Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  "That would be unwise." Ochen shook his head. "Do I venture into the aethyr, then my protections here are weakened. And still there remains the danger that Rhythamun might locate your pneuma again/'

  Calandryll gestured helplessly at the stygian darkness beyond the fires' glow. "His creatures would seem to have found us," he declared. "Shall they not alert their master?"

  "In which case/' returned Ochen patiently, "I had best remain close, no? And perhaps they've not such communion with him—I think it likely he worked his filthy magicks on these tensai and left them to their task."

  "Then you can do nothing?" Calandryll stared around. It seemed the shrieking pierced his ears, drove hammer blows against his skull. He shook his head, suddenly aware that Cennaire had risen and clutched his arm. "We must endure this?"

  "I fear so," said Ochen with a composure near to irritating.

  Silence fell, hard and sudden, deafening as the awful sounds. Ears remembered the shrieking, its cessation ominous, like the lull preceding a storm, the quiet before attack. It seemed then that the creaking of the timber, the rustle of wind-stirred leaves, presaged some greater assault. The fires crackled; horses snickered; armor rattled as men peered, waiting, anticipating, into the darkness.

  "I'll check the animals," Bracht said. "This unnerves them."

  "I'll accompany you."

  Katya sheathed her saber. Calandryll caught her eye and saw it troubled. He felt sweat run cold down his back, Cennaire's hand tight on his arm.

  "I'll speak with my men," said Chazali.

  "Tell them my cantrips shall give full warning of attack," said Ochen. "And that I think none shall come."

  The kiriwashen frowned. Calandryll said, "Then why this?"

  Ochen barked a single, humorless laugh, and answered, "Were they ready to attack, think you they'd give us such warning? No, they look to wear us down. The attack will come later—and unannounced."

  Chazali grunted and stalked away. Calandryll set a hand over Cennaire's and forced a smile, his voice to calm. "Ochen is likely right," he said. "So, do we prepare our dinner?"

  She answered with a wan twitching of her lips, releasing her grip, though she had rather held him close. She knew herself frightened in a manner she had not experienced since first she had been cast into the dungeons of Nhur-jabal; and comforted in a manner she had never known by his presence. She ducked her head and settled on the grass.

  Calandryll sat beside her, studying Ochen as he set a pot to boiling, fresh meat to cooking. "When?" he asked softly.

  "Their attack?" The wazir shrugged. "I claim no ability to scry the future, only to guesses, but, by day's light, I think. Rhythamun knows you've a sorcerer for company and so he'll surely know I ward our camp with gramaryes each night. No less that I cannot work such magic as we ride." He raised a hand as Calandryll frowned a question, opened his mouth to voice it. "To maintain a cantrip about so large a group, moving, is more than any save the wazir-narimasu might do; and then difficult, needing more than a single mage. I suspect Rhythamun uses men and magic, both, and so will have instructed his minions to attack us as we ride."

  It was scant comfort, and all Calandryll could find by way of answer was a grunt, a weak smile.

  He reached for the meat, spitting fat where it hung over the flames, that distraction denied him by Cennaire, who murmured, "Leave that to me. You've surely weightier concerns."

  "Than this?" he asked, wincing as the howling started up once more.

  "Do you not learn of the occult?" She looked to Ochen as she spoke, rearranging the strips of meat.

  "There will be no instruction this night," the wazir said, loud over the screaming. "In that, Rhythamun wins the day."

  "A small enough victory," Calandryll retorted, more for Cennaire's sake than any real conviction.

  "Aye." Ochen smiled. "And tomorrow . . . ? Perhaps he'll taste defeat."

  "Dera willing."

  Calandryll spoke sincerely, though he wondered, as the dreadful cacophony climbed to fresh heights, if the Younger Gods took no further hand in this strange war, but left its waging to men. They sat among dense timber—but where was Ahrd? Could the tree god of Cuan na'For not send his byahs to quell the howling, destroy the howlers? Water bubbled from the spring—but where was Burash? Where was Dera? The goddess had spoken of restrictions imposed on her and her godly kin—did the Kess Imbrun mark the limit of their aegis? Were they, perhaps, without power in the Jesseryn Plain? And Horul—what of the Jesserytes' equine god? He must surely side with the questers, but he remained aloof, it seemed; or overwhelmed by the dreaming emanations of Tharn.

  Calandryll felt doubt grow with the shrieking. He would have expressed it to Ochen, but conversation was entirely impossible now, drowned under the shrilling that rose up to fill the forest, the night, his mind, and all he could do was wonder, longing to press hands against assaulted ears, but unwilling to seek that escape for fear he should miss the warnings of attack, not entirely convinced by the wazir's reasoning.

  It was a dismal night, wearying and fraying nerves, so that when the sky at last paled into dawn's promise and the howling ceased, they broke their fast in silence, saddled horses skittish with fear, and rode grimly north, pushing the animals to the limits of their strength, hoping to outdistance their unseen escorts.

  At noon, they halted to rest and eat, grouped about a stream, watering the horses. Bowmen stood in a wary circle around the animals, others bringing food to their companions, that eaten standing, eyes never still, but constantly scanning the minatory woods. The sun stood high and hot, shafts of gold lancing down through the trees, the air heavy, filled with the buzz of insects and the trilling of birds. Then sudden silence.

  Bracht shouted, "Ware attack!"

  And bird song was replaced with the susurration of arrows. ·

  A horse screamed, a shaft protruding from its flank. A man cursed, lengths of feathered wood jutting from his armor. He snapped them, hurling them aside, peering round with upraised sword, finding no ready target for his anger as the sentries loosed an answering volley at the shapes that darted among the bosky shadows. Another horse shrilled, three shafts embedded in its neck, blood starting from nostrils and mouth as it plunged, lifting the man who held it off his feet, sending him stumbling, then went down on its knees. Five more arrows struck it, and it rolled, kicking on its side, its screaming horrible.

  Then silence again, broken only by the faltering gasps of the stricken horse. Bracht cursed, dragging his stallion after him, the big black horse snorting, eyes rolling as it was hauled closer to the wounded animal. The Kern slapped reins into the hand of the kotu-zen whose mount it was and drove his falchion into the animal's neck, severing the artery there, ending the beast's agony. Unspeaking, blue eyes filled with rage, he snatched back his reins.

  Bird song returned: the forest regained a measure of normality, and Bracht said, "They're gone."

  Katya, her voice grim, her eyes stormy, said, "Until the next time."

  Cennaire, standing shielded by Calandryll, said softly, "I did not think it would be like this."

  He stood with blade defensive, smoked meat and hunk of bread forgotten at his feet. "Thought you it would be easy?" Then, embarrassed that he turned his anger in her direction: "Forgive me— Rhythamun's wiles shorten my temper."

  She shook her head and smiled a troubled smile. "I chose the way," she said. "You've no need to apologize to me."

  She hoped—a fresh concern—that no arrow should strike her. She was confident the shafts afforded her no threat, but that very absence must expose her. She hid her thoughts behind a shudder that Calandryll took for fear.

  "We survive," he said gently. "Another victory."

  She nodded, sunlight striking blue-black sparks from her hair. Calandryll sheathed his blade, again wondering at her courage, turning away as Chazali roared orders, angered by the attack, and the column mounted, the horseless warrior finding a seat behind a comrade.

  The road narrowed, r
unning by the foot of a low ridge, the slope grassy, treeless save for a scattering of pines, the eastern trailside clustered thick with timber. The width allowed for no more than three horses to move abreast and attention was focused mainly on the forested side: it seemed more likely an attack should come from that direction. Instead, it came from the ridge.

  Had it been mortal, then likely the mounted archers would have felled the ambushers and the riders been able to gallop clear. It was not, however, mortal flesh that raced with unhuman speed down the slope, but something other, perhaps once quickened by humanity, but now imbued with Rhythamun's fell sortilege: changed.

  It was impossible to define exactly what rendered them other than human. Easier to see the arrows that sprouted, ignored, from their chests. Easier to see them leap, yowling, at the horse carrying the two kotu-zen. Calandryll gained an impression of elongated limbs, of distorted bone that thrust out the jaws, those filled with fangs,- of red, mad eyes, and nails grown into talons. He saw them spring outward and up, like grey shadows in the sunlight, smashing the double-mounted men from the saddle, the horse bucking, shrieking as a hand—a paw?—thrust out, almost casually, an afterthought, to rip away the windpipe. The horse fell down, twitching, already dead. The kotu-zen were carried away, each held tight by one of the creatures, into the trees.

  He heard them scream, the sound contesting Chazali's bellowed commands, and looked to Ochen even as the surviving warriors dismounted and took battle stations.

  The wazir sprang from his horse with an agility that belied his age, running for the trees after the captives. Calandryll dismounted with the gelding still plunging terrified under him, sword in hand, racing after the sorcerer. He was aware of Bracht and Katya to either side, Ochen a little way ahead, raising a hand and shouting a warning as they came up. There was the smell of almonds, and a burst of brilliant light, silver and gold mingled, overwhelming the shafts of sunlight that pierced the woodland. Ochen spoke, low and rapidly, the words strange, arcane, and the light expanded to envelop the questers, cocooning them in its glow.

  "Stay close," the wazir warned, and reverted to the language of the occult.

  Beams of gold-veined silver pulsed out, fluid, like airborne water, winding swift among the trees, their piney perfume replaced with the almond scent, the ethereal streamers shimmering, questing deeper and deeper into the forest. Screams then, such as they all had heard that last night, but brief now, abruptly dying.

  "Remain within the aegis of my spell." Ochen beckoned them on, currents still pulsing from the globe that contained them, his voice dropping as he added, "But I fear we shall find little enough."

  He spoke aright: they followed the nimbi to a small clearing redolent of dmonds and burning in equal measure, and found the kotu-zen. Both men were dead, their throats opened, their armor gashed. Of the creatures there was no sign, save tatters of skin, fragments of bone, little pieces of armor and clothing, the brush painted with blood.

  Ochen sighed, shaping a sign of blessing over each corpse. "I'd hoped to take one, at least, alive," he murmured. "We could learn much of Rhythamun's magic from them, but he outthought me."

  "At least we know they may be slain," said Bracht. "Whatever they are."

  "Slain, aye." The wazir snorted, shaking his head, gesturing at the remnants of the creatures. "But only at dreadful risk to whomever they hold."

  "How so?" asked Katya. "Your magic destroyed them. After they had killed these warriors, I think."

  "Exactly," said Ochen. "After. Had these men lived when my magic struck, they'd have suffered the same fate."

  Katya frowned a question. Calandryll perceived the thrust of the sorcerer's thinking. "Your magic exploded the creatures," he said, "and had these kotu-zen lived then, they, too, would have been consumed."

  "Aye." Ochen nodded. "You see the way of it— whatever gramaryes Rhythamun employed to make these things reacts thus to offensive magic. The fatherless creature counts on that to limit me, may Horul consign him to eternal suffering!"

  "I hear more wizardly riddling," Bracht said. "Do you explain in words a simple man might understand?"

  "Do these sad monsters take a man," Ochen explained patiently, "then they'll kill him."

  "That much," said Bracht, head ducking toward the luckless kotu-zen, "I had understood."

  "And you saw the arrows hit?" Ochen asked. "With little enough effect?"

  Bracht nodded.

  Ochen said, "So magic becomes the best defense—the expected defense. But Rhythamun has countered that, for do I act to protect those his creatures seize by destroying his minions, I slay those held. Thus, he limits me."

  "But these men were not destroyed," said Bracht. "Not by your magic."

  "They were already dead," returned the wazir, "and so impervious to my sortilege. Magic is a thing that works against the living, a thing of this world, not much designed to work against the dead.”

  "Ahrd!" Understanding dawned; Bracht's eyes opened wide. "You say that if one of us is taken, your magic shall slay us."

  "You've the grasp of it," said Ochen, his voice somber. "Should I attempt the destruction of your captor, I destroy you."

  "Why then take these warriors?" Katya asked. "Why not me? Or Bracht, Calandryll?"

  "Such creatures as Rhythamun has made of the tensai are not very intelligent." The wazir shrugged, stroked the wispy silver of his long mustache. "Strong, aye. Mightily difficult to slay by any means other than magic. Filled with hate and blood lust. In fact, little better than rabid wolves, and not much more discerning. They attack—they care little whom they take—only that they slay."

  "You know something of them?" Calandryll asked. "What they are?"

  "A little," said Ochen. "Not much, save what any wazir learns: none in these lands practices such foul magic. Am I right, then they are what we name uwagi. They are men changed by magic into semblance of animals, were-things that answer only to their appetites and their creator. They are very determined and very hard to slay."

  "And these are what we face?" asked Bracht.

  "I believe it so, aye," said the wazir gravely. "Uwagi and tensai still men yet."

  "So—we face brigands." The Kern raised the thumb of his left hand; the index finger: "Were- creatures." The middle finger rose: "Rebellious armies." The next digit: "Rhythamun." The little finger: "And—do we survive all of them—perhaps the Mad God himself."

  Ochen nodded soberly. "That would seem the way of it."

  "Then let's not delay," said Bracht, his face rigidly solemn. "Such a panoply of enemies awaits us we shall need time to deal with them all."

  For a moment Ochen stared blank-faced at the Kern, then his lined features composed into a grin. "Aye," he said. "We'd best hurry, lest they all grow impatient."

  Bracht laughed then, and they took up the fallen kotu-zen and carried the bodies back to the road, where Chazali waited.

  Another funeral pyre was built, ignited by Ochen's magic, and the corpses given to the cleansing flames.

  Calandryll watched the sorcerer-priest perform the rites, aware that each such delay afforded Rhythamun further advantage, thinking that the enemy need not slay him, or Bracht, or Katya, but only take Chazali's men, one by one, slowing them that the warlock find his way, unhindered, to the gate in Anwar-teng, or on to the Borrhun-maj, and work those gramaryes that should raise Tharn and give the world to the Mad God. He curbed his impatience, telling himself that men who had died for the quest deserved those services their beliefs demanded, and waited to ride on.

  THAT night the howling came again, the worse for its repetition, the horses fretful, frightened, and sleepless, the humans little better. Immediate fear was set aside, for Ochen ringed the camp with such gramaryes as hung like silken fire among the surrounding trees, glimmering, burning the few arrows that shafted out of the darkness and holding off the uwagi and the tensai, both. But sleep was again impossible, ruptured by the screaming, so that tempers shortened, the kotu-zen growing anxious to confron
t enemies in honest combat, frustrated, loosing arrows at random into the darkness beyond Ochen's warding occult light. And the questers no less so, aware that their adversary likely suffered no such delay, but pressed on toward his fell goal.

  9

  The trees, heads swinging ceaselessly in anticipation of ambush, eyes smarting from weariness, tension their constant companion. But no attack came that morning. The sun rose into a blue sky flagged with pennants of high clouds white as driven snow. A breeze blew cool from the north, fresh and scented with pine. Birds sang among the timber. Twice deer leapt across the road, once a huge, tusked boar charged snorting from their path. Toward noonday they came on a village.

  Calandryll stared at the silent pastoral scene, calling up those exercises Ochen had taught him to open his senses to awareness of the occult. Immediately he felt the horrid aftermath of fell magic, akin to the sense of dread that had filled the keep on the Kess Imbrun. It seemed then the pine scent the breeze carried was undercut with a charnel reek, a hint of almonds. He drew his sword; saw Ochen frown, squinting at the palisaded huts. The fields stood empty, devoid of animals or toiling gettu. Neither was any sign of movement visible between the open gates; no smoke rose, no dogs barked. There was only stillness, a sense of waiting that prickled at the skin between his shoulders.

  "None lives here," the wazir murmured softly, sadly.

  They splashed across the stream, the kotu-zen a wall of black armor around the questers as Chazali halted, peering between the gates. He barked a command and five men sprang to the ground, swords drawn, running into the village.

  They returned soon enough, to report all dead within. All slaughtered, butchered like the scouts.

  Chazali mouthed a curse that was muffled by his veil. The kotu-zen muttered angrily. Ochen said, "They look to unnerve us." Calandryll thought he held his voice controlled.

  "Do you perform the rites?" Chazali seemed both enraged and subdued, wrath balanced by the enormity of the massacre, for the first time unsure of himself. "Have we time?"