Footwizard

by Terry Mancour

  “We’ll camp tonight at the ridge,” Fondaras pronounced, as we returned to our wagons and mounts, after a brief rest. “After that we will have to choose one of two routes to Tyr Morannan.”

  “One wouldn’t happen to be relatively safe, and the other one ridiculously dangerous, would it?” Gareth asked.

  “They’re both dangerous,” the footwizard shrugged. “One is just a mile and a half shorter than the other. But it will be harder to get the wagons through. Indeed, there is one section that might prohibit them all together. There are landslides in this land. And frequent earthquakes. Five years ago, a boulder partially blocked the trail. We might have to abandon the wagons, if we go that route,” the footwizard explained.

  “I need my wagon!” protested Ormar.

  “And I need mine,” agreed Azhguri. “We cannot abandon them!”

  “The boulder is the size of a cottage,” Fondaras shrugged.

  “I can contend with a boulder,” the little alchemist assured him with a snort. “But I cannot contend without my wagon. I’ll not abandon it to the goblins. I’ll move the damn rock myself,” he declared.

  “And if you cannot?” I challenged. “We will waste half a day retracing our steps and going the other direction.”

  “Or the Spellmonger can help and we can remove the offending boulder,” countered Ormar.

  “It does lie in the region where magic still works,” sighed Fondaras, reluctantly. “But if you check your savistator, my lord, you will see that the proximity of the jevolar have already begun to have an effect. By tomorrow, you will notice a pronounced effect,” he predicted, direly.

  “We have a stonesinger, an alchemist, a couple of thaumaturges, an Alka Alon sorceress, and half a dozen wizards,” boasted Ormar. “If we can’t handle a big rock, we shouldn’t be on this expedition in the first place.”

  It was hard to argue with that. Among our company were some profound experts on everything from human biology to base alchemy. And while our ability to use magic was fading already – something I realized, once Fondaras called attention to it – I had a lot of enchantments on me. Not least the Magolith.

  “What about the other route?” I prompted our guides. “Can wagons pass that way?”

  “The grade is steeper, and the bottom at the other side of the ridge is known to be frequented by predatory beasts, as well as lingering pools of toxic water. Indeed, that is why I counsel we take the western route,” Fondaras explained. “There is far less likelihood that we will encounter them, through the high pass. But more likelihood the trail could be blocked. It might take time to unblock it,” he pointed out.

  I looked around at the bulky wagons, laden with supplies I knew we would need on the road ahead. They would be difficult to even get up the ridge, I saw, and if there were obstructions ahead . . . but, at the same time, I reasoned, trying to defend five wagons from a lightning-fast giant bony snake with a fence of teeth in its mouth just seemed more dangerous. Even if it took more time.

  “We’ll take the western route and chance this boulder,” I decided. “Now, let us construct a few spellfields and glyphs to convince our pursuers to take the other route,” I suggested. “Those poor, vicious, thirsty creatures should get some chance of a tasty snack this evening . . .”

  Chapter Eight

  Tyr Morannan

  Tyr Morannan, or “sanctuary” in Kasari, was the half-way point in our journey across the wastes. Already, I can feel the potency of the jevolar sapping away magic. It was subtle, at first, and after the rich arcane environment of Sevendor and the excitement of Vanador, it felt like a thick cloak was slowly being wrapped around me. It was disconcerting. Forseti reported in detail about the specifics of the alchemy, while we were riding in the wain together. His current chassis apparently has very precise equipment for such measurements. His observations about our party were even more intriguing. He thinks this damnable waste, despite its alchemical richness, is making them morbid.

  from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

  Recorded By Gareth of Vanador

  I appreciated Fondaras wanting to make for the ridge, that evening. Like the little hillock we’d encamped upon the previous night, it kept us above the hazardous mist from the twilight dew and subject to a favorable breeze all night long. We didn’t have to use masks, up there. Likewise, it was less dusty, the higher we traveled. There was a lot less coughing, that evening, as a result.

  But there was already a noticeable decline in the etheric density, I could tell as I tried to activate the hoxters containing our pavilions that evening. I was still able to do it, of course, but it took considerably more effort than normal. And more power. I noted my observations carefully in the journal, as well as detailing the spells we’d cast a few miles down the trail.

  Three consecutive spellfields wove a garden of arcane glyphs that wound in and around the dusty track. They were not designed to injure or harm, directly, but they were designed to make the hellish environs of the wastes even more confusing and dangerous.

  Tyndal proved surprisingly adept at deploying the cunningly cast spells. His knowledge of psychomantics was impressive, for a lad who loved charging into battle with a lance. He explained the details of his design as he laid it, with Gareth and I aiding him when requested. There were no explosions, or sudden gouts of magical fire. Instead, there was doubt, resentment, confusion, and a liberal sprinkling of absolute certainty laid across the road like invisible cobbles.

  “The first of them will encounter this rune,” he said, smirking as he drew it with a special wand of his. “This will make them suspect that we went west.

  “This next one, however, will overlay a growing suspicion over that idea. That it is a trap. By the time that they get to the third, they will be utterly convinced of it. That conviction will be challenged by the fourth rune, which will inspire confusion – perhaps about some little thing, perhaps about the nature of the mission, itself. It doesn’t matter – as long as they are confused. They will become resentful, with this fifth rune, which will also include more misdirected doubt . . . and by the time they come to the fifth, they will be perfectly primed to revolt against any idea of taking the westward path,” he said, proudly.

  “That’s some classy enchantment,” Gareth nodded, appreciatively.

  “A bit of departure from your usual destructive tendencies,” I nodded.

  “Subtle,” praised Fondaras. “I can barely see them, in magesight. Of course, it starts fading around here,” he admitted.

  “The entire thaumaturgical field is sparse,” agreed Tyndal, mournfully. “I had to nearly double the power of these glyphs to establish them properly. And use a bit of snowstone,” he added. “It helped. Marginally. But I think it’s enough to keep from attracting their attention until it’s too late.”

  “What does it do, exactly?” Gareth asked.

  “That field over there? That’s where they get the assurance that they are on the right track. By the time they get to the middle of it, they’ll think that there is cool, clear water in this direction. It’s downhill, so they won’t have a problem believing that.

  “But if they venture uphill toward the western path, they’ll come to the third spellfield. That’s where they will damn near revolt if they’re commanded to press on. Every single one of them will believe that it’s a ruse, that we’ve gone that way, That death lies around the next bend. A trick. A trap. And nothing, and I mean nothing, will convince them otherwise. Nothing is more deadly on the battlefield than doubt . . . except absolute conviction.”

  “Sounds like someone has been reading,” Gareth observed.

  “Someday I’ll be too old to ride,” Tyndal shrugged. “Blue magic is a bit of a hobby of mine. It’s useful, occasionally. And it’s good for an old man to have a few tricks about him that no one suspects. Master Minalan taught me that,” he declared.

  That produced a guffaw from Fondaras and a chuckle from Gareth. I didn’t dignify it with a comment. The fact was, he was
right, if also impudent as three hells. I had taught him that. And even though I had been the butt of the joke, I was proud that the boy had picked up a bit of wisdom from me, over the years. I, myself, had tricks and skills no one suspected. A good wizard is sneaky, like that.

  “Not the sort of thaumaturgy I’d expect of you, lad,” Fondaras agreed.

  “Blue magic is useful, sometimes,” Tyndal shrugged. “Especially when you’re talking to girls. But once you study it a bit, you realize that it’s really no different from any other discipline, when you know the rules. In fact, half of it is just knowing how the human mind works – or, in this case, the gurvani mind. They’re actually very similar,” he informed us. “At least for the basic fears and desires. It only starts to vary significantly in the abstract. At the cultural level, not the personal,” he said, philosophically, as we started to walk back to camp. “Not a lot of warmagic involves those kinds of subtleties. I think it’s useful. I learned a lot about gurvani society and culture, after talking with Gurkarl.”

  “And fighting them, for so long,” added Gareth. “Of course, these are maragorku, not true gurvani.”

  “There is only so much an oppressive system can thwart,” I pointed out, carefully avoiding the spellfield. “The maragorku may have been corrupted, but they are still gurvani, at heart. You can stretch and warp the gurvani, but in the end, they’re still gurvani. The same is true with humanity.”

  “I hope you are correct, my lord,” Fondaras sighed. “I’ve met many in my travels who might challenge that notion. Men so twisted and warped by greed, desire for power, lust . . . they will stoop to anything to gain what they crave.”

  “There is that element in every race, I fear,” sighed Gareth, peering up at the ridges around us as we walked. “Even the noble Alka Alon. The same race that produced Ithalia and the other Emissaries also produced the Enshadowed. I shudder when I contemplate the same effect in a race like the Vundel,” he added.

  “Wisdom dictates that the Wise reject such desires as pointless,” reflected Fondaras, as he used his staff to leverage his old body up the incline. “Greed, power, lust, all are pointless pursuits when death threatens to take us all.”

  “Why, Master Fondaras,” chided Tyndal, “it is death that makes greed, power and lust all the sweeter to the mind. We wouldn’t pursue them so vigorously, were we immortal.”

  “Like the Alka Alon?” Gareth prompted.

  “The Alka Alon aren’t immortal,” I reminded, “just long-lived, compared to us. Compared to the Vundel, they are as ephemeral as the gurvani. And even the Sea Folk are mortal; just ridiculously tough and immensely long-lived. All living things must die. We are all mortal,” I proposed.

  “I’m not,” Tyndal boasted. “At least until proven otherwise.”

  “That sort of thinking will get you killed,” Gareth snorted.

  “That sort of thinking lets me know I’m alive,” countered Tyndal.

  “That sort of thinking is the quaint conceit of youth,” chuckled Fondaras. “Older, wiser men understand the bitter finality of death, and why it obliges us to better ourselves before that inevitable – and regrettable – day. Regardless of what the monks and nuns might preach, when death comes to each of us of an afterlife death it is the end of the life we have had. Whatever shadow of understanding might pass along to our shades in the afterlife is only defined by that.”

  “This is all getting too lofty for my head,” I said, chuckling. “That’s what I get for chatting with a footwizard, a thaumaturge and a warmage in the same company.”

  “I’d be curious as to Lady Lilastien’s opinions on the subject,” reflected Gareth. “And Forseti’s, for that matter. Their perspectives might add dimension to our debate.”

  “Another time,” decided Fondaras, as we mounted the last rise before the long ascent to our encampment. “I’m hungry and passing thirsty. Wisdom dictates that we tend to the base needs of our bodies before we seek to exalt the mind.”

  “Master Fondaras, we may have more in common, philosophically, than you might expect,” Tyndal chuckled. “And I foresee some conjured spirits in our future. My treat.”

  We made good time, the next day, after a hellish night on the ridge. While the wind had no trouble whisking away the fumes the wastes produced at twilight, the weather chose that night to punish us with high winds. Our conjured canopies and pavilions shook with the force of their fury, and I wondered at their integrity now that magic was fading. Alya clung to me all night long in our bed as the pavilion rattled forebodingly.

  But in the morning our sturdy little tents were still standing, and the breeze was steady enough to allow an early departure.

  Alya did not look particularly hale, I noted with concern in the journal the next morning. The restless sleep and the harsh conditions had turned her skin pale, where it wasn’t reacting to the caustic dust that seemed to get everywhere. The spells on our clothes and ourselves were starting to fade, I noted with concern. They were sturdy enough without magic, of course, but losing that element of protection was worrying. Indeed,

  I tested the conditions at dawn with both a savistator and through using a number of simple spells to measure just how degraded the arcane had become as we came closer to the jevolar and dutifully recorded it. But we pushed on regardless; Tyr Morannan was near, and it would be the midpoint of our journey across the wastes. We were all eager to achieve it, if for no other reason than to ascribe some progress to our suffering.

  As the giant hawks circled overhead, protecting us from attack, our wagons rolled down the ridge and up the next one, after we traversed the acrid vale between them. It was a beautiful place, in the abstract; encrustations of exotic salts and even fully-formed crystalline structures beguiled Ormar the Alchemist as we passed through. He eagerly collected specimens, and he insisted Gareth sketch the things in his neat, accurate hand.

  To the rest of us it seemed a pointless and annoying endeavor. We just wanted to press on, and Ormar’s delight in the formations seemed to mock that idea.

  All too soon we came to the boulder that Fondaras had warned us about. Alas, it was just before a narrow pass that traversed one of the higher ridges of the wastes, and occluded the opening damnably. Before Fondaras could dismount and consider the matter, Forseti rolled up and gave his assessment. I had invited the ancient machine to ride in the wagon behind me and Alya, for a time. Gareth, apparently, had grown weary of conversing with him.

  “The wagons are nine and three quarters inches too wide to fit between the space,” he pronounced. “If the wheels are removed from both sides,” he proposed, “they might be able to be dragged through the gap.”

  “Conversely, we could just get rid of the boulder,” I pointed out.

  “We lack proper equipment for that,” Forseti predicted.

  “Let’s try to take advantage of the remaining quantum field effect,” I proposed, using the term Forseti used for magic. “If that fails, we’ll use our alchemist. And if that fails, I’ll turn Azhguri loose on it. That Karshak eats boulders like that for breakfast.”

  I ended up examining the boulder and the resulting gap myself. It did seem a stubborn problem – compounded by loose rock along the route beyond. But magic finds a way when even the gods are perplexed. It took a lot of power from the Magolith, but I managed to stuff the cottage-sized boulder into a hoxter long enough to allow our entire train to go through.

  “We did not have access to such mighty spells, last I ventured here,” Fondaras said, as he rode along beside us on the other side of the pass. “You have simplified the passage, my lord. Good work.”

  “Just a little applied enchantment,” I shrugged. “The hoxter stones were, perhaps, some of the most useful things the Snow That Never Melted produced.”

  “They did make the magical chamber pots,” agreed Alya, grudgingly. “Those are nice.”

  “They allowed us to do everything from attack a dragon to capturing Nemovorti to . . . to . . . advanced thaumaturgical sewage
management,” I agreed. “Apart from the Waystones and the Snowflake, they are the biggest blessings of that night. And my son,” I added, out of duty.

  “Oh, how I miss Minalyan and the other children,” Alya sighed, her voice muffled under her leather mask.

  “Not a much as they miss us, I’d wager,” I chuckled, loudly, just to be heard through my own protective mask.

  The masks were difficult to breathe in, but they did allow me to draw breath without my lungs tingling and eventually aching. The charcoal smell seemed to cut the worst of the acrid fumes I could readily smell when I removed it. The relief from that miasma was just barely enough to allow us to endure the early summer heat in the thick leather coverings. The cloudy crystal lenses that were sewn in gave us a decently wide view of the wastes when they weren’t fogging up with our own breath.

  Even still, we regularly doffed the things to allow a few breaths of fresh, cool air. Until the stinging resumed. Then we reluctantly donned them once more. Only Forseti escaped the punishing protection of the things. The horses in particular resisted wearing them. But, like blinders and bits and other indignities, they endured at our command.

  Just after noon, we began ascending the second rise of the day, a long ridge that provided a plateau at the top: the squat little shelter the Kasari called Tyr Morannan.

  Calling it a “tower” is misleading. It’s a two-story building that happens to be round because that’s the easiest shape to build with rocks when there isn’t a twig in sight. There was lumber involved in its construction, but it was reserved for important structural elements, not decoration. The rest was native stone, gathered, not cut. If this miserable land needed some capital, this unhappy little tower seemed appropriate.