Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (22 page)

 
          
"How
could he know when you would arrive?" Calandryll demanded.

 
          
"A
spy." Varent shrugged casually. "He might well employ some human
agent in Secca who released a pigeon to alert him,- or, perhaps, an occult
agent. Either way, he needed only use logic to deduce that my party would halt
here."

 
          
Calandryll's
frown deepened; Varent's smile grew broader.

 
          
"You
wonder why he did not attack me? How he knew of your presence? Again, the
answers lie within the realm of logic—the creatures you described are
unpredictable and might have destroyed the chart and me together. Azumandias
would assume I hold it, which is why it is best you keep it; also, he cannot be
certain how strong my own powers have become. As for your presence, he would
have learned of that from his spy."

 
          
"Then
he might alert my father to your part in my escape."

 
          
Calandryll
paled at the notion of Bylath sending a squadron of legion cavalry to bring him
back: the prospect was somehow worse than the thought of facing monsters.
Varent's laughter reassured him.

 
          
"No,"
said the ambassador, "had he chosen that ploy, we should have been halted
before leaving Secca. I'd wager that Azumandias suspects I have the chart and
wanted me to bring it out of Secca. But he acted hastily! He's shown his hand
now and I can guard against further assaults."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded: the explanation seemed rational enough; he wanted to believe Varent,
but one doubt lingered still.

 
          
"When
you came to me in my chambers," he said carefully, "you told me it
was necessary to know the place."

 
          
"Indeed,"
Varent responded equably, "Blind transportation is horribly dangerous. One
might materialize immured in a wall; or fused with a chair, say. Even magic is
governed by certain physical laws, one of which is that two objects may not
occupy the same space without disastrous results."

 
          
"Then
Azumandias must have familiarized himself with the barn."

 
          
Varent
nodded.

 
          
"How
could he know I would be there?"

 
          
For
an instant the dark man's equanimity faltered. His eyes hooded and he raised
his napkin again, hiding his mouth.

 
          
"You
do
have an inquiring mind," he said at last. "How did Azumandias
know you would be in the barn? Well, perhaps it was a lucky guess; or perhaps
he left some occult spy here. Dera, Calandryll! Your logic outpaces me! I had
not thought of that! Thank the Goddess that you did."

 
          
Abruptly
he was on his feet, his handsome features troubled. Calandryll pushed his
unfinished breakfast away, following him as he strode toward the door. Coins
were flung carelessly to the landlord, his thanks dismissed with a hurried wave
as Varent surged into the courtyard.

 
          
The
wagon was already loaded, the ambassador s men saddling their mounts. Bracht
stood by his stallion, his blue eyes curious as Varent, with Calandryll close
on his heels, hurried to the cart and clambered beneath the gaudy canopy.
Calandryll took the opportunity to toss the practice jerkin on board as Varent
opened a small, ornately carved box and rummaged among the contents.

 
          
"Whelms
amiss?"

 
          
Calandryll
turned as Bracht led the black horse over.

 
          
"Lord
Varent believes Azumandias may have some magical spy watching us."

 
          
The
Kern glanced round, hand dropping to the falchion. Varent emerged from the
wagon and brought his left hand to his mouth, murmuring softly. He blew and a
cloud of pinkish dust rose from his spread palm, surrounding him in a roseate
aura. He lifted his right hand, setting a disk of thick glass held in a silver
frame to his eye. Slowly, still murmuring, he turned in a circle, surveying the
courtyard.

 
          
"He's
a mage?" Bracht demanded.

 
          
Calandryll
nodded. "He has magical powers."

 
          
The
Kern grunted sourly: it appeared such talent reduced Varent further in his
estimation.

 
          
"There
was something," Varent declared, "but it has gone. Dera! I should
have thought of this last night."

 
          
"It
would," said Bracht quietly, "have saved us some trouble."

 
          
Varent
seemed not to hear him; he returned the glass to the wagon and beamed at-
Calandryll.

 
          
"All
is well, thank the Goddess. No doubt Azuman- dia? placed a spy here, but your
defeat of his emissaries banished it." His smile shifted to encompass
Bracht. "You both served me well—my thanks."

 
          
Calandryll
returned his smile, grateful for the praise, his doubts resolved. Bracht merely
nodded, his face expressionless.

 
          
"So,
let us leave," Varent suggested. "Calandryll, take Darth's horse
again. Bracht—you'll stay close?" '

 
          
"I'm
paid to stay close," said the mercenary, reaching to his saddle.
"Here, Calandryll, take this."

 
          
He
tossed a sheathed sword to the younger man. Calandryll caught it and fixed the
belt about his waist. He drew the sword, hefting the weight. It was a lesser
weapon than either Bracht's falchion or Varent's saber, but it sat comfortably
enough in his hand. The blade was straight, the steel gleaming dully with the
milky look of good Eylian craftsmanship, the quillons slightly curved and
rounded at the ends, the hilt wrapped in worn leather, the pommel a small globe
of dull steel. He swung it a time or two, experimentally, then sheathed it.

 
          
"You
owe me five varre," Bracht said.

 
          
"Dera,
man!" Varent looked down from his horse. "Do you think of nothing but
money?"

 
          
"I'm
a freesword," the Kem answered coolly.

 
          
"I've
no coin," Calandryll apologized.

 
          
Varent
snorted, fumbling in his sabretache. Irritably, he flung coins in Bracht's
direction. The mercenary caught them deftly, grinning as he slipped them into a
pocket. "My thanks," he murmured, and swung astride is stallion.

 
          
Calandryll
mounted and heeled Darth's horse into line as the cavalcade trotted out through
the gates.

 
          
Varent
headed the column, leading them out onto the broad highway linking Secca and
Aldarin. The farms that fed the city lay behind them now, the land ahead open
territory, and soon they passed the great stone piles marking the boundary of
Secca's influence. Despite Varent's assurances, Calandryll breathed a sigh of
relief as he saw the indicators of his father's domain go by. He felt safer
now: past those markers Bylath's legionaries had no power; they could not
demand his return. He began to grin, his mood lifting. The sky above was blue,
strea- mered with high cirrus, wheeling birds black specks against the azure,
their song a chorus of liberation. Before
him
spread a vista of
undulating grassland, sprinkled with woods, a broad river winding, no less blue
than the sky, in leisurely curves, the paved road ending on its bank, becoming
a wagon trail of hard-packed black earth on the farther side.

 
          
They
forded the waterway and Varent indicated that they should swing south, across
open meadowland.

 
          
"If
Azumandias has planned any further surprises," he explained, "they'll
be on the road. We'll take the lesser trails and be in Aldarin before he knows
it."

 
          
"What
of his mystic spies?" asked Bracht.

 
          
"What
of them?" returned Varent cheerfully. "Not even Azumandias can guess
our path. We're safe for the moment: trust me."

 
          
Bracht
grunted what might have been an affirmative and allowed his horse to fall back,
putting a little distance between them. He seemed dissatisfied and Calandryll
eased his own mount alongside.

 
          
"Why
do you dislike him so?" he queried.

 
          
The
Kem shrugged and shook his head, not speaking.

 
          
"I
trust him," Calandryll insisted, "and he's offered only
friendship."

 
          
"That
serves his own purpose," Bracht murmured. "He needs you because you
speak the Old Tongue and now, it seems to me, you're in his power."

 
          
"How
so?" Calandryll stared at the mercenary. "He brought me out of
Secca—saved me from the priesthood; risked my father's anger. Was that not the
act of a friend?"

 
          
"And
should you refuse his quest? What then?"

 
          
"The
spaewife foretold the quest," Calandryll argued. "Varent must be one
of the comrades she said I should meet; you must be the other."

           
"Perhaps, but that does not
answer me," Bracht insisted, "You're in his power."

 
          
Calandryll
frowned his incomprehension.

 
          
"You've
fled from your father," Bracht explained, "and cannot return to
Secca. You're without money—by Ahrd! Varent had to buy that sword for you! The
horse you ride, he provided; the food you eat, he buys. Did you not agree to
Varent's quest, you'd be a wanderer, a footloose vagabond. You've nowhere to go
but Aldarin; and only Varent to rely on when you arrive. Without him, you'd
likely starve. Do you say you're not in his power?"

 
          
"What
if I am?" Calandryll grew defensive. "Aren't you?"

 
          
"He
pays me," Bracht said bluntly.

 
          
Did
the quest mean no more to him than that?

 
          
"I
trust him. I have faith in him." Calandryll's voice was cold.

 
          
Bracht
shrugged again, doubt written clear on his swarthy features.

 
          
"It
is said in Cuan na'For," he remarked, "that a wizard has many faces,
and keeps his true face hidden."

 
          
Calandryll
found his skepticism irritating. Curtly he demanded. "And what does it
mean?"

 
          
"That
I do not trust him," Bracht answered evenly.

 
          
"Then
why do you agree to accompany me?"

 
          
Bracht
smiled, ignoring the vexed tone.

 
          
"Because
he pays me," he repeated.

 
         
At
first the journey, for all its promise of adventure, was a nightmare that
not even its high purpose could assuage. Calandryll had seldom spent more than
a few hours on horseback, riding to the hunt or in ceremonial parades, and now
found himself rising beneath a sky still grey to saddle his borrowed mount and
ride out at dawn, halting briefly at
noon
to eat
and rest before pressing on until dusk. It seemed that every muscle in his body
protested the hardship, and that compounded by the nights spent in the open, a
blanket his only covering, the ground his bed. He had never passed a night in
the open before; indeed, had never spent a night outside the city, and the
discomfort weighed heavy, rendered the . worse by Bracht's silently critical
appraisal of his awkwardness. Pride forbade that he complain, however, and so
he suffered in miserable silence.

 
          
The
circuitous route Varent chose meant that the way stations of the marked road
were denied them, and the wagon was barely large enough to accommodate one
person, reserved for Varent's use, so Calandryll, like the rest of the party,
slept rough on a saddle blanket. The nights were not unduly chill, for the
early promise of the spring had fulfilled itself, and the woodlands they
traversed provided ample timber for fires, but still the hard ground was a far
cry from the comfort of his bed and before long he found the excitement of such
an adventure outweighed by the sundry lumps that dug into his ribs and the dew that
each morning soaked his hair and face, and sometimes, when he had kicked off
his blanket, his clothes. He wished that he could settle with Bracht's stoic
indifference: the Kem simply rolled his blanket around himself each night and,
his sword cradled like a lover in his arms, went soundly to sleep. So far as
Calandryll could tell, ne was not troubled by disturbing dreams.

 
          
His
own lingered as he rose, rubbing moisture from his face, groaning as his
muscles protested, his back aching as he straightened, the thought of another
day in the saddle looming like the threat of punishment. Some were vague, so
nebulous that they left behind only a feeling of apprehension, an inarticulate
wariness, but others remained vivid.

 
          
Initially
they were of the wolf-headed monstrosities, nightmare images of fanged mouths
and hate-filled red eyes, of fire and battle, but these he could understand,
and after the first shock of waking, he was able to dismiss them. Others
troubled him far more.

 
          
Chief
among them was the image of Varent's handsome face smiling as the ambassador
described the quest, then turning as the man prepared to leave, revealing a
hidden face that snarled, laughing, becoming the visage of the lupine demons,
his black cloak swirling, becoming a pair of vast, nigrescent wings that raised
a great wind as the figure flew upward, a bat with a wolf's head, spiraling
into the sky, its mocking laughter echoing behind it. Sometimes he would hear
Bracht's voice then, saying, "A wizard has many faces"; and sometimes
he would dream of the freesword, falchion in hand, the other scooping coins,
his blue eyes filled with contempt and accusation. Sometimes he dreamed of
Reba, the spaewife's musical voice repeating the words of the augury, and then
he would see both Varent and Bracht emerge from the shadows behind the blind
seeress, both beckoning him, requiring him to choose between them. He would
turn to Reba then, seeking her guidance, and she would shake her head,
dissolving into the candle's flame, leaving him, alone, to choose between the
waiting figures.

 
          
Less
often, the infrequency surprising him, he dreamed of Nadama. He would see her
somewhere in the palace, in a garden or an empty hall, and she would raise her
arms, smiling, and he would move toward her only to find his limbs leaden,
dragging slowly as he sought to run. Tobias striding past him to sweep the girl
up in his embrace, their kiss a lingering insult, their close-pressed bodies
abruptly hidden behind the bulk of his father, Bylath lifting a condemning hand
to point at him, his leonine features set in lines of outrage.

 
          
On
all of these occasions Calandryll would wake sweating, the blanket crumpled
about his feet or tossed aside, and lie staring at the night sky, listening to
the snoring of Varent's men and the soft shuffling of the tethered horses,
simultaneously longing for the sleep his body craved and dreading that descent
into confusion. He wished that he might consult a dream-speaker, but knew that
such interpretation would not be available until he arrived in Aldarin,
composing himself once more to sleep only to find the camp waking when it
seemed he had just shut his eyes.

 
          
He
would rise then, reluctant to discuss the troublesome nocturnal visions, and
dully eat his breakfast as he struggled to respond in kind to Varent's
diplomatic apologies that no greater comfort was available, aware of Bracht's
critical gaze as he wearily readied his borrowed horse and climbed without
enthusiasm into the saddle. The two men had little to say to one another,
Varent mostly remaining with the column while Bracht was constantly at
Calandryll's side. The mercenary was polite enougn, and Varent appeared
satisfied with him, but when they halted the Kem's silence, for all that the
ambassador ignored it, seemed pointed. Calandryll felt that he studied Varent,
awaiting some justification of his distrust.

 
          
He
was pleasantly surprised, after some seven days oi journeying, to find that his
aches began to decrease, that his limbs began to respond more readily as he
saddled his borrowed horse and climbed astride; no less that the riding itself
grew increasingly enjoyable. His humor improved then, and as it did, the dreams
became less frequent, his sleep deeper, so that he once more began to assume
his natural cheerfulness.

 
          
"You
toughen," Bracht remarked one day when he urged his horse to a canter,
riding out ahead of the cavalcade, the mercenary dutifully accompanying him.

           
"Yes," he agreed, unwilling
to admit how uncomfortable he had been.

 
          
Bracht
put it bluntly into words: "You were soft."

 
          
"I
am not accustomed to sleeping rough," he allowed.

 
          
"You're
more used to beds than the ground," the Kem responded. "To cities and
servants; to luxury."

 
          
It
was indisputably true, but Calandryll refused to acknowledge that veracity. His
feelings toward the Kem yere ambiguous: he felt a need to prove himself to
Bracht, or augment the acceptance he had felt after the battle with the demons,
but at the same time could not forget hat the freesword rode with him for pay,
no other reason. Bracht's mistrust of Varent rankled, for Calandryll had faith
in the ambassador and the coolness that stood between them irked him, stemming,
he felt, from Bracht's unreasonable dislike of Varent. He drove his heels hard against
the gelding's flanks, lifting the animal to a gallop, the horse was willing
enough, but no match for the Kern's big stallion: Bracht matched him easily,
riding as if melded with the beast.

 
          
"But
now you harden," the Kern shouted over the wind ush.

 
          
It
sounded almost like a compliment and Calandryll turned his face, grinning.
Bracht smiled back and Calandryll felt a flush of pleasure, the more determined
to win he freesword's respect.

 
          
They
thundered across a broad meadow ringed round yith stands of slender birch, the
trees silvery in the noming light, the sun shining warm out of a bright blue sky,
white cumulus bulking across the western horizon, mere land and sea met. Birds
sang among the timber, more scattering from their path, and Calandryll gave himself
over to the sheer pleasure of motion. It was as though he troublesome dreams
were left with the column that receded behind them, the purity of the carefree
gallop cashing away all doubt, leaving only the quest ahead. Bracht's welcome
comment reassuring him, firming him in his resolve. He stretched low over the
gelding's outthrust neck, willing the animal to greater speed.

 
          
Ahead,
the flanking woodland closed on the meadow, the grass becoming an avenue of
sun-dappled green down vhich they raced neck-and-neck. Calandryll glanced at
Bracht, seeing the Kern sitting upright in the saddle, the reins held almost
casually in his left hand, the thick tail of glossy black hair streamered out
behind him. He was smiling still, his stern features relaxed, his own pleasure
writ clear.

 
          
Then
sunlight gave way to shadow as the ground dipped and the wide-spaced birches
were replaced with denser, older trees. Asn and beech and oak filled a broad
bowl, the timber spreading up the ridge sides, heavy boughs thrusting out to
hide the sky. Bracht reined the stallion down to a walk, gesturing for
Calandryll to follow suit as the trail became a winding path overhung with
gnarled limbs that might easily sweep an incautious rider from his saddle.
Beneath the horses' hooves the ground was rich with humus, black and muffling
so that the sound of their passage became an aural match to the obfuscation of
the light. There was a solemnity to the forest, the air still, cut through with
occasional shafts of brightness, prompting Calandryll to think uncomfortably of
a temple, its dark interior lit only by the high, narrow windows. Bird song was
a distant chorus, dimmed, it seemed, by the bulk of the great trees. Calandryll
realized that he held his breath, as though the weight of timber imposed a
sense of reverence, and when he next glanced at Bracht, he saw that the Kem was
no less impressed.

 
          
They
rode slowly through a vault of beeches and found themselves in a clearing as
abruptly sunlit as the entrance to the forest had been shaded. Bracht halted,
Calandryll at his side, staring at the enormous tree that dominated the glade.
It was an oak of proportions to suggest tremendous venerability, boughs
spreading in a mighty corona from a trunk so wide around rooms might have been
cut into its interior. Beneath the span of its limbs the ground was thick with
winter-fallen leaves, a carpet of dry yellow that contrasted with the fresh
green of the springtime' shoots rising to meet the sun. Bracht dismounted and
Calandryll followed suit, aping the mercenary as he tethered his stallion and
moved on foot toward the tree.

 
          
Dead
leaves crackled beneath their boots but there was no other sound. No bird song
or hum of insects, no rustle of breeze, disturbed the silence, as though the
sheer solidity of the tree absorbed everything about it. There was an
expression on the Kern's face Calandryll had not seen before, a look of awe
_;
of reverence. He watched as Bracht approached the massive oak, arms raised as
if in homage, setting his palms against the furrowed trunk, murmuring in a
language he recognized as the tongue of Kern, in which he caught only the one
word: "Ahrd."

 
          
For
long moments Bracht stood, resting his weight against the tree, as Calandryll
waited, then he straightened, turning a solefnn face to his companion.

 
          
"I
have never entered the Cuan na'Dru, never seen the Holy Tree, but I think this
must be kin to Ahrd. I think this must be a sign, though of what I do not
know."

 
          
Calandryll
frowned; he knew the folk of Kem hailed the tree, Ahrd, as their god, but he
had not thought of Bracht as at all religious,- and it seemed strange to
worship a thing inanimate. Nonetheless, he could not deny the power that
emanated from the vast growth. In that sunlit glade it was a tangible thing; it
seemed he inhaled it with the rich, loamy air, felt it in the green-tinted
light that bathed his face: ne nodded.