The Bohemian Magician

by A. L. Sirois

  Suddenly Guilhem felt a wave of dizziness pass over him. In the next moment, he stood before the imam as a human once more. Al-Yngvi had undone Oriabel’s spell. Looking down at his hands in astonishment, Guilhem could only stare at them in disbelief. Unmasked! I am unmasked!

  “Ah, yes,” said al-Yngvi. His voice was almost a purr. “Yes. You will do nicely. Infidel or not, your body is perfectly suitable for me.” He rose from his seat on the stone bench. “Come along now.”

  “I will do no such thing,” Guilhem said, following the imam into the moonlit mosque. “I have urgent business elsewhere and must take my leave.”

  “Oh, of course, of course.” Al-Yngvi chuckled, the sound echoing off the myriad stone pillars and the vaulted roof.

  “And my aims won't be furthered while I sit here attending to your nonsense,” Guilhem said firmly. “Thank you for returning me to my body, but if you think you’re going to rob it from me—I must urge you to think again.” He followed the imam under a low stone arch into a courtyard dimly lit by flickering lamps. Al-Yngvi passed through a doorway with Guilhem close behind him.

  “So now, if you will excuse me, I'll depart,” Guilhem said as al-Yngvi stood aside and let the duke precede him into a large stone chamber.

  “Certainly,” said the Arab, taking off his cloak and hanging it from a peg. “I thank you for your time.”

  “You are most welcome,” said Guilhem, likewise divesting himself of his cloak. “Farewell.”

  The cleric snapped his fingers.

  Guilhem blinked. Where was the moonlit fountain? How had he come to this room, crammed as it was to the rafters with cabinets full of oddly colored jars, dusty bookcases, and blasphemous diagrams chalked on the walls and floor?

  Too late he realized that he had been bewitched by a powerful spell. He turned toward al-Yngvi with a curse on his lips, only to find himself frozen in place. The curse died unspoken. Instead, he croaked, “What have you done to me?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Al-Yngvi grinned horribly through his untidy beard. “As I said, young man, your body will do quite well. And now, do you wait here while I prepare for the transfer.” He busied himself with various apparatus and books.

  Through his fear, Guilhem nevertheless realized that here, if anywhere, would he find the mystic volume he sought. His mind whirled. Al-Yngvi meant to trade his body for Guilhem’s, leaving the duke in possession of a rotting hulk. It might be that Guilhem would have enough life left in him to find the book Mojmir sought, but he doubted that al-Yngvi would allow him free access to this library of magic. That meant that somehow he would have to prevent the switch of bodies from ever occurring. But how was he to do that, paralyzed as he was save for his voice?

  Al-Yngvi made an exclamation and held up a particularly battered volume that would not otherwise have kept Guilhem’s attention for more than a moment. Cradling it in his hands, he turned to the paralyzed Frenchman. “Here it is,” he crooned, stroking the book as though it were a live thing. “The madman’s volume, writ in his own hand.” Chuckling, he placed it on a shelf above his desk. “Other and vaster secrets than the summoning of Sh’bnagre lie within, I can tell you.” Still chortling, he returned to his incomprehensible tasks.

  Guilhem, helplessly watching, silently cursed the boyhood day he had saved that blasted fairy. Since then I have had nothing but misadventures with the fey folk, be they kobolds or elves or ogres or nixies. What good have they ever done me, save interrupt my romantic endeavors or otherwise ruin my plans?

  He blinked. Ruin my plans... yes, they always do that, don’t they? They always ruin everyone’s plans.

  All my life I’ve been pestered and victimized by them; I’ve always tried to avoid them, and for good reason: they can’t help meddling.

  Al-Yngvi, still preoccupied with his magical paraphernalia, had turned his back on the paralyzed Guilhem. Praying for the former librarian to remain absorbed with his preparations, Guilhem began whispering: “Fairies, sprites... hear me, Guilhem of Aquitaine, fairy friend as you have named me. Here is a pretty pass: your friend is trapped in the mosque of Córdoba, with a servant of the foul Sh’bnagre seeking to rob him of his body! Sh’bnagre means to control the entire Earth, which means that there will be no place in it even for you! Now come, succor me: we must work together to upset these foul plans!” He repeated the invocation again, and yet again, while al-Yngvi consulted one book after another, muttering to himself.

  At last, with an exclamation of satisfaction, the decrepit imam turned around and tottered back to where Guilhem stood. Perspiration coursing freely down the duke’s face as he continued silently imploring the fairies for aid.

  “And now, my dear Duke Guilhem,” al-Yngvi said, but got no further: a small fairy zipped into the chamber on its dragonfly wings, flitting here and there as though on an inspection tour. “What in the world?”

  No sooner were the words out of the startled imam’s mouth than another fairy appeared, and then three more. “Away from here, you stinking vermin!” the Saracen cried, waving his hands. But his efforts were clumsy, Guilhem noted; hampered, no doubt, by his deteriorating flesh.

  Then a dryad stuck her head into the room, but was shouldered aside by a couple of kobolds. “What’s going on in here?” one of them demanded in a rough voice.

  “Go away! Leave me!” cried al-Yngvi. “You are intruding.”

  “We heard a cry for help,” said a creature Guilhem had never seen before, a dog-like thing seemingly comprised of different kinds of vegetables and fruits.

  “That was me,” Guilhem said. “This person is holding me against my will, and I beg you to release me.”

  A vaporous ghost with red sparks in its otherwise empty eye-sockets drifted into the room. “This ruckus is enough to wake the dead,” it complained. “What are you about, imam?”

  “I am trying to conduct my business in private,” al-Yngvi said through clenched jaws. Perspiration had broken out on his peeling forehead. “All of you, depart immediately!”

  Half a dozen brownies clad in mouse-fur tunics began climbing the imam’s work table. “What’s up ’ere?” “Ooh, look at this!” “What’s this for?”

  Al-Yngvi turned to deal with them. “Leave that alone!”

  A huge face of surpassing stupidity appeared at the door. “S’the problem here?” the giant rumbled. It reached into the room, its enormous grimy hand groping about, knocking over the table. The brownies scattered, squealing in outrage.

  “Stop that!” shouted al-Yngvi. He kicked at the giant’s arm so energetically that his foot broke. “Ow! Now see what you’ve done!” He hopped around on his undamaged leg. Glassware crashed to the floor amid raucous laughter from the various fey.

  “This is fun!” shouted one of the fairies, spiraling around the room trailing blue sparkles. “Whee!” The other fairies joined in, leaving varicolored sparks in their wake.

  Guilhem, straining all the while at his invisible bonds, wriggled his left thumb. Encouraged, he kept at it and was soon rewarded by a slow ebbing of the paralysis spell. Within moments he was staggering toward the room’s exit. “Keep harrying him!” he shouted to the fairies, but they were having so much fun by now that they needed no encouragement. I pray they do not start ripping up the books! Al-Yngvi, his concentration on the ensorcelled duke broken, shrieked an imprecation as Guilhem made his way to the door, but the Saracen found his efforts to shore up his fragmented spell hindered by a gang of dwarves clustered around his feet, demanding to know what he was trying to do. Infuriated, al-Yngvi spat at them. That, Guilhem knew, was a mistake. The dwarves immediately unsheathed their axes and attacked the horrified librarian, swiftly hacking him to pieces.

  Without waiting to see more, Guilhem made his faltering way out of the chamber as the mayhem continued behind him. The fey would rapidly lose interest, he knew; they had limited powers of attention. He winced as something large topped over with a crash, but had no time to investigate: he had to free Oriabel from the clutc
hes of the monster Sh’bnagre.

  His first problem, he realized while penetrating farther into the mosque as his strength returned, was to find her. Presumably, though not necessarily, she was somewhere in the building. But valuable moments would pass if he were forced to search for her, and the situation would be even worse if she had been sent out into the city by Sh’bnagre on some incomprehensible errand or other.

  Reluctantly, therefore, he retraced his steps to the imam’s chamber. Most of the fey folk had departed, leaving the place a complete shambles. He saw with a sigh of relief that they had not ruined any of the books or scrolls; and although many of these were tossed about, the one al-Yngvi claimed was responsible for his summoning Sh’bnagre remained on the shelf where he had placed it. Noticing a couple of fairies lingering to poke around amid the alchemical substances al-Yngvi kept in a cabinet, Guilhem approached them. One had enormous staring eyes, like a fish; the other looked something like a stretched-out stoat with a barbed tail. He avoided looking at the untidy, oozing wreckage of what had once been Mohammed al-Yngvi. “I have a companion whom I would free from the hideous possession of the beast Sh’bnagre. I pray you, help me deliver her from its clutches.”

  The fairies looked doubtful. “One doesn’t lightly meddle with the affairs of the Great Ones,” the fish-eyed one said. “They’re a contentious lot, easily offended and quick to wreak vengeance.”

  “Verily,” said the stoat-like fairy. “The only way to avoid its wrath would be to kill it, which is not possible—at least, not for us—or banish it back to its own dimension.”

  Guilhem shook his head. “‘Dimension’? I know not what that means.”

  “Oh, well, look—you have your three basic dimensions, yeah? Length, breadth, and... I forget the other one.”

  “Color,” the first fairy suggested.

  The second fairy shook its stoat head. “That isn’t it, I don’t think. Maybe volume?”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter,” said the first fairy. It turned its goggling eyes to Guilhem. “The point is, you’d have to send it back where it came from. Its own realm. There are many of the Old Ones there, all trying to get to Earth. It’s difficult for them to do it on their own—”

  “Impossible, I’d say.”

  “Yes, thank you, sister—impossible, that is, without the help of some human agency on this side of the barrier. Like this idiot al-Yngvi. Anyway! Many of our people approve of the Old Ones, but there are also many of us who don’t like them because they lack respect for boundaries, and they’d overrun Faerie if they could.”

  Guilhem, who had by now regained complete control of his body, said, “That is what al-Yngvi told me; he said that the fey underestimate Sh’bnagre’s intent to do evil, both here in the fields we know and beyond, in Faerie itself.”

  The fish-eyed sprite nodded. “It is as I said, but fear not: we’ll help free your comrade.”

  “Thank you! Let us, then, search for her.”

  “Do you stay here, fairy friend. We are naturally equipped for rapid flight and can seek her out much more quickly and safely than you’d be able to. What does she look like?”

  Guilhem started to describe her, then paused, realizing he was portraying her human appearance. “She’s a human female, but in the guise of a kobold,” he said, lamely. “When last I saw her she was in Sh’bnagre’s lair.”

  The fairies didn’t seem put off. “Easy,” said Fish-Eye, and off they flew. “We’ll find her!” it flung back over its shoulder.

  Guilhem was left to putter around the wreckage of al-Yngvi’s workshop. He dug in the detritus for books, looking carefully through the ones he found and putting aside any that seemed as though they might be the magical tome for which he was searching.

  While he was so engaged, he came across several interesting artifacts. There were half a dozen knives that he recognized as being athames akin to the one Oriabel carried, and a sword that he assumed was enchanted in some manner. This he drew from its scabbard and wielded, finding it well-balanced and possessing a sharp edge. Guilhem strapped it on and continued his search.

  Losing himself in the task, he did not notice the fairies’ return until their faint stench reached his nose just as one spoke at his ear, startling him. “We’ve found your friend.”

  “Excellent!” Guilhem slammed shut the book he was reading. “Is she well? Could you release her from the beast?”

  The fairies shook their heads. “That is beyond our powers,” they said.

  Guilhem cursed to himself. What good were these little fools if they could not assist him when he was most in need? Well, there was nothing for it. “Take me to her, please.”

  “Follow.” They flew out of the room, leaving him to hurry along in their wake as quickly as he could. They were out of sight before he even exited al-Yngvi’s chamber, but their glowing trails remained in the air. He ran after them, sword at the ready. As he had feared, they led to the den of Sh’bnagre. Above, the many twisting translucent tubes of Sh’bnagre’s victims throbbed and pulsated. Several of the thralls stood about near the giant maggot-thing, apparently awaiting its bidding.

  One of these was Oriabel. She had not been in the monster’s control long enough for the corruption of her flesh to begin. Perhaps her kobold body is more resistant to its putrefying effect, Guilhem thought, biting his lips.

  Sh’bnagre seemed to take no notice of him. Perhaps it was so distracted by having to control its many thralls that it did not notice a threat close at hand. Ignoring the fairies, he crept toward the witch. Approaching to within speaking distance, he whispered, “Oriabel! Oriabel, can you hear me?”

  She turned blank eyes to him. “Who... calls?” she murmured.

  He eyed the palpitating tentacle lodged in the crown of her head. His hand twitched; he ached to swipe at it with his sword. The substance looked no more resistant than pond weeds: he was certain he could sever the tube with one blow.

  Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward and sliced at the thing. His blade passed through it almost unimpeded.

  The severed end whipped back and forth above Oriabel’s head like an earthworm cut in half. It spewed chunks of membranous matter that evaporated, fizzing, in the air, while the witch slumped and would have fallen had he not caught her about the shoulders. Sh’bnagre’s jelly-like mass quivered as a shudder passed through it. Guilhem saw its flesh ripple. Several sucker-tipped tentacles quested toward him.

  He manhandled her away from the ranks of other thralls. “Oriabel! Wake up! We must go!”

  She stumbled, barely able to find her footing. The piece of tendril atop her head slowly faded away.

  She turned her gaze up to meet his. A mist seemed to pass from her eyes. “Guilhem? What happened?”

  A brief jolt of joy flashed through him as he realized her will was returning. In that instant, he understood that he had come to regard her as a friend and equal, and knew that no power on earth would prevent him from wresting her free of the monster’s influence. He’d die trying; if need be, he’d kill her and fall on his blade. Sh’bnagre would not have her.

  “Never mind,” he said through clenched teeth, and continued to pull her toward the chamber’s exit. The little black eyespots dotting Sh’bnagre’s gross form seemed to turn in their sockets, and Guilhem knew it was looking at him and the disguised Oriabel. “We have no time. Come!”

  Her steps became more deliberate, but Guilhem moaned as he saw the thralls turn to face them. Blank-faced, they started for the pair, arms outstretched for capture. The searching tentacles above descended, the loathsome sucker tips slowly opening and closing in anticipation.

  Guilhem drew in a breath and shouted, “Fairy friends! Attend me! Help us!”

  Almost at once several fairies flew into the room, followed on the ground by a troop of axe-wielding dwarves who immediately began hewing at any and all segments of Sh’bnagre’s bulk that they could reach, clambering up its sides as though climbing a heap of overcooked vegetables. The fairies lit
on Sh’bnagre’s body, yanking on its eyes, pulling them from the thing’s gooey flesh by their roots. A stench like nothing Guilhem had ever encountered slowly filled the room as the fiend’s inner gasses and vapors leaked out into the air, rendering it all but unbreathable. Guilhem was sick to one side. The smell seemed to clear Oriabel’s head, however, and she stared at the monstrosity with dawning hatred.

  The angry fairies swarming around Sh’bnagre helped to distract it, but though there were many of them, Sh’bnagre was a mighty opponent, and continually swept them aside, snatching them up in its tentacles and flinging them away.

  “This foul thing dared to put me in its power!” She growled the syllables that returned her to human form. Guilhem’s heart leaped to see her—his friend, as he now knew her to be—restored to her rightful shape at last, but he seized her arm and said, “While it’s distracted, we have a chance to escape.”

  “Oh no, I’ll not turn my back on it,” she said. “We must not leave it here to continue spinning its vile plans.” She slapped at her ragged clothing. “By Sheelba’s eyeless face! I do not have my wand. It is back in our lodgings.”

  There was no time for further conversation: Sh’bnagre was slowly gaining the upper hand against its many supernatural antagonists, and even though it still battled them, its tentacles began squirming through the air toward Guilhem and Oriabel. Their retreat to the chamber’s exit was cut off by a group of tottering revenants, and they were forced to take shelter in a small alcove. The niche was too small to allow more than one or two of the thralls to approach at any one time, and Guilhem’s sword flew from one to another, weaving a deadly steel net through which none could pass. A pile of bodies slowly accumulated, delaying the walking corpses, but Guilhem knew that it was only a matter of time before their sheer numbers overwhelmed him.

  For an instant Guilhem stood quivering with frustration, then he remembered the blade he had taken from al-Yngvi’s workshop. He slid it from its scabbard. “Oriabel! What make you of this?”