Moment Of The Magician

by Alan Dean Foster

  So he considered the question carefully before replying “It is true that the lands to the north of the city are not as thickly inhabited as those in other directions, Master.”

  “What’s the land to the north of here like?”

  “Open forest where live peoples who do not pledge their allegiance to the city or to any other government, Master. North of that is the Wrounipai, the first of many swamps all connected together that run from west to east. They cut us off from any lands that lie still farther north.”

  “And what about those lands?”

  “I do not know, Master. I have never been there. I do not know anyone from the city who has ever been there.”

  “And that’s the way this bird was heading when he left Oplode’s place.” Markus turned his full attention on his spy. “You’re certain of that?”

  “Y-y-y-y-for sure, wise one! I am certain of it. He f-f-f-flew straight away from the wizard’s neighborhood. I followed him with my eyes from the rooftops nearby.”

  “Okay, but how can we be sure he was on a mission for Oplode?”

  The visitor moved nearer, anxious to ingratiate himself with the magician. His whiskers trembled as he whispered.

  “The wizard Oplode has a young assistant named Flute. I s-s-saw him conversing with the raven before he took off for the north.” Markus was nodding absently, admiring the polished hardwood inlay of the table behind him. A single chair rested against the table.

  It needs something, he thought. A gargoyle or demon or some such carved atop the chair. Something to draw the visitors’ eyes upward. For that matter, if the table was going to serve as a desk, it had to be up on a dais. He’d have to get some carpenters in here and get them started on the alterations he wanted.

  He was aware of his spy standing hopeful and silent by his legs. “That’s it?”

  “That is all, w-w-wise one.”

  Markus nodded, glanced toward Prugg. “Give him a gold piece.”

  “Thank you, wise one!” The spy was unaccustomed to such largess, but Markus had always believed in paying his help as much as possible. Otherwise you ended up with garbage working for you, ready to sell you out to the first high bidder. Even if he was overpaying for this particular bit of information, in so doing he was buying himself a valuable servant forever.

  The mouse took the coin; skittered quickly away from the ominous, silent shape of Prugg; and did some admirable bowing and scraping as he retreated from the magician’s room.

  When the door was closed once more, Prugg turned to his benefactor. “What will you do now, Master?”

  “What would you suggest?”

  Prugg strained. Thinking hurt his head. “There are faster fliers than ravens, Master. I would send them after this one. Better not to take chances. Kill it.”

  “He has nearly a full day’s head start,” Markus murmured, “but I agree with your suggestion.” Prugg smiled proudly. “I will send fliers out after him, yes, but I will not hire them. I will conjure them forth to do our bidding.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Prugg admiringly, waiting to see what the magician would do next.

  What Markus did was to assume a wide stance in the middle of the room. The floor there had been cleared of all furniture and decoration. Prugg moved to one side for a better view. He found it astonishing that Markus required no special chamber in which to perform his wizardry. Nothing but a clear floor and plenty of arm room.

  As always, Markus mumbled the incantation. Not that Prugg would have understood the words any better than Oplode, but Markus the Ineluctable took no chances with his secrets.

  The room darkened perceptibly and the air grew very still. Prugg would have been able to see better with glow bulbs, but Markus would have nothing of Oplode’s around him and insisted instead on using simple torches for illumination.

  Then a faint whine became audible, alien and harsh, rising slowly in volume. Prugg strained to see. In the center of the room, in front of Markus, shapes took form. It was as the magician had said: fliers, but fliers akin to none Prugg had ever heard tell of. He found himself backing away. They were far smaller than he was, but ugly and threatening to behold.

  Markus, on the other hand, seemed delighted by their appearance. They danced and whirled over his head as he guided them with words and hands.

  “Beautiful, beautiful! Better than I dared hope for. If only I could’ve called them up as a child. Ah, well, Prugg, it takes time to master the art. See, they’re just as I described them!”

  The demons continued to pivot and spin over their master’s head, roaring exultantly and gnashing their long teeth. In the enclosed space the din was deafening.

  They had no faces, Prugg noted.

  No eyes, nostrils, external ears, or visible mouths. Only those mindless, clashing teeth. Fangs without jaws. Prugg found he was shaking. There were worse things in the world than one’s own nightmares.

  “To the north!” Markus cried, pointing with one hand. “There flies the raven named Pandro. Where he’s going I don’t know, but see that he doesn’t get there. Go!”

  One by one, in single file, the faceless demons tore through the open window. Only when the last of the growling chorus had faded into the light of mideve did Markus drop his hands and return to stand behind his desk.

  “About this chair, Prugg. What I want you to do is—” He stopped and stared at his bodyguard. ‘Are you paying attention?”

  The huge servant forced his gaze away from the window where the demons had taken their leave and back to his master. Markus was speaking as though the conjuration had never taken place. It was all so matter-of-fact, so ordinary to him, this calling up of otherworldly powers.

  Truly Prugg was fortunate to have him for a master.

  It was a lovely warm day, the air thick with humidity but not oppressively so. Below Pandro the trees had closed in, shutting off sight of the ground. He was already well north not only of Quasequa but of its outlying villages and satellite communities as well.

  Rising thermals allowed him to glide effortlessly over the dense tropical forest. Since departing Quasequa he’d stopped only once, and that briefly, the previous night to catch a bit of sleep. Then up before dawn for a fast breakfast of fruit, nuts, and dried fish and on to the north.

  In his mind he reviewed the landmarks he would pass on his way to the distant Bellwoods, a forested region that was little more than rumor in Quasequa. Oplode assured him such a place existed, just as he assured him the great wizard he was to deliver his message to existed.

  If he was real, Pandro would find him. He’d never failed to make a delivery yet, and this morning he was feeling particularly confident. He felt so good he skipped his usual midday snack, preferring to cover as much territory as possible. Thus far the journey had proved anything but dangerous. He’d assured his mate before leaving that it would be more in the nature of an extended vacation than a difficult assignment. So far it had developed exactly as he’d told her.

  Then he heard the noise.

  It was behind and slightly above him and growing steadily louder as he listened. At first he couldn’t place it. More than anything, it sounded like the droning he imagined the fliers of the Plated Folk might make. But those historic enemies were likewise little more than rumor in Quasequa. Pandro had only seen drawings of them, the fevered sketches of far-ranging artists with more imagination than fact at their disposal.

  Hard-shelled, gray-eyed relatives of the common bugs and crawly things that inhabited the woods and lakes, they were. None had penetrated as far south as Quasequa. He certainly never expected to see them in person. Yet when at last he was able to look back and make out the shapes pursuing him, he was startled, for they certainly looked like the representations he’d seen of the Plated Folk.

  The reality as they drew nearer still was worse. They were not minions of the Plated Folk but something far more sinister. Similarities in shape and appearance there were, but even the Plated Folk had faces. The demons overtaking
him had none. They were hard-shelled but utterly different from anything he’d ever seen before. Nor were they fliers like his cousins, for where there should have been beaks he saw only hungry, razor-sharp, strangely curved fangs.

  No matter how he strained he couldn’t outdistance them, and they closed the space between with terrifying ease. Hoping to lose them in the trees, he dove for the crowns of the forest. They followed easily, closing ground still more when he reemerged from the branches. He dipped and rolled and dodged, employing every maneuver he could remember, sometimes vanishing among the foliage, sometimes doubling sharply back on his route before rising again to check the sky. And the demons stayed with him, inexorable in their pursuit, malign in their purpose. For Pandro they meant only death.

  One veered just a little too near the mass of a giant tocoro tree and smashed into the bark. Glancing backward, Pandro was relieved to see it fall, spinning and tumbling and broken, to smash into the ground below. There was still hope, then. Demonic visitors his tormentors might be, but they were neither invulnerable nor immortal. They could be killed.

  Six of them had fallen on him. Now there were five left. But he couldn’t continue the battle at this speed. All the diving and dodging among the trees was wasting his strength at a much faster rate than mere flying. Yet having tried to outrun them and failed, he didn’t have much choice. He had to keep to the woods.

  One of his pursuers swooped around the bole of a forest giant, only to find itself caught in the grasp of a huge, carnivorous flying lizard. Blood spurted as the two combatants tumbled groundward, unable to disengage. The lizard was stunned by the ferocity of the much smaller creature it had caught, while for its part the demon was unable to break free from sharp talons. They struck the earth together.

  Four left, Pandro thought wildly. His heart was pounding against his chest feathers and his wing muscles ached. One of the demons was right on top of him, and he had to fold his wings and drop like a stone, plummeting desperately toward the ground only to roll out at the last second. Even so, curved fangs slashed at his left wing in passing, sending black feathers flying.

  He checked the injury as he climbed cloudward. The wound was superficial, but it had been a near thing. Too near. And his assailants seemed as fresh and untired as when they’d first attacked. He had to do something drastic, and soon. He couldn’t keep dodging them forever.

  Once more he drew his wings in close to his body and fell earthward. As though of the same mind, the four demons followed in unison, screaming at him.

  Again he rolled up and over before crashing, but this time he landed behind a chosen tree. His pursuers split and came at him from two sides. The first one went over his head, the second missed him on the right. The third went straight for his throat and crumpled itself against the tree, teeth flying in all directions as the head shattered. The fourth turned away to reconsider.

  Pandro pushed air as he flew back toward Quasequa, hoping they wouldn’t see him and intending to make a wide curve back northward once he’d lost them. Looking back over his shoulder he spotted two of them skimming low over the treetops, hunting him in the opposite direction.

  But where was the third surviving demon?

  He turned just in time to duck, but the teeth bit deeply into his neck and back, barely missing his face. Blood flew with his feathers. The clouds began to swim in front of his eyes, blotting out all the blue sky. He felt himself falling toward a green grave.

  Good-bye, Asenva of the saucy tail, he thought. Good-bye fledglings. Good-bye worried wizard, may your skin never be dry. I tried my best. But you didn’t tell me I would have to fight demons.

  The first tree reached up to catch him. He hit hard.

  Prugg enjoyed the expressions that came over the faces of Kindore and Vazvek when the demons returned. The two members of the Quorum made protective signs in front of their faces and all but hid beneath the master’s cape. Markus let them quake in terror for a few minutes before assuring them they were in no danger and that the faceless fliers were his servants. Even so, Vazvek did not emerge from behind the magician until the demons ha,d settled one at a time into waiting wall alcoves.

  As soon as he was sure they had fallen asleep, Prugg approached them. He did not want to show fear in front of the Quorumen, but he feared the master’s magic nonetheless.

  “Go on, Prugg,” said Markus helpfully. “They won’t hurt you. They won’t move unless I command them.”

  Prugg studied the trio. True to the master’s word, they ignored him. They were not very big, especially for demons, but those curved fangs were very impressive. Prugg ran a finger over one and still its owner did not stir.

  “Only three of them,” Markus murmured. “I wonder what happened to the other three.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I can always call up more.” He turned to face his supporters.

  “What do you think, Kindore? Should I bring them back to life and have them dance in the air for you?”

  “No, no, no, advisor,” said a badly shaken Kindore. He pulled at his thin coat, working to refasten the buttons which had come loose as he’d scrambled to avoid the demons. “I have never seen demons like that.”

  “How many demons have you seen?” Markus grinned at the squirrel. “They’re harmless now. We can resume our discussion.”

  This was done. When Markus’s questions had all been answered, he gave the pair his orders. Not advice, orders. Markus the Ineluctable had already moved beyond making suggestions, and Kindore and Vazvek hastened to carry out his bidding. Things were moving rapidly now, and the master was pleased.

  He dismissed them, watched with amusement as they retreated quickly, and then walked over to inspect his now-silent aerial servants.

  “Only three.” He rubbed a forefinger across his lower lip, then gestured at the last demon in line. “See, there’s blood on this one’s teeth.”

  “I saw, Master.”

  “But whose blood? Could it be demon blood?”

  Prugg strained but could not come up with a quick reply.

  Markus looked pained. “You’re slow, Prugg, you know that? Real slow.”

  “Forgive me, Master. I know that I am stupid. But I try.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t keep you around for your wit. You may as well know that it can’t be demon blood because there is no blood in any of these creatures. Just as there is no life in them. They only live at my command. They’re not sleeping, Prugg. They’re dead. Until I choose to give them life again. Therefore it stands to reason, doesn’t it, that this is the blood of the black messenger?”

  “Yes, that must be so,” agreed Prugg. “Yes, the black flier must be down, along with whatever messages he carried from that slimy bad loser, Oplode.”

  Prugg looked pleased. “Can I tell the old wizard his servant has been killed?”

  “No, Prugg, you cannot. Nor will I tell him. Let him squat in his bath believing his messages are going to be received. Let him think his trusted messenger ran out on him. Let him stew those possibilities over for a while. It will keep him out of our hair for now,” He smiled thinly. “I have a lot to do and I don’t want to have to waste time worrying about the salamander.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  Pandro heard the words faintly through the black haze that was the inside of his head. There was a moment during which he thought the words might’ve been part of a dream, a bad dream he’d been having. Then more words, different, a little more intelligible this time.

  “How the hell should I know? Do I look like a physician?”

  “You always did look like something escaped from a hospital,” countered the first voice. “One where they treat mental problems.”

  “Shut up, you two. I think he’s coming around,” commanded still a third voice.

  The voices went away again. It occurred to Pandro that perhaps they might be waiting for some kind of response from him.

  “I. . . can hear you okay, but I can’t see you. I’m blind.”


  “He’s blind,” said one voice, not in the least sympathetic.

  “Have you tried,” said the third voice, a little more gently, “opening your eyes?”

  Pandro mulled this over. “Why, no. I haven’t.”

  “Try,” the voice urged him.

  Pandro blinked, discovered he was lying on a crude platform built between two branches high above the forest floor. The foliage around him was swarming with the graceful, swift shapes of fellow fliers. They had one thing in common: every one of them was considerably smaller than he was. None stood more than a foot high.

  Two of the three who were staring down at him wore blue-and-black kilts with bright chartreuse vests, while the third was clad in a kilt of white and yellow with a pink vest. This attire was subdued compared to their natural coloration, which was brilliant and metallic.

  At first he had a hard time telling them apart. They hardly ever stopped moving, darting in front of him, behind, making erratic loops around the branches, arguing constantly with each other, and occasionally flitting overhead to sip from one of the huge tropical blossoms that burst forth from the tree.

  Shoving backward with his wingtips, Pandro sat up, winced in pain. His wing came away from the back of his neck unbloodied, however. If he hadn’t turned at the last instant, the demon would have bit him in the face. The image that produced in his mind made him queasy all over again.

  “Where are you from?. . . What are you doing here?. . . Who are you?. . . Why the neck chain. . . ?” The trio threw one question after another at him and didn’t wait for replies. One of them was tapping him on the shoulder as it spoke.

  “Take it easy,” Pandro pleaded. A quick inspection revealed that the surrounding trees were filled with tiny homes and traditional covered nests. “My turn first. Where did you find me?”

  One of the querulous hummingbirds drifted in front of Pandro, fanning his face with wings that were sensed rather than seen. It nodded to its right.

  “You came down over there.” Crimson flashed beneath its bill. “Busting branches all the way down. Wonder is that you didn’t bust your skull.”