Shivering, Mithris took in his surroundings. He had stumbled over the bank of a wide but shallow river. Moonlight shone in rippling reflections on the water. On the far shore, silhouettes of trees rose up as far as he could see in either direction. Behind him, the bank was too steep and crumbly to climb. Soaked and freezing except for the raw, burning gashes on his arm, Mithris began to cry.
Chapter 9
Dawn was cold and gray. Through the misty morning trudged a young apprentice who followed the course of a broad, shallow river northward. Sodden robes clung wetly to his skin and he shivered as much from cold as from fever. The angry wounds on his arm refused to scab over, seeping blood and a colorless fluid that ran down his arm.
He had found a place where he could climb the bank, but this area of the forest was marshy and treacherous. It seemed with every third step, his foot sank into squelching mud. As the sun rose overhead, it seemed too distant and uncaring to ever warm his chilled bones.
“I’ll never make it to Nethrin’s tower,” he muttered to himself. “If I’d known it was so far, I’d never have come.”
Yes, came the reply in his thoughts. Being torn asunder by inter-planar monsters really is preferable to walking long distances with wet feet.
He was dizzy and his thoughts were muddled by the rising fever, but that voice in his head was as clear as ever. He was certain now that it came from the crystal he carried. That, or he had lost his wits entirely.
“Shut up,” Mithris told the voice. “Or I’ll throw you in the river.”
Absolutely, the voice of the foundation crystal said in an agreeable tone. Your journey will be easier if you lighten the load anyway. And what possible use could it be, lugging around a legendary artifact of the first foundation?
Mithris stopped, stunned. This was the first time the voice in his head had acknowledged itself in that way. So he had been right! It was the foundation crystal speaking to him. Then again, he reminded himself, he could still just be crazy.
“Can’t you help me?” he asked the crystal in a pleading tone.
Help you how?
“I don’t know. Teleport me straight to Nethrin’s tower? Conjure up a hot bath and a meal for me to eat?”
You’re the magician, the crystal pointed out.
“But I’m not,” said Mithris, shoulders sagging. “I’m only an apprentice. I can’t cast a traveling spell or summon much of anything.” He frowned, feeling completely miserable and useless. “All I’m good for is setting the wards,” he added ruefully.
This time, the crystal did not answer. Mithris sighed heavily. It was probably for the best—most of what the voice had to say was sarcastic and mean, anyway. With a heavy heart, Mithris started walking again. There was nothing else to do.
He didn’t think he would ever reach Nethrin’s tower. He was beginning to think he might never make it out of this forest. Mithris didn’t want to die here. He wished he were somewhere else, anywhere else. Why hadn’t Master Deinre simply opened up a traveling portal and sent him straight to Nethrin?
He was a trifle busy.
Okay, thought Mithris. That was true. The tower was under assault by omnitors and worse. But Deinre was a powerful wizard. Surely he could have spared a moment’s concentration to open a portal. Even a tiny one, just large enough for his spellbook and the foundation crystal. Mithris couldn’t understand why his master had sent him, an untried apprentice, on this lengthy journey just to deliver the precious items to another wizard.
Have you considered, asked the voice of the crystal, forming the words slowly, that delivering these items to Master Nethrin is not your task?
“Huh? What do you mean?” There was no reply. “Well? What else would he want done with them?” Still, the voice was silent. Mithris shook his head. “Oh, what do you know about it anyway?”
The voice did not speak to him again that day. Mithris plodded on until the ground grew less soggy and he left the marsh behind. As night fell, mindful of his mishap the previous night, Mithris hunted out some kind of shelter for the night. He found a hollow inside the bole of a massive oak tree. Crawling inside, he piled his meager belongings beside him and laid down to sleep.
Drowsily, he thought he was forgetting something important. But he could not remember what it might be. As he drifted into a feverish sleep, a distant voice seemed to speak in his thoughts: Wards said the voice. But Mithris did not hear. He was lost already in a nightmare about warring sorcerers, ravenous omnitors, and snarky gemstones.
Master Deinre had taught Mithris dozens of different warding spells. Three in particular were especially suited to camping out in the wilderness. There were the two Mithris had cast two nights previously, one to block extra-planar creatures and another to keep away the wild animals native to this foundation. There was a third, which was to be cast outside the first two.
This ward would do nothing to repel anything; instead, it served as an alarm. If anything crossed its invisible boundary with hostile intent, the caster would hear a clamoring of bells that would wake him from even the deepest sleep.
Mithris should have cast the wards. If he had, the bells would have woken him.
Chapter 10
Mithris came awake with a start. He was huddled up in the back of his tree trunk hollow, curled up on himself against the night’s cold. Beyond the curving edge of his hideaway was darkness and, almost imperceptible, the first hint of a new day’s light.
What had woken him? The pre-dawn air was still. Mithris strained his ears but heard nothing, no sound that might have woken him. Wrinkling his nose, he settled back down thinking to get in another hour of sleep before the dawn.
It was the smell that had woken him. He wrinkled his nose again. It was caustic, unpleasant. The foul odor hung thick in the air, smothering him, so pervasive that he nearly didn’t notice it. And it was familiar.
Mithris sat up in his hollow shelter, quaking with fear as he recognized the acrid scent of another foundation.
They had found him! Why, oh why, hadn’t he set his wards before sleeping? He stared out through the narrow opening of his shelter, straining to see in the darkness. Was that a patch of deeper black against the night, vaguely man-shaped?
Mithris cowered back from the figure, his back pressing against the inner surface of the curving tree trunk. His mouth was dry with panic. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw. It was no omnitor that stared malevolently back at him.
Slower than those black-furred monsters, but far more dangerous, the devinist had followed implacably behind. Its pursuit had been relentless, never pausing, never forgetting its mission. It did not stop for rest or refreshment or relief. It needed none of these things.
Now it hung in the still air of the night, floating like a ghost a few inches over the forest loam. It had no feet on which to stand, nor any need of feet. Its thick legs hung beneath it like tattered tapestries that trailed over the ground as it moved. Its arms, similarly, ended in uneven nubs. Its body was swathed in ribbons of darkness that curled and swayed like plants beneath the water. Its eyes were coals burning in an abandoned campfire; black shadows obscured their dull red glow.
Devinists were the beastly lords of the Second Foundation. The summoning of a devinist was extremely difficult and perilous. They were far more intelligent than low creatures like the omnitors Mithris had faced the day before, and infinitely more powerful. Even without the fever and the slow poison in his wounds, Mithris would not have stood a chance against this monster. So why had it not attacked?
Those terrible eyes looked down, focusing on something near Mithris’ waist. Puzzled, the terrified apprentice looked down. The foundation crystal glowed pulsingly through the dirt-stained fabric of his robes, showing through his pocket. It grew brighter even as he looked. The foundation crystal!
The devinist was wary of the artifact, which came from the very First Foundation. The smoky red eyes lifted, fixing themselves on Mithris’ face. The creature’s hesitation would not last much lo
nger. Staring back into that awful gaze, Mithris felt what little hope stirred in him wither and wilt like a flower too long without water.
His predicament took on a new perspective. Had he really complained of the long journey? Of the damp and the cold? Had he really thought the omnitor’s claws raking his arm so painful, so important? None of it mattered. The burning fever that made him feel he was frozen and burning all at once, the seeping pus and blood from his arm, the hunger in his belly. All of it meant nothing, for this creature was death and Death had come.
Stop that! The voice intruded on his thoughts from somewhere far, far away. Had he ever really thought that voice his own? Silly. Focus, Mithris! Avert your eyes, you fool!
The devinist came floating forward like a black cloud. Mithris was trapped by that hypnotic stare. He felt as if it were he who moved, pulled in by the creature’s terrible gravity. The monster’s black lips parted, shadows moving against shadows, and crimson fangs shimmered dimly within its terrible maw.
Mithris felt himself falling. His body stretched and warped as if no longer completely solid. He swirled down a drain. This was the end.
STOP LOOKING AT IT!
Mithris blinked. The trance was broken. His mind snapped back to reality. He shook himself, still shivering. The devinist shifted to the side, trying to lock gazes once more to resume the trance. Mithris threw up one hand to block his sight of it.
“No!” he cried, not sure from whence he had summoned this defiance. He knew only that the crystal had saved him. But it would be a brief respite indeed, unless Mithris could think of some way to escape. The crystal could not do that for him.
Once more, he was alone. Master Deinre was dead. The object he carried, one of the most powerful artifacts in all creation that it was, could do nothing without the will of a wizard. Mithris was on his own. But now, for the first time since he had fled Deinre’s tower—perhaps for the first time in his entire life—he was determined to take care of himself.
Reaching down, he gripped the flashing crystal through his pocket. Its warmth burned through the stained cloth, heating his palm. The touch seemed to clear his muddled thoughts, if only slightly. Mithris spoke without thinking, half-remembered words of magic leaping to his lips as he filled his mind’s eye with the scents of wet ashes, the gritty feel of crumbling charcoal, and the taste of burnt toast. Reaching the end of his incantation, Mithris flung up his free hand, palm out to the devinist.
The unearthly blue fire-burst which sprang from his palm startled Mithris far more than it did the devinist. Nevertheless, the creature shied away from the unnatural flames.
Don’t stare, just GO! The foundation crystal shouted in his brain. Mithris didn’t need to be told again. He bolted out of his hidey-hole, brushing against the shadowy demon as he passed. It reached for him but he ducked from the handless arm and ran for all he was worth.
His lungs burned. His legs ached. His thoughts swirled in feverish repetition. Mithris didn’t know how far he could run. But he did know the devinist would pursue. It would not rest, not ever, not until he was dead at its feet.
Chapter 11
Heart pounding, the young wizard fled along the riverbank. In the distance, beyond the far shore of the wide river, the sky brightened with the grays and pinks of a new dawn. Mithris scanned that horizon, hoping beyond all reason to see the sky pierced by a tall, slender spire. If only he could find Master Nethrin…
“No,” he said aloud, speaking to himself. He stopped running, standing near the broad river but no longer scanning the horizon. There was no sign of Nethrin’s tower. But that was not why he stopped. Moments earlier, he had determined to save himself. Now, he wanted to run to the protection of another wizard? Mithris shook his head.
That’s more like it, mused the voice of the foundation crystal. Remind me to congratulate you on your new-found maturity. Later, though. The devinist is coming.
Mithris nodded. The crystal was right. He had gained a little distance, but the devinist would never stop. It would never tire. It would pursue him, and it would catch him. That was inevitable. He could cower in one wizard’s tower or another, the devinist would always come for him. Even the sorcerer who had set it on him could not call it off now.
There was only one choice. He had to face the thing.
Or…did he?
Mithris was no fool. He knew he stood little chance of defeating the demon. He was not even sure it could be killed, and the spells required to send it back where it belonged were far beyond his meager knowledge. He still clutched Master Deinre’s spellbook in one hand. There could be something…
But no. He could smell the sulfurous stench of the devinist. It grew near. This was no time to go hunting for unfamiliar spells.
But what could he do?
Mithris looked all around himself frantically. He couldn’t think straight. Partly, it was fear. Mostly, it was fever. He really did need to find a wizard, to heal the terrible wounds to his arm before the poison took his life.
He shook himself. That wasn’t important now. The devinist came.
Panic frayed the edges of his mind. Fever stormed in its center. His stomach ached with emptiness. His legs quivered with weakness. The inevitable was coming; it demanded he submit.
Mithris did not want to die. Certainly not at the hands of a devinist. He remembered Master Deinre’s stories about the creatures, the suffering they would inflict upon their victims. The monster would kill him slowly and feed on his very soul.
“Wards!” cried Mithris, finally breaking the spell of his fear. He shook himself, then set his feet far apart and began reciting. He quickly cast three protective wards, one on top of the other. They would not stop the devinist for long, but they would buy him some time.
As soon as the third magical barrier resolved into existence, Mithris dropped to one knee. He drew out his casting wand and laid it on the soft earth beside him: he wanted it ready and close to hand. He set down the domestic grimoire to the other side, and opened Master Deinre’s personal spellbook.
You might want to choose more carefully, this time, suggested the foundation crystal. You were lucky once. Why press fortune?
Mithris paused, finger poised in the act of flipping indiscriminately through the spells. The voice in his head was right. Those carnivorous vines had taken out one of the omnitors, but an unknown spell could just as easily have done nothing. Worse, it could have back-lashed against the caster in completely unexpected ways. Playing with magic was like playing with fire, only infinitely more dangerous.
Just then, Mithris heard the rustle of the devinist’s passage through a nearby patch of tall reeds spreading along the river’s edge. He looked up and saw the demon, perhaps three dozen paces beyond his outermost ward. The creature would reach the barrier soon. It moved far slower than the omnitors, but it would tear through the wards much more quickly.
He jerked his eyes away from the floating demon, returning his attention to the spells. He had to find a spell.
Master Deinre could have defeated a devinist, Mithris was sure. One did not survive in the wizarding world for as long as Deinre had without becoming a formidable duelist. That was just a fact of magical life.
Mithris, though, had been apprentice for less than a decade. He did not have five hundred years’ experience to draw on. But he did have Master Deinre’s most prized collection of spells. It would have to serve as a distillation of those centuries of study and practice. Mithris just prayed it offered the spell he needed, and that he would be able to recognize it.
Grasp me. The words flared in his mind. It was not that the voice was louder than before. It was, of course, silent. The words just seemed bigger somehow. Mithris dropped a hand to his pocket and drew out the foundation crystal before he even realized what he was doing. The stone rapidly grew hot in his palm.
Concentrate on what you need.
Mithris needed to find a spell that would repel a devinist. Preferably, one that would also kill the devinist.
The pages of Deinre’s spellbook flipped of their own accord as the devinist reached the first barrier. The demon lifted one arm, raising the smooth stump to the invisible ward. The air sizzled with magical energy. Mithris felt the failure of the ward like the gut-wrenching vertigo of a sudden drop. The pages stopped flipping. He looked down at the spell and groaned.
At the top of the page was another sketch of the foundation crystal. It stood to reason that Deinre’s best spell to fight a devinist would make use of the crystal. But how…
I speak in your mind. It won’t be so easy with something more complicated, but this was child’s play.
“But what did you do?”
Read the spell, Mithris. If you live, I’ll explain.
“Great,” muttered the apprentice, baffled. His stomach lurched again, and he looked up. Only one ward remained standing. The devinist floated in the air not three paces from him. The simmering coals of its eyes burnt into him.
Read the spell.
Seizing his casting wand from the ground, Mithris began to read the spell. He tried his best not to stumble over the unfamiliar words. But as he continued through the lengthy incantation, his heart sank. There were too many words he didn’t know. Without the right mental projections accompanying them, the spell would surely fail to resolve.
And then the devinist, which was reaching out cautiously to the last remaining ward, would kill him.
The first breath you take outside on a cold morning as it turns to steam. Ripples on a pond passing through the reflection of full moon at midnight.
Mithris did not so much hear the words the crystal spoke in his mind as experienced them. They were tiny memories that had never been there before, inserted sharply into the folds of his brain. He felt them the same way he would have conjured them in his thoughts, except he had never managed to call up the imagery with such skill.
EverMage - The Complete Series: A Fantasy Novel Page 4
