The Crimson Lord (The Dark God Rises Trilogy Book 2) Page 9

  High on the hill top, sunlight yet shone. But down the slopes below, across fields and forests and flatlands, the long shadows of dusk had crept forth and stolen color from the land.

  It was this time of day more than any other where the Duthgar reminded him of home. If he half closed his eyes, he could imagine himself on a ridge of the arid wastes somewhere. There would be goats instead of sheep. In the distance, there would be the calls of desert finches returning from their evening drink. Perhaps, there might also be the roar of a lion from afar. Certainly there would be the wailing bark of the most intelligent desert-dweller of all, the hyena.

  His home was a dangerous place. But he loved it, and wished for a moment with all his heart that he was back there.

  He bestirred himself, thinking that he must be getting old. He had a job to do, and nothing would stop him. Restless, he walked around the hill top as night fell. The Arnhaten left him alone. They always did when this mood was on him, and just as well.

  The night fell suddenly. There was no lion roaring here, but he heard several owls. In the distance, a few cottage lights sprang up in the dark. The murmur of water came from close by, and the temperature fell quickly.

  He would not wait until midnight. He had waited long enough, and though midnight was a better time to cast the runes, he was a magician of power. He was strong enough to compel the dead even during the day, if he must.

  “Come to me, Arnhaten,” he said. “We will delay no longer.”

  His acolytes moved to sit behind him, Tanata foremost among them as was proper. Horta adjusted his bearskin serape and sat also. And then he began to chant.

  There was magic in his words, the magic his ancestors had learned long ago when the gods walked among men. He sensed that power infuse the words with vitality.

  The cadence of his voice was harsh, yet the language he spoke, the tongue of a near-forgotten people who once contended to rule the world, was a harsh language. His dead ancestors would be proud of him now, for his power had waxed over the years and his dedication had brought near the arising of the new god. Yes, they would be proud, but they were as harsh as the land that bred them and the gods who tutored them in the mysteries of magic. If he failed them now, when victory was near, they would not forgive him.

  Horta brought his mind back to the task at hand, and he lifted his chanting to a higher pitch. Through him, his people might yet rule the world as once they wished. Why did that prospect not bring him the joy that once it had? Was fear of failure disturbing him now that his goal was close to being accomplished? Or was something else happening?

  He pulled his thoughts back to the chanting. A mistake during the invocation could be deadly. He continued to utter the ritual words, the power of his magic one with his voice. His disciples chanted with him, and their incantation drifted up and was lost in the vastness of the heavens.

  The air around the hill top swirled and grew ice-cold, and the small fire the Arnhaten had built before the summoning gutted erratically. An acrid odor filled the air, and the spirits of the dead moved invisibly all over the crest of the hill. Could they have just now tried to distract his thoughts and cause him to make an error?

  Horta ceased to chant, and his acolytes fell silent with him. The magic surrounded him, infused him, drew on his strength and gave form to his purpose. He sat motionless, eyes open but gazing only at the night-dewed grass before him. Those he had summoned were never visible, or at least they rarely were, but he felt their presence.

  He shook the small pouch fastened to his belt ten times, fulfilling the ritual as it had been taught to him. And then he carefully dipped his right hand into the pouch and felt the dry bones gathered there. The finger bones of dead men, magicians every one of them.

  His fingers slid among the rattling bones, and he took great care to grasp only some of them. To cast all at once presaged ill-fortune of catastrophic proportions. Such a thing rarely happened, but it had occurred to a few magicians over the ages. He would not let it happen to him, but then again, the runes had a life of their own. Or the spirits of the dead exerted control over them. The choice was possibly not within the control of the magician, and that was a sobering thought. Magic had a life of its own, also.

  The spirits of the dead surrounded him, the possessors of the bones in life, and they drew in with glee his anxious thoughts. Their ill-will was a cold caress on the back of his neck.

  He drew forth the bones, and with a quick but certain jerk of his hand cast them onto the grass. The runes of life and death tumbled and scattered over the ground, and then moved no more.

  The future he sought to predict was now revealed by the agency of the summoned spirits, and though he felt their enmity the force of the rite constrained them to obey.

  This was always a tense moment. Three bones had fallen, and each had landed cleanly, showing but one rune each. This indicated certainty of the future. But he must still study them carefully, for interpretation was everything, and the less wise sought to imprint their desires over everything. It was foolish. It was a risk. But he was wise enough not to do so. Wishing did not make reality. Deeds did.

  The presence of the dead was a cold breath all around him, and their enmity was distracting. They should be released, and he did so.

  Almost casually, he chanted again, this time only a few short utterances of command. The spirits were released, their task completed, and the power that had summoned them now repelled them. The small fire flared and then snuffed out. Horta felt the hatred of the spirits rage through the open sky above him, but their enmity was of no import. For a moment, the air swirled and eddied about him with invisible forces, and then the dead were gone.

  Silence fell, deep and still over the top of the hill. Nothing moved nor stirred, and Horta turned his thought to the runes and studied them.

  First, he studied the finger bone that had fallen higher than the others. This was Harak. It was the rune that signified the dualities for war and peace. This, he had been expecting, for war was abroad in the land. But what could he learn from it?

  He drew deep of his wisdom, remembering the lore that went with the runes. War, he knew, could exist without peace. But peace could not endure without war, or the threat of war. There were always those who sought to steal or conquer. If not stood up to, the world would fall into chaos. So, what was the lesson for him here? How should he interpret it?

  War was certain. And whoever won, peace would descend afterward. Only fools expected one state or the other to prevail without cessation. It was the cycle of nature. Should he win, how could he prepare the ground for the raising of a god? Peace would be beneficial then, for the nation that survived the coming of the god must be brought together to serve him. And after, it would march across the lands to war again. It was something to consider, and Horta knew he must do so. But not quite yet.

  He turned his gaze to the next rune. It was lower, but sitting directly beneath the previous. This indicated a strong connection. The rune was Rasallher. It had the dual aspects of mountain peak and valley, but it was valley that showed.

  Horta sighed. This was always a difficult rune to interpret. From the valley, a mountain peak looked beautiful. Yet so too did the valley from the peak. All life was about perspective, and the moral of the rune was that the wise man put himself in the perspective of his friends or enemies to better understand them or predict their actions.

  This is what he must do with Brand, and he must focus on war due to the proximity of the previous rune. What then did Brand intend in terms of a military strategy?

  Horta knew what he would do. But he was no general. He would gather as many men as he could and come against Unferth to grasp victory. He would use speed and surprise. He admired how Brand had moved his army with stealth also, appearing and disappearing. Was there any reason Brand would not continue exactly as he had been? No, there was not. And yet, perhaps that was the very reason to expect something different. Brand was clever. He would be looking to change his tacti
cs so that they might not be guessed and countered.

  Next, he turned his mind to the third rune. It stood apart, quite lower than the previous two and further to the right. Hassah. The water and dust rune. Surely one of the most obviously antagonistic runes in that nothing could be the more opposite of each other than water and dust.

  Yet as the lore of the Kar-karmun taught, assumptions were often false. The ascendancy of one aspect gave birth to the nadir of its opposite, which in turn grew and became the stronger. Of dust, all life was made, and back into dust all life returned. Even the dry sands of the desert, parched beneath the blazing sun, held the seeds of future life in its dusty embrace. When the rains came, the golden sands turned green and then bloomed with color.

  How then should he interpret the rune? It could mean many things. It might suggest that the old ways of the Duthgar were about to die, and the new ways of the rising god would grow. It could mean that. But it could just as easily mean that the established rule of Unferth was about to be overturned by Brand.

  It could mean either of these things, but it stood apart from Harak and Rasallher, and that meant that, he thought, it applied more to him than the overall situation of war and the strategies of war the previous two runes revealed. What was he, personally, meant to learn from it?

  Even the witless seed and the dumb animal understood when to act and when non-action was required. So the ancient lore taught. The wise man followed nature’s example, and acted when it was propitious to do so. Or he held back and waited and showed patience when it was not. In this way, he turned the cycles of nature and the tides of human affairs to his advantage. So, the more he considered this the greater his certainty that it applied to him, and him alone. It was the answer to his most pressing doubt. Should he ride to war beside Unferth, or wait still in the shadows biding his time until his armies came?

  The moment drew out, and he was undecided. Then he saw what he had failed to notice in the dark before. A fourth rune had fallen, and the Hassah rune covered it. One bone had fallen perfectly on the other, obscuring it. This had never occurred to him before, and though it was possible, and though the dark helped conceal it, he wondered if the malevolent spirits had played a part. It was possible if he had not chanted the invocation properly.

  Gently, he reached out and removed Hassah to show the fourth. It was El-haran, which signified the wanderer and the farmer. The one sought adventure and thirsted for new things. The other grew deep roots and knew little, but what it did know it knew with unrivaled intimacy and understanding. The lore also said that people were likewise divided in their hearts. That they may say one thing, but mean another. Or that a thief may do a noble deed and an emperor steal from the poor.

  That the two runes had fallen together tied them closely. Hassah, which was water and dust or life from death, and El-haran which signified duplicity of thought against action, might together mean that one close to him intended him harm but veiled his thoughts.

  Horta shivered. His back was to the Arnhaten, but he did not think it applied to him now. It applied to Unferth. Someone near to him would bring him harm. And suddenly Horta understood.

  Gormengil was one that he had cultivated. The man was cold as ice, and that was a good quality. He was an extraordinary fighter and a man of great courage. That was for the good too. But he was also the heir to Unferth, and for that reason it was prudent to befriend him. If something happened to Unferth, he must rely on Gormengil’s goodwill. But the man was also ambitious. No bad thing in itself, but if he planned to usurp Unferth just now it could bring disaster while the land was at war. And with a sickening feeling, he realized that the runes were warning him of just that.

  Horta leapt to his feet. He must waste no time. Already it may be too late, and his plans could yet fall to ruin if Brand won the war and controlled the Duthgar. Then, he might learn of the location of the god king’s tomb and destroy his body. He did not know how Brand could learn such a thing, but it was possible. The man had surprised him before.

  Tanata was instantly by his side. “What is it, master?”

  “Trouble. Now move, the lot of you! We have far to go and little time.”

  He strode down the hill, all the while cursing how far it was from the village. It would take hours to walk there, and when they reached it there would be no rest. No, there would be no rest at all on a night like this, nor any until he caught up with Unferth.

  He strode down the hill, and already some of the Arnhaten struggled to keep up.

  “Stay with me!” he bellowed over his shoulder. “Or you’ll wish that you were dead.”

  The Arnhaten hastened then, grouping together and trailing close behind. There was fear in their murmuring, but it soon ceased. At the pace he set, talking was difficult.

  Tanata ventured a breathy question though. “What did the runes say, master?”

  “Trouble, lad. Trouble for Unferth. But we may reach him in time.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “The worst kind. Trouble of my own making. I was too friendly with Gormengil … gave him too many ideas. I did not think he was ready to act on it. But he is.”

  Even in the dark Horta noticed Tanata’s expression. It was not in the least puzzled. The man understood straightaway what was going on, had probably long realized that he had been cultivating Gormengil with a view to the possibility that Unferth may die, or need to be removed. He understood, and kept his silence thereafter. All were admirable qualities and Horta began to think that he had found a student at last that was worthy of the full transmission of the mysteries.

  But his mind soon turned back to Gormengil. The heir was in many ways a far greater man than his uncle. He was cool of thought and quick of mind. His courage was great, and he had fighting skill to match it. What he lacked though was experience. He was not ready to lead his nation to war. Nor would he necessarily be accepted by all the people. Certainly they were growing sick of Unferth. Even the Callenor seemed to hold him in low esteem these days. But were they ready for Gormengil? Doubt, hesitation and confusion were enemies. And, if even for only a few days, all three would run wild if Gormengil usurped the throne. Such a state Brand would be sure to capitalize on, and that could not be allowed. Not if he could help it.

  The night wore on. It grew cold and cloudy. A patter of rain fell several times, but then it faded away. Horta hoped it would stay that way, but no weather was going to stop him or slow him down. Nothing would, but he did expect trouble ahead. Not that it would stop him either. Not now, not in these circumstances. And anyway, it was about time that the sullen villages saw a glimpse of the true power he wielded.

  Horta was tired by the time he reached the village, and his arthritic knee ached. If he was not in a bad temper before, he was doubly so now.

  He went straight to the king’s stables. These were set well away from the hall, but they were guarded by a few soldiers. The horses inside belonged mostly to the king’s messengers, but there were others there too. These were owned by lords too old to ride to war and to their wives. Horta needed them, for he needed speed. And as much as he hated riding, he would forget that now. Time was pressing and he would never catch up to the army afoot.

  He swung open the doors, his weary acolytes behind him. The few men that were inside, young stable hands and soldiers stood up from where they had been playing dice.

  “A dozen horses,” Horta commanded. “Saddle them swiftly. We ride to the king.”

  The men before him looked uncertain, but the oldest of them answered. His hair was gray, but his eyes were steely. He was a man who had once seen fighting. Horta read that look about him, and he did not like it. He wanted no resistance now.

  “These horses belong to the king’s messengers. We have orders to guard them, and none but the messengers are allowed to use them.”

  “Stand aside, old man. In the name of the king.”

  “It’s in the name of the king, and at his order that I guard them. I’ll not stand aside.
If you must have them, seek leave from Lord Hralfling who sits in the king’s hall. He’s in charge here.”

  Already this was taking too long, and Horta acted swiftly. The use of magic was his, but surprise would serve him well now. He swung a swift punch that caught the old man flat footed. He tumbled to the ground, but rose up again nearly in the same motion with a knife in his hand.

  Tanata was already moving though, and he struck the man a second blow that felled him.

  Horta kicked the knife away from his opponent’s hand and signaled the Arnhaten through. “Find yourselves horses and saddle them swiftly!”

  Some of the stable hands helped the old man up while the soldiers fled the building. They would return with others of their kind no doubt, but Horta hoped to be gone before then.

  He found his own favorite horse and saddled it himself. It was beneath him to do servants work such as that, but the situation demanded it. He was ready more quickly than the acolytes. He at least had ridden from time to time, but the others had done so only rarely. But soon they were all gathering before the doors.

  Horta saw vague movement through the crack where the two doors stood ajar. But there was room enough to ride through and nothing would stop him.

  He urged his mount forward and the others filed behind him. With a kick of his foot he opened the doors wider and rushed through. There were soldiers gathering there, and he saw the glint of cold metal in the night. None of these barbarians liked him, and they would not likely hesitate to use blades, advisor to the king or no.

  He kicked his mount again, and it leapt forward. Behind him came the thud of many hooves. Ahead, the soldiers were trying to group together and block his path. They were waving arms and swords now, trying to make the horses shy and stop.

  Horta slipped a hand into one of his many pouches, and he drew out a large pinch of grainy powder. With a muttered prayer and a jerk of his arm he cast it out before him.