by Ed Greenwood
Leaving the cell door open.
Rod Everlar rolled over, found his right foot coming back to what it should be, got up awkwardly on that shifting clubfoot, and staggered out into the passage.
He had no idea where he was, or what was the way out, but he could hear the faint din of Klammert's headlong rush out of the dungeon, up ahead; it was easy enough to follow it.
"Even a fool like Rod Everlar can manage that," he told the stone walls around him.
Politely, they declined to reply.
* * *
THE GATE OF spikes would have slain Klammert in an instant, if the running wizard had merely been Arlaghaun's apprentice. Lorontar, however, knew secrets of Ult Tower that the Doom of Galath had never learned, and had chosen this route well.
He flung his fat, borrowed body under the first portcullis, and then drew back before the second with perfect timing, hearing Arlaghaun's gloating laughter peal out of the empty air at so easily trapping him.
Wasting no time on a response, he touched the second portcullis and murmured the command that would make it melt away and trigger the backlash.
When Ult Tower shook and Arlaghaun's chuckles became a sudden, raw scream, Lorontar did allow his borrowed body to shape a small smile.
In the instant before he vanished, taking himself magically to where he could blast the Doom of Galath personally.
After all, traps and trigger-spells were expensive things; there was no sense damaging them when they might well belong to him very shortly.
Ruling Galath seemed to involve a lot of traps, these days.
ROD CLIMBED TWO sets of worn, bloodstained stone stairs before he was free of the dungeon and stumbled onto a floor of interlinked, furnished chambers. My, but there seemed to be a lot of other prisoners, he thought to himself, many of them things with hairy claws or tentacles protruding from their tiny cell windows.
By then, his foot was whole again, and the architecture of the smooth stone walls, the ledges and trim around the archways, and the lofty vaulted halls, was starting to look familiar. This was probably Ult Tower.
He started to move cautiously, recalling all the guardians. He had no idea where he should go, but if he found that row of glowing gates, almost anywhere in Falconfar would be better than here.
The great fortress seemed deserted, and no wonder. Every servant and guardian who had any wits to think was probably hiding and cowering right now. Anything that could make the whole place shudder and rock, as it was doing quite often, as he walked, was something to be avoided. A few stone shards and a lot of dust came raining down from time to time, but Rod could only shrug. If Ult Tower was going to come crashing down on him, there was nothing he could do about it. And after all the agonies of his imprisonment, he found that he didn't much care.
He turned a corner and saw a beaded curtain in an archway ahead. It was the first "filled" archway he'd seen thus far, so he went over to take a look. When Rod parted it with his hand, lightning bolts stabbed through him.
Doing nothing, of course, though they'd probably have slain anyone else. He peered into the room beyond, and whistled.
A glowing sword was floating horizontally above a huge, magnificently carved table. Plinths ranged around the walls were topped with carved heads that sported superbly made war helms, and as Rod stared at them, Ult Tower rocked under the fury of another unleashed spell, and the helms either acquired momentary glows, or lightnings crawled across their curves. One plinth was fashioned into the shape of two upthrust hands, and the rings on those carved fingers were winking and shining.
Rod shouldered through the curtain, and became aware of movement to his right. A half-suit of armor was floating silently off its plinth and drifting menacingly toward him, reaching out an arm to pluck a sword from the wall.
He ran forward and snatched the big sword out of the air over the table; the power in it ran numbingly down his arm and left all his hair standing on end. Without pause, the advancing guardian rose a little to clear the table, and drew back its blade to hack at him two-handed.
Rod rolled off the table and fell into a crouch underneath its lip. When the guardian drifted over the edge, a moment later, and started to turn, to descend and slice at him, he waited for his chance to strike at its open bottom. The moment he saw the emptiness inside the armor, he thrust his newfound sword up through it, hard.
Blinding lightnings blazed, and the armor flew apart violently, toppling plinths and splintering legs off the table which thankfully seemed to have about a dozen legs left and therefore refrained from collapsing.
Rod's glowing blade was flung back past him into the far corners of the room, and in its wake he discovered his sword-arm was as limp as a rag because it was shattered.
Really shattered; almost boneless.
Recalling the procession of enchanted items sent by Lorontar that had so mysteriously appeared and had sunk into him, Rod dragged himself out from under the table, plucked rings off the plinth's fingers, and worked them onto his own fingers; both the good hand and the shattered one. Some of them started to fade away almost immediately.
Smiling wryly, Rod crossed the room to select a suitable helm.
THE BOLTS OF writhing lightning were emerald green, and tore through stone as readily as wood and flesh. "Die, Lorontar!" Arlaghaun roared triumphantly, brown eyes blazing like an eager fire.
"I did," the deep, dry, unfamiliar voice coming from the lips of his apprentice drawled, sidestepping the ravening destruction. "You should try it sometime. Now, for instance."
The lances of silver-blue magic that raced from his fingertips then were so many and so swift that the Doom of Galath barely had time to curse.
BEHOLD ROD EVERLAR, writer of fantasies. Strolling around this vast citadel fashionably dressed in... a helmet. Ave Caesar, morituri te salutant.
Rod grinned wryly at the mirror he'd found, was probably magical, but it was much too small to step through as some sort of gate, and he didn't know what it was for or how to call on its powers, whatever they were, so he continued on with looking for swords and daggers. And if he couldn't find pants of some sort, at least a goddamn belt would do to carry them all with!
He probably needed every combat-useful shard of magic he could find. After all, if he might have to fight all of Arlaghaun's beasts and magical suits of armor or other toys, lorn, Dark Helms and apprentices—to say nothing of the Doom of Galath himself—he needed all the help he could get.
That he could carry, at least. There were a dozen helms back in that first room with the curtain, and a chair that glowed interestingly, too, but he couldn't carry everything.
Shaking his head at the appearance he'd presented in the mirror, Rod went to the next room, and peered in.
A whimpering woman stared fearfully back at him. She wore only chains, and manacles at her wrists and ankles secured her upright in a huge "X" in midair.
It was Taeauna.
THE SECOND STONE from the left-hand end of the row of tell-stones flared into sudden, starry light.
The slender, darkly handsome wizard turned to regard it, and calmly watched it shatter, hiss, and melt away.
"Well, now," Malraun murmured. "Something is very amiss at Ult Tower."
He spun gracefully around to ready his most powerful scrying-crystal, and added mockingly, "That's so sad."
The crystal started to glow and then burst with a shriek, hurling shards in all directions. If his personal wardings hadn't been up and active, one of them would almost certainly have beheaded him.
As it was, still in possession of his head, Malraun smiled, shook his head, and strolled into another room with a calmer demeanor than he truly felt, to awaken three lesser scrying-crystals.
It seemed like the Falcon itself was breaking loose at Ult Tower, and he intended to watch every moment of it.
"L-LORD ROD?" TEARS were already streaming down Taeauna's face, but they seemed to flood forth even faster, dripping off her chin, thence to her breasts, and on to
the floor.
"Tay!" Rod said eagerly, going to her. He raised a hand to her cheek, and tried to kiss her, but she shook her head and wept.
"Lord, I'm so s-sorry! I—"
"Taeauna, it wasn't you who threw me in a cell and tortured me. Now, let's get you free of these; do you know if any of these magical gewgaws I'm carrying can cut through chain? Without frying you, too?"
Taeauna shook her head again, as Ult Tower shook again, around them, in a thunderous rolling booming that numbed Rod's bare feet.
Rod tried to put a comforting arm around her, but his shoulder came to just under her armpit, so he went on tiptoe to kiss her, and say urgently, "Taeauna of the Aumrarr, I blame you for nothing. Nothing. But help me now. Tell me how to free you."
Her tears stopped suddenly and her head jerked up, eyes glowing like two lamps. She turned her head, as if startled and seeing him for the first time, and said softly, "Shaper of Falconfar, only the tears of Arlaghaun can part these chains. His tears, freely given. I need you to—"
"Swallow your lies, creature of Arlaghaun," said a mocking voice from behind Rod. "Listen to her not, Dark Lord. The real Taeauna is imprisoned inside her, somewhere; see those glowing eyes? That's Arlaghaun trying to lure you within reach."
Rod turned, selected the most powerful-looking sword from the bundle in his hands, hefted it, and said to the short, sleek, darkly handsome man he found himself facing, "And who are you?"
"I am Malraun. Also a wizard of Falconfar, but nothing at all to do with the Doom of Galath or his cruelties. I mean you no harm, nor this Aumrarr. Put your sword down; I have no quarrel with you."
"And if I do step aside, what do you plan to do?"
"Cut those chains and free her. You don't need anyone's tears—"
"Listen to him not, lord! This man is evil; he will carry me off and turn me into a monster!"
Malraun rolled his eyes, and said to Rod, "That's not your Taeauna talking. That's Arlaghaun, and he's desperate."
"He hasn't seemed all that desperate to me, thus far," Rod replied, keeping his sword up and in Malraun's way.
"He wasn't fighting just to keep hold of his life, then," Malraun replied. "He is now. He's awakened Lorontar from beyond the grave, as minstrels like to say, and much of yonder end of Ult Tower is vanishing as we speak, as they hurl spells at each other and Arlaghaun rapidly comes to the grim realization that he's far more of an overconfident idiot than he thought he was."
"I don't trust you," Rod muttered.
"Very wise of you, Dark Lord. I don't trust any wizard, and neither should any sane person. Yet consider: I translocated myself here, right behind you, and could very easily have blasted you to dust, and yet I attacked you not. I could have just melted the chains of your Taeauna with a spell, without any warning, but have not. I'm perfectly willing to melt her chains right now, with you holding that impressive sword to my throat. What say you?"
Rod looked at Taeauna, who hissed, "No! Lord Rod, listen to him not!"
"Watch her eyes, Rod," Malraun said calmly. "See that glow? That's Arlaghaun, inside her head, working her lips."
"No! Rod, don't let him!"
Malraun looked at Rod, shrugged and spread his hands. "I can free her; do you think the real Taeauna wants to be chained here, nude and helpless? And remember who put her there."
Rod swallowed, looking from Taeauna's pleading face to Malraun's, and back. Then he said roughly, "Do it. Free her."
The wizard nodded and started forward.
The air in front of him cracked apart, purple fire leaking around the edges of a great night-black slash that sent the air in the room into a whistling, rushing roiling—and Arlaghaun was suddenly standing in Malraun's way.
"Oh, no, you don't," he snarled, "hedge-wizard!"
Malraun merely rolled his eyes and unleashed lightning from his hands. Four bolts streaked past the Doom of Galath on either side, parting Taeauna's chains in a welter of sparks.
As she fell to the floor, Rod made a dash for her, sword up to ward off anything Arlaghaun might do.
The Doom of Galath sneered, raised a hand that was suddenly ablaze like a bonfire, and hurled flame at Malraun.
Who stood, smile unchanged, as the burst of flame washed over nothingness just in front of him, and slid away, fading as it writhed and lashed the floor.
Rod ducked away from Arlaghaun to prevent the mage making a grab for him on his way to Taeauna, who was rolling around and sobbing, but Arlaghaun turned and spat, "You should have stayed where you belonged, Shaper!"
And the ceiling opened up in a shower of falling fangs.
Rod shouted and hurled himself forward, knowing it was in vain. He and Taeauna were both going to be impaled on the scores of plunging blades...
The air sang bright and blue, Rod was nearly deafened by the sudden sound of hundreds of blades clanging and clashing—and Arlaghaun disappeared into a bloody pulp amid a column of edged steel slamming down deep into the floor, so thickly clustered that they were almost edge to edge.
"Who—?" Malraun snapped, staring at Rod as he skidded into a dazed and suddenly silent Taeauna. "Did you...?"
"No," said a deep, dry, slightly husky voice from behind the wizard. "It wasn't the poor Shaper. It was me."
Malraun whirled around. "Klammert?" he asked incredulously.
"This was Klammert, and will be again, very shortly."
"Lorontar!"
"Indeed. Not quite as dead beyond dead as Arlaghaun thought he'd just made me. Overconfidence seems to run rampant among wizards, these days. You, for instance, thought you'd just stroll in, seize the Aumrarr, and thereby lure the revealed Dark Lord to willingly follow you, into your clutches. Narmarkoun, who's watching us all right now, is just as convinced that you'll be walking right into his little trap."
"Oh?" Malraun's voice was soft, his eyes glittering. "And what is oh-so-wise Lorontar convinced of, just now?"
"That all the spells Arlaghaun cast and held in abeyance, to take effect at the time of his death, will come down on the head of this poor wretch I've possessed. Such a waste of apprentices."
And that was when the room exploded.
A TALL AND blue-scaled Doom of Falconfar absently caressed the smooth skulls of his dead wenches, as they pressed in ardently around him, and settled himself deeper into their icy embraces. Their companionship would have to suffice; aside from Narmarkoun himself, there were no living men or women for many days of travel from this room.
"And about now," he murmured into their endless grins, expecting no reply and receiving none, "ah, yes, there, unnoticed in all the tumult of unleashed magic, the shadowy wraith of Lorontar races from the burning body of the unfortunate Klammert into the Aumrarr. Whom Malraun will now carry off, little knowing that by doing so he dooms himself. Lorontar knows the Dark Lord will try to come to Malraun, who knows not that Lorontar wants Malraun. Neatly done."
He turned away from his spell-spun scene of the sobbing, reeling Taeauna, as it showed Malraun snatching her and opening a ring of purple fire in the midst of all the roiling fire and lightnings.
"Yet a mistake, Lorontar. You may gain control over Malraun's magic and servitors, yet in doing so you have forewarned me, and Narmarkoun is not an overconfident fool. Though I look forward to the luxury of becoming one, when I am Lord Archwizard of Falconfar."
Behind him, unregarded in his fading scrying, Malraun and the Aumrarr vanished through a swirling, dwindling iris of purple fire, leaving a despairing Rod Everlar reaching vainly for them.
ROD STOPPED GRIMLY in front of the magic mirror. Thankfully, Arlaghaun and Lorontar hadn't destroyed it in their spell-battle, though the far end of the hall, behind him, was twisted and blackened.
He clanked at every step, clad in ill-fitting but hummingly magical armor, and staggered under the weight of all the magic he was carrying.
He might need it all to rescue Taeauna.
He didn't even know where this Malraun laired, but the mirror should show him whe
re Taeauna was, and if the orb in his left gauntlet did what Klammert's notes said it was supposed to do, he could use it to control one of the gates of Ult Tower to go to whichever place he was thinking of.
"Taeauna!" he snarled at the mirror, picturing her face. "Show me Taeauna!"
The scene of a castle against racing white clouds obediently dissolved into a darker scene of a torch-lit chamber full of Dark Helms.
They stood in a ring, laughing, no swords drawn. In their midst, in the center of the ring, was a woman clad only in manacles, who swung a sword at them all desperately; a sword that harmed them not, as it sprang back from spells that were protecting the warriors.
Rod clenched his teeth as their laughter rose higher, and looked again at Taeauna.
She was crying as she swung the sword.
Here ends Book One of the Falconfar Saga.
The adventures of Rod Everlar, Taeauna, and
the other folk of Falconfar will continue in
ARCHWIZARD
DRAMATIS PERSONAE [named characters only]
"See" references occur where only partial character names appear in the novel text (such as when a surname is omitted). Not all folk in Falconfar have family names; Aumrarr, for example, never have surnames.
Some lore has been omitted here so as not to spoil readers' enjoyment of later books in the Falconfar saga. These entries do contain some "spoilers" for DARK LORD, and for maximum enjoyment of that book, should be referred to when three-quarters or more of the text has been read.
A note on the nobility of Galath: from lowest to highest, their ranks are: knight, baron, klarl, marquel, arduke, velduke, lordrake, prince, king. A knight is a "sir," but barons and up are addressed as "lord" (it is acceptable to call the reigning monarch "Lord of All Galath," but "the Lords of Galath" are the collective nobility). Outside Galath, the "Lord" of a place is usually its ruler.
Amalrys (" Ah-MAUL-rees"): Apprentice to Arlaghaun, who keeps her in Ult Tower, nude and manacled in enchanted, chiming chains, as his fetch-and-carry assistant.
