EXILED Defenders of Ar

by Jack Lovejoy

  The sole encouraging report he had heard was that the land was being scorched before the invading hordes, denying them sustenance. Somebody at Ar had had at least that much sense of grand strategy. Perhaps the great city was not doomed after all. He knew that other wizards of The Three were rallying there, but so far he had been able to contact only Mithmid, by means of a coded message. Each time he tried telepathy, some probing intelligence interfered. A power of magic capable of such interference was dreadful.

  There had been debates among The Three about just how much the Third Eye might remultiply the already formidable powers of the Evil One. More than the most timorous had feared, it seemed. Why he did not now focus that power upon the overthrow of Ar could only mean that he in turn feared something. The unified magic of The Three? That would explain his need to foment hostility everywhere against wizards. Unless it was just one more instance of his insane lust for vengeance....

  If his mere attempts to communicate with his fellow wizards were probed by an alien intelligence, he knew that teleportation could be risked only in cases of life or death. But dawn would soon force upon him just such a case. Did the agents who had roused the mob against him know that he was one of the original Seven, entrusted with a fragment of the Khavala? That would explain the relentlessness of their pursuit. Promises of rich donatives, in this time of’ ruin, would alone goad a mob to outrage.

  Dawn was near: The eastern mountains were already silhouetted blackly against the horizon. Soon he would have no choice. But if he himself risked a desperate teleport, he had no right to risk having his fragment of the Khavala fall into the hands of the Evil One. Any increment of his already vast power tipped the scales that much further against The Three.

  He waded across the shallow tributary of the Mraal, downstream from the bridge. His pursuers would not expect him to double back to the very place whence he had been driven last evening. The small river city was no refuge, of course. But if the servitors of the Evil One could exploit the general ruin, so could he. After the first hue and cry, nothing could have induced the bargemrem and his son to carry him downriver as a passenger. Only the guarantee of a rich prize, to be paid at Ar, had persuaded them to deliver even a message there—and a small packet.

  He found them waiting anxiously for him in their riverfront hovel, surly and suspicious, as if they had had second thoughts. They both reexamined the written guarantee by candlelight, and again shrewdly weighed risk against reward. The latter still prevailed. Not a word was exchanged among them, only some earnest money and a packet. Then the old wizard crept invisibly back into the streets.

  Without the fragment of the Khavala to redouble his magic, his powers of concealment were only strong enough to cause the few stragglers he encountered at this early hour to look the other way. But the bands of pursuers now converging on the small river city were far too numerous for such an effect; back and forth through the trees swept their lines, more and more visible, although they no longer brandished torches. The horizon was now a brightening rose-violet, dappled with fluffy pink clouds. It was dawn and he was trapped.

  A teleport of a few miles was the most he could now manage. It might carry him out of danger, it might as easily carry him into horrors unimaginable; but in no event would it carry with him his fragment of the Khavala. Whether or not the bargemrem and his son fulfilled their commission, what to them would seem no more than a sliver of red glass was unlikely to fall into evil hands.

  He wished he could say the same about himself. There were shouts and cries of anger, as his pursuers in their hundreds poured across the tributary bridge. These were answered from windows and doorways behind him. He had been recognized. The swarm converged from all sides, goaded to fury by the servitors of the Evil One.

  Concentrating a lifetime of wizardry, in an inescapable situation of life or death, he disappeared before their eyes. He had directed his reemergence to a water meadow on the far side of the river, some four miles away. From there he might reach the walled city of Marbatan before nightfall.

  He was disoriented momentarily when he instead reemerged into a place where it was already night. Slime-encrusted walls surrounded him; a carnal stench thickened the air, and he was terrified by a weird clittering sound, like scores of hungry reptiles grinding their teeth as they scuttled toward him out of the darkness.

  He tried to teleport himself again, but was bereft of all magic. A still weirder sound echoed through the nightmarish halls and corridors. Whether it was dark laughter or a shriek of insanity, he knew he was doomed.

  Mithmid was careful not to betray any sympathy for the wretched old mrem chained to the stake. The sullen crowd thronging the marketplace certainly did not. Marbatan was not the haven he had expected. Nor could he reasonably expect any more that the last wizard of the Seven, the last bearer of a Khavala fragment still unaccounted for, would join him here as they had agreed. If he tarried here much longer, he might end up chained to a stake himself.

  The priests of Marbat, the local nature god, hovered about the condemned mrem with rites and incantations so ancient that nobody in the crowd knew what they meant any more, perhaps not even the priests themselves. They finished just as the last faggots were heaped about the stake, and the public executioner stepped forward with a beaker of flaming oil.

  As the smell of singed fur mingled in the air with cries of agony, Mithmid had to be more careful then ever not to betray his feelings. The pathetic old mrem had been a mere hedge wizard, half charlatan, half madmrem; a danger only to himself. But agents of the Evil One were provoking antipathy to magicians everywhere these days. This was the fifth public execution he had witnessed in the last fortnight. The condemned had all been elderly magicians, much like himself. Although none in fact had actually been a member of The Three, it was now clear that the wizards of that great order were the intended victims. In a way, this was heartening.

  It could well mean that the Evil One was apprehensive about The Three combining against him. Indeed, its powers, redoubled by the concentrated fragments of the Khavala, and focused upon a common objective by a single mind, could be formidable. That they would be formidable enough to check the Evil One was improbable. He now seemed invincible, his overwhelming powers remultiplied overwhelmingly by the Third Eye, and yet for some reason he hesitated—or so at least it appeared.

  Why? Had his first defeat, followed by long entombment, induced in him a neurotic wariness toward The Three? Or were these the cold calculations of a master plan, aimed perhaps at the regained supremacy of the Old Race? His actions—sometimes brilliant, sometimes childish—were incomprehensible to any rational mind. Judged by the standards of mrem intelligence, Khal was insane.

  Mithmid’s own actions were now directed toward reaching Ar as swiftly as possible, with his own fragment of the Khavala intact. But he would be sure to attract suspicion if he left the marketplace before the pathetic old hedge wizard was utterly consumed by flames. All old mrem seemed suspect these days. While seeming to watch the execution with the rest of the crowd, he concentrated his thoughts elsewhere....

  Upon Ar, foremost of all, and the best means of reaching it safely. The invading hordes were now barely three days’ march from Marabat, so it might be prudent, in view of the executions he had seen lately, just to straggle along with the growing stream of refugees, like any other old mrem fleeing west.

  Meanwhile other thoughts disturbed his concentration, nebulous, unformed, only half-conscious. It was not now that the idea which was to expand this terrible war into another dimension first came to him, although ever afterwards he associated this day with the foreshadowings of that idea. True, the united fragments of the Khavala were still overmatched by the Third Eye. But there was a power in existence which overmatched even that evil stone....

  Cragsclaw had been a mighty fortress, and courageously defended; but when its gates were blasted open by some mysterious force, the garrison was butche
red without mercy, and the city itself given over to the atrocities of bandits and desert marauders. Khal reserved for himself only its governor, along with the elegant young governor of Kazerclawm, whom he had brought here with him; the bandit chieftain who had failed to keep its garrison and refugees from breaking out; and an old wizard of The Three he had somehow captured. Taking possession of the palace, he had indulged himself in an orgy of vengeance that lasted weeks.

  “Sit here, my good Nizzam,” he said one morning. “That’s right. No need to tremble so, I’m just checking to see how your fur blends into the general color scheme. Hmmmmmmm, rather muddy, I’m afraid. The governor of Kazerclawm here is your best work.” He now addressed his taxidermist, who had just finished arranging the hapless old wizard on a couch.

  “I’m only as good as the materials I work with, my lord.”

  The taxidermist fussily touched up the governor’s ears with a fine comb. “This one took very good care of himself. You can see it in the glossiness of his fur. This other one”—he nodded toward the bandit chieftain, sitting on a plain camp stool “was a job of work, I can tell you. I believe I caught his natural look—”

  “Very natural, my friend,” Khal murmured.

  “But you see, my lord, he was such a tufty old rascal to begin with....” He shrugged. “Looks rough beside these others.”

  “Variety is what we want here,” said Khal. “You were recommended to me as the master of your craft, a true artist. Your first efforts prove this, although I realize it is new work for you. As my collection grows, so too will your artistry. There are several specimens already in the dungeons who will be given to you, eventually. As kingdom after kingdom falls, the great ones of the land will be brought here for my special attentions, and yours. My collection grows apace.” He beckoned to Maglakh, who had just entered the stately chamber, and he hurried forward to report:

  “The bandit chiefs have arrived, my lord.”

  “Very well, I’ll receive them by this couch over here.

  Some of them may rejoice to see their old rival again, but all will understand the price of failure. You may wait by the door. Someone must hold their hats,” he added with a sardonic glitter in his ruby eyes.

  Maglakh did what he was told. After what he had witnessed of Khal’s vengeance, and the bloodcurdling atrocities in the city below, he was fortunate to be still alive. He knew it, and no doubt Khal knew he knew it. In any case, he bowed the four grisly bandit chiefs into the chamber, and obediently remained by the door, holding their hats.

  He caught only snatches of the conference, but knew exactly what it was about. Reinforced by stragglers and escaped soldiers, old Severakh had organized a guerrilla force so effective that the invasion of Ar had actually been stalled. Communications and supply lines were harassed almost daily. Nor had the best-laid traps or ambushes caught him unawares. Someone in his band evidently had a danger sense so keen that it was magical, and Maglakh was pretty sure he knew who.

  Khal himself appeared less concerned with the effects of the guerrilla raids than in recapturing Severakh and, above all, the beautiful Srana. He had had a settee crafted with shimmering white silk, where he intended to display her in all her creamy whiteness, as the cynosure of his collection. His craving for the granddaughter of the Sentinel now seemed to transcend his very interest in the war.

  It certainly transcended all else for the four bandit chiefs.

  Maglakh could see both anxiety and determination in their cunning, ruthless eyes, as one by one he returned their hats at the door. Their fur was literally standing on end.

  This amused Maglakh, as he knew it did Khal himself, who was well aware of the instinctive revulsion he caused those visiting him for the first time.

  The emissaries from the Eastern Lords who soon arrived were more accustomed to liskash masters. Nor did Khal try in any way to intimidate them, holding their brief conference away from his budding collection of enemies, near the door. Maglakh was again relegated to holding hats, but now he could at least hear what was being said.

  “Tell your masters that I have neutralized The Three with my superior magic,” Khal boasted. “Tell them they may now proceed with the invasion.”

  “They have long awaited your personal guidance of this event, my lord,” the eldest of the two emissaries said discreetly. “They believe that no consideration now transcends the overthrow of Ar.”

  Khal sensed that his conduct was being censured, that the Eastern Lords still considered him of no more importance than these two mrem turncoats standing so insolently before him. A useful servant, and no more. His three ruby eyes seemed to glitter with suppressed fury, although he spoke softly, like the hissing of serpents:

  “Their will is my law. Let them know that I have established myself here at Cragsclaw the better to overwhelm any renewed efforts by The Three to hinder the invasion. Should they concert all their powers upon a single purpose, be aware that they could yet be formidable.”

  “That is well understood, my lord,” said the elder emissary, again discreetly. “All the more important that your own powers must always be concerted against them....”

  Maglakh, holding their hats by the door, was no less discreet, although he missed not a word of the succeeding conference. It seemed that reports were coming in about something called the League of Ar, and that the invading hordes were finding it more and more difficult to live off the land. The boy King of Ar—or at least somebody there—was proving to be a more astute strategist than the Eastern Lords had reckoned on.

  “Be assured that I will have ways of disheartening them, when the time comes,” said Khal. “Ways that may surprise the mighty Eastern Lords themselves.”

  His dark laughter resounded through the chamber so insanely that even two such worldly mrem as the emissaries were disconcerted. Maglakh, watching avidly out of the corner of his eye, saw their fur rise in spite of themselves, and chuckled behind one of their hats.

  He returned these courteously to them as they departed, but prudently remained by the door. The wretched Nizzam seemed to be thinking the same thing, and hung back inconspicuously in the corner where he had retreated at his first opportunity. Khal was angry, and they both knew it.

  “The time will indeed come,” he snarled in his raspy guttural voice, pacing up and back with his curious stalking gait, as if searching for some victim to pounce on. “This land was once ours. This world was once ours, and shall be again. What are these Eastern Lords to me? Mere bastards and degenerates, who pretend affinity with the Old Race. They think I am useful to them, but we shall see who is really useful to whom. They think the war will end with the overthrow of Ar, but that will only be the beginning. I am the supreme power of this world, and there are powers in worlds beyond this which I shall also soon control. What indeed are these Eastern Lords to me?”

  He had now worked himself into a rage, stalking angrily up and back, lapsing at times into a hissing guttural language Maglakh did not understand, although his most furious raging seemed to be directed against The Three. Objects began to twitch and rattle mysteriously all over the chamber; then the stuffed wizard rose from his display couch, and was cruelly hurled back again. Where it might have led, had it not been interrupted at that moment, Maglakh did not like to think. Both he and Nizzam had retreated into the deepest shadows they could find and hugged each other in dread.

  Maglakh sprang toward the door at the first knock, and threw it open with a sense of relief. Let somebody else feel the brunt of Khal’s wrath. He was surprised to see standing there two carpenters, with a hand-carved settee, inlaid with bone, shell, and precious woods. Its dragon motif was so weird it could only have been designed by Khal himself.

  The two carpenters fell back a step as the hideous liskash sorcerer stalked toward them like a ravening predator. Their fur rose and they trembled while he examined their handiwork.

  “Excellent work,�
� he pronounced at last, and handed them each a reward beyond their promised fee. “You have done well, and thus are well rewarded. Those who do not please me also receive their deserts.” He nodded toward the couches near the head of the chamber.

  The two carpenters also nodded, and their fur now stood completely on end. Gingerly they carried the settee to its appointed spot, adjusted it until Khal was satisfied with the arrangement, then nervously bowed their way out. It was grisly work, but most craftsmrem they knew had fared infinitely worse during the sack of Cragsclaw. They themselves were at least still alive....

  Khal sat at his secretary’s desk, inscribed a few lines on tablets, and sealed them. “Here.” He beckoned to Maglakh. “Take this down to the taxidermist Farwakh. He’s expecting it. No need to hold hats at the door just now. You’ll be holding them there for a long time to come,” he added sardonically.

  Maglakh could hear his insane laughter shrieking through the chamber behind him, as he hurried out the door with the tablets. A menial task, but at least one that took him away from Khal for a while, whose rage, he sensed, was ready at any pretext to erupt again into vindictive fury. It was best not to be around at such a time.

  Nizzam felt the same way, but could only oblige when the liskash sorcerer beckoned him out of the shadows.

  “A fine piece of furniture,” said Khal. “Sit here, my good Nizzam, so I can see how it suits the other pieces of my collection. That’s right. Now turn profile to your left, so you sit facing this other powerful magician, which you also claim yourself to be, I recall. Ah, the very pose. Don’t move now.” Nizzam was in fact now trembling so badly that the settee beneath him shook. “I want to be certain of the arrangement. For once the clever Farwakh completes his work, it can no longer be changed.” Again his insane laughter rang through the grim chamber.