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  KINGS OF SORCERY

  THE COMPLETE DARK GOD RISES TRILOGY

  Robert Ryan

  Copyright © 2020 Robert J. Ryan

  All Rights Reserved. The right of Robert J. Ryan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design by Amalia Chitulescu

  Trotting Fox Press

  Contents

  THE PALE SWORDSMAN

  1. The Runes of Life and Death

  2. That Sort of Man

  3. The River Crossing

  4. Sword or Knife?

  5. By Sword and Magic

  6. The Touch of Magic

  7. Deep and Dark

  8. Eye of the Eagle

  9. A Long Night

  10. The Noblest of Tasks

  11. The Helm of the Duthenor

  12. There Must be Blood

  13. A Hero of Old

  14. Will You Surrender?

  15. A Man of Secrets

  16. Least Expected

  17. The Pale Swordsman

  18. Sleeping Magic

  19. The Mists of Prophecy

  20. Promises to Keep

  21. It Comes

  22. The God-king

  23. I do a Man’s Work

  24. Fortune Favors the Bold

  25. The Blood of Heroes

  26. Old Mother

  Epilogue

  Appendix A: The Runes of Life and Death

  Appendix B: Encyclopedic Glossary

  THE CRIMSON LORD

  1. A Magician of Power

  2. The Blood of a Hero

  3. Battle and Victory!

  4. The Trickster

  5. A Place of Ill Omen

  6. Sorcery

  7. Bones and Metal

  8. The Power of the Gods

  9. Calm Before the Storm

  10. To the Death

  11. Word Spreads Like Fire

  12. The Wise Man Reads the Future

  13. The Runes of Life and Death

  14. You Need Swear No Oath

  15. Dark Dreams

  16. Char-harash

  17. Patience

  18. If I Don’t, Who Will?

  19. The Breath of the Dragon

  20. Blade and Hilt

  21. Duels are for the Reckless

  22. Battle and Blood

  23. Gormengil

  24. Two Battles

  25. The Prophecy of the Witch

  Epilogue

  Appendix: Encyclopedic Glossary

  THE DARK GOD

  1. The Broken Sword

  2. Will You Serve the Land?

  3. The Tomb

  4. Homecoming

  5. A Time of Change

  6. The Witch

  7. All the World is Yours

  8. Is it True?

  9. A New Banner

  10. Like Whey from Curds

  11. He Would be a King

  12. The Old Masters

  13. Nothing is Destined

  14. Only by Chance

  15. Not my Heritage

  16. A Long Night

  17. Ambush

  18. The Enemy

  19. Five Tribes

  20. There Goes a Good Man

  21. The Golden God

  22. Let Them March to Us

  23. I Will Not Kneel

  24. First Blood is Spilled

  25. Worthy of That Axe

  26. Like A Torch

  27. The Hunter Becomes the Hunted

  28. Advance!

  29. Free of Ambition

  Epilogue

  Appendix: Encyclopedic Glossary

  Sample: Prologue for The Seventh Knight

  THE PALE SWORDSMAN

  BOOK ONE OF THE DARK GOD RISES TRILOGY

  Robert Ryan

  Copyright © 2018 Robert J. Ryan

  All Rights Reserved. The right of Robert J. Ryan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Trotting Fox Press

  1. The Runes of Life and Death

  Horta chanted, and there was magic in his words. He felt it buoy them with life. Yet such magic was dangerous. None knew that better than he, but he was dangerous also, and he gathered his power about him.

  The sound of his voice was harsh. But the language he spoke, the tongue of his people who once contended to rule the world but were now scattered, was a harsh speech. He thought it fitting, for they were a callous people. The Kar-ahn-hetep, the Children of the Thousand Stars they called themselves. A pretty name for a race whose ancestors’ swords dripped blood.

  Horta raised his chanting to a higher pitch. His people were as nothing now, no more than a tattered race haunting a petty kingdom in the forgotten south, but he would raise them up as once they had been. He would make them great again, and all the blood his ancestors spilled would be but as a drop compared to what was to come.

  He chanted, the power of his magic one with the words. His disciples, his Arnhaten, chanted with him. And the hidden roof of the cave mouthed their words back at them hollowly like the voices of their long-forgotten ancestors. And well might it be so, for the magic he invoked summoned the dead.

  The stale air of the cave grew ice-cold, and the fire of the burning torches set against the walls gutted erratically. An acrid odor rose, though from smoke or some otherworldly origin Horta did not know. Nor did he care. The magic was everything to him, and with a final surge of determination he loosed the last words of the spell.

  He ceased to chant, and the Arnhaten fell silent with him. The magic surrounded him, drew on his strength and gave form to his purpose. He sat still, eyes open but gazing at the sandy floor of the cave before him. What he had summoned was not visible, but he felt its presence.

  There was a whisper of sound behind him that should not be, and he turned to look. One of the Arnhaten groaned softly and slumped to the ground. It was Asaba, the weakest of them all. He had fainted, or perhaps his heart had stilled. No matter.

  Horta shook the small pouch that hung from his slim cloth belt ten times. It was the ritual, and it existed for good purpose. But though he fulfilled it dutifully, still impatience gripped him.

  Slowly, carefully, he dipped his right hand into the pouch and felt the dry bones gathered there. Finger bones. The bones of dead men, magicians all. One, that of his own master, who having taught all he was able Horta had slain. These were the Kar-karmun, the Runes of Life and Death.

  His fingers slid through the rasping bones, and he was careful to grasp only some of them. To hold and cast all at once presaged ill-fortune of the highest order. He would not permit that, though the spirits of the dead that surrounded him, the possessors of the bones in life, anxiously awaited such an accident and he felt their ill-will like a cold exhalation on the back of his neck.

  He drew forth the bones, and with a quick but sure jerk of his hand cast them onto the sandy floor before him.

  The Runes of Life and Death rolled and scattered over the ground, then stilled. The future he sought to foretell was now laid bare and revealed by the agency of the summoned spirits. And though they wished his death, or worse, the force of his magic constrained them to obey.

  A sense of uncertainty settled over him. Four bones had fallen, and the runes were never wrong for he possessed true power, but he saw things that he had not expected. Strange things.

  He must study the casting carefully. But the presence of the dead was unsettling. It seemed to him as though they looked over his shoulder with anticipation. This was distracting, and he need
ed them no more, so he chanted again, this time only a few short words of command.

  The spirits were released, their work done, and the power that summoned them now forced them away. One of the torches flared and then snuffed out as they resisted, and Horta felt their hatred rage in the shadowy cave. It was of no concern, for they must obey. Momentarily, the air seethed and roiled about him with invisible forces, and then they were gone.

  Away in the distance the cave mouth moaned as a rush of air was expelled from the earth. And then silence fell, deep and profound. Horta turned his mind once more to the runes and studied them.

  Small beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. Behind him, he heard Asaba groan. The man had fainted rather than died. A pity, for now a way must be found to kill him. He was too weak to learn more of the mysteries. Yet he knew some, and that was his death sentence. A little knowledge was more dangerous than mastery, and returning him to Kar-fallon in shame would see him killed anyway. His family would arrange that, for his failure would taint them.

  A frown creased Horta’s brow, and he realized he was prevaricating. He turned his mind to the runes and their meaning. Destiny would be what it would be, and he would accept it.

  He read the runes from top to bottom and left to right. The first was Hotep, and it showed the Change aspect of the rune in ascendancy. Cut into the bone and then filled with blood that dried within the symbol, the stark lines showed dully. Better if it had landed on its reverse aspect, Quiescence.

  Horta considered the rune’s meaning. It was true that, as the lore of the Kar-karmun taught, it was the nature of the world that things existed in a state of flux. The wise man looked for opportunities that arose from turmoil, and so he must do. But that this rune landed above the others signaled a time of great change, and that was disconcerting.

  He turned his attention to the next rune. It had landed a little lower and to the right. This fingerbone was older and yellowed, but the symbol cut into it remained clear: Orok-hai. It was The Hanged Man – or The Fugitive. In this case the rune had landed showing the fugitive aspect. But this was difficult to interpret. Did it signify that he himself would have to flee? Or the king he served? Or that the man he knew was returning to the realm from exile had finally arrived? He took it for the last, because it was against the threat of this man’s coming that he had cast the runes.

  Next, he looked at the third rune. This was Fallon-adir, usually interpreted as Soaring Eagle and Roosting Sparrow. It had fallen upon the sparrow aspect, and this was a clear warning.

  It was universally acknowledged that eagles were birds of nobility, creatures of majesty that wheeled in the sky and rode waves of warm air with grace. Meanwhile, the sparrow chattered raucously in shrubbery. Yet, in truth, eagles were opportunistic feeders that hunted or scavenged carrion as circumstances dictated. The one was no nobler than the other, and the warning here was to beware false assumptions. He, and the king he served, were sure of their power and secure in their unchallenged strength. But circumstances could change. The threat of the man who was coming was real, and must be acknowledged as a danger.

  He turned his attention to the last rune. Karmun. This disturbed him most. Its aspects were Death and Life, yet the bone had fallen on its side and showed neither clearly. The lore of the Kar-karmun dictated that this indicated uncertainty. But whose fate was uncertain?

  Horta stilled his mind. His wishes, hopes and plans were irrelevant. He must not allow them to color his interpretation of the runes. The truth, the destiny revealed, was all. And much as he disliked it, the clearest reading was that uncertainty applied to all parties involved. Destiny had not yet been set. Brand, the man who was coming, could live or die. So too the king, and most importantly himself.

  It was a shock to him that it might be so, but his own death would not matter so long as he had achieved his great purpose before it occurred. It was for this that he lived, and he must let nothing interfere with his fulfilling of it. The runes indicated that fate was uncertain. So be it. Yet he now had the advantage of foreknowledge, which his opponent did not, and he would ensure that uncertainty turned to certainty, that his own possible death turned into his enemy’s.

  His mind made up, he quickly gathered the runes and returned them to the pouch. They had served their purpose, and now he would accomplish his. Nothing would stop him.

  Horta stood, and the Arnhaten rose with him. It was time to leave the cave and enter the world again. Much needed doing, and many plans required putting in place.

  “What did the runes reveal, master?”

  Horta turned his gaze to the Arnhaten who spoke. According to the lore, it was within the man’s right. Nor should he be told a lie, no matter that Horta wished to keep things secret until he had resolved the uncertainties. The man, along with the others, had taken part in the sacred ceremony.

  “This is what the Kar-karmun revealed,” Horta answered. “Change comes, and the man we are cautious of is he who will bring it. We are warned to be wary of false assumptions, which I take to mean the man is a greater threat than expected.” He paused, and the other man’s eyes narrowed. He knew there would be more. “And death shall walk among us, though if it be our own, the king’s or the man who comes is yet to be decided.”

  “But someone shall perish?”

  “It is so,” Horta replied. “But forewarned, we shall ensure it is our enemy.”

  Horta led them out of the cave now. It was not his way to answer questions. He had told them all they needed to know. Too much perhaps, for he heard the whispering of their fear in the dark passages as they trailed after him.

  He did not judge them too harshly though. He himself felt the shadow of doubt upon him. This person that came was known to them by rumor of his deeds. Brand. Rightful heir to the realm, and a dangerous man. The runes were not needed to tell him that. And Brand came for just cause. King Unferth had killed Brand’s parents and sent assassins to hunt him all through his childhood. Unferth ruled now from the high seat in which Brand should sit.

  Horta sighed. He did not blame the man for coming, and in another time and place he would have ignored him. But for the moment, Unferth was necessary to further, even if unwittingly, the great task of Horta’s life. Therefore Brand must die.

  They neared the cave mouth. It would be best to see what Unferth did first. That was regrettable, for the man was small and petty and incapable of understanding the great game that was afoot. No doubt, he would try to kill Brand, as he had always tried. But if he underestimated him and did not take the proper steps, then it was time to act himself. And that meant magic. The thought of it sent a shiver up his spine. Magic was to be feared, and yet he loved the sense of danger it brought. But it came with risks that could not be ignored. The game was finely balanced however, and the one thing he needed most was time. But it was the very thing that was running out, and every step Brand took toward Unferth cut it shorter. The man must die.

  He walked from the cave, and felt the lush green grass beneath his sandals. Below lay the Duthgar, the land of the Duthenor tribesmen whose king he now served. Immediately, the chill breeze of this northern land cut through him. It was spring, approaching summer, yet it was colder than the bitterest winter in his homeland. The simple linen shenti he wore, what these northern barbarians called a kilt, was not warm enough. He and the Arnhaten had been forced to wear a portion of bearskin over their normally bare shoulders. This was barbarous beyond description, but it did keep the cold at bay.

  How he hated this land, so cold and damp and chilly. But the inhabitants loved the greenness of it. It seemed unnatural to him, for he remembered the beauty of the arid wastes of his home and the struggling tufts of grass and the vultures circling in an azure sky devoid of cloud. He remembered them, and yearned for them. But his loss was nothing against the great task he had set himself.

  He strode down the hill, determined. The Arnhaten followed behind. They passed through crude farmland, fe
nced by hedges and scattered with fields of green grass grazed by fat sheep and sleek cattle, lustrous-coated and beautiful even after winter. But neither would survive in his homeland under the hammering sun and the moisture-sucking air. The people though, they were tough. They would adapt to such an environment. But that was not their fate. Destiny promised a different future for them: one they would eventually embrace. Or they would die.

  The hall of Unferth was not far away. They came soon to a track and then a road which passed through a hamlet. The buildings still amazed Horta, for he was used to stone and mudbrick constructions. These were village huts, often of wicker and round in shape. Others were small cottages built of sawn timber.

  The youths playing in the dirt ran when they saw the procession come. Horta had never been good with children, but it distressed him every time to see this. The adults noticed him too, but they went about their tasks as though he and the Arnhaten were not there. This was of no concern. They did not like him, nor he them. But it did not matter. He had cultivated Unferth’s trust, and that was all he needed for his purposes.

  It did not take long to reach the hall. They climbed a hill toward it, for it was set at the highest point of the land round about except for the hills that Horta had just descended.

  The road came to an end. Smaller tracks veered away to right and left toward stables and storehouses. Ahead, where the road led, commenced a flight of broad stairs segmented by wider platforms where people could rest. At least this was built of stone, and well-crafted too.

  Horta climbed the stairs, his disciples behind him as was proper. He was old, very old indeed, though he did not look it. He spurned the resting platforms, though it irritated him that his left knee began to ache with the strain imposed upon it. It had been injured of old and rheumatism had set in. He put the pain from his mind and walked faster.

  In a short while he reached the top. A platform was set here, broad and wide. To each side stone benches were placed, and hall guards sat there, the naked steel of their drawn blades resting across their thighs. These men were warriors, and they were not positioned here for show. They would kill intruders swiftly, for Unferth was a man of many enemies.