The Bard of Sorcery

by Gerard Houarner

  For a moment, Tralane understood Oram's madness. Several men managed to pull Oram down, wrestling with him good-naturedly before dragging him off to his former place between Fatome and Crecia, who gathered him in their soft, strong arms and legs, whispering soothing words to him. He was oblivious at first to their comforting, preferring to grunt Agathom's name over to himself savagely, as if by saying it the turmoil within him would be expelled. Fatome finally managed to distract him with her deft fingers. After a few brief moments of play, he laid his head quietly in her lap and stared off into the distance.

  A hush had fallen over the gathering which no one dared to break; uncertain glances were exchanged among the warriors. Tralane saw some stirring to leave and felt the opportunity of breaking into their confidence rapidly vanishing. Just then the Wanderer broke over the horizon, illuminating the plain with a new source of soft white light. Around the fire, a third shadow sprang into life at everyone's feet.

  "Good people," shouted Tralane, acting on a sudden impulse. "Stay, and hear. I have a story to tell." He leaped atop the barrel, glanced at Crecia, and continued. "Earlier today Oram gave me drink and the tale of his adventures, and so we became friends. Let me repay him and entertain you all with a legend I once won from a waif spirit when I was a sorcerer's apprentice."

  His heart fluttered nervously as the people waited for him to fill the void. His first thought was to plunge into the tale of CuChani, who stole the light from the moon Star Speaker, then called Star Treader, and how that theft eventually brought the moon Wanderer to the world's skies. But he sensed a need for a tale closer to the lives and appetites of his audience, one that would reflect the pride, hopes, and fears of a people who had crossed the boundary between worlds. He chose a tale that had only recently become popular among the southern kingdoms. Then he laughed off his body's failings and fell easily into the style of speech he reserved for his storytelling.

  "I have the tale of Suthra, and how the goddess Gen-jimaGen-jima was taken by a mortal, and it lies restless on my tongue. Will you give it a home in your hearts?"

  His audience gave him their silent, nodding approval.

  "I talk of a time of waning gods, of bold mortals, and ambitious wizards. I talk of a recent time, when the Wizard Kings made their pacts with Pichen-ma-thele and the rest of the gods, raised their ice palaces, and cast their shadow across the Karthasian Empire. It is a tale of this land and its gods, it is a tale of the people you will meet.

  "The Wizard Kings came from a people bound by snow. They lived in the far north, where even the Karthasian Empire did not bother to force its will. They were hunters and raiders and they were a dwindling people. They prayed at the altar of Pichen-ma-thele, as have all the people in all the empires and kingdoms in this world.

  "Perhaps it was the desperation in their voices, perhaps it was because of the lack of faith that accompanied the prayers of the people from other lands, but it was the pleas of the northern people that Pichen-ma-thele heard above all others. It was to them that he and the other gods granted an audience, and in them that the gods saw the instruments of their passion.

  "For you see, in the days when there was only one moon in our skies, a thief among the gods stole the precious light from that moon, and brought darkness to the world. And though the light was restored, many gods died in the quest to find it. The people of the world lost their faith in the power and benevolence of the gods in the darkness, and it was a long time before the kingdoms and empires of the world could bring back order and inspire at least some reverence towards the immortal powers. So Pichen-ma-thele, father and ruler of all the gods, and all the children left to him planned and prepared for a time when once again they might be strong in the hearts of men and have a play in the games of mortals.

  "So it came to the people of the north to restore the gods to their high place, just as the gods had restored the light to Star Treader and caused it to be renamed Star Speaker when the Wanderer came, attracted by the new brightness in the heavens. So the Wizard Kings were born, and so also was born the downfall of the gods.

  "The Wizard Kings were great in power, but few in number. Their people were fearsome warriors, but all of the tribes put together did not equal a legion of Karthasian warriors. So they were sly, they were crafty. They nurtured the seeds of greed and corruption in the Karthasian Empire, seduced lords and princes with works of sorcery and promises of greatness. Pichen-ma-thele counseled the Wizard Kings and guided them in their subterfuge, for it was his wish that the strength of men be sapped by hatred and warfare, by betrayal, and by broken love. It was in the weakness of mortals that the gods see their path to a return to power, then as it is now.

  "But the gods taught the Wizard Kings the craft of deceit too well. For it was a Wizard King who uncovered a secret and was stricken by a passion as powerful as the gods'.

  "Suthra was the Wizard King's name. Tall and dark, he walked through the halls of the ice palaces and struck fear among his fellow Wizards. He was one who never ceased to cast his eyes for new realms to conquer, and one whose appetites were never satisfied. Mountains broke before his rages, and rivers dried when he lowered his withering gaze on them. He called no one friend, and no one loved him.

  "It was Suthra who turned his attention away from the ploys being worked in the Karthasian Empire and spied instead on the gods who had granted him his power. He followed in spirit the trail of Pichen-ma-thele and found the place gods call home, where all prayers and curses come to rest, the place mortals call Daanthel. He passed among the gods without their taking notice and brazenly entered the dwelling of Pichen-ma-thele.

  "There even Suthra knew fear, for though the power of Pichen-ma-thele had diminished, he was and is still a power a lone mortal would not wish to face. But Suthra did not waver in his purpose; Suthra did not cower in a corner like some mouse caught in the open field. He went gently through the house of Pichen-ma-thele and saw what even the other gods did not see.

  "For it was Pichen-ma-thele's purpose not only to regain his influence over the affairs of men, but to make his hold over the gods and mortals unbreakable, to recast the creation of all life in a mold of his making. And to this end Pichen-ma-thele gave birth to a goddess, Gen-jima, whom Suthra saw crawl out from the god's stomach and take her place by his side. And when Suthra saw Gen-jima, he uncovered a burning need for her love.

  "Suthra left then, for he was not so foolish as to challenge Pichen-ma-thele for the goddess. Suthra waited, practicing his intrigues in the courts of the Karthasian Empire along with his fellow Wizard Kings and listened to Pichen-ma-thele and planned. He made the journey to Daanthel once, twice, three times, and watched Gen-jima blossom into a goddess above all other gods and goddesses. And he listened to Pichen-ma-thele whisper to her how she would be the mother of a new race of gods, how the old gods would be banished, and the people of the world bound to Pichen-ma-thele, Gen-jima, and their children, through the work of the Wizard Kings.

  "And Suthra saw how jealously he guarded Gen-jima from mortals and immortals, and this served only to stroke the fires of his desire even higher.

  "The time came for Suthra to act. The Wizard Kings pleaded for an audience with Pichen-ma-thele, as their machinations were uncovered and they were faced with the wrath of the world. The god came and brought with him his children dressed for war, hoping a battle between mortals and immortals would weaken both and pave the way for his plan to become reality. And while the gods and the Wizard Kings planned the final battle, Suthra left the ice palaces and traveled the road to Daanthel, where he found at last Gen-jima alone.

  "He appeared before her in all his flesh and terror, and Gen-jima, who had seen no one but Pichen-ma-thele in his gentlest mood, was frightened. He approached her, and Gen-jima, who did not know the power of godhood, though it coursed through her form, screamed for succor. Pichen-ma-thele had protected all too well. And Suthra was angry.

  "The beauty of Gen-jima blinded him, the grace of her form melted his heart,
the strength of his desire warped his reason. More than ever, he wanted only a word of love from the goddess. But she fled from him as if he were a demon, and so he became one. He became the demons Lust, Jealousy, and Pain. He wanted in the matter of flesh what had been denied to him in the matter of spirit, and he wanted to break Pichen-ma-thele's influence over her. Most of all, Suthra wanted Gen Jima, Pichen-ma-thele, all the gods, and all the mortals of the world to feel the agony of the love denied him. So Suthra took Gen-jima, and the goddess screamed.

  "Her cry rang throughout Daanthel, and there was no one to hear her. But the echoes of her pain and outrage came down to the world of mortal men, and Pichen-ma-thele heard it. And in that cry he did not hear the pain of one he loved, but the doom of all he had striven for. He abandoned the battle between the Wizard Kings and the Karthasian Empire to return to Daanthel. There he found his goddess weeping on his bed and Suthra the Wizard King wandering in his house, wrath spent and spirit broken by the magnitude of his folly in destroying his only hope of finding love. Then Pichen-ma-thele released his own rage and, as armies battled and sorcerers dueled among the ice palaces below, the god cast both mortal and goddess to the earth. He buried them, still living, beneath a mountain and sentenced them both to the slow, frigid, creeping darkness of death.

  "The Wizard Kings and the children of Pichen-ma-thele fell back before the might and number of mortal arms and magic s. The power of the gods was broken, and they fled back to Daanthel to be worshipped and praised and bound to the will of mortals. And Pichen-ma-thele withdrew to his house, where he sits even now contemplating his next foray into the world of restless mortality.

  "So goes the story of Suthra and Gen-jima …..

  When Tralane had finished, the crowd cheered its approval. They seemed surprised at his tale telling style, which contrasted so sharply with his more traditional intonations, figures of speech and mannerisms, and Tralane once again found his talents appreciated. Coins were thrown to him, but he returned them all as a sign of friendship. His gesture brought on another round of happy exclamations and claps on the back, and he exchanged names with many people between gulps of Oram's heady brew. His laughter relaxed into easy camaraderie as he was accepted into their company and confidence, and he felt his spirits rise and his guarded manner evaporate. He had won something of greater value than the mere wealth of their coins; their trust had a hearty openness, despite their fear of the Sorcerer King, which he had rarely found in the lands he had traveled. His initial impression of Agathom's people was softened by their treatment of him, and he wondered if, in the past, he had always looked in the right places for such comradeship.

  As the crowd began to break up, Tralane noticed Crecia's dark eyes lingering on him. He smiled and walked to her.

  "You tell an interesting tale, Tralane," she purred as she put a hand on his forearm and led him away from Oram and Fatome.

  "Ah, and what rumors has Oram been spreading about me?" he asked teasingly. He gave her a sidelong glance.

  Crecia tossed her head from side to side, snapping her long hair back and forth, and laughed. "He's told me you're an arrogant, obnoxious, cold, and dangerous young man, and that you won't see too many more summers if you keep up the same attitude. But then, Oram's tongue was always loose."

  Tralane noticed they were headed away from the main fires around which people had gathered. Where they walked only darkened tents rested. He did not resist. "And what about you?" he asked nonchalantly. "What is your story?"

  "Oh no, I'm not about to tell you about my life. I'd be afraid of seeing you atop a barrel some day and hearing it repeated between rough jests and smirks."

  Tralane turned his head away to hide his embarrassment over her acuity. "What do you do in this camp?" he asked awkwardly.

  Crecia stopped in front of a tent. "Here's where I sleep. You'll have no need to ask stupid questions there."

  Tralane hesitated for a moment, grasping for a quick retort that would allow him to regain mastery over the situation. But like his encounter with the Sorcerer King, he had acquiesced and followed instead of demanding and leading. Still, his game with Crecia promised delight, not danger and pain, and his surrender to her was only temporary. Fear was at rest, and pleasure was awakening. He smiled ironically as memories of other seductions he had instigated came to him, and he started to enter the tent.

  Suddenly, a bright green light burst into existence behind him, jabbing lurid shadows across the face of Crecia. Both turned towards the source of the glow. Crecia gasped; Tralane twisted his face into a scowl and bit his lower lip. The Sorcerer King was standing by the fire they had just left. His left hand held a staff, his right a green-flaming torch. The golden runes on his scarlet robe and forehead blazed with fierce intensity. Everyone fled from him except for Oram. The giant lay sprawled at the Sorcerer King's feet, paralyzed with fear and drunkenness.

  "You!" the Sorcerer King's voice boomed. "You have dared to speak my name, babble it like some insignificant thing. You have ignored my warnings and endangered me with the gods. You have challenged me by your refusal to obey. You will be punished."

  Oram sat up, and Tralane could see, even at that distance, how the man trembled. Had he been able to stand, he would have dwarfed the King, but the hellish light made Agathom seem twice his natural height. Tralane shuddered at the illusion, hoping that was all it was.

  Oram's mouth opened and closed; though Tralane could not hear any words, it was apparent the giant was pleading for his life.

  "You are worthless." The Sorcerer King dismissed him. "Your knowledge is no longer useful. I have a new guide, the first of many I will have on my way north. Your time has passed."

  Agathom raised his staff, one end pointing to the stars and the other aimed at Oram's chest. Green fire leaped from the staff, enveloped Oram, and burned away flesh, muscle, and bone in fiery strips until nothing was left. His screams could be heard even after his body had vanished; when even the sound of his voice had trailed away, the green fire that had outlined his form faded from sight. The light from Agathom's torch dimmed, its hellish rage appeased. The Sorcerer King left the scene and went back to his pavilion. One of his knights came to stand guard over the spot Oram had died, lance point threatening the sky. No one returned to the camp fire, and it started to sputter and die for lack of tending. There was not a man or woman to be seen in the vicinity.

  Tralane was intimidated by the demonstration. He had often told tales of men performing such feats of sorcery and had read and heard of the ancient sorcerers of the Bright Empire and their power. He had seen wizards make fire leap and stream currents stop and he had even learned some spells and summonings during his tenure with Mathi. But he had never seen or heard of a mortal creature, not even the old Wizard Kings, using his power so gratuitously and without even showing signs of strain. He knew better than most the limitations of magic and that it was not a thing to be wasted on the execution of what amounted to a servant. A heavy price was demanded for the working of sorcery by mortals. The number of knights who stood guard, the startling demonstration of strength that had just occurred, and the awe with which his people regarded him all raised questions as to the extent of his power. The only answers Tralane could find did not please him.

  "Get in," Crecia said softly, after a while. He looked at her and realized her eyes had been on him while Oram burned. He nodded and eased into her private world, letting other matters banish thoughts of gods and magic from his mind for the moment.

  Chapter 3

  "That was an impressive performance," Tralane whispered languidly, stretching his body and untwining his legs from hers.

  "Are you talking about me or the Sorcerer King?" Crecia asked, turning over on her side to look at him.

  "Why both, of course." Tralane was amused by his own wit. He reached over her to put out the candle that had burned during their love making, but he felt her fingers touch his side and stopped.

  "Leave the light on. It's for Fatome. She hasn't
come back yet and I don't want her to step on anything vital."

  "Of course." Tralane sat up against a pole that supported the tent roof and threw off the heavy fur that covered him. It reminded him of Oram. "Fatome must still be mourning for her lost lover," he said carelessly.

  "She always was a sensitive one—she really shouldn't be a camp follower. She always becomes attached to one man, and that makes the blow harder to take when that man finally dies or moves on. And on campaigns, it's usually the man who disappears first."

  "Yes, I suppose so." Tralane found himself frowning, though he was not sure what was troubling him. He tried to change the subject.

  "And you, how many lovers do you have?"

  Crecia sighed and pulled her part of the blanket over the enticing mounds of her breasts. Her attention was fixed on some remote inner vision. "Quite a few, though I like to stay under the protection of one man. Of course, I don't become attached to him. I just take care of him a little more than the others, and he watches over me. Oram was my second man on this campaign. The other was a member of some tribe further south, by the Inland Sea, where we made our way into this world. He was the Sorcerer King's first guide."

  "What happened to him?"

  "He died before we found Oram. Not as spectacularly as your tent-mate, perhaps, but it was just as certain."

  He found Crecia's detachment unsettling, perhaps because he did not have the option to be equally detached. It was his life that was at stake, and the magnitude of the risk he was running was becoming alarmingly vivid.