"There!" yelled Dagamier, pointing. Guerrand followed her finger and the sounds to the left, to an area in darkest shadow beyond the fence. Bursts of flame and red-hot eyes revealed the presence, if not the outlines, of the hell hounds. Squinting in the perpetual dimness, Guerrand could make out bent bars in that section of fence, and through them constant but undefined movement. Occasionally the area was lit up by a flash of fire from a hell hound, but this did little to illuminate the situation.
By the time Guerrand realized that Dagamier was casting a spell, she was already done. It was a simple light spell, suspended over the battle. All six of the gargoyles appeared to be battling four to six hell hounds. The entire scene was such a chaotic swirl of limbs, dirt, and fire that it was hard to tell which side, if either, was
winning. The stony gray hide of the gargoyles was largely impervious to the fangs and claws of the hell hounds, and if a gargoyle did get into serious trouble its enormous wings could easily carry it out of danger. But the dark red hell hounds were vicious fighters who would gang together to overwhelm one foe at a time, or disappear into the shadows if hard pressed.
At the corner of his sight, Guerrand saw Dagamier's eyes sink shut. "What are you planning to do?" he asked.
Her hands began to rise in a swirling motion. "Slay them before they completely destroy the fence. We'll replace them with a new batch."
"That would solve the immediate problem, as would putting them to sleep," agreed Guerrand, "but it would also leave us with no inner guardians for some time. I have a better idea," he said. "Follow my lead."
"Do I have a choice?" asked Dagamier, but there was no malice in her husky voice. "We'd better hurry before the light spell goes out."
Guerrand dashed to the opposite side of the overlook. Below in the courtyard were many of the strangely sculpted topiary plants he had seen on his arrival. When viewed directly, the plant shapes were unidentifiable. But in the oddly angled light of Bastion, they cast very distinct, disturbing shadows against the edifice. While none of these shadows was recognizable, all of them had an eery familiarity, like shapes remembered from nightmares.
Guerrand spread his arms and extended them forward in a sweeping motion. As he did so, the shadows moved away from the trees and lumbered forward. Their motion was graceful and fluid, and they advanced steadily toward the gashed fence.
Dagamier was unsure what Guerrand had in mind, but she did as he had ordered and animated the shadows from the other side of the main entrance. Shortly, several dozen shadows were flowing toward the fight.
As the first shadows slipped into the melee, the gargoyles and hell hounds paused momentarily, unsure what was happening. Then one of the hell hounds unleashed a blast of fiery breath at the shapes, but it crackled harmlessly through the darkness. Guerrand was ready on the roof and immediately loosed a sleeping spell at the attacking hell hound, which crumpled soundlessly to the ground. Startled by the apparent demise of one of their own, two other hounds tore into the shadows and fell prey to Guerrand's spell. Both lay motionless on the ground.
The remaining hell hounds and gargoyles slowly backed away from the advancing shadows. In the brief respite, Guerrand and Dagamier quickly reestablished their charm spells that usually controlled the guardian beasts.
The gargoyles returned to their perches, chittering softly, their sights anchored on the shadows in the courtyard. The hounds whimpered briefly behind the fence, then fell silent, red eyes watching.
Guerrand lowered arms that felt as heavy as if a bag of coins hung from each.
Dagamier's head tilted to regard him. "What made you think of using the shadows?"
Guerrand shrugged. "My brother and sister and I used to play a game when we were kids. Back when the garden was more than weeds, we'd wait until dark and then tell each other stories about what all the shadow- shapes really were. Rosemary shrubs became child- eating ogres under moonlight, and the like. Then we'd dare each other to go farther and farther into the garden. I tell you it was frightening, even though we knew they were only shrubs." He shrugged. "Everything looks different in darkness.
"It's hard to predict how long it will take gargoyles and hell hounds to catch on/' continued Guerrand. "They're really more brawn than brain. Still, as long as they think the shadows will intervene, neither side is likely to cross the darkness of the courtyard."
Tired to his bones, the mage took several steps toward the staircase. 'This episode has taught me two things, though," he confessed. "We must be even more vigilant about maintaining the enchantments over such creatures-take nothing for granted. And, starting tomorrow, while one of us remains in the scrying sphere at all times, the others will begin practice drills for battle readiness. We'll have no more scrambling for the doorway like scared rabbits."
Dagamier held the door open for Guerrand. On her face was an unmistakable look of respect. It was a look the high defender of Bastion had long waited to see.
Chapter Four
Standing in the underground laboratory that had once been Belize's, Lyim continued to ponder the oracle's message. She'd said that Lyim's former master had the answer to curing the snake mutation. It was not a new thought. It wasn't idle curiosity that had prompted Belize to thrust his apprentice's arm into the portal that night on Stonecliff. The archmage had known full well the consequences of the action. He alone knew the exact cause of the mutation, so it was only logical Belize could have fathomed a cure, if he were alive.
The oracle told Lyim to look beyond the grave for his answer, to seek it from Belize's spirit. However, what she was suggesting was not usually in the realm of a wizard's power. Still, Lyim had never paid much heed to the distinctions between schools of magic. If ever a mage had broken the bounds, it was Belize. Lyim had once seen the master conjure a denizen of the Abyss- was Belize's spirit really so different from that?
The spellbooks and other texts not used at Stonecliff by the former Master of the Red Robes still lined the shelves in the underground laboratory. The Council of Three had reviewed them after Belize's execution, having burned those he'd used, but found nothing else related to Belize's attempt to reach the Lost Citadel. They had then turned their attention to removing the ghastly remains of Belize's gating experiments.
Lyim rolled up the left sleeve of his red robe and began pulling books down to the table. He held one open with his scaly right elbow and thumbed through the parchment pages with his left hand, looking for references to conjuring the dead.
The snake bobbed back and forth for a short time, eyeing the paraphernalia on the table. Then it suddenly lunged at a candlestick, knocking over the metal stand and the burning taper. Lyim snatched up the candle before it could scorch any of the potentially valuable papers spread before him. In the meantime, the snake's thrashing also knocked an empty glass beaker to the stone floor and scattered several quills. Lyim yanked the cursed arm back and held it well away from the disruption while he struggled one-handed to put everything back in its place.
It was tough, even after nearly six years, using his left hand for tasks. He still couldn't write legibly with it, so he avoided writing whenever possible, or used a minor cantrip to make notes. Eating was a one-handed embarrassment-food simply refused to stay on his fork. He had resorted to drinking most of his meals, since he could hold a mug well enough.
The real shame of it was, he rarely indulged in his favorite mug-holding event: partaking of ale at the many inns of Palanthas. His face, though thin and drawn, was still perfectly handsome. Women continued to follow him with their eyes and their bodies. Until they saw the snake. Their horrified stares as they drew back convinced him that even solitude was better than their disgust, or worse still, their pity.
Books, scrolls, parchments, it took Lyim days to sort through all that Belize had acquired or written. He lit a third thick beeswax candle in the windowless laboratory, letting his tired eyes linger on the soothing yellow flame. Was he grasping at straws by trying to conjure some flicker of Belize's essen
ce? Was he just prolonging the moment when he would have to admit to himself that there was no cure for his hand? He had long ago decided that that day would be his last.
Lyim looked away from the candle, eyes burning from the sweet-smelling smoke. Wearily he pulled down one of the last books on the shelf, a smallish, homemade thing, bound together with a brittle leather lace. It looked more like a collection of vegetable recipes than a spellbook of any import. The words had worn off the cheap leather cover, but an intriguing, tooled illustration remained. The picture was crude, unlike the finely rendered designs Belize had done. It showed a skull inside two nested triangles, a symbol Lyim had never encountered elsewhere in any of Belize's writings.
The book crackled with age as Lyim opened it. The pages inside were apparently much older than the cover. The first page repeated the double triangle symbol, but also bore the book's title: Achnaskin's Guide to Summoning the Dead.
Excitement sparked to life in Lyim's chest. His left fingertips lingered upon the title while he willed himself to remain calm and focused. Only when his pulse had slowed did he allow himself to turn to the next page. At a glance the page had no illustrations and
looked black with crowded but carefully inked text, topped by a larger heading.
Tips before spellcasting
When speaking with the dead, the spellcaster would
be wise to remember the following unchangeable facts:
1. The dead respond best to simple questions, so phrase yours accordingly.
2. The dead tire and bore easily. Although they would seem to have nothing but time, their attention spans are extremely limited. Do not waste time with pointless questions.
3. The dead conjured from the Abyss (those of an evil disposition before their dissolution) are usually in great torment and may be difficult to comprehend.
4. Understandably, the disposition of most deceased creatures has been soured by death. Many are extremely bad tempered.
Lyim shrugged, thinking the advice only common sense. Still, he took it to heart before eagerly turning the page once more. There began the anticipated entry containing the incantation, under the large heading: The Spell to Summon the Dead. He began reading with an intensity he'd not felt in many years.
But before long, beads of perspiration joined the streaks that already flowed down Lyim's temples, pooling in the short whiskers above his lips. He read and reread the entry, pushing back the anxiousness that made it difficult to concentrate and really digest the words. The spell's magical patterns were in an unusually complicated order. Lyim could find no shortcut to memorizing them, no distinguishing marks or pauses to aid in his usual rote memorization. Hours or days could have passed while he studied the patterns. Five thick candles and a dusty stub found in a drawer had burned away before Lyim began to feel he understood and had memorized the spell.
Lyim looked up abruptly from the fragile book. A horrifying thought began to blossom behind his eyes. What if, after all this study, he hadn't the components to carry out the spell? He would forget the pattern if he had to stop for even an hour to locate some obscure ingredient.
Lyim had inherited surprisingly few of Belize's components. He'd returned to Villa Nova after his Test to find the laboratory a frightful pile of broken beakers, hopelessly mixed and moistened powders, and dried- up pickled components, none of it salvageable. He had swept it all outside the villa into a magical fire that had lit the sky above Palanthas like fireworks for two days and nights.
Lyim spun about and carried Achnaskin's small book to the shelves containing the components he'd purchased from street vendors near the Great Library. Most mages insisted upon drying and storing their own things, but Lyim had never had the time for such tediousness. Propping the book open with a heavy marble mortar bowl, he traced a finger down the short list. The first three were easy enough; every mage had lye, sulfur, and goat's hoof on his shelves. The fourth item was trickier. He didn't remember ever having used mace. Lyim's eyes quickly surveyed the shelf, but he couldn't find the spice. He reread the spell list and noticed a little star inked next to the word "mace." He found a similar mark at the bottom of the page and read:
A double dose of nutmeg may be substituted for this item.
A sigh of relief escaped Lyim's lips, and he licked away the sweat there. He had a whole jar full of dark, spicy nutmeg.
Lyim turned the page and continued reading the instructions.
Mix the components thoroughly. Place mixture in two flaming braziers set near the body and burn until smoke-
The body? The instructions so far had said nothing about having a body. The Council of Three and the gods alone knew what had happened to Belize's corpse. Lyim was stymied. He reread the passage, and again he found a small star, this time inked next to the word "body." His eyes jumped to the bottom of the page.
In the event that the body is not available, due to immolation, devouring, disintegration, or any other factor, a small bit of skin, hair, nail, or bone can be substituted. The duration of the spell will be halved.
Lyim scowled. Where was he going to get a piece of a dead man? Lyim blinked, recalling the one door in the villa that he had never opened. Snatching up a hand broom and small pan, he lifted the hem of his red robes and sprinted up the staircase two steps at a time. The mage emerged in the large rotunda through an archway that appeared to be a floor-length mirror. Lyim pounded across the inlaid marble floor and down the long hallway that led to the kitchens… and Belize's sleeping chamber.
Lyim paused outside the door before placing his hand on the faceted diamond knob. He had kept the room he'd had as an apprentice upon returning from Wayreth those many years ago. He'd had no need for, or curiosity about, the archmage's sleeping chamber. He'd actually tried hard to forget Belize had ever lived here, blaming his former mentor for the mutation whose removal had become his obsession. Lyim stayed at the villa only because it was practical and convenient.
Was the door trapped? Lyim doubted it, since the archmage had frequently mentioned he preferred marking his possessions so that he could track down thieves. Still, Lyim would not take foolish chances this close to a solution. A simple divining spell assured him he would not be harmed by opening the door.
The door creaked loudly from disuse when Lyim pushed it open. He peered cautiously around it, feeling foolish as he did. Who was he expecting to find, Belize himself? The mage stepped in boldly and looked around.
The room was small, even smaller than Lyim's own. A layer of dust as thick as his little finger covered everything: the granite floor, the narrow spartan bed, the night stand. Lyim's heart sank. He'd been hoping to sweep the room for any trace of Belize. But how would he be able to separate a lock of hair or petrified fingernail from the dust?
Then his eyes fell upon it. The small corked jar on the night stand. It was half filled with red-tipped nail clippings. He snatched it up and hugged it to his chest, relieved laughter bubbling from his throat. Belize wasn't vain; he must have had some magical purpose for saving his garishly painted nail clippings. If Lyim hadn't hated the archmage so, he might have blessed the soul he was about to conjure.
Lyim took the nails to the laboratory and continued reading where he'd left off. Hunger gnawed, and he felt his energy flagging. He would have to cast the spell soon.
Speak the words of the spell. Next, place your prepared mixture in two flaming braziers set near the body and burn until smoke forms.
Lyim reached under the central table and withdrew the requisite braziers, placing them on the table near the open jar of nails.
Inhale smoke deeply. Exhale by calling forth the full name and suspected realm of containment for the soul in question. If a successful conjuration is attained, the caster is advised to recall the recommendations for speaking with the dead.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," muttered Lyim impatiently. His left hand, on the bowl of mixed components, was shaking. Using his teeth, the mage removed the cork from a seldom-used bottle of snowberry wine and took a l
ong pull, waiting for it to burn a trail to the pit of his empty stomach.
After carefully speaking the words that would activate the spell, Lyim took up the bowl again and divided it evenly between the two small flames. The flames roared up from both braziers, singeing Lyim's eyebrows on the way to the ceiling. Slowly the flames flickered back down and in their wake left beautiful plumes of purple smoke. Lyim exhaled harshly, then thrust his head into the smoke and sucked in the acrid fumes until his lungs could hold no more.
"I call from the Abyss the essence of Belize of Palanthas!" Lyim cried in a rush. The smoke that blew from his mouth now was as black as the air in that fetid realm of the dead. While Lyim watched, the smoke began forming into the familiar profile of the archmage Belize. The image, which wavered like the smoke from which it was made, lacked detail, but the stubble-ringed pate
and goateed chin were unmistakable.
A tide of conflicting emotions swept over Lyim: relief, fear, reverence, hatred. But hatred was the strongest. "Belize."
The apparition looked up at the sound of its name. There was neither recognition nor confusion in Belize's expression, only an expectant stare.
"You bastard." Lyim was tempted to go on, but remembered that because of substitutions he would get only half the spell's usual brief duration. 'Tell me what you did to cause my hand to be changed to a snake." Lyim viciously shoved the overlong cuff of his right sleeve back and held the hissing snake up to the apparition.
As if looking beyond Lyim's mutation, Belize seemed not to see the limb. "Your arm was the first living thing to enter the dimensional portal to the Lost Citadel in untold years." Belize's unearthly voice reminded Lyim of the wavering, ghoulish timbre he'd used as a child to frighten his friends.
"Yes? So?"
"Waiting within the unused bridge were starving ex tridimensional creatures. One was feasting on your flesh when your arm was withdrawn from the portal." The apparition's face contorted as if it were in pain. Its head spun about, and it appeared to bite at something behind it that only it could see.
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