Beside him Isamborg carried a massive sledgehammer. He topped his master by almost a head. Two massive constructs lumbered behind them, wood and brass gleaming in the wintry sun. They were followed by six armoured knights whose mail coats glowed a strange purple colour. The odds on Pentellen lengthened considerably.
It was a few minutes after the appointed hour when the illusionist arrived. Pentellen was dressed in his usual robes of shadow-grey and high boots of black leather. His plain black staff and a small knapsack were his only concessions to the business at hand. Agraeria, by contrast, was gorgeously arrayed in a flowing gold and purple cape over a black gown slashed with white and embroidered with swirling designs worked in gold and silver thread.
Behind them strolled a motley band, apparently recruited at random from the lowest sorts of alehouses. The odds on the illusionist lengthened further, although some took comfort from his relaxed demeanour. Surely he had some plan in mind.
Pentellen raised a hand in greeting, and was answered by a curt nod from the enchanter. Mondasius led the way to the city and towards the Museum.
* * *
The courtyard was deep within the Museum complex. It was empty except for six ornate plinths, each bearing a statue of grey stone and a chest bound in black iron. The wizards stopped to survey the ground.
‘Six statues and six treasures,’ said Mondasius. ‘Victory to whomever holds the most when the last statue falls. Do you agree?’
‘Wait.’ Agraeria raised one slender hand. ‘There is the chance of a tie at three chests each. What say you to this, Magister: if my master can take all six, you will acknowledge that illusion is stronger. Any other result, and enchantment wins. Agreed?’
Mondasius took a moment to regain control of his eyebrows. He looked at Pentellen’s thugs, who lolled nonchalantly against the walls: they looked strong, apart from one rather scrawny individual – possibly a thief, he thought – but they could not be any match for his followers, nor indeed for the Museum’s statues. He looked at Agraeria, wondering if she was joking, but her face seemed empty of guile. Not that an illusionist is ever guileless, he reminded himself. Finally, his eyes came to rest on Pentellen himself, who smiled that infuriating smile and nodded his agreement.
Something was wrong, Mondasius was certain – but what? A whisper of doubt entered his mind for the first time since the wager was made. Uncomfortably aware of the eyes on him, and of those watching by magical means from outside, he found himself with no option.
‘Agreed,’ he said. Whatever that damned illusionist was up to, he would have to deal with it as it came. The two bands took up position on opposite sides of the courtyard, and Mondasius began preparing his first spell. Beside him, Isamborg was already chanting the incantation to strengthen their first construct.
Mondasius pointed to the chest nearest the illusionist’s group. It vanished from its plinth and appeared at his feet; at the same time the gargoyle statue atop the plinth came to life, hopping down and moving towards Pentellen. The illusionist broke into a run, trying to lead the statue back toward Mondasius, but the master enchanter reached out with his mind and took control of it, forcing it to keep on his rival’s heels. He realised with mild satisfaction that Pentellen had yet to cast a spell. Agraeria’s dress had begun to glow with a golden light of divine beauty, and the hired thugs seemed to be cowering behind her. It seemed the illusionists were on the defensive.
Isamborg had already sent the strengthened construct towards the nearest plinth. It picked up the chest and turned back, while two of its fellows intercepted the angelic statue that tried to pursue it. The statue was a pile of rubble by the time the second chest was laid at Mondasius’ feet. He opened both chests: the first contained a sack of coins, and the second a book, both of which Mondasius put in his satchel before taking stock of the situation.
Pentellen was still separated from his group, trying to stay ahead of the gargoyle statue that Mondasius had sent after him. The enchanter briefly considered throwing one of his own constructs into the chase, but decided against it. Glowing like a goddess, Agraeria was edging her way toward another plinth, the hired thugs clustered behind her in a knot. The Beauty spell might afford her some protection from an activated statue, but the thugs would have to fend for themselves and they showed no inclination to take any such risk. Mondasius gloated inwardly at Pentellen’s false economy: these alehouse dregs were proving useless. Here was a better use for his knights: they dashed forward to take the chest, leaving the illusionist’s apprentice to deal with the goat-headed statue that protected it.
Isamborg, meanwhile, had strengthened the second construct and sent it to reinforce the first. Two knights were already bringing a third chest to Mondasius while their fellows dealt with the stone griffon from atop the chest’s plinth. Both chests arrived together, and inside Mondasius found a potion and another sack of coins. He added both to his satchel and considered his next move.
The illusionist’s thugs were still cowering, making no move either to rescue their master from the pursuing gargoyle or to help his apprentice in her battle against the stony beastman. Deciding that there was nothing more to do against either of them, Mondasius sent four knights to another plinth. The ever-efficient Isamborg had already done likewise, and his wood-and-brass giants made short work of a granite ogre while two knights brought the chest to his master. A rune-inscribed ring was added to the enchanter’s satchel, and he waited for the last of the chests to secure his victory. More than victory, he reminded himself: even one treasure would have won him the wager, but with all six in his possession the supremacy of the School of Enchantment was established beyond doubt, and all those who had called him a braggart would be forced to eat their words. A satisfied smile spread across his face.
The final chest contained a scroll bound up with a leather thong. Mondasius glanced at the leaden seal with its unfamiliar rune: probably something for a sigilist, but it might fetch a decent price. Only one statue remained active now: the one he had sent against Pentellen at the start of their contest. Close pressed by his stony pursuer, the illusionist had not been able to cast a single spell. So much for his renowned cunning. Mondasius focused his thoughts on the statue, commanding it to return to him. He would allow Isamborg to destroy the thing and bring this contest to an end.
No sooner had the statue stopped its pursuit than several things seemed to happen at once. Mondasius found himself surrounded by bright light: a standard Glow spell, he thought – one of the weaker illusions, and surely useless in this case because there were no archers or other ranged troops in Pentellen’s unwashed retinue. Almost before he could finish this thought, he was struck by another spell. He felt it tug at him and marshalled his will to resist, but with a dizzying lurch he found himself at the other side of the courtyard in the midst of Pentellen’s thugs.
Before Mondasius could react, strong arms wrestled him to the ground and stripped him of staff and satchel. A demonic shape trotted back from where he had been, shimmering into the shape of the scrawny thief and taking the treasure-filled satchel with a mock bow. In that moment Mondasius saw two things: the thief wore Pentellen’s face, and Isamborg’s hammer took off the gargoyle’s head and ended the contest.
Rough hands helped the master enchanter to his feet, dusting him off none too gently.
‘A favourite of mine, the Transpose spell,’ said Pentellen. ‘And you were most obliging to chase my illusionary double and not look too closely at my own disguise. You concede that I was holding all six treasures when the last statue fell?’ It was a moment before Mondasius could speak.
‘But – I – you tricked me! This was a trick!’
‘All illusion is trickery, my dear Magister,’ said Pentellen with a smile, ‘Mountebank’s tricks, as you said yourself. Magic and matter are not the only things in the universe, I find: there is also imagination, which can be stronger than either of them.’
Graeme Davis has been a writer for tabletop and video games since the
1980s. He has written for Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, Vampire: the Masquerade, the Total War PC game series, the chart-topping mobile game Kingdoms of Camelot: Battle for the North, and many others. He is the author of the Dungeons & Dragons novel Blood and Honor, and his short stories have been published by Stone Skin Press and others. He has also written multiple titles in Osprey’s Myths and Legends and Dark Osprey series. He writes an occasional blog on writing, games, and writing in games at graemedavis.wordpress.com.
This electronic edition published in 2015 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
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Tales of the Frozen City Page 11