The Medusa Plague

by Mary Kirchoff

  Lyim lifted the lapels of the transparent cloak that covered his red robe. “I make it a point to plan for all possibilities and seize all chances.”

  He pretended to be struck with a sudden thought. “Speaking of opportunities, did Bram tell you that your sister Kirah is looking well, despite the plague?”

  “You saw Kirah?” demanded Bram, standing. “When?”

  Lyim pretended to tick off time mentally. “It must have been two days ago. Kirah was the one who told me you had gone to Wayreth to find your uncle,” Lyim explained blithely. “She’s such a trusting soul. Seems a bit smitten with me, if I’m not mistaken. You needn’t worry about Kirah, though. I gave her a bottle of the antidote.” He paused and tapped his chin with his only index finger. “Or was that the bottle with the plague?” He shrugged. “I guess I should have marked them better when I brought the disease to Thonvil from Mithas.”

  Guerrand could contain his rage no longer. “Are you trying to make me kill you?”

  Lyim’s friendly facade slipped away, and he looked deadly serious. “Whether I battle my way into Bastion to use the portal to the Lost Citadel or you kill me first, I’ll finally be free of this hideous arm. My life is already worse than death, so I have nothing to lose. The time has come to settle this once and for all, Rand.”

  The hell hound beneath Lyim howled and twitched. Abruptly it transformed into the steely likeness of a bull that towered above Lyim’s head as he floated easily to the ground. Its eyes glowed a fiercer red than even the hell hound’s had, and when it pawed the ground, Guerrand could feel all of Bastion shudder. Foul-looking vapors blasted and curled from its nostrils with each exhalation.

  Stage two, Guerrand mentally commanded Ezius, who stood waiting impatiently above the white wing.

  Guerrand had never been face-to-face with a gorgon before, but he recognized it from books of mythical creatures. At a gesture from the high defender, the gargoyles swooped from their perches to attack. Guerrand knew they stood little chance against this terrible beast, but perhaps they could buy some time while the mages prepared a defense. There was a chance, being living stone already, the gargoyles would not be affected by the gorgon’s petrifying breath.

  With deafening roars the monsters met and clashed. But Guerrand’s attention was already elsewhere. With deft movements and softly muttered words he etched an intricate pattern of lights in the air before him to reinforce Bastion’s ever-present wards. The same lights, in the same pattern, redrew themselves around the exterior of Bastion. There they were suspended, pulsing, around and above the building and its defenders.

  Dagamier’s spells fired from the top of the black wing would provide invaluable help, but protections on the scrying sphere prevented Guerrand from sending her a telepathic message. The mage turned to Bram. “Go to the scrying chamber and tell Dagamier to begin drill three. Hurry!”

  Bram bolted for the trapdoor and dived through it just as a magical bolt of some sort tossed from Lyim’s hand hit the facade where Bram had been sheltering, sending fragments flying past his heels.

  Guerrand was in the midst of casting a protective spell on himself when chunks of the wall slammed into his legs and abdomen. He was knocked to the walkway and bloodied. He cursed the wasted spell, only half cast.

  A quick glance below revealed Lyim hovering waist-high above the ground, surrounded by shimmering bands of multicolored light. On the roof of the white wing, Ezius pointed a wand into the courtyard and mouthed several words. Even through the shielding magic of Guerrand’s rings and bracers, he felt the blast of heat as three successive balls of fire exploded below. Guerrand had to turn his face away from the blinding light that flared from red to yellow to unbearable white. Three thunderclaps shook the building as blistering air seared past.

  The courtyard was a swirling tumult of smoke and ashes outlined by the twisted remains of the fence, now glowing red-hot. The gorgon and several gargoyles lay blackened on the charred ground. Even before the smoke settled, Guerrand could hear the laugh he remembered so well. “Nothing is so predictable as a lawful white wizard with a wand,” Lyim declared.

  He counterattacked by tossing a small pouch into the air. At a wave of Lyim’s hand the pouch streaked toward Ezius and burst open above the white mage, raining a fine dust down over him. A circular sweep of Ezius’s hand created a shield above him that kept the flakes off. As the dust settled, the shield sizzled and popped. It was already breaking into chunks by the time Ezius flung it over the parapet and scurried away from the few remaining flecks of dust.

  Out of the right corner of his vision, Guerrand saw Dagamier and Bram scramble onto the watch walk of the black wing. If Lyim hasn’t noticed her, he thought, perhaps she can catch him off guard as drill three is intended to. Dagamier wasted no time in trying; one hand, small and slender, made a circling gesture. A thin, silvery ray of tremendous cold flashed from her hand across the blasted scene. Like Ezius’s fireball, the attack struck the bands of scintillating color enclosing Lyim. But this time it looked like some of the spell’s energy pierced Lyim’s globe, as the leering red mage appeared to wince under the ray’s probing fingers.

  Lyim was quick to react. With practiced speed he began casting a spell to shore up his weakened defenses. The magical chant created new energy, but it had to be woven into the protective bands with Lyim’s good left hand. The physical gestures were complex. As Lyim worked, the snake snapped at his left hand, biting it just behind the thumb. Reflexively Lyim’s left hand jerked back, spoiling the spell.

  Hoping to capitalize on what might be only a moment’s advantage, Guerrand quickly created a gigantic hand, formed entirely of magical energy. The hand took shape behind Lyim. Immediately its outstretched fingers wrapped around the mage and squeezed.

  At first, the hand seemed to have no affect, was unable to penetrate Lyim’s colored bands. But the weak point had not been repaired, and one by one the bands burst, showering the area with a rainbow of sparks. As each band ruptured, Lyim’s face grew more red and more fearful. At the last moment, the look of terror and pain on his face burned itself into Guerrand’s memory. His scream rose to an inhuman pitch, then abruptly cut off.

  Guerrand willed the magical hand to release Lyim’s body; the other mage slumped to Bastion’s dark and murky ground.

  Ezius was the nearest, and so was the first to cautiously approach the fallen mage. Guerrand, and Dagamier with Bram, watched from high above on the walks. Slowly the white mage advanced across the courtyard. Pausing at a distance of several paces, Ezius withdrew a crystal lens from a fold of his robe and held it to his eye. For many moments he inspected the body. Satisfied at last, he stepped up to Lyim and nudged him with his toe, waiting for many long moments. When Ezius looked up to the high defender, no announcement was necessary.

  Guerrand stumbled backward a step, a hand to his throat in disbelief. Lyim was dead. After all the drills they had performed, the defenders’ three-pronged attack had worked—perhaps too well. The high defender realized now that some part of him had still hoped to take Lyim alive. Then Guerrand remembered that Lyim had fatally poisoned many without thought, and his brief feeling of loss abruptly changed to a sense of justice done. Lyim’s bitterness had driven him to measures beyond redemption.

  Dagamier had joined Ezius in the courtyard below. Guerrand cast a featherfall spell on both himself and Bram, and they drifted down next to the other defenders.

  Ezius’s face was smudged with the soot of spells. Squinting through his thick, dusty spectacles, he said, “There must be no burial ceremony for one such as he. I have some experience with coroners’ techniques. If you wish, I’ll attend to him.”

  Bram spoke up. “I think you should let him, Rand. I need you to send me back to Thonvil immediately after what this Lyim said about Kirah. How did he even know her?”

  “Kirah met him once, years ago,” Guerrand explained distantly, “when Lyim came to Castle DiThon in my stead. I, too, got the feeling that she was taken with him
.”

  Bram frowned at the revelation. “The villagers all say she waits by the sea for a lover.…”

  “If Kirah ran into Lyim again, she would have trusted him with her life,” Guerrand said softly, his gaze far away and very sad.

  “Do you believe he spoke truly,” asked Dagamier, “or was he just trying to goad you into attacking?”

  Guerrand shook his head. “I believe Lyim would have done anything to further his own ends.”

  Bram squared his shoulders. “Do what you must, then, to send me back immediately.”

  Guerrand thought of Esme, of his little sister Kirah and the innocent villagers of Thonvil, as he watched Ezius drag the dead body of the friend who had become his adversary up the stairs to the nave. The gem in Lyim’s ear stud caught the light from several small fires still burning in the courtyard. It seemed somehow fitting that Lyim’s death had given Guerrand greater freedom of mind to face disasters of Lyim’s creation.

  “We’ll go together, Bram.” The announcement of Guerrand’s earlier decision surprised his nephew. The high defender was rewarded with a grateful smile and a joyous pat on the back. Dagamier nodded her acceptance of his decision, with the usual mysterious light in her eyes as she followed the two men back into Bastion.

  Kirah awoke at first light with an inexplicable sense of well-being she had not felt in a long time. She bounded from her feather tick, feet dancing over the cold floor, seeking her worn boots. Jamming her feet into the things, more mud than good leather now, she stoked the fire with just one small piece of wood to keep the cinders burning while she toiled in the bakery below.

  Kirah had secretly done work for the baker’s wife for some time. Glammis hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of Cormac DiThon’s crazy sister working for him, let alone living in the room above his bakery. But his wife, Deeander, had taken pity on Kirah and offered her room and board in exchange for sweeping floors, changing the rushes occasionally, and the odd bit of sewing and mending.

  Kirah wasn’t happy Glammis had died from the plague, for the baker had been a kindly man, despite his prejudices. Still, she was happy that his passing had given her the opportunity for work that was more to her liking than the tedium of ordinary household chores. Today she would bake bread, until the flour ran out, that is.

  Kirah shrugged on her dirt-stiffened clothing—old hose and the thin shift Deeander had given her—then gnawed off a small piece of hardtack and gulped some soured milk before skipping down the stairs to the bakery.

  She bypassed the open front door and took the alleyway to avoid the patrons. Two meager, half-filled sacks of ground spelt flour were propped against the back door, left by Wilton Sivesten, the miller’s son. Normally, the bakery would receive five times that amount each day, but the mill had slowed its production considerably since the death of the miller. Frankly, there were far fewer people in the village to buy the bakery’s products, anyway.

  Kirah asked herself why she should be feeling so light of heart when things in Thonvil seemed their grimmest. She didn’t have to look far for the answer. Lyim. He had miraculously arrived in her life for the second time, bringing hope.

  Once Kirah had had an endless amount of hope. Hope and two loyal brothers. But first Quinn left, then Guerrand, taking with him the last of her hope. All she’d had left was belief in herself. Even that had proved insufficient in Gwynned.

  As usual, Kirah turned her mind away from that unspeakable time. There was something pleasant to ponder now. Lyim cared enough about her to travel far with the cure. She still had difficulty believing Guerrand had caused this plague, but where was he, if he was so innocent?

  Kirah stepped into the stone-block baking room and looped a broad, white apron nearly twice about her narrow waist. She didn’t wait for Deeander to tell her the day’s tasks—they seldom varied. Besides, the baker’s widow was undoubtedly busy in the front room, selling the last of yesterday’s yield.

  First, Kirah stoked the two brick ovens, raking out the ashes to prepare the hot floor for the loaves she would prepare next. When she was satisfied with the level of heat, Kirah went to the long marble baking table and carefully lowered the cloth-covered bowl of fermented bread starter from a high shelf. She tossed a wooden scoopful of the goopy, sour-smelling stuff into an enormous mixing bowl. To that she added coarse, brown spelt from one of the new sacks (there was no one who could afford fine white loaves, even if they could get the flour), a pinch of sea salt, and a large ladleful of warm well water from the cauldron that always hung above the fire pit. Kirah mixed it around with her bare hands, squeezing the concoction between her fingers.

  Next came her favorite part. Sprinkling the marble table with a frugal amount of flour, she flung the stringy mixture onto it, pushed her sleeves past her elbows, then began to furiously knead the dough. It was the color of coarse, undyed cotton, with dark flecks of brown. Kirah counted to three hundred while she pushed and prodded the stuff around the table. When she was at last satisfied with the soft feel of it, Kirah chopped the dough into thirds with a sharp knife. Fashioning each into a perfectly round ball, she placed them one, two, three on the flat shovel end of a long, wooden peel and gently lowered them upon the hot oven floor. With a quick tug, she yanked the peel from under the bread and withdrew it from the heat before the wood could char.

  Brushing the leftover flour from her hands, Kirah surveyed her work with satisfaction. Three loaves in the oven in no time at all. A wisp of hair fell across her face, and she looked at it cross-eyed before trying to blow it back. The strands stuck upon her sweaty forehead. Funny, she thought, scraping them away with the back of her hand, I don’t feel hot enough to sweat. If anything, she felt a little chilly, despite her strenuous efforts at the kneading table. Must be the heat of the ovens, she decided.

  Kirah was preparing to mix a batch of pie crust when Deeander pushed back the curtain to the front room.

  The stout woman’s face was pale with strain as she looked upon the loaves in the brick oven. “I would have stopped you had I heard you come in.” She shook her head sadly. “Every day there are fewer and fewer to come and buy bread. I have yet to sell yesterday’s loaves.”

  “People still have to eat,” Kirah said.

  “What people?” barked the baker’s wife, her patience suddenly snapping like a lute string. “Have you looked outside today? Have you seen the bodies of stone stacked head to toe upon the green because they can’t dig graves fast enough to bury the dead anymore?” Bright spots of angry red mottled her fleshy face. “Why do we make bread to sustain people who will only die horrible deaths within the week?”

  “With that line of reasoning,” said Kirah, “you could ask why ever feed someone? They will only die in forty or fifty years anyway.” Her expression turned serious. “Because to not feed people is to ensure their deaths, that’s why.”

  The baker woman’s bosom heaved, and she wearily lowered herself into a flour-flecked chair. “It’s just that I’ve given up hope. I see no reason nor end for this disease. Sometimes I wish it would just take me and end the waiting!”

  “Don’t ever say that!” Kirah gasped, looking over her shoulder to see if the woman’s young son had heard her, but there was no sign of him. “You have Dilb to think about.”

  “It’s about him that I worry endlessly,” the woman confessed. “How can I keep the plague from him, when I don’t know how to keep it from myself?”

  Kirah massaged the woman’s thick shoulder, hoping to impart strength. She wished that she could give the woman the hope she herself felt, but the town had never been trusting of mages. She would just have to wait until Lyim returned with enough antidote for everyone, then hope the townspeople would follow her example and take the cure.

  “Make no more bread, and take the rest of the day off,” Deeander instructed her, pushing herself up to return to the front room in hopes that someone would come to buy bread. “I’ll watch the loaves you’ve made.”

  Kirah cleared the marble pa
stry table. Removing her apron, she hung it on a hook and wondered what she would do to fill her day. She wished Lyim would return soon, for reasons that had nothing to do with cures. He’d left two days ago to get enough antidote for the rest of the village. She missed him more than she was comfortable admitting, torn between an expectation too strong and fear of disappointment. Suddenly she could not sit still—not for a moment—leaving her in an itching agony.

  She would stop by the inn. Surely Lyim would stay there when he returned with the cure. Kirah polished the bottom of a pie pan with a coarse sleeve and checked her reflection. Her face was sweaty and her hair lank. With clumsy, untrained hands, she braided the pale blond strands into one long plait that rested on her right shoulder.

  Pulling on a loose, scratchy woolen cape, Kirah stepped out into the narrow, filthy alley and shivered. She hadn’t remembered the air feeling so cold. Thankfully, the Red Goose Inn was only two thatched buildings and a vegetable patch down the street, across from the green. She would warm herself by the fire there before checking with the innkeeper. Kirah rounded the corner and emerged into the sunlight.

  She had kept to her room and the bakery since Lyim left and was amazed at the change a few days made in the village. Never prosperous, it looked nearly deserted now. The taint of decay was everywhere, including the shabby, boarded-up shop fronts. The breeze carried the scent of burning flesh; she’d heard people were now cremating the husks of skin that victims shed on the second day of the disease, in hopes of stopping its spread. The greatest shock came from the sight of bodies piled upon the green, as Deeander had said, waiting for burial.

  Without realizing it, Kirah had slowed her pace until she was barely moving. The horror of the stacked bodies was riveting. Human torsos and faces frozen in terror and pain intermixed with a mass of snakes that still seemed to writhe, in spite of being stone. She did not look closely enough at the faces to recognize anyone, but it was clear that many of the dead were children and infants. Snake bodies lay on the grass, broken off from limbs by careless or hurried handling. It was a scene from a nightmare, a charnel pit of snakes squirming over and between the corpses of the tormented dead.