air. He moved to Bracht’s side as the Kern gasped, clutching at his chest.

  “Shall I slay you?” Anomius demanded. “Shall I leave you dead here, for the crows to pick your bones?”

  Bracht rose on hands and knees, teeth gritted, his voice coming harsh through the clenching.

  “The … horses … heed … rest.”

  He screamed as the wizard worked his violent magic again, falling on his face with hands pressed hard to his breast, knees drawing up to his belly, trembling as pain racked him. Calandryll shouted, “No! Remember the augury! The spaewife said we are bonded, Bracht and I—without him I’ll not reach Tezin-dar!”

  “There’s tha
t,” Anomius admitted, his voice less strident now. “So—put him on his horse. But remember, freesword, that if you argue with me you’ll know more pain. Worse pain!”

  Bracht grunted, slowly straightening as the wizard lowered his hand. Sweat beaded his forehead as Calandryll helped him rise, steadied him as he shuddered, reaching painfully for the chestnut’s saddle. He set a foot in the stirrup and hauled himself astride, clumsy as Anomius for the moment. Calandryll passed him the reins and saw that he smiled; grimly. He opened his mouth to ask why, but Bracht shook his head, silencing him, pointing to the roan in tacit indication that he mount without questions.

  Calandryll left him as he wished, thinking that Bracht’s provocation of the sorcerer had, indeed, been deliberate: he wondered what the Kern thought to gain from such a testing of the wizard’s patience.

  “Come,” Anomius called, cheerful again now, “to the ferry.”

  A loggers’ trail descended through the timber to the Yst River, wide and muddy, marked with the stumps of felled trees, great lengths piled to await collection. Lower down they passed a felling party, waving in answer to the cheerful greetings offered, continuing through the dwindling forest until they emerged on meadowland, where sheep grazed and shepherds’ huts stood lonely beside rough pens. By noon they approached the spread of buildings along the riverside, timber structures, with smoke rising lazy into the warm air. The Yst lay ahead, far broader than any river they had so far crossed, with barges moored along the bank, heavy with dressed wood. The ferry lay on the north side and they rode directly to the raft, ignoring the inns and eating houses to which, it seemed, most of the population had repaired.

  A bearded Kand lounged on the jetty, munching bread and cold meat, answering their request for passage with the hews that two men were heeded to man the winches and his fellow was sampling ale. Anomius looked to Calandryll, motioning for him to show coin, and he drew a var from his satchel, tossing it to the man.

  “Fetch your partner,” he ordered, surprised at his imperious tone, “He can drink later—and better for such payment.”

  The Kand bit the coin, eyeing them curiously, then shrugged and set down his meal, ambling toward the nearest tavern.

  They dismounted, leading the horses onto the raft, and waited for the ferrymen. Bracht appeared recovered from the magical attack, his face impassive as he stared north, to where Nhur-jabal stood menacing on the bluff. Calandryll watched him in silence, sensing that some design was afoot, curious as to what the Kern planned. Anomius fidgeted irritably, though whether from impatience or apprehension Calandryll could not tell.

  Then the Kand appeared with another and the two men sprang on board and, without further word, set to turning the winches, drawing the heavy cables slowly straight as the ferry eased from the dock into the stream. Now Calandryll turned to watch the city, alarmed as much by the prospect of cavalry galloping to meet them as the fear of magic. The raft swayed, tugged by the current, its progress slow, the slap of water and the creaking of the winches metronomic, ticking off the long minutes of the crossing. The farther bank seemed no closer, the buildings there no larger, as if they hung suspended in midstream, caught in time until the Tyrant’s sorcerers should become aware of their presence and magic or soldiery be sent against them. Then, gradually, riverbank and buildings came closer, the ferry drawing inexorably toward the dock. It grounded and they walked the horses up the landing ramp, boots lapped by wavelets as the silent Kands watched them go.

  The spur of the Kharmrhanna holding the pass was clearer now, wooded slopes dark green in the afternoon sun, the gash cut by the Shemme standing bright: a gateway out of Kandahar. Anomius prepared to mount.

  Bracht said, “Can we not eat?”

  The wizard turned an angry face on the Kern.

  “Would you taste my power again?”

  “I’d eat,” Bracht answered. “We’ve a long ride ahead and hunger sits ill on my belly.”

  Anomius raised a threatening hand, then thought better of it and smiled.

  “Later—perhaps when we reach the pass.”

  Bracht looked up to where the foothills hung against the sky and shrugged, making no move to mount.

  “Remember,” Anomius murmured, his voice falsely affable, “that distance from me means agony.”

  He dragged himself astride the grey and heeled the horse to a trot through the sleepy village. Calandryll turned to Bracht.

  “Dera, would you have him work his magic on you again? Do you seek deliberately to anger him?”

  “I tire of his commands.”

  Bracht grinned and swung astride the chestnut without further explanation. Calandryll mounted and followed him, alarmed now: fearing that perhaps Anomius’s magicks had addled the Kern’s mind.

  They passed through the village into farmland, increasing their pace as the trail wound among fenced fields; the land climbing steadily toward the hills. Anomius kicked the grey to a swift canter and Bracht speeded to come alongside the black-robed man.

  “Slower,” he urged. “You’ll wind your mount.”

  As if to emphasize his point he reined the chestnut back, prompting an angry grunt from the sorcerer. “An exhausted horse is useless,” he called. “Slow down.”

  In answer, Anomius turned in his saddle, extending his hand again. Calandryll shouted a warning, but even as it passed his lips Bracht jerked upright, holding his seat with difficulty. His lips stretched back from chattering teeth and his suddenly shaking arms sent his horse dancing, circling its own tail. Bracht slumped in the saddle as Anomius lowered his hand, the chestnut shaking its head, snorting nervously.

  “Enough!” the wizard yelled, his voice shrill. “Do you seek to delay me? Do you wish me to bind you with more spells?”

  Bracht shook his head; Calandryll saw that he smiled. Or that pain stretched his lips in parody. They rode on, the trail steeper now, climbing up past hill meadows to meet the timberline, the afternoon growing older, their way soon shadowed by tall trees, the sun fleeting through the branches.

  “Must we ride hungry?” Bracht demanded. “You allowed we’d halt to eat.”

  And once again Anomius hurled magic at him, rocking him in the saddle until he moaned his acceptance that they should continue. Calandryll feared more seriously that his comrade was addled by the sorcerer’s attacks, for he saw that as the pain faded Bracht still grinned, the expression wolfish, as if he found some secret satisfaction in the suffering.

  Then they rounded a curve in the trail and saw they stood upon a shelf thrusting out from the foothills above the Shemme. The river shone silver in the sun, flanked on both sides by high walls of black rock, the spur they crossed angling away northeast to meet the Kharmrhanna where Nhur-jabal stood upon its bluff, as much guardian of this valley as of that behind them. The trail wound down, serpentine in its descent, the north-facing slopes devoid of timber, to a cluster of buildings.

  Anomius chuckled and heeled his horse onward. Bracht reined back, holding his position, and shouted, “Best approach with caution, mage.”

  Again the wizard flung magic at him: again the Kern smiled his awful grin.

  They reached the riverside as the sun drew close to the mountain peaks, the valley shadowed, but not yet full dark, boats visible at the waterside. Anomius made directly for the anchorage, his horse’s hooves loud on the cobbles that streeted the little settlement.

  Then he reined hard in, mouthing a curse as three men appeared before him. The grey horse reared and the wizard struggled to retain his seat, fighting the animal to a standstill and launching himself with unusual agility from the saddle.

  Calandryll stared, hearing Bracht laugh, casting one swift glance at the Kern: seeing his face alight with anticipation, lips curved in a wolfish smile. Then all his attention was focused on the three men facing Anomius. Two were tall, the third short. All wore long robes of black and silver, marked with cabalistic designs, their headdresses black, each pinned with a silver star. They bore no weapons; nor heeded any h
e saw as they raised their hands, light sparkling there, the stone at his throat pulsing fiery, the air thick with the scent of almonds.

  “Do you think to defy the Tyrant?”

  He could not tell which spoke, for their lips moved in unison, the question rumbling thunder.

  “Do you think to escape his justice?”

  “Do you think to pass us?”

  His horse began to prance and he felt Bracht’s hands on him, dragging him unceremoniously from the saddle as Anomius shrieked in fury and met the light that burst from the six outthrust hands with his own fell fire. He stumbled after the freesword as the horses screamed in panic no less than his own and fled the explosion that burst where pale light met red. The smell of burning hung on the air as Bracht thrust him down behind stacked bales, close to the water, and it seemed the heat of it must sear his lungs, the air reeking, the stone he wore fierce against his skin.

  Then suddenly unnatural night descended, a foul darkness, stinking of decay, and in it shapes moved, malign things that shuffled and snorted, clacking dagger fangs, eyes glowing redly. The sun was hidden in the occult clouding, the only illumination the bright white light that burned about the three men—sorcerers, he knew; the Tyrant’s men, sent from Nhur-jabal—and that growing, taking forms that moved to meet the shadow beasts of Anomius’s conjuring, clashing with them, the air loud with their unnatural shrieking. Darkness and light met in awful battle, rending, tearing. He felt Bracht’s hand on his shoulder, urging him on, away from the cover of the bales toward the water. He heard Anomius scream: he could not tell whether in pain or outrage. Then it seemed that tatters of black fell, seething, to the cobbles and the light grew brighter until the sun shone again, orange now, and closer to its setting. He saw the Tyrant’s sorcerers standing before Anomius. One, the tallest, clutched his side as though wounded. Anomius snarled, parchment face contorted, feral, and raised both hands.

  Fire burned from his fingertips and the hurt man screamed, wreathed in flame, consumed so that only dark ashes drifted to the cobbles. The others answered with blinding light that drove the bulbous-nosed little man back across the harbor, defensive now, fire a wall before him, holding off the light. It seemed he grew within that fire, becoming tall as the golem he had created, and massy as that creature, a hulking man-beast with flaming hair and hands that spat incandescence, his strength increasing, for now the two warlocks staggered back, weaving spells to fend off his magic as he advanced, roaring, toward them.