Writers of the Future Volume 34

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “For what?” Angelo almost squawked.

  Zoraida regarded him with puzzlement. “Why, for the defense of the realm,” she said. “You can do anything with your powers. You always told me that.”

  “I …” The wizard pulled his spine straight. “Yes! We shall defend. I shall … I must go and study the best way to win this battle, your serenity! Please excuse me. I will return … I will return anon.” He made an elegant bow. The regente’s page ran for the prime minister and the rest of her advisors. Angelo backed out of the room.

  In the anteroom, servants, who had already heard the rumor, ran about like ants whose nest had been kicked, paying no attention to the court wizard. Angelo put his forehead against the nearest stone wall, resisting the urge to batter his own brains out on it.

  Oh, great Fate, what am I supposed to do?

  Feeling like a salmon swimming upstream through the crowds of servants and soldiers who poured into the great keep, Angelo rushed back to his tower.

  On his hasty ascent along the winding stone staircase that circled the tower from broad base to narrow peak, he observed the frenetic activity below, proving that word of the coming invasion had spread to the entire castle and beyond. Carts laden with goods and herds of beasts crowded in through the portcullis and the postern gates. The palace guard mustered in front of the keep itself, with the sergeant-at-arms berating soldiers who ran toward her, tying on pieces of armor and holding armfuls of weapons against their chests. No one was ready for war, least of all him.

  Once in a while, a hustling minion or soldier would look up and see Angelo with his purple robes fluttering in the cold wind, and their shoulders would relax. Angelo offered a grave wave and a somber smile, and continued his ascent. They relied upon him. He felt that weight ponderously upon his shoulders.

  The conical spire of ivory stone that stood at the rear of the castle keep had been the court magician’s domicile for over eight centuries. At the top it measured only one trimeter across, so that when one emerged from the stairs that spiraled up around the outside, one stepped directly into the magic circle incised upon the tiled floor, a conceit of his predecessor, the mage Cornelio, and a good joke on visitors, who thought they would only be observing a ritual, not participating in it. The main difficulty with it for everyday use was that while a trimeter, one and one half times the height of a man (Regente Ludovido I, to be precise), it made things more than a trifle snug if one’s cabal consisted of more than six people. The magic circle lost something of dignity and demeanor when one had to purify people in groups, then send them to wait, shivering in Enth’s cold mountain weather, on the narrow stairs, while everyone else was consecrated and blessed. Since he had been saddled with a multitude of apprentices, from every noble family with the merest hint of magical ability in the realm, he was up to three changes of circle attendants, and ritual purification took more than an hour. At least, the parents paid for their offspring’s apprenticeships, and very well, too.

  The small chamber did, however, provide him with a useful haven. The impenetrable blue haze that rose around it when he was inside (another conceit of its previous occupant) looked suitably forbidding, and kept interlopers, even the regente’s servants, from interrupting his thoughts there.

  At the top, the mist thickened, concealing the scene below from view. He passed his hand over the crystal glyph inset in the precious morwood door. The portal creaked open, then slammed dramatically behind him. (Was there no end to Cornelio’s histrionic touches? He must have begun his career as a showman!)

  But, Angelo mused, he was no better. He, too, had a touch of the carnival charlatan about him. He was a terrible fraud. If he was all the realm of Enth had to defend itself against the Solognians and their poisonous krilla steeds, it was doomed.

  His appointment to the court as its official wizard by the present regente’s father years ago had been based upon the reputation of his illustrious master, the great mage Budestro. He had driven off the hordes of Salamar with a lightning storm called down from the very heavens. Budestro, who consorted with demons, swam with leviathans, and banished dragons with a wave of his mighty hand, was a genuine hero. Angelo had come to Budestro’s school as a trembling stripling with, as the great master had proclaimed, “the greatest of promise, almost as great as my own!” But for all his potential, Angelo never could come close to his distinguished teacher’s prowess. He, Budestro realized at last and to Angelo’s dismay, possessed the very seeming of a great wizard, but not its substance.

  That said, Budestro put Angelo forward as one of the prospects when a small kingdom sent an inquiry to the master for a court wizard. Over the years, Angelo had done well enough, moving from assignment to minor assignment to merit consideration when Regente Constantino of Enth sent out his requirements for the newest occupant of the tower.

  To everyone’s surprise and delight, Angelo proved the perfect match for Enth. He reveled in spectacle, filled every feast day with celestial sparkles and the best of weather. Over time, he had acquired confidence in the one great talent he possessed, even become proud of it. His greatest glory was the friendship of Zoraida, the heiress to the regente throne. She adored him, and everything he did. She trusted him, and often asked his advice. He was truthful about everything he told her, except for that one small detail.

  With her father’s death, Zoraida had taken the throne. She was not yet the seasoned diplomat or soldier. Enth was seen as vulnerable. Her officers and ministers did their best to bring her to maturity, but alas, the krilla were at the gates or, rather, above them.

  Now she believed that he, Angelo, would be their bulwark against the foe, to buy peace and resecure the borders.

  Angelo sat in the center of the cold tiles, on the heart of the pentagram, and clutched his head with both hands, the skirts of his elegant robes spread around him. How could he defeat an army? He was an illusionist!

  All the grand stories that Angelo had claimed for his own had been exploits performed by his master. His own tales could have stirred no one’s soul. The three giants he had “bested” had drunk themselves half to death. He had only told the townsfolk that he had put them into a deep sleep, and let them take care of the ugly details. The battle with the necromancer of Filith had been a chess game, and a poor player that lich had been. Even the dragon whose hoard had produced his whitstone and the other treasures had been a wingling he had rescued in the woods, pursued by a farmer for stealing a goose. Oh, Andoria had grown up to be a massive and fearsome beast, though she still felt beholden to him. They shared a picnic now and again on the slopes of her mountain fastness: an entire sheep for her, a pie and a keg of ale for him. He signaled to Andoria by holding high a crystal she had given him, and she would come. They had had many a golden time together. Angelo recalled every day with pleasure.

  The dragon! The crystal!

  Angelo lifted his head from his hands, his heart filling with hope. That was his solution! No army could withstand the onslaught of a full-grown dragon!

  But Andoria was not at his beck. She had business of her own to attend to, flying with other dragons, adding to her hoard (Angelo never asked how), and hunting to fill her belly and that of her occasional offspring. Even when he wanted to see her, she often didn’t see his signal for days on end.

  Yet she would see it soon enough, Angelo thought, standing and brushing chalk dust from his robes. Yes, if they could hold off the onslaught for a while with the realm’s armies, his dragon friend would rid Enth of the invaders. Zoraida was counting on him to work miracles. He must prepare to the best of his abilities. Yes! There was much to be done!

  He hurried down to the classroom. The door stood ajar, a sign that all was not right. His dozen apprentices in their plain, plum-colored tunics and dark trousers stood huddled together beside their scarred and stained work tables, listening intently as Mistress Drucella, his journeywoman and housekeeper, explained the news. How we
re they taking it? He cloaked himself in shadow and insinuated himself into the room.

  Across the top of the enormous slate that filled the wall at the front of the room were written the laws of magic, which each would-be wizard had to memorize to pass even the first test of apprenticeship, among them the Law of Confusion, the Rule of Three, the Law of Attraction, the Law of Contagion, and the Law of Distraction. Half a sentence had been scrawled under the last one, meaning that a lesson in it had been under way when the word came.

  “This is the safest location you may find yourselves in,” the tall, narrow-faced woman said, her hands clenched at her sides. “The best defenses in the realm, the stoutest walls and the bravest guards. We had an excellent harvest this year, so there will be no shortage of food, and the wells in each of the courtyards are guarded by pixies, so the water will stay sweet. Are there any questions?” The severe look she sent around to the trembling students suggested that they had better not have any. Nothing was allowed to be out of place in her domain, no matter what the provocation. Even her tight bun looked like black lacquer instead of individual strands.

  But, there was always one in every crowd who failed to see the obvious. The honorable Francisco de Monteleone held up one thick-fingered hand.

  “Shouldn’t we go somewhere else? This is where the enemy is going to come, isn’t it?”

  Drucella fixed a basilisk stare on the stocky lad and prepared to flay him with sharp words, but Angelo dropped his cloak of shadow, appearing in their midst like a phantasm. The apprentices gasped and gazed in wonder. They always did. One would think they would have learned to expect his dramatic entrances by then.

  He shook his head. If they had realized what a fraud he was, they would be so disappointed. They had to believe in him, now, even if one day the truth came out. Angelo held himself erect. He should be the semblance of the prepared, powerful mage, if not the substance.

  “I was going to ask for a volunteer,” he said. “I am so glad that one of you stepped forward!”

  “But I didn’t volunteer,” the youth said. He resembled his father, Count Vincente, in that both of them looked like particularly dull cowherds, stolid, lantern-jawed, and strong as their own oxen, perfect for endurance and a simple task.

  “Ah, I heard you say you wanted to be somewhere else,” the wizard said, enjoying the lad’s discomfiture. “That is convenient. I have somewhere for you to go.” He clapped sharply once, then opened his palms. The clear blue bubble of crystal dropped out of empty air into his cupped hands. The dragonstone felt good to the touch, cool and hot at the same time. The cone of blue power it emitted, visible to anyone with even a touch of the talent, lit his fingers and splayed a pattern of light on the ceiling. He eyed Francisco. It was a foolproof mission, but de Monteleone was capable of increasing the intensity of his foolhardiness to undo even the greatest of safeguards. Thank goodness he had his noble rank to fall back upon. “This task is of the greatest importance to Enth. I need a messenger stout of heart, strong in bone and sinew, enduring in the face of adversity.” And gullible in wit and will, Angelo thought, watching the boy straighten up on his stool at each increasing compliment. Francisco sprang to his feet.

  “I will do it, sir!” he exclaimed.

  “Good. Here are your instructions. Listen carefully.” Angelo plunked the globe into the boy’s palm. “Take this to the highest peak on the Naral Massif. Hold it up in the air. Wait until the dragon comes. Bring her here.”

  “That’s all?” Francisco asked, clutching the stone orb.

  “Yes!”

  “No incantations? No spells? No potions? No magic passes or dances?”

  “Oh, certainly, if you wish,” Angelo said, patting him on the head, though the boy stood several hands taller than he did. “You may chant, ‘Come, dragon, come,’ and perform the tarantella. That won’t help, but it might help keep you warmer on the mountaintop. On your way, then. Take a stout cloak, rations and a bedroll.” He shooed Francisco toward the open portal. The lad hesitated in the doorway.

  “What about a sword?”

  “Good idea! She can use it to pick her teeth.” Francisco scurried away, in search of supplies. A sword! Really. To defend against a friendly dragon? The other apprentices tittered. Angelo rounded upon them. “Don’t laugh! He will have the easiest task of all of us. There is much to plan. Now, listen closely.”

  The Grandee Angelo, Court Wizard of Enth!” announced the herald pursuivant, as the Herald Regente himself was already engaged at the long table full of nobles and ministers of the realm. He repeated it, but his voice was drowned out in the hubbub. Angelo gave the balding, middle-aged man in the blue-and-silver livery a kindly look. None of them were ready for a situation like this.

  “But why aren’t we prepared?” the condestable demanded, probably echoing the thoughts of everyone present.

  “Too long at peace,” growled General Rafello. The chief of all the armed forces of Enth stood a head taller than anyone else present, and seemed even more massive because of his sapling-straight posture and heavy leather cloak. He flattened both rough palms on the broad planks of the table. Massive relief maps had been assembled from interlocking pieces like a giant jigsaw. Featureless game pawns painted gold for Enth’s troops and red to indicate Solognian forces had been deployed on the carved valleys and passes. The red vastly outnumbered the gold. “It wasn’t for want of me insisting we increase our defenses and soldiers under arms.”

  Dragon Caller by Ciruelo

  “Who could have foreseen that Sologne would invade?” Ricahembra Elisabetta Incypta asked. “Who would know that they were building up their army so much?”

  “I did!” said Rafello. “Our late liege allowed the numbers to fall over the years of calm. We could have gone on longer, but our regente, forgive me for saying so, your serenity, rejected the suit of Prince Francour four times. He could not help but take it as an insult, not to mention dashing his kingdom’s hopes. The decline of Sologne’s economy has been known for some time. It would seem apparent that he wishes to take what he needs by means of force, as a last resort to solve their problems, and to assuage his pride. Now we do not have enough soldiers or siege weaponry to send to the front. Not that we would be able to counter so many krilla! Further reports from my scouts say there are as many as three thousand!”

  Angelo slid into his chair on Zoraida’s left. She sent him a hopeful glance. He smiled in a reassuring manner.

  “Nonsense,” said Count Guillerme Salazin, the realm’s treasurer, his pointed black beard bobbing with every syllable. “That would be the hatching of two decades, and cost a fortune to feed. If they are so desperate, they do not have those resources. Your scouts panicked and multiplied the invaders by a hundred.”

  “How dare you suggest my scouts are cowards?” Rafello demanded, pounding both fists on the table. His mustaches seemed to uncurl and curl in his fury.

  “What’s done is done,” Zoraida said, holding up her hands to silence them. “The enemy approaches! We must face this onslaught with what we have, not what we wish we had.” It was well said, something that her late father might have uttered. The fretting ministers looked wistful and worried.

  “With your permission, your serenity, I would send to Moris for reinforcements,” Rafello said. “Their man-sized landsnakes could help hold back the ground forces!”

  “Send the message immediately to the queen,” the regente said. The general flicked a finger in the direction of one of his military aides, who dashed out the door.

  Angelo cleared his throat, drawing every eye in the room to him.

  “It is at least two weeks’ march from the south shore even once they sail across the sea, your serenity. They will never arrive in time. Escotio’s army is close to our northern border, but still far away. We are on our own. Sologne is on the border closest to the castle. If the invaders are in the mountain pass, we have mere days
to prepare a defense.”

  “What do you know of defending a realm, magician?” Rafello sneered. “You tell stories and make pretty pictures.”

  “He is a great wizard!” Zoraida said, her eyes flashing.

  “If he is such a great wizard,” the general said, lowering his enormous eyebrows over his bony nose, “then why doesn’t he cause the Solognian army to turn around and go home?”

  “That is precisely what I intend to do,” Angelo said, confident and grave. The ministers broke out into exclamations of disbelief. From his eyes and hands, he sent colors to form shapes on the features of the raised relief map. In a moment, tiny figures marching two by two under a Solognian flag took the place of the clumsy pawns. “See here: they must come west through here to reach the castle. It is the only access point, so here your forces will meet them.” A vast troop in gold, with Enth’s dark-blue and silver banners flying, appeared at the mouth of the pass, blocking the red from advancing.

  “You don’t need to tell me that,” Rafello said, his eyebrows lowering still farther. We will throw all our forces at them there. We will fight to the last soldier, to the last arrow and bolt in our quivers! They shall not conquer this citadel.”

  Angelo caused the two armies to wade into one another, swords arcing and arrows flying. Some fell immediately. Others bled convincingly from wounds in body or limb, but continued to fight. The red forces overwhelmed them and forced them back, back, back to the very gates of the castle and inside, where unarmed men and women in livery dropped to the ground, bleeding their lives out. Suddenly, the winged snakes swooped from the sky to worry the fighters in gold. They harried the cavalry that survived, and surrounded the keep. A tiny figure that resembled Zoraida slashed with a silver-bladed sword at the striking beasts. Her defenders fell one by one. Around him, the ministers gasped.

  “And the krilla?” Angelo asked. “Do we have enough to withstand them and their poison? The archers and sword-wielders who ride upon them?”