The Flying Sorcerers

It was time to introduce our magicians.

I was extraordinarily pleased with myself.

Lant the Speaker! Speaker of one of the finest villages in the world! Speaker for Shoogar the magnificent! I beamed proudly.

Shoogar was an impressive figure in a purple and red robe, one that changed colors as the suns changed their positions in the sky. On a string around his neck he wore the quartz lenses of the mad magician, a trophy of the kill and a token of proof that he was who he claimed to be.

In a high singsong chant he told them of his skill, how he had defeated his most dangerous enemy, Purple, the mad magician who had claimed to come from the other side of the sky. There was a stir among the listeners at that Evidently, Shoogar’s fame had preceded us. He told of how he had flattened the mountain, Critic’s Tooth, how he had called down the thunder and laid waste to the land for miles around. As proof, he held high Purple’s quartz lenses. He embroidered the story hardly at all — the truth was impressive enough.

When he finished, I detailed how we had had to flee our former village because of the side effects of Shoogar’s spell; how we had been travelling south for nearly a quarter of a cycle. Our journey had begun at the blue conjunction, and stretched across hundreds of miles and the floor of the empty ocean. The suns had moved farther and farther apart in the sky as we traveled, Red Virn and Blue Ouells stretching the days longer and longer between them until the darks shrank away to nothing.

I told how, at great danger and loss of life, we had crossed the great desert mudflats. As the darkness time approached the seas had returned to this land, and the latter part of our journey had been a pell-mell flight from the ever-encroaching waters. Many were the times we awakened to find the ocean lapping at our tents.

I did not mention that that was how we had lost Thran, drowned in his tent one night. It would not do for them to know that I was so new to Speaking for my village.

Now Virn and Ouells were living at opposite ends of the sky, and the darkless time was upon us. As the oceans crept to their height, I related how we had arrived here at the base of the southern mountains, seeking refuge and a place to build a new village.

Gortik smiled, “Your stories are most impressive, especially that of your magician. If his magic is merely half as good as his story telling, then he is a challenge to the Gods themselves.”

“Is your magician as good?” I said calmly.

“Better,” said Gortik, “his spells don’t produce side effects that destroy villages.”

“Our magician’s spells,” I countered, “are so strong that even after the side effects are minimized they lay waste the countryside.”

“How fortunate for you that he minimizes his side effects.” Gortik’s smile mocked us. It was obvious he did not believe in Shoogar’s power. I hoped it would not be necessary to demonstrate it to him.

“Our magician,” Gortik continued, “came to us quite suddenly. He killed the old one with a single blow that wakened the whole countryside, but damaged nothing — except, of course, the old magician.”

The shrubbery rustled behind Gortik as if someone were hurriedly being moved into place. Gortik stepped aside then, saying, “Behold! Our magician is Purple, the Unkillable!”

I thought my heart would stop.

Shoogar stood trembling and speechless, unable to move. The man who had stepped forward was indeed Purple, the living breathing man whom Shoogar had killed — had thought he had killed — in fiery combat at the last conjunction.

Around Shoogar the others of our village shrank away as if to escape Purple’s inevitable lightning strike.

I wanted to shrink within myself. I wanted to run. I wanted to die. Well, at least the latter wish would be granted — and soon.

Purple looked us over carefully. He wore his suit of sky blue — all of one piece, it fitted his bulk like a second skin. Several objects hung from the wide belt around his formidable waist. The hood was thrown back. His glance was squinty and unsure; his eyes were watery and wavered back and forth from one to the other of us. At last his searching gaze came to rest on — oh, Elcin, no! — on me.

He strode forward eagerly, grasping my shoulders and peering close into my face, “Lant! Is that you?” His words were oddly pronounced, but they came from his own mouth. With his speakerspell destroyed he had had to learn to talk like a man.

He released me before I could faint and looked around, “And Shoogar? Is Shoogar here?”

He caught sight of the shorter magician then; Shoogar was stiff and trembling. This was it — I braced myself. Let it at least be painless.

“Shoogar,” he said, stepping past me, hands outstretched. “Shoogar, there is something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

Shoogar uttered a single, inhuman shriek and leapt at his throat.

The two of them tumbled to the ground, the big magician and the small. Shoogar was making unholy grunting noises, Purple was choking for air.

It took nine of us to pry them apart. The youngest and strongest members of our council bore Shoogar kicking and screaming out of the clearing. His cries carried back to us through the woods until they were cut off by the sound of a splash. The river.

In a moment, a chastened, dripping Shoogar returned to us, flanked on one side by Jark the Shepherd and on the other by Wilville, my eldest son. He stood there glowering.

Meanwhile, Purple was brushing himself off. He was surrounded by solicitous and concerned advisors. They patted at his bulk like anxious women. Gortik was nonplussed. He looked at me and said, “It appears that our two magicians already know each other.”