Falconfar 02-Arch Wizard

by Ed Greenwood

  Good. Let it ponder and worry. Narmarkoun let his smile broaden.

  This time, his orders would be delivered in the friendliest of manners. As affable as he could be, to leave the lorn wanting to obey him—and also to leave it no doubt at all that disobeying him would mean swift and painful death.

  Yes, send a wolf to watch the foxes—after sending the foxes to spy and plunder.

  "D'YE THINK THIS is really it? The way out?" Garfist's growled whisper was dark with disbelief, and Iskarra didn't blame him. They'd descended more than a dozen—she'd lost count, several stairs back—floors, without seeing or hearing anyone moving about. Anyone. And even wizards need servants.

  Especially wizards need servants, if they are as busy as Dooms of Falconfar, and want to fill their bellies with more than gruel and hardloaves. Moreover, Iskarra was willing to wager quite a few coins that enspelled monsters made poor cooks. And probably worse dusters and moppers.

  "I hope so," she murmured in his ear. "Now be quiet. Can't you see what's waiting down there?"

  They both could, which was why they were hesitating on an empty landing, restlessly pacing back and forth, so heart-singingly nervous.

  From where they stood, a broad flight of wide, splendid steps curved down into what looked like a grand entrance hall. A lofty-ceilinged, crimson-walled room dominated by two rows of massive, polished mottled-stone pillars that marched down its heart.

  Beyond the last pair of pillars, the chamber ended in a pair of narrow but very tall matched doors, opening in the direction of Harlhoh—and, Iskarra was willing to wager her very last coin, onto some sort of terrace and a commanding view out over the hold. Malragard, she was certain, would rise like the gauntleted fist of a conqueror above the roofs of Harlhoh, in a constant, daunting reminder of who watched over everyone and ruled their very lives with every whim.

  There were six pillars in each row, each one perhaps three good strides from the next, forming a promenade or passage between the two rows about five paces wide. The spaces between the pillars at each end of the rows and the next pillars inwards along the rows were empty, but the three innermost pillar-gaps in each row framed silent, motionless statues.

  Or perhaps more than statues. Neither Gar nor Isk doubted that a wizard's magic could hold a living beast as motionless as any statue, and yet keep it alive—and the six immobile shapes between the pillars looked very much alive.

  They faced inwards, toward each other, and weren't breathing or moving in the slightest.

  Which was a good thing, because they looked to be the most fearsome monsters either Gar or Isk had ever seen, bar a great-fangs.

  The nearest was a dark purple-black hulk that seemed to rear up on the ends of its many reaching tentacles, its back an ominous hump pierced by several large, sunken, weeping black pits of eyes.

  Next to the many-tentacled thing was a creature that floated in midair well off the hall floor. Its body was a wrinkled carrot-like mass that could probably balloon out to hold whatever it ate, for the blunt front end of it was split by a huge, fang-studded maw. That fearsome biting mouth was fringed about with many small and staring yellow eyes, and flanked by gigantic pincer-arms shaped like those of a hot sands scorpion.

  Beside the floating maw was a creature the likes of which Garfist had fought before, long ago, only this one was easily seven times the size of the one that had nearly killed him. It was a slithering, flat-bodied snake that reared up to support a bulbous head large enough for three such serpentine bodies. That head sported a forest of needle-like, overlapping biting fangs and many, many eyes. Gar happened to know that the two large "main eyes" were falsenesses: gaps in the thing's tough black hide where its bony skull showed through, in socket-shaped plates stronger than his favorite sword had been.

  Across the central promenade, facing that trio of monsters, was a second: a sleek but flaring-shouldered giant cat frozen in mid-prowl, that had a hairless, bone-armored snouted head, its jaws surrounded by large, thrust-forward mandibles like those of a gigantic beetle; a three-necked and three-headed wolf; and a spindly-legged spider that sprouted four long, thin, snake-like necks from its central body, all of them ending in nasty-looking, stabbing poison-stingers.

  "That last one probably drinks blood through those four stingers," Iskarra murmured, "and I just know they're all real, and alive—and that something we'll have to do, to get out, will rouse them all."

  "Dooms of Falconfar are right bastards, ye know?" Garfist agreed, peering down at the six monsters with narrowed eyes. "Is there a door hereabouts we can get behind, and hold closed, if those things awaken and come after us?"

  Iskarra gave him a forlorn look. "Do I look blind or forgetful?"

  She waved one bony arm at the walls around them. "I've sought with these eyes, yet not found. I suspect there are quite a few doors in that far wall, across the entry hall, but I can't see them. Can you? Moreover, Old Ox, I find myself strangely unwilling to go strolling down past yon beasts to get a better look."

  "Right," Garfist growled. "I will, then." He set off down the stairs at a lumbering trot, ignoring Iskarra's desperate hiss from behind him—even when it rose into a scream.

  RAGE STILL AFIRE in him, Malraun aimed his wands at the shop that offended him—its roof was heavy-laden with Hammerhand's archers, albeit cowering flat on their faces, hiding from him—and unleashed their fires.

  The shop exploded in flames, its roof torn to tatters and hurled back up the hill to Hammerhold, shedding broken or shrieking bodies all the way. The thuddings and spatterings of their landings made a brief, dull rain as he turned to glare at the next refuge where warriors were hiding from him: a large but ramshackle old barn that... ceased to exist as his wands howled once more.

  There wasn't much left of the heart of Irontarl, now, and his rage was dying down. Almost as fast as the flames his wandfire had spawned, that now danced here and there, licking through blackened beams and ruined ashes beneath.

  Malraun turned away from his carnage with a snarl, suddenly weary of it all. He'd blasted almost everyone he'd seen, and what had it achieved?

  Well, Hammerhand would no longer lord it over Lyrose—if there was anything of Lyrose left, to stand anywhere in Ironthorn.

  As he glared at Lyraunt Castle, he saw a woman turn on its highest balcony and flee inside. Mrythra Lyrose.

  Malraun the Matchless sighed. Would he be reduced to enthroning a spiteful lass? Or marrying her off to Tesmer and getting caught up in endless skirmishes with Narmarkoun the Cowardly Lurker, and all his walking corpses?

  Pah; fancies to entertain later. Right now, he must see for himself what little was left of his Lyrose tools.

  He took off his wand-belt and held it high as he waded the river, then rebuckled it around his naked, dripping body and stalked unconcernedly up to the gates of Lyraunt Castle.

  As guards fled at his approach, leaving those tall doors untended, Malraun noticed they were fire-scorched and blood-spattered.

  He found himself utterly uncaring as to why, and managed a shrug. Increasingly he was uncaring and uncurious. Perhaps that was what had afflicted Arlaghaun. Perhaps it was the price of rising to rule all Falconfar.

  Right now, he didn't care to even bother thinking about it. A wand found its way into his hand, roared at his command, and the great gates ceased to bar his way.

  He strode through the smoke of their destruction. Let their fate be shared by all who hampered his path, or defied his will.

  "ONE THING'S CERTAIN," Garfist growled, ignoring Iskarra's raging commands, "and another's likely. 'Tis certain that if we stand waiting here long enough, we will be discovered. Probably by a Doom of Falconfar returning home, who can blast us to ashes in half a breath, if he's feeling merciful. The likely thing is that someone will come upon us right now, if ye don't shut up."

  He whirled around to deliver these last words right into Iskarra's furious face, with slow and heavy menace. She blinked at him—and shut her mouth.

  I
n the resulting silence, Garfist smiled, gave her a nod of pure pleasure—and stepped off the bottom step of the stairs, turning sharply to the right to stalk along the wall.

  A glow of light promptly kindled in the empty air just inside the tall front doors of Malragard.

  Iskarra stared at it—and then turned her head sharply to glare at the pillars and their statues. Had one of those motionless monsters moved? Garfist trudged along the wall as if heading unconcernedly home down a deserted lane at the end of a tiring but satisfying day of field-work, paying no apparent attention at all to what was happening elsewhere in the entry hall.

  He was watching, though. When something rose silently up out of the apparently solid stone floor in the heart of that brightening radiance before the doors, and it turned out to be a stone table strewn with gems and gold—coins, a huge crown and scepter, and an orb thickly encrusted with jewels—he veered toward it.

  "No," Isk snapped from behind him, in the cold tones of command. "It's a clear trap, Gar. If those are real at all, touching them—mayhap even stepping too close to the table—will mean your death. Let's just get out of here. Alive."

  Gar hesitated, one boot raised. Then he put it down, turned with a snarl, and trudged back toward the wall again.

  Where Isk was waiting. Together they walked along the rest of that wall, then turned along the front one to reach the door.

  Where Garfist paused, looked back at the table strewn with treasure, and hesitated again.

  Whereupon all of the statues—or monsters—turned their heads to look at him.

  NAKED EXCEPT FOR his belt of wands, Malraun the Matchless strode into Lyraunt Castle. It should have been bustling at this time of morning—and indeed, the stink of the sizzling sliced roast boar of the morning meal wafting down its passages was strong, and setting his all-too-empty stomach to growling—but the place seemed deserted. Hall after hall he strode down, and room after room, with his wands up and ready, fully expecting to face arrows or hurled spears at every corner.

  Nothing. He might have been padding through a tomb, if the singing, watchful tension of fear hadn't hung so strong all around, silently stalking the halls with him.

  It was almost a relief to meet a guard at last, a dark-armored warrior standing before a closed door. Trembling, that worthy warned him away with raised sword, the despair of one who knew himself to be doomed clear in his voice.

  Malraun didn't disappoint him.

  Stepping over the smoldering corpse, he kicked open the door the man had been guarding, stood aside to let the volley of arrows from inside the room beyond whistle harmlessly past, and exchanged one of his blasting wands for one that would conjure a spying eye to swoop in through the open door and survey what awaited within.

  A room of goodly size, with four guards standing as a living wall to bar approach to a door in the back wall, and six archers scattered around the room, two of them against the wall either side of the door he'd kicked open. Malraun sighed, put the spying wand away again, and blasted the chamber with enough destroying fire to scorch it to the bare walls, not just fell the men within.

  Their raw, dying screams were still echoing around the room as he strode into it, on a force-road spun by yet another wand, an invisible bridge across floor tiles that were still cracking underfoot from the heat. A bridge that led straight to the door that had been guarded.

  If he recalled rightly, it led up a stair into a gaudily luxurious private suite of Lyrose bedchambers. That held probably not much more than a guard or two more he'd have to butcher, before he finally came face to face with those he sought.

  The mother and daughter. The last two and strongest Lyroses, likely to be useful to him still if they were clever enough not to succumb to any notions of treachery.

  He used one wand with deft precision, causing the door to vanish with no damage at all to its frame or the walls around. Malraun smiled pleasantly at the guard who'd been lurking just behind it, poison-tipped war-trident in hand, and said, "Drop that and flee, and I'll let you live. Do anything else, and you'll join the ranks of the foolish dead before—"

  The guard didn't wait to hear more. With a despairing shout he charged, hurling the trident. Malraun's force-wand spat, and the weapon spun around in midair to thrust deeply into guard's throat.

  Staring and gurgling, the man went down. The foremost Doom of Falconfar sighed, stepped around the feebly-flailing corpse, and mounted the stairs.

  He kept his blasting wand, but exchanged the force-wand for one that compelled instant slumber. He didn't like to take lives wastefully, and they'd be throwing cowering maids at him next...

  They did. In growing disgust Malraun sent various frightened servants who were brandishing mops, bedpans, and tapestry-hooks toppling into helpless collapse, stalking on through rooms of rich draperies, soft fur rugs, and heaped multitudes of silken cushions. There was a trail of closed doors with furniture hastily heaped up behind them, and he used his force-wand to thrust these open, splintering some of them but sending no roaring flames nor shattering blasts through the rooms.

  Until at last there were no doors left, and through the gaping arch that had held the last one, Malraun beheld the Lady Maerelle Lyrose and her daughter Mrythra huddled in each other's arms, cowering where the walls met in the farthest corner of that back bedchamber.

  He cast swift glances at floor, ceiling, and about the room, seeking traps and lurking guards. None that he could see—not that he expected any. Silently the Doom of Harlhoh padded closer to the trembling women, his face carefully kept expressionless, his wands raised.

  "Don't—" Maerelle blurted, as Mrythra mewed in wordless fear and buried her face in her mother's bosom.

  ROD EVERLAR FOUND himself standing in a cold, dark, and silent room. There was no dust, and no hint of the lingering mildew that afflicted damp, long-unused stone chambers. In all other ways, the room might have been abandoned for centuries, so lifeless was the stillness.

  He could barely see anything in the gloom, and so almost crashed into the chairs drawn up around a table. His knee slammed glancingly into one, his hand sought its arched back out of habit—and slowly and silently, the chair acquired a cold, green-rime glow out of nowhere, shining steadily more and more brightly, until it lit up the room.

  Letting Rod—and the rest, Reld and Syregorn and the others, their swords raised and ready at Rod's back—see a closed door at the end of the room, and shelves on both sides of it that held dull metal coffers. These bore labels, and Rod peered at them.

  "What say they, Lord Archwizard?" the warcaptain murmured.

  "Thaedre," Rod read aloud, from one. "Muskflower." That was the next, and he turned his attention down a shelf. "Asprarr, Belphorna, Paeldoanch, Davvathlandar."

  "Seeds," Syregorn explained curtly. "Is everything on the shelves these same metal coffers, or is there anything else?"

  Rod looked, then shook his head. "Spade or something of the sort hanging from the end of this shelf," he replied, "but aside from that, no. Just the seed coffers."

  "Then go on down the room and open that door," the warcaptain ordered gently. "Now."

  MALRAUN LET ALL the contempt he felt show in his face as he said quietly, "Look at me."

  They obeyed, stiffening into enthralled immobility as they met his burning eyes. His spell-probe was swift and brutal, rather than the insistent drifting deeper into their minds they were used to; this violation tore and bored on and ravaged all it found, leaving the shrieking chaos of nightmares to come.

  What he found was clear enough, and surprised him not at all.

  They were utterly terrified of him, so lost in their fear that they weren't far from gibbering on the dancing edge of insanity, but beneath that they were grieving the death of Lord Magrandar Lyrose—who had betimes been the lover of them both, Malraun learned, though Maerelle hadn't known that until this moment. Disgust at their craven brother was also strong in their minds, and deeper still he found ingrained fear, awe, and respect for Mal
raun the Matchless. They intended no treachery against their benefactor, and scorned Magrandar's small deceptions and treacheries against the Doom of Harlhoh as dangerous and futile foolishness. They believed they would have a better chance of shattering the moon than successfully defying the one called Malraun.

  Learning that last belief should have left him satisfied, but Malraun found himself still angry. Soothing their minds not at all, he brusquely enspelled them both into stasis, then used the force-wand to wall them away in their corner behind an unseen barrier only someone mightier than a hedge wizard could breach, that would fade only after a day or so.

  It was time to search Lyraunt Castle properly. Someone had been at work here, and if it was Narmarkoun, he knew his fellow Doom wouldn't be able to resist leaving a mocking little message or salute to tell Malraun who had been toying with his tools.

  If he found no such flourish, another foe was at work—and discovering who would suddenly become the most important matter in his life just now.

  Unless, that is, it was already too late.

  MALRAUN THE MATCHLESS padded back out of the great hall, teeth clenched. Dark anger was rising within him again, so strong and sudden that it threatened to choke him—and so seethingly futile. He'd searched every last damp corner and gaudy chamber in Lyraunt Castle—long, wearying work it had been, too—and knew that from top to bottom of the fortress, no enemy was lurking. Just cowering maids, cooks, and guards, and the two Lyrose women who now ruled them all. Or would, if they hadn't all fled by the time Maerelle and Mrythra got awake and free of his magic—or been replaced by plundering Hammerhands.

  Yet trace or no trace of a foe, someone who loved Malraun the Matchless not at all had been at work here. Witness the talking skull of Orthaunt hovering in the room behind him—and who could have managed to hide such a thing for so long, but a Doom of Falconfar or someone aided by an Archwizard of like power?—and the mindgem. Both waiting in his gates to harm or trap him, two sneering salutes from... whom?