Forward the Mage

by Eric Flint

  "I don't suppose you'd explain what it means?" asked Gwendolyn.

  Wolfgang looked about, like a little boy trying to keep a secret.

  "Well, I suppose I could give you a hint. It means the world's going to end. Way ahead of my schedule, it looks like."

  Gwendolyn visibly restrained her temper. "This is good news?"

  Wolfgang was shocked. "Well, of course it's good news!" Then he clapped his head with his hand. "Oh, of course! You think—no! no! Dear Gwendolyn! You have such a grim, apocalyptic view of things! Twilight of the gods, all that rot. No, dear, the world's going to end like—like, how shall I put it?—yes! Like all the low things in life end! That's it! Like all the things that crawl, and lie in the mud, and stink, and wriggle."

  He stooped, bringing his face down. "Now do you see?"

  "No, I don't!" exclaimed Gwendolyn.

  Wolfgang straightened, sighed. "We look at things so differently, dear. From different angles, you might say."

  He reached out and stroked her cheek.

  "But I don't care, Gwendolyn. On the last day of the world—if you don't get yourself killed!—we'll see everything just the same. And in the meantime, go your way with all my love and hope. For I cherish you."

  Gwendolyn took his hand and held it to her cheek.

  Suddenly, she stepped back. "Be off with you! You damned lunatic. Off to chase after the wizard, I suppose."

  Wolfgang beamed. "Yes! Off to Prygg!" And with no further ado he charged into the forest. The trees shook with his passage, the underbrush hissed their protest. But, not more than a minute later, while Gwendolyn and I remained unmoving in the clearing, the sights and sounds of his return became evident. Wolfgang reappeared, moving toward us in that awkward-looking shamble that covered ground amazingly quickly.

  Two seconds later he was standing in front of me, waving his arms about.

  "I'm so forgetful!" he cried. "I forgot to say good-bye to Benvenuti! Can you forgive me, dear boy?"

  I nodded. "Think nothing of it."

  "Such a polite lad! Such a credit to his family!"

  He extended his hand and shook mine. My—by normal standards—large hand was completely lost in his huge fist.

  "Perhaps we will meet again," I said, not really taking the formula seriously.

  "Of course we will!" cried the giant. "It's inevitable! You're up to your knees in Joe business, boy, and sinking fast! Of course we'll meet again! But until then, take care."

  And again he was off. Within a minute, all sign of him was gone. I turned to Gwendolyn.

  "What now?"

  For a few seconds longer, she continued to stare into the forest where Wolfgang had disappeared. Then she motioned to the left with her head.

  "That way."

  PART III

  The Which Represents a

  Lacuna in my Illustrious Ancestors'

  Account, Fortunately Made Good By My

  Discovery of a Long Lost Manuscript by

  the Undeservedly Obscure Littérateur,

  Korzeniowski Laebmauntsforscynneweëld,

  Companion of the Consortium Director of

  Companies in That Superlative

  Financier's Most Bitter and

  Troubled Exile.

  The manuscript which follows herein requires a brief introduction, if I may take this liberty as your narrator. For, alas, my ancestors' chronicle suffers from an unfortunate lacuna with regard to the account of the wizard Zulkeh's journey from Goimr to the Caravanserai.

  The gentle reader will recall that the precipitous departure of the coach from the travel station of Goimr caused the dwarf Shelyid to be hurtled to the floor. "Master, we're off!" cried the gnome, to which the wizard responded: "Well spoken, dwarf. Our journey has begun." Know, gentle reader, that these words were scribed by the illustrious Alfred CCLVI even as he was himself flying through the air, having lost his perch on Shelyid's eyebrow (this precarious vantage point being the preferred scribal seat of the intrepid chronicler) due to the gnome's clumsiness. In his devotion to duty, Alfred CCLVI did not notice that his airborne trajectory was taking him through the window and out of the coach entirely. This fact was only brought to his attention when the industrious scribe found himself sprawled in six-legged disarray upon the cobblestones, the coach wherein reposed his life's work racing away at great speed. Hastily retrieving his scattered notes, Alfred CCLVI set off in hot pursuit.

  Of the odyssey which followed, the epic tale of Alfred CCLVI's endeavor to regain the wizard's coach, I will say nothing. The interested reader is referred to Alfred CCLVI's own account of his adventures, the classic Across the Grimwald On 80 Hosts. For our purposes here, it suffices to say that Alfred CCLVI did not rejoin his clan until the arrival of the wizard in the Caravanserai.

  At once, Alfred CCLVI inquired if any of his senior apprentices had compiled sufficiently competent notes to enable the great scribe to reconstruct the events of the wizard's journey. Alas, he found their haphazard jottings entirely inadequate. Hence did the irate chronicler order the immediate fumigation of his senior apprentices.

  This act was perhaps hasty and ill-considered. For it resulted in the rise to senior apprenticeship of that unfortunate individual later to become the notorious Alfred CCLVII. But that disgraceful episode belongs to a later portion of our chronicle. For the moment, we are left with the embarrassment of a yawning gap in the smooth unfolding of our tale.

  It gives me great pleasure to announce, however, that this gap has now been filled. After years of diligent search, your humble narrator was eventually able to uncover a long lost manuscript written by Korzeniowski Laebmauntsforscynneweëld. The author of this manuscript is one of the least well known illuminati of the famed scholarly clan. Yet, as the gentle reader will soon have occasion to determine for himself, Korzeniowski's obscurity is entirely undeserved. It results solely from the fact that—unlike the vast majority of his clan, who made a pusillanimous accommodation to the forces which triumphed in the Great Calamity—Korzeniowski Laebmauntsforscynneweëld remained true to Reason and chose exile over surrender. Thus did he accompany the Director of Companies in that latter's precipitous flight from the Great Calamity.

  Of the odyssey which followed, the epic tale of the voyage of Ozarae's greatest nabob and his companions across the uncharted oceans in a luxury yacht to their final exile in the islands, I will say nothing. The interested reader is referred to Nordhoffandhall Laebmauntsforscynneweëld's classic account, Financiers Against The Sea.

  The troubled and bitter exile of the Director of Companies in the heathen islands was, as the gentle reader will soon discover, brief. The final end of the leader who, prior to the Great Calamity, was recognized the world over as the supreme embodiment of social discipline, can now be told. For not only does Korzeniowski's tale recount, long after the event, the journey of the wizard Zulkeh from Goimr to the Caravanserai, but it unfolds as well the last moments of the life of the Director of Companies, the greatest man of his epoch.

  Thus, it is with great pleasure as a chronicler, combined with deep sadness as a louse of Reason, that I herewith present the tale.

  The Last of the Line

  By Korzeniowski Laebmauntsforscynneweëld

  (beginning portion)

  The native boy came onto the deck bearing a tray; upon it rested four glasses—filled with an amber liquid. He moved silently to the railing; set the tray upon the stool by the Director's side. The Director of Companies turned from his view of the ocean—glanced down at the tray—glared fiercely at the servant.

  "Lord!" he exclaimed. "Jim, I told you to bring drinks for everyone!"

  The boy gazed impassively at the Director; then, his eyes sweeping the deck in a glance, took in the other four of us.

  "But, sahib," he said in his barbarous accent, "tuan tu maik fo."

  "I know two and two makes four, you ninny!" roared the Director. "There are five of us!"

  No expression crossed Jim's face; his black eyes stared opaquel
y at the four glasses; leaning over the rail, he peered at his reflection in the waters; unknowable thoughts moved through his mind.

  "Mistaik iz mine," he muttered, and left the deck.

  "Lord in heaven, rescue me!" snarled the Director. "I don't believe the incompetence of these damned natives. Can't even count the fingers on one hand." He sighed heavily and stared out over the ocean. The rays of the setting sun gleamed in the mirror of the sea; of a sudden, he thrust to his feet and gripped the railing.

  "Under Western's eyes," he said sadly, "this sort of thing never happened."

  We watched his back affectionately as he stood looking seaward. We knew how sorely he felt the loss of his old and trusted valet; and while this loss was but the least of the calamities which had befallen him, perhaps, for that very reason, it vexed him the most. For me, things were what they were; Barley—well, Barley was Barley; as for the accountant and the lawyer, the worst of it was—that it was. But for the Director it was an affront to his entire spirit. The typhoon of his youth had brought him to the pinnacle of success and power; only then, as he stretched forth the maturity of his grasp, to find his victory swept away by the sudden madness; leaving him as he was now, an outcast of the islands in an alien world.

  "It was all Mayer's folly!" he roared suddenly, without looking around. "He should have crushed the rebel when he had the chance! The idiots! All of them!" He glowered out to sea; then spoke again. "Then—then! God, to think of it—the opportunities lost! Bungled from the beginning; Mayer was only the last of the fools. From the beginning, I say! Inkman and the Angel could have done it—at one stroke—they had the chance! I gave them all they asked—then!—at the beginning!—even the Rap Sheet! And for what? For what? To think of it!" He hurled his glass into the sea.

  A long silence followed his outburst. All of us shared his gloom. Barring an unexpected smile of fortune, there was no reason to believe the usurpers would not remain the inheritors of the labor and the brilliance of the past. The Director had let slip enough of the tale of his informer—his secret agent just arrived from Ozar—for us to understand the depth of the disaster.

  The shadow line of barbarism had engulfed the world, taken civilization in captivity. What had seemed just another outburst in Grotum—cursed Grotum, the nature of a crime itself; age-old nursery of the craft of treason—had spread like wildfire around the whole of Joe's Sea—to Ozar itself! Madness; vile, unreasoning madness; so complete the victory of lawlessness that there was no longer any suspense in our hearts. We, once rulers of east and west, had lost our grip of the land. The heroic age was over—naught left of it but tales of hearsay, cobwebs and gossamer.

  The weight of the burden lay heaviest on the Director's heart. He had lost his entire fortune—but it was not because of the dollars that the Director's every waking hour was an endless torment of recrimination; and—yes—self-recrimination. It was the warrior's soul of the man that shriveled, not the merchant's brain. He had told us, with a false smile on his face, and an empty laugh, of his plans for a peaceful old age. "What matters it in the end?" he had asked. We said nothing; he went on, "I shall forego the active life; after all, I'm getting on in years. Let savagery reign! I did my best. Here, in this far-off corner of the world, I shall maintain a little outpost of progress, a small beacon—no, no, dear friends, let us not fool ourselves still; not a beacon, a dim lamp, an ember—let those who come after us, those who will—someday—turn back the foul tide, let them perhaps take a little heart, a small sum of fortitude, from our efforts here—our last essays, you might say. I shall write some reminiscences—my notes on life and letters; a personal record, to give what help it may to others." He lapsed into silence and it burned me to see him so; he was not a man of letters; could not hope to turn his mind in that direction.

  Remembering that conversation, I looked across the little lagoon where we anchored; looked to the dim dusk-shrouded huts of the native village. I thought of exile—degeneration among the savages.

  "I met him once," said Barley suddenly. "The Rebel, I mean. It was long ago—as I was returning from my first expedition into the Sssuj."

  The Director's face turned partly; pain filled it; suddenly I wished Barley had remained silent, much though I found myself filled with curiosity. The Director had enough anguish as it was, without being reminded of the Sssuj.

  "Perhaps"—interrupted the accountant—"No," said the Director, "I want to hear the tale. It could hardly bother me now—for years I was tormented by—ah! that brave soul alone amidst the savagery—how much I would have—"

  He fell silent, but he hadn't needed to continue; for all his fortune, we knew well he would have given up a considerable portion for the widow's hand in marriage. To him, she was the secret sharer of his fortune—the real partner of his fate beside whom the myriad commercial co-venturers paled into mist. But she felt otherwise—her sense of duty; that sense of duty which had taken her so many years before into the wilds of the Sssuj; to bring godliness into the hearts of the savages—none could dissuade her from her course, fraught though it was with unspeakable peril. No pleas, no entreaties, could stop her; she left that cold morning long ago, never to return—overdue and missing; in all the years since, no word of her had been heard. Thrice had the Director sent Barley into the Sssuj to seek her out; thrice had Barley returned with nought but tales of the endless reaches of the swamp—the swamp, the swamp, the great morass of the world, graveyard of so many brave missions and gallant armies.

  "What can it matter now?" demanded the Director. "Can Ozar be any better today than the heart of the Sssuj?" He fell silent for a moment, then turned from the rail and sat himself in our circle.

  "Speak on, Barley."

  Barley brooded a moment; then, launched into his tale.

  "As you may recall, my first essay into the swamp had been from the north; and, following its failure, I returned via the same route—until I reached Torrance. There, rather than return by sea, I chose a more roundabout route—partly for I was loath to bring back my sad news; partly for my rover's feet—you all know my taste for landfalls and departures! So, instead of taking ship straightway from Torrance, I resolved to journey overland through Grotum.

  "I had only five companions on the coach ride to Goimr. Two of them were from Malata—a planter, Il Conde de la Manteca, and his young wife—on their way to Prygg. In addition, there was a knight, Sir Carayne, from the Crapaude—like myself, going to New Sfinctr. Finally, there were two bizarre sisters from Torrance, Karian and Ann. They were poor company. Ann giggled the whole way, and her sister contributed nothing to our wayfarers' talk except to exclaim at regular intervals—'Stop laughing, Ann!' Fortunately, they left the coach at Goimr.

  "Our stay in Goimr was very brief—only the knight descended from the coach. Sir Carayne returned soon enough; his adventures, I gathered, had not been of the greatest sort, judging from the ardent glances which he bestowed on La Contessa while we waited for the next leg of the trip to begin. On the other hand, that may not be so strange. Sir Carayne was a robust man in the prime of his life, very large, his shoulders and hands of a size suited for his calling; while La Contessa—ah, my friends! you know the smoldering beauty of Grenadine women—short in duration, true enough, but while it blooms—"

  "The Rebel!" interrupted the Director, rather rudely; but I thought of the troubles ailing his mighty soul, and smiled at him in the gathering darkness. Barley evidently felt the same, for he nodded his head and continued.

  "After the knight returned, the new travelers began arriving. The first was a fat cleric, a local parson on his way to the Temple of the Ecclesiarchs. Following him entered a sallow-faced man of indeterminate years; by his uniform and the briefcase shackled to his wrist, a messenger of the Company. This one sat in a far corner and stared gloomily out the window, ignoring all around him. And thus we sat for some little while, until the driver and the guard appeared and clambered aboard. We seemed to be off, but there was some little delay; suddenly, a
final pair of passengers arrived. They had barely entered when the coach jarred into motion. One of them, a little ugly fellow toting an enormous sack, was hurled onto the floor.

  " 'Master, we're off!' he squeaked. 'Well spoken, dwarf,' said the other, a strange fellow garbed in an outlandish and scruffy robe, as is the habit of sorcerers in Grotum, 'our journey has begun.' So it was I met the Rebel."

  "He was a strange sort, to all appearances the most insignificant—paltry—of persons; how confused reality is!—a veil drawn over a missing jewel in an empty casket. Whatever; they took their seats. The sack itself took up twice the room of the stoutest burgher, but fortunately the coach was not crowded. The other passengers stared at these weird apparitions, their lips beginning to curl with disdain.

  "But, before any could express a protest, our attention was drawn elsewhere; for—mind you—Grotum as a whole—certainly Goimr!—was a barbarous place—the populace not yet acclimated to the ways and methods of civilization; thus, when the coach careened through the marketplace at full speed—you all know the efficiency of modern transport—"

  "We who made it!" exclaimed the Director; we all smiled fondly.

  "—the beggars who infested the place were struck dumb with terror. Two of them, an old man and a young lad with a withered leg, were crushed beneath the wheels. We leaned out the windows, peering back; my first thought, that they had both been killed, was proven false—the boy's screams followed us as he writhed on the cobblestones, his good leg now matched to the other.

  " 'Poor lad,' said the cleric sadly, 'to come so close to heaven, only to be thwarted at the pearly gates. But then,' he continued more brightly, resuming his seat, 'no doubt this added disfigurement will enhance his mendicant trade.'

  " 'What think you, gentle folk?' he went on, looking at us all with a benign gaze, 'is this not further proof of God's beneficence?'

  "Suddenly the wizard spoke. 'The parson has failed to grasp the historic significance of the occasion. The truth of the matter lies elsewhere, not readily apparent to the untutored intellect. For look you, sirrahs and madame, who was that septuagenarian thus timely squashed?' He peered at the coach's passengers most intently.