Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (40 page)

 
          
Calandryll
said, "The lictor is across the hall," and grinned despite the
tension, "but occupied. The guards sleep below. One mans the door."

 
          
Bracht
nodded, smiling grimly.

 
          
"One
I can deal with easily."

 
          
"I'd
not see him killed," Calandryll said.

 
          
"If
I can silence him ..." The Kem shmgged.

 
          
"He's
not our enemy." The thought of seeing an innocent man die sat ill with
Calandryll. Bracht said, "Would you see our quest ended here? Do you think
you can cross
Kandahar
alone? With the Chaipaku hunting you?"

 
          
"Even
so," Calandryll protested.

 
          
"You've
a delicate conscience," murmured the freesword, "but this is not the
time to debate it. You've bought horses?"

 
          
He
nodded again, unthinking, and said, "Yes. Across the square."

 
          
"Good,"
Bracht murmured, "Come."

 
          
He
drew his sword and stepped out of the cell. Calandryll eased the door shut,
locked it, then quietly secured the lictor's door before dropping the keys
inside the cell. At the head of the stairs Bracht halted, beckoning. Calandryll
drew close.

 
          
"Invisibility
has its advantages," the Kem whispered, "but I can't know where you
are. Stay close."

 
          
Calandryll
said, "I'm at your back."

 
          
Slowly,
step by step, they descended to the guardroom. Calandryll felt his heart thud
against his ribs, his eyes darting over the supine soldiers, willing them to
remain asleep.

 
          
They
reached the stairway's foot, sunlight a bright promise outlining the rectangle
of the exit. Then, from above, a furious shout rang through the fortalice and a
locked door was rattled in its frame. The sleeping guards stirred. Bracht
snapped, "Philomen wakes!"

 
          
The
soldiers, too, rising groggily from their bunks as the lictor's angry bellowing
grew louder, their eyes widening as they saw the prisoner with sword in hand,
impossibly freed from his cell.

 
          
Calandryll
shouted, "Take the man on the door. I'll hold them."

 
          
Bracht
paused an instant and he shoved the Kem forward. "They cannot see
me," he gasped. "Go!"

 
          
Bracht
grunted and sprang to meet the startled watchman, ducking under a clumsy pike
swing to drive the hilt of his falchion against the Kand's jaw. Calandryll was
grateful the freesword heeded his wish and left the man alive even as he
snatched a halberd from its rack against the wall and flailed the haft in a
sweeping arc across the
_i
ankles of three charging soldiers. They
went down in a sprawling mass, their shouts echoed by their slower companions,
who saw impossibility piled on impossibility, a halberd swinging of its own
accord. One cried, "Sorcery!" and several halted their pursuit, faces
wary, hands shaping protective signs. Calandryll flung the halberd at them and
darted to a table, upending it to send plates and food and wine flagons
tumbling over the floor. The panic he read in the Kands' eyes encouraged him,
and he darted about the room, hurling missiles at random. It must seem, he thought,
that some occult force came to Bracht's aid, and he sought to enhance that
impression with a strident howling. Several of the guardsmen cowered in
unfeigned tenor; a braver few moved after Bracht.

 
          
Calandryll
saw that the Kem had overpowered the man at the door and was now miming for the
warehouses. He seized another pike and flung it underhand at the pursuing
soldiers. Two tripped and more fell over them, piling in the doorway.
Calandryll turned a second table and sprang across the fallen guards. One began
to rise and he kicked the man, unthinking, in the chest, then raced after
Bracht.

 
          
The
freesword was astride one horse, the reins of the other in his hand, his eyes
intent on the confusion in the fortalice. Calandryll halted, mouthing the
releasing spell. The air shimmered, once more redolent of almonds, and he
became visible again. Bracht passed him the reins and he swung into the saddle.

 
          
"Can
you ride?" the Kem demanded urgently. "Is your knee healed?"

 
          
Calandryll
said, "It seems the stone heals me."

 
          
"So
be it." Bracht nodded, still suspicious for all that magic had freed him.
"Now let's ride—fast and far."

 
          
Calandryll
needed no further bidding. The soldiers' fear of magic, and the confusion he
had wrought, was soon overcome by the more immediate fear of their Actor's
wrath: they were flooding in an angry tide from the fortalice.

 
          
"Follow
me," he shouted, heeling his mount to a gallop.

 
          
They
charged through the quiet streets, the habit of siesta masking their escape as
they traversed Mherut'yi and reached the outskirts.

 
          
"We
ride for Nhur-jabal?" Bracht asked. "Which way?"

 
          
Calandryll
pointed to where the highway led out of the little town, a ribbon of packed
dirt winding into the heart of
Kandahar
. Bracht nodded.

 
          
"You
did well," he called over the pounding of the hooves. "I owe you
thanks."

 
          
Calandryll
beamed, flattered by the freesword's praise: proud of himself.

 
         
They
rode as hard as they dared in the oppressive heat, a dust cloud marking
their flight, Bracht setting the pace, sweat shining on the horses' hides as
they thundered away from Mherut'yi. When the town was lost in the haze behind
them the Kem slowed, but he did not permit a halt until the rim of the sun
touched the distant buttresses of the
Kharm-rhanna
Range
and twilight's blue shadows crept across
the land. He turned off the dirt highway then, finding a hollow in the desolate
terrain that afforded partial shelter from the gaheen. The wind still assaulted
them, beading their faces with sweat, plastering shirts to prickling backs and
dusting them with its burden of grit. It clung to their damp skin, lodging in
their eyebrows, finding its way into their mouths and under their clothes,
reminding them of the luxury of water and soap as they huddled hungry, watching
the horses crop on the sparse grass that filled the hollow. Calandryll had
filled two canteens, but packed no food, deeming that too obvious an
announcement of his intentions, and his stomach grumbled a protest as he
crouched under the lee of the slope.

 
          
"We'll
ride through the night," Bracht decided, apparently unaffected by the
discomfort. "Perhaps tomorrow we can buy food; or hunt something."

 
          
"Can
we risk buying it?" Calandryll wondered. "What of Philomen?"

 
          
"The
lictor?" Bracht chuckled. "Unless some other key can be found, he'll
be with his woman a while longer than he anticipated. Then he must organize his
men, and I doubt he'll stray far from Mherut'yi. He'll make some token pursuit
then turn back. If we put sufficient distance between us tonight, we should be
safe."

 
          
"From
him, at least," Calandryll nodded. "But what of the Chaipaku?"

 
          
The
Kern shrugged. "Against them, we must be on our guard," he said, his
smile fading. "I'd not anticipated the Brotherhood's intervention."

 
          
"Tobias
must have employed them." Calandryll shuddered. "But how could they
know so fast?"

 
          
The
elation he had felt at their escape waned as he thought of Mehemmed: the
prospect of crossing
Kandahar
with the Chaipaku hunting him was daunting. Bracht glanced at him and
shook his head. "The ways of the Brotherhood are mysterious. Who knows how
they communicate? But there's little point in brooding on it."

 
          
Calandryll
tore moodily at the stubbly grass, his expression troubled now.

 
          
"But
if we must pass through Nhur-jabal... the other towns along the way to Kharasul
... how can we avoid them?"

 
          
"Perhaps
we can't," Bracht offered, "but we need not concede them the victory.
We've defeated one—we can do it again."

 
          
"You
can," Calandryll said morosely. "Had you not heard me, I'd be
dead."

 
          
"But
you're not," said Bracht. "You survived his attack."

 
          
"Barely."
He touched his throat, where the red stone hung beneath his shirt. "And
were it not for Lord Varent's magic, I'd be scarce fit enough to ride."

 
          
"And
were it not for you, I'd still languish in Philomen's keep," the freesword
returned. "Ahrd, man! We've escaped capture by that warboat and a Chaipaku
attack. We've left Mherut'yi behind us. We can cross
Kandahar
if we're careful."

 
          
"And
Kharasul?" Calandryll demanded. "What then?"

 
          
"Then
we find a ship to take us north," said Bracht, "just as we planned.
We sail for Gessyth and find Tezin- dar. We take the Arcanum and ..."

 
          
He
fell silent. Calandryll frowned as he gestured at the red stone. "And?"
he prompted, vexed by the Kern's suspicions.

           
"I've yet to be convinced of
Varent's honesty," Bracht continued. "I still believe the spoke of
him. I say we take the Arcanum and hold it safe until we can be certain he
intends to destroy it as he says."

 
          
Calandryll
sighed his frustration: he had thought Bracht's doubts forgotten. "Were it
not for Lord Varent I'd still languish in my father's keep," he said.
"Were it not for Lord Varent, we'd be prisoners on that warboat— or dead.
Were it not for Lord Varent, you'd still be in Mherut'yi."

 
          
"He
needs us," said Bracht flatly. "He needs you to find the Arcanum and
me to guard you. We're useful to him."

 
          
"Dera!"
snapped Calandryll, "Your suspicions are groundless."

 
          
"I
heard the
byah,”
Bracht said doggedly.

 
          
"Which
warned of Azumandias. Or Tobias, for all I know."

 
          
Bracht
shrugged, his eyes unrelenting.

 
          
"You
think he'd use the book to raise the Mad God?" Calandryll shook his head
helplessly. "Only a crazy man would attempt so lunatic a thing—and Lord
Varent is obviously sane."

 
          
Bracht
shrugged again, not speaking, stretching on his back to stare at the darkening
sky. Calandryll sighed.

 
          
"What
do you propose then? After we've secured the book?"

 
          
"I
don't know," Bracht admitted. "But until Varent convinces me of his
honesty, I'd not hand him so powerful a thing as the Arcanum."

 
          
Calandryll
plucked a second handful of grass; flung it from him, watching the yellowed
blades flutter on the breeze.

 
          
"Perhaps
you believe he spies on us through the talisman?"

 
          
Bracht
shook his head, ignoring the sarcastic tone.

 
          
"No,"
he said evenly, "I think the stone gains power from the wearer. I think it
uses your eyes, your ears."

 
          
"And
what," Calandryll asked wearily, "brings you to that
conclusion?"

 
          
"You
have the talent," Bracht said, his voice calm. "I could not use it,
remember? Varent said then I lack the aptitude. But you are able to disappear;
you wore it when that storm arose, it mends your knee. I believe you channel
its magic."

 
          
Calandryll
gaped, dumbstruck.

 
          
"Do
you say I am a magician?"

 
          
"I
believe you have occult power. That ability Varent spoke of."

 
          
"Then
do you mistrust me as you mistrust all magicians?"

 
          
Bracht
chuckled then, shaking his head. "I trust you, Calandryll, and I believe
you honest."

 
          
Something
hung on the tail of his words: Calandryll frowned, staring at him.

 
          
"But?"

 
          
"Power
corrupts."

 
          
"You
think me corrupted?"

 
          
"No."
Bracht rose on one elbow to smile at his companion. "But I think you may
be seduced by Varent's promises."

 
          
For
a moment Calandryll felt resentment return. It seemed the Kern judged him, the
blunt statement suggesting Bracht weighed him and found something wanting. Then
he dismissed the thought, refusing it a hold: his background set him closer to
Varent, to the man's way of life, than Bracht could understand. The Kern's
doubts were no more than that. He was, after all, a wandering mercenary,
outcast from his own land, almost a barbarian. Likely he viewed all Lysse with
suspicion. He was a friend though, of that Calandryll had no doubt— Reba's
prophecy had foretold his coming, as it had foretold Varent's—but still there
were differences between them, and likely would always be. He touched the
stone, grateful for the relief it gave his damaged knee, and thought to take
the additional precaution of applying the healing ointment too: he rubbed the
stuff in, rewinding the bandage as Bracht checked the animals. Dusk was falling
rapidly into night now and the gaheen eased, the air losing that furnace
intensity imparted by the wind. A near-full moon hung above the eastern horizon
and stars began to appear in the great sweep of dark blue above them, the land
assuming a spectral quality, the road a band of blackness flanked by silvered
grass. They mounted and continued in the direction of Nhur-jabal.

 
          
Bracht
held them to a steady canter as the moon rose higher, the shod hooves drumming
on the packed dirt. Distances that had seemed of little account on the maps
Calandryll had studied assumed a physical reality as they progressed through
the night. From Mherut'yi to Nhur-jabal, assuming they stuck to the road, was
roughly the same distance as from Secca to Aldarin, the journey to Kharasul was
as much again. From the west coat of Kandahar to the swamps of Gessyth was a
journey he preferred not to contemplate: few Seccans traveled much beyond the
city walls and he began to feel very lonely as he followed the silent Kem
through the night. The terrain was flat and empty of features, the sweep of the
plain rendered the more immense by darkness. To Calandryll, it felt as though
they traversed a limbo, the only living creatures in that great spread of land,
or ghosts, doomed to ride forever, their destination always unattainably ahead.

 
          
After
a while Bracht slowed to a walk, resting the animals, then picking up the pace
again, alternating until the moon was lost in the grey opalescence of
approaching dawn. He called a halt then, riding a little way off the road to a
stand of gnarled and windswept trees where they dismounted and hobbled the
horses. It seemed they had left the gaheen behind, for the air was still, the
grey mist undisturbed by any breeze. Calandryll mbbed his mount down and left
it to crop as he wrapped himself in the saddle blanket and stretched on the
hard ground.

 
          
He
woke to find the sun on his face, still low in the sky, but warm, five curious
birds studying him from the branches of the stunted trees, taking flight as he
pushed to his feet and groaned at the protest of saddle-stiffened muscles.
Bracht was already awake, combing his long hair. Calandryll wondered how the
freesword could so easily ignore the pangs of hunger as he thought longingly of
Mother Raimi's breakfasts. He stretched, kneading limbs deadened by the long
hours in the saddle. Looking around, he saw that they camped on the great plain
still, the land bleak, arid, as if kin to the desert wastes to the north. There
was no sign of habitation, the occasional clumps of trees the only disruption
of the terrain, and those sad echoes of the luxuriant timber of Lysse. He drank
a little water and rubbed a moistened hand over his face, telling himself that
at least the gaheen no longer blew. Nor was there any sign of pursuit, and
Bracht set an easier pace as they continued along the road.