Swords & Dark Magic

by Jonathan Strahan; Lou Anders

  The old man at the table. The table was overturned. The papers were scattered, the inkpot spilled on the stone floor.

  But the old man was gone.

  The upper halls were deserted. The Jindus illusion was worth holding on to, Willem thought, because not everybody might believe the duke was dead. He half-ran, being a merc, just a plain black-cap, beside Tewk, and they went rattling and thumping down the little side steps that had gotten them into the upstairs in the first place.

  They passed the kitchen stairs. They descended as far as the closed outside door and Tewk drew his sword. “Open it,” he said, and Willem drew the latch back and swung it inward.

  The guards were gone. Mercs were all over the courtyard, opening storerooms, carrying stuff, like an overturned anthill.

  “They know,” Tewk said. “They know he’s dead. The town’s going to be next. Probably they’ve already started looting down there, but the gold’s up here. We’ve got to get Osric’s army in here. Got to get to the signal tower. Fast.”

  They tried. But about then some of the looting mercs spotted them and dropped what they were carrying on the spot. One drew a sword, clearly not even trying to explain what they were doing. Jindus was dead. Jindus was alive but his authority was in shambles. And that was trouble the mercs now wanted to solve at sword’s point.

  They needed Osric’s army. They needed to see Osric’s army coming through that gate.

  And Willem did. He saw it. The men on the other side of the courtyard were Osric’s men, all in shining armor and with the king’s dragon on their coats…

  He pointed. Even Tewk had stopped dead, sword in hand, looking in that direction. And a couple of the mercs that had been stalking them cast a half-glance over their shoulders and then turned that way, frozen in a moment’s confusion.

  The others turned that way, and charged what they saw—startled men, who drew their swords. A battle broke out, one band against the other.

  We’re mercs, Willem thought. We’re just mercs, standing here.

  Tewk shook the illusion, grabbing him by the arm, hard. It hurt, and he almost lost all of it, except there were more mercs charging into the yard with the racket going up. They were Osric’s men, too. Willem had no idea what Osric’s men looked like but he knew it was a green banner and a gold dragon, and he put good armor and red hair on all of them.

  “Got to get to the tower!” Tewk shouted at him. “Come on!”

  Mercs and Osric’s men were dropping wherever the fighting went on. Dead ones just looked like mercs. And he had enough to do just keeping the illusion hopping from one group to the next—whoever won became Osric’s men.

  But he couldn’t keep dicing the groups finer and finer forever, with Tewk pulling at him and insisting he get moving. He couldn’t do both. He couldn’t go with Tewk to light the signal and keep the whole lot of mercs in the courtyard from running out of Osric’s men and coming after them. It was the fastest, quickest-changing illusion he’d ever cast, and he was sweating, running out of breath, and Tewk jerked him loose from it and yelled:

  “The fire, damn it! They’re getting out the gate—they’ll be sacking the town, next!”

  Then he thought: I want that fire burning. The fire’s burning up there.

  And all of a sudden Tewk stopped pulling at him. Tewk was looking up, and there was a fire, a huge fire, for everybody to see. It was the biggest illusion he’d ever cast, and he just stood there, as Tewk stood there, both of them being themselves, while the fire roared away on the height of the tower and sent up black smoke to the heavens.

  Could Osric’s men see it? Willem wondered. Could it carry that far?

  Sword rang against sword. Thunked into flesh, and a dying man fell at Willem’s feet. Tewk flung an arm around him and shoved him into motion, running, running, while Tewk turned and hacked another man down.

  If he were Master…if he were even Almore, he would have a chance. But he didn’t know where a torch was. He didn’t know what he was going to do. He reached the steps. He climbed for all he was worth, and Tewk stayed behind him, but attackers were trying to come up after them and Tewk stopped to hew away at the men on the steps.

  On hands and knees, Willem made it over the crest, made it as far as the top of the wall, and he could see into the signal tower, where wood was piled, and oil jars, but it wasn’t lit, and there was a merc there, the same they’d told to lay the fire. That man drew his sword, and Willem’s mind went momentarily blank. No fire. No torch. No way to light it.

  He wanted it. Or everybody in the town was going to be dead and King Osric was going to be outside the walls and the mercs in charge of the town, and Master, and Almore, and Jezzy—

  He dodged a sword blow. The man saw Tewk as the threat: it was Tewk he was going for, right past him.

  Which left him the stack of wood in the stone fire-pit. And the oil, which was still in the jars.

  And fire didn’t obey illusion magic. Heat wouldn’t come.

  He heard swords meet behind him. Twice. Blows like a blacksmith’s hammer.

  Sparks flying. Little sparks.

  Be! he thought.

  And the fire came.

  The fire took the wood. It blazed up. It broke the jars, which spread fire along the wall, and the great fire roared like a living thing.

  Heat flared out. He wasn’t thinking it. It was.

  A master wizard—a real master wizard—

  Hadn’t Master taught Almore? And taught him?

  He felt that piece of paper he had tucked in his shirt. The one that Master had written, naming him master.

  He stood there with the smoke going up to the sky, and the heat baking his front and calling up more sweat, and then a hand landed on his shoulder, and squeezed.

  “Good job,” Tewk panted. “Good job, boy.”

  “Master Willem,” he said, not prideful, not arrogant, just numb. Down below the wall he could see mercs running for it, some with loot, some not, and doors pouring out men who headed for the open courtyard gate. They weren’t slowing down.

  “Master Willem,” Tewk said, and squeezed a second time. “There’s still work to do, for you and me. Your Talent can hound those bastards all the way to the gates. I’ll mop up any that get behind us. All right? Got the strength for it?”

  “People won’t get killed,” he said, remembering Master’s injunction. He hadn’t killed anybody. He hadn’t tried to kill anybody. If their own inclinations were to kill people—he hadn’t stopped it, but he hadn’t made them do anything they wouldn’t like to do. He turned, a little wobbly, and a little dizzied by the downward view of the steep and narrow stairs, and Tewk kept a firm grip on him. “I’ll do it.”

  “Until you can magic yourself wings,” Tewk said, “I’m keeping hold of you. Not losing you, no.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and started down the steps, with Tewk’s hand firmly clenching his collar, all the way down.

  King Osric was holding court uptown. Master was packing, down here in the Alley. Master was going back to his house higher on the hill, and Master was going to work for Tewk’s cousin, twice removed, who was going to be the new duke in Wiscezan.

  “He’s a little lazy,” Tewk said about his cousin. “You’ll notice he sat safe in Korianth. But he’s a scholar, not a fighter. You’ll like him,” he said to Master, and Master nodded.

  Almore and Jezzy were already packed, since Master said they would have real beds, and each their own room, and six changes of clothes, and servants.

  Willem supposed he would have a room, too. He had new clothes—his old ones he didn’t even want to remember. He’d had a bath at the Ox, he’d changed into clothes all the same color—gray—with new boots from the boot-seller, and a gray cloak he liked just to stroke, because it felt as smooth and soft as one of Jezzy’s cats.

  But he didn’t know, now that Master and everybody called him Master Willem, exactly where he would be. He didn’t have anything to pack, either, except an old knife he liked, and a few
pages Master had given him, which he was going to bind into the start of a book. So he had those lying on the table, and Master and Tewk talked for a while.

  King Osric had gotten into the town and into the fortress without even a fight: and it wasn’t as bad as a sack, but Wiggy’s place had lost furniture and tankards—and was getting new ones: King Osric had ordered damages paid, so Wiggy and his daughter were happy, and feeling rich.

  Most every damage had gotten fixed. Master had fixed a few. Master was feeling a lot better now that the demon was out of town, and was getting visibly a little younger, which was not an illusion; Willem was fairly sure of it.

  So everybody had a prospect, and he was fairly sure his was bright. He just didn’t know what it was.

  Until Tewk walked up as he was standing, looking out the open door of their little house, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “You’re pretty good,” Tewk said. “The world’s wider than Wiscezan, you know. I’ve got a cousin up in Peghary who wants a little advice. Ever ridden?”

  He hadn’t. If he were Jezzy, with Jezzy’s talent, he wouldn’t worry about it; but horses scared him. They were tall. They had intentions of their own.

  Tewk was asking him to go on the road with him. And see places. Peghary. He’d only heard of that place.

  “Master might need me,” he said. He still had that duty. Master had leaned on him for a long time.

  “I’m doing very well,” Master said. “I can spare you a few months. I’ll be busy with these two. They’re getting old enough. They’ll take care of things.”

  Master never had said anything about his room in the house. And with Tewk—

  He’d gotten used to Tewk. Tewk was smart in different ways than Master. There were things still to learn.

  Places to go.

  He nodded, looking out on the dust of the Alley.

  Fact was, Tewk needed him. He wasn’t the only one who put illusions on things. Cousin in Peghary, hell.

  Maybe there even was a cousin.

  “Sure,” he said. “All right. I can ride.”

  * * *

  Raised in rural Vermont, K. J. PARKER is part of the new generation of fantasy writers who, over the past ten years, has been publishing work that has been redefining sword and sorcery. Parker’s first novel, Colors in the Steel, appeared in 1998 and was followed by two further volumes in the Fencer trilogy, the Scavenger trilogy, and the critically acclaimed Engineer trilogy. Parker’s most recent books are novels The Company and The Folding Knife, and novella “Purple and Black.” Having worked in law, journalism, and numismatics, Parker is married to a solicitor, lives in southern England, and, when not writing, likes to make things out of wood and metal.

  * * *

  A RICH FULL WEEK

  K. J. Parker

  He looked at me the way they all do. “You’re him, then.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “This way.”

  Across the square. A cart, tied up to a hitching post. One thin horse. Not so very long ago, he’d used the cart for shifting dung. I sat next to him, my bag on my knees, tucking my feet in close, and laid a bet with myself as to what he’d say next.

  “You don’t look like a wizard,” he said.

  I owed myself two nomismata. “I’m not a wizard,” I said.

  I always say that.

  “But we sent to the Fathers for a—”

  “I’m not a wizard,” I repeated, “I’m a philosopher. There’s no such thing as wizards.”

  He frowned. “We sent to the Fathers for a wizard,” he said.

  I have this little speech. I can say it with my eyes shut, or thinking about something else. It comes out better if I’m not thinking about what I’m saying. I tell them, we’re not wizards, we don’t do magic, there’s no such thing as magic. Rather, we’re students of natural philosophy, specializing in mental energies, telepathy, telekinesis, indirect vision. Not magic; just science where we haven’t quite figured out how it works yet. I looked at him. His hood and coat were homespun—that open, rather scratchy weave you get with moorland wool. The patches were a slightly different color; I guessed they’d been salvaged from an even older coat that had finally reached the point where there was nothing left to sew onto. The boots had a military look. There had been battles in these parts, thirty years ago, in the civil war. The boots looked to be about that sort of vintage. Waste not, want not.

  “I’m kidding,” I said. “I’m a wizard.”

  He looked at me, then back at the road. I hadn’t risen in his estimation, but I hadn’t sunk any lower, probably because that wasn’t possible. I waited for him to broach the subject.

  By my reckoning, three miles out of town, I said, “So tell me what’s been happening.”

  He had big hands; too big for his wrists, which looked like bones painted flesh-color. “The Brother wrote you a letter,” he said.

  “Yes,” I replied brightly. “But I want you to tell me.”

  The silence that followed was thought rather than rudeness or sulking. Then he said, “No good asking me. I don’t know about that stuff.”

  They never want to talk to me. I have to conclude that it’s my fault. I’ve tried all sorts of different approaches. I’ve tried being friendly, which gets you nowhere. I’ve tried keeping my face shut until someone volunteers information, which gets you peace and quiet. I’ve read books about agriculture, so I can talk intelligently about the state of the crops, milk yields, prices at market, and the weather. When I do that, of course, I end up talking to myself. Actually, I have no problem with talking to myself. In the country, it’s the only way I ever get an intelligent conversation.

  “The dead man,” I prompted him. I never say the deceased.

  He shrugged. “Died about three months ago. Never had any bother till just after lambing.”

  “I see. And then?”

  “It was sheep to begin with,” he said. “The old ram, with its neck broke, and then four ewes. They all reckoned it was wolves, but I said to them, wolves don’t break necks, it was something with hands did that.”

  I nodded. I knew all this. “And then?”

  “More sheep,” he said, “and the dog, and then an old man, used to go round all the farms selling stuff, buttons and needles and things he made out of old bones; and when we found him, we reckoned we’d best tell the boss up at the grange, and he sent down two of his men to look out at night, and then the same thing happened to them. I said, that’s no wolf. Knew all along, see. Seen it before.”

  That hadn’t been in the letter. “Is that right?” I said.

  “When I was a kid,” the man said (and now I knew the problem would be getting him to shut up). “Same thing exactly: sheep, then travelers, then three of the duke’s men. My grandad, he knew what it was, but they wouldn’t listen. He knew a lot of stuff, Grandad.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Him and me and my cousin from out over, we got a couple of shovels and a pick and an ax, and we went and dug up this old boy who’d died. And he was all swelled up, like he’d got the gout all over, and he was purple, like a grape. So we cut off his head and shoveled all the dirt back, and we dropped the head down an old well, and that was the end of that. No more bother. Didn’t say what we’d done, mind. The Brother wouldn’t have liked it. Funny bugger, he was.”

  Well, I thought. “You did the right thing,” I said. “Your grandfather was a clever man, obviously.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “He knew a lot of stuff.”

  I was doing my mental arithmetic. When I was a kid—so, anything from fifty-five to sixty years ago. Rather a long interval, but not unheard of. I was about to ask if anything like it had happened before then, but I figured it out just in time. If wise old Grandfather had known exactly what to do, it stood to reason he’d learned it the old-fashioned way: watching or helping, quite possibly more than once.

  “The man who died,” I said.

  “Him.” A cartload of significan
ce crammed into that word. “Offcomer,” he explained.

  “Ah,” I said.

  “Schoolteacher, he called himself,” he went on. “Dunno about that. Him and the Brother, they tried to get a school going, to teach the boys their letters and figuring and all, but I told them, waste of time in these parts, you can’t spare a boy in summer, and winter, it’s too dark and cold to be walking five miles there and five miles back, just to learn stuff out of a book. And they wanted paying, two pence twice a year. People around here can’t afford that for a parcel of old nonsense.”

  I thought of my own childhood, and said nothing. “Where did he come from?”

  “Down south.” Well, of course he did. “I said to him, you’re a long way from home. He didn’t deny it. Said it was his calling, whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

  It was dark by the time we reached the farm. It was exactly what I’d been expecting: long and low, with turf eaves a foot off the ground, turf walls over a light timber frame. No trees this high up, so lumber had to come up the coast on a big shallow-draught freighter as far as Holy Trinity, then road haulage the rest of the way. I spent the first fifteen years of my life sleeping under turf, and I still get nightmares.

  Mercifully, the Brother was there waiting for me. He was younger than I’d anticipated—you always think of village Brothers as craggy old fat men, or thin and brittle, like dried twigs with papery bark. Brother Stauracius couldn’t have been much over thirty; a tall, broad-shouldered man with an almost perfectly square head, hair cropped short like winter pasture, and pale blue eyes. Even without the habit, nobody could have taken him for a farmer.

  “I’m so glad you could come,” he said, town voice, educated, rather high for such a big man. He sounded like he meant it. “Such a very long way. I hope the journey wasn’t too dreadful.”

  I wondered what he’d done wrong, to have ended up here. “Thank you for your letter,” I said.