Events on the hillside only spiraled further out of control. Lyim watched Guerrand abruptly slash through the tentacles and escape his cage. Charging at Belize with his sword, Guerrand was stopped when his weapon turned into a branch of wood. A massive, interposing hand rose up before his friend, and still no useful idea came to Lyim’s mind. Then, in an even more bizarre turn of events, a bird smashed into Belize, but it was Guerrand who inexplicably crumpled to the ground, holding his side.
The impetuous apprentice believed any spell would be better than this peculiar indecisiveness. Needing no components for the one that came to mind, Lyim muttered, “Boli sular,” and held his breath against Belize’s reaction.
* * * * *
Guerrand held his ribs and fought against the horrible burning in his right side. The pain spread through his chest and did not stop until it reached his right shoulder. He knew the torment he felt was an exact reflection of Zagarus’s injury, so he twisted around painfully until he could see where Zag had fallen to earth. Guerrand’s familiar lay in a crumpled heap, but his wings fluttered fitfully as he struggled to right himself. After a few awkward attempts, the gull simply fell back and lay still. Guerrand looked inward, expecting an emptiness of the soul. He sighed in relief; Zag lived. The bond—the inexplicable presence—he’d felt since conjuring the familiar was still there.
Then Guerrand noticed the small statuette of Esme, lying on the ground next to the sea gull. She was away from Belize, safe at least for the moment.
The ache in Guerrand’s side was beginning to throb so that it took all his reserves to turn and look back toward the plinths. The gigantic hand still stood between him and Belize. Lying prone, the apprentice got glimpses of Belize poring over his trunk again.
Just then, an unaccountable scream of rage burst from Belize. Guerrand saw the archmage frantically clawing at his face. When Belize pulled back his hands, his eyes were entirely black, like olives, lifeless and unseeing.
“Who dares blind me?” Belize roared, turning slowly as if he could yet see.
Guerrand was confused. Who, indeed, had cast a blindness spell on Belize?
Snarling his frustration, the archmage resigned himself to the consequences of the simplest spell he could use to restore his sight. He knew the radius of the dispelling magic would remove all of his ongoing enchantments, but he cast it quickly anyway. A bright light he could not yet see grew to burn the darkness from his eyes. In a blink, the small shaft of radiance flew away from the archmage and struck the gigantic magical palm; the hand dissipated into swirling smoke and then was gone. The light raced on, over the empty cage of tentacles, sending them slithering without a trace back into the ground.
But the magical dispel was not finished yet. The bright shaft switched directions and streaked nearby to where the statuette of Esme lay. The figure shifted, then grew instantly, until the woman herself lay upon the hillside. She remained deathly still, as if yet a figurine, then blessedly coughed and convulsed and stirred to life. Shaking her head to clear it, Esme struggled to her knees and looked about in confusion.
“Esme,” hissed Guerrand. “Over here!”
Spotting Guerrand, the young woman, hindered by her splinted leg, pulled herself slowly to his side. She touched his whiskered cheek tenderly, a weak, relieved smile her only greeting. “What happened to Zagarus, and how did I get away from Belize?”
“You couldn’t see anything as a statue?” Esme’s head shook. “Zag saved both our lives. He swooped on Belize and yanked you from the mage’s neck to distract him from killing me.” Guerrand winced as he shifted his wounded side. “It worked pretty well, too, except Belize hit Zag with a magic missile—and me, since we’re linked. I’m afraid my right arm is pretty useless.”
Esme looked fretfully from Guerrand’s arm to the still sea gull. “He’s not—”
“No, just unconscious. Zag doesn’t deal well with pain.”
“Belize is trying to open a gate that will let him into the Lost Citadel,” she told Guerrand without preamble. Tearing two wide strips from the hem of her tunic, she hastily wrapped Zag’s right side and wing. “I don’t think we can kill a mage of his ability, but perhaps we can delay him until the convergence is past.”
Guerrand frowned. “There seems to be another mage—”
“Digas ne vimi!”
Both apprentices looked up in fear at the sound of Belize uttering another incantation. But his spell was not for them. The archmage’s red-robed arms were stretched wide in the direction of the sea. A strangled gasp reached their ears from the other side of the plinths.
Guerrand and Esme both dragged themselves to their feet in time to see Lyim Rhistadt being yanked by some invisible force from a copse of shrubs.
“How did he get here?” asked Esme.
Guerrand shook his head, gaze never leaving Lyim. “It’s a long story.”
Suspended ten feet above the ground, Belize’s apprentice kicked and writhed against some monstrous, invisible grip. Despite his struggles, Lyim was lifted higher still, then floated helplessly toward Belize.
“Y-You’re crushing me,” rasped Lyim. The apprentice’s ribs contracted perceptibly beneath the invisible grip, making it nearly impossible for him to draw a new breath. The young mage hovered just above his master. Belize regarded his apprentice with an expression more triumphant than surprised.
“It seems I have a wealth of visitors tonight.” The archmage’s eyes narrowed to malicious slits. “You, of all people, should have known better than to strike against me.”
“I’ve revered you all my life!” Lyim gasped, struggling for air. “You’re the greatest, most powerful mage to ever have lived. Why risk your position as Master of the Red Order?”
“The regard of lesser humans is this—” Belize spat viciously “—compared to gaining the magical knowledge of the gods.”
With that, Belize checked the positions of the moons and hastily turned to plunge his hands into the ironbound chest. Slowly, as if lifting something of great value and fragility, he drew forth a swirling sphere of flame. The ball writhed between his fingers, twisting, flickering, uncontained by anything save Belize’s will. With intense concentration the mage turned and extended his arms so that the ball of energy hovered between the stone pillars.
“What are we going to do?” whispered Esme. “He’s preparing his portal.”
Guerrand nodded, equally concerned with the bluing pallor of Lyim’s complexion. If they could distract Belize, he might forget Lyim in his irritation.…
“I have an idea that’s certain to infuriate Belize,” Guerrand said. “How’s your shield spell?”
She grinned at the prospect. “Good as ever.”
“Fine. It’ll take me a few moments to prepare my spell. If you’ll just get the dried peas from my pouch …” he said with a nod toward his useless arm. Esme slipped the peas into his hand, and Guerrand closed his eyes, struggling to recall the exact symbols of the seldom-used spell he sought.
Waiting with the words of her own spell at the ready, Esme watched Belize anxiously as the flickering globe he’d placed between the plinths flared angrily and swelled to twice its previous size. Its eerie light shimmered on the carved surfaces of the plinths.
Next, Belize drew a succession of vials and containers from the chest, tossing each into the swirling inferno while muttering arcane phrases and gesturing in the air. The fiery globe grew steadily larger until its blue tongues licked against the gray stones. Its shape began to change, to flatten and stretch into an oval.
“Estivas nom,” Guerrand pronounced at last to Esme’s relief. A wall of fog, heavy and thick, appeared out of thin air and positioned itself between the archmage and the moons. Esme hastily called forth the invisible shield.
Belize whirled on them in a flash, his face as dark as a thundercloud. “Dispel the fog at once,” he demanded.
“Do it yourself if you’re so desperate to see the moons align,” Guerrand jeered.
“I’l
l not waste time or energy on a spell. But I will send your friend through the unfinished portal.” The invisible grip shook Lyim like a rag doll. “You’ve seen what happens then.”
“Rand, don’t do it—” Lyim gasped with great effort.
Guerrand and Esme exchanged a horrified glance. She gave a slight nod, and Guerrand immediately tossed the last of his peas into the air, summoning a gust of wind that blew the fog over the strait.
Belize threw back his balding head and roared with laughter. “Gullible rubes!” He raised his arm, and Lyim was yanked as if on a leash to the swirling ball of fire between the plinths. Belize plunged his apprentice’s arm, right up to the shoulder, through the wall of whirling hues. Lyim screamed, struggling with the last of his strength to twist away, but the grip was unrelenting. Eyes bulging, he kicked and thrashed vainly against the invisible forces that held him and worked tortures on his arm.
Guerrand covered his ears, but still he heard the hideous scream, seeming to rise from Lyim’s soul. The unbroken wail cut through the night, cut through Guerrand’s nerves until he was searching his mind frantically for some spell that would help Lyim.
Then the torture was over. Suddenly released from the invisible grip, Lyim staggered back from the portal and collapsed unconscious from the torment he’d endured.
Both Guerrand and Esme looked at their friend’s arm and gasped. The sleeve was shredded, revealing an appendage that was no longer an arm. Instead of flesh, the limb was a writhing thing covered in scales of brown, red, and gold, patterned symmetrically in rings and swirls. And at the end of the limb, where a hand should have been, was the head of a snake, its eyes inky black and malevolent. The hideous creature hissed and flicked its tongue.
Belize looked at the snake arm in relief. “These portals frequently contain the undead remains of centuries of unsuccessful adventurers,” he explained conversationally. “They jump like starving fleas upon the first fresh traveler they meet. Your friend generously cleared the path for me.”
Belize chuckled, a cruel, mirthless sound that lasted only a moment before he telekinetically flung aside Lyim’s limp body to reach one last time into his ironbound chest. He pulled forth a thin, fragile book, opened it, and held it up to compare its drawing to the positions of the three moons above.
Following the mage’s gaze, Guerrand could see that the “eye” seemed perfectly aligned: black shadowy circle, red, then yellow-white moons. At that precise moment, the swirling mass Belize had created between the plinths yawned open with an unbearable purplish light. The marble pillars seemed to throb in the portal’s radiance. The effect spread swiftly outward until the entire plateau wavered and shifted like the deck of a ship. A column of twisting, intertwined white, red, and black light shot skyward and split into three cords, linking the carved marble pillars to each of the moons.
But proximity to such an awesome occurrence had frozen both students of magic. They were watching something indescribably ancient, a form of magic so old it had been forgotten long before the Cataclysm.
Guerrand’s eyes followed the heavenly beam to where hundreds of bright white veins of light broke away and linked with the stars to form an interstellar suspension bridge, as if the light were tracing the outline of a whole new constellation.
Belize took slow steps toward the heavenly bridge.
“It’s too late to stop him,” Esme whispered, clenching and unclenching her fists in frustration.
“Not if I can still see him,” Guerrand spat, shaking off his fascination so that he could visualize the sigils on the plinths. Once again he recognized patterns in what had been random scrawls. Beneath the light of the three moons, Guerrand pushed his mind harder than Justarius had ever demanded.
Under Guerrand’s scrutiny, the sigils seemed to shift and twist and contort. Their relative order remained constant but suggested motion, coiling through a subtle progression of new configurations.
Understanding came to Guerrand with all the impact of an opponent’s lance in the tilting yard. The pulsating lights, the swirling portal, the bridge were all woven from the same pattern, and Guerrand could read it as easily as a textbook.
But before the apprentice could use the knowledge, Belize took one last, calculating glance skyward, then stepped boldly through the curtain of color swirling between the pillars and onto the mighty, glittering suspension bridge of light that stretched to the moons. It rocked and swayed beneath his feet, but the archmage clung to the luminous railings and continued upward, a red streak against the dark, starry sky. He seemed almost to grow in size with each step that brought him nearer the Lost Citadel.
Guerrand raced to the plinths, as if he could pull Belize back with his bare hands. The view through the pillars looked more like a tunnel than an open-sided bridge. Belize was nearing the halfway point to the Lost Citadel, backlit by a glow more blinding than a thousand candles.
Guerrand closed his eyes against it, but the light burned through his lids and etched there a multisensory image. He would never know for sure if it actually happened, or if he’d conjured some mirage. But the vision felt more real, more vivid than his own life.
Glowing gates of gold, not unlike those at Wayreth, rose up from a knee-high warm, moist fog. Behind them was the source of the radiance that burned Guerrand’s eyes. Like raw, uncut minerals, three immense diamond spires sliced through the billowing fog and rose to penetrate the blackness of space. The faceted surfaces reflected the foundation upon which all earthly things were built, as if a mirror had been held to the universe and revealed a skeleton complex beyond compare. Somehow the citadel conveyed that it had acquired its knowledge honestly, that its mineraled walls had risen from the mire of Krynn itself and had been long ago transported beyond the circles of the universe by the gods of magic themselves.
The citadel’s pull was strong. It would have been an easy thing to step into the tunnel and join Belize in acquiring the knowledge of the gods. But witnessing the citadel’s magnificence had made it all the more important to prevent Belize from entering there. The red archmage was not worthy, if any mortal could be.
Badly shaken, Guerrand jerked away from the influence of the tunnel. He composed himself with a breath before probing the corners of his mind again. The spells he memorized daily were imprinted patterns, the keys for unlocking all magical energies. Guerrand read those simple spell patterns and tapped the energy, but then combined them with the more complex symbols on the plinths, reshaping the whole to a new purpose, a spell of his own making.
At his direction, a new pillar of twisting red light shot from his fingertips and entered Belize’s portal. Racing over the bridge, the bright column overtook a surprised Belize and continued on until it reached the point where the bridge was anchored to the moons. Guerrand’s column of energy sliced like a knife through the ends of Belize’s bridge, severing the link. The archmage’s howl of fear and rage shook the stars. He clung desperately to the railings when the bridge whipped like a snake’s tail. Guerrand’s chord of light rerouted the bridge back to the moonlit hilltop so that it looked like an enormous, star-bright horseshoe.
Guerrand dropped to his knees at last, his energy exhausted, head and wounded side aching. The apprentice looked skyward through rivulets of sweat just as dark Nuitari slid off-center from red Lunitari. The trio of light strands that formed the bridge abruptly rejoined into one column, then snapped in half. The lower portion collapsed upon the earthbound marble plinths, while the upper half shot away to disappear among the stars. Spiraling slowly inward, the gate itself began to darken and shrink, until the vibrant colors which had been almost too bright to look at faded to the dark red-orange of a smith’s furnace.
The hilltop grew eerily silent.
“How did you do that, Rand?” Esme breathed, regarding him with new respect. “And what did you do with Belize?”
“I hope he’s rotting in the Abyss for what he’s done to me,” snarled Lyim, then winced from the effort of sending air through his badly
bruised lungs.
“Your arm—” Guerrand began, reaching out.
“Is a snake,” Lyim finished viciously. “It disgusts me, but no more than the thought of your pity. I couldn’t bear that, too.”
Guerrand knew no other way to help his friend than to spare his pride, and so he looked away. Just then, the colors about the dwindling gate flared briefly, drawing the trio’s attention. A shape tumbled with a loud popping sound through the plinths and onto the beaten grass, rolling to a stop against Belize’s trunk. The ground began to shake, and the carved plinths swayed and rocked. Guerrand jumped back to Esme and Lyim just as the marble columns cracked and crashed to the ground, striking the mysterious shape as they tumbled. The swirling colors of the gate dissipated entirely, casting the hilltop back into the dimmer light of the moons.
“What is it?” gasped Esme, nodding toward the amorphous shape.
Steeling himself, Guerrand walked through the shattered blocks of marble and approached the trunk. The young mage’s stomach churned as he stared down into the face of Belize, set in the middle of an oozing, flabby, ulcerous body like those Guerrand had seen in the archmage’s lab. A shapeless flipper groped up toward the lid of the trunk. What remained of his mouth quivered, lidless eyes rolling from side to side, revealing his agony. Guerrand clapped a hand to his own mouth to keep from retching.
“It appears that the Master of the Red Robes has been following the ways of the Black Robes for some time.”
Guerrand’s head snapped up at the sound of a familiar voice. Justarius stooped to pick up the burned and tattered sheafs of Harz-Takta’s spellbook near what remained of Belize. “Some knowledge is better left unrecovered.”
Justarius’s gaze upon Belize’s body was grim. “He made the frequently fatal conceit of allowing love of himself to supersede his passion for magic. Magic must always come first.”
“Wh-When did you get here?” stammered Guerrand, holding fast to Esme.
Justarius eased himself onto a blasted block of the marble plinths, closing his robe against the crisp wind that blew off the strait. “It was quite simple, really. Your comments about Belize’s research practices plagued me, until, by the time I teleported to Wayreth, I was certain these were no idle experiments he was performing. Par-Salian agreed that they sounded like the result of gating experiments.”
Night of the Eye Page 29