Arch Wizard

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Amteira Hammerhand came to a grim, panting halt atop a mossy boulder somewhere deep in the Raurklor, and admitted to herself at last that her father's murderer had gotten away.

Cauldreth Jaklar, Lord Leaf of Ironthorn until this morning, and priest of the Forestmother, could be anywhere in this forest, this deep green wilderness of soaring trees and endless gloom and damp, moldering leaves underfoot. Anywhere at all, and it stretched away from her in all directions larger than any kingdom.

He'd escaped, Falcon curse him, and she knew of no way to find him. After all, he was a priest of the Forestmother, and he was deep in the greatest for-

Wait. That was it. That, or nothing…

Jaklar himself had told her to always pray to the goddess in the forest and in her own bare skin-except for the little bit of it she covered with a mix of a little of her blood, some drops of dew or water from a forest pool, the same amount of tree-sap, and a pinch of forest earth.

Well, so she would. Find the sap and the water, bring it right here to this rock, strip, and kneel here to pray.

She would pray to the Forestmother to deliver Cauldreth Jaklar into her hands, so she could slay him for killing her father and betraying the House of Hammerhand-for that serpent must long have been slyly scheming to weaken Hammerhold and deliver its rule into his hands…

Amteira laid down her sword and reached for the first and easiest buckles of her armor.

"Do this," she told the air around her fiercely, "and I'll believe in you and serve you more fervently than he has ever done!"

Her words seemed to echo away across vast distances, in a sudden, deep silence.

All around her, the forest seemed to be listening.

The Executive Vice President of Holdoncorp flung himself desperately down and sideways, reacting faster to a situation than he'd done for some time.

However, he kept his life at that moment not because of that shrewd strategy, but only because Rusty Carroll-who'd just ducked under the hard-swung blade of the third Dark Helm, and sprinted through the closing Inner Sanctum door-delivered a hearty kick to the backside of the Dark Helm seeking to decapitate Quillroque, as he passed.

In Rusty's wake, all of the Dark Helms leaped after him, the fallen vice president forgotten. They were now intent only on getting through that door before it could be closed in their faces.

The security chief had already ducked past the other two vice presidents, but the Dark Helms dodged no foe. Viciously they hacked aside the large and florid form of Vice President Hollinshed-who was already toppling, arms windmilling wildly, over the fallen form of the Vice President Legal. Yet that obstacle, and their own collisions with each other as they converged on the diminishing opening at the open end of the door, delayed them long enough that only one managed to thrust his sword past the door-edge to keep it open.

And that was the man Rusty Carroll promptly emptied the roaring contents of a handy fire extinguisher up under the helm of.

The Dark Helm convulsed and roared, trying to claw off his helm as his sword fell clattering to the floor-and Rusty launched a roundhouse kick to the man's throat that slammed him into the other two Dark Helms beside him.

Then, stepping on the fallen sword and kicking it back behind him into the Inner Sanctum, Rusty dragged the door closed, threw its heavy bolt-and lunged at the nearest fire alarm. The firefighters would probably end up butchered as ruthlessly as Mase's and Sam's men, but cops would come with them, and-

"Carroll," the President of Holdoncorp snapped, from where he stood frowning in the door to his office, golf putter in hand, "kindly enlighten all of us as to what's going on."

Rusty scooped up the sword, hefted it in his hand, and glanced from it up at the supreme boss. The look on his face made many of the white-faced secretaries standing at the doors of the various offices of the exalted flinch back from him. He brandished the sword.

"See this, sir? It's real, right? Well, there are six very real Dark Helms on the other side of that door, right now. They've killed a lot of our people."

"You're joking, surely-where are you going?"

Rusty burst past the President, heading for the back stairs as fast as he could run. "Back to my post, in Security. You might want to come with me, all of you who want to stay alive."

The President sputtered his utter disbelief. "This-this sounds like a bad movie!"

"Or one of our games," Rusty couldn't keep himself from replying. However, he muttered those words at the full run, and the metal-shod stiletto heels of dozens of secretaries sprinting frantically after him made quite a din. It was possible, just this once, that the all-knowing, all-hearing President of Holdoncorp hadn't heard.

Rusty couldn't do anything about the "all-suspecting" part of the President's character. Not without letting the ready arm and sharp sword of a Dark Helm reach the man.

It was a tempting thought, but…

Good security men, he reminded himself more than once before he reached the stairs, rise above temptation.

As FLEET AS any frightened rabbit, Iskarra dwindled into the night, bounding along the dark and deserted lanes of Harlhoh. "Run!" she called back over her shoulder.

"That's all we ever do, it seems," Garfist grumbled mournfully in reply, as he turned, lowered his head, and burst into a sprint that started to close the gap between them rapidly.

He doubted that whatever the emerging-from-the-earth beast of Malraun back there was, it would have expected him to able to run this fast.

But then, he doubted that it cared. It might be nigh-mindless, or might be as cunning as a wolf, but the wizard's orders would have its wits in an iron-hard, unbreakable grip. It would probably come after them, never tiring, for as long as it could. Which might well be forever.

"So we're doomed," he told himself aloud, overtaking Isk steadily. "Again."

That last growled word seemed more a wry jest than a comforting reminder of all the times he and Isk had managed to escape grim fates in the past.

Just ahead, Iskarra spat a brief, startled shriek into the night-and was plucked up off her feet into the sky. Garfist stared at her, and found himself gazing into the grinning face of one of the Aumrarr they'd last seen in Ironthorn, heading for the foregate of Lyraunt Castle.

The beautiful one, Dauntra. Then she'd stopped looking at him over her shoulder to turn and hurl herself into flapping hard, now, lifting Isk up into the sky.

"Come back, Falcon take ye!" he roared, shaking and stumbling as his lungs told him that they'd needed that wind to keep running, not to shout at sleeping Harlhoh. "Come-"

"Would you mind being quiet?" a rapidly-approaching voice snapped in his ear, an instant before two strong hands took him under the armpits and snatched his staggering feet off the ground. "Some folk hereabouts will have bows and some skill at using them, look you! And you're rather a large target!"

Garfist quelled his shouting in mid-word, and clawed at his wits to try to remember the name of the Aumrarr now beating her wings hard to get him up and over the low and swaybacked roof of a shed.

"Uh… Juskra?"

"The same," that voice said from above him, sounding pleased. "At your service. At least until we can get you out of this hold.

Forgive me, but you're too heavy for me to carry all the way back to Ironthorn."

"I'm not sure I want to go back to Ironthorn," Garfist growled.

"Good, because we have other plans for you," the winged woman replied sweetly, as they soared up over the rooftops of Harlhoh.

Gar watched the other Aumrarr gather Iskarra in her arms so they were flying face to face. They were obviously chattering busily, but he couldn't hear more than the occasional murmur of their voices.

"Plans for us, hey? I'm not sure I like the sounds of that!"

"Well," Juskra said calmly, "we could abandon them-and just drop you, instead."

Garfist spat out several very filthy expressions before he grunted, "Ye win. Again, by the Falcon. How do ye Aumrarr do it?"

"Unlike many overclever thieves and vagabonds who end up having to flee the Stormar ports in a frantic rush just to cling to their lives, we Aumrarr tend to think about what we should do before we rush about doing foolish deeds. Most of the time," came the tart reply.

Garfist Gulkoun could think of several very cutting replies to that, but the air was cool and the ground looked very far away, now. Silence seemed wiser.

Cold, smooth, and very hard. Yes, undoubtedly. His cheek had never lied to him before.

About then the wizard Narmarkoun realized that he'd been feeling the floor against his face, and vaguely noticing the chill rigidity of its surface, for quite some time.

He'd been drifting slowly back to wakefulness, he supposed. Narmarkoun worked his mouth open and shut-his tongue felt dry and dusty-blinked a few times, then found where his hands were, spread them out on that same floor, and cautiously heaved himself up. A little.

Yes. As before, he was alone, lying on the floor of a vast chamber in Yintaerghast, fortress of the dead archmage Lorontar.

Reassured-and yet not-he let himself sag down to the floor again, and examined how he felt.

Beyond "terrible," that was. He was still weak, and sleepy… well, no, not really sleepy so much as mind-weary.

Yes. That was it. He was too weak and mind-weary to cast the mind-controlling spell again anytime soon.

He was also hungry-his stomach promptly growled in loud confirmation, like a competent courtier smoothly anticipating his lord's signal-and appallingly thirsty.

The foremost Doom of Falconfar made a sour face, heaved himself to his feet, and stumbled a little dazedly out of the room, to wander once more through cold and empty Yintaerghast.

He couldn't stay here forever. He'd starve, if thirst didn't kill him first. Nor was the location of Lorontar's great castle a particular secret. Only lack of daring-all right, tell truth and call it "fear"-kept wizards and many a home-poor warrior away from its halls; he might not be alone here forever. If Malraun learned of his whereabouts, that sly little Doom would be inside Yintaerghast just as swiftly as he dared, to see what Narmarkoun was up to-and stop it.

Narmarkoun passed through an archway he'd stepped through twoscore times before, and came to a sudden stop. What was happening to him?

He stared down at his blue flesh, at the scales that began at his wrists and grew heavier as his gaze moved up his arms. When he sat in Closecandle or any of his other citadels and hideholds, surrounded by his playpretties and their cold caresses, he felt so strong, so confident.

Here, though, among the still and bare bones of the might of the greatest mage Falconfar had ever known, he felt… weak. Soft, vulnerable, foolish; unaware of approaching doom, watched closely yet unable to feel that scrutiny, somehow… as unwitting as a coddled child.

He had reached out to Earth, had done more than Arlaghaun or Malraun had ever managed, and was a step ahead of the latter with the former fallen and gone-and still he felt this way!

It was this place, it must be. The cold weight of dead Lorontar's enchantments, riding him…

He had to get out.

Yet he'd failed to break through the shielding-spells before. Not so very long ago. When he'd been much less tired, and had still had some magic left.

Which meant he had to search this place once more. Old tales told of Lorontar's fabulous wealth, hidden everywhere behind the stones of Yintaerghast. The walls of the black castle, the legends insisted, hid chambers of luxury, magical doorways to far places, and tunnels that led far out into the forest around the castle.

So far, he'd seen none of these things. The tales were old, and most of them were rooted in things said by wizards who'd worked with Lorontar. They almost certainly held embellishments, yes, but they couldn't all be lies.

There was one tale he'd deliberately been ignoring all along, pushing to the back of his mind since he'd arrived here. The old, old story that insisted once you were inside Yintaerghast, you never got out. Unless you happened to find some of Lorontar's magic, and used it to win free of Yintaerghast.

So it was time to go looking. Seeking however the cleverest wizard in all Falconfar would hide things from his apprentices, enemy wizards, and intruding thickskulls who came marauding with swords in their hands and theft and butchery in their hearts.

Wall-sconces that turned, as levers-if there'd been any wall-sconces. Steps in stairs that could be lifted up or pushed down or slid side-wise. Stones in the side-walls of archways, that moved to let someone into a passage hidden in the thickness of the wall…

Narmarkoun looked around him, swallowed a groan, and started tapping, tugging, and prodding.

Falcon defecate, but Yintaerghast held a lot of archways.

As Rusty sprinted up the stairs, more than a few frightened Holdoncorp managerial secretaries at his heels, the security loudspeakers spaced up along the wall above crackled into life.

"Just… just what do you want?" Executive Vice President Quillroque's voice was so distorted by gurgling terror that it was almost unrecognizable.

"We serve a master who seeks sole control over the Great Transforming Magics some of you here have been wielding over Falconfar," came the flat reply, echoing coldly out of a colder metal helm.

"You what?"

"Those in this fortress who bind things in Falconfar, making matters befall by their commands, must be eliminated."

"Killed?"

"Ah, that word at least you grasp! Deliver them to us!"

"Them?"

"Those who control Falconfar. You are a lordling here, are you not? They serve you?"

"Uh, ah, they serve Holdoncorp, and I–I can give them orders, yes, but-"

"Then order them to assemble here before us. Or die."

"But-but-you'll kill them!"

"You comprehend at last. My words have been clear enough, so your wits must be weak indeed, lordling. Go give your orders, or we'll demonstrate our impatience. The smallest fingers on both your hands, first. Then your nose. Then ears and more fingers."

"You're mad! And if I refuse?"

"We kill everyone."

It only took twelve archways before Narmarkoun found it. His hunch had been right: try down low. No passage in the thickness of the wall, only a loose stone that could be slid out to reveal a massive metal lever, mottled black with age despite the enchantments he could feel around it. It was upright.

He pulled it down without hesitation. A grinding sound ensued, as the floor in the next archway, across the room, dropped down out of sight. He looked cautiously in all directions before walking to the hole to look down, expecting hurled missiles, unleashed guardians, or something.

Nothing but heavy silence. With a shrug he stopped a good two paces away and peered at the hole. Stone walls, and a faint, flickering glow from below.

He took a step closer, and peered again. A small stone chamber, under the floor of the one he'd been walking in, the glow coming from something small and round floating in midair at the center of it. No other doors, no way in but a crawl-hole in one side of the shaft, revealed when the floor had dropped. Wedge something between the dropped stone and top edge of that hole to keep it all open, so he couldn't get entombed in that little room if it rose again?

Wise idea, but wedge what?

He could think of nothing suitable he could lay hand on. What was really needed was a stout timber long enough to stand as tall as his chest.

Back in Closecandle, he could snap his fingers and summon such a thing, and with two waves of his hands slice it to the right length if it was too long. Here in empty Yintaerghast…

Narmarkoun stared down into the opening, shrugged again, and dropped down into the shaft. The stones under his feet felt as firm and unmoving as solid rock. He hesitated for a moment, in case the weight of his landing triggered some magic or other to raise them again, but they moved not at all.

After a few breaths of waiting, he turned and ducked down into the small room, where he found no doors, no lurking menaces… nothing but magic, radiating so strongly around the floating object that it beat at him like storm-driven ocean waves. He winced, ducked his head, and shuffled closer, fighting the soundlessly throbbing might that seemed strong enough to drive him to his knees. If all this power was something he could take and use…

He could see what it was at last, close enough now to stare past its wildly flaring glows. It was like trying to see one twig in the heart of a roaring fire, but… he was looking at no ring or dagger or crown, but-a brain!

The brain of a man-or, no, the semblance of one.

Narmarkoun frowned at it, fighting the surging, pounding magical flows to stand motionless so he could peer intently.

He'd seen brains often enough when opening up corpses with his spells, back when he'd been working on mastering undeath. This was no glistening, dripping real brain, floating at about the height of his chest in the heart of this little room. It was an image born of magic, a seeming spun by spells surging into and through a real brain that was somewhere else.

He could see through it, watch the ruby and crimson hues of powerful spells at work as they flooded through it, ebbed, and seethed into it again. The image had the shape of a man's brain on all sides, and the forces shuddering and slamming through it were almost sickening to feel. Not only did he not want to thrust his hand into those powerful magics, he doubted there was anything solid there for him to touch.

Yet he had to know what this brain-or these spells, working on the real brain-did. This might be how Lorontar had controlled Yintaerghast, and if that was so, this might well be his only way to affect its shieldings long enough to get out.

That these were Lorontar's magics, he didn't doubt for a moment. This was nothing he could begin to craft, let alone cast, so it was no work of Malraun's. And these enchantments, for all their briskly flowing energy, were old. They smelled old, they felt old. Old, despite blazing with more power than he'd ever hurled in a single magic…

So reaching out into that with his hands would be folly. Almost certainly fatal folly.

If Lorontar lived yet, reaching out with his mind would likely be just as foolish.

This looked very much like the means by which Lorontar had long and forcibly controlled someone's mind-a mind that still existed, even if the Lord Archwizard was long dead. There were, of course, many who whispered that he lived on still, somehow…

Narmarkoun sighed. This might be his only way out, so he had to know whose mind was linked to these enchantments, who was still controlling them-if anyone-and how to take control of these surging magics.

Or he would probably die in Yintaerghast, alone and despairing, helpless to depart.

Narmarkoun drew in a deep breath, uttered a curse with slow, precise diction, then slowly and reluctantly reached out with his mind, in an inward drifting so slow and cautious that he should be able to snatch his probe back in a trice if-

The first trice told him that there was no "should" in these racing, surging magics.

The second trice told him that the mind that was elsewhere was very much alive, ablaze with long-felt rage and fighting savagely against these magics controlling it.

The third trice was when their minds met, his and the elsewhere one, and that rage blasted into his mind like a bolt of fire.

It was the rage of "Taeauna," he learned, in the fourth trice, just before he, and all Falconfar around him, was hurled away into shrieking oblivion.

On a grand bed in a dark room, a man snored faintly.

Someone was lying under him, spreadeagled and bound that way. She was as bare as the sleeping man, but bruised and bleeding where he was not.

And her eyes had just snapped open, literally flaming in fury.

Taeauna knew just where she was and what Malraun had done to her. She also knew the blundering of his rival Doom had just freed her from Malraun's control.

Worst of all, she knew again who really held her in thrall.

Lorontar. A greater wizard than both of the Dooms working together, who had just reached out from where he'd been hiding in the depths of her mind for so long, to take over that shattered control so smoothly that Malraun the Matchless had not even paused in his snorings. Let alone noticed, even as a shadow in his ongoing happy dreams of forcing himself upon her, that anything was amiss.

She was appalled at how long ago she'd first fallen under his-by the Falcon, how subtle! — sway. Using her as his tool to influence her fellow Aumrarr, to reach out to a Shaper on Earth named Rod Everlar…

Her appalled anger awakened quiet amusement in the mind now gripping hers.

Lorontar smiled at her, in the depths of her mind. As he held her mind in a grasp so strong she could do nothing but his will. Right now he was keeping her still and silent, and hooding the fires of her anger, gently returning her eyes to their usual appearance.

Seething inwardly, Taeauna of the Aumrarr lay silent and helpless under the exhausted and obliviously snoring Malraun.

Rod had spent sleepless nights before, tossing and turning, but he'd never realized just how uncomfortable a bed could be. The cloaks, tunics, and breeches he'd heaped on the floor slid and shifted under him, repeatedly dumping his head low while his feet stayed high. Buttons, pulls, and sewn-on carry-rings galore jabbed at him bruisingly, and the gowns he'd pulled over himself demonstrated a distressing tendency to wait until he was just drifting off to sleep-and then slide, all in a heavy heap, down to bury his face and leave him fighting for air.

It was almost as if Malraun or some impish apprentice left behind by the Matchless Doom was laughing at him and casting one taunting, toying little magic after another to keep him awake, even now that a vast weariness had risen to conquer him.

He could not get to sleep, could not…

What was that?

There had been a stirring sound, or sounds, in the other room. About where the bed was.

Oh, bloody hell-another Telrorna? Did the bed magically spit undead skeletons out, or was there some sort of hidden trapdoor underneath it, that they could come up through?

He grunted his weary way to his feet, and strode unsteadily to the door, to see what was making those faint noises. Before it came for him.

Then he stopped, stared, and chuckled.

Some magic of Malraun's had failed, or faded away-and what did that mean? — and all the cloth and leather on and about the four-poster bed were melting away to nothingness, leaving only a bare bed and a bare and hairy man on it, waking bleary and bewildered.

Onthras blinked at Rod, extended a sleepy hand to point and growl, "L-lord Archwizard? Weren't you s'posed to be-"

Just then a wave of half-seen magic rolled through the air and snatched him away, leaving the bed empty.

And taking away Rod's mirth, too.

Was Onthras dead? Or snatched away somewhere else? Or had he been some sort of illusion all along?

Rod doubted it. Yet there was no way, by the Falcon, that he was going anywhere near that bed now.

It was back to his uncomfortable heaps of clothes, and trying hard to sleep, to dream of destroying this tower behind Malraun's back.

Or so he hoped. Rod collapsed back onto the heaped garments with a sour sigh. Could anything be managed behind Malraun's back?