Free Dark Magic by Angus Wells

enjoy.”
    Calandryll glanced at Bracht and saw disbelief in the Kern’s eyes. Neither he nor Tekkan moved to taste their drink. He looked at Menelian and shrugged—the man was a sorcerer: he had no need of potions to work his art—he drank.
    The ale was, as the mage had promised, good. It washed away the fur-tongued memory of ek’Nyle’s stew and awakened his appetite: he took another draught, deeper this time.
    “Your comrades appear less trusting,” Menelian said, “so perhaps I’d best lay cards on the table—for I think that trust is important here, and I think we’ve little time to waste.”
    He motioned at the settles, and without waiting for them to seat themselves cocked a finger, murmuringsoftly guttural words. A chair rose from its place against the wall and floated to him as the scent of almonds briefly contested with the lanterns’ perfumed vapors. “So,” he said as he sat. “Let me be the first to show my hand. Mayhap that will convince you that my intentions are honest, and I am no enemy. Rather, a friend.”
    Bracht’s narrowed eyes argued the suggestion, but still he took a place beside Tekkan. Calandryll lowered himself to the opposite bench, intrigued despite his doubts. From the corner of his eye he saw Bracht take a cautious sip, Tekkan follow suit. His own head felt clear and he thought perhaps Menelian might speak the truth: Rhythamun’s duplicity need not mean all sorcerers were hostile.
    “I serve the Tyrant,” Menelian declared, “let there be no doubt of that. I have pledged loyalty to Xenomenus, but that service does not mean we are enemies—the contrary, I think. Please do not confuse me with such as Quindar ek’Nyle.” This directed at Bracht, whose scowling face still registered suspicion. “The vexillan is a soldier, and has the tendency of most soldiers to think in simple terms—black and white, with no shades between. He organizes the defense of a city threatened by civil war: Sathoman ek’Hennem holds most of the eastern coast and is likely to attack Vishat’yi ere long—Quindar perceives a warboat in his harbor and finds no handy place in his thinking to which he might assign it. Ergo, he suspects you of some underhand ploy. Some stratagem of ek’Hennem’s he cannot yet discern.”
    “And you do not?”
    Calandryll realized that his tankard was empty. Menelian rose, taking it and refilling it. On impulse Calandryll followed him to the table, helping himself to food as the sorcerer said, “No. I have some idea who you are—or what—and that is why I had you brought here at this ungodly hour.”
    They returned to their respective seats as Tekkanclimbed to his feet and loaded a platter with meat and bread. After a moment’s hesitation Bracht joined him.
    “I serve the Tyrant,” Menelian repeated. “I am a lesser member of that elect group sworn to prevent the chaos that arose when every petty lordling employed a host of wizards to further his ambitions. You know of the Sorcerers War?”
    Calandryll nodded and the mage continued, “And you have already met with Anomius, who served Sathoman.”
    He raised a hand as Bracht’s platter was set aside, the Kern’s hand dropping to his swordhilt.
    “Put up your blade, Bracht ni Errhyn, for I’m not your foe. More like your friend. Listen to me!”
    Bracht frowned doubtfully, but the falchion slid back into the scabbard and he took up his plate again.
    “Anomius lives,” Menelian said. “He was captured and taken prisoner to Nhur-jabal and cast into a dungeon, bound there by magic. But even so the gramaryes he left behind furthered Sathoman ek’Hennem’s cause and the Fayne Lord triumphed in the east. The Tyrant is young, and like most young men takes a short view—in hope of victory over Sathoman he has freed Anomius.”
    “Who would see us dead, I think,” Bracht grunted.
    “Indeed he would,” Menelian agreed. “And within a few days, Quindar ek’Nyle will receive the Tyrant’s orders to