Master of the Five Magics

by Lyndon Hardy

  “He remains for the purpose that I have called him here,” Beliac said. “I will not be badgered by your stern words.”

  “By the laws!” Lectonil’s face grew red with rage. “Your statement summarizes the entire basis of your thinking. Loose and careless with no respect for your seniors. Do you not know that this Guild was founded and flourished on rigor? Rigor in postulate and proof, not a wave of the hand, an approximate result, a truncated expression. If we follow such thinking, we follow it to our doom, Beliac, and so long as I can balance the diagonals of a square, I shall fight with pride to have such thought purged from the consideration of our council.”

  “The times have changed, old man,” Beliac responded unruffled by the heat of Lectonil’s words. “Such rigidity might have worked in centuries past when kingdoms were large and their treasures vast. We could afford to invest all our efforts in monumental magic, knowing that there would be some buyer for the goods when we had finished. But look at our transactions recently. We labored hard to produce ink of purity in lots greater than a gill. But what has happened? The liquid lies unused in some storeroom. No alchemist comes forward with sufficient gold to claim it. We spend a goodly share of our endowment yearly just to supply your two precious wyverns with the meats that keep their scales tight and well fitting. And to what purpose? So that we may in thirty years have a ring of transportal. What monarch can possibly afford what it has taken us to produce it? And yes, more to the point, look at our annual outlays. Will the Guild even be here in thirty years to complete the ritual?”

  “It is your sloppy ways and little dabblings that squander our endowment,” Lectonil said. “And with them you somehow hope to change the course of centuries. But have you not the depth of thought to see that it cannot be? The Maxim of Persistence still guides, Beliac. As you have apparently forgotten, simply stated, it says ‘perfection is eternal.’ Perfection, Beliac, perfection. Not some convenient approximation. If we do not use the proper steps and follow them exactly, we will become nothing more than expensive alchemists with gold rings that turn to tin if you rub them but once. The everlasting quality of our work will be but myth for the sagas.”

  “I am as well versed in the fundamental laws as you, Lectonil,” Beliac replied. “In fact, judging from the relative number of monographs the two of us have circulated in the last year, I would say I am more in tune with the true meaning of our law than you. At your zenith you may have discovered some interesting rituals, but I fear you are now far past your prime in productivity and in judgment.”

  “If I may interject a few words, most august masters,” one of the other magicians interrupted. “Master Lectonil, I fear you disparage young Beliac here greatly. He does not compose the ritual elements into magic squares, it is true, but his constructions in three dimensions are made with equal rigor and have produced new objects and lines of research undreamed of just ten years ago.”

  “Undreamed of and unwanted,” Lectonil snapped. “Of what use are twelve elements that seem to fit together into a dodecahedron whole if the result is only a ring that ties one’s bootstraps?”

  “Now you are most unfair.” Beliac shouted for the first time. “That ritual was merely the first example. I dare say that the first square produced results no more inspiring. The field is young but in time we will have objects that are totally outside the reach of such well traveled avenues as square construction, be they trimagic, panmagic or symmetric.”

  “Masters, if you please,” another rumbled. “Our ears tire of such discourse. We are here at master Lectonil’s calling to decide on the petition to elevate acolyte Duncan to the status of master magician, and we need not hide behind philosophical rhetoric. We can all count. If the majority backs master Beliac’s petition, then future councils no longer will be evenly divided. If we vote the proposition down, it indicates clearly that master Beliac no longer can muster sufficient strength to cause deadlock. In either case, the work of the Guild will proceed.”

  “The first issue before us, master Zinted,” Lectonil said, “is the presence of the neophyte. He must be removed and then Beliac must be censured for jeopardizing the secrets of the Guild.”

  “By the traces, Lectonil,” Beliac said, “we have said nothing to compromise our heritage and methods. Look I prove it to you.”

  Beliac turned to Alodar and continued his explanation. “As you may have gathered from our discourse, the making of a magical object is a matter of performing a ritual, a ritual that is perfect in some well defined sense. Possible ritual elements, the ringing of a bell, drawing of a bow and so on all have different ritualistic attributes and numerical values. In our research, we strive to arrange and order these elements in such a way that a perfect sequence is obtained. Such sequences produce objects indeed most magical.

  “One such mechanism of arrangement and a successful one, I freely admit, is to order the elements in a square in such a way that certain of the numerical values of their attributes sum in the same way whether considered horizontally, vertically or diagonally. Once these conditions are satisfied, one performs the ritual, taking the elements in sequence row by row.

  “Now I have told you much more than you could deduce from what we have said and I will add one thing more. Pluck a hair from master Fulmbar’s crown. There, you have performed the first step in a ritual of no mean potency. How do you proceed now?”

  “Why I have no idea,” Alodar responded as he drew his hand into the folds of his robe and planted the hair into a second wax doll he had strapped to his waist. “You have told me some principles but with no instruction on the values of the elements or how to assemble them, I cannot proceed.”

  “As is obvious to any with clear wit in this room; he knows less than what one could pick up through idle gossip in the neophyte’s tower. I further submit that our decision on Duncan will be common knowledge in the esplanade within the hour in any case. No secret has been revealed by what transpires here, so let us proceed. Besides, master Lectonil, do you wish me time to change further the minds of our assemblage here or do you prefer to have our collective decision recorded so the Guild may proceed?”

  “You are ready for the vote on Duncan now, and did not bring this neophyte because of my stand on the ritual of presence?” Lectonil asked.

  “As I said, the neophyte is here merely to illustrate my position,” Beliac replied. “It is to be Duncan first, and if there is no deadlock, then the rest will naturally follow.”

  Lectonil twisted his face further but at last waved his arm to begin and said no more. The magician on his left stood and formally stated the resolution before them. At its conclusion, he cast his negative vote and sat down. The counting began to move around the table. Alodar quickly muttered the incantation while the eyes and ears of the assemblage were on each speaker. He broke the small vial of caustic soda from his underbelt into the oil of vitriol and felt the heat begin to rise in his hand. He looked about, but cramped and shielded by Beliac’s chair, no one paid him any heed.

  Beliac rose and voted, and Alodar began to manipulate the little waxen image. Fulmbar seemed unsteady and awkward as he stood, but the strangeness was lost in the murmur of disbelief that followed his vote.

  “What manner of substitution is this?” Lectonil shouted out above the rest. “You have wavered from time to time surely, Fulmbar, but you assured me not an hour ago that your vote was switched to be mine. It is for that reason alone that I called for the extraordinary session.”

  “I have indicated my choice and say no more,” Alodar projected through Fulmbar as he made the magician slump back down onto his chair. The magician in the seat immediately adjacent sprang up and cast his affirmative vote, apparently to insure that Fulmbar would have no change of heart. In a moment the vote was finished, once again a seven to seven tie.

  “Well, well,” Beliac chuckled. “It appears, master Lectonil, that we are back to more individual sessions of persuasion. I suggest that you not call the council to session unless you are m
ore sure that a productive decision will result. Until then, it seems our time will be better spent on research, instruction, and meetings at the usual hours. I wish, however, that you remain a moment, master Fulmbar, so that I may thank you for your enlightened change of heart.”

  With no further words, the magicians rose and filed to the exit in the center of the room. Lectonil left last, glaring at his opponent and frowning at the placid figure of Fulmbar at his side.

  “And now, neophyte,” Beliac said, “we must secure master Fulmbar away out of the reaches of Lectonil until I can devise a means of persuading yet another vote.”

  “And once we have done that,” Alodar said, “then might we discuss the matter of the reward for the service I have provided you?”

  Beliac eyed Alodar coldly. “I think that to continue living would be reward enough for your impertinence,” he said.

  Alodar opened the outer door to the neophyte tower and felt the refreshing coolness of the evening air. Marching Fulmbar slowly to Beliac’s quarters had taken a good hour. Releasing Duncan in his patron’s custody and then arguing with the magician had consumed another, though for his own part, Alodar did not feel anxious to press his case. He had learned more than he had hoped from his exploit and saw no point in trying to pry out more.

  After he was dismissed from Beliac’s presence, Alodar had returned to his lodging and napped into nightfall to melt away the tensions of the afternoon. Now refreshed, he walked slowly along the esplanade. Beliac had bought only a little time with the stratagem, he mused, and sooner or later must own up to what was done to another magician of the Guild. He would be busy enough not to make good any threats for the immediate future. The problem rather was how to gain access to the contents of the library, knowing now what the security measures were.

  As Alodar passed the house of the exotic, a sudden flicker of movement caught his eye; as he turned, he heard the crack of glass under a heavy tread. He paused for a second. Then a woman’s high scream of terror filled the air. Instinctively, Alodar sprang for the entrance, his brown robe flowing behind.

  With a sudden shove, he rocked the huge double doors back on their hinges. The long corridor which transversed the ground floor ran before him, and slowly stomping away from him down the passageway was a huge, green-scaled dragon.

  A second scream echoed down the corridor, and Alodar saw, beyond the wyvern’s shifting back, the golden curls of Cynthia the initiate. She stood transfixed at the hallway’s end, back and palms outstretched against the unyielding wall, looking with terror at the beast which lumbered towards her.

  “Hold your courage,” Alodar shouted through a throat still sore from the potion and broke into a run after the two-legged dragon. He reached quickly down to his side for a sword that was not there. “Curse these robes,” he muttered as he ran.

  In an instant he was up to the giant tail that gently swished back and forth with each step. Having no other weapon, he stomped the heel of his boot down upon the rigid spine of scales. The wyvern did not react but continued his steady plodding gait. Alodar steadied himself against a wall and then leapt with both feet upon his target. This time the tail twitched spasmodically, knocking him to the ground into a scatter of broken glass.

  Alodar quickly scrambled up and dusted his hands against his robe, ignoring the blood which began to ooze out of many small cuts. He hastily looked about and saw that all of the glass partitions into the various cages had been broken. Here and there, small creatures scurried in the wreckage.

  In the opening to the left Alodar saw that two jagged daggers of glass still stood in a shattered frame. He lashed out quickly with his boot and snapped one at the base. Fingering it gingerly, he caught up with the advancing dragon and jabbed it with his makeshift weapon. The point skittered along the scales, but Alodar felt sudden pain in his hands as the edges caught and cut his flesh.

  Grimacing, he tightened his grip, feeling blood pour out onto his palms and the hurt intensify in its sharpness. The beast was almost upon Cynthia, lowering its head and extending its forked tongue expectantly, when Alodar lunged again, this time with the full force of his body behind the blow.

  The tip caught between two scales and the shaft snapped a few inches from the point. Alodar fell forward upon the beast’s back, frantically rolling to one side to avoid being impaled on his own point, and clattering to the floor. The wyvern yelped; distracted, it turned to see what annoyed him.

  “To the side passage,” Alodar shouted, righting himself and gritting his teeth as he placed his free hand against the wall. “Move, I say,” he yelled again. In desperation, he flung the remains of the glass in Cynthia’s direction.

  The initiate instinctively moved to one side to dodge the missile, jarring herself out of her petrification. She quickly ran into one of the arms of the cross corridor, while Alodar scrambled backwards from the head that was turning to examine him. He ducked into one of the cages and looked from side to side for another weapon. To the left, he saw Cynthia peering in at him through another broken window. He was in one of the cages at the corner of the tee, with viewing from two directions.

  As the dragon extended its head into the cage, Alodar hopped out to join the initiate, staining her robe deep crimson as he threw his arms about her.

  “This way,” he yelled as he pushed against Cynthia’s stiffening form. “We have to get some distance so we can search for a weapon.”

  The two began to run down the passageway, and the wyvern withdrew his head from the empty cage and turned around the corner. It saw its quarry sprinting away and ruffled its wings in annoyance, scraping the walls which confined it. It hooted after them and quickened its pace in pursuit.

  Alodar felt the air grow warm as the call of the dragon echoed down the passageway. He turned a puzzled glance to Cynthia, who gasped out as they ran, “It is getting angry and firing up. We will not have a tradesman’s chance if it gets within three strides.”

  Alodar turned to see how close the wyvern pursued and was surprised at the way the deliberate lumber had been replaced by a fast rocking pace.

  “It is gaining on us,” he shouted to Cynthia, pushing her from behind with his bloody hand until she nearly stumbled. “Look there, a staircase to the second level. Perhaps it does not know how to climb them.”

  Alodar spun Cynthia to the side, grabbing her arm to begin pulling her up the stairs. As they disappeared around the corner, the passageway flashed to the brightness of day as a cloud of flame rolled past, furnace-hot.

  They reached a landing half a flight up as the dragon appeared at the foot below. It snaked its head halfway up the well, the raspy and pimpled tongue flicking out a foot more beyond. It roared in anger as it caught sight of its prey disappearing. As the echo trailed off, another fireball coursed up the stairs.

  The shock of the heat flashed memories of the Fumus Mountains through Alodar’s mind, and Cynthia shrieked from the blistering bath. The sphere of flame crashed against the landing wall and burst into smaller globes, which ricocheted towards them.

  “Your robe, pull in your robe,” Alodar shouted as the balls of fire danced by. One caught Cynthia’s hem. Almost instantly, the garment burst in a new shower of incandescence.

  Alodar looked over the railing and saw the wyvern slip and stumble as it tried to place one of its broad feet on the narrow risers. It unfurled its wings and banged against the walls; with one powerful downstroke, it levitated a few feet off the ground and onto the third step.

  Alodar turned back to Cynthia, who stood on the floor above, frantically beating her hands against the ends of the robe which encircled her in flames. He bounded up and knocked her to the ground, sending her rolling down a hallway more spacious than the ones below. The flames sputtered for a moment; but as soon as she stopped, they sprang to life again. He ran to her. Ignoring the throbbing in his hands, he grabbed her disintegrating hem. With a mighty spasm, he yanked his arms apart, splitting the robe from bottom to top, and flung it away from them.


  The wyvern careened to the first landing and Alodar pulled Cynthia to her feet, as naked as the day of the stadium ritual. As they resumed their flight, Alodar caught sight of a familiar glowing disk in the wall on the left.

  “What is that?” he shouted, pointing as they ran.

  “The initiate viewing room,” Cynthia responded as she saw the small circle.

  Alodar thought back to his previous encounter with such a disk. In a flash, their method of escape struck him. The timing would have to be perfect, but they had no other choice. “Then into it,” he directed. “Let us find our safety there.”

  Cynthia responded to the command and firmly pushed the small button. The door smoothly parted and the two ran into a small anteroom that appeared to open onto a spacious balcony. Alodar took three rapid steps into the middle of the chamber. He stopped and faced the door through which they had entered.

  “Let us go to the balcony and beyond.” Cynthia tugged at his arm in a wave of fresh panic. “The wyvern will catch up with us in a moment.”

  As she spoke, the dragon glided up to the door and furled its wings, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Alodar grabbed Cynthia by the hand; with a whipping motion, he propelled her stumbling through the door to the balcony. He looked back into the hallway at the approaching beast. He waited an instant longer and then ran after Cynthia, but took only two more steps before a brace of bells began sounding in alarm.

  In an instant, iron bars crashed to the floor ahead, cutting off his escape, and he turned to face the beast. The only other exit was blocked by the bulk of the wyvern, folding up its wings and stooping to enter. But as it extended its neck into the room, long tongue flicking expectantly, the second barrier began to fall into place from the jamb of the door. The heavy iron bars hit the floor with a thud and the lowermost crossbrace caught the dragon directly behind the head, driving it to the ground.

  The wyvern let out a cry of anger and a large belch of fire that sent Alodar springing to the wall. With a frantic tug, the beast tried withdrawing its head out into the passageway, but the expanse of skull behind the large, opalescent eyes cracked against the stout iron bar.