Book Read Free

Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

Page 6

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)


  The denial came distorted through the gag, a muffled defiance, more moan than shout, but still loud enough the Jesseryte ahead glanced back, warningly, the man behind came up, driving a rough hand at Calandryll's shoulder. The chestnut—the gelding!— skittered, and its rider grunted, seeking with knees and bound hands to calm the horse, thinking, startled, that the quest might truly end, for him, did the animal panic, take him off the road. He blinked, realizing he had dozed in the saddle, that the night waned and the wind was died away. He saw the sky brighten in the east, and wondered if he had, truly, heard that silent voice, or only the pessimistic musing of his own mind.

  I must hope, he told himself. Hope, now, is all I have. Hope, and faith in the Younger Gods.

  In silence, he voiced a prayer to Dera, to the goddess and all her kin, asking that this capture be part of some design, or that he and hisjiomrades— Cennaire he counted now among that number—be allowed escape. He hoped it was not selfishness to ask they escape entire, whole in all parts: the notion that it might go otherwise was ugly.

  He could do no more, not now, only sit his horse and watch the road unfold in day's clean light, the breeze no longer insidious with doubt but merry, a cheerful zephyr redolent of warm earth and grass.

  That fact did not, at first, strike him, for the gloom of his nocturnal reverie still dulled him somewhat. But then his nose registered the change, that the hard, dry scent of timeless stone was replaced with hint of growth, and he looked up, past the horseman who led him, and saw the rim of the Kess Imbrun.

  The great rift's edge was both welcome and ominous, the one for its marking of a step along the way ended, the other for its announcement of impending fate, of resolution of his fears. He steeled himself, seeing the Daggan Vhe traverse a shelf, wind back, steep and wide, then run out between walls similar to the gully that had begun this journey into captivity. The gelding quickened its pace, urged on by the warrior ahead, willing enough, as though it, like its rider, saw the finish of heights and depths, and welcomed the prospect of flat land once more with equine innocence.

  They crossed the shelf and climbed the steepened way, then rode a spell through the twilight imparted by the cleft. It was a broad road there, smooth and gently angled, the walls sheer, the sky a wide blue band above, the sun as yet only hinting along the eastern edge. At the farthest extent of the gully the way rose again, clear sky visible, bright blue and shadowed red meeting on a line.

  Calandryll heard Temchen, at the column's head, call out, heard a shouted response. Then the Jesseryte topped the ridge line and was gone from sight. His men seemed to take reassurance from the brief exchange, urging their horses on at a canter. The hooves rang loud on stone, filling the gully with their clatter, and the cavalcade emerged onto the Jesseryn Plain.

  Calandryll looked about, eyes widening in amazement. To either side stood man-made walls, great blocks of sandy-yellow stone set unmortered one upon the other, high as five men, how thick he could only guess. They ran parallel a way, a funnel down which any seeking ingress to the Kess Imbrun must pass, a killing ground for any climbing the Blood Road. They ended at a barbican, a great squat block of dull yellow that rose above the walls, featureless save for the narrow embrasures cut across its face and the massive gates of metal- studded wood standing open below. Beyond those gates there was only darkness: Temchen waited there, dwarfed by the massy structure.

  He raised an arm, beckoning them on. As they came closer, Calandryll experienced a strange chill, for it seemed an atmosphere, an indefinable aura, hung about the place, something beyond its naturally forbidding prospect, greater and more ominous, as if ghosts lingered there, or the smell of recently shed blood. His horse shied, the enthusiasm it had earlier shown gone, and from behind he heard Bracht's stallion whinny a protest. He turned, and saw the black horse plunging against the leading rein, ears flattened, eyes rolling white. The mood communicated and he saw Katya's grey curvet even as his own animal began to dance nervously. Indeed, the Jesserytes' small beasts were no less agitated, their riders grunting irritably and holding them tight-reined, too occupied then to remonstrate with their prisoners' recalcitrant beasts.

  It took an effort to drive the horses forward, and as they approached the barbican it seemed to Calandryll the chill grew deeper. He eyed the gates with apprehension, wondering if the charnel odor he caught on the breeze was real, or a figment of his imagination, and knew, though not why, that from the blockhouse emanated a sensation of dread, of insensate horror.

  He felt his mouth go dry as he passed between the gates, and then wanted to spit, badly, for it seemed a sour, bilious clot filled his throat. Nor, he saw, were the Jesserytes insensible to the sensation: they fingered swordhilts, shaped warding gestures, veils rustling metallic as heads turned warily from side to side. Only Temchen appeared unmoved, and that, so Calandryll thought, was a result of innate discipline, a grim determination to show no dread. The armored man barked a command, hand chopping air, urging his men on down the tunnel that filled all the center of the fortification.

  Calandryll saw gates, dim at the farther end, these closed and barred, and lesser openings to either side, shut off with heavy doors. Overhead were machiolations, and then a band of welcome light, albeit faint, as a door was flung open, Temchen turning aside there, down some inner corridor.

  The lesser tunnel gave way to a small bailey, stabling around three sides, more sable-armored warriors standing in postures of expectancy, alert, crook-bladed pikes and curved swords in their hands, as if unsure what they might expect of the reluctant visitors. Archers manned the ramparts, arrows nocked, downward aimed. Temchen dismounted, bowed to a man whose armor was marked with symbols in yellow and silver, who answered in kind and lifted his veil, the better to study the captives.

  Calandryll found little in his features to distinguish him from Temchen. Save that he wore a stiff, triangular beard and seemed a few years older, they might be brothers, the elder apparently superior in rank, for it was he who issued the order that brought the captives down from their horses to stand before him, another that had their bonds removed, all save the cords about their wrists, the gags in their mouths.

  Temchen spoke their names, indicating them each in turn, and the older man nodded, and conversed briefly with the younger. Then, without further word, he spun on his heel and marched briskly to an inner stairwell. Temchen pointed after him, barking orders that set a guard about the four, motioning them to follow, he bustling past to fall into step with the other as they climbed into the depths of the barbican.

  The stairs led to a corridor beneath the roof, banded with light from the embrasures running down its length, the omnipresent sensation of dread somewhat abated here, that relief almost physical, as if a weight were lifted. Calandryll wondered if that easing was a result of the hieroglyphs he saw daubed at intervals along the walls or the censers wafting pungent smoke in the still, dry air, and what it meant. The glyphs, he guessed, were imbued with magic of some manner, and likely the incense, too, though by whom and why remained a mystery, fie could only follow his captors as they walked the gallery to a door of black wood, where Temchen and the other man halted, removing their helms before tapping softly; respectfully, Calandryll thought, wondering what awaited within.

  A voice responded, presumably granting permission to enter, for Temchen nodded and a guard swung the door wide, standing back as the two Jesseryte chieftains went in, halted, and bowed low.

  There followed a murmured conversation and then Temchen beckoned, the guards herding the captives into a chamber longer than it was wide, lit dim save where a circular opening in the ceiling bled light across a rectangular table of black lacquered wood at the center. Backless seats, more stool than chair, were set down both sides of the table, jet as the Jesserytes7 armor so that they were near invisible in the shadows that pooled to either side. The walls were no lighter, paneled in some dark wood, unadorned save for more of the strange symbols, those painted in yellow and silver and red that
seemed to glow in the dimness.

  Calandryll squinted as Temchen and the other man marched forward, bowed again, and motioned for the guards to bring the prisoners closer. The farther end of the chamber lay beyond the limits of the poor illumination, and the guards halted before Calandryll's eyes were able to pierce that gloom.

  From out of it came a voice, dry and soft as the rustle of autumn leaves stirred by a breeze, but somehow clear for all it was faint, as if generated by a power that transcended vocalization.

  "Welcome,” it said, and it seemed the shadows themselves spoke. “I have awaited your coming.”

  Calandryll started as he realized the words were uttered in the Jesseryte tongue, and that he understood.

  3

  LAUGHTER then, like the rattle of ancient bells, the timbre occluded by rust—Calandryll wondered if his mind was read, or the startlement on his face. He looked to his companions, seeing he was alone in neither understanding nor surprise: Bracht stared with narrow eyes, suspicious visage, into the shadows; Katya frowned; Cennaire appeared frightened, and he stepped a pace closer, that movement eliciting a warning glance from the elder Jesseryte, a prohibiting grunt from Temchen.

  "Easy, easy," said the unseen speaker, startling Calandryll once more. "What harm do they offer me? What harm can they offer me?"

  The questions were mildly put, seeming empty of threat, albeit massively confident. The bearded man answered, but his words were incomprehensible. Calandryll suspected he protested for the soft voice replied: "Chazali, had they such power surely they'd not allow themselves taken. And be it some ruse, 1 believe I've the strength to oppose them. I say—loose their bonds, remove those gags that we may converse as civilized folk."

  There followed further protest, seemingly quelled by some gesture visible only to the Jesserytes, and the voice again, a hint of steel now evident. "Free them, I tell you. Be you so concerned, then remain and ward me against this mighty danger."

  Amusement echoed in the last words and the one named Chazali shook his head, shrugged, and motioned Temchen forward, the two of them loosing the cords about the prisoners7 wrists, taking the gags from their mouths. They both stepped back, wary, hands resting light and ready on swordhilts.

  "Neither have we need for so many guards," said the voice. "Dismiss your men, but leave whatever things you took from our guests."

  "Guests?" Bracht's voice was low, harsh with anger.

  "So I trust," came the response from the darkness, "for all the manner of your coming. I crave forgiveness for that indignity and shall, in time, explain the need. For now, though, do you seat yourselves? Will you take wine?"

  "No."

  Bracht's eyes followed the warrior who stepped forward, swords and saddlebags in his arms, clattering down onto the table. Calandryll saw the tension in his body, knowing the Kern calculated his chances of reaching his falchion, drawing. No less Temchen and Chazali, whose curved blades slid a little way clear of the scabbards, the faint susurration of steel blades against leather akin to the warning hiss of a serpent. He looked to Bracht, a hand half raised, and said, "Be we truly guests, you've much to explain. For now"—this directed at Bracht—"we'll hear you out."

  He sat then, willing the angry Kern to follow suit, certain that should fury gain the upper hand they must all die. He was grateful to Katya, who sank onto a chair,- to Cennaire, who did the same, her great brown eyes fixed intently on the shadows, as if she saw the hidden speaker. With a grunt of irritation, Bracht did as lie was urged, and across the table, Chazali and Temchen took seats.

  The guards filed out; the door thudded shut, and for a moment there was silence.

  Then silk rustled, soft as gently falling rain, and the speaker stepped within the radius of the light. Calandryll stared, thinking he had seen no living creature so old since the Guardians of Tezin-dar. Hair like polished silver fell in sweeping wings to either side of a face so wrinkled as to resemble ancient leather left long in sun and rain and wind, and of much the same hue. Dark eyes glittered between canalicular lids, striated flesh combining patterns of furrows that radiated outward and downward, deep grooves arcing in parentheses about a sharp, proud nose, descending behind a wispery mustache of the same argental shade as the hair, the mouth thin-lipped and wide, exposing large, yellow teeth as it smiled. The neck—surely gaunt as a turtle's—was hidden beneath the high collar of an elaborate tunic, a green the shade of new spring grass, the shoulders exaggerated, stiffened to extend beyond the deep sleeves. A silver sash bound it narrow at the waist, fastened with a brooch of gold so that the hem flared above loose pantaloons of shimmering jet, tucked into ankle boots of some soft, silvery hide, with toes curled up and back, tipped with little golden points.

  So grandiose an outfit seemed somehow at variance with the ancient face, which now expressed an apologetic humor.

  “I am named Ochen,'' he said. “Temchen, you have already met; this other is named Chazali.''

  Both armored men ducked their heads slightly as their names were spoken, but neither took their eyes off the four, nor their hands from their swords. It was clear to Calandryll that they trusted their unwilling visitors no more than Bracht trusted them. For his own part he felt a great curiosity join his wariness: there seemed no enmity in this venerable creature; though, he thought, that was a thing to be decided later.

  “I fear we begin with misunderstanding/7 Ochen said, settling himself gracefully on the faldstool at the table's head.

  “I understand we are taken captive," snapped Bracht. “Brought bound to this keep."

  Ochen nodded, his smile fading, his reply voiced grave. “That I shall explain, warrior," he promised. “And when I do, I think you'll see the need for such caution. For now, I'd ask you accept my word that be you dissatisfied with what I tell you, you shall be free to leave—to return whence you came, or go on with whatever help I am able to give. Do you accept?"

  “The word of a Jesseryte?" Bracht glowered.

  Calandryll said quickly, “We'll hear you out." There seemed little other choice—no other that made sense—and the faint hope of aid, should this mysterious ancient prove a friend.

  Ochen ducked his head in thanks and said, “A moment then."

  Calandryll watched as he reached forward, drawing the blades and bags laid upon the table toward him. He fingered each item gently, almost reverently, frowning a little as his fingers danced over Cennaire's small satchel, murmuring too soft any could hear the words as he touched Calandryll's straightsword.

  "Yours," he remarked, looking into Calandryll's eyes. "The goddess would gift such as you with this."

  "A sorcerer!" Bracht snarled. "A Jesseryte sorcerer!"

  "That I am," admitted Ochen cheerfully, "and be you who I think, you'll have need of my art where you go."

  Bracht's mouth curled scornfully. Calandryll said, "You know who we are?"

  "I've some notion." Ochen ended his examination, pushed their gear away. "I and my kind have foreseen your coming."

  Calandryll frowned at that and the ancient chuckled. "Think you we've not the art of scrying in this land?" He shook his head, the network of wrinkles deepening a moment. "Perhaps we've hid too long; stood too long apart from the world."

  "You stood not apart when your Great Khan looked to invade my land," said Bracht, gruff - voiccd. "You stand not apart when you raid Cuan na'For for slaves."

  "That myth?" Ochen sighed, exasperation in the sound. "I tell you, friend, we take no slaves."

  "Name me not friend," Bracht grunted. "Do you say there was no invasion—attempted, at the least?"

  "That, aye," said Ochen, sadly now. "There was a madness in the land then—a part of what I must tell you; a part of the evil you look to halt. Of that, I would speak later—for now, I say to you that the Great Khan was possessed; that he forced his will on all the tengs of the Plain, and that he is long dead. We Jesserytes have no wish to invade Cuan na'For. Horul knows, we've sufficient to occupy us here!"

  "And you take no sl
aves?"

  Bracht's tone was dismissive: Ochen sighed again, and said, "Only the tensai stoop so low, and they are godless outcasts. Neither do we copulate with horses,- nor geld men; nor force women to go with whom they'd not." He shook his head, his tone soft as if he remonstrated with a child, a thin smile on his lips as he continued: "Listen—there are some in this land who believe you folk of Cuan na'For eat human flesh; that the merchants out of Lysse who come to Nywan hide tails beneath their breeks; that the folk of Vanu are all twice a man's height and thrice as strong, with but a single eye— we've cut ourselves off too long, and such stories grow like weeds fertilized by ignorance."

  "Even so," Calandryll interjected, "it was folk from your land who attacked Cennaire's caravan, and slew all save her."

  Ochen looked toward the Kand woman, his face inscrutable, the twinkling eyes lost a moment as the furrowed brows hooded. In a swift flow of sound he repeated Calandryll's words to his fellow Jesserytes, and across the table Chazali grunted, Temchen shook his head. "Perhaps ..." the mage said slowly, his voice carefully neutral, "perhaps there was an outlaw band. Your coming was not scried, Lady. Only these three."

  Cennaire held her face impassive, answering his stare with her own, willing herself to stillness even as her senses urged that she flee. Beside her, Calandryll said, "Still, now she is one with us. Save," he turned to Cennaire, "you prefer to return, as this mage has promised you may."

  It was a test: of Ochen's intent and Cennaire's purpose. He was not sure what answer he hoped for, but felt a confused relief when the raven-haired woman shook her head and said, "No. Do you allow it, I shall remain with you."

  Ochen said, "My word is good. Lady, do you wish to go back, I'll send men with you, across the Daggan Vhe. You shall have a horse and food enough to see you safe."

  Again, Cennaire shook her head and murmured, "No." ·

  "So be it." Mottled hands steepled beneath Ochen's chin, his voice musing. "Perhaps that, too, is writ."

 

‹ Prev