“No withholding. All resistance must be abandoned.” The voice of the Mage of Dreams echoed within his skull.
Then, abruptly, his mind was penetrated as sharply as if a blade had entered it, and Alan was gazing down upon himself and his three friends. Though he knew the scene, Alan felt a strange, cold detachment. They were gathered about the tumulus of stone on the summit of Slievenamon, under a dreadful sky that wheeled about them. He saw the expression on every face, including his own . . . the look of horror as the guardian of the gate attacked them.
“A pernicious little cabal!” exclaimed the Mage. “But now you will disown them. You will spurn them and kneel in homage of my Master!”
Alan resisted that command. Yet the compulsion to obey it overwhelmed his mind. “Surely my young friend has not imbibed enough. Another drink, scabrous Zoda—let our young friend show the Master a token of his veneration!”
Though he did not know the nature of the Mage’s poison, Alan’s mind reeled with its intoxication. Fighting back with every fiber of his resistance, he used the oraculum to scour his blood for evidence of the chemical nature of the poison, so he could fight it. But still he found nothing. A thought struck him with the suddenness of revelation: He remembered the spiritual essence that had charged the weaponry of the Kyra in the riverside battle. He felt certain that the Mage had infused some similar potion into the drinks, a potion that had no effect on the Mage but which was undermining his own spirit. Sweat poured from Alan’s brow as, physically weakened by the poison, he resisted the force of compulsion that rose again within him. As the dwarf brought the glittering goblet to his lips, an icy darkness enclosed him, as if to physically devour him.
A glimpse alone and Alan almost died from the horror of it: a vision as through the pupil of a monstrous eye that enclosed an entire universe of darkness. And the deep and dreadful voice that addressed him as a whisper in his mind was no longer that of the Mage, but his Master.
So we meet! And you, in your ignorance, imagine yourself my adversary?
“Who . . . who are you?”
Why, I go by many names. To those, such as my servant who has so readily trapped you in his lair, I am the cusp of reason and veneration. To the Shee-witch who ruled Ossierel until her final abject surrender to my conquest, I was the other side of grace, the left hand of darkness. Like her you will discover, in opposing me, that my power, like my will, is infinite.
Alan shrank back into his chair by the fire, its flames now cold as tombstones, his limbs withering with an increasing paralysis, aware only of his hands writhing uselessly over each other, until the knuckles cracked.
That figure was gesticulating with a single ebony talon, its cowled head so close it could have stretched out and touched him.
There is an answer I would have of you before I leave you to the Mage’s passions. There is one among you who bears a secret name—Mira. I must know which of you it is.
He saw, as if through a pitiless eye, the four friends again. His gaze could not blink over the vision in which terror was frozen on all of their faces. A gigantic shadow was bisecting the sky. In his eyes the orange of flames, in his ears the howl of battle. The howling condensed, in a moment, to become a bell that was pealing, distant in his mind.
Very well, if you will not speak, I will enter your mind!
The figure extended an arm of darkness out of the cavern of its sleeve. The claw on the end of a stygian finger was reaching toward his brow . . .
“No!” Though his heartbeat faltered, like the irregular pealing of his own doom, he found the inner strength to resist it for one final moment.
In that same moment, a clatter startled him from his entrancement. The dwarf, who had refilled their goblets, stumbled as he left the chamber through the door that now seemed more the portal to a shadowed crypt. The clatter was the turquoise decanter shattering against the floor, releasing elemental forces to flash and explode about the chamber.
The Mage’s howl of wrath filled Alan’s ears as the dwarf bowed repeatedly in a profuse apology, while collecting the fragments in his hands.
The black pentagon melted away.
The voice of the Mage was a snarl, issuing in slurring cadences through grotesquely elongating lips. “Clumsy fool—I shall take pleasure in the multiplication of your pain!”
Alan was still shaken with horror by the memory of that figure of darkness, yet he knew he had to deflect the Mage’s wrath from the dwarf. He intoned not through speech alone but subtly, through the oraculum, fawning over the beast’s head that now capped the figure of the Mage, a reptilian mask of black glistening eyes and slavering jaws from which protruded four venomous fangs.
“Anger does not become such . . . such a sublime mind.” He racked his brain to find the right flowery words to fit the archaic language of the Mage. “I have never encountered a mind as powerful as yours before. Not even, I daresay, the mind of the Tyrant himself!”
“A mind as powerful, you say?” the Mage growled. “None—not even the Great One—not even the Master?”
Alan saw in that moment how the dwarf was signaling to him. He made a drinking motion, then shook his head. With his face looking ominous, the dwarf pointed to his own wide-staring eyes before he scuttled away, with head bowed, through the door.
A conflict of rage and self-preening fought within the grotesquely metamorphosing figure opposite Alan. For a moment, the kindly old man dominated. “But you flatter me, surely?”
Alan tried to continue his deception while struggling to interpret the dwarf’s signals. “I think you’d see through flattery in an instant, an intellect that’s so superior . . . well, I guess, in all that is ignoble?”
“Ah—indeed I would!” The Mage’s head became that of a bird, a tall bird, like a great heron, of snowy plumage with eyes of a sulphurous yellow, fissured with red. In a moment, the eyes switched back to the black of the reptile, lusting for blood. Only now did Alan understand what the dwarf had been trying to communicate. The power of the Mage—the entrancement—was not solely located in the drink. The greater danger lay in the eyes. He recalled how the enchantment had begun with the very first trick—the sapphire mask of the butterflies that had drawn his attention to the Mage’s eyes.
Alan broke eye contact, pretending to examine his silver goblet, as if in admiration.
“Yes!” The snout hissed, its mucousy breath right up against his ear. “We must partake of the civilities. Yeeesss!” A contemptuous gloating sounded at the back of a lengthening throat, edged by fangs. The eyes careened through hypnotic blue, yet all the while coldly observant, basking in the anticipation of devouring him.
“I can see,” gurgled the Mage, “how you might adore the likes of me. Savor, while you can, your eclipse by no small captain of darkness.” A muscular tongue, glistening blue-black and forked at its tip, darted from between the fangs in the gaping maw as it licked its stretched lips before swigging its drink in a single gulp. Alan watched with horror the changes that continued to invade the Mage’s body. He was rising out of his chair, a darkling shape that had abandoned any pretense to being human, elongating at one end into a tail and at the other into a gaping snout. From its paws sprang three claws as it reached out toward Alan’s brow.
The dwarf was back in the chamber. His face was contorted as if in an agony of effort. From behind the Mage, he was holding something in his outstretched hand—the runestone of polished jade. By some sleight of hand—or will, perhaps—during the confusion of the dropped ewer, he had stolen the runestone from the Mage. Now he was pressing it forward with an extended arm, fighting every inch against a resisting force that caused the veins on his temples to bulge and knot, and reaching toward Alan’s brow.
Still the distance that separated them, though mere inches, was too much for him.
The dwarf’s face was grotesque with effort. But he was losing his struggle.
Alan turned his head, willing his paralyzed limbs to move. The claws, like pincers, had caught hold o
f his hair. They twisted and turned, attempting to bring his face closer to the slavering maw. He tried to tear himself loose. He focused his desperation, searching for the weakened power of the oraculum. Suddenly there was a thunderclap and a flash of lightning, causing the beast to stagger off balance. But its strength was enormous. The outstretched paw slackened momentarily, but did not release him. Instead, the claws tore deeper, twisting wildly, powerfully shackling his head.
Bringing himself an inch closer to the runestone, Alan felt blood start to trickle under his hair. He forced his head to move closer toward the jade, his scalp stretching through the hurricane of pain.
The beast roared, re-tightening its grip. Its head was lolling from side to side with the force of its struggle to pull him toward Alan. The jaws were gaping, the tongue flicking about violently, through and around the slavering fangs. The agony mounted until Alan could no longer see the dwarf, could hear nothing but the roaring of the beast’s fury, its ravening lust almost touching his face. Then, abruptly, he felt the oraculum make contact with the jade, and a force, like a breaking dam, flowed from him and into the runestone. The chamber exploded into a fury of thunder and lightning.
He found himself on hands and knees on the flagstones, in front of the extinguished fire. The storm raged about him, hurling the table and chairs against the walls and ceiling. The dwarf had been thrown down on the floor beside him, yet still he managed to hold the runestone aloft, its matrix exploding a hurricane of power against the cowering beast.
Alan struggled to think. Somehow his oraculum had awoken great power in the runestone and the dwarf had known how to use it. But there was no time to dwell on this. Suddenly the jade was extinguished, pressed into some inner pocket of the small man’s tattered clothes, and he was helping Alan to his feet, taking hold of his face between his hands, rubbing Alan’s cold, perspiring skin, slapping him on either cheek to hasten his recovery.
Opposite them the Mage flickered uncertainly between metamorphoses, yet a single eye, alternately blue and dreadful yellow, still watched Alan as the tongue lolled over the fangs.
“Go! Run for your life!” the dwarf shouted. “The force of the runestone will not hold it for long.”
“Did you see?” Alan’s voice was croaky, forced from a throat still husky with horror.
“Yes, I saw. His fear of you must be great for the Tyrant to challenge you in person. But quickly now—we must escape this prison while there is time.”
“I came here to find my friend. But now I’ve failed.” Shaking his head in despair, Alan was still only gathering his own senses as the dwarf threw open the side door leading into a pitch-dark chamber. He disappeared into the gloom, then returned with his arm around the shoulders of a small and trembling figure. She rushed into Alan’s arms.
“Mo!”
“Alan! Oh, you’re hurt! You’re bleeding.”
“Nevermind me. How are you?”
Tears rushed into Mo’s eyes and she hugged him tighter. “I knew you’d come. I knew you’d find me.”
Suddenly Alan held her back from him so he could look at her in amazement. “Mo—you didn’t stammer.”
“No. I didn’t. Alan, there’s so much to tell you. I don’t know how I could even start to explain.”
But the dwarf interrupted them, grabbing each of them by the arm and hurrying them out of the Mage’s chamber.
“Thank you, whoever you are. I owe you my life!” Alan gasped his gratitude, as they arrived at the gate in the wall of boulders. It was still night, although the first promise of dawn was in the sky.
All of a sudden, the dwarf stamped his foot and, seizing both of Alan’s wrists in a fierce clasp, his face scowled and their eyes met. “Don’t you realize who I am?” In the half light of daybreak, Alan was confronted by those emerald-green eyes, which were blazing with pride. The dwarf struck his chest with a gnarly fist and stretched to his full height, his rage making him seem a foot taller than his diminutive stature. He raised the runestone out of a pocket. “My property—and so, with your help, I have reclaimed it. I am Qwenqwo Cuatzel, the true Mage of Dreams.”
Mo laughed with delight. “I knew it! I knew you were special when you risked your life to comfort me in that terrible place!” She threw her arms around the dwarf’s thick neck and hugged him with all of her might.
“And I, in my turn, owe my liberation to you both. You are remarkable young people. It is my honor to consider you my friends.”
For a moment longer, all three held one another. But then Qwenqwo Cuatzel shook himself free, shaking his head. “Later! There will be a time for talking around a campfire. Now there is a need for haste.”
Alan nodded. “Just tell me who—or what he is?”
“A warlock from the realms of chaos. Do you imagine that he alone would have had power enough to usurp me? None other than the Tyrant himself could have cast me down! I was forced to be the amanuensis and slave to that hypocrite and liar, while his shadow grew and spread. But enough of explanations! Hurry now! With every moment, the danger increases.”
He led Alan and Mo through the labyrinth of shadows, to where Kemtuk appeared out of the shade of a doorway, his face racked with contrition.
“Mage Lord, I followed through the most difficult of tracks to this point, when an ague came over my mind. I awoke only minutes ago, convinced that we had lost you.”
Alan grabbed the shaman’s hand and squeezed it. “No time for apologies! We’ve rescued Mo. All thanks to the real Mage of Dreams.”
The dwarf mage waved them away. “You have sprung the warlock’s trap. But still another trap ensnares you.”
“The Death Legion!”
Qwenqwo took a renewed grip on Alan’s arm. His breath was hot on Alan’s face. “You people are its target. Save yourselves! There is nothing left for me here. I shall join you in escape.”
“But we have vulnerable people to protect.”
“Then take them with you. Any who are left will be hunted down.”
Alan turned to Kemtuk. “Can you find your way back to the warehouse?”
“Yes.”
“We must call Ainé. Get help.”
Qwenqwo squeezed Alan’s arm even tighter. “There is no more time for talk.”
Kemtuk still shook his head. “But how can we possibly escape? The boats of the Olhyiu are confiscated and guarded.”
The dwarf mage twisted his neck a moment, as if he had heard a distant growl on the night air, his twisted back hunched and gnarled as an old tree root.
Kemtuk decided. “The Temple Ship is our only hope. All other boats will have to be sacrificed. We must flee downriver to the Vale of Tazan. The Legion will follow but we may yet elude them. I know that for all their boasting, they have not yet defeated the ancient power that still inhabits the Forest of the Undying. If only we can pass through that haunted valley, sanctuary awaits us in Carfon.”
From his pocket Qwenqwo picked out the runestone and fondled its engraved surface a moment before pressing it into Alan’s hands. “Keep it safe—for I must return to the chamber for some unfinished business.”
Alan’s eyes met those of the dwarf mage. “Be careful!”
“You also—hurry now! May the Powers grant you wings!”
The Flight from Isscan
There was barely time for the people gathered in the rickety warehouse to welcome Mo back—this strange new Mo, who had lost her stammer—before the whole company made ready to flee. It seemed an impossible task to move an entire village of men, women and children out of a town in the first light of morning and not attract attention. But these were people skilled in the art of moving silently. And fear gave urgency to their feet. Now, with their bundles of possessions carried on their heads or strapped to their backs, the Olhyiu followed the meaner streets, cutting through the yards of closed and derelict buildings where locked gates were no barrier for desperate people. The sun had half crested the horizon, its rapidly growing light obscured by the haze of smoke from wood-bu
rning fires in a city of open hearths. Then, on the upper wharf-side, and no more than half a mile from their destination, a company of black-armored soldiers sprang from the shadows to confront them.
The platoon of Death Legion, though more than matched in numbers by the fisher people, was made up of lightly armored soldiers, each of them better trained and much better armed than the Olhyiu. The officer-at-arms struck a woman in the face with his mailed fist, causing her to drop the infant she was clutching to her breast. Her husband pressed himself in front of his dazed wife, his only weapon a wooden staff. A heavy-set man with the face of a bully, the officer pretended to quake with fear, his arm trembling as he pulled his black-bladed sword from its scabbard. Several soldiers laughed in anticipation of the coming sport.
“What have we here—a dawn plague of rats?”
With a play of bravado he whirled the blade in a feint and parry before pressing its tip against the throat of the husband.
“Squeak now, vermin! But what is that you say? I can’t hear you!”
Alan tugged Kate back so she was hidden behind him, then brandished the Spear of Lug, getting ready to throw it. But before he could carry out his intention a gleaming blade flashed through the air and parted the officer’s head from his shoulders. The dwarf mage, Qwenqwo Cuatzel, barely recognizable under a heavy helmet of embossed bronze, clinking shoulder plates and chainmail to his midcalves, caught the returning blade and stepped out to confront the platoon of soldiers. His green eyes blazed as he twirled a double-headed bronze battle-axe above his head in one gnarled hand. Runes identical to those on the blade that Padraig had shown them—the Fir Bolg battle-axe that had killed the warrior prince, Feimhin—glittered over the cutting edges.
The Snowmelt River (The Three Powers) Page 34
