The Mammoth Book of Sorceror's Tales

by Mike Ashley

  “Mom’s going to kill us for staying out so late,” Amanda had said, jumping down on the other side.

  “Unless the monster kills us first,” Sarah said.

  Her sister just looked at her.

  “It was a joke.”

  Near the entranceway to the arboretum, an old tree stood in a large field. The Elves regarded it as sacred. Each one touched the trunk and spoke a word of Elvish before moving off toward a path across the field which sloped down to a lake where they found the O-boys massing on the far side, their eyes bright red in the moonlight. They seemed to be chanting something in a low guttural tone. It made Sarah’s skin crawl. She couldn’t stop watching their eyes, darting, blinking out or staring across at the Elves.

  A wooden bridge spanned the lake at a narrow point in its middle. The Elves gathered on one side, the O-boys waited on the other, shouting taunts. The number of Elves was pitifully few, not even half the number of the black-booted O-boys. The ducks in the pond flew off as the O-boys began to throw rocks. The Elves backed out of range of the missiles, which hit the ground before them with loud thumps. The moon was full, shining behind the fog, making everything seem to glow, dimly luminous. The trees over them seemed to be holding up their arms and swaying in a slow-motion dance, crowding over them to see what would happen.

  Sarah scanned the O-boys for James, but she couldn’t spot him in the gloom. She was surprised when her grandmother came up behind her.

  “What—?”

  “I wouldn’t miss this.”

  “How did you get rid of mom? She let you just stay in the park?”

  “Oh, I agreed to stay at your house, for her sake.”

  “Yes.” Sarah looked down, embarrassed.

  “But I slipped out when she wasn’t looking. I haven’t seen Elves in an age. Aren’t they wonderful?”

  “They are,” Amanda said.

  Sarah looked at them. Not really, she thought. Though they did stand bravely in their overlarge shirts with the billowing sleeves, seemingly unafraid of the much larger body of O-boys. But still.

  “But where’s the monster?” Sarah asked the Wizard who sat nearby on an old stump.

  “Under the bridge,” the Wizard said. He smiled at Sarah’s grandmother. “Hello, Rebecca.”

  Sarah’s grandmother smiled back. She had on an overcoat, but Sarah could see she had slippers on her feet, and the edge of her nightgown peeked below the long coat. How had she gotten over the fence?

  The Wizard laughed as a bare drizzle started to fall. He caught some drops on his tongue.

  “I think it’s time to end this,” the Wizard said, sighing. He stood. “Goodbye, Amanda, Rebecca.” He shook their hands. “Goodbye, Sarah. If you need me again, look for me in the West, in the far place.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You’ll see.” The Wizard took her hands in both of his and squeezed.

  The Wizard turned and headed toward the bridge. He’ll be hit by rocks, Sarah thought. But instead the O-boys became quiet, no longer shouting or moving, just watching. The rain increased. It seemed to cow the O-boys.

  The Wizard looked older and more tired than Sarah had ever seen him. He leaned heavily on his staff, and picked his way carefully down the path that led on to the bridge. He waited on the bridge with his head bowed, almost fallen against his staff. His sweaters sagged off him, becoming heavier and heavier with rain.

  It was not long before the monster emerged from under the bridge. A long, bony hand reached out and clasped the edge, then the monster pulled itself up and peeked over with one fish eye. Amanda took Sarah’s hand as the monster put another hand up on the railing and hauled itself out of dream and into the world. It stood for a moment outside the railing, regarding the wizard, before leaping over in one bounce and landing on the bridge. Sarah took a step back involuntarily. It was ten feet tall and had a long, impossible and grotesque corkscrew nose. Its two mouths where its eyes should have been gnashed and grimaced. Sarah couldn’t breathe or move.

  The Wizard looked horribly small and over-matched before the monster. In his torn rags, barefoot, leaning on his staff as if he might collapse, the Wizard looked up at the monster towering above him. The monster reached out with its long bony fingers – sharp claws emerged as from a cat’s paw. This had come in her sister’s dream. Sarah thought, if it had come to me, I would have said yes to get rid of it too.

  The monster approached the wizard cautiously, reminding Sarah that the Wizard had power of his own, though it did not always show itself. The Wizard raised his staff, and the winds picked up, seemed to blow about wildly and then focus in on the monster, buffeting it back. It clawed the air, then leapt forward. Landing unsteadily before the Wizard, it slapped at him, knocking the Wizard from his feet. The Wizard touched the monster’s foot with his staff and there was a flash. Everyone had to look away, blinded.

  The O-boys had begun to shout, calling for blood. And the Elves, who had been grimly silent, began to chant in Elvish, and the tune, sung in high pitched voices, chilled Sarah. She knew they too called for blood, and would not back down.

  When Sarah could see again, the monster and the Wizard were locked together in an embrace, struggling, inside a small maelstrom that surrounded only them, leaves, water, dirt and small rocks circling them in the air, then with a lurch, both of them fell into the railing, then over it, tumbling. They hit the water with a loud splash and the hiss of steam. Again, they were lost from view. The winds calmed. The ruffled waters calmed. The steam cleared. Even the rain became a drizzle, then stopped. Nothing.

  The O-boys stopped shouting first. Then the Elves stopped chanting. A few ducks had returned to the far side of the pond, and they quacked loudly. That was all.

  “What happened?” Amanda asked.

  “They went back through the hole in dreams,” Lady G said, “under the bridge.”

  Lady G called out and the Elves advanced, crossing the bridge to attack the O-boys. The O-boys still outnumbered them, but their hearts weren’t in it anymore. A few had come to the water’s edge to peer in. Some threw stones as the Elves advanced in a tight formation. But most took off running, many leaving their derby jackets behind.

  The Elves chased the O-boys out of the arboretum easily, whacking some with sticks, capturing others. They did not even have to draw their knives. Sarah waited with her sister and grandmother beside Lady G, who ran the Elves in a tight military fashion, barking orders, gathering prisoners. At one point, two Elves came up to Sarah with an O-boy. It was James.

  “He says he’s your friend,” one elf said.

  Sarah looked at him. James had a bloody lip, and he was covered in dust and leaves from being rolled on the ground. And his eyes had dimmed, the red in them losing luster, burning out. He looked almost human again, she thought.

  “Yes,” she said. “Let him go.”

  “We’re even,” James said sullenly, wiping his lip, his eyes darting to the Elves.

  “Yes,” She paused. “James, if you—”

  James turned and stalked away, straight-armed, his hands balled into fists. One of the Elves left to follow and give him safe passage.

  “What will happen to the O-boys?” Sarah asked Lady G.

  “They’re finished. Some will become Elves.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, maybe even your friend.”

  Sarah looked after James.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It may take time.” Lady G shrugged. “That I have plenty of.”

  Sarah’s grandmother squeezed her hand. “It’s over,” she said. “Time to get you two home to bed.”

  Hand in hand, they walked home through the cool San Francisco night, laughing, recounting their adventures.

  “The Wizard,” Sarah asked her grandmother soberly. “What will happen to him?”

  “Did you ever read the book the Elves love so much?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Do you remember what happens to the Wiza
rd in that one?”

  She nodded.

  “I wouldn’t worry about him,” Grandmother Rebecca said. “The story always repeats itself.”

  When they arrived home, the lights were still on, though Sarah’s mother did not hear them come in. They could hear her in the kitchen, rattling jars in the cupboards. The clock in the entryway read four a.m.

  “I’d better go tell her we’re O.K.” Sarah said.

  “And I’d better go to sleep,” Grandmother Rebecca said. “I don’t think she knew I was gone. I’ll tuck Amanda in to bed.”

  Amanda was almost asleep on her feet, but was happy. She would sleep dreamless tonight. Grandmother Rebecca led her up the stairs by the hand. Sarah took a deep breath and entered the kitchen.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Sarah’s mother was bent into an emptied cupboard. She stood up.

  “I’m sorry we were out so late. Amanda’s fine.”

  “It’s O.K.”

  Sarah blinked.

  “It’s O.K.?”

  “Your grandma explained what was happening. I know you had to go.”

  Sarah stared, dumbfounded.

  “I cleaned out all the cupboards, put down new contact paper, and labeled all the jars.”

  “Mom, it’s four a.m.”

  “I’m a little nervous, all right? I’m – I’m – I’m so happy you are all all right.”

  Her mother fidgeted, rubbed her hands together compulsively.

  “I wish you could have told me,” her mother said. “I really do.”

  “Mom, you don’t make it easy.”

  “I do everything I can for this fam—” She stopped, clasped her hands together to stop them from moving, pursued her lips. “O.K., O.K., I know it’s not easy, but could you try?”

  Sarah saw her mother was trying so hard.

  “Yes,” Sarah said. “I will. I promise.”

  “Your grandmother’s moving in.”

  “Really?” Sarah glanced over her shoulder. Her grandmother was long gone upstairs.

  “For a little while, yes. Just a short time.”

  “O.K.,” Sarah said.

  “You know I’m just – just doing the best I can.”

  “Sure,” Sarah said. “I just wish you could see that everyone else is, too.”

  “O.K.” her mother said. She bit her lip. “I’m proud of you, do you know that? You are becoming a fine young woman.”

  Sarah smiled. “Thanks.”

  “I’m sure you’ll have a fine adventure to tell me about, tomorrow, after you’ve rested.”

  Sarah stepped forward, picking up one of the jars scattered about the kitchen counters.

  “I should finish this,” Sarah’s mother said.

  “Mom, it’s late. Go to bed.”

  “I’m too nervous.”

  “Well,” Sarah said, “let me help you.”

  “Oh, O.K., good, you can tell me about what happened tonight.”

  “O.K.,” Sarah said, “but you surprise me. Mom. How come you know about this stuff?”

  “Sarah,” her mother looked at her, smiling. “I’m the one who said no. The only one, I think the Wizard said.”

  My mother, the dreamer, Sarah realized, who would have thought it? They talked all night, even after finishing up with the kitchen chores.

  And in the morning they made a large breakfast for everyone.

  Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Although she’d been selling short fiction since 1953 and had her first book, The Door Through Space, published in 1961, Marion Bradley, (1930–1999) shot to stardom with her perceptive recreation of the Arthurian world, The Mists of Avalon (1982), which remained on the New York Times bestseller list for over four months. Bradley’s early work was in the form of planetary adventures, much in the spirit of Leigh Brackett and C.L. Moore, and included the long running Darkover series, set on an alien planet where a form of magic works. With the success of The Mists of Avalon, Bradley wrote further historical fantasies including The Firebrand (1987), set during the Trojan War, and The Forest House (1993), which dealt with the British at the time of the Roman conquest. It was later incorporated into an Avalon series as Forests of Avalon, continued by Lady of Avalon (1997) and Priestess of Avalon (2000).

  In all of this Bradley’s short fiction has perhaps been overlooked, but she wrote a series of stories about a female adept, Lythande, some of which were collected in the volume Lythande (1986), but that doesn’t include the following.

  As one who on a lonesome road

  Doth walk in fear and dread

  And turns but once to look around

  And turns no more his head

  Because he knows a frightful fiend

  Doth close behind him tread . . .

  LYTHANDE HEARD THE FOLLOWING footsteps that night on the road: a little pause so that if she chose, she could have believed it merely the echo of her own light footfall. Step-pause-step, and then, after a little hesitation, step-pause-step, step-pause-step.

  And at first she did think it an echo, but when she stopped for a moment to assess the quality of the echo, it went on for at least three steps into the silence:

  Step-pause-step; step-pause-step.

  Not an echo, then; but someone, or some thing, following her. In the world of the Twin Suns, where encountering magic was rather more likely than not, magic was more often than not of the evil kind. In a lifetime spanning at least three ordinary lifetimes, Lythande had encountered a great deal of magic; she was by necessity a mercenary-magician, an Adept of the Blue Star, and by choice a minstrel; and she had discovered early in her life that good magic was the rarest of all encounters and seldom came her way. She had lived this long by developing very certain instincts; and her instincts told her that this footfall following her was not benevolent.

  She had no notion of what it might be. The simplest solution was that someone in the last town she had passed through had developed a purely material grudge against her, and was following her on mischief bent, for some reason or no reason at all – perhaps a mere mortal distrust of magicians, or of magic, a condition not all that rare in Old Gandrin – and had chosen to take the law into his or her own hands and dispose of the unwelcome procurer of said magic. This was not at all rare, and Lythande had dealt with plenty of would-be assassins who wished to stop the magic by putting an effective stop to the magician; however powerful an Adept’s magic, it could seldom survive a knife in the back. On the other hand, it could be handled with equal simplicity; after three ordinary lifetimes, Lythande’s back had not yet become a sheath for knives.

  So Lythande stepped off the road, loosening the first of her two knives in its scabbard – the simple white-handled knife, whose purpose was to handle purely material dangers of the road: footpads, assassins, thieves. She enveloped herself in the gray cloudy folds of the hooded mage-robe, which made her look like a piece of the night itself, or a shadow, and stood waiting for the owner of the footsteps to come up with her.

  But it was not that simple. Step-pause-step, and the footfalls died; the mysterious follower was pacing her. Lythande had hardly thought it would be so simple. She sheathed the white-handled knife again, and stood motionless, reaching out with all her specially trained senses to focus on the follower.

  What she felt first was a faint electric tingle in the Blue Star that was between her brows; and a small, not quite painful crackle in her head. The smell of magic, she translated to herself; whatever was following, it was neither as simple, nor as easily disposed of, as an assassin with a knife.

  She loosened the black-handled knife in the left-hand scabbard and, stepping herself like a ghost or a shadow, retraced her steps at the side of the road. This knife was especially fashioned for supernatural menaces, to kill ghosts and anything else from specters to werewolves; no knife but this one could have taken her own life had she tired of it.

  A shadow with an irregular step glided toward her, and Lythande raised the black-handled knife. It came plunging down, and the
glimmer of the enchanted blade was lost in the shadow. There was a far-off, eerie cry that seemed to come, not from the shadow facing her on the dark road, but from some incredibly distant ghostly realm, to curdle the very blood in her veins, to wrench pain and lightnings from the Blue Star between her brows. Then, as that cry trembled into silence, Lythande felt the black handle of the knife come back into her hand, but a faint glimmer of moonlight showed her the handle alone; the blade had vanished, except for some stray drops of molten metal that fell slowly to the earth and vanished.

  So the blade was gone, the black-handled knife that had slain unnumbered ghosts and other supernatural beings. Judging by the terrifying cry, Lythande had wounded her follower; but had she killed the thing that had eaten her magical blade? Anything that powerful would certainly be tenacious of life.

  And if her black-handled knife would not kill it, it was unlikely it could be killed by any spell, protection, or magic she could command at the moment. It had been driven away, perhaps, but she could not be certain she had freed herself from it. No doubt, if she went on, it would continue to follow her, and one day it would catch up with her on some other lonesome road.

  But for the moment she had exhausted her protection. And . . . Lythande glowered angrily at the black knife handle and the ruined blade . . . she had deprived herself needlessly of a protection that had never failed her before. Somehow she must manage to replace her enchanted knife before she again dared the roads of Old Gandrin by night.

  For the moment – although she had traveled too far and for too long to fear anything she was likely to encounter on any ordinary night – she would be wiser to remove herself from the road. Such encounters as a mercenary-magician, particularly one such as Lythande, should expect were seldom of the likely kind.

  So she went on in the darkness, listening for the hesitating step of the follower behind. There was only the vaguest and most distant of sounds; that blow, and that screech, indicated that while she had probably not destroyed her follower, she had driven it at least for a while into some other place. Whether it was dead, or had chosen to go and follow someone safer, for the moment Lythande neither knew nor cared.