Angus Wells - The God Wars 03

by Wild Magic (v1. 1)

  A notion, nebulous as yet, began to form. He turned to Cennaire.

  "When Anomius ensorcelled the horse you rode across Cuan na'For . . . Did you not tell me he looked out from the mirror? Worked his gramarye even from Kandahar?"

  "Aye," she answered, confused. "He had me hold up the mirror, that he might see the horse. Why?"

  "Perhaps . . ." He shook his head. "No, it's nothing. A thought only."

  It was akin to the remembrance of a dream, or its telling to another, as difficult to pin down, to voice.

  He set it aside as Bracht spoke. "Do you give some thought to the fording of this river?"

  He stared at the burn. Burn? From across the sward it had seemed little more than a brook, likely shallow, easily crossed. Now he saw it wider, turbulent, the water raging angry over threatening stones, too deep to wade, too fierce to swim.

  "It changes!"

  Katya's voice was warning, alarmed. He stared about, seeing the gentle pasture across the barrier had become a wasteland, desolate, all bleak and rocky, scattered with sad, twisted trees. The sky changed hue, the placid azure replaced with ominous lividity, the softly billowing clouds shaping black anvils now, on which lightning was struck by the hammer of grumbling thunder, the wrack driven by a whistling wind.

  "Rhythamun!" he gasped. "He shapes this."

  "And bleak as his cursed soul," Bracht said. "What do we do? Shall the Ahrd-damned gharan- evur halt us now?"

  The Kern's voice was angry, his blue eyes cold as they stared at the torrent, beyond to the mausoleum, that yet grand, the marble shining under the louring sky. He fingered his falchion's hilt as if he would draw the sword and contest with the elements. There was only wrath and frustration in his stance. Calandryll thought that did no other course present itself, then likely Bracht would plunge into the torrent, rejecting the obstacle: he drew strength from that.

  "No!" He stared at the water, at the miserable vista beyond, and inside himself, instinctively, he found the power of creation, triggered by Bracht's anger, fueled by his own determination. "No, he shall not."

  A bridge imposed itself across the flood, solid stone that rose in a sweeping, elegant arch, wide enough they might all four go side by side. Katya gasped; Cennaire started in amazement. Bracht said, "Well spelled," approvingly, as if he took for granted occult powers he had once viewed with consummate suspicion. Calandryll stared, wondering at his own abilities. ,

  They started across, and it seemed the river raged louder in defeat, rising against its banks to hurl itself at the pilings of the arch, fuming, as if it would bring down the structure. It failed, at least until they trod the farther bank and had no further need of the bridge, which sighed and tumbled down, the blocks dissolving as the black torrent washed over them.

  Bracht said, grinning, "Now do you only restore the sun and conjure us horses?"

  He jested, but Calandryll chose to take him at his word, directing the force of his will at the tumultuous sky, commanding the storm clouds begone, the lightning cease.

  He failed: the storm ran closer, fulgurant brilliance striding the sorry landscape like the stilted legs of some vast insect, the wind strengthening, carrying the odor of corruption, the thunder growling as if in anticipation. He said, injecting more humor than he felt into his voice, "I fear we must bear this, and afoot."

  "Well enough." Bracht clapped his shoulder. "Likely you need to practice."

  Calandryll grinned and answered the Kern, "Aye," but as he surveyed the cheerless vista he knew they walked a domain of Rhythamun's making now. It was a forbidding place, as if the oppressive, doom-laden atmosphere that had invested the Jesseryn Plain assumed solid form. They trod scoria, the myriad cavities pocking the slag emitting a vile, sulfurous odor. The wind, that should have been cold, was humid and cloying. The thunder- heads built with impossible rapidity, rising, merging, re-forming, to fill all the sky with a darkness pierced by the blasts of lightning. The trees shook, bare branches clattering, the sound like the rattling of bones. Rain should have fallen, but none came, only the supernal storm, like an inchoate beast challenging them with its rage.

  In all that horrid panorama only the mausoleum stood bright, grandiose; and that, Calandryll thought, fit, for Rhythamun or Tharn—whichever's will created this landscape—would surely deem it proper that the resting place of the Mad God stand out ostentatious and resplendent.

  They moved on; and the storm moved to meet them.

  Calandryll bound his will tight, focusing desire, establishing around them a protective aegis that fended off the lightning, the shafts sparking as they struck the immaterial shield, coruscating as had the mundane missiles over Anwar-teng, failing to penetrate. The storm raged in its impotence, thunder buffeting their ears, setting their heads to ringing, speech impossible in that turmoil: they pressed forward.

  In time—though time was an imposed concept in this place, which stood beyond time—they came in clearer sight of the mausoleum and halted, surveying the great edifice.

  The storm ringed it, a fulgid diadem, ominous calm at the center. It reached toward the sky, vast as the tengs of the Jesserytes, appearing as a single, solid block of purest marble, struck through with veins of glittering gold. From those corners they could see slender towers, each topped with a gleaming cupola, rose. There were no windows, nor any doors. At their feet was a moat fashioned, like the necropolis, of marble, smooth, steep walls descending to turgid liquid, red and sluggish as blood.

  "Another bridge?7' Bracht suggested. "Perhaps a portal?"

  Calandryll summoned his will, assembling as best he could that power he still did not properly understand, and felt it somehow opposed, as if another mind contested the creation. He heard ma- . lign laughter, and then a horribly familiar voice, fulsome, sardonic:

  "My congratulations—I'd not thought you should advance so far. I'd thought to have my revenge of you within that other world, which soon the Lord Tharn shall rule. But no matter. You are here, and so my victory grows the sweeter for knowing you stand so close, yet entirely unable to prevent my Lord's resurrection." More laughter then, horridly contemplative. "Aye, poor fools, you shall be blessed ere you go into eternal suffering— you shall see Lord Tharn in all his risen glory, and I in mine! Think on that, fools, while you wait powerless. Contemplate your fate while I employ that book you delivered to me to raise my Lord. When that task's done, your fates shall be dispensed."

  The voice faded, applauded by roiling thunder, the riotous dance of lightning. Calandryll ground his teeth, willing a bridge to shape, a gate to form: without success. He heard Katya ask, "Can you not span this filthy pond?" and shook his head, chagrined.

  Bracht said, "Ahrd, must we stand waiting here, like beasts for the slaughterer?"

  Cennaire asked, "Can you do nothing?" and he shook his head, groaning in terrible frustration, and told them, "I've not the power. So close to Tharn, Rhythamun's will vanquishes mine. Dera, were Ochen only here to lend me his knowledge!"

  "Might not the mirror summon him?" Cennaire wondered. "Might your magic not shift its focus?"

  Like a beacon shining dim through darkest night that nebulous thought he had earlier gnawed on took firmer shape . . . One may, unwitting, aid you. Perhaps the one might be turned against the other . . . He seized Cennaire's hands, surprising her with his sudden enthusiasm, his cry of "Aye! My thanks for that," and beckoned them all back from the bloody moat.

  "This shall be mightily dangerous," he began, and heard Bracht snort disbelieving laughter and demand, "More perilous than awaiting Tharn's resurrection?"

  He smiled grimly and shrugged, and said, "I know not even if it shall be possible. But ..." He paused, assembling his thoughts, weighing doubt against the certainty of Rhythamun's success. The others waited, curbing impatience. "I doubt I might shift those gramaryes Anomius invested in the mirror. I know not even if those gramaryes shall have power here. But ..."

  He hesitated: this plan bore the delineaments of desperation. Bracht said fierc
ely, "Go on!"

  "Can it be used from this realm," he said, "and Anomius is able to transport himself here ..."

  "Anomius?" Skepticism rang stark in Bracht's voice. "You'd double our enemies?"

  Katya said, "Hold, Bracht. Hear him out."

  Cennaire, her eyes wide, fixed on his face, said, "The scrying! You interpret Kyama's words!"

  Calandryll said, "Aye! Anomius owns greater knowledge of the occult than I. Perhaps he might win us entry—use his power against Rhythamun."

  "On our behalf?" Bracht shook his head, the words sharp-edged with doubt. "Even can the mirror bring him here, think you he'd aid us? And should he defeat Rhythamun—what then? Should he not do what Rhythamun does, and the outcome be the same?"

  "Perhaps," Calandryll admitted. "But I can think of no other course."

  He felt Cennaire's hand clutch tight on his arm. She said urgently, "It's his belief only you three may take the Arcanum."

  "This seems to me a thing of skillets and fires," said Bracht. Then shrugged and grinned, "But what other weapon have we?"

  "It should be apt justice," said Calandryll, "to bend Anomius to our usage."

  "I say we attempt it," Katya said.

  She turned her gaze on Bracht, who nodded, and fetched the mirror from beneath her hauberk, passing it to Cennaire.

  The dark woman took the glass, her eyes troubled as they fixed on Calandryll. "What do I tell him?" she asked.

  He pondered only an instant. Then: "That we stand before Tharn's sepulcher, but cannot enter. That we three inspect the place, leaving you alone. That you deemed it timely to advise him. The rest"—he stretched his lips in dour smile—"is up to him."

  She nodded and unwrapped the mirror; began to voice the cantrip. Calandryll beckoned the others away. It seemed the acrid reek emanating from the grey scoria strengthened; that the gold veining the marble of the sepulcher writhed, enlivened by Rhythamun's wild magic,- that the very substance of the mausoleum pulsed, anticipatory.

  They stood too far away they might hear Anomius's responses, but from such words of Cennaire's as they caught, pitched deliberately loud enough they should hear, they gleaned a little information . . .

  "Aye, we passed through . . . The war is won? Sathoman ek'Hennem defeated ... In Nhur-jabal? The bracelets are gone? Then you are no longer bound . . . Aye, before it. See?"

  They watched as she raised the mirror, turning it along the facade of the sepulcher, moving it slowly from side to side. The air before the glass shimmered. Calandryll thought that were the stink of sulfur not so strong, he should have smelled almonds. He drew the straightsword, hearing Bracht's falchion hiss from the scabbard, Katya's saber from its sheath.

  The shimmering coalesced. A form took shape: Anomius stood there. A predatory smile distorted his fleshy mouth, and his bulbous nose quivered, scenting triumph. Hands brushed the soiled frontage of his black robe. He stared at Cennaire, a mottled tongue extending to lick at pallid lips. "This was well done," he declared, nodding his approval. He eyed the mausoleum, then turned to survey the landscape.

  And shrieked in fury as he saw the three questers, moving swift toward him, swords extended.

  He raised his hands, patulous mouth beginning a cantrip that was halted unspoken by the straight-sword Calandryll inserted between his teeth. Bracht's falchion pricked his wattled throat; Katya's saber touched his ribs, above his heart. Calandryll said, "One syllable said wrong and you die."

  The wizard's sallow features contorted in frustrated rage. His watery eyes squinted angry and malign at Cennaire. Around the straightsword's steel, the words distorted by the blade and his impotent wrath, Anomius muttered, "For this you shall suffer. I've still your heart, remember."

  "But we, your body," Calandryll declared, turning his blade so that Anomius must perforce fall silent, or lose his tongue. "And a use for it. Do you then hear me out? Or shall you die, now?"

  Unmasked fury burned in the sorcerer's pale eyes, but—as best he could with sharp steel between his teeth—he nodded. Calandryll held the sword in place, a gag on interruption, as he explained.

  "You stand before Tharn's tomb, and Rhythamun stands within. He's the Arcanum, and he employs those gramaryes that shall raise the Mad God. Doubtless you sense that working e'en now—save it be halted, Rhythamun shall emerge triumphant. We've not the way to bridge this moat or shape an entry to the sepulcher, but I believe you might. So—do you lend us that aid? Or perish now?"

  He eased his blade from the angry mouth, waiting for Anomius to speak. When the ugly little man did, it was in a voice laden with mockery: "Why should I aid you?" His eyes flickered, furious, to Cennaire. "Doubtless this turncoat has told you I'd have the book for my own, and so I ask again—why should I aid you?"

  "Because"—Calandryll forced more confidence than he felt into his voice—"you cannot take the book without us. And because if you refuse, then you shall die with us. Think you Rhythamun shall let you go free?"

  Blubbery lips parted in ungenuine smile. Anomius said, "Aye, there's that, but also another thing—I suspect you forget those occult strictures I placed upon you and this Kern, that you may neither do me harm."

  "I think," Calandryll returned, certain now, "that those cantrips are become devalued. Shall we put them to the test? Bracht, do you prick him?"

  Bracht's grin was pitiless as he turned the falchion's point against the wizard's throat. Anomius jerked back, a hand rising to the little wound, his eyes fixing angry on the blood he found coloring his fingertips.

  "So that safeguard is denied you," said Calandryll, aware even as he spoke that the aethyric stuff of the mausoleum pulsated stronger, that the sanguine moat began to bubble, to stir. "And do you employ some other gramarye, then you've no chance left of taking the book; neither of surviving this place. Do you refuse your aid, you die with us."

  Anomius stared at Calandryll. "You've grown in cunning since last we met," he blustered, "but still 1 think you've not the stomach to slay a man in cold blood."

  "Calandryll, perhaps," Bracht said, his voice cold, promising no clemency, "but not I. Do you refuse, I'll put my blade in your belly and have the pleasure of seeing you die before me."

  The watery eyes swung toward the Kern, finding no hope of mercy there, only the certainty of painful death: the bald head ducked in acknowledgment.

  "Say then I aid you—bridge this moat and grant you entrance to the tomb—what then? I'll not suppose you believe I shall watch you take the Arcanum without I seek to wrest it from you."

  "No." Calandryll smiled, the expression humorless. "I'd not suppose that. But we'll take that chance."

  "Then it would seem we reach impasse." Anomius turned, studying the mausoleum a moment. "Great magicks are at work in there. Ere long Tharn shall rise and, risen, doubtless slay you. You cannot enter without my aid. What do you offer in return?"

  "Your life," Bracht said.

  Anomius chuckled, a liquid, bubbling sound, akin to the moat's horrid stirring. "You seek my aid and threaten my death? Do I refuse, you'll slay me. Does Rhythamun succeed, I am slain." He shook his head. "I'd have a better bargain of you."

  Calandryll thought a moment, aware that each passing instant brought Rhythamun closer to his goal, the Mad God closer to resurrection. "Do we succeed," he said, "then you shall go free. We'll do you no harm."

  Again, Anomius laughed, scornful, and said, "You know I'll have the book for my own, am I able. Why, then, should I believe this bloodthirsty Kern shall not slay me once my usefulness is done?"

  "You've my word," said Calandryll.

  "And his?" Anomius stabbed a dirty thumb in Bracht's direction; turned a nail-bitten finger toward Katya and Cennaire. "And theirs?"

  Calandryll looked to his companions, his eyes urgent in their demand for promise. Bracht said, unwilling, "Do we succeed, I'll not slay you. My word on it."

  "And a Kern's word is his bond," Anomius sneered. "And yours, miladies?"

  "You've mine," Katya said; and Cennaire:
"HI not raise hand against you."

  "Then the bargain's struck." Anomius shook black sleeves from pale wrists. "A strange alliance, eh?"

  Dera, Calandryll asked silently, grant this fell arrangement succeed. "Do you look to deceive us," he heard Bracht say, "you shall taste my blade."

  "As your wiser friend remarks," Anomius returned, his voice contemptuous, "I've need of you, just as you've need of me. Now do you close your mouth and leave me to my work?"

  The Kern's eyes flashed anger. Calandryll motioned him back a pace, Anomius yet within sword's reach as he raised his hands and began to chant, the almond scent wafting strong as he mouthed the arcane syllables.

  Calandryll felt occult power mounting in Anomius,- felt, too, the opposition, but that abstracted, as if the larger part of it was concentrated on the rituals of resurrection, hastening toward that end, menacingly confident of victory. Strong, even so, that defensive magic, so that he lent Anomius what power was his to give to driving it back, the struggle invisible, a thing of wills and sorcery that he did not properly understand, but gave his aid instinctively.

  Thunder roared as if in protest; lightning flashed wrathful. Anomius's chanting rose to a crescendo— and a bridge of black light spanned the moat, at its farther end a narrow portal from which the odor of corruption gusted.

  "Swift now!"

  Veins stood engorged at Anomius's temples, and from his eyes dribbled tears of blood, the steps he took toward the bridge unsteady for all his urgency. Calandryll pushed past him, Cennaire at his side.

  Bracht and Katya herded the sorcerer onward, swords ready at his back.

  The bridge was unfirm beneath their feet, viscid as the red tendrils that rose from the moat, questing sensate as they sped across. Ahead the door stood black and formless as those gates that had carried them into this occult realm, stark contrast to the golden veining of the marble, that flowing now, trembling and vibrating, the marble itself pulsating, all stimulated by the magic worked within.

  They hurled themselves into the portal, fetor nauseous about that dread threshold, slowing, awed, as they entered the resting place of the Mad God.