The Unwelcome Warlock

Chapter Eleven

Someone had been killed and partially eaten during the night. Several people insisted it must have been a dragon, probably one of Aldagon’s spawn, but after looking at the remains, Hanner didn’t believe it.

“Look at the tracks,” he said, trying to ignore the fact that he could see his own breath and could barely keep from shivering. He didn’t want to think about the cold and what it might do. “Those don’t look like dragon’s claws to me. There are no scorch marks, and no one saw any light or heard anything; wouldn’t a dragon use fire?”

“They don’t all breathe fire,” someone said.

If true, that was news to Hanner, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “But the tracks! No dragon would leave tracks like that.”

No one could argue with that; the tracks were like nothing any of them had ever seen before, diagonal grooves very closely spaced that looked nothing at all like the talon-marks a dragon would leave.

The dead man – no one seemed to know him – had been sleeping well away from his nearest neighbors; he had probably just wanted a little peace and quiet, away from the noise and smell of so many people. That had apparently been his undoing. His isolation meant, though, that the ground where he had died had not been trampled by a hundred feet; the marks in the soft ground were unusually clear.

Clear, but very strange indeed.

“It’s probably a mizagar,” someone murmured, not far from Hanner’s right shoulder. He turned to see a woman a little older than himself staring down at the muddy mess.

“A what?”

“A mizagar,” the woman repeated. Hanner didn’t recognize her, and her attire suggested that she had been Called on the Night of Madness – she wore a green flannel nightgown that was unfashionable even when Hanner was a boy.

“What’s a mizagar?” he asked.

The woman looked around nervously. “They’re…an old story,” she said. She spoke Ethsharitic with a strong Sardironese accent. “My grandfather told me about them when I was a little girl. They’re supposed to be leftovers from the Great War, creatures that the Northerners turned loose in areas where they didn’t want to bother putting soldiers or magicians. They’re as big as a horse in the body, but with short, thick legs and much larger heads. Their hide is leathery and hairless and completely black, so black they’re practically invisible at night, and they move low to the ground, to make them even harder to spot and so they can move more silently. They’re very, very fast. Humans are their preferred food, but they can live on other things for as long as necessary. They don’t breed, but they don’t age, either – if there’s one around here, it’s more than two hundred years old. They won’t go near houses, because the Northerners didn’t want them to attack outposts, but no one in Aldagmor would ever sleep out in the fields or woods for fear of them.”

“You’re from Aldagmor?”

She nodded.

“I know her,” Rayel Roggit’s son volunteered. “This is Fanria the Clever; she lived a mile east of us.”

Hanner said, “Fanria?” He had never heard the name Fanria before, but he supposed Ethshar and Sardiron might have different naming customs.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m Fanria.”

“You think these things might be around here?”

“We’re out in the wilderness here,” she said. “Even before that thing fell out of the sky, no one lived here. It’s just the sort of place the old stories say they live.”

“Do they ever attack by daylight?”

She glanced around uneasily, and saw Rayel smiling encouragingly at her. “I only know my grandfather’s stories,” she said.

“Well, what did your grandfather say about that?”

“He said…they wouldn’t bother a large group by daylight, but if anyone wandered off alone, a hungry mizagar might try to pick him off. And at night – well, I think this was done by a mizagar.” She gestured toward the bloody remains and churned-up mud.

Hanner nodded. “Then we won’t give them any more targets; from now on, everyone stays together, and we’ll post guards at night.”

“We should burn the body,” Sensella said.

“I’ll leave that to the magicians,” Hanner said. “The rest of us should get moving. The sooner we get to civilization, away from dragons and mizagars and whatever else is out here, the better.”

There was a muttered chorus of agreement, and much of the crowd began turning southward, picking up any belongings they might have put down and starting to walk.

Of course, most of them had no belongings other than the clothes they wore and the magical provisions Piskor had given them. Still, Hanner thought as he watched them, at least they were alive. While several people were limping, or shivering, the mizagar’s victim had been the night’s only known fatality. It could have been far worse.

Hanner turned south himself just as the shouting started.

“Look! Look!” someone cried.

“We’re saved!”

“Run!”

“The wizards have come!”

“They’re here to rescue us!”

“They’ll kill us all!”

Hanner’s gaze followed some of the pointing fingers, and saw the dark little shape in the southern sky, drawing rapidly nearer. It took him a moment to identify it, and he marveled at how sharp some people’s eyes must be, to have recognized it so quickly. It was a flying carpet, and three people were seated on it. The wizards had found them.

“They won’t hurt us!” Hanner shouted. “They sent me a dream last night; they’re here to help!”

His words did not carry well over the general racket, but apparently the people saying they should run were a small minority; most of the crowd was cheering and waving.

The carpet descended until it hung a dozen feet above the ground, above the heads of the milling throng, about a hundred yards southwest of Hanner’s own location; several of the people beneath it were stretching their arms upward, trying to touch it. Some of them were even leaping up toward it, though so far as Hanner could tell none of the outstretched fingers managed to reach the carpet.

One of the people on the carpet was speaking, but his voice was completely lost in the noise of the crowd. Hanner grimaced; warlocks could vibrate the air to make their voices louder, and could therefore be heard over anything, no matter how loud, but these wizards apparently did not have an equivalent spell, and of course there were no more warlocks, except for Vond.

“Quiet!” Hanner bellowed. “We want to hear the wizards!”

Beside him Rudhira was up on her toes, trying to see through the crowd; she was not tall enough to peer over all those shoulders. Once upon a time, Hanner recalled, she would have been able to fly straight over everyone’s heads to the wizards’ carpet, or for that matter, straight to the city; she had briefly been the most powerful warlock in Ethshar of the Spices. Now, though, she was just a tired, frustrated woman in a green skirt and embroidered tunic, trying to follow what was happening around her.

The wizard was still talking, waving his arms, but no one seemed to be listening. Hands were still stretching up toward the carpet, and people were squeezing closer together, trying to get at the wizards.

That could be dangerous, Hanner realized. People could be crushed.

“Hai!” he shouted. “Give them room!”

No one paid any attention, but a moment later the wizards seemed to see the danger for themselves; the carpet rose up a few feet, then swept forward, over the heads of the former warlocks.

Someone screamed.

“Don’t leave us!” someone else shrieked.

Several panicky voices joined in.

“Calm down!” Hanner shouted, arms raised. “Calm down! Let them talk!”

No one paid attention; the wizards were looking at one another uncertainly, and the carpet seemed to be drifting gradually higher, and moving slowly northeast – toward Hanner.

Hanner frowned, and reached out to grab Rayel’s shoulder. He turned, found Sensella, and grabbed her, as well.

Rudhira was looking up at him for guidance.

“Shut up!” Hanner shouted. “You two, all of you who can hear me, tell everyone to be quiet, so we can hear what the wizards have to say.” He pushed Rayel to one side, and Sensella to the other. “Quiet! Listen!”

Rayel got the idea quickly, and began grabbing shoulders, turning people to face him, and hushing them, a finger to their lips. Sensella saw what Rayel was doing and turned to Hanner, who nodded; then she, too, began forcing herself in front of people and trying to silence them.

“Stand still! Face the wizards!” Hanner called, and this time his voice was somewhat more audible over the din – his neighborhood was gradually growing quieter.

As he had hoped, the wizards noticed; one of them pointed at the little cluster of people standing silently, as if waiting. The carpet veered and swooped, and a moment later it was hanging almost directly over the bloody remains of the mizagar’s victim, about fifteen feet up.

The watching crowd gradually quieted.

Hanner grimaced, wondering whether the wizards had noticed the body.

“Is someone in charge here?” the tallest wizard called, when the crowd’s noise had died away enough for him to be heard. He wore a deep purple robe trimmed with gold.

Hanner had not yet decided whether to respond when Rayel pointed at him and said, “He is!”

The wizard leaned forward and peered down at Hanner. “Are you?”

“As much as anyone,” Hanner called back. “I’m Hanner, formerly Chairman of the Council of Warlocks.”

“Ah! I’ve heard of you,” the wizard replied. “I’m Molvarn of Crookwall. I am here as a representative of the Wizards’ Guild, and on behalf of Azrad the Seventh, Overlord of Ethshar of the Spices, Triumvir of the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, Commander of the Holy Navies and Defender of the Gods.”

Hanner bowed at the overlord’s name.

The wizard looked out over the throng; there were still hundreds of raised voices and waving hands, though most of the crowd had quieted and the nearest portion was entirely silent. “I understand you people need help.”

“Yes,” Hanner said.

“You were headed for Ethshar of the Spices?”

“Yes.”

“The overlord does not feel that the city has the facilities to accept so large a group of refugees,” Molvarn said. Then he continued quickly, before anyone could protest, “But we are here to offer you other choices.” He held his hands to his mouth and bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Is anyone here from Ethshar of the Sands?”

A few tentative voices replied, and a few hands rose uncertainly.

“If you could gather over here, please?” Molvarn called, gesturing to his left.

Slowly, with much muttering, people began to move through the crowd toward the indicated spot.

“And anyone from Ethshar of the Rocks?”

Again, a few hands were raised. Molvarn gestured to his right. “Over here, please?”

“Pass the word!” Hanner called. “There must be hundreds of people who didn’t hear – pass the word!”

“Thank you, Chairman,” Molvarn said with a nod. “Now, all of you over here – we are going to be providing transportation to the Grandgate barracks in Ethshar of the Sands. The magic is on its way, about an hour behind me. I don’t know just how fast we will be able to move people through, it may take some time, but we can transport everyone from that city; the spell has unlimited capacity. We’re going to start with the more recent arrivals, since you’ll still probably have friends and family who can help you once you’re home. We’re also going to ask those of you who do still have homes to help your less fortunate fellows – some of you were trapped in Aldagmor for more than thirty years, and not only are your homes and families long gone, there may not be anyone left who remembers you ever existed. I know that’s hard, that it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the simple truth. I don’t see anything to be gained from misleading you.”

That elicited unhappy murmurs, but no open protest.

Molvarn gestured toward the sea of people milling about, too far away to hear. “Please tell your compatriots as they arrive.” Then he turned to the other side and announced, “If you heard what I just told the others, we have about the same news for you – there’s a spell on the way, an enchanted tapestry, that will transport you to a small shop in Ethshar of the Rocks, on Wizard Street where it passes between Center City and Highside. More recent arrivals should go first, to find their families, and we hope you’ll be able to arrange to help some of the people who were here longer.”

“Pass the word!” Hanner repeated.

Molvarn turned back toward the main crowd. “I’m sure some of you’re wondering why we don’t have magic ready to take you to Ethshar of the Spices. We’re working on it. Unfortunately, most of the existing magic we wizards use to visit Ethshar of the Spices is not suitable for this group. Please be patient. Now, my companions would like to speak.” He slid back on the carpet and rotated it slightly, bringing one of the other two passengers to the front.

This was a woman in a long maroon coat over a white tunic and maroon skirt; Hanner had at first taken the coat for a wizard’s robe, but now he saw that it was not. She cleared her throat, and started to speak.

Hanner could barely hear her, and quickly shouted, “Louder!”

She paused, frowned, and tried again. Listening required an effort, but Hanner could make out her words now.

“Lord Azrad has conferred with Lord Ederd and Lord Wulran, and sent word to the Council of Barons in Sardiron. Many of you undoubtedly came from farms or villages, and of course, if you still have families to return to, you are free to do so. Most of you, though, either worked as warlocks and have no land or trade to return to, or left so long ago that you were presumed dead, and any holdings you may have once had are gone. You need new lands.” She spread her arms and gestured at their surroundings. “This land is unclaimed. It lies almost ten leagues east of Sardiron’s borders, and well north of the Hegemony’s inhabited areas. This was a battlefield of the Great War that changed hands many times, far from the major trade routes, so it had not been settled by the Night of Madness, and after that – well, it was uninhabitable, until now. We are about sixteen leagues from the outermost villages of the Hegemony. There are no roads, no houses, nothing but wilderness – but it’s good land, with enough water, and moderate summers. Yes, the winters can be hard, but they aren’t as fierce as in Sardiron or Tazmor or Srigmor. Lord Azrad, with the provisional consent of Lord Ederd and Lord Wulran, is offering all this land, from this point south and west to the borders of Sardiron and the edge of existing farms, to anyone who cares to claim and work it. He assures you that roads will be built, and that supplies to survive the winter and make a start will be brought in. He suggests that raising beef cattle would be profitable; you already know that the lands north of here are home to dragons, and strange as it may sound, those dragons will buy your cattle, through human agents. I will be in charge of settling anyone who wants to work these lands; a group of advisors is on the way to assist me.”

“I don’t want to stay in Ethshar!” Fanria protested. “I’m Sardironese!”

Hanner was unsure whether the woman on the carpet heard Fanria or not, but the third rider, a man in a green wizard’s robe, was straightening up and cupping his hands to his mouth.

“Ie ban Bergen fin Aldran!” he shouted.

Fanria had turned to Hanner to voice her objections, but now she whirled to face the man on the carpet.

“Ie shtarfur Rada Garafai al yez, be kardin bar Kor Azrad!”

“Is that Sardironese?” Hanner asked.

“He says he’s speaking on behalf of the Council of Barons, but only provisionally; it was Lord Azrad who actually sent him,” Fanria replied.

That seemed to be a lot to fit into the one sentence, but Hanner had always heard that Sardironese was more efficient than Ethsharitic. Northerners didn’t like to keep their mouths open any more than they had to; it let in the cold air.

“His name is Bergen Aldran’s son,” Rayel added.

No one had specifically said it was Sardironese, but the translations from the two Aldagmorites left little doubt.

The green-robed wizard launched into a speech now, and Hanner made no attempt to follow it. He knew some Trader’s Tongue and a few words apiece of three of the dead languages wizards sometimes used in their spells, but found Sardironese completely incomprehensible. The scholars said it had originally been a blend of Ethsharitic military slang of three hundred years ago and one of the languages spoken in the old Northern Empire, but to Hanner it was gibberish. He waited patiently while Bergen spoke and the Sardironese in the crowd listened intently.

At last the speech ended.

“What did he say?” Hanner asked Rayel.

“He said…” Rayel paused, obviously trying to switch from thinking in his native tongue to thinking in Ethsharitic. Then he continued, “He said the Council of Barons is still debating the situation, but the Wizards’ Guild stands ready to transport us to Sardiron of the Waters, once permission is granted. If we don’t want to go to the capital, the Guild is also talking to the Baron of Aldagmor about sending some of us to his keep, just the other side of the dragons’ territory. He says the Baron – well, it’s the grandson of the man who was the last baron I knew about, and he’s very different. The old baron was obsessed with mining; he thought the hills must be full of gold. The new baron is more interested in trade. There isn’t much farmland available, but we can probably find work. It’s all still pretty vague.”

“Still, they’re trying,” Hanner said.

“Yes, they are,” Rayel agreed. “But it’s…it’s very confusing.”

“It is,” Hanner acknowledged.

It was confusing – but it was encouraging, as well. The Wizards’ Guild and Azrad VII had responded with gratifying speed, and seemed to have been surprisingly thorough. Old Azrad the Sedentary, the current overlord’s father, would never have been this effective, especially not after Lord Faran’s death.

So everyone from Ethshar of the Sands or Ethshar of the Rocks would be sent home, and anyone who wanted to settle down on new land as a farmer would be welcome to do so, and arrangements were being made to send all the Sardironese home. That would take care of thousands of the former warlocks; Hanner didn’t have any real idea of the exact numbers, but thousands.

But it wouldn’t be all of them. It wouldn’t help him.

He hoped the wizards and the overlords would get to the rest of the former warlocks soon, before the weather turned any worse.