Secret of the Sixth Magic

by Lyndon Hardy

  “Enough of a rest,” Jemidon said. “We must keep trying until there is a change in the sword.”

  “Enough, indeed,” Rosimar growled. “It is an insanity. We are like children repeating a mindless game. There is no magic. It is gone. How can a few words by a stranger make you so sure?” The magician rose and lumbered to the wall. With the remains of the chalk, he added another stroke to the ones already there. “Five hundred and seventy-two times,” he said. “Over five hundred Auras of Adamance. More than what is performed in a guild in a year.”

  “Once more,” Jemidon insisted. “Once more and then we will reconsider what we must do.”

  “You said that the last time,” Benedict whined. “For over two days, we have stomped and chanted to no avail. In a few hours at most, the election will be over and Trocolar will return in triumph. We will not escape. To continue wasting his wares will only increase his displeasure.”

  “Once more,” Jemidon repeated. “What other plan do you have to offer in its stead?”

  Rosimar grumbled and kicked at the sword that lay in the center of the hexagon on the floor. Both edges of the blade were dull. Dozens of knicks and gouges marred the sides. He stooped to thrust it out of the way and then stopped, his eyes opening wide through his fatigue.

  “It feels different,” he said softly. “Not the tingle of magic, but somehow different all the same.” Holding his breath, he clasped the hilt tighter and experimentally touched the blade tip to the wall. He started to scratch the dull point across in a great arc to match the other scars which crisscrossed the stone.

  “There is resistance,” he muttered. “It seems to take a great deal of strength to move it to the side.” Tentatively, he increased the pressure on the guard and then staggered forward, mouth agape. The blade had quietly slid a finger’s length into the stone.

  “A guild’s endowing fortune,” Rosimar said in wonder as Jemidon and Benedict sprang forward. “A stone-cutting sword as true as any in the sagas.”

  “Let us begone.” Benedict tugged at Rosimar’s sleeve. “Save the marveling for when we are free. Try the iron bars and see if it performs there as well.”

  Rosimar grunted and slowly extracted the blade from the wall. He slashed across the grating with two swift strokes. Instantly, the central portion of the bars fell away.

  Rosimar blinked in disbelief at what he had so effortlessly done. Jemidon gently touched the freshly cleaved surfaces and felt a polish as smooth as if they had been ground. While Rosimar stood staring at the sword in his hand, Benedict pushed him aside and scrambled for the opening. He ran across the storeroom and cautiously tried the heavy wooden door. It swung open easily. There was no sound from above. Apparently the keep was deserted. Everyone had gone to the harbor with the scentstones.

  “I will not wait at the skiff,” Benedict called back as he ran for the stairs. “I have gathered enough information to last me a goodly while.”

  “But the lattice,” Jemidon said. “It will do no good unless we learn how to restore things to the way they were.”

  “I doubt that you can add to your theories without more hints from this Melizar.” Rosimar climbed through the hole and headed after Benedict. “And he no doubt will be with Trocolar in the grotto. It is there that I am headed, to help Augusta before it is too late.”

  Jemidon hesitated for a moment and then scrambled after. As he ran past, he cast a last reluctant glance at the lattice.

  A few minutes later, they were in the forest and running for the small boat that had brought them to the island.

  “If this Melizar is in the grotto, we should head for the city instead,” Benedict shouted as they reached the shore. “With what I know now, I see it is folly for the three of us to proceed unaided.”

  “The mercenaries will be in the grotto to preserve order for the final vote,” Rosimar said, scrambling on board the skiff. “I will speak to them there. But with this blade, I will need little else. Benedict, you can row,” he commanded as the divulgent sat down in the bow. “No wavering when it is time to press advantage. Direct to the grotto. The voting should soon begin, but I judge by the tide that there is still some time.

  “And as for you,” the magician continued, turning his attention to Jemidon, “not another step. You can stay here until Trocolar’s men find you upon their return.”

  “Put away the sword,” Jemidon said in annoyance, stepping forward. “We are all in this together, and I have contributed my share. Without my insistence, the blade would not have been made.”

  “Your proper share is not of importance,” Rosimar snarled. “I have what I need, and that is enough. Back from the skiff, or we will see how well I can cut through soft flesh.”

  Jemidon hesitated and then lunged to the left. But Rosimar rapidly swung the sword in a flat arc to cut off the advance.

  “Be off, I say,” the magician ordered Benedict, and the divulgent pushed against the beach with the oars. The skiff bounded away on a receding wave, while Jemidon stood helplessly watching the retreat.

  “I may change nothing,” Rosimar called back, “but at least Augusta will know who tried at the last.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Fleeting Treasure

  JEMIDON watched the boat bob away and pounded his fist into his palm. It just wasn’t fair. If Rosimar succeeded, he would garner all the accolades, and none would be left. Rosimar would be the one who restored the vanished crafts. The power, respect, and riches would all fall to him. Jemidon’s own quest would be over; there would be nothing left with which to claim a robe.

  Besides, how would Rosimar proceed, once he gained access to the inner chamber of the grotto and climbed onto the ledge above the vault? Probably by whirling the sword over his head like some hero from the sagas and challenging any man to take Augusta from his side. There would be no careful confrontation with Melizar, no appeal to the confused voters to turn away from the stones. The magician was likely as not to fail. And if he did, the arts would remain lost. Trocolar would win the election, and all of Augusta’s assets, including Jemidon, would default to him.

  Jemidon kicked at some driftwood washed up on the beach. Somehow he must also get to the grotto and be part of the final confrontation, no matter which way it went. Success for Rosimar or a failure—neither augered well, but Jemidon could not wait on the periphery for the result. Even without a clever scheme, he had to pursue his destiny.

  He stopped his gestures of frustration and made up his mind. He ran back to the deserted structure and down into the dungeon. Hastily, he grabbed one of the tarpaulins, the rope on the floor, and a halberd and sword. He staggered up the stairs and back outside with the load, dropping it onto the beach. With only the halberd, he sprinted into the forest and began to fell the smallest trees he could find.

  Two hours later, he shoved a makeshift raft into the waves and hoisted the tarpaulin on a mast barely as high as his head. Strapped precariously on board were three of the remaining sacks of raw scentstones. Perhaps, if everyone could see what they truly were, the spell could be broken. Paddling with a stubby log, he cleared the island and set a course for the grotto.

  Low tide had already been reached, and the water level was on the way up when Jemidon maneuvered into the opening from the sea. He struck his sail and released the guy ropes that held the mast in place, letting the log topple over the side. The portcullis was drawn up and the wall cresset danced with flame.

  He cut a square from the tarpaulin, wrapped it around a small branch, and dipped it into the burning oil. Resuming his paddling, he headed for the narrow opening that separated the two large chambers.

  His raft was narrow, and he navigated the tunnel with ease. Emerging from the other side, he saw the ledge on the far wall ablaze with light. Dozens of torches cut through the blackness from the opening in the rock. Others bobbed from the flotilla of small boats anchored below, many with oarsmen waiting in them. As Jemidon drew closer, he could see the cut in the cliff jammed with people to the very e
dge, shirts of mail, embroidered robes, and flowing capes crowding together shoulder to shoulder. The slurred mixture of many excited voices radiated out into the vastness of the cavern and echoed faintly from the other walls.

  “Take me above,” he ordered one of the oarsmen when his raft finally bumped against the cliff. “There is much that I wish to relate.” Cautiously he reached for his sword and swung it upward.

  “Watch out, it may be a blade like the other.” An oarsman stepping from one skiff to the next suddenly stopped.

  Jemidon smiled at the rower’s words. In his haste, he had not thought about how to get everyone’s attention. But perhaps Rosimar’s interruption would give him the means. “Fetch these sacks of stone,” he replied quickly before any of the others could think. “And watch your backsides. Like that of Rosimar’s above, this broadsword slices through mail as if it were gossamer.”

  The oarsman closest to him jumped, to the side, and Jemidon boldly stepped forward, waving his sword. “The sacks to the landing,” he said. “Make haste before my patience is tried. You will be easy targets if you flee.”

  The oarsmen nodded and cautiously came forward to pick up the bags Jemidon indicated. With repeated glances over their shoulders, they preceded him up the rope ladder to the landing.

  “Make room, make room,” the rower in front directed as they reached the top. “Another of the devil shafts. Move aside so that he can pass.”

  A space opened up along one wall, and Jemidon crowded by. In the rear of the cavern, next to the hole that led down to the vault, he saw Rosimar standing with his back to the downward-sloping rock and waving the magic sword in jerky arcs. Benedict huddled to one side, his arms intertwined around his chest and his teeth working furiously on his lower lip. On the other side of the magician was Augusta. Her eyes darted back and forth over the group that surrounded them in a wide semicircle. Some stood with swords drawn, and others waved at the men-at-arms, encouraging them forward. Behind the front row stood Trocolar and other influential voters. Melizar and Holgon conferred in soft tones near one of the other openings that led further into the interior. At Rosimar’s feet, two bodies were piled, one missing a hand and the second the side of his face.

  “You are no swordsman, magician, and eventually you must tire,” the red-surcoated man Jemidon had seen in the exchange with the shrinking cube called out. The constable’s eyes flicked over to Jemidon and then back to the magician. “And even with three of you, you cannot manage to descend the rope to the boats and guard at the same time. Drop the broadsword, Rosimar, and save us all unnecessary grief.”

  “I am no part of this,” Benedict whimpered. “He forced me to row into the grotto against my will. I am a captive, no more free than the rest of you.”

  “Silence, divulgent.” Rosimar gasped for air and waved the sword threateningly to the side. His face glistened with wetness and his eyes had a wild and panicked look. “As for you and your men, constable Nimrod, if I do tire, which of you will rush forward first to engage the cutting edge?”

  “Nimrod, do your duty,” Trocolar said. “That I will be the winner when this interruption is over there can be little doubt. And the bonuses that I would be inclined to bestow for the previous year’s service will be greatly influenced by your actions here and now.”

  “You have not yet won, Trocolar,” someone shouted from the crowd. “The final tally is still to be summed.”

  “I know very well the number of scentstones that have been sold from my stock these last few days,” Trocolar turned and called back. “I have had my clerks keep careful count. Even if every one of you decided on someone else, the total would be less than what I have held for my own. You see the sum that shows for me already on the slate. Now it is just a formality, and we are done.”

  “But it is unfair,” the voice persisted, and several others joined in the chorus. “Forget about the madman. The important thing is how we consider the stones. Of them I have none. My ship docked after the price had become too dear. I possess only a cargo of leather leggings from the mainland and some curious flexible pipes from the southern kingdoms across the sea. I have brought samples of each for assay. The entire lot would have fetched fifty tokens. Surely they still have value against something else.”

  The hubbub of dissent rose in volume, but Trocolar waved his arms for silence. “We have insufficient time, Luthor. Insufficient time to bicker the proper balance for each commodity. We would be here from one election to the next, trying to redetermine the relative merit of each. But nearly everyone has some stones. I have released enough to make sure of that. In point of fact, they are the new foundation by which all else is judged.” The trader paused and looked toward Augusta. “If you have none to assay, then the logic admits of no alternative, Luthor. Your vote is null. Just thank the random factors that you are not a debtor as well.”

  “Rosimar, the stones,” Jemidon interrupted. “Did you explain how they came to be?”

  Rosimar turned in Jemidon’s direction and his eyes widened. “An impostor,” he wheezed, wiping his forehead with his free hand. “I have the sword of power. I have the only one. Take him away. His fate is no concern of mine.”

  “Stand back,” Jemidon replied quickly. “You have no need to put it to the test. Just listen for a moment. What I have to say concerns you all.”

  “Attack, Nimrod. Do your duty,” Trocolar said. “Secure these malcontents before there are any more.”

  “Do not listen,” Rosimar shouted as he moved out from the wall and flailed his weapon through the air. “I am the one who is rescuing the lady. It is me to whom she will belong. I am the master who has forged the sword. He had not enough time. The one he holds can be only common steel and no more.”

  The men-at-arms at Jemidon’s side looked at Rosimar, then to the scowling face of his constable, and finally back to Jemidon. He hesitated a moment, but then drew his own blade partway from its scabbard.

  “Back, I say!” Jemidon moved to the wall and held his sword menacingly outward. “I have no quarrel with you. I want only the freedom to have my say.”

  “Impostor, impostor!” Rosimar shrieked. “If it possesses true magic, have him show what it can do.” With a sudden rush, he whirled to the wall and sliced off a knob of rock as if he were cutting cheese. The outcrop crashed to the ground, and the magician attacked it with a two-handed grip, thrashing the stone to jagged slivers and crumbling slices.

  “And yours,” Nimrod called out quickly. “Indeed we have not seen you cut nearly so deep.”

  “I did not come for petty display—” Jemidon began, but his hesitation was enough. The man on his left completed his draw and pushed to attack. Jemidon danced to the side to avoid the downthrust, looking quickly about for something he could use as a shield. He jabbed to his right and the guard there gave ground, not yet sure of the potency of what he faced.

  Jemidon slid along the wall, kicked a stool out of the way, and vaulted a small table at its side. A low slash nicked his calf as he flew past. When he landed, his leg buckled in pain. Down on one knee, he looked frantically about and saw that the men-at-arms still gave Rosimar a wide berth. With one leg dragging on the ground, he scrambled toward the magician. If there was an opportunity to grab the magic sword, he would have the means to make them listen.

  As Jemidon slowly approached, Rosimar turned and raised the blade up over his head. But when they closed, Benedict bolted from behind Rosimar’s back and tumbled over a stack of scrolls to Nimrod’s side. “It is the amount of space!” the divulgent shrieked. “The magician can barely cope as it is. Confine him! Restrict him! It is the only weakness, as long as he wields the weapon!”

  Nimrod frowned in puzzlement, but Benedict did not wait. “It is information,” he said while he ripped off his robe and thrust it into the constable’s hands. “Use it. There will be no fee.”

  Nimrod nodded. While Rosimar tensed for Jemidon to come another foot closer, Nimrod circled behind the magician and flung the robe ove
r the magician’s head. Where the material touched the blade, it immediately parted; but enough fell on Rosimar’s face to prevent him from seeing. Dropping the sword, he grabbed for the robe with both hands. “Air!” he shouted suddenly. “Air! Give me room. Let me out. I must have more air so that I can breathe.”

  The sword spun to the ground point first. Silently it slid into the stone halfway to the hilt. Jemidon shuffled forward as Nimrod wrapped his arms around Rosimar and hurled the magician to the ground. The constable quickly disengaged and prepared to lunge for the weapon, but Jemidon waved him away with the tip of his own blade. Then, grasping the guard awkwardly with his left hand, he strained to pull the magic sword from the ground.

  The grip was hot; stabs of pain coursed through his palm. Jemidon flinched in surprise but determinedly tightened his fingers, ignoring the biting teeth that seemed to gnaw through his flesh.

  He tugged gently and then with greater force, but the sword did not budge. He saw a flick of motion out of the corner of his eye and moved aside, just in time to avoid a thrust from two men-at-arms who converged from the right. Positioning his back toward the wall, he swung his blade in a wide arc to keep all hands away from the sword in the stone. As he saw the guardsmen pause, he decided what he must try. With a blurring motion, he dropped his own blade and placed both hands around the broadsword’s grip. Rising from his knees and using all the strength in his back, he strained to pull it free.

  But again the sword did not move. Except for a slight quiver of the hilt in response to Jemidon’s tugs, it remained frozen in the rock. In desperation, Jemidon jerked to both sides and tried to twist the shaft. For a moment, the men-at-arms stood motionless while he struggled, but at last they saw he would remain unarmed and converged from all sides.

  “No!” Jemidon heard Augusta shout from his rear. He turned just in time to see the stool she held descend toward his head. In an explosion of light, he fell forward, his grip on the magic broadsword sliding away.