The Medusa Plague

Chapter Four

Standing in the underground laboratory that had once been Belize's, Lyim continued to ponder the oracle's message. She'd said that Lyim's former master had the answer to curing the snake mutation. It was not a new thought. It wasn't idle curiosity that had prompted Belize to thrust his apprentice's arm into the portal that night on Stonecliff. The archmage had known full well the consequences of the action. He alone knew the exact cause of the mutation, so it was only logical Belize could have fathomed a cure, if he were alive.

The oracle told Lyim to look beyond the grave for his answer, to seek it from Belize's spirit. However, what she was suggesting was not usually in the realm of a wizard's power. Still, Lyim had never paid much heed to the distinctions between schools of magic. If ever a mage had broken the bounds, it was Belize. Lyim had once seen the master conjure a denizen of the Abyss- was Belize's spirit really so different from that?

The spellbooks and other texts not used at Stonecliff by the former Master of the Red Robes still lined the shelves in the underground laboratory. The Council of Three had reviewed them after Belize's execution, having burned those he'd used, but found nothing else related to Belize's attempt to reach the Lost Citadel. They had then turned their attention to removing the ghastly remains of Belize's gating experiments.

Lyim rolled up the left sleeve of his red robe and began pulling books down to the table. He held one open with his scaly right elbow and thumbed through the parchment pages with his left hand, looking for references to conjuring the dead.

The snake bobbed back and forth for a short time, eyeing the paraphernalia on the table. Then it suddenly lunged at a candlestick, knocking over the metal stand and the burning taper. Lyim snatched up the candle before it could scorch any of the potentially valuable papers spread before him. In the meantime, the snake's thrashing also knocked an empty glass beaker to the stone floor and scattered several quills. Lyim yanked the cursed arm back and held it well away from the disruption while he struggled one-handed to put everything back in its place.

It was tough, even after nearly six years, using his left hand for tasks. He still couldn't write legibly with it, so he avoided writing whenever possible, or used a minor cantrip to make notes. Eating was a one-handed embarrassment-food simply refused to stay on his fork. He had resorted to drinking most of his meals, since he could hold a mug well enough.

The real shame of it was, he rarely indulged in his favorite mug-holding event: partaking of ale at the many inns of Palanthas. His face, though thin and drawn, was still perfectly handsome. Women continued to follow him with their eyes and their bodies. Until they saw the snake. Their horrified stares as they drew back convinced him that even solitude was better than their disgust, or worse still, their pity.

Books, scrolls, parchments, it took Lyim days to sort through all that Belize had acquired or written. He lit a third thick beeswax candle in the windowless laboratory, letting his tired eyes linger on the soothing yellow flame. Was he grasping at straws by trying to conjure some flicker of Belize's essence? Was he just prolonging the moment when he would have to admit to himself that there was no cure for his hand? He had long ago decided that that day would be his last.

Lyim looked away from the candle, eyes burning from the sweet-smelling smoke. Wearily he pulled down one of the last books on the shelf, a smallish, homemade thing, bound together with a brittle leather lace. It looked more like a collection of vegetable recipes than a spellbook of any import. The words had worn off the cheap leather cover, but an intriguing, tooled illustration remained. The picture was crude, unlike the finely rendered designs Belize had done. It showed a skull inside two nested triangles, a symbol Lyim had never encountered elsewhere in any of Belize's writings.

The book crackled with age as Lyim opened it. The pages inside were apparently much older than the cover. The first page repeated the double triangle symbol, but also bore the book's title: Achnaskin's Guide to Summoning the Dead.

Excitement sparked to life in Lyim's chest. His left fingertips lingered upon the title while he willed himself to remain calm and focused. Only when his pulse had slowed did he allow himself to turn to the next page. At a glance the page had no illustrations and

looked black with crowded but carefully inked text, topped by a larger heading.

Tips before spellcasting

When speaking with the dead, the spellcaster would

be wise to remember the following unchangeable facts:

1. The dead respond best to simple questions, so phrase yours accordingly.

2. The dead tire and bore easily. Although they would seem to have nothing but time, their attention spans are extremely limited. Do not waste time with pointless questions.

3. The dead conjured from the Abyss (those of an evil disposition before their dissolution) are usually in great torment and may be difficult to comprehend.

4. Understandably, the disposition of most deceased creatures has been soured by death. Many are extremely bad tempered.

Lyim shrugged, thinking the advice only common sense. Still, he took it to heart before eagerly turning the page once more. There began the anticipated entry containing the incantation, under the large heading: The Spell to Summon the Dead. He began reading with an intensity he'd not felt in many years.

But before long, beads of perspiration joined the streaks that already flowed down Lyim's temples, pooling in the short whiskers above his lips. He read and reread the entry, pushing back the anxiousness that made it difficult to concentrate and really digest the words. The spell's magical patterns were in an unusually complicated order. Lyim could find no shortcut to memorizing them, no distinguishing marks or pauses to aid in his usual rote memorization. Hours or days could have passed while he studied the patterns. Five thick candles and a dusty stub found in a drawer had burned away before Lyim began to feel he understood and had memorized the spell.

Lyim looked up abruptly from the fragile book. A horrifying thought began to blossom behind his eyes. What if, after all this study, he hadn't the components to carry out the spell? He would forget the pattern if he had to stop for even an hour to locate some obscure ingredient.

Lyim had inherited surprisingly few of Belize's components. He'd returned to Villa Nova after his Test to find the laboratory a frightful pile of broken beakers, hopelessly mixed and moistened powders, and dried- up pickled components, none of it salvageable. He had swept it all outside the villa into a magical fire that had lit the sky above Palanthas like fireworks for two days and nights.

Lyim spun about and carried Achnaskin's small book to the shelves containing the components he'd purchased from street vendors near the Great Library. Most mages insisted upon drying and storing their own things, but Lyim had never had the time for such tediousness. Propping the book open with a heavy marble mortar bowl, he traced a finger down the short list. The first three were easy enough; every mage had lye, sulfur, and goat's hoof on his shelves. The fourth item was trickier. He didn't remember ever having used mace. Lyim's eyes quickly surveyed the shelf, but he couldn't find the spice. He reread the spell list and noticed a little star inked next to the word "mace." He found a similar mark at the bottom of the page and read:

A double dose of nutmeg may be substituted for this item.

A sigh of relief escaped Lyim's lips, and he licked away the sweat there. He had a whole jar full of dark, spicy nutmeg.

Lyim turned the page and continued reading the instructions.

Mix the components thoroughly. Place mixture in two flaming braziers set near the body and burn until smoke-

The body? The instructions so far had said nothing about having a body. The Council of Three and the gods alone knew what had happened to Belize's corpse. Lyim was stymied. He reread the passage, and again he found a small star, this time inked next to the word "body." His eyes jumped to the bottom of the page.

In the event that the body is not available, due to immolation, devouring, disintegration, or any other factor, a small bit of skin, hair, nail, or bone can be substituted. The duration of the spell will be halved.

Lyim scowled. Where was he going to get a piece of a dead man? Lyim blinked, recalling the one door in the villa that he had never opened. Snatching up a hand broom and small pan, he lifted the hem of his red robes and sprinted up the staircase two steps at a time. The mage emerged in the large rotunda through an archway that appeared to be a floor-length mirror. Lyim pounded across the inlaid marble floor and down the long hallway that led to the kitchens… and Belize's sleeping chamber.

Lyim paused outside the door before placing his hand on the faceted diamond knob. He had kept the room he'd had as an apprentice upon returning from Wayreth those many years ago. He'd had no need for, or curiosity about, the archmage's sleeping chamber. He'd actually tried hard to forget Belize had ever lived here, blaming his former mentor for the mutation whose removal had become his obsession. Lyim stayed at the villa only because it was practical and convenient.

Was the door trapped? Lyim doubted it, since the archmage had frequently mentioned he preferred marking his possessions so that he could track down thieves. Still, Lyim would not take foolish chances this close to a solution. A simple divining spell assured him he would not be harmed by opening the door.

The door creaked loudly from disuse when Lyim pushed it open. He peered cautiously around it, feeling foolish as he did. Who was he expecting to find, Belize himself? The mage stepped in boldly and looked around.

The room was small, even smaller than Lyim's own. A layer of dust as thick as his little finger covered everything: the granite floor, the narrow spartan bed, the night stand. Lyim's heart sank. He'd been hoping to sweep the room for any trace of Belize. But how would he be able to separate a lock of hair or petrified fingernail from the dust?

Then his eyes fell upon it. The small corked jar on the night stand. It was half filled with red-tipped nail clippings. He snatched it up and hugged it to his chest, relieved laughter bubbling from his throat. Belize wasn't vain; he must have had some magical purpose for saving his garishly painted nail clippings. If Lyim hadn't hated the archmage so, he might have blessed the soul he was about to conjure.

Lyim took the nails to the laboratory and continued reading where he'd left off. Hunger gnawed, and he felt his energy flagging. He would have to cast the spell soon.

Speak the words of the spell. Next, place your prepared mixture in two flaming braziers set near the body and burn until smoke forms.

Lyim reached under the central table and withdrew the requisite braziers, placing them on the table near the open jar of nails.

Inhale smoke deeply. Exhale by calling forth the full name and suspected realm of containment for the soul in question. If a successful conjuration is attained, the caster is advised to recall the recommendations for speaking with the dead.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," muttered Lyim impatiently. His left hand, on the bowl of mixed components, was shaking. Using his teeth, the mage removed the cork from a seldom-used bottle of snowberry wine and took a long pull, waiting for it to burn a trail to the pit of his empty stomach.

After carefully speaking the words that would activate the spell, Lyim took up the bowl again and divided it evenly between the two small flames. The flames roared up from both braziers, singeing Lyim's eyebrows on the way to the ceiling. Slowly the flames flickered back down and in their wake left beautiful plumes of purple smoke. Lyim exhaled harshly, then thrust his head into the smoke and sucked in the acrid fumes until his lungs could hold no more.

"I call from the Abyss the essence of Belize of Palanthas!" Lyim cried in a rush. The smoke that blew from his mouth now was as black as the air in that fetid realm of the dead. While Lyim watched, the smoke began forming into the familiar profile of the archmage Belize. The image, which wavered like the smoke from which it was made, lacked detail, but the stubble-ringed pate

and goateed chin were unmistakable.

A tide of conflicting emotions swept over Lyim: relief, fear, reverence, hatred. But hatred was the strongest. "Belize."

The apparition looked up at the sound of its name. There was neither recognition nor confusion in Belize's expression, only an expectant stare.

"You bastard." Lyim was tempted to go on, but remembered that because of substitutions he would get only half the spell's usual brief duration. 'Tell me what you did to cause my hand to be changed to a snake." Lyim viciously shoved the overlong cuff of his right sleeve back and held the hissing snake up to the apparition.

As if looking beyond Lyim's mutation, Belize seemed not to see the limb. "Your arm was the first living thing to enter the dimensional portal to the Lost Citadel in untold years." Belize's unearthly voice reminded Lyim of the wavering, ghoulish timbre he'd used as a child to frighten his friends.

"Yes? So?"

"Waiting within the unused bridge were starving ex tridimensional creatures. One was feasting on your flesh when your arm was withdrawn from the portal." The apparition's face contorted as if it were in pain. Its head spun about, and it appeared to bite at something behind it that only it could see.

The extradimensional snakelike creature was forced to meld with you to survive the transplantation to the Prime Material Plane."

It made a certain sense. "How do I remove the creature1'' Lvim asked.

"Recreate the events and reverse the process."

"But that's impossible!" Lyim heard himself cry for the second time in recent days. 'Thanks to you, no one can create a portal to the Lost Citadel!"

Suddenly the image of Belize began to break up. "Don't go yet!" Lyim didn't know if the spell was expiring, or Belize was angered by his verbal attack. Frustrated, he continued to ignore the advice about dealing with the dead. "I conjured you, and I demand that you stay! I'm not finished with you yet!"

But the fires in the braziers choked out simultaneously as if doused with water, and the smoke became purple and featureless again.

Lyim collapsed onto a small wooden stool and rubbed his face wearily with one hand. He hadn't been this exhausted since the conclusion of his Test. Then he'd felt good, proud. Now he just felt empty.

Things had changed in the world of magic since Belize's departure for the Abyss. Big things. One thing in particular, as he'd started to tell Belize's apparition. No one would ever again be able to create a portal directly to the Lost Citadel, just after Lyim had passed his Test and returned to Palanthas he had heard through magical circles that the Conclave of Wizards, in a rare moment of cooperation, had begun to build a stronghold to protect the entrance to the storehouse of godly magic. Those same sources mentioned that the location of the redoubt, called Bastion, would be a secret place beyond the circles of the universe and guarded by a representative of each of the orders.

Five years ago Lyim had given the story little more than passing attention, consumed as he was with finding a cure for his arm. Now he wished he'd listened more closely to the gossip. Wherever it was, Bastion stood between Lyim and the Lost Citadel, between Lyim and his arm.

Suddenly Lyim saw a glimmer of light flicker through the crack in what he'd thought was his last door of hope. Could he recreate the portal to the citadel at Bastion? It only made sense that, if creating the portal was still possible at all. Bastion was the only place to do it. Hope spread like magical fire in his heart. Each time Lyim had found himself at a dead end, a secret and unexpected door seemed to open for him.

But where was the door to Bastion? Beyond the circles of the universe… that could be almost anywhere! The Abyss alone had six hundred sixty-six levels. Lyim considered it safe to rule out the realm of the dead, considering that the Council would not have sent their creation to such an evil place.

Still, Lyim was undaunted. All he had to do was find the way to Bastion, and then bribe the jailor with the keys. The magical world was a small one. Tapping his chin in thought, he wondered if, perhaps, he even knew one of the representatives stationed there.