A hushed sound of awe swept about the stadium as those on the sand below fell senseless, to roll about in a daze.
The Warlord shouted, “Now go bind them, build a platform, and hang them for all to see.”
Stunned silence greeted his words, then shouts of “No!”—“They are warriors!”—and—“This is without honor!” rang throughout the crowd.
Hochopepa closed his eyes and sighed audibly. He spoke to himself as much as to his companions. “The Warlord lets his famous temper get the best of him once more, and now we have a debacle before us. This will not help his position in the High Council or the stability of the Empire.” Like an enraged beast at bay, the Warlord turned, and all nearby fell silent, but those at greater distances picked up the cries. By Tsurani standards this was too much of an indignity to be visited on any save those without honor. While balking the mob’s sport, the prisoners had shown they were still fighting men, and as such deserved an honorable death.
Hochopepa turned to speak to Milamber, then stopped himself as he saw the expression on his friend’s face. Milamber’s anger was now fully revealed, his rage a match for the Warlord’s. Sensing something terrible was about to occur, Hochopepa sought Shimone’s attention, only to find he was also silently watching Milamber’s fearsome countenance. All Hochopepa could manage to say was a quiet “Milamber, no!” Then the slave-be-come-magician was moving.
He swept past the shocked Hochopepa, saying only, “See to the Emperor’s safety.” Milamber was reeling with the impact of sudden emotion bottled up for years, now surging free. A strange and powerful certainty struck him. I am not Tsurani! he acknowledged to himself. I could not be a party to this. For the first time since donning the black robe, his two natures were in harmony. This was a dishonor by the standards of both cultures, something that filled him with a dread purpose free of any doubt.
Save those near the imperial box, the entire crowd was chanting, “The sword, the sword, the sword,” demanding a warrior’s death for each man below. The rhythm became a pounding pulse beat for Milamber, heightening his nearly unchecked fury.
Reaching a point between the magicians and the imperial box, Milamber regarded the soldiers and carpenters rushing onto the arena floor. The stunned Midkemians and Thuril were being bound like animals for slaughter, and the crowd’s anger was reaching a dangerous level. Some of the younger officers of noble families in the lower levels of the stadium seemed ready to take swords and jump onto the sand, to contest personally for the prisoners’ right to die as warriors. These had been valiant foemen, and many of those watching had fought against both Thuril and Kingdom soldiers. They would willingly kill these men on the field of battle, but would not watch this humiliation visited on brave enemies.
A black flood of anger, loathing, and sorrow poured through Milamber. His mind screamed in outrage, despite his attempts to control it. His head tilted back, and his eyes rolled up into his head, and as had happened twice before in his life, letters of fire appeared in his mind’s eye. But never before had he had the strength to seize the moment, and with a nearly animal joy he dived into the newly opening well of power within. His right arm shot forward, and energy exploded from his hand. A bolt of blue flame, scintillating even in the sunlight, hurled downward, to strike the sand amid the Warlord’s guards. Living men were swept in all directions, like leaves before the wind. Those just entering with the materials for the scaffolding were knocked to their knees by the blast, and those in the lower seats were stunned by its fury. All noise in the arena stopped as the crowd fell into mute shock.
All eyes turned to the source of that bolt, while those near him reflexively drew back. He was red-faced with anger, and the whites of his eyes showed around dark irises as he scanned the arena. With a short chopping motion of one hand, the magician said, “No more!”
No one moved save Hochopepa and Shimone. They had no idea what Milamber’s intentions were, but in the face of this act they took his command seriously. They hurried to where a half-stunned, half-fascinated young Emperor sat watching with everyone else in the stadium. They quickly conferred with Ichindar, and a moment later the Emperor’s seat was empty.
Milamber looked to his left as a bellow of outrage sounded. “Who dares this!”
Milamber was confronted by the sight of the Warlord, standing like an enraged demigod in his white armor. The Warlord’s expression matched Milamber’s.
“I dare this!” Milamber shouted back. “This cannot be; will not be! No more will men die for the sport of others!”
Barely holding himself in check, Almecho, Warlord of the Nations of Tsuranuanni, screamed, “By what right do you do this thing!” The cords on his neck stood out clearly, and every muscle of his body quivered as sweat beaded his brow.
Milamber’s voice lowered, and his words came carefully measured with controlled, defiant rage. “By my right to do as I see fit.” He then spoke to a nearby guard. “Those on the arena floor are to be released. They are free!”
The guard hesitated for a moment, then his Tsurani training came to the fore. “Your will, Great One.”
The Warlord shouted, “You will stay!”
The crowd hissed with intaken breath. In the history of the Empire such a confrontation between Great One and Warlord had never occurred. The guard stopped, and Milamber spoke through a snarl. “My words are as law. Go!”
Suddenly the guard was moving, and the Warlord screamed his rage. “You break the law! No one may free a slave!”
His anger boiling back up again, Milamber shouted back, “I can! I am outside the law!”
The Warlord fell back, as if struck an invisible blow. In his life no one had dared to thwart his will in this manner. No Warlord in history had ever been forced to endure such public shame. He was dazed.
Near the Warlord another magician leaped to his feet. “I call you traitor and false Great One. You seek to undermine the Warlord’s rule and bring chaos to the order of the Empire. You will recant this effrontery!”
Instantly there was frantic activity as all within earshot scrambled to get clear of the two magicians. Milamber regarded the Warlord’s pet. “Do you think to match your powers against mine?”
The Warlord looked at Milamber with naked hatred on his face. He never took his eyes from the young magician’s face as he said to his pet, “Destroy him!”
Milamber’s arms shot upward, crossing at the wrists. Instantly a soft golden nimbus of light surrounded him. The other magician hurled a bolt of energy, and the blue ball of fire struck harmlessly against the gold shield.
Milamber tensed, suffused with anger. Twice before in his life, when attacked by the trolls and when fighting with Roland, he had reached into hidden reservoirs of power and drawn upon them. Now he tore aside the last barriers between his conscious mind and those hidden reserves. They were no longer a mystery to him but the wellspring from which all his power stemmed. For the first time in his experience, Milamber came to understand fully what he was, who he was: not a Black Robe, limited by the ancient teachings of one world, but an adept of the Greater Art, a master in full possession of all the energy provided by two worlds.
The Warlord’s magician regarded him in fear. Here was more than a curiosity, a barbarian magician. Here stood a figure to awe, arms stretched upward, body trembling with rage, eyes seemingly aglow with strength.
Milamber clapped his hands above his head, and thunder pealed, rocking those around him. Energy exploded upward from his hands, held high above his head. A vortex of coruscating forces spun above him, rising like a bowshot. The fountain continued until it was high overhead. It began to flatten, covering the stadium like a great canopy. The dazzling display continued briefly, then the skies seemed to explode, blinding many who were looking upward. The sky turned dark, and the sun faded as if grey veils were slowly being drawn before it.
Milamber’s voice carried to the farthest corner of the stadium as he said, “That you have lived as you have lived for centuries is no licen
se for this cruelty. All here are now judged, and all are found wanting.”
More magicians departed, disappearing from their seats, but many yet remained. More judicious commoners fled by nearby exits, but still many waited, thinking this but another contest for their amusement. Many were too drunk or excited by the spectacle for the magician’s warning to reach them.
Milamber’s arm swept an arc around him. “You who would take pleasure from the death and dishonor of others, see then how well you face destruction!” A gasp from the crowd answered his pronouncement.
Milamber raised one hand high overhead, and all became silent. Even the light summer breeze ceased. Then with a terrible strength, he spoke. They paled at his words, for it was as if death had become incarnate and had spoken. Echoing throughout the stadium were the words of Milamber: “Tremble and despair, for I am Power!”
A shrill keening sound began, with Milamber at its source. The very air shuddered as mighty magic was forged. “Wind!” Milamber cried.
A bitter breeze reeking of carrion, foul and loathsome in its touch, blew through the stadium. A low moan of sorrow and fear was carried away by the wind. It blew stronger and, each moment it grew, carried more menace, more despair. It turned colder, until it was stinging to those who had rarely known cold. Men wept at its biting caress, and high above the stadium, clouds formed in the murk.
The winds howled, drowning out the cries of the multitude in the arena. Nobles tried to flee, now too terrified to do anything but claw past their own families, trampling the old and slow underfoot. Many were buffeted to their knees, or knocked from the seats to the sands of the arena floor.
Great thunderheads, black and grey, raced overhead, seeming to swirl around a point directly over Milamber’s head. The magician was engulfed in an eerie light, pulsating with energy. He stood at the center of the storm, a terrible figure in the dark. The wind shrieked its fury, but Milamber’s voice cut through the sound like a knife.
“Rain!”
A cold rain fell, blown hard before the gale. Quickly it grew in tempo, becoming a pounding torrent, then a deluge. The cascade pelted those below, painfully driving them down, beating them senseless with a frightening strength clearly unnatural. A few managed to flee to the tunnels, while others clutched at one another in terror.
Other magicians tried to counter the spells but could not, and fainted from the exertion. Never had there been such a display of raw power. Here was a true master of magic, one who could control the very elements, come into his own. The magician who had challenged Milamber lay back across his seat, stunned, his eyes blinking as he struggled to sort some semblance of order out of the chaos around. The Warlord tried to withstand the storm, struggling to remain upright and refusing to submit to the terror of those around him.
Milamber dropped his arm, then raised one hand before him, stretching outward. “Fire!” he shouted, and again all could hear him.
The clouds seemed to burn. The heavens erupted as sheets of terrible colors, flames of every hue, ran riot through the darkness. Jagged bolts of lightning flashed across the sky, as if the gods were announcing the final judgment of mankind. People screamed in primitive terror at the element gone mad.
Then the rain of fire began. Drops struck arms and clothing, faces and cloaks, and began to burn. Shrieks of pain came from all sides, and people tried vainly to swat out the fires that burned their flesh. More magicians disappeared from the arena, taking their unconscious comrades. Milamber stood alone in the magicians’ section. The stink of burned flesh filled the air, mixed with the acrid odor of fear.
Milamber crossed his arms before him. He turned his gaze downward.
“Earth!”
From below a deep rumbling commenced. The ground under the stadium began to tremble slightly. The vibrations grew in intensity, and the air was filled with an angry buzzing, as if a swarm of giant insects had surrounded the arena. Then a low rumbling added its harmony to the buzzing, and the ground began to move.
The vibrations became a shaking, then a violent rolling, surging, motion. Milamber stood calmly, as if on an island. It was as if the soil, the earth, had become fluid. People were thrown down onto the arena floor. The huge stadium throbbed from forces primeval. Statues tumbled from their pedestals, and the huge gates were ripped from their hinges, in a crackling splintering of ancient wood. They moved from before the tunnels in a staggering, drunken walk, then fell to the sand, crushing those who lay before them. Many of the beasts below the arena were driven mad by the earthquake and thrashed in their cages, smashing locks and opening doors. They fled the tunnels and raced over the fallen gates; they bellowed, howled, and roared at the fire rain. Enraged by terror, they fell upon the stunned spectators lying on the sand, killing at random. A man would sit dazed, absently slapping at the burning drops from the skies, while another a few feet away was being gutted by some horror from the distant forests.
Now the arena itself began to wail as the ancient stones moved, slipping across one another. Mortar a millennium old turned to dust in an instant as the very stadium crumbled. Cries for mercy were swept away by the winds or drowned in the cacophony of destruction. The fury mounted, and the world seemed ready to be torn asunder. Milamber raised his hands above his head again. He brought his palms together, and the mightiest thunder peal of all sounded. Then, abruptly, the chaos ceased.
Above, the sky was clear and sunny, a light breeze once more blowing from the east. The ground stood as it should, motionless and solid, and the rain of fire was a memory.
The silence that followed was deafening. Then the groans of the injured and the sobs of the terrified could be heard. The Warlord remained standing, his face drained of all color, small burns scarring his features and arms. In place of the mighty leader of the Empire stood a man bereft of any emotion save terror. His eyes were wide enough to show whites. His mouth moved, as if he were trying to speak, but no words were forthcoming.
Milamber raised his hands overhead again, and the Warlord fell back with a sob of fear. The magician clapped his hands and was gone.
—
THE AFTERNOON BREEZE carried the scent of summer flowers. In the garden Katala was playing a word game with William; she had insisted they should both learn the language of her husband’s homeland.
It was almost evening, for they were farther east than the Holy City. The sun was low in the west, and the shadows in the garden were long. Without the chime announcing Milamber’s arrival, Katala was startled when her husband appeared in the doorway of their home. She rose slowly from her seat, for she sensed at once something was wrong. “Husband, what is it?”
William ran up to his father, while Milamber said, “I will tell you everything later. We must take William and flee.”
William tugged on his father’s black robe. “Papa!” he cried, demanding attention. Milamber picked up his son and hugged him tightly, then said, “William, we are going on a journey to my homeland. You must be a brave boy and not cry.”
William stuck out his lower lip, for if his father was asking him not to cry, then there must be a very good reason to do so, but he nodded and held back the tears.
“Netoha! Almorella!” Milamber called, and in a moment the two servants entered the garden. Netoha bowed, but Almorella rushed to Katala’s side. Katala had insisted she accompany them to Milamber’s new home when he brought his family from the Shinzawai estate. She was more sister to Katala and aunt to William than a slave. She could see at once that something was wrong, and tears came unbidden to her eyes.
“You’re leaving,” she said, a statement more than a question.
Netoha looked at his master. “Your will, Great One?”
Milamber said, “We are leaving. We must. I am sorry.” Netoha took the news stoically, in the proper Tsurani fashion, but Almorella embraced Katala, openly weeping.
Milamber said, “I wish to ensure that you are both provided for. I have prepared documents against this day. When we have gone, you will fin
d all my work cataloged in my study. Above my study table, on the top shelf, you will find a parchment with a black seal upon it. I am giving the estate to you, Netoha.” He said to Almorella, “I know you two care for each other. The document giving Netoha the estate also contains a provision granting you your freedom, Almorella. He will make you a good husband. Even the Emperor cannot set aside a document bearing a Great One’s seal, so do not worry.”
Almorella’s expression was a mixture of complete disbelief, happiness, and sorrow. She nodded slowly that she understood, thanks clearly showing in her eyes.
Milamber returned his attention to Netoha. “I am deeding the lower pasture land to Xanothis the herdsman. Provide well for the others of this household, Netoha.
“Now, in my study you will also find several parchments sealed with red wax. These must be burned at once. Whatever you do, do not break the seals before you burn them. All other works are to be sent to Hochopepa of the Assembly, with my deepest affection and the wish that he find them useful. He will know what to do with them.”
Almorella again embraced Katala, then kissed William. Netoha said, “Quickly, girl. You’re not mistress of this estate yet, and there is important work to do.” The hadonra started to bow, then said, haltingly, “Great One, I…I wish you well.” He quickly bowed and started for the study. Milamber could see a hint of moisture in his eyes.
Almorella, tears running down her cheeks, followed Netoha into the house. Katala turned to Milamber. “Now?”
“Now.” As he took them to the pattern room, he said, “There is one thing I must find out before we attempt the rift.” He held his wife, with their son between them, and willed himself to another pattern.
They were shrouded in a white haze for an instant, then were in a different room. They hurried through the door, and Katala saw they went into the home of the Shinzawai lord.
Magician: Master Page 33
