Master of the Five Magics

by Lyndon Hardy

  “There will be little time for another meal tomorrow,” a second voice, brittle with strain, interrupted the conversation. Alodar turned to see Aeriel approach from up the slope. She thrust a still-steaming piece of fowl into his hand. Her face was tight, and she avoided his glance and lowered her head, Alodar frowned and gently placed his fingertip under her chin. He raised her face to his and saw tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes.

  The wizard cleared his throat. “I will attend to the others of my craft,” he mumbled and disappeared into the darkness.

  “Do not grieve yet,” Alodar said after a moment. “Handar and the others will aid our cause. And when the time comes I will also be ready.”

  Aeriel opened her mouth to speak but then stopped and sighed uncertainly. “My tears are not for what may happen at the worst,” she told him softly. “If that is to be our fate, then we will share it. It is the possibility of victory on which I ponder. And I am troubled about how I truly feel about it.”

  “But if we win the battle, it will mean the war as well,” Alodar assured her. “All demons gone, and the ones they control restored to their former dispositions.”

  “Yes, I understand the aftermath either way,” Aeriel said. “Just as I knew how you would respond when Handar presented you with the decision. I admire you for that, Alodar, and wish you to find the same strength in me.”

  Alodar blinked and tried to understand the meaning of her words. “Admiration is too tame a description for what I feel for you, Aeriel. And the support you have given the queen is second to no other.”

  “But do you not see?” Aeriel cried. “If you finish the second quest, you succeed in the first also. You will have saved Procolon, you alone, and no one can deny it. Vendora can have no other choice but to select you above all the others. Craftsman and peer alike will demand it. There will be no more need to play one against the other for momentary gain. And so, either way, I will be the loser. What follows defeat I do not wish upon anyone, and yet, if we win, the result for me will be no different.”

  Alodar sucked in his breath. Part of his mind wanted to pull away and deny Aeriel’s logic, the logic he knew had also deeply troubled his own thoughts. He looked into her tear-filled eyes, and his throat grew tight. “Your boldness exceeds even my own,” he whispered.

  Aeriel paused and then continued more slowly. “On the royal barge I stated that my goal was to serve the queen, to see that she finally selected the mate that would make her kingdom secure. And so I have done, acting unselfishly to advance your banner because you seemed the most worthy. But through it all, my own feelings became harder and harder to push aside.”

  Aeriel again ducked her head. “In the mountains to the north you expressed what your feelings would be if you did not quest for the queen. And so long as the pursuit continued and did not reach for its climax, it was enough. But the events have compressed too quickly. They transcend the struggle for a single kingdom. Now there can no uncertainty about Procolon’s future if you pass one final test. And so, even though everyone else makes their individual sacrifices to aid our common cause, mine I cannot give freely. Here am I, a lady of the royal court, proud of my record of putting state before self. One who looked with disdain at those who maneuvered to protect their own petty interests. But when I face my own test, when I am called upon to part with something that truly matters, I find that I fall short of my image of myself. I hesitate; I falter. Other feelings are there and I cannot deny them. If one were to ask if I truly prefer a victory tomorrow, a victory that allows you finally to choose Vendora over all others…”

  Alodar’s thoughts exploded. Perhaps it was the fatigue, the uncertainty of what lay ahead, the pressure of keeping so many thoughts hidden, Aeriel’s presence, the openness with which she revealed herself to him. But regardless of the reasons he could suppress his feelings for her no longer. With all the rest, like a sprite’s dustdevil, they whirled in his mind.

  It was her companionship he had enjoyed in all the wanderings to the north. If ever there was a fair lady worthy of the quest of any of the heroes of the sagas, he thought, it was Aeriel and no other. But the pursuit of Vendora, the battle, the confrontation with a prince of demons, they all crowded in and tumbled together. He could not sort his feelings out and speak with decision. But after tonight, he might never see her again, he thought dimly above the confusion. They could not part until he told her something of what he felt.

  He drew his free arm around her and pulled her to him. “I know the fair lady for what she is,” he said softly, “it was not for her that I quested so much as for what she represented. And I understand as well the conflict that brings your tears. It can be no less stormy than my own. Many times in my quest, I thought of you and what in the end success would mean. And each time, like a timid magician, I would not complete the ritual and drive my thoughts to their conclusion. Instead I bound them up and stuffed them away, selfishly taking all the warmth and comfort of your attention and deferring to later what the consequences might be.”

  He paused and squeezed her tightly. “The sands have been cast, and the events of tomorrow will thunder to their resolution, regardless of our longings. But no matter what happens, Aeriel, I want you to know this. You are not the only one who will lose from either outcome.”

  Aeriel sobbed once and then smiled through her tears. Hungrily her lips sought his. Alodar stopped his mental struggle and let his thoughts slide away in the heat of their passion. Time passed, but he did not care. Finally they stood apart, looking deeply into each other’s eyes.

  After a moment Alodar glanced away and then with a smile held up the piece of chicken that was still tightly clutched in his hand. Aeriel laughed, and the mood suddenly was broken. The ventilated emotions evaporated away into the gloom. Aeriel licked her lips and then accepted the offered bite. Without saying more, they took turns shredding away pieces of meat from the bone.

  “I am glad you came with the meal,” Alodar said when they were done.

  “And I,” Aeriel replied as she pulled the wishbone apart from the rest. “A superstition that plays no part in your crafts, I know. But certainly a wish for good fortune could do us no harm.”

  Alodar nodded, and they snapped the bone. “I will carry the favor into battle,” he said as they carefully put the pieces away into their pockets. He looked to the east and again drew her gently to him. In silence they stood together, waiting for the first rays of dawn.

  Alodar’s heart pounded to the beat of the drums. He looked quickly at the half circle of the sun and then at the warriors already on the march towards them. Under the brightening sky the final contingents of the queen moved into position. Because of Grengor’s dam, the meandering stream had swollen into a long, shallow lake. On the side nearest, Alodar saw the glint of sunlight from Cedric’s militia. Shoulder to shoulder, they stood behind a row of long pikes thrust into the soft shoreline. Five rows deep, the warriors marked a contour of the valley, a spiny serpent of steel, a thousand feet long, silent and waiting.

  Grak and his kinsmen spread out on both sides to extend the defense farther. Much less densely packed, the nomads formed narrow strings of leather, each man refusing to hide behind another. Tucked just behind the last in line on the left, a small cavalry, led by Feston, pawed the ground. Of the twenty horses, only a dozen wore mail, another five were mere ponies. Their nervous snorts fogged the cold morning air. Directly behind Cedric and in front of the knoll on which Alodar stood, a score of archers finished stringing their bows and slowly testing the tensions. A little to their left, Handar paced with two other black-robed wizards.

  Alodar looked hastily about to ensure that all his preparations were ready. His marines stood on guard around a small semicircle pulled bare of grass and shrubbery. A cauldron of wax bubbled at the center. A supply of molds crudely pounded from pots and plates lay near the thaumaturge standing nearby. Two of the refugees, too old to swing a sword, but understanding well the futility of further flight, beat a p
ile of willowbark into powder for the next batch of sweetbalm.

  Near Alodar’s feet, a row of bottles, apparently empty but all tightly corked, stood in a row. The one on the left dangled above a fire in a pit, and the next was piled on all sides with glowing coals. Down the line, the intensity of the applied heat declined until the bottle on the farthest right bobbed in a bucket of water from the icy stream. At the end was a glove with the wrist tied around the snout of a bellows and the tips of the thumb and little finger neatly clipped off. Farther away stood the wagon with the two barrels of water. Seven hobbled horses, the worst of Vendora’s scavenged lot, munched on the grass nearby.

  Alodar looked to the crest behind and saw all the rest gathered in small clumps to watch the outcome. The sun reflected brightly off Vendora’s gown. At her side he could see Duncan squeezing the pouch that contained his sphere. Basil kept looking over his shoulder as if he hoped to find a refuge he had missed before. At the last moment, Alodar had sent Aeriel away to join them; as he watched, she reluctantly faded into the throng.

  Alodar turned back to face in the direction of the drums. The cadence was slow and booming. Each throb seemed to intensify with hypnotic incessancy. On every beat, the troops of the rebellion took another synchronized step down the incline. The slow march was deliberate, Alodar knew. The final yell and haphazard rush would come only after Vendora’s defenders had been given ample time to contemplate the might arrayed against them.

  They marched in rectangles three men deep and thirty wide, each one marked by a long banner hanging limply from a lance that poked skyward. Only narrow gaps separated groups one from another. But when Alodar looked to the left and right, he saw the air shimmer and the approaching men seem to fade from view. Except for a narrow portion of the line about the same length as that of the royal forces, no more of the huge army that had reached the crest the night before was visible.

  “Even though we are outnumbered,” Grengor said at Alodar’s side, “if they do not choose to use their superior forces to envelop us, we still have a chance. The center will hold, and the savagery of Grak’s kinsmen will be more than a match for minds that are demon-doped.”

  “They all move against us,” Alodar replied. “You see but part of the illusion that I am casting in order to nullify some of the advantage. Last night Cedric and Grak agreed that it would be folly to stretch our line to match their length. Densely clustered, we would stand no chance against a sweep of the flanks. They said that they needed to defend a pass rather than a plain. So with the arts, I have attempted to form one.”

  Grengor wrinkled his brow and Alodar continued. “They came too late yesterday to get a clear view of the land between us. If we can convince them that deep bogs lie on either side, they will compress into the middle and trip over themselves as they try to jockey forward. The imp Gladril carried water-filled jugs into the sky. He periodically dumped them as he rose, thereby replacing their contents with the vapors of the various layers. Upon return to earth, each jug was then subjected to fire and cold as you see at my feet, and the sky above now bends the rays of light as I choose. The warriors coming down the hill do not see the empty plain to our right and left but a far wetter marsh we skirted in the north.”

  “But shimmering air alone will not bend them from their instructed course,” Grengor objected.

  “And so the camphor was used to make the solvent, imperfect as it was,” Alodar said. “Delivered by the sprites into the path of the march, it has eaten at the grasses and rock for long enough that more than one bog-hole will result. For the rest, though you cannot hear them, no less than a dozen sirens caress their ears as they approach. And this time their song is not a meaningless wail but the word of sorcery as I have instructed them to say. Visions of cattails, rushes, sedge, and milkweed will mix with the flickering air. By themselves, each part of the effect would be insufficient, but together they will do what they must.”

  Alodar smiled as he saw a block of men emerge from the haze and move behind the line that marched without deflection down the center. Another group appeared and then another. “If I had had a magic sound box for the croak of the frog and buzz of the fly I could have used it as well. But no matter, it seems to be working with what I have already done. We still have to face them all, but at least not at the same time.”

  Suddenly the drums stopped. With a yell, Bandor’s warriors flashed their swords and raced down the remaining portion of the hill. Screaming unearthly warcries, they dashed into the water, tromping up a fine spray with their passage. Some lost their balance and fell, but the ones behind ran over them, eyes gleaming. The precisely formed rectangles pulled apart into ragged lines and then disintegrated entirely. In twos and threes, they staggered to dry land and flung themselves at Vendora’s defense.

  Alodar caught his breath with the first clang of sword on shield. He saw a nomad nimbly sidestep an awkward thrust and then slash downward on the exposed neck and shoulder that tumbled after. More warriors reached the line. With a shout of their own, Cedric’s center and Grak’s barbarians met the attack. The noise of contact popped and groaned all along the line into the morning air.

  Alodar saw the mailed militia momentarily fall backwards from the shock but then stand firm and cut down the first who reached them. The nomads whirled their swords in great swinging arcs and leaped forward to meet their foes knee deep in the water. The attackers fell like wheat before a scythe.

  Before the nomads advanced farther, hastily barked commands pulled them back into a more disciplined line. With taunting swords, they awaited the next rush, which came with far more caution. Bandor’s troops reconsolidated into a wall, and the first row waded across to meet the defenders. More blocks squeezed in behind but hesitated at the far side of the lake, unwilling to stand in the cold water behind those who fought in front. Farther up the hill, other groups ducked behind their shields as they came within range of the hail of arrows. Alodar quickly surveyed the entire line. For the moment they had held the first charge.

  Alodar let his breath out and then snapped his attention back to his own duties. “Quickly, Grengor,” he ordered. “Untether the horses that pull the wagon and get two men alongside the barrels. I will tell you in a moment where we will best need them.”

  “Our proper place is down on the line with the rest, master,” Grengor shot back. “I do not like this meaningless guard duty. The wounded who can walk will find this place well enough and the thaumaturge and alchemists can tend to the mending as well as you.”

  “We cannot hold this position, forever,” Alodar said. “We must be ready for the breakthroughs wherever they may come. Do as I say. Your utility will be far greater.” Alodar did not wait for a reply but swung his eyes to the small fire under the bottle on the left. In an instant, he willed his presence through the flame. A sparkle of light, no bigger than a firefly, danced before him.

  “You make a great error, master,” a tiny voice whined. “Even the most immature imp has powers which are great compared to mine. Why, since my hatching, only the wizard Maxwell on another world has even bothered with my summoning.”

  “Into the glove,” Alodar ordered. “There is no time for wordy quibble.” He picked up the bellows and ran to the wagon. As he climbed aboard, the spark of light followed and disappeared into the interior of the contraption in his hand.

  “To what position?” Grengor asked, slapping the reins against the horses’ backs. “I would think that the nomads on the east will most need whatever help we can offer.”

  “Cedric says that stopping the first penetration, no matter where it occurs, is most important,” Alodar replied. “No one can aggressively hold a line if he feels his backside threatened. And if the enemy is halted once, they will be less bold a second time. Now silence, I must concentrate on where it will be.”

  Alodar looked back at the line. The battle surged forward and back. In the center, as men fell on either side, those behind moved up to fill in the gap. Cedric’s forces buckled and
bowed, alternately retreating among the pikes or pushing the attackers back into the lake. The struggles of the barbarians gradually diffused into an unstructured mêlée, each nomad fighting alone, whipping his sword in all directions in vengeance for his fallen comrades. With each passing minute, they thinned and weakened, but the confusion they caused on the other side was as great as their own, and no advantage immediately could be taken.

  For an instant Alodar grimaced with distaste at what he would feel next, but then plunged into the charm. The prophecy would be for this place and only for moments away; it should not be a severe undertaking. He spoke the words quickly, too intent on what he must do to notice greatly the discomfort. In a moment it was done. With unblinking eyes, he scanned the future of the tumult.

  The swirl of fighting blurred and then jerked back into focus. The turbulence looked the same on the left. In the center, Cedric held firm, although his line was far more shallow. Alodar slewed past the center but then halted and looked again. There on the boundary, between Cedric’s mail and Grak’s barbarians on the right, the line suddenly ruptured and a mass of yelling warriors streamed through.