by Angus Wells
Light and flame met once more. Calandryll saw the bales behind which he had sheltered take fire, sparks dancing high, thatch igniting on the nearby buildings. He felt Bracht yank him back, closer still to the water. He saw Anomius’s face turn toward him, furious, a hand extended. Fire burst from the fingers and he raised his own hands, unaware that he clutched the red stone: a defensive talisman, but surely useless against the wizard’s awesome power.
He screamed as the flames washed over him, hearing Anomius’s shout through the dinning.
“You’ll not escape me! The book is mine and I shall have it!”
His lungs were filled with fire, his ears with the roaring of the flames, his nostrils with the stench of scorching flesh that he knew for his own. The red stone was a coal in his hand.
He knew that he died, and was grateful for the darkness that took him: it was blessed relief from the agony.
SO this was death, this gentle ending of pain. It surprised him, even though he had not thought overmuch of what followed after life. To dwell in peace with Dera, the priests of Lysse said, and mostly left it at that, though if pressed they would elaborate a little: to be at one with the Goddess; to serve her and bask in her love down all the ages of eternity; to know no suffering, no want; to be without heed, content. Vague, and now it seemed the afterlife was not so different from the preceding existence: a blue sky spread above him, streaked with high cloud, long mare’s tails blown out by a wind that he felt warm on his face, a sensation of drifting, as if borne on some ethereal vessel, a distant sound, as of water running to some unseen destination. Perhaps, he thought, this was transition; a passage necessary between the world of flesh and that of the spirit, Dera awaiting him at the journey’s end. He breathed in air that tasted no different to that left behind, save that it lacked the stink of burning, and sighed, content for the moment to ride between the worlds, grateful that the agony of Anomius’s awful fire was gone. He raised a hand and saw it whole, uncharred where he had thought to find roasted flesh, bones blackened by magic, and realized that he lay supine. He sat up.
And cried out as Bracht’s voice said,” So you wake at last. I thought perhaps you’d sleep until we reach the sea.”
He turned to find his comrade smiling at him, seated a little above him, and gaped, saying, “He slew you, too? We are both dead then.”
Bracht’s laughter surprised him no less than the similarity of world and afterlife, and he frowned his incomprehension.
“We are not dead” the Kern said. “Look about you.”
Slowly, he craned his head round. Steep walls of rugged granite rose on both sides, tall pines thrusting from declivities where sufficient soil had gathered to support such dendrous life, and between those walls ran a river, not so wide as the Yst but broad enough. They floated down it, he saw now, in a small boat, Bracht at the tiller, he in the bilge. He eased himself up, onto the midships thwart, the movement rocking the craft.
“Careful!” Bracht warned. “I’ve little enough skill for this and Ahrd knows, I’d not drown now.”
He stared at the freesword, blinking, thinking to find himself in some trap set by Anomius, or the Tyrant’s wizards, and dabbled a cautious hand in the stream. The water was cold and wet: true water as best he could tell; he brought his hand to his lips and tasted it, splashed his face and shook his head.
“We are not slain?”
“We live,” Bracht said firmly, smiling still. “We go down the Shemme—to Kharasul, if all goes well.”
“Anomius?” he gasped. “The Tyrant’s sorcerers?”
“Two nights and a day behind us,” Bracht said. “If they live, though all may be dead for what I know. You’ve slept that time through, like a babe—save that you breathed I thought my plan had failed.”
“Plan?” he mumbled, confused. “You had a plan?”
Bracht nodded, grinning. “And one that worked, it seems, for there’s been no sign of pursuit.”
The stony walls, the river, the sky, all took on a hew reality as he studied them with eyes he now accepted were alive. “Tell me,” he asked. Bracht chuckled, shrugging, his expression both pleased and a little embarrassed. “I’d have told you sooner,” he declared, “save that I suspected your knowing might have thwarted it.”
Calandryll’s eyes narrowed. “You brought his anger down deliberately,” he said, aware that his voice held accusation.
“I did,” Bracht nodded, “I thought long on it and it seemed the only way to rid us of the cursed wizard. There was risk, I knew, but I saw no other way.”
“Tell me,” he repeated.
“On the Sea Dancer, when the warboat came, you denied all knowledge of what happened, but we both saw the woman and her boat swept away—as if some power rose up to protect us. Or you. In Mherut’yi, after the Chaipaku attacked, your injury was healed when you wore the stone. When Sathoman took us, Anomius said he could not touch you with his glamours—that you were protected by the stone.”
“He might have removed it,” Calandryll said, and fell silent as Bracht raised a hand, continuing.
“But he did not. He left you with it and believed your story of the grimoire, even though he had never heard of such a book; even though he seems as widely read as you.”
“How do you know that?” Calandryll wondered.
“In the forest, when I hunted down that first deer,” Bracht grinned, “I made my kill early. I’d have returned with the meat but that I heard you talking and thought to listen—it’s the habit of Cuan na’For to walk wary. Anomius spoke of books and libraries and denied all mention of the grimoire—yet still he believed in its existence and never thought to question further. That seemed odd to me. At first I thought it merely greed that drove him—his lust for ultimate power—but then I began to wonder if that stone you wear worked on him. You remember that I spoke of a design? That by traveling with the wizard we crossed Kandahar faster than we might alone? I was not sure, save that the stone imbues you with some power you—nor I!—understand.
“A more cautious man—a man in less haste—would not have ventured so close to Nhur-jabal, knowing that sorcerers of equal strength resided there and might—as Anomius himself warned—sense the presence of magic. We might have crossed the river farther down and come to the Shemme by a more circuitous route, but it seemed that greed consumed the wizard the closer we came and he forwent caution in his haste. I decided then to attempt it—by bringing his anger on me I prompted him to work magic that was sensed in Nhur-jabal. I saw that valley and guessed the Tyrant’s sorcerers would meet us at the pass, or at the river, brought down by Anomius himself.”
He paused, his grin fading for a moment, replaced with a look close to embarrassment as he studied Calandryll’s face.
“The rest was a chance I felt we must take. The war-boat, the Chaipaku, Anomius’s failure to touch you—all convinced me that the stone unleashes power in you when danger threatens. I trusted in it to protect you then. It did.”
Calandryll gaped, not sure whether he wished to laugh or rail against the Kern for flirting with such danger. It came to him that Bracht had never spoken for so long; that the tanned features were grave, as if seeking his forgiveness; and that Bracht had pondered lengthily on the matter and taken the only course he saw to escape Anomius. He said, “What happened then?”
“You saw them join in magical battle?” Bracht asked, and when he nodded, “Anomius became as one with the demons he raised against Kesham-vaj. He said then that such occult workings leeched his strength; the Tyrant’s wizards, too, I thought, must feel that weakening. I counted on that to see us clear—that and the stone.
“Anomius turned his hand against you and you were lashed with fire. I saw the stone burn, like a shell about you. For a moment I thought us both slain, but then I knew we lived and I was protected, too. Because I held you, I suppose. I threw you into the nearest boat and cut the lines. We drifted clear as the wizards fought, and the last I saw of them was fire in the sky. The town burned,
I think.”
Calandryll stared at his reckless comrade: It’s the habit of Cuan na’For to walk wary? He smiled, seeing scorched hair, leather shirt cracked as if brought too close to flame.
“You risked much,” he said. “I thought I died.”
“I feared you had,” Bracht returned solemnly, then grinned again. “But then you breathed and I saw no sign of burning on you and knew you were protected.”
“So now you think me mage?”
“No.” Bracht shook his head. “I think you have some power beyond your understanding; certainly beyond mine. The stone would appear to release it, and it saved us both, so I’ll revise my opinion of magic where you’re concerned.”
“My thanks,” Calandryll said dryly.
Bracht grinned and said, “It served us well. And if magic dogs us, we’re better warned—and likely Gessyth’s a place even less hospitable than Kandahar, so it may well aid us again.”
Calandryll nodded, then asked, “A day and two nights you say we’ve been on the river?”
“Aye,” Bracht replied, “and without food. What little we had left went with the horses. Our gear, too.”
“The map?” Calandryll felt alarm renewed. “The money?”
“The satchel is there.” Bracht pointed to where the sack had pillowed Calandryll’s head; patted his waist. “And what Varent paid me I still carry. We have our clothes and our blades, but all else is lost.”
It seemed a small price to pay to be rid of Anomius: Calandryll shrugged it off.
“We can buy what we heed in Kharasul. With map and coin—and the stone—we’ve enough.”
“Save food,” Bracht said. “That was no lie when I told the wizard I was hungry.”
“Surely there must be villages along the Shemme?”
“We passed one yesterday,” Bracht agreed, “but I’ve no knowledge of boats or river craft—I cannot stop this thing.”
Calandryll began to laugh then, his mirth rocking the dinghy: he lived and Anomius was left behind; the notion of Bracht manning the tiller for a day and two nights as the little vessel floated, unstoppable, down the Shemme struck him as hugely amusing.
“I’ll take the helm,” he said, “I have some knowledge of boats.”
Cautiously, Bracht passed the rudder to Calandryll, announcing his intention of sleeping as he stretched along the bilge. Calandryll settled on the stern thwart and guided the craft westward.
Glancing at the sun he saw that noon approached, and a little while after the disk had passed its zenith he saw a settlement on the bank ahead. He steered the dinghy to a mooring on a stone quay and woke Bracht. Together they found a tavern, where they ate a meal of fish taken from the river, and then obtained sufficient provisions to see them through to Kharasul. No mention was made in tavern or township of occult sightings, nor of Tyrant’s craft come seeking fugitives, and they decided they had made good their escape. Anomius was either slain by the Tyrant’s sorcerers or taken prisoner—in which event it seemed most probable he would face execution: a fate they could not regret—and no mages in black and silver appeared to bar their going as they set course again. Perhaps they were assumed dead, slain in the glamorous battle: that suited their purpose well enough and, with bellies filled, they felt cheerful as they continued down the river.
Within a week they came to Kharasul and the next stage of their perilous journey.
THE city lay on a headland, banded to north and south by the inlets of the Ty and the Shemme. The final thrustings of the Kharmrhanna ended a half day east of the settlement, the land between the hills and the ocean flat, the river that had carried them there broadening to an estuary in which floated a variety of craft. Merchantmen the kin of Rahamman ek’Jemm’s Sea Dancer lay at anchor alongside caravels out of Lysse and the sleek war-boats favored by the Kand pirates, fishing boats were drawn up along the shoreline, and small craft made the anchorage busy, cutting close to the dinghy as Calandryll used the last of the Shemme’s current to bring them in to the wide stone wharf. The air was sultry, redolent of the jungles that lay across the Ty, in Gash; the sun, close now to its setting, burnished the ocean, painting Kharasul with hues of gold and orange, and sea gulls wheeled screaming about the boat as they moored. They climbed steps slippery with tide-tossed seaweed to the wharf and passed between warehouses into the center of the city.
Kharasul was not unlike Secca, being walled in defense against the strange inhabitants of the jungles who from time to time attempted raids, but rowdier, and seemingly without a city watch; its buildings, crammed together on the headland, stood taller, and the soldiers they saw offered no hindrance to their passing. It was smaller, but no less bustling, and it was soon clear that its districts echoed those of Calandryll’s home. To the east lay the mansions of whatever nobility Kharasul boasted, while the emporiums of the merchants were located close to the estuary, behind them the taverns and inns; the poorer quarters huddled closest to the Ty, as did the city garrison, and between, at the center, were the bazaars. It lacked the organization of the cities of Lysse, its streets random in their direction, running hither and thither so that the newcomers soon found themselves wandering a narrow way overhung by tall, shuttered buildings that by day’s light were likely trading houses, but that seemed, as the shadows lengthened, menacing, reminding them that they walked the streets of an unknown city. Calandryll thought of the warboats lying at anchor, and of the Chaipaku, and set a hand to his sword’s hilt as they paced the cobbled alley, nostrils pinching, after the clean river air, at the thick, sweet odors that came from gutters and the jungles.
This far to the south the sun set fast and it was suddenly full dark as they emerged on a square where palm trees grew and a low building surmounted by a slender tower threw light from windows of multicolored glass across the plaza. Calandryll recognized the edifice as a temple of Burash and called Bracht away, urging a change in direction.
“I thought you wished to propitiate the god,” the Kern said, and Calandryll shook his head vigorously, thinking of what Medith said: that some believed the priests of Burash agents of the Chaipaku.
“I gave offering on the Sea Dancer,” he replied. “Let that be sufficient. I’ve no wish to call attention to our presence.”
Bracht shrugged his acceptance and they turned from the square, finding their way between more overhanging buildings to where hospitality was offered in the tavern quarter.
They found an inn called the Waterboy, tall and narrow as all the buildings of Kharasul, the common room and kitchen filling all the lowest floor, the remaining rooms piled one upon another, towerlike, with creaking stairways and small balconies linking the chambers. Their room was on the third floor, not spacious, but comfortable enough, with two beds and a little space between, a window there, and a single cupboard. They bathed, the water transported by panting servants to the bathhouse on the first floor, and then descended to the common room to eat.
Other Lyssians took their dinner there, but none gave sign of recognizing Calandryll, keeping largely to themselves among the swarthy Kands and a sprinkling of nearblack folk, with huge, yellowish eyes and wide noses that he took to be out of Gash, or half-breeds. All, he saw, went well-armed, which might be expected of the sailors and mercenaries, but even the merchants who dined there wore swords, and several times he caught the glint of mail beneath parted robes. He and Bracht found a place where a pillar warded their flank, aside from the main part of the room, and as they ate they listened to the babble of conversation, seeking hews of events beyond their ken.
Sathoman ek’Hennem, they heard, had taken Mherut’yi, just as Anomius had said, and swore to seize all the eastern coast. The lictor of Kharasul commandeered merchant vessels to the Tyrant’s service and an army marched on the Fayne, but as yet no word had come of its success or failure. Secca and Aldarin founded a war fleet in the shipyards of Eryn and vowed to render the sea-lanes safe from corsairs, to which purpose the Tyrant gave his blessing—this met with much laughter from the Kand
s, the general opinion being that the Tyrant bestowed equal blessing on the pirates, whose gold was spent in Kandahar and thus found its way, eventually, into his coffers. A Lyssian seaman objected to this, expressing his displeasure in a loud condemnation of double-dealing rulers and Kands at large. He was carried from the room with a broken nose and an ugly knife wound in his side, that not seeming to merit more than casual interest once the fight was done. Of Gessyth there was little said, except that it was early in the year to venture in that direction and, for all the danger of seeing their craft seized by the lictor, the merchants would wait until the summer was more advanced and the winds consequently more favorable.
This last boded ill for their quest: a speedy departure seemed advisable were they to beat Azumandias to Tezin-dar, and if Anomius had somehow survived he would doubtless come fast on their heels, him or the Tyrant’s warlocks. And Calandryll was unpleasantly aware that Chaipaku likely inhabited Kharasul, desirous of his death—and Bracht’s, too, for the slaying of Mehemmed. They cleared their plates, emptying a flagon of wine, and retired to discuss the future where prying ears might go frustrated.
The room was warm; not like the skin-prickling heat brought by the gaheen in the north, but thick, vapid with the rank odors of jungle vegetation. What breeze there was, stirring from the sea, did little to clear the heavy air and they discarded their leathers, wiping sweat from chests and brows. Outside, the city showed no sign of sleeping, noise rising from the streets below, the inns ablaze with light. Calandryll stared from the window, seeing the jungles across the Ty River gleam with a strange phosphorescence, the sea sparkling beneath a gibbous moon.
