by Ed Greenwood
Wise idea, but wedge what?
He could think of nothing suitable he could lay hand on. What was really needed was a stout timber long enough to stand as tall as his chest.
Back in Closecandle, he could snap his fingers and summon such a thing, and with two waves of his hands slice it to the right length if it was too long. Here in empty Yintaerghast...
Narmarkoun stared down into the opening, shrugged again, and dropped down into the shaft. The stones under his feet felt as firm and unmoving as solid rock. He hesitated for a moment, in case the weight of his landing triggered some magic or other to raise them again, but they moved not at all.
After a few breaths of waiting, he turned and ducked down into the small room, where he found no doors, no lurking menaces... nothing but magic, radiating so strongly around the floating object that it beat at him like storm-driven ocean waves. He winced, ducked his head, and shuffled closer, fighting the soundlessly throbbing might that seemed strong enough to drive him to his knees. If all this power was something he could take and use...
He could see what it was at last, close enough now to stare past its wildly flaring glows. It was like trying to see one twig in the heart of a roaring fire, but... he was looking at no ring or dagger or crown, but—a brain!
The brain of a man—or, no, the semblance of one.
Narmarkoun frowned at it, fighting the surging, pounding magical flows to stand motionless so he could peer intently.
He'd seen brains often enough when opening up corpses with his spells, back when he'd been working on mastering undeath. This was no glistening, dripping real brain, floating at about the height of his chest in the heart of this little room. It was an image born of magic, a seeming spun by spells surging into and through a real brain that was somewhere else.
He could see through it, watch the ruby and crimson hues of powerful spells at work as they flooded through it, ebbed, and seethed into it again. The image had the shape of a man's brain on all sides, and the forces shuddering and slamming through it were almost sickening to feel. Not only did he not want to thrust his hand into those powerful magics, he doubted there was anything solid there for him to touch.
Yet he had to know what this brain—or these spells, working on the real brain—did. This might be how Lorontar had controlled Yintaerghast, and if that was so, this might well be his only way to affect its shieldings long enough to get out.
That these were Lorontar's magics, he didn't doubt for a moment. This was nothing he could begin to craft, let alone cast, so it was no work of Malraun's. And these enchantments, for all their briskly flowing energy, were old. They smelled old, they felt old. Old, despite blazing with more power than he'd ever hurled in a single magic...
So reaching out into that with his hands would be folly. Almost certainly fatal folly.
If Lorontar lived yet, reaching out with his mind would likely be just as foolish.
This looked very much like the means by which Lorontar had long and forcibly controlled someone's mind—a mind that still existed, even if the Lord Archwizard was long dead. There were, of course, many who whispered that he lived on still, somehow...
Narmarkoun sighed. This might be his only way out, so he had to know whose mind was linked to these enchantments, who was still controlling them—if anyone—and how to take control of these surging magics.
Or he would probably die in Yintaerghast, alone and despairing, helpless to depart.
Narmarkoun drew in a deep breath, uttered a curse with slow, precise diction, then slowly and reluctantly reached out with his mind, in an inward drifting so slow and cautious that he should be able to snatch his probe back in a trice if—
The first trice told him that there was no "should" in these racing, surging magics.
The second trice told him that the mind that was elsewhere was very much alive, ablaze with long-felt rage and fighting savagely against these magics controlling it.
The third trice was when their minds met, his and the elsewhere one, and that rage blasted into his mind like a bolt of fire.
It was the rage of "Taeauna," he learned, in the fourth trice, just before he, and all Falconfar around him, was hurled away into shrieking oblivion.
ON A GRAND bed in a dark room, a man snored faintly.
Someone was lying under him, spreadeagled and bound that way. She was as bare as the sleeping man, but bruised and bleeding where he was not.
And her eyes had just snapped open, literally flaming in fury.
Taeauna knew just where she was and what Malraun had done to her. She also knew the blundering of his rival Doom had just freed her from Malraun's control.
Worst of all, she knew again who really held her in thrall.
Lorontar. A greater wizard than both of the Dooms working together, who had just reached out from where he'd been hiding in the depths of her mind for so long, to take over that shattered control so smoothly that Malraun the Matchless had not even paused in his snorings. Let alone noticed, even as a shadow in his ongoing happy dreams of forcing himself upon her, that anything was amiss.
She was appalled at how long ago she'd first fallen under his—by the Falcon, how subtle!—sway. Using her as his tool to influence her fellow Aumrarr, to reach out to a Shaper on Earth named Rod Everlar...
Her appalled anger awakened quiet amusement in the mind now gripping hers.
Lorontar smiled at her, in the depths of her mind. As he held her mind in a grasp so strong she could do nothing but his will. Right now he was keeping her still and silent, and hooding the fires of her anger, gently returning her eyes to their usual appearance.
Seething inwardly, Taeauna of the Aumrarr lay silent and helpless under the exhausted and obliviously snoring Malraun.
ROD HAD SPENT sleepless nights before, tossing and turning, but he'd never realized just how uncomfortable a bed could be. The cloaks, tunics, and breeches he'd heaped on the floor slid and shifted under him, repeatedly dumping his head low while his feet stayed high. Buttons, pulls, and sewn-on carry-rings galore jabbed at him bruisingly, and the gowns he'd pulled over himself demonstrated a distressing tendency to wait until he was just drifting off to sleep—and then slide, all in a heavy heap, down to bury his face and leave him fighting for air.
It was almost as if Malraun or some impish apprentice left behind by the Matchless Doom was laughing at him and casting one taunting, toying little magic after another to keep him awake, even now that a vast weariness had risen to conquer him.
He could not get to sleep, could not...
What was that?
There had been a stirring sound, or sounds, in the other room. About where the bed was.
Oh, bloody hell—another Telrorna? Did the bed magically spit undead skeletons out, or was there some sort of hidden trapdoor underneath it, that they could come up through?
He grunted his weary way to his feet, and strode unsteadily to the door, to see what was making those faint noises. Before it came for him.
Then he stopped, stared, and chuckled.
Some magic of Malraun's had failed, or faded away—and what did that mean?—and all the cloth and leather on and about the four-poster bed were melting away to nothingness, leaving only a bare bed and a bare and hairy man on it, waking bleary and bewildered.
Onthras blinked at Rod, extended a sleepy hand to point and growl, "L-lord Archwizard? Weren't you s'posed to be—"
Just then a wave of half-seen magic rolled through the air and snatched him away, leaving the bed empty.
And taking away Rod's mirth, too.
Was Onthras dead? Or snatched away somewhere else? Or had he been some sort of illusion all along?
Rod doubted it. Yet there was no way, by the Falcon, that he was going anywhere near that bed now.
It was back to his uncomfortable heaps of clothes, and trying hard to sleep, to dream of destroying this tower behind Malraun's back.
Or so he hoped. Rod collapsed back onto the heaped garments with a sour sigh. Co
uld anything be managed behind Malraun's back?
"IRRANCE," LADY TESMER'S voice came coldly out of the darkness, "come back to bed. All of this lordly striding about in the darkness disturbs my slumber. And just what do you think you'll need that sword for?"
"I—I was thinking of war, and... and ruling Ironthorn," her husband mumbled. He waved the slender naked longsword with both hands as he spoke, but he was brandishing it a little less flamboyantly than he'd been flourishing it a moment or two ago. For an instant, as it sliced empty air, it caught moonlight through the tinted window-panes, and its edge blazed up a cold bright blue. "It... it found its way into my hand, somehow. Felt good there."
"Time was when other things would find their ways into your hands at this time of night, and more than one of us would feel good, thereby," Telclara Tesmer said bitingly. "But the years have wrought changes, haven't they?"
"Clara," her lord replied quietly, his voice a little sullen. "I wish you wouldn't do this. I really do."
"I wish I didn't have to do it, but if I don't, you start to swagger like a game-cock and strut around spewing nonsense. Dangerous nonsense."
When he made no reply, she added sadly, "One of the maids heard you talking to our warriors this evening. Calling yourself 'Lord of Ironthorn' again."
"Well, and so I shall be!" Lord Irrance Tesmer said sharply. "Soon, too, from what the Master gave me to understand! At long last, to rule this—"
"Irrance, the Master gave you nothing of the kind. I heard his every word, remember? Now put down that sword before you hurt yourself or break something, and get over here!"
"I—" Lord Tesmer was not a foolish man, no matter how often his wife proclaimed him so. Nor did his temper tend to ride down and trample his caution. With foes and threats he knew well, his wisdom steered his gallop time and again into prudent ways. Telclara's voice was more familiar to him than anything else, and he knew that particular tone very well.
"Yes, dear," he replied meekly, carefully laying the sword down on the crudest and least expensive of the three seats in the room—the one she wanted replaced, the moment she found just the right chair to serve in its place—and wending his way through the concentric arcs of hanging tapestries to their great new fortress of a bed.
The bed, grandest in all Falconfar, for all he knew. It was what Telclara wanted—everything was what Telclara wanted—and towered up in the center of the room like a great Stormar temple idol. Lord Tesmer felt like a thief slinking into a castle every night. Telclara's castle.
A glow was kindling in it. When he ducked past the last tapestry, brushing aside its translucent fall of white silk, he saw his wife had awakened the light of her enchanted mirror and held it under her chin so he could see her smiling at him in welcome.
It was a kind smile, devoid of sneer or anger, but the warm affection she meant to convey was marred by the coldly steady radiance of the mirror lighting her face from below. It gave her an eerie appearance, as if some fell spirit had stolen inside his wife's body and taken it over, to use it to lure him into its clutches.
Irrance Tesmer forced a smile onto his own face and held out his hand, but was unable to keep the gesture from seeming tentative.
"Lady?" he asked gently, feeling once more the uncertain courting lad he'd been, so long ago.
Her smile widened and went tender. She beckoned him, deftly undoing the catch at the throat of her bodice so it fell open, baring her to her waist.
Lord Tesmer swallowed. By the Falcon, but she was still beautiful!
"Tel," he whispered, daring to use the pet name he'd called her by when they were both young, as he put his arms rather gingerly around her, "you look... look so..."
She was deftly drawing apart his night-wrap, thrusting the long robes back over his shoulders to bare him, too.
"Tell me," she murmured. "Not how you think I look, but what you want to do to me."
"Take you," he said hoarsely.
She drew her knees together against his chest, to hold him at bay. "There will be a price, Lord Tesmer," she said gravely, sounding gentle but firm—neither teasing nor scornfully dismissive.
Irrance frowned, not knowing how to take this. "My Lady?" he asked gently.
"Treat with me as an equal, Ranee," she replied, addressing him as she had when he was a young and splendid lion among men. "You hate the bite of my words, and how I rule you; you think I know this not? So in return you give me sullen silence, and play the war-commander behind my back, and tell me little of how you order our soldiers and what they do. Little enough, and less truth."
Lord Tesmer was still and silent against her knees for a long time before he brought the edge of one hand down between them to ease them gently apart, and murmured, "It will seem odd to discuss tactics, as I would with my warcaptains in the stables, as we..."
"Couple," she murmured helpfully, and added in a whisper, "Let's try it."
He smiled, shaking his head in rueful wonder, then commanded sternly, "Begin."
"You have been readying our soldiers for war," she replied without hesitation, parting her legs and reaching for him between them, the mirror in her lap now.
He surged forward, lowering himself onto its glow, and replied, "I have. Mindful of what you said earlier, of mayhap fleeing Ironthorn rather than conquering it."
"Meaning, I hope, you're taking every care not to get caught up in fighting?"
He hesitated, then lowered his mouth to her breasts rather than replying. She smiled thinly as he licked, nipped, and sucked, then closed her fingers around his most tender of areas, tightened them into a claw that made him stiffen and gasp, and said pleasantly, "My Lord Tesmer, I do believe I have somehow failed to hear your answer."
"Falcon, Clara, don't—" That gasped protest ended in a little cry as her fingernails almost met through his flesh.
"You no longer want to try it?" she asked him sadly, putting all the reproach she could into her gaze.
Their noses were perhaps the length of her hand apart; she saw him wince as much as she felt it.
"I... I do neglect to tell you things," he admitted. "Out of habit, it now seems."
"It does indeed," she agreed softly, letting go of what she'd clawed and stroking it in gentle apology. "Please, Ranee."
He drew in a deep breath, nodded in very much the same manner as her favorite gelding customarily tossed its head, and said in a rush, "Well, we can't dwell in Ironthorn and not daily draw blade or bend bow when those of Lyrose and Hammerhand menace us, surely?"
"Of course not. Yet you seem strangely reluctant to tell me just what frays our warriors have tasted these last few days. I'm neither blind nor an idiot; I would know if we were besieged, or many of our soldiers were rushing off elsewhere in the vale—and we are not and they are not. Which means whatever fighting they've been doing can't be more than a skirmish or two, at most... wherefore I find myself puzzled indeed at your reluctance to discuss it. Irrance, what's going on?"
He made as if to pull back from her and sit up, but she moved with him to keep them joined, clasping her arms and legs about him with sudden strength. They stayed pressed together on the bed, the radiance of the mirror leaking out from between them.
Lady Tesmer's movements made her lord growl with pleasure and grin at her. She smiled back, then took his lips in her own and kissed him every bit as aggressively as minstrels always insisted conquering lords forced kisses from captive wenches.
When their lips parted again, both of them had to gasp for breath, but Irrance Tesmer couldn't keep a widening grin off his face. His lady moved under him again, making him groan with delight and setting him to moving, too. Rocking, slamming into her.
As that surging rhythm built, he gasped, "Let me... let me say this my way, Tel. The Hammerhands are dead; the father, or vanished; the daughter, and their warcaptains are enraged at that. Too furious with Lyrose to have anything to do with us but loose arrows our way if we dispute with them or bar them passage; they're bent only on besieging Lyra
unt and taking it. They carve up dead Lyrose warriors and send the flesh into Lyraunt tied to flaming arrows, and they slaughter Lyrose horses and roast them under the Lyraunt walls. Word is that House Lyrose is now reduced to just mother and daughter. Magrandar and his last and most worthless son, Pelmard, are both dead."
Telclara Tesmer frowned. "So how then are the men of Tesmer caught up in this? It would seem to me that until Hammerhand exterminates Lyrose or dies in the trying, they have no time for us."
"True," her husband admitted, looking away from her fierce gaze for a moment, "but I... I am weak. I could not resist."
"Resist what?" Lady Tesmer could not quite quell a sharp edge from creeping into her words.
"Sending our best bowmen to watch the siege from afar, and slay the best of their warcaptains and boldswords—just a handful I've marked, mind—with well-placed arrows."
"Their best officers."
"Yes," he murmured, bowing his head as if expecting a storm of her fury to explode in his face.
Two strong hands caught hold of his ears and dragged his face down to meet hers. She kissed him hard—and bucked under him, harder, until he exploded with a roar of release.
"Gods above and below, Ranee, but I'm proud of you!" she panted, eyes shining. "Just the right thing to do! Keeping our blazon out of sight and no arrayed Tesmer force for Hammerhand to glare at, yes?"
"Yes!" he panted happily. "Exactly thus, yes!"
She twisted and arched under him then, moaning and biting her lip, and her hands tightened like claws on his shoulders. Irrance Tesmer found himself gripped firmly in many places at once, and froze just as he was, sweating happily as he grew the beginnings of a fierce grin.
Under him, his lady growled low in her throat, like an angry hunting cat, her fingernails raking him. It was a sound of pure pleasure, loud and long.
He flinched not under her clawings, but kept still and silent, holding her until they both calmed back to gentleness—which was when she interrupted her own slowing pants to say smilingly, "So now tell me what you're keeping back from me. What darker thing haven't you said yet?"