The Medusa Plague

by Mary Kirchoff

  I’ve had the Dream with great regularity here, Mal. I thought it might go away, once I took charge of my life again and came to Bastion, but it hasn’t. If anything, it comes more frequently and fervently to me here. I confess, Bastion has inspired moments when I could understand Rannoch’s sacrifice. I feel I am a part of something bigger than myself, something worth dying for.…

  Still, I can’t shake the thought that there’s something else I’m supposed to learn from that part of my Test, some lesson I’ve not yet been able to understand. I’ve been trying to screw up the courage to ask Dagamier if there is something about Rannoch in her library. He was, after all, a wizard of the Black Robes, which is what continues to disturb me. We don’t enter each other’s areas without invitation here, and neither Dagamier nor Ezius have been forthcoming with one. It is my right as high defender to demand entrance, but I don’t want to lose whatever goodwill I have engendered by doing so without good reason.

  The Dream aside, I am wanting for nothing here, exceptcompanionship. Ezius is pleasant enough when he’s lucid. But it seems that he’s always either scurrying off, muttering about some obscure and unintelligible thing, or stopping to lecture me about some obscure and boring thing. Sometimes, I confess, I’m lonely enough to feign interest.

  Dagamier is another story. While she is no longer insolent, there is a darkness in her soul that permeates everything she says and does. Conversations with her frequently leave me lonely and depressed. I have no doubt why she chose to wear the black robes.

  Guerrand stopped again briefly to make sure Zagarus was no longer reading over his shoulder. He watched the slow rise and fall of the bird’s breast, heard the slight whistle-wheeze of Zagarus at sleep. Reassured, he picked up the quill once more and dipped it into the pot of black ink.

  You may be wondering why I’m so lonely with Zagarus here. I can tell you, Mal, that Zagarus is not doing well. I don’t know if it’s old age, or being away from the sea and other birds, or both. His color is bad, feathers and eyes dull. He scarcely talks to me anymore, especially after I reprimanded him for fishing in the moat around the scrying column.

  I must also confess to occasional restlessness. Am I one of those people who is never satisfied with where he is or what he is doing?

  Guerrand’s head shot up from the page at the distant sound of wild baying. He set the quill down, cocked his head, and listened.

  Zagarus’s eyes popped open. Sounds like the hell hounds, he observed.

  The mage nodded. “But how can they be so close that we can hear them? Unless …” Guerrand let the word trail as his mind finished the horrifying thought. “Stay here,” he commanded as he jumped to his feet. The chair flew back and crashed to the floor of the library. Guerrand was through the doorway and down the long hallway to the nave in a matter of heartbeats.

  Ezius stood by the column, his pale face etched with concern. “I’ve never heard the hounds from inside Bastion,” he remarked soberly.

  Just then the panel in the central column opened. Dagamier poked her dark head out anxiously. “The hell hounds and gargoyles appear to be poised for a fight.”

  “How is that possible?” demanded Ezius. “Control of the hounds is your responsibility, Dagamier!” He looked at Guerrand. “Can’t you maintain the enchantment on your gargoyles?”

  Ezius’s accusations brought a scowl to Dagamier’s white face. “Not all of Bastion’s magical defenses are entirely predictable, Ezius. Gargoyles, if you haven’t heard, are chaotic evil creatures. I think it’s remarkable that this hasn’t happened before in five years.”

  “I still say the Council should have anticipated such problems.”

  “They did,” cut in Guerrand. “That’s why we’re here. If Bastion functioned automatically, there’d be no need for guardians.” Guerrand was already running for the apse and Bastion’s entrance when he said, “Ezius, man the sphere. I’m going out to see what’s happening.”

  Dashing after him, Dagamier caught Guerrand by the arm and spun him around. “You can’t go charging out there. Maybe you trust the gargoyles to attack only intruders, but the hell hounds will kill anything they can sink their teeth into.”

  Dagamier had pulled him into one of the black wing’s seven doorways before he was even aware of moving. “Let’s use the observation tower above the black wing,” she said, tapping the wall inside the door. A doorway slid open, revealing a long, narrow flight of stairs.

  Another door flew open and they emerged into the windless, dark air above the courtyard on a narrow walkway hidden by the facade. The sounds of snarling, shrieking animals cut them both to the core. The mages clapped hands over their ears to hush the sound, but it did little good. The noise seemed to slice through the flesh and bones of their hands like a sharp pick on its way to their brains.

  Apprehension made Dagamier’s voice sound like a whisper, though she shouted above the din, “The gargoyles are gone.”

  Guerrand did a swift scan of the nearby pointed gables of the white wing. He searched the smooth, flat ledges of the red and black wings. The hideous, winged creatures who posed as downspouts on a stronghold that never saw rain were indeed gone.

  “There!” yelled Dagamier, pointing. Guerrand followed her finger and the sounds to the left, to an area in darkest shadow beyond the fence. Bursts of flame and red-hot eyes revealed the presence, if not the outlines, of the hell hounds. Squinting in the perpetual dimness, Guerrand could make out bent bars in that section of fence, and through them constant but undefined movement. Occasionally the area was lit up by a flash of fire from a hell hound, but this did little to illuminate the situation.

  By the time Guerrand realized that Dagamier was casting a spell, she was already done. It was a simple light spell, suspended over the battle. All six of the gargoyles appeared to be battling four to six hell hounds. The entire scene was such a chaotic swirl of limbs, dirt, and fire that it was hard to tell which side, if either, was winning. The stony gray hide of the gargoyles was largely impervious to the fangs and claws of the hell hounds, and if a gargoyle did get into serious trouble its enormous wings could easily carry it out of danger. But the dark red hell hounds were vicious fighters who would gang together to overwhelm one foe at a time, or disappear into the shadows if hard pressed.

  At the corner of his sight, Guerrand saw Dagamier’s eyes sink shut. “What are you planning to do?” he asked.

  Her hands began to rise in a swirling motion. “Slay them before they completely destroy the fence. We’ll replace them with a new batch.”

  “That would solve the immediate problem, as would putting them to sleep,” agreed Guerrand, “but it would also leave us with no inner guardians for some time. I have a better idea,” he said. “Follow my lead.”

  “Do I have a choice?” asked Dagamier, but there was no malice in her husky voice. “We’d better hurry before the light spell goes out.”

  Guerrand dashed to the opposite side of the overlook. Below in the courtyard were many of the strangely sculpted topiary plants he had seen on his arrival. When viewed directly, the plant shapes were unidentifiable. But in the oddly angled light of Bastion, they cast very distinct, disturbing shadows against the edifice. While none of these shadows was recognizable, all of them had an eery familiarity, like shapes remembered from nightmares.

  Guerrand spread his arms and extended them forward in a sweeping motion. As he did so, the shadows moved away from the trees and lumbered forward. Their motion was graceful and fluid, and they advanced steadily toward the gashed fence.

  Dagamier was unsure what Guerrand had in mind, but she did as he had ordered and animated the shadows from the other side of the main entrance. Shortly, several dozen shadows were flowing toward the fight.

  As the first shadows slipped into the melee, the gargoyles and hell hounds paused momentarily, unsure what was happening. Then one of the hell hounds unleashed a blast of fiery breath at the shapes, but it crackled harmlessly through the darkness. Guerrand was ready on
the roof and immediately loosed a sleeping spell at the attacking hell hound, which crumpled soundlessly to the ground. Startled by the apparent demise of one of their own, two other hounds tore into the shadows and fell prey to Guerrand’s spell. Both lay motionless on the ground.

  The remaining hell hounds and gargoyles slowly backed away from the advancing shadows. In the brief respite, Guerrand and Dagamier quickly reestablished their charm spells that usually controlled the guardian beasts.

  The gargoyles returned to their perches, chittering softly, their sights anchored on the shadows in the courtyard. The hounds whimpered briefly behind the fence, then fell silent, red eyes watching.

  Guerrand lowered arms that felt as heavy as if a bag of coins hung from each.

  Dagamier’s head tilted to regard him. “What made you think of using the shadows?”

  Guerrand shrugged. “My brother and sister and I used to play a game when we were kids. Back when the garden was more than weeds, we’d wait until dark and then tell each other stories about what all the shadow-shapes really were. Rosemary shrubs became child-eating ogres under moonlight, and the like. Then we’d dare each other to go farther and farther into the garden. I tell you it was frightening, even though we knew they were only shrubs.” He shrugged. “Everything looks different in darkness.

  “It’s hard to predict how long it will take gargoyles and hell hounds to catch on,” continued Guerrand. “They’re really more brawn than brain. Still, as long as they think the shadows will intervene, neither side is likely to cross the darkness of the courtyard.”

  Tired to his bones, the mage took several steps toward the staircase. “This episode has taught me two things, though,” he confessed. “We must be even more vigilant about maintaining the enchantments over such creatures—take nothing for granted. And, starting tomorrow, while one of us remains in the scrying sphere at all times, the others will begin practice drills for battle readiness. We’ll have no more scrambling for the doorway like scared rabbits.”

  Dagamier held the door open for Guerrand. On her face was an unmistakable look of respect. It was a look the high defender of Bastion had long waited to see.

  Standing in the underground laboratory that had once been Belize’s, Lyim continued to ponder the oracle’s message. She’d said that Lyim’s former master had the answer to curing the snake mutation. It was not a new thought. It wasn’t idle curiosity that had prompted Belize to thrust his apprentice’s arm into the portal that night on Stonecliff. The archmage had known full well the consequences of the action. He alone knew the exact cause of the mutation, so it was only logical Belize could have fathomed a cure, if he were alive.

  The oracle told Lyim to look beyond the grave for his answer, to seek it from Belize’s spirit. However, what she was suggesting was not usually in the realm of a wizard’s power. Still, Lyim had never paid much heed to the distinctions between schools of magic. If ever a mage had broken the bounds, it was Belize. Lyim had once seen the master conjure a denizen of the Abyss—was Belize’s spirit really so different from that?

  The spellbooks and other texts not used at Stonecliff by the former Master of the Red Robes still lined the shelves in the underground laboratory. The Council of Three had reviewed them after Belize’s execution, having burned those he’d used, but found nothing else related to Belize’s attempt to reach the Lost Citadel. They had then turned their attention to removing the ghastly remains of Belize’s gating experiments.

  Lyim rolled up the left sleeve of his red robe and began pulling books down to the table. He held one open with his scaly right elbow and thumbed through the parchment pages with his left hand, looking for references to conjuring the dead.

  The snake bobbed back and forth for a short time, eyeing the paraphernalia on the table. Then it suddenly lunged at a candlestick, knocking over the metal stand and the burning taper. Lyim snatched up the candle before it could scorch any of the potentially valuable papers spread before him. In the meantime, the snake’s thrashing also knocked an empty glass beaker to the stone floor and scattered several quills. Lyim yanked the cursed arm back and held it well away from the disruption while he struggled one-handed to put everything back in its place.

  It was tough, even after nearly six years, using his left hand for tasks. He still couldn’t write legibly with it, so he avoided writing whenever possible, or used a minor cantrip to make notes. Eating was a one-handed embarrassment—food simply refused to stay on his fork. He had resorted to drinking most of his meals, since he could hold a mug well enough.

  The real shame of it was, he rarely indulged in his favorite mug-holding event: partaking of ale at the many inns of Palanthas. His face, though thin and drawn, was still perfectly handsome. Women continued to follow him with their eyes and their bodies. Until they saw the snake. Their horrified stares as they drew back convinced him that even solitude was better than their disgust, or worse still, their pity.

  Books, scrolls, parchments, it took Lyim days to sort through all that Belize had acquired or written. He lit a third thick beeswax candle in the windowless laboratory, letting his tired eyes linger on the soothing yellow flame. Was he grasping at straws by trying to conjure some flicker of Belize’s essence? Was he just prolonging the moment when he would have to admit to himself that there was no cure for his hand? He had long ago decided that that day would be his last.

  Lyim looked away from the candle, eyes burning from the sweet-smelling smoke. Wearily he pulled down one of the last books on the shelf, a smallish, homemade thing, bound together with a brittle leather lace. It looked more like a collection of vegetable recipes than a spellbook of any import. The words had worn off the cheap leather cover, but an intriguing, tooled illustration remained. The picture was crude, unlike the finely rendered designs Belize had done. It showed a skull inside two nested triangles, a symbol Lyim had never encountered elsewhere in any of Belize’s writings.

  The book crackled with age as Lyim opened it. The pages inside were apparently much older than the cover. The first page repeated the double triangle symbol, but also bore the book’s title: Achnaskin’s Guide to Summoning the Dead.

  Excitement sparked to life in Lyim’s chest. His left fingertips lingered upon the title while he willed himself to remain calm and focused. Only when his pulse had slowed did he allow himself to turn to the next page. At a glance the page had no illustrations and looked black with crowded but carefully inked text, topped by a larger heading.

  Tips before spellcasting

  When speaking with the dead, the spellcaster would be wise to remember the following unchangeable facts:

  1. The dead respond best to simple questions, so phrase yours accordingly.

  2. The dead tire and bore easily. Although they would seem to have nothing but time, their attention spans are extremely limited. Do not waste time with pointless questions.

  3. The dead conjured from the Abyss (those of an evil disposition before their dissolution) are usually in great torment and may be difficult to comprehend.

  4. Understandably, the disposition of most deceased creatures has been soured by death. Many are extremely bad tempered.

  Lyim shrugged, thinking the advice only common sense. Still, he took it to heart before eagerly turning the page once more. There began the anticipated entry containing the incantation, under the large heading: The Spell to Summon the Dead. He began reading with an intensity he’d not felt in many years.

  But before long, beads of perspiration joined the streaks that already flowed down Lyim’s temples, pooling in the short whiskers above his lips. He read and reread the entry, pushing back the anxiousness that made it difficult to concentrate and really digest the words. The spell’s magical patterns were in an unusually complicated order. Lyim could find no shortcut to memorizing them, no distinguishing marks or pauses to aid in his usual rote memorization. Hours or days could have passed while he studied the patterns. Five thick candles and a dusty stub found in a drawer had burned away before
Lyim began to feel he understood and had memorized the spell.

  Lyim looked up abruptly from the fragile book. A horrifying thought began to blossom behind his eyes. What if, after all this study, he hadn’t the components to carry out the spell? He would forget the pattern if he had to stop for even an hour to locate some obscure ingredient.

  Lyim had inherited surprisingly few of Belize’s components. He’d returned to Villa Nova after his Test to find the laboratory a frightful pile of broken beakers, hopelessly mixed and moistened powders, and dried-up pickled components, none of it salvageable. He had swept it all outside the villa into a magical fire that had lit the sky above Palanthas like fireworks for two days and nights.

  Lyim spun about and carried Achnaskin’s small book to the shelves containing the components he’d purchased from street vendors near the Great Library. Most mages insisted upon drying and storing their own things, but Lyim had never had the time for such tediousness. Propping the book open with a heavy marble mortar bowl, he traced a finger down the short list. The first three were easy enough; every mage had lye, sulfur, and goat’s hoof on his shelves. The fourth item was trickier. He didn’t remember ever having used mace. Lyim’s eyes quickly surveyed the shelf, but he couldn’t find the spice. He reread the spell list and noticed a little star inked next to the word “mace.” He found a similar mark at the bottom of the page and read:

  A double dose of nutmeg may be substituted for this item.

  A sigh of relief escaped Lyim’s lips, and he licked away the sweat there. He had a whole jar full of dark, spicy nutmeg.

  Lyim turned the page and continued reading the instructions.

  Mix the components thoroughly. Place mixture in two flaming braziers set near the body and burn until smoke—

  The body? The instructions so far had said nothing about having a body. The Council of Three and the gods alone knew what had happened to Belize’s corpse. Lyim was stymied. He reread the passage, and again he found a small star, this time inked next to the word “body.” His eyes jumped to the bottom of the page.