After what seemed like hours, quiet and darkness descended again. Valder lay absolutely still. For a long moment the only sound was the hissing of burning debris as it was extinguished by the marsh; then a voice called out. Valder could not understand the words. He whispered, “Do you know what he’s saying?”
“No,” the old man answered. “I told you, I don’t know their language.”
Another voice called back to the first, and both laughed.
Then came the sound of feet slogging through the marsh with no attempt at stealth.
“They must think we’re dead,” Valder whispered.
“That’s the idea,” the wizard replied.
They lay still as footsteps splashed about; when the sound stopped for a moment Valder risked a glance and saw two of the northerners poking about the smoking crater, carrying torches. One stopped, knelt, then stood, holding out something for his companion to see. Valder squinted. He couldn’t be sure, but the object looked like a scorched bone.
The northerners exchanged a few words in their own language, and one gave a short, unpleasant laugh, then glanced around at the surrounding marshland. Valder froze. The northerner’s eyes came to rest looking directly at the spot where the two Ethsharites lay. The man called something to his companion, then marched toward them, moving out of Valder’s line of sight. Valder did not dare to shift his eyes.
A moment later a boot splashed into the marsh beside him and a hand gripped his hair and pulled him up. The pull hurt, but Valder kept himself limp, refusing to react, playing dead. Blood dripped from his beard.
He toyed briefly with the idea of pulling his knife and taking the northerner by surprise, but the sorcerer was waiting, watching from the rim of the crater, and Valder did not think much of the idea of suicide, even when taking an enemy with him. He had too much to live for. He hung limp in the northerner’s grasp.
Then the man dropped him, and he fell heavily to the mud; the side of his face stung with the impact, but he kept still. Done with Valder, the northerner rolled the wizard over with his foot; the old man’s arm fell splashing into the water.
Satisfied, the northerner called something, then turned and slogged off across the marsh. A moment later Valder made out two other sets of footsteps moving away. The torchlight, too, receded, leaving the Ethsharites in darkness.
When the footsteps were safely out of earshot, Valder waited for another long moment to be certain, his face in the mud and his nose full of the stench of decaying aquatic life. Finally, he cautiously raised his head and peered about. He saw no sign of anyone anywhere, save himself and the wizard. A few sparks still smoldered here and there among the grasses, insects chirped, and both moons were in the sky, but in general the night was dark and silent.
Slowly and carefully he rose to his knees and then to his feet, water streaming from the folds of his drenched tunic and kilt and pouring out from inside his breastplate. When no one shouted and no lights or sorcerous weapon-flashes appeared, he reached down and helped the bedraggled and gory little wizard up.
The old man stood, a trifle unsteady at first, and brushed at the mud that caked the front of his robe, shaking mud and water from his hands between strokes. He ignored the torrents of drying blood. When he decided that he had removed what he could, he stood, dripping, and gazed through the smoky gloom at the crater where his home had been.
When the sight had had time to sink in, he turned on Valder, fists clenched and shaking, and screamed, “You stupid fool! You led them right to me! Now look what they’ve done!”
“Don’t shout,” Valder whispered desperately. “We don’t know how far they’ve gone, or how well shatra can hear.”
The wizard ceased shouting and glanced at the distant line of trees, faintly visible in the moonlight. When no menacing figures appeared, he pointed an accusing finger at the crater. “Look at that!” he cried.
“I’m sorry,” Valder said with genuine contrition, uncomfortable speaking to what looked like a mangled corpse. “I didn’t know they would do anything like that.”
“You didn’t know,” the wizard mocked. “Well, soldier, you know now. And what do I do, now that they’ve blown my house to powder looking for you? Do you know that? I haven’t even had my dinner!”
“I’m sorry,” Valder repeated helplessly. “What can I do?”
“Haven’t you done enough? Why don’t you just go away and leave me alone? The moons are up; you’ll be able to see.”
“Oh, I can’t just leave; what would you do, here alone?”
“What would I do? I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I’ll rebuild my house, just as I built it before, restock my supplies somehow, though I don’t know how, and go on with my research just as if you had never come along, you blundering idiot!”
“Your supplies? All those bottles and jars?”
“That’s right, all those jars. I had everything from dragon’s blood to virgin’s tears, twenty years of careful scrimping and saving and pilfering, and the gods alone can know how I’ll ever replace it all!”
“I’ll stay and do what I can to help...”
“I don’t want your help! Just go away!”
“Where am I supposed to go? The patrol thinks I’m dead, but I’m still cut off, a hundred miles behind enemy lines. I might as well stay here and help you rebuild; I can’t go home.”
“I don’t want your help.” The wizard’s tone had changed from righteous fury to petulance.
“You’re stuck with it, unless you can figure out how to get me back to friendly territory.”
The wizard stared at him resentfully. “Just walk back. No one will bother a walking corpse.”
“The spell is permanent?” Valder was horrified. The idea of spending the rest of his life gushing illusory blood was unappetizing, to say the least.
“No,” the wizard admitted. “It wears off in a day or so.”
“It took me two months to come this far north!”
“Well, I can’t fly you out with my supplies all gone! Even the simplest levitation I know needs ingredients I haven’t got any more.” He paused; before Valder could speak, he continued, “I have an idea, though. Give me your sword. You’ve been waving it about; we might as well use it.”
“What?” Valder realized he was still holding his drawn sword; he had never sheathed it after cutting through the wall of the hut and had picked it up without thinking when he got to his feet. “What do you want it for?”
“I want to get rid of you, idiot.”
“How? By killing me?”
“No, of course not. You may be a fool, but that’s not enough reason to kill you. I don’t kill anybody. Besides, you are an Ethsharite, even if you are an idiot, and I’m still a loyal Ethsharite myself, even out here.”
“Then what do you want my sword for?”
“I’m going to enchant it. I’m going to put every spell I can find on it, every enchantment I can come up with that might help you fight your way back and out of my life forever.”
“Can you do that without your supplies?”
“I can do something; I know a few spells that don’t take anything fancy, and a couple of them are good ones. It may not be the greatest magic sword in the world when I’m done, but it will get you home, I promise you. I’ve got one spell I invented myself that I’m sure will do it, and it doesn’t need any ingredients I can’t find here in the marsh. If you stay around here very long, I may kill you, Ethsharite or not — and neither of us wants that to happen.”
Valder was still reluctant to give up his weapon, though the offer was tempting. He had not really wanted to build a boat and sail down the coast; he was no sailor, and storm season was approaching. He couldn’t even swim. “How do I know I can trust you?” he asked.
The wizard snorted. “You don’t need to trust me. You’re twice my size and a third my age; I’m a feeble little old man and you’re a trained, healthy young soldier. Even if I had the sword, you could handle me, couldn’t you? You’ve got the
knife on your belt; I’m not leaving you defenseless.”
Valder remained wary. “You’re a wizard, though, not just an old man.”
“Well, then, if I’m a powerful enough wizard to handle you, how much difference can that stupid sword make? I’ve already got my own dagger, if I need a blade for some spell. You can’t have it both ways; either I’m too old and feeble to worry about, or I already have the advantage. Look, soldier, I’m in no hurry. I can’t do any magic to speak of until morning, because I’ll need to see what I’m doing. You can either get yourself out of here before dawn, or you can stay and let me enchant your sword — or you can stay and annoy me enough that I’ll turn you into... into something unpleasant. That would be better than killing you, at least. You suit yourself. Right now I’m going to try and get some sleep and see if I can forget that I haven’t had my dinner and that my house is a pile of ash. You do as you please.” He turned and stamped his way up out of the marsh onto the mounded rim of the crater.
Valder stood for a moment, sword in hand and his bare feet in briny muck, thinking it over.
After due consideration he shrugged and followed the old man.
CHAPTER 3
The rain began around midnight, Valder judged, though after the clouds covered the moons it was hard to be sure of the time. It trailed off into morning mist an hour or two before dawn. He was soaked through and had slept very little when the sun’s rays managed to slip through the trees to the southeast and spill across the marsh, slowly burning away the mist. Worst of all, he was dreadfully thirsty and ravenously hungry; he was unsure whether a splash of marsh water was responsible, or the blood of the Sanguinary Deception, but something had disrupted his Spell of Sustenance. The bloodstone was still secure in its pouch, but his fast had been broken.
The wizard had stayed dry throughout the rain, Valder noticed when the morning light illuminated the old man’s white hair; it was still a tangle of knots and fluff smeared with phantasmal blood but not plastered to his head as Valder’s was. The soldier assumed that the hermit had achieved this enviable state of desiccation by somehow keeping the aversion spell going.
The old man did not appear very comfortable, though; at first light he was up and pawing through the debris that lined the crater where his house had stood, spattering unreal gore in all directions.
He did not appear to be performing a spell, but Valder never felt very confident when dealing with unfamiliar magicians of any sort and knew better than to risk interrupting a wizard at work. Besides, by daylight the lingering effects of the Deception made the little hermit unspeakably repulsive.
Valder had spent the night curled up between two grassy mounds, above the waterline but still fairly sheltered. Now he climbed up atop one of the hillocks and settled down to watch the old man.
The hermit heard the rustling and looked up. “Oh, there you are, soldier,” he said. “Have you seen anything to eat?”
“No,” Valder said. “Have you?”
“No, and I’m hungry. My stomach has been growling for hours. I missed my dinner, you know.”
“I know. I’m hungry, too, and thirsty.”
“Oh. Spell broke, did it? Can’t say I’m really sorry, after all the trouble you’ve brought me. There’s a clean stream back in the woods, over that way,” he said, pointing vaguely northeast. “If you can find something that will hold water, go fetch some. You can drink your fill while you’re there; I don’t care. I’m going to see about catching some breakfast, since I can’t find anything left of my pantry. You might bring back some firewood, too, so I can cook whatever I find; everything here is either soaked or already burned.”
Valder nodded. The old man’s tone was not very friendly, but at least he was willing to talk. “I’ll do my best,” he answered.
“Do that,” the hermit replied. “Oh, and give me your sword; I want to look it over.”
“You still intend to enchant it somehow?”
“Oh, yes; how else can I get rid of you quickly? I’ve found a few things here; I’ll manage. Now, give me that thing and see if you can find something that doesn’t leak.”
Valder shrugged; he made his way across the blasted remains of the hut to where the wizard prowled and handed over his sword and sheath. After all, he told himself, he wouldn’t need it while fetching water, and he would need both hands. The northerners were gone, and he could handle most other dangers, either by running or with his dagger.
The old man accepted the weapon and looked it over casually, noting the ugly but serviceable workmanship — bow grip, straight blade, without any frills or ornamentation. He nodded. “It should do very well. Go get some water.”
Valder said nothing, but began looking for a container.
A quick circuit of the crater showed nothing suitable for the job, but a second glance at one of the outer slopes turned up the top half of a very large glass jar, the lid still screwed tightly in place; Valder hoped that would serve. Careful of the jagged edge, he cradled it in one arm and headed off in the direction the old man had indicated.
Unlike the old man, however, he had not spent years living in the marsh and learning its every twist and turn; he found himself slogging across muddy ditches, climbing over crumbling sandpiles, wading through branches of the sea, and pushing through reeds and rough grasses. His unshod feet acquired a variety of cuts, scrapes, and bites; his socks were soaked through and rapidly falling to tatters. Eventually he gave up following the direct route through the marsh and instead turned his path toward the nearest dry land. Once firmly ashore on solid ground, under the familiar pines, he turned north and made his way along the edge of the marsh until he came to a stream he assumed to be the one the old man had pointed out.
The water was clear, but salty and brackish; he turned and walked upstream, cursing the wizard.
Roughly a hundred yards from where he had first tasted the water, the stream poured down across a rocky outcropping, spilling exuberantly from one pool into another along a narrow stony path down the face of a rise in the ground. The water in the upper pool was fresh, sweet, and cold; Valder lay on his belly and drank eagerly.
When he lifted his face, he was momentarily shocked to see blood swirling downstream; then he remembered the Deception and laughed.
He rinsed out his broken jar, then filled it, and was relieved to see that it could still hold a decent quantity of water. He left the jar on the bank of the stream while he looked for firewood.
Fresh pine, he knew, smoked and spat. Any wood was less than ideal when green, but pine was especially unsatisfactory. He looked about in hopes of finding something better.
The best, he could do was a fallen limb, perhaps once the top of a tree but now a crooked, dried-out chunk of wood as long as he was tall and as thick as his forearm. Broken up, with kindling beneath, he judged it would serve well enough.
He gathered a pouchful of twigs and dry needles to start the fire with, then tucked the full jar in the bend of one arm, hefted the limb in his other hand, and headed back toward the marsh.
The journey back was even more difficult than the trip out. Although he knew better where he was going and what terrain he faced, he had the added problems of keeping the water in the inverted half of a jar and keeping the wood, already wet from the night’s rain, from becoming even wetter. This last proved virtually impossible in crossing the marsh, but he managed to reach the crater with only one end of the branch newly soaked and with several inches of water still in his makeshift container.
The old man did not immediately acknowledge his return; the wizard was bent over the sword, inscribing blue-glowing runes in the air an inch above the blade with the tip of his finger. His false wounds appeared to be healing, Valder noticed, and some color had returned to his face. Valder dropped the tree-limb on a convenient mound of earth, placed the water container nearby, and glanced around.
Some semblance of organization had been created, turning the crater from simple desolation to a camp among the ruins
. A small pile of crabs lay to one side of the wizard; that, Valder guessed, would be breakfast, though he could not imagine how anyone could have found so many crabs so quickly in such northern waters as these. Arranged about the wizard were various elements of his arcane paraphernalia — a fragmentary skull, small glittering stones, shards of this and that, and five broken candle-stubs. Valder marveled that any candles could have survived the preceding night’s inferno.
After a long moment, as he was beginning to wonder whether there was anything he should be doing, the wizard looked up at Valder and said, “Cook the crabs, why don’t you? Boil them, if you think that thing will hold water well enough.”
Valder looked at the crabs, then looked at the broken jar, and then looked back at the wizard. “I thought you were thirsty,” he said.
“No, I’m hungry; you were thirsty. Cook the crabs.”
Annoyed, Valder scooped four of the crabs into the broken jar and set about building a fire. He had no trouble in breaking the wood into suitable lengths and arranging it over the tinder, but found that the twigs and needles were still damp from the rain, though he had chosen the driest he could find, and would not light readily. He knelt, smothering curses lest he accidentally say something that might let demons interfere with the wizard’s spell-making, and struck spark after spark without success.
After several minutes he sat back on his haunches and found the old man standing beside him. Without a word, the wizard extended a forefinger that flamed at the tip like a candle, his nail serving as the wick, as he had the night before when lighting the lamp. He thrust it into the little heap of tinder, which flared up immediately.
That done, he snuffed his finger by curling it into his palm, then used his other hand to flick a yellowish powder on the young flames. He said one unfamiliar word. With a sudden roar, the fire leaped up and engulfed wood and jar alike; a second later the wood was burning steadily and naturally, the water beginning to steam slightly.
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