War of Powers

by Robert E Vardeman;Victor Milan

  War of Powers – Part 1

  Books One to Three

  Robert E. Vardeman

  and Victor Milan

  Scanners Note

  The War of Powers can be found as Six Books or as two each consisting of three of the original books

  This Scan contains books one to three

  1 The Sundered Realm

  2 The City in the Glacier

  3 The Destiny Stone

  Books Four to Six can be found in a recent scan

  War of Powers Part Two – Istu Awakened

  Book One

  THE SUNDERED REALM

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Up! Up-you!”

  Growling, the six dogs sorted themselves out of the heap in which they’d spent the night.

  “We’ve a hard day’s travel ahead.”

  Bleary-eyed from too much wine and too little sleep, Fost Longstrider forgot the caution a courier learns to exercise with the high-strung dogs of his sled team. He kicked out and caught the newest animal, a two-year-old named Ranar, smartly in the ribs. With a snarl of rage, the dog launched itself at Fost’s throat.

  Fost stepped backwards, tripped on a loose legging-strap, and sat down hard in the kennel yard. Cursing, he fumbled for his dagger. It was trapped beneath him.

  The breath exploded from his body as Ranar landed atop him. He threw up his arms to ward off the beast. White fangs flashed inches from his face. Dog-breath stank in his nostrils.

  Then the angry dog was no longer between Fost and the overcast morning sky. He heard a heavy thump, followed by low warning growls.

  The big man hauled himself to a sitting position. His two lead dogs, Wigma and black and silver Raissa, had bowled over the offending animal and now stood above it, teeth bared.

  “Good dogs,” Fost called to them. “Back Wigma, Raissa. Let him up.”

  The dogs backed away from Ranar, still rumbling deep in their throats. Ranar picked himself up, slunk to a stuccoed wall and began to lick himself.

  Fost knelt briefly to pat his lead dogs. They both looked sheepish. It was their responsibility to keep order among the team and though Ranar’s outburst had been a result of their master’s carelessness, they felt guilty for allowing it. A courier depended on his team, particularly his lead dogs; Wigma and Raissa were two of the best.

  The animals allowed themselves to be strapped into their harnesses with no further demonstration. Ranar hesitated but came when Fost called him. Fost made no further attempt to punish the dog. Wigma and Raissa had amply shown what would happen if the newcomer misbehaved again.

  Fost checked the rotation of the rollers. Satisfied, he tossed a coin to a pimply-faced kennel boy who emerged from a booth by the gate and urged the dogs out of the yard and onto the road. He pushed the sled a short way to get it moving, then leaped aboard.

  Southward bound toward the castle of Kest-i-Mond the Mage, Fost found sleep overtaking him. The bumping of the sled as it labored along the road hardly affected him. He’d long since developed the merchant’s ability to sleep upright with his eyes open, letting the dogs shift for themselves. If anything, the rhythmic rocking of the sled brought him closer to nodding off.

  Memories of Eliska drifted through his mind. Such a lovely wench, he thought dreamily. So passionate and comely and nakedly appreciative of what the rough-hewn courier had to offer.

  The question of who had been behind the attack of the night before, in the alleyway in Samadum as he made his way to the waiting Countess Eliska ra-Marll’s bedchamber, still troubled him, but he no longer suspected the lusty Eliska or her spouse. The many kingdoms and city-states of the Sundered Realm were jealous and fiercely competitive, and their rivalry often embroiled bystanders. Fost had probably been the victim of mistaken identity in some petty trade dispute.

  He found himself eager to deliver his burden to Kest-i-Mond and return to Eliska’s embrace. Few women could compare with the superbly endowed countess. Her eyes, her perfumed scent, her full breasts, her willing mouth and hot, probing tongue…

  “I quite agree,” a voice said, faint and from no apparent direction.

  Fost snapped awake. His hand moved to the small blade sheathed at his right hip.

  “Who spoke?” he demanded.

  Ahead stretched the dusty, deserted road leading off into the everlasting emptiness of the steppes. The dogs pulled steadily, showing no sign of sensing an intruder. Fost frowned. Many times he’d stayed alive only because of the sensitive noses of his lead dogs.

  If they scented no one, no one was there.

  The terrain on either side was bleak and barren. The rolling landscape was covered with sere, scrubby grasses dotted occasionally with gnarled brush. Ahead and to the right of the road, a copse of trees jostled the horizon. Even had the dogs’ noses played them false, there was no place in voice range for a stranger to hide.

  Behind, the road to Samadum reached empty. The city’s outline shimmered in the heat of late-summer sun. Above drifted idle clouds, slowly burning away in the sunlight.

  “I’m imagining things,” Fost said with a shrug. The sound of his own voice reassured him.

  “A hazard of your calling, no doubt,” the sourceless voice said, more distinctly this time. “A product of too many nights alone, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Fost’s lips drew back from his teeth. He feared no man or beast—nothing he could see. But to be addressed by invisible beings unnerved him.

  “Who speaks?” he growled, fingers tightening on the hilt of his broadsword. “Show yourself.”

  “Do not be perturbed, dear boy.” The voice sounded amused. “I certainly mean you no harm.”

  “Halt! You miserable curs, stop!” Fost dug his heels into the soft dirt of the road. The dogs stumbled and jerked in the harnesses at the sudden stop. They snarled and snapped at each other until Wigma and his mate restored order with authoritative growls.

  “Why do we stop? Is there something intriguing to do or see?”

  Raissa and Wigma were regarding their master as if they feared for his sanity, as puzzled as the unseen speaker by the abrupt halt. Fost whipped forth sword and dagger, slicing empty air.

  The voice chuckled. “You’re overwrought,” it declared. “Perhaps because of your exertions with the delightful Eliska. A tasty lass, is she not?”

  “Eliska? By the Dark Ones, what do you know of Eliska?”

  “Really, Fost, I was there. Do you forget so soon?” The voice gave a very human sigh of pleasure. “Such a hot-blooded young beauty. And your own performance was truly inspired!”

  Fost straightened. A curious calm came over him. He knew now what he faced.

  Only one thing in the Sundered Realm and the wide world beyond would speak to him thus from empty air of his nocturnal tryst with Eliska ra-Marll. It was a demon come to issue him the Hell Call. Legend had it that only Melikar the One-Armed had ever defeated a demon giving the Call, but Fost vowed to fight well and go down to damnation as befitted a man of his calling.

  Only the brave succeeded as couriers of the Sundered Realm, and he was the bravest of the couriers alive.

  He steeled himself and waited for death.

  “I’m ready, demon,” he said. “Take me if you can.”

  “Demon?” The tone of the voice wavered between pique and pleasure. “No demon, I. Only the poor shade of one long dead.”

  Clammy fingers gripped at Fost’s belly. Demons were not the only spirits a man had to fear.

  “I call upon the Great Ultimate for protection,” Fost said, too loudly, not really believing it would work. He’d called on the Great Ultimate before, without result. Still, a man never knew, and any ally could prove useful when dealing with the undead. “Ust the Red Bear, Gormanka, pat
ron of couriers: I beseech your protection against the denizens of the netherworld.”

  “Such theatrics,” scoffed the disembodied voice. “Do you truly believe in those antiquated deities? They do not exist, not a one of them. I am dead, and you can believe me. There is nothing but gray limbo, with here and there a hardier spirit clinging to the last spark of life.”

  Fost had quit glaring wildly at the surrounding steppe and looked intently at the clay vessel secured to the frame of his dogsled. It was the same pot that had dangled in his pouch the night before when he fought the killers in the alley—and when he had slipped unseen into the chamber of Eliska. A suspicion formed in his mind.

  He sheathed his sword. With the tip of his dagger, he touched the sealed jar. Instinct kept him from doing more. A courier never poked into the contents of things he carried, especially when he served a powerful magician.

  He studied the vessel for the first time since taking possession of it The dark red surface appeared ordinary enough, though he could make out crow-track cuneiforms when he held the jug at the proper angle to the sun. The lid, sealed with pitch within the neck of the jar, was black, slate-like rock. It was a common type of jug, of a sort often used to carry wine or other potables.

  Thoughtfully, he tapped the jug with his dagger.

  “Stop that!” the voice snapped. “You’ve no idea the racket that makes.”

  Fost jumped again. Without thinking, he cast the jug away from him with the full strength of his arms and upper back. The clay pot banged against a rock thirty paces distant.

  Fost wiped sweat from his forehead. He shuddered at the thought of the breach of duty he’d just committed. Sorcerors weren’t noted for their leniency. If he’d damaged that which he was supposed to safeguard, his fate would be grim, indeed. He screwed up his courage and walked across the dead grass to where the jug lay.

  Its plug had come out. From the mouth of the jar issued a thick blue vapor, swirling and thickening before Fost’s eyes. He blinked. A vagrant breeze scattered the mists momentarily. Then they coalesced into a thin spire rising directly from the jar.

  Dancing motes of energy appeared in the center of the vapor column, almost too faint to be seen. Whirling like a miniature tornado, the mist achieved its final form. Before the startled courier stood the likeness of a man, tall and thin and aquiline of feature. It smiled at him benignly, almost beatifically.

  “Who…?”

  “I am Erimenes the Ethical.” The spirit introduced itself with a bow. “Dead these past one thousand, three hundred ninety-nine years, but still in possession of my awesome mental powers.”

  “Erimenes the Ethical?” Fost touched his jaw with a thumb. “The name strikes a chord in my mind, but…”

  “Lowborn and ill-educated as you are, you cannot call up the proper referents. But yes, even such as you has heard of me.” The spirit sounded pleased.

  “You seem to know who I am, but the only Erimenes I can recall is an old philosopher famed for unpopular beliefs.”

  “Yes,” sighed the spirit. “I espoused a monastic philosophy entailing abstinence and the avoidance of all earthly pleasures.”

  “I can see how that would be unpopular.” Some of Fost’s courage was returning.

  “The centuries spent in that miserable jug convinced me of the error of my tenets. Abstinence, I now feel, should be enjoyed only in moderation. And without excess there can be no moderation.” A zephyr made the figure waver. “My time as a shade has not been wasted, my brawling young friend. No, it hasn’t. You will be pleased to hear that Erimenes the Ethical now preaches nothing but hedonism.”

  Nothing remained of Fost’s fear. He was confronted by a ghost, true, but a spirit so garrulous hardly proved a menace.

  “Isn’t it somewhat late to change your views? After all, you’ve been dead fourteen hundred years.”

  “One thousand, three hundred ninety-nine,” the sage corrected. “But yes, of course, you are right. Without corporeal being, I am nothing. It is regrettably impossible for a vaporous spirit such as myself to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. Not directly.”

  “What do you mean?” Fost asked, frowning.

  “I merely point out the obvious. A shade must garner whatever sensations it requires vicariously.”

  Fost realized the source of the mysterious comments last night during the height of his passion with Eliska.

  “You mean you’re no more than a long-dead voyeur?”

  “Really, young man, that puts it so crudely.”

  “How else would you put it?”

  “Let us say I am interested in accumulating experience of the carnal delights in which you revel. Since I sipped not of the sweet wine of youth in life, I may now only look on as others freely quaff.”

  “Do you mean,” Fost asked incredulously, “that you’re a virgin? A fourteen-century-old innocent?”

  The spirit seemed to blush. “Really, now…”

  Fost guffawed. “A bedroom-peeper and a virgin! A fine ghost you are, Erimenes. Erimenes the Ethical, indeed!”

  The spirit sniffed and turned. Fost laughed uproariously, slapping his muscular thighs in mirth. His earlier fears of Erimenes’ bodiless voice amused him now. Kest-i-Mond had gotten a bad bargain when he purchased the jar containing the philosopher’s soul.

  At length the big man’s laughter died down and the shade turned back to face him. “Well,” Erimenes said irritably, “I certainly cannot expect someone like you to understand the finer points of my philosophy. Still, you are ideal for my purposes. Your undercover talents are considerable. At least, Eliska was favorably impressed. And the way you dispatched those ruffians in the street was exemplary.”

  “You saw all that?” asked Fost suspiciously.

  “‘Saw’ isn’t precisely the term, but I would not wish to confuse you with the metaphysical details of how I perceive the world of the living. Suffice it to say I was witness to your exploits in battle as well as bed.”

  The mist-stuff of the spirit thickened and swirled, and the faint motes of light glowed more brightly. Fost stepped back involuntarily. It took him several seconds to realize the sage was showing his excitement at the thought of killing and wenching.

  “I feel we will all be better off when I deliver you to the hand of Kest-i-Mond,” he said a bit unsteadily. The spirit looked surprised and opened its mouth as if to protest. Fost swooped down on the lid of the jar, jamming it tightly back into place. The look of surprise and the pale, ascetic face beneath it faded into nothingness as the wind scattered the remnants of the ghostly body.

  From inside the jar came a whining complaint. “You didn’t have to act so precipitously. I mean you no ill. I only wish to taste, to feel, to know through you the pleasures I denied myself when living.”

  Ignoring him, Fost walked back to the sled and his patiently waiting dog team. He tossed the jar into the air several times and caught it. A grin spread across his face at the sounds of motion sickness that came from within.

  High above, in the bright blue sky, a raven wheeled and cursed Fost Longstrider for a meddling fool. Did the courier somehow suspect the nature of his cargo? But, perhaps, the spirit in the earthenware jar would reveal nothing of its true worth to Kest-i-Mond and the raven’s mistress.

  The bird quaked at the thought of the sorceress in her high tower. She would not respond well when she learned that Fost knew of the existence of Kest-i-Mond’s tame wraith.

  Hundreds of feet below, Fost recapped the jar.

  Oh, that my hearing were as keen as my sight! the bird lamented. Then I would know what the long-strider has learned. It wheeled and headed south.

  Its sharp eyes searched the terrain for the small stone cairn that marked the campsite of its mistress’ men-at-arms. The ground grew rockier, irregular stands of trees dotting the countryside. The marker was invisible from the ground, but the raven soon picked out the sparkle of the stacked quartz and pyrite stones and began to spiral downward.

  With a quick be
at of its wings it killed all forward momentum and alighted on the cairn. It cawed loudly. In less than a minute, a soldier appeared from a dense copse a bowshot distant.

  “You have information of value?” the man demanded. A long scar ran from the corner of his eye to his jaw.

  The raven croaked in irritation. Humans could be so vexing. Why would it come, if it didn’t have something to impart?

  “The courier is but an hour’s ride hence,” it said in its thick-tongued voice. “He carries the vessel you failed to obtain last night.”

  “It was not our failure,” rapped the scar-faced officer. “Those were groundlings hired by our Cloud Mistress. We shall not fail.”

  The raven flapped its wings. “You have not seen this man Fost. He is death incarnate to your kind. But I weary of this stilted man-speech. Go now and seize the jar for our mistress.”

  The scar became a red line down the man’s cheek. “We do not take our orders from the likes of you,” he said harshly. “For our mistress we shall triumph!”

  The bird shook its head, smoothed the feathers of its left wing with its beak, and took to the air. Let the foolish one discover for himself how deadly his quarry could be. The raven only observed. Better to report failure, onerous as that duty was, than be the author of that failure.

  * * *

  The sled rolled smoothly along the road. Since the days of the Empire, upkeep of the Realm Roads had been spotty, but the surface of this highway lay smooth and even. That was one thing that could be said for Count Marll. He attended well to his roads, if not his wife.

  The jar in which the spirit of Erimenes the Ethical dwelt was strapped once more to the sled frame. Remembering the way the ghost spied on him the night before, Fost had been tempted to let him bounce around in his jug until he wished he’d never achieved ghostly immortality. The dictates of his profession overrode temptation. Best to deliver his charge to Kest-i-Mond in the best possible condition. An angered enchanter is no one’s friend.