The Accidental Magician

by David Grace

  Upon her capture Mara had displayed a notable inclination to uncooperativeness, intractability, and disrespect. Had he not been saving her against the possibility that he might have to use her as leverage, Hazar might have long since turned her over to his guards. Instead he had restrained his natural inclinations and had forced himself to be satisfied with more subtle forms of punishment.

  The cords which restrained Mara were tied in single strands so that each time she attempted to move her bonds cut deeply into her flesh. If she struggled sufficiently they would draw blood. A last-ditch plan formed in the Gogol's mind. A moment later he issued a stream of orders.

  "Slaves--you, you, and you. Drop those stones and come over here. I have work for you."

  Three sickly men released their burden and fearfully ambled forward to receive Hazar's commands. "You," he ordered, "against the far wall is equipment. Fetch the bundle of line. As for you two, one of you will stand on the other's shoulders and bore a small hole in the rock above the ceiling brace. Through this hole you will pass one end of the rope."

  The first slave returned with a translucent coil. Hazar gave him a final set of instructions. "You take one end of the rope that has been run over the beam and tie it to the chair where the woman now sits. The other end you will tie to a stake which you will drive into the floor next to my table, being careful to leave enough slack so that the chair is positioned a few inches inside the disposal chute." The slaves hurried off to carry out their orders.

  Ten minutes later the legs of Mara's chair hung six inches below the edge of the disposal chute, its weight restrained only by the cord fastened to an iron stake driven into the floor at the edge of Hazar's desk. Hazar removed a dagger from his belt, examined its gleaming blade, tested the razor sharpness of its edge, then placed the unsheathed weapon on the corner of the desk not two feet from where the line stretched to the top of Mara's ironwood throne.

  Hazar looked up from the crystals on his desk in time to see Nimo, followed by another subdeacon, race into the chamber.

  "My lord, they come!"

  "The fugitives? All of them?"

  "Yes, my lord, all three walking side by side. They are surrounded by a spell of great power."

  "What kind of spell? What does it look like? What are they doing?"

  "It is misty, my lord, transparent. It extends around them on all sides. Nothing stops it. It penetrates the walls as if they did not exist."

  "The walls? You mean they are inside already? I ordered you to keep me informed of their movement. Why didn't you tell me this before!"

  "My lord, at first nothing happened, so there was nothing to tell. They walked across the meadow very slowly. They took no hostile action, threw no bolts, and so we watched them to see what they would do. Soon it became clear that they were making for the southwest entrance. I immediately dispatched a squad of guards. I instructed the section leader to engage them and sent Goren here with the men to watch and bring back a report. He has just now returned."

  "Stop making excuses for disobeying my orders and tell me what has happened!"

  "My lord, I have never seen anything like it," Goren began. "They entered the tunnel as if out for an afternoon stroll. They had reached no more than ten feet inside the entrance when six fully armored soldiers attacked. The fugitives made no resistance. They took no notice of the swords and bolts aimed at them. The soldiers ran full into the field and then fell as if dead."

  "And then what happened?"

  "Nothing, my lord, that is to say, the fugitives continued to walk on down the tunnel immobilizing all who came near them."

  "Why didn't someone stand back and fire bolts at them from a distance?"

  "My lord, they did, but to no avail. As soon as they entered the field the arrows slowed as if proceeding through thick syrup. The fugitives easily moved out of their way. The bolts sailed harmlessly past." Goren gave a fearful shrug of his shoulders and was silent.

  "Well, don't just stand there; what happened next?"

  "Nothing, my lord. They come even now. Nothing stops them, not bolts, not fire, not rocks or knives. I used my spells, but they were as effective as trying to breach the walls of Cicero by throwing pebbles. They do not know the passageways, but surely they will be here in a few minutes, in any event."

  "You are all a bunch of fools--cowards and fools! I can see that I can trust no one but myself. Nimo, I am going to give you an order, and you will follow it no matter what happens. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, my lord," Nimo answered a bit apprehensively.

  "Stand by the edge of my desk and hold the dagger next to the line. Upon my command cut the rope. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, my lord. I am to stand here and, when you give the order, cut the rope."

  "And not before, Nimo. Goren, you go down to the bend in the tunnel. Watch for them. When they get there, if they get there, warn me. Don't stand there like an idiot! Go! Go!"

  More afraid of Hazar's wrath than the sorcery of the fugitives, the subdeacon raced down the corridor.

  Alone now except for Nimo, the slaves having fled upon overhearing Goren's report, Hazar strode to the deserted cutters' table and retrieved the two largest of the finished stones. There was no time to set them in a ring or bracelet or amulet. He would have to do his work with them clasped within his palm, in contact with his naked skin. Hazar pushed his desk out of the way, then seated himself in his ironwood chair, a mate to the one in which Mara was imprisoned. The bloodstones trembled in the open palm of his left hand. Taking a deep breath, he clamped down his right hand, imprisoning the stones in the hollow between his hands, and then began to channel a spell of fiery death through the crystals and out into the ether, unerringly directed at Grantin, Chom, and Castor.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The early stages of the attack were surprisingly easy. The protective sphere was mental rather than physical and thus presented none of the inconveniences associated with mass, weight, and inertia. Grantin, Chom, and Castor entered the Gogol caverns without the slightest difficulty. Above them and on each side the misty shield disappeared as it insinuated itself between the molecules of solid rock. Only in front and behind could its existence be discerned.

  Suddenly a group of screaming soldiers raced down the tunnel, intent on repulsing the attackers. In less than five seconds the frozen bodies of the defenders littered the floor. Encouraged by this initial success, they increased their pace. Except for the distraction of being forced to dodge drastically slowed crossbow bolts, nothing except the intricateness of the network of tunnels hindered their advance.

  "How long do you think we can keep up the shield?" Grantin asked Chom.

  "I do not know. Perhaps hours, perhaps only a few more minutes. It may just slowly fade away to nothing, or it might disappear all at once. The only thing we can do is proceed as rapidly as possible."

  "I assure you, Chom, I am proceeding as fast as possible."

  From the bend in the tunnel ahead of them another flight of arrows was loosed at them. In the dim light of the phosphorescent mosses the missiles flickered dully like a flight of peculiar insects. The arrows entered the shield and, as in each previous attack, slowed to a rate of one or two feet per second, imparting a brighter whiteness to the portions of the barrier surrounding the points of penetration. Almost absentmindedly Chom waved his four arms and plucked the bolts from midair.

  The three reached the right-hand bend in the tunnel and increased their speed to a run as they made the turn. This tactic never seemed to be anticipated by the defenders, and always their increase in speed caught a few of the waiting soldiers by surprise. This time was no exception. They stepped over the immobilized defenders and continued at a rapid pace. Ahead of them the tunnel swung to the right, rising toward the central chamber.

  Judging by the height of the tunnel and the number of turns already made in the spiraling passage, Grantin estimated that in another five minutes, ten at the most, they would reach the surface of the lak
e. As if to confirm his hypothesis, the tunnel seemed to be getting brighter, almost glowing with the illumination of reflected daylight. And it seemed to be getting warmer, too.

  Grantin noticed that the front edge of the shield appeared thicker, frostier, while at the same time he detected within himself a great lethargy.

  "Chom, something's happening. Do you feel it?"

  "We are being attacked," Castor said. "They are trying to hex us."

  For the first time in their relationship Grantin detected signs of weariness in Chom. The Fanist's head, neck, and shoulders glistened with a thin, oily film.

  "We must make it colder," the Fanist rasped. "We must put more energy into our spell before their weapon defeats us."

  Grantin's forehead became knotted in concentration, while Castor's tendons and muscles stiffened with the increased strain. Chom gave no outward sign of his redoubled efforts except for a thickening and spreading of his glistening second skin. Each of the three dredged up images of numbing cold, mountains of steaming ice, wintry vistas of bleak terrain frozen from horizon to horizon. Each visualized a blizzard driving sleet and snow through every tunnel, nook, and crevice of Grog Cup Mountain.

  Two levels above the attackers their efforts made themselves felt. A burning shiver sliced through Hazar's body while, at the edge of the room, Greyhorn's flesh became as stone. The horror of Mara's suspension over the pit had caused her to faint before the latest attack. Since the sorcery achieved its goals through mental rather than physical power, her unconsciousness protected her from the incantation's worst effects.

  Not so spared, however, was Hazar's servant Nimo. Even though he stood a bare ten feet from Hazar's protection, he received enough of a blast to remove from his members the power of voluntary movement. Sensationless fingers held the dagger and a frozen arm poised the blade a quarter of an inch above the rope.

  Hazar alone of all the defenders survived the counterattack. The sorcerer squeezed his hands in a grip so strong as to be painful. The bloodstones forced deep indentations into his flesh. Hazar struggled to formulate a yet more potent spell.

  Grantin felt that he could not keep up his strength much longer. The attack might even now have forced him to halt had he not noticed a sign announcing that the mine's central chamber lay just ahead. Grantin, Chom, and Castor turned another corner. Ahead of them on the right-hand wall Grantin spied a doorway which he hoped marked the end of their search. With blind eyes he stepped over the stiffened form of a Gogol subdeacon who had been waiting too close to the bend in the tunnel. They were almost there.

  Twenty feet from the doorway a great hammer blow struck the three attackers. Grantin felt as if he had stood inside a huge bell while outside a sledgehammer wielding giant struck the hour. Around him the field clouded almost to opacity. The three struggled to rebuild their defenses, but as they worked another massive blow crashed against their magic sphere. It seemed to Grantin that he could now see cracks on its milky surface.

  Chom pressed his own stone tighter against his skull. At the same instant that Hazar loosed his third attack Chom released a bolt of his own. The two titanic energies met and, like a grounding of high-voltage potentials, their powers canceled in a display of sparks and flame and shards of ice.

  The Fanist had employed great power in his beam but in so doing had exhausted his last reserves. He collapsed unconscious to the floor, with a consequent weakening of the protective shield. While Grantin struggled to rebuild their defenses Castor summoned his powers for what he hoped would be a triumphant effort. Energies flared in the corridor and spilled through the doorway into the main chamber, even so far as to singe the tips of Hazar's mustache. For a moment the wizard stood on the edge of unconsciousness. Grantin gave up all attempts to maintain the shield, and with a psychic pop the misty wall disappeared.

  The atmosphere of the tunnel was filled with magic. Grantin felt as if he were walking between two huge cats whose bodies were charged with static electricity. He dared not launch an attack by sorcery even if he had the energy. With the drain of the spell ended, a bit of Grantin's physical powers returned. He staggered ahead and turned through the doorway and into the mine's central chamber.

  Grantin saw Hazar three or four yards in front of him, glassy-eyed and swaying on his feet but not yet beaten. To Hazar's right waited another man, knife in hand. The second man was frozen stiff. The Hartford flicked his gaze around the room and in an instant spied Mara's bound form perched over the edge of oblivion.

  The Hartford had not the slightest idea what to do next. He had not thought to remove a knife or sword from one of the fallen soldiers, and even if he had he doubted that he would be able to plunge the blade into Hazar's chest. The Gogol's eyes blinked and became clear. The wizard shook his head, looked at Grantin, and brought himself back to full awareness. With neither word nor gesture of warning the Gogol leaped forward and extended his arms to clench Grantin's throat.

  For a fraction of a second the Hartford stood immobilized, then forced himself to fall backward out of Hazar's way. The two went down together. Hazar's fingers wrapped themselves around Grantin's throat. The Gogol summoned up all his remaining energy and channeled it to his hands. As he fell Grantin managed to double his right leg, which he pressed against Hazar's chest. With a wrenching kick he pushed against the sorcerer and propelled him away.

  Both men rose to their feet and circled with arms outstretched. Grantin tried a kick at Hazar's stomach and barely avoided having his leg caught in an ankle-wrenching grasp. Hazar charged Grantin in a shambling run. The Hartford jumped to his left and struck at Hazar's onrushing head. Hazar's shoulder struck him a glancing blow. The wizard careened ahead and Grantin fell backward against the cutters' table. He put out his hand to steady himself, but instead of gaming firm purchase his fingers drove into the shallow, velvet-lined box at the edge of the table. His hand clenched automatically. As he staggered to his feet Grantin held in his palm eight of the finished stones.

  Grantin pushed himself from the table, then backed across the room in hopes that he might be able to pull Mara's chair from the pit before Hazar attacked again. He was still ten feet from the edge, however, when Hazar returned to the attack. From his boot the wizard extracted a gleaming dirk. He waved the blade in small hypnotic circles.

  Grantin tried to avoid watching the flickering highlights. Instead he concentrated on Hazar's eyes. For a moment he considered attempting to cast another spell but then abandoned the idea. Even with the amplification supplied by the gems the effort required would surely bring him to unconsciousness. Best to get rid of the stones, they were only a distraction now. Grantin opened his hand and allowed the gems to cascade to the floor. The sight of his precious bloodstones strewn about the chamber shocked Hazar. For an instant his attention was diverted.

  In spite of his exhaustion Grantin was still a young man with a young man's reflexes. Instantly he seized the initiative. He grasped Hazar's left arm with both hands. Using all his strength, the Hartford turned the dagger away from himself and squeezed Hazar's wrist, hoping to break his grasp. The Gogol was startled by the suddenness of the attack. Hazar tried to move past Grantin. The combination of Grantin's forward movement and Hazar's attempted maneuver snapped the wizard's wrist like dry kindling. In the blink of an eye the point of the blade was reversed and forced to the hilt into Hazar's torso.

  Grantin released his grip. An observer would have found it hard to determine which of the two men was more astonished. Hazar stood on rubbery knees, his head bowed, eyes staring in dumb amazement at the dagger's protruding handle and the crimson ribbon which spilled down the front of his gown. In openmouthed surprise the Gogol sorcerer pitched slowly forward and sprawled upon the floor.

  Grantin watched the wizard's demise with the same emotion felt by an innocent bystander who has chanced to observe a natural catastrophe. He staggered toward Mara, then, engulfed by a roaring in his brain, toppled over, three feet short of Nimo's menacing blade.

  Chapter
Forty-Nine

  An hour later the piercing cold of his rocky pallet forced Grantin awake. Groggy and disoriented, through bleary eyes he saw the still sleeping forms of his companions. Grantin pitched forward and crawled to where Castor lay.

  "Castor, Castor, wake up," Grantin said, shaking the Ajaj's fragile body. The Gray moaned dully, fighting Grantin's attempts to awaken him. "Come on, Castor, you've got to wake up. We must leave here."

  "What . . . Grantin?"

  "That's it, Castor! Come on, get up."

  The Gray opened his eyes and forced himself back to consciousness while Grantin repeated the procedure, although with greater vigor, with Chom. In a few minutes the Fanist abruptly awakened, and the three stood up to massage their aching bodies. As they walked to the main chamber Grantin explained what had happened. Once inside he recruited Chom's and Castor's help in hauling Mara's bound form from the refuse chute. Nimo's dagger was wrested from his fingers and used to slice the cords which bound her to the chair.

  Grantin awakened the sleeping enchantress as he had done his two associates, but with gentler and more loving caresses than he had given either Chom or Castor. In point of fact Grantin struggled to restrain himself, as he found that the allure of Mara's tattered clothing strained him to the limits of his self-control. Mara resisted Grantin's attempts to awaken her until at last he gently slapped her. Upon the first impact Mara let out a horrifying scream, leaped from the chair, and threw her arms around him. Instinctively Grantin wrapped his arms around her and caressed her back through the rips in her gown. He had begun to kiss Mara's neck when behind him he heard Chom ask Castor: "Will they begin mating now?"

  The inquiry brought Grantin back to full awareness of where he was and the dangers which still confronted them. He released his grasp and jumped back a pace, his face burning with embarrassment.