The Medusa Plague

by Mary Kirchoff

  Guerrand nodded vaguely, his eyes focused on some distant memory. “I knew a man once whose hand changed into a snake, but the other symptoms are not familiar. His hand was altered after being thrust through a dimensional portal, not by some contagious disease. No other limbs mutated, and he didn’t die from the change.”

  Bram took up the glass he’d left by the chair and threw back the contents, waiting for the burn. “You’ll return with me, then, to stop this pestilence?”

  Lost in his own thoughts, Guerrand jumped. “It’s just not that simple, Bram,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “After all that you went through to find me, you must have some understanding now of my responsibilities at Bastion. I can’t just come and go as I please.”

  “Not even for one day?” pressed Bram. “Surely your comrades could handle things here for one day,” he suggested reasonably.

  “Dagamier, Ezius, and I are not equals,” Guerrand explained. “When I agreed to become Bastion’s fifth sentinel, the Council of Three appointed me high defender. That makes me responsible for everything that happens here. It’s inadvisable, if not impossible, for me to leave under any circumstances. I gave up my freedom to do so when I agreed to take this position. Abandoning my post, even briefly, could mean destruction on a scale you can’t even imagine. Bastion is imbued with the magical essence of every mage on Krynn. If it fails, every one of them is diminished by it. I can’t take that responsibility lightly.”

  Despite his words, Guerrand was obviously struggling to find some concession. He gripped Bram’s hand. “I promise you, Bram, I’ll use all my skills to discover what I can about this sickness. It’s the best I can do.”

  Bram sighed heavily. He didn’t like quarrels as a rule, didn’t have the energy to spend on them. Still, he couldn’t help saying, “I just thought that the Uncle Rand I remembered would want to know about his family and would have at least tried to return to help. But I can see he’s moved beyond that now.”

  Bram pushed himself up by the knees. “You’ll excuse my rudeness, then, but I’ve already wasted too much time pursuing this avenue. I’ll be out of your way if you’ll signal Justarius or Par-Salian and tell them I won’t be needing a full day here. Do you think they’d know a way to send me back to Thonvil that’s faster than walking?” Bram’s last sentence was lost within a yawn, and Guerrand made him repeat it.

  Looking sad and frustrated, the mage stuttered toward saying something reassuring, then gave up. “You look exhausted, Bram,” he observed abruptly. “How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

  Bram shrugged, beyond caring. “It’s hard to say. My sense of time is totally twisted. Since before I left home. At any rate, it doesn’t matter.”

  “You’ll need your wits about you more than ever when you return. I insist that you stay long enough to close your eyes,” said the mage, cannily adding, “I could use the time to check into a few things that may help you against this disease.”

  Bram only looked more resolute.

  “I can arrange to have you sent directly to Thonvil,” the mage offered, sweetening the pot, though his arms were crossed firmly, “but I refuse to do it until you’ve rested, at least briefly.”

  Bram shook his head, which suddenly felt heavy as stone. “I’ve got to get back,” he mumbled, unable to keep his eyes open. He distantly wondered if he wasn’t under some spell, so suddenly did the sleepiness descend. Bram hadn’t the strength to resist.

  Guerrand wasted no time taking his nephew’s arm and leading him, droopy-eyed, through the archway to the sleeping chamber. His foot caught the strap of a scroll case Bram had set on the floor near the door when Guerrand had begun to pour the wine. Curious, Guerrand started to lift the case when Bram’s eyes sparked briefly to life.

  “I almost forgot,” he said groggily. “The scroll in the case is for you. From Justarius.”

  Nodding, Guerrand toed the case to the side and helped Bram to the feather tick. The young man was asleep before his head hit Guerrand’s goose-down pillow.

  Guerrand regarded his sleeping nephew with a twinge of remorse. He’d hated to cast the spell, but Bram was in as much need of rest as Guerrand required time to think. There had to be some way to help Thonvil without abandoning his responsibilities here in Bastion. The mage snatched up the round leather tube from Justarius on his way to the library.

  Guerrand settled himself behind the dark walnut desk to think. Someone was deliberately trying to connect him with the spread of Thonvil’s odd plague. Guerrand had no question who that was, since he had no greater enemy than Lyim Rhistadt. The symptoms Bram had described sounded too much like Lyim’s affliction to be a coincidence. This plague was revenge, pure and simple, for Guerrand’s refusal to grant Lyim entrance to Bastion to cure his mutated arm.

  But what an odd and evil revenge, thought Guerrand. There were too many differences between the plague and Lyim’s mutation for them to be exactly the same, not to mention the convoluted way Lyim’s hand was altered. The similarity reminded Guerrand too painfully of the source of the unease he’d been feeling since he’d turned Lyim away in the mercury.

  Though he felt great pity for Lyim’s suffering, Guerrand had no question that he had done right to forbid Lyim entrance to the stronghold. No mortal cause was worth opening the very door Bastion had been created to block. He had pledged his life to preventing a breach. He would compromise that for no one.

  Still, even Guerrand’s unflagging commitment to Bastion wouldn’t allow him to dismiss responsibility for the plague in Thonvil. What about Kirah and the rest of his family? He couldn’t stay blithely in Bastion while his nephew went back to Thonvil to suffer a hideous death. They had just found each other again. Bram had grown into a well-spoken man who reminded Guerrand not a little of himself in many respects. They held in common wavy brown hair, a slightly flattened nose, wide dark eyes, and high cheekbones. Bram seemed as determined and self-assured as Guerrand’s brother Quinn had been, tempered by Guerrand’s own reflective nature.

  As impossible as it was for him to doom Bram, it further prayed on Guerrand’s mind that the consequences of this plague reached far beyond his family and the village. What would prevent the sickness from spreading to the rest of Northern Ergoth, to the rest of the world? The end of life on Krynn simply couldn’t be of lesser concern to the Council of Three than that Bastion be short a defender for a matter of days.

  Guerrand had once told Kirah that he’d been wrong not to come to the family’s aid, instead sending Lyim in his place. Nearly ten years later Thonvil was still paying for the misjudgment that had put Lyim on Stonecliff during Belize’s attempt to enter the Lost Citadel. Guerrand could not compound the mistake by repeating it. Justarius would just have to see that stopping the spread of this magical plague was as important to the defense of magic as Guerrand’s presence at Bastion. The high defender’s hopes were high in that regard, considering the exception the Council had made by letting Bram into Bastion.

  The thought reminded Guerrand of the scroll case from Justarius. It was unusual to receive such a formal missive from the Master of the Red Robes. He pried up the snap on the end of the tube and shook out two curled pieces of parchment inside. They fluttered to the floor. He scooped up the first and unfurled it, recognizing the large, flowing script at once.

  Guerrand,

  Par-Salian and I have met with your nephew and find him to be of sound character. We have considered both his tale of a magical plague and your history of requests to return and help your family. Once before you were given a choice between your magic and your family, and we both know the outcome of that unfortunate incident. Therefore, Par-Salian and I have agreed to grant you a short leave-of-absence, if you will, to deal with this situation back in Northern Ergoth, if it is your judgment as high defender that Bastion is secure. Since the teleport spell does not function between planes, I have imbued this scroll with the ability to transport both you and your nephew to wherever you require on the Prime Material Plane,
thus saving your spell energy for more dire events. Good luck.

  —Justarius

  Guerrand leaned back among the cushions, stunned. Both he and Justarius had come a long way in their thinking since Guerrand’s days as an apprentice in Palanthas.

  The mage tossed the curled parchment onto the dark surface of his desk. He had much to do before he could depart for Thonvil. First, he must leave explicit instructions with Dagamier and Ezius. Dagamier would undoubtedly remind Guerrand she’d run the place long before he came along, but the high defender was ever careful to establish his authority with the ambitious black wizardess. Once Bastion was as secure as he could make it in his absence, Guerrand would be free to consider the components and spellbooks he should take back with him to Thonvil.

  Reaching into a desk drawer, the mage snatched up quill and parchment and began to scratch a list of instructions for Dagamier and Ezius. He was on his second page when he heard the baying of the hounds. Guerrand snapped alert. The three defenders had responded in drills to the simulated sound of the hounds, to condition themselves to be ever ready against attack. But the high defender had ordered no drill today.

  Guerrand jumped to his feet and raced out the door of the library. He ran into his nephew as Bram staggered into the hallway, blinking away sleep.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Either the stronghold’s guardians are fighting again, or something is trying to enter Bastion’s plane.” Guerrand didn’t stop as he tore down the hallway, headed for the scrying sphere in the nave, Bram at his heels.

  Dagamier was at her turn at the watch, standing anxiously in the small doorway of the column, which had activated the bridge to form over the moat. She was speaking agitatedly with the white-haired Ezius when Guerrand ran up to them.

  “Are the gargoyles and hounds at it again?” the high defender asked hopefully.

  Dagamier’s expression was tight, her lips pinched. “No. Something else is just beyond the fence, stirring up the hounds.”

  “But how can that be?” demanded Guerrand, hands on his hips, his expression horrified. “How did something get this close to Bastion without detection in the sphere?”

  Dagamier looked pointedly at Ezius. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “I swear I didn’t take my eyes from the diorama for a heartbeat!” breathed Ezius. “Nothing registered in the perimeter until the hounds started baying!”

  Guerrand frowned his annoyance. “This is no time for recriminations. We’ll use drill two, but this isn’t a practice.” Dagamier and Ezius exchanged glances. “Quickly now!” thundered Guerrand.

  Dagamier seemed about to protest, since drill two dictated she remain at watch in the sphere, but she nodded reluctantly. In accordance with the strategy, Ezius raced off to the white wing to gather components before positioning himself on the watch walk outside Bastion’s white wing.

  “Where should I go?” Bram asked behind Guerrand, startling the mage.

  “Back to my apartments,” said the high defender. Saving his spell energy for what lay ahead, Guerrand didn’t teleport the short distance, but instead headed on foot to the red wing to collect his own magical equipment.

  Bram ran at his side to the laboratory. “You don’t really expect me to go back to sleep, do you? Perhaps I can help.”

  “Frankly, and I mean no offense,” Guerrand said distractedly while he scraped flasks and pouches directly into the sack he held to the lab’s shelves, “we three defenders have practiced for defense. I don’t see that there’s much you can do but get in the way of that. You have no magical skill to defend yourself, and I’d have to spend my thoughts worrying about your safety.”

  “I’m not totally useless,” his nephew said. “I managed to find you, didn’t I?”

  Guerrand grasped Bram by the his well-muscled shoulders and gave him five heartbeats of his attention. He had hoped to anger Bram enough to put him off, and had planned another short speech to refuse his help. But then the mage saw the determination in his nephew’s eyes.

  “All right,” he sighed, “but stay low behind me, and do exactly as I tell you, when I tell you.” He gave Bram a brief, bittersweet smile. “I’d rather face four seasoned mages than Rietta with the news that I’d let something happen to you.”

  With that, he patted Bram on the back, grabbed the sack stuffed with spell components, and bolted back down the hall. He practically kicked in the door to the storeroom, then squeezed himself sideways between the right wall and the floor-to-ceiling shelves, seeking the stairway to the red wing’s watch walk.

  Guerrand located the secret release, the door slid back, and he plunged up the steps. Another door flew open at the top and both men emerged into the windless, dark air outside Bastion. Guerrand stopped briefly and listened for the exact location of the hounds: they were just beyond the front gate. With Bram still at his heels, he took the left branch of the narrow widow’s walk that circled the exterior of the nave.

  They came to the wider balcony at the front of Bastion, above the apse and behind the facade. Guerrand reached into his sack and withdrew several rings and bracelets. He immediately slipped one of each on, then handed the same to Bram. “Get down, and stay down,” he commanded his nephew. Donning the ring and bracelet without question or even knowing why, the young man reluctantly dropped to his knees, where he peered through the wrought-iron bars into the darkness.

  Guerrand scanned the nearby pointed gables of the white wing and the smooth, flat ledges of the red and black sections. The hideous, winged creatures who posed as downspouts on the stronghold were in place, eyes shifting watchfully. The shadows of topiaries in the courtyard were as frightening as ever, but looked undisturbed.

  All signs of intrusion still came from beyond the ornate wrought-iron fence. No longer muffled by Bastion’s walls, the sounds of snarling, shrieking hounds cut both men to the core. The vicious barking and snapping changed abruptly to high-pitched squeals of pain, then nothing. The silence that followed was deafening.

  Heart hammering, Guerrand looked for Ezius above the white wing to his left. He was reassured by the mage’s presence, but he prayed to Lunitari that he would not have to witness Ezius’s skills in battle now.

  “What’s happening? Where are the hounds?” whispered Bram.

  “Dead.” Guerrand knew it as surely as he knew anything. Only death would have silenced their howls.

  Several anxious moments passed before a burst of flame cleared away a knot of brush before the fence. As the smoke and ashes parted, Guerrand saw a man riding on the back of a hell hound. The creature, obviously in torment, quivered beneath the man’s cruel grip. But the shock of this sight was nothing compared to the surge of adrenalin in the high defender’s system when he recognized Lyim Rhistadt on the monster’s back.

  Guerrand recalled the Council’s edict to capture intruders for tribunal whenever possible. He fired a telepathic message to the white mage, who was already rummaging in his pack in preparation of a spell.

  Hold off firing, Ezius, until my command. The high defender saw the pale-haired mage nod, though Ezius’s expression was obviously puzzled.

  “Good evening, Guerrand,” Lyim said conversationally. “Or is it morning here?” He swung the beast beneath him around like a horse, though it belched flames. “It’s impossible to tell.”

  “I see you’ve defied the odds and found your way here.” Guerrand cursed his voice for shaking. “What is it you expect to get for your trouble, Lyim?”

  “Men give up many things willingly,” proclaimed Lyim. “Their fortunes, their loves, their dreams … Power, never. It must be taken. You gave up all those things for power, Guerrand. Your power here at Bastion robbed me of the chance to restore my hand and my life to normal. Now I’ve come to seize your power.” The hell hound fidgeted beneath Lyim. “But then, you knew the answer to your question before you asked it.”

  “And you know the answer I will give,” Guerrand said evenly. “I cannot and will not violate the
laws of Bastion for any mage.”

  “Not even for an old friend who gave his hand for your life?”

  “We’ve gone over this, Lyim,” Guerrand said grimly. “To do what you ask would put every mage on Krynn at risk. I would give my hand for yours, if I could, but I cannot grant entrance to Bastion. Only the Council of Three can do that. Did you petition them as I suggested?”

  “I told you before, asking those three wouldn’t have done any good.” Lyim laughed bitterly. “It would only have tipped my hand, so to speak. They would have been watching me, and then I couldn’t have followed the nephew who cowers behind you.”

  Lyim chuckled again at the sight of Guerrand’s surprise. “Of course I know about Bram’s presence here, Rand. I attached myself to the slipstream of the spell that sent him here. Now I find myself in the awkward position of being thankful that the Council made an exception for him that they would never have made for me.”

  “The Council didn’t let Bram in for his sake, but for the welfare of Northern Ergoth and beyond,” said Guerrand. “That’s the difference between you and the Council. For the sake of one person—yourself—you spread a deadly plague in Thonvil.”

  “Never defend, that’s always been my motto,” said Lyim, idly twisting the gemstone he wore in his left earlobe. “You must seize what you want from life. If destroying everything you ever cared about was the only way to draw you out of Bastion, then it was worth it to me. Unfortunately, you seemed neither to notice, nor to care, nor to act.”

  Guerrand held his anger in check with great effort, unwilling to let it cloud his thinking or his judgment. He clung to the hope that Lyim would surrender. “So you intend to storm Bastion, one mage against three. That sounds like suicide.”

  “Whether or not we fight here has always been up to you, Rand, but beware. I am much more powerful and cunning than when we were apprentices,” warned Lyim.

  “You blocked detection from our scrying,” observed Guerrand, just beginning to understand the measure of the other wizard’s skill.