Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (53 page)

 
          
"Sorcerer
he may be," Bracht grunted, "but never a horseman."

 
          
It
took most of that day to reach the river they had seen, its waters darkening as
twilight gathered, night creeping stealthily over the bottomlands, transforming
the forest ahead to a looming, shadowy mass, lightless and forbidding. The road
ran alongside the river, halting abruptly at a cluster of buildings where
lights showed in windows and dogs barked warning of their approach. They reined
in, surveying the settlement.

 
          
"There's
a ferry," Anomius told them, "and a tavern. We've the advantage of
Sathoman for now, and I'd rest overnight—by dawn my strength will be
replenished."

 
          
"By
dawn Sathoman could be riding down that hill," Bracht objected, "and
I'd not lose our advantage."

 
          
The
diminutive sorcerer raised a hand, his voice petulant as he said, "I am
not accustomed to riding and I'd take my leisure here."

           
"And I'd cross," said the
Kern.

 
          
"Tomorrow,"
said Anomius, hand moving to point at Bracht, "and I'd not argue with
you."

 
          
Calandryll
heard the threat in his voice and thought of the men who had gone down to that
strange fire that burst from the warlock's fingers. He edged his horse between
them, sending Bracht a warning glance. "A night's comfort is
tempting," he said, "and surely Sathoman cannot catch up so
fast."

 
          
"A
diplomat," Anomius complimented, and turned an oily smile on Bracht.
"Come, my friend, what's one night? We'll sleep here and cross at dawn.
And I'll ensure Sathoman cannot cross after us."

 
          
Bracht
glanced at Calandryll, then shmgged. "So be it; but we leave at first
light."

 
          
"Good,"
Anomius murmured, favoring the Kem with a watery look as he lowered his hand,
"such questers as we should not argue. I'll arrange our quarters and leave
the horses to you—you've more experience of such matters."

 
          
He
rode imperiously into the courtyard of the inn, where the dogs set up a racket at
his arrival. He looked at them as he had looked at Bracht and pointed a finger:
yelping, the dogs turned tail and ran.

 
          
"He'd
likely have done worse to you," Calandryll remarked as they watched the
little man drop from his horse. "We'd best remember that."

 
          
"Or
leave him behind," the Kem grunted.

 
          
"How?"
Calandryll gestured at the ferry lying idle on the riverbank. "He'll know
if we attempt to cross and use his magic against us."

 
          
"Then
when we can," Bracht said.

 
          
"Yes,
when we can," Calandryll agreed, "but let him use his powers to aid
us first. Let him set this spell to ward our trail and then we'll flee his
company at the first opportunity."

 
          
Bracht
grunted reluctant assent and they led the horses to the stable. A youthful
ostler appeared, eyeing them with open curiosity.

 
          
"Are
you ek'Hennem men?" he asked nervously. "Word's out the rebel lord's
abroad up there."

 
          
His
eyes rose to the rim of the plateau, tinged red with the rays of the setting
sun.
Tinged red,
Calandryll thought,
with blood.
He said,
"No. We're honest travelers in search of beds; no more."

 
          
"I
thought . . ." the youth grinned apologetically. "You've the look of
warriors, the both of you."

 
          
Bracht
chuckled and tossed him a coin. "Rub them down," he ordered as they
pulled their gear from the saddles. "Carefully. And feed them oats."

 
          
The
boy nodded, gathering the reins as they crossed the yard, watched by the dogs
linking warily by the veranda.

 
          
Inside,
the tavern was pleasantly cool, unlit logs piled in the hearth, empty save for
Anomius and the owner, a fat man, the purpled veins on nose and cheeks
attesting to his fondness for his own wares. He brought them tankards of dark
ale, lingering by their table, curious as the stable boy, but less easily
satisfied.

 
          
"You've
come from Kesham-vaj?" he asked.

 
          
"Indeed
we have."

 
          
Anomius's
response was swift and amiable, accompanied by a hooding of his pale eyes that
clearly warned his companions against speaking up.

 
          
"Heard
there's trouble up there. Heard Sathoman ek'Hennem's gone to war."

 
          
"From
whom?"

 
          
The
landlord assumed a vague expression, hands wiping absently on his stained
apron. "Folks," he shrugged. "Folks say he's raised an army and
plans to take the Fayne. Not that he doesn't own it already. More or
less."

 
          
"And
how do you feel about such a claim?"

 
          
"He's
welcome to it." The landlord studied them as if weighing where their
sympathies lay. "His father was Lord of the Fayne and he's that right by
blood.
Battle
of the Stone Field or no."

 
          
Anomius
smiled pleasantly.

 
          
"Of
course, the Tyrant feels different," the man continued, encouraged by the
wizard's smile, "and I've heard he's got an army marching against
Sathoman. The lictor was out of Bhalusteen this week past, talking about
raising levies."

 
          
"Successfully?"

 
          
The
landlord answered the question with a wink, a finger to veined nose.

 
          
"Down
here we mind our own business. The Tyrant wants to go to war with Sathoman, let
them fight it out themselves, we say. The Tyrant's got his warlocks to call
on—why'd he need ordinary folk?"

 
          
"Does
Sathoman not employ a wizard?" Anomius asked, his parchment features
radiating innocent curiosity.

 
          
"That
he does, and a mighty powerful one, I've heard." The answer spread
Anomius's smile wider across his face. "They say he's a giant. He breathes
flame and fights with a huge ax and magic, both. If you came by way of Kesham-
vaj you're lucky you didn't cross his path. You did say you came that
way?"

 
          
"We
did. But there was no sign of fighting—the town was quiet."

 
          
"Just
shows, doesn't it?" the landlord remarked, shaking
nis
head. "Rumors get started and folk
start worrying about nothing. I saw you three come in and I began to wonder if
you weren't ek'Hennem men, looking the way you do. No offense, friends."

 
          
"Nor
any taken," the wizard smiled. "We're merely travelers. I hope to
conduct business in Nhur-jabal and these are my bodyguards."

 
          
The
landlord nodded, eyeing Bracht and Calandryll.

 
          
"Well,
they look tough enough—and if they brought you safe across the Fayne, they must
be good at their work. You saw no sign of Sathoman?"

 
          
"None.
Perhaps he lurks in Fayne Keep, awaiting the Tyrant's army."

 
          
"Be
hard to winkle him out from that fortress. Still, if there is an army on its
way I should turn a coin or two."

 
          
"Indeed,"
Anomius murmured, "and more from us if you've baths to offer. We'd wash
the trail away and spend the night. In the morning we'll need the ferry."

 
          
"I've
rooms and baths, and the ferry crosses at dawn." The fat man's chins
wobbled as he nodded, inquiries diverted by the prospect of profit. "And I
can oner you a better meal than anything in Kesham-vaj. With a fine selection
of wines, too."

 
          
"I
knew," Anomius said, beaming at Calandryll and Bracht, "that this
would be the place to pass the night."

 
          
"Only
place between Kesham-vaj and Bhalusteen," the landlord chuckled,
"unless you want a bed in some forester's cottage."

 
          
He
removed himself then, bustling off to arrange their baths and the meal.
Anomius's smile faded as he left, a frown creasing his sallow brow.

 
          
"If
there's truth in his story," he murmured, "we must avoid this army.
The Tyrant will send sorcerers, and sorcerers will recognize me for one of
their own."

 
          
"A
fire-breathing giant?" Bracht asked, his voice bland. "An
ax-wielder?"

 
          
"Rumors
have their uses," the wizard responded, ignoring the freesword's mocking
tone. "But another mage will know me on the instant; and ranked against
several, even I might lose the battle. We must avoid this army— if it does
exist."

 
          
"It
must surely march from Nhur-jabal," Calandryll suggested, "and
there's but the one road suitable to so large a force. How can we avoid it when
we must pass through Nhur-jabal to reach Kharasul? Unless you use magic."

 
          
"How
so?" asked Anomius. "The very use must reveal me."

 
          
"Lord
Varent used a spell by which he traveled on the instant," Calandryll said.
"Unseen from one place to another."

 
          
Anomius
sniffed noisily, lips downtumed.

 
          
"The
occult talent manifests in many guises," he returned, "and no mage
possesses exactly the same powers as another. My own skill—as you've seen—is
for aggressive magic. From what you've said of this Varent, I'd hazard a guess
his talent is defensive—likely the reason he hesitated to pursue the grimoire
himself. No, I cannot transport us to Kharasul by occult means."

 
          
"Then
we must ride careful," Bracht offered.

 
          
"And
beware the Tyrant's puppets," Anomius nodded, turning to smile at
Calandryll, "for they'll sense the power in that stone our young friend
wears as readily as they sense mine. And he'll suffer the same fate."

 
          
"But
I'm no mage," Calandryll protested.

 
          
"But
you have a latent talent," insisted the wizard, "and they'll see it
in you and offer you the choice I rejected: lifelong service to the Tyrant or
immediate execution."

 
          
Calandryll
frowned, both alarmed and intrigued by the wizard's statement. Bracht had made
the same suggestion, back on the
Sea Dancer
after the waterspout had
taken the warboat, and he had rejected it. Now, for the second time, Anomius
had told him he possessed occult talent; and now, even though he was unsure he
agreed, and had not an inkling of how to employ such talent if it did exist, it
seemed the very suspicion must put him at risk. He turned to the wizard, about
to question him, but the landlord appeared again, forestalling such potentially
dangerous conversation.

 
          
The
bowls of soup set before them served as well as his presence to curtail any
discussion. The rich, gamy odor reminding them all of hunger so that they ate
in silence, concentrating on the food. Trout fresh from the river followed, and
then thick steaks of venison, finally wild strawberries, all washed down with
wine that was, as the fat man had promised, of excellent vintage. Folk from the
little settlement came in as they ate, respecting their privacy until they had finished,
but then plying them with questions as to the affairs of the Fayne. Calandryll
and Bracht were content to play the parts assigned them by Anomius, leaving the
mage to answer, learning more of the affairs of Kandahar as they sipped wine,
listening.