The Bohemian Magician

by A. L. Sirois

  She examined the sword and her eyes went wide. “Where did you get it?”

  “It is enchanted, is it not?”

  “I feel a powerful magic here, yes, but I know not the nature of it.”

  “Well, I know that I released you from Sh’bnagre’s spell by using it. Therefore, it must be an anathema to the fiendish thing.”

  “But—”

  “But, nothing,” Guilhem said, panting. Ignoring her cry of alarm, he stepped forth from the niche, with the ensorcelled sword at the ready. He climbed over the pile of bodies and advanced on the horrid form of Sh’bnagre.

  Several of the creature’s writhing tendrils immediately began questing toward him, but he made bold, confident sweeps at the things, severing them as though they were made of snow.

  The beast gibbered and bubbled, sloshing back and forth on its dais, its dozens of spider eyes rolling in rage and pain. With a bellow of triumphant fury Guilhem leaped forward, slashing at the Great One’s semi-corporeal body, spattering its substance hither and yon until great gobs of it dripped down the walls in fetid streams.

  The sundered flesh sought to recombine, however, flowing back toward the quivering parent hulk and spreading out on its surface like wet clay, continually replenishing what the sword carved off. Eventually Guilhem fell back to the niche, spattered with sweat, gore, and filth.

  “It’s useless!” he gasped. “I cannot continue much longer; my strength wanes.”

  She groaned. “Without my wand I can do little but change your shape, and without hands to hold a sword, that would be of no use.”

  “What can we—wait!” His eyes went wide. “Oriabel, the giants... it is common knowledge that they will devour anything in their path, like voracious insects. They strip orchards to bare wood. It’s why they are driven away from inhabited areas.”

  “What of it?” she snarled.

  He whispered his plan in her ear, and she laughed. “It’s worth a try, my duke!” She shouted out her spell of change, and instantly took the form of a giantess. When next she spoke, her words reverberated throughout the mosque so loudly that the walls shook. “Giants! You mountainous, colossal ones! Attend me now!”

  One of the entryways to Sh’bnagre’s lair burst asunder as a fifteen-foot human-like creature forced his way through, scattering all in its path. It looked around, blinking stupidly.

  Then another door crumbled as an even more gargantuan being pushed its way into the chamber. The pair stood staring slack-jawed at Oriabel as she shouted directions to them.

  They turned as one, strode to the dais, and began tearing huge handfuls of meat and muscle from Sh’bnagre’s body and cramming them into their mouths.

  “I waf abfolutely ravenef,” one mumbled, wiping its dripping chin and grinning idiotically.

  “Smafing!” said the other. “Fimply delifif!”

  Oriabel returned herself to human size, and with Guilhem stood watching for a few moments, both disgusted at the rapacious creatures’ appetites.

  Guilhem gave her a gentle push. “That’ll occupy Sh’bnagre for a while,” he said. “Come, let us depart. I know where the book we seek is located, I think—in al-Yngvi’s sanctum, where I found this sword; there are other arcane volumes as well.”

  They fled Sh’bnagre’s den, and Guilhem led the way to the librarian’s office. Rámon awaited them in the corridor, hiding behind a vase. “Mama, this is a place of danger for poor, loyal Rámon! Do let us be away from here!”

  Guilhem laughed. “Fear not, old bird,” he said. “One final task awaits us, and then we will happily quit this nest of horror.” Despite Rámon’s whining, he agreed to keep watch at the doorway. Guilhem pointed out the volume al-Yngvi claimed to have used. The witch took it carefully from its shelf, wincing a little as she touched it.

  “Oh,” she said in evident relief, “it does not burn. That makes things easier.” She skimmed through its pages, muttering to herself and occasionally grimacing in revulsion. Then she set it carefully to one side. “Yes,” she said in a subdued tone, “this is it. Contained herein is all the information you require to banish that pestiferous ifrit from your lands forever.”

  “Praise be! Then let us depart as hastily as we may.”

  “Not so fast, not so fast. Give me leave to see what other treasures repose in these bookcases.” And as Guilhem waited in an agony of impatience, the witch perused the books and scrolls ranked on the many shelves, selecting half a dozen or so of them. At last she wiped her brow and said, “I believe these will further my studies, Guilhem.” She patted the pile of bound tomes.

  “You’d best be careful,” he replied. “Al-Yngvi thought he could control the thing he called from its sleep, but it proved too strong for him.”

  “As to that, I am probably enough of a thaumaturge to know better than to overstep my bounds. Still, I appreciate your concern. And now, it is time to leave. We have far to go, and must find horses to help us carry these books.”

  Outside, they were gratified to see that the aerial tentacles used by the Great One to control its slaves had withered away, leaving behind collapsed bodies or blinking former thralls.

  “I suspect it will take the Córdobans a while to work out what has happened,” Guilhem said as they lugged their burden of books through the streets to the Silver Moon.

  “Perhaps; but in the end, we have freed them all, and with any luck the giants will consume every bit of that abomination.” She sighed. “I can’t imagine how they can stomach it.”

  “Nor can I, and I don’t intend to spend any time pondering the problem or waiting around to find out what happens if they can’t. Onward, at long, long last, to the Aquitaine, and the ifrit! Then we will see about this Mojmir.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  IN WHICH MOJMIR IS FOUND

  Steadfastly refusing to be spell-cast into a bird or beast of any sort, Guilhem instead went into the city, where, despite the confusion left behind in the wake of Sh’bnagre’s dissolution, he soon procured sturdy horses of Arabian blood. He and Oriabel set out on these comely and valiant steeds.

  In the wake of freeing Córdoba from the beast in the mosque, Guilhem found his mood complex. Certainly his attitude toward Oriabel and even Rámon had undergone a reversal. Her truculence and lack of cleanliness no longer bothered him; indeed, he now regarded these rather fondly, or at least with tolerance, as he would the eccentricities of any friend. And Rámon’s griping was no worse than that of any foot soldier on the march. Both had proved their mettle in dangerous situations; and they had all three of them forged a bond that had not been in place when they departed Poictiers. The space in his thoughts previously taken up by resentment over the witch’s presence was freed to consider other issues.

  Over the next week, as they rode without incident northwards from the liberated city through the kingdoms of Saragosse and Aragon toward the Pyrenees, Guilhem pondered the question of who, exactly, had hired Vedastus the highwayman. He discussed it with Oriabel. It could not have been a magician, the witch reasoned.

  “A magician would have employed magical means to gain entry to the mosque,” she said with a disdainful sniff, “perhaps turning him or herself into a bird such as Rámon, here, who could utter a counter-spell against the transformation charm. Plus, any magician worth his salt would have a much easier time selecting appropriate tomes.”

  Guilhem shook his head at this. “A competent wizard could have dealt with Sh’bnagre, I suppose. But what non-magician would risk seeking darkly enchanted books in the first place? Such things are not to be trifled with.”

  And so the argument went, back and forth, and they could arrive at no resolution.

  They followed their earlier path back across the mountains, making good progress. Days passed, and weeks, as the weather grew warmer on the French side of the slopes. Spring began peeping out at them from around the boles of trees and from within the tiny flowers huddling among their roots. Rámon’s generally curmudgeonly mood improved with the warming
weather but Guilhem could not banish his worry.

  He couldn’t help thinking about the djinn. Was the spell that had kept it frozen in its tower still working? Oriabel assured him so; but was there a tiny bit of doubt in her voice? He urged them to a faster pace.

  The witch studied the books at each stop, often reading far into the night by the light of their cooking fire, claiming that she was learning much that would be to their advantage. Guilhem did not question her.

  “Don’t you fret, my duke,” she said one night. They had stopped that day in a town for food and drink, and came away with several bottles of good wine. After their supper, she betook one to herself while reading, and was thereafter, to his amusement, in an expansive mood.

  “We’re going to send that stinking Arabian demon back where it came from; see if we don’t!” She raised the bottle in a sloppy salute, spilling some of its contents. Grinning, he snatched it away from her. “Here’s to that!” He downed a good portion of it. “Now, onward to the Aquitaine!”

  “Yes—but first we have one final task to accomplish.”

  “What? We do? And what task is this?”

  “A not unpleasant one. You have forgotten the balance of the buried gold I hid near Fagertärn,” she said. “Let us retrieve it, that we may put it to good use in our coffers.”

  “Very well,” he said agreeably, knowing how pleased Phillipa would be if he returned home with a substantial treasure.

  Presently they came to the site of H’lupheka, the ruined elvish city beneath which lay the home of the nixies. After they dug up the gold and loaded it into their saddlebags, Guilhem stood irresolute, the reins of his horse in his hand.

  “What is the matter?” asked Oriabel.

  “I am curious about how Uvaxshtra and Baubaruva and their sister-in-law Iotapa are faring.”

  Oriabel grinned. “If you wish, I can shrink you down; you can enter Fagertärn and find out for yourself.”

  “Let’s not be hasty,” said Guilhem. “I believe I can survive with my curiosity unsatisfied.”

  “In that case,” said Oriabel, “let us be on our way.”

  * * *

  Before long, Poictiers lay no more than three or four days’ travel away. Even in the face of his desire to vanquish the Arabian horror preying on his people, Guilhem could not help feeling more relaxed and at ease. After everything he and Oriabel had been through, he was brimful of confidence. Nothing now could stop them.

  On the morning of their penultimate day of travel, they woke early. Guilhem felt quite cheerful, and as they rode along he hummed a new song that had wound its way into his head during the night. So far they had not encountered anyone he knew, or who recognized him, but he didn’t mind holding on to his anonymity a while longer. Once they entered the Aquitaine proper, that would doubtless no longer be the case.

  By late morning, however, he began to feel as though their progress was unaccountably slow. He remarked on it to Oriabel.

  She frowned. “Now that I think on it,” she said, “these horses seem to be walking at a very lethargic pace.” She urged her mount with her heels in its ribs, but its gait seemed no more energetic. Rámon, sitting on her shoulder as was his wont, flapped his wings but seemed oddly sluggish. With a harsh cry, he managed to stagger into the air, flying off in distress. Oriabel watched him go without speaking.

  “I feel as though we are wading through water,” Guilhem said. He lifted the reins. “I can’t... I can’t move... quickly.” He tried to wave, but the gesture was dreamlike in its slowness. Yet his mind functioned at its usual speed, as far as he could tell.

  “There is... something... wronnngggg,” Oriabel said. Her voice came out thick and slurred, so sluggish that he had difficulty following its stretched-out words and syllables.

  Then, in mid-step, the horses halted, frozen in place as though they were equestrian statues. Guilhem could not turn his head to look at the witch. All around them the breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees and birds darted overhead; but he and she were frozen in place, paralyzed and unable to move even to blink their eyes.

  Guilhem was not, he realized with a shock, even breathing. How is it I am still alive? he wondered, straining uselessly against the force that had locked him into place. He felt as though he had been frozen in a block of ice.

  Then, from behind them on the trail, he heard someone whistling as they approached. Guilhem’s thoughts bounced between the joy that someone was coming who could possibly help, and the despair of being held helpless while their belongings were plundered.

  “Hmm, hmm, hello,” said a male voice in a cheerful manner. “Stuck, are we?” He chuckled. “Well, well. Like doves in birdlime.”

  Into their view stepped a singular personage. He wore a long and rather mussed robe of dark blue with dirty white trim on the hem and cuffs, and a strange hat swathed around his head like a turban—but it was not a turban: bright red, it had a sort of brim, with a flap wrapping around from the left to the right and was secured there with a large button. In the back, it rose to a crest-like peak. A narrow ribbon trailed down the man’s neck.

  “My, my, don’t you two look foolish.”

  The man himself was old and had a short white beard. His lower jaw was small, and his teeth large and set into a wide mouth. The eyes were close together and deeply socketed.

  He looked familiar, and after a moment Guilhem placed him. He was among the fairies outside the mosque in Córdoba! I’d recognize that ridiculous hat anywhere. What is he doing here?

  “Well, I can see that you have remembered me and are wondering at my presence here, Duke Guilhem.” His eyes narrowed for a moment. “Oh, yes, I know who you are; I have been following you, all unseen, since you left Spain. Your actions in the mosque earned my admiration and respect. And of course, you have done me an enormous favor by finishing off that revolting pile of flesh that had enslaved the Córdobans. I wouldn’t have thought to enlist the fairies for aid; they’re so unreliable. Fancy having the giants eat the thing.” He chuckled again as he began rummaging through their saddlebags. “I hear they were vomiting in the streets for days afterwards. The citizens were grateful to be freed, of course, but cleaning up after those giants... tsk tsk!”

  The old man drew forth the volume Guilhem and Oriabel had worked so hard to secure from Sh’bnagre. “Oh, and you’ve secured some others, as well. Good for you!” He brought all the purloined books around in front of the horses where the paralyzed travelers could see him. “I’d like to thank you for doing my work for me,” he said. “I really wasn’t at all sure how I was going to get that cursed book away from S’hbnagre. It’s priceless, you know. And these others will be useful as well. As I said, I owe you for helping me; unbeknownst to you, of course.” He sighed. “I suppose you deserve to see my true appearance.” He lowered his head and muttered a few words in an alien tongue.

  Immediately his form was engulfed in light, a pulsating nimbus that dazzled Guilhem’s unblinking eyes. When his vision finally cleared, he saw standing in place of the old man a boy of perhaps twelve years, wearing the same robe (though it had apparently shrunk to fit his adolescent frame) and a smaller version of his distinctive red hat. The boy was clearly the same person, for he had the same wide mouth, small lower jaw and big teeth of the old masque.

  He bowed to them. “Mojmir, at your service, duke,” he said in a high-pitched voice. “And yours, of course, Mistress Oriabel.” He straightened, grinned at them, and began going through their other supplies.

  The Bohemian magician himself! thought Guilhem, astonished at the man’s—the boy’s, rather—true appearance. How could we have guessed this?

  “Yes, yes, I know I look young, but trust me; there are more years on this frame than the two of you and your horses have among you. One of the advantages of necromancy, you know. Endless youth. Or as near as!” Mojmir chuckled once more. “Oh, good wine, this,” he added, brandishing one of Oriabel’s bottles. “I’ve tasted it before. Mmm!” He uncorked the bottle
and swigged deeply from it. “Ahhhh!”

  Guilhem couldn’t even close his eyes against the sight of this mere stripling, as Mojmir appeared to be, rifling their stores. He longed to leap from his horse and pummel the youth but could not budge.

  Mojmir slouched over to one side of the trail, where he made himself comfortable leaning against a tall elm tree. “You need have no fear that some innocent passerby will stumble upon our little tableaux, thus effecting some sort of rescue for you,” the magician said. “I’ve cast a glamour on the entire region, to the effect that anyone taking it into his head to travel this road today will find himself taking an alternate route instead.” He cut himself a piece of cheese from the wedge he had extracted from Guilhem’s bag, and devoured it. “Your health!” he added, saluting them with the wine bottle.

  He stretched in the sunlight. “Ah, spring! My favorite season A time of rebirth and renewal after the hardships of winter. I could almost fall asleep here. Mmm! But where was I? Oh yes, thanking you. As I do again. But allow me to explain the broader aspects of the situation. You see, Duke Bořivoj II and I are old enemies.” He scoffed. “Old in his terms, of course. I’ve had worthier foes over the years. But I digress... the duke has long sought a way to overthrow my stronghold, as you know, my lord, from your time with Sir Onfroi and his band of buffoons. The duke yearned to render my captive ifrit harmless so that he could attack and overwhelm me. Through his studies of dark magic and what-not he soon uncovered references to the mad Arab’s book, and realized that with the knowledge contained therein he could conquer the thing. But all copies of the book had been destroyed as being blasphemous. The only place in the world where one could be found was the mosque in Córdoba. My confederates in Bořivoj’s household swiftly informed me that Bořivoj had hired Vedastus the highwayman to fetch the mad Arab’s volume for his own uses.” He shook his head. “But the duke, I think, was unaware that S’hbnagre had been summoned from the Outer Realms. Vedastus failed to get the book, being possibly too fearful to confront the monster in its lair. For whatever reason, he returned empty handed, to the duke’s fury and my delight. I heard subsequently that poor Vedastus was taken ill. A pity. Thus are our plans frustrated by the Fates. His failure, however, meant that the book remained safe where it was, in the Great One’s care. That left the path open to me. I knew that Bořivoj would never give up his attempts to steal the volume, however. Being rather desperate by that time, he hired that braggart Sir Onfroi, wrongly judging that his simple charms and amateurish spells could somehow win past S’hbnagre.” Here he paused, and smirked at Guilhem. “How do I know this? Because I was Sir Onfroi, all along.”