The Bohemian Magician

by A. L. Sirois

  Onfroi was unperturbed. “I promise you, he has that under control.”

  “But you want to make him third in command after me!”

  “The responsibility will be good for him. He can handle it. We have to show him we have confidence in him.”

  “But that’s exactly what I don’t have! The man is a drunkard, Onfroi, a sot. It’s one thing for a common soldier... but a commander?”

  “I trust him.”

  Guilhem growled. He said, “Then you have this Nikola, who I admit is a rather charming little fellow, good-humored and all that.”

  “The others like him. You need someone like that, who can remain cheerful in the face of adversity.”

  Guilhem shrugged. “Perhaps, but I wish he was a more skillful fighter.” He sat back. “And Zbignev. I don’t understand him.”

  Zbignev had a short scruffy beard and longish hair that he wore tied back. Of them all, he was by far the most eager to engage Mojmir. In fact, he had jumped around the room in his eagerness to be on the road.

  “He is of an old fighting family,” said Onfroi. “He showed me a scroll of his family tree. Apparently, he comes from a long line of warriors.”

  “By my troth, Onfroi, I care not about his ancestry. He’s enthusiastic, but how good a fighter is he, really? He doesn’t even own a sword. He looks more like a peasant to me. How did you find him?”

  “He came to me saying he had heard I sought men to help fight Mojmir. He claims that Mojmir cast a spell on one of his uncles and turned him into a cat.” He looked perplexed. “I don’t know. Magicians... what can I say? Anyway, Zbignev carries a lot of animosity toward him. And as far as not owning a sword, he’s plenty good with a pikestaff, I can vouch for that.”

  Guilhem sniffed, remembering the Saracen warrior who had threatened him with a lance after Henri’s death. It was certainly true that a good pike man would be an asset to any group of fighters. “Well, they’ll all have to do, I suppose.” He drank from his tankard. “So, as to skilled warriors, we have the monkey-man Zbignev and his pike, Milosh the drunken swordsman, and Dobrogost and his crossbow. Then there is you, and there is me. That leaves us with the unblooded Alecksandru and lackluster Nikola.”

  “It’s a small force, I grant you, but a small contingent of men is more likely to get close to Mojmir’s fortress before being noticed.”

  “But to what end? We don’t know what’s waiting for us. Is your magic guaranteed to get us inside the place?”

  “I promise you, I will do my best.” Onfroi drained his mug and smacked his lips. “There now! Don’t you feel better? I suggest we get some sleep so that we may be on our way early tomorrow—what do you say?”

  Presently Guilhem lay sleepless in the small room he shared with Onfroi, listening to his companion’s lusty snores. The bit of sky visible through the room’s window was spattered with stars. How in Heaven’s name had he allowed the boisterous Onfroi to talk him into this mad quest?

  He seethed with frustration, and aimed a fierce blast of disgust and spleen at the wretched gnomes who had marooned him here in Bohemia. Doubtless they thought they’d been doing their “fairy friend” a favor.

  “I’ll favor them if I ever get hold of them,” he muttered through clenched teeth. Across the room, Onfroi responded with a snort but did not come awake. Guilhem subsided, and lay fulminating until he at last fell asleep.

  * * *

  The three-day journey to Mojmir’s redoubt was uneventful. It gave Guilhem additional time and opportunity to measure the men with whom he was to storm the place. He liked them well enough as men. Dobrogost the archer spoke little but his small brown eyes seemed to see everything. Milosh the drink-loving swordsman was on his best behavior and even took time while they were encamped on the first night to spar with Alecksandru, putting the youth to the test and teaching him some tricks with his blade. Zbignev sat to one side cheering them on.

  “What did I tell you?” Onfroi nudged Guilhem in the ribs. “The lad shows some promise, eh?”

  The two knights were sitting by the campfire after a satisfying supper. Onfroi picked his teeth with a small dagger, every so often belching in contentment. Dobrogost had proved to be a good hunter, and after disappearing from camp unnoticed by the others returned with a pair of rabbits that he skinned and cooked in a delicious stew with wild vegetables. On the other side of the fire Alecksandru and Milosh danced back and forth with their swords.

  “I admit that he does,” said Guilhem without great enthusiasm. “Given time he could become a worthy foe. I’m not convinced that we have the time, however. We will reach Mojmir’s citadel tomorrow afternoon.” He unrolled the map that the Bohemian duke had given him and studied the castle’s location. The map was less than precise, but indicated that the place was situated on a spit of land between two brooks. A steep ridge lay close to the castle’s northern side, rendering it unassailable from that direction.

  Guilhem said, “Well, I daresay the element of surprise is on our side. Mojmir certainly won’t be expecting an attack in his home territory. Not from so few men, anyway.”

  “One hopes,” said Onfroi, poring over the map. “Even so, it will not be easy to approach him without being seen.”

  “Do you have any magical means of rendering us invisible to his eye?”

  “Possibly,” said Onfroi, shifting his position. He wouldn’t meet Guilhem’s gaze. “Most of my charms had more to do with, ah, personal protection from demons and the like.”

  “Demons, eh? Do you think we’re likely to meet with any?” Guilhem had little experience with demons; just enough to convince him that they weren’t to be trifled with. He cleared his throat. “Not that I am afraid of them, you understand.”

  “Of course not! My dear fellow, never would I insinuate anything of the sort.”

  Zbignev, who had moments before been across the clearing, suddenly plopped down on the ground beside them, startling them both. “So tomorrow we clash with this magician, eh?” Zbignev rubbed his hands. “He’ll get a trouncing!” He moved his hands as though he were manipulating a pike. “You watch!”

  Guilhem eyed him. He found Zbignev’s rambunctious personality amusing, but retained reservations about the fellow’s ability to concentrate. It couldn’t be denied, however, that Zbignev was able with his pike. Earlier that day Guilhem had taken him on to judge his ability, and had been disarmed of his own staff within moments, and then tripped up by Zbignev when he tried to back off. Chortling, Zbignev leaped forward, straddling Guilhem’s chest, and raised his pike above his head for what would have been a disabling if not crippling blow to the head had he finished the maneuver. Instead, Zbignev laughed and helped Guilhem to his feet.

  “Well done,” Guilhem said, brushing his clothes. Zbignev bowed and strutted away, twirling his pike.

  Watching him go, Guilhem had thought, The buffoon has some good moves, but can he fight a prolonged battle? He sighed. Tomorrow we will see. I only hope we can live through it.

  Now Nikola joined them. His own personality was nearly as outgoing as Zbignev’s, and the two soon filled up the area around the fire with bawdy songs and jests. Guilhem allowed his mood to lighten and let them keep at their revelry until all at last grew weary and sought their bedrolls.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IN WHICH GUILHEM ASSISTS A SHUT-IN

  Safely screened by the thick woods near Mojmir’s keep near the small town of Libice nad Cidlinou, Guilhem and the others examined the site. The stout tower was perhaps a hundred feet high and thirty across, constructed of dressed stone.

  “A tricky problem,” Guilhem said, moving back under cover of the forest.

  “Aye,” said Milosh. “Well situated. Solidly built. We can’t approach it from behind for the cliff. Our only choices are to come at it from the sides, across those brooks, or from the front.”

  “He’ll simply pick us off if we try either of those,” said Dobrogost. “I can put a bolt through anyone or anything that shows itself at the top
of the tower, but once Mojmir understands that, he won’t give me another opportunity.”

  Zbignev spat to one side. “It’s a stupid place to build a tower,” he said. “You’d have to be daft to put one there on that sand without a strong foundation. I’ll wager that it’s already settling. Probably sink without a trace within fifty years. And there’s no stone quarry anywhere near here... where’d he get all that rock?”

  Guilhem exchanged a startled look with Onfroi. “He’s right,” Onfroi murmured. “It never occurred to me.”

  “Mojmir’s a sorcerer,” Guilhem said with a shrug. “Doubtless he magicked the stones into existence.”

  Onfroi scoffed. “That’s earth magic, an elementalist discipline. You’d expect it from dwarves, maybe, or even kobolds. Bořivoj assured me that Mojmir works with air and fire elementals.”

  “Mmm.” Guilhem eyed the two brooks flowing past the tower. “Not water?”

  “Not from what Bořivoj says. Don’t you think Mojmir would have made those waterways into rivers if he could, or at least have surrounded himself with a deep, broad moat?” He shook his head. “Or transport the place to some more secure location? I do know a bit about magic, Guilhem.”

  Of that, Guilhem was less than certain; but he himself knew little enough of the mage’s art and could not dispute Onfroi’s claim. “In any event, we’ve got to do something,” he said. “We have not come all this way simply to sit on our arses and stare at the place. Sooner or later someone from the village is bound to blunder into us unless we move quickly.”

  “I’d feel a deal better if we knew the nature of his guardians,” said Alecksandru. “So far all I have heard is that they are supernatural.” He placed a hand on the pommel of his sword. “Phantasms, that is. They may be frightful in appearance, but after all—what can phantoms do aside from shriek and gibber?”

  Zbignev scowled. “Tis easy for you to say. You have not seen an entire herd of cows bewitched so that their milk was made bitter overnight.”

  “They ate a patch of dandelions or vetch, more like,” said Alecksandru, grinning.

  “Listen here, stripling—”

  Guilhem grabbed Zbignev’s arm. “Enough! Keep your voices down, fools. Would you warn him that we are here, lurking in the foliage at his very doorway?”

  Zbignev subsided, casting a dark glance at Alecksandru, who met his gaze with a sneer. Guilhem was about to say more when an idea struck him. “I believe I can find out what sort of devils this Mojmir has in his service.”

  “Oh, aye?” Onfroi squinted at him. “Pardon me for seeming dubious, my lord duke, but how will you accomplish that?”

  Guilhem had never told anyone other than Henri, who had known of it all along, of his association with the spirit world. For one thing, he didn’t want to be thought insane. For another, the Church took a very dim view of any sort of pagan connections, and if it became known that Duke Guilhem IX counted elves, sprites and wraiths among his associates, the result could well be excommunication. Though Guilhem was not a particularly devout man, he saw no reason to risk the opprobrium of the religious establishment. Plus, of course, he knew only too well how unreliable the creatures of Faerie and its outlying provinces could be.

  He was not now about to reveal his status as fairy friend, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t take advantage of it. “I have, uh, a bit of magic of my own,” he said, feeling his face grow warm. “But I cannot work it with others watching.” To his relief, both Zbignev and Alecksandru nodded, and after a moment Milosh grunted his agreement. “You see, when I was a boy I learned some spell-casting from a monk living in my village.” He took a moment to ask the pardon of Brother Gabriel’s shade for embroidering a falsehood. “He had been a healer in his youth, and studied herb lore with a conjure woman. Some of that knowing he passed on to me.”

  “That’s hardly magic, though, is it,” said Onfroi, frowning.

  Guilhem shook his head, keeping a serious face. “Well, no, not as such, I suppose,” he said. The big red-haired knight clearly didn’t like being upstaged, but there was no help for it. Any magic Onfroi claimed probably wasn’t worth horse-piss. Guilhem would smooth his ruffled feathers later. Right now, there was information to be gathered. “But I am confident that I can...” He couldn’t say, that I can summon a sprite that will give us information of what lies within the tower. Instead, he said: “...scry through the walls to see what is hidden within.”

  Again, his fellows nodded. There probably wasn’t one of them who had not clandestinely sought the advice of some local witch-woman or other, hoping to improve his chances with a fair lady, as weighed against the intent of others and his likely reception by the female in question. A clever witch could, via her scrying glass or crystal globe, watch milady in her bedchamber and be privy to the girl’s confidences to her ladies-in-waiting. No witch would attempt such a viewing in the presence of onlookers... so it followed that Guilhem would not, either.

  Leaving his companions behind to keep watch on the sorcerer’s tower, he took himself farther into the woods, with doubt assailing him every step of the way. It wasn’t as if he had much trust in the usefulness of the Wee Folk. Time and again, they had proven to be so ignorant and careless of human affairs and values that their advice or assistance was generally pointless—overly obscure or even downright harmful. Still, he couldn’t see what harm they could do in this situation. He required no physical assistance. All he wanted was to know whether there were any actual supernatural beings guarding the tower, or if Mojmir was doing no more to frighten off potential attackers than calling up mere apparitions and illusions: simple lights and smokes, dream-stuff that could be ignored as one might overlook a shadow.

  Of course, it could well be that there weren’t any denizens of Faerie within range of his mystical attraction. They weren’t always near, after all. In which case, he’d have to make up a story about the stars not being propitious or some such folderol... but he’d deal with that problem if necessary.

  At last, judging that he had walked far enough from camp, he sat down under a tree and looked around. To all outward appearances the day was peaceful, his surroundings as sylvan as one could expect here in the beautiful Bohemian forest. Paradise might well look like this, he mused. But Paradise did not house a necromantic magician. He sighed. There could be no more delay; he had to get back to the others and they had to oust Mojmir from his keep.

  Guilhem closed his eyes and tried to expand his awareness past the sounds of nature, the sensation of the rough tree bark against his back and the leaf-strewn ground beneath him. Often when he did this, he could feel—there was no better word for it—the presence of supernatural creatures at greater or lesser distances. This time, though, he sensed nothing.

  Wait: there was something. Some sort of being was in the vicinity. Not close by, but not unreasonably far. He sighed again. Very well, here we go.

  I am Guilhem, called Fairy Friend by many. I require assistance. Are you near? Will you aid me in my need?

  Moments later he heard a small voice say, “You have called, and I have come. Fairy friend you are.” At the same instant, his nostrils were assailed by the thing’s reek.

  Guilhem opened his eyes and saw, floating in the air before him, a fairy. It was so like the one he had rescued in his boyhood—catfish-faced, with functioning wings, dressed in a peaked leather cloak—that for a moment he thought it was the very same fey. But no: this one had three eyes, whereas the other had possessed only two. The third eye rotated in its socket independently of its fellows. Its motion made Guilhem feel a trifle ill, so he did his best to focus elsewhere on the being’s face.

  “Hail,” said the fairy.

  “Uh, hail,” Guilhem replied. “I am in debt to you for your response.”

  “Give it no further thought. We of the higher planes are pleased to assist you whenever you call. Well do we remember your kindness to King Auberon’s nephew, Walbert. What is your need?”

  “It’s quite simple, real
ly,” Guilhem said. Auberon’s king now, eh? No longer a prince. “Yonder is a tower belonging to a sorcerer named Mojmir.”

  “I am familiar with him,” said the fairy—rather condescendingly, Guilhem thought.

  “Good. All I wish is to know the nature of any supernatural beings housed therein.”

  “Oh, that is easily ascertained.”

  Guilhem was plunged, of a moment, into extreme cold and utter darkness. He gasped, but no sooner had he done so than he found himself standing in a curving stone corridor a-drip with moisture. Tatters of phosphorescent mold festooned the walls, giving forth a sickly glow that supplied a weak illumination.

  The fairy was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where am I?” he whispered.

  “You are within Mojmir’s fortress.” The voice came from a point in the air a few feet away, but the fairy itself was invisible. “It should now be a trivial task for you to identify Mojmir’s assistants.”

  “What? This isn’t what I meant! I simply wanted you to tell—”

  But the fairy was gone.

  “No! No, no, no!” Moaning in frustration, Guilhem grabbed his hair with both hands and tugged hard. “Ow!”

  The resulting pain brought him back to himself. He leaned against the wall, found it slimy, and stood straight. Gritting his teeth, he assessed his predicament. The fairy had transported him to a point somewhere inside Mojmir’s redoubt. His men were all outside. He had his sword and his dagger.

  Once more he examined his surroundings. Mojmir, he reasoned, was unlikely to be so careless in his habits as to wish to live in such squalid surroundings. Therefore, this must be one of the tower’s lower and commonly untenanted levels: a dungeon or cellar. To find Mojmir, then, he would have to locate stairs or a ladder leading up. He considered the curve of the corridor. It seemed consistent with a building forty or so feet in diameter. That being the case, he should be able to walk completely around it in a few minutes—unless his path was interrupted by a wall or stairs.