Dark Magic (59 page)

“When he and Nevyn communed with their fellow ghost-talkers, then Rhythamun must have learned what they did and somehow seized control of Morrach.” Calandryll gestured at the unconscious shamans, speaking in the Envah, that Katya might understand what was said. “I warned you he’s a sorcerer of terrible power. I’d wager he used a gramarye to send his spirit back, and took hold of Morrach—had him overcome his fellow and sent him to kill us. Or one of us, at least, for he said that one would suffice; that save we be three we must fail.”

“To possess a ghost-talker?” Dachan studied him a
while, troubled, seeming not yet entirely convinced. “To make Morrach his creature, his murderer?”

“I know not the way of it,” Calandryll answered, “but that he did . . . You saw his animus quit the body.”

“Aye.” Dachan shuddered at the memory.

“And Morrach urged Bracht to slay him,” pressed Calandryll. “What should you have done then?”

Dachan was silent a moment, his eyes hooded, his dark face suddenly haggard. “Likely slain you on the spot,” he said at last. “Or ordered you executed.”

“Again,” murmured Bracht, prompting a shamefaced smile from the Lykard. “Rhythamun is mightily cunning, my friend.”

“And will stop at nothing to halt us,” said Calandryll. “Though we may learn from this night’s events.”

He was about to elaborate, but a woman called out then that Nevyn woke, and all their attention turned to the shaman.

“Ahrd!” Nevyn opened bleary eyes, sitting up. “What happened?”

“Morrach sought to murder these three, or one of them.” Dachan indicated the questers. “They say he was possessed by Rhythamun.”

“Ahrd’s holy tree!” Nevyn shook his head, and groaned; a man lifted a cup to his lips and he drank, turning when he was done to observe his supine fellow. “Morrach? He lives?”

“Calandryll drove out the warlock’s spirit, or so it looked.” Dachan shrugged again, helplessly. “There is much I cannot understand.”

Nevyn raised inquiring eyes to Calandryll, who said, “My sword was blessed by Dera. She told me it should then hold power over magic, and so it does.” He shook his head as Nevyn looked again at Morrach. “No, he lives yet—I put the flat against him when I saw he was possessed.”

“He used no edge,” Dachan confirmed. “He claims this Rhythamun seized Morrach while you tranced.”

Nevyn sighed and took a compress to hold against his face. “We looked to fulfill our promise,” he murmured. “To commune with our fellows and obtain word of Rhythamun. Aye, that must be the way of it. Ahrd, but he’s powerful then!”

“Do you explain?” asked Calandryll.

Nevyn nodded, regretting the movement, wincing, and said, “We opened the way, from ghost-talker to ghost-talker, northward. Between the last of the Lykard camps and the first of the Valan there was a . . . disruption . . . a darkness that intruded. Ahrd, but that must have been Rhythamun! It grew; I remember that. And that it was . . . evil. I looked to end the contact, and when I emerged, Morrach was on his feet. I spoke to him—he struck me. After that I knew nothing, until now. Rhythamun must have possessed him, as Calandryll says.” He groaned, not now in pain, but in something close to fear. “If he can do that . . . can possess one of us . . . what can he not do?”

“He’s a powerful enemy,” Calandryll agreed. “But still we may turn this to our profit.”

“How so?”

It was Nevyn who spoke, but the question was writ clear on every face there as all turned toward him.

“We know now that he may use the ghost-talkers against us,” he said slowly. “In what he did to Morrach, he showed his hand.”

“Poor comfort, that,” Bracht murmured. “Must we then avoid all camps along our way?”

“Perhaps; perhaps not,” Calandryll replied. “Messages can be sent to warn of what Rhythamun can do, so that all the ghost-talkers of Cuan na’For are alert to his stratagems. Perhaps he has some gramarye he can employ to intercept that message, or—knowing he failed here—he’ll guess it; but I think he’ll likely avoid the camps now.”

“And ride the harder for that,” said Bracht.

“But likely without further aid,” returned Calandryll. “Knowing Daven Tyras can expect no
ready welcome, he’ll surely be forced to hide, for fear the drachomannii unite against him,”

“Which we shall,” promised Nevyn. “And now we know he’s able to insinuate his foul magicks into our minds, we can ward against him.”

Calandryll nodded, a thin smile on his lips. “You see? By revealing his power, he weakens himself. I think he must travel alone now.”

“He’s likely still the warriors Jehenne sent with him,” Dachan reminded them. “And if he can possess a ghost-talker . . .”

“He’s the use of their horses,” Bracht said. “At the least.”

“But not the hospitality of the camps,” Calandryll argued. “Even does he shift his shape again, he must ride in the form of a ni Larrhyn, no? Nevyn, once we’re gone—not earlier!—can you send word of all this?”

The shaman grunted confirmation.

“Then let word be sent,” urged Calandryll, “that all the camps beware the ni Larrhyn riders.”

“To slay them?” asked Dachan, tugging on a plait, his expression dour. “There’s little honor in that.”

“No.” Calandryll shook his head. “I’d see no more innocent folk slain for Rhythamun’s sake. Say only that they be turned back—given no aid; neither horses nor more food than they need to reach the last camp they left behind them. Do any seek to go on, then they must be Rhythamun, or his creatures. Thus, we may deny him further assistance.”

Dachan nodded; Nevyn said, “It shall be done.”

“A day, at least, after we depart,” Calandryll warned.

“And you shall have all the aid we can give,” promised Dachan. “Spare mounts, supplies, an escort—ask and it shall be yours.”

“My thanks.” Calandryll ducked his head in gratitude. “But I think there’s no need. Speed is our ally now, and packhorses will only slow us.”

“No more than hunting,” said Bracht doubtfully.

“We’ll not stop to hunt”—Calandryll’s grin stretched wider, and he chuckled, beginning to enjoy this turning of the tables—“for we’ll find our food in the camps along the way to the Cuan na’Dru.”

“With ghost-talkers likely to turn against us?”

Bract’s voice was harsh. Calandryll motioned him silent, grinning at his startled visage. “Listen,” he urged. “Rhythamun knows—for now, at least—that we are here. He knows we live still, and therefore that we shall continue after him. The ghost-talkers along the way shall be warned against him, against all of Jehenne’s warriors, but”—he raised his hand again as Bracht opened his mouth to argue further—“if the ghost-talkers we encounter seek no communication while we are in their camps, nor send any word of where we are, or where we go, Rhythamun can learn no more. At best he may discover where we’ve been, but only that.”

Bracht frowned, digesting the notion. Beside him, Katya pursed her lips and spoke for the first time.

“There’s sense in that, I agree. But what if he possesses a ghost-talker before we come on a camp? Then we might well ride into the arms of a murderer who wears the face of a friend.”

“I suspect he can only exercise his magic while the ghost-talkers employ theirs.” Calandryll looked to Nevyn for confirmation: received it in a nod, soon followed by a groaned curse. “And it looked to me that Morrach fought the gramarye. Even though Rhythamun’s magic overcame his will, still the signs were on his face. You saw his eyes?”

“They burned with madness,” Katya said softly. “As though some demon looked outward from inside his skull.”

“As did the eyes of the dire-wolf we slew,” Calandryll murmured. “I think that save he possess a man utterly, taking the body for his own, his evil shines like some fell beacon, and so must be noticed.”

“There’s more,” Nevyn said eagerly, then winced. “Ahrd, but my head hurts!”

“Can you not mend it?” asked Dachan.

“Not yet.” The shaman grinned ruefully. “Until these three are gone, I’ll not employ my powers in the least, for fear . . .” He glanced significantly at Morrach, still unconscious, and Dachan grunted his understanding. “Until then I’ll suffer. Now listen—it seems to me that Calandryll speaks sense, and you’ve no need to fear further assault from my brethren. Had Rhythamun been able to possess us both, do you not think he’d have sent me with Morrach?”

“I wondered at that,” Calandryll said. “When I saw only the one man come from the wagon.”

“Aye.” Nevyn remembered not to duck his head. “Do we not always act in concert? Is there any camp with but one of us?”

Dachan and Bract, both, shook their heads.

“Always two, at the least,” said Nevyn. “In the larger camps, three, even four sometimes; but never the one. Do you not see it? Were Rhythamun able to seize Morrach and me together, then he’d surely have sent us both about his filthy business, but he did not. Therefore, I believe he could not: he is able to possess only one.”

“Aye.” Calandryll grinned. “I see it.”

“You’ve a quick mind,” complimented Nevyn, and turned smiling to the others. “Two, at least, in each camp, and Rhythamun able to use but one of them. The closest camp to this is five days ride distant, so before our friends arrive there, word can be sent. And even does Rhythamun learn of their coming, and take possession of one ghost-talker, then surely the other must know it. Such magic cannot hide itself, but must be seen.”

“And the one possessed be taken,” said Calandryll. “Even such strength as Morrach commanded cannot stand against a whole camp.”

“Aye, he’d be held until you came,” said Nevyn, smiling. “And do you use your blessed sword again, the gramarye shall be expelled.”

“So we may ride free,” said Calandryll.

“Save he dream up some other kind of obstacle,” Bracht muttered.

“As doubtless he will,” Calandryll retorted, chuckling, pleased with himself now. “But shall that sway us?”

“No,” said Bracht firmly, and began himself to chuckle. “In Ahrd’s name, it shall not!”

“Morrach wakes.”

The woman’s voice recalled their attention to the second ghost-talker and all fixed a wary gaze on the shaman. Nevyn, with a grunt of discomfort, knelt at his side; Calandryll drew his sword, a precaution. Morrach’s lips parted to emit a sound part sigh, part moan, and his eyes fluttered open, blinked, and then flung wide as he cried out, his shout filled with loathing. Nevyn took him by the shoulders, speaking softly, urgently, in their own language, and Morrach whimpered, clinging to his fellow as does a child awakening from a nightmare cling to its father. For a while Morrach trembled, his teeth rattling, his long face drawn, his eyes glazed, seeming to search inside himself. Then, slowly, his shuddering eased and ceased, he clenched his teeth, took a long, deep breath that whistled out like a hymn of thanks, and raised his head.

“Ahrd be with me.” He stared around, drinking in the sight of the familiar wagon, the familiar faces. “Is there wine?”

A man filled a cup and the shaman drank it down greedily, wiped his mouth, and passed it back, rising to prop himself against the wagon’s side.

“Ahrd be with me,” he repeated, in the Envah now, “and grant I never more know such horror. Better you cut me down.”

“Better you live,” Nevyn said. “As do you, thanks to Calandryll and the goddess Dera.”

Morrach stared at Calandryll’s blade, a hand extending, almost reluctantly, to touch the steel. When all his wary fingers found was cold metal, he sighed, essaying a tentative smile.

“You’ve my thanks for that. Ahrd! I looked to murder you.”

“Rhythamun looked to murder me,” returned Calandryll. “Or any one of us.”

Morrach nodded and said, “I know. I felt him in me.” He shuddered at the memory, his eyes hollow, and turned his face to Nevyn. “Are you bad hurt, my brother?”

“A sore head,”—Nevyn smiled—“no more.”

“Praise Ahrd for that,” murmured Morrach. “And none others came to harm?”

“None,” confirmed Nevyn. “Now do you tell us what you know?”

Morrach’s eyes said that he had sooner forget, but he ducked his head in agreement and said, “We tranced. We spoke with Tennad of the ni Brhyn, and as we spoke there came a darkness—a fell clouding of the aethyr, as if some malign thing invaded—that came into me.”

He broke off, shuddering anew at the recollection. Nevyn murmured for more wine and passed him the cup, waiting as his fellow drank. Morrach drained the cup and held it in both hands, tight, his knuckles tensing white as he continued.

“I knew it for Rhythamun’s animus—I fought against it, but it was too powerful. Ahrd, but it was strong! It overcame me. I became its puppet! I saw you knew and struck you down. Forgive me. I left you, not caring whether you lived or died, and went seeking these three.” He released his grip on the cup just long enough to gesture at the questers. “I—or Rhythamun, in me—thought to find them sleeping. To slit all their throats, or as many as I might. But then Calandryll came at me and we fought; and then all three were there, and I heard myself call for Bracht to slay me, the animus thinking that did he put his sword in me, Dachan would command him slain and thus their quest be ended. That there are three is important—Rhythamun knows that, that there must be three. Then Calandryll touched me with his sword
and I . . . Ahrd, but I knew pain then! It was like fire in my veins.” He stared in wonder at the blade, shaking his head and smiling. “Cleansing fire, for even as I burned, I felt the animus quit me. The next I knew, I was here.”

“Praise Ahrd you wake entire,” said Nevyn.

“Praise Ahrd—praise Dera!—Calandryll bears such a sword,” said Morraeh. “And that he had the wit to use it as he did. A slower-minded man would have cut me down.”

Calandryll sheathed the blade then, confident now that Rhythamun’s fell gramarye was utterly dispelled. “He sought to use you,” he said. “But he overreached himself.”

Swiftly, Nevyn explained all they had discussed, and when he was done, Morraeh nodded, smiling firmer. “Aye,” he declared, “it must surely spin fate’s wheel against him. What shall he do now, think you?”

“He travels ever northward, toward the Jesseryn Plain,” Calandryll replied. “The god, Horul, rules there, and so it’s an unlikely site for Tharn’s tomb. More probably, he looks to cross the plain and the Borrhun-maj, too. It’s our belief the Mad God lies beyond.”