by Rick Cook
"Well, Sparrow?" Shiara asked as she ducked to enter the low door of Wiz’s workroom.
"I think we’re about there, Lady." For the first time in days the crude plank table was clear. The rough wooden tablets which had been piled on it to toppling were now stacked more or less neatly in the corners of the room. The table had been pushed away from the small window and a bench had been drawn underneath it. A brazier in the center of the room made a feeble attempt to take the late-winter chill out of the air but neither Wiz nor Shiara doffed their cloaks. The door was open to let in more light.
"Are you sure you want to be here?" Wiz asked. "I mean it isn’t necessary and it may be dangerous."
The blind woman shrugged. "It is dangerous everywhere and I would rather be at the center of events."
Shiara came into the hut and almost bumped into the table in its new and unfamiliar position. With a quick apology, Wiz took her hand and guided her to the bench.
"When do you begin?"
"I’ll let you know in a minute. Emac!"
"Yes, master?" A small brown creature scuttled out of the shadows. It was man-like, perhaps three feet tall, with a huge bald head and square wire-rimmed glasses balanced on its great beak of a nose. A green eyeshade was pushed back on its domed forehead and a quill pen was stuck behind one flap-like ear.
"Are we ready?"
"I’ll check again, master." The gnome-like being disappeared with a faint "pop." Shiara winced involuntarily at the strong magic so close to her.
"I’m sorry, my Lady. I’ll tell them to walk from now on."
"What was that?" Shiara asked.
"An Emac. A kind of magic clerk. They help me organize things and translate simple commands into complex sets of instructions. I have several of them now."
"Emacs," Shiara said, wrinkling her nose. "I see—so to speak."
There was another "pop" and the Emac was back before Wiz. "We are all ready, Master."
Wiz looked at Shiara, who sat with her head turned in his direction, beautiful and impassive. The pale, soft winter light caught her in profile, making her look more regal than ever.
Wiz took a deep, shuddering breath. "Very well," he said and raised his hands above his head. "backslash" he intoned.
"$" replied the Emac.
"class drone grep moira"
"$" said the Emac again.
"exe," Wiz said and the Emac’s lips moved soundlessly as he transmitted the order, expanding it into a series of commands to each of the drones.
Far to the South, in a dozen places along the frozen shores of the Freshened Sea, stubby white shapes popped into existence, scanned their surroundings and disappeared again.
"running" said the Emac.
Wiz was silent for an instant. Please God, let them find her. "All right," he said briskly. "Now let’s see how much Hell we can raise with the League. backslash!"
It started as a tiny spark deep in the Sea of Scrying, a pinpoint of light on the graven copper likeness of the World. The acolyte peered deeper into the Sea and rubbed his eyes. Was there something… ? Yes, there it was again, stronger and sharper. And another, equally sharp and growing stronger. He raised his hand to summon the black-robed Master. When he returned his attention to the murky water there were four bright spots apparently scattered at random through his sector. Then the four doubled and there were eight, and sixteen, and thirty-two.
In the time it took the black-robed wizard to cross the room over a thousand points of bright magic light had bloomed on the bottom of the bowl. By the time the word passed to Toth-Set-Ra, the Sea of Scrying glowed with a uniform milky luminescence and all sight of things magic in the world had been lost.
With a small "pop" an apparition materialized in Moira’s cell.
She clenched her jaw until her teeth ached. I will be brave she told herself. I will not scream.
But her visitor was the most unlikely demon she had ever seen. It was a squat, white cylinder with a rounded, gray top and two stubby legs beneath.
The dome-shaped head rotated and Moira saw it had a single glowing blue eye. As the eye pointed at her, the thing emitted a series of squeaks and beeps. Then it vanished, leaving Moira awake and wondering.
Deep beneath the bowels of the City of Night three demons guarded the portal to the Pits of Fire. The first of the demons bore the form of an immense dragon who coiled in front of the gate. The second demon was shaped as a gigantic slug, whose skin oozed pungent acid and whose passage left smoking grooves burned into the rock. The third and mightiest of the demons appeared as an enormously fat old man with three faces seated on the back of a great black toad.
Ceaseless, tirelessly and sleeplessly the three watched, holding the sole entrance to the lake of boiling incandescent lava and the well of earth magic that was the League’s greatest resource.
Their vigil was broken by a "pop" and a tiny brown manniken stood before the three awesome sentries. Three heads and four faces swiveled toward him but the little man-thing made no move to approach the gate. Instead he opened his mouth and began to gabble in a voice so fast and high as to be inaudible to human ears. The three demons watched impassively until the little brown creature spoke a certain word. Then the dragon demon rose and crept away from the door, the slug demon heaved its acid-slimed bulk to the side of the corridor and the main demon spoke.
"Pass on," it said in basso profundo three-part harmony.
Without another word the little creature skipped through the now unguarded gate.
Beyond the great iron portal other demons reached deep into the roiling white-hot lava to sift out the magic welling up from the center of the World and turn it to their masters’ uses. Feeding like hogs at a trough, they ignored the little brown creature who pranced in among their mighty legs. They paid no attention when the newcomer drew a pallid wriggling little grub from his pouch and cast it into the blazing pit.
As soon as it touched the flow of magic the grub began to swell. It grew and grew until it was as large as the demons, soaking up magic like a dry sponge soaks up water. The demons shifted and jostled as magic was diverted away from them. They tried futilely to regain their share. But now there were two full-sized worms in the pit and a dozen more growing rapidly. Unable to shoulder the worms away, the demons milled about in frustration and the flow of magic from the Pit to the city above dwindled to nothing.
Bal-Simba paced the great stone hall like a restless bear. Now and again he paused to peer over the shoulder of one of the Watchers.
"Anything?" he asked the head of the Watch for the dozenth time that morning.
"Nothing, Lord. No sign of anything out of the ordinary."
"Thank you." The wizard resumed pacing. The watcher stared into the crystal again and then frowned.
"Wait, Lord! There is something now." Bal-Simba whirled and rushed to his side.
"It’s faint. Very faint, but there is something around the edges… No, now it’s getting stronger." The Watcher looked up at Bal-Simba, awed. "Lord, there are indications of new magic in the city of Night itself!"
"What is it?"
"I do not know, Lord. Considering the distance and the masking spells it’s a wonder that we can pick up anything at all. Whatever is happening there must be extremely strong."
"Hai Sparrow!" Bal-Simba roared. "You spread your wings, eh? Well fly, Sparrow, fly. And we will do some flying of our own." He motioned to Arianne who was sitting nearby. "Sound the alert. We will make what use we can of the opportunity our Sparrow gives us."
Again the dragons rose from their roosts in the Capital, formed into echelons and climbed away to the south. Again the Dragon Leader reviewed his instructions. A reconnaissance in force over the Freshened Sea, they told him. Scout to the South until you meet resistance. Well, he thought. We’ll see just how far south we can go. And then perhaps we’ll go a little further. He tested his bowstring grimly.
In their dark towers above the City of Night, the magicians of the League flew to arms. Spells pu
shed upon them from a hundred directions, elemental and relentless. In the harbor ships stirred uneasily as the waters tossed them.
"Get underway immediately," the Shadow Captain ordered, scowling at the sky. Most of the crew was still aboard the Tiger Moth and a mooring is the worst place for a ship to be in a time of danger.
Under the lash of the captain’s voice the crew rushed to their stations. Hawsers were quickly cast off and two hands scrambled for the rigging. The oars were broken out and fitted into the locks. The crew hastily arranged themselves with an even number on each side. The captain saw the result and scowled again. Half the benches were empty, but it would have to do. With the mate beating time and the Shadow Warriors pulling for all they were worth, the Tiger Moth threaded its way through the clutter of ships and made for the breakwater gate and the open sea.
High in the watchtower overlooking the sea gate, a brown-robed mage threw back his arms and began his incantation. As the spell took shape in the plenum beyond human senses, a certain configuration of forces appeared. It was only a small part of the spell, but a lurking worm sensed it and battened onto that configuration. The worm’s own spell twisted the conjuration out of its intended shape and the wizard screamed as he felt the spell writhe away from him and into a new and dangerous direction. The last thing he saw was a blinding, searing flash as the room exploded around him. His fellows, those who were not too close, saw the top of a black tower disappear in an incandescent blast.
The rest of the tower slumped like a child’s sand castle built over-high and toppled into the bay. A huge block of hewed basalt crashed through the Tiger Moth just aft of the mast, breaking her back and bringing a tangle of rigging down on the poop where the Shadow Captain stood.
Impelled by the force of the block the Tiger Moth plunged beneath the cold black water. Only a few pieces of wood and rigging floated up.
The worm fed on the new power and spawned several copies of itself to lurk in the unimaginable spaces of magic and feed in turn when the opportunity arose.
"Master, our spells weaken!" the sweating wizard cried. With a curse Toth-Set-Ra strode to the lectern where the man had been conjuring and shoved him roughly aside. Quickly he scanned the grimore’s page, creating the spell anew, and scowled at the result. What should have been bright and shining was wan and gray. Angrily he reached out for more power, but instead of the expected strong, steady flow he found only a wavering rivulet.
"To the Pit!" he roared at the shaking wizard. "Something interferes with the flow."
As wizards and acolytes alike hurried to do his bidding, Toth-Set-Ra stared unseeing at the awful runes inscribed on human parchment before him.
Was the Council attacking in retaliation for the raid on the North? He dismissed the idea even as the thought formed. He knew Northern magic and there was none of it here. The Council might have a new spell or two, but everything the League faced was new. Besides, he knew the work of every one of the Mighty and this was unlike any of them.
An attack from within, aimed at himself? He considered that somewhat longer. It would explain how someone had gotten into the Pit to interfere with the flow of magic. Had he given Atros too much power? That too he discarded. If Atros or any of the others had half this much power they would have struck long before. And again, he knew the magics of the League even better than he knew those of the Council.
Then who? As the City of Night shook and towers toppled Toth-Set-Ra racked his brains trying to find the source of the attack.
A doom. A plague. A bane upon all wizards. The demon’s words came back to him and the mightiest wizard in the World shivered.
The alien wizard! The stranger from beyond the world. This mass of army-ant spells pressing in on them must be his work.
It was well for the Shadow Captain that he was already dead, for the wizard’s next oath would have blasted him where he stood. He had the wrong magician! Somehow this other one, this Wiz, the one they called Sparrow, had fooled the Shadow Warriors. The hedge-witch was a pawn to be sacrificed to protect the Council’s king.
And he had fallen for it. By all the demons in the nine netherhells, he had been duped!
For a moment chill panic shook Toth-Set-Ra. Then he stopped short and laughed aloud. The other wizards in the chantry paused involuntarily at the sound. The Master of the Dark League seldom laughed and when he did it boded something truly horrible for someone. They turned back to their spells and incantations with renewed vigor.
Toth-Set-Ra was still chuckling when he reached the door of the chantry. Fool me, will you? We shall see who is the fool in the end. For I tell you Wiz, or Sparrow, or whatever your true name is, you are as much in my power as if it were you and not that red-haired bitch I hold fast.
Far to the north on a crag above the shores of the Freshened Sea three gargoyles stared forever South, testing the wind, sifting the whispers borne to them and sending on what they heard.
"It goes well, Sparrow." It was not a question. Shiara sat on the bench, pale and calm as a winter’s dawn while Wiz paced the room, muttering in a way that had nothing to do with magic. He paused to glance once more into the bowl of water on the rude table between them.
"We’re shaking them good and proper," he confirmed. "I can’t interpret everything, but there are fires and earthquakes all over the area. Part of the City of Night’s wall is down and a couple of towers have already slid into the harbor." He smiled. "We’ve just about ruined their whole day. Now if only…"
Shiara nodded. "I know Sparrow. Fortuna grant us this one final boon."
The crystal contrivance atop the ruined tower sparkled and flashed with the magical force of the messages arriving from the south.
Deep in her cell, Moira didn’t know what was going on, but she was increasingly certain it wasn’t being done to frighten her. Even this far under the earth she could hear occasional explosions, faint and muffled but audible nonetheless. Twice, groups of goblin soldiers tore by her cell in clattering, shouting masses. Once something huge and foul and slithering whuffled up the corridor while she pressed against the slimy rock wall and prayed to the depths of her soul that the thing would not notice her. Even the vermin seemed to have gone into hiding in the crannies and under the piles of rotting straw.
First the demon with the glowing blue eye and now this. What could it possibly mean?
Moira didn’t hope, for hope had long since burned out of her. But she felt a stirring. Whatever was going on couldn’t be good for her captors and misfortune to them was as much as she dared wish for.
With a faint "pop" an Emac appeared in front of Wiz, so close he almost stumbled over the demon in his pacing.
"We have found her, Master! RDsquaresquare has found her."
"Thank God! Where?"
"Underground master, far and deep underground. The coordinates are . . ."
Wiz waved the small brown demon to silence. "Show me in the bowl!"
The demon removed the quill from behind his ear and dipped the point in the water. Ink flowed from the pen, turning the clear water black and then shimmering as the image formed. Wiz looked intently at it and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Have we got a good enough fix?"
The Emac cocked his bald brown head and his huge ears quivered as he listened to something unhearable. "Yes, Master. We can come within a few cubits of the place."
"Then come with me." Wiz strode to the door, grabbing his oak staff and wrapping his cloak tighter as he stepped into the outdoor chill.
"Wait, Lord."
Wiz turned and saw Donal and Kenneth arrayed for battle. Their mail hauberks hung to their knees and their greaves and vambraces were secure to their limbs. Donal’s great sword was over his shoulder and Kenneth’s bow was slung across his back. Both wore their open-faced helms and their mail coifs were laced tight.
"You’re not going," Kenneth said. "Not alone."
"I have to." Wiz told him.
"Bal-Simba told us to guard you and guard you we shall,
" said Donal.
Wiz shook his head. "It’s too dangerous. Look, I appreciate the idea, but you can’t come."
"Stubborn," said Donal.
"Too stubborn," said Kenneth. "You look, Sparrow. Someone has to keep your back while you’re making magic."
"My magic can do that for me."
"Unlikely," said Kenneth.
"Take them, Sparrow," Shiara put in from the hut’s door. "You may need them."
"It’s dangerous," Wiz warned again. "You might get . . ." He cast his eyes over their well-used armor and weapons and trailed off. Both men looked at him in grim amusement. "Uh… right."
"It is Bal-Simba’s wish," said Kenneth simply.
Wiz sighed. "Very well. Stand close to me and I’ll see if I can make this thing work."
Donal and Kenneth pressed in against his back and he shifted his grip on the staff.
Wiz drew a deep, shuddering breath, filling his lungs with the cold, sweet air of Heart’s Ease. He looked around slowly at the place he had come to call home. Then he tightened his grip on the staff and began.
"backslash" he said to the Emac. "$" the Emac responded, now ready and waiting for orders. "transport" he said and the Emac began to gabble silently translating the predefined macro spell into the words of power. "arg moira" He raised the staff high over his head as the air began to waver and twist around him. "EXE" he shouted.
And the world went dark.
Something’s gone wrong! Wiz thought frantically. It’s not supposed to be like this! His arms quivered from the strain of holding the heavy staff high. He could feel Donal and Kenneth pressing hard against his back and hear their breathing, but still the darkness did not lift. Then he shifted slightly and his staff scraped against something overhead, showering him with noisome dirt. He nearly laughed aloud as he realized that this darkness was simply the absence of light.
He pointed with his staff. "backslash light exe" he said, and a blue glow lit the world around him. All three blinked and looked about.
