by Rick Cook
"What did he Summon?"
"Him," said Moira accusingly.
The black wizard looked down on Wiz in a way that reminded Wiz uncomfortably of a cat watching a mouse.
"How are you called?" Bal-Simba asked.
"I'm Wiz. Wiz Zumwalt." He waved hesitantly. "Hi."
The black giant nodded. "You are a wizard then. Of what rank?"
"Well no, I'm not a wizard," Wiz explained. "Wiz is just a nickname. My real name's William Irving . . ." He stopped as Bal-Simba held up a hand.
"I did not ask for your true name," he said sternly. "Never, ever tell anyone what you are truly named for that places you in the power of all who hear."
"You mean like knowing somebody's password? Ah, right."
"Like that," the wizard agreed. "I tell you again, Wiz. Never reveal your true name."
"Now," he went on in a somewhat gentler tone. "What is your special virtue?"
"Huh?"
"What is it that you do?"
"Oh, I'm a programmer. From Cupertino. Say, where are we, anyway?"
"We are in the North of World on the Fringe of the Wild Wood," Bal-Simba told him.
"Where's that in relation to California?"
"Far, far away I am afraid. You were Summoned from your own world to this one by he who is dead." He nodded in the direction of the freshly raised cairn.
"Oh," Wiz said blankly. "Okay." He paused. "Uh, how do I get back?"
"That may take some effort," Bal-Simba told him. The black giant suddenly became more intent.
"Again. What is your special virtue?"
"I told you, I'm a programmer. I work with computers."
"I do not think we have those here. What else do you do?"
"Well, ah. Nothing really. I just work with computers."
"Are you a warrior?"
"Huh? No!" Wiz was slightly shocked.
"Think," commanded Bal-Simba. "There must be something else."
"No, there really isn't," Wiz protested. "Well, I do watch a lot of old movies."
It was Bal-Simba's turn to look blank.
"That's all there is, honest." Wiz was facing the black wizard so he did not see Moira's face fall.
"There must be more here," said Bal-Simba. He paused for a minute.
"Now. I swear to you that I mean you no harm." He smote his breast over his heart. "I swear to you that I will neither willingly harm you nor allow you to come to harm." He struck his chest again. "That I may aid you, will you give me leave to look deeper into you?"
"Uh, yeah. Sure," Wiz said a little apprehensively.
"Then sit here where you may be more comfortable." Bal-Simba guided Wiz to the rock where Patrius had sat so recently. He reached into his pouch and drew out a small purple crystal. "Look at this." Wiz gazed at the tiny gem cupped in the great pink palm. "Look deeply. Fix your attention on it. Observe . . . observe."
Wiz's eyes glazed and his mouth went slack.
"To business then." Bal-Simba tucked the crystal back into his pouch and began the task of learning all he could about this visitor from so far away.
"Strange indeed," muttered Bal-Simba, turning from where Wiz dozed in a trance. "Very strange."
"How so, Lord?" Moira asked.
"There is no sign of magic."
"No magic! None at all?"
"None that I can detect. Despite his name, this Wiz is as lacking in manna as a newborn babe."
Moira crumpled. "Then it was all for nothing," she said bitterly. "Patrius died for nothing! Oh, Lord, I am so sorry."
"I do not know. There is something—strange—about him, but it is not magic."
"The effects of the Summoning?"
Bal-Simba frowned. "I do not think so. It goes beyond that, I believe." He kept silent for a moment.
"You say Patrius told you he was summoning a wizard?" he asked at last.
"Yes, Lord." Then Moira stopped. "Well . . . not exactly."
"What then exactly?"
Moira screwed up her face in an effort to remember. "Patrius said he was Summoning someone who could help us against the League." She made the warding gesture. "Someone with great magical power. When I asked him if the man was a wizard he evaded the question. But," she added thoughtfully, "he never called him a wizard."
"But he did say that this man had great power?"
"Yes, Lord. He said he looked long and hard to find him."
"That I can believe," Bal-Simba said absentmindedly. "Searching beyond the World is long and hard indeed. Hmm . . . but he did not call him a wizard, you say?"
"No, Lord."
"When I asked Patrius that he would not answer."
Bal-Simba's head sunk down on his chest.
"Lord," Moira interrupted timidly, "didn't Patrius tell the Council what he was doing?"
Bal-Simba grimaced. "Do you think we would have allowed this madness had we known? No, we knew Patrius was engaged in a great project of some sort, but he told no none, not even his apprentices, what he was about.
"He had spoken to me of the tide of our struggle with the Dark League and how it fared. He was not sanguine and I knew in a general way that he intended something beyond the common. But I had assumed he would lay the project before the Council when it came to fruition. I assumed rashly and it cost us dearly."
"But why, Lord? Why would he take such an awful risk?"
"Because with the League so strong not all of the Mighty together could have performed a Great Summoning."
He caught the look on Moira's face.
"You did not know that? Yes, it is true. All of us together are not enough to make magic of that sort against the League's opposition." He smiled ruefully. "Thus the Council wanes as the League grows greater."
"Then why . . . ?"
"Patrius obviously believed that by working alone and without the usual protections he might be able to complete the Summoning before the League realized what was happening. He was wrong and it cost him his life." He nodded toward Wiz. "Patrius risked his life to gain a man of great magical power. Instead he brought us someone who seems as common as dirt. It makes no sense."
Again the great Bal-Simba was silent, his head sank down on his necklace in contemplation.
"What do you think of this?" he asked finally.
"Lord, I am not qualified to pass on the actions of the Mighty."
Bal-Simba waved that aside. "You were here. You saw. What do you think?"
Moira took a deep breath. "I think Patrius made a mistake. I think he intended someone else and under the strain of the attack . . ." her green eyes misted and she swallowed hard as she relived those awful moments " . . . under the strain of the attack he Summoned the wrong person."
"Possible," Bal-Simba rumbled. "Just possible. But I wonder. Wizards who make mistakes do not live to become Mighty, still less as mighty as Patrius."
"Yes, Lord," said Moira meekly.
"I do not convince you, eh girl? Well, I am not sure I convince myself." He turned back and looked at Wiz, sitting dazed and uncomprehending on the stone. "In any event, the problem now is what to do with our visitor."
Moira snorted. "He is an expensive visitor, Lord. He cost us so much for so little."
"Perhaps, but we cannot leave him to wander. You can see for yourself that he is as helpless as a sparrow. Sparrow, hmm? A good world name for him, especially since the name he uses is too close to his true name. But no, he cannot be left to wander."
"Will you take him with you, Lord?"
Bal-Simba frowned. "That would not be wise, I think, and dangerous besides. The fewer who know of him the better. No, he needs to go someplace safe. A sanctuary with as little magic as possible. A place where he can remain while I consult the others of the Mighty."
"My village is . . ."
"Unsafe," the black giant said. "Already we are being probed. I suspect the League would like very much to get their hands on him."
"Would it matter so much? Since he has no magic, I mean."
"Hush
, girl. You do not mean that."
Moira looked at Wiz with distaste but shook her head. Falling into the hands of the League was not a fate to be wished on anyone, even someone who had caused the death of Patrius.
"What then?"
"There is a place. A few days into the Wild Wood where he could find sanctuary. A place of very little magic."
Moira's eyes lit and she opened her mouth but Bal-Simba motioned her to silence. "Best not to say it. There might be others about to hear, eh? No, you will have to take him—there—and give him into the charge of the one who lives there."
"Me, Lord? But I have my work."
"I will see another is sent in your place. He must be guided and protected, do you not see?"
"But why me, Lord?"
Bal-Simba ticked off the reasons on his fingers. "First, you are here and already privy to this business. The less others know of it the better. Second, you know the way through the Wild Wood. Third, time is of the essence. This place grows increasingly dangerous. And fourth," he held up his pinky finger and his eyes twinkled, "he is in love with you."
Moira made a face. "An infatuation spell! But I am not in love with him."
"Nonetheless, he will follow at your heels like a puppy. No, you are the logical one to serve as the mother hen for our Sparrow."
"Forgive me, Lord, but I find his presence distasteful."
Bal-Simba sighed. "In this world, child, all of us must do things which are distasteful on occasion."
Moira bowed her head. "Yes, Lord." But I don't have to like it! she thought furiously.
"Very well, off with you then." He turned and gestured to Wiz. "Straight on and hurry." Wiz reeled and shook his head to clear it.
"I will need some things from the village, Lord."
"I will have someone meet you with food and your other needs at the bridge on the Forest Highway."
"Lord, cannot I at least go back to say goodbye? Just for a few minutes?"
Bal-Simba shook his head. "Too dangerous. Both for you and the villagers. No, you will have to move quickly and quietly and attract as little notice as possible."
"Yes, Lord," Moira sighed.
"Now go, girl, and quickly. I cannot shield this clearing for much longer. I will consult the Council and come to you at your destination."
Moira bowed her head. "Merry part, Lord."
"Merry meet again, Lady."
"Huh?" said Wiz groggily.
"Come on you," Moira said viciously and grabbed his hand. She jerked and Wiz staggered to his feet.
"Well, move, clumsy. Come on!" and she strode off with a lovesick Wiz stumbling along in tow.
Bal-Simba watched the ill-assorted pair disappear down the forest path. Then he sat on the rock just vacated by Wiz and turned his attention to weaving masking spells to buy the travellers as much time as he possibly could.
Two
Passage in Peril
The afternoon was as fine as the morning, warm and sunny with just a bit of a breeze to stir the leaves and cool the traveller. The birds sang and the summer flowers perfumed the air. Here and there the early blackberries showed dark on their canes.
Wiz was in no mood to appreciate any of it. Before they had gone a mile he was huffing and blowing. In two miles his T-shirt was soaked and beads of sweat were running down his face, stinging his eyes and dripping from the tip of his nose. Still Moira hurried him along the twisting path, up wooded hills and down through leafy vales, ignoring his discomfort.
Finally Wiz threw himself down on a grassy spot in a clearing.
"No more," he gasped. "I've got to rest."
"Get out of the open, you crack-brained fool!" the red-haired witch snapped. Wiz crawled to his feet, staggered a few steps and collapsed against a tree trunk.
"Sorry," he panted. "I'm just not up to this. Got to rest."
"And what do you think the League is doing meantime?" Moira scolded. "Will they stop just because you're too soft to go on?"
"League?" asked Wiz blankly.
"The ones who pursue us. Don't you listen to anything?"
"I don't hear anyone chasing us. Maybe we've lost them."
"Lost them? Lost them! What do you think this is? A game of hide-and-seek? You idiot, by the time they get close enough for us to hear it will be too late. Do you want to end up like Patrius?"
Wiz looked slightly green. "Patrius? The old man back there?"
Moira cast her eyes skyward. "Yes, Patrius. Now come on!"
But Wiz made no move. "I'm sorry," he gasped. "I can't. Go on without me. I'll be all right."
Moira glared down at him, hands on hips. "You'll be dead before nightfall."
"I'll be all right." Wiz insisted. "Just go on."
Moira softened slightly. He was a nuisance, but he was a human being and as near helpless as made no difference.
"Very well," she said, sitting down. "We rest."
Wiz leaned forward and sank his head between his knees. Moira ignored him and stared back the way they had come.
"That old man," Wiz said at last. "What killed him?"
"Magic," Moira said over her shoulder.
"No really, what killed him?"
"I told you, a spell."
Wiz eyed her. "You really believe that, don't you? I mean it's not just a phrase. You mean real magic."
Moira twisted to face Wiz. "Of course I mean magic. What did you think? A bolt of lightning just happened to strike him while he was Summoning you?"
"You're telling me there really is magic?"
Moira looked annoyed. "How do you think you got here?"
"Oh," said Wiz. "Yeah. Well look, this magic. Can it get me home?"
"Patrius might have been able to do that, but I cannot," she said angrily. She got to her feet. "Now come along. If you have breath enough to talk you have breath enough to walk."
By paths and game trails they pushed on through the forest. Twice more they stopped to rest when Wiz would no further. Both times Moira fidgeted so impatiently that Wiz cut the stop short, barely getting his breath back. There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask, but Moira sternly forbade him to talk while they walked.
Once she stopped so suddenly that Wiz nearly trod on her skirt. She stared intently at a patch of woods before them. Besides a ring of bright orange mushrooms beside the trail, Wiz saw nothing unusual.
"This way," she whispered, grasping his arm and tugging him off the path. Carefully and on tiptoe, she led him well around that bit of forest, striking the trail again on the other side.
"What was the detour about?" Wiz asked at their next rest stop when he had breath enough to talk.
"The little folk danced there on last night to honor the Mid-Summer's Day. It is unchancy to go near such a place in the best of times and it would be very foolish to do so today."
"Oh come on! You mean you believe in fairies too?"
"I believe in what I see, Sparrow. I have seen those of Faerie."
"But dammit . . ." Moira cut him off with an imperious gesture.
"Do NOT curse, Sparrow. We do not need what that might attract."
That made sense, Wiz admitted. If magic really worked and there was the burned husk of a man lying under the sod back behind them to suggest that it did then curses might work too. Come to that, if magic worked there was nothing so odd about fairies dancing in the moonlight. He shook his head.
"Why do you call me Sparrow?" he asked, feeling for safer ground.
"Because Bal-Simba called you so. You needed a name to use before the World."
"I've got a name," Wiz protested.
"Bal-Simba told you never to speak your true name to anyone," Moira told him. "So we needed something to call you."
"My friends just call me Wiz."
"I will call you Sparrow," Moira said firmly. "Now come along."
Again she set off in an effortless stride. Wiz came huffing along behind, glumly admiring the swing of her hips and the easy sway of her body. He was used to being treated wit
h contempt by beautiful women, but he had never been this taken with a woman and that made it hurt worse than usual.
One thing you have to say about my luck, he thought. It's consistent.
Finally they topped a small rise and Wiz could see a road through the trees ahead. Off to the left he could hear the sound of running water. Moira crouched behind a bush and pulled Wiz roughly down beside her.
"This is the Forest Highway," Moira whispered. "It leads over the Blackstone Brook and on into the Wild Wood."
"Where we're going?" said Wiz, enjoying Moira's closeness and the smell of her hair. Instinctively he moved closer, but the hedge witch drew away.
"Yes, but not by the road. I am to meet someone here. You wait in the woods. Do not make a sound and do not show yourself." She pulled back and continued down the trail, leaving Wiz with the memory of her closeness.
In spite of its grandiose title, the Forest Highway was a weedgrown lane with the trees pressing in on either side. The Blackstone Brook was perhaps ten yards wide and ran swift, deep and dark as its name under a rough log bridge.
As Moira predicted, there was a man waiting under the trees by the roadside. He was tall, lean, long-faced and as brown as the rough homespun of his tunic and breeches. When Moira stepped out of the trees he touched his forehead respectfully.
"I brought the things, Lady."
"Thank you, Alber," Moira replied kindly.
"Lady, is it true you are leaving us?"
"For a time, Alber. A short time, I hope."
"We will miss you," he said sadly.
Moira smiled and embraced him. Watching from behind his bush Wiz felt a pang of jealousy. "Oh, and I will miss you all as well. You have been like a family to me, the whole village." Then she smiled again. "But another will be along soon to take my place."
"It will not be the same, Lady," he said dejectedly. He turned and gestured to the small pile of objects under a bush by the roadside.
"The messenger said two packs. And two cloaks."
"Correct, Alber." Moira did not volunteer and he did not ask.
Quickly she began to sort through the items, checking them and re-stowing them into the packs.
"Shall I wait, Lady?"
"No." She smiled up at him. "Thank you again." The hedge witch made a sign with her right hand, first two fingers extended. "Go with my blessing. May your way home be short and safe and the journey uneventful."
