The Medusa Plague

by Mary Kirchoff

  Lyim recalled his master’s words as if they’d been spoken just yesterday: “These portals frequently contain the undead remains of centuries’ worth of unsuccessful adventurers. They jump like starving fleas upon the first fresh traveler they meet.”

  Lyim knew there would be no new creatures waiting in the passage, since Bastion had blocked this dimensional portal almost since the disaster at Stonecliff. A decade of curiosity about what happened beyond prompted Lyim to bring Ezius’s head nearer the opening he’d created in the plane.

  The mage was astonished when the incandescent curtain of swirling light parted for him like an opening eye. Beyond it lay a passage, a tunnel bored through the dimensions. The walls, floor, and ceiling pulsed with electrical energy and twisted and writhed like a living thing.

  A creature thrashed below him. Lyim immediately recognized the snakelike head next to a pale, limp arm. But the snake’s thick, fur-covered body supported by thousands of red-veined fingers made Lyim gasp. It was impossible to tell how long the creature was, with its coils lapped one atop another in thoughtless loops. Rather than slithering, the monster wound its bulk sideways as if rolling down an incline, and disappeared through the tunnel wall into whatever unknown dimension lay outside, leaving behind a faintly glowing trail.

  Lyim was watching the glow recede when the undulating tunnel erupted in brightness more blinding than a thousand candles. He clamped his eyes shut, but the light burned through his lids. Without moving, Lyim was physically drawn through the portal. Next to him he could feel his own, unconscious body being lifted off the marble slab and dragged into the maelstrom by the restored arm, as if some power were drawn by the mages’ magical emanations. The pull was overwhelming. Though he had not come for this, Lyim, once exposed to the citadel’s power, didn’t even want to resist. The bodies of both mages glided through the pulsating confines of the tunnel toward the distance source of the brilliance.

  Though Lyim’s eyes were still closed, the light etched upon his lids a multisensory image. He witnessed the birth of the world, the origins of the races, the calamities and triumphs that marked thousands of years of Krynn’s history. He saw magical forces being molded and applied in ways he had never dreamt possible, as well as magical disasters that altered the shape of the world.

  The force that pulled the mages’ bodies stopped as abruptly as it began. Lyim commanded Ezius’s eyes to open.

  Radiant gates of spider-spun gold rose up from a knee-high fog. A jagged range of polished minerals and semiprecious rock encircled the citadel. Three immense diamond spires sliced through the billowing fog and gold and silver foothills to penetrate the blackness of space. The triangle of glittering spires was set upon a pentagon of polished gold, the source of the yellow radiance that sent blinding light up through the faceted diamond spires. The whole effect reminded Lyim of an enormous jeweled pendant.

  No windows or balconies marred the crystalline surface of the spires, nor doors the gold base, to mark it as a habitable place. Yet the citadel pulsed with magical energy, with the essence of life. The contrast of stark, cold minerals and hot golden light seemed to symbolize the complexities of magic itself.

  An understanding of what he saw came unbidden to Lyim, as if any mage who looked upon the forbidden Lost Citadel could not but realize these things about the most magical of places. The faceted surfaces reflected the foundation upon which all earthly things were built—a mirror held to the universe to reveal a skeleton complex beyond compare. The citadel’s mineraled walls had risen naturally millennia ago from the mire of Krynn to house three novice mages. When those first wizards unleashed far more magic than they could control, setting off floods and fires and earthquakes, they were transported in their tower to a place beyond the circles of the universe. Ever after, the tower was known as the Lost Citadel. The mages became the founders of the Orders of High Sorcery.

  Ezius’s old fingers curled around the delicate gold filigree of the gate. As he did so, the craggy, cold foothills surrounding the citadel began to quake, sending boulders of gold and silver tumbling toward the gate. The quake continued, unabated, until the tunnel beneath Ezius’s sandaled feet and Lyim’s prone, true body trembled. Lyim grasped the gate tighter to steady himself, but the move only increased the intensity of the tremors. Lyim felt himself thrown to Ezius’s knees.

  The power of the collapsing portal began to drag both mages back through the tunnel in much the same way as they’d been pulled toward the gate. Ezius’s hands futilely stretched toward the gates of the citadel, even as Lyim’s mind reached out to the wonders beyond them. Ezius’s body slipped from the tunnel, through the portal’s purple whorl, heartbeats after Lyim’s. He fell upon his own unconscious body, slumped on the marble slab, then tumbled like a fish to the cold floor of Bastion’s white wing.

  Lyim was only barely aware that above the slab, the portal spiraled slowly inward and began to darken and shrink. The vibrant colors that had been almost too bright to look at quickly faded to dark red-orange, then disappeared.

  Lyim was dazed and incredulous. He had looked upon the source of all magic, witnessed the wrath of the gods. Almost everything he had ever done seemed trivial compared to that.

  Except for one thing. Lyim’s gaze traveled up to his own body, beautifully restored and dangling from the slab above him. There was no need for loathing anymore. Lyim examined all five fingers of his right hand with a child’s joy.

  It came to him in a flash that he had no more need for Ezius’s old and tired frame. He quickly closed Ezius’s eyes to concentrate on the gem in his own ear. Instantly his entire consciousness was altered. His senses were completely stripped away; he was suspended, numb, in a blackness that no light, sound, or heat could penetrate. Instinctively he homed in on the slow, thin pulse of his own body. Slowly, like fog slipping over the sea, his essence drifted from the gem. Lyim found himself draped across the marble table, staring at the vaulted ceiling far above. He had been out of his body for perhaps two days, but still it felt strange to Lyim. In moments the feeling passed, and a thrill ran through him as he realized he was whole again.

  Lyim gathered up his red robe and rolled stiffly into a sitting position atop the cold white slab. His body felt strong and right, as if he’d slipped on a familiar, butter-soft glove. The mage flexed the fingers of his right hand before wide, disbelieving eyes, until he couldn’t contain his elation. He leaped from the slab into the air. Coming down, he crashed into Ezius, slumped against the marble base.

  Lyim blinked at the white-robed mage. Ezius raised a trembling hand, as if about to cast a spell. At least that’s what Lyim presumed when he reached out with his own right hand and touched Ezius’s temple. The older man’s face went slack, and all comprehension left his eyes. Ezius stared around the room like an idiot child, bewildered by everything he saw. Lyim reached out his hand once more, poising it above the mage’s head. “Take a little rest, Ezius. You’ve earned it.” Fine amber dust drifted down from Lyim’s hand. The dust clouded Ezius’s already vague eyes, and then his head slipped gently to the porcelain floor.

  “Lyim!”

  The mage looked up at the sound of a familiar voice cursing his name. Lyim spun about to face his most hated foe, his handsome face spread in a wolfish smile of anticipation.

  Bastion’s high defender stared at the pulsing, writhing, purple glow around the door, and the meaning of King Weador’s warning came clear to him. Guerrand had witnessed light like that only once before: during the triple eclipse on Stonecliff. Lyim Rhistadt had lost his hand that night. There could be no mistaking the danger now.

  Guerrand called Dagamier from the scrying sphere and sent her to collect all the wands, cloaks, and components she could lay her hands on. He sized up the magical protections on the door and settled upon the likeliest spell to break them. From his ever-present pack, the mage pulled a stringed chime—a small, silvery tube—and waited impatiently for the black wizard to return.

  The radiance beneath the d
oor flared up, streaming through the cracks so that Guerrand was bathed in an ultraviolet glow. The high defender knew he could wait no longer.

  Setting aside the chime momentarily, Guerrand searched through his pouch again and withdrew a small glass bead. As he whispered an incantation, he used the bead to trace magical symbols on his forehead, the backs of his hands and arms, his chest, and finally, in the air surrounding him. With the final phrase of the spell, Guerrand released the bead. It shattered like a fine crystal glass, and the mage was surrounded in soft, shimmering light. As long as it lasted, he would be protected against all but the most powerful magic.

  Guerrand retrieved the chime and held it up by the string. He struck it slowly once, twice, thrice with a small, rubber-tipped mallet. With the third tone, the double doors burst inward. Guerrand leaped one step inside the door, discarding the chime.

  The high defender had been inside Bastion’s white wing only on those few occasions when Ezius had invited him. The area near the door was dim with murky blue-violet light. But the purple, incandescent portal throbbed and swirled with energy at the far right corner of the wing’s vast, open room. It glowed so brightly at its center that Guerrand could not bear to look directly at it.

  The mage glanced away, eyes burning as if he’d stared at the sun. A pair of luminescent eyes, unblinking and motionless, rose before him. They were feline in shape, but far too large to belong to any cat Guerrand had ever seen.

  With a wave of his hand and a muttered word, Guerrand filled his end of the vast chamber with light. There was no sign of Ezius or Lyim, dead or alive, anywhere in the wing. But he found the source of the odd, luminous eyes. No past experience could keep him from starting backward. The creature that blocked his path to the portal resembled a snake or an eel in form, but its proportions were monstrous. It was coiled into a loop, but Guerrand guessed the creature’s body must have been at least twice as long as his own frame, possibly more. The body appeared black, but where light reflected from the tiny, glossy scales, they flashed a dark, subterranean blue.

  Most unsettling was the creature’s human-shaped head. The dark, slanted eyes had vertical irises, like a cat’s. The ears were pointed and too far back on the head to look human, though, and its teeth resembled needles.

  At the other end of the body, held straight up in the air with great menace, was a bony stinger as long as Guerrand’s forearm. Venom glistened on its tip. Guerrand shuddered; Lyim had chosen his guardian with irony.

  The two adversaries eyed each other warily. Guerrand had heard about nagas, fiendish and intelligent monsters with a hunger for magical knowledge. They were known to offer their services to powerful mages in exchange for spell formulae. Even when Guerrand was an apprentice, Justarius had warned him against dealing with such beings. If Belize had done the same for his apprentice, Lyim had obviously ignored him.

  The wizard was greatly relieved to hear Dagamier’s footsteps as she returned across the nave. The black-robed mage stepped into the white wing and slung a heavy cloak across Guerrand’s shoulders that would protect the wearer like a suit of armor.

  The naga’s eyes followed Dagamier, the first movement Guerrand had seen the monster make. He raised his hands before him. Sparks raced across Guerrand’s flesh, ready to leap forward as a bolt of lightning.

  Nagas were highly susceptible to bribes, so before attacking, Guerrand thought to offer one. “We want your master, and have no quarrel with you,” he began, searching his memory of Bastion’s collected magical items for an artifact of use to a limbless creature. “Stand aside, and I will give you a magical circlet after I’m assured we’ve passed freely.”

  “My master is not here,” the naga replied in a dark voice that held no trace of an accent. “He has entered the portal. I will accept your offer and let you pass.” With silken grace the naga’s coils slid off one another. The creature backed away warily, but its unblinking eyes remained riveted on Guerrand.

  Dagamier tossed a disbelieving glance at Guerrand. He, too, was surprised at the monster’s easy acquiescence, and did not entirely trust it. With the spell still ready to cast, he advanced into the white wing, balancing caution against the immediate imperative of drawing Lyim from the portal. Dagamier followed three steps behind him.

  A scream set Guerrand’s heart hammering. Looking back over his shoulder he cursed. Silhouetted by the doorway, Dagamier had her arms thrown wide, and a look of horror and pain was frozen on her death-pale face. With great effort, as if pulling against a harness, she tipped her dark head back to peer up into the rafters above.

  But Guerrand had already seen what Dagamier could not. Dangling heavily from an overhead beam, just inside the door, was a second naga. Its serpentine tail hung down and disappeared behind Dagamier. The naga quivered its tail, making Dagamier twitch like a marionette. Slowly her eyes rolled back and her head slumped. The black wizard’s entire body went limp. Yet she remained standing until, with a flick of its tail, the naga snapped its poisoned stinger out from her back.

  Dagamier collapsed sideways and lay motionless.

  Before the woman’s body hit the floor, two bolts of lightning ripped from Guerrand’s hands to smash into the monstrous snake-thing above the door. The air crackled and buzzed as the twin arcs twitched in a fantastic dance across the open room, rooted at one end to Guerrand and at the other to the naga.

  The blast constricted the rippling muscles in the creature’s body. The glistening stinger thrashed and jerked through the air, which quickly filled with the stink of burning flesh. The shriek that erupted from the second naga’s lips was nothing like the smooth tones of its accomplice. The naga was blown from the rafter amidst a whirlwind of smoke and wood splinters. It landed next to Dagamier, a mess of burned flesh and smoldering blood.

  The first naga launched a spell of its own. The nagas’ magic was unique to their species, because their spells had to be triggered with no material ingredients. The first naga’s humanlike lips curled back across its needle teeth, and a ball of blue flame rolled down the length of its forked tongue. The naga caught the roiling pellet on the tip of its stinger and then hurled it, with a snap of its tail, straight at Guerrand’s back.

  The ball expanded as it flew, until it smashed into the protective globe surrounding Guerrand. It flattened itself against the magical field and groped with tendrils of blue flame across the softly glowing surface, searching for any weakness. The blue flame continued growing in size and intensity until it appeared it might engulf Guerrand inside his invulnerable globe.

  The high defender could feel the heat against his skin even through the magical shield and cloak. Still, he was confident that the blue flames could not penetrate his defenses. Within moments the flames began to flicker and fade.

  Guerrand’s vision was obscured by the naga’s spell for brief seconds, time the beast used to rush forward, stinger-tipped tail slashing at the wizard. Drawing a small rod from his waist belt, Guerrand leaped toward the thing’s tail and struck it. Crimson light flowed out from the rod to encircle the naga, constricting and crushing it. The monster thrashed in a frenzy and stiffened momentarily. But the unearthly glow returned to its eyes as it shook off the rod’s effect.

  The naga screeched its rage until Guerrand thought his ears would burst. It stopped only to stare at him warily, malevolent intelligence shining in its cruel eyes.

  I’ll distract it, came the thought into Guerrand’s mind, so that you can kill it.

  Startled, Guerrand scanned the room, spotting Zagarus perched atop a bookcase against the far left wall. No, he thought. The naga’s too dangerous, Zag. I can handle it. Go back to our quarters.

  But the sea gull was not so easily put off. I’m sure I can peck a snake without getting hurt. Zagarus spread his wings and launched himself into a slow glide across the vast, open room.

  The naga was weaving back and forth, looking for an opening for its poisoned tail. Zagarus swooped low across the creature’s back, slashing at the tiny blue-black
scales with his beak. The naga’s howl was more pique than pain. The snake-thing whipped its body around like a club so quickly that the sea gull was knocked to the floor.

  Dazed by the blow, Zagarus scrambled on the hard tiles to get away from the naga. But he had hardly moved before a stream of smoking ichor sprayed from the naga’s mouth and splashed on the gull’s back. “Kyeow!” The bird thrashed on the floor as the feathers and flesh on his back bubbled away in sizzling gobs.

  “Zag!”

  A horrible, burning pain seared Guerrand’s spine. He stumbled slightly from the shock, but his mind clung tenaciously to the magical formula he was reciting. In the time the monster had spent responding to Zagarus’s unsuspected attack, Guerrand had prepared a spell. Through his and his familiar’s shared pain, he recited the magical words before the naga could turn back to him. The floor beneath the thing turned to rippling white liquid. The enormous snake-creature let out another shriek of shock and pain as three-fourths of its length was abruptly rooted to the liquid floor. It fought madly to tear itself away, but without success.

  Sensing its doom, the naga flailed in a berserk frenzy to break free. Slowly the last of its head sank, screaming, into the swells of the floor. The porcelain surface immediately returned to its original state, smooth and undisturbed.

  Three quick steps brought Guerrand to where Zagarus had fallen. The faithful familiar was lying still, except for his breathing. It doesn’t hurt so bad anymore, came the bird’s thought, labored and slow. My body is so numb … I can hardly … feel anything …

  Guerrand stroked the gull’s dark, feathered head tenderly, his throat thick. I’m not ready to release you as my familiar, Zag.

  Of course you aren’t, Rand. Zagarus’s thoughts came hard and broken, the effort nearly too much. I’m a hooded, black-backed Ergothian sea gull—