Wizards Conclave aom-5

by Douglas Niles

  Yet the kender's account had been utterly fearless and entertaining, and this had helped Cory to keep her own fright in check. Without qualm, she had confronted the rowdy young men in Tarsis. She had held her tongue and maintained her pride in the face of rude questioning from the captain of a passenger ship at Newport, and when one of the sailors had proved overly bold, she had cut him with her skinning knife. The kender had escorted her through those forests she had once dreamed about, until the woodlands seemed to go on so far that she was afraid it would never end.

  But nothing had prepared her for the splendors of this place, the wonders of what must certainly be the greatest city in the world. So far she had beheld marbled edifices that loomed like mountains to either side, gawked at the armored knights and gowned ladies of whom she had dreamed, seen horses and carriages and teams of great cattle. Dwarves and kender and elves-and even rougher types-mingled among the multitude of variegated humans. Finally they had come to the grounds of this splendid house, high on one of the hillsides just outside the great city.

  And not even her view of that city had readied her for this elegant mansion. She had gaped at the gilded columns, rising to a height of two stories all around the anteroom. She had bowed clumsily to the haughty servant who had kept her and Moptop waiting on the balcony for several hours.

  Now she gasped in dismay as she watched Jenna take the letter from Umma, the scroll Cory had carried across the breadth of Ansalon, and blithely drop it into the fireplace. No coals glowed there, but the dry paper instantly burst into flames. By the time the girl had followed Jenna toward the wide stairway climbing to the second level of the house, the secret letter, the message that contained the key to her journey, perhaps to her future life, was nothing but cold ash.

  She bit back her disappointment as they climbed a wide stairway to the second floor. She became aware of the heavy weight of her knapsack, the strap digging into her shoulder.

  "Um… my lady? Should I put my knapsack down somewhere? Is there a room where I might change my clothing?" she asked, surprised at her own boldness.

  "A room? No, there won't be time for that," Jenna said curtly. "You can change here, in the parlor, and get a bite to eat in the kitchen. But we'll be leaving Palanthas before nightfall. As soon as you are ready, I need you to go to the market, down in the city. You'll have to do some shopping for the journey."

  "Yes, of course," Coryn agreed, her weariness vanishing at the thought of another excursion into that exciting city. "What is it you want me to buy?"

  "Mules. I should think three of them will be enough. But they must be sturdy, not too old, reasonably well fed. And take care not to overpay."

  Mules? Coryn's head whirled. She had seen mules during her travels, along with all sorts of other beasts of burden, but she had no idea how to go about choosing one, much less three, of the creatures for purchase!

  Jenna seemed to read her mind as she called out to Rupert, who lurked nearby. "Rupert? Is your son in the house? Perhaps Donny would be kind enough to go along with Coryn, show her where the market is-and help bring the mules back?"

  "Of course, my lady. I shall summon him at once."

  By the time Coryn had changed to a clean pair of trousers and gobbled down two pieces of the softest, tastiest bread she had ever tasted, a boy of about ten appeared in the kitchen. "I'm Donny," he said. "I guess I'm to take you to the market."

  "Let's go get some mules," Coryn said, following him through the maze of the manor's sprawling ground floor. The lad proved to be quite a bit friendlier than either his father or Lady Jenna had been. The young woman felt no worries for her safety, only a giddy sense of wonder as Donny quickly led her down the wide avenue running past Jenna's villa.

  She saw that the manor of the red-robed sorceress was, while quite splendid, merely one of dozens, a hundred or more, such grand domiciles. These structures sprawled across this dominant height to the east of the city, each commanding a magnificent view from its lofty perch. There were fountains and pools, gardens laid out in ornate mazes, formal clusters of blossoms organized with martial precision. Each of these grand houses seemed a miniature fortress, with walls and gates and towers. Guards in colorful livery were a common fixture, and she saw mounted knights-in one group more than twenty armored riders-making their way along the wide streets.

  "This whole area is called Nobles Hill," Donny noted, as they made way for a group of knights. "The really rich people live here."

  Soon they were passing through a gate into the city-or the Old City, as Donny explained, since many structures had been erected outside that ancient barrier. Here the streets were narrow and twisting, and though Coryn saw gardens and fountains here as well, she also saw tiny alleys reeking of filth. On the roof of one flat-topped building a half dozen men with crossbows looked menacing against the skyline, studying passersby in the street below.

  "That's the Thieves Guild," Donny explained. "Those guys don't like people poking around."

  His route took them past the waterfront, and Coryn quickly and vividly recognized the stench of fish guts from her own recent sea voyage. Even so, it was a wonder to see the bustling docks, fishing boats unloading holds full of the morning catch, silvery salmon flipping and thrashing as they were smoothly cleaned and wrapped in seaweed. Small carts waited nearby, and every minute or two one of these would be filled, and would trundle off to the nearby market.

  That market occupied a broad plaza festooned with brightly colored awnings, small stalls, and a multitude of handcarts, the latter often shaded by a single broad umbrella. The fabrics in reds and golds, stripes and mosaics, greens like the emerald purity of winter ice in the heart of a glacier, or blue as smooth and vast as the summer sky, reminded Cory of a great field of chaotic blooms. People milled and thronged here, bought and bartered all around these makeshift stalls.

  This was far more than a fish market, she saw. A weaponsmith had an array of swords laid out on a table in the afternoon sun, and one huckster was doing a thriving business offering nothing more than a glimpse of a scantily clad female dancer moving languidly in the center of a small ringed arena. Coryn recognized sheep and lambs, cows and calves, goats, poultry, and even a few horses confined in impromptu corrals. Finally she spotted a dilapidated little enclosure where a dozen mules stood, more or less contentedly.

  "We have to bargain with him," Donny said distastefully, for the first time displaying a touch of hesitancy.

  The "him" was a huge, pot-bellied mule skinner who wore filthy trousers and a leather vest that didn't begin to cover his hairy, sagging gut. When he spotted the pair of potential customers, he favored them with a wide smile, and Cory saw that his mouth was almost entirely devoid of teeth.

  "I kin see the lady 'as a keen eye for mule flesh," he said approvingly, swaggering over to greet them. He smelled very strong, like a sour version of the liquid in Umma's special bottle of medicine. "These 'ere are splendid animals. You kin 'ave the lot of 'em for a hundred steel."

  Coryn shook her head firmly. If there was one thing she knew, it was how to barter. "I want three-that one, that one, and that one." She picked out the only animals that seemed to be watching them with intelligence, a trio of black mules that continued to regard them with oversized and upraised ears.

  "Like I said, you 'as a keen eye," said Bulge-Belly with a nod. "Them's my best three. Cost you seventy five for the set."

  "That's ridiculous! You just said the price was a hundred for all twelve of them, and now you want seventy five for three?"

  "Like I said, them's the best three."

  Donny, off to the side, was shaking his head furiously. Cory drew up her chin, and glared at the man. "Twenty," she offered firmly.

  He looked injured, but kept the bargaining going. She, in turn, refused to back down, and felt rather proud of herself when the deal was finally closed for twenty-eight pieces of steel. Another six pieces were required to buy harnesses, but within a few minutes Coryn and Donny were leading the docile ani
mals back through the city.

  "What does Mistress Jenna do? I mean, for a job?" Coryn ventured to ask the lad. "Or is she a noble lady, born to her manor?"

  Donny looked up and laughed. "You mean you haven't heard of her?"

  "No," Cory was forced to admit, embarrassed. "I mean, except from my grandmother."

  "Well, she's just the greatest wizard in Palanthas, maybe the whole world!" the boy said proudly. "She is mistress of all the Red Robes!"

  "A wizard?" Coryn asked wonderingly. "You mean, she makes spells from the wind, the stones, everything around her?"

  Donny looked at her in pity. "Boy, you don't know much, do you? No, you're talking about sorcery. The Lady Jenna hates that. She practices real magic, the kind you learn from books, and get taught by teachers. At least, you can, now that the moons are back. That's what my pop said."

  "And she is the leader of all the Red Robes? Are there many of them?"

  For the first time, the youth looked unsure. "Well, there used to be. And when the moons came back-there are three of them, you know, 'cuz there's a black one you can't see-"

  "I know about the three moons!" Coryn declared. He continued as if she hadn't spoken.

  "But since the moons came back, Jen-I mean, the Lady Jenna-has been looking for other wizards. But she hasn't found any." His face brightened, in sudden inspiration. "I bet that's why we got the mules."

  "Why?" the girl asked, wondering what mules had to do with wizards.

  But Donny had already said too much, and by this time they were making their way up Nobles Hill to Jenna's house.

  There she was rather surprised to find that the lady had already laid out three pairs of saddlebags, bulging with provisions. Her men-at-arms started loading them onto the animals as soon as they arrived. Coryn barely had time to run in and get her knapsack, which she lashed to one of the mules, before Jenna was saying good-bye to her servants.

  "Rupert, please take charge of my affairs, as usual," she directed the majordomo. "We might be gone for a very long time."

  "Of course, my lady. And may I wish you great success on your quest."

  Jenna didn't offer any explanation to Coryn, but the girl was resigned to another long adventure on the road. As they started away from the villa, Jenna strolling easily in the lead while Cory led the three mules, the girl looked back at the placid animals and made a practical decision about the only thing where she seemed to have a little control.

  She decided to name the mules.

  Chapter 9

  A Master Enslaved

  The Master of the Tower had erred. That awareness came very slowly, but it was an undeniable truth.

  At first he had welcomed the Awakening, a return to cognizance after so many decades of dormancy. The gods had reached out to him, and he had grown vibrant under their touch, their urging. Quickly, over the course of little more than a single cycle of the black moon, Nuitari, the Master of the Tower had shrugged off the lethargy of the godless years. This eight-day sequence spanned in its passing the fullness of the other two moons, Solinari and Lunitari, so that upon the second rising of Nuitari as a complete, dark circle-the Master could sense this fullness as clearly as could any black-robed wizard-the great structure in the heart of Wayreth Forest began to pulse with a return of long-forgotten vitality.

  It happened during the spring of the year, and the Master of the Tower felt fully, vibrantly alive. When all three moons rose into the sky, the power of the gods of magic flowed toward the world, bringing forth that fully cognizant awareness of life.

  With awareness there came remembrance, and with those memories, unspeakable pain.

  The Master remembered eons of greatness, when these halls had been home to the likes of Fistandantilus, Raistlin the Black, and Par-Salian of the white robe. Power beyond imagination had once coursed through this center of learning and of might. Within this tower the great Portal had glimmered and glowed, tempting wizards over the years with easy transport between the towers of sorcery-all the time serving the sinister purposes of the Queen of Darkness. The Portal had been closed and sealed years ago, and now that queen was dead, and still the Tower stood. It remained aloof from the world, lofty and alone… save for the wizards who dwelled here, and the forest that protected it.

  The forest!

  The Master's first conscious act in this new age was to seek the comforting presence of that vast woodland, the warm nest that had been its bower since the Age of Dreams. The forest surrounded and protected, barred the unwelcome from entry, and sealed away the petty troubles of mortal lives and lands. That wood was the Tower's cocoon, its bower, its nest.

  Yet now, in this new age when the three moons once again ruled the night sky, the Master could not feel this familiar, comforting, surrounding presence. The Master feared that the forest was dead, vanished into the same void that had nearly swallowed the Tower itself. A sense of bleak hopelessness surrounded the Tower, and if not for the strength in the deep-seated foundation stones, the spire might have collapsed in ruin.

  Then, faintly, there came a sign-not a word or a message so much as the faintest of impulses, a hint of comfort, a signal that the ancient strength was being stirred and restored. The forest, like the Tower, was alive!

  The Master of the Tower strained to enhance that contact, to reassure, to invigorate, but the weakness and hopelessness were too pervasive. Long years, decades, of catatonic unawareness had sapped the Tower's ability to project strength, to wield the sorcerous fundament that was its reason for existing.

  But that arcane power held on and began to grow, and the master felt the power of all three gods of magic begin to thrum through those stones, parapets, and foundation. That magical might flowed into the surrounding forest, and the trees and shrubs and grasses began to show small signs of life. Over the course of another moon cycle, limbs once withered and drooping began to grow straight and strong, brown and rotted foliage fell away to be replaced by green buds that, in the course of only a few more days, turned into leaves and blossoms, fruits and nuts.

  Slowly that warm embrace encircled the Tower, and the Master felt the vitality of ancient strength build and grow.

  But the world beyond remained a vast wilderness, a haven of wild magic and blasphemy, a dark blight of ignorance, of seeking based on false gods. There was no time for rest, or reflection. There was an urgency in the summons of the gods, an urgency that the Tower and forest felt and shared. They had important work to do, and time was the enemy; for, with each passing sunset, the chaotic force of wild magic grew stronger in the world.

  The Master of the Tower was a bulwark against that surging tide, but he alone was not strong enough, nor vital enough. The Tower needed a wizard, a mortal master to return here, to take up the challenge. The pulse had gone out across the world, a vibration through the ether that would tickle the fabric of magic, to seek, and to bring such a wizard home, to the Tower.

  And now a wizard had come.

  Kalrakin stared at the door, his bristling brows tautly knit together by the force of his concentration. Wild magic surrounded him, energy surging through the stones of the floor, entering his feet, climbing his legs, suffusing his body with the force of imminent, inevitable explosion. The sorcerer raised his right hand, where the Irda Stone shimmered with its pearly glow. For more than a day, he had prepared this spell, using the artifact to draw the power from many parts of the Tower, gathering it for this powerful blast.

  Kalrakin concentrated his powerful store of magic not at the door-that barrier had resisted all of his previous efforts- but at the granite frame surrounding this entryway. With a cry of exultation, he let the spell go, hurling all his power-and the power of the Irda Stone-at that smooth granite.

  Pain wracked his hands, his arms, and his shoulders. A vise closed around his heart, and his cry became a shriek of pain. Kalrakin stumbled backward, smashing his back against the opposite wall. Fire tinged the fringes of his vision, and he choked in agony, straining for a single breath of
air. But his lungs would not respond. Blackness closed in, and though he fought to keep standing, he could not prevent himself from sliding down to slump on the floor, shoulders flat against the wall.

  Very slowly, he drew a ragged breath, precious air driving back the unconsciousness that threatened to overwhelm him. His legs twitched convulsively. He was drooling into his beard-yet Kalrakin was unable to raise a hand, even to wipe his lips. He groaned. Bracing his hands to either side, he forced himself to sit upright and wiped his mouth spasmodically.

  Crimson streaked his hand-from a cut on his lip and from blood streaming from his nose. His fists clenched in fury, and he spat contemptuously at the stubborn door, a glob of bloody saliva that dripped slowly down the deceptively mundane-looking planks.

  Finally, he stood, turning toward the opposite wall of the hallway, confronting his own reflection in a crystal mirror, in an ornate platinum frame. With a strangled cry, Kalrakin smashed his fist into the mirror, shattering the glass. Ignoring the shards on the floor, he stalked on through the Tower.

  This was the second time he had assaulted the wizard-locked door. The first had been weeks earlier, shortly after he and Luthar had arrived here. The first time the sorcerer had smashed the planks with a great battle axe. The blade, heavy steel of dwarven manufacture, enchanted with ancient magic, had bounced off the wooden planks without making so much as a scratch. Kalrakin had exhausted himself banging on the portal, without making any progress.

  This time, he had focused on the stone, holding it while he caressed a multitude of magical items that he had collected while ransacking the Tower. Thus he had drained away the enchantments in pitchers that never emptied, weapons of rare ensorcellment, doorknobs and saddles and lamps that had each been infused with potent magical power. They were mundane and lifeless now, the enchantments having been absorbed by the Irda Stone.