Footwizard

by Terry Mancour

  “Hold!” Prince Husadri said, angrily, as he stood and strode forward toward the Karshak outcast with surprising speed. One of the guards slapped the haft of an axe into his palm as he passed, unbidden. Prince Husadri took up a defensive stance in front of his father, the weapon held at the ready. “You are forbidden from returning to the Mountain, Davachan!” he declared, angrily.

  “I do not seek to return to the Mountain, my prince,” Davachan said, sharply, cutting his eyes at him. “I said I bear a message for the humani called Minalan the Spellmonger.”

  “You are forbidden from these halls. You are accursed,” pronounced the king, pulling himself to his feet with his cane. The bodyguards did not move. “You risk execution by returning.”

  “And bring me release from my torment? I do not think you have grown that kindly, King Charak. Nay, I bear a message. I will deliver it, and I will depart.”

  “What message could you possibly have for the Spellmonger?” Prince Husadri asked in disbelief.

  “That is for his ears. I see him, sitting there. You are called Minalan the Spellmonger?” he asked, probingly.

  I sighed, then wiped my hands on a napkin and stood.

  “I am Count Minalan the Spellmonger,” I said, even though I doubted he cared about the title. When one has such things, one uses them.

  Davachan looked me up and down. “Yes, you were the one I saw in Midmarket. I bear you a message from my master, Szal the Yith: he invites you to visit with him and tell him of your travels. Consult if you will the wizard Rolof, for he knows the way and the terms,” he advised.

  “For what purpose would I do such a thing?” I asked. “I have many tasks in this lost land, and my time here is short.”

  “You seek answers, Spellmonger?” he asked, sharply. “Szal the Yith can give them to you. For he has knowledge beyond the ken of all mortals. If there are answers to be had, he can provide them.”

  “Go not to the Yith, my lord,” Prince Husadri urged. “That is a dark power, in this land. Ageless, ancient, hidden here for purposes of its own. We gave this outcast into his care to become his servant, and madness was his reward.”

  “You know not of madness!” Davachan barked. “My message is for the Spellmonger, alone!”

  “How did your master hear of me, here?” I asked, curious – and eager to avoid bloodshed.

  “I spied that bauble of yours,” the ancient Karshak croaked, pointing. “It throbs with power, even here. It disturbs the placidity of this place by its presence. My master knew of it the moment you crossed the wastes. It is . . . interesting. It drew his attention. Szal sent me to seek you out. My master seeks to know where you acquired it.”

  “That is, indeed, a long story,” I admitted. “Perhaps I will tell it. You say the wizard Rolof can tell me how to find your master?”

  “He knows the way, through the Leshwood,” Davachan nodded. “He has taken conversation with my master. He was interrogated. He survived. He has the answers he was seeking. You can, too, Spellmonger,” he pledged.

  “And what would your master know of my quest?” I asked. The Kilnusk were getting fidgety about Davachan’s presence, but I needed more information.

  “Szal the Yith knows many things – perhaps all,” Davachan declared – not a boast, but a statement of fact. “If you wish answers to your questions, you must come converse with him and strike a bargain. There is a deep ravine north of the Hot Lake. Beyond is a hill that sits betwixt the northern lake and the eastern desolation. Seek Rolof on the high ridge. He will explain everything.” He turned to go, his commission apparently ended.

  “You dare come to my hall without my leave and accost my guests with no repercussions, Davachan?” King Charak asked, saying the Karshak’s name with open revulsion.

  “I go whence my master bids me,” Davachan said, dismissively, as he halted and turned back around. “I have no choice but to obey. You saw to that, Charak, you and your sire. Slay me if you dare, but death does not frighten me. But I will not die by your hand, nor by your order. For you will soon be absent from this hall,” he said, cryptically. And then he left. Two guards escorted him out, their great double-bitted axes at the ready. But no one dared stop him.

  “It is an ill omen, to attract such visitors when an honored guest is at board,” Prince Husadri said, shaking his head apologetically. “I’m sorry, Minalan, my friend. That was unexpected and brings shame to my table.”

  “It is not the first time I’ve had an unexpected message in the middle of dinner,” I smiled. “Let it not worry you. I am used to such things.”

  “’Tis the messenger, as much as the message that I find objectional,” he protested. “Davachan is forever outcast. His presence defiles this hall. He dishonors my father with his disobedience.”

  “Then I’m sorry my presence brought him here,” I said, sincerely, “though I did nothing to do so. I had no idea this would happen. Alas, humani wizards are often subject to such unexpected turns of events. It’s the nature of the job.”

  “Of that I can attest, my prince,” Fondaras said, quietly, from a few seats down. “Our profession attracts such occurrences like a lodestone. Even the lack of magic does not change that.”

  “Yet it is the nature of the message that bodes ill,” the prince said, genuinely concerned. “Davachan is insane, my lord. His service has driven him beyond madness. The legends of the Yith all speak of madness, madness and death.”

  “Tell us about this . . . Yith,” prompted Fondaras, conversationally.

  “The Yith is an unholy power,” Prince Husadri answered. “I beg you to avoid it, lest you lose your mind!” he insisted, with the utmost seriousness. “If your fellow wizard has had interaction with Szal, I urge you to be cautious . . . for he is likely mad now, as well,” he said, sadly. “He may be dangerous.”

  “Rolof was a good warmage,” I recalled. “But he has no magic, here. I will seek him out regardless,” I proposed, “but I’m not likely to take Szal the Yith up on his offer. The answers I seek are not with some malevolent power. They lie elsewhere. And I have plenty to occupy my brief time in this land without adding a chat with the local sinister hermit.

  “Now,” I said, as everyone settled back down at their tables and began drinking and murmuring about the exchange, “did I overhear someone talking about seven desserts? Dear gods, you people can eat!”

  Chapter Twenty

  A Prophecy of Doom

  The Cave of the Ancients may seem a tepid accomplishment of our ancestors, compared to the great feats they are known for, but its opening heralds a new age of knowledge and insight on Callidore. With the information it contains within its ancient structure, it predicts the very future. It promises a raise in station for the sick and infirm. But, most importantly, it gave us the warning we needed to preserve the merry folk of Anghysbel. For that reason, alone, our quest was justified, though we may never fulfill it completely.

  From the Book of the Anghysbel Expedition

  Recorded by Minalan the Spellmonger

  The Hot Lake borders Grost Kilnuskum to the west, stretching from south to north across the landscape in a more or less straight line. It wasn’t uniformly hot – the thermal springs that gave it its name were scattered across it in various spots, not constant. While there were areas that steamed and boiled and occasionally erupted in showers of hot water and hot mud, most of the lake was no warmer than bathwater.

  It had another virtue: crossing it spared us a day and a half on the road, for our destination was the Cavern of the Ancients. Lilastien had called to me on the radio, the morning after Davachan had issued his cryptic invitation. She had good news.

  “Lord Kanlan’s operation went splendidly,” Lilastien reported, over the device. Her voice was tinny, but still clearer than using the Mirror Array. “It only took three hours, and there were no complications. He’s spent two days healing and resting, but I’m planning on running some tests this evening, if you’re interested in observing.”

 
; “How is he doing?” I asked once I pressed the proper switch.

  “That’s one of the things I’ll be testing,” she assured. “We took him off opiates this morning. By the time you get here, I’ll be able to assess his pain level. If all goes well, he can be gently transported back to Anferny tomorrow. Oh, and Forseti says he will have an update for us, when you arrive. He’s been anxious to speak to you.”

  “I’m on my way,” I promised. “We just need to say good-bye to our hosts. Fondaras says he knows the way across. We should see you soon.”

  “Good,” she replied. “There are some things I want to show you, too. Things from the colonization. And before.”

  “Well, that certainly sounds mysterious,” I said into the device. “Anything useful?”

  “It’s context, Minalan, and you need context. I’ll show you. Just get here,” she urged, and signed off.

  We said our farewells to the Kilnusk royalty and assured them that we would return before we left. Prince Husadri escorted us all the way to the dock on the Hot Lake that was closest to the mountain. It was manned by a pair of Kasari, who ran a kind of ferry service across the steaming expanse of water.

  We did, alas, have to say good-bye to Ormar, Taren, Nattia and Gareth, who would drive the long way around with the wagons. The little skiff the Kasari polled across the lake was far too small for them.

  That left just Alya, Fondaras and me on the boat with the eager young Kasari. We endured a brief lecture on boat safety and were shown where rescue devices were stowed before they cast off across the misty surface, but we were underway by mid-morning.

  It was a fascinating journey. The elder of the two Kasari rangers pointed out landmarks and points of interest during the crossing, including prominent geysers and underwater thermal vents that spewed steaming bubbles to the surface like boiling soup. But they soon ran out of fascinating explanations. We settled into quiet conversation, Fondaras and I continued the conversation we’d been having since we’d left Vanador.

  “An admirable people, the Kasari,” Fondaras observed, quietly, as he sparked his pipe with flint and steel, and then courteously passed his tiny ember to me to light mine. “All people suffer from hierarchy, in one way or another, but the Kasari manage to turn it from a necessary evil into a boon for their culture. They use rank to recognize, not to dominate. Yet, they pay a price for that,” he sighed. “They are so dedicated to their rites and their laws that they lose the power to innovate in their quest for order and achievement.”

  “They seem to fare better than the Wilderlords in such things,” I pointed out. “They are tremendously knowledgeable, thanks to the institution of their rites. Universally literate, competent and skilled . . . if they didn’t have a cultural taboo about expanding beyond their territories, they’d control the entire Wilderlands, by now,” I argued.

  “Oh, there are Kasari out in the world,” Fondaras assured. “And you are correct, it is their dedication to their codes that keep them from any quest for domination, if they became warlike. They sacrificed the lure of conquest in the quest for knowledge. To the Kasari, conquest has no value, compared to personal achievement.”

  “They seem happy,” Alya considered. “I’ve never seen a starving Kasari.”

  “Nor will you,” chuckled the footwizard. “The Kasari can survive on water and a banquet provided by nature if need be. They do not need to sow and reap the way the Wilderlords do. They are self-sufficient.

  “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t unhappy Kasari,” he continued, philosophically. “The ones who are truly unhappy leave the society and make their way in the world. But they bring their knowledge with them. Some even become wizards, if they have rajira. Some of the greatest Good Fellows of the Road have been Kasari who have left their troops and lodges for the decadence of Narasi civilization.”

  “The Kasari don’t tolerate wizards in their culture?” Alya asked, surprised.

  “They discourage it,” agreed Fondaras. “There are a few good witches and hedgewizards among them, more physicians than magi. There are some Wild Magi among them, as well, whose Talents lend themselves to their rustic existence. But there is no Kasari badge for Magic,” he revealed. “It was never mentioned in the Book of the Hand. Therefore, the Kasari lack a structure to consider it. Instead of innovating, they banish their magi or keep them quiet.”

  “Everyone contends with magic in different ways,” I sighed. “As repressive as it is, the Kasari’s way is superior to the Censorate’s.”

  “That’s why this place is so important for them,” Fondaras agreed. “And why I’ve visited it so often. Every trip has been instructive. Visiting a place with no magic helps keep a good wizard sharp and on his toes.”

  “It seems a hard price to pay, for the prospect of hot springs, beet rum, and rat pie,” snorted Alya. “Minalan is half-mad, without magic,” she accused.

  “I am not!” I argued. “It’s taken some adjustment, but I think I’m managing fairly well. It is keeping me sharp and on my toes,” I agreed.

  “You may fool yourself, my husband, but you cannot fool me,” Alya said, shaking her head. “You’ve been anxious and jumpy since we crossed into the realm of the jevolar.”

  “And you seem to have prospered, and come into your health, if you don’t mind me saying so, my lady,” Fondaras observed.

  “I do feel better,” Alya admitted, gazing out over the misty lake. “I feel more . . . myself. As if a fog has lifted from my mind. Don’t mistake me, there is still much that is . . . damaged. But this is the first time in a long time I’ve felt fully human, if not fully healed.”

  “What if your condition returns, when you do?” Fondaras inquired.

  “I might have to take regular visits here, myself, if that is the case,” she admitted. “Do you know, I think I miss my children more now than I did six months ago? And I’m enjoying that – not the actual longing for my children, but the fact that I feel that powerfully about it. I didn’t, before. It’s a sweet, sad and terribly anxious feeling, but one that I cherish, now that it has returned.”

  “It seems a high price to pay, for such knowledge,” I pointed out. “We’re hundreds of miles away from them and can’t even check on their condition with magic.”

  “Yes, thank you for reminding me!” she snorted sarcastically, giving me an irritated glance. “But my anxiety is not too high a price to pay to feel that again. To legitimately feel. I went too long without that ability. Imperfectly as it is returning, I am greedy for every new revelation.”

  “Which leads to the philosophical question: what is the price of knowledge?” Fondaras nodded, as he puffed away on his pipe. “We give up magic, temporarily, to learn more about ourselves as wizards. My lady gives up the assurance of her children’s safety to feel the acute nature of her motherhood. These are bargains we make at the market of experience, and trade bits of ourselves in exchange for knowledge and wisdom. Something is lost, something is gained,” he reasoned.

  “Ah, but is the bargain worth it?” I asked, amused. Fondaras was actually retracing a very old, very famous series of discussions from the Later Magocracy, between two competing schools of magical philosophy between the magi of Wenshar and those of Merwyn. I wondered if he had read the lectures and letters involved, at some point on his storied career on the road.

  It was an obscure body of work, but the fact that we were paddling across a steaming lake in a hidden land full of lost creatures in the caldera of a super-volcano beyond a desolate wasteland proved that Fondaras the Wise had a knowledge of the obscure.

  “A good question,” the footwizard admitted. “And one that each of us can only answer in our own hearts. Often, when I encounter a young lad with a burning desire to know something, my experience tells me that they will be disappointed with that knowledge, once they do the work and suffer to gain it. I might even instruct them so. But, in the end, it is their own passion that will propel them into learning, or their own wisdom that will dissuade them from p
ursuing an unfruitful path. Just as often they’re young idiots who blunder ahead with enthusiasm and end up bitterly surprised.”

  “What do you do in such cases?” Alya asked, genuinely curious.

  Fondaras shrugged. “I let them. Every wise man was once a young fool. Experience and failure are excellent instructors.”

  “Learning from our mistakes is the path to wisdom,” I agreed.

  “No,” chuckled Fondaras. “Learning from our mistakes is common sense. Learning from other people’s mistakes is wisdom. I need not pick up a coal to see if it’s hot, if I’ve seen you do the same. Sometimes the price of knowledge is mere observation and contemplation.”

  I considered that in silence as we approached the far shore of the lake, where a wooden dock suddenly emerged from the mists. There were a few people on the shore, we saw, as the Kasari guided the little skiff to it and tied it off.

  The people proved to be Lord Kanset and a few of his men.

  “Lady Lilastien sent us to welcome you,” he said, as he helped Alya from the boat. “Did you have a good journey across the Hot Lake?”

  “My pores have never been clearer. How is your father?” Alya asked, concerned.

  “In fine spirits, now that the poppy haze is clearing from his head,” Kanset reported, proudly. “We shall know how he walks and how much pain he is in by this evening, according to the Sorceress. How was your journey to Lakeshire and Grost Kilnuskum?

  “Eventful,” I chuckled, as I stretched on the dock and retrieved my plasma rifle. “I’ll fill you in over dinner, this evening. This is a fascinating little land, and the inhabitants are just as interesting as the landscape.”

  “I always thought it was a bit boring, actually,” Kanset admitted. “Until you go north, into the wild. Then it’s far too exciting. Come along,” he urged. “I have horses waiting for you. But it is only a short ride.”

  Indeed, the route from the dock to the long ramp up to the Cave of the Ancients did not take terribly long to traverse, although we had to dismount and lead the horses across the narrow path that skirted the great boulder along the way. Once we arrived at the meadow, I saw that it had been somewhat transformed. There was a pavilion erected upon it, and a small camp where the Anferny men had been living while they waited for their master to be healed.