Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (48 page)

 
          
"Given
me by Lord Varent. I have no skill with magic."

 
          
Anomius
smiled as if pleased to have scored that minor victory. "This Varent would
seem a coward," he murmured, "to send others out to seek what he
desires. But no matter—tell me of the stone."

 
          
"Protection,
so he told me," Calandryll said, forcing doubt, confusion, aside to
concentrate on his deception, "as you saw. Save by the application of
great magic, it may not be removed from me."

 
          
"That
much I recognize," Anomius agreed. "Though I could do it, the magicks
required would render the stone useless. And it has another purpose, no?"

 
          
"I
think you must be a greater mage than Lord Varent," Calandryll flattered.
"Aye—the stone will lead me to the grimoire. And when it has, Lord Varent
said the book is guarded by magic, against which the stone shall furnish protection."

 
          
"So,"
Anomius said gently, his voice soft, "if what you say is true, you are the
lodestone that points to the book.

 
          
"Aye,"
Calandryll said eagerly.

 
          
"And
the book offers the mage who owns it power unlimited."

 
          
"So
Lord Varent said."

 
          
"Yet
to obtain the book, you are needed."

 
          
"Aye."

 
          
"But
not the Kern."

 
          
Calandryll's
answer froze on his readied tongue. Like a fish taken by the hook, Anomius was
caught, but still he fought, still he was cunning: still the fisherman must use
all his wiles to reel him in.

 
          
"He
is."

 
          
Think!
Buy time, but
think
! Give this dangerous little man no reason to slay
Bracht— !

 
          
"We
are bonded," he said; slowly, then faster as logic came to his aid. Logic
and an extension of the tenuous web of half-truths he wove: the whole tmth now.
"You saw that yourself—our destinies are linked. In Secca I consulted a
spaewife—Reba was her name; she was blind—and she foretold that I should
encounter a true companion: Bracht. She scried an augury, that we should travel
together. I think that to separate us must be to break that web she discerned
and halt the journey. Without Bracht, I shall not find the grimoire."

 
          
"I
sensed a joining," Anomius admitted, "and honest auguries are not to
be trifled with."

 
          
"And,"
Calandryll added quickly, "she said I should meet another. Might that be
you?"

 
          
The
watery eyes fastened on his face. Like leeches, he thought. Anomius said,
"Perhaps," and he felt the line reel in a little further.

 
          
"I
never trusted Varent." That Bracht should speak surprised him: he turned
toward the Kern. "A man— wizard, or no—should take his own chances. Not
skulk safe behind city walls whilst others risk their lives for his advantage.
I've more respect for a man who faces his foes."

 
          
Like
you
hung on the tail of the sentence. Anomius nodded. Calandryll licked dry
lips. The shed filled up with silence as the wizard turned his colorless gaze
from one to the other.

 
          
"What
do you say?" he asked at last. "Do you offer me this grimoire?"

 
          
The
fish broke water, the line taut: heart pounding, Calandryll extended the net.

 
          
"I
tell you only the tmth—obviously, there is no hiding it from you. I say that we
go to seek the grimoire in Tezin-dar. That it offers powers beyond a sorcerer's
dreams—but that only we may find it."

 
          
"Your
loyalty to this Varent is somewhat ..." Anomius shrugged, "...
tenuous."

 
          
"Lord
Varent sleeps safe in Aldarin whilst we sit, bound, in a cowshed in
Kandahar
facing death. What would you do?"

 
          
"I'd
not have entrusted a beardless youth and a Kem freesword in the first
place," Anomius said. "But no matter. You say you speak and read the
Old Tongue ... and you've that stone—You give me cause to ponder. A man faced
with death is likely to make wild promises, but there's such in what you say that
you shall live a little longer while I think on your future."

 
          
He
rose, black robe rustling, pausing at the shed s door.

 
          
"Best
that you say nothing of this matter to any other."

 
          
The
watery eyes held a threat: Calandryll nodded, Bracht grunting agreement. Anomius
quit the shed and the light died with his departure, revealing a sky no longer
star-pocked, darkening into the ultimate nigrescence that prefaces dawn.
Calandryll looked down at the red stone, wondering if some invisible
eavesdropper was left behind, but the stone merely pulsed faintly, indicating
the magic that barred the door, and he turned to Bracht, his breath a long,
slow sigh of released tension.

 
          
"Is
he hooked, do you think?"

 
          
The
fires outside bathed the Kem's stem features m shifting light, his smile a
flash of teeth, white against the reddened tan.

 
          
"I
think you gave him reason to keep us alive a while. I think you a more
accomplished liar than I had suspected."

 
          
"Dera!"
Calandryll returned the smile. "I thought each moment he'd slay us. Or
dismiss the bait—give us to Sathoman."

 
          
"There's
that to consider still," Bracht murmured, his smile fading
"Sathoman's bent on conquering the Fayne, and becoming Tyrant."

 
          
"A
wizard with a grimoire of ... what did I say? unimaginable power ... would make
a useful ally." Calandryll rested his head wearily against the rough
stone, staring at the doorway. "Perhaps Sathoman will consider that. Or
Anomius choose to betray him."

 
          
"Both
choices leave us in jeopardy still," Bracht said. "Think on it—should
Sathoman agree to send his wizard after this imagined grimoire, it's not likely
he'll do it until he holds Kesham-vaj and Mherut'yi, both. And then he'd likely
send men in escort. We should travel under guard while perhaps Azumandias comes
closer to the Arcanum. If Anomius decides to leave his master, he'll need to
get us out by some clandestine means. And then we shall travel with a crazed
wizard; who's likely, at the end, to seize the Arcanum for himself."

 
          
"I'd
thought no farther than escape from this place," Calandryll admitted,
"and I could see no other way."

 
          
"Nor
I," Bracht allowed. "Save that the stone work some magic to whisk us
free."

 
          
"It
would seem not," Calandryll murmured. "Save that it prevents Anomius
from extorting the truth."

 
          
"At
least we're not given to Sathoman," Bracht said. "At least we live
another day. And while we live, we can hope."

 
          
He
yawned, working himself to a more comfortable position against the wall, and
closed his eyes. Calandryll, too, sought sleep, but found such respite elusive.
The cords were tight about his wrists and with nothing else to occupy his mind
he realized that numbness was replaced with a painful tingling. His hands were
swollen and his arms ached; the wall was hard against his back, rough stone
probing tensed muscles, nubs forming small focuses of discomfort. No matter how
he shifted he could not find ease, and after a while he gave up, staring dully
at the doorway.

 
          
In
time the darkness became grey, then brighter. A few birds began to sing. The
wind shifted around and he coughed as smoke from the bonfires wafted into the
shed. The brightness grew, dissolving slowly to reveal a blue sky marked along
its edges with heavy swells of cloud, the threat of rain. He saw the ek'Hennem
soldiery stir, those who had maintained the nightlong vigil seeking tents, or
simply throwing themselves to the ground, others taking their places about
Kesham-vaj. Sathoman emerged from a splendid pavilion, all green and gold and
white, still armored, his hair and beard wild, and stretched hugely, turning to
bellow orders. Anomius, who looked to have had no more sleep than the
prisoners, came to his side; words were exchanged and the would-be Lord of the
Fayne glanced once, blackly, in the direction of the cowshed. Then shouting caught
his attention and he set off at a run toward the town, Anomius trotting behind,
his robe gathered up to expose pale, spindly legs.

 
          
A
small black cloud hung low over Kesham-vaj, and it seemed to Calandryll that
lightning played within it. It drifted across the town toward the closest
fires, slowing and halting, then disgorging such a weight of rain the fires
were instantly doused. Men stared up, then screamed as the lightning flashed,
descending in vicious tendrils to strike them down. A peal of thunder dinned
over the besiegers' camp and the cloud drifted on, sweeping over fire after
fire, spilling fresh floods over each, the white-silver bolts blasting more
men, the morning filled with the deafening blast of its thunder. Sathoman
paused, waiting for Anomius, their conversation clearly angry, the giant
gesturing furiously at the cloud, the mage answering with placatory gestures.
Calandryll watched as he raised his hands, pale white arms revealed now, and
the air about him shimmered. It seemed then that a wind tore at the cloud, like
wolves on a sheep, black streamers tearing loose, the lightning dying, until it
was no more than a ragged collection of dark streaks, tatters that broke and
faded against the blue sky.

 
          
"Perhaps
the Tyrant's mage is stronger than Anomius suggested," Bracht said.
"Perhaps our captors face defeat."

 
          
"Shall
that be to our advantage?" Calandryll wondered. "Or not?"

 
          
"Who
can say?" The Kem flexed cramped shoulders, grunting. "I think our
wisest course is to suborn Anomius."

 
          
"Azumandias
may help us there," Calandryll murmured.

 
          
"How
so?"

 
          
"If
Anomius decides he wants the grimoire, he'll not welcome rivals, I think. When
next we speak I'll tell him of Azumandias—warn him that another seeks the
book."

 
          
"It
might well spur him into action," Bracht agreed, grinning. "You've a
head for intrigue, my friend."

 
          
Calandryll
returned his comrade's smile, though his eyes remained troubled. It was a
slender hope at best, that Sathoman's wizard should choose to quit his master
to risk the journey to Tezin-dar in search of a fictitious grimoire, its
existence based only a fragile platform of lies and half-truths. But it was
their only hope.

 
          
"Look,"
Bracht said, catching his attention. "What does he do now?"

 
          
They
clambered to their feet and went to the door to gain a better view. Anomius
stood with Sathoman beside a smoldering fire. The black cloud had drenched the
timber and now dark smoke oozed fitfully from the wet wood. The wizard moved
his hands and the smoke thickened, dark tendrils creeping like draggled
serpents over the ground, twisting and joining to become a solid column that
slithered menacingly toward the town. He went to a second doused pyre and
performed the same ritual, producing more oily tentacles, those mingling with
the first, the column growing denser, moving implacably toward Kesham-vaj. A
third and then a fourth bonfire were treated in the same way, until two snakes
of smoke converged on the barricades. Soon the defenses were hidden beneath the
oily pall, the smoke like flowing water, filtering through gaps, rising to
surge over the piled obstacles and fill the streets beyond with reeking
darkness. Torches showed dimly in that obscuration, and frightened cries rang
out. Sathoman laughed and clapped Anomius on the back, his enthusiasm sending
the diminutive sorcerer staggering forward. Then both men turned to the giant's
pavilion and disappeared inside.