The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Carcophan passed a dozen doors as he wound his way up the tower. Moans wafted softly beneath the cracks, interspersed with an occasional delirious soliloquy or scream. Though the voices belonged to followers of his own evil, their wails had become too familiar to bother Carcophan any longer. After the Eastern healers had plied their craft with as much aid as he could give them, Carcophan had collected those men too injured to steal from death. With magic, he had kept them alive longer than nature could allow, ignoring their suffering for the greater cause they had all once served, though not wholly certain of his purposes. Later, he had collected those men who had developed incurable wound infections and added them to the horde. Now, Carcophan smiled, hating to lose any of his followers, yet glad their deaths could serve the cause of evil for which they had already given their lives.

  Carcophan ducked through the opening to a room at the top of the staircase. Magical light diffused through the room, creating no shadows. A ladder led to the highest level of the tower. Bookshelves lined the walls, crammed full with historical texts, some of which he had written. A table in the center of the room held an ancient volume, crumbling with age despite the care it had received over the millennia. The dangers of magicking tangible objects forced the Wizards to restore at least some of their texts every few centuries, which was just as well. Rewriting the books forced Carcophan to give them a thorough reading and allowed him to translate some of the events and phrases into less archaic, more solid terminology.

  Carcophan wandered to the ancient book on the table, placing a finger on the line that had caught his attention, and decided his next course of action. Buried amidst a pedantic litany on how the Cardinal Wizards fulfill the prophecies of their predecessors had come the following words: “. . . it is this wryter’s opinyon that the gods favor neutralitee. Therefor, it seems unlikelee that Havlar’s first divinatyon, of the eyghteenth Southern Wizard’s superlative champyon will ever come to pass. This wryter believes wee should take the prophesee of the Grayt War to be Havlar’s first real prophesee and the other as wishful thinking.”

  Carcophan tapped his finger on the page thoughtfully. He had never before heard even casual mention of a prophecy spoken by the first Southern Wizard predating the ones concerning the Great War. Carcophan had found no further references in this tome or, so far, in any other. A mental search of predecessors’ memories had drawn a blank. The seventh Wizard in the Southern line had died, run through by the White Sword of Power in the hands of a Northern Wizard’s champion, and all of the previous Southern Wizards’ memories had died with him. The thought made Carcophan shiver. The gap was frightening enough, but the idea of a Cardinal Wizard’s death made him ill. Successful completion of Odin’s seven tasks of wizardry made a Cardinal Wizard impervious to any creation of law; only demons or the Great Swords could slay him before his time.

  Demons had killed two of the Eastern Wizards, but the double system for neutrality had allowed the Western Wizards to keep the world in line until new Eastern Wizards were established. Luckily, when the seventh Southern Wizard had been killed, he had a trained apprentice who had already completed the tasks and stepped into his place. Carcophan shuddered to think of the damage and power the Northern Wizard could have achieved had he gone long unopposed. And that thought reminded Carcophan of the Western Wizard.

  Carcophan had noted Tokar’s disappearance even before the Great War. It was not uncommon for Wizards to get caught up in rescribing texts or in research and lose centuries that passed more like days. But for Tokar to worry about such tasks when he had prophecies to fulfill concerning the war made no sense. That in itself might hold the answer. The ninth Western Wizard, Niejal the Mad, had been clearly psychotic. The fourteenth in the line, Sudyar, had never once contacted the other Wizards, and many hypothesized this antisocial behavior came as a direct result of Niejal’s influence. Clearly, the negative aspects of misconception and personality accompanied the power and knowledge inherent in a collective consciousness. In that respect, Carcophan felt lucky that his line had been broken, despite the information this lost him.

  Carcophan closed the book on the table, recognizing his thoughts as a distraction. He had slaved over his defenses, tending them to the minutest detail. There was nothing left to do, except the summoning. Anything else was only delay.

  Carcophan raised his head, gathering strength and reveling in the singly-focused support of his mental retinue. He crossed the room, centering his thoughts on the emotional motivations he had used to prepare himself for battle in his mortal years, and his predecessors worked to strengthen his mind-set. In his time, Carcophan had been a warrior of reasonable skill, unlike his colleagues and predecessors, most of whom had chosen more spiritual pursuits.

  The ladder rungs felt solid beneath Carcophan’s feet. He climbed to the upper story, a narrow chamber, wholly empty. He did not bother to close the hatch. The simple wooden door would not contain the creature, should it escape his bonds. He could only hope that the magical wards with which he had coated the tower would not fail.

  Twice before, Carcophan had summoned demons for information. The magics he called forth for personal protection came easily. He felt the tingle of sorcery enwrapping him, felt the same sense of balanced comfort that accompanied sitting in a well-braced saddle. He chanted the familiar syllables that opened a demon-sized pathway to the plain of chaos.

  Almost immediately, dread enveloped Carcophan, its source external. Gradually, it took a visible form, a tarry stream, like smoke but more solid, an oily, shapeless blackness. Carcophan snapped the gateway shut with a word, then shaped bands of binding magics that looped around a figure more perception than reality. Each coil brought the darkness further into detail, defining a grainy, shimmering substance unlike anything on Odin’s world. Carcophan felt his magic pulse as the demon struggled, and pain hammered through his head, nearly breaking his concentration. He balled his hands to fists, tightening the web of magics until each individual band glowed red against the blackness.

  The demon ceased its fight. It took the shape of a massive serpent, its neck covered with spines, its pointed yellow teeth surrounding a forked tongue the color of blood. It spanned nearly the entire room. Its closeness gave Carcophan chills, yet he did not move. The wards would prevent it from touching him. Giving ground would only allow it more space to expand until it crushed him into a corner. The constraint might hinder his magic and, should the demon break free, it would assure his death.

  The demon spoke, though its serpent jaws did not move. “Wizard, you called me to your world at the cost of your followers, who will die in an agony you cannot imagine. Your wards are trifling. When I shatter them, I will joyfully slaughter you first.”

  Carcophan ignored the taunts, recognizing them as bluff. “By Odin’s Law I have called you here. You must answer my questions and perform a service to the best of your knowledge and ability.” Having spoken the necessary words, Carcophan bound the creature to truth, an entity the Wizard knew exclusively and the demon not at all. “Demon, you underestimate my power and my imagination. I’ve dealt with your kind before, and I will do so again.”

  The demon writhed and twisted over itself, its neck spines cutting a line across its empty darkness that did not leave a mark. It said nothing, only obliged to answer questions.

  Carcophan went directly to his interrogation. Time would only weaken him and strengthen the demon. Familiar with the creatures’ deviousness, he phrased his query fully and carefully. “What was the first actual prophecy spoken by the first Southern Wizard, prior to his forecast of the Great War?”

  The serpent head extricated from beneath a coil. It whipped around suddenly, its gaping jaws and razor teeth a finger’s breadth in front of the Wizard.

  Despite himself, Carcophan recoiled; yet training caused him to tighten his wards along with his sinews. The bonds burned red indentations into the demon.

  The creature made a noise of pain.

  Regaining his composure, Carco
phan hid a smile. Trying to unsettle the Southern Wizard, the demon had only succeeded in hurting itself.

  Its reptilian expression never changed, and it answered the question as if no time had passed. “The eighteenth Southern Wizard will train a champion of more competence than any before him. This champion will be a swordsman unmatched by any other mortal.” Its voice faded into silence.

  Straining to catch every word, it took Carcophan several seconds to realize that the demon had finished. Excitement thrilled through the Wizard, but he kept it in check. As long as he lacked the knowledge to carry out such a prophecy, it could not occur. “Is there more to Havlar’s first prophecy than you told me?”

  “No.” Despite the demon’s concise, clear answer, something in its tone indicated that it had not yet finished.

  Carcophan waited, aware he could not allow too much time to pass. He had called up a demon more powerful than he had ever dared before, and each passing moment increased its danger. His eyes blazed with the excitement of the demon’s revelation, yet he kept his attention on the wards. The prophecy of a champion would do him little good if he lay dead at the feet of a demon.

  The demon’s form warped into a blur, the wards still clearly visible looped around it. “Consider this information a gift for the feast you prepared for me downstairs.”

  Carcophan shivered, now glad the creature could have no expression. To betray loyal followers went beyond the self-interest that was evil to the chaos that was the realm of demons. He reminded himself that the men he had gathered were beyond salvaging, that they would have died long ago had he not preserved them. Now their deaths could and would serve the cause to which they had pledged. Yet he could not help feeling touched by cold, demon chaos.

  “You will not need to seek this champion out. He will come to you, betrayed by one he considers kin, and he will turn traitor to his people.” A face appeared from the black formlessness, followed by two thick arms and legs as it assumed the form of a womanlike parody. “And do not become complacent. The Northern and Eastern Wizards will also have powerful champions. A lucky stroke could kill even the best. If you truly wish to serve your cause to your best ability, your champion will need an edge against his enemies.”

  “An edge,” Carcophan repeated, his discomfort barely tempering the wild joy possessing him. His followers’ ranks badly whittled, he could not afford to lose another battle, to have evil vanquished from the world. He knew that his wards bound the demon to truth, yet it would skew the picture by choosing what information it volunteered. Carcophan did not know why it had chosen to assist him with facts about which he would never have known to ask, but he could only use them as efficiently as possible and remember their source. At a time like this, after a vicious defeat, it only makes sense that I should have the advantage.

  “I believe we both know what that entails.”

  Carcophan frowned, aware the demon referred to Morshoch, the Black Sword of Power. The danger seemed too significant to contemplate. He had not called up the Sword for his last champion, and that might have been the cause of his defeat.

  “I owe you a service,” the demon reminded. “Shall I bring you the Sword?”

  “No.” Carcophan was too shrewd to let elation overcome common sense. “I am not finished with my questions.”

  A smile filled the demon’s face, over bulbous breasts as large as its head. The wards enwrapped its finger-thin waist like belts. “I am in no hurry.”

  The comment reminded Carcophan of the urgency of releasing the summoning. He had gained himself some time with the dying followers. The demon would need to slaughter and devour them before he could attack Carcophan directly. By then, the Southern Wizard hoped, he would have his defenses fully reinforced. “You spoke of the champions of the Northern and Eastern Wizards. Will the Western Wizard have a champion?”

  “No.” This time the answer came as a definitive end.

  Carcophan thrust for the loophole. “So the Western Wizard is alive.”

  Though not obligated to answer the statement that was not quite a question, the demon chose to do so. “I didn’t say that.”

  “So the Western Wizard is dead.”

  “I didn’t say that either.”

  Carcophan zeroed in on the question. “Is the Western Wizard alive?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  As the demon danced around the question, frustration plied Carcophan. “Why can’t you tell me whether a Western Wizard lives?”

  “Because the way you phrased the question, I would have to go into more explanation than your binding necessitates.”

  “But it’s a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question.”

  The demon said nothing.

  “I thought you were grateful for the feast.”

  “Not that grateful. Rephrase your question to ask what you really want to know.”

  Carcophan considered. Before the Great War, he had sought the Renshai destined to become the Golden Prince of Demons, hoping to remove the threat to his own champion. Then, too, he had called a demon. Clued by the knowledge that the prophesied Renshai would meet his tribe’s definition of Renshai, he had overspecified his question so that it excluded Mitrian and Colbey, leaving only Rache. Yet, Carcophan realized, there had been more to the problem than too narrow a definition. He had asked for the names of all of the surviving, full-blooded Renshai, and nothing about that restriction should have eliminated Colbey from the list. Although the demons could not lie while bound, they were still constrained by their own base of knowledge. Carcophan could only guess that either that particular demon had been ignorant of Colbey or that he had bound it incorrectly.

  Carcophan reworked the current question in a way he considered fail-safe. “Does the collective consciousness of the Western Wizard exist?” If Tokar still lived, so would the memory of his predecessors. And, if his ceremony of passage had succeeded, the line would have passed to his successor.

  The demon considered for a brief moment. “No. It does not.”

  Dead. The information did not surprise Carcophan. Odin’s vows constrained all of the Cardinal Wizards into working together to replace Tokar. First, they would need to find a likely candidate. Then they would send him or her through the god-mediated tasks of Wizardry. If he survived, he would have proved his worth and become as immune to objects of law as demons and Wizards. But Shadimar was the one who had to set the process in motion. And, apparently, he still did not know the fate of the Western Wizard for certain. Surely, the weakest of the Cardinal Wizards would not risk summoning demons. Which means he has to find out by slower, more routine methods. Carcophan knew that eventually he would have to help replace the missing Wizard, but not until Shadimar contacted him. And I can’t receive word unless and until he finds me.

  Carcophan stared at the demon, attentive to the necessary question. “Is it true that the creation of the Gray Sword would require the presence of both Eastern and Western Wizards?”

  Now the demon hesitated longer, apparently lost in thought. It assumed a more familiar demon shape, an angular horse body with splayed, catlike claws, a barbed tail, and a serpent’s head. “That was Odin’s intention. I have no reason to believe it would work otherwise.” It grinned, displaying a mouthful of black teeth, as sharp as daggers. “But you know as well as I that magic can never be fully predictable.”

  Carcophan dared not hold the demon any longer. He turned his mind back to the service it owed him. “I don’t want you to retrieve the Sword of Power. But I want you to place it where I can call it without bringing one of your kind here.”

  The demon laughed. “My kind will be grateful.” It lowered its head, black lids closing over huge, red eyes.

  Carcophan shifted his focus from the binding wards to his own self-protection. The red bands began to fade, even before they burst, splattering magic into multicolored sparks. A high-pitched shrill rang through the room, like the scream of a dying rodent amplified to an earsplitting volume. The demon spun, whisking
through the opening.

  Human cries revealed its passage, echoing up the stair-well and throbbing through Carcophan’s head with a pain he knew might last for days. Tears washed to his eyes and he swore, not for the first time, that he would never summon such an abomination again. Then he set to his own defenses. And hoped that his magic would prove strong enough to contain it.

  * * *

  Béarn’s royal nursemaid, Dorina, perched on the ledge of Miyaga’s bed, mesmerized by the stirring coverlet that matched the rise and fall of the girl’s every breath. The elderly Béarnide lowered her head, ignoring the thin, gray curtain of hair that fell into her eyes. Her mind continued to count in the rhythm of the child’s breathing, though she could no longer see the bed. Soon enough, Dorina knew, she would bury the child she had nurtured since birth, just as she had reared and lost Miyaga’s mother. But at least Morhane’s daughter had died of illness. Miyaga would be slaughtered to end the line, a child’s life stolen to satisfy custom.

  A knock on the door disturbed Dorina’s lengthy vigil. She cringed, having dreaded this moment from the instant she had learned of Sterrane’s return. Miyaga stirred but did not awaken. “Who is it?” Dorina called softly.

  In response, the door swung open, and Mar Lon entered. “The king will see Miyaga now. You need to come take him to her. It’s your job.”

  “No.” Dorina crouched like a mother wolf. She stroked the girl’s hair protectively, unconsciously matching the cadence of her breaths. “He’ll kill her.”

  Mar Lon met Dorina’s eyes directly, his dark gaze sympathetic but unyielding. “It’s his right. Don’t make this harder than it is already.”