by Rick Cook
She nodded to Cormac’s silent companion. "I think that’s what happened to him."
Standing almost next to Cormac with his eyes fixed on the floor was a black-robed wizard. He was obviously alive but equally obviously caught fast in the grip of a spell. He could neither move nor talk but his eyes burned with venomous hatred as he looked at the floor.
"Why it’s Jul-Akkan isn’t it?" Shiara said pleasantly. "I thought you might be along on this and of course you’re too old a fox to be caught by the death spells around the hoard. What did you do, wait outside while the others rushed to the pedestals?"
She turned to Cormac. "Note him well, Cormac. Jul-Akkan is high in the Council of the League. Indeed he bid fair to become a master of all the League, were he able to rid himself of one or two of his more troublesome colleagues. Now here he is, caught like a fly in a honey bowl."
Cormac shifted and raised his sword for the killing stroke.
"No," Shiara commanded. "I don’t know what that would do to the spell and I doubt you could kill him so easily. No, best leave him while we attend to our main business." She stooped to examine the wall behind Cormac.
"Now let us see what is here."
A quick search of the wall revealed a thin narrow crack in the polished black stone of the wall. Carefully she ran her hand along it, feeling rather than seeing the unevenness that marked a panel in the otherwise solid stone.
She knelt down and pressed her hand against the panel. "It is locked and enchanted, but not guarded, I think."
"Don’t bet your life on that, lass," Cormac warned. "This fellow was tricky enough for ten wizards."
"I will venture nothing on the chance. I merely make the observation."
Shiara looked up at him from where she knelt. "You do not have to be here for this."
Cormac shook his head. "You may need me." Then he laid his hand on hers. "Besides, a World without Light is not a World fit to live in."
"Thank you Cormac," she squeezed his hand. "Now stand out of my light while I unravel this puzzle."
Again working partly by magic and partly with her picks and other tools, Shiara carefully pried the secrets from the lock. Cormac stood by nervously, fingering his sword hilt, his head turning this way and that as he searched for tangible manifestation of the danger he sensed here. Finally there was a click and the panel swung smoothly back.
Behind the panel lay another smaller room lit with the same balefire glow as the great hall. It took only a single lantern to light it. The stink of incense and the reek of magic was fully as strong here as it was beyond. But there were fewer pedestals bearing treasures.
"A puzzle within a puzzle," Cormac said as he surveyed their latest find.
Shiara pointed to a pier off to one side of the chamber. "There, I think."
Cautiously she approached and then sucked in her breath at what she saw.
Laying atop the pedestal was a magician’s staff. But it was like no magician’s staff Shiara had ever seen. It was perhaps four feet long and as thick as her wrist, but it was not wood or even metal. Instead it was made of a crystalline substance that seemed to show flickers of an amethyst light deep within itself. Tiny crabbed characters ran inscribed in bands around its surface, save for a space about a hand’s breadth wide near the top. There was no knob or finial on either end. It was more a sceptre than a staff, she realized. A symbol of rule as well as a tool of magical power.
The wizardess passed her wand over the pedestal and smiled at the result.
"This is the key. If I neutralize the spell and move this, we can remove all else in this place."
"Be careful, Light."
"I will my Sun."
Slowly and carefully Shiara began to unravel the spell binding the staff to the pedestal. She made a final sweeping gesture and the spell flickered and died.
In spite of removing the spell and in spite of her urgent desire to finish this business, Shiara was reluctant to touch the evilly-glinting object before her. She had handled such staffs of other wizards before, but there was something about this one that awed and dismayed her.
Finally she placed her hand upon it and felt the waves of magic flow through her. It seemed as if a dark and vastly deep space opened up around her, inhabited by huge shadow things that pressed close, whispering offers of power, the fulfillment of all dreams and the slaking of all lusts. She had but to wield the staff and…
Quivering, Shiara fought the temptation. She lifted the staff and carried it across the chamber at arm’s length as if it were a poisonous serpent.
The waves of magic beat stronger against her, calling to her more and more clearly. In a fit of panic Shiara tried to drop the staff and found she could not. Now it was the staff which was holding her.
All too late Shiara saw the deadly nature of the trap. The demon at the gate, the spells upon the common items were sufficient to ward off an ordinary thief or hedge magician. To penetrate those and unravel the maze of spells within the cavern and ultimately to possess the key would take someone truly skilled in magic. One of the Mighty, or a black-robe wizard of the League.
The whole cavern and all the magics within it existed simply to sort the untalented or the incompetent from the powerful and to lure the powerful to the sceptre. The sceptre was the last and deadliest trap of them all.
No, Amon-Set was not dead, not truly. Within the smoky purple depths of the scepter he had waited out the ages, waiting for one whose body and skill he could use to live again. The snow-white corpse on the crystal bier was indeed dead. But his soul lived within the sceptre; lived, hungered and awaited its prey.
The wizard who was skilled enough to grasp the sceptre of Amon-Set was a suitable vehicle for his reincarnation. And that was the true purpose of everything here. To find such a one and put them in a position where Amon-Set could possess them and so live again.
Shiara could feel herself ebbing away as the alien presence intruded. She twisted and struggled in the grip of the long-dead sorcerer. She fought back with every bit of skill and knowledge at her command.
It was a hopelessly uneven fight. She felt the chamber’s magics convulse and yield under her desperate thrusts, but the core of Amon-Set locked her in an ever tightening embrace.
"Now!" a strange creaking voice cried from the door of the chamber. Shiara realized vaguely that someone else had entered the fray.
Cormac whirled at the voice and saw Jul-Akkan stumble into the room. Shiara could not break Amon-Set’s hold on her, but her struggles had loosed the grip of the guard spells.
Cormac’s sword flickered at the wizard with the speed of a striking snake, but not fast enough; even weakened Jul-Akkan was faster still. His hand flicked out and Cormac screamed and dropped to the floor.
Without pausing, Jul-Akkan leaped across the room and grasped the sceptre with both hands.
For an instant three beings warred. Then with a final mighty effort Shiara was able to let go of the cursed thing. Jul-Akkan fell back with both hands planted on the sceptre and his eyes widening as Toth-Amon took him.
Shiara staggered and shook her head. Through pain-dimmed eyes she saw Cormac writhing in the final agonies of a death spell and the one who was Jul-Akkan writhing in the throes of rebirth. In seconds Cormac would be dead and Toth-Amon would be loosed upon the world again. Her Sun and her World both teetered on the brink of destruction.
Shiara’s eyes locked with Cormac’s as he pleaded silently with her to do something to release him from the awful pain.
Without bothering with the timing demon, Shiara triggered the destruction spell. "Forgive me, love," she whispered as he slumped to the floor.
Magic after magic flared incandescent around the living, the dead and the reborn. The room shook under the force of the spells. The pedestals tottered and toppled. The lanterns crashed to the floor and went out.
Amon-Set struggled to rise, but he did not have full control. The sceptre slipped from his hands and dashed into pieces on the shaking floor. All aroun
d them the magic grew in violence as forces contained past their time burst free at last.
And then, in a mighty explosion of magic, the roof fell in. Shiara screamed as she saw Cormac’s body crushed under a falling block. Waves of magic flayed her. Her last sight was of the brilliant blue glow. The after-image burned itself into her brain. Reflexively and in shock, she stumbled from the room.
Above her the top of the mountain blew off. A column of angry orange fire shot high into the smoke-stained sky and bombs of flaming lava arced down into the forest, setting fires where they fell.
Toth-Ra examined the great still demon carefully. Obviously the guardian had been neutralized in some manner. So far, so good he thought. He had the word and sign to pass the demon, stolen from the crypt of the League, but he was satisfied not to use them.
Let us see if anything of use remains here. He walked past the thing and inspected the cavern carefully. It did not take him long to find the coffer. When he opened it, he gasped. The heart of the demon lay within.
Toth-Amon smiled. Here was an auspicious beginning. Obviously the Council’s agents had beaten him here, but they were unlikely to know all the secrets of this place. There were still treasures to be gleaned while they attempted to unravel the mysteries.
Then the ground began to move under him. Toth-Ra ran to the mouth of the cave and reached it in time to see the mountain erupt, taking the treaures of Amon-Set with it.
Balked, he danced in fury. "Gone. Gone, ay, all gone," he shrieked.
No, he realized. Not all gone. There was still the guardian of the gate.
Heedless of the shaking earth or the erupting mountain he moved back across the magically marked threshold clutching the box tightly. Once safely outside, he released the demon.
"What is your name?" he asked sharply.
"Bale-Zur," the thing rumbled.
"And what is your virtue?" the wizard asked.
"To slay," the great deep voice boomed out again. "To rend and tear any whose true name has ever been spoken in the World."
Toth-Ra shivered. Here was power indeed! The treasure of Amon-Set might be consumed in fire, but at least one of his servants could be bound to his cause. He eyed the burning mountaintop carefully. Perhaps this one alone would be sufficient to make him the greatest in the League.
"And what is your desire?"
"To slay," the demon repeated. "To slay and slay again."
Toth-Ra placed both hands on the dusky globe. "Then I will bargain with you," the wizard said.
It was hours later when Ugo found Shiara wandering in the canyon above the boulder field.
"You live, Lady," the little wood goblin cried joyfully as he ran to her.
"Who?"
"Ugo, Lady. You set me to watch. Then bad things happen and I come to look." He stopped. "Where is other?"
"Gone," Shiara said dazedly. "Gone." Then she seemed to gather herself and held out her hand.
"Lead me, Ugo. Your senses are keen and between the night and the clouds I cannot see."
"Close to high noon, Lady," the little creature said sadly. "Sorry, Lady."
Shiara said nothing. Ugo approached her and gently took her hand in his.
"Famous victory," the wood-goblin said. "Bards will sing it long."
Shiara the Silver only laughed bitterly and let the goblin lead her down the smoldering mountain.
"And what happened afterwards?" Moira breathed at last.
Shiara the Silver raised her head from her breast and turned her blind, lined face to her questioner. "Afterwards?" She said simply. "There was no afterwards."
"Foolishness," grumbled Ugo, poking up the fire.
Eight
Forlorn Hope
The long golden days of Indian Summer dragged by at Heart’s Ease. Moira worked in the garden or the kitchen. Wiz chopped wood and mooned over Moira. If the tensions within the household did not ease, at least they did not to grow significantly worse.
There was always work to be done and the time rolled forward with everyone except Wiz fully occupied. But for all of them, except perhaps Ugo, there was a sense of being suspended. Greater plans and long-range decisions were set aside awaiting word from Bal-Simba and the Council on what was to be done with Wiz.
For Wiz everything depended on what the Council found. If he did have some special ability then perhaps he could redeem himself with Moira. At least he would be able to make himself useful and stop feeling like a parasite.
In his more realistic moments, Wiz admitted he couldn’t possibly imagine what that ability might be. The image of him standing before a boiling cauldron in a long robe and a pointed cap with stars was simply silly and the thought of himself as a warrior was even worse.
"Lady, may I ask you a question?" Wiz said to Shiara one day when Moira wasn’t around. The former wizardess was sitting on a wooden bench on the sunny side of the keep, enjoying the warmth from the sun before her and the sun-warmed stones behind.
"Of course, Sparrow," she said kindly, turning her face to his voice.
"Patrius was a great Wizard wasn’t he?"
"One of the greatest the North has ever seen." She smiled reminiscently. "He was not only skilled in magic, he—well—he saw things. Not by magic, but because had the kind of mind that let him see what others’ sight had passed over."
"But he didn’t make mistakes very often?"
"Making mistakes is dangerous for a wizard, Sparrow. Magicians who are prone to them do not last."
Wiz took a deep breath and rushed on. "Then he couldn’t have been wrong about me, could he?"
Shiara paused before answering. "I do not know, Sparrow. Certainly he was engaged in a dangerous, difficult business, performing a Great Summoning unaided. If he were to make a mistake it might be in a situation such as that.
"On the other hand," she went on as if she sensed Wiz’s spirits fall, "Patrius could look deeper and see more subtly than anyone I ever knew. It may well be that we cannot fathom his purposes in bringing you here."
"Do you think the Council will figure out what he was up to?"
Again Shiara paused. "I do not know, Sparrow. Patrius apparently confided in no one. The members of the Council are the wisest of the Mighty. I would think they would discover his aim. But I simply do not know." She smiled at him. "When the Council knows something they will send word. Best to wait until then."
In the event it was less than a week later when word came to Heart’s Ease.
It was another of the mild cloudless days that seemed to mark the end of summer in the North. Wiz was up on the battlements, looking out over the Wild Wood—and down at Moira who was busy in the garden.
"Sparrow," Shiara’s voice called softly behind him, "we have a visitor."
Wiz turned and there, standing next to Shiara was Bal-Simba himself.
"Lord," Wiz gasped. "I didn’t see you arrive."
"Such is the nature of the Wizard’s Way," the huge wizard said with a smile. "How are you, Sparrow?"
"I’m fine, Lord."
"I am happy to see that you made your journey here safely. Although not without peril, I am told."
"Well, yes, Lord, that is…" Wiz trailed off, overawed by the wizard’s size and appearance.
"I will leave you now, Lord," Shiara put in. "Doubtless you have things to discuss."
"Thank you, Lady," Bal-Simba rumbled.
"What did you find out?" Wiz demanded as soon as Shiara had closed the door.
"Very little, I am afraid," Bal-Simba said regretfully. "There is no trace of magic in you. You are not a wizard and have not the talent to become one. There is a trace of—something—but not the most cunning demons nor the most clever of the Mighty can discern ought of what it is."
Wiz took a deep, shuddering breath. "Which means—what?"
"It means," the wizard said gently, "that to all intents and purposes you are an ordinary mortal with nothing magic to make you special."
"Okay, so send me home then."
Bal-Simba shook his head. "I am truly sorry, Sparrow, but that we cannot do."
"Oh crap! You brought me here, you can send me home."
"It is not that simple, Sparrow."
"It is that simple! It is exactly that simple. If you can bring me here you can send me back."
"No it is not!" Bal-Simba said sharply. "Now heed me. I will explain to you a little of the magic that brought you here.
"Did you ever wonder why Patrius chose to Summon you at a place far removed from the Capital? No, why would you? He did it because he hoped to do alone what he and all the Mighty could not accomplish acting together.
"Normally a Great Summoning is done by several of the Mighty together. But such a gathering of magic would be immediately visible to the magicians of the Dark League. They would strive to interfere and we would have to use magic to protect it. Soon there would be so much magical energy tied up in thrust and parry that the circle could not hope to make the Great Summoning.
"Of us all, only Patrius had the knowledge and ability to perform a Great Summoning unaided. He knew he could not completely escape the League’s attention, but he apparently hoped that they would not realize what was happening until he had completed the spell." Bal-Simba looked grim. "As it happened he was wrong and the gamble cost Patrius his life.
"Simply put, Sparrow, there is no hope of returning you to your world unless we can perform a Great Summoning unhindered and there is no hope of that with the League growing in power."
Wiz’s face twisted. "Damn."
"Even non-magicians should not swear, Sparrow," Bal-Simba said sternly.
"Well, what am I supposed to do? You’ve just told me I’m nothing and I’ll always be nothing. I’m supposed to be happy about it?"
"I did not say you were nothing. I said you have nothing of magic about you. You have a life to live and can make of it what you will."
"Fine," Wiz said bitterly. "I don’t suppose you could use your magic to whip me up a VAX? Or even a crummy IBM PC?"
