by Tim Stead
She stepped into the study and looked at the book.
It was open at a page, but she did not read at first. Books were things that she was unfamiliar with. She picked it up and looked at it. The thing was damaged, burned, but it still retained an air of solidity and value. Even where it had been blackened the leather of the binding was soft and delightful to touch. It reminded her of the worn leather of a saddle, but softer still.
Being careful not to lose the page on which it was opened, she allowed the pages to flow, running her thumb across them so that they cascaded from one side to the other. They flowed like oil, smooth and heavy with almost no sound. She had seen and handled some books before, but this one was special. It was the finest she had ever seen.
She looked at a page almost at random. She did not understand a word of it. The volume was written in the old tongue. There were diagrams, tables, lists of things. It was unlike any book she had seen or even heard of. She wondered what book it was, and then almost dropped it as she understood.
This was Corderan’s book.
This was the book that had given Serhan so much knowledge, that had caused Mai’s death, nearly cost Serhan his life. It was the most important book in White Rock, and perhaps in the world.
He had left it lying on his desk.
Had so much changed, then?
She looked at the book again, and saw that the open page was towards the end of the volume. The pages before and after it were blank. It was isolated, as though the author has simply turned to a place near the end of the book and written words that were not part of it, perhaps something that he intended to tear out.
It was in the common tongue, too. She had not seen that at first, but she could read the first few words.
“I am the Arch Mage Corderan, Master of White Rock, Lord of all the world…”
She looked back at the other pages, and saw that the writing was the same. The words were indeed written by Corderan, now dead four hundred years. Curiosity overwhelmed her, and she sat down at the desk.
Cora was not practiced in reading. Mostly she read lists, orders and accounts, but the ancient mage’s hand was clear.
“I am the Arch Mage Corderan, Master of White Rock, Lord of all the world. My natural span of life has passed me by many years ago, and yet my mind is clear, my hand is strong, and my eye is sharp. I am the wisest, the brightest, and the most powerful of all. Men fear me. Mages fear me. The Shan fear me.
“I tell men to go and they go, I tell them to do a thing and it is done, I wish a man dead, and he dies. My will reaches out across the world like the hand of fate, and everywhere my name is spoken quietly, and only by the brave.
“Yet they come to me, these lesser mages, these anxious men. They come because I can do what they cannot, I know what is unknown. Happiness, misery, life, death, disease; all are in my gift, and they come to ask it of me. They seek revenge and justice, health and love, and sometimes they seek my death.
“Sometimes I do what they ask of me, but more often I send them away, because it is I who have the power, and all must understand it. They do. I see the fear in their eyes when they speak to me, and I see hope. They bleed desperation onto the floor of my audience chamber, and they go away unhealed.
“I have all that I desired as a young man. My enemies are overthrown and long dead. My fortress home is built, and stands proud over the lands of my birth; its cellars are filled with the best food, the finest wine. The barracks are full of guardsmen, skilled and loyal, my days are filled by magic and knowledge and power; my nights are filled with quiet sleep and the many women who desire my favour. Everything in my life is full to bursting.
“And my heart is empty.”
The writing stopped with that. Cora stood up and left the book where it lay.
This was a page never meant to be read. It was the confession of a monster, and the lament of a lonely man. It was a curse laid on Cal Serhan, and he had read it. It was a spell cast from four centuries past.
Somehow I must lift the spell.
52 Samara Plain
Darius looked around at the group that awaited the riders and the flag of truce. They were all anxious. The King, Calaine and their party coloured it with defiance. The Citizens of Gulltown looked fearful. The traders were different. Tarlyn and the other men looked defeated and close to despair. The boy, Corban, seemed most distressed, but the girl, the one that Serhan had bidden sit by him, she was angry.
The Lord Serhan himself looked relaxed and confident.
It is because he already knows what is going to happen.
The realisation filled Darius with a sense of wonder. Many times he had seen this look, and always things turned the way that Serhan desired.
The gate opened and the men rode through. One of the three was dressed in the manner of a guardsman, another in a manner akin to the King’s soldiers in Samara, but the third, the leading rider, was dressed like a king. The scabbard of his sword was jewelled; his red cloak and blue tunic were woven in spectacular patterns with gold and silver thread, and his boots shone beneath the dust which rested lightly upon them. The horse that he rode was magnificent, and his bearing was regal, straight backed, dignified. His eyes were the eyes of a man who takes what he wants. He had bandit’s eyes.
“Regani, you are welcome to my camp,” Serhan greeted him.
“Who are you?” the king of Sarata demanded.
“I am the Mage Lord Serhan, Master of White Rock,” he replied.
“You give yourself a grand title.”
“As you say.”
“What business has White Rock here?”
“We come in the cause of peace, Regani. You, as we all see, have come in the cause of war. It would seem that we are opposed on this.”
Sarata laughed.
“If you want peace I will permit you to leave.”
“I came to see peace in this city. It would be hasty of me to leave on the eve of war.”
“Then stay and watch. You do not have the force to oppose me.”
“Regani, the city is troubled. If you attack it will be all but destroyed. I ask you to take your men and go back to the east. Let this city be.”
“I will not.”
By now the three men had dismounted, and stood facing the various parties of the city. The King of Samara stepped forwards.
“You will not find my city so easy to take, Sarata,” he said.
“You are the king? Simon Tarnell?”
“I am.”
“Surrender to me now and I will spare your family and personal guard. You may go into exile.”
“I would rather die with honour than run. You will see me on the field of battle, Regani.”
“My Lord Serhan!”
It was Ella. She had walked into the middle of the group and placed herself squarely in front of the mage.
“Ella,” he said.
“Why do you do this? Why do you play this game? My friends and all the places and things that I love are in the city. I do not want them destroyed, and you are here because you want to save the city, so stop this now. Act. Do what you have to do.”
Everybody in the group had stopped talking by the time Ella finished. They all looked at her.
“Great mage Serhan,” the King of Sarata said, his tone mocking. “You take council from little girls?”
Serhan ignored him. His attention was entirely on Ella.
“You are right,” he said. “I have enjoyed this moment, and perhaps overplayed it. You ask this of me, Ella Saine?”
“I do. Save the city.”
Serhan turned from the group and called across to the guardsmen that surrounded them to bring him a horse. One was brought.
“If there is to be a battle, you must release me to lead my men,” Sarata said. “I am under a flag of truce.”
“I would honour the flag, Regani, but I want you to carry a message back to your kingdom personally. You will remain here.” He gestured, and the ground beneath Sarata’s feet, and tha
t of his men sprung into life. Grasses and vines of all kinds leaped from the earth and wound themselves around the three, pinning their legs together and, as they reached for swords and knives, their hands and arms. In a few seconds they were immobilised.
Darius stepped up to Serhan, careful not to step too close to the pinioned king and his escort.
“My Lord,” he said. “I can deploy the men in a few minutes. They are ready for a fight.”
“No, Darius. I will not have them die for this. Prepare lunch. Our discussions will resume when I get back.”
“But my lord, what are you going to do?”
Serhan laughed.
“You still ask, my friend. And why not?” He leaned forwards and whispered a few words in Darius’s ear, then he swung up onto the horse and trotted towards the gate. Men rushed to open it for him.
“General, what did he say to you?”
He was surprised to see that it was Calaine that stood beside him.
“He told me,” Darius said.
“Told you what?”
“He never tells me.”
“What did he tell you, General?”
“He said he’s going to ask them to leave, Do-Regana, and if they do not, he’s going to kill them all.”
“What? There are over two thousand men out there, General. Has he lost his mind?”
“No, my lady, he has lost his patience. The master of White Rock does not bluff.”
They watched as Serhan rode at a gentle pace out of the gate and across the plain to a small rise that lay between the army of Sarata and the city. The breeze tugged at his cloak and ruffled his hair, and he looked very alone on that great plain before such a host, pitifully frail.
He dismounted, and spoke briefly to his horse, which turned and trotted back towards the camp. Men opened the gate to let it through, but apart from that it had become a very still place. Every eye was turned upon their lord.
Some time passed before Serhan spoke, and it seemed like a great time, but was probably no more than a minute.
“I am Serhan,” he said, and somehow all could hear him clearly, though he spoke in low tones and did not raise his voice. It was as if he stood a few feet from every man on the plain, and spoke to each. “I am the Mage Lord of White Rock, and I bid you leave this place and return to your homes in peace. This city is under my protection. You shall not enter it. Go. Go home and live.”
Silence fell.
* * * *
The unease was visible in the army of Sarata. Horses shifted and stepped, men turned their heads to see what their neighbours were thinking, and met worried eyes looking back. This was magic.
Close to the front rank of the army Captain Otto Farsen heard the voice, and believed. He looked forward at where the group of three colonels sat. They were conferring. He spurred his horse forwards and rode up beside them.
“Captain?” His own colonel turned and looked at him questioningly.
“Sir, we should withdraw. This man is what he claims to be.”
The colonel blinked. His expression did not change.
“You are afraid, Captain?”
“As I would be to face the Faer Karan, sir.”
“This is a man, Captain. The Faer Karan are gone, and that power has passed with them. This is the age of the sword, the age of fire and conquest. You have heard the King speak of this.”
“And I have heard the tales that come down from the north. This is the man they speak of, the conqueror of the Faer Karan.”
“These stories are myths, Captain, bred among the ignorant to explain something that is not understood. This, too, has been explained to you and all the men.”
“Yet there he stands, myth or not, alone against twenty-three hundred men. He speaks and all hear. How can he be other than what he claims?”
“It is a bluff, Captain. No more than that. He uses tricks, little magics, to make us believe.”
“I think otherwise, sir.”
“You are a superstitious fool, Captain.” The colonel had lost patience with him. “We have determined to ride into the city, and we will crush this man as we pass. You may take your men and wait for us on the rises to the east. Then you may come and face your shame. We do not need you.”
“I implore you not to attack, sir.”
“You have your orders, Captain. After this battle I will make an example of you and men will speak your name for a hundred years whenever cowardice and stupidity are mentioned.”
Farsen reddened, but he spun his horse and rode back to his officers.
“We are to take position on the eastern ridge,” he said to them. “We will act as a reserve if it is required.”
His men looked at him, and he knew that they did not believe him, but they did follow when he broke away from the army and rode east. He drew them up in line on a ridge and waited.
* * * *
In the camp Darius watched the men ride away from the army. There were so few of them. It made no difference.
He could see the army reorganising. Archers moved up to the fore and stood in a double rank behind the first line of horses. There were perhaps sixty of them, perhaps a hundred. He could not count them.
He saw arrows lifted, fitted to strings and saw the rank of archers lift and aim as one man. He did not hear the order, but he heard the arrows fly, a harsh whisper like the gentle tearing of air.
Serhan stood unharmed in the midst of a stunted forest of dark twigs. The arrows grew out of the ground around him, but not one had struck its target.
The bows lifted again, and again the air whispered with death.
Serhan stood, waiting.
The archers withdrew. Darius could see them falling back through the ranks of the army, and more horses pressing forwards to fill the space they had vacated. There was a flash of sun on steel at the front, and he knew that swords were drawn. They were going to charge. Thousands against one man.
The first line of cavalry began to move, and the sound of their hooves rolled across the plain. Line after line stepped into motion behind them until the noise made the hairs on the back of Darius’s neck stand on end. His fingers touched the hilt of his own sword.
“What will he do?”
It was Calaine again. She stood and stared with the rest of them, her eyes wide with expectation and astonishment.
“We will see, Do-Regana.”
Serhan stooped and scooped up a handful of dust from the ground at his feet. He cast it into the air, and it did not fall. He raised his arms and more dust lifted and swirled into the air from among the fallen arrows. For a moment he was obscured, and then the dust rose further, and became a spinning, red and brown cloud. It was ten feet high, then twenty, then forty. It grew wider and wilder. Now Darius could hear it, a roaring sound as if a great wind was blowing through a forest.
The cloud grew quickly broader and higher, enveloping the first ranks of the advancing army. Serhan’s arms were now fully raised, pointing up into the sky, and the dust cloud swept back towards the army’s rearguard. Darius saw horses and men turn and run, but the dust was quicker, and in little more than a minute there was only a great storm of swirling and roaring dust.
Wind whipped across the camp, and all shielded their eyes, squinting at the one man, alone, now the only thing visible outside the dust.
The arms dropped, and the cloud of dust slowed, wound down, settled back into the earth. As it fell away they all strained to see the army, if it still advanced.
It was gone.
Serhan stood for a moment looking out across the plain where the army had been. Not one body lay on the ground, not one sword, bow, arrow, boot, glove, or dagger. There was only grass, and dust.
In the distance a hundred and fifty guardsmen looked down on the scene from the ridge. One horse turned and rode away towards the east, and slowly the others followed until the ridge was empty.
Serhan raised his hands and a black door appeared beside him. He stepped into it, it closed, and he was gone. The b
attle of Samara Plain, such as it was, was over.
Darius let out his breath, hardly aware that he had been holding it, and his grip on the hilt of his sword loosened. Tension broke throughout the camp, and was replaced with something else. It sounded like a town on market day. Everyone talked at once.
Only where Darius stood was there silence. Those who had mocked Serhan a few short minutes ago now looked in stunned silence at the empty plain.
Where was Serhan?
Darius had seen the black door, but none had appeared here. He excused himself from the Samarans and hurried back to the great tent. It was empty. He made his way back to the walls, thinking.
Today had been about power. He had allowed them to talk, to make little of him. He had restrained himself, knowing all the while that the army of Sarata approached. This had been a demonstration. He understood, too, what his lord had meant about this being his last day. He had come early to the camp to joke with the men, to see them relax, smile, to share a cup with them, all for the last time. Who could relax in the presence of such power? There was more, though. Serhan had gone to do something else, but what?
He wanted these people to fear him, so it would be something more frightening than the events they had already seen, and it was hard to imaging such a thing.
By the time he reached the small group of city people they had started talking amongst themselves. The different factions were not talking to each other, but whispering urgently amongst themselves. They all turned to look at him, faces expectant.
“Where is Serhan?” the King asked.
And Darius knew. He knew exactly what Serhan was going to do. It came to him in a moment, a dawn of understanding. An involuntary shiver laid hold of him, but he shook it off.
“He will be back in a few minutes,” the General said. “I suggest that you…” he sought the correct words. “Stay calm.”
It was not long.
The black door opened close to them, so close that Corban and Tarlyn Saine jumped away from it. Serhan stepped from the black square, nodded to the gathered dignitaries.
