“Terrel arranged it for me yesterday,” Marreth said with some satisfaction. “I’m taking Eltiron’s place on the cards.”
CHAPTER 12
The cloaked man bowed to Jermain. As he straightened, he swept the hood back from his dark hair and gave Jermain one of his rare smiles. “I came seeking for you,” Ranlyn said. “As you see, I am successful.”
“Yes, and how did you manage it?” Jermain demanded as he sheathed his sword. “You couldn’t have known where I was going; I didn’t know myself when I left you.”
“A Hoven-Thalar can always find the friends of the heart.”
Jermain nodded. Though the Hoven-Thalar were known as peerless trackers, few believed that a Hoven-Thalar could feel the object of his search as a magnet felt the pull of the north. During his six months with Ranlyn, however, Jermain had seen too many Hoven-Thalar move unerringly toward their prey to remain completely skeptical. Besides, he knew Ranlyn well enough to realize that he would get no further explanation. “Why didn’t you stop when you saw the army? Didn’t you realize what might happen if you were caught?”
“A well-trained army is of great value against another army, but a single man may easily avoid it. I have been following your soldiers since you entered the forest, waiting for a chance to speak with you. This night offered me my desire.”
“I should have guessed,” Jermain said, shaking his head. “No one else could get past the sentries without raising an alarm, even if he wanted to. And who else would take the risk?”
“One who in truth has a debt to pay.”
“You’ve saved my life more times than I’ve saved yours. That debt is long paid.”
Ranlyn shook his head. “Aid in battle is a debt any man owes his companions; it is one of the Twelve Lesser Obligations, and when battle is done the debt is finished. The Three Great Obligations are not paid so easily, and my debt to you unites all three—a debt of water, a debt of blood, and a debt of life.”
“You’ll be in no condition to pay debts to anyone if you stay here long,” Jermain said roughly, abandoning the old argument. “Friend or no, I should have you arrested as a spy, and if you don’t leave soon I’ll have no choice.”
Ranlyn smiled enigmatically. “Every man has choices; I have made some few of mine, and now the sands fall to your side of the wheel. The moment of choice is not always recognized, but it is always present.”
“Ranlyn, please! I don’t want to order you killed.”
“And when did the generals of the north begin executing their own spies?”
Jermain winced. “I never asked you to betray your people. I couldn’t refuse to use the information when you gave it to me, but I never asked for it.”
“I know.” Ranlyn’s face was impassive. “It is part of my life debt, to you and to them.”
For a moment, Jermain stood studying the other man. He would despise as a traitor anyone else who had done what Ranlyn had done, but he could not despise Ranlyn. Ranlyn lived by the Hoven-Thalar code, which put personal debts above the claims of people, clan, or clan head; by his own code, he had done no wrong in serving Jermain’s interests at the expense of his own people.
“I don’t understand you,” Jermain said at last, “but if you’re going to be stubborn, at least come in where it’s more comfortable.” Jermain had not finished with Blackflame, but he wanted to get Ranlyn out of sight before someone else arrived and he was forced to claim him as a spy. It would not harm the horse to wear a saddle for a few more minutes.
“Your tent is mine,” Ranlyn replied gravely.
Jermain suppressed a sigh of relief as he led the way into the tent. “Sit down and tell me what you have been doing since we parted.”
“Traveling. Most recently in your homeland.”
“Sevairn is no longer my home.”
“The heart speaks more truly than the tongue. You have no interest, then, in the presence of the King’s sister at Leshiya’s court?”
“Vandaris? So she’s finally gotten home again. What’s she doing?”
“Raising an army against my people and seeking you.”
Jermain hid his surprise. “Why is she looking for me? And how do you know?”
“I had speech with her before I left Leshiya, and she offered me gold to search for you. I regret that she did not share with me the reasons for her search.”
“Do you know how long she’d been in Leshiya before you talked to her?”
“Several days, I think, though she was not exact. She spoke of angering her brother at a dinner gathering the evening before.”
“Then she must have heard about . . . what happened seven months ago. And she was still looking for me?”
“As you say. She said that if I saw you I should tell you that she knows you are guiltless of treason.”
“And she’s really gotten Marreth to raise an army?” Jermain said after a moment. “I wouldn’t have believed it possible.”
“I saw the beginnings of the preparations myself. She means to keep the Hoven-Thalar from Sevairn.”
Jermain’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “Indeed? And how did the Lady Vandaris learn that the Hoven-Thalar were coming north?”
“I informed her of it,” Ranlyn said calmly.
“I suppose you owe her a debt as well,” Jermain said with angry sarcasm.
“Vandaris has no claim on me save that of any other warrior: courtesy, hospitality, aid to a companion, and a clean death to an enemy. No more.”
“Then how did she persuade you to betray your clan and the clans of the other Hoven-Thalar?”
“She did not persuade me. I offered her the information, as I offered it to you, and to Kildaver of Mournwal, Santh of Gramwood, and others.”
“Ranlyn . . .” Jermain did not want to believe what he had just heard. “Why?”
“That is what I have come to tell you,” Ranlyn said. His face was somber as he looked at Jermain. “You gave the blood of your life to keep me from death; above all else I owe you truth. And that is a debt I have not paid.”
“Then do so,” Jermain said grimly.
“Truth is a harsh lord, and slippery as a swamp eel. When I came to you last fall and told you that the Hoven-Thalar would ride north this summer, I spoke truth, but not the whole truth. I knew your position, and I made use of you for my own ends.”
“How?”
“I warned you of only half the danger you faced, and that the lesser half. For whether the Hoven-Thalar ride or no, the Red Plague moves north this year.”
“I have heard of the Red Plague, but by the name of Matholych.”
“You have heard it, but not from me, and I doubt that you have heard all that you need to know. The Red Plague has been the scourge of your people and my own for centuries, but we remember more of it. Six times has it swept north out of the desert, and—”
“Six? I know of only three.”
“The histories of the Hoven-Thalar speak of six, but the first two did not cross the wasteland. When it comes, it moves always northward, devouring what life and magic lie in its path. And as it eats, it grows weaker.”
“Weaker? That doesn’t make sense!”
“Nonetheless, it is true. The strong can outride the Red Plague; the weak lag behind and slow it further, until it has had its fill and returns to its place in the desert. And when it has fully absorbed all that it has taken, it comes forth again, stronger than before.”
“What does this have to do with your . . . conduct?”
“The Red Plague will be stronger this time than it has ever been before. The last time it came north, it reached the edge of the Morlonian Hills before it was satisfied. How far will it come this time, and how fast? If my people ride north, I think few of them would survive.”
“None of them will survive if you stay where you are!” Jermain exploded. “You can’t go west into the ocean, and if speed is your concern, riding north is considerably faster than trying to get through Fenegrik Swamp.”
“Under
normal conditions we could travel more swiftly if we moved north. But if an army waited for us, to slow us and perhaps stop us? The Red Plague moves swiftly; even a small delay could be our death.”
“You knew that, and you still told me that the clans would ride north this summer?”
“I told you for their lives. I knew you, or someone else, would believe and prepare, and when the preparations began I brought word of them to the clan council. When the clan heads heard my story, they voted to change the path of the riding. The Hoven-Thalar ride east, through Fenegrik Swamp. The Lady of the Tower has promised us dry passage, and by the time the Red Plague reaches the end of the wastelands, the Hoven-Thalar will be well away from danger. This is the use I have made of you and your armies, and now my purpose is accomplished.”
Jermain stared at his friend for a long moment. “You mean—”
A horn sounded just outside the tent, cutting off Jermain in midsentence. A moment later, a loud voice cried, “Carachel! In the name of the Guild of Mages, come out and face challenge!”
Jermain jumped to his feet and pulled back the tent flap. He felt Ranlyn rise and follow, but most of his attention was concentrated on the scene outside. Two men stood a little in front of his tent. Several soldiers lay groaning on the ground behind them; scorched places on their uniforms bore witness to the way the two men had bypassed the sentries. If anyone else had been present when the wizards arrived, they had wisely taken themselves to their tents, for the clearing was otherwise empty except for Jermain, Ranlyn, and the new arrivals.
The two men stood facing the center of the army, with their backs toward Jermain. After a moment’s hesitation, Jermain eased out of the tent and circled the clearing to get a better view of them. He was a little surprised by what he saw. The first was a large, brown-haired man in his prime; he looked more like a blacksmith than a wizard. The second man was a blond, gangling youth who sported two inches of scraggly fuzz on his chin as proof that he was old enough to grow a beard. Both men wore plain clothes and green cloaks. The large man wore a heavy silver ring set with a green stone on his left hand; the youth held a horn, and his hands were bare.
“Carachel!” the large man called again. “Come face challenge!”
“I am here.” Carachel stepped out of the trees in front of them. The golden vest he wore shone in the sun, making him for a moment a pillar of light. Carachel stopped and held up a hand, and the serpent ring flashed on his finger. At the edge of his vision, Jermain saw Ranlyn stiffen as Carachel went on. “Who are you?”
“I am Wengarth of the Guild of Mages,” the large man replied, “and my apprentice is named Laznyr.”
“And what do you want of me?” Carachel’s voice was almost a chant, and Jermain realized suddenly that he was watching a ritual as formal as a coronation.
“I come to challenge you to the combat sorcerous for the wrongs you have done to all wizards, to the Guild of Mages, and to me,” Wengarth replied.
“What are these wrongs that bring you here?”
“You have followed the ways of Black Sorcery, which must be the concern of all wizards. You have sought and killed two score of the mages of the Guild, taking their magic and their deaths to enhance yourself. And among those you murdered was my brother, Grinlown. Is this sufficient?”
“It is sufficient, and I accept your challenge.”
“Will you answer the charges before we begin?”
For the first time, Carachel hesitated. His eyes flickered toward Jermain. “The charges are false. When I have killed, I have done so in defense of my life and to preserve the Seven Kingdoms from destruction.”
Wengarth looked faintly surprised by Carachel’s response, but he answered almost immediately. “Then there can be no agreement between us. Let the circle be drawn.”
Carachel inclined his head and stepped forward to stand some twenty paces in front of the other wizard. Wengarth’s apprentice stepped between the two men. From under his cloak he drew an ornate dagger. He offered it first to Carachel, who inspected it carefully before returning it, and then to Wengarth, who simply nodded. As he turned away, Jermain saw Wengarth lean forward very slightly and whisper something to the younger man.
The apprentice made no response, and Wengarth settled back into his position. Jermain watched narrowly as the apprentice raised the knife and bowed toward the north, then repeated the gesture to the east, south, and west. He drew a complex pattern in the air, then bent and began scratching a line on the ground. In a few minutes he had enclosed Carachel and Wengarth in a rough circle. Jermain noticed that the apprentice was careful to make sure there were no breaks in the line.
When the circle was complete, the apprentice stood. He bowed once more to the north, west, south, and east, then turned to face the two wizards. He raised the knife once more, and said loudly, “The circle is drawn; let no man pass its bounds until the combat is decided.” He gestured with the knife, and white light flared briefly from the line he had drawn.
“The circle is completed; will you test it?” Wengarth asked Carachel.
“I have seen the spell cast, and I am satisfied that no one may pass the barrier without the aid of sorcery. I decline the test.”
This time Wengarth’s surprise was more obvious, but after a moment he nodded. “Then we begin.”
The apprentice crouched at the edge of the circle, still holding the knife. He looked very white, and he did not take his eyes from Wengarth. The two wizards raised their hands. Jermain saw the silver ring on Wengarth’s finger shining, as if it were gathering sunlight around itself. Involuntarily, Jermain’s head turned toward Carachel. Light was gathering around Carachel’s hands as well, but the serpent ring was dark on his finger.
For a long moment, the two men stood motionless. The light spread and intensified until each of the wizards was enclosed in a glowing sphere. Then Wengarth brought his left hand down. A portion of the light surrounding Carachel died abruptly, as if it had been split away. Carachel’s face was impassive; he brought his own hands together and made a throwing motion. A globe of light went spinning toward Wengarth. It hit the light surrounding him with a bright flare and a loud crackling.
When the crackling dazzle stopped, Wengarth stood unmoved. Carachel looked startled, and Wengarth grinned mirthlessly. “I prepared carefully before I came, dark mage,” he said as he brought his hand down again.
Another piece of Carachel’s sphere split away and died. “You see?” Wengarth said. “I will break your power back into the pieces you stole from others. This time it will do you no good.”
“You know less than you think,” Carachel said, and gestured.
The light around Carachel dimmed, then began to grow again, brighter and more intense than before. Carachel brought his hands up, and the serpent ring began to glow. The sphere of light around Carachel expanded rapidly, and Wengarth staggered as it struck his own globe. He recovered quickly and raised his hands. A bright net of sparks appeared where the two lights struck each other, a few feet in front of Wengarth.
Jermain watched closely, feeling the beginnings of worry. Wengarth’s words had triggered an unwelcomed thought. Only a few days before, Carachel had seemed worried about conserving his power to face the Matholych. How far would this duel drain him?
The boundary wavered between the two wizards for a moment, then crept with agonizing slowness toward Carachel. Carachel frowned slightly, and the serpent ring grew brighter. The net of sparks began to move more quickly, in little jerks of an inch or more, but it did not change direction. Jermain’s jaw tightened, and he looked at Wengarth.
Great beads of sweat stood out on Wengarth’s forehead, and Jermain could see the fear in his face. Wengarth gestured suddenly, and the bright border leaped nearly a foot back toward him. Carachel’s frown deepened. The serpent ring blazed like a fire-brand, and the boundary of light began moving toward Carachel once more.
With a sudden feeling of disorientation, Jermain realized that the struggle was the ex
act opposite of what he had assumed. Each of the wizards was pulling the net of light that marked the separation of their power toward himself, not forcing it back toward his opponent. And Carachel was winning the struggle.
Jermain relaxed fractionally as the boundary continued to move toward Carachel. A movement on the other side of the circle caught his eye, and he saw the apprentice rising to his feet. Laznyr looked even whiter than he had before, and his right hand was clenched on the hilt of the knife. Jermain frowned and began edging around the circle toward the youth. If Wengarth had intended some treachery . . . He glanced back toward the wizards in the center of the ring.
The border of light had almost reached Carachel. Wengarth’s breath came in great gasps, and his face was twisted with effort. It was clear that he could not last much longer. As Jermain watched, he began to move forward, slowly and jerkily, like a puppet with molasses on its feet, until he and Carachel were two paces apart instead of twenty. Jermain looked back at the apprentice just as Wengarth gasped, “Laznyr! Your promise . . .”
The youth gestured, then raised the knife and plunged forward into the circle. Without thinking, Jermain dove after him. Light flared around him as he passed over the edge of the circle, and something slowed him, resisting his passage. Then he was sprawling on the ground inside the ring.
Laznyr was just ahead of him. Jermain rolled and managed to grab the other’s ankle, tripping him before he could reach the two combatants. Laznyr cried out in shock, and dropped the knife as he fell on top of Jermain.
For a moment, the two men grappled on the ground, Laznyr struggling to regain the knife and Jermain to prevent him from reaching it. Suddenly Laznyr gave a cry of triumph. Jermain saw the knife glitter, swinging toward him, and he jerked backward. He was barely in time. The knife slashed through his tunic, grazing his chest, and Laznyr broke free.
Jermain scrambled to his feet and followed, but Laznyr was too quick. He ran toward the wizards, who seemed to have noticed nothing. Their eyes were locked; they were barely a sword’s length apart. Laznyr slid toward them as Carachel’s right hand, which bore the serpent ring, reached for Wengarth.
The Seven Towers Page 15
