Dark Magic (3 page)

“So it is done,” Lykander said, “and you are bound to fealty. Raise cantrip or demon against us, or the Tyrant,
or any who serve him and you condemn yourself to unpleasant death.”

Anomius nodded calmly and asked, “And my powers? When shall you restore them?”

Lykander’s round face was bland as he asked, “Think you we shall?”

The question elicited a rattling laugh from the filthy figure. “You bring me up from the darkness,” Anomius said, “and for that you must have some reason . . .”

“Perhaps we bring you to the executioner,” Cenobar interrupted, then swallowed, taken aback by the look of sheer contempt Anomius flung his way.

“I think not. I think you have at last seen what I saw long ago, and so you must restore me what you took.”

“Which is?” Cenobar demanded, seeking to reassert himself.

“That I made Sathoman ek’Hennem,” Anomius declared harshly, “and that only I may undo him. That without my aid your Tyrant—and you!—shall likely lose all Kandahar to the Fayne Lord. Ergo, you must restore my power.”

Cenobar opened his mouth to speak again, but Lykander forestalled him: “And shall you aid us?”

“Have I a choice?”

Anomius studied the moon-faced mage with lithic calm. Lykander ducked his head and said softly, “Aye—you may refuse and die.”

“I am not so great a fool.”

The same contempt that had irked Cenobar washed over Lykander. He said, “I have never believed you a fool. A turncoat, yes; a venomous worm inflamed by mad ambition, yes. But not a fool.”

“Then you already know my answer.” Anomius smiled. “Now bring me out of this foul place and give me wine and food, and after I am satisfied we may speak of civil war and victory.”

It seemed almost that he commanded, the Tyrant’s sorcerers moving to his bidding, for they parted on his
word and motioned him toward the stairs where the gaolers watched in awe, the torches they held trembling as the pale blue eyes swung toward them.

“I am weakened,” Anomius murmured, “and I doubt I may climb those steps unaided. Do you give me your arm?”

Swift, his hand clamped upon Cenobar’s wrist. The younger mage jerked back as though the hand were a serpent, his fine lips curling in distaste. Anomius smiled satisfaction. Lykander said, “Lend him your strength, Cenobar,” and strode ponderously toward the stairs. Cenobar fell into step behind, assuming a blank expression, though fury burned in his dark eyes. Behind them, the rest formed an almost ceremonious procession as they climbed up from the crypt.

T
HEY
brought Anomius to that part of the citadel given over to them, an inner sanctum redolent of their magicks, to a chamber where great panes of leaded glass revealed bright stars, the moon a silver crescent like white fire glimpsed through slit velvet. A generous fire burned in a stone hearth and heavy rugs covered the flagstones. Glass-encased lanterns shed warm yellow light over walls of polished wood and a circular table patterned with cabbalistic signs, large enough to seat three times their number. Cenobar saw Anomius settled in a cushioned chair and ostentatiously brushed at his sleeve. Anomius lounged back, no less ostentatiously waiting. Lykander tapped a bronze gong and while the single note yet hung in the air, a servant appeared.

“Do you have some preference?” the fat wizard asked sarcastically.

Anomius probed a nostril a moment and said, “Good red wine; that quickly. Roasted meat—venison, I think. Or beef. Perhaps a salmagundy; and fresh bread. After, a compote.”

Lykander nodded to the servant, gesturing for his fellows to seat themselves. They all took chairs separated
by some distance from Anomius, studying him with mixed expression across the great table. He in turn stared back, none of his confidence lost, but rather seeming to wax with each passing moment. After a while Lykander said, “So you foresaw that we should free you? Albeit in limited fashion?”

“I hardly thought you’d set me loose to wander Kandahar.” Anomius paused as the servant brought in a decanter of crystal and a single glass. “You do not drink with me?” He filled the glass as Lykander shook his head. “No matter. Aye, I divined that you must eventually come begging my aid.”

“Begging?” snapped Cenobar.

“Asking, does it suit your pride better,” Anomius returned, and drank deep, smacking his lips. “Aye, that I foresaw. You need me to undo those magicks I laid that have surely brought Sathoman close to victory. To achieve that end you must give me back my power. I suggest you do that now.”

“Eat first,” Lykander said, “and talk. You must understand our need of caution in this matter.”

“Oh, yes,” said Anomius, wine-flushed beneath his grime. “But of what shall we talk? The defeating of Sathoman? I’ll aid you in that.”

“So readily?” asked Lykander.

Anomius raised a hand, turning it so that firelight and starlight alternated on the black metal. “I am bound to serve you,” he said. “That, or—as you so delicately pointed out—die. I prefer to live: I have things to do of my own purpose.”

For a moment his confident expression shifted, his ugly face contorting, becoming a mask of unsullied rage.

“And what,” Lykander said, “might those things be?”

“I was betrayed.” As swiftly as it had come, so the rage bled from his face. “And I would have my revenge. You need not concern yourselves—it is not a thing that coincides with the Tyrant’s desire to rid
himself of Sathoman. In that I shall lend you all my efforts; but in return I’ll have your help.”

“Unwise,” said Cenobar, echoed by Rassuman and Andrycus.

“Refuse and I choose death,” Anomius said, extending both wrists to expose the confining bracelets. “Burash! Do you so doubt yourselves that you still fear me while I wear these things?”

“You may not leave this place, save accompanied by two of us,” Lykander declared. “You will do our bidding. The consequences of treachery you know—do you accept these strictures?”

“I anticipated no others.”

Anomius beamed as servants came in with a platter of roasted venison and the other foods he had requested. He began to eat, grease joining the dirt upon his face and his robe. The sorcerers watched in silence, granting Lykander the role of spokesman.

“Then your powers shall be restored,” the fat mage promised. “After you have eaten. Perhaps after you have bathed?”

“The restoration first,” Anomius grunted, the words spraying particles over the table. “Then the bath. With perfumed oils and women to tend my needs. A comfortable bed, and robes suitable to my station. After all, do I not become a power in Kandahar? One of you?”

The faces across the marquety displayed offense at this, but none gave argument. Lykander promised, “Those things you may have; now tell me of this other thing, of this revenge you seek.”

Anomius broke bread to wipe up gravy, belched loudly and downed more wine.

“I’d seek out two men,” he said, his voice grown cold. “A freesword of Cuan na’For who goes by the name of Bracht, and a Lyssian youth named Calandryll den Karynth. They were in my company when you took me, and I suspect they escaped along the Shemme—they sought transport to Gessyth, so Kharasul was their likely destination.”

“Were they your acolytes?” Lykander demanded.

“No!” Anomius shook his head. “They were treacherous dogs and I’d see them dead. It was their trickery gave you me.”

“Duped by mere mortals?” Cenobar murmured, smiling as Anomius favored him with a poisonous glare.

“Do they threaten our . . . alliance . . . it may not be,” said Lykander.

“They play no part in the affairs of Kandahar,” Anomius returned. “This matter is a personal thing—but do you refuse me, then we have no alliance and Sathoman shall run free.”

“Assurances must be given,” Lykander said.

“Readily,” Anomius agreed. “I’ll open my mind to you and you shall see this thing poses no threat to your precious Tyrant.”

Lykander ducked his head, chins spreading over his chest. “And what help do you need of us?” he wondered.

“A fresh-slain body,” Anomius answered, pushing aside the emptied platter of venison and reaching for the salmagundy. “Of preference undamaged, a man or woman in their prime. A strong body to become my hound.”

“A revenant?”

Cenobar’s dark features paled and beside him Andrycus gasped; Rassuman shaped a gesture of warding. Even Lykander’s plump lips pursed in disgust.

“It were best I attend the slaying,” Anomius said, undeterred. “Or even perform the act myself, but the corpse must be fresh.”

“If these two roam Kandahar they may be found,” Cenobar protested. “Their descriptions can be posted among the lictors and the legions. And they may be brought to you.”

“And do your lictors consort with Sathoman?” Anomius demanded. “Do your legions have eyes in Mherut’yi and Mhazomul and Kesham-vaj?”

No answer came and he shook his head, turning
from the salmagundy to the compote casually as if they discussed some trivial matter of etiquette. “No. What I need for this is one of my own creation.”

“You ask that we aid you in foulest blasphemy,” Cenobar cried. “Lykander, this cannot be!”

The plump wizard gave no immediate response but studied Anomius with a mixture of disgust and fascination, as if he looked on something horrifying—that very horribleness rendering it intruging.

“Necromancy is the foulest thaumaturgy,” Cenobar insisted. “Shall we stoop to dark magic merely to please this creature?”

“Would you have my aid or no?” Anomius wondered, his eyes on Lykander, unwavering. “Without this you shall have nothing of me.”

“Xenomenus bade us give him whatever he might demand,” Lykander said slowly, turning from the gaunt figure across the table to study his companions. “And I take him at his word—he’ll refuse else.”

“Xenomenus spoke of wine and wealth,” cried Cenobar. “Women or boys; not this.”

“But still Xenomenus would defeat Sathoman,” Lykander said. “And without Anomius . . .”

“He’d put all our souls in peril,” Cenobar argued.

“Surely mine alone,” Anomius murmured, licking the compote’s sugar from his lips. “And that I’ll chance.”

“Let us vote on it,” suggested Rassuman.

“Aye,” Lykander agreed, “and should the vote be ‘nay’ and he refuse to aid us, then let those who deny him advise the Tyrant.”

Faces paled then and eyes dropped, finding interest in hands and tabletop. Anomius wiped his mouth, smiling, and poured another glass. Lykander drummed fat fingers, summoning attention, and the seven sorcerers raised their heads, the voting silent, the scent of almonds brief on the warm air. In moments it was done and Lykander nodded, turning again to Anomius.

“We’d have your aid, outlaw, so you shall have
your body. But be warned—you shall be held accountable for its actions! Be they contradictory to our wishes, it and you shall burn together.”

“I ask no more,” Anomius declared.

“Then it shall be provided,” Lykander said, his voice somewhat less confident now, “and your magical powers shall be restored.”

“Excellent.” Anomius sat back, emitting another belch, his smile satisfied. “You choose well, my friend.”

“I am not your friend,” Lykander said softly.

B
ATHED
and perfumed, dressed in a robe of silver-threaded black, Anomius was a more prepossessing figure than the sorry creature extracted from the oubliette. He remained ugly and small, but the restoration of his powers invested him with an aura of strength and a semblance of dignity so that it appeared the ranks of the Tyrant’s sorcerers were augmented as the eight similarly dressed men went down into the dungeons, guided by the chief argus, impressive in his kilt and cuirass of crimson dragon hide.

That official halted, nervous, where a great vaulted hall was faced with oaken doors, all bolted. At the center of the hall stood a rack and to the side a wheel, beyond it the spike-filled bulk of the device called The Maiden. Braziers filled the place with heat, instruments hung ominous beside them, though it was the presence of the warlocks that brought sweat to the forehead of the argus.

“The common criminals lie there, masters.”

He indicated a door, hand dropping as Anomius said, “I want no common criminal. Where do you keep the worst?”

“There.” The argus indicated a second door. “Below this level are the murderers, the child-defilers, and the enemies of the Tyrant.”

“Then lead on.”

Such enthusiasm rang in the voice of the little man
that the argus darted a look his way, then averted his eyes from the anticipation he saw. He wondered what transpired: why the other seven were so uneasy; why several wore expressions of such distaste. He did not recognize Anomius, nor venture questions—beneath the Tyrant, these were the land’s greatest. He nodded dutifully and drew back the bolt.

Torches shed wan light and oily smoke over the sooted walls of a narrow stairway that descended into the rock. At the foot was a corridor flanked to either side by heavy doors, each inset with a small grille. The stench of unwashed bodies and ordure joined the perfume of the torches as the argus gestured at the first door.

“Within is one Kassium, who slew his father and mother for the pittance they owned. He is scheduled for racking.”

“A suitable candidate, I’d think,” Lykander suggested, clearly anxious to be gone from this dismal place.

“But perhaps not the most suitable,” Anomius returned. “Tell me of the others, gaoler.”

The argus shrugged and frowned, confused, and pointed to the other doors, one by one. There lay a cutthroat, next a raper of children, beyond a woman condemned as a poisoner; there a bandit, his neighbor a procurer of unwilling maidens; there one who had preached sedition, a fratricide, a handsome man grown wealthy at the expense of suffocated wives. There were numerous cells and a horrendous catalog of crimes to which Anomius listened attentively, waiting until the argus was done and then saying, “The woman—Cennaire?—tell me of her again.”

“A courtesan,” the gaoler said. “She stole the purse of an admirer and put a knife in his belly when he threatened to expose her.”

“Is she comely?” Pale blue eyes narrowed in interest. “She is not diseased?”