Falconfar 02-Arch Wizard

by Ed Greenwood

  "What's happened?"

  Lady Telclara Tesmer folded her arms across her chest. "Our gems are gone. All three coffers. The sack of coins, too. No alarm raised in the night, and the guards swear no one even approached the gates."

  Tesmer blinked at his wife. "All the gems? Not the—the tunnel! They must have taken the tunnel!"

  She nodded grimly. "Which means the thief is one of us—or one or more of the children. My crossthreads haven't been disturbed."

  "Clara, I swear I didn't—"

  His clumsy protest stumbled into silence under the slicing edge of her look of scorn. "I'm aware of that, dolt. I sleep with you, remember?"

  Irrance winced. "What about the vaults?"

  She lifted one shapely shoulder in a shrug. "Undisturbed. The guardian snake still asleep, the sprinkled line I left there unmarked. No one's been in there. So, yes, Ranee, we still have coins to our name." She took a long, slow step forward. "That's not the point."

  Lord Tesmer winced. "Which of our children has betrayed us?"

  She smiled, a tight grimace that held not the slightest trace of amusement. "All of them, and often. Neither the servants nor our warcaptains can be certain where any of them are just now, but last reports—"

  He nodded wearily. His wife's spies were nothing if not energetic.

  "—have Ghorsyn and Ellark still off hunting, some days away; Kalathgar still in that Stormar port busily buying and selling dockside hovels with our coins to make a fortune he can hide before he comes back to tell us how poorly coins fare in Stormar these days; Delmark and Feldrar stealing everything from our loyal citizens that isn't nailed down, including the virtue of their daughters—and wives, too—and Maera still spurning every suitor but seeing how much they'll gift her with, before she turns away."

  "Delmark and Feldrar a-wenching? I thought it was Belard the women all swooned after!"

  "That, husband mine, is the real news. It seems much magic was hurled in the forest last night. In the little dell nigh the Imrush headwaters—or rather, what used to be a little dell. Trees in plenty blazed like a brace of feast-torches, I'm told, and the deer are all fled three hills away or more. The result of a little disagreement between our Belard, and our Nareyera, and our little Talyss, too."

  "What? They have that much magic?"

  "Irrance, you'd be surprised at what our children have up their sleeves, in their back pouches—and under their codpieces, too. The fire's down to just smoke, now. That's not what matters."

  Lady Tesmer took another step forward. "What matters, Ranee, is that Bel and Talyss now trust each other enough to rut together."

  Lord Tesmer's jaw dropped. "What? As husband and wife? Coupling?"

  His wife sighed. "Yes, coupling, but you persist in missing the point. A night of sheathing the flesh-dagger is neither here nor there, even if they are brother and sister. Ranee, they're working together. Scheming. When all of us thought their seething hatred for each other would keep them from ever even imagining such a thing."

  Shaking his head rather dazedly, Irrance Tesmer stumbled out of bed and started to pace. "Bel and Talyss... Talyss and Bel..."

  "Oh, dolt of a lord, will you stop trying to picture them together and leering over it! Try not to think with your night-horn for once, and use your brains!"

  Lord Tesmer stopped his striding, gave his wife a glare, and barked, "So they're scheming together. What of it? That's all our offspring ever seem to do, aye? You've said it yourself, many a time! Why's this pairing so much a cause for alarm? Hey?"

  "Irrance," his wife said gently, "you've heard all the talk—I know you have—that the Master may have sired some of our children, rather than you."

  Lord Tesmer stiffened. "You've always told me those rumors were utter lies."

  "So I have, though you've never quite believed me. Well, now it's time for you to hear the truth. Two of our children were sired by the wizard Narmarkoun, and may very well have his power to hurl magic. He may even have secretly trained them to become wizards."

  Lord Tesmer went white. His voice, when he found it, was almost a whisper. "Their names?"

  "Belard. And Talyss."

  ROD EVERLAR FOUND sleep again at last, or thought he did. Were these not dreams, these scenes of him trotting down from a crumbling rampart in an afternoon mist, into a keep full of snarling, snapping dragons? Or no, narrow-snouted and baleful-eyed dragon heads, all at the end of impossibly-long scaled necks, that writhed and undulated and curved through archway after archway, across a vast and empty-echoing, many-shadowed castle interior, all to meet in some one unseen lower chamber...

  Abruptly, Rod was somewhere else. Somewhere he'd seen only once, a sneeringly bold black marble and glass brick of a building, set amid the rolling green hillocks and neat sandtraps of a private golf course. The headquarters of Holdoncorp, gleaming and massive.

  He was flying toward it, gliding low over the greens and fairways, and something was flying ahead of him. A lorn, alone and flapping along purposefully, as if on a mission.

  Rod sheered quickly away, before it could turn its head and see him. He felt suddenly afraid, a deepening terror he could not explain that left him gasping, and thinking of that black building behind him become a huge abyss, a black maw that was sliding through the parting green hills and fairways to follow him... seeking to devour him, jaws widening into a gulf he could never escape if he foolishly looked back...

  He dodged, around he knew not what, finding himself in thickening mists again. Then ducked, hearing the clash of swords and seeing a brief glimpse of grinning skeletons rushing down gloomy castle corridors with unsheathed swords in their bony grips. Then dodged again, in a place of thunderous crashes and tall stone castle towers falling ponderously down to earth, deep groaning rumble after deep groaning rumble, each of them ending in a thunderous, bone-shaking crash...

  He was lying on a heap of clothes in a dark room in Malragard, and it was falling, too, leaning toward its gardens and the grass-girt slope outside the garden wall... leaning... leaning...

  The bone-shaking crash rattled his teeth this time, and flung him up off the clothes an instant before huge stone blocks crashed down on them.

  Rod joined the spreading, blinding dust, falling through it almost gently to slam bruisingly down onto the flood of fallen stone blocks.

  He was awake now, and coughing hard, fingers of bright morning reaching out around and past him, and Harlhoh spread out below him, its far-off folk shouting in alarm and fleeing through the streets.

  The crashing and shuddering went on, long-unseen spells flaring into sudden visibility in the air as the foundations they'd girded so long cracked, and walls and pillars fell. Rod saw gigantic spider legs writhing and curling in agony, and a falling wall flatten a purple-black hulk in a great spray of purple gore and quivering, convulsing tentacles.

  Stone blocks tumbled, a wolf-head shook back and forth and bit at the air in helpless pain ere it sagged from view, and then there was nothing moving but the dust.

  "So my plan worked," Rod croaked aloud, standing on the still-shuddering stones and clutching at his bruises, "but almost too well. I dreamed of Malragard falling, and..."

  Behind him, another wall fell, hurling him into the air just far enough for his legs to go out from under him, and the landing—on his side and behind—to be wincingly bruising.

  He groaned aloud, then rolled over, sat up, and tried to peer around through the dust. There wasn't much to see; there wasn't much left of Malraun's tower.

  Thoroughly awake now, Rod Everlar wondered how long it would take the wizard to show up.

  After all, that was probably just how long a certain fantasy writer had left to live.

  YOUR MAJAESTY, I am no Doom of Falconfar," the black-bearded man in the robe protested, spreading his hands like a merchant proclaiming his innocence in a market-stall. "I can work small magics, honest magics, spells no velduke nor knight nor drover need fear save some hidden power, some dark secondary effect.
When I am hired to blast down a hanging rock or enlarge a storage cavern, I do so with all the care I can, and—"

  He shrieked, threw up his spread hands as all the color fled from his face in an instant—and toppled forward to fall flat on his face on the floor.

  "Falcon-cursed hedge-wizards," one of the king's bodyguard growled, striding forward from beside King Melander Brorsavar's throne to nudge the sprawled and silent man with one gleaming-booted toe. "Get up, man. Your dramatics impress His Majesty not. Get up."

  "Thalden," the King of Galath murmured gently, "stand clear from yon mage. Touching him may be neither safe nor prudent."

  His knight obeyed in some haste, turning a puzzled frown to his

  king. "Majesty?"

  "He was not indulging in dramatics," Brorsavar murmured.

  "Look; is his nose not broken?"

  A thin thread of blood was running out from under the motionless head, to flow its unhurried way across the tiled floor of the court.

  "Falcon," the knight muttered, drawing back. "What struck him down so, d'ye think?"

  In reply, King Melander silently spread his hands just as the fallen wizard had done, to signify he knew not. The knight barely had time to see the gesture, and no time at all to catch any courtiers' eyes and decide if a polite chuckle was appropriate, when there came a stir from beyond the nearest entry arch, and the guards barring entrance there.

  "Let me through!" someone snarled angrily. "Majesty! Urgent news!"

  The King of Galath made a brief, beckoning gesture to signal the archway guards to let the new arrival through.

  It was one of the court scribes, a man neither young nor humble. He had never before been known to appear before the throne sweating and wild-eyed with fear, but he was in such a state now. Melander wordlessly extended his hand toward the man, palm out, signifying that the scribe should speak.

  The scribe bowed low, almost falling in his nervous haste, then went down on one knee, and then blurted out in a rush, "Great King, all the wizards you hired to scry the realm and map it have collapsed! All of them, at once, dashed senseless to the floor as if by some giant hand!"

  "Dead?" Brorsavar asked calmly.

  "N-no, though some of them bleed from mouth or nose or eyes, M-majesty," the scribe stammered. "One of them was clutching his head and mumbling, and we tried to question him. We shook him and spake loudly in his ear, but he fell dumb and dreaming like the rest. We heard him say just this: 'a great Shaping, and it begins.' Majesty, I thought you should know."

  Then the scribe's gaze fell upon the man lying not far from where he was kneeling, and a little shriek of fear burst from him.

  "Easy, Nollard," the King of Galath said soothingly. "Rise, and go take wine from our stewards yonder, and drink."

  He stood, and added in a dry voice, looking out across the court, "I begin to fear that many of us, as this day unfolds, may have cause to join you."

  Through another archway came the muted thunder of running booted feet, and the cry, "Majesty! Grave news!"

  King Melander Brorsavar smiled wryly. "And so, as they say, it begins."

  MALRAUN THE MATCHLESS sat up in bed, awake in an instant, alarmed. Though Darswords was quiet around him, something was very much awry.

  In distant Harlhoh, something had shattered the very foundation-spells he'd cast when strengthening and warding his tower.

  Which meant a wizard more powerful than any he knew of, anywhere in Falconfar, was at work with destroying spells—or something else had caused the tower to shatter and fall.

  Either way...

  He bent and kissed the bound and helpless Taeauna. Not out of any great affection, but so as to most swiftly and efficiently strengthen his mind-link with her, so it could be used to snap back to her body if he needed to flee in haste from trouble. Surrounded by all of the greatfangs bred by that idiot Narmarkoun, for instance, or—

  Shrugging away such useless speculation, he closed his eyes and said the word that would take him in an instant to Malragard.

  So it was that he never saw the flash of triumph in the eyes of the bound Aumrarr behind him.

  Lorontar had been waiting a long time for Malraun to do this.

  THE WIZARD NARMARKOUN stood alone in a large and gloomy hall in Yintaerghast, staring at a glowing sphere of his own conjuring that floated in the air before him.

  He'd laughed aloud when Malragard had fallen. Oh, would Malraun be furious! The man of Earth, wandering alone and halfwitted, somehow avoiding all the traps that had claimed the lives of veteran warriors, high-priced thieves, and the most daring of Stormar wizards-for-hire. Only to do this.

  Nicely Shaped, indeed!

  The dolt Everlar was still alive! He'd somehow brought the tower down around his ears—crushing most of Malraun's prized beasts, mind!—yet not been himself crushed in its fall! There he was, coughing in the dust, staggering away from the heap of gowns he'd snored on and—

  But hold!

  As the dust eddied and drifted, and Rod Everlar came stumbling out into a relatively clear area of floor, another figure appeared in midair just above him, literally standing over him.

  It was Malraun, here by his own teleportation magic.

  Narmarkoun snarled out wordless hatred, watching the Matchless One start to step down from the invisible, momentary platform of force his magic had created. Once Malraun set boot on the tiles of Malragard, the teleport spell would end and he'd be free of its force-echoes, free to work magic. Magic that would undoubtedly slay the meddling Shaper.

  Malraun's foot came down, his other leg started forward—and Narmarkoun astonished himself.

  Although he'd intended to bide here, watching all and awaiting his best time to strike, Narmarkoun found himself crying out an incantation he did not know, words and runes he'd never seen before.

  It was if a door had opened in his mind to shine forth bright amber radiance through his head, a light he couldn't turn to look at however desperately he strove to... the spell he did not know was done and unfolding, more power than he'd ever felt before was flooding through him—and where had it all come from?—and he was trembling like a leaf in a storm wind, mouth open in slack-jawed amazement.

  As the lambent sphere of his spying-spell showed Narmarkoun scenes of distant Earth, of his six servitor Dark Helms snatched bodily out of the strange glass castle they were scouring out there, bloody swords in their hands—and the lorn with them, a limp and dripping corpse in their wake.

  As the blue-skinned Doom watched in mute wonder, the six warriors and the lorn hurtled at him and then flashed past him, hurtled along through a whirling tunnel of translocation, howling flows of magic Narmarkoun had called into being without knowing how. Flows that whispered a name as they whisked the six and the one to Malragard, and literally flung them at Malraun, dashing that wizard headlong across the tiles.

  That name was "Lorontar."

  MALRAUN RAISED HIS right hand, too angry to keep this Shaper as a useful captive. He would lash the man to death, lash him with lightnings, burn off his hands and feet yet use spells to keep this Rod Everlar awake in screaming suffering!

  Malragard had been beautiful, and it had been his, and no one, no one, would take it from him and not pay the priii—

  Lightning crawled up his fingers and spat sparks into the air, and he snarled and brought his hand down to hurl them at Everlar.

  Who ducked, dodged, and fell hard, spinning and scissoring his feet around to sweep Malraun's ankles out from under him.

  He crashed to the tiles, shouting in anger, and scrambled up to—

  Do nothing to Everlar at all, as dark and heavy armored bodies slammed into Malraun in a tide out of nowhere, a tide that hacked and sliced and spat curses as it crashed into him.

  His breath was gone, all thoughts of his spell with it, and Malraun numbed an elbow on hard tiles, then cracked the side of his head on tile hard enough for tears to come unbidden, and—something large and wet that stank very much of lorn bloo
d slammed down on him and slid with him ere it bounced off and was gone.

  Laughter, and running feet, and dark swords swinging down at him—

  He rolled desperately, yet felt wet fire through his shoulder as a sword sliced deep. Falcon shit!

  Malraun felt for the mind-link, desperate to take himself back to Darswords and away from these Dark Helms, to win time enough to breathe, Falcon spit, then high time enough to work a blasting spell that would—

  Amber light flared along the link from Taeauna, light that became a smile and two dark, gimlet eyes that stabbed through Malraun like Dark Helm blades. Silently laughing at him as it came.

  Yes, Malraun the Matchless, I am who you fear I am. Lorontar of Falconfar, THE Doom of Falconfar—and your Doom.

  Those words were soft, yet thundered like fire through Malraun's head. Before he could do anything, the power just behind them struck.

  And all Falconfar dissolved in amber fire.

  RUSTY HELD UP the flashlight. It was heavy, of stout metal encased in rubber—and might manage him one parry.

  Then he would die.

  This Dark Helm was no overconfident, reckless fool, but a veteran, patiently herding Rusty and Sollars back across Holdoncorp's Security Office, away from any way out of here.

  Slowly and patiently cutting off all escape, knowing he could slay at will. Pete Sollars stumbled to his knees in fear, and burst into tears—but the Dark Helm stepped back and gestured curtly with his sword until the crying "eyes" scrambled up again. A veteran, avoiding any chance of a "trip me by rolling at my ankles" ploy.

  The Dark Helm advanced again.

  Rusty Carroll drew in a deep breath, stepped forward with flashlight in hand, and prepared to die.

  The sword swept back, the Dark Helm sidestepped faster than any dancer Rusty had ever seen, that sword came in at him so fast that he almost fell getting the flashlight into the right spot to parry, and—

  The Dark Helm was suddenly gone. Vanished into thin air in a silent instant, one step away from carving Rusty Carroll in two.