Crystal Sorcerers

by William R. Forstchen

  Damn it, I'm tied.

  The focus finally returned and he saw a wizened face peering up at him, green eyes dark with suspicion.

  "You're the druid," Mark whispered.

  "The speech of Jartan's realm," the druid replied, his lilting accent difficult to understand. "Yes, I'm the druid you sought."

  The man stepped back and Mark could see Deidre standing by her grandfather's side, her rough leather riding breeches and tunic replaced now by a flowing linen gown of green, her brown hair swirling about her like a curtain of filmy gauze.

  "Well, Mark, I did as you asked and brought you to him," she said with an almost sad smile. "So don't blame me."

  "This is one hell of a reception."

  "Better than the one you planned for me," the druid cackled as he walked away.

  Mark tried to move his wrists and instantly realized that all his crystals had been taken. Yet he could still focus his power to a limited degree. As if reading his mind, the druid looked back at him.

  "I wouldn't try anything--not a single word of command," the druid laughed. "My friends over there might get upset."

  The druid pointed over his shoulder to half a dozen sorcerers, dressed in dark green livery and brown capes, who were sitting around a campfire looking over at their captives.

  "The slightest sign of magics and my friends might use theirs on you."

  Laughing, the druid continued to where Shigeru was tied up next to Mark, and scooping his hand into the small silver bowl Deidre carried, he splashed Shigeru, who groaned and opened his eyes.

  They were in a small clearing, illuminated by the reflected light of a circle of mirror branch trees. In the center of the circle was a vast trunk nearly a hundred feet in diameter and rising straight as an arrow, its great form punching through the canopy of surrounding trees.

  Somehow, Mark knew this must be the heart of the forest. In the distance he could hear scatterings of conversations filtering through the woods. Overhead he saw several people leaning over the side of a platform, looking down at the prisoners with open curiosity. If he wasn't in such a wretched situation he felt as if he could actually be captivated by the sylvan tranquility here.

  The harmonics of songbirds echoed from the high trees, and multihued butterflies, some as large as his hand, others so tiny they seemed like motes of dust, filtered through the clearing. The patterns of light reflected down from above seemed to counterpoint the bird songs, and Mark realized that in fact the two were linked, the light shifting subtly to the rising and falling tempo of music.

  A gentle breeze stirred through the woods, carrying with it the pleasant scent of the ancient woods, mingled with a near cinnamon odor which he finally realized came from some of the butterflies that would wing in close to his face and hover before him, as if curious about the strangers.

  "Say, Captain, where the hell are we?"

  Mark leaned over to see Walker tied up farther down the line.

  "Ask him," Mark growled. "He's the one holding the cards."

  The druid came walking back up the line of captives and stopped again before Mark.

  "It seems you're the leader of this group. At least the leader that's awake. For now, we'll keep that daughter of Jartan asleep."

  So he had captured Leti as well.

  "How is she?"

  The druid laughed. "To think I actually captured a demigod," he said shrewdly. "Always thought it'd be an interesting challenge, them with their high lording ways. She'll be the joke of everyone now, the great daughter of Jartan captured by bent over, old me." There was a hysterical edge to his voice that Mark found disquieting.

  "If you know she's a daughter of Jartan, then you know as well how he'll react to this treatment of his own blood and those who serve him," Mark retorted.

  "Ah, but the great god isn't even on Haven right now," the druid snapped. "You know he might never come back."

  Then: "I have friends, I do, certainly they are true friends, they are," the druid teased, hopping back and forth like an excited child.

  Over by the fire, a tall, slender form stood, threw back her hooded cape, and walked to the druid's side.

  Mark knew at once that here was someone with a power as potent as Storm's or Leti's, perhaps even more so. Her gaze made him nervous, but he returned it without flinching.

  "I'm Patrice," she said quietly, "and it's time we had a little talk."

  Ikawa stopped. There--he had heard it again: a voice.

  The chase had been a hard one and in the beginning he had despaired of ever finding his friends. After waiting an hour, they had dropped from the cloud and found the blue scrap that marked their escape. Within minutes of their return to the forest, Ikawa had noticed that the sounds had changed, as if the woods was again watching, and then the idea had formed.

  Focusing all of his strength through the crystal Leti had given him, he formed a shield around himself and his companions, but suppressed the flickering glow of it, altering its light, blending it into the twilight colors of the forest floor. It was something he could never have done with an ordinary crystal, but this one came from the demigod of the night and seemed strangely adaptable to this purpose.

  They had moved forward, floating through the woods, drifting from shadow to shadow, Ikawa subtly altering the shielding to match the ever varying interplay of shadows. The effort had drained him to exhaustion, but he had to press on to find his friends and get them out. If he should stop even for a moment to rest, to let the shield down, he knew they'd be discovered and lose what little hope was left.

  Drifting through the shadows, he guided his friends on, feeling Kochanski's hand on his left leg, and Imada's on his right.

  He heard the light crunch of a footfall and looked straight down to see two men walking past. One paused, and looked up straight at him. Ikawa felt the sweat beading out on his forehead from the strain of keeping the shielding up and from the knot of fear. He avoided looking straight at them, watching instead from the corner of his eye. The man hesitated briefly, then continued on.

  "Jesus Christ, that was close," Kochanski whispered.

  "Keep your mouth shut," Ikawa hissed.

  He heard the voices again, this time closer, one of them a woman's.

  Cautiously he drifted around the side of a trunk and saw, directly ahead, a shimmering of light. Several trunks away, a platform hung out from the side of a tree nearly on a level with himself. Several children stood on the platform, their backs turned to him, leaning over the side as if watching something.

  Well, we're here, Ikawa said to himself. Now what the hell am I going to do about it?

  "So you came from the same world as I did?" the druid roared.

  Mark felt as if he was shadowboxing with a madman. No matter what reassurances he gave, the old man would lapse into a near-maniacal fear.

  "Can I say something?" Sergeant Saito cried, and Mark laid back against the post.

  The druid turned to face him.

  "You can see we are different races, can you not?" Saito asked, and the druid nodded in agreement.

  "Deidre, would you agree that though we are of two different races we behaved as friends?"

  "It's true," Deidre said sympathetically, and Mark sensed that this girl was not entirely on her grandfather's side. And she kept looking at Patrice with outright suspicion.

  "Back on Earth we were hated enemies, Mark's country which was America, and mine. And America was allied with Britain in this war against us. But now we are friends. I want you to know that at least the Americans are from your blood."

  Mark realized the jeopardy Saito had put himself in, but saw his line of reasoning as well, shifting the argument away from shouted accusations and denials. Thank God someone was thinking clearly, Mark thought, cursing himself for trying to argue the facts on the surface.

  The druid hesitated, looking over at Saito.

  "Where is this America?"

  "Across the great ocean, thirty days' sail to the west," Mark said qu
ickly. "Your descendants found the land and settled it. Britain is where my people come from. I have the same blood as you."

  "You were fighting against Britain," the druid said.

  Saito nodded.

  "Who else was Britain fighting against?" the druid said quietly.

  "It doesn't matter," Mark snapped quickly, realizing the trap Saito might be walking into.

  The druid looked back at him coldly.

  "Caesar is dead," Mark told him. "He was stabbed by the Roman Senate."

  "Thirty years back," Mark announced loudly, trying to improvise so that all would get this new history straight, "Italia had a new leader called Mussolini. All of us, including Saito's people, fought him and destroyed his power and turned Rome back into dust."

  The men around him nodded vigorously in agreement.

  The druid seemed to hesitate.

  "Remember, Grandfather, they're Jartan's sorcerers," Deidre said, her voice showing the slightest touch of concern. "If they really intended to hurt you they would have come in far greater strength."

  "Then why are you here?" the druid asked.

  Mark sighed with relief. Perhaps they were finally getting through.

  "Because we think you might know how to open a portal back to our own world so some of us might be able to return home."

  Patrice looked over at Mark with evident surprise.

  "You're neutral in all of this," Mark said to the demigod. "You know how we came here and what we've done since. Can't you explain that to him?"

  Patrice smiled--and in that instant he knew without doubt that she was an enemy.

  "I've followed the story of these outlanders closely," she said, resting her hand lightly on the druid's shoulder.

  The old man looked up at her with a gap-toothed grin.

  "Has anyone else of the gods or demigods ever even bothered to visit you here?" Patrice said with a husky whisper.

  "Only my lady here," the druid shouted. "No one else."

  "That's why I rushed here to warn you," Patrice went on. "These people only want to see your temple, to smash it down, and then to kill you."

  Mark looked at Patrice with a cold fury.

  "Castrating bitch," Walker snarled.

  "Perhaps we can arrange that treatment for you," Patrice retorted.

  "Shut up!" the druid roared, and raising his staff he snapped out a bolt, knocking Walker unconscious.

  "They kidnapped one of my friends, and then were coming here to kill you," Patrice continued.

  "Kidnapped who?" Mark asked in surprise.

  "See how innocent he sounds. Why, poor Vena." Patrice broke away from the druid's side to go kneel over the unconscious girl lying next to Leti.

  "That's a lie!" Mark shouted. "Vena was with us, she's the companion of one of our men."

  "She seemed perfectly content traveling with us," Deidre said inquiringly, looking at Patrice with a growing suspicion.

  Mark shook his head.

  "Which man was she with?" the druid yelled.

  Mark remained silent.

  "One of the three that escaped," Deidre said quietly. "The young one."

  "Wake her up," Patrice asked, her voice pleading. "She'll tell you."

  The druid turned away from Mark and, going over to Vena's side, he scooped a handful of the liquid out of the bowl that Deidre brought over and splashed it into the girl's face.

  With a groan, Vena stirred and Patrice helped her to sit up.

  "Vena, dear," Pafcice whispered, her voice breaking with emotion. "Vena, I've come to rescue you. You're safe with me now."

  "Let her talk for herself," Deidre snapped.

  Patrice looked up angrily. "The girl's frightened. These animals kidnapped and bewitched her for heaven knows what purpose. I've been frantic trying to reach her."

  Vena opened her eyes and looked about.

  "Tell her the truth now, Vena," Patrice said quickly, looking up at Deidre as if the girl had injured her by a false accusation. "Tell her how I've come to rescue you."

  "This is disgusting," Deidre snarled. "Grandfather, that woman's hiding something."

  Vena looked up at Patrice and then reached out to hug her.

  "Thank the gods you found me."

  Ikawa looked sharply at Imada. His features seemed to have gone blank, as if the pain of betrayal was far too much to bear.

  He leaned in to Imada, his lips touching the boy's ear.

  "Don't move, don't make a sound, son. I'm counting on you as a soldier."

  Imada looked at him, the tears streaming down his face.

  Goddamn it, something was horribly wrong, far more than the fix they were in now. Patrice had added an element Ikawa just could not understand.

  What am I going to do?

  "I'm glad I could help you, my old friend," Patrice said to the druid as she helped Vena to her feet. The girl was now sobbing uncontrollably, screaming that she had been raped.

  "Hush, child, we'll go home now," Patrice whispered, patting her on the shoulder.

  Mark looked at the girl with disgust and then his gaze shifted back to Deidre, who was staring straight at him as if trying to decide.

  "I think it best that I leave now," Patrice said smoothly. "You can entertain your prisoners as you wish. I'd love to stay and watch, but this poor child needs familiar faces and a quiet place to heal. Also, I believe some of her property is stacked up with the captured booty."

  Deidre looked sharply at Patrice as the demigod suddenly let go of Vena as if she did not exist and walked swiftly over to the pile of packs, saddlebags, and accoutrements taken with the party.

  "Why such a rush?" Deidre asked quietly. "Vena's been through a terrible ordeal. Perhaps the two of you can be our guests for a couple days. Let her regain her strength. After all, I know Grandfather would love to visit with you again."

  The druid, who had been watching the little drama with interest, perked up at his granddaughter's suggestion and came up to Patrice's side, swiftly putting his arm around her waist.

  "It has been a long time," he cackled. "The last time, we were both young, but my dear, I'm still young inside--and in other ways, if you get my meaning."

  A spark of impatience lit Patrice's eyes as she said, "I think I really should be going." She forced a smile and kissed the druid on the cheek. "Though I'd love to stay, I want to take Vena home. Now, if you'll help me find her pack and harp case, I'll be on my way."

  She broke away from the druid's embrace and bent over the pile of goods, reaching in greedily and pulling the bags aside.

  "Why the rush?" Mark called. "It seems like you want to get away before the truth is learned!"

  The druid seemed to hesitate.

  "It would be an insult to my grandfather if you didn't at least share a meal with us," Deidre said sharply.

  The druid looked craftily back at Patrice. "Yes, at least eat with me first."

  She ignored him, fumbling over the goods with increasing agitation.

  A muffled shout of triumph escaped her lips as she pulled a battered harp case from the pile. Clutching it tightly, Patrice turned to look back at the druid.

  "I'm leaving now," she announced. "Come, Vena."

  "What's in the harp case?" Mark shouted, his suspicions at last taking concrete form. Vena had clung to it in the same way, and he now cursed himself for not taking more of an interest in her behavior.

  "Yes, my dear," the druid whispered. "Why not play us a song first? I'd love to see the instrument, and hear it."

  The tableau seemed to hold before Mark: Patrice seemingly pulling in some vast hidden power, the druid looking up with all his attention focused upon her.

  Deidre slowly backed away, coming up by Mark's side. He felt her hands brush against his, and the cords separated.

  "Don't move," she whispered, and he felt the coolness of two crystal bands slip into his palms.

  "Please forgive me," Patrice said, smiling. "I'm just upset over Vena. I'd be delighted to stay the night with you."


  Mark felt Deidre's hands suddenly grab his as if to take the crystals back. He clenched them tightly and said nothing.

  The druid came up to Patrice and kissed her, his one hand running up her side, lingering over the swelling of her breasts, while his other hand still clenched his staff. Mark kept his eyes on Patrice and could see the sudden loathing in her eyes.

  "Something's going to happen," Mark whispered. "Get ready."

  The druid, crackling with delight, turned and started to walk away.

  Patrice's shield snapped up to full.

  "Grandfather!" Deidre screamed.

  Mark was amazed by the old man's agility as he fell to the ground rolling, his shield going up as the place where he had just been standing exploded in flames.

  Patrice fired off another bolt. Staggering, the druid came to his knees, trying to point his staff at her. The six sorcerers who had been standing around the fire, snapped off a volley of shots at Patrice.

  Screaming, Patrice turned to face them, knocking the first one on his back, his shield disintegrating under her powerful blow.

  Laughing, she looked back at the druid, hitting him again even as he fired a bolt which set her shield glowing but did no damage.

  Patrice started to turn, looking at the row of offworlders still tied, shorn of any shielding.

  "What pretty targets!" Patrice raised her hand.

  Mark leaped away from the post, his shield up, and aimed a bolt at her which he knew was useless.

  "Deidre! Wake Leti!"

  The girl darted low, flying through the air. For the first time Mark realized she was also a sorcerer, and had been concealing it all along.

  "Come on, you whore!" Mark shouted.

  His words hit home. With a scream of fury Patrice turned her attention fully on Mark, oblivious of the druid's strikes and the helpless targets, many of whom were using their power to burn their bindings off, their faces contorted with agony.

  A searing blast struck and sent him staggering.

  "Lousy bitch!" Mark screamed, firing back.

  Another blast struck him, knocking him down, his shield barely holding. He knew that this fight was futile, and the next strike would kill.

  A dazzling snap of light crackled overhead, striking Patrice from above.