by Eve Forward
Sam tried to shrug, but his bonds made it difficult. “It’s a living.”
Arcie piped up. “Aye, though rather, he can really make a killing in his line of work.”
Sam was watching the wizard. Mizzamir was a figure held in great respect, the last surviving Hero. Bistort, like all the towns of Dous, was run by a mayor who was part of a Council made up of other mayors that made decisions for the whole of Dous. Sam knew Mizzamir would occasionally make an appearance here, Dous being short of mages, but he had never thought to see the great wizard.
Mizzamir was an Elf, one of the very few left in the world. After the Victory, that fairest race had vanished into some land beyond man’s knowing, saying that their work was done. Only a few, Mizzamir among them, had remained, sacrificing that eternal Elven paradise to devote their lives to educating and aiding the humans of this world. Mizzamir had been one of the small band of Heroes that had fought the conclusive battle that ended in the Victory, about a century and a half ago. Mizzamir was head and founder of the Thaumocracy of Natodik.
He was handsome despite his years, with long silverwhite hair and a beardless, delicate face that showed the grace of the long-living Elvenkind. He wore pure white robes embroidered with mystic symbols in silver and gold thread, with a collar that came up to fit snugly around his neck. His fingers sparkled with rings, and chains around his neck held several important looking pendants. He held a staff so carved and inlaid it looked like a rolled-up rood screen. The wizard was fairly crackling with magic significance. Mizzamir caught Sam looking at him and gave him that high-huff yet kindly and infinitely patronizing look that Elves were so good at; Sam countered with his best silent snarl and a glare.
Meanwhile, Oarf was going on, talking to Arcie, as he seemed to be the friendlier of the two criminals. “Well, fortunately we’re going to be able to help you there. No more will you have to live in darkness and evil.”
“Ye are going to kill us?” Arcie looked like a hurt puppy, his bright blue eyes pure frightened innocence, while his toes stealthily worked at the loop of keys on Oarf’s belt. Oarf chuckled again.
“No, of course not, little fellow,” (Arcie hated that term.) “We’ve got something much better ...”
Mizzamir turned his back to Sam and spoke. “Perhaps you’ve heard of the spell of Attitude Adjustment?”
“Attitude... are that like how one measures how high a mountain are?” asked Arcie. Mizzamir smiled.
“No, little one...” Arcie tried not to wince. “We who understand the workings of the universe realize that our world is influenced by the forces of Good, of Light, and by the Evil forces of Darkness. This is because our world, Chiaroscuro-”
“Chiar-wha?” exclaimed Arcie.
“Chiaroscuro. It is the name of this world that we live on,” Mizzamir explained.
“And what’s it need a name for?” demanded Arcie.
“ ‘Tis not like there be a whole lot of others for us taste mix it up with.” He was hoping if he acted dangerous enough, Oarf might step a little closer to toe-range. Mizzamir decided to ignore his comment and press on.
“Our world, with its magic used by both mages and monsters, draws the energy for that magic from two alternate dimensions, one of pure evil force, and one of pure good...”
While Mizzamir went rambling on about gates and portals and power flows, the two captives paid little attention.
Arcie smiled and nodded while plotting his escape, and Sam was feeling the effects of wine and stress and wondering muzzily if he could manage to vomit on Oarf from this distance.
“And, you see,” Mizzamir went on, “because of the way that these two forces affect everything in this world, so do they affect persons as well. The forces that dominate a person’s beliefs control their actions, and viceversa. People themselves are either good or evil, to one extent or another ... For example, myself and Captain Oarf here are followers of the way of Light and Good...”
Here Oarf nodded proudly. Arcie looked impressed and carefully worked his big toe through the metal ring of keys. Mizzamir shifted slightly and put his back to the door. He didn’t like the itchy feeling Sam’s dark gaze was making between his shoulder blades.
“Yes, ourselves and other right-thinking persons, as most all persons are these days, follow the path of Good. Yet some poor, misguided folk, who either through ignorance of the effect of their actions or through deliberate callousness live... in... the darkness... of... evil...”
He turned his gimlet gaze on Sam. The assassin resisted the urge to stick his tongue out.
I wish he’d get to the point, Sam thought. I want to go back to my hole in the wall and go to sleep.
Arcie apparently was of the same opinion.
“So what are yer point, Mizzy?” he asked. Oarf had shifted out of range, and Arcie took a break from his clandestine efforts. Mizzamir glared over his fine handsome nose at the man with the wiggling toes.
“The point is, that no longer do we have to go about our old, brutal, nasty ways of punishing criminals like yourselves. Instead we have a simple, painless, magical process that will free you from the evil and darkness that holds you and win let you take your place in society as a decent member of the community.” Sam and Arcie exchanged glances. They didn’t like the sound of that.
The Elven wizard rolled up his sleeves and flexed his fingers. Oarf stepped back respectfully as Mizzamir continued, “Yes, a simple magical process, to cleanse the soul and spirit of evil and fill it with goodness and light. A process that I have perfected, and passed on to all the great wizards of all the cities and towns of this fair world, so that darkness need never threaten our ways of peace and light again. Common criminals, evildoers, who for once the only option was death, are now living happy, productive lives... many of your peers among them,” he added, looking from one shocked face to another.
Sam moved abruptly and now seemed to be vibrating softly. In fact he had thrown every ounce of wiry muscle against his bonds and was pulling himself taut as a bowstring with the effort of trying to rip the iron cuffs free from the mortar. The mage’s words threw him into panic.
He knew with cold terror what Mizzamir was saying, and he didn’t want it. His mind was his own, his thoughts his own, his will his own. The thought of losing his identity sent adrenalin pumping through his veins, reacting with the wine ... The dungeon seemed to go darker, and little spots and sparks flashed in front of his eyes. The cuffs on his wrists felt red-hot as he strained every muscle against them. But it seemed no use. His back ached and his chest burned, but his hands remained chained fast.
Without relaxing a muscle, Sam hissed through his teeth, “He’s going to turn us into farmers, Arcie.”
The reality suddenly dawned on the Barigan. His jaw dropped and banged on the iron collar. “But but but but ... that’s not just whitewashing... that’s brainwashing! I like being the way I am!”
“Oh, you’ll like being a good person,” assured Oarf.
“Everyone does. All the other evil crooks and killers we’ve caught and done this to thanked us afterwards.”
“Yes, and you’ll soon forget I even did this, once it’s over ... your past of darkness and fear will just seem like a bad dream, long ago ...” Mizzamir smiled a complacent, patronizing smile. Arcie caught his breath. Grains of sand were starting to fall away from the wall bolts of Sam’s right-hand manacle.. Beads of sweat stood out on the assassin’s forehead, and streaks of black sweat (black?) were running in little rivers down his neck as he strained, trembling ever so faintly. Arcie spoke again to keep attention away from the assassin.
“Ye canna do this! Don’t we have but any right to say as we want to live our lives? Aren’t ye being twice as bad as ever we were by forcing us into this?”
“No, silly fellow! This is for your own good,” chuckled Oarf with an encouraging wink.
“And for the good of all,” added Mizzamir, reaching for his spell-focusing components. Sam knew with sick certainty that despite Mizzam
ir’s kindly appearance, he wasn’t a wizard who forgot his spells. Arcie stammered incoherent protests.
“Now then ...” Mizzamir opened one of his many belt pouches and took out two small squares of mirror and two small scraps of spotted fur. Putting one of each aside, he turned to Sam. “I shall cast upon you first, since you seem calmer than your chubby friend ...” Arcie drew in his breath angrily. Sure, maybe he was a little short for his weight, but “chubby”! As Mizzamir held up the fur and mirror and took on that inward look of a mage in the process of spellcasting, Arcie had an idea. As the wizard began to chant, soft gold and lilac tendrils of magic floated from his fingers and reached for Sam, like insidious vines.
“Aletha mainaria t’thuluck...”
The chant echoed in Sam’s ears. His wrists, hands, back, and fingers screamed in agony, but his voice was silent. In the power of the mage’s spell, a dark haze, shot through with crimson flames, seemed to hover around Sam; the strands of gold and violet strove to unweave the dark haze, but the crimson singed them, held them back ... but the flames were dying ...
Arcie peered over the mage’s shoulder at Sam. The assassin would probably be furious with him later, but there was no other choice.
He caught Sam’s gaze, and whispered, “A thousand in gold fer the head of the Arch-Mage Mizzamir.”
Arcie’s words flew like arrows into Sam’s brain and exploded at the core of his being, ignited by drunken anger.
He opened his eyes, but his vision twisted inward. His mouth formed a word.
“Accepted.”
Time slowed to a crawl. The chant was a dull, slow dissonance in his ears. Down within was the fire, beyond magic, beyond training, the dark seductive glimmer of onyx and ruby that had kept him alive as a bastard child in the slums of the city, that had made him feared as a young man working his way up the ladder of the Guild, that had ended the lives of many men. The deep fire that knows no good nor evil but only the target and the path to it. Sam looked outward and saw the white figure of the wizard. Then he opened his veins, and the fire flared in his blood and lit his eyes and filled his brain with a roar.
The crimson flames in the darkness of his aura, seen only by the wizard, roared forth like the bitter flares from an ancient sun going nova. Mizzamir faltered, surprised.
To Arcie, watching on his wall, it seemed Sam muttered something, his pupils dilated for an instant, then there was a sudden sharp crack.
Sam’s wrist snapped the cuff out of the wall and too fast to follow swung about and slammed it into the side of the Elven wizard’s head. Mizzamir flew halfway across the cell and landed in the doorway, very still. His spell, uncompleted, sparked and gave off a smell of burning lemons. Oarf gave a cry of surprise and went for his sword, tugging at it in anger when he discovered he still had his peace-knot tied. He fumbled with it as Sam in silent hunting fury grabbed his other shackled wrist and yanked. Mortar shivered, but this cuff held. He yanked again, and this time his wrist actually pulled free of the cuff, almost the entire surface layer of the skin scraped away, pure white for an instant before every pore began welling scarlet.
Sam lunged for the mage on the floor, but his ankle cuffs held and he fell on his face, narrowly dodging the sword Oarf had finally managed to unsheathe. As Sam clawed at the straw on the floor, Oarf tried to club him with the sword’s pommel, but Sam grabbed the guard’s heavy leather boot and gave a powerful pull. Losing his balance, Oarf staggered back. Arcie made a grab with his toes and snagged the keys off the belt, as the guard recovered and switched to using the blade of his weapon. Sam was now pulling at the cuffs on his legs, his efforts scattering drops of blood from his scraped hand. Oarf slashed again, this time coming closer; the blade drew a line of crimson from Sam’s side. Oarf was about to strike again when he heard the groan of the metal cuffs under strain, and one of Sam’s arms almost broke his kneecap. Deciding at once that a blood-maddened assassin was not someone to cross in a small cell, Oarf scooped up the limp form of Mizzamir, and dashed out the door, slamming it behind him. Sam thrashed in his bonds in a silent fury.
“Sam! Sam! Ho up there a second, my fellow... here, I’ve got the keys...” Arcie jingled the keys in his toes.
Sam lay on his side in the straw, his legs twisted up from his struggles. He looked up at Arcie.
“Give them here,” he rasped, holding out his gory hand. Arcie gave a flick of his foot and tossed the keys to him. Sam caught them and bent himself double working . at his bonds while Arcie fidgeted. Sam’s hunting was normally cold and methodical, the result of the rigid discipline of the Guild. This berserk rage must be the fault of the wine. Had the Barigan known it, he would have realized it was also due to something not normally part of the assassin’s contract: emotion. Sam’s anger at the loss of the only home and family he had and his fear at the prospect of what the wizard had attempted.
The last lock clicked free, and Sam lunged for the door, slamming his shoulder into it once, then thrusting one long arm through the tiny window to scrabble for the lock. Arcie piped up.
“Here, laddie, wait a tic ... aren’t ye forgetting something?”
Sam glanced over his shoulder at Arcie, who squirmed in his bonds. “You’ll be safe,” he said shortly.
“I don’t wants to be safe, blast your eyes, I wants to be free. Let me out or I canna pay your fee and ye canna take it out of my hide, either.”
Sam relented and quickly undid the cuffs that held the Barigan. Arcie dropped to the floor with a thump, pulling off his gauntlets. Sam returned to the door, as Arcie rubbed his neck and said, “We aren’t going to be far popular around here shortly... I’ll see if I can’t borrow some horses, well enough?”
The door snicked open. “Whatever. He’s still alive, Arcie. I saw him breathing. While he lives, neither we nor anyone like us is safe.” The assassin was gone in a stagger of black cotton and silk. Arcie sighed, and followed at a more dignified pace. A quick stop at the empty guardroom yielded him his clothes and equipment and Sam’s weapons. He paused to shudder a moment wondering how Sam was going to be able to carry out his instructions with only his bare hands, and then swiftly went down the dingy halls, keeping to the shadows and wielding a morning-star he’d picked up just in case. Not a real thief’s weapon, but impressive looking.
The stable hand, dozing with a jug of cheap wine, was jerked wide awake by a thock right next to his ear, and the accompanying pain as a sliver of his earlobe parted company from the rest of him. He jerked up with a cry, and saw a small shadowy figure leaning against a wall across the room. The light hid the figure’s features, but a small shaft of late afternoon sun glinted off a dagger blade held loosely in its hand, twin to the one in the wall next to his bleeding ear. A voice spoke softly.
“Well, well, laddie. I think we’ll be taking yon gray gelding there, and that nice sorrel pony, with tack and saddlebags, if ye dinna mind. And no yelling, thank ye ... or the next one’s through your skinny neck.” The stablehand gurgled in fear.
Sam ran through halls, gray halls with red air. Speed took priority over stealth and his footsteps slapped on the flagstones. He ran out of the dungeons, up into the castle that served as the center of the rule of the city. A guard stepped out from an annex, surprise evident on his face. “Here, you can’t go ... Awwk!” he said as Sam wordlessly rammed his bloody fist into the man’s gut.
The guard crumpled, and Sam ran on, hunting.
It was more than an assignment now. It was both survival and revenge. He remembered the tales he’d heard about Mizzamir. Mizzamir was one of the greatest Heroes. He’d located the forces of the enemy, he’d supplied the other Heroes with guidance and magic. He’d set out to defeat one of the main wizards of the Dark and had hunted him for many months before the final confrontation in which he had emerged triumphant. It was said of him that, as a matter of pride, he never let a job go half-finished. Well, Sam thought, neither do I. He’s destroyed all my friends, the only family I ever had. Old Miffer and Tich and Cata and Black
Fox and Darkblade ... I thought they were just being stupid... but they were dead, their brains and souls turned to vanilla pudding by this white-robe’s magic.
He passed a doorway, then with a flip turned and leaped in. Something other than logic sent him crashing through a door and there, sitting up in horror with an ice-pack on his head, was the impressive silvery figure of the arch-wizard. Mizzamir grabbed one of his rings and shouted a strange word, and Sam stumbled as the air around him suddenly turned thick and heavy, as though he were trying to run through neck-deep honey. The magic effectively halted his rush, losing him his one advantage of speed.
Both men froze. Sam knew better than to rush a wizard in this state. They faced each other, the black-clad assassin, his face bloody and stained with sweat, dirt, and sooty grease, his clothes torn and filthy, bleeding heavily from a sword-wound in his side, his eyes burning with frozen fire, and the stately old Elven wizard, in his flowing silver-white robes, his silver hair falling gently around his shoulders, his green eyes wide in surprise, the afternoon sun pouring in a window and making him shine like a star. They faced each other warily, each waiting to see what his opponent would do before moving.
Mizzamir spoke first. “You are a villain, but I see in you the potential for goodness. I will save you from the darkness, as I have saved many others.”
“Save yourself first, wizard,” Sam answered softly, and leaped, a burst of will giving him the strength to counteract the mage’s spell for an instant. But he was still not fast enough. As he lunged, Mizzamir stepped back and, with a gesture as of parting curtains, a phrase of magic and a flash of indigo light, he wrapped the very fabric of reality around himself and vanished, the air rushing in with a whumpf where he had been. Sam had to twist himself in midair to keep from crashing into a table, and only partly succeeded. He rebounded and collapsed against the wall, panting, his energy draining fast now that his target was out of range. A whistle sounded outside the window.
He craned his head around to look. Down in the castle courtyard, Arcie, mounted on a swaybacked pony, held the reins of a Troisian riding horse and beckoned impatiently.