"Perhaps I would keep my spirit free a few years longer, as long as this body holds together," Jonker replied softly. "Also, there is still something needful of being done."
"What can be done, if all is lost?" Basdon demanded.
"You may recall that I said, while you were dining, that the age of religion would endure twenty thousand years, before man would begin to pull free of the tiring necromancers and a new era of magic would start its growth. My greatest ability in The Art is to see such distant matters with some clarity, if one considers twenty thousand years distant. It really is little more than a moment in the total span of a soul's existence.
"In any event, there will come a moment, in the advance of the new era of magic, when The New Art will be imperiled by its own incompleteness. Men will have learned many important but elementary traits of gross matter and motion. Such as being able to mark out with great precision the path that a thrown object will follow—trivialities no present-day magician would concern himself with.
"The demi-magicians of the future will interest themselves almost exclusively in such pursuits, because the lingering necromancy will block what few efforts are made to examine the nature and abilities of the human spirit. Those who look will usually see nothing but a peculiar obsession with sex—which, as you and I know, will be no basic trait of the spirit, but merely the result of a necromantic geas.
"However, this will allow the continued one-sided growth of The New Art, dealing generally with purely physical matters, while the old religious superstitions will remain accepted in psychical matters. I can't adequately describe to you the weirdness of such a mingling, or the absurdly unbelievable conflicts that will result."
Basdon said, "I think I can imagine a little of it. Having been a god-warrior, and now being . . . whatever I am, I know something of mental conflicts."
"So you do," nodded the magician.
"But you have told nothing of what you said needs to be done," the swordsman reminded him.
"I was getting to that. The age of The New Art will have to surmount its unbalanced development, or destroy itself. To win through the crisis, man will need nothing less than a favoring destiny."
"Favoring destiny?" Basdon asked, puzzled.
"That's good luck in layman's terms," explained the magician. "It was the last great development of The Art, before the decline began a century ago when universal necromancy began to shadow the earth and negate our work. A potent talisman of destinic adjustment still exists amid the ruins of Oliber-by-Midsea. It is powerless now, and defenseless."
"What power did it ever have?" Basdon asked sharply. "I would say the people of earth have seen little good luck during the past century!"
"In answer, I can only say that, bad though our condition is, it could have been worse by far," replied the magician. "The fate we were able to compromise ourselves out of, because of the strength of our favoring destiny, was . . . well, it's best left unhinted at. Even a spirit such as yours, swordsman, with the strength to struggle as you are doing against the geas of the necromancy, might fail if faced, unprepared, by such knowledge."
Basdon nodded acceptance of that, having little curiosity for horrible might-have-beens. "Then you hope to forward this favoring destiny to the next age of magic," he surmised.
"Yes, I wish to recover the talisman of Oliber-by-Midsea and conceal it where it will keep safely. Then, when the universal geas loses its potency, the talisman will begin functioning once more."
"May you fare well in this undertaking," said Basdon. "For myself, I care little for what happens twenty thousand years from now."
This remark appeared to depress the magician. "It is doubtless true that the geas occludes from you all knowledge of the human spirit's infinite survival," he mumbled. "The concept that you will live many lifetimes in many bodies, both during and after the age of religion, has no real meaning for you. Thus, you are not too concerned about future conditions. I regret that. Your help would have been useful in my quest."
Basdon blinked. He should have guessed that all this talk was leading up to something. "You want me to go with you to Oliber?"
The magician nodded. "I will need two with me. First, a guide to the ruined city and to the proper place in it. And second, a man of arms who is familiar with the ways of the god-warriors, as the worshippers of Vishan are now sovereign in the Midsea region. She who will guide is not far away, waiting, as I have been, for the proper third member of our party."
Basdon considered in silence. Finally he spoke. "You said it matters not if bodies be buried or burned. Why is that?"
"Because in either case the universal geas seizes the spirit immediately upon the body's death. Unlike our own piddling black-spellers, those from beyond earth do not need unburnt remains from which to trace and capture the departed soul. They seize all spirits, degrade them into worshippers, and return them to earth to seek new-conceived bodies for new lives as god-warriors and god-women. It saddens me to think the child near birthing by Jarno's wife will, as a near certainty, prove afflicted by the geas."
"Then there is little point in my pilgrimage along the legion's route, if that is true," said Basdon.
"It is true," Jonker assured him. "Although it is not a truth to be told to such good and simple men as Jarno. It is better to let them find comfort in freeing bodies from the earth—and freeing earth from bodies."
Basdon made his decision. "Very well, magician, we will seek Oliber-by-Midsea together. I have little concern for your purpose, but . . . but I have nothing better to do."
Jonker rose and extended his hand to touch Basdon's forehead, the swordsman returning the gesture to seal the pact.
"You will be welcome on those terms," said the magician, "and may the journey be more rewarding than you expect."
2
It was ten days later, after Jonker had settled a substitute keeper in his inn and had dealt with various other matters, when they set out.
Jonker took the lead on his big spotted mare along a trail that led northeast over the fertile rolling countryside of Nenkunal. The packhorse, reined to the magician's saddle, followed, and Basdon rode in the rear.
"The highwitch Haslil," Jonker said over his shoulder, "lives some nine leagues away. She will know we are coming, as she sees minds at a distance, and will probably be ready to join the journey with no delay. Unless, that is, she has had difficulty finding suitable fosters for her small granddaughter."
"She is a woman of some age, then," said Basdon, who had hoped the sorceress who was to be their guide would be youthful, and as like as possible to Suni.
"Haslil is a crone," Jonker replied. "So much so that she's becoming frail. If protected from harm she will endure for the journey to the ruined city; but I don't think she will see Nenkunal afterward."
"Does The Art tell you as much?" asked the swordsman.
"The Art tells me almost nothing of matters in which I am immediately concerned. Only in the distance do events take on clarity. And that is to the good. No man should know of his own death, or, more important, whether an undertaking such as ours will succeed or fail."
"How much does our success depend upon the sorceress?" asked Basdon.
"Heavily. She attended the last Great Assembly, nigh fifty years ago, in Oliber, and knows the location of things. You and I alone would be hard pressed even to find the city, so complete has been the destruction thereabouts by the worshippers. And it would be dangerous indeed to ask directions of the locals."
Basdon nodded. "Oliber-by-Midsea is called a city of evil by the god-warriors. Evil is supposed to still linger about the ruins, and infect the countryside for miles around."
"The place has been cursed, all right," agreed Jonker, "but not by my kind of magic, as the worshippers believe."
The day's ride was pleasant, for men and horses alike. Nenkunal had been fortunate in that the inroads of the coming age had been slower here than in most regions Basdon had traversed. The abundant crops in the fields they r
ode past were ample evidence that the farmers of this land still had the Green Hand. And those tending fields near the trail waved and shouted merrily as the swordsman and magician rode by.
How different they were, Basdon mused, from worshipper farmers, who struggled to the point of exhaustion and surliness for meager and withered harvests. The new age was going to know much of hunger, he told himself glumly.
That night they were put up in the home of a merchant, in a village too small to boast an inn. The next day they rode on toward the cottage of the sorceress Haslil.
The land over which they passed was steepening, with field crops giving way to orchards and the distance between dwellings growing. By midafternoon the hills were small mountains, tangled with timber.
Jonker suddenly reined his mare to a halt and dismounted, waving Basdon to do the same.
"What is it?" asked the swordsman. "We're not there, are we?"
"Haslil's cottage is perhaps a hundred yards ahead, beyond that turn in the trail," said Jonker in a low, tense voice. "But there is trouble."
"God-warriors?" asked Basdon.
Jonker shook his head. "If they were here, they would be everywhere. No, I believe it's a necromancer."
A slight shift of the breeze caused Basdon to sniff the air. "I smell dog odor."
"Black-spellers often house enslaved spirits in dogs," said Jonker. "If we approach it must be on foot. Weredogs would panic the horses."
Basdon answered the implied question by tying his mount's reins to a sapling. Jonker nodded and did likewise. "If we must fight the dogs, try to make your blows fatal. That is the greatest kindness that can be done to a spirit trapped in an animal body." The magician drew his rod from the saddle pack, gripped it and tested its point lightly against the palm of his hand. He sighed, "It lacks the power of old, but it should serve."
"Nothing has cast a shadow on this," replied Basdon, drawing his sword.
They moved forward silently, around the bend in the trail and into view of the sorceress' cottage. The breeze still favored them and they walked on. They were within twenty yards of the door when the dogs took note of them and poured baying from their shelter beneath a porch.
There were eight of the murderously miserable brutes, all of them boar-hunters as large as wolves and armed with vicious teeth.
The two men halted, backs together and weapons poised alertly for the onslaught.
The weredogs skidded to a halt just out of reach and formed a semicircle, leaving the trail behind the men open.
One of them whined, "Avaunt, sirs! You are trespassers here!"
"How is your master called?" demanded Jonker.
"He is called Master," replied the dog. "Begone, or we will feed on your fat belly."
Jonker grunted in annoyance. "Your master is the trespasser here," he snapped. "Now move aside. Once he is properly dealt with, I'll do what I can to free you from your misery."
The dogs conferred among themselves in growls and whimpers in which few words could be distinguished.
"We do our Master's bidding," said the one that had spoken before. He bared his fangs. "Begone, and quickly!"
"We will deal with your master," Jonker replied stubbornly.
With that the pack attacked. Basdon skewered one that came leaping at his throat, and took a tearing bite in the thigh before he could free his blade and slash through the neck of the brute clinging there. The severed head clung to his leg for several moments before falling to the ground. Having learned the folly of thrusting from that beginning, Basdon kept his blade free, guarding himself with quick slashes. A canine howl of terminal dismay behind him let him know the magician's rod was producing dire results.
Then he was too busy to give a thought to Jonker as the remaining dogs concentrated their assault on him.
His blade flashed and sliced repeatedly, blood coursing down its length to spray away from the point on every swing. He was aware of having one squirming monster trapped, his boot firmly on its neck, for what seemed to be an age while waiting for a spare instant in which to dispatch it. The neck gave a convulsive heave and the squirming ended, and Basdon guessed the magician had eliminated that nuisance for him.
The battle was over as suddenly as it started. Every weredog was either dead or mortally wounded, and Jonker moved among the latter giving them the coup de grace while Basdon, now aware of the pain in his thigh, sat on the red-speckled grass and pressed his hand against the wound.
Jonker took note, made an adjustment in his rod, and hurried to the swordsman's side. "Move your hand," he ordered. "I'll cauterize the wound until it can be properly cured. We must hurry!"
Basdon slowly eased his blood-covered hand away, and yelped with anguish as the rod made searing contact. He blinked the tears out of his eyes and saw the torn flesh was no longer bleeding.
He came to his feet, ignoring the pain, and followed Jonker toward the house. The magician hit the front door with rod and boot at the same time, and the door slammed open. He waddled through. Basdon darted in to stand at his side, dripping sword ready for further action.
"Ah, so it's you, Laestarp," Jonker was saying conversationally. "Even in the old days your ethics were dubious. So it has come to this."
He was facing, across the room, a string-bearded magician in a filthy robe, a man who impressed Basdon at first as being abnormally tall, but after an instant he realized the man was merely abnormally thin.
This apparition-like black-speller grinned maliciously. "Ah, Norjek the Fat," he sneered, calling Jonker by what Basdon guessed was his companion's real name. "More ungainly than ever, I see. And in low company if my Art does not mistake me, which it seldom does. A renegade god-warrior, no less."
"Where is Haslil?" Jonker rapped, with no jollity at all.
Laestarp made a grimace of mock regret. "It is sad, but the old girl's soul is now in the care of magicians greater than ourselves," he said piously. "Presumably she knew you were coming, and that gave her the will to be stubborn to the end. She would not bend to my superior power, and as it happens in such unfortunate cases, she broke at last, while you were tormenting my poor servants outside."
The black-speller moved a few cautious steps, keeping his eyes on Jonker, and drew a curtain from in front of a bed nook. The withered, half-naked body of a crone lay there.
"As you can see," Laestarp added, "her spirit has taken its leave, despite my efforts to restrain it here."
"You are a fool, Laestarp," said Jonker. "An overeducated fool."
Laestarp shrugged. "One does as best one can with his abilities, in a world that grows less perfect with each day. But as you can see, good colleague, whatever errand brought you here has come to naught. You need not linger. I will tend to the crone's proper burning, along with that of my cruelly dispatched servants. Let us hope not to meet again, Norjek, as we both seem destined to lose tragically when we encounter."
Jonker's shoulders drooped and he glanced at Basdon. "The harm is done past mending," he muttered. "We may as well return home."
Basdon was cold with anger, and his aching leg did nothing to improve his mood. Before him stood the stereotype of the vile Ungodly Magician, the villain he had been taught to hate as a youthful worshipper, but the like of which he had not previously met in Nenkunal.
"And leave this scum infesting the earth?" he gritted.
"His power to do harm is minimal, now that his dogs are gone," shrugged Jonker, "and the universal geas is now too strong for him to enslave other spirits. Let him live."
Basdon frowned in frustration, but he realized that Jonker had more understanding than he.
"Very well. But you mentioned a small granddaughter of the sorceress . . ."
"Oh, yes," nodded Jonker, "I'd forgotten, the child. We must see her into proper fosterage. Where is the child, Laestarp?"
The black-speller had paled. "Perhaps in the kitchen," he said with a show of unconcern. "Don't trouble yourselves with her, good men. I will see her into kindly keeping when t
he burnings are done."
Jonker studied him for a long moment. Then he sighed. "You are too filled with sly intrigues to read well, Laestarp. But some things are obvious, and others I can guess. Among the former is that you have not the air of a man whose hopes have been confounded. Whatever your purpose here was, you still hope to accomplish it. And the purpose I can guess at. We will have the grandchild, or we will have you dead!"
"Oh, come-come, good colleague!" Laestarp half-whined. "Enough ill has been done this day! Don't irk me by refusing my kindly inclination to let you depart in peace."
"We will have the grandchild," Jonker repeated firmly.
Laestarp looked from one grim face to the other, then smiled. "You are not an easy man to deceive, Norjek. The child is dead, too, but through no deed of mine. It was one of the strange new pestilences that struck her down. I hesitated to tell you this, fearing that in your present mood you would blame her death on me."
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