Space Magic

by Levine, David D.

  A flash of lightning revealed Konrad’s lined face not three feet from his own.

  Ulrich backed away from the apparition, his free arm flailing as he toppled backward into the bush. Thorns clawed at his hands and face, caught his clothing. His own weight and that of the book pinned him to the bush, whose branches hampered his arms so that he could not rise.

  Trapped.

  Konrad smiled as he stepped forward. “You look tired, sir,” he said. “Let me take that heavy book for you.”

  Ulrich struggled against the entrapping bush.

  Konrad reached for the book.

  And then a blue-white sheet of fire stretched across the sky, accompanied by an immediate smashing pressure of sound. It was all too huge for Ulrich’s eyes, his ears, his brain to comprehend, and he lost consciousness.

  Some time later—he had no way of knowing how long—he was able to see and hear again, to move his limbs, to wrench himself free of the bush. The night was still dark; the lightning and hail still raged.

  Konrad lay unmoving on the ground, already covered with a layer of the black hailstones. His hat and shoes were missing; much of his clothing looked burnt.

  Wearily Ulrich picked up the book and began walking.

  After an eternity, he came to the mill. Its wheel groaned loud enough to be heard even over the ringing in his ears.

  He splashed through the creek and into the darkness under the mill-wheel’s axle. Here was a small space where he had spent many a pleasant hour with Bechte. As he ducked inside there was a sudden movement, and a fox dashed out between his legs. The space was foul and muddy, but at last he was shielded from the pounding hail.

  Shivering, he wrapped himself into a ball around the book. He would wait here until daybreak, then find a better hiding place.

  -o0o-

  He awoke with a start to the sight of Agnes’ dripping face. Her mouth was set in a scowl, and he scrambled back away from her, cracking his head on a projecting timber.

  “Agnes!” he gasped, stupidly. “How did you find me?” His own voice sounded peculiar to him; his ears felt stuffed with straw.

  “I grew up by this mill. You are not the only one who knows of this trysting-place.”

  A little wan daylight seeped through chinks in the wall, and outside the hail had been replaced by a driving rain. Thunder still rolled.

  “I’m sorry I broke your wall.”

  “You should be!” she snapped. “Half the house collapsed behind you.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, and meant it. “I should never have come here.”

  “Be quiet and move over. My bottom’s getting soaked.”

  He moved away from the entrance, letting Agnes pull herself fully inside. There was just room for the two of them. Agnes’ eyes were white in her mud-smeared face, and Ulrich knew he must look far worse.

  They sat in silence for a time. Finally he said “Are you going to tell them where I am?”

  “I don’t know. Half of them want to burn the book, and God knows what would happen then. But I’m not sure what else I can do.”

  “You can help me. I know what I did wrong. I can fix it, I think. But I need some things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “A candle. And some sealing wax. And a sharp knife.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Are you sure this won’t make it even worse?”

  “I think so. I only hope I have the courage to do it.”

  She began to back out of the hole, then paused. “May I ask you one question?”

  “Anything.”

  “These daemons... they control the weather. Rain, wind, sun. Why could they not keep one book dry?”

  “I... I don’t know.”

  “No matter.” And she left.

  -o0o-

  But it did matter. It tugged and tugged at Ulrich’s mind while he waited for Agnes to return. She was right; keeping the spell itself safe from harm was a simple and standard part of any spell. How could a wizard of Johannes’ abilities have forgotten it?

  Ulrich cast his mind back over the last two weeks of work. He had not read every page—much of the Zauberschrift was beyond him in any case—but he did remember seeing a clause for protecting the spell-book.

  He broke the seal. A twinge went through him at that, but the weather did not seem to worsen, and he leafed through the book in search of the passage he recalled. The light was terrible, there was barely room to turn the pages, and his vision was blurred from exhaustion, but eventually he found it.

  It was indeed, as near as he could puzzle out, a clause for protecting the spell-book. But there was an addition in Heinrich’s crabbed hand: you and all your brothers shall in this, and in all things, be obedient to Heinrich the wizard above all others.

  Tired though he was, Ulrich seethed. That power-besotted bastard Heinrich had given himself personal command of all the daemons, hiding it here in this obscure clause. And worse, he had done it badly. He had inserted his text in the phrase that invoked the protective daemon, and the insertion had mangled the language of the invocation. This error had left the spell-book completely unprotected. It was a wonder the book had lasted as long as it did.

  Just then Agnes returned. “I brought your materials, and something to eat. But I think they may search the mill soon. You must hurry.”

  Ulrich wolfed Agnes’ bread and cheese, spitting crumbs as he explained to her what he had found. Taking the knife, he scraped away Heinrich’s words, replacing black treason with a pure expanse of creamy vellum. He read and re-read the remaining words, trying to reassure himself that this change would have the desired effect and no other. He thought that it would, but there was much here he did not understand, would not have understood even if his ears were not still ringing.

  And now came the part he had been dreading. “A spell is a compact between wizard and daemon,” he explained to Agnes as he lit the candle with flint and tinder, “It must be sealed with blood. There are errors, in the spell or in the sealing, that can cause injury. Or death. So when the time came to seal the spell, before, I took the coward’s way. I re-sealed it with the old wax. With the two original wizards’ blood. I hoped that would seal the spell without involving me. But it didn’t work. The false seal inverted the meaning of the spells. Brought disastrous weather instead of good.” He dripped fresh wax onto the cord, picked up the knife.

  “This time I use my own blood. This time I take the risk upon my own head. And may God forgive me if I have made any mistake.” He pricked the ball of his left thumb with the knife, squeezed a few drops of blood onto the hot wax. Then he dripped more wax onto the cord and took up his father’s signet ring.

  The moment he pressed the ring into the wax, a blue light burst from the book, illuminating the dank hole like the legendary lighthouse at Pharos. With the light came a great whispering roar like the wings of ten thousand butterflies, and the flavor of cinnamon and salt.

  “How will we know if you have succeeded?” asked Agnes.

  Ulrich sat gape-mouthed for a moment. “Did you not see the light?”

  “What light? The day does seem a bit brighter, if that is what you mean.” Indeed, the light outside was stronger, and the rain seemed to be slackening.

  “Yes, it does,” he said. Though the light and sound had lasted only a moment, the taste of cinnamon and salt remained on his tongue and a peculiar tingling suffused his limbs. “I think that means I have succeeded.”

  -o0o-

  Mud-caked and aching, Ulrich leaned heavily on Agnes as they slogged wearily back to her half-ruined cottage. The spell-book lay in the crook of Ulrich’s arm, miraculously clean. Clearly the protective daemon was hard at work.

  The sun raised wisps of steam from the sodden ground and glinted from the puddles that lay everywhere. A hungry winter lay ahead, but there might be time for one small harvest before the snows and there was the promise of an early, daemon-driven spring.

  As they approached the village square they saw tha
t a celebration was already in progress. People danced in circles, joyous at the sun’s warmth on their upturned faces.

  “Ulrich,” Agnes said, “it has been twelve years since Lannesdorf had a wizard of its own. Will you consider staying here with us?”

  Ulrich stopped walking. He stared at the shiny red seal on the spell-book. At last he spoke. “I will consider it. If I can find a wizard to complete my instruction. If my journeymen have not destroyed the shop in my absence. And if the village will build a proper house for me. One with wood floors.”

  “I do not know if these things can be arranged,” she said. “But we will see. Come, now, let us enjoy the fine weather.”

  Agnes took Ulrich’s arm, and together they joined the celebration in the village square.

  Rewind

  A flash outside the Venetian blinds sent a crazy striped parallelogram of flickering orange light splashing across the wall of Clark Thatcher’s room. The plastic IV bag hanging at the head of his bed caught some of the light and reflected it onto his legs, a bright orange amoeba that danced and jiggled for a moment until the crash of the explosion frightened it away. Then he heard sirens, and shouting.

  Thatcher craned his neck, straining against the straps that held him to the bed, but all he could see outside was a pale yellow flicker and moving shadows. Through the small window in his door, nothing but the same hospital-sterile light he’d seen since he’d been here.

  How long was that? Hours. Maybe a day. Ironic, for a Knight not to know the time. But something soft filled his mouth, and no matter how hard he bit down his system would not activate.

  He heard gunshots. More shouting. Was it getting closer? Hard to concentrate. The cold fluid seeping into his arm turned his muscles to putty and his brain to jelly. He pulled again against the straps. If he could get loose, maybe he could escape in the chaos of—whatever was happening out there.

  If he couldn’t get loose, this was the end of the line. They would cut him open, take out the central stabilizer and a few other expensive and delicate parts, and let him die on the table. They probably wouldn’t even bother sewing him up again.

  Knowing Duke—knowing what he knew now about Duke—they might not even put him under first.

  Duke, you bastard, he thought, you used to be my hero.

  Movement outside the door. Voices. Thatcher held his breath, listened with his whole body.

  “Halt!” A pause, then: “This area’s restricted, ma’am.”

  “Thank God I found someone!” A woman’s voice, torn with panic. “They came through the window! They’re in the staff lounge on the third floor!”

  “Shit! Preston, stay here with the nurse.”

  Thudding of boots down the hallway.

  “Preston, was it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Mister Preston, I... oh my God! Behind you!” Then a gunshot—astonishingly loud in the enclosed space, though it sounded like something small-caliber.

  The doorknob rattled. A face in the window, briefly. Voices again: the woman, and others. Talking too softly for Thatcher to make out over the rapid thudding of his heart. Another shot, even louder, and the door shattered open. The hard fluorescent light cut solid slices in the dusty air. Sharp sting of gunpowder in Thatcher’s nose.

  Three people entered the room: a nurse, and two men in fatigues, with blackened faces. The nurse and one of the men dragged a body in with them—one of the door guards. “Is that Thatcher?” said the other man, low and hard. He had a beard.

  “Yeah,” said the first man. “Thatcher, we’re from the CLU. We’re getting you out of here.” A pang ran through Thatcher’s chest and stomach at the words—a feeling of being pulled in two. No going back now.

  The first man pulled a scuba knife from his boot and began cutting Thatcher’s straps, while the bearded one braced his shoulder against the door and peered out the window. The woman ducked down below the foot of the bed. “You can call me Bravo,” the man with the knife said while he cut. “The other man is Judah, and the woman’s Angel.”

  As soon as one arm was free, Thatcher pulled the tape off his mouth. It hurt. “Can you walk?” asked Bravo.

  Thatcher spit out a plastic horseshoe, but before speaking he bit down three times, then twice more. Green digits appeared in his peripheral vision: it was 2:35 a.m. “I’m a little woozy,” he said. Other readouts glowed, green and yellow, as his system came on-line. System status was OK but energy levels were very low. He helped the man free his legs and sat up on the edge of the bed. He saw that the woman, Angel, had pulled on camouflage over her white dress and was smearing black paint on her face. “You’re not a nurse,” he said stupidly.

  At that, the man at the door, Judah, looked at her. “What are you doing?” he said. “We might need the nurse outfit for a bluff!”

  “Too late,” she said. “I’ve already put on the paint.” She pulled on a black knit cap and shoved most of her hair under it.

  “Save it for later,” said Bravo. To Thatcher: “Do we need to find you a wheelchair?”

  Thatcher got to his feet. “No.” Then he had to sit down again on the edge of the bed. “Maybe.”

  The two men supported him while Angel took point, moving down the hall. Thatcher felt hideously exposed in his inadequate hospital gown. At the first corner, Angel started to peer around it, but Judah pulled her back. “Keep your head down,” he whispered. She glared at him, but crouched low and stuck her head out at knee level. Then, with another glare, she waved them forward.

  Two more corners. They didn’t meet anyone—they must all be dealing with the explosion and fire. “The front door guard has a gun under the desk,” Thatcher said. He knew this hospital well; he’d spent seven months here having the system put in.

  “Thanks,” said Judah, “but we’ve already taken care of that.” They rounded a final corner to find the door guard—his name was Dave and he had a girl, five, and a boy, three—on the floor, eyes open and unseeing. Beyond him were glass doors, black mirrors reflecting the bullet-shattered desk.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Thatcher said.

  “Just another victim in the government’s war on the people,” said the woman. “Come on.”

  They crouched low and scuttled to the doors, acutely conscious that the brightly lighted lobby was plainly visible to anyone outside in the blackness. The doors slid open—Thatcher’s heart jumped at the sudden motion—and they ran through to the shelter of a concrete traffic barrier.

  The west wing of the hospital was on fire, flames roaring and clawing the sky. Fire trucks and medic vans twitched in the shifting orange light; silhouettes of firemen sprayed water on the burning building. Someone was cursing, over and over.

  “We came through the fence over there,” the bearded man said to Thatcher, pointing into the darkness on the far side of the parking lot. “Doesn’t look like they’ve noticed it yet.”

  “OK, let’s go,” said the other man. They kept low and moved quickly from car to car. The pavement was rough under Thatcher’s bare feet, and they splashed in cold water—runoff from the fire hoses. Bitter smoke mingled with the gasoline and asphalt smells of the parking lot.

  Bravo was in the lead as they reached the edge of the parking lot—just a few yards of scrubby grass between them and the fence. As he stepped over the curb, yellow flashes of gunfire burst out of the night to his left and he fell with an “Agh!”

  Angel raised her rifle and returned fire, while Judah pulled Thatcher back into the cover of a black Ford Bronco. “Get down!” Judah said to Angel, but she fired again and again while bullets buzzed past.

  Finally she ducked back behind the Bronco. “I think I got one of them.”

  “And how many more are there?” The bearded man kept his voice down, but it was taut with rage.

  “Just one, I think,” she replied in a matching tone, “and if someone doesn’t take him out pronto we’re dead.” She checked her rifle, then jumped out from behind the car and began f
iring into the darkness. Answering fire cracked back at her and the van’s windshield shattered.

  “Crazy bitch,” muttered the bearded man. “Come on, maybe we can find another way out.” He pulled Thatcher in the opposite direction.

  “Wait.” Thatcher bit down twice, then once—code 21. Green digits read fifteen percent. “I think I can get us out of this.”

  Angel came back behind the Bronco, breathing hard. “Sonofabitch clipped me.” Blood, black in the sodium light, stained her ear.

  “Give me a rifle,” said Thatcher. “I guarantee I can take down that shooter. But after that I won’t be good for much of anything. You might have to carry me. Understand?”

  Judah stared in incomprehension. “Got it,” said Angel. “Here. Three rounds left.”

  “Thanks.” Thatcher bit down again, code 323. He looked over the rifle, then stepped out from behind the car and fired three times—waiting and watching carefully after each shot, making no attempt to conceal himself.

  There was a flash and a bullet slammed into his side. He felt the crunch of ribs shattering and a cold numbness spreading from the entry wound. As he stumbled from the impact, he bit down once.

  Rewind.

  Uninjured, Thatcher stepped out from behind the car. He turned to his left and loosed one precise shot into the darkness. He heard a grunt and a thud as the shooter fell. Then he collapsed, his face slamming into the dirt.

  He drifted in and out of consciousness. The bearded man and the woman carrying him between them. Streetlights going by, seen from below through a car’s rear window. Gunshots. Screaming. The car rocking crazily back and forth. Sirens.

  Blackness.

  -o0o-

  Thatcher awoke to too-bright sunlight and a cracked, cobwebbed ceiling. He groaned and covered his eyes. It was 10:53 a.m. Goblins were tightening a metal band around his head, and his side throbbed with pain—remembered pain, pain from shots that had never been fired, but real pain nonetheless.