The Seven Towers (20 page)

The two men stood facing the center of the army, with their backs toward Jermain. After a moment’s hesitation, Jermain eased out of the tent and circled the clearing to get a better view of them. He was a little surprised by what he saw. The first was a large, brown-haired man in his prime; he looked more like a blacksmith than a wizard. The second man was a blond, gangling youth who sported two inches of scraggly fuzz on his chin as proof that he was old enough to grow a beard. Both men wore plain clothes and green cloaks. The large man wore a heavy silver ring set with a green stone on his left hand; the youth held a horn, and his hands were bare.

“Carachel!” the large man called again. “Come face challenge!”

“I am here.” Carachel stepped out of the trees in front of them. The golden vest he wore shone in the sun, making him for a moment a pillar of light. Carachel stopped and held up a hand, and the serpent ring flashed on his finger. At the edge of his vision, Jermain saw Ranlyn stiffen as Carachel went on. “Who are you?”

“I am Wengarth of the Guild of Mages,” the large man replied, “and my apprentice is named Laznyr.”

“And what do you want of me?” Carachel’s voice was almost a chant, and Jermain realized suddenly that he was watching a ritual as formal as a coronation.

“I come to challenge you to the combat sorcerous for the wrongs you have done to all wizards, to the Guild of Mages, and to me,” Wengarth replied.

“What are these wrongs that bring you here?”

“You have followed the ways of Black Sorcery, which must be the concern of all wizards. You have sought and killed two score of the mages of the Guild, taking their magic and their deaths to enhance yourself. And among those you murdered was my brother, Grinlown. Is this sufficient?”

“It is sufficient, and I accept your challenge.”

“Will you answer the charges before we begin?”

For the first time, Carachel hesitated. His eyes flickered toward Jermain. “The charges are false. When I have killed, I have done so in defense of my life and to preserve the Seven Kingdoms from destruction.”

Wengarth looked faintly surprised by Carachel’s response, but he answered almost immediately. “Then there can be no agreement between us. Let the circle be drawn.”

Carachel inclined his head and stepped forward to stand some twenty paces in front of the other wizard. Wengarth’s apprentice stepped between the two men. From under his cloak he drew an ornate dagger. He offered it first to Carachel, who inspected it carefully before returning it, and then to Wengarth, who simply nodded. As he turned away, Jermain saw Wengarth lean forward very slightly and whisper something to the younger man.

The apprentice made no response, and Wengarth settled back into his position. Jermain watched narrowly as the apprentice raised the knife and bowed toward the north, then repeated the gesture to the east, south, and west. He drew a complex pattern in the air, then bent and began scratching a line on the ground. In a few minutes he had enclosed Carachel and Wengarth in a rough circle. Jermain noticed that the apprentice was careful to make sure there were no breaks in the line.

When the circle was complete, the apprentice stood. He bowed once more to the north, west, south, and east, then turned to face the two wizards. He raised the knife once more, and said loudly, “The circle is drawn; let no man pass its bounds until the combat is decided.” He gestured with the knife, and white light flared briefly from the line he had drawn.

“The circle is completed; will you test it?” Wengarth asked Carachel.

“I have seen the spell cast, and I am satisfied that no one may pass the barrier without the aid of sorcery. I decline the test.”

This time Wengarth’s surprise was more obvious, but after a moment he nodded. “Then we begin.”

The apprentice crouched at the edge of the circle, still holding the knife. He looked very white, and he did not take his eyes from Wengarth. The two wizards raised their hands. Jermain saw the silver ring on Wengarth’s finger shining, as if it were gathering sunlight around itself. Involuntarily, Jermain’s head turned toward Carachel. Light was gathering around Carachel’s hands as well, but the serpent ring was dark on his finger.

For a long moment, the two men stood motionless. The light spread and intensified until each of the wizards was enclosed in a glowing sphere. Then Wengarth brought his left hand down. A portion of the light surrounding Carachel died abruptly, as if it had been split away. Carachel’s face was impassive; he brought his own hands together and made a throwing motion. A globe of light went spinning toward Wengarth. It hit the light surrounding him with a bright flare and a loud crackling.

When the crackling dazzle stopped, Wengarth stood unmoved. Carachel looked startled, and Wengarth grinned mirthlessly. “I prepared carefully before I came, dark mage,” he said as he brought his hand down again.

Another piece of Carachel’s sphere split away and died. “You see?” Wengarth said. “I will break your power back into the pieces you stole from others. This time it will do you no good.”

“You know less than you think,” Carachel said, and gestured.

The light around Carachel dimmed, then began to grow again, brighter and more intense than before. Carachel brought his hands up, and the serpent ring began to glow. The sphere of light around Carachel expanded rapidly, and Wengarth staggered as it struck his own globe. He recovered quickly and raised his hands. A bright net of sparks appeared where the two lights struck each other, a few feet in front of Wengarth.

Jermain watched closely, feeling the beginnings of worry. Wengarth’s words had triggered an unwelcomed thought. Only a few days before, Carachel had seemed worried about conserving his power to face the Matholych. How far would this duel drain him?

The boundary wavered between the two wizards for a moment, then crept with agonizing slowness toward Carachel. Carachel frowned slightly, and the serpent ring grew brighter. The net of sparks began to move more quickly, in little jerks of an inch or more, but it did not change direction. Jermain’s jaw tightened, and he looked at Wengarth.

Great beads of sweat stood out on Wengarth’s forehead, and Jermain could see the fear in his face. Wengarth gestured suddenly, and the bright border leaped nearly a foot back toward him. Carachel’s frown deepened. The serpent ring blazed like a fire-brand, and the boundary of light began moving toward Carachel once more.

With a sudden feeling of disorientation, Jermain realized that the struggle was the exact opposite of what he had assumed. Each of the wizards was pulling the net of light that marked the separation of their power toward himself, not forcing it back toward his opponent. And Carachel was winning the struggle.

Jermain relaxed fractionally as the boundary continued to move toward Carachel. A movement on the other side of the circle caught his eye, and he saw the apprentice rising to his feet. Laznyr looked even whiter than he had before, and his right hand was clenched on the hilt of the knife. Jermain frowned and began edging around the circle toward the youth. If Wengarth had intended some treachery . . . He glanced back toward the wizards in the center of the ring.

The border of light had almost reached Carachel. Wengarth’s breath came in great gasps, and his face was twisted with effort. It was clear that he could not last much longer. As Jermain watched, he began to move forward, slowly and jerkily, like a puppet with molasses on its feet, until he and Carachel were two paces apart instead of twenty. Jermain looked back at the apprentice just as Wengarth gasped, “Laznyr! Your promise . . .”

The youth gestured, then raised the knife and plunged forward into the circle. Without thinking, Jermain dove after him. Light flared around him as he passed over the edge of the circle, and something slowed him, resisting his passage. Then he was sprawling on the ground inside the ring.

Laznyr was just ahead of him. Jermain rolled and managed to grab the other’s ankle, tripping him before he could reach the two combatants. Laznyr cried out in shock, and dropped the knife as he fell on top of Jermain.

For a moment, the two men grappled on the ground, Laznyr struggling to regain the knife and Jermain to prevent him from reaching it. Suddenly Laznyr gave a cry of triumph. Jermain saw the knife glitter, swinging toward him, and he jerked backward. He was barely in time. The knife slashed through his tunic, grazing his chest, and Laznyr broke free.

Jermain scrambled to his feet and followed, but Laznyr was too quick. He ran toward the wizards, who seemed to have noticed nothing. Their eyes were locked; they were barely a sword’s length apart. Laznyr slid toward them as Carachel’s right hand, which bore the serpent ring, reached for Wengarth.

“Laznyr!” Wengarth croaked, and his voice held desperation.

Laznyr raised the knife. Jermain stopped and jerked his own knife from his belt. With all his strength, he hurled it at Laznyr, just as the other man brought his arm down.

The ornate dagger plunged through the glowing light that surrounded the wizards and buried itself to the hilt in Wengarth’s chest, just as Jermain’s knife struck Laznyr. Wengarth opened his mouth in a soundless scream and collapsed. The light winked out like a snuffed candle. Carachel cried out and staggered backward, his right hand still outstretched and his face unpleasantly twisted.

Laznyr made a slow half turn to face Jermain. There was a look of surprise and relief in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said in a ragged voice. “I thought you were with—” A coughing spasm shook him, and blood began to run down his chin into his beard. His knees buckled, and he fell heavily atop his master, Jermain’s knife protruding from his side.

For an instant, Jermain stood stunned by the unexpected turn of events; then he swung around to face Carachel. “My lord? Are you well?”

Carachel was bent over, panting, but after a moment he looked up. His face was a mask of rage and frustration. He glared blindly in Jermain’s direction without seeming to see anything. “You fool! I needed—I wanted them alive! What good are they to me now?”

“Who seeks the power in dying may forget the power of living,” Ranlyn said from the other side of the circle. He stepped forward into the circle and stood looking at Carachel, his face unreadable.

“You!” Carachel straightened abruptly. He took a deep breath and made a visible effort to calm himself. “You come at a bad time, as you see. Still, I am always anxious for news of the Hoven-Thalar. How soon do you move north?”

Ranlyn did not answer. Jermain glanced from Ranlyn to Carachel, but though he knew Ranlyn’s message, he did not speak. Ranlyn’s arrival, his description of the Matholych and his news, Wengarth’s charges and Carachel’s answer to them, the wizards’ duel and its unexpected end—all formed an unpleasant pattern. Jermain could not quite believe what he thought he saw, but he could not deny it, either. He waited, hoping for something that would refute his suspicions and not really expecting it.

“You have no need to fear me,” Carachel said at last. “Come, what news do you bring?”

Ranlyn took a step forward, and his cloak swirled around him like a cloud. “Truly is it said that he who knows not his debts is cursed. My debt is now to the truth, and to my clans, and to my friends. What obligations are yours, wearer of the Ring of Two Serpents?”

“I do what I must.” Carachel’s voice was cold.

“So I have seen,” Ranlyn said. “And I say to you that whatever debt you owe me, I renounce it. If I have a debt of water from you, I refuse it. If I have a debt of blood from you, I relinquish it. If I have a debt of life from you, I repudiate it. For myself, if I owe you water, may it be ashes; if I owe you blood, may it be poison to you; if I owe you life, may it be your bane. And may all obligation be at an end between us.”

Jermain stared at Ranlyn in shock. During his time with the Hoven-Thalar, he had seen ceremonies where one person had refused or relinquished an obligation, and once or twice he had heard rumors about men without debts or obligations, outcasts and renegades, but that was all. Ranlyn’s formal words were a sweeping condemnation of a kind Jermain would never have expected from any Hoven-Thalar, much less his friend.

From the look on his face, Carachel, too, knew the implications of the denunciation. He hesitated briefly, then bowed. “If you will have it, then let it be so,” he said, and Jermain heard tiredness and frustration in his voice. “Yet I would like to know why, if you will tell me freely and without obligation.”

“No man may owe obligation to a Servant of the Red Plague.”

“No!” Jermain’s involuntary cry made both of the other men turn sharply toward him. Carachel’s expression was one of horror and repulsion at Ranlyn’s accusation; Ranlyn’s face was expressionless. Jermain’s eyes sought Ranlyn’s. “You are wrong, Ranlyn. My lord Carachel seeks to destroy the Matholych, not to serve it.”

“Wisdom rests in the mind and heart. I do not mean that this one owes obligation to the Red Plague. But he wears a Ring of Two Serpents, and those who wear that symbol gain their power from the deaths of men, even as the Red Plague does. Therefore among the Hoven-Thalar are such men called Servants of the Red Plague, though you in the north call such dealings Black Sorcery.”

“You do not know what you say,” Carachel said coldly.

“Why, then, did those who challenge you prefer death at their own hands to death at yours?”

“If my lord draws power from death, why has he commanded his armies to fight your people with as little loss of life as possible?” Jermain said angrily. “He intended a battle to hold the Hoven-Thalar, not a fight to the death.”

Ranlyn’s eyes widened briefly, then narrowed as he looked at Carachel. “And you wish to destroy the Red Plague.”

“I will destroy it in spite of you and the Guild of Mages!” Carachel shouted. “I will not allow the Matholych to spread death and destruction through the Seven Kingdoms again!”