The Star Magicians

6. THE WHITE WIZARD—UNMASKED!

PERION CHANGED. His form seemed to ripple, to quiver against the air, as an image reflected in water wavers when its liquid mirror is touched by the wind’s invisible hand. The outlines of the Piper’s form blurred … faded … the colors running into each other in a vague, phantasmal, multi-hued shadow of light.

As they watched, struck dumb, blasted with awe and astonishment, the figure grew … taller … yet taller … six full feet and more, overtopping even Drask’s rawboned height. The scrawny limbs became clothed in hard, steely sheaths of muscle. The sunken chest and little potbelly were transformed into a torso swelling with mighty thews … a deep-arched chest … the lean, supple, rock-hard waist of a fighting man.

Clear gray eyes flashed in a square-jawed, high-cheeked face, a face whose broad intellectual brow and clean-shaven cheeks showed not the greasy, sallow pallor of Perion, but the leathern tan of a deep-space man, burnt mahogany by the void’s unshieldable lambda-rays. A young, strong face … yet there still lurked within its mocking gray eyes something of Perion’s irrepressible deviltry.

The little cap with its bedraggled plume, too, had vanished. In its place a mop of straw-yellow hair, which contrasted startlingly against the deep tan of the man’s face.

From throat to wrist and heel he was clothed in a tight-fitting garment of pure white, wrought from some sparkling and unfamiliar material whose glossy, metallic sheen and total lack of color made the suit curiously elusive to the eye—a blur of utter whiteness, a figure sculpted from pure light.

“By-Thaxis’-Thirsty-Spear! Is this—Perion?”

Smiling like a great cat, the shaman interposed smoothly. “May I present, Lord—not Perion of North Hollis—but Perion of Parlion,” he smirked.

The tall, well-built young man grinned, with just a hint of the Piper’s old swaggering humor in his smoke-gray eyes.

“A minor correction, my Lord Fat-Guts. Not Perion at all. Call me … Calastor.”

A whisper of the dreaded name ran through the assembled Rovers like a swift wind rustling through a wheatfield.

Drask recoiled on his high seat, his iron face shaken, gray, his fierce eyes blank with disbelief.

“What magic—or madness—is this? The Piper—Calastor?”

“Aye, Drask! The White Wizard—no phantom at all, nor even a mocking shadow, but a beloved member of your entourage!” the athletic youth in dazzling white chuckled.

“But … how—?”

Abdekiel answered the query. He lifted one fat palm, displaying the copper earring.

“An illusion-charm, my Lord! Its components are tailored to warp the wavelength of light about the man who wears it, creating the illusion of a different appearance. It was an art known only to the ancient Imperial craftsmen of the Lost Age. I only recognized the instrument moments ago … for who noticed the gauds worn by a strutting clown? But years ago I saw its very mate, in the hands of a Master Mage of Trevelon, the Planet of Philosophers. When the charm is removed from the body of the man to whose atomic structure it is attuned, the illusion is destroyed, and he regains the natural appearance he wore before donning the device.”

“And, as for the rest,” Calastor cut in, “a bit of acting, some skill in disguising the voice”—he shrugged whimsically—“and the trick was done!”

“Incredible,” the Warlord said slowly. “I would never have believed it possible.”

“Hell’s-work, I say,” Tonguth muttered, signing himself superstitiously. “Hell’s-work and Devil-magic!”

“Not so,” Calastor replied. “Not magic, but science. I fear that you, good Tonguth, have a far closer and more intimate acquaintance with Hell than have I. No, it is a mere device. An almost microscopic machine, even as yon shaman so cleverly observed. Had it not been for his sharp eyes, I might well have carried off my deception even longer.”

“And we have Truth from his lying lips at last, my Lord,* the shaman observed. “See? The instrument works to the same effect—casting the identical illusion—on whoever dons it. Lord, behold—”

He clipped the copper ring on his own lobe—and, for the second time, the miraculous transformation took place before their wondering eyes. But this time the operation was seen in reverse. Abdekiel shrank … blurred … his butter-yellow, placidly-smiling face withered and became the mocking, wizened, impish and not-overly-clean visage of Perion the Piper. His dull gray robes melted, colors shifting with eye-aching speed, changing into a duplicate of the gorgeous garments the Piper had last worn. Even Abdekiel’s elephantine bulk and height dwindled, by some unimaginable optical magic, into Perion’s spindle-legged smallness.

A second Piper stood beside the transformed first, laughing at them with shrewd, mischievous eyes. Superstitiously, the Rover chieftains recoiled from the illusion, muttering.

“What a weapon, by the Blood!” Drask mused, fingering his stiff spike of black beard. “No wonder this White Wizard eluded me for so long. Armed with a pouchful of such magic rings, he assumes a different appearance at will. Any man with such a device could spend months in the very stronghold of his most deadly enemy, without slightest risk of detection …”

Abdekiel unsnapped the illusion-ring from his ear and assumed his proper appearance.

“These devices, as I said, are tailored specifically to present different forms and are attuned to the vibratory scale of the individual atomic structure. I am only able to maintain the Perion-form briefly, and by effort of will.”

“Then this explains all the terrors,” said Drask. “The banquet-night, with the shadow that fell over the feast, and mocking invisible whispers from the darkness—”

“The shadow was cast by another, subtler device,” Abdekiel explained. “The voice was perhaps a trick done by a concealed button-sized microphone. I have no doubt that when we search through the Piper’s gear in his quarters we shall find many such miraculous implements.”

Tonguth came forward to stand beside the dais. “Well, Lord, all is explained … but best of all marvels, we have the wonder-worker now.” He drew a heavy mace from his girdle, massive hands closing almost lovingly about its oaken handle. Grins flashed among the Barbarian warriors.

Mockery danced in Calastor’s gray eyes.

“Have you indeed, black dog of the Rovers? Well, perhaps you do. And you, my noble Lord Drask of the Varkonna— you have me, but … can you hold me?”

Drask smiled humorlessly, as a wolf smiles, revealing his fangs. “I think we can,” he said. And suddenly, by some magic of his own, the ugly shape of a Haemholtz coagulator appeared in one hand, its deadly snout a cold black eye staring directly at Calastor’s heart.

“Try it!” the mocking voice rang out, filling the great dome with shuddering echoes. “Thicken my blood with your sonic beam—drive a blood-clot through my heart or brain—or, at least, I give you leave to try. But beware, my little Lord of Nothing …”

The White Wizard’s mien changed. His clear baritone deepened to a sinister bass. His gray eyes grew cold, chill and hard as fractured steel—then blazed up suddenly with witch-fires. Slowly he extended his arms, tracing a weird rune upon the air. It hung in midair, a glowing pattern of dim red phosphorescence, gradually fading.

“Fool! Do you think all my power lies in one little ring—that I am helpless now? I, who have sought out and mastered one by one the Secret Laws of the Plenum … the dark and awful lore of god, mage, and demon … the mysteries that thunder in the flaming heart of stars, and that hide, shadow-shrouded, in the Darkness that reigns between the suns?”

With words of heavy thunder and eyes that flashed with strange unearthly fires he held them. Drask’s hand slackened on the butt of his gun. The muzzle of the coagulator wavered—dropped.

“Shall I shake this palace to rubble around your ears, with a single Name of Power? Say, Warlord—shall I wreck the very fabric of this planet, returning it to the molten chaos from which the Hand of Heaven molded it, ten billion years ere you and I were born? Speak! Shall I summon forth from the deepest pits of Hell the phantoms of the hundred thousand men and women your scarlet hands have murdered? Fearless Lord Drask, who boasted you fear naught in Space or Time, neither god, man, nor devil—shall I call upon the vast Power of Parlion … shall I summon the Dissolver-of Worlds from his black realm of negative entropy beyond the very Universe of Stars? Yai—shamdoth! Aaa krom Phandaloom, hadoth ka ph’ngglath Schemshamphor-asch—!”

Weird, glittering, star-white, the mighty form of Calastor seemed to grow before their eyes, looming above the tallest man, veiled in weird runes of flame, terrible eyes blazing like two gray stars.

Tonguth fell to his knees, hands clapped over his eyes. The Rovers shrank back against the wall. Shangkar, white to the lips, threw one brawny arm across his face to blot out the awful vision.

Even—Drask! The Warlord withered, his jaw dropping, his face the hue of dirty wax, terror in his gold eyes. He lifted one trembling hand.

“N-nay, Wizard! Summon not your demons of the void!”

Abdekiel’s voice cut across the scene like a whiplash. Cold, venomous contempt dripped from his words like smoking acid.

“What’s this, my Lord, afeared? Quiver not at this vain fool’s empty eloquence and visual trickery. Behold, I am prepared to defend you with my art—”

The shaman clapped his yellow hands—once—twice— thrice. Suddenly, the blue and crimson drapes that covered the stone walls of Zargon’s Hall like an arras dropped to heap the stone pave with piled fabric. Standing in a row behind them all this while were now revealed a rank of archers with arrows nocked and bows drawn—archers masked against tricks of vision with black vizards. Shoulder to shoulder they stood in a curved rank along the wall, blinded against illusions, arrows aimed at Calastor’s voice. The bows were taut—a hundred arrows, aimed at the White Wizard’s heart!

Still a towering figure surrounded with runes of flame, Calastor thundered, “Arrows, shaman? And are they more potent than a Haemholtz beam?”

“They kill as swiftly and as surely.” Abdekiel’s purring voice was amused, yet rang with vicious undertones of cold menace. “And for all of that, Trickster of Parlion, we have not yet tested a coagulator-ray against your vaunted invulnerability. We have had from you naught but tricks with light and voice, and many, many—oh, so very many!— words.”

The robes of flame vanished. Calastor stood, a mere man, legs spread and great arms folded on his deep chest.

“Then test your arrows now, if you will. I am indeed invulnerable.”

There was no trace of fear in his voice, nor faintest trace of mockery. His clear gray eyes, hooded, stared into the row of archers aiming at his breast. To one side, Lurn felt her heart leap into her mouth. How long could he hold them off with only words? His verbal fencing, she guessed, was built on a profound knowledge of psychology and semantics, but surely, tricks of illusion aside, he was as mortal as any man!

“I think we shall,” Abdekiel purred with tranquil face.! “Know, further, O Invulnerable One, each shaft is tipped with a barb wrought by fire-magic from purest stellafer, the Star-Metal. As you know, O Master of the Names of Power, no magic—or science—can turn stellafer aside, or ensorcel its strange element. Check, I think, thou master-player of Parlion!”

On the blackened bench, the Warlord slowly relaxed, tension draining from his taut muscles, a faint smile of admiration curling his bearded lips.

“Well played, shaman! By Thaxis of the Spears, you are a noble from the moment Calastor’s arrow-riddled corpse lies at my feet. An arrowhead shall be your blazon! Red and white your tinctures: white for this hell-spawn’s garment, red for his swinish blood. Spill it for me now!”

Terror clutched at Lurn. Was that a drop of perspiration on Calastor’s brow? Was that the touch of fear, showing in the muscle that twitched at the corner of his mouth? Why was he silent? Why did he not draw another miracle from his endless store?

Satisfaction gleamed in Abdekiel’s eyes. He made a bow, and hissed silkily, “All humblest thanks unto my gracious Lord. It was child’s play—the cunning chess-master outplays the over-confident novice.”

“He shall find defeat more painful here than in a game of chess,” Drask said grimly.

Now Calastor smiled—but with some effort? And was there a trace of strain in his voice, as he said with an attempt at lightness, “Perhaps … we shall all play another match at a later time, my Lords. You said ‘check,’ O shaman? Then I cry check, and—mate!”

Even as they digested his swift words, the tall figure of the White Wizard flickered—and faded—and vanished like a puff of smoke before a sudden wind. Calastor was— gone!

A hundred arrows slashed through empty air, striking home amid the guards and Chieftains who stood against the further wall! Shrieking, clutching at feathered shafts that stuck in throat and chest, men slumped and staggered—a milling chaos of bellowing, shouting fear.

Drask’s oath rang even above the cries of the wounded and the cursing of the shaman … and another voice, laughing, mocking, echoed him from the empty air:

“Check—and mate, Warlord. And remember—I have taken your queen!”

The invisible voice had spoken true. For the dancing girl, too, had vanished!