Wizard Squared

by K. E. Mills

  “Reg!” he said. “How can you—”

  And then he forgot what he was going to say, because Zazoor was smiling.

  It wasn’t a good smile.

  “Highness,” the sultan said, silky with polite menace. “The payment of debt is a good thing, but Kallarap will not starve without your pennies. I am sent to you by my gods, who would have me speak with you of sacrilege. And treachery. And yes, indeed: of honesty.”

  Oh, damn. Damn, damn, damn.

  But before he could leap to the rescue Gerald shoved Reg at him and marched into the fray. “Sultan Zazoor, your quarrel is with me.”

  “What? What?” Reg thrashed in his grasp, trying to get free. “What is that idiot boy doing now?”

  Monk felt an unfamiliar sting in his eyes. Had to clear his throat before he could speak. “What does it look like, Reg? He’s being Gerald.”

  Abruptly still, Reg moaned softly, the smallest sound of distress. “I want to bloody kill that Lional.”

  “You and me both, ducky,” he said, close to snarling. “You and me both.”

  Heartsick, they watched Gerald throw himself on the mercy of the merciless Kallarapi. Confess his sins and take all the blame, not a word in his own defense, no attempt to explain. “I made the dragon because I’m weak.”

  “All right, that’s it!” Reg shrieked, and in a wild flurry of wings and tail feathers flailed her furious way to Gerald’s shoulder. “Weak my granny’s bunions! Now you listen to me, Zazoor! If you knew what that bastard Lional did to my Gerald to get that dragon you’d—”

  “The bird?” Zazoor said to Shugat.

  Shugat nodded. “The bird.”

  Zazoor considered her. “Not, I think, trained.”

  “Trained?” screeched Reg. “What do you think I am, a bloody circus act?”

  Monk kept out of it. Not even he could defend Gerald the way Reg could. And she was defending him, fearlessly tongue-lashing Zazoor and the holy man. Interestingly they let her, indulging her tirade without interruption. Melissande glanced at him once, eyebrows raised. Should I chime in, do you think? He shook his head. Reg was doing just fine on her own.

  But then Shugat climbed down off his camel and pressed his gnarled hand over Gerald’s heart. His own heart stopped beating. If this was retribution there was nothing he could do…

  It wasn’t. With a great burst of light from the crystal in his forehead the Kallarapi holy man stepped back. “The bird does not lie, my sultan. The wizard has suffered. His blood still stinks of foul enchantments.”

  His heart started beating again and he was able to breathe—until Zazoor’s dark gaze stabbed him, one hand beckoning.

  Bloody hell. This’ll teach me to poke my nose outside R&D.

  Zazoor wasn’t smiling now. “And who are you? Another wizard?”

  “Yes, Magnificence. I’m—”

  “A friend,” said Gerald, and burned him silent with a look. “Innocent of these doings. He’s not to be harmed.”

  Zazoor almost laughed. “You would stop me?”

  “I’d try.”

  The sultan’s flickering glance indicated his army, and Shugat. “You would fail.”

  Monk held his breath. Was he the only one who could tell just how shaken Gerald really was? How close he’d been pushed to losing his mind?

  Back down, mate. Back down. I can take care of myself.

  Gerald’s attention was focused solely on Zazoor. “Yes. I might fail. But not before I’d tried.”

  Zazoor laughed. “Holy Shugat. This wizard asks us to help him destroy the dragon. What is our answer?”

  As it turned out, not the one they were hoping for. Outright rejection. A refusal of aid. To be honest he wasn’t surprised—but Melissande was. She raged, she argued, she threw herself against Kallarap’s indifference. Gerald threw himself after her, but it was no use.

  “He who made the dragon must now unmake it,” Shugat pronounced, eyes rolled to slivered white crescents. “So say The Three, whose words are holy and cannot be denied.”

  And then Gerald, the mad bastard, the crazy fool, the damned hero, shrugged Reg off his shoulder and dropped to his knees. Offered himself to the Kallarapi in exchange for Melissande’s kingdom kept safe.

  Holding Reg again, standing with Melissande, the world shifted and smeared as his eyes filled with proud grief.

  Bloody hell, Gerald. Oh, bloody bloody hell.

  Then two things happened and everything changed. Melissande’s loopy brother Rupert burst among them, covered in dead butterflies, making her cry…

  … and one of Zazoor’s warriors pointed a finger and shouted.

  “Draconi! Draconi!”

  Lional’s dragon was coming, its emerald and crimson savagery blazing in the sun. For a moment, just a moment, Monk found himself transfixed. Damn. That thing’s beautiful. And then sanity returned.

  Over the Kallarapi hubbub: “Monk—Monk—”

  Gerald, tugging on his arm. Tugging him to privacy. Still holding Reg, he wrenched himself away from the glory of the dragon. “What?”

  “You’ve got to get out of here,” said Gerald, his voice low and his face worryingly intent. “Take Melissande and Rupert with you. Monk—”

  He yanked his arm free. “Forget it. I’m not leaving you here to face that thing on your own!”

  Something dreadful shifted behind Gerald’s eyes. “Why? Because you don’t trust me? Because you think Melissande’s right? I broke, so I’m broken?”

  The sharp shift in Gerald’s expression told him he’d answered before he could speak a word.

  Damn. “Gerald—”

  With a terrible smile, Gerald shook his head. “Don’t. You’re probably right. What Lional did to me… what I did…” His lips pressed to a thin line. “It’s my mess, Monk. I have to clean it up.”

  “Yeah, okay, but you don’t have to clean it up alone.”

  “If you prod the Department off its ass I won’t be alone, will I?” Then Gerald sighed. “Please, Monk?” He glanced at the royal siblings, who were clutching each other like children. “I can’t do this if I’m scared something might happen to them. Or to you.”

  God. How was he supposed to argue with that? He couldn’t. And when Melissande and Rupert tried to argue Gerald froze them with an impedimentia. Then he looked at Reg.

  “I want you to go, too.”

  “What?” the bird squawked. “Don’t be ridiculous, Gerald. I’m staying.”

  But Gerald wouldn’t hear of it… and nothing Reg said could change his stubborn mind.

  Dry-mouthed, defeated, Monk dragged the portable portal from his pocket, flicked it on and set the destination coordinates. “For the record, mate, I think this is a bad idea.”

  “Probably.” Gerald smiled again. It was still ghastly. “Thanks, Monk.”

  “Yeah, well, you want to thank me?” he retorted, scowling. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Like die. D’you hear me, Gerald? Don’t you dare bloody die.

  Gerald kissed Reg, handed her over, then stepped back. With a soft whoosh the portal opened. On a deep breath Monk grabbed Melissande’s arm, then Rupert’s. Reg’s claws were sunk deep in his shoulder. For once the bird had nothing to say.

  “All right. I’m ready.”

  The dragon was much closer. They could hear its lazy wings beating the air. The Kallarapi had fallen silent. He couldn’t bring himself to look.

  “Monk, Reg,” said Gerald, so calmly. “Take care of each other—and our royal friends. Don’t let them boss you. And Monk?”

  Oh God, oh God. Gerald didn’t think he was going to survive. The world smeared again. “Yes?”

  Another smile, a proper smile. For a moment, a heartbeat, he looked like himself. “Good luck with the princess. You’re going to need it.”

  Then Gerald released the impedimentia… and the portal swallowed them in one gulp.

  Zazoor said, “Wizard, that was honorably done.”

  Light-headed with relief, Gerald st
ared at the point where the portal had opened, swallowed his friends, then vanished. Whatever life was left to him now, be it hours or minutes or scant swift seconds, at least he could face it with some kind of peace. They were safe.

  I failed them in the cave. I let Lional break me. But now I’ve got a second chance—I won’t fail them again.

  He turned and looked at Kallarap’s sultan. “You think I’m the kind of man who’d let one more innocent life be lost if he could prevent it?”

  Shugat fingered his staff. “The kind of man you are is yet to be revealed,” he said before Zazoor could reply.

  The dragon was almost on top of them now, flames and smoke billowing in its wake. The clear air trembled.

  He sneered. “What’s that, Shugat? More of your gods’ wisdom?”

  “Yes.”

  Damn the holy man and his cryptic utterances. He took a step towards Zazoor. “Magnificence, don’t listen to him. That dragon’s dangerous, you—”

  “Oh look!” cried a lilting voice. “It’s a party and we weren’t invited. Do you know, we think our feelings are hurt.”

  Lional.

  Cold with inevitability, Gerald looked to Shugat and the sultan. Unmoved, they watched Lional make his suave, insinuating way through the ruined flowerbeds to the edge of the carriageway where grass met gravel.

  He turned to Zazoar, the blood pounding in his head. “It isn’t too late. Help me. Please.”

  Unmoved, unmoving, Zazoor sat on his ebony war camel and stared down at his holy man. Shugat inspected the tip of his staff, leathered face creased in thought, then glanced up at Zazoor. After a moment of silent communion they closed their eyes.

  So. I’m alone.

  Something… some hope or belief or faith in the ultimate goodness of man… broke inside him. Bled swiftly, quietly, flooding all the cracks and chasms of his soul.

  Lional laughed. “Gerald, Gerald. Why are you surprised? Didn’t we tell you they’re a dreadful bunch?”

  He snapped his fingers… and in a beating of wings, with a hissing song of welcome, the dragon touched lightly to the ground at his side. Sunlight trembled on its scarlet and emerald scales, striking sparks from the diamond-bright sheen of its spines. Poison, green and glowing, oozed from each razor-sharp tip. Dripped harmlessly down the dragon’s brilliant striped hide and Lional’s green silk arm. Fell to the ground… which at its touch dissolved in a cloud of noxious smoke.

  Kissing his palm to the dragon’s cheek, Lional sighed. Some subtle flow of flesh and bone rippled beneath his skin. Seemed to elongate his skull and dagger his teeth. Gerald thought he saw a shimmer of crimson scale, swift as fish-scales in a river.

  “We were hunting,” said Lional in a soft and singsong voice, subtly not his own. “The sheep, the boar, the bullock, the stag… blood like crimson nectar… but before we’d killed our fill we felt the air change. Smelled the rank unwelcome coming of the nasty little man with his stone of power and we thought…”

  Abruptly, Lional blinked. The dragon blinked. They stirred as though waking from a dream. Two creatures, one mind. Their living connection absolute. It was terrible… and beautiful. Then Lional smiled, a bright flashing of teeth, and the shadows beneath his skin sank from sight.

  “Well, well, well,” he drawled. He sounded himself again. “Hello, Zazoor. What brings you and your holy lapdog to my kingdom? And without an invitation. So rude!”

  If Zazoor was unnerved by the ravening beast just feet away he gave no sign. He might have been attending a tedious tea party or receiving a tiresome guest in his own home. “What brings us here, Lional? Fate. Destiny. The will of the Three.”

  Lional’s smile widened. “Can’t you make up your mind? Well, it’s nice to see some things never change.”

  Zazoor’s answering smile was deadly. “When we were at school, Lional, I knew you for a cowardly boy who bullied and cheated to get his way. Now you are a man grown and you resort to torture when bullying and cheating no longer suffice. Indeed you have the right of it, my old school chum: truly, some things never change.”

  Lional’s smile vanished. His caressing fingers—with nails longer and thicker than they’d been just yesterday—dropped from the dragon’s face and his blue eyes darkened, the flickering red flame in their depths leaping high.

  “Burn them, my darling. Burn them to ash.”

  The dragon roared, its lower jaw unhinging to reveal a cauldron of fire. Flames writhing green and scarlet burst from its dagger-toothed mouth. Swift as a striking snake Shugat snatched the stone from his forehead and held out his hand. A bolt of blue-white light collided with the gushing fire. There was a hissing of steam and stinking smoke like hot lava striking an arctic sea. The dragon screamed, rearing on its hind legs, wings thrashing. Lional, fingers clawing desperately at his mouth, screamed with it.

  Gerald turned on Shugat. “See? You can hurt them! For God’s sake, Shugat, you have to help me!”

  Shugat glared, his eyes like the heart of a distant sun. He opened his mouth as if to speak… then froze. His eyes rolled back in his head, his arm flung wide and his tight-clutched staff began to shiver and twist.

  The stone he held exploded into life.

  Its surge of power drove Gerald to his knees. As he struggled to breathe he heard Lional, shrieking, and the dragon’s echoing roar. He looked up.

  Lional’s fingernails had gouged deep furrows in his face; blood flowed from his cheeks, his lips, his chin. The dragon was wounded too, its scales cracked and blackened, thick gore bubbled and stinking. But within moments the scales healed, and with them Lional’s wounds. His hands came up, fingers curved into talons, and his eyes were soaked in scarlet.

  Shugat moved in a blur of speed. As a stream of foul curses spewed from Lional’s lips he swept staff and stone in an arc that encompassed himself, his sultan and the entire Kallarapi army. In its wake sprang a translucent domed barrier; motionless within, Shugat and Zazoor and the warriors of Kallarap waited.

  Stranded, unprotected, Gerald watched Lional and his dragon throw flame and vitriol and the worst curses in history at the holy man’s shimmering shield. Spittle flew from Lional’s mouth and green poison poured down the dragon’s teeth, turning the ground beneath their feet to acid mud as the attack went on and on.

  Still the shield held.

  Exhausted, half-fainting, Lional fell back, one hand grasping at his dragon’s spines to stop himself from falling. Equally spent, the dragon lowered its head and panted, wings limp and splayed upon the ruined grass.

  Inside the barrier Shugat’s eyes unrolled. He sighed, arms falling to his sides. Looked at Gerald, one wild eyebrow lifting in sarcastic invitation.

  Oh. Right. Gerald ran.

  The flowerbeds at the far edge of the palace gardens had somehow escaped untouched, with unburned blossoms rising rank upon perfumed, bee-buzzed rank. With the last of his strength he dived headfirst into a cloying collection of hollyhocks, daisies and snapdragons.

  Ha.

  Panting, he snatched up his arms and legs thinking: hedgehog. This far from the palace, to his shamed relief, he couldn’t smell the stench of the dragon’s kill. Thank God. Images of Lional and the dragon rose like flames before him.

  Kill them? He’d never kill them.

  Oh God. I really am going to die.

  Some six inches from his nose a rustling of leaf litter. He sucked in moist, compost-rich air, unmoving. Another rustle. And then a lizard, a skink, skinny and brown with only one good eye, darted out from under a leaf and stopped, nervously scenting the air with its tiny tongue.

  Gerald held his breath. Memory replayed recent, desperate words.

  “I’m the only wizard with a hope against Lional. But only if I fight with the same weapons he’s got!”

  When he’d said it he was convinced that meant using Lional’s stolen copy of Grummen’s Lexicon. But what if… what if…

  You know what they say. Fight fire with fire. Or… dragon with dragon?

  His stun
ned mind reeled. No. He was mad. How the hell could it possibly work? As lizards went this one was pathetic. With its left eye shriveled, practically crippled. Its matrix would make a piss-poor dragon; even with the strongest magic this little skink could never hope to match the brute muscularity and mindless viciousness of the Bearded Spitting lizard Bondaningo Greenfeather had found for Lional. The dragons would never be equal: magic could only do so much. And that meant…

  I’m sorry, Reg. I’m sorry, Monk. I don’t have a choice. Lional has to be stopped.

  At all costs, the monster had to be stopped. And this weak, tiny, half-blind lizard wasn’t the answer.

  I’m not the answer. I’m not good enough. Whatever tricks I’ve done here, I did by luck and accident. I have no idea what I’m doing. And when push came to shove… when I needed to be strong?

  He’d seen the truth in Melissande’s eyes. Worse—in Monk’s. They didn’t think he could defeat Lional… and they were right. He couldn’t. Not without a special kind of help. And if Shugat wouldn’t give it to him then his only sure chance of saving New Ottosland from its insane king was with Grummen’s Lexicon—and any other handy texts Lional might’ve left lying around.

  And when it’s over, and that mad bastard’s finished, the Department can de-incant me. They must have some kind of top secret apparatus for stunts like that. And if they don’t, well, Monk can invent one. After the portable portal he should be able to take care of that little problem in his sleep.

  With another rustle of leaf litter, the tiny half-blind lizard turned tail and scuttled back under cover. Feeling sick, Gerald hoisted himself onto his elbows and risked a look around the gardens then up at the sky No sign of Lional or his hideously beautiful dragon. So he’d best make a run back to the palace now because there was no way of knowing how long this sliver of luck would last.

  Probably Lional and his dragon will broil me alive as my fingers touch the handle on the palace’s back door… and who’s to say it wouldn’t serve me right?

  But that kind of thinking wasn’t helpful. If Reg could hear him she’d be severely unimpressed. On a deep breath he rose to a crouch, got his bearings on the palace—and ran.

  Breath rasping in his throat, elbows flapping, knees pumping—he’d never been one for sports, not even at small school—he sprinted, more or less, towards the nearest bit of palace he could reach. Every gasp of death-tainted air churned his belly. He caught a smeary glimpse of Shugat and Zazoor and their camel army, serenely safe within their milky shield.