Kothar and the Wizard Slayer

by Gardner F Fox

  Why was King Midor interested in them? It was a question he could not answer. And so, when he found himself faced by an enemy to shoot at, he let go the arrow. It flew fast and straight, burying itself in the chest of a horseman. The rider threw up his arms and pitched sideways from the saddle. Three times Kothar shot. Three men were on the ground bleeding out their lives before the war captain threw up his right arm, realizing they were faced by a sharpshooting foe, and yelled for his men to scatter.

  The war captain dropped into the high grasses, holding his small shield chest-high so he could see over its rim. He was a tall man, with a lean middle and a deep chest, with very long arms. His face under the nose-piece and cheek plates of his helmet was swarthy, there was a jagged scar along one side of his jaw. Kothar knew he was a veteran fighting man, known as Captain Oddo of Otrantor.

  His men obeyed him implicitly, they were out of their kaks and into the grass within seconds. They made unseen targets now, but Kothar was too impatient to wait until one or another showed himself. He grimaced, not liking what he was about to do, but Red Lori and the others were in bad straits, between the pits of Koforal and the poisonous swamps of Illipat.

  He began shooting the horses. Six mounts were down before the war captain bellowed, “They'll leave us afoot if we don't stop them.” Evidently he thought that more than one man was doing the bow work. "There can't be many, I only saw two warriors. At them!”

  He sprang to his feet, shield up and covering his head and chest as he ran. His men followed him, imitating his posture. Yet Kothar downed three of them despite their quick shield-play. There were too many to stand them all off, and they ran swiftly as men who feared for their lives.

  Kothar turned and sped away. They saw him fleeing, but they were convinced that more than one man had been shooting those arrows and so they did not rush after him pellmell and without regard for their own skins. They kept their shields up and their swords ready to stab or slash as they went warily among the rocks.

  Kothar ran for the gray horse. Scorning the stirrups he vaulted over its croup and into the Saddle. He kicked Greyling into a gallop.

  He rode seemingly recklessly, yet there was no finer horseman anywhere in Yarth than Kothar the barbarian. His strong hand on the reins, his shiftings, in the high-peaked saddle, eased the way of the stallion between the rocks and along those stretches of flat dirt between them.

  He made good time, yet always as he rode his eyes searched the tumbled boulders for another spot from which to make a stand. And when he had come to it, he leaped from the saddle, scrambled behind a big boulder, and waited.

  The stallion he let wander. Its reins were trailing along the ground, it would not go far. And now Kothar wet a finger, held it up, testing the wind. He grinned coldly. It was still blowing eastward, it would give his shafts a little added distance and power.

  He set arrow to bowstring, waiting. The soldiers would discover soon enough that there were no men hidden among the rocks, they would be after him shouting for his blood. Against only one man, they would grow careless for a little while . . . .

  The horn bow bent. An arrow sailed high into the sky. It came down fast, so swiftly that no eye saw it until it buried its feathers in the throat of a young warrior. The man tried to Scream, could not, and pitched forward on his face.

  The small shields came up, but Kothar was so far away and the arrows moved so swiftly that no man saw them until it was too late. Three more men were down, kicking out their lives, before anyone thought to go back for the horses and ride to meet this archer who shot with such unerring marksmanship.

  Then they came between the rocks at a gallop, moving so swiftly that not even Kothar could aim with any hope of success. He flashed one shaft in a man's arm, but wasted four in among the boulders.

  He snarled and leaped for his saddle. Greyling ran as he had rarely run before. Out of the rocks he flashed like a silver arrow along the flat savanna. An hour of such racing and Kothar could see, low on the horizon, what had been the city of fabled Radimore, which was perhaps the oldest city on Yarth. Tales were told of Radimore, that it had been the home of those people who first worshiped the dark god, Pulthoom. It was the birthing place of all magicians, for it had been here in the subterranean cellar-ways of this city that magic-first came into being.

  He saw. Flarion waiting at the emptiness. which had been the city gate eons ago. The youth raked the seemingly empty savanna with his stare, nodding.

  “You came like the wind, faster than the soldiers. Greyling is a horse to be proud of.”

  “The others?”

  “Safe enough, for the nonce. Follow me.” They went along the dusty streets until they came to a building set before a city square, its facade covered with grotesque carvings, eroded by wind and rain. Red Lori was there, coming from the building door, with Phordog Fale and Nemidomes, at her elbows. In the background shadows he could make out Cybala, hiding.

  "I killed a few, the others follow me," he snapped, dismounting.

  Phordog Fale shook his bald head framed in white hair. “I fear it's useless. This is a strange city, very strange. There is an evil about it—“

  He broke off, wringing his hands.

  Nemidomes wiped his plump, sweating face. “What he means to say is—we're doomed. We perish here, the lot of us.”

  Kothar looked at the witch-woman. She spread her hands. "He speaks truth. There is a curse of some sort upon it, like a miasma from a poisoned swamp.” She shivered, looking about her. "It's in the very air, this evil. It—frightens me.”

  Kothar tried to cheer her with, "But you three are experts in sorcery! Surely the demons will come to you... protect us....”

  “We face more than wizardry,” muttered the plump little man. “We deal not with demons but with—things of some other world, another place in the universe. They come and gibber at us, when night-falls As if they were—waiting.”

  The shadows seemed to lengthen as the barbarian watched. He had fought long, he had ridden across the afternoon to come to Radimore. Now it was dusk, and night was gathering darkness in the sky and in the more shadowy places of the ancient city.

  "Let's build a fire,” he snarled with the barbarian's directness. "The spirits can't harm us in the light.”

  Flarion laughed harshly. "Can they not? I think they can. Nevertheless, come with us, Kothar.”

  He led the way through the deserted, moldy hall of the big building to its back entrance, which gave upon a large courtyard. Here a bonfire blazed, its flames red and leaping. It crackled cheerily, yet Kothar could hear a faint whispering, a breathing, above the snap of fire-devoured twigs.

  "They come,” moaned Cybala, shrinking close to Flarion.

  He saw them first as swirling mists, dancing bits of fog that came from windows and doorways and leaped and twisted in their coming.

  They whispered, softly and lightly, laughing shrilly, chuckling in obscene ways. All about them were these gray wisps, sentient and wicked. They edged toward the six travelers in hoppings and skippings that made them the more terrifying by their very lightheartedness.

  Kothar yanked out Frostfire and strode to meet them.

  Lori screamed, but the barbarian ignored her warning to slash sideways at a twisted bit of mist that slid to envelop him. Through the mist went Frostfire as though it slashed at air. Yet the gray thing touched the barbarian and where it fastened unseen claws, wet and slimy, burned with the fury of a thousand poisoned needles.

  The barbarian bellowed, trying to shake-free. They were attacking the others. He saw Red Lori down on the ground, writhing and screaming, trying to battle the thing with her hands. And Phordog Fale was backed against a building wall, pushing, thrusting against a nothingness that ate at him.

  Flarion used sword and dagger, but uselessly. In moments he was falling, yet still battling. And Cybala was a step beyond him, hands to her pretty face, screaming. Plump Nemidomes was crouched over a fallen bench, seeking to fend off those stinging mists.<
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  It may have been the magic in the sword Frostfire that hurt the gray mists attacking Kothar. For suddenly as he slashed, their obscene chucklings and merry giggles turned to angry cries and shrill snarls. He could see the gray become scarlet, shot with anger. It seemed also that he could make out a serpentine form within the mists, and something so hideously shaped its very existence was a blasphemy against all that was normal and natural.

  He also saw claws sharply pointed, scarlet. Instead of ripping just flesh, they tore into his mail and through the leather of his jerkin. He fought, though he was covered with a hundred wounds. Frostfire moved almost of its own will, in a figure-eight pattern that cut to left and right through those eerie beings.

  They slashed the leather of his belt pouch, and out upon the courtyard paving tumbled the jewels and golden coins and bars that he had taken from the tomb of Kandakore. Along the flaggings they bounced while Kothar fought for his very life.

  “Afgorkon Aid me! Give me—strength!” he panted.

  A serpentinered fog screamed horribly. The claws went away, the beings drew back. Kothar panted, blood running from arms and chest and thighs. His sword was a very heavy weight in his hand, now; he wondered if he could lift it again to defend himself when the things came back.

  Yet they did not attack him again. He could hear their hissing speech faintly, as though from far away, as they retreated slowly from him and—from the others. Red Lori was sitting up, a hand to her fallen red hair, looking about her dazedly. Phordog Fale was slumped against the building wall while Cybala knelt weeping over an unconscious Flarion.

  Nemidomes picked himself up, stared around wildly. "They're—going! Leaving us. But—Why?”

  Kothar shook his head. Lori came to him, touched his bleeding arm and chest. "They cut right through your mail, the leather of your jerkin. Strange. To me their claws were like tiny teeth sunk into my blood, drinking my life. But you—“

  The Cumberian shook his sword. "The magic in this thing hurt them, made them angry. They wanted to make me suffer before they took my life.

  “Why did they stop, Kothar?”

  "I called on Afgorkon.”

  She shook her head. "No, it was more than that. She drew back, staring at the fallen gems and gold that had come out of his belt-purse. She bent down, ran her fingers across an emerald and a big ruby.

  Kothar grinned, "My curse runs true, you see. For possessing Frostfire, I was about to lose more than my life. They took away my treasure first.”

  The witch-woman shook her head impatiently. "No, no. It was for some other reason, I'm sure. Phordog Fale! Nemidomes! Come help me.”

  They came running, but it was Lori who cried out, hand darting. Her fingers closed about a disc and lifted it toward the firelight from the campfire. It had grown dark, the city was shrouded by night. Yet, with the leaping flames reflecting on the disc, Kothar could see the intertwinings carved on its surface that had reminded him of a great snake, when he had first seen it, in a Zoane alleyway.

  “The disc of Antor Nemillus,” breathed the woman.

  “I recognize it,” the barbarian muttered. Her green eyes glowed up at him. Her breasts moved to her excitement as she said, "Don't you understand? It was this that kept us safe—this!” Her fingers closed around the disc, and triumph flared in her stare. "He gave us—safekeeping with this thing. But those demon beings would only obey—their master!”

  Phordog Fale scowled, “But that means—”

  “Yes! Antor Nemillus wishes us dead. He sent those—those eerie things to devour us, not knowing who we were, only that we six travelers were dangerous to him. But the servants of Omorphon saw only the disc—Omorphon's self on it. They drew back away from it, thinking us protected by their lord.”

  She stood up. “We know now Antor Nemillus is the one who has been slaying the magicians of Yarth! He sent soldiers to slay us before we could reach here with the eidolon. When that failed, he summoned up Omorphon's servants and set them upon us. Aye, he knows three of us are magicians, and that we pose a threat to him."

  Kothar said, “But he was attacked in Zoane!"

  "Someone learned he was the wizard-killer sought to do what we've been trying to do—and failed when you stopped him, Kothar!”

  "Find that man, then. Learn what he knows." Red Lori shook her head. "No time for that. Antor Nemillus will know now that we are protected in some manner. He may or may not suspect the cause. We must act fast!"

  “But how?” quavered fat Nemidomes. The woman bit her lip, frowning. "Magic won't work,” grinned the barbarian. "You've tried that. Even Afgorkon with Belthamquar and Eldrak could not help us. Antor Nemillus is too well protected. Instead—send me.”

  “You?”

  "Make a fake eidolon! Let me carry it to Zoane, offer it to the mage with the assurance that I am a turncoat, that I want no more of you. Let him think I would rather be on his side. Then—I'll take off his head with Frostfire.”

  She smiled faintly. “The barbarian treatment for any danger—slay it! No, no, we must be clever, Kothar. Clever!”

  Yet when they had eaten, speaking all the time of plans and plots, they could not come up with any better idea. Lori did not like the plan, she said as much. Yet she could offer no other solution.

  "He will kill you horribly, you know,” she told him, “if he suspects the truth.”

  The Cumberian shrugged, reached for his fur cloak and rolled himself up in it to sleep. The witch-woman brooded at him, sighed, then turned her eyes to the fire to sit there, dreaming

  The soldiers of the king came early to Radimore, but they found the barbarian in the gateway with Flarion at his side. Kothar held aloft the safe conduct sigil that Antor Nemillus had given him.

  “Why didn't you show that yesterday?” asked Captain Oddo.

  "This is the seal of Antor Nemillus. You wear Midor's livery.”

  The war captain spat, "Same thing, these days. Midor does what his magician says, not having any will of his own. I'm not sure I ought to obey, that device you hold—but I don't dare disobey. We'll ride back to Zoane and get further orders. Then—we may meet again.”

  He raised his hand, shouted to his horsemen.

  They rode back across the savanna in lines of two, like trained veterans. Kothar watched them go, finding a touch of kinship with these cavalrymen inside him. He was a soldier, a mercenary. At another time and in another place he might have been that war captain.

  "Damn all magicians," he breathed. Red Lori waited in the courtyard for him. "I have prepared a second eidolon," she muttered, tapping a stone statue that Kothar could not have told from the original. "I have summoned up Afgorkon, asked him to keep his eyes and ears on this simulacra. In such fashion shall we be able to keep in touch with you.”

  She hesitated, biting her lips. "Don't do something stupid in Zoane. Antor Nemillus is a clever mage, which is why I can't use cantraipal spells to send you to him, you have to go in the cart carrying the eidolon. It would never do for you to arrive in Zoane ahead of those soldiers.”

  An hour later he was moving through the gate, cartwheels creaking as the horse pulled at its harness straps. Kothar sat on the little seat, Greyling trotted at the end of a tether. His bow and saddle, arrow-quiver and sword lay in the back of the cart beside the statue. It would take several days to reach Zoane at this slow pace; before then, Antor Nemillus might well decide to slay Red Lori and the others.

  Three days later he creaked into the seaport city.

  The gate guards passed him through. No man or woman sought to stop or even question him as the cart rattled across the cobbles toward the big town mansion which was the property of Antor Nemillus. Only when he came to stand at the oaken door of that house and knock, was there anyone to bar his way.

  Then it was merely a servant girl, with long brown hair and an over-tight woolen tunic which showed off her ripe figure, who opened the door to him and stood aside with a flirtatious glance from her dark eyes.

  "The ma
ster has been expecting you,” she murmured.

  As he followed her swaying haunches across a flag-stoned lower hall, the barbarian wondered whether the magician knew also of his scheme to slay him. It was in something of a suspicious mood that he came to a stop in a great dining hall where Antor Nemillus sat to breakfast.

  The necromancer was in high good humor, waving an expansive hand. "Come join me, man of the Northlands. Sausages, chilled ale, freshly baked bread—ask of me what you will. I remember your face, you see, and the night you saved my life in an alleyway.”

  Kothar pulled back a chair, perched his rump onto it. Two pretty girls ran to place a wooden platter before him and serving trays heaped with steaming meat within easy reach. The magician watched him with sunken eyes in which the barbarian thought to read a sly mockery.

  He ate warily, fearing poison, until the sorcerer taunted him for his fears. “I would never resort to anything so mundane as ground glass or hemlock. No, no. Mine is a better way. If I wanted to be rid of you—I could blast you into the vast abysses where Omorphon dwells. It would not be clean death. No!”

  The Cumberian believed him, and so he ate more heartily. When he was done, he spoke of the eidolon, explaining how he fetched it from the sea and how Red Lori spoke to it. Of—how he fought the soldiers and the mist-beings of the serpent-god he told freely and openly, while the mage popped dates into his mouth and munched, nodding his head from time to time.

  "It is so my magical waters have showed me, barbarian. All these things you have done, yes. What troubles me is, why should you desert your friends?

  “Friends! What friends have I, a sell-sword? Red Lori I put in a silver cage for Queen Elfa of Commoral. Later, I trapped her in the tomb of Kalikalides and sealed it with silver. Lori hates me, she considers me her property.”

  "And you would be free of her?”

  "I like not magic,” growled the barbarian, honestly enough, “but I've gotten into something I like no better than I do spells and incantations. I thought that by coming here and giving you this eidolon I stole, I might buy your friendship.”