Arch Wizard

Chapter Twenty

Malraun the Matchless raised his hand with a smile-and blasted down a pleading Narmarkoun, a blubbering-with-fear Rod Everlar, and six shadowy Stormar wizards, one of them a tall and mysterious figure with the antlers of a stag and a face that was two blazing white eyes floating in a shroud of darkness, all in one blazing instant of magic.

Watching warriors of three armies moaned in fearful awe and went down on their knees to him, there on the hilltop. Malraun ignored them. Instead, he reached down to the woman on her knees before him, who'd torn open her gown in abject surrender, plucked her up as if she weighed no more than a feather, and slung her over his shoulder. With the Empress of all the distant Emaeraun Empire riding warm against him, her rear in the air as she gasped out her loyalty and obedience to the ground behind his boots, Malraun turned his back on those armies, and set off for the nearest bed.

It obligingly appeared, wide and familiar-the bed from conquered Darswords-on the hilltop right in front of him, and Malraun threw the Empress down on it and plunged into her warm, yielding depths…

There was something warm and heavy on his left shoulder, and he… he was coming awake.

To look at a ceiling he knew. He was in the best bedchamber in Darswords, on his back in the rumpled bed with Taeauna snuggled against him.

Hmmph. No blasting of Narmarkoun and the rest yet, then. And the cruel Emaeraun Empress would sit idly tapping the arms of her throne for a day or six longer. He had a few lesser and more local tasks to see to, first.

Such as enjoying the last, wingless Aumrarr in all Falconfar. Loyal she might now be, thanks to his magic, but she slept still. Powerless to resist him forcing herself upon her, that most delicious of bed-pleasures.

He crossed her wrists, one over the other, and bound them that way with the simplest of spells, then spread her ankles far apart with the same spell, reversed.

That awakened her, so she was blinking at him in surprise when he snarled, "Receive your Doom!" and flung himself on her.

"Willingly," she managed to gasp, fighting for breath as the bed creaked and groaned under his bruising assault. She tried to cradle her long legs around him, tried to reach down to caress his back and shoulders… but fell back exhausted, defeated by the iron grip of his magic.

Malraun chuckled and spat out a word, and suddenly she could move, and tugged hungrily at him, seeking to claw him farther, tighter, closer…

He bit her breasts cruelly, laughed, and reared back out of her yielding, arching himself in triumph as he neared his moment of greatest pleasure-

Then, in an instant, his face changed. He stiffened in astonished dismay, and became a statue above her.

Taeauna watched rapture melt into anger on Malraun's darkly handsome face, with sweat just beginning to glisten at his temples. Grimacing, he flung up a hand to clutch at his head, his fingers like talons.

"What idiocy now? I swear, these Lyrose dolts…"

Still snarling, Malraun the Matchless flung himself back from her and off the bed, landing on the floor beyond with an awkward crash. Wincing and limping, he rose and scrambled across the room to his discarded garments, snatched up his belt of wands from where they lay atop the rest, and-was gone.

Taeauna fell back on the bed, her wrists and ankles tingling, and smiled a lopsided smile at the ceiling-beams.

Her lord and Doom was making a habit of teleporting away to seek trouble without even bothering to get dressed. Now, when a lass indulged in such behavior, she acquired a certain reputation…

"Slay me not!" Pelmard shouted desperately, slipping in blood again. That traitor Baernel had turned and fled-sprinting back to Lyraunt, to report, of course-the moment the nine Hammerhand knights had come trotting around the corner of yonder pottery with swords drawn, and come for him.

They'd known exactly where he was standing, and must have run a long way wide, out and around most of Irontarl and risking arrows all the way, to avoid getting caught up in battle with the desperately-fighting, retreating men of Lyrose. Now, panting behind their helms-full plate armor, all of them, and better than his own! — these Hammerhand hounds were here for him.

"Stand back! A ransom! I am Lord Pelmard Lyrose, heir of House Lyrose!" he snapped, tucking his sword under his arm so he could use that hand to pluck off his other gauntlet and bare his ring.

A hurled dagger caught fire across his fingertips the moment they were uncovered, and clanged away. Falcon hurl, they knew about the ring!

"Back from me, damn you!"

Pelmard backed away himself, let fall his gauntlet, and faced them with blood-dripping hand and raised sword. "The Forestmother will curse you with ill luck for this, all your days!"

One of the knights snorted, by way of reply.

"Die," another replied coldly, as they spread wide to come at him from all sides, and cut off his retreat. Calmly, not hurrying, they closed in.

Pelmard backed away again, well aware that the river-mud was a mere pace or two behind him. He bent his will and Malraun's gift flashed, lancing out and through the eyeslits of a helm worn by one of the outflanking knights. Who staggered, and then fell.

Goading his fellows into a snarling charge.

"Malraun!" Pelmard shouted desperately. "Aid, I beg of you! Lyrose has need of you, mighty Doom! Malraun!"

They were rushing him now, trotting in with a forest of cold steel swung back to hack and thrust and-

Pelmard got his visor down just in time, swung desperately, clenched his bared hand and felt the ring-magic blaze forth again, and-

Steel rang on steel, jarring his arm, and cold hard steel hacked and thrust at him from all sides, squealing off his armor, flinging him back, their batterings crashing heavily against his ribs and face.

Half-dazed, Pelmard fought to see a foe well enough to use the ring again, trying to tuck his hand back into its armpit as cold blades came slicing at it, cutting away that thumb… The pain was sickening, and his helm was half-turned on his head, blood gushing out of his nose inside it and burning pain blossoming from his torn ear; he could see only out his left eye-hole…

He swung his sword feebly and blindly, as someone struck shrewdly at his ankles and sent him staggering…

Into the hard, punching embrace of someone else, who tore off Pelmard's helm with one cruelly-clawing gauntlet, hair and most of the other Lyrose ear coming with it, to snarl hatred into Pelmard's despairing face and-drive his sword home, up and under Pelmard's cods, sharp and high and so utterly, utterly cold…

"Mrythra!" he gasped, or tried to. "I love youuuu-"

He never saw the sword that swept in along his shoulder-plates then, to bite deep into his neck and half-sever his head.

It wobbled obscenely, still partly attached, as blood spurted, choking him. Pelmard Lyrose reeled and went down, still struggling to tell his sister his deepest longing. The Hammerhand knights thrust and hacked viciously, seeking to get that head off its shoulders and that ring on its finger cut well free of the rest of the man ere it could unleash more deadliness.

The last thing Pelmard Lyrose saw, swimming into his darkening mind on wings of magic, was Mrythra Lyrose standing clutching the rail of the highest balcony of Lyraunt Castle, face twisted in revulsion. She pursed her lips, eyes meeting his, and spat in his direction.

And then burst into tears. "Pel!" she sobbed, as he fell from her, down, down into echoing darkness. "Darling Pel!"

"So how are these men of Earth with swords?" Syregorn asked, as casually as if he'd been inquiring about cattle breeds.

"Using them in battle, you mean?" Rod asked, inwardly cursing the eagerness the warcaptain's drug had given his tongue. "No one does, in the countries I lived in and did book tours through, anyway. Oh, street gangs use knives, but most people, if they mean to do violence, use guns."

"And what are 'guns'?"

"Uh, like blasting wands, only they fire tiny arrowheads into you. Without needing a wizard, nor the strong arm of an archer. Anyone can use one, even children."

"Women, you mean?" Syregorn looked startled. Then the curl of contempt returned to his mouth, and he asked scornfully, "Tiny arrowheads? They'd do no harm."

"Ah, but they do," Rod burst out, helpless to hold back his words. "A gun can drive that arrowhead right into your heart. Or through it and out the other side of your body, so all the blood pours out."

"And they need no skilled archers to do this?" Syregorn looked shaken.

Then he looked thoughtful.

The knot of fear inside Rod Everlar's stomach grew a little heavier, and a lot colder.

A line of broad cobbles marked where the trampled turf of Irontarl became the always-mud of the river ford. Pelmard Lyrose's head thudded onto it and rolled free of his hacked and quivering body.

As it tumbled past, seemingly seeking river water, the gift of Malraun, adorning a finger now lying severed in the mud some paces away, flared into sudden blue fire.

That tiny conflagration was echoed by a much larger flame of the same deep, thrilling blue hue, roaring up out of nothingness in the street in front of the pottery. A flame that broadened, split in the center, and widened like a hole burning in the air-if the air had been tinder-dry parchment or stretched hide-to reveal an angry naked man standing in its heart, with a belt of sticks in his hands.

Abruptly the flame winked out, leaving the man behind. Darkly handsome face bright with rage, he jerked one of the sticks out of a belt-loop, leveled it at the nearest of Pelmard's killers, and snarled, "That man was mine! Mine to use and slay, not yours! Miner

The Hammerhand knights took one look at the naked madman and fled in all directions, running as hard as they'd ever run in all their lives.

"Die, you stupid backland brutes!" the Doom shouted, voice cracking in his mounting rage. "Die!"

The wand spat fire, plucking a running knight off his feet and turning him into crisped bones and blackened, creaking armor in long, frozen moments where he hung in midair, quivering in the roiling heart of flames.

A bolder Hammerhand knight ran desperately at the naked man from behind, sword reaching.

Malraun spun around, letting the belt fall as he clutched another wand from it, brought it up, and unleashed its power right into the charging knight's face.

Which promptly ceased to exist, bursting apart in a spray of red gore, fragments of bone, and shards of shattered helm.

Malraun calmly sidestepped the toppling corpse, sweeping his belt of wands to safety with one bare foot as he did so, and told the next knight, as he fed that unfortunate the results of both wands, "I am furious. Much time and coin I've spent, shaping human tools, and you destroy them in a thoughtless moment. Well, the next time you might find yourselves about to make a shambles of my plans, think."

The by-then-headless corpse toppled, its legs burned away.

"Oh, dear," Malraun snarled at it. "I've left you nothing to think with. Such a pity."

He bent, took up his belt, calmly buckled it around his naked waist, replaced the wands he was using and selected two others, and set off along the streets of Irontarl, blasting every armored man or rooftop archer he saw-and turning often to make sure he saw them all before an arrow or spear could find him.

When one of the wands faltered and spat sparks rather than slaying beams of magic, Malraun thrust it back into its loop and snatched forth another.

This one didn't spit; it roared, blasting buildings as well as men. Walls and roofs in Irontarl crumpled and collapsed, spilling screaming men down to thud heavily onto the ground and taste Malraun's other wand while they were still writhing feebly.

Man after man he slew, Hammerhand and Lyrose alike. Until the men cringing behind buildings and cowering flat on roofs decided this terrible wizard was blasting everyone his eyes fell upon-and rose, took up their last arrows, and started frantically trying to fell him, their warring causes temporarily forgotten.

As a growing storm of shafts sought the naked man standing alone, Malraun smiled a tight smile and fed them death.

After all, when they were all dead, he could always turn and conquer Tesmer.

Dawn was coming to the garden of Malragard, and the singing, urgent excitement surging in Rod Everlar was fading with the night-gloom. His tongue was slowing to its usual speed, and he found himself able to choose his words, not always instantly offering what he knew Syregorn most wanted to learn.

The drugs inside him must be nearly exhausted. He faltered, seeing Syregorn's cold eyes boring into his, and fell silent.

Whereupon the warcaptain reached out a long arm, announced briskly, "Night is fled; time to be up and doing again!" and dragged Rod to his feet.

The Lord Archwizard of Falconfar stumbled, feeling strange, but Syregorn's grip-now on his left arm, just above the elbow-was firm.

The warcaptain rushed the reeling man of Earth along the grassy garden paths, his knights grinning as they fell into step behind Syregorn.

Who dragged Rod Everlar straight to the door into Malragard-where everyone came to a sudden, startled halt.

No one had seen it open, but that thick, heavy stone door was now yawning wide, revealing a stone-lined passage stretching off into darkness broken by no lantern. A silent, waiting maw.

The knights shuffled their boots uneasily, hanging back.

"Never seen such an obvious trap," Reld muttered. On either side of him, Perthus and Tarth both nodded.

Syregorn grinned at all six Hammerhand knights coldly. "That's all right, my blades," he told them. "We've got us a bold Lord Archwizard, remember?"

His iron-hard grip on Rod Everlar's shoulder rushed the writer into a helpless, stumbling run forward-through the dark and waiting doorway.

"This has GONE far enough!"

Lord Burrim Hammerhand was not a man who lived beset by fear, or shrank from thoughts of pain and battle. He had no stomach for sitting at home on a throne ordering men out of Hammerhold to stride forth and die for him.

If folk were to fight in his name, he wanted to lead them. Wherefore he was now crouching, anger warm in his throat, among prickly thistles behind the back wall of Irontarl's only smithy, with the Lord Leaf right behind him.

That anger boiled over. Standing up, Hammerhand waved his sword at Darlok, who was behind the stables across a wide and muddy street, with a score or so of Hammerhold spearmen.

"If we just wait in hiding," Hammerhand barked, "this mad wizard will blast us all dead, every last one of us! So we'd best charge him, at once and from all sides! Get every man who has a shield to the fore!"

Darlok nodded, waved his sword in salute, and turned to snap orders. Lord Hammerhand looked up. "Nelgarth?"

"Here, lord," came the low-voiced mutter from above. Archers were on the roof of the smithy, but keeping low, their bows stilled, as wands spat and roared along the street on its far side.

"I want all your lads ready," Burrim Hammerhand growled. "We're going to charge yon mage, and while he's blasting us down, I want every man to try to put an arrow through his head or his hands. Bury him in shafts!"

"Will do, lord."

Lord Hammerhand checked his own dagger, hefted his sword, and stamped down some thistles with his boots. He bore no shield. The smithy wall shook, and his eyes narrowed. He knew just where the wizard had to be, to unleash his wand through the smithy door. Which meant he just might live through this charge.

He waved his sword at Darlok in a silent but clear query, saw his warcaptain's nod, and beckoned.

The men of Hammerhold charged in a thunder of boots, no one yelling anything. Good; Darlok had given them the right orders.

Lord Burrim Hammerhand snapped, "Stay here, priest, unless you've got a blasting spell that can take care of yon mage." Without waiting for a reply, he trotted forward-and then burst around the corner at a run.

The wand-blast was fierce in its brightness. It slammed him off his feet and back around the corner in a hurtling instant, to crash to the street and roll to a stop, gasping in agony.

Then the other wand spat-right through the smithy wall at about head-height. Shedding a spray of its shattered stone, Malraun's magic raced across the street to hurl Hammerhold spearmen in all directions.

Cowering against the smithy wall, the priest of the Forestmother reached out a hand toward the man lying crumpled in the dirt a bare few strides away.

Smoke was rising from the lord of Hammerhold, and most of his right shoulder was missing, armor and all; what was left was blackened and torn, the arm below it dangling and useless.

Growling out his pain in a stream of half-formed oaths, Lord Burrim crawled back to the smithy wall, where the uninjured Lord Leaf was waiting, arms spread wide to receive him, face sharp with concern.

"Healing?" the lord grunted, as he reached the thistles again.

"What Hammerhand needs," Cauldreth Jaklar said soothingly, reaching out-to bring a knife up out of his sleeve and into Burrim Hammerhand's throat, hilt deep, before dragging it sideways.

Blood spattered the priest, and the lord of Hammerhold heaved himself up with a great, gurgling roar-only to slump down dead.

Jaklar kicked out desperately to keep his legs from being pinned under the brawny corpse's armored weight, then staggered to his feet.

"What Hammerhand needs, indeed," the Lord Leaf panted triumphantly at the lord who could no longer hear him, "so I can begin to bring the rightful rule of the Forestmother to Ironthorn."

He looked up, to see if anyone had seen the manner of Hammerhand's death-and beheld the warcaptain Darlok, helmless and scorched, staring at him from the far end of the smithy wall.

"I gave Lord Hammerhand peace," the priest snapped quickly, "as he commanded me to. The magic of the wand was turning him into something foul and evil." Spreading his hands, he added in his grandest, most pious voice, "By his blood, shed for all Ironthorn, may the Forestmother take him into Her arms and give him all pleasure, as a great stag in the forest."

Hammerhand's blood had drenched Jaklar's lap, and was now coursing down his legs, but he could see Darlok's face going from astonished hatred to awe and grief. Good. In a moment, if he cast the simple little spell that would make his hands glow, and proclaimed it as a sign from the goddess, he could-

Then, as the wands flashed and boomed again farther away, Cauldreth Jaklar saw someone else, far beyond Darlok's shoulder but approaching fast.

Helmless, her hair streaming out behind her and her eyes two dark and snapping flames of anger, Amteira Hammerhand was racing toward them.

Her sword was in her hand, and the look on her face proclaimed clearly to all Falconfar that she'd seen her father's slaying-and was now seething for the Lord Leaf's blood.

Cauldreth Jaklar swallowed, knowing he hadn't the right spells ready to blast her down like yon cursed wizard was felling everyone.

Hurriedly he spat out the words of his own feeble little spell, knowing the warcaptain wouldn't know what they were. He tried to make them sound sorrowful, so they'd be taken for some sort of prayer to guard Hammerhand's soul.

"Darlok," he snapped, the moment he was done, "I need you! Ironthorn needs you!"

"Command me, lord," the warcaptain said slowly, watching the conjured radiance rise up Jaklar's hands and arms, heading for the priest's face.

"The Holy Forestmother is with me," the Lord Leaf cried, letting excitement rise into his voice. "I can see now what I must do! Darlok, I need you to obey me, and rid us of the Hammerhands! If Ironthorn is ever to know peace, it can only be through the Holy Forestmother, and not this endless struggle of lord with rival lord, that can only and ever mean more butchery! With the Hammerhands gone, we'll have only two families to deal with-and House Lyrose weakened, at that! Darlok, I need you!"

The priest spread his glowing hands, his face now alight with radiance. "Will you obey me, and win holy glory? Or stand against me, and very swiftly be damned by the Forestmother to a horrible fate?"

Darlok stood uncertainly, bafflement clear on his face. Ridding Ironthorn of the Hammerhands? But that could only mean-

He heard the crashing footfalls of Amteira's boots, then, and turned his head.

The lady heir of the Hammerhands was enraged, her sword was out, and, panting in her haste, coming fast.

"Murderous priest!" she snarled, as she sped along the smithy wall.

Darlok swung to face her, sword rising, purely out of the habit of long years as a warrior in a valley at war.

Her face changed, and she swung at him, spitting, "You too, Dar?"

Darlok parried, but she struck twice and thrice, in an utter frenzy, and the third time burst through his guard.

The warcaptain lacked even time to protest before her steel slid into his shoulder, slicing in through the gap where his breastplate met his shoulder-plates.

Crying out, Darlok clutched desperately at his arm, trying not to lose his sword-and Amteira's blade burst into his mouth.

"Traitor!" she hissed, wrenching it free and running on, so the warcaptain was wrenched around, to stagger with blood spurting from his ruined face, dying on his feet.

The Lord Leaf had tarried to watch none of this. He was sprinting away, ascending a back street of Irontarl just as fast as he could, heading for the trees.

The Raurklor was a large cloak to hide in, and just now he needed to escape anywhere.

Amteira Hammerhand raced after him. "Murderer," she gasped, just once, then saved her breath for running.

Once in the forest, the priest could call on the Forestmother for aid. Yet even if he eluded her this day, she would follow Cauldreth Jaklar to the very roost of the Falcon, if that's what it took to slay him.

Her father deserved that, and far more. Once she'd torn this priest's life from him with her bare hands, and returned to conquer Ironthorn, it would be time to start in on the altars of the Forestmother.

By the blood of Burrim Hammerhand, shed by an unholy traitor, she would see this done.