Kothar and the Wizard Slayer

by Gardner F Fox

  Cybala turned on Kothar like a spitting cat. The Cumberian grinned and grabbed her hair, half lifting her of her feet. The pain was excruciating, and she screamed.

  "Save your breath, wench,” he growled. "Or I'll bang your head on the railing to teach you manners. I just want a look at you."

  He yanked open her cloak, revealing her curving body clad in a short purple tunic that displayed her ripe flesh. She gasped, sought to close the woolen paenula.

  "Ease off, girl. Red Lori says Afgorkon will want you as a human sacrifice, I say he won't. I just want to see what he's going to get. After all, he's a patron of mine.”

  “Afgorkon?” she whispered. “A human sacrifice?”

  “The fabled necromancer, yes. He's been dead fifty thousand years, but he still lives. Of course, they'll have to kill you to get you to him—he lives in a world of his own making into which no living person can go. You have to be dead to go there.”

  The girl went white. Her knees shook so that she had to lean against the railing to stand erect. She whimpered, "You're only jesting. Say you're jesting, Kothar!”

  He shook his head. Not I! Nor does Red Lori. Why do you think we brought you along, wench? What need have we of a belly-dancer except as a human sacrifice to Afgorkon?"

  “No,” she breathed. “No!”

  "I say he won't take you, but we'll never know until you're dead. Too bad, I say. Flarion seems to think highly of you. Why, I don't know and can't guess—but he does.”

  “Flarion,” she whispered, turning her head to look across the deck.

  "Don't look to him for help," he told her, and left to walk across the deck toward the companionway.

  He grinned as he heard the padding of her slippers as she ran across the planks to the starboard rail where the young mercenary leaned. Turning at the companionway, he saw her clinging to his arm, pleading, lovely face upraised.

  He was turning away when his eyes caught sight of a bright shaft of sunlight some miles away. Its blinding brilliance hurt the eyes. This was no result of any sun This was sorcery. He watched it squinting for a few seconds, then rounded on a heel and dove down the companionway.

  He came into the cabin like a whirlwind. “On deck, the lot of you," he growled, waving an arm, "There's a beam of light coming this way—straight for the ship.”

  Nemidomes cried out sharply. Red Lori made a little gesture with a hand, pushing past the barbarian who swung to follow her. As she came up onto the deck planks she shaded her eyes with a hand, staring northward.

  "Aye, it's wizardry,” she nodded. "Do you have a spell to counter it?” Phordog Fale and Nemidomes were on the deck, staring where the witch-woman looked. It was the plump little man who muttered, "A demon light. There are ways to counteract it but without my scrolls and palimpsests, I'm helpless.”

  "I'm not,” snapped Red Lori, and bent to duck past Kothar.

  Phordog Fale was twisting his pale hands together, face crumpled by fright. Beside him, the little man was sweating profusely, the fear of something worse than death in his eyes. The Cumberian snarled and moved around them to go to the cabin after the redhead.

  She was kneeling before the eidolon, head bent, whispering almost to herself. He stood in there.

  “. . . destroy us before we . . . your power and strength only can . . . must aid us, Afgorkon. . . the assassin will slice the boat in half, burning us all in flames of demonry . . . save us . . . to save the lives of ...”

  As he watched, Kothar caught his breath. For a moment, the faceless stone appeared to shimmer faintly, and he saw eyes in that stone and a face where a face should be. He shivered. These were not the features of the dead lich that had been the Afgorkon who had given Frostfire to Kothar. This was the face of a youthful sorcerer, proud and hard.

  "I see the demon light, it comes out of the seven hells of Eldrak. The sorcery aligned against you and the others is very great, Red Lori. And you are right. That light will burn your ship and everything on it to a cinder!”

  Kothar shivered. Red Lori wailed, “Save us!”

  “I call upon Belthamquar, father of demons. I summon Eldrak, who has permitted this light to be stolen from his seven hells!”

  The voice was strong, like a gale off the northern glaciers. The room was very cold, suddenly. And in that cold, even while he drew his cloak closer about his great shoulders, Kothar thought to see a redly flaming figure standing beside the eidolon. Eldrak of the seven hells? And on the far side of the statue, another demon, Belthamquar!

  “Who calls Eldrak?”

  “And Belthamquar?”

  “I call,” came a voice from the eidolon. "I, Afgorkon, friend to you both. Is this the will of Eldrak, of the demon father? Are all the wizards of Yarth to be slain by a common murderer? Even now a demon light swirls down upon the ship.”

  “I see it,” breathed Eldrak excitedly. “It does come from my burning worlds! But—by what right? I gave no permission!”

  "Then stop it,” snapped Belthamquar.

  Eldrak lifted his hands, cried out thickly, half a dozen words that seemed to sear the very air around him. The barbarian heard voices shouting on deck. He could not make them out, but he realized they were cries of relief, of delight. Apparently the demon light was being recalled back into the seven hells out of which it had been summoned.

  Cold chills ran down Kothar's back as he stared at these demon lords, these gods of space and time, at their shimmering figures flanking the eidolon and the kneeling, trembling witch-woman. Vaguely he understood that Red Lori had called upon tremendous forces and that she was terrified of their awe-inspiring powers.

  Yet Belthamquar did not concern himself with the girl. Rather he stared upon the eidolon with the shimmering face of Afgorkon. The father of demons was clad in a black cloak, his face was not clearly seen, it was as if a blackness were inside the cloak with the glowing golden sigils etched upon its surface.

  "I have not seen this eidolon for five hundred centuries, Afgorkon. Since then, I have assumed it was lost.”

  “As it was. The woman crouched on the floor, and that big barbarian in the doorway brought it up from what was my necromantic chamber.”

  The empty blackness turned toward Kothar. Two gleaming red eyes, smoldering with ancient wisdom, studied his big frame. Sweat came out on the Cumberian's face. His animal senses told him he was in the presence of mystery and strange powers. Yet he growled softly, and put his hand on his sword-hilt.

  There was a dry chuckle. Belthamquar turned back to the statue. “Who stole the demon light from Eldrak?”

  “I do not know. I have tried to find out—and cannot. I know, however, that someone or something is slaying the wizards and sorcerers of Yarth. The dead come from their graves bearing weapons, and where they find the warlocks, there they strike.”

  Eldrak—who was little more than a pillar of red flame, Kothar thought—said wryly, “Why, if they do that, who will call upon us, offering us sacrifices and rare jewels, plus other things which we enjoy?"

  “I have thought of that,” murmured Belthamquar.

  "And I,” breathed the eidolon. "Long have I slept in the worlds I have made, enjoying that which I have created. Yet now it seems I am awake, and aware that I cannot hide away from the call of those who still know life. We must join forces, we three. A necromancer in Yarth is calling upon powers unknown to me, which protects him from my astral eyes.

  "If I could search out this protective shield, learn what causes it, I might be able to destroy it and learn the name of him who kills wizards.”

  “And we shall help," whispered Belthamquar softly.

  “Aye, aye,” nodded Eldrak. “We shall help!”

  The blackness and the glowing redness faded to invisibility. The blurry face on the statue disappeared. Red Lori shivered, still bent before the eidolon, awed and frightened by the terrifying forces her spells had summoned up.

  "Red Lori," came the voice.

  “Yes, master?”

  “Go
you with my coffer of scrolls and with this eidolon to the ruins of Radimore in Tharia. Long, long ago Radimore was the focal point of strange powers. It is where this world of Yarth and those nether worlds of Belthamquar, Eldrak, and the other demons once touched, by a happenstance in the time and space continuum. There are our powers best able to be focused.

  “And go you soon, if you would live.”

  Kothar watched the woman shivering. He stepped forward, caught her under an armpit, hoisted her to her feet. She swayed, staring up at him. Her eyes were glassy, she seemed under a terrible emotional stress.

  "My body . . . they drew on my body to give the . . . the strength to stay here in this world ... while they talked... I thought they would—kill me with their energies....”

  She shuddered, resting her cheek on his chest. Gone was the proud sorceress, she was no more than a fearful woman. And the barbarian found that his feelings toward her were more tender than ever before.

  “Where is this Radimore?"

  “A few miles south of Phyrmyra, where you found me. It is a desolate place. Legends claim that the gods hate it because of olden blasphemies that happened there, but this I do not believe, after what Belthamquar and Eldrak said. We must go there at once, Kothar.”

  "After you have eaten,” he smiled. “I have no need for food.”

  "Just the same, you’ll eat.”

  She sought to resist but she was so weak she was like a child as he drew her by an elbow out to the companionway and up the steps to the deck. They went forward to the galley, where Kothar found meat and bread and filled a tankard with nut-brown ale from Aegypton. He feasted with her, and to them came Phordog Fale and Nemidomes, still frightened by what had happened, to listen to Red Lori's account of what had taken place in the cabin.

  It was decided that they would land at Zoane, that Flarion would hire horses, and that Kothar would remain on board with the others in case the assassin sent more killing corpses. Red Lori must sleep, the mages decided. She would need all her strength for what was to come.

  Flarion offered no argument when the barbarian went to find him. He was oddly pleased, Kothar thought, so much so that he grew suspicious. He put a hand on the young mercenary, gripping his wrist.

  "Think not to flee away with Cybala,” he rasped. "Those three back there in the gallery could find and destroy you with their arts merely by muttering a few words.”

  The youth nodded. "I shall not run away. Trust me, Kothar.”

  The Cumberian did not trust him, there was a triumphant light deep in his eyes that told Kothar he had some plan in mind. “I keep Cybala here. You go alone to Zoane.”

  “As the two moons pass overhead,” nodded the youth.

  The ship lay at anchor in the harbor of Zoane. It was just one among many ketches and merchantmen that plied these salt waters carrying oak to Thuum and rich red wine from Makkadonia to Sybaros and the Southlands, herbs, and spices from Ifrokone and Ispahan, weapons from the forges of Abathor, slaves from the Oasian jungles. Zoane was a crossroads of his world, a seaport to rank with Memphor, on the other-sider of the continent. Tar and pitch and the salt winds-blended with the musk smell of the teak-wood ships from below the equator. It was a rich city, Zoane, and here came all the evils and wickednesses of mankind to be sold over counting tables as if they were no more than shawls from Mantaigne.

  Flarion found Greyling and five more horses in a stable fronting a cobbled alleyway. The five mounts were big beasts and strong. He bought them, guessing shrewdly that they had been stolen. He paid more than they were worth, but Red Lori had been generous with the golden coins she poured into his purse. On a venture such as this, she assured him, gold and jewels meant nothing.

  He was leading his purchases back through the narrow byways and cobbled footpaths when he became aware that he was being followed. He turned, searching the shadows with keen eyes, but he saw nothing more than a dwarf scuttling along close to a building wall. He hailed the midge but the creature never halted. After a time, Flarion walked on with the horses' hooves clip—clopping behind him.

  Grovdon Dokk had swum to a quay and found a longboat for hire. He had rowed back to Wave-skimmer and taken off with Kothar and the two mages together with the belly-dancer. Because of the weight of the eidolon, Red Lori had stayed with it on the ship until the captain could return for it.

  She was paying Grovdon Dokk off with gold bars when Flarion came up, with the horses. She paused to say, “We'll need a wagon for the statue. Go buy one. Or steal it if you have to.”

  In minutes he was back with a two-wheeled cart and a harness into which he fitted one of the horses. He helped Cybala into the cart, then gave Kothar a hand swinging the eidolon up onto the floorboards. The cart creaked protestingly, but it took the weight without snapping a wheel.

  They headed west toward the meadow-lands beyond Zoane. They could go only as fast as the lorry, so it was at a slow walk that they moved through the city streets. Flarion crowded his horse close to that of Kothar, telling him of the dwarf.

  “If he was an informer, we may expect trouble,” the barbarian nodded. "Perhaps he saw the gold with which you paid for the horses and ran to tell a thieves' guild. If so, they'll come after us.”

  But they rode all the night and well into the day without any sign of pursuit. They were deep in the Tharian grasslands, with the hills of western Sybaros a purple line beyond the desert to the north. A wind faintly scented by the high grasses ran here and there, blew about the flocks of birds that dipped and darted, uttering harsh cries.

  They camped by a small stream and ate of the food Red Lori had brought from the ship. They slept, with Kothar standing guard.

  It was the barbarian who saw the dust cloud far to the east but coming nearer, and it was with a sense of unease that he went to wake Flarion.

  "I make it out a body of horsemen, roughly fifty strong” muttered the Cumberian.

  Flarion nodded, then, glanced at the big barbarian. “How far is Radimore? Burdened down by the statue, we can't make a good time.”

  "Then into the cart with Cybala and go as fast as you can. I'll bring up the rear with my horn-bow and hope to slow them down.”

  Red Lori awoke at a touch, nodded agreement with what the barbarian had done. She stared at the distant dust cloud, then at the little cart trundling off across the plain.

  "We can never make it in time. Whatever follows us is coming faster than we can travel.”

  "Then go ahead, you and the magicians. Use your wizardries to summon up help of some kind.” Kothar was at his saddle, lifting his horn from its case. "I'll ride rearguard, keep them back with a few arrows. That ought to give you time to reach the city.”

  She frowned at him. "You're only sacrificing yourself needlessly. Ride with us, Kothar. We do what we can together or—“

  His laughter rang out. "Girl, you've done so much magic-making lately that you forget what, a fighting man can do. Yonder are some rocks, perhaps half a dozen miles away. I'll ride so far with you. And there I stay, to give you others a chance to reach Radimore.”

  He turned her, pushed her toward the others. “Wake them, get them into their saddles. And if you love life—hurry!"

  Chapter Seven

  They were mounted within moments and soon galloping after the creaking lorry. To Kothar, bow in hand and his quiver of arrows beside his right leg, life was beginning to make some sense. Not for him the consultations of demons and gods, the whispers of necromancers! This was what he understood, a headlong gallop across the plains with enemies behind him coming fast.

  Often he turned in the kak and stared at the oncoming dust cloud. He frowned when he studied it, puzzled and uneasy. That dust cloud could only be made by a large body of men on horseback. But what large body of men would be pelting after them this way? Thieves, yes. But there should be no more than a handful of the sly cut-purses who frequented the streets of Zoane trailing them from the seaport city.

  Fifty of the foot-pads banded together t
o rob half a dozen travelers? It was too incredible to consider. But if their pursuers were not street thugs, what were they? Kothar shook his head as he gripped his horn bow tighter. Well, he would know soon enough.

  When they were galloping along the road leading between the rocks, the barbarian drew rein. “Go you on,” he shouted to Red Lori, waving a hand. "I stay to hold them up a little while.”

  She urged her bay mare closer to him, putting out a hand to clasp him. "Be careful, Kothar. Fight your best but—avoid death! Remember,” her lips curved into a faint smile, "you belong to me. I don't want anything to happen to you.”

  Then she was gone after the others, bent above her horse's mane, crouched low in the saddle. Kothar watched her, then swung down from Greyling and began unfastening holding straps. When he was done, he walked in among the rocks carrying the horn-bow and a full quiver.

  A leather sack with a little food in it was tossed over a shoulder, balanced by a fat, water-skin. He sniffed at the air, finding it blowing to the eastward, which would give his arrows more speed. His eyes searched among the rocks as he walked.

  When he came to a level spot protected by several large boulders that looked almost like shields to his war-wise eyes, he dropped the water-skin and the leather food sack.

  Crouching down, he ate slowly, relishing each mouthful. He had an hour at least to wait for that dust cloud to resolve itself into men and horses. Until then he would fill his belly. Dwalka knew when he would get to take another mouthful. He hid Greyling in a little dip.

  Then he settled down to wait, his gaze moving out across the grasslands, finding the dust cloud no longer visible because the horses were pounding along on thick grasses now. Faintly he could make out a large number of dots that turned into men on horseback the nearer they came.

  He nocked an arrow to his string. His sharp eyes, saw metal helmets and nose pieces and mail shirts under surcoats that bore, the boar design of King Midor. Astonishment held him paralyzed a moment.