Dark Magic (44 page)

“Something must be there,” Katya said, fingering her saber.

Bracht grunted, eyeing the gloomy passage. “Save we spend two days or more riding these hills to the main pass, we’ve no choice but to enter.” His voice, like his expression, was dour. “And the light will be gone ere long.”

Calandryll looked skyward and saw the Kern was right: the sun lay close to the western peaks; soon the defile would lie in total darkness. He felt a great reluctance to attempt the passage by night.

“Perhaps we should camp here and go through when the sun stands high.” He glanced at Bracht, at Katya, awaiting their response.

“Does anything malign lurk within, then likely it will emerge by darkness”—Bracht shook his head— “and here shall be no safer than there.”

“And time is our enemy,” Katya said, though with no great enthusiasm. “To find the other pass will delay us too long.”

And perhaps the other pass is guarded
, Calandryll thought, then promptly wondered why that word guarded sprang so readily to mind. Perhaps, he decided, because their way had been so far untroubled, unopposed. They had crossed Lysse without hindrance, quit Gannshold without obstruction. Perhaps it had been too easy. It was an uncomforting thought and he answered with a reluctant nod when Bracht said, “I think we have little choice.”

“But wary,” cautioned Katya.

“Aye,” the Kern agreed, and turned to Calandryll again. “Do you sense aught of magic here?”

Calandryll sniffed the air. Horse sweat, pine scent, stone, and the mounting chill were all his nostrils found and he shook his head.

“Mayhap the Lykard slaughtered some beast,” Bracht murmured, “and the smell of blood unnerves the horses.”

“Your stallion, too?” asked Katya, and Bracht grunted a negative.

“We must lead them,” he said, “and carry torches. If some beast haunts the way, flame will likely drive it off.”

For no reason he could properly justify, Calandryll felt the certainty that whatever waited within the cleft was no mere beast to be frightened by flaming brands; but even so, it seemed, as Bracht had said, that little choice was left them: he joined the Kern in gathering branches, fashioning the sappy pine into stout flambeaux.

On Bracht’s command they sacrificed a blanket to the making of blindfolds, that they secured over the horses’ eyes. The reins were given into Katya’s hands, her protests overridden by the Kern, who pointed out that of them all, he was the most adept with a blade, and that Calandryll’s sword was blessed by Dera, and thus—were the unknown obstacle of sorcerous origin—likely their most effective weapon.

So it was that the two men went first into the defile, falchion and straightsword unsheathed, torches flaming in their left hands, Katya following some little way behind, cursing softly in the Vanu tongue as she struggled with the still-unwilling animals.

The air inside the cut was cold, the walls high and smooth, cutting off the sun even though the sky above remained blue. Calandryll realized he sweated as moisture chilled on his face and chest. He thought the beating of his heart must surely pound loud enough to be heard over the sputtering of the torches; his mouth was dry, and on the nape of his neck he felt the short hairs prickle. He held his torch forward, his sword at the ready, eyes probing the gloom ahead.

It seemed little affected by the light of the flambeaux, as if unnatural darkness held sway between the confining walls, and he was grateful for Bracht’s presence. The Kern stepped resolutely out, his hawkish features lit red by the flames, his eyes narrowed in a grim visage, frowning as his nostrils flared, like a cautious animal testing the air. He glanced briefly at Calandryll, raised brows framing a silent question,
and Calandryll nodded: through the piny odor of the torches he caught the scent of almonds.

Then that brief warning was overcome with another, a foul, charnel-house reek, as if flesh corrupted, its decay wafting thick along the cut, rotten and ripe so that he gagged, spitting.

“Magic!” he heard Bracht shout, what confirming answer he might have given stilled in his throat by the dreadful roar that gusted out on the Kern’s cry.

It bellowed, echoing deafeningly off the stone, dinning ferociously against their eardrums, drowning the screaming of the blindfolded horses, Katya’s yell. The sound of it seemed to magnify the darkness so that they stood lost in a fell night, swathed in a blackness so dense the torches were only pinprick lights, dulled by the stygian gloom and fetid stench that washed all around.

Faintly, near lost in that awful roaring, he heard Bracht shout, “Ahrd stand with us now!” and, unsure whether he voiced a prayer or a battle cry, answered, “Dera defend us!”

It seemed then that the roaring became a terrible choking growl, or laughter, and the darkness swirled, like mist shifted by the rushing passage of some great body, a mass so large it pushed aside the gloom. Through it—from it—charged a thing he could not at first define, only start back, sword defensive before him as corpse breath blew against his face and he stared in horror at the apparition crouching to spring.

It wore the body of a wolf, but no wolf known to man. It was huge, its jaws mantraps edged with dagger teeth, its eyes red and lit with a malignant intelligence. Its pelt was grey and ragged, torn, with yellow bone visible through the cuts, sinews exposed along its bunched legs, bone and raw muscle about the jaws. It looked a thing resurrected, some atavism, a dire-wolf long dead but now invested with a kind of life that it might halt them. It sprang.

Calandryll screamed a helpless challenge, raising his blade even as he knew the creature must over-whelm
him with its bulk alone, that those horrendous jaws must fasten on his head and crush his skull. He was only dimly aware of Bracht thrusting from the side, the falchion slashing viciously at flesh that parted to spill out writhing maggots, the torch in the Kern’s left hand scorching hair that lent its own rank stink to the fetid reek of the monster’s rotting body. It was pure instinct that bent Calandryll’s knees, dropping him below the snapping jaws, turning him to the side, away from the dead thing’s charge as he drove the straightsword into a shoulder that flapped tatters of unsavory skin, wounds that should have bled but did not.

He heard the beast’s growl change then, and Bracht shout, “Ware Katya! Ware the horses!”

The Kern darted back, interposing himself between the wolf-thing and the woman, but the creature ignored him, spinning to face Calandryll again, as if whatever intelligence animated its defunct body fixed on him alone. He crouched, torch and sword ready, no longer afraid—too invigorated by fear to recognize its presence—seeing the exposed muscles bunch anew. Bracht struck again, from the creature’s rear, carving bloodless wounds over the hindquarters, hacking with the falchion, driving the torch hard against the rump. Uselessly: claws long as a man’s fingers scrabbled on stone as the beast launched itself once more at Calandryll, and he flung himself aside, letting it go past now, so that he and Bracht again stood between it and Katya. The horses screamed, fighting her hold on the reins, plunging so that she was lifted off her feet, swinging helplessly as she sought to prevent them fleeing wild back into the hills.

Calandryll saw sudden advantage in the confines of the ravine as the monstrous dire-wolf landed; its bulk was great enough it faced a moment northward, unable to turn as he sprang forward, driving his sword hard and deep between two bare ribs. It howled then, in pain as much as rage, and he turned the blade savagely,
dragging it corkscrewed out to strike again as the thing turned, slashing across a shoulder.

The massive jaws snapped shut and he thrust his torch at the face. The jaws opened, closing on the flambeaux, snatching it from his hand. Smoke gusted between the teeth, the monster’s throat lit red as its eyes, flames darting through the holes in its corrupted flesh. It dropped the torch, the brand guttering and dying, and the growling seemed again to become laughter, the eyes fixing—contemptuous, he thought—on his face. Certain now that he would die, uncaring now, he slashed the straightsword in an arc across the grim muzzle. The creature howled, and in its scream he heard more pain than rage. At his side he heard Bracht yell, “Your blade! Dera’s magic works against it!” and cut again, once, twice, carving lines that should have bled, had life and not magic animated the thing, over the snarling face.

The dire-wolf faltered, crouching, but this time not springing to the attack; almost, it seemed, cowering. Calandryll danced a step toward it, thrusting, and saw it retreat. He laughed, a cry near wild as the beast’s howling, and feinted at the muzzle. The head turned, jaws snapping, and he rode his blow in beneath the great maw, into the throat, carving a hole there, snatching back his arm as the thing flinched and twisted, threatening to tear his blade from his grip. He backed away, motioning for Bracht to leave him room and waited as the monster poised to spring.

He saw the huge body tense. He saw the great dead legs straighten, propelling the creature forward and up, the red eyes hidden by the parted jaws. And dropped to a crouch, ignoring Bracht’s cry as the gloom grew darker, the air above him filled with the hurtling body. He rammed the straightsword upward, into the chest, rising with the blade, all his strength, all his weight, all his trust in the goddess, behind the blow.

The sword drove quillons-deep into the wolf-corpse and the defile filled with its awful howl. Then silence
as its bulk bore him down and he was crushed beneath the stinking fur, struggling, close to panic, to escape the weight, choking on the stench. He could not breathe, nor fight clear. His head swam; his stomach rebelled, and he thought that he must vomit, drown in his own bile. He was unaware of Bracht’s hands on his flailing wrist, dragging him from the writhing, still howling beast until his lungs were filled with cleaner air and his vision cleared enough that he could see the carrion creature’s death throes.

He saw then that he had guessed aright: that the edge cuts delivered served only to irritate the beast; that the implantation of the goddess-favored sword destroyed it. He watched as the jaws stretched back from the fangs, agonized, and the red light in the eyes dulled, the great legs kicking ever feebler.

Then gasped, starting a horrified pace backward as the twice-dead thing spoke.

“So, again you survive. My congratulations—you prove more tenacious than I had anticipated, but no matter. I know now that you pursue me and so can leave further obstacles in your way. And worse than this, I promise. Better that you concede me the game, for you cannot win and only death awaits you do you continue. Go back now, fools! Go back while you still have your petty lives. Enjoy what time you have left, for now I wax wrathful and when Tharn rises you shall be called to account.”

The voice was Rhythamun’s.

R
HYTHAMUN
’
S
voice faded; the corpse-wolf decayed, hide shriveling over bones and maggot-infested organs that crumbled into dust; the carrion stench dissipated. Calandryll snatched up his sword from the powdery relict, passing the blade through the flame of Bracht’s torch: an act of cauterization, of cleansing. Both stood staring at the dessicated remains, startled from their distasteful observation by Katya’s shout.

“Now that’s done, do you help me with these horses before they run free?”

So pragmatic was her demand that Calandryll found himself laughing as he turned, running with Bracht to where the warrior woman still fought the still terrified animals. They each seized reins, calming the beasts as best they could and leading them at a trot past the remnants, the hooves scattering the dust, leaving no trace behind. The sky yet held a little of the day’s light and farther along the defile they removed the blindfolds, mounting and riding hard, in silence, to where the gulley opened on the grass of Cuan na’For.

By then the sun was gone and twilight descended over the prairie, the cordillera ending as abruptly as
they had begun, cedar and cypress covering the gentle slope that ran down to the edge of the great grass sea. They made camp among the timber, by mutual assent riding out some distance from the pass to find a place where a narrow stream offered clean water and the dense clustering of trunks would conceal their fire. Calandryll plunged his face into the water, grateful for its cleansing cold, rinsing a mouth in which he could still taste the filth of the wolf-thing. Even then he thought he still smelled the creature’s rank scent on his tunic and breeks, and would have stripped them off and washed them had they the time. But that commodity—the more so now!—was short-supplied: Rhythamun knew they lived and came after him, and now, more than ever, they must be on their guard. He cursed himself as he dried his face, that glum as he walked to the fire and squatted close to its flames, letting the sweet-scented smoke drift about clothing that held too near a memory of the fight with the resurrected dire-wolf.

“You slew the thing.” Bracht turned spitted meat in the cheerful flames. “Why brood on it?”

“I should have guessed,” he returned, inwardly directed anger rendering his answer curt. “In Aldarin I should have guessed, when Rhythamun spoke through the stone.”