Black Harvest

by M. C. Planck

  “Don’t look at me,” she grumbled. “Or I’ll have to erase your memory.”

  “Please do,” Christopher said, his head still swimming. “But first, let’s eat.” He cast the spell that summoned food out of nothing. The magical provisions were bland to the point of tastelessness, which at the moment was a blessing.

  He was considerably higher rank than he had been the last time he had used this spell, and the quantity of supplied food was correspondingly greater. They made a good start on it anyway. Halfway through Lucien joined them in elven form and put away a healthy portion himself.

  Afterward Christopher felt more stable, if still not fully human. He watched Lucien tempt a dragon-kin out the darkness with a loaf of brown bread. The creature crept forward, groveling and squeaking. Christopher realized he could not tell whether this was some helpless peasant or one of the arcanists who had almost slain Jenny.

  “I dare not speak of debt,” Lucien said, watching the creature eat. “Yet objective fact marks how our paths have intertwined. Who is to say they will not do so again someday?”

  “We can talk freely here, right? Jenny said something about the dome blocking divination.”

  “Yes,” Lucien begrudged. “You, at least, can speak your mind. I do not know that I can answer, though.”

  “I’m not going to open a gate to Earth right away. I need to put some safeguards in place. Also, there are a few other things I need to do first. Promises to keep.”

  Christopher exhaled slowly. “But when I do, things are going to change. I don’t know how to explain it to you, so I’ll just tell you this. Whatever you think of me and my strange ideas, understand that there are seven billion humans with their own strange ideas. I won’t be able to contain them all. Not that I would even try. Things will . . . change.”

  “Incredible. I cannot imagine how your plane sustains so many, especially since I infer your world is, like most human realms, a fractious and disunified place.”

  That was a fair description. Charitable, even. Christopher nodded.

  “And the focal point of this infection of chaos will be my newly acquired domain.” Lucien smiled wryly. “It is good we do not speak of debts.”

  Cannan spoke up from across the fire. “Will you call on us if you are attacked?”

  “If I think you can help. Yet the obverse does not obtain; you cannot call on me unless the enemy is from outside the domain. I apologize in advance for the imbalance.”

  The big man shrugged. “Every peer makes the same bargain with a king. In any case, it will be others in the domain who cannot call on you for protection from us.”

  “All these years you struggled for your private miracle,” Lalania said, “and now that the prize is within your grasp, you reach further. You would conquer every acre we can see; you would make Christopher an overlord in all but name.”

  “And why not?” Cannan said. “We did not make the rules, yet we must play by them. Well enough, then. Play we shall.”

  “Let’s focus on first things first,” Christopher said. He felt dizzy and not just from the hangover. He had put everything into this quest, and now it was almost over. What would he do afterward? Build an empire? Hand the kingdom to Krellyan and retire to a cottage?

  Or . . . return to Earth. Would what the world make of him, a middle-aged atheist who carried a sword, served a god, and brought people back from the dead?

  Jenny’s words echoed. There was no point in predicting his own future. It wouldn’t turn out like he expected, no matter what.

  “We should go. Torme will be getting antsy.” The end of the year was only a week away. The anniversary would mark his fifth year here. He stood up.

  Lalania joined him, stretching uncomfortably in her chainmail. “Now I remember why you shouldn’t sleep in armor.”

  Cannan grunted, scratching at his own. “It’s better than any other. Lighter than Christopher’s steel mail, and yet it turned the halberds like plate.”

  “It is definitely an upgrade,” Lucien commented. “Elves rarely do things by half-measure; you will find it already has the highest rank of enchantment.”

  The three humans shared a look.

  “Empty-handed, indeed,” Lalania said, exasperated beyond measure. “How is it possible to hate someone who is so generous? Yet I would scrub that woman’s mouth with a wire brush and lye if I thought I could get away with it.”

  “Do not say that in her presence,” Lucien warned. “She might well let you. The price of a stray word is often high; imagine how much you would pay for an intemperate action.”

  “I was hoping we had seen the last of her,” Lalania confessed.

  “That is up to you. Should you require contact with me, Christopher,” Lucien said, turning to face him, “send to Alaine. She may not always be available, but more so than myself due to the dome. Please do not visit unannounced. It would be a security risk, and also my defenses might unintentionally cause you some discomfort.”

  “You, too,” Christopher said. “Drop by anytime. Don’t be a stranger.”

  Lucien smiled in appreciation of the irony. They declined a ride to the edge of the dome, preferring to walk. Lucien, back in dragon shape, circled overhead, and thus nothing harassed them on the journey.

  Outside, staring up at the wintery noonday sky, happy to see the sun despite its cold shoulder, Christopher turned them all to mist and led them home.

  They landed on the roof of the castle. Lalania had to employ her skills to open the stairway door because it was locked from the inside. Dirty, disheveled, and tired, they tried to sneak back to their quarters but were invariably discovered by a servant. Much hue and cry later, Christopher relaxed in a hot tub of water and washed the stink of vomit off, a plate of bread and cheese within easy reach. Squires were seeing to his armor. It was good to be king.

  He deflected a succession of questioners with noncommittal grunts, but Cardinal Faren was too sharp for that. The old man sat on the edge of his tub and helped himself to a slice of cheese while interrogating him.

  “Your companions came back better dressed than when they left. This implies your venture was successful. Sooner or later you must tell us how successful.”

  That was precisely the topic he was trying to avoid. “Ask me again . . . In about four days.”

  Faren choked on his bit of cheese. Coughing, he recovered himself. “Now I wish I had access to the Cathedral library. Much has faded from the memories I laid down as a naive and hopeful youth.”

  “That goes for two of us,” Christopher said, wondering how to pick up a chunk of bread without dropping crumbs in the bath.

  “I suppose we will find out in due time. Meanwhile, put a leash on your guard dog. He was once as stoic as a statue; his sudden reanimation is scaring the serving girls.”

  “I’ll take care of it. In about four days.” Christopher decided to share his hot water with the bread and chewed on a flaky crust.

  The old man picked up the plate of food. “Helga has prepared a special dinner in light of your return. Don’t spoil your appetite.”

  “No danger of that,” Christopher said, nonetheless watching the plate travel away from him. The bath was more comfortable, so he stayed there a bit longer.

  Later, dressed and clean, he went down to the stable to visit his horse. It seemed odd that he had been there less than two weeks ago, although admittedly the long ten-day weeks of this world. So much had changed.

  Cannan stood behind him, radiating coiled energy.

  The horse snuffled, shoving at Christopher with its big hairy head. “Patience,” he murmured, scratching its forehead. “We’ll go for a fine ride tomorrow, I promise.”

  Lalania came into the stable wearing a professional demeanor and her silver chainmail. She looked fantastic in it, which probably explained why she was wearing armor inside the castle. Normally only soldiers and Cannan bothered.

  “We have a surprise guest,” she said. From the carefully neutral way she spoke and stood,
as if someone was just behind her even though there was no one there, he deduced it had to be an invisible wizard. Presumably the one from Carrhill; Lalania wouldn’t have called Fae a guest.

  “Welcome,” Christopher said, facing the woman and her unseen companion.

  “Really?” grated a voice behind him with the sound of chains sliding on chains. “You welcome your death? How droll.”

  Not just a tone of voice; actual chains lashed out and wrapped his body, crushing and tearing at his flesh, binding him. Lalania’s face was a mask of horror, and Cannan was already moving to attack when the world exploded in fire.

  The Wizard of Carrhill was revealed at the entrance to the stable, a dozen yards behind Lalania, wearing his black robes and expression of unhinged rage, already mouthing the words of another spell.

  The barn was burning down around them. Cannan and Lalania had been knocked to the ground by the blast; the Wizard’s fireballs were far stronger than the wand of fire had been. Yet Christopher’s energy shield was better than it had been, too, and all three of them were still wearing it from the day before. The shields absorbed the blast, leaving only a few loose flames to leach at them after burning out.

  Christopher was not on the ground because something was holding him up. The chains were trying to squeeze the life out of him. He invoked the special privilege due to a priest of a god of Travel and stepped out of their grasp, letting them slide off like loose clothes. It was important to have his hands free to cast because he needed to block the Wizard’s next fireball.

  As the pea-sized ball of flame streaked toward him, he cast his dissolution spell. The flame winked out, and the Wizard behind it cursed dementedly. Only the words “null-stone” were comprehensible.

  Cannan was up and at his side, striking behind him. Christopher risked a glance over his shoulder and wished he hadn’t. A thing stood there, eight feet tall and roughly man-shaped, wrapped in a profundity of black iron chains. Its eyes glowed red in its horned head while it struck at Cannan with long clawed hands. The chains moved around like tentacles, striking at both men. Cannan’s sword carved through them, its enchanted edge parting steel like twine. The creature shrieked in outrage and transferred all of its attention to the big knight. It stood in a pile of burning straw and timber without seeming to notice, so Christopher deduced it must be fire-proof.

  He was stuck in a dilemma. If he drew his sword or cast a spell, the Wizard would throw another fireball. If he did nothing, Cannan would undoubtedly lose to the demon. The big knight already had chains wrapped around one leg, limiting his movement.

  Lalania gave him an opening by stabbing the Wizard in the face, having snuck up beside him in the smoke. The man jerked his hand and sparkling bolts flew out, lancing her. She staggered, caught her footing, and stabbed him again. Christopher did the smart thing and cast the silence spell at the Wizard’s feet, robbing him of any spell that required speech to cast. While the Wizard dodged and weaved, trying to escape the zone of silence without getting skewered by Lalania’s blade, Christopher summoned help from Marcius. Before he even saw what creatures the god had sent, he turned around to help Cannan.

  He had to waste valuable time enchanting his sword. There was no way plain steel would hurt this monster. Cannan lost the use of an arm to the engulfing chains, still hacking away with the big sword in one hand. Christopher sprung into action, striking at the binding chains. His enchanted sword was not as sharp as Cannan’s, but it was sharp enough for this. Chains parted under the magic-enhanced blade, spiting links. Cannan, freed, leaned in and struck at the monster.

  Together they drove it through the burning building, leaving a trail of bits on the ground, not all of which were made of metal. Eventually, they forced it into a corner and butchered it. When it died, the fleshy substance turned to foul-smelling mud while the chains fell like puppet strings suddenly cut. Then they rushed back to save Lalania.

  They found her standing over the body of the Wizard, stabbing it repeatedly with her rapier. A huge white lion crouched on the ground, its fangs sunk into the Wizard’s shoulder, holding the corpse in place.

  Lalania was cursing violently but futilely in the silence. Cannan grasped her hand. She struggled for a moment, then turned into his chest and buried her face, shaking in fury and grief.

  The lion dropped the mutilated body. Christopher could see it had bitten the shoulder half-off. It looked up at him with apologetic golden cat eyes and dissolved into white mist. He let the silence spell go with it, and the sounds of the building burning roared back in.

  People were coming, bearing buckets of sand and water. Fire was a true danger to the castle and, by extension, to the city. Christopher and Cannan set aside their swords for buckets and went to help, leaving Lalania to deal with the body.

  In the midst of the wreckage, Christopher’s heart wrenched. His horse, his beautiful horse, was a formless lump of charred barbecue. A dozen other animals had died in the blast, their stalls obliterated. Nothing made of wood or flesh remained intact; even the low stone wall at the foot of the barn was scattered about like broken toys.

  Death was no refuge from Christopher’s wrath. Shoot first and ask questions later worked for a man who could invoke ghosts. Christopher waited several days for his wrath to subside, fearful that he would waste the spell simply hurling invective at the man who had betrayed him. Such petty vengeance would be futile; the ghost, as Faren had explained long ago, was not the man, nor would the man revived remember what the ghost endured. Not that this man was in any danger of revival. Even if Christopher offered, the Wizard would have to be a fool to accept.

  “Why?” he demanded of the wavering mist in front of him. In death the Wizard’s self-image seemed even less formed than it had been in life.

  “Had I let your rank manifest, I would have had no chance.” The voice was dry; it stabbed at Christopher with the memory of their intellectually engaging conversations.

  “How did you even know?”

  “The privacy spell was compromised. Your witch lacked the skill to detect it. Thus, I knew what treasure you had found. More to the point, I knew what deal you had made. So much wealth, and all you would take is a pittance. And nothing for your retinue! What ego, what selfishness, what a vast waste of resources. You could have transformed the kingdom; you could have made royals of your allies; you could have made legends of your friends. You could have made a legend of me.”

  Christopher knew it was futile to argue with a ghost, but it was still more productive than cursing. “I am going to transform the kingdom.”

  “Only in your childish dreams.” The ghost sneered, the effect somewhat diminished by its current transparency. “You seek to overturn the patterns of millennia with your outlandish ideas. And yet the world you are trying to change remains the same at its most fundamental level. Tael is what it is, and we have adapted our lives to the shape it makes of reality. You think time is on your side, but it is only the tide waiting to turn. Your idiocies will splash against the wall of ages and fade away like a bad stain.”

  Ghostly hands spread, trying to summon the grandeur of its vision. “In its place, I would have raised a kingdom that could stand, according to a plan as old as Varelous himself. Your head alone would make me an Arch-Mage. I would take the throne and command your armies and rule as tradition demands. A national school to encourage wizardry to replace the knights you drove away. A pacifistic church of healers to fill the space of the militaristic churches you destroyed. The only fly in the ointment were those cursed druids, and I figured I could just ignore them.”

  “What made you think this assassination would even work?”

  “You did,” the ghost said. “You made it clear that the null-stone would defend you against my spell-craft. So I crafted a plan that would make it an anchor-stone around your neck. The field would have left you trapped in the demon’s chains, denied the privilege of your patron; Ser Cannan’s sword would have been mere steel, unable to sever them as they choked ou
t your life. My fireballs and arcane missiles would have done for your pathetic retinue, if they dared to leave the field to attack me. If they did not, then the demon would have eaten them all. Without enchanted weapons it is nigh-indestructible.”

  Christopher shook his head. “How many damn demons are there, anyway?”

  The ghost considered. “If you mean by kinds, I know of seventeen, not counting animating spirits. If you mean by numbers, I assume infinite. That counts as two questions answered. Now ask the rest and let me return to dust.”

  “It was a stupid plan.”

  “It was not without flaws,” the ghost conceded, wobbling its misty head. “I did not anticipate that all of you would be shielded against fire, although that would not have mattered if the demon had dealt with you. I did not even consider that you would be without the null-stone. Yet I cannot regret it. It was clear that I would never gain another rank under your reign. I had no choice.”

  Christopher felt his face curling in disgust. There were always choices. It was the lowest kind of cowardice to deny one’s own consequences. With nothing else to say, he said what he felt. “You killed my horse, you worthless bag of dirt.”

  “Could you rephrase that in the form of a question?”

  “Do you feel sorry that you killed my horse, you worthless bag of dirt?”

  The ghostly figure shrugged. “No.” The mist faded, the spell spent, his questions asked and answered. He had learned essentially nothing. The only lesson here, that greed overcame all decency and common sense, he had already known.

  20

  HELLO, HELLO, HELLO

  On the fifth morning after, Christopher sat at his desk in the royal suite, holding his hand in a candle flame.

  It hurt every bit as much as one would expect. The skin blackened and cracked, and then healed thanks to his tael, over and over. He did not move his hand because he had made the choice not to move his hand. He could feel the rank he wore, scaffolding running through his mind: hard and unyielding like polished crystal. Somehow it augmented his mental faculties, his self-discipline and insight.