The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  A nearby hiss shocked Shadimar from the thoughts that had again overtaken him. He spun to face a muddy-eyed merchant in a robe, woven through with shimmering fabrics, and a matching skullcap. “Wizzzzard,” he said.

  Accustomed to being addressed by this name, if not in this manner, Shadimar naturally surrendered his attention. Ordinarily, he would have found the man’s dress humorous, but drawing a Cardinal Wizard from deep mental consideration of the world’s fate seemed intolerable, no matter how much he had been trying to do so himself. The dark scowl he assumed should have left no question of his displeasure.

  The merchant paid no heed to the Wizard’s expression, apparently too pleased by Shadimar’s attention to care. His mouth twitched into a grim smile. He adopted a tone of consequence, attempting to use an ancient dialect that sounded like a crude parody to one old enough to remember when such formality was standard. “My instincts fail me not. I recognize ye as of the true order, not the scoundrel lot of mages and quacks.” He closed one eye, cocking his head sideways conspiratorially. “Ye carry an aura of power.”

  Shadimar glared, uncertain what to expect yet doubting it would do anything more than fuel his temper. One lie would damn his control. “I warn you. I have no mercy for rogues who waste my time. What do you want?”

  The merchant continued in a dramatic singsong. “I’ve many magics to interest one so powerful. The sovereigns of a dozen mighty kingdoms journey far ways to me to supply their wizards: Erythane, Bruen, Loven. I alone sell true magic.” He waved a hand with a grand flourish. “Even the high magistrate of Béarn comes to me, and the Western Wizard descends from the mountains each month to purchase . . .”

  Inflamed by the mention of the Western Wizard, Shadimar crooked a bony finger at the blue-cloaked merchant. “You’ve nothing but bottles filled with as many tricks and lies as your mouth.” Secodon punctuated the words with a warning growl. “I am the only sorcerer Béarn has. The Western Wizard had no need for your false potions, and neither do I.” He tossed his head with all the fury of the tempests that surrounded his ruins. “A man who deals with Wizards would know that they cannot lie and that they deplore mortals so touched by chaos that they cannot be trusted. Speak one more word to me, and you will regret it.” He spun to leave.

  “Wait!” The vendor reached for Shadimar’s shoulder.

  Secodon lunged for the offending arm. With a cry, the merchant recoiled. The wolf’s fangs ripped cloth. As his paws touched the ground, he crouched, dark gaze fixed on the merchant.

  The merchant’s face went deathly white. “Can’t . . . can’t blame a . . . merchant trying to sell his wares.”

  Shadimar reined his anger, and the wolf’s sinews uncoiled. The man’s voice grew more steady. “Please, allow me just one demonstration to prove that my goods are real.” He wound his fingers in the tear in his sleeve.

  Shadimar stopped, knowing that it was folly. Rather than distracting him, the merchant’s false promises only reinforced the many breaches chaos had found in the world of mortals. Still, he waited, hoping that Secodon’s attack had shocked the man back within the confines of Odin’s law.

  Color crept back into the merchant’s cheeks, and he hefted a jar half-filled with sorrel dust. He fell back into the ancient rhythm. “Know ye, O mage, that contained in this crusted phial is solid fire.” The merchant’s voice trailed off as he assumed a dramatic stance.

  Shadimar bit his lip, shaking his head in warning. Secodon growled.

  But the merchant had fallen into a well-rehearsed patter and seemed oblivious to the threat. “Not,” he continued suddenly, “not the soot of coals spent nor the flickering orange of a normal campfire. Trapped within this phial, I have the incandescent whirlwind of magical fire, the kind that blazes emerald and lavender.”

  A cluster of curious Pudarians gathered, attracted both by the theatrics of the merchant and the statuesque Wizard. The merchant’s strategy became clear. Just Shadimar’s presence before his stand was enough to draw attention. It was not the Eastern Wizard he was trying to attract, but a horde of customers lured by Shadimar’s apparent interest.

  Used, Shadimar reddened, further enraged by the merchant’s obvious disregard of his warnings. Clearly, like most men of his era, the merchant did not believe in the Cardinal Wizards and, thus, saw no threat in anything except the wolf.

  The vendor uncorked the flask, dumping powder into his right hand. He made grand gestures with it that attracted every eye, except Shadimar’s, who focused on the lump of flint concealed in the man’s left hand. With grossly exaggerated eloquence, the merchant pulled both arms to his body. A flick of his wrist scratched the flint across his buckle, and he used the spark this caused to ignite the powder. He tossed the flaming chemical in a wide, turquoise arc that landed at Shadimar’s feet, sputtered, and died there. Head thrown back and arms wide, the merchant reveled in the crowd’s gasps of amazement.

  Furious at the charade, Shadimar spoke a single harsh syllable.

  From the charred pile of ash, flames shot toward the sky in deep olive, indigo, and dappled cream, as strong and wild as a living thing. Its heat darkened the wooden stand. The crowd scurried, and the merchant leapt for cover as his wares burst into varicolored fires.

  Quietly, Shadimar left Pudar’s market. And the wolf padded calmly in his wake.

  * * *

  Shields covered a wooden tabletop like scales, scattering sun glare in a spray of colored highlights. Garn stared, captivated by an iron buckler, while Mitrian paced an impatient circle around him. “You don’t even wear armor,” she reminded.

  The crowd surged and parted around them, a ceaseless tide that had grown familiar. Mitrian no longer found herself concentrating on conversations that disappeared a moment later. Strangers’ chatter ceased to distract or interest her.

  “Maybe I’ll start wearing armor.” Garn reached for an ornate shield.

  “Colbey calls armor the bane of swordsmen.” Mitrian placed a hand on Garn’s solid shoulder. “And we came to find Arduwyn. Remember?”

  “Colbey moves faster than weapons and doesn’t need armor.” Garn ran his finger along a gilded edge of the finely polished steel. “Arduwyn’ll be working till sundown. Why hurry? How often do I get a chance to examine fine merchandise or have enough gold to buy it?”

  Garn hefted the shield. Then, seeing one with a reinforced steel edge, he lost all interest in the piece he held.

  Mitrian sighed. The Renshai shunned shields and armor as cowards’ defenses, but she could not begrudge Garn these things. Colbey had not allowed Garn even to watch her practices. As a gladiator, he had been given only the occasional, crude shield. Mail was reserved for Santagithi’s officers, and the gladiators had no access to anything more than secondhand helmets and gauntlets. Personally tired of staring at metal, Mitrian tapped Garn on the shoulder. “I’m going where Brugon’s stand was last year. I’ll meet you there.”

  Garn mumbled an incoherent reply that Mitrian accepted as an affirmative answer. She continued along the cobbled walkway, attentive to the collage of sight and sound surrounding her. Merchants spewed limitless promises to snag naive foreigners or to reaffirm the trust and optimism of citizens who had gotten the worst of previous bargains. More experienced shoppers prepared rhetoric as loud and convincing as that of the salesmen, the most challenging and difficult customers for the merchants.

  After a time, even Mitrian fell prey to a fast talker who pressed a gold necklace into her hand. Yellow gems in its center sparkled, a perfect match to the topaz stones set as wolf’s eyes in her sword hilt. She studied the merchant from the corner of her eyes, unable to fully remove her attention from the trinket. Silks of rich design dangled from a narrow, angular frame. His dark eyes flashed as he moved in for the sure sale.

  Suddenly Brugon’s familiar baritone cut over the normal sounds of the market, accentuated by nervous excitement or fear. “. . . have a gripe with my salesman, we can . . .” A short scream snapped through a shrill shatter of me
tal and glass.

  Arduwyn’s voice was unmistakable. “Wait! Stop! We can talk . . .”

  Mitrian dropped the necklace, not caring where it landed. She ran toward the voices, plowing through the milling horde. People leapt or staggered out of her way, some cursing her as she passed, though she heard none of it. She collided with a child, and they both fell. Leaving the wailing boy to the ministrations of his mother, she scrambled to her feet and continued toward Brugon’s stand, brutally shoving customers aside.

  The few wares remaining on Brugon’s stand lay tipped or broken. A bronze teapot balanced on its open lid in a sea of glass chips near the back half of what had been a horse-shaped statuette. Most of the merchandise lay scattered over the road. In the center of the mess, Brugon sat with his hands clasped to his jaw. To his right, a burly Pudarian pinned Arduwyn against a tree with the point of a bronze short sword. Flattened against the tree with the blade at his throat, the little flame-haired hunter scarcely dared to breathe. His eyepatch hung askew. His hands crept, almost imperceptibly, toward the dagger at his belt.

  “I gave you my last two chroams,” the man shouted, spit spraying into his captive’s face as he spoke.

  “Give it time,” Arduwyn replied hoarsely. “Nothing grows overnight.” He tried to soothe, but his words seemed to have the opposite effect.

  The burly man jabbed the point of his sword until it indented the skin at Arduwyn’s neck. Fear swam through Arduwyn’s remaining eye, and the movement for his weapon turned into a sudden grab.

  Afraid for Arduwyn’s life, Mitrian ran to the stranger and touched his arm. “Here’s your gold. Now leave him alone.” She plucked coins from the handful in her pocket. They were Béarnian gold, not chroams, but worth at least as much.

  The man glanced at Mitrian, scowl deepening, and he shook off her arm. “Get away from me, wench. This doesn’t concern you. I’ve got a lesson to teach this cheat.” His blade remained in place, and he turned back toward Arduwyn.

  Mitrian’s hand whipped to her hilt, and anger tightened her grip. She flicked the sword from its sheath, cut air, and struck in silent fury. Bronze shattered beneath steel, the broken sword raking a line across Arduwyn’s chin. The hunter clamped a hand to the wound.

  The burly man staggered, still clutching his useless hilt.

  The blood trickling between Arduwyn’s fingers incited Mitrian to war frenzy, but she fought the Renshai blood wrath nearly as easily as Garn controlled his killing rages. She flung the two gold coins at the stranger. “Go away!”

  The man stared.

  Mitrian tossed him three more coins. “And buy yourself a real sword.”

  The man retreated, then whirled and disappeared into the crowd.

  Arduwyn brushed himself clean and readjusted his eyepatch. Clamping a handkerchief to his chin, he greeted Mitrian with a welcoming smile and an embrace. “You still have impeccable timing.”

  A piece of glass crunched beneath Mitrian’s boot, and she frowned at the compliment. If she had truly timed things well, Arduwyn would not have gotten hurt.

  Arduwyn stepped back, examining Mitrian. “Where’s the wild man?”

  Mitrian grinned. “Have you forgotten his name already?” She laughed. “Garn’ll be here soon. He dawdled, figuring you’d work till sundown.”

  Brugon limped from the shambles of his stand, clutching a brass candle holder that seemed to have survived the fall. The left side of his face had begun to swell, and spices smeared the right side of his cloak from armpit to hip. Apparently, the disgruntled patron had landed a punch that sent the merchant sliding across his table. “Ardy won’t be working. He’s done for the day. It’ll take me all afternoon to clean up this mess.”

  Sheathing her sword, Mitrian placed a hand in her pocket and fondled the last remaining gem from her collection, a large, uncut diamond. She pulled it out and pressed it into Brugon’s hand. “You shouldn’t have to take this loss,” she said.

  Brugon glanced from gem to woman in astonishment. “Neither should you. I can’t take this.”

  “Consider it payment for something I’m going to take from you.” Mitrian winked at Arduwyn.

  Brugon glanced over the mangled clutter of objects, most broken and bruised, but several that could be sorted, intact, from the wreckage. “My entire inventory isn’t worth this gem.”

  “I’m taking your salesman.”

  “After what just happened, that might be a blessing.” Despite his words, Brugon closed his fingers around the diamond.

  Arduwyn removed the cloth. Dried blood caked his flesh, but the bleeding had stopped.

  Mitrian continued, trying to sound solemn. “He has business with the king of Béarn.”

  Arduwyn made a brisk gesture of triumph. “That’s the best news I’ve ever heard.” He caught Mitrian and danced a small circle. “I was afraid to ask. I thought if things went well you would have told me right away.”

  Mitrian extracted herself from Arduwyn’s grip. “Sorry. Strange as it may seem, I thought I’d save your life before chatting.”

  Brugon tried to return Mitrian’s diamond, but she refused him with a wave. “What’s this?” the merchant said. “I thought the king of Béarn liked Ardy about as much as he did.” He gestured in the direction that the enraged patron had taken. “Something about you selling him forged documents.”

  Arduwyn laughed. “I just made up that story to get this job.”

  Mitrian chuckled at the memory of Arduwyn speaking faster than she could think, making random statements designed to keep the merchant responding with “yes” until Arduwyn had his job.

  “Besides,” Arduwyn continued, “this is a different king. Do you remember Sterrane?” He hefted a pewter mug from the grass and returned it to the table.

  “Brawny fellow. Quiet. Kind of slow. Worked at the docks.”

  Arduwyn smiled at Mitrian. “He’s king of Béarn.”

  “Of course.” Brugon did not miss a beat. “And I’m the god of merchants.”

  Mitrian took the writ from her pocket, handing it to Brugon. “He’s telling the truth.”

  Brugon perused the letter, and his face alternately assumed varying shades of red and white. “Well . . . I,” he stammered. Then the truth struck him. “The king of Béarn hauled cargo for me?” Brugon stared at the smashed chaos of his wares and chuckled.

  Soon, all three were laughing as they gathered together the surviving goods.

  PART II

  SANTAGITHI’S WAR

  CHAPTER 9

  Checkmate

  The gentle, rhythmical breathing of Santagithi and Colbey broke the otherwise total silence of Santagithi’s strategy room. Maps decorated the plain gray walls, fusing into one another until the world seemed to form an infinite circle around them. The two men sat on opposite sides of the long table, a chessboard between them. The general stared at the strategic jumble of pieces on the board, as always cautious to paranoia over his next move. Politely, Colbey did not make a sound.

  A knock echoed through the confines. Santagithi frowned, ignoring the noise.

  Despite the lack of acknowledgment, a guard tapped open the door. He wore Santagithi’s black and silver, the uniform crisply ironed, his hair cropped short. “Sir?” he said.

  Santagithi’s pale eyes remained fixed on the pieces. He made no reply. Colbey glanced at the newcomer, but propriety demanded that he let the general answer his guard’s summons. In deference, he said nothing.

  “Sir,” the guard repeated, a little louder.

  Santagithi sat immobile, though surely he had heard, and the guard fell silent. Deliberately, the general pinched a white rook and sidled it four spaces to the right. He pursed his lips grimly. “Check.” Only then did he turn to face the guard. “I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed. I am going to beat this Northman.”

  “Not this time.” Colbey tapped the black queen to the square beside the white king. “Mate. I was hoping you’d do that.”

  “Damn!” Santagithi slammed
his fist on the table, sending the pieces toppling. A pawn rolled across the table, and Colbey caught it before it hit the floor. “You’ll get careless eventually. Set a new game.”

  Smiling, Colbey gathered the game pieces while the guard shifted nervously from foot to foot.

  “Sir,” the guard began again. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think you should know that your daughter and her husband have arrived.”

  Santagithi remained silent, but Colbey could see the huge, work-hardened hands begin to shake. The old Renshai had little room in his fierce heart for pity. Throughout his adolescence, the world had been prey to take or spare as it pleased the whims of the Renshai leaders. After the Renshai were slaughtered, Colbey had lived for years in a land of enemies, with only his swords as companions. Still, he could not help but be moved by Santagithi’s plight. They had not seen Mitrian for two years, not since the Great War. Santagithi’s wife had died a year ago, leaving Mitrian and her son as all the family he had. And Colbey did not envy his need to make peace with Garn.

  Santagithi rose, following his guard from the room and down the unadorned corridor of the guard quarters. Trailing, Colbey recognized the general’s stalwart manner as a facade. As they filed past the closed doors of the guards’ personal quarters, Santagithi glanced neither right nor left. Even when he reached the room that his dead captains, Rache and Nantel, had shared for sixteen years, he did not flinch at the memories he could not quite seem to shake. In his two years in Santagithi’s Town, Colbey had never before seen the general fail to pause in quiet sadness or bow his head. Now Santagithi whisked past without a glance, and Colbey realized just how deeply the coming promise of reuniting with Mitrian and Garn affected him. The guard opened the outer door, ushering Santagithi and Colbey onto the grass.