Heroes And Fools totfa-2

by Margaret Weis

  “So long. .” cooed the aged spellcaster. “So long have I sought you. . you are mine now. . mine.”

  Mendel had his great desire, now Vandor would at long last have his. “Mendel. . my body.”

  “Cease your prattling! I’ve more important things on my mind!” The archmage went back to stroking the artifact.

  Grizt, this time, would not be silenced. “My body, Mendel! You said that if I stole this for you, I might-”

  “Talk to me no more about your wants, dandy! You’ll obey my every command or suffer the consequences for it! Don’t think you have any choice!”

  “But my body-”

  “You have no body.” Mendel glared at him. “Not for some thirty years, fool! Did you think I’d waste precious power on preserving that bit of tawdry meat? What does the husk of one paltry thief compare to my needs? Be satisfied with serving me, Vandor Grizt,” he said, laughing, “for you’ll be doing so for the rest of my life!”

  A roar of agony escaped Vandor. He threw himself against his side of the mirror, trying to reach for the throat of the monstrous mage. All these years he had been tricked. What a fool he had been. Mendel had led him by the nose, making promises he never intended to fulfill. Gabriella had thought him a ghost; how accurate she had been. Vandor the ghost, dreaming of what never could be, must have amused his master.

  To hold a woman again, drink fine ale, feel the warmth of day without fearing its searing heat. .

  A ghost. All these years he had been nothing but a ghost.

  Vandor tried to force himself through the mirror. He felt something begin to give. He pushed harder, fury and bitterness fueling his strength.

  Unfortunately, Mendel saw him and reacted accordingly. The Arcyan Crest in one hand, Mendel touched his medallion with a smile.

  A shock of unprecedented pain coursed through Vandor. It was worse than ever, undoubtedly enhanced by the Arcyan Crest. Screaming, the thief fell back into the mirror, practically sobbing.

  “I think. . yes, I think I’ve had enough of you,” the vulturish mage proclaimed. “This would be a most excellent time to test the limits of the Arcyan Crest. I will draw the magic from the mirror and from what little there is in the spell binding you as well and augment the potential of the crest. Let’s see if the tales of its power are true.”

  Grizt fell against the other side of the mirror, gasping, still recovering. “Damn. . damn you, Mendel.”

  “You should be happy, Vandor Grizt. I am putting you out of your suffering-and at least you won’t have to suffer very long.”

  Holding the artifact high about his head, Mendel muttered a chant. The phantom thief braced himself, certain that his end was near. In a twisted way, Mendel had spoken the truth. At least Vandor was grateful that it would be swift.

  The sinister spellcaster spouted a final word and waited. Vandor felt the edges of the mirror quiver.

  Suddenly, Mendel stumbled and gasped. His hand shook uncontrollably, nearly dropping the Arcyan Crest. The dark mage struggled to keep his grip on the artifact, his face already covered in sweat from the effort. A red glow rose around the magical crest.

  “How. . dare. . you?” Mendel hissed, staring not at Vandor but at the magical brooch. He looked suddenly smaller, drained.

  Vandor blinked. Instead of absorbing magic from the mirror and channeling it into Mendel, the crest instead seemed to be sapping the power from him.

  You have to give it to him. Sir Vandor. I don’t want him hurting you again.

  Gabriella had said that to the thief, her face so old, so unnerving. Had the strange child planned something sinister? Did she now reach out from her home to punish Grizt’s captor? Could she have the power to do that?

  Mendel’s entire body began to shiver, and the gnarled spellcaster’s skin, already so pale, grew parchment white. Nevertheless, Mendel fought back. He did not seem at all prepared to surrender.

  “Insolence!” he snapped, clawing at the air. “You dare? You dare? I am Mendel! Mendel!”

  The black-robed mage muttered something else and slowly but surely seemed to regain his footing. Vandor’s hope turned to dread; now it seemed the Arcyan Crest no longer rebelled against its wielder, but rather Mendel’s distant adversary, a young girl with much magical ability but, as Vandor knew, lacking the maturity to best manipulate her skills.

  Now Mendel was gaining strength, and the young girl, back in her home, must be losing hers. Grizt knew his master well enough to realize that Mendel would continue to drain the girl until nothing remained. The thought that Prester’s daughter would die horribly for his sake upset the thief more than he would have guessed.

  The insidious wizard was standing straight now, laughing at his unseen foe. “How I’ve waited for this, Prester! How I’ve waited to remove your smug presence from Ansalon!”

  Prester! Mendel did not even know that he threatened the life of Prester’s child, a young girl, not that he would have cared. The mage believed that only his old rival could command the power to contest him thusly.

  With all his strength Vandor reached out as best as he could, taking advantage of his master’s distraction. Try as he might, though, even with half his torso free of the mirror, the ghost-thief could not reach the black mage.

  The thief pulled back and tried something else. Desperately he threw himself against the mirror again, battering it from inside. It had to give, had to give!

  Suddenly he saw it. Near the spot where Mendel had struck the minor before, a tiny crack had developed. It was not much of a crack, but it was enough to somehow weaken the magical mirror. Desperately, Grizt struck at this spot again and again, knowing each second that passed pushed his young savior to the brink.

  Suddenly, without warning, the crack gave and Vandor Grizt found himself falling through the mirror.

  The thief rose from the floor, staring in disbelief. He saw he had some solidity, even though he could still see through himself from certain angles.

  Solidity meant that he could put his hands around Mendel’s throat.

  However, his action had not gone unnoticed. Mendel, watching him with a smirk, waved the medallion in his clutch. “The knight-errant, Vandor Grizt? Or simply too much taste for revenge? A bad idea to leave the mirror. Don’t forget I am still your master.”

  Pain wracked Vandor, forcing him down onto one knee. He looked up, watching in mounting horror as Mendel worked his spell. Heat began to overwhelm the thief. The longer he struggled futilely, the worse the heat was destined to become. Already his garments began to blacken, the process swifter than ever thanks to the Arcyan Crest.

  Vandor forced himself to his feet, fighting impossibly against the power of Mendel’s cursed medallion. He no longer feared for his existence, earthly or otherwise. He knew he would die. All he sought to do was reach the foul mage and find some way to prevent Mendel from ever torturing anyone else again.

  “Lie down. . and burn away,” his master growled, perhaps just a bit hard-pressed. “You’re nothing but vapor, anyway, dandy! Simply a puff of smoke.”

  Grizt’s hand caught on fire. His arms began to flicker. He could feel the flames begin to eat at his flesh even though he had no true flesh to burn.

  Mendel smiled, looking stronger. “Prester and you! I have enjoyed this day immensely, Vandor Grizt!”

  Gritting his teeth, the ghost howled and flung himself forward.

  The look of shock that blanketed Mendel’s face pleased Vandor immensely. The black-robed mage released his hold on the medallion as he sought to cover his eyes from the flaming figure crashing upon him. Vandor managed to seize his tormentor by the throat-

  — slipping through him an instant later.

  Wracked with an agony he could no longer endure, Vandor sought out the nearest reflection, a silver goblet sitting on a table, reaching out to it with his mind. A moment later, the numbing cold of the mirror realm swept over him, blessed cold to help assuage his pain.

  His moment of revenge had failed. Grizt had not ma
intained his solid form long enough to put an end to Mendel and now-

  Mendel cried out. Vandor, still not recovered, managed to look up from his place of hiding. The foul wizard stood clutching the Arcyan Crest. . or rather now it clutched him. The talons of the kingfisher seemed to have come alive, Mendel’s hand and wrist were caught in them. Stranger yet, the black robe looked smaller again, smaller than ever, as if he had shrunk several inches.

  “Nooo!” Mendel shouted to the air. “You cannot do this! I command it!”

  Vandor watched in amazement as his tormentor shrank. The glow surrounding the artifact had changed. Now it glowed yellow and that yellow encompassed Mendel. Vandor’s determined attack, however ill fated, had distracted Mendel just long enough for Prester’s daughter to collect herself and seize the advantage.

  With a last horrified shriek, the aged wizard collapsed to his knees. As he did, the glow washed over his twitching form. Vandor blinked as the glow at last faded, the Arcyan Crest clattering to the floor. The talons of the kingfisher returned to normal, and as for Mendel, he had vanished altogether.

  Disbelieving his eyes, the thief emerged from the mirror, tentatively making his way toward the artifact. His mind raced with the thought of what had just transpired, what would happen to him, and, just as important, what he should do now with the ominous device. Knowing his time was limited, Vandor reached for the crest.

  The ruby in the center glistened with movement, and Vandor Grizt the thief could not help but look at it.

  A screaming face stared out at him.

  Mendel’s screaming face.

  In horror Vandor pulled back, and as he did, the Arcyan Crest, Mendel still entombed, faded.

  It always comes back to me, little Gabriella had told him.

  Vandor thought of the brooch back in the delicate but deadly hands of Prester’s daughter. No longer did he harbor any fear for her; rather, oddly, he felt some for his old tormentor.

  Vandor looked up, eyes fixing on Mendel’s mirror. An urge came over him, and he seized the wizard’s staff, which Mendel had dropped during the struggle. Raising it high, Vandor struck the mirror again and again, shattering the cursed artifact, his chill prison. He then waited for himself to fade away as the mirror’s magic died, but surprisingly nothing happened. With almost gleeful abandon, the specter stamped on the shards that lay on the floor, crushing them until no large pieces remained intact. At last, his fury spent, Vandor began to laugh and laugh, stumbling back to admire his handiwork.

  He was free. Free of Mendel, free of the mirror. A ghost, yes, he was now a ghost, but no longer a slave.

  The heat of the real world once again began to tell on him, but this time more gradually and with less intensity. By now Vandor should have been burning up, and he realized that Mendel’s disappearance meant he could pay longer visits to the real world.

  Even so, Vandor Grizt was taking no chances. He returned to the goblet, staring out at the chamber and the broken mirror.

  “Farewell, Mendel. Thank you, Gabriella,” Grizt whispered. Whatever his ultimate fate, for now he would savor his freedom. A changed world lay open to him, and the ghostly thief intended to explore it.

  There were, after all, so many, many mirrors. .

  Reorx Steps Out

  Jean Rabe

  “Ah, by the bushy beard of Reorx, I certainly’ll make an impression at the festival!” The dwarf was chattering to himself, in a voice that sounded like gravel being slushed around in the bottom of a bucket, “New boots. Mmph, a mite tight for my toes. This breastplate, just like the. .”

  The dwarf scowled and cocked his head, hearing a rustling in the bushes that unsettled him. The foliage on both sides of the path was thick with the new leaves of spring. He saw the branches of a lilac bush move, despite the lack of any breeze.

  “Somebody there?”

  “It’s nothing personal.” Silver scales glimmered like sun specks caught on the surface of a still lake as the dra-conian stepped into the open. His talons glinted like polished steel in the late afternoon sun. “You’re just convenient.”

  “By the sacred breath of the Forge!” The dwarf’s thick fingers flew to the hammer at his waist, his feet scrambling backward to buy him some space.

  The draconian was quicker. Corded muscles bunched as the creature crouched and sprang. Arms shot forward slamming into the dwarf’s shoulders, the impact driving the dwarf violently onto his back and knocking the breath from him in a gravelly “Whooff!”

  “Stay still, dwarf, and I promise to make this quick. You won’t feel anything.”

  “Cursed sivak!” the dwarf spat, as he found his breath and struggled to free his arms. “To the Abyss with you!”

  “Stay still, I said!” The draconian’s jaws opened wide, acidic spittle edging over his lower lip and dripping onto the dwarf’s face. “I need your body,” the creature offered as an explanation, his voice a sibilant hiss. “I cannot pass through this country looking as I do. Even the dragons hunt my kind now.”

  The dwarf screamed that the sivak ought to find another body, that his was too old, too fat. All the while he futilely struggled against the larger and stronger foe. The draconian regarded him a moment more, then dragged a razor-sharp talon across the dwarf’s throat, ending his life in a heartbeat.

  “I told you it would be quick,” he said.

  The sivak pushed himself to his feet and stared at the corpse. The dwarf was barrel-chested, with stubby arms and legs, fingers short and thick. The face was broad and weathered, deeply lined from the years. His beard was steel gray, streaked with white, and it was elaborately braided and decorated with metal beads.

  “Definitely an old one,” the draconian grumbled. “The last was an old one, too. Still, it will have to do.”

  He closed his eyes and let out a long breath, felt his heart rumbling. He urged it to beat more rapidly as he concentrated on the magic, sensing the warmth as his blood pumped faster through his veins. He felt his armorlike skin bubble, the scales flowing, muscles contracting. He felt his body fold in upon itself, wings melting together to form a cape, snout receding, talons becoming feet fleshy and thick. The draconian growled softly, the sensation of his transformation both gratifying and uncomfortable.

  He flexed his new legs and opened his eyes, looking round now and perceiving the world a little differently. He stared down at the corpse that could pass for his twin.

  “Your dress is too garish for my tastes, old dwarf, though there is nothing I can do about it.” The corpse and he were both attired in an ornate gold breastplate with an anvil emblazoned on it and an artfully engraved hammer poised above the anvil. The leggings were darkly red like wine and stuffed into the tops of black leather boots that smelled new and had been buffed until they practically glowed. A cape made of an expensive black material hung from the transformed sivak’s shoulders. Even though the draconian did not bother to keep track of the customs of civilization, he realized that the dwarf had spent considerable coin on his dress.

  He tugged the heavy body off to the side of the road, concealing it amid a patch of broad-leafed ferns. He plucked the hammer from the dwarf’s waist, considered for a moment carrying it, as the weapon was finely crafted and quite valuable. However, shaking his head, he dropped it. “I do not need their things,” he hissed. He returned to the path, following it as it continued to wind toward the foothills.

  The sivak was in the heart of dwarven country, on a well-traveled road that was twisting and at times steep. It was called Barter Trail, and it ran between dwarven towns all nestled amid the impressive, rugged mountains of Thorbardin. He’d been taking the forms of lone dwarves he killed along the road as a means to disguise himself as he cut through the Thunder Peaks and then along the lengthy Promontory Pass-a miner one time, young and filthy from the work; a wheezing, rash-ridden merchant another; and most recently a one-armed elderly dwarf with a dozen knives strapped around his waist.

  Only one more village and then one small range t
o travel across-according to the map the merchant had been carrying. After that he’d be in the Qualinesti Forest, where, he’d heard, draconians were gathering to hide from the dragons and men.

  He was nearing that last village now, not needing the sign he just passed to tell him so. He heard the gruff chatter of dwarves coming from around the curve ahead and what sounded like a drum being thumped in a peculiar rhythm.

  “Neidarbard,” the sign had said in rich brown paint. “Home of the Forge’s Favored Dwarves.”

  “And Kender” was scrawled in bright blue paint beneath.

  The transformed draconian squared his dwarven shoulders and picked up the pace, rounded the bend- and came to an abrupt stop. The town that spread out before him was not like the others he’d passed through. Neidarbard was. . oddly colorful. It seemed a ridiculously cheerful place.

  The homes closest to him were covered in pieces of gray-blue slate, looking like big turtle shells with doors and windows cut in them. The trim was red and white, with various shades of green and yellow thrown in. Beyond those were more traditional dwarven homes, made of stone with thatch roofs, some with sod that had a scattering of wild flowers growing in them. There were even a few two-story dwellings of stone and wood-all of them with brightly painted eaves and shutters, many with window boxes full of daffodils and daylilies.

  Each home had long, streaming pennants, a rainbow of clashing colors to assault the eyes. Thick, twisting ribbons ran between the turtle-shaped homes, and delicate parchment lanterns, unlit at this time of day, dangled on purple twine stretched between the tallest dwellings. Out of the corner of his eye, the disguised draconian saw two dwarves precariously balanced on a ladder, alternately drinking from a big mug of ale while they tried to add to the decorations. The sivak involuntarily shuddered at the entire festive scene.