Dangerous Games

by Clayton Emery

  Candlemas couldn’t even squeak, so frozen was he.

  “I, we, Karsus the One and Only, intend to infuse ourselves with super heavy magic! If I were to eat some while, say, bathing in it, or just—I don’t know—pour a ton of it over my head, who knows what power I might attain! With the power of the stars in me, I might become a god!”

  At that notion, Karsus fell over laughing, hugging himself and crying hysterically with glee.

  But Candlemas wasn’t there to pick him up. The pudgy mage was already running through the corridors as fast as his tight boots would allow.

  He had to fetch Sita. And Sunbright. And figure out this time travel spell.

  And get the hell out of this city!

  * * * * *

  Back in his tiny workshop, frantic and fumbling, Candlemas burned the sun-blond lock of Sunbright’s hair. His hand shook so badly he singed his fingers in the flame, but it would alert the barbarian that he needed help, desperately. Candlemas was going to need all the help he could summon.

  And for now, he had to gather supplies, even steal them from other mages. There wasn’t a second to lose.

  Except that he must send word to Aquesita.

  * * * * *

  Riding the winds with the residual nature magic, Sunbright and Knucklebones soared toward the floating city.

  Her knuckles were white as she clung to Sunbright’s baldric and belt. Even though she was barefoot, she squinched her toes in reflex, for there was nothing under them for a mile or more. The ground was a misty yellow-brown patchwork, mountains only soft blue mounds. She’d never been more terrified.

  By contrast, Sunbright’s face was placid as an angel’s. His horsetail stood out behind, his green eyes were bright, and his nose quivered like a hunting hound’s as he watched the floating city of Karsus come closer. He even smiled at his accomplishment. Strangely, he wasn’t worried. But then, he’d been dead, or near it, and life still seemed unreal to him, as if he still dreamwalked.

  “W-we won’t be fl-flying often, w-will we?” asked the thief.

  Sunbright actually laughed, “I’m afraid not. The nature magic in me is almost spent. This will probably be the last time I ever fly, though shamans fly in their dreams. For this, I thought of how geese move and mimicked them, but I’m not sure exactly how I do it, to tell the truth.”

  Knucklebones wasn’t encouraged, and clung tight as a tick to his iron frame. She wanted to squeeze her eye shut, but didn’t dare to for fear of missing something. She bleated, “When we took off in the glider, Candlemas said the city was warded against people shifting in. Will that stop us from flying in?” Most specifically, just when we reach the edge of the city? she worried.

  “I don’t think so,” he told her, “but I’m sure we’ll find out.” He squinted against the rush of wind. He didn’t flap his arms like wings, simply held them stiffly outright, soaring like a hawk. “The city seems busy.”

  Stiffly, Knucklebones craned to see. In the distance floated another, smaller city, and red and blue gushes of smoke burst from it. Karsus returned hails of arrows, whirling balls of lightning, and misty, sparkling gasses of yellow and orange. As they rose higher, she saw that several buildings had corners and bites knocked from them. Obviously the two cities were at war, though she couldn’t guess why. More nobles’ foolishness. She wondered if her friends in the lower depths were safe.

  Then the upside-down mountain slid past them like a cloud bank. The mountain had mostly been scoured clean by wind and rain, but in clefts and pockets nature hung on, and red pine trees and gorse bushes sprouted. The mountain filled her limited vision, then the edge showed, clean cut as if by a knife, and they looked at high stone walls surrounding ornate gardens. A prosperous neighborhood where nobles preferred to live on an edge rather than the hills. Naturally, this side was turned away from the enemy’s fire. The docks were launching pads for magic infused ballistae and spells. Whatever engineers controlled the slow spin of the city must have arrested it during the war. Just was well, for Sunbright could steer to this quiet side.

  Yet even here there was damage. One corner of a house had been knocked off, so two walls in an upper bedroom showed, and red tiles littered a flagstone walk. The missile had shorn limbs from a willow tree and gouged the earth. Gardeners worked like bumblebees to clear the debris.

  But here their toes lifted over the wall, so Sunbright called, “Hang on! We’ll land in the—”

  They dropped.

  Knucklebones had time for one short scream before she slammed onto grassy turf and lost her wind. Immediately she was up, crouching, feeling the grass. It was real. She was home.

  At that stomach lurching drop, in a few seconds, she’d seen a lifetime of nightmares, imagining the long plummet to the earth below. But Sunbright had steered them over a wall and garden before the wards—they were in place—negated his flying spell.

  But where was—

  A thrashing sounded behind her. Sunbright had crashed into a bush with shiny leaves and red blossoms. Groggily he clambered free of branches, sucking a gash on his wrist. He leaned on a stone wall behind, then paused to look at it.

  Knucklebones saw his gaze, said, “That’s the last wall. On the other side is nothing but a long drop.”

  “Yes,” Sunbright drawled. Ever so carefully, as if he’d sink through the soil, he stepped out of the flower bed onto the grass, straightened his tackle, and took a deep breath. “We’re back.”

  The thief nodded, grinning all over with relief. She nodded toward the house and street beyond. “We better move if we’re to find Candlemas.”

  “Hey, you! Halt!”

  A stone’s throw away, at the entrance to the garden, stood a trio of heavyset men in a house livery of purple and tan tunics. They waved short swords. “Come here!” one of them shouted. “You’re trespassing! We’ll have you flogged and quartered, you …”

  Sunbright and Knucklebones walked toward them, the barbarian with his tall, panther’s glide, the thief high stepping and quick. Knucklebones waggled her thumb at the house guards and said, “We make for the street. Get out of our way.”

  The guards balked, reached for their pommels, took another look at the dangerous, scarred pair, and stepped aside. Knucklebones didn’t even sniff as she passed. She was home.

  Chapter 20

  Candlemas rubbed his burning eyes and aching head, and flexed cramped fingers. He’d gone without sleep night and day, without food, without rest, trying desperately to comprehend the muddled references and esoteric spells Karsus had mentioned might allow time travel.

  The pudgy mage was alone in his borrowed workshop. A dozen books stolen from the library lay open, and handfuls and jarfuls and heaps of materials were scattered about: quicksilver, henbane, brimstone, lead, creeping thyme, chalk, a fish fossilized in a slate, an egg, an acorn, sand, a bottle of rare air.

  The spells he listed were a jumble, some old, some new, some sprung from Karsus’s addled brain. Protect from getting lost (in space). Immunity to gasses (if there were any in the ether). Spell at maximum effect (he’d need it). Valdick’s spheresail (if time had currents). Shatter barrier (time barrier?). Trebbe’s invulnerability (couldn’t hurt, but was it necessary?). Dimensional folding (no clue). Stoca’s wings (to say the least). One of Xanad’s power words (if he could think of one). Yturn’s feather fall (backward?).

  But the words blurred together while he read the list over and over, no closer to the true path, if there was one. With a genius (mad or not) like Karsus, anything was possible. For a while, Candlemas had considered simply asking Karsus to return them to their time, but sensed the answer would be no, he was needed. Or worse, sure, and they’d be mistakenly transported to the gods knew where or when.

  But he had to try something, so he had prepared a scroll. Grinding various materials as finely as he could, he dissolved them in ink and inscribed the spells, hoping he got the right elements and spells in the right order. First was Stoca’s wings, thickened with egg yolk fo
r bird wings. Then shatter barrier, with iron filings to mimic a sledgehammer. Then Valdick’s spheresail, with dandelion fluff that clotted the quill and made his letters smeary.

  And so on.

  But there was something else, he knew. The biggest element. He must recite the spell while touching the fallen star, for it was to its landing spot they wished to return. That was the only way to guarantee the right time and place. Otherwise they might find themselves a thousand feet in the air, or deep underground, or in some foreign land without a clue or—

  The possibilities for mishap were endless, so he brushed them aside. He’d try his best, and hope for the best.

  Except he wouldn’t be allowed to conjure at the star, because it was guarded by mages night and day to see no one tapped its awesome power, reserved exclusively for Karsus. Aquesita might be able to dismiss the mages, but—

  But she was the other problem. Candlemas still hadn’t told her of his plan to get himself and Sunbright back to their own time. Would she go with him? Why should she? She was the highest noblewoman in the empire here, with a world at her fingertips: mansions, servants, gardens, treasures from countless worlds. Why would she accompany Candlemas to Castle Delia, where he had a dusty workshop and a small room with a straw pallet? He owned nothing, though he was rich by most standards, with a trunk full of coins gathered over the years and never spent. He’d never wanted to buy anything. He’d only studied magic.

  And wasn’t that the problem? That he was a dumpy, bald, dusty little man of no importance? Why would Aquesita go with him? Why did she even associate with him now, when she could summon the most fascinating people in the empire to her tea table?

  Yet, he hoped, she loved him. As he loved her.

  But was love enough to leave her homeland and treasures and status? Or were such sacrifices the codswallop of softheaded romances?

  In short, would she say goodbye when he left?

  * * * * *

  Far below the earth, diamond-tipped tornados of stone tilted and swayed and bobbed in agitation.

  This is not what we planned.

  We did not plan anything. We only gave the humans enough magic to destroy themselves.

  That works. But this Karsus plans to become a god. No human can do that and live.

  So? Better for us. He will flare like a candle and extinguish.

  The Phaerimm stumbled over one another’s thoughts, interrupting, questioning, demanding, a thing unheard of in their history, for they were old as time and had decades to converse. But danger loomed like a moon eclipsing the sun.

  His flare might shake the stars. He would use all the magic in one fell swoop. He could blow a crater the width of the empire. And as deep. Even down to here.

  Impossible.

  Nothing is impossible with magic, and this source is the greatest.

  Are you saying we erred in giving it?

  I say, men with fire can burn down a forest. Men with star magic can burn a world.

  Then we are in danger.

  No.

  Yes.

  Never, not us.

  It could be.

  It cannot be.

  I am not sure.

  Whatever, we must act.

  To act would require us to go above ground, shift fully into the humans’ dimension! That causes us to explode! That is why we gave the humans magic indirectly!

  We did not foresee personal danger.

  We will pay for that shortsightedness with our lives. We, the oldest of the old, may cease to be and not the humans.

  It is written in the stars that all things pass.

  Not us. We were before the world was.

  No, impossible.

  Blasphemy!

  Stop! Think! If we could act, what action would we take?

  Silence was the only answer.

  * * * * *

  Blearily, Candlemas stumbled through the maze of corridors toward the star workshop. He clutched the scroll in his hand. It was smeary, crossed out repeatedly, highly dubious, but finished. It was a masterpiece, really, though no one would know. He only hoped it worked. If they got home safely, he might never ensorcell again.

  To complete the spell, he needed to be touching the star. Before that he had to find Sunbright, and talk to Aquesita, to ask her the most important question of his life. But before that, he needed another look. Mages tinkered with the fallen star day and night. He needed to know its current makeup, size, potency. Or perhaps he was just avoiding Sita. He wished he knew what to do or say, but he wasn’t a strong-jawed hero from a chivalric romance, just a tired old mage, awkward with women. There was no magic for knowing the way to a woman’s heart. Or perhaps they possessed their own magic. Certainly they were entrancing.…

  But he was drifting, and here was the chamber, and Karsus’s gleeful, manic giggling.

  Rounding the corner, Candlemas stopped cold.

  Karsus was surrounded by apprentices, as usual, but also a trio of tailors with needles and thread in their mouths. The mad mage wore a startling white gown embroidered with silver thread. Someone had cleaned his face, scrubbed his neck, even combed and trimmed his hair. He stood with arms out as the tailors closed seams and smoothed pleats. Karsus giggled all the while.

  “It’s not often you dress a god, is it? You’ll have something to tell your friends. How you served Great Karsus when he was still human!”

  The tailors smiled weakly, but averted their eyes. Their usually nimble fingers shook, and they dropped pins and scissors. Lesser mages and apprentices, some twenty, puttered at the tables or else halfheartedly tapped the gray lump of star-metal with silver hammers. Everyone was uneasy, not giggling and chuckling at Karsus’s every remark. It was the first time Candlemas had seen quiet around Karsus.

  The pudgy mage was sweating suddenly, his mouth dry, his knees trembling. He was surprised at his calm voice. “Great Karsus, might you enlighten me, who would learn from the Highest of the High? What exactly are you planning to do? And when?”

  “Oh, I decided now’s as good a time as any.” Karsus waved vaguely toward the fallen star as he said, “My helpers think all is ready—not that they really understand what I plan. And the war goes badly, a maid said.

  “And I’m tired of being human. So I’ll become an avatar, which is a being created from a god’s body, in case you don’t know. Karsus’s avatar, named after myself. I figure to sit on the star, imagine myself ascending to godhood, and draw all the remaining energy through my spine into my brain. I’ll use the same spell that temporarily disrupted the magic of this room, for I’ll want every iota drawn into my body. But I’ll steal it so quickly you’ll hardly notice. And who knows what will happen then? I might grow huge, or move to another plane—don’t worry, I’ll come back to visit—or find myself taking tea with Mystryl and the other gods. Well talk about how to better tap the Weave, so that privileged individuals—new godlings!—can use it directly! It should be fun! All done there? Good!”

  The tailors weren’t done, but Karsus pulled away, so one undone sleeve trailed needles and thread. Pushing past his timid apprentices, he climbed on a stool, then up onto the table, circling the fallen star like a child stealing sweets from a cupboard. Spreading his trailing robes like a clown, he perched on the star, smoothed back his hair, and began to chant.

  Candlemas stood paralyzed. This was insanity of the purest form. Idiot toadies standing by while their master made ready to tear down a dam holding unfathomable magic. Karsus could unleash a firestorm that could sear the world from horizon to horizon, and everyone just stood gape-mouthed and watched him.

  Somehow Candlemas knew this would end in disaster. And at the very least, the magic of the fallen star would be dispelled, and he and Sunbright (and Aquesita?) would be stuck in the self-consuming kingdom of an idiot genius—or mad god. Yet what to do? He couldn’t attack Karsus personally. Shields would reduce him to cinders. He couldn’t block Karsus’s spell. He couldn’t—

  Karsus raised his voice, chanting
in earnest now. The air in the room began to shimmer, like heat waves over a blacksmith’s forge. Jars and pots on tables began to jiggle. One shattered into redware shards.

  Candlemas stopped thinking, and reacted.

  Charging, he bowled mages aside and scrambled onto the table. In his panic, he never noticed that he dropped his smeary, crumpled scroll. Diving, he shoved Karsus off the star with both arms.

  The little madman squawked as he crashed on his back on the tabletop. Toadies shouted Karsus’s name. Three of them grabbed Candlemas’s red-striped robe and jerked him back off the table. Frowning, dazed, Karsus lay and shook his head.

  It was the first time Candlemas had ever seen him angry. The great archwizard pointed a bony finger and snarled.

  Candlemas’s world exploded in red fire.

  * * * * *

  As the odd pair, big barbarian and tiny thief, threaded the nobles’ district, they saw increasing signs of devastation and chaos, and a complete breakdown of city authority.

  Whole buildings had collapsed, some into cellars and some into the street. Streets had in turn collapsed under the weight of the fallen buildings, so craters revealed sewers. Broken water lines gushed, and Knucklebones whiffed effluvia, the deadly gas piped into homes for heating and cooking. Horse skeletons lay in their traces, stripped of flesh by the starving poor. Garbage was strewn about, and rats feasted. In alleys and behind bushes were glimpsed riddled skeletons of humans while nonhumans—half-elves, gnomes, dwarves—were lynched or nailed to walls and left to rot. Time and again they saw humans wandering in a daze, vacant, haunted looks etched in their faces.

  “By the Earthmother,” muttered Sunbright. “You wouldn’t know where to start to help. Where are the guards? The body haulers? The dung shovelers?”

  Knucklebones crouched, pointed one way, then shoved Sunbright the other. In a street of shops, most closed, he saw blue and silver guards looting a goldsmith’s shop. The owner lay dead on her own threshold. The thief whispered, “It looks like the end of the end. What the sages have threatened for centuries.”