Dark Magic (60 page)

“How shall you find him on the Jesseryn Plain?” asked Morraeh, his face twisting in disgust as he added, “What if he takes another’s body there?”

“Ahrd willing, we shall emerge from the Cuan na’Dru ahead of him, and it seems the shape-shifting takes time and effort. I think he’ll hold the form of Daven Tyras for a while, and so we’ll recognize him.” Calandryll paused, frowning as an unwelcome thought crossed his mind, and said hesitantly, “Though without the aid of the ghost-talkers to the north to warn us where he goes, we must guess at his path.”

“Does he look to reach the Jesseryn Plain, there are few enough descents into the Kess Imbrun,” offered
Dachan. “And only one convenient to the path he seems to take.”

“The Daggan Vhe,” murmured Bracht, amplifying as Calandryll’s eyes flashed a question, “the Blood Road—where the warriors of Cuan na’For met the last invasion of the Jesserytes.”

“Then we’d best ride hard for the Daggan Vhe,” Calandryll said.

Bracht nodded and turned to Dachan: “In this your offer of help would be useful.”

“Name it,” said the ketoman.

“Food to see us through to the next camp, and one good horse apiece,” Bracht asked, adding for Calandryll’s benefit, “our supplies we can distribute, so no one animal is overburdened. We ride one, leading the fresher mount. That way we shall travel faster.”

Calandryll voiced agreement, and a request of his own: “An escort, too. Of warriors who know those Jehenne sent with Daven Tyras—against the possibility that Rhythamun ensorcels them and sends them back to oppose us. To the edgewoods of the Cuan na’Dru, at least.”

“Pray Ahrd no ni Larrhyn need raise sword against kin,” Dachan murmured, “but aye, you shall have all that. When shall you depart?”

Calandryll glanced toward the wagon’s entrance, suddenly aware the last of the night had passed as they talked, that between the curtains there stood a band of light, herald of the burgeoning day. He looked to Bracht and Katya, who nodded as he said, “Now.”

Dachan, in turn, nodded, barking orders that sent warriors hurrying from the wagon. Katya said, “I’d bathe, if we’ve time. I’ve the feeling it shall be long ere we enjoy that comfort again.”

“Swift, though,” Bracht warned. “We bathe and eat, then we’re on our way.”

“I’d accompany you,” Morrach announced, “save I fear my talents should prove more danger than aid.”

“Better you remain for that reason,” Calandryll
agreed, smiling, that there be no sting in his words. “And you’ve messages to send, besides. Nor, I suspect, is Nevyn’s head yet sound enough for hard riding.”

“Aye,” Nevyn answered, grinning. “There’s truth in that.”

“We shall pray to Ahrd,” promised Morrach. “That he ward you, and grant you success.”

“Our thanks, then.” Calandryll rose, bowing. “And farewell.”

He quit the wagon, Bracht and Katya at his back, the Lykard crowding round separating to grant them passage, with awe-filled eyes and shouts of good wishes. They went to the stream, bathing hastily, and emerged from the shelters to find breakfast awaiting them, and Dachan with their own horses, saddled and ready, with three spare mounts, those, too, saddled, and all the bags filled.

“I’ve chosen twenty to side you,” the headman advised them as they ate. “All know the warriors Jehenne sent, and they’ve my orders to obey you. Be it needful, then they’ll slay the others.”

“Ahrd willing, it shall not come to that,” said Bracht.

“I’ve the feeling Rhythamun runs now,” said Calandryll, “and likely won’t spend time holding warriors to his geas.”

Dachan nodded, his lean face expressing the hope Calandryll spoke true. “I’d ride with you myself,” he said, “but with Jehenne only recently dead, I had best remain here.”

Calandryll swallowed a last mouthful of bread and smiled. “You do enough already,” he told the Lykard. “And you’ve our thanks for that.”

“One thing more,” Bracht asked, standing. “I’d send word to my parents that I live, and that the feud is dead.”

“It shall be done,” promised Dachan, clasping them each in turn by the hand. “The ni Errhyn shall know.
Ahrd, once the bards are done composing, all Cuan na’For shall know! The god go with you, my friends.”

“And with you,” Bracht said, and grinned at his companions, fiercely. “So, do we ride? We’ve a mage to meet.”

N
OW
Calandryll learned, truly, what it meant to ride fast. Without need to husband their horses’ strength, or avoid contact with the Lykard, they sped across the grasslands. Where before they had alternated their pace, cantering at times, but as often moving at no more than a trot, now they held to a steady canter, each with a riderless mount in tow. As one animal tired, so they transferred to the other, back and forth, as would, Bracht explained, a warband striking into hostile territory. They ate and drank in the saddle, thundering remorselessly northward, sending herds of wild horses scattering from their path, the dog packs running yelping from so large a group. They slowed only when the sun set, rendering the footing treacherous, and then proceeded at a fast walk until full night fell and they made camp, dining on the ample provisions Dachan had provided. At first light they went on, and in two days reached the next camp, sighting the wagons clustered in the lee of a small hurst just as the sun sank beneath the western horizon.

They were welcomed there, with respect and curiosity, and brought before the ketoman, Vachyr, and the drachomannii, of whom there were two, Dewin and Pryth. These confirmed that word had come from Morrach and Nevyn, warning of Rhythamun’s gramaryes, and that it had been passed on. Of the sorcerer who wore the form of Daven Tyras, they could say no more than that he had gone through the camp long days earlier, and that none of his escort had returned.

They slept the night in Vachyr’s camp and rode out as it woke, continuing for five days before coming on a group of the ni Brhyn led by a warrior named Ranach. Here, too, they were made welcome, fed and
offered the use of the headman’s wagon, Rachan embarrassed by his familial connection with Daven Tyras. This camp numbered three ghost-talkers—Ovad, Telyr, and a woman named Rochanne—who reported much as had Dewin and Pryth: that none of their kind had sensed further interference in the aethyr, nor knew where Rhythamun was now. It seemed that the sorcerer had disappeared, for since that last sighting in the ni Brhyn camp none had encountered him, neither in Lykard territory nor Valan. Indeed, after possessing Morrach, he looked to have disappeared from the face of the world.

“Surely he’s not yet reached the Kess Imbrun,” Bracht said as they sat by Rachan’s fire.

“Save he employ sortilege, no,” said Rochanne. “Through use of magic, he might; but it would seem he prefers to travel in human form.”

“Stolen form,” grunted Ovad, his lined face sour with distaste.

“He told me once that he was able to transport himself through use of magic,” Calandryll offered. “But only did he know his destination.”

“The gharan-evur are limited by their choice,” said Telyr. “A mage with the power to work that spell could readily assume a form that might travel faster than can a man—become a bird, a horse—but does he shed the body of Daven Tyras, then he becomes trapped in his new shape until he finds another.”

“And to take that requires time,” Katya murmured.

“Aye.” Telyr favored the Vanu woman with a curious glance. “You know something of this.”

“The holy men of my country told me something of it,” she replied. “But I know only that the shape-shifter must become familiar with his victim before he may affect the possession.”

“He spent time with Daven Tyras,” Calandryll said.

“And so will likely hold that form,” Telyr declared.
“To take the form of a beast would be easy—to shed it, far harder.”

“Magic’s worked easier by men,” agreed Ovad. “I believe hell hold the body he has until he finds one more useful to him.”

“What of his own?” asked Calandryll, remembering the image that had formed as Rhythamun’s animus quit Morrach’s body. “In Dachan’s camp I saw his face.”

“You saw his pneuma,” answered Telyr. “The face of his spirit.”

“The gharan-evur forsake their natural form,” Rochanne expanded. “Their physical being is left behind when they work their filthy magicks. What you saw was Rhythamun’s true face, revealed in the aethyr.”

Ovad spat into the fire, clearly finding such discussion unpleasant. “Rhythamun exists only as pneuma,” he said. “As an elemental force—a spirit. The body he was born with is long gone into dust, so what physical shape he has is that of his latest victim.”

“So most likely he’ll remain Daven Tyras,” said Calandryll thoughtfully. “Until he finds another—likely some luckless Jesseryte.”

“Aye.” Ovad nodded. “I’d guess it so.”

His two fellow ghost-talkers voiced their agreement; Calandryll said, “Then it must be as I thought—he avoids the camps.”

“Guessing we’re alert to his gramaryes,” said Telyr. “Aye, I’d reckon it so.”

“Then we’ve still an advantage.” Calandryll looked to Bracht, smiling tightly. “He’ll not have reached the Kess Imbrun yet, not traveling in human form.”

Bracht ducked his head, returning the smile; like a wolf, Calandryll thought, scenting its quarry on the wind.

“And he must eat,” the Kern said, glancing at the three ghost-talkers. “No?”

“Daven Tyras must eat,” Telyr confirmed.

“And none to feed him,” Bracht said, musing. “All the camps warned against him, closed against him.”

“By now every ghost-talker in Cuan na’For will know what he is,” said Rochanne. “Hell find no welcome betwixt the Gann Peaks and the Kess Imbrun, nor from the Eastern Sea to the Valt.”

Bracht’s smile grew wider. “I wonder then,” he said softly, “what the men with him make of their sudden outlawry.”

“Dera, aye!” Calandryll gasped. “I’d not thought of that. Might they turn against him?”

“Do they attempt to enter a camp, they’ll learn what he is,” said Telyr, “and save he binds them with magicks, they’ll go against him. No warrior of Cuan na’For would side with the gharan-evur.”

“Nor are likely to overcome him,” grunted the skeptical Ovad. “A warlock such as you’ve described could slay six with ease.”

“And take the shape of one,” said Rochanne.

“But still with need to eat,” Bracht said. “And consequently slowed by his need to hunt.”

“And does Ahrd grant us passage through the Cuan na’Dru,” Calandryll said, “then we may well emerge ahead of him. We can reach the Daggan Vhe before he does, and so—even does he wear a new face—we need but halt the single man attempting to reach the Jesseryn Plain.”

“He’d not attempt the same passage?” Katya wondered. “You’re sure of that?”

“The Gruagach would never grant him entry,” Rochanne said in a tone of utter conviction. “And I’d doubt me even such a mage as Rhythamun could defeat them. No, it’s my belief he’ll look to skirt the forest.”

“All rests with Ahrd, it seems,” said Telyr, “and the Gruagach.”

Bracht glanced at his hands then, and Calandryll thought that upon his comrade’s face he saw a flicker of doubt, but the Kern’s voice was firm as he said, “If
the god’s green sap truly runs in my veins, then surely they must aid us,”

“You can but attempt it,” Telyr murmured.

“Aye.” Bracht ducked his head, his smile resolute. “That we shall.”

“And we pray for you,” Rochanne promised.

T
HEY
left that camp as early mist skirled among the alders of the hurst, soon burned off by a sun that heralded the beginnings of summer. They held pace as before, league after league consumed beneath the pounding hooves, racing steadily northward, toward the Cuan na’Dru. For days they traveled through an empty, sun-washed landscape, and then, as they broke camp one morning, they saw stormheads build great grey cloud castles in the sky to the north. By mid-morning their pace was slowed by driving rain, thunder booming, the grass beaten down under the onslaught. The streams they forded were angry, swollen by the downpour and foaming, but still, driven by the urgency of the quest, they rode as swift they might, reluctant to concede the slightest advantage to their quarry.

It seemed now they had, for the first time, a genuine chance to gain on Rhythamun, to beat him to the Kess Imbrun and take the Arcanum from him. How they should do that, Calandryll was not sure, and did not much welcome the time the storm afforded him for such contemplation. The cloudburst transformed the sunny grasslands to a dark and miserable vista, locked in a gloomy twilight punctuated only by the stark scintillation of lightning, driving thoughts inward as frustration at this slowing of their progress grew. He endeavored to push doubt from his mind, but it was as though the suddenly dismal landscape, the seemingly endless curtain of water that flooded down, forced unwilling introspection on him. That Ahrd’s strange guardians should allow them passage through the Cuan na’Dru he did not doubt; every
ghost-talker he had spoken with was of the same opinion: that Bracht’s failed crucifixion marked him as one favored by the god. And had Burash not come to save them from the Chaipaku and bring them swifter than any dared hope across the Narrow Sea? And Dera appeared on the road to Gannshold, to set that power in his blade that could overcome magic? Perhaps that, he thought, was the answer: that he should face Rhythamun in combat, his goddess-blessed sword against the sorcerer’s fell thaumaturgy.

The thought frightened him. That he realized as a great peel of thunder echoed across the sky and his horse danced in alarm. Rhythamun’s power he had seen, and for all the mage’s gramaryes had not yet succeeded in defeating him, or in halting the quest, still he felt the stirrings of raw terror at the prospect of confronting the warlock in open fight.

Faith, he told himself, as he urged the nervous horse on. The Younger Gods are on our side, and surely we must win.

Surely . . . But in his heart, deep, there lingered a doubt he could not entirely snuff out.

No matter; he wiped rain from his eyes, knowing that he had no choice. Even should he die in that battle, he was committed. To turn from it was unthinkable, would unman him. Bracht had not turned from the crossing of Cuan na’For, for all it held the threat of dreadful death; and Katya had exiled herself from all she knew to pursue their goal. His determination, then, could be no weaker. Onward in faith, he told himself. To the Cuan na’Dru and beyond, to the Kess Imbrun. To the aptly named Blood Road, where, perhaps, all this long quest should end.