The Bohemian Magician

by A. L. Sirois

  Oriabel watched them go. “A good day’s work,” she said. She held the bottle containing the leeches up before her eyes. “Come, my lord, we have business elsewhere.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IN WHICH THE COMPANY EXPERIENCES DELAYS

  Back in their rooms at the inn in Auxerre, Oriabel returned Guilhem to human form and listened while he reported his findings.

  “This business becomes ever more complex,” she said after he finished. “Now we must needs go gallivanting off to Spain, there to confront some nameless horror in order to wrest from its grasp a book of so terrible a reputation that to merely open it sends men mad!” She shook her head. “I have knowledge of such books. They are grimoires, journals in which great mages transcribe their incantations and other arcane information. Some have spells laid on them to discourage those who would pry into them. I confess that you are leading me a merry chase, Guilhem.”

  “Do you stop complaining. Our goal has changed; we must accustom ourselves to the fact. And remember: I did not ask you to accompany me on this quest,” he said. “Far from it; I sought to dissuade you. That you are here is entirely on your own head.”

  She merely glared at him in response.

  “Still,” he went on, “I find it amusing that your ‘medicine’ is what killed Vedastus. That was well played. I assume the potion was safe for leeches, given that I was living off his blood and do not seem to be impaired.”

  She waved a hand. “Naturally. As to Vedastus, he was a lout and a rogue,” she said. “I believe the province is well rid of his noxious presence. He will not share his knowledge concerning this questionable mosque with anyone else. I have in addition dealt with his lackeys, and they will trouble the area no more.”

  “All well and good, but let us turn our thoughts to other matters,” Guilhem said. Privately he wondered if the brigand or his henchmen might have had additional pertinent information concerning the nature of the threat hidden within the mosque; information that was now, alas, beyond reach. “Córdoba lies many miles to the southwest. I do not wish to go to Spain any more than you do, but it seems we have little choice.”

  With evident reluctance, the witch said, “It does seem likely that if you can deliver the noisome volume to Mojmir, he will look kindly on your request to remove the ifrit from your lands.”

  “Or else,” he said, thoughtfully stroking his chin, “we may find written therein the appropriate magical knowledge to do the work ourselves without having to resort to the estimable Mojmir’s aid.” He cocked an eyebrow at her.

  She shook her head. “From what you have told me, I am not the one to be delving into whatever arcane spells the volume contains. I have heard of this Arab who authored it... he is said to have had his arms and legs torn off by an invisible being in the middle of a marketplace one day, an act observed by dozens of horrified onlookers.”

  They spent an hour going over a map they borrowed from the innkeeper. At last Guilhem sat back with a sigh. “Our path is no easy one. At this time of year, it will be very difficult to find a way over the Pyrenees that is free from snow.” This realization left him in a sour mood because it meant he would be burdened with Oriabel for a longer time than he had expected or wanted. He consoled himself with the thought that after this adventure he’d be rid of both her and the ifrit.

  Assuming, he told himself, all goes well. He would not allow himself to think otherwise. Again he had a twinge of anxiety for Phillipa and his children. He wondered how the captive ifrit was faring. Hopefully, Oriabel’s spell of imprisonment was holding fast.

  “I think that we may be able to rely on Rámon to scout some of the mountain passes for us,” said Oriabel. She glanced at the bird, who was asleep on his perch to one side of the room. “He will not like it because of the cold, but he will obey me.”

  * * *

  At first they made good time on their way southwest from Auxerre through lands relatively familiar to Guilhem: Bourges, La Marche and the viscounty of Limoges. Their route led them through the eastern edge of Périgord: they skirted the Aquitaine, avoiding Poictiers. Guilhem managed to glean from conversations with innkeepers in whose establishments they spent a night that the “werewolf” had committed no further atrocities. From this he deduced that the ifrit’s confinement remained secure, which made him feel more at ease. Veering farther west through the duchy of Gascony once they passed Auch, they directed their mounts toward the cobbled streets of St-Jean-Pied-de-Port, where a windswept path through the mountains to Roncesvalles, in Spain, was known to be generally clear through much of the winter despite its difficult terrain.

  These regions were civilized, and the travelers had no trouble finding lodging. They met with little trouble; and even though robbers twice set upon them, Guilhem and Oriabel dispatched them with ease, happy to eliminate these threats to the general safety of the region. The roads were good, as there had been comparatively little snowfall thus far, though the depths of the season loomed before them like the distant peaks of the mountains.

  But as they traveled further south, winter, which so far had barely brushed them with its chill fingers, soon threatened to close a fierce, cold fist around them. They put up for the night in a small hôtel in St-Jean-Pied-de-Port. While Oriabel saw to the horses in the inn’s stable, Guilhem stood outside scanning the sky. It was leaden, and tasted of snow.

  After engaging rooms, they sat in the bar over cups of hot mulled wine.

  “There will be a storm,” Guilhem said. “Tomorrow, I should say.” He lifted his eyebrows at the witch, who nodded. “Were it not that we need rest, and the night has fallen, I would say that we should push on and get as far into the mountains as we can, and over that pass before it is snowed in.”

  The witch nodded again. “I have augured the weather,” she said. “It takes little skill to forecast a storm. I agree with your assessment, and, like you, bemoan our need to sleep. Yet sleep we must, if only for a while. I propose we take to our bed for four or five hours, no more—then we may be early on our way.”

  Guilhem grunted his assent. They ate their meal in silence, and after a game or two of dice repaired to their separate rooms. As they ascended the stairs to the inn’s upper floor, Oriabel said, “Did you mark the group of five at the far end of the public room?”

  Guilhem nodded. “All rather bloated-looking, who took care not to show their faces over much? Aye. I took them for footpads or cutpurses, in which this town abounds.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Why? Do you suspect something more?”

  “Doubtless it is nothing but my nervous temperament. Do you sleep well.”

  The next morning, they woke before sunrise to learn that the expected snow had not yet begun to fall. After a hurried breakfast, over which Guilhem would have preferred to linger, for it was the last hot meal they were likely have for the time they were fording the pass, they set out. The streets were still dark and few people were about save for one or two furtive tavern-goers making their unsteady way home; and a group of three men, well bundled, with large packs on their backs.

  “Smugglers,” Guilhem said, nudging Oriabel. “No doubt they will be making for the pass as well. I say we let them go ahead. If there is snow on the heights, we may follow along in the trail that they break. The way ascends half a mile or more in only two miles. It is a punishing slope even in fair weather. We will be fortunate indeed if we can get that far today. On the southern side of the mountains the weather may be somewhat better, and therefore there will be less snow.”

  “I have not been along this route,” said Oriabel. “I agree to your suggestion.” After they finished breaking their fast Guilhem settled the bill and the two took their leave.

  Once more they were fortunate with respects to the weather. Though the temperature fell slowly as the day progressed, still there was no snow—until the middle of the afternoon, by which time they were already able to look back along their trail to St-Jean-Pied-de-Port’s lights below them as the sun lowe
red toward the mountain peaks encircling the region to the west.

  The snow fell slowly, spiraling down from the clouds. There was, for a wonder, little wind, even in the higher altitudes, and for most of the rest of the day the horses had little trouble with the rocky path. Also, the footprints of the smugglers showed clearly in the snow, making it easy to follow the path they had taken.

  But as night fell the wind picked up and so did the rate of snowfall. Oriabel and Guilhem had only one tent, forcing the duke to bed down in closer proximity to the witch than he liked. As a soldier, however, he had endured worse things than an odoriferous comrade—so he kept his antipathy to himself, finding some consolation in the fact that enough wind blew through the bottom of the tent to dispel her unpleasant scent.

  The other benefit to the chill wind was that Rámon snuggled close to his mistress, scarcely venturing out into the cold except to eat some of the food she had brought for him, and deposit some of his noxious droppings.

  They awoke early to find that the snow had continued to fall, albeit slowly enough that less than a foot of it lay on the ground. Guilhem, scanning the path ahead while the witch broke camp, saw that the peaks above, between which the path led, were cloaked in clouds, hiding their tops.

  “We must hurry,” he said as he swung into his saddle. “We cannot rely on the storm not to increase suddenly. If we are quick about it we can win through the pass before noon, and be on the downward slope.”

  “It’s a pity the snow has covered up the smugglers’ trail,” Oriabel said.

  “For the most part, yes. But you can see that where they have passed, the snow is unevenly distributed... and in the lee side of boulders the trail remains reasonably clear. Come, it could be far worse.”

  As they struggled higher and higher along the path, the way became more uncertain as snow both covered the trail, which was not well marked despite the recent passage of the smugglers, and made footing increasingly treacherous. The wind buffeted the riders more fiercely as they moved out of the shelter offered by the mountains themselves. Guilhem leaned into the gale, as cold and miserable as he had ever been in his life. He was afforded a grain of amusement by the sound of Rámon’s muffled voice emanating from within Oriabel’s garments, endlessly whining and complaining about the cold and wind.

  Once or twice Guilhem fancied that he spotted figures in the driving snow, but the visibility was too uncertain; and when they arrived at the places where he thought he had seen people, he found only the twisted stumps of old trees.

  They barely noticed it when they arrived at the top of the path and began descending. The snow was now deep enough in the pass that the horses had trouble walking, so Guilhem and Oriabel dismounted and led them by the reins while they negotiated the beginning of the downward route, plowing through a dry snow that soon was blown into drifts rising above their knees.

  “Do we make haste,” Guilhem told the witch, “for if these drifts grow too high we will find ourselves trapped here.” He and Felice took the lead, both being larger and more massive than Oriabel and Sull. They plowed through the snow, Guilhem for once blessing the cold because it prevented the snow from sticking and impeding their progress even more effectively. After a mile or so the snowfall diminished to a significant extent, and they made better headway. At last Guilhem, exhausted, felt that they had come far enough from the worst of the weather to pause for rest and sustenance. The day drew to a close, the sun dimming as it sank into the west behind the clouds.

  “We’ll make camp here,” he said, lashing Felice to a small spire of rock near an overhang of granite that sheltered a segment of the trail. They could not build a fire for lack of wood, being still above the tree-line, so they made what sup they could from their dried provisions and water (Oriabel stuck to her preferred beverage, wine), and settled in for sleep, fully dressed, cloaked with blankets, with boots and gloves on to ward off the chill. The last thing Guilhem saw before slumber claimed him was snowflakes, still dancing around them but in a less threatening manner than higher up among the mountains. He knew on the morrow their way would take them to lower, warmer, regions.

  When he awoke, it was still night. The snow had ceased, and he was surrounded by people: three men and two women. All were bloated of countenance but looked vaguely familiar. Guilhem pressed back against the rock wall and automatically reached for his sword. It was gone.

  “You would be looking for this, I think,” said one of the men, a corpulent individual with a dark red face. Like his companions, he was dressed only in casual clothing unsuited for the mountain cold. He held Guilhem’s sword in his hand.

  Guilhem went for his dagger, which was inside his tunic, but in a twinkling the man had his sword by the handle, the blade’s point inches from Guilhem’s throat. “I wouldn’t,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” Guilhem demanded of Oriabel, who, he saw, sat on the ground beside him. Tear lines streaked her face.

  “You don’t understand,” she said.

  “No, you don’t,” said the fat man, squatting down in front of Guilhem. The sword remained at the ready. A wide smile crept across his face, displaying uncommonly white, sharp teeth. “But your companion does.”

  Guilhem’s eyes narrowed. “Wait—you’re that crew of riffraff from the inn we stayed in a couple of nights ago. What is your business with us?”

  The man grinned even more widely. “Spare me your bluster, sir,” he said. “As it happens, we seek to take you into our employ.”

  “What foolishness is this?” Guilhem rose to his feet. “You hinder us! Be off with you and let us get our rest.” He felt quite confident. Though the man had his sword, Guilhem knew well how to use his fists; and these people, fat and flabby-looking, surely weren’t capable of putting up much of a fight. He took a step toward the man holding his sword, ready to grab the blade with his gauntleted hand and wrest it from the fellow’s grasp: but then something happened. Guilhem couldn’t quite take it in: the man seemed to shudder, then Guilhem, to his astonishment, saw the sword clatter to the ground and found himself confronted by a snarling wolf.

  He recoiled. Stunned, he turned toward Oriabel. “Are these—?”

  She nodded glumly. “Alas. Strigoi.”

  Guilhem drew in his breath. He knew little of the inhuman strigoi save that they subsisted on blood, could change their form from man to wolf and back again, and were a dangerous nuisance in regions where they were common. Belatedly he remembered that they often frequented mountainous areas, where they were known to waylay travelers.

  The wolf shook itself and became a fat, smiling man once more. “Please, we mean you no harm,” he said. “As you noticed us, madam,” he went on, turning to Oriabel, “we too observed you. From your look, we took you for a countryman. Or should I say woman?” He bowed in a most courtly manner. “We are, like you, wanderers.”

  Oriabel blinked at them. “You are Romany?”

  He bowed again. “Originally our people were from the region to the north of the Vindhya Mountains. Many Romany hail from there.”

  “I thought the Romany were Egyptians,” Guilhem said.

  Without looking at him, Oriabel said, “That is a foolish myth.”

  “Indeed,” said the fat man. “But where are my manners? Please forgive me. I am Vano.” He put his hand on the shoulder of the shorter of the other two men. “This is my brother, Tobar.” Tobar smiled in acknowledgement. “And this fellow is Maloney.” The other man gave a curt nod. The two women were introduced as Kizzy, the older and better looking of the two, and Lela, a shy young woman with the blackest eyes Guilhem had ever seen. Her gaze was magnetic.

  “I am Duke Guilhem IX of Poictiers,” said Guilhem, “and this is the wise-woman Oriabel, an enchantress of note.”

  “Indeed,” said Vano again. “And we can see by the look on you that you are a fairy friend, sir. Well met!”

  Guilhem sighed. The strigoi, being supernatural creatures, would of course recognize the stamp of Faerie on him
. “What did you mean by saying you wished to take us into your employ?”

  “Thereby hangs a tale,” Vano said. He motioned to his two male comrades, who stepped forward and bound the captives’ hands behind them with stout cord, then helped them up onto their horses. They searched through the packs Guilhem and Oriabel had brought with them, but apparently found nothing of interest, for they cast them aside.

  “You will accompany us,” said Vano. “Don’t think to flee from us on your mounts simply because we are on foot; you can’t control the horses well without reins, and your seating will be precarious on the mountain paths. Also, as wolves we can run down any horse.”

  Guilhem ground his teeth. He looked at Oriabel, who shrugged. “He is correct,” she muttered.

  “But it is night and you are robbing us of our sleep,” said Guilhem. “We traveled far today and are exhausted.” He thought of Rámon. Where was the bird? He dared not ask of Oriabel: what if the creature had sensed the strigoi coming and fled the campsite? That could mean Rámon was, for the time being at least, free—and might conceivably be of some assistance to them.

  As if to answer his thought, Guilhem heard a distant squawk. That was Rámon’s creaky voice, certainly. Oriabel, he saw after a quick glance at the witch, had heard the call as well, and was peering about, into the trees, for its location. The familiar was somewhere in the vicinity and was surely observing his mistress at a safe distance. Guilhem nodded to himself. Do you be cautious, Rámon, he thought. If these monsters can transform themselves into birds of prey, you will not long survive.

  “If you’re that tired, you will sleep well enough in the saddle,” said Maloney with a smile. “We’ll catch you if you fall off, never fear.”

  “I am much relieved,” said Guilhem as caustically as he could.