THE HAUNTED WIZARD
Book Six of A Wizard in Rhyme
by
Christopher Stasheff
Copyright © 2000 by Christopher Stasheff
Cover art © 2015 by Ashley Cser
eBook ISBN-10: 0991358244
eBook ISBN-13: 978-0-9913582-4-3
Published by Stasheff Literary Enterprises, Champaign, IL
Visit us at http://christopher.stasheff.com
For my son,
Edward the Anglophile
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
About the Author
Ebooks by Christopher Stasheff
Introduction
Writing isn't always a matter of convenience. Sometimes the first page resists extraction like a team of demented mammoths waiting in line at the dentist's office to have their teeth pulled. It makes you wonder which will come first, Ragnarok or Judgment Day.
Sometimes, when an idea is ready to be written, it lets me know—usually about two weeks after I've finished the last one. This time, I was lucky. Another novel popped its head up over the wall into No-Man's Land and couldn't duck back down fast enough (probably because it wasn't a duck). This time, though, I felt the need earlier than usual. With shock, I realized I was growing bored with sword and sorcery, my usual venue.
In a way, though, that was a good thing, because it gave me an opportunity for variety—I could try mixing other genres with fantasy. Of course, I'd been doing that all along anyway. The Warlock of Gramarye series blended fantasy with science fiction and humor, the Warlock's Heirs series mixed in some romance, and the Wizard in Rhyme series added religion and mythology. Now, though, I could go after some combinations that hadn't occurred to me before, introduce some variety that would hopefully re-energize my stories. Just for openers, I decided to mix the sword & sorcery story with a crime novel and, just for good measure, a ghost story. Drop a line on my website's forum to let me know if you think it works.
There's also the little matter of the title. At first I thought it should be The Channeling Wizard, for reasons that will become obvious if you read it, but my editor preferred The Haunted Wizard—again, for reasons that will become obvious.
— Christopher Stasheff, February 2015
CHAPTER ONE
The moon rose high over the low hill at the edge of the plain, and over the cluster of rocks at its foot. Within that rough ring half a dozen men in white robes stood chanting, hoods covering their heads, gilded sickles at their belts, chanting a petition to a forgotten god.
"Why have you turned away from us, O Toutatis?" the leader called.
The others answered, "Because our fathers' fathers turned away from you."
"Remember us, Toutatis!" the leader cried.
"Toutatis, remember," and the others chanted.
"Our ancestors built great stone rings in which to worship you, Toutatis, but we must hide in these circles you have given us by the mountains."
"We must hide in the mountains," the watchers chorused.
"For we who remember you are few, and weak thereby, Toutatis!"
"We are few and weak," the watchers agreed.
"We pray you, give us strength, Toutatis, that we may increase!"
"That we may increase!"
"That we may regain our dominion, and worship you openly in the great stone rings!" the leader cried.
"In the great stone rings," the watchers echoed.
"We shall serve you as well as we may, Toutatis!"
"As well as we may," the followers echoed.
"We shall give you our richest gift, Toutatis!"
"Our richest gift." Eyes glistened; one or two of the men moistened their lips and swallowed thickly.
"A virgin!" the leader cried. "A fine girl, not yet eighteen, preserved from man's touch for you!"
"And because her father's an ogre," one of the men muttered.
"Be still!" his neighbor hissed.
"Do you suppose this is really how the old druids did it?"
"Of course it is! Niobhyte has read all the old books of runes they left! Now be silent, before he hears you!"
"Bring forth the virgin!" Niobhyte the leader commanded.
"The virgin comes," cried a voice from beyond the rocks.
"The virgin comes," the other men chorused. All eyes turned toward the source of the voice.
A high-pitched drum began to beat, and three figures came into the rock circle, all in white cowled robes, but the one in the center wore a much finer cloth. The man to the left kept a firm hold on the arm of the central figure; the man to the right beat slowly on a small, flat drum. The central figure seemed to be wading through an invisible stream, stumbling now and again, but steadied by the hand on the arm. As the drum tapped out a solemn measure, the three came to the low, flat rock in front of Niobhyte and stopped a little to one side, facing both him and the small congregation.
"Unveil the sacrifice!" Niobhyte commanded.
The guard stepped behind the central figure and drew the hood back, revealing a heart-shaped face with huge eyes, retroussé nose, and full lips. A wealth of blond hair tumbled out.
The watchers caught their breath at her beauty. They had all seen her before, of course, seen and yearned, but by moonlight she seemed even more lovely than ever, with an almost supernatural quality. Now, though, her eyes were dim, unfocused, and she wore a bemused, faintly puzzled expression.
"See how Toutatis enhances the beauty of she who goes to him!" Niobhyte intoned. "Unveil her, unveil her!"
Slowly, the guard drew the robe down to reveal smooth shoulders, so pale in the moonlight, then further to expose a wealth of swelling curves and expanses of pale skin, on down to small, bare, dainty feet.
The men caught their breath; the youngest groaned. His mates silenced him with furious hisses. He wondered how Niobhyte had seduced her into slipping out of her father's house—with promises of a handsome prince awaiting her, or of wealth and power? No matter—once out, he had given her drugged wine, and his henchmen had borne her away to this ring.
"Lay her down on her nuptial bed," Niobhyte intoned.
The girl stumbled as they turned her about, then blinked, confused, as they laid her down. Several of the men moaned, looking at the moon-glowing body stretched out on the stone table. The girl looked about her, puzzled; then the drug-haze cleared for a second and alarm filled her face, but Niobhyte stepped forward to touch her forehead with a forefinger, reciting a phrase none of the men could understand, and her eyes dulled again, her body relaxed.
"Toutatis, we send you this gift!" Niobhyte swung the knife high.
The youngest watcher cried out and leaped to protect the woman. His companions, ready for it, caught and held him.
But they couldn't catch the peasants who leaped down from the tops of the rocks, howling in anger. More of them came pelting between boulders and into the circle, and a huge, brawny, grizzle-haired man caught Niobhyte's wrist and tw
isted. The knife fell and Niobhyte cried out in pain—but the cry changed to a staccato chant as his left hand came up, and light exploded from his palm.
The peasants shouted in pain, covering their eyes. The older man threw himself across his daughter, blinded and in panic. He heard the leader shout a command, but didn't dare rise to try to catch the scoundrel, blind as he was.
Then the green afterimage circle that filled his vision faded, and he could see the rock circle again—with peasants looking about in astonishment. Some began to mutter in fear.
But the father's fear was all for his daughter. Looking down, he saw with relief that she was alive and untouched, though still dull-eyed. He caught up the white robe to cover her and lifted her in his arms. "She is saved! I thank you all, neighbors, for helping me, for my daughter is unharmed, and only frightened!"
"By what magic did they all disappear?" one of the neighbors quavered.
"You know that mushroom that flares so brightly when you dry it and throw it into the fire? That's all he needed, in the dark like this, and he and his men ran away while we were blinded. Come on, let's take this poor child home!" The father headed out of the circle, cradling his daughter in his arms, and the others followed, but with many fearful glances back over their shoulders. Mushroom or not, they feared magic, and considering what the white-robed murderer had been trying to do, they feared it was magic of the worst kind.
In a grove of young firs higher up on the mountain, the youngest acolyte stumbled in and collapsed on the floor, panting. The others scarcely noticed; they were too busy trembling and wiping away sweat. One older acolyte did pay attention, though, and helped the lad up. "It's all right, now. They won't think to look for us here, if we're quiet."
"We will not always have to be silent!"
The worshipers all looked up in surprise. Their chief sat, hood pulled forward over his face, but a stray moonbeam showed burning eyes and bristling beard.
"Our day will come," he told them. "Our cries and prayers shall waken the old gods, and they shall come roaring into the sky against this meek milksop who let mere mortals hang him on a cross!"
The acolytes gasped at the blasphemy and huddled in on themselves. Some of them glanced at the sky as though expecting lightning to strike them dead even for hearing such words.
"Oh, a brave gaggle of Celts are you!" the leader said, with curled lip. "How staunchly you worship Toutatis, when you recoil in horror at the slightest word against the Lord of the priests' book! Do you not wish Toutatis to rise again, and all the old gods of the druids with him? To rise, and raise you to power and wealth? The finest garments shall be yours, the squires' houses, the most beautiful maidens!"
Avarice and lust overcame fear. Several of the acolytes licked their lips, trying to pluck up courage, but two or three took fire, crying, "Aye, we wish it!" with burning eyes.
"Then put aside your fears of these clodhopping peasants!" The "druid" overlooked the fact that all of his followers were plowmen themselves. "Put aside fear, and let your spirits rise in hope! Our day will come! The old gods will waken! We will win the protection of a prince! He is swayed by my promises of power and glory, already half won to our cause! He shall come to the throne, and we shall rise to dominion with him!"
The men stared; the "druid" had mentioned the princely patron before, but never so clearly. It had to be the heir to the throne, it had to be Prince Gaheris!
We shall have the protection of a prince," the leader promised, his eyes glowing. "We shall have the protection of a king! Then shall we worship in the open with king's soldiers to guard us from these ignorant peasants, then shall we gather in the old stone rings to enact our sacrifices openly and for all to see—and without interruption!"
He stood, arms upraised, eyes searching the sky, and his followers rose with him, caught up in his excitement, in the visions of beautiful naked virgins that his words conjured. They held their arms up, eyes lifted to the cold, cloud-covered moon, and chanted with their leader, though softly, begging, "Toutatis, come!"
A month later Queen Alisande sat at table, not in the Great Hall, but in a smaller chamber, richly furnished, walls hung with bright new tapestries, carpets covering the stone floor, table and chairs of oak polished to glowing. Her husband and royal wizard, Lord Matthew Mantrell, had recommended such a chamber as an aid to negotiation at state dinners—and also a place for the family to gather by themselves. She sat with him and his parents—and with some very unwelcome guests from the neighboring kingdom to the north. The latter had virtually invited themselves, by the stratagem of inviting her when they knew she would be tied up with the bishops' council, convened because of the heresy that had cropped up in the south. Since Alisande was too busy to go to them, she'd had to invite them to come to her—for they were the King and Queen of Bretanglia, with their poisonous brood of three wrangling sons, and Rosamund, fiancée to Gaheris, the heir apparent.
Of course, in their quarreling and backbiting, the boys were only demonstrating that blood runs true, and it was shaping up to be one of the most unpleasant state dinners Alisande had ever experienced. In this universe there was no English Channel, but Matt was beginning to wish it existed, and that their unwelcome guests were safely on the other side of it.
Maybe they did, too. "It was a rough ride," Queen Petronille told Alisande. She was a tall, stately woman, still beautiful in middle age. Her auburn hair showed no trace of gray, though that was probably due more to dye than to youth. She wore a gown of maroon brocade with long, bell-shaped sleeves, and a golden tiara set with diamonds. "The old imperial highway from Dunlimon was smooth enough, though here and there a paving-stone is tilted. Still, our armies keep it free of weeds and trees. But from Laiscal southward it is so overgrown as to be scarcely a trackway."
Laiscal was the first major town on Alisande's side of the border—but she let the sally pass with a gracious smile. "How trying for you! Perhaps a palanquin would have been more comfortable than riding."
Petronille eyed her narrowly, trying to decide whether that had been a dig at her age. "Perhaps, my dear—though I have found that the bearers jounce one about in a palanquin even more than does a proud stallion."
Typical of the woman, Matt thought—emphasizing that she was so fine a rider that she didn't need a palfrey or even a spirited mare, but could handle a stallion of fettle and mettle. There was also the little matter of calling a reigning monarch "my dear" instead of "Your Majesty"—a very obvious breach of protocol.
Alisande took it in stride, though. Smiling sweetly, she said, "Still, a saddle makes one ache so, when one is in it all day. At least, mine does, whenever I must ride on campaign or progress. Do you not find it so, Your Grace?"
Matt tried to hide a smile. His gentle wife had administered a very mild rebuke for Petronille's breach of manners—and had reminded her that she might be a queen in Bretanglia, but was only Duchess of Pykta here in Merovence, and Alisande's vassal to boot. Further, Alisande, riding on military campaigns whenever her country was threatened, was a sovereign, not merely the consort of one. Of course, she had also reminded Petronille of her own abilities as a rider.
Petronille only smiled sweetly. "Of course, my dear. How very boring for you." Then, unable to counter her role as a king's consort, she turned to score on Alisande's consort. "Do you not find it tedious to accompany your wife on such processions, Lord Wizard?"
"Why, no," Matt said, smiling. "I enjoy travel. Of course, I do wish more of it could be peaceful, but I'll take what I can find."
"As did your royal wife, no doubt," Petronille said, with a poisonous smile. She turned to Matt's parents. "You were not born of the nobility, were you, lord and lady?"
"Not in Merovence, no," Papa said, which was strictly true, but left the impression that he had been a nobleman in his homeland.
Before Petronille could pin him down, Mama said, "Of course, one must abdicate all aristocratic titles when one decides to devote oneself to scholarship, Your Majesty."
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Papa nodded, picking up on her lead. "When one commits one's life to being a professor, 'Doctor' should be title enough."
Matt smiled, once again elated to see how well they worked together.
"Indeed," Petronille said archly. "And what title would you have claimed in your homeland, if you had not chosen to leave the wider world for the cloisters of the university?"
Mama shrugged, careful of her phrasing. "I would not have chosen to be a countess, Majesty, but with that I should have been content."
Again, strictly true, but creating one hell of a false impression. Matt caught his breath in admiration of his mother's skill with words. No wonder she had turned out to be a top-ranked wizard once she arrived in a universe in which magic worked by poetry.
"Ah yes, you are of Ibile, are you not?" Petronille wouldn't give up. "What province would you have held there?"
Papa smiled. "My father was of Ibile, yes, and his city was Castile—but I grew up in my mother's land, far to the west."
King Drustan frowned. He was tall, well into middle age, but still broad-shouldered, and the bulk that had come on him in his fifties was only slightly flab. His hair was chestnut streaked with gray, and he wore it to his shoulders. His beard was grizzled, full and square-cut, his nose long and straight, his lips full and sensuous, his gray eyes bright and alert for any opening. "I have heard the rumors. Can there truly be a great land so far over the sea?"
"There is," Papa told him, "and my wife and I are both its natives."
"And what would have been your province, my lady, if you had not wed the doctor?" Petronille asked Mama sweetly.
Give it a rest, Matt thought, exasperated.
But Petronille wasn't about to change topics until she'd pinned Mama and Papa down to admitting they weren't of the nobility.
"Havana, if Castro had not stolen it from us," Mama said, allowing the old bitterness to show.
"A robber baron, then?" Petronille gave her a smile that oozed sympathy. "How fortunate for you that you met the good doctor!"
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