Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (46 page)

 
          
"Yes,"
Calandryll nodded, eyes flicking from the gasping Bracht to the wizard,
"My father would make me a priest—I fled that fate with my comrade. We
took ship to
Kandahar
to escape. The money, the stone—I stole
them."

 
          
Watery
eyes came closer, suspicious, the warlock's finger raised in mute threat,

 
          
"And
the map? How came you by a map men say does not exist?"

 
          
"I
stole that, too," he extemporized. "I was ... am ... a scholar. I'd
read of Tezin-dar and thought to seek the lost city. To win fame."

 
          
Anomius
sniffed noisily, finger extending to touch Calandryll's chin, tilt back the
head. Then the mage winced, snatching back his hand as though from unseen
flame, eyes hooding as they studied the young man.

 
          
"I
am not sure I believe you. I sense occult power in you, but no matching
knowledge."

 
          
"I
am no sorcerer," he said quickly.

 
          
"No,"
Anomius agreed, "were you magician, you'd not have fallen so easily to my
snare. But still ... you hold things back. Tell me about this stone."

 
          
"I
stole it," he repeated. "From a palace magician."

 
          
Again
the warlock's tongue clicked against his teeth. He shook his head, leveling his
finger.

 
          
"Tell
me the truth."

 
          
Calandryll
felt a shock akin to buffeting wind. It seemed that probing fingers explored
the contours of his brain, the touch urging truth, softly, but threat behind
the caress. He felt his mouth open unbidden, his tongue move to shape the
words. Then he felt the stone grow warm against his chest, red glow spreading
about his face. The pressure inside his skull eased and was gone. Anomius
frowned.

 
          
"So."
His voice was thoughtful; soft, like a serpent's hiss. "So, the stone protects
you. And well—I cannot touch it, nor you. Yet, at least. In time, who knows?
Meanwhile, your comrade enjoys no such protection— shall you witness his
suffering in silence? Shall you watch him die? I sense a bond between
you—linked destinies. Shall he be the key that loosens your tongue?"

 
          
He
pointed at Bracht. Calandryll said, "Slay him and I've no reason to
speak."

 
          
The
wizard chuckled, the sound obscene.

 
          
"I
need not slay him, Calandryll den Karynth. Only turn him a little on the spit
of agony. I think his screams might well unlock you."

 
          
"A
hired man?" Calandryll struggled to make his tone scornful. "A Kern
freesword? He's a mercenary; a mere bodyguard. And one who led me into your
trap. Why should I care for his suffering?"

 
          
"But
you do," said Anomius. "I sense that—and no denial of yours persuades
me otherwise. I think I'll put fire in his lungs and listen to his screaming a
while. Or shall I melt his eyes? Which do you prefer to witness, Calandryll den
Karynth?"

 
          
Desperately
Calandryll sought some answer, some delaying tactic with which to forestall the
warlock. He doubted neither Anomius's ability or intent: did he not speak, he
would see Bracht writhe in agony, or die; yet to reveal their purpose in
Kandahar
seemed likely to end their quest here, in a
dung-reeking cowshed. Did Anomius but grasp that what they sought was the
Arcanum, surely he would seek the book for himself, or ally with Azumandias: it
seemed already clear that he had scant concern for human suffering. He needed
time; his mind raced, close to panic, but time was not a commodity the warlock
offered.

 
          
Until
a brigand appeared in the doorway, glancing warily at the prisoners, eyeing the
wizard nervously.

 
          
"Lord
Sathoman asks that you attend him, mage."

 
          
"Why?"                                                                                  
.

 
          
Anomius
turned to face the man, his question mildly put, but still prompting the
brigand to step back a pace.

           
"The defenders make a
sally—Lord Sathoman would have you deal with them. An example, he said."

 
          
Anomius
sighed, head swinging to face Calandryll again.

 
          
"It
would appear our ... conversation ... must wait. While I am gone, think on what
you've seen; and what I can do." He waved the messenger back, pausing in
the doorway to mutter a spell. Calandryll felt the stone warm briefly; smelled
almonds. "This place is bound by magic. Do not attempt to leave it, on
peril of your lives. Remember that Sathoman will treat you unkinder than
I."

 
          
He
walked away, leaving them in the shadows. Calandryll sighed his relief ana
looked to where Bracht lay.

 
          
"Are
you hurt?"

 
          
It
seemed inadequate; Bracht grunted, forced a gnn.

 
          
"No.
Though I'd not suffer that again. You?"

 
          
Calandryll
shook his head.

 
          
"It
seems the stone protects me." He studied the Kern's face. "But if he
makes good his threat . .."

 
          
"A
hired man?" Bracht got his legs under him, wriggling up the wall to a
sitting position. "A mere bodyguard?"

 
          
"I
could think of nothing else. I thought he might leave you be."

 
          
Bracht
snorted grim laughter.

 
          
"Sadly,
not. The cursed wizard saw through that. I think in time he'll have his
answers, by one means or another."

 
          
"Should
I tell him," Calandryll mused, "what then? What might he do?"

 
          
"Slay
us both, I think," Bracht said. "The man's mad. Likely he'd take the
map and seek the Arcanum for himself."

 
          
"Would
Sathoman let him go? It seems this would-be lord needs his magic."

 
          
Bracht
shook his head: "You heard Anomius—Sathoman seeks to establish himself as
Lord of the Fayne. It seems Kesham-vaj's the gateway to the north. Sathoman
takes the town to command the road, and once established here it's likely more
dissidents will flock to his cause. He takes Mherut'yi and commands the
coast—it's civil war we see fomenting and the next step must be to seize the
Tyrant's crown. Sathoman will not release the mage."

 
          
"Then
if we told Sathoman," Calandryll suggested.

 
          
"He'd
have no reason to hold us. We'd die."

 
          
"And
if I refuse to tell him, you die."

 
          
"We
face a quandary."

 
          
Bracht
pushed awkwardly to his feet, crossing to the doorway. Calandryll joined him,
warning: "Remember his magic."

 
          
The
Kem nodded grimly. "I've reason enough. But I'd see what goes on."

 
          
Together
they peered into a night that aged toward dawn. Beyond the encircling tents
the light of the besiegers' fires revealed a town unwalled, but barricaded,
carts and wagons, furniture, barrels, anything portable, piled in jumbled heaps
between the houses, blocking the entry points. The party they had followed down
the Tyrant's road had been no more than a skirmishing band, for Kesham-vaj was
ringed with a horde of armed and armored men. They were spread all round, but
where the road entered the town they clustered thickest and it was at that
point Anomius went to work.

 
          
A
group bearing shields moved forward, the sorcerer at the center, marching
slowly toward a knot of defenders come out from behind their blockade.

 
          
"They
sought to stampede the horses." Bracht ducked his head to where the
animals fretted on the picket lines, snorting and stamping, made nervous by the
fires and the sounds of battle. "They failed."

 
          
Calandryll
saw that the defenders retreated under a hail of arrows that ceased on a word
from Anomius. The wizard raised both hands and the shield wall parted, the
little black-robed figure stepping out, careless of the danger; or supremely
confident of his own invulnerability. He stood for a moment with hands held
high and then fire blossomed in the air above him. It drifted slowly forward,
growing. The defenders turned and began to run. The fire, still growing, swept
quicker after them, catching them. Men screamed and fell. The fire reached the
barricade and faltered, as though held back, then died. On the road charred
shapes smoldered.

 
          
"Why
not bum the barricade?" Calandryll wondered.

 
          
Bracht
shrugged. "Perhaps Sathoman wants the town intact. A burned min's little
good for a stronghold," he suggested.

 
          
"But
Anomius could surely use other spells." Calandryll stared at the sorcerer,
speaking now with the giant rebel. "I think perhaps Kesham-vaj is
protected by magic."

 
          
"Octofan
said wizardry was outlawed by the Tyrant."

 
          
Bracht
hobbled to the rear of the shed, easing down the wall. Calandryll settled
beside him, his expression thoughtful.

 
          
"Save
for those sorcerers employed by the Tyrant himself. What if one were in
Kesham-vaj? If it's so important a town—and the Tyrant knew, as he must, that
Sathoman uses Anomius—perhaps he set a wizard to guard the place."

 
          
"Perhaps,"
Bracht allowed, "but what good to us?"

 
          
"I
don't know," Calandryll admitted. "Unless it means Sathoman's
defeat."

 
          
"Which
will likely mean our deaths," Bracht said. "If Sathoman withdraws, I
doubt he'll carry prisoners with him."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded, fighting to banish fear, panic, the depression that threatened to
overwhelm him. He sought calm, to still his mind and
think,
to impose
scholarly logic on his racing thoughts. Swords would not see them clear of this
impasse, so reason was all he had left: he must use it to find a way out.

 
          
"Anomius
knows I lie," he said slowly, seeking to use the words themselves to
unravel his half-formed thoughts, "and if I continue to lie, he'll torture
you."

 
          
Bracht
began to protest, but Calandryll shook his head for silence.

 
          
"Listen—we've
no means of escaping save that the warlock or Sathoman release us, and they're
not likely to grant that boon. But Anomius is interested in the map. Perhaps
that's the key to unlock this trap."

 
          
"How
so?" Bracht asked. "Tell him of our quest and he'll either take the
map for himself—and kill us—or laugh at our foolishness—and kill us."

 
          
"Perhaps;
perhaps not." Calandryll frowned, concentrating. "He spoke of
forgotten gramaryes, and why should he aid Sathoman save in lust for power?
He's cast his lot with a rebel lord who seeks to rule the Fayne and likely—as
you said!—all
Kandahar
. Why do that unless he, too, seeks power?
And if he does, then surely the secrets of Tezin-dar must offer him powers
undreamt of."