Swordmistress of Chaos (11 page)

‘That one!’ His voice was a sibilant malignancy, envenomed as any serpent’s. ‘He is destruction for us all. Kill him!’

‘It was ever the way of ageing magicians to destroy their rivals,’ said Spellbinder quickly, loudly, so that all should hear. ‘Age envies youth as weakness envies strength.’

‘Kill him!’ Belthis screamed, spittle flecking his withered lips. ‘Kill him now, before he damns us all!’

Gondar Lifebane stepped between them, his massive body a barrier through which the old magician’s eyes sought to burn.

‘What is this talk of death and danger? Why kill him?’

‘Spawn of the Ghost Isle, he!’ Belthis howled. ‘He carries the stinking taint of Kharwhan. He was set to lead those demons through the rock mouth, to slay us in our beds.’

‘I found him half-drowned on a sinking boat,’ grunted Lifebane. ‘Still spitting, but nearer the nether-world than Kharwhan.’

‘A trick! A trick, you hulking savage! They set him there to bait you, and you took it like a fish jumping to the net.’

‘And the girl?’ Gondar’s voice was harsh, his hackles rising at the mage’s insults. ‘Is she bait, too?’

For the first time, Belthis turned his eyes to Raven, letting them linger on her figure. Then his head moved reluctantly from side to side, the corners of his thin mouth turning down.

‘No. Though I sense something about her that smacks of danger. She has an aura of power that I cannot understand.’

‘That she does,’ chuckled Gondar, and rubbed his loins suggestively. ‘One that I sense clearly enough.’

‘Fool,’ snarled Belthis. ‘You let your lust guide your senses. Keep the girl and kill the man. Now!’

Gondar shook his head. ‘No. The man faced me bravely, and he speaks for the girl. If Raven wills his death, then so be it. Not otherwise.’

‘There is another way.’ Spellbinder’s voice startled the watching audience. ‘If the old one feels threatened, let him face me in a duel of magic. Yes!’ He turned his blue gaze on Lifebane, staring intently at the massive sea-wolf. ‘I know some tricks of the sorcerer’s art, though I bring no Kharwhan fleet to rieve you, nor seek to end your own raiding. I am no more than a lost traveller. If Belthis feels me such a threat, let him pit his powers against mine. Were he younger, I’d call for sword-settlement, but if he is the mage who guides your struggle against the Isle of Ghosts, then let him stand against me in magical combat.’

‘What say you, Belthis?’ Lifebane asked, intrigued. ‘Will you do this?’

‘Surely,’ snarled the old magician, ‘though if I lose, it is you, Gondar Lifebane, who will be sorry.’

The holding was alive with gossip as the two prisoners were herded to Gondar’s hall. Feelings appeared mixed, there being those who saw them as enemies and consequently backed Belthis in his demands for Spellbinder’s death; and those who doubted the powers of the old mage, anticipating goodly sport in the magical combat.

Gondar himself appeared indifferent, holding to a middle-line that offended neither side of the quarrel. Certainly, he housed them well enough, in a room apiece, each hung with rich furs against the cold, thick carpets taken from Saran and Vartha’anian ships over the boards of the floor. Water and perfumes were brought that they might cleanse themselves, and flasks of wine with platters of sweetmeats. All in all, it was as though they were honoured guests, rather than captives liable to die on a moment’s whim.

It was agreed that both men should have one day in which to prepare for the contest, which Gondar proposed to hold in his war-hall the following nightfall. Spellbinder closeted himself in his room, leaving Raven to explore the holding under the admiring eyes of Lifebane. Even were she not guarded, there was little of chance of escape, for the settlement clung to the walls of the rock-bound bay as a limpet fastens to a steep-scarped sea stone. Its buildings were of weathered timber, guarded on the water’s edge by a high palisade, on all other sides by the cliffs. A single, narrow trail wound upwards from the beach to the high meadows, a watchtower standing at the crest, where a view of both sea and land was commanded by the permanent guards. There were, Gondar explained, other holdings on the island, and Kragg settlements farther afield still, all owing allegiance to him as High King. His pride in the place was obvious, and Raven found her liking for the blond giant growing.

Night approached before he led her back to the great hall, where his people were already gathering in anticipation of the sorcerous conflict.

Belthis was waiting for them, seated at one end of the long central table, his wizened face set in a scowl. He wore robes of white still, though cleaner than those of the previous day, and his wispy beard was combed and oiled. Silver bracelets ringed his forearms, and around his head was set a circlet of platinum carved with tiny runes. Spellbinder entered from the far side of the hall, dressed in a tunic of black, his dark hair falling free. A negligent smile decorated his lips, and when Raven caught his eye he raised a hand in greeting, before taking his place at the table.

Gondar ushered Raven to a carven seat mid-way between the two men, and wine was brought as the rievers and their women settled around the combatants. Belthis fidgeted, though whether from nervousness or impatience, Raven could not tell; Spellbinder appeared calm, almost casual, but a certain tightness about his mouth and his eyes told the girl that he assumed a carelessness he did not feel.

The room fell silent as Gondar looked from Belthis to Spellbinder, his voice deep and commanding.

May the All-Mother smile upon virtue. May her hand guide you, that her chosen shall win.

‘Now begin.’

‘The true power of a man lies within himself, though there are times when external aid may be needed.’

The Books of Kharwhan

Belthis exposed a jagged line of blackened teeth, mumbling as he shifted his hands in the air before him. Abruptly, the reed torches flickered as though a strong breeze wafted through the hall; then they went out, plunging the room into darkness.

There was a muttering, part appreciative, but largely nervous. The sound became a gasp as brilliance, brighter than any burning torch might produce, filled the hall. Spellbinder smiled, setting both hands upon the table before him. He rested back in his seat, waiting for the older man to make the next move.

Belthis snarled, shifting his gnarled fingers in devious patterns. A drinking horn ripped loose from a warrior’s grasp to rush at Spellbinder’s face. Before the contents could slop into his eyes, the dark-haired man motioned with his left hand, halting the thing in mid-air. He gestured again, and the wine rose up from the horn in a quavering globule that began to drift along the table, level with Belthis’ head. It stopped just above his pate, its surface shifting, stretching. It elongated, seeming to spout ears, the braying mouth of a donkey; and it settled upon Belthis, so that he appeared as a jackass. There was a shout of laughter, and Spellbinder moved his hand again. The empty horn floated back to its owner, and when it reached him it was brimfull of wine.

Belthis mumbled something and the donkey head became a corona of flame that burned in a great aureole around him.

Spellbinder pointed: the flame went out.

Belthis grunted and the table lifted into the air. For a moment it hung there, then, with a sudden rush, it hurtled at Spellbinder’s chest. Raven gasped, thinking to see her companion crushed, but the great wooden object stopped as though smashed against a wall of stone. Instead of hitting Spellbinder, it tilted, the end nearest him lifting up. He murmured too low for even the closest ears, and a mound of rotten fruit materialised, spilling down the planking to splatter against Belthis’ robe.

The table settled back upon the flagstones, the fruit evaporating as the older mage chanted an incantation. He chopped one hand downwards and a thunder clap filled the hall with deafening sound. A flash, and lightning arced at Spellbinder.

It hit an empty chair, black scorch marks evidence of its ferocity.

‘Your temper frays, warlock.’

Spellbinder stood behind Belthis, grinning as the magician turned to face him. He moved his hands, blocking off a second blast of white fire that rebounded and would have consumed the white-robed one had he not drenched it in a sudden squall of rain that evaporated before it touched the floor.

‘Kharwhan scum!’ Belthis cursed Spellbinder’s back as the younger man resumed his seat. ‘You dare too much.’

A fire burned suddenly in the air above the table. It coalesced into a writhing shape that stank and roared as does an angered beast. Red it was, and black, touched about with yellow lights that became eyes and curved, sharp teeth. The eyes glowed within a fire-dark body that was both shaped and yet amorphous. It was impossible to define the exact contours of that creature, yet it was hideous, loathsome, and alien to any but the inhabitants of some hell-pit. A stomach-churning odour as of burning flesh and odure came from the thing, and where its great, clawed feet touched the wood, burns appeared. Slowly, as though it was unsure of where it was, the creature stalked towards Spellbinder.

Paws of flame reached for him, talons hooking to rend and tear. And a black bird materialised before the thing. Raven gasped, recognising the avian and beside her, Gondar stiffened. Then their full attention was caught by the battle raging above the floor. Fire-beast reached for shadow-bud. Wings beat furiously as beak darted, stabbing at ethereal flame. The biped creature lashed angrily at the flapping shape, and the bird lifted, plunging talons into the arms, ripping chunks of stinking fire that fell and smouldered on the stones around them. A great silence filled the hall as men stared open-mouthed at the struggle. It was fought in silence, for neither creature uttered one sound, though black beak and snarling jaws stretched wide, and the flames spotting the floor burned silently, without giving heat.

How long it went on, no man could say, but after a while, the flame creature seemed to diminish, its body growing smaller as more of its incorporeal substance was torn away. At last it stumbled, falling to its knees with the bird still hacking at its weaving head. Gradually, it fell in upon itself, until only a single flicker remained. The bird darted its beak forwards, gulping down the last flame as though hungry. It beat its wings one, twice, and then was gone, swift as a shadow in a suddenly-brightened room.

A murmur of nervous whispering impinged on the silence. Sea-wolves who had come to the hall expecting a night’s entertainment were now aware of the raw hatred emanating from Belthis, knew that they witnessed a magical struggle that must end in death. There were some who muttered for the duel to continue, anticipating the blood-struggle; but most called for it to end. Gondar’s rievers, whilst ferociously careless of death in sword-battle, entertained a healthy mistrust of the sorcerous arts, fearing the demon-creatures a mage might call to his aid. There was no telling where such a battle might end, for a hell-beast, victorious, could as easily turn on those around it as obey the command of its summoner.

Gondar was of the latter belief, and called out for the duel to end.

Belthis mouthed an inarticulate curse and turned burning eyes upon the king. Again Gondar called for them to stop, to drink from the peace cup and forget their rivalry. Spellbinder smiled, shrugging his acceptance; Belthis spat.

At this insolence, Gondar came to his feet, his eyes blazing. And fell back onto the chair as a puppet drops when its strings are cut. The blaze died from his eyes, the grey clouding so that he lolled, staring vacantly ahead, all strength fled from his limbs. Beside him, Raven lifted, reaching for the throwing stars set around her belt. She felt the cold touch of the metal, but as she drew one star free, a greater cold seeped through her limbs and the weapon refused to pull loose. With a shock of horror—for despite her friendship with Spellbinder, overt magic still awed her—she realised that she was unable to move. As surely as the paralysing darts of the Sly cannibals, so did the eyes of the old man still her body. She glimpsed a sea-wolf rising with a small throwing axe slung back to cleave Belthis’ skull, and across the hall, she saw men lift spears and blades in defence of their king.

Belthis laughed, and it was an eerie sound, and wove patterns in the air. A. curtain of pale fire sprang up around the table, enclosing both the mage and Spellbinder. As weapons hit that weird curtain, they cracked and fell to the stones as though rebounding from a solid wall. Belthis chanted a ritual incantation and the war-hall fell silent again. All around, the men and women of Gondar’s holding slumped in their chairs, those seated on benches falling across the planks, though their eyes remained fixed on the central tableau.

Through all this, Spellbinder had remained silent, sitting calmly as Belthis wove his protective spells, now he spoke.

‘There is no need for this to go farther. Let it end before powers too great to control usurp our command.’

Belthis gave no reply, simply glaring at the younger man with moving lips and shifting hands.

Frost sparkled on Spellbinder’s hair and clothing, his breath came in great misty clouds, and ice sheened his eyes. Then it was gone as a light like summer sunshine irradiated his position. Fire followed, then more frost, a hurricane wind howled and lightning flickered within the fire curtain. All died as Spellbinder wove his counter-spells. In return for the frost, he wreathed Belthis in sweet-smelling roses. For the fire. he gave a spray of gentle, scented rain; for the lightning, a pair of doves that settled, cooing, upon the mage’s shoulders.

And these things angered Belthis far more than any violent reply.

The sorcerer half-rose from his seat, glowering his hate. Boils that burst pustulence over Spellbinder’s face and hands erupted with horrible abruptness. The dark man groaned, feeling the pain of inflamed flesh. Then the boils were gone and a great crowd of white mice scurried squealing down the table to the white-robed magician. They almost-reached him, but then a horde of huge, black spiders stood across their path. Furred bodies the size of a man’s clenched fist crouched on angular, hook-ended legs. Many-faceted eye clusters glinted a dark, unholy light as gleaming mandibles gaped wide. In a sudden rush, the spiders scuttled forwards, pouncing on the mice. Mandibles clicked, though where they closed on white-furred bodies, the sound was soggier, more nauseating. They crouched over the mice, obscene, round heads lifting with ragged chunks of flesh held tight. Soundless, they were, their only noise the click of curved jaws and the horrible sucking as they drew in fresh blood. The mice squealed piteously as they died, many crawling with gaping wounds in their white coats, seeking to escape the loathsome arachnids. None did, for the spiders poured venom from their jaws that stilled the mice until all were stiff and silent. For a long time there was only the crunch of tiny, breaking bones and the tearing of flesh.