Arch Wizard

Chapter Nineteen

The large, brightly moonlit room ended in a matched trio of windows and another stair down. To get to them, Garfist and Iskarra had to walk the length of a long stone table that hac large pages of untrimmed parchment laid out neatly along it. They gave these only brief, cautious glances, mindful of all the old tales of curse-spells erupting to afflict those who gazed upon the wrong runes.

Old tales those might be, and wildly grown in the telling as such stories always were, but all old tales were born of something, and…

Isk's eyes were keener, and she was in the lead, so it was she who spun away from the table to catch hold of Garfist, half-turn him away from the parchments, and murmur in Garfist's ear, "Yon's a boastful little history-unfinished, of course-of the great deeds of Malraun the Matchless. I saw mention of his glorious victories-seemingly several, by the Falcon! — over the hated Arlaghaun, to say nothing of Malraun's triumphs over Stormar lords who foolishly defied him, Galathan knights too stupid to surrender to a mage, and upstart wizards and petty rulers in many a Stormar port."

Garfist grinned mirthlessly. "This is Malragard, all right. An' proclaim me unsurprised at what its master has written. Snakehips mine. Self-delusion and spinning grand fantasies would seem to be vital skills to mastering wizardry, aye?"

"Indeed," Iskarra whispered, waving at him to speak more quietly. "Yet reading that drivel doesn't make me sneer at him or count myself lucky I'm not crazed enough to become a mage. It makes me want even more to get out of here-speedily, and right now."

"The stairs," Garfist whispered hoarsely, bowing to her and gesturing as floridly at them as any powdered and face-painted Stormar palace servant might do, to visiting nobility, "await ye."

Iskarra made a face at him, and stalked soundlessly toward them. At their head she spun, pointed accusingly at him, then at the parchments, then shook her head grimly.

Gar rolled his eyes. "'Tis coin as might tempt me, lass, not some unfinished fancy of a book! Nor do I think he'd pause in hunting us down for anything, were we to take or damage so much as a scrap of this!"

Isk put a shushing finger to her lips, nodded to signify she'd heard him and agreed, and started down the stairs.

It was another short, straight flight, that at its end turned back under the table that held Malraun's writings, but a level lower, in a straight passage lined with doors, that ran to yet another descending stair.

There was just one thing in this passage, but the sight of it brought Iskarra to an instant halt. Gar, too, stopped the moment he saw it.

They had both seen more than a few hanged men before, dangling from executioners' nooses from high Stormar balconies for the sea-craws and gulls to peck at. This hung the same way, but it was a partial suit of armor, quite possibly with no body inside it, and it was hanging in the empty air from nothing at all; from the silent, invisible force of Malraun's magic rather than a noose.

Its helmed head drooped as if it was dead, unconscious, or asleep, but its gauntlets gripped two drawn swords. It floated motionless, the leggings of the armor having no feet to them and apparently no legs inside them; those empty tubes of buckled-together metal well off the ground, their lowest edges about at the level of Garfist's knees.

It looked suspiciously like a guardian of some sort, that would suddenly awaken to hack at any intruder who came too close. Gar and Isk if they dared step off the stair, for instance.

Yet step forward they must, eventually, or retreat back up through the tower. Would the armor fly after them, and try to strike at them with those swords? Would awakening it raise a magical alarm, to alert Malraun-or other magical guardians-of their presence?

"I hate magic," Garfist muttered, more to himself than to his lady.

Isk's reply was a shrug-and a bold descent, down the last steps and into the passage.

She kept her hands near her daggers, but held and waved no weapon. Garfist watched, his body tensed to spring at the silently-waiting armor and his sword ready in his hand, but the floating metal never moved, reacting not in the slightest when she slipped warily past it.

It hung there unmoving. Isk reached the far end of the passage and the stair leading down, and beckoned to Garfist to join her.

Warily, arm itching to draw back his sword and give the floating armor a glorking good, hard hack while it was an obligingly unmoving target, he trudged past it, looking back twice to make sure it wasn't stealthily drifting after him and raising its blades.

It never moved.

With a shrug of wary disbelief he joined Iskarra-who promptly brushed his cheek with a kiss, and set off down this new stair, another short flight down into a passage almost a mirror image of the one they'd just traversed. The midpoint of this one held an identical footless, apparently empty floating suit of armor with swords in hand, and led to another stair.

Garfist swore under his breath, coming down the stairs slowly and glancing back at the first suit of armor for as long as he could-only to find himself staring at a second one. He retreated up the stairs a step or two, to peer and make certain the first guardian-for so he firmly thought of them, believing they could be nothing else-was still there. It was.

Two steps down, and there was the second suit of armor. Back up again. The first one floated just where it had been when they'd first laid eyes on it.

He descended all the way, this time, sword up but not slowing, to walk past the second guardian to where Iskarra was waiting in silent, nodding patience at the head of yet another stair. It was longer, descending about twice as far as the previous flights.

"Not like in the tales, this," Gar whispered to her. "No tentacles coming out of the walls, yet, nor empty suits of armor hacking at us… not that I'm disappointed."

"Hold your tongue," she breathed back, her manner furious. "We have no idea what might awaken such menaces, but it bids fair to be more likely that silence is safe, than that your suggesting things will keep them from happening."

"Yer wisdom, Snakehips, overwhelms me," Garfist growled sulkily. "As always."

Iskarra rolled her eyes, tapped him severely on one cheek in a pantomime of a slap, and went on down this new stair. Only to stop again, a few steps from the bottom, and stare all around warily.

Garfist joined her, sword up and stopping three steps up so he could swing it, if he had to, without slicing her.

Together they beheld a room, the largest they'd yet found in Malraun's fortress, that stretched away from them to the by-now-familiar descending stair at its far end. Its ceiling was twice the height of any of the rooms they'd traversed thus far, and at about its center, a podium or railed balcony thrust out from one wall at the height of the skipped floor-level; it was reached by its own stair that clung to the wall and then curved out to join the jutting vantage-point. Aside from its wooden rail, the balcony and its stairs seemed to be made of the same smooth, fused stone as the walls. At one spot, the floor of the balcony rose up into a sloping-topped table or lectern. There were books, one of them spread open, atop that sloping surface.

The room seemed to be the site of an unfinished magic… but had the casting just been interrupted, or was it some slow, long-proceeding project?

Silence reigned. Freshly-carved wooden staves leaned in an untidy bundle against one wall; two of them had already fallen to the floor.

A large white circle had been drawn in the center of the floor, and from its chalk-if that's what it was-a strong, moving glow rose, like an ankle-deep band of dancing sparks. Out from the circle projected curlicues and flourishes drawn in the same glowing substance, the largest of them forming arms that in four-no, five-cases made rings that enclosed runes drawn on the floor in glowing red and gold.

Above that central circle, items hung in the air, glowing with the same white, dancing-sparks radiance as the circle.

A helm, a cloak-spread wide as if pegged out on an invisible rack to dry-and two gauntlets, seemingly placed to await someone standing in the circle donning them. Or perhaps anyone stepping into the circle would awaken spells that would magically thrust the items onto them, like an invisible maid or manservant dressing them.

Something else was hovering in the air above those four motionless items, swirling in the air beside the little balcony. It seemed to be a slowly-turning whorl or point-down cone of tiny lights; dim radiances that looked more like water droplets than sparks. As Isk and Gar peered at them, they seemed to turn a trifle faster, and some of them winked out of existence-or visibility-while others winked in, and faint, gentle chimings arose from them. The point of their cone hung directly above the floating helm.

Iskarra spun around to glare at Gar and whisper fiercely, "Touch nothing!"

Before he could grumble out a reply she was down off the stair and trotting quietly across the room, keeping well back from all the glowing lines on the floor. Up the balcony stairs she went in a rush, not touching the stair-rail, only to come to a smooth halt on the top step and from there look carefully at the books on the lectern.

She nodded slowly as she read from the open book, then turned and scampered back down the steps without ever setting boot on the balcony. Going to the staves leaning against the wall, she carefully plucked up one of the toppled ones, hefted it in her hand-and then leaned out to gingerly poke at the floating helm, trying to move it.

Three careful prods left her panting with the effort of stretching out her bony frame to its utmost without letting the staff waver down into any sparks, but she'd touched no glowing white lines, and the helm now floated in a new spot, shifted sideways a little more than its own width.

Garfist sighed, and turned on the stair to face back the way they'd come, so he'd be ready if two flying suits of armor silently erupted down on their heads.

"Isk," he rumbled warningly, "ye're up to something. And telling me nothing, just as ye usually do. Give. Now."

"Old Ox," his longtime partner replied merrily, replacing the staff back on the floor in just the position she'd taken it from, "Malraun has left these floating things waiting for some time of great need, such as when he's in a big fight and needs to snatch up some timely aid. The cloak to shield him and help him fly without spending a spell to do so. The gauntlets to subsume certain blasting magics normally shot out at the world with wands; he'll be able to point fingers instead, and so unleash those dooms. The helm to let him see and hear far away, and pry into minds. Yon cone contains spells to sear and ravage the minds of others he touches with his own-if they're wizards, to try to enthrall them, and if they're simpler folk like you and me, to fry us into mind-slaves or walking mindless things."

"So ye moved the helm, why?"

Isk smiled sweetly. "Now, instead of the cone pouring its powers temporarily into the helm, it will unleash them right into the head of whoever stands in the circle. So if Malraun is in a great and excited hurry, and doesn't notice my little adjustment, he'll end up with his mind rocked and cooked for a bit, not smugly able to blast the brains of others. I think wizards in Falconfar are more than powerful enough."

"While I think we should get the defecating greatfangs out of here!" Garfist growled, waving his hands in mimicry of a Stormar hedge-wizard casting a spell with many a florid flourish.

Giggling, she ran to take his hand. They hurried across the room together to the far stair down, staying well away from all glowing lines.

"The good wine, you glorking bastard," Pelmard Lyrose snarled, backhanding the flagon into a clanging moot with the nearest tree. "Golden firefalcon, to my lips, in my next ten breaths."

He did not bother to add: Or you die. That was understood.

It was almost dawn, and he had a gloomy feeling that the fire-falcon, when he got it, would be the last wine he'd ever swallow.

Now he'd not have time to properly savor it, Falcon take the dolt. Sourly, knowing some of the knights were smirking at his haggard, reluctant face, he strode over to them, one after another, making certain there was no confusion over which archers would be placed where.

The firefalcon came-still in its flask, and sealed; Pelmard nodded approvingly at the knight's prudence, broke the seal, and drained it in a long, swallowing gasp and swig, ignoring the proffered flagon. Nodding curtly to the man and handing back the empty flask, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and drew on his war-gauntlet. His bodyguard thrust forward an unshuttered dark-lantern so its light fell upon Pelmard's gage, and he promptly waved it in the signal. Around him, with a muffled thunder of boots on turf, his little army set forth.

"Off to our deaths, all of us," Pelmard mumbled under his breath, as he followed them, his bodyguard moving with him like a well-trained mount. "Thank you, Father. Mother. Bitch of a sister."

Boots and all they forded the river-amid splashings that Pelmard thought would rouse the town, but didn't seem to-and trudged up into the misty gloom.

Irontarl wasn't yet fully awake; all they met were a few sleepy cooks and stablemasters wandering about getting various cauldron-fires going, spitting thoughtfully into the darkness, hissing curses at their own sore backs or stiff limbs, and emptying their bladders over the piles of refuse alongside walls or behind buildings. The Lyrose knights moved among them like shadows in a hurry, using their daggers here and there, and ignoring those who ignored them.

Soon enough, he heard a clink-clink of sword tapped on sword from a nearby rooftop. It was answered by the same sound, several buildings over-and then by a sporadic chorus of many clinkings, each signaling that Lyrose archers had reached the rooftop they'd sought.

Well, that had been easy enough. Dawn was just about to break-or creep in across the Raurklor, shedding shadows, as it always did in Irontarl-and it seemed all his men were in place.

Some of the ground-mists were stealing away down to the river already, and if he peered hard at where he knew they were, he could almost make out the frowning walls of Hammerhold.

Pelmard allowed himself a shrug and a smile. "Well, at least we'll be dying in style," he murmured, too low-voiced for his bodyguard-Baernel, a veteran knight who would gladly die for Lord Magrandar Lyrose, who'd been assigned to guard Pelmard for that very reason-to hear.

He heard the creaking of the cart before he saw it. The first rumblewheels of the day had been sent forth from Hammerhand's castle in the fresh dawn, down to Irontarl to buy whatever they were shortest of, in the Hammerhold kitchens.

In the swiftly brightening light on the steep hillside, Pelmard could see the open cart was crowded with sleepy-eyed scullions and an even sleepier-looking pair of guards. Those two armsmen didn't even get up when the wagon halted-and were pinned to the wagon, right where they sat, when Lyrose bows started to twang.

Pelmard grinned at that-and at the more than dozen scullions who fell, wearing arrows, just after they'd jumped down from the wagon to head down to various shops.

A few survivors turned and ran back up the hill. Pelmard's archers felled two of those fleeing folk of Hammerhold, but the range was extreme; most of the shafts fell short.

As a bright morning unfurled and shutters began to roll up and night-gates squeal back from in front of doors all over Irontarl, the Hammerhold hostler whipped his horses frantically and got the cart rumbling in a hasty, bouncing half-circle, to try to make his escape. It almost turned over, but ended up thundering back up the hill, the driver desperately lying flat and the rumps of his kicking, rearing horses taking the arrows that had been meant for him.

Pelmard barked out his mirth as he watched, knowing he'd have nothing much to laugh at, all too soon.

About now, for instance, as a warhorn bellowed out from the walls of Hammerhold.

The castle looked even darker and taller than usual in the brightening morning. As he watched, mood darkening swiftly, its gates were flung wide and a small flood of men emerged.

Forty bowmen, perhaps a few more, on foot. Men in helms and leathers or even less, hastily mustered and sent forth. They came trudging down the hill, splitting up into groups of three and four.

"Closer, you fools," Pelmard growled at them, willing them on into the reach of his waiting archers. "Just a few strides closer."

As if taunting him, the men of Hammerhold halted just out of bowshot, and waited.

By now folk in Irontarl had seen them, and the arrow-bristling bodies in the street, and some of the shop shutters were hastily slamming down again. There were shouts, and some scurrying back to homes.

That Hammerhold warhorn rang out again, and another forty-some bowmen came striding out. Helmed and armored, all of these, and fanning out on the hillside into trios and foursomes. Down they came, not hurrying, as Pelmard's heart sank.

He could see arms lift to point at this rooftop of Irontarl, and that one. Marking his own bowmen.

They slowed and readied their bows. More than two to his one, now-and glork if that warhorn wasn't blatting again, and now Hammerhand's spearmen were starting out of his gates.

Pelmard watched them in deepening despair, then turned on his heel to cast a look back behind him at Lyraunt Castle. Just one figure was visible, on the highest balcony. His sister Mrythra, watching him. Glork it, he could feel her malicious smile.

Turning away from that torment, he looked back at the Hammerhand forces, now streaming down the hillside. A hundred spearmen? Or more?

"Oh, shit" he said aloud, knowing just how swift and messy his doom was likely to be.

"This is my father's mistake," he announced calmly, for Baernel's ears. "Though my mother and my sister can be very persuasive, when they speak together. I wonder how Burrim Hammerhand got to them, to persuade my father to this folly? We dare not lose this many archers-or all Lyrose may well be swept away."

He turned and looked at Baernel then, but saw only contempt in the man's eyes.

"Save your breath," the knight snapped. "I wear a gift of the wizard Malraun-crafted especially, to foil the blasting magic of your ring."

Meeting that cold gaze, Pelmard felt his sudden urge to command the man to lead him back across the river onto Lyrose lands, to observe or outflank or undertake some such vital mission, dying away.

Something tapped his shoulder gently, and he looked away from Baernel's face to seek the source of that touch.

The knight's drawn sword was waiting, steady and deadly, its point aimed squarely at the gap under Pelmard's arm, where only leather protected him.

Pelmard Lyrose looked at it, then back up at its wielder.

"Ah, well," he told the knight, managing a twisted smile. "Time to die valiantly. Or otherwise."