The Wizard of Anharitte

by Colin Kapp

  ‘Good. I’ll have the men meet you at Magda Crossing in an hour’s time.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Ren and went thoughtfully in search of breakfast.

  THIRTEEN

  There was no doubt from close quarters that Castle Magda was the most formidable of all the fortresses on the three hills.

  It was larger than the installation of Di Guaard, yet planned with the same paranoiac approach—the supposition that all .men’s hands were against it. The outer walls of massive granite blocks were probably solid for twenty meters at the base and rose sheer out of the waters of an unwelcoming moat. Even the dark streaks in the granite conspired to give the place an air of unassailable endurance.

  Whoever had planned and built Magda had been a genius in his own right. There was not an inch of the wall that was not overlooked by some flanking tower, and all possible angles of approach lay under a dozen points from which a hidden defender might safely fire. It was not even possible to tell if one were being observed, so dark and numerous were the potential defense positions.

  Although they were armed, the group of thirty-five Rance commandos with Ren had strict instructions to do no more than test the defenses. They could indulge in a little provocation in order to test the viability of any attack hypothesis, but were to take no main offensive action unless instructed to do so by Ren. The agent had a secondary purpose in leading an open move against Magda—he hoped that news of it would tempt the Imaiz to try and break out of Castle Di Guaard. He had sufficient faith in the Pointed Tails to think that Dion-daizan was unlikely to make his homeward journey alive.

  Castle Magda was situated on the highest point of Thirdhill, in a situation remote from the attendant township. It stood on a rocky plateau, three parts of the extremities of which gave way to nothing but the slopes of a broken and inhospitable hill. Working beneath the cover of the slopes, the small wiry commandos were split into three groups, each with a local officer.

  Ren alone, a known figure in the territory, felt free to show himself openly. His presence on Thirdhill could not be concealed during daylight and he took advantage of this fact to make the survey he needed to complete the assessments of the high-level photographic data on Magda.

  The intention had been that, having completed his open evaluation of Magda’s defense potential, he would rejoin the commandos for a mock attack to see what sort of response would be forthcoming from the garrison in the absence of the Imaiz. However, as he approached the main gatehouse he was more than a little disturbed to find the drawbridge down and the great gates open and apparently unguarded. Intrigued by this phenomenon, he ventured closer, the thought crossing his mind that in the absence of the master the attitude of the remaining garrison seemed to be remarkably naive.

  Or was it? If the Imaiz had left Magda, knowing even a little of the threat on the plains, he might have evacuated his whole garrison to safety. In which case Hardun’s murder weapon would have been completely without success even if it had been fired. The idea seemed credible. If the Imaiz’s strength resided mainly in the super-training of his bondforce, it would have been an unthinkable risk for him to have left them in the castle.

  The chances were that the garrison was now dispersed around the township of Magda, waiting for the master to come and assure them it was safe to return. Wary of a trap, Ren returned to the commandos behind the ridge and used their radio to contact his own office. His servant took the call and dispatched a runner to contact Catuul Gras. Instead of sending a message, Catuul himself came to answer.

  ‘Did you find anything, Tito?’

  ‘Yes. As near as I can tell, Magda’s been evacuated. Not even a token guard is posted. Are you perfectly sure the Imaiz is still bottled up in Castle Di Guaard?’

  ‘Quite sure. Not even a rat could have got out of there unnoticed. We’ve had every inch of the walls under observation since the Imaiz went in. What had you in mind?’

  ‘The occupation of Magda. I’ve some of Hardun’s men with me. It would be quite a joke if, tired of waiting for the Imaiz to return, the garrison came back to find me in residence.’

  ‘Too risky,’ said Catuul gravely. ‘It’s not like the Imaiz to leave the slightest thing to chance.’

  ‘He would scarcely have had time to make preparations once he realized what was going on.’

  ‘And what was going on?’

  Ren realized that he had said too much. The Pointed Tails had not been given the probable reason why the Imaiz had found it so necessary to visit Di Guaard.

  ‘We tricked him,’ said Ren obscurely. ‘That was why he left Magda. Risk it may be, but I’m going to try to get in there. I need to know what sort of facilities he has in Magda—and if we can manage to hold it, I think our battle’s over. A lord dispossessed of his own castle won’t find much following in Anharitte.’

  ‘Let me withdraw some Pointed Tails and try to locate the whereabouts of the garrison first.’

  ‘No. We don’t have the time. And we daren’t give the Imaiz the opportunity to escape from Di Guaard. You deal with the Imaiz and I’ll try my luck with Magda. That way either or both of us has the chance to finish the tight for good.’

  Ren explained his proposition to the senior Rance commando. He too had independently formed the opinion that—Magda was unoccupied and nodded a ready acceptance of Ren’s idea. The men under him were battle-trained professionals, unused to sitting aside while a group of merchants and native warriors did the fighting for them. Whether or not Magda was defended, this was their chance to demonstrate what could uniquely be done by perfectly trained and equipped soldiery.

  Ren was warned to take no part in the initial excursion. He saw the wisdom of this as the small, wiry commandos went expertly into action, almost melting into the background as they moved up toward the sinister towers of the castle. Every move they made was one of marvelous precision, each man knowing what area he had to cover with his firepower and what need not concern him until death took his neighbor. With the swift and deceptive mobility of lizards they moved up the main approaches. Some ventured on to the drawbridge, some crossed it, others held careful reserve in the deadland beneath it. Each time they advanced they left nothing to chance. Had any resistance been offered it would at any time have found only a minimum of targets exposed.

  Finally the whole force entered the gateway, having assured itself that the entry tunnel was safe. The last one to enter was the senior commando, who signalled to Ren that it was safe for him to follow Ren moved up quickly, feeling a sudden loneliness and isolation now that the others were no longer visible. The whole affair had this far been conducted in silence, but now he became extraordinarily aware of just how absolute that silence was. He quickened his pace and had entered the long dark tunnel of the entrance, expecting to find some of the commandos waiting for him and slightly perturbed to find that they were not. A nagging suspicion warned him that it had all been: far too easy. He was still telling himself this when the great portcullis gates fell at the ends of the tunnel, trapping him like a wild beast in a cage.

  For his commando companions who had passed on into the inner ward the end was swift. A high-level stun bomb burst above their heads. Blastwise its effect was negligible, but its biological shock effect, caught and concentrated between the great walls of stone, was a disaster. All thirty-five Rance commandoes stiffened like posts and then crumpled to the ground. Those who had not been killed were severely concussed. Some of those who lived would be deaf for life. Others would have more or less permanent damage to the brain and other organs as a result of the shattering pressure and rarefaction of the stun bomb shockwave.

  Caught in his cage, Ren was dealt agony. He held his hands over his screaming ears, though the blow at the pit of his stomach had been equally severe. Fortunately the narrow entrance to the tunnel and probably the gates themselves had protected him from all but a minor part of the shock. He rolled up and writhed on the dusty floor, oblivious to anything outside himself until some of the p
ain subsided. Then he climbed to his feet again, shaking his head to try and still the ringing in his ears and dimly thinking of escape. A brief examination of the portcullis, however, told him that his freedom, if gained, was going to have to be given by his captors. He could not arrange it for himself.

  Through the heavy fret of the inner portcullis he could see the occupants of Magda beginning to emerge. Some began the task of sorting the dead commandos from the living. Others examined the fabric of the building’s walls for any damage that might have resulted from the blast. Ren looked miserably out upon the scene and wondered when and what sort of attention would be paid to himself. He had his blaster under his tunic, but he was aware that to use it now could result in his being destroyed like an unwanted dog. He might be able to make better use of its bargaining power in response to a more personal approach by his captors, but at this moment its function could be only a catalyst in an untidy and ignoble form of suicide.

  Finally what looked like a medical team began directing the careful removal of those who might possibly be saved. Still no one paid any attention to Ren and, wondering if they even knew of his existence, he finally shouted to attract attention. Several of the slaves looked up and grinned in his direction. From this he deduced that his situation was known and that his incarceration was deliberate.

  It was many hours later that the inner portcullis was raised, and he emerged from the dark recess of the tunnel to come blinking into the rays of the late-afternoon sun. Neither a vicious guard nor a firing squad awaited,him. Instead a figure, peacock proud in a wealth of glorious fabrics, held out her hand in a reserved mode of welcome. And this he found equally daunting.

  ‘Welcome to Magda, Agent Ren.’

  ‘Zinder—I—’

  ‘You thought I was with Dion in Castle Di Guaard. Isn’t that what you were going to say? To tell you the truth, we came back late last night.’

  ‘We? Dion-daizan too?’ Ren felt impelled to ask the question, though he did not know why he expected an answer. He found her openness very disconcerting.

  ‘And Barii.’ She was teasing him quietly. ‘There was quite a party on at Di Guaard last night. But we found it far too noisy. We left early.’

  ‘Damn!’ Ren looked ruefully at the dust on his shoes. ‘I must have at least three hundred men posted to stop you from leaving Firsthill. You people win every damn trick in the book. Did you know that was a crack Rance commando team you just destroyed? Competence is a tolerable sin, but omnipotence is a little out of fashion.’

  Zinder turned her head to survey the scene of the recent carnage in the courtyard.

  ‘Not omnipotence, Agent Ren. Careful planning, good organization, fast communications, a sense of purpose and a modicum of luck. The usual ingredients needed to make a success of any major undertaking. We offer injury to those who try to injure us and ridicule for those who try to make us look ridiculous. We take an eye for a tooth and a life for an eye—and if that seems immoral, remember that the quarrel is not of our choosing.’

  Ren shrugged. ‘Then what do you intend to do with me?’

  She was slightly amused. ‘I think we’ll give you some supper and set you free again.’

  ‘I can’t object to the arrangement, but the logic of it escapes me.’

  ‘Does it? If you were we, whom would you rather have as an enemy—yourself or the Butcher of Turais?’

  ‘Butcher of Turais?’

  ‘So they didn’t tell even you! I’m not surprised. Alias Alek Hardun. He’s a specialist in depopulating awkward places. The pogrom of Turais was only one of his accomplishments. It was no accident that he happened to have access to Rance toxin. And that’s not a hundredth part of the mass-murder equipment he carries on that blood-wagon of his. Frankly we think that you and Director Vestevaal have been deceived into accepting him so easily. And either you stop him or we’ll be forced to stop him ourselves. If Hardun comes out on top, even Roget could become another sparsely populated world.’

  ‘I can’t accept that statement at its face value,’ said Ren. ‘But I know the director’s worried about him and is trying to take some action.’

  ‘Trying’s not enough. We were only able to stop Hardun below Di Guaard last night because we knew who he was and what he was capable of. But if he’d successfully destroyed Magda—who could have stopped him then? Can’t you imagine the pattern? Here a lord goes crazy, and there another forgets to wake from his sleep. Mutant rust decimates the harvest and the seat of central government is stricken by history’s worst plague. Rance drafts in a thousand “disaster relief experts” and, to shore a crumbling economy, appoints a puppet government. Then it’s all over save the persecution and the exploitation.’

  ‘How much of this have you told Vestevaal?’

  ‘All of it and more. I think he was convinced. But he had his own job to do also—and this we understand. He’s a big man, your director—but I wonder if he’s big enough to fight the combined weight of the merchant worlds. Only the Free Traders can contain them, but they’re divided and doubtful and prone to manipulation themselves. But come! Dion will explain this far better than I. Though I think you’d better let me have your sword and your blaster before you meet him.’

  FOURTEEN

  It was midnight as Ren started uncertainly back down the twisted Roads of Thirdhill. Zinder had taken his blaster, but had returned his sword at the gate, so that he had no fears for his own protection. His uncertainty arose from the wealth of damaging information Dion-daizan had given him concerning Alek Hardun, the Butcher of Turais.

  He had come to Magda full of the certainty that he was indeed performing a necessary job. He now felt himself reduced to the status of a dupe and an unwitting accomplice of a trade world cartel whose methods were becoming infamous throughout the universe. It made him wince to remember the number of times he had mentally applauded the news screen’s announcements: Disaster teams from Combien and Rance have boon sent to till! planet to offer immediate assistance… Once those teams arrived, he knew now, the disasters multiplied and the need for assistance changed to one of enforced dependence.

  On the other side of the coin, however, Hardun had warned Ren that the Imaiz would seek to divide his opposition and thereby ensure a continuance of his own schemes. This possible aspect of Dion’s expert lecture had not been lost on Ren, though the documented evidence with which he had been presented was overwhelmingly in favor of the removal of Alek Hardun from the scene. Ren sensed that the Imaiz alone stood between Roget and the diabolical hands of Rance and her agents, With this in mind, he was not at all sure that his own plans to damage the Imaiz were still justified. He reflected that Vestevaal, having become convinced of the truth of the situation, had travelled immediately offworld to carry the battle directly to the powerful Free Trade Council. Of one thing Ren was certain—if he were again to have the strength of his own convictions, Alek Hardun and his murder ship must go.

  Ahead of him, among the noises of the night, Ren heard a sound he knew. To the uninitiated it was the call of a nightbird. Ren knew it for the signal of the Pointed Tails. He answered it inexpertly and in a few moments Gras was at his side.

  ‘What happened, Tito?’ the scribe asked anxiously. ‘We had word that things went wrong at Magda and that you were captive.’

  ‘I was captive. But Dion-daizan decided to let me go again—I think because he liked the sporting nature of our opposition.’ Ren’s sentence ended in heavy irony.

  Catuul Gras looked at him as though transfixed by a blade.

  ‘Dion-daizan in Magda? But he can’t be—’

  ‘He’s there all right. So are Zinder and Barii. I’ve just taken supper with the three of them.’ A sudden anger overtook him. ‘Are they smaller than mice that they passed your watch at Di Guaard and were waiting to trap me when I arrived?’

  In the dim light the scribe’s expression was one of puzzlement followed by a sudden relaxation.

  ‘Then you’ll admit now that Dion’s a wizard. It�
��s not possible for anything to have escaped from Di Guaard without our knowing. Not only did we have the castle and the exits under surveillance, but we also had men on the routes and river crossings. If Dion reached Magda he must have flown like a bird.’

  The instant absurdity of the suggestion was soon overthrown by a new line of speculation in Ren’s mind. ‘I wonder if you’re right, Catuul. He couldn’t have flown like a bird, but he could have flown nonetheless. In which direction was the wind last night?’

  ‘There was not much wind, but the breeze persists from the southwest from now until the heavy weather breaks. Does that give you an idea?’

  ‘I have a suspicion. Dion couldn’t have used a conventional aircraft because you’d have heard the noise of engines. But if he’d had some sort of balloon available he could have used it in relative safety after nightfall. The natural winddrift would have carried them toward Thirdhill or at least into Magda province. And the river lights would have given them an indication of when it was safe to land.’

  ‘What’s a balloon?’ asked Catuul.

  ‘A device that figures almost uniquely in ancient Terran history. It’s a bag of gas or hot air—which is lighter than the air in which it floats. A big balloon can carry a basket containing several people. It could have lifted the three of them out of Castle Di Guaard and if you weren’t looking for it you’d never have seen it go. That way the Imaiz could have escaped all your traps without resorting to wizardry. It only needs the application of a few physical principles and a bit of technical know-how.’

  ‘Wizardry or technical know-how, it’s all the same to me,’ said Catuul, ‘What you call wizardry are the things that are done which arc beyond the limits of what your education insists is possible. But the same applies to me. So the difference between our points of view is one of degree, not kind.’

  ‘Point taken, Catuul. But so far the Imaiz has done nothing beyond the comprehension of the average educated outworlder. This makes it reasonably certain that he’s not a native of Roget, and various. historical associations about his schemes strengthen my belief that he’s a Terran.’