A Wizard in the Way

3

I’m afraid not,” Herkimer said. “That was the last television broadcast from the planet. There are still radio broadcasts coming in, but the signals are of very low quality and the announcing amateurish. Their news programs are clearly rumor and devoted to superstitious nonsense, such as communicating with the dead, magic, and hauntings.”

Alea looked skeptical at the word “superstitious,” but Magnus said, “They described a civilization falling apart.”

“It would seem so,” Herkimer agreed. “We will be close enough to commence orbit in twenty-six hours. Perhaps a photographic survey will clarify matters somewhat.”

It did, but not for the better. The pictures Herkimer presented them showed magnificent cities that, on closer inspection, featured broken windows, tumbled masonry, and streets choked with rubble, empty except for small bands of people, some deformed. Here and there, the pictures showed pitched battles.

“The cities certainly died,” Magnus said, his face tragic.

“There seem to be a few who couldn’t bear to leave.” Suddenly Alea stiffened. “Magnify, Herkimer!”

The band in the center of the screen jumped outward to fill it There were five people—two men and a woman wearing patched tunics and coarse leggins, and two others who wore hooded robes. One of the men walked hunched over by a bent spine, another limped with a twisted foot. The woman glanced up at the sky to gauge the weather, and they saw she had only one eye, the other covered by a patch.

“Nobody wanted them around,” Alea whispered.

“So the cities are sanctuaries for the outcasts,” Magnus said, his face grave. “Let’s have a look at the countryside, Herkimer.” The city street dissolved into an expanse of patchwork fields dotted by small villages with thatched roofs—but as the landscape unrolled below them, they saw larger towns clustered around central hills upon which stood mansions in front of broad courtyards surrounded by smaller buildings.

“No castles, at least.” Magnus frowned. “It’s not quite a feudal setup.”

“Isn’t it?” Alea asked. “Could we have a closer look at one of those mansions, Herkimer?”

“Of course,” the computer answered, and one huge house swam toward them until it filled the screen.

“It’s made of stone,” Alea pointed out, “and the walls are pretty thick, to judge by the depth of the windows—which aren’t all that large, by the way.”

“No, they’re not,” Magnus agreed. “Three feet high at the most, and maybe two wide. Not a fortress, but it would still be hard to capture.”

“There are no walls around the property, though,” Alea admitted, “so they can’t be too worried about attack. Either that, their weapons are so powerful that the walls would only be there for privacy.”

“Let’s hope it just means a peaceful culture,” Magnus said. “But one with rulers and subjects,” Alea pointed out. “See how many people are out there working in the fields?”

“That could simply mean that everyone works.” Then Magnus saw the woman in green silk riding on a gray horse and the man in velvet and brocade who rode the chestnut stallion beside her, with several liveried guards behind them. “Or it could be a rigid class system.”

“You would raise a question.” Alea glanced at him with annoyance. “Now I want to go down there just to find out the answer.”

“So do I,” Magnus admitted. “Even more, though, I want find out why they’re so sure of the peace. No one’s wearing armor, and that isn’t a very large troop of bodyguards.” H added as an afterthought, “Of course, the peasants could be opressed.”

Alea shrugged. “How badly? We’ve seen worse, much worse. Besides, you can’t tell just by looking at them.”

“Yes, though Brigante was the first planet I’ve seen where that wasn’t true.”

Alea shrugged. “All we could see from orbit was that the was a priestly class and a peasant class. It made sense that the priests should have been exploiting the peasants.”

“Yes, and it took a dirtside tour to find out that the people were really quite happy.” Magnus winced at the memory of civilization that had no government above the level of a to council—if you didn’t count the secret society that had virtually become the government.

Evanescent’s telepathic species had a great deal to do with the smooth running of Brigante’s society, too, and was where the alien had joined them—though only Alea knew about her and at the moment, even she didn’t remember.

“Displaying catalog,” Herkimer said, and the screen before them became a collection of small pictures arranged in three walls, one behind the other.

Magnus glanced from one frame to another. “A medieval civilization amid the ruins of a modern one—well, I’ve seen that before.”

Alea thought of her home world and winced. “We’ll have to be on the watch for people who remember how to use the old machines—or even to build new ones.” She remembered the dwarves of Midgard building radio transceivers.

“Well, we won’t learn anything more up here.” Magnus stood up. “Cancel display, Herkimer, and fabricate us some costumes like the ones we’ve seen, would you?”

The picture-walls disappeared, and Herkimer asked, “Costumes of the privileged class or the peasantry, Magnus?”

“Do you feel like being a lady of wealth and breeding this time?” Magnus asked Alea.

“A peasant will be fine, thank you.” Alea had a grudge against the wealthy and privileged. “Besides, the ruling class is so small that they probably all know each other and would be very suspicious of strangers.”

“True,” Magnus agreed. “Peasants, Herkimer. We’ll start at the bottom and work our way up, as usual.”

Alea stood, too. “Should I start calling you Gar Pike again?”

“That would be wise,” Magnus said, nodding.

“I don’t know why you bother with that alias,” Alea grumbled. “No one here is going to know who Magnus d’Armand is.”

“Only the wrong people.”

“You mean SCENT agents. We don’t even know that there are any of them working here.”

“In fact, there probably aren’t,” Gar said, “but it’s one chance we don’t have to take. I’d prefer my former colleagues don’t recognize me if they do happen to be in the neighborhood.” The fact that SCENT was also his father’s organization was just as much of a problem—the name “d’Armand” was rather famous among their ranks.

Privately, Alea suspected that Magnus would be easy to recognize under any name—on backward planets where nutrition was rarely what it should be, there weren’t very many men who were nearly seven feet tall. On the other hand, there weren’t many women who were six feet four inches, either. Even on her home world she had stood out, to her sorrow. She once again felt an overwhelming rush of gratitude to Magnus for taking her away from that misery, but stiffened her face, determined not to let it show.

Magnus misunderstood the expression; his voice lowered, becoming gentler. “Come now, it won’t be all that bad. We’ll probably discover that the peasants are well fed and well clothed, and quite happy with their lot. Besides, we could do with a touch of sun and fresh air again.”

“And rain!” Alea’s pulse quickened at the thought. Truth to tell, she would have taken shore leave even if nobody on the planet needed her—after six months shipboard, she was glad of an excuse to go outdoors again.

So was Evanescent, of course, but she didn’t bother telling the humans—or even reminding them that she existed. There would be time enough for that, if it were necessary.

The next shipboard day, Herkimer spiraled around the planet Oldeira to the night side, where he settled into a clearing in a forest, not far from a road, that led to a village only a few miles away. Magnus and Alea went down the gangplank, he with a spring in his step, she nearly dancing. They picked their way across the clearing by the light of a lantern that had a very medieval look, then disappeared into the trees.

Herkimer remained, gangplank extended, though usually he would have lifted off as soon as they had disembarked and been halfway back to orbit before the humans had reached the forest. Now, though, the ship still sat, as though trying to remember what it was supposed to do next—until Evanescent prowled down the gangplank, a huge ball of a cat face with a foreshortened feline body that seemed much too small. Nonetheless, she moved with fluidity and grace as she disappeared into the forest, following the trail of the humans’ thoughts.

Only then did the gangplank slide back into the ship and Herkimer rise into the night sky, not even knowing that his computer-brain had been dormant for a few minutes. He wouldn’t even think to compare his memories to the ship’s clock, for how could he have lost time without being aware of it?

They broke out of the underbrush onto the road. Alea looked up at the narrow strip of sky, so strewn with stars that it gave as much light as a full moon on Terra. Then she turned to Gar. “What do we do now? Look for a guide?”

“I usually do,” Gar admitted, “preferably someone who’s planning to keep traveling for a while.”

“Meaning someone on the run,” Alea interpreted, “who has no love for the local government but needs protection.”

“Yes,” Gar said, “but not a real criminal, just a good person who’s fallen into trouble—a soldier on the losing side, perhaps, or a peasant who couldn’t pay his taxes.”

“That shouldn’t be hard to find, in a medieval society.” Alea turned to face the road. “Let’s just hope we find them before the real outlaws do.”

Mira had managed to stay free for two days—nights, rather, since she didn’t dare travel when it was light and the soldiers could see her. She had hidden in a haystack the first day and watched between the straws as a party of them rode by. They hadn’t brought the dogs then, thank heaven, or she would have been discovered. The second night, she had waded down a stream until her feet were numb, then managed to climb a vine to a tree limb, where she had warmed her feet until she was sure of them again, and could walk the lower limbs from tree to tree until they were too far apart to cross from one to another. By that time, though, she had been at least a hundred feet from the bank, and the hounds weren’t likely to pick up her scent if they’d been following the water.

There were dangers at night, of course, and she went with her heart pounding, starting at every noise, frightened at the mere thought of the ghosts who were apt to come looking for her—but the magician hadn’t sent them yet. Wild ghosts were even more frightening, for she’d heard stories about them taking over people’s minds—though just as many stories claimed that couldn’t happen till a person was dead, and then it would be ghost against ghost, and surely the newer would be stronger and would win.

This was the third night, and she doubted that the hounds and the soldiers would hunt her so far from home, so she dared to walk on the road instead of picking her way over tree roots under the shadows of the pines. Roketh would send word to the other magicians, though, and their guards would be alert for a woman traveling alone. If they found her, they would chase her, catch her, and send her back to Roketh—so she still went cautiously, alert for the sound of hooves or marching feet. She was just beginning to breathe more easily when she saw the glimmering mist gathering over the road ahead of her. She stopped, heart in her throat, and watched, rooted to the spot, as the mist thickened and bulged into arms and a head with hollow, staring eyes and a dark circle of a mouth—but nothing more, only a blank bulge with darkness for features. It was raw energy, a specter gathered but still unformed, a wild ghost, a thing seeking form and purpose. Its kind were the most dangerous sort of phantoms, for they were voracious.

It shot toward her, moaning, and her heart leaped into her throat.

Gar was pouring the first ladle of stew into Alea’s bowl when the terror hit; he nearly dropped both back into the kettle.

Alea’s head snapped back as though she had been slapped. “Who was that?”

“I don’t know, but I would hate to be the one they’re threatening,” Gar said grimly. “Whoever sent that mental bolt finds a great deal of pleasure in others’ fright—and the woman whom it hit is absolutely terrified. If you’ll excuse me, I have to see a sadist about a beating.”

“I won’t excuse you at all.” Alea rose, catching up her staff. “First one to him gets to keep him.” As an afterthought, she added, “Put that fire out, will you?”

Gar stared down at the flames; they diminished and died. The sticks smoked, but even the smoke thinned and vanished. Then Gar looked up to find that Alea had disappeared into the night.

The ghost’s lament turned into words: “Erring woman, go back to your master!”

“No!” Mira wailed. “He will exploit me, he will abuse me, he will hurt me!”

“Shame!” the ghost intoned, towering over her. “Shame! Shame!”

“It is shame he would heap upon me!” Mira felt hot tears streaming down her cheeks. “I have seen the women he has used—empty husks, all the spirit drained from them.” Then she broke off, staring in horror as she realized what had happened to those women—and why the ghosts were willing to help chase escaped women back to Roketh. “You want my spirit when he is done with me! He will drain me of life and energy and give them to you!”

“Go back!” the ghost moaned, reaching out to point with a gossamer finger. “Hear the cries of those who chase! Go back before they tear you, rend you!”

Then Mira heard it in the distance—the wild baying of monstrous hounds.

Alea’s thoughts had been as easy to trace as tracks in snow, of course, not to mention the fact that she was running down a road; where else could she go? But Gar reasoned that the chase might be a long one, so he steadied into an easy lope that covered maximum distance with minimum energy. Even so, his longer legs began to catch up with Alea’s. A glimmer in the road ahead alerted him—their quarry, perhaps? But the glimmer seemed to grow until he saw what it was and slammed to a halt, almost colliding with Alea, who stood even more still, stiff with the supernatural fear of her childhood. “Those … those can’t be real ghosts, can they?”

Seven glowing shapes towered over one young woman who stared up at them, poised to flee but frozen by fear.

“Real ghosts? Ridiculous!” But Gar had to force the scoffing tone. “Whatever they are, though, they’re putting out an awful lot of psionic energy. We’ve got to put a damper on it.”

“Yes! They’re scaring the life out of that poor girl!” Alea jolted out of her trance. “The life? You don’t suppose—?”

“One of those ghosts doesn’t have a face,” Gar said grimly. “Maybe he’s looking for one. Let’s go.”

“Wait.” Alea raised a hand against his chest. “Listen—with your ears!”

They were both silent a minute. Then Gar said, “Hoofbeats.”

“Change of plan,” Alea said, “not that we had one. Let’s go in low.”

Panic seized Mira; she spun and ran from the ghost—and from the dogs far behind.

The ghost’s moan rose, quavering to a shriek, and more specters burst from the ground, broke from the trees, condensed from the very air in answer. As one, they swooped toward her from every side, converging, herding. She screamed and whirled about, thinking to dare the first ghost alone instead of the six who swooped toward her, but the phantom had disappeared. Hope leaped as she plunged toward the clear space and the trees beyond.

The earth exploded into fire before her. She shrank back shrieking, whirling to run again, but the ghosts parted to let three horsemen ride through, one from each side, racing to be first upon her, hands reaching down to catch. With a soldier at either hand and the flames at her back, Mira shrank to her knees, whimpering, crying out against the injustice of so many against one woman.

A screech of anger ripped the night. Mira thought it was her own until a woman leaped in front of her, a woman unbelievably tall stepping in to swing her staff at the first of the riders. It caught him across the side of the head; he cried out as he fell. His two mates shouted and turned their horses, charging down at her, but as the one on the right plunged toward the woman, a huge dark shadow rose from the grass and swung an arm to catch the rider by the waist. The man gave a shout of anger, a shout quickly choked by the pressure on his belly; the horse galloped onward, jerking the stirrups off the man’s feet. For a moment he kicked and flailed in the air; then the giant dropped him and he fell and lay, choking and trying to gasp, the wind knocked out of him.

Mira stared, unbelieving—partly at the size of the two strangers, partly at their skill, but mostly at the fact that they spun and kicked and struck in the midst of half a dozen keening ghosts without paying them the slightest attention.

The third rider bellowed a curse and swung a long club, but the woman’s staff was longer and she jabbed it forward like a spear even as she sidestepped just enough for the horse to rush past her. The butt of the staff caught the man in the stomach; he shot off the rump of his horse, striking with his club as he did. It struck the woman’s forearm, knocking down her staff, but the damage was done; “Have at you!” she spat as he scrambled to his feet, and swung the staff high one-handed, whirling it like a windmill.

The rider saw the power of that whirling weapon and stepped back, raising his club to guard.

The woman swung; he blocked, but the staff struck with ferocious momentum, knocking the club aside, then swinging high to strike again. The guard cried out in fear and leaped aside—but the giant came up behind him, catching his collar and yanking him off his feet. He struggled, kicking, and the giant spoke in a deep, mellow voice. “Not too hard, now. No need to murder.”

“Do I need to strike at all?” The woman stepped up to glare at the guard, adroitly ducking his roundhouse punch. “Do I, cat’s meat?”

“A murrain upon you!” the man snarled, and kicked.

The woman danced aside. “I take it that means ‘yes.’ ” The staff swung and the man’s eyes rolled up. The giant dropped him and heaved the burden he’d been dragging. Two more guards fell on top.

“Foully done!” the shapeless ghost intoned. “Fear, man, fear!”

“Fear?” The giant gazed off into space, seeming to examine something, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Fear, fool!” another ghost cried, one who bore the semblance of a hard-faced old woman in an antique gown. She thrust her fingers into the giant’s head. “Shrivel in fright! Kneel in abject ten … aiiieeee!” She yanked her hands back; they glowed cherry-red. “He is a ghost-leader!”

“Unlike yourself, who is an ape-leader,” the woman snapped. “What is an ape?” one of the male ghosts demanded.

The female ghost turned and dived into the head of one of the horses. It was remarkable to see how her form diminished into a wedge, then narrowed even further as it sank in.

The horse’s head snapped up, its eyes widening in terror then narrowing in rage. Its whinny was more a scream, high and wild, as it pivoted and thundered down on the giant.