by Rick Cook
Patrius made a flicking gesture at the man and then returned to the business of completing the spell. Moira, absorbed in her chant, barely noticed the small drop of dark fluid fly from the Wizard's fingertips and strike the new arrival on the temple. It splattered, spread and sank into the flesh and hair, leaving no sign of its passing.
In the great, high, vaulted chantry of the Dark League, four black-robed wizards huddled about a glowing crystal. They murmured and moved like a flock of uneasy crows, all the while peering into the depths of the stone. Around them forces twisted and gathered.
The attack came with a rush of magic, dark and sour. Moira cried out in terror and gestured frantically but she was thrust aside ruthlessly as the bolt lanced into the clearing and struck Patrius full-on.
A crackling blue nimbus burst out around the old wizard. He raised his arms over his head as if to shield himself, but his clothes and beard burst into flame. In an instant he was a ghastly flaming scarecrow capering about the clearing and shrieking in mortal agony. He toppled over and the screams turned to a puling whimper. His flesh blackened and charred.
Finally there was nothing but a smouldering husk with knees and arms flexed up against the body. He was so badly burned that there wasn't even a smell in the air.
Moira cowered sobbing on the ground, the blazing after-image burning in her sight even through her eyelids. Wiz had gone flat on his face when the bolt hit.
All right, Wiz told himself. Time to get up. On three. One, two . . . He realized he wasn't going to make it, so he settled for rolling over on his back.
"Lord?" a small voice asked tentatively.
Wiz opened his eyes. Standing over him was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her waist-length hair was the color of burnished copper. Her skin was pale and creamy under a dusting of freckles. Her eyes were deep sea green. She was wearing a long skirt of forest green in some rough-woven material and a white peasant blouse with a scoop neck. Wiz stared.
"Are you hurt, Lord?" the vision said in a lilting, musical voice. As she bent down to help Wiz up he was treated to an ample display of cleavage.
"N-n-n-no," Wiz managed to stammer, dizzy from the transformation and awed by her loveliness. He looked into her face. "You're beautiful," he said softly.
Moira saw the look in his eyes and swore under her breath. Fortuna! An infatuation spell! Patrius had bound this unknown wizard to her with an infatuation spell. Gently she helped the alien wizard to his feet and wondered if she should curtsey.
"How are you called, Lord?" Moira asked respectfully.
"Ah, Wiz. I'm Wiz Zumwalt, that is. Who are you?"
"I am called Moira, Lord, a hedge witch of this place." She ignored the discourtesy of his question. She reddened under his fixed gaze and wondered what to do next. She had already sent an urgent call for one of the Mighty to attend them, but even by the Wizard's Way that would take time. Wizards did not like to be bothered by idle chatter, but this one stared so.
"Lord, are you of the Mighty in your home?" she asked to make conversation.
"Say what?"
"Forgive me, Lord. The Mighty are the wizards of the first rank in our land."
"Wizards?" Between the transition and Moira, Wiz's brain wasn't working and he had never been much good at small talk with beautiful women.
"Magicians. Sorcerers," Moira said a little desperately. Wiz looked blank and a dreadful thought grew in the back of Moira's mind. "Forgive me Lord, but you are a wizard, are you not?"
"Huh. No, I'm not a wizard," Wiz said numbly, shaking his head to clear it.
Moira felt sick. This man was telling the trth! There was no sign or trace of magic about him, nothing save his odd clothing to distinguish him from any other mortal. She turned away from him and tears stung her eyes.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Wiz laid a hand on her shoulder.
"Everything," Moira sobbed. "You're not a wizard and Patrius is dead."
"Patrius . . . ?" Wiz trailed off. "Oh my God!" For the first time he saw the charred corpse at the edge of the clearing.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Yes," Moira said fiercely. "You can help me bury him."
"If you value your life," the black robe hissed, "keep your mouth shut and your eyes on the floor. Toth-Set-Ra has little patience with impertinence." Xind led the acolyte down the flagged corridor. Their sandals scuffed on the rough stone floor and guttering torches in iron brackets gave a dim and uncertain light to guide them.
The guards at the door were hobgoblins, creatures somewhat larger than men and nearly twice as broad and bulky. Their laced armor shone blackly by the torchlight and the honed edges of their halberds glinted evilly. At the approach of the wizards they snapped to attention.
"Two with news for the Dread Master," Xind said with considerably more assurance than he felt. "We are expected." The hobgoblins nodded. One reached behind to swing open the great oaken door.
Both wizard and acolyte prostrated themselves on the threshold.
"Rise," croaked a voice from within. "Rise and speak."
The room was dark but a baleful green light played round a high-backed chair and the figure hunched in it.
Shakily, the pair rose and moved toward the light.
The man in the chair was wizened and shrunk in on himself until he was more a mummy than a living man. But his eyes burned red in the black pits of his hairless skull and he moved with the easy grace of a serpent coiling to strike. The light seemed to come from within him, playing on the chair and the amethyst goblet in his hand. The reflected greenish glow made Xind's complexion appear even more unhealthy than usual.
"We have slain a wizard, Dread Master, one of the Mighty of the North."
"Yes," Toth-Set-Ra hissed. "It was Patrius. May his soul rot forever. And you destroyed him. How nice."
The novice started and opened his mouth to ask how the wizard knew, but Xind trod on his foot in warning.
"He was performing a Great Summoning, Dread Master," Xind said, his head bowed respectfully.
"Indeed?" croaked Toth-Set-Ra. "Oh, indeed?" His reptilian gaze slid over his subordinates and settled back on the carved goblet. "And what was it that was Summoned?"
Xind licked his lips. "We do not know, Lord. The distance was too great and . . ."
"You do not know?" Toth-Set-Ra's voice grew harsher. "You disturb me with news I already know and you cannot tell me more than I can sense unaided?" His stare transfixed the black robe, steady, intent and pitiless. "What use are you, eh? Tell me why I shouldn't finish you now."
"Because you would lose our services," the acolyte said steadily. Xind blanched and trembled at the young man's audacity and Toth-Set-Ra shifted his basilisk stare to him. The acolyte stood with his eyes respectfully downcast but no hint of trepidation in his manner.
"Servants such as you I do not need," snapped the wizard. "Incompetents! Bunglers! Blind fools!" Without shifting his eyes, he threw the amethyst cup at them. It passed between the pair and shattered into priceless shards on the flags. Both men flinched away.
"Very well," he said finally. "Prove your worth. Find out what Patrius died to birth. If you are quick and if it is important I will give you your lives. If not, I have other uses for you."
The wizard sat glaring after them for several minutes. Finally he sealed the door with a gesture which raised a wall of blue fire across it. He went to a cabinet of age-blackened oak, opened it with curious and diverse gestures and removed an elaborately engraved box about the size of a man's head.
Carrying it gently he brought it back to the table. He set the box carefully in the center of the pentagram inlaid in silver in the dark onyx top and then, stepping back, made a gesture. The top flew open and a small red demon appeared in a puff of smoke. The demon flew toward him only to be brought up short by the pentagram. It dropped to its knees and pressed its clawed, misshapen hands against the invisible walls, seeking a way out.
"It is secure," croaked Toth-
Set-Ra. "Now, by the spells which made you and the spells which bind you, I would have word of the world."
"There is pain and suffering," squeaked the demon. "There is mortal misery and unhappiness, and boredom and ennui among the non-mortal."
"Specifically!" snapped the wizard and the demon fell back gibbering under the lash of his voice.
"What you will, Dread Master. What you will of me?"
"The Wizard Patrius."
"Dead, Dread Master. Struck down unprotected by your servants as he strove to weave a powerful spell. The Mighty in the midst of the mighty laid low."
"The spell?"
"A Great Summoning, Master. A Great Summoning."
"His assistants?"
"None, Master. None save a hedge witch."
Toth-Set-Ra frowned.
"And the Summoned?"
"A man, Master, only a man."
"A magician? A wizard?"
"I see no magic, Master. Save the hedge witch's and Bal-Simba, who comes after Patrius's burning."
"And what is his virtue? What is the special thing which made Patrius summon this one?"
"I do not know, Master. I see no answer."
"Then look ahead," commanded Toth-Set-Ra. "Look to the future."
"Aiii," gibbered the demon. "Aiii, destruction for us all! Pain and fire and the fall of towers. Magic of the strangest sort loosed upon the land! A plague, a pox, the bane of all wizards!" He capered about the pentagram as if the table had become red hot.
"How?" snapped the wizard. "Is he a wizard, then?"
"No wizard, Master. Magic without magic. Magic complex and subtle and strange. A plague upon all wizards, a bane. A bane! Aiii Good Master, let me leave him! Aiii!"
Toth-Set-Ra scowled. The demon was frightened! He knew from experience that it took a very great deal to frighten a demon and this one was so terrified it was almost incoherent.
"Leave then," he said and made the gesture of dismissal. The demon vanished in a puff of smoke and the lid of the box snapped down.
Toth-Set-Ra sat long scowling at the carven box while the heatless blue light from the flame at the door played across his leathery face and reflected from the sunken pits of his eyes. A plague upon all wizards. What could that be? And why would Patrius—may his soul rot!—risk his life to Summon such a one? The Northerners relied on magic fully as much as the League. Magic was as vital to life as air. More vital, he corrected himself. There were spells which allowed a man to live without air.
Might the demon have been mistaken? Toth-Set-Ra cocked his head to one side as he considered the notion. It was not unknown for demons to be wrong. They were, after all, no better than the spells that created them. But this scrying demon had never failed him. Not like this.
A trick by the Northerners? The scowl deepened. The wizard held out his hand to the side, fingers extended, and an amethyst goblet, twin to the one that lay in fragments on the floor, filled with wine from an unseen pitcher and flew to his clawlike grasp. Yes, it was possible the Northerners had staged the incident for the League's benefit, or even spoofed both the demon and the Sea of Scrying.
Toth-Set-Ra took a sip of the magically concocted vintage and shook his head. What possible advantage could the North have gained that was worth the death of their most powerful wizard?
Assuming Patrius was dead, of course. . . . Too many possibilities! He needed more information and quickly. He motioned toward the door and the curtain of fire vanished as suddenly as it had come. He struck a tiny gong and instantly one of his goblin guards was in the doorway.
"Atros, to me," he commanded. "At once!" The guard bowed and vanished in a single movement and Toth-Set-Ra scowled into the bottom of his wine. He would have an answer. If it took every wizard, every spell and every creature at his command, he would have an answer. And quickly!
They raised a mound over Patrius where he lay. Moira set Wiz to finding rocks while she used her silver knife to cut the green sward into turfs. The profanation rendered the knife useless for magical purposes, but she didn't care. She placed the turfs about the charred hulk who had been the greatest and best of wizards. From time to time she stopped to wipe away her tears with the sleeve of her blouse, unmindful of the dirt that it left streaked upon her cheeks. There was no proper shroud to be had, so Moira covered Patrius's face with her apron, tucking it in carefully around the body and murmuring a goodbye before she gently laid the bright green sod over him. The tiny flowers nodding in the grass made a fitting funeral bouquet.
Finally, she and Wiz piled the stones over the turf. They stuck the charred stump of the old wizard's staff upright in the top of the cairn.
"Dread Master?" The bear-like form of Atros blocked the door. Where the League's greatest wizard affected the robe of an anchorite, his subordinate wore a black bearskin, belted with studded leather and pinned with an intricately worked and bejeweled brooch. Toth-Set-Ra's pate was shaven and Atros wore his thick, dark hair to his shoulders, held in place with a golden filet. More, Atros was nearly as large as the hobgoblins and Toth-Set-Ra was tiny.
In spite of the contrast there was no question as to who held power.
"Patrius is dead," Toth-Set-Ra told his lieutenant without preamble. Atros said nothing. His spies had already told him that and he knew Toth-Set-Ra knew it.
"He attempted a Great Summoning, or so I am told, and he brought someone from outside the World. A man."
Atros waited impassively.
"I want that man, Atros. I want him badly. See to it."
"It will take resources . . ." the great bear trailed off.
"You have them. Use them. Search the North. Scour the Capital if you must. But bring me that man!"
Atros bowed. "Thy will, Dread Master." And he was gone, leaving Toth-Set-Ra to brood.
Out in the corridor it was Atros's turn to scowl. The old crow had set him a pretty problem indeed! According to his spies the Sea of Scrying had failed to pick up any trace of the man. That scrying demon Toth-Set-Ra was so proud of must have failed or he would not have been given this mission—or the power to command so much of what his master controlled. Whoever he was, this man from without the World must have a very powerful masking spell to so effectively cloak his magic.
Well, magic wasn't the only way to find someone. That was the old crow's mistake, Atros thought. If he couldn't do it by magic he didn't think he could do it at all. But there were other ways. The Wild Wood was alive with creatures who were either allies, could be bribed to help, who were controlled or who could be enticed into helping. In the lands of Men there were spies, human and non-human. There were the Shadow Warriors. And then there were the massive and mighty magics of the City of Night. Here was power indeed to turn on finding a lone man.
That was the crux of it, he thought to himself as he strode along the dank, unevenly-flagged corridor. All that power, but only until he found this man. Oh, he would find him, never fear. That would be the easy part. And there were other things that could be done with the power he had just been given. Perhaps even concocting a nice little surprise for that scrawny excuse for a sorcerer who sat in the room down the hall.
Atros was intelligent but he was no more subtle than the bear whose name he had taken. It never occurred to him to wonder if perhaps Toth-Set-Ra might have considered that possibility as well.
Moira knelt weeping over Patrius's grave. Wiz stood by feeling clumsy and awkward. She was so beautiful he wanted to take her into his arms and comfort her. But when he put a hand on her shoulder she jerked away. He felt like a fool watching her cry, so he wandered around the edge of the clearing.
"Do not enter the woods," Moira said sharply through her tears. "It is not safe," she sniffed.
"You mean lions and tigers and bears?"
"And other things," Moira said grimly.
"You mean like . . . ULP!"
A huge black man stepped into the clearing directly in front of Wiz. He wore a leopard skin over his shoulders and a leather skirt around his huge m
iddle. Around his neck was a necklace of bone with an eagle's skull as a pendant. In his right hand he carried an intricately carved staff nearly as tall as he was. He grinned and Wiz saw his teeth were filed to needle-sharp points.
He was so black his skin showed highlights of purple and he was the biggest man Wiz had ever seen. It wasn't just that he was more than six-and-a-half feet tall. His frame was huge, with shoulders twice as broad as a normal man's. He had a great black belly, arms thicker than Wiz's legs and legs like tree trunks.
Open-mouthed, Wiz backed away. Then Moira caught sight of him and let out a cry.
"Bal-Simba! Oh, Lord, you came." She ran across the clearing to meet him, checked herself suddenly and dropped him a respectful curtsey. "I mean, merry met, Lord."
The black giant nodded genially. "Merry met, child." He looked over to the freshly-raised mound and his face darkened. "Though I see it is not so merry."
"No, Lord," Moira looked up at him. "Patrius is dead, slain by sorcery."
Bal-Simba closed his eyes and his face contorted. "Evil news indeed."
Moira's eyes filled with tears. "I tried, Lord. I tried, but I could not . . ." She broke down completely. "Oh, Lord, I am so sorry," she sobbed.
Bal-Simba put a meaty arm around her shoulders and held her close. "I know, child. I know. No one will blame you for there was nothing you could have done." Moira cried helplessly into his barrel chest. Wiz stood by, wishing he could help and feeling like a complete jerk.
"Now child," Bal-Simba said as her sobs subsided. "Tell me how this came to pass. We sensed a great disturbance even before you called."
Moira drew away from him and sniffed. "He performed a Great Summoning without wards," she said as she wiped her eyes. "Just as he completed the spell he was struck down."
