by Angus Wells
“Aye.” The pale head nodded slowly. “She has the look of the blood. Whence come your people, Katya of Vanu?”
“Some say from wanderers seeking a warless land,” she answered. “Others that we are the First Folk and all the world our seeding. Whichever, it was long and long ago, and I know for certain only that Vanu is my homeland.”
“I think that Janax did succeed,” Denarus said, “and that pleases me. But say you each the why of your coming.”
Calandryll glanced at Katya, but she motioned for him to speak first, and Bracht nodded his agreement: he told the Old Ones all his story; of his meeting with Varent–Rhythamun and the quest the sorcerer had set before him, of his meeting with Bracht, and all their adventures both before and after joining forces with Katya.
“Younger magic,” said Tereus when he was done, “but still strong; and cunning, for all its madness.”
“Might this Varent-Rhythamun find the road?” Ayliss wondered.
“I think not,” said Denarus. “For why else send these? Were he able, he would surely come himself.”
“We have yet to hear of the woman’s reasons,” said Ayliss. “Speak now, Katya of Vanu, and tell us why you venture so far abroad.”
“The holy men of Vanu scried an augury,” she replied. “That Rhythamun—of whom they knew down long ages—should seek to raise Tharn by means of the Arcanum. The spells of raising he already had, but those useless without the book to guide him. They scried that he should send fourth dupes,” this with a glance to Calandryll and Bracht; a brief smile of apology, “and sent me out to find them. To dissuade them or slay them, should that prove heedful. The talisman they gave me is a lode-stone to point the way, linked in a manner I do not comprehend to that possessed by Rhythamun, which he gave to Calandryll. Thus did I find them and persuade them to an alliance.”
“Why were you chosen?” Tereus demanded. “Calandryll of Lysse, Bracht of Cuan na’For—I see why this wizard chose them; but on what judgments were you sent forth?”
“My folk are—for the greater part—peaceful,” she said, almost hesitantly, as though the admission she made was a matter of some embarrassment, “and I am deemed strange among them as I am … less peaceful. Few welcomed such departure from Vanu, whilst I was intrigued to see the larger world. And I have skill with a sword. Nor would I see Rhythamun triumph.”
“None save the mad would see that,” said Denarus.
“The blood runs true in that one,” said Ayliss, “and that is why they chose her.”
Katya frowned and said, “The blood?”
“In the dawning of the world we of Gessytha were the sole true men,” Denarus explained. “Whilst all around us the world grew, filled with younger folk, we held to our own land, here, the gift of Balatur. When Tharn and Balatur fell to warring, so did Tharn bring all his awful might against our cities and brought them down to what you see about you now. Before Tezin-dar fell one of our number—Janax—spoke for flight. He was the wisest of us all, Janax, for he foresaw what was and what might be, and set out designs that such as Rhythamun be thwarted.
“He gathered about him all those who shared his hopes—few enough, for we were foolish in our pride and thought we should not see so fair a land as ours ravaged!—and went away to find a land free of gods and their ambitions. I think that land was your Vanu, and in your veins runs the blood of Janax—And that is how your holy men augured this quest and why you were chosen.”
Calandryll looked from the Old One’s parchment-fine features to Katya. Much was explained, but one thing troubled him still.
“The Arcanum,” he said. “Why was it created? You saw the gods war and your cities come down in ruin—yet still you made the book. That such as Rhythamun would seek it, did Janax—did you—not foresee that?”
The Old Ones looked one to the other and he thought he saw guilt, or despair upon their faces: it was hard to tell, so aged were those features, stretched so taut upon the ancient bone as to be empty of all expression save the marking of time.
“We did not create it,” Denarus said, “and its genesis is a thing not even we—for all we’ve long pondered it—can properly understand. It was not, and then was. Perhaps the First Gods made it, to mark the resting places of their children; or Tharn himself, against defeat—we know only that it is now, and we guard it.”
“Janax was gone before it came,” said Tereus, “though he foresaw its coming and warned against it. Nor did we know whether he lived or died; or where he went. Perhaps he might have found the means to destroy it, but we could not, for all we tried—All we could do was set it round with gramaryes, that it should not leave this place nor be found lest we release those spells.”
“But he set designs against its coming,” said Ayliss. “Thus must the wise ones of Vanu have scried their augury.”
“Aye,” said Denarus, “Once made it was a peril eternal, for all our efforts to destroy it were fruitless.”
“Yet you would entrust it to us,” said Calandryll, “and trust that it may be destroyed in Vanu.”
“The holy men are confident of that,” Katya declared.
“And your coming speaks for that truth,” Denarus said. “Listen—we talk here of things beyond mortal comprehension and our only certainty is that the Arcanum must be destroyed, for even we grow old and our magic weakens—we grow weary and would rest. Thus, I think, does this Rhythamun seek to trick us into relinquishing our charge, knowing that we grow weary of the burden. In time even our gramaryes must falter.”
“Then why,” demanded Bracht, speaking for the first time, and bluntly, “does Rhythamun not simply wait and take it for himself?”
“Perhaps he fears another might come sooner,” said Denarus. “This Anomius you spoke of, perhaps—or that more honest folk than he perceive the danger, such as those of Vanu. Those cut with his cloth were ever hungry and would snatch what they would, sooner than await its falling.”
“We sensed a stirring,” Tereus said when his companion fell silent. “We felt the patterns shift and knew that forces moved. To that end we worked to bring you here.”
“Katya’s coming I understand,” said Calandryll, “but us—Bracht and I—why were we chosen?”
“Because you were,” Denarus answered. “I can say no better—the gods work in mysterious ways, and that you are come here says that you are the True Ones.”
“You must take it,” said Ayliss. “And grant us long-waited peace.”
“Else death claim even us,” said Tereus, “and the way lie open to folk less honest of purpose. Our time is passed and we would lay down our burden.”
“Come,” Denarus said then, “we shall bring you to the book and you shall take it from Tezin-dar. Go back down the road to the Syfalheen and they will bring you to your ship—but hurry then, for the road will soon pass after we are gone.”
Calandryll frowned and Tereus said, “Our existence is bound with those gramaryes that ward the book—when we loose those, we find our rest. The road and all we built will fade then.”
“At last,” murmured Ayliss. “Oh, how I long for that.”
“Then come,” said Denarus. “We might talk forever of these things and never find answers—let the Arcanum go from here to its destruction.”
HE turned, Ayliss and Tereus at his side, and went out through the arch into a night grown older, the moon cloud-scarred, indifferent. They wound a tortuous way through the city, past tumbled walls and halls ribbed with the shadows of denuded spires, past gaping pits and riven gulleys, coming at last to a plain door of fire-seared metal set in a deep-shadowed niche. The Old Ones halted before the portal, each in turn laying hands upon the surface as they murmured in a language long-forgotten. It opened and they started down a stairway that fell in darkness into the bowels of the city, ending where pale light glowed from runes graven deep in a second door, this of black metal. Denarus spoke again, joined by Ayliss and Tereus, and that door swung inward on further steps. These fell steeper, but lit with a
cold white light no kin to flame that came from sconces set in niches overhead, so that Calandryll, first behind the Old Ones, could see the dappling of age on their skulls beneath their silvered hair, the slow pulse of blood beneath the parchment skin.
They descended to a chamber all writ with runes, blood black in the strange light, a silver pedestal at its center, ringed by flames, its burden lost behind the fire.
Calandryll halted on Denarus’s bidding, Bracht and Katya beside him as the Old Ones shuffled past the fire to stand facing them. A great excitement filled him, and a sense of dread, for the power that emanated from within the flames was a palpable thing that seemed to vibrate down the roadways of his bones and within the channels of his veins.
Denarus said, “Do you truly vow that you will take the Arcanum to its destruction in Vanu?”
As one they said, “Aye, we do.”
Ayliss said, “Knowing that you are cursed do you betray this trust?”
Again they said, “Aye, knowing that.”
Tereus said, “Knowing your souls damned do you fail?”
“Aye, that, too.”
The Old Ones spoke together then: “Then take the Arcanum hence, and let it be forever lost.”
Denarus stepped a pace forward, hands thrust out into the flames. Ayliss moved to join him, and Tereus. They spoke together in that same strange tongue that had unlocked the doors and the flames gusted, blinding, rising high against the roof of the chamber. Calandryll started back, arm raised against the sudden heat, and heard Bracht gasp as it faded, Katya’s sharp intake of breath.
The flames were gone and the three Old Ones with them, only a slow drift of dust where they had stood, settling leisurely upon the smooth surface of the floor, its only blemish. On the pedestal, revealed clear now, lay a slender book, its binding black, like ancient leather, the single word scribed red: Arcanum. It was small, an unimportant-seeming thing, save for that sense of power that oozed from it, an aura, chilling in the heated confines of the chamber.
Calandryll stepped toward it, reluctant now to touch the relic. And shouted as pain lanced his chest, as though a flaming brand pressed there. He scrabbled at his shirt, seeing the red stone burn bright, fire pulsing through it as the scent of almonds filled his nostrils.
“Ahrd!” he heard Bracht cry. “What is it?”
The Kern’s falchion slid swift from the sheath; Katya’s saber glittered. Calandryll moaned, fastening desperate hands on the leather thong that held the burning stone about his heck, snapping the cord to cast the talisman clear, across the chamber.
Where it landed the air shimmered. Inchoate dread gripped him: thinking it likely already useless, he drew is sword.
And saw the shimmering solidify, the scent of magic fading. And recognized the familiar face that beamed across the pedestal toward him, ablaze with triumph, a hand poised upon the book.
“My thanks,” said Varent-Rhythamun, “You served me well.”
Bracht moved swift as a striking serpent, yelling a curse as he sprang forward, falchion cutting at the wizard’s head. Varent-Rhythamun raised an almost negligent hand, gripping the blade as easily might a man catch a falling feather. Katya attacked on his left and he blocked her blade, too, smiling as both froze, paralyzed by his magic. Calandryll stepped toward him, more cautious, and he laughed, flicking out his hands so that Kern and warrior woman both were flung aside.
“You cannot touch me,” he said mildly, contempt on his aquiline features. “Think you that mere blades may harm such as I am? No—my power is greater than you know. And greater still, ere long.”
Calandryll drove the straightsword at the mocking face: felt it halted and himself hurled back, clouded round with the dust that was the Old Ones. Stone struck his head and his vision blurred.
“Dera damn your soul!” he groaned helplessly as he saw the mage pick up the Arcanum, long-fingered hands caressing the binding, adoring as a lover’s touch.
“Dera?” Varent-Rhythamun shook his head, chuckling: a malign sound. “That weak mewling goddess cannot touch me now. No more than you three fools! Now I have this, I have all—I have the key that will unlock Tharn and return my master to his kingdom.”
“You are mad,” Calandryll cried, struggling to rise: finding that he could not, pressed down by Varent-Rhythamun’s magic. “You’d visit chaos on the world!”
“I’d return my master to his own,” the mage retorted, “and stand at his right hand when that day comes. Oh, you poor, sad fools! How well you played my game—without your aid I might never have gained this chamber; never passed the magicks of Denarus and the rest.”
“The stone,” Calandryll gasped. “You used the stone.”
“Aided by that power I sensed in you,” Varent—Rhythamun agreed. “Aye—the stone is a focus for my sortilege. I could not approach here myself, but you, you faithful hounds, you brought it here; and once here I heeded only employ my arts, knowing the Guardians departed.” He took up the Arcanum, folding it in his black-robed arms, teeth bared in awful smile. “And now I take it—to find Tharn’s tomb—whilst you remain here. Farewell, my friends.”
The air shimmered again where he stood, and once more the familiar—hated!—scent hung on the air. And he was gone, the Arcanum with him.
“Dera damn him!” Calandryll moaned. “And me for a fool. Oh, goddess—what have we done?”
“Loosed madness on the world,” said Katya, bitterly, rising painfully to retrieve her sword. “We are pawns in his game.”
Bracht climbed to his feet, taking up the falchion, his face grim, blue eyes cold with rage.
“The Old Ones said the road remains a while,” he grunted. “Do we take it, or die here?”
“To what end?” Calandryll shook his head, voice sour with chagrin. “He has the took—you heard what he intends. What matter whether we die here or in a world gone down in chaos?”
“The Arcanum leads to Tharn’s tomb,” Bracht said, “and likely that is in no place easy of finding—he must go to there before he may raise the Mad God.”
Katya turned to fix him with her eyes, hope flickering behind the stormy grey. “Think you that we might yet halt him?”
“I’d sooner die attempting that than rot here,” Bracht answered.
“Dare we hope as much?” Calandryll climbed up; sheathed his dropped blade.
“I saw him take the stone,” said Bracht. “Did you not say, Katya, that your talisman is a pointer to that fell mate?”
“Aye,” she said, “it is.”
“Then we have hope,” said the Kern, fierce. “And a battle to fight if we’ve the heart to attempt it.”
She nodded: “I stand with you, Bracht.”
“And I,” said Calandryll, his comrades’ determination infusing him, resolution burning afresh. “To the ends of the world.”
“Likely we shall see them before this is done,” said Bracht, smiling now, ferocious. “Come!”
They took the stairs at a run, careless of the rubble that filled the city as they raced into a new-dawned morning, toward the dolmen standing lonely in the meadow, hurling themselves into its darkness.
Into the pursuit of Rhythamun.
THE END, OF THE FIRST BOOK.
FORBIDDEN MAGIC
A BANTAM BOOK / MAY 1992
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Copyright © 1992 by Angus Wells.
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