Master of the Five Magics

by Lyndon Hardy

  Alodar blinked back to the present. “To the west,” he shouted, “and use the whip!” A wave of nausea rose from his stomach as the wagon lurched forward, but he paid no attention. Steadying himself with one hand, he reached for a deep-bowled ladle bouncing on the wagonbed.

  “Use the barrel in the rear first,” he said to Melab, who rocked along at his side. “Insert the hose and prepare the plunger so we will be ready when we arrive.”

  The marine put the round wooden lid with the wide rubber flange into the mouth of the barrel and inserted one end of a hose into a small hole near the center. He pressed tentatively on the surface and a spray of water shot from the other end of the hose.

  “One more burst so I can fill the ladle,” Alodar said, bending forward to catch the last of the stream. When the spoon was full, he flung the hose aside and cradled the sloshing bowl. They raced past the archers nocking the last of their arrows and the wizards observing without apparent emotion. He looked back to the line and yelled for Grengor to stop. The last oscillations of the wagon had barely faded away when, just as he had envisioned, four men fell side by side in near unison, and the attackers surged through.

  “Wet them all,” Alodar yelled. Melab quickly bent his back to the barrel cover, and another marine with the hose arched a geyser into the leading edge of the warriors rushing their way. Alodar looked quickly at the distance to be covered and then at the apparatus he still held in his hand. While the marines washed the spray back and forth over the fighters as they charged, he carefully set the ladle of water on the wagonbed. Then, inserting the thumb of the glove into the bowl, he bound the metal wheelrims as a heat sink and began to pump the bellows.

  Alodar saw the glove expand into a balloon and felt the jet of air escaping from the fingerhole of his crude tee-junction strike his cheek. He cocked his head to the side to intercept the rush from the other airstream, burbling up through the water in the ladle. He looked up at the warriors thundering towards them, swords held high and eyes wide with blood lust. “Only the coldest to the thumbhole,” he yelled. “I do not care how warm the other side becomes.”

  “As you wish, master,” the voice inside the glove squeaked, and the bubbling stream turned icy cold. Alodar looked at the marines and saw the strain on their faces as they watched the approach. The fastest of the intruders sprinted forward and, with a yell of glee, locked his eyes on where Alodar’s unprotected form huddled on the wagon.

  Alodar’s legs strained to bolt away, but he held himself firm and pumped all the harder. He cringed in anticipation of the downward swinging blow but, as he did, felt a sudden resistance to his inward squeeze.

  Alodar glanced up and ducked to the side as the warrior pitched forward into the wagon, his arm locked and his face in a puzzled stare. He looked back at the others who followed and saw them fall to the ground one by one, mimicking the grotesque statues of the children’s game. He examined the glove and found the finger frozen solid in the small block of ice that had formed in the ladle.

  “A simple matter of thaumaturgy,” he explained to Melab as he rose. “And a demon who could separate the hot air from the cold in order to freeze the small quantity that once was a part of a larger whole.” He looked for a final time at what he had done. “The circles of mail are just the right size to hold the water until it freezes into a solid coat. I witnessed the effect once before, although it was with a caloric ointment rather than common ice.”

  The squad of archers came rushing up, and Alodar turned away, not caring to watch how they ensured that the downed warriors would bother them no more. He breathed deeply and tried to prepare himself to recast the prophetic enchantment. But before he could act, a sudden shout from the west caught his attention. At the very limit of Alodar’s illusion, a troop of horsemen forded the stream and turned towards the battle. With a trumpeteer’s charge, they kicked their mounts into a run and bore down on the flank. As Alodar watched, Feston wheeled his cavalry to meet the attack.

  For the better part of a minute, the horsemen raced over the tall grass. Feston surged to the front and, with his sword over his head, waved on the stragglers. The troops rushed together with the sharp report of steel on steel. Great jets of mud and uprooted grass exploded skyward from the impact. The cries of men and horses in pain replaced the dull rumble of the charge. The thin lines broke and dissolved into small swirls of energy, ringing sword on shield and riders tumbling to the ground.

  “They circled around the illusion on the far side,” Alodar said. “And if on one flank, then why not the other?” He whirled to the east and saw four horsemen crossing the stream downstream of Grengor’s dam. Alodar looked back. Feston’s troop was fully engaged, the archers busy with their grueling task, and the line of warriors still pressed from the south. He thought of the impact of even four swords cutting into their thinly held flank. “They will move too fast for this to work again,” he shouted to Grengor as he flung the bellows aside. “Enough of the fancy craftwork. Back to our post and the few horses that we have. There is no one else to stop them.”

  The wagon turned a slow circle and then bounced back to the clearing. Alodar sprang from the bed and ran for one of the horses. He scooped up and sheathed his sword and then jumped into the saddle. Wrenching around the reins, he kneed his mount into a gallop. The remaining marines abandoned their guard duty and followed.

  Bandor’s horsemen saw his troop coming and veered from bearing down on the nomads to meet the charge. Both men and horses were heavily draped in mail. The morning sun flashed angry reflections from the polished surfaces of helms capped with billowy blue plumes. A long standard decorated with Bandor’s arms fluttered from a staff on the lead horseman’s saddle, Although the heavily muscled mounts raced rapidly forward, the men sat stiffly erect as if walking in a procession.

  As they approached, each of the four reached to his side and spun a spiny balled mace into the air. Alodar drew his sword in response. Closing for the collision, he tried to recall Cedric’s instructions on how best to deal with the whirling weapon. He frowned as he studied their orbits above the warrior’s heads. They rotated so slowly that he could see the dodecahedral symmetry of the spikes.

  He blinked and pulled back on the reins. “Magic weapons!” he shouted. “Maces of crystal resonance. I read of them in the library of the Guild. It is no wonder they come with only four. Our metal will do us no good.” He slowed to a trot, but two of his followers sped past and converged on the leader from both sides.

  The marines swung their swords high simultaneously, aiming at the warrior’s exposed side and his hand stiffly holding the reins. With a sudden jerk, the mace wrenched out of its flat trajectory and smashed into the blades, one after the other. Sparks flew at the contact and metal shrieked in protest as the surfaces grated together. One sword snapped at the hilt and sprang skyward. The other broke nearer the middle, sending both halves spinning to the ground. Before either man could recover, the mace dipped lower on its second revolution, crashing into one marine’s jaw and hitting the other in the chest. With what sounded like the bursting of a bag of coins, the ringlets of mail tinkled to the ground.

  “Stop the swing. It is the only way,” Alodar shouted. “Hanging limply, they have no power; but so long as they whirl we have no weapon to stand against them.” He looked quickly about as the rest of the marines sped forward to engage the others. He saw one immediately knocked to the ground and heard again the shriek of breaking metal.

  The leader did not turn to continue his attack on the marines as they rode past. He sighted on Alodar and kneed his horse forward. The banner on the mast at the rear of his saddle snapped stiffly with the increased speed. Alodar’s eyes flicked to the standard, and he saw what he must try. Gathering his resolution, he grabbed his reins with his teeth. Sheathing his sword, he loosened a small shield hung from his saddle and held it stiffly with both hands. Biting down on the leather, he hunched behind his protection and aimed for the slowly revolving ball.

  At the
last instant before they collided, Alodar tilted the top of his shield backwards and ducked even lower underneath its layers of hide and steel. With a jolt that shocked his arms numb, the ball hit the flat surface, crumbling metal and ricocheting up and over his sheltered form. His horse stumbled, dropping one knee to the ground and then the other. Alodar pushed from his stirrups as he fell, tossing the pieces of shield skyward.

  With one arm he reached across the warrior’s waist, pivoting himself up behind on the horse’s back. He ducked beneath the mace as it swung overhead. With his other hand, he ripped the banner from its mast. He flung the tangle of cloth upwards into the path of the ball just as it came around a second time.

  The sharp spikes ripped the fabric, but Alodar tugged and crashed the weapon down to his side. The horseman pulled on the chain, but before he could wrench it free, Alodar’s two marines circled back alongside and grabbed his arms. Alodar linked his hands around the helm. With a backstraining tug, he rolled off the horse. One marine pulled with the thrust and the second pushed from the other side. The warrior tipped and then slid from the saddle.

  Alodar scrambled free and spun about in time to see one of Bandor’s men lean low and dip his mace as he raced by. Alodar dived for the ground, feeling the weapon whistle past his ear. He looked up to see another of his marines charge from the left, his surcoat outstretched in imitation of what he had just seen. The second mace snagged as the two men collided. They tumbled to the ground in a heap with the rest.

  Alodar got to his feet and saw the last two of his troop staying just beyond the range of Bandor’s remaining warriors, tauntingly holding forth scraps of cloth rather than gleaming swords. Alodar exhaled slowly, bracing himself to return to the wagon and prepare for the next breakthrough.

  Before he could act, he heard the beginning of a high-pitched buzz above the clash of battle. The men still remaining on horseback obscured his view, but there was no mistaking the direction from which it came. Along the line, the fighting momentarily stopped. Even Bandor’s men looked over their shoulders for the source of the noise. Then suddenly the sound grew into an ear-ringing crescendo. From the south, a streak of black darkened the sky and descended onto the battlefield.

  The plunging shaft broke against the line of Cedric’s mail. Like a wave against a shallow shore, it rolled down its length to the last combatants at either end. With cries of pain and alarm, the rearmost line bolted from their formation, madly flailing arms and beating at mailed chests and backs. Despite his losses, Cedric had stood three deep against his foes; but now he thinned to two, and in some places a single defender opposed the wall massed against him.

  “Imps, a swarm of imps,” Grengor exclaimed as he rode closer, dragging one of Bandor’s ensnared followers along the ground. “They are stinging through the ringlets of mail. No man can swing a decent blow with such distraction from a dozen directions at once.”

  Alodar grabbed his glass to see if the flanks escaped the enraged buzzing which hovered over the center. But his attention was pulled upwards as he saw a spray of fiery arcs bending down out of the sky towards Grak’s nomads. Oil-soaked rags attached to long-vaned arrows descended in formation and followed precise trajectories to land in the barbarians’ rear. As each hit the ground, it exploded in a shower of flame that flashed in a display of eye-paining brilliance. Alodar shielded his face from the bursts. As he blinked his eyes back into focus, he saw that where each arrow had struck stood a small, scaly, grotesque form, a miniature of the demons which had confronted him at the foot of Handar’s tower.

  Without delay, the lobster-red devils opened their mouths into wide ovals; from each belched forth balls of fire that energized the air into incandescence as they passed. The first hit two of Grak’s men squarely on their leather-covered backs. With screams of surprise and showers of glowing embers, they immediately crumpled to the ground and were still. Bandor’s men rushed forward into the gap.

  Alodar swung his glass back to where he had last seen the wizards. He saw Handar coming his way, pulling the long hems of his robe high from the ground. To the east, another wizard hastily extended the telescoped legs of a portable tripod he had swung from his back. With practiced precision, he lit a fire in the wildly swinging brazier. A demonic form appeared, hovering in the air overhead. The wizard gestured once, and the djinn leaped skyward, deforming like a scarf of sheerest silk and creating a howling wind with his passage.

  The wind buffeted at the fireballs as they sped on their deadly trajectories, and small wisps of flame tore away from the glowing spheres. Then whole balls blew out, leaving dark, carbon black cores bare and cool. With a dull thump, they struck leather backs and fell harmlessly to the ground.

  The wizard remaining in the center completed his conjuring, and Alodar saw more of the fire devils spring into existence. These bellowed globules of flame like the ones their cousins lofted from the crestline to the south but they rode on the air with the slow beat of thick pockmarked wings. Great, gaping holes tore through the swarm of imps, leaving small amorphous smears of crackling ooze, slowly sinking to the ground. The flight from the line halted, but the defenders wavered, still fearful of the attacks which came from the rear and uncertain of the aid which had come to help them.

  Suddenly a series of flashes and explosions erupted from the stone firepit on the southern crest. Sparkles of light soared skyward, and from each sprang a djinn to join in the fray. A form like a salamander, purple skin glistening with wetness, soared above the rest, his body-length tail slowly uncoiling to reveal rows of stiletto-sharp stingers attached at either side. In immediate answer, three smaller djinns streaked from the north, gliding with undulating membranes stretched between outflung arms and legs. From small knobs on their heads, bolts of lightning cracked through the air, converging on the purple one with a web of forked energy. But before the accompanying thunder could reach the ground, the salamander flicked his tail forward, drawing the strike onto his stingers and cascading the energy down to the tip of his tail, which began to glow with an expanding ball of crackling blueness.

  More unearthly forms sped across the valley, and each was met by a demon conjured by the wizards on the northern slopes. Streaks of energy pulsed through the air, and Alodar was forced to turn his eyes away from the intense flashes. Up and down the ragged battleline, strokes of pink and orange and bolts of deep magenta ripped through the sky. While men below stood dumbfounded, a second battle formed above, fire, wind, and water hurling with awesome force between the foes. Moving too fast for the eye to follow, the demons darted past one another, blasting forth their weapons, dodging behind defenses that men could not comprehend and drowning all the shouts below with their raspy cries.

  Minutes passed as the battle raged and Alodar saw a second swarm of imps swoop down to replace the first roasted out of the sky. More volleys of fire devils zoomed overhead and began to project their balls of flame. Alodar looked to the two wizards, surrounded by concentric rings of exotic flames, gesticulating wildly, and trying to direct all the demons under their control. He searched for Handar and saw him only some ten yards away, raising his hands upwards before the beginnings of an outline in the center of a high-leaping flame. Alodar ran forward to the wizard as the orange head and massive form slowly took form. The cloven hooves and tail flickered into existence as he reached Handar’s side.

  “So, Handar, the battle goes not quite so well as you had hoped,” Balthazar’s voice rasped out at them. “For no long stretch of time did your meager forces hold at bay Bandor and his minions. Too soon did you call forth those lesser devils over which you have some sway. It is time, is it not, to let down your waning resistance and let me assume control of what is rightfully mine.”

  “Silence.” Handar ordered. “Such speculation is not for your slothful meditation, so long as you are mine. There is work to be done. Rise and dispatch those who oppose us.”

  “Can you truly force me yet another time?” Balthazar shot back, his deep set eyes boiling down o
n the wizard standing before him.

  Handar did not reply. With lips set firmly and fists clenched, he returned the demon’s stare with an unflinching one of his own. As in the tower, Alodar saw the veins in Handar’s forehead bulge with the effort.

  “Go and do my bidding,” Handar gasped in a dry wheeze at last, shaking with effort as he spoke. “The line here on the west. Rid them of the devils which bombard their backs with fire.”

  “I go to slay a few,” Balthazar growled. “But if there is more to be done, then I will return, and you must reinstruct me.”

  With a rush of air, Balthazar streaked away, soaring high over the battlefield and then plummeting to earth with hands outstretched as he darted into the fire devils, smashing them out of existence with sharp claps of power.

  “Handar, what is the matter?” Alodar asked as the demon departed. “It is not as it was in the tower.”

  The wizard sank slowly to the ground and pressed one fist to his sagging head. “So many, there are so many,” he moaned. “Who of the council would have thought that they would come across with so many? It is not only Balthazar on whom I must concentrate but the minor djinns as well.”

  Before Alodar could speak again, Balthazar screamed across the slope to hover above them. “I rid you of four,” he said. “Do you wish to try to direct me to another task?”

  Handar climbed to his feet and stared again at the demon above him. With glowering menace, Balthazar hunched his huge scaly shoulders and looked back at his master.

  Minutes passed and Handar trembled from the exertion to impress his will as he had done before. Suddenly he brought both clenched fists to his forehead and screamed in pain. “I cannot hold,” he yelled. “He is too strong and I cannot hold.”

  Balthazar rasped a stomach-curdling laugh. “On your knees and salute your master,” the demon cried. “It has taken many a summoning, but the final victory is mine.”