by Lyndon Hardy
"Is it so certain that I alone have walked this path for you?" Alodar asked.
Handar nodded silently.
Alodar filled his lungs with a rush of air. "It is not for this that I have quested," he said. "But I have offered my life once already and that was merely for a queen. How can I sacrifice less for what you ask?"
"It is as I knew you would say." Handar tossed Alodar the crystal of metal.
"But when and how should I use it?" Alodar asked. "Now, just before the attack, during the battle, or only if all seems irretrievably lost?"
Handar slowly shook his head. "That is for the archimage to decide," he said softly.
PART SIX
The Archimage
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Master Times Five
"THAT should be enough curing," Alodar said as he dropped the formula-laden scrap to the ground. The potter grunted and slowed the spin of his wheel to a halt. Alodar peered into the large barrel. Guided by overhead torchlight, he scooped out the last of the small, dripping pumicestones. He felt the rubbery coating that had been flung against the inner walls of the barrel and nodded with satisfaction at its dryness.
Pressing all that goldenrod for the milky sap had taken time, and he had been forced to try four times for the desiccation to activate properly twice. But otherwise these crude potato barrels would not be watertight.
"Put it on the wagon with the other," he said, "and take them down to the stream to be filled. Grengor has a party building a dam and will sound alarm if anything stirs on the other crest."
The potter waved his understanding, and Alodar pushed the details from his mind. His thoughts raced forward to the next task to be performed in the little time remaining before dawn. After the council had broken up, he had talked with Handar for another hour about what to expect when he tried to conjure the demon prince. Each question had led to two more; when the wizard finally broke off, Alodar was no more sure of his course of action than when he began. But he could not tolerate the frustration of waiting and plunged into a whirlwind of activities, manipulating the things that he could understand, seeking ways to combine the virtues of the five arts, to scrape together the meager resources at hand into potent weapons for the battle. The bog illusion was prepared and the demon for the barrels must wait until the proper time. What next could be done with the bits of board and metal that remained in the camp?
"I did not expect to find you still about." Handar's voice cut through Alodar's reverie. "Let the thaumaturges and alchemists among the refugees handle these tasks. If anyone is to get his rest tonight, it should be you."
"I cannot stand idly by while others rush forward for our cause armed only with their swords," Alodar protested. "I have spent the evening formulating a means by which we can match the length of their line to ours." He waved at the departing potter. "And something to halt the ones that might break through."
"I also have been busy," the wizard said. "On the wings of djinns, I returned to the tower. I awoke two sleeping comrades from tombs like my own. Their power is not as great as mine but it will be used tomorrow. More than Balthazar will be wrenched from his study of other worlds to struggle against his brethren."
"These other places?" Alodar asked. "Several times you have mentioned them. What have they to do with us?"
"Though I have never seen one," Handar answered, "the demons speak of many worlds parallel to theirs, some in fact inhabited by men like ourselves. And on some of these the crafts by which men lifted themselves from savagery are different from those we use here. There the five arts have fallen into disrepute, their principles forgotten or distorted, their place taken by other skills similar in nature but guided by different laws. The truth of thaumaturgy remain only in a few imperfectly remembered spells; instead, a huge edifice of complex postulates has been erected to explain the nature of space and time. Impatient with the uncertain success of alchemy, they replaced it with another art. The beautiful symmetries of magic became a thing unto themselves, symbols to be manipulated and arrayed, their underlying significance lost. The skill of the sorcerer to enchant fell away, and the practitioners concentrated instead on small changes in character of those with whom they dealt. And whole populations cope with devils and imps by turning their backs on them and dismissing their existence as primitive superstition. Places such as these are not threatened by demonkind, or if so, care little for the consequences of the interaction. And perhaps this indifference is what draws the prince's attention to us. I do not know. I only can hope that you will find the means to turn it in another direction."
"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 pile 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 wi
ll 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.