by Garon Whited
Gradually, I began to feel the mountain as though I were part of it—a rather familiar sensation, actually. It seemed a strangely easy, if slow, process. The mountain and I merged, becoming part of each other again, and I remembered my way around inside it. I remembered what those four towers on the upper peak were for. I remembered the arrangement of the ventilation system, and the water system, and the layout of the streets. I recalled the hidden depths of the mountain passages and the secret of the canals.
A million little details flooded back to me, too many to retain, too much to recall in detail. For those moments that lasted hours, I held the whole of the city and everything beneath it within my mind, as perfect and clear as a single drop of water before it falls from a leaf.
Yes, this was my mountain. We had dreamed a city together. I dreamed the forms and it grew into them. We wandered together in my dreams while I taught it to be a city—how to grow, how to flow, how to breathe, how to live. What should grow back as thousands of feet and wheels and hands and shoulders rubbed against it. What to change and how to change to accommodate the fast-moving flesh.
It was happy that I was pleased with it. I was pleased it was happy. I concentrated on finding a bathroom, and we knew where all of them were, both public and private, above and below.
I let go of the spell and returned to a human time scale. It was already past noon, but I had learned—or remembered—much. Impressions remained of a thousand details, none of which I actually knew, but which would seem familiar to me when I saw them again.
And, strangely, the throne seemed a good deal more comfortable.
Who adapted, the stone or I? Interesting question. It certainly moved a bit, changing the angle, moving the horns closer together and tilting them up into an attack posture. They still didn’t make good armrests, but now I have something I can put my hands on while trying to look regal.
Cats and horses have their ears. Dragons have those two large horns coming out of the back of their heads. I have a headache, because I’m remembering things I have no business knowing.
Without hesitation, I headed to the royal chambers. The quick way: out through the rearmost door in the throne room—excuse me, “great hall”—and into a small sitting room. Then up a narrow spiral stair of stone, and through a private door into my study. Barren and empty for now, like the rest of my chambers, but I could envision how to furnish everything. The study, the bedroom, the receiving room… step outside onto the high terrace—small for a terrace; perhaps really a patio?—along the north face of the mountain’s peak, under a heavy brow of overhanging stone. Walk along the balustrade, look over the city and the surrounding plains… step back into the receiving room and pivot the door closed, run a finger along the seam between door and wall, watch the stone weld together; that’s how you lock a door, if the mountain likes you. Now, through the bedroom and into the bathroom.
A waterfall dominated the room. It was only about eight feet; it plunged into a pool the size of a hot tub in the stone floor. The overflow vanished through a hole in the side of the tub and ran below what was obviously the toilet. A small stream of water emerged from the wall inside the toilet and swirled around before joining the tub runoff and flowing away.
The water steamed slightly; somehow, the mountain heated it. Geothermal processes? No, magical processes. I think. I couldn’t quite recall. While asleep and dreaming a city, the mountain and I came up with something. All I knew for sure was that we’d taken care of it.
I stripped out of my outfit, ran a cleaning spell over all my stuff, and stepped down into the tub.
I still sink like a rock; the density of my flesh is much greater than that of a human being. I’m glad we included an underwater ledge for a seat in the tub. I missed having soap, but a good soak did me a world of good. Lounging in the churning water was surprisingly sybaritic. No towels, but drying off with magic is, while less satisfying, equally effective. Good enough. I headed outside.
The day was into the early afternoon as I took another walk on the top step, all the way around the courtyard wall. The scenery was pretty, but relatively boring. Rolling plains everywhere, sharp mountains to the west, canals running off toward the cardinal points, and a lot of dead dazhu going bad in the sunshine. I felt oddly sad about that last one, probably from a sense of the waste involved. That was meat enough to feed a thousand people, hides enough for blankets, cloaks, even tents…
I walked up one of the staircases along the inner wall of the courtyard and looked through the wilderness area above. The upper slopes of the mountain had been allowed to grow wild with trees, bushes, and vines. Several of the bushes looked as though they might have berries in their season, and many of the trees fruit or nuts. Nothing seemed ready this early in the year, though, so I just gathered up some more fallen wood to take back to the firepit. Something like a snake with batwings looked at me from one tree; I ignored it as long as it stayed where it was. It didn’t seem hostile, just wary.
Back in the great hall, I stacked wood by the firepit and I realized I probably needed to enchant some permanent or semi-permanent lighting spells for the place.
While I thought about different types of lighting spells, I went back out and stood on the steps of the outer courtyard wall, looking south, resting/leaning on the wall between two merlons. I couldn’t see Mochara as anything more than a dark blot to the south and there was no sign of Bronze, yet. I wondered if I might be able to see it more clearly at night. The world is supposed to be flat, after all, and my vampire eyes see as though darkness were a form of light. Then again, smoke, dust, fog, even mist from the ocean would obscure vision eventually…
As I stood there thinking, a power came over me. I felt the spell drive home like a bolt of lightning and just had time to realize what was happening. The world darkened and disappeared.
Fade to black.
Falling. Hot. Cold. Hotcoldhotcoldhotcold, merging rapidly into a generic warmth, like pulses of light so rapid they become a single, steady glow.
And not falling.
I was sitting in a comfortable chair. Before me was a circular Colosseum in miniature, no more than ten feet across. I looked down into it, saw smooth, black sand for the floor.
“Ah, there we are.”
I looked up. Across from me was another chair. A man occupied it. He looked amused. His face was round, with a trace of jowls. Thin, blonde hair, possibly going silver, crowned his head. He smiled a lot. To the left and right, other chairs, other occupants, all shadowy and not-quite-there, ringed the miniature arena.
I tried to stand. I couldn’t get out of the chair. It was as though I was a part of the chair, or vice versa. Disconcerting and annoying.
“Last I recall, I was standing in a courtyard,” I observed.
“Indeed. We saw that. But now your body is lying in a courtyard, and your consciousness is here, with us.”
“I presume you have a reason?”
“Of course. This is a dream-spell. Together, we have reached across the miles to bring you here, to this arena. Since you are difficult to challenge physically, you will face us here.”
Dream-spell. I knew this spell, sort of. I couldn’t have cast one—at least, I don’t think so—but I understood immediately what it was. It created a pocket of dreaming for combatants to use as a personal battleground. This was a lot like a contest of wills, a duel between wizards, but the magicians’ version of it. Normally, magicians of Zirafel would both cast the spell, with a third coming along as arbiter, but it could be cast on an unwilling subject if you could manage to get close enough to him, and had enough power reserves to force it.
Of course, that made it less of a duel and more of an assassination. Zirafel outlawed them outside of formal dueling occasions. The person casting the dream-spell could end it before being seriously harmed, but the target of the spell had no choice—and, therefore, could eventually be killed. Hence, an assassination tool, rather than a dueling spell.
If the Church is
no longer after me, will I still be a target when I go home? Something to think about, since someone obviously is after me. I don’t like it.
That was on the surface of my thoughts. Deeper down, there was an enraged thing that was entirely displeased with having someone interfere with my mind. I did my best to chain it, to harness it, but I’m not sure I was entirely successful. I have a lot of repressed anger.
“Aren’t these things illegal?” I asked, and I could hear my tone, cold as a killer frost. I saw him wince.
“Slightly. We have a special dispensation from the King of Rethven.”
“I see,” I said, trying hard to suppress the rage at what had been done and deal with the situation in hand. “All right. Is this one pure imagination?”
“No. Only the things you have seen or experienced. Real things, not some phantasm conjured from the depths of your twisted fancy.”
I looked around the arena.
“And the things your assistants have?”
“Yes. You are immortal, after all, and we have no way of knowing how long you have lived.”
“Not exactly fair,” I noted, still struggling with my tone. He licked his lips and shrugged.
“No, but this isn’t meant to be. Are you ready?”
“No, but that won’t stop you. By the way, is there some way you would prefer to be addressed? I don’t want to just say, ‘Hey, you.’ It seems impolite.”
“You may call me ‘Magician Hagus’.”
“And these?” I asked, nodding toward the shadowy, wavering figures. Hagus smirked.
“Assistants in bringing the spell to you,” he said. “No one of importance.”
“I see. Thank you. You may call me ‘Halar’.”
“Very good. I shall go first.”
In the arena, a dragon appeared. In scale, it was probably about forty feet long. It was quite pretty, all green and black, with some reddish glints on its scales. I remembered, without remembering where I learned it, that the things summoned from the memory would have a certain independence and quasi-reality. The spell would manufacture what the participants remembered, with all the qualities and powers they recalled.
“Impressive,” I observed, and thought for a moment. I never saw a dragon that big, but I have seen some things to compare.
A helicopter gunship appeared. As the dragon roared and flapped toward it, the gunship unloaded its missiles in a massive barrage. The dragon disappeared in the explosions, leaving only the steady whup-whup-whup of the hovering vehicle.
“What is that?” Hagus asked, wincing as his mental creation was destroyed.
“It’s a dragon from my homeland,” I replied. Round one to me. The gunship faded from existence.
“Very well,” Hagus said. “You win that one. Winner goes first.”
“All right.” The advantage was generally to the loser. The winner picked something, while the loser merely had to come up with an adequate response.
Well, I have memories I don’t know about, obviously. I blame my overeating in Zirafel. So I thought to myself, What’s the most powerful and dangerous thing anyone in Zirafel could have ever known, seen, or experienced?
The Iron Bull of Colchis. Nice place, Colchis. Lovely climate, nice ocean views, had a thriving trade with Salacia. Known for its iron mines. It also had a massive bull, all of iron, thirty feet at the shoulder, that acted as the city’s primary defense against invaders. Every year, the magicians of the city would gather around it and enhance it in some way. Colchis fell to sea invaders, who stayed in water too deep for the Bull to reach them while they simply bombarded the place with fire and spells. With no city to guard, the Bull simply lay down on the beach and never moved again. It may still be there, buried under sand and tides.
Hagus’ eyebrows went up. I think I surprised him.
“I didn’t think anyone had ever actually seen the Iron Bull. I almost thought it was a myth!” he said. I shrugged. I wondered what he would come up with.
He didn’t disappoint. The sizzling, smoking thing that appeared was only a little larger than man-sized, but it was amorphous. The Bull stepped on it, and it squished—and didn’t care. Indeed, it started crawling up the Bull’s leg, sizzling and eating away at the iron as it did. The Bull bucked and scraped, trying to get it off with another hoof, dragging it through the sand, twisting in ways no normal bull could manage. Whatever the thing was, it sizzled everywhere it touched the Bull. It didn’t like the scraping against the sand; that seemed to smear it in large patches.
While they fought, I examined the spell I was in. It’s hard to do that from inside a spell, especially when it’s a spell that drags you into your own head, or out of it. There didn’t seem to be an easy way to escape it. Well, there was: stand up. Since it wasn’t my spell, though, that wasn’t really an option; this one included a binding spell to keep me in it, which meant I was, effectively, tied to the chair.
At the end, the Bull won, but only on points. All four legs, both horns, and much of the face was gone, eaten away. The sheer mass and size of the thing was too much for the acid monster to eat away quickly. With the goo all over the body, the remaining part of the Bull writhed and twisted in the sand, crushing, squishing, and scraping the goo into a dull smear on the arena floor.
Hagus grimaced and rubbed at one temple. Round two.
“I think I am taking a dislike to you,” he said.
“I already know I don’t like you. Here, try again.” I attempted to recreate the Iron Bull, but nothing happened.
“You can only use anything once,” he pointed out.
“That’s new. I don’t recall that from the original version of this spell,” I said. He looked startled.
“The original version?”
“Yes. The one used in Zirafel, for magicians’ duels. Back then, you could summon the same thing over and over again until your opponent found a good counter for it, or conceded.”
“Wait. You know this spell from Zirafel?”
“Of course. I haven’t studied in Arondael, at this new Academy of yours,” I told him. Hagus’ expression was almost unreadable, but I detected a trace of concern.
“Just how old are you?” he asked, almost casually.
“Older than I ever expected to be, that’s for certain.” I thought about it for a moment. If I consumed half a million souls in Zirafel, and I kept, say, just one percent of their accumulated knowledge and experience, that would be five thousand lives. If the average age was—let’s low-ball it—about twenty years old, then that would be a hundred thousand years of experience. Let’s say that ninety percent of that is stuff common to everyone, leaving only ten percent that actually counts as unique experience. So, only about ten thousand years.
I really don’t feel that competent. I suspect I don’t even keep one percent; it’s probably much lower. See how easy it is to make the numbers sound intimidating?
“At a guess,” I told him, “it’s definitely no more than ten thousand years, probably somewhat less. How long ago was Zirafel cursed?”
Hagus said nothing, but looked less than happy. That was fine with me. I wasn’t here to make him happy.
“Your move,” he said, finally.
As our game wore on, I learned a lot about the strategy involved, usually at the price of having a sharp lance of pain go through my head and stay there. I learned why Hagus had that unpleasant expression on his face; he wasn’t planning to have a major headache so early on. I’m glad he did; I didn’t need him to be at his sharpest.
When going first, it was important to have something with strong general defenses; the countermove generally came out swinging. That limited the options for the winner, as well as giving the loser a chance to fine-tune his counterstrike. Worse, each conjuration could only manifest once for each participant; it was a good idea to keep a few really impressive things in reserve, because, once used, it couldn’t be called again.
The problem faced by both Hagus and myself was the unfamiliarity of some of the mo
ves. He had never seen a main battle tank; I had never even heard of some of his monsters. One of them looked like a mouth full of teeth with a hundred long, whippy tentacles—nothing else. Another reminded me vaguely of a scorpion, but with spear-like appendages instead of pincers, and a tail that had three barbed lashes instead of a stinger. I wondered if they were from other worlds, seen through scrying portals, or creatures created in magicians’ laboratories. Of course, Rethven is one small kingdom in a very large world…
Also, when going first, one could alter the terrain. After a loss, I found Hagus gave his monster—something like an eight-legged panther with a sharp, scything tail—a jungle to play in. I countered with a Harrier and a load of napalm. I could have used a dragon, I suppose, but keeping the opposition worried and off-balance is important, too.
While we played, I discovered that I could direct my summoned creations myself, or leave them to their own devices. Either course was possible, depending on the situation; the Harrier didn’t need much help to lay napalm on a jungle, for example. Hagus directed his creations himself, at first, but started letting them fend for themselves as we continued. The smarter the thing conjured, the less it required tactical help from the player.
Moreover, as time went on, we both developed rather severe headaches. Every loss was another lancet of pain. I don’t know how Hagus felt, but I was wondering when my brain would start bleeding. The most I could hope for was to hurt him enough that he finally gave in and stood up to end the spell. For me, that would be victory: surviving.
I lost count, but I think we were at eighteen to sixteen, my favor, when the sunset started. Even in this quasi-real dream realm, I felt it.
“Oh, you sneaky, underhanded, backstabbing bastard,” I said. He smiled knowingly.