Arch Wizard

Chapter Six

My, but the Gold Duke loved guards. Guards, guards, and more glittering guards, all of them tall and gleaming in their armor… and all of them bored enough to be really dangerous.

They strolled to and fro, sighing and preening, whirling often to send hawk-like glares down this or that dark passage. They were spoiling for something-anything-to happen, so they could draw their swords to shout and run and hack.

Sweating so hard that it dripped off his nose almost in a steady stream, Alander Thaetult drew back from the cellar-passage corner he'd been peering round to watch the latest selection of ducal guards, and whispered another shadowcloak spell incantation. The air around him dimmed still more, his magic's dark tendrils drifting and swirling.

He shrugged. So what if he looked like a traveling cloud of smoke? He had no intention of ending up as the "interesting anything" these murderous sword-swingers were seeking.

Malraun's orders had been clear. Reach the Tauren end of the spell-gate as stealthily as possible-no matter how things went, Malraun wanted the Gold Duke to think a lone and perhaps deranged person had passed through his gate, not an invading army or any other sort of threat he had to muster a stronger standing guard to prepare for-traverse it to Burnt Bones if possible, and use the new farspeaking spell Malraun had given him to report everything that happened to the listening Doom.

Gnawing pestilence take him.

Alander didn't want to serve a Doom.

Alander didn't want to skulk through guard-infested cellars.

Heaving himself up out of his chair to answer the bell-pull of "Thaetult's Useful Magics" was adventure enough for him. He had no dreams of greatness, or even of lording it over an apprentice or two. He was a hedge-wizard, and proud of it. A cowardly and placid master of a paltry handful of spells, quite content to make a modest living casting this and mending that mold-banishing for a coin or two, and occasionally-very, very occasionally-spying on this wayward husband or seeking that stolen heirloom for larger handfuls of coins. No "adventures," no travels to far places and skulkings anywhere that had lots of armored men eager to use their swords…

Yes, there'd been shadows drifting through his contentedness. Alander had known his own boredom, vague dissatisfaction with his lot-but when the sleek, darkly handsome little man had appeared so suddenly in the cluttered forechamber that served him as office, spellcasting sanctum, and untidy storage room, and uttered that softly-spoken, calm ultimatum, Alander had discovered that he wanted very much to cling to his comfortable little life.

Which was why he was here in a dank, dark passage deep in the cellars of the Gold Duke's fortress-mansion in Tauren, half a dozen clumsy, spell-hushed murders in his wake, trying to get to the Gold Duke's most closely-guarded secret.

The Yuskel family crypt held not just stone coffins, moldering bones, dust, and forgetfulness… it held the many gold coins and gems popular lore whispered so excitedly of, and guards to watch over them.

It also held the real reason so many armed men were wasting their lives away yawning and sighing down here: the spell-gate.

It was here, all right. He could feel its silent, patient pulse in his blood now, a slow and rhythmic thudding that rolled through him steadily, ever stronger… it was very near.

He fancied he could see its flickering, past this latest group of bored sentinels, a ribbon of gold that split the darkness for an instant here, and an instant there, in time with the deep throbbing that was singing inside him.

Keeping him excited with its song, thrilled despite himself. Alander hated stealth and deceit almost as much as he loathed violence and doing murder. Yet six guards were dead this day by his hand-soon to be discovered and a hue and cry raised at his back, making retreat nigh-impossible. There were eight more guards around that corner, and unless some miracle or other took them away or at a stroke dropped them into blindness or slumber, he was going to have to kill them to get to the spell-gate, and have any hope of escaping the fate Malraun had so calmly promised him.

An especially large droplet of sweat plummeted from his nose and found splattered oblivion on the stones in front of his boots with a "splat" loud enough to echo.

"What's that?" a guard snarled from around the corner, and Alander drew in a shudderingly deep breath, and-suddenly found himself very calm. This was it.

Killing time.

He whispered the brief incantation as if it was a prayer, swept his hand up, and let go of the knife.

Then he stepped smoothly back along the wall, retreating from the corner. He'd managed two steps when the first guard sprang around the corner, sword up-and the little silver fang of his knife, that had been hanging motionless in the air just where he'd released it, sprang forward every bit as energetically as the guard, leaping at the man's face in a gleaming blur.

The guards all wore open-faced helms, with gorget-plates dangling from the outthrust chinguards of those helms rather than strapped to the throats they were intended to guard. That fashion choice would earn them swift doom.

The first guard was gargling out his life already, staggering and clutching a throat sliced too deeply for him to utter any warning cry. The knife had flown on, darting around the corner.

Silver no longer, but dark with wet blood, it sought more.

Alander drew his second knife, uttered the same incantation, reached around the corner, and let go of the weapon. It almost bruised his fingertips in its eagerness to leap away.

Which meant the guards he couldn't see must be rushing toward him right now, as soundlessly as a hurrying mouse, and almost-Around the corner lurched a struggling, gargling warrior, clutching his slit throat and choking on his own blood as if he was racing to find death before the first guard could. Alander watched him trip over the first guard's feebly-thrashing body, stumble, and fall headlong to the stones, arms flying wide as he bounced, in a great spray of gushing blood.

Alander swallowed, shaking his head to try to avoid seeing and hearing more. There were sounds of dying from around the corner, too, and he'd tarried long enough-sooner or later, this much death would be noticed, and someone would cry the alarm.

Drawing in a deep breath, Alander Thaetult threw his arms wide to make his shadowcloaks billow up in front of him, ducked his head as if running into coldly lashing rain, and sprinted around the corner.

Two guards were staggering around swinging swords frantically, like men trying to beat away wasps, tripping and stumbling over six-no, seven-fallen comrades, armored bodies sprawled amid dark and spreading pools of blood. The throbbing, waiting darkness he sought was straight across the room, short-lived rents of gold beckoning to Alander.

Who ran as fast as he pantingly could, knowing many warriors believed killing a wizard would end his spell in an instant.

He was more than halfway to the spell-gate when one of the guards saw him, roared out a wordless stream of fury, and stumbled to intercept him. Alander saw the flying dagger swoop, spiral around the man's frantic parry, and dart home. Metal clanged, the warrior slapped the knife aside and twisted in the other direction, lost his balance, and-

Alander was past, even before a despairing cry behind him ended in an ugly wet gurgling. Past and not slowing in the slightest, boots pounding on the crypt flagstones, running right into-Sudden golden radiance, all around, and a deep thudding like a heartbeat, that came from everywhere. His racing feet came down on soundless nothing, there was nothing around him but swirling and streaming golden light, banishing his shadowcloaks in a sighing instant.

He breathed in golden air, and his vision blurred. The sounds of his own panting suddenly boomed in his ears, and a horrible stirring arose inside him, as if his innards were rearranging themselves as he ran.

Golden nothingness gave way to wan sunlight, and trees. He stumbled, his legs seeming heavier and somehow longer. Even before all the golden hue was gone and he saw men with crossbows stepping forward out of a deep green forest to loose war-quarrels at him, Alander Thaetult knew something had gone horribly, sickeningly wrong.

"There!" the outlaw chief barked, pointing. "It comes! Let it not live to reach us!"

His men were hastening forward, all around, just enough to let their quarrels fly free. Crossbows cracked, one after another-and the running, wild-eyed thing that was half-monster and half-man staggered as it grew a thick new hide of quivering crossbow bolts. Then fell on its face, shuddered, and died.

That face had two large but mismatched eyes, and a shapeless, flaccid snout that flopped aside and left bare gums and teeth, above hands that had slumped into tentacles, fingers grown impossibly long and grotesque. Its head was the shape of a bird's head, and its legs…

Men cried out in disgust and fear as they beheld it.

"Well done!" their leader cried. "We've kept this horror from our midst! No one would've been safe with such as this lurking in the forest!"

He smiled, then, the same soft and satisfied smile that was on the face of the blue-skinned Doom who was looking out at Burnt Bones through his eyes.

Narmarkoun was well pleased.

"So the gate twists those-wizards, at least-who step through it, forcibly changing them," he murmured aloud, walking the outlaw leader away from those near enough to hear his dupe echo his words. "And my bowmen can handle all others. Malraun won't get in this way."

In another castle, another Doom sat up naked in a great bed and smiled a sleek, darkly handsome smile of his own.

"So," Malraun purred aloud, "the ruse works, and the lurker reveals himself. Narmarkoun is watching over this route. Ironthorn it must be. And soon."

"Soon," Taeauna echoed, beside him. Her long-fingered hands never stopped hungrily caressing all she could reach of his bare body.

"Intruders!" the Aumrarr spat as she stalked toward them, hefting her sword and dagger. Blood welled out and down her left side in a quickening stream, spattering the floor in her wake, but her eyes burned with more rage than pain. "How dare you enter into Stormcrag! You, you-how many more of you are there?"

"There's only one of me, Lady of the Aumrarr," Garfist told her dryly, retreating toward the door. A quick glance told him that Iskarra was down off her table and backing away down the far wall of the room. "None have complained of that, mind ye, thus far in my life, but I've heard ye winged women have strange tastes, an'-"

With a snarl the Aumrarr charged him, swinging her sword viciously but holding her dagger warily ready behind it. No recklessness nor clumsy fumblings with steel here; she knew how to wield a blade.

So did Garfist, and he ducked easily away from her slash, keeping his balance with casual ease as he retreated another two swift steps, correctly anticipating her follow-up lunge and backslash.

Without a word Iskarra plucked up one of the chairs at the next table she came to, and hurled it, high and hard.

Tremble, woman with wings, she thought angrily. You face Iskarra, Hurler of Chairs. Whom you'll likely slay, in a breath or three, Dooms take you.

Rod reached the trees, and more or less level ground, at the same time. Darting three swift strides into the shade, he spun around.

The two guards were trudging patiently after him, keeping well apart, and holding their swords up in front of them. The looks they were giving him were a lot worse than unfriendly.

Rod swallowed. "Sir," he said to the older and closer guard, "please do not misunderstand me. I do not want to fight you, nor am I any threat to Ironthorn. I have given my warning, and wish to pass on my way in peace, to see Lord Hammerhand. Ground your sword, and let us talk."

The warrior gave him a look that was half-glare and half-sneer, said not a word, and kept on coming. Both of the guards had now reached the trees, and more or less level ground.

Rod retreated a few steps more, backing away until he fetched up against the unyielding trunk of a large tree. He looked at the younger guard. "Urlaun? How does anyone get to see Lord Hammerhand, if you kill anyone you see coming out of the forest? Or are you two just robbers and murderers, and don't serve him at all?"

"We serve Lord Hammerhand," Urlaun snapped. Yet said not a word more, as the older guard shot him a darkly furious look.

Rod looked quickly behind himself, in search of a really large tree he could stand against like a wall. He hadn't remembered any such, but-

"Halt, outlander!" The older guard wagged his leveled sword at Rod as if it was a disapproving finger. "Who are you, and how do you know Lord Hammerhand? Tell us-and reach for no weapon, or Lord's friend or not, you'll taste steel before you can do aught else!"

Rod halted, managed a smile he hoped didn't look too sickly, and spread his empty hands wide. "I… Burrim Hammerhand is still Lord of Ironthorn, right?"

"He is," the older guard snapped. "And I am Briszyk, yon blade is Urlaun, and you are who, I ask again, outlander?"

Rod drew in a deep breath, and replied unhappily, "My name is Rod Everlar. If you have heard of me at all, you probably know me as the Lord Archwizard of Falconfar."

Their eyes blazed, and they lifted their swords grimly, just the way he'd expected.

Rod sighed, and wondered how it would feel to be sliced apart.

Dyune of the Aumrarr turned to see what was coming at her-a wooden chair that fell far short, bouncing and sliding harmlessly-and beheld a second chair, and a third, all slid across the room with all the force the skeletally-thin woman could muster.

Not at her, but to where the shaggy man she was pursuing could easily sidestep and snatch them up.

He hurled the first at her high and hard, and it came crashing down on her swordarm, head, and shoulder from above, bruisingly.

Dyune snarled out her rage and flung it aside, launching herself into a fresh charge that brought her racing, face-first, right into the second chair.

That stung, dazing her and forcing brief weeping, and she hacked empty air blindly and wildly to keep him at bay as she hastily blinked away the tears that were blurring her vision.

Something large and dark came swinging at her, and she got her sword up only just in time. The blade bit deep into the wooden seat of this latest chair, and almost got snatched out of her hand as the man wielding it twisted it away.

"Keep 'em coming, Isk!" he bellowed. "I think she likes 'em!"

Off-balance and straining to keep hold of her sword, Dyune couldn't stop the response: a chair that came hurtling at her from behind, crashing down around her head and dashing her to the floor.

She lost her dagger somewhere in that bouncing, breath-snatching landing, and ended up rolling clumsily, trying grimly to keep hold of her sword as the shaggy man kept planting himself above her and hammering her with his chair, beating her about the head and shoulders, and kicking at her sword to try to knock it out of her hand whenever he dared risk his balance.

In the end, she let it go and instead whirled toward him, ramming herself against his legs. He toppled over her with a great crash, like a stone wall falling over, and she rose groggily to retrieve her sword and put it through him.

Only to hear the thin woman shrieking her way nearer. Fast.

The Aumrarr fought her clambering way over the fallen man-who kicked and punched her with a fine disregard for her sex-to try to pluck up her sword before that deafening banshee reached her. Thinbritches would have a knife or three, she was sure, and-

The man's boots caught her ankle in a scissors-grip. She toppled helplessly, slamming to the floor with force enough to drive all her wind out of her, leaving her unable to even sob in pain as her slashed left side erupted in fresh fire.

So she writhed in silent, gasping agony, insistently forcing herself to roll toward her fallen sword, and expecting the cold kiss of a dagger across her throat at any instant.

Thuddings shaking the floor right behind Dyune told her the man was rolling, too, keeping close behind her.

One of his hands-as large and hairy as a bear's paw-clawed at her hip, slowing and twisting her as she strained her way onward. She wasn't more than the length of her hand away from the hilt of her blade, now-

Thinbritches fell on her, hard, screaming and stabbing wildly, rolling over her and off. The thin woman must have slipped in her sprinting haste, or tripped over the man, to tumble so rather than pouncing, and-

Dyune's fingers closed on her sword.

Spinning around on her hip, she swung it in a great slash, slicing deep into the man crawling behind her, whose great body took it solidly. He grunted, sounding more surprised than pained as his blood sprayed.

The Aumrarr kept right on spinning, cutting thin air-and then the ribs of the lunging, energetically-clambering woman, who was already clawing for her with that dagger.

Thinbritches made a sound that was half-sob and half-shriek, and collapsed, more blood spurting.

The sword had slid along the woman's ribs, glancing off rather than plunging in, so she might not be hurt all that badly, but Dyune didn't plan to give these two intruders time to wallow in pain.

They were going to die, and die now, before she collapsed and ran out of time to reach the healing.

Clenching her teeth against the agony tearing at her left side, she struggled to rise from her hip to her knees, to crawl to… to…

She fell back, heavily, a flood of tears blinding her. The fire all down her left side was spreading, and she was melting into it…

She heard her sword clatter on the floor; it sounded as if it was far away, though it must be right beside her. She could no longer feel her fingers, and was somehow on her back and staring up at the ceiling. There was a groaning, that might have been rising from inside her, except that it was deep and rough, and snarled out curses that were new to her.

She turned her head, but instead of her chair-tormentor, saw Thinbritches, lying gasping on the floor beside her in the wet center of a slowly-spreading pool of blood. The woman was staring back at Dyune with a doomed look, like a caged boar that knows its time on the spit will come soon.

That deep groaning came again, and Dyune turned her head the other way.

There was the shaggy man, sprawled on his back on her other flank, in the heart of his pool of spreading blood.

So behold, she thought wryly, the Fallen Three. Our battle done, as we lie together, slowly dying from our wounds, too wounded to fight on. This isn't how things went, in all the ballads.