Wizard Squared

by K. E. Mills

  Bloody hell, Markham. I’ll owe you for this.

  Meeting his gaze, Monk flicked him a wink. Nonchalant on the surface, but terrified underneath. And he wasn’t the only one. If either of them made even the smallest mistake…

  No. No. Don’t think like that, Dunnywood. You can do this. It’s your job.

  He took a deep breath, then let it out. One more. One more. This world’s Reg had turned herself around on the dais railings. She was staring right at him, her eyes full of love. He couldn’t look at her. He had to look away.

  Oh, God. Reg. Where are you? Come on… come on…

  With a silent peal like thunder the etheretic amplifier’s process approached its peak strength. Feeling it, many of the captive wizards and witches cried out. The other Gerald shouted, a raw, shocking sound of triumph, his potentia shuddering—and then he started to recite the incant for his planned mass shadbolting.

  “Now, Monk!” Gerald shouted. Then, as Monk triggered the hexes they’d planted in the machine he spun around to face his dreadful other self. Unleashed his own tarnished potentia, lashing out at the other Gerald to throw him off stride and disrupt his shadbolt incant.

  Take that, you bastard. Bloody well take that!

  But the other Gerald wasn’t easily knocked off stride. Shaking with fury, he pointed at Monk and snapped his fingers. Monk dropped, writhing, as his shadbolt woke and sank its claws deep.

  Gerald leaped forward but Monk waved him back. “Don’t be an idiot!” he grunted, choking with pain. “Stop him while you still can!”

  “Stop me?” echoed the other Gerald. His wide eyes were mad, promising an appalling retribution. “You bloody idiots. You morons! You can’t!”

  Laughing, he continued reciting the mass shadbolting hex.

  Gerald spared one last look at Monk, tormented and shuddering against a dais railing post. And then he banished outrage and anguish and focused on the plan. The machine’s etheretic amplification wave was still building but Monk’s triggered incant had reversed its direction, sent it seeking, like an arrow, a rogue wizard’s potentia. He staggered, feeling its power.

  Bloody hell, Monk. I hope we know what we’re doing.

  And then there was no time for wondering, hardly any time to think at all. He’d baited his counterpart’s machine with the unique thaumaturgical signature that they shared—and if he could work out how to deflect the amplifier’s attention from himself right now—before the other Gerald realized—before the wave of power found them both—

  Oh bugger. Oh, bugger. I don’t know what to do.

  He’d thought he could wing it. He’d thought he could make it up as he went along, avoid tumbling headfirst into his own clever trap—

  And I can. I can. I’ve got a knack for improvisation. What do I need? What do I need? Bloody hell, I need not to be me…

  With a blur of inspiration shooting through him faster than thought, he turned on his shivering friend and snatched at his potentia, as though Monk were a paint pot and he wanted to slather himself green. Not knowing how to do it, precisely, knowing only that he could, even through the mauling claws of the cruel, confining shadbolt. Monk cried out, a sound of fresh shock and pain. Ruthless, he ignored that. For a heartbeat—and a heartbeat—and another pounding heartbeat—he smeared himself with Monk’s brilliant thaumic signature. Made up his own masking incant on the fly. Made himself not-Gerald. As good as invisible. He hoped.

  Come on… come on… come on…

  And all the while the other Gerald, oblivious, lost in a trance of his own grimoire making, wove his web to ensnare a whole world. Hidden in plain sight, Gerald shifted his attention. Now for the second impossible part of the plan. He needed to jigger with that shadbolt hex and in doing so fool the other Gerald’s shadbolt-proofing into failure. Trick it into accepting the very incant it was designed to defeat.

  On a breath, on a sigh, he eased his potentia into the shadbolt’s matrix. Just like he’d eased it into Haf Rottlezinder’s warding hex. Sneaky—stealthy—he was a janitor’s janitor—

  An odd thaumic click. A subtle etheretic vibration. Done. The shadbolt matrix was altered. The shadbolt-proofing would be blind. With a shiver, the redirected amplified etheretic carrier wave began to shift and—

  And then—oh, bloody hell—things went ass over elbows in the worst possible way.

  “Gerald!” Bibbie shouted, pointing skywards. “Gerald, look!”

  Everyone on the parade ground and the dais was looking and pointing… and suddenly the sky had too many airships in it.

  “It’s the UMN!” cried Attaby. “God be praised! We’re saved!”

  Abandoning incantation the other Gerald turned on him, ferocious. “D’you think so, you tosser?”

  A single word, a clenched fist, and Ottosland’s shadbolted Prime Minister dropped dead.

  Pandemonium on the dais. Pandemonium in the sky. The other Gerald’s armed airships started shooting at the green and black UMN airships—and the city of Ott erupted in noise and fire.

  “Gerald!” screamed Bibbie, reaching for him. “Gerald, what are we going to do?”

  The other Gerald wrenched his arm free and shoved her aside. “Shut up, you silly bitch,” he snarled. “I’m going to finish what I started! Once I’ve harnessed these sheep’s potentias I’ll burn those airships with a look.”

  Holding his breath, heart racing, Gerald stepped back. Any moment now, any moment… the ether was shuddering again, the jiggered shadbolt incant burgeoning. Despite the interruption the other Gerald hadn’t noticed. It was all coming together—the plan was going to work—

  Hold on, Monk—hold on, mate—we’re nearly home—hold on—

  The shadbolt incant ignited just as the amplified etheretic wave struck home, enveloping the other Gerald in a giant thaumic maelstrom. Bibbie shrieked, the other wizards on the dais echoed her surprise, and Gerald flung up his arms against the tremendous flash of heat and light. Moments later the ether cleared, and his vision cleared with it. Dizzy with relief, he lowered his arms.

  The other Gerald, unshadbolted, backhanded him across the face. “Are you a moron? You’re a moron! Did you think I wouldn’t know? Did you think I wouldn’t feel you piss-assing about with my incant? What—you thought you could touch me? Me? The greatest wizard ever born?”

  Choking, Gerald pushed himself off the dais railing. His face was on fire. Over the other Gerald’s shoulder he could see Bibbie, avid for revenge. He could see the shadbolted government and its servants, broken by Attaby’s death. The air stank of discharged thaumics and burning airships. Battle raged over their heads, gunfire and screaming. The air boomed and blossomed with scalding heat and raging sound. Too soon to tell where victory would belong. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Monk, up on his elbows. Released from the shadbolt’s punishment, at least for now. The other Reg had hopped down beside him, her long beak still bound with ribbon the color of blood.

  I want my Reg. The real Reg. Bloody hell, woman, where are you?

  Eyes stinging, he looked again at this world’s terrible Gerald. “Did you think I wouldn’t try to stop you?”

  “And did you think, Professor, that I’d ever give you the chance?” Grinning, gloating, the other Gerald snapped his fingers. “Didn’t you learn anything from what happened in New Ottosland? Didn’t drinking wine with Lional put you off swallowing things for life?”

  Swallowing things? Swallowing things? What the hell was he—and then he understood. The crystal.

  Pain knocked him to his knees.

  The other Gerald was laughing, no, giggling with his glee. “I can’t believe you fell for it, Gerald. Bloody hell, you are so soft. You were so worried about saving Monk and Melissande and whoever that you forgot to save yourself. I swear, I could weep for you. Thank God I found those grimoires. When I think I could be you right now? I swear, I could vomit for a week.” Smile vanishing, he clenched his fist. “Get up.”

  Powerless, he stood.

  “Now
kill our good friend Monk, Gerald, because he’s been a naughty boy. Go on. Not all of the hexes in that crystal were for my use, you know. You’ve got what you need to squish him like a flea. So come on. Squish him. I want to see him bleed.”

  The taint in his potentia stirred. He could feel the shadbolt incant waking, over-riding his own proof against compulsion. Its shadow crawled before his eyes, blotting out the fitful sunlight and plunging him into a nightmare dark. Growing dim, the sound of airships fighting overhead. Growing distant, the sight of Monk at his feet. Growing stronger, the urge to obey.

  The other Gerald slapped him again, more kindly this time. “Well? What are you waiting for? I’ve given you an order. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve got a bit of a crisis on our hands. Gonegal and his UMN busybodies, trying to take the country from me. From us. We’re going to run things together, Gerald. I can’t do any of this without you. So kill the bastard, would you? He’s standing in our way.”

  Dreamily he nodded. Dreamily he turned. Monk Markham groveled at his feet, eyes filled with terror. The bird was crouched beside him, her eyes hot with rage. Bloody Reg. Tie her beak with red ribbon and she’d still poke it where it wasn’t wanted. He frowned. Reg.

  Don’t I know something about Reg?

  Never mind. It’d keep. Right now he had to kill Markham. Behind him, Bibbie was bleating something. The other Gerald—the better Gerald—silenced her with a slap. Bloody Markham shoved himself onto his knees.

  “Gerald—for pity’s sake—fight it!” he shouted. “Fight him. This isn’t you, mate. If you do this—God, if you do this—”

  “Put a sock in it, Monk,” he said, and raised his fist.

  Monk went down screaming. The air itself was screaming. But—no, no, actually that was an airship of the United Magical Nations. Engulfed in flames, it plummeted blazing towards the ground. And that would likely be his problem too—but not yet. Not until meddling Monk Markham was finally taken care of.

  “That’s it!” said the other Gerald, wildly encouraging. “Finish him, sunshine. We don’t need him any more.”

  No, they didn’t, did they? It was time for Monk to go.

  “Goodbye, Monk,” he said quietly. “Don’t fight it. Just let it happen. It won’t hurt as much that way.”

  For the second time he raised his fist. Clenched it tighter—and simultaneously tightened the killing hex. Monk sucked in a deep breath, eyes wide with disbelief. His throat worked—it worked—and blood trickled from his eyes.

  A shriek of outrage. A whirling comet of brown feathers. And then there were claws in his hair and hard wings beating about his head.

  “Gerald Dunwoody, what the hell are you doing?”

  Stunned, he staggered backwards. Monk dropped to the dais again. And then his attacker was yanked away. But—but—it was Reg.

  “Two of them?” said the other Gerald, his eyes narrowed. “How can there be two of them? Two of them is two too many! How did you get here? Which world are you from?”

  This new Reg was suspended in midair, held fast by the other Gerald’s thaumaturgical fist. “How do you think, you manky pillock?” she said. “I was traveling in the portal with Gerald. When you yanked him out I caught his coat-tails, so to speak. And I’ve been in hiding, keeping an eye on him, ever since.”

  “Is that so?” said the other Gerald, his eyes still narrow with dislike and suspicion. “I find it hard to believe.”

  “Then how do you explain it?” the bird demanded. “You think I hitched a ride here on an interdimensional sprite? You opened a window between my world and yours and I flew right through it. So let that be a lesson to you. Next time stay in your own bloody backyard!”

  “Actually,” said the other Gerald, smiling, “I think I’d rather let this be a lesson for you.”

  Feather by feather, Reg burst into flame.

  Monk was screaming again, not in pain but in horror. The other bird with the red ribbon beak was flapping and flailing in avian distress. The other Gerald was laughing. In the blue crowded sky airships burned in hot, bright sympathy.

  Reg… Reg… Reg…

  Gerald felt something inside him twist—and tear—and break. Felt his rogue potentia overtake him like a tidal wave come to shore. It obliterated whatever hold the other Gerald had upon him. Obliterated too any sense of decency or restraint. Cast him free of all restrictions and let fury off its leash. Unleashed instinct with it, and a wild, wailing grief.

  Reg.

  Throwing his head back he screamed to the fiery sky.

  “Draconi! Draconi! Draconi revenanto!”

  Helpless before his blinding rage the ether seethed and surged and rushed to do his bidding. The other Gerald, startled, loosened his fingers and let the charred birdish skeleton in his grasp tumble to ash.

  “Gerald? Gerald! What d’you think you’re doing?”

  Reg.

  He had no words for this creature with the two seeing eyes. No words, no forgiveness, no desire to redeem.

  Somebody in the crowd of witches and wizards cried out. “Run! Run! It’s the dragon!”

  Pandemonium again—and this time it won the day. Shadbolted or not every captive in the walled ceremonial parade ground broke free of obedient terror and fled. They stampeded from the dais, they stampeded to the gates. They crushed the hideous exhibits beneath their racing feet.

  Bibbie was crying. “Gerald—Gerald, stop him. Make him stop this. Gerald!”

  The other Gerald turned on her. “Shut up, Emmerabiblia, you stupid whining cow!”

  “What?” She stared at him, dumbfounded. “What did you call me? How dare you, Gerald, after I—”

  “I told you to shut up!”

  Emmerabiblia, like Lord Attaby, fell dead without a sound.

  Hardly even noticing, the other Gerald raised both fists. “Think I’m impressed with your parlor tricks, Professor? Think you can scare me by waving a dead dragon in my face? I killed that dragon. I killed the man who had it made. And now, because you’re a moron, I’m going to kill you.”

  He shook his head, shuddering. Reg. “No, Gerald. You’re not.”

  The other Gerald—his counterpart—absolutely his evil twin—flushed crimson with fury. The ether trembled, twisting dark with his rage. A hot wind stinking of cinders and burned blood whipped up out of nowhere. Above them the airships began to plunge like wild horses.

  And riding the scorching thermals came the dragon, reborn.

  Feeling it, calling it, Gerald stood silent and stared at himself. Smiled as his counterpart threw curse after curse at him, tried to reignite that controlling incant, tried to set him on fire with a word. He was impervious to all of it, his potentia sheathing him like tempered glass. Every killing incant flowed down him, every murdering hex washed away. He was cold, he was so cold, yet something burned inside him. Burned hot, burned bright, burned itself as it burned.

  Blimey. I think I’m dying.

  But that didn’t matter—provided he watched his other self die first.

  Reg.

  The dragon came screaming, poison pouring from its mouth. Came beating the smoky air with its beautiful emerald wings. He heard Monk say something, and turned his head, and smiled.

  “It’s all right, Monk. It’s not here for you. Stand still, and it’ll pass. Stand still. Don’t run.”

  Exhausted, for the moment, the other Gerald let his arms drop. “You’re a fool, Professor,” he said, his breathing ragged. “I made that thing. I control it. It won’t come after me.”

  He smiled. “You made it. You killed it. I brought it back to life.” Eyes drifting closed, he reached out to the dragon. Whispered sweetly into its dead, empty heart. “He’s the one, draconi. He’s the one who took your love.”

  “Took what? I did what?” The other Gerald stepped backwards. “What are you talking about?”

  Gerald opened his eyes and laughed. “The Tantigliani sympathetico, you moron. It binds man and beast heart to heart. Kill one and you kill both. Kill one,
and murder love.”

  The other Gerald blanched to snow. “You’re lying. That’s a lie.”

  He looked up. “Really? Am I? Well, you tell her that.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The crimson and emerald dragon came swooping. The other Gerald, on a choked cry, threw his strongest incants at her. She brushed them aside like the smoky air. Like they were nothing. Like her bright shining scales were sheathed in tempered glass.

  The other Gerald screamed once as the great talons caught him. Screamed again, blood dripping, as the dragon wheeled away.

  Still watching, Gerald breathed out a sigh. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “But you were never meant to be.”

  He snapped his fingers once… and where a dragon flew with a wizard in its talons, within a slow heartbeat the sky was full of fresh fire. And in another heartbeat even that vanished, and victorious airships filled the eye.

  “Gerald. Gerald. Bloody hell, Dunnywood! Come on, mate, we’ve got to go!”

  He swung around and there was Monk, the portable portal in his hand. A few feet distant a small bluish-red light, expanding… and in the ether a dreadful deep, twisting moan.

  “Gerald!” said Monk again, and gestured at the sky. “Are you with me? Get ready!”

  The green and black UMN airships were drifting lower, rope ladders unfurling from their underslung passenger pods, close enough now to nearly touch the ground. Behind them the sound of heavy running feet. He turned and saw more UMN personnel, felt their martial potentias like iron in the ether.

  He nodded, feeling dreamy. Feeling very, very tired. “I’m with you. Just say the word.”

  There was a pile of charred feather and bone on the dais. He knew it was there, but he wasn’t going to look. He wasn’t going to look at this world’s Bibbie, either, whose lips were painted the same shade of pink as her gown. If there’d been time he might have saved her. And now I’ll never know. Instead he looked at Monk, who was weeping. Proper tears this time, not blood, as he jiggered with the portal.