The Bohemian Magician

by A. L. Sirois

  He patted his pocket. The inhabitants, grateful to be rid of Kresomysl and his depredations, had pressed a small purse of silver on Guilhem, who accepted it with dignity. It was, as far as he was concerned, no less than his due. With a portion of it he had purchased new clothes to replace his battle- and travel-worn crusader garb, and a well-wrought dagger to add to his armament. Feeling at peace with the world he watched the forested regions through the raft slowly traveled with a satisfied eye.

  And, although he felt more than adequate to the task of defending the raft from any attack by thieves who would steal its load of cut logs, the week-long voyage down river was uneventful.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IN WHICH GUILHEM ARRIVES IN PRAGUE

  He heard and smelled Prague before he saw it. The sounds of the bustling town, three centuries old and still growing, expanding along the river from the site of its founding, reached his ears a good quarter-hour before he spotted the spires of its buildings. Peasants fishing along the Moldau’s banks waved at the men on the raft. Trash and sewage floating in the water accounted for the ripe smell assailing Guilhem’s nostrils; still, he mused, it was not as bad as the odor of gnome or fairy.

  Roland, inspecting the cargo, approached Guilhem, who sat pensive in the bow. “Have you ever visited Prague, my lord?”

  Guilhem shook his head. “I know little of the place aside from it being the home of many merchants and traders.”

  “That’s right enough. Did you know that it boasts the largest slave market for many hundreds of miles around? Certainly the largest in Bohemia.”

  The duke regarded him with some distaste. “No,” he said, clipping the word short. “It’s an ill-favored activity, slavery, incompatible with Christian morals.”

  “So many believe,” Roland said with a shrug. “I am a businessman, my lord, I make no judgments as to the morality of the thing. Were I to do that, I’d lose clients.” He favored Guilhem with a one-eyed squint. “It is my understanding that Muslim girls have been sold as slaves in the southern reaches of your own country, in Marseilles. Have I been misinformed?”

  Guilhem pursed his lips against a tart response. Instead, he said, in as measured a voice as he could manage, “What is the prime market for slaves, would you say?”

  Again Roland shrugged. “It’s a subject about which I lack detailed knowledge, but from what I am given to understand the Saracens rely heavily on the labor of men and women under the lash.”

  Guilhem said nothing, and after a moment Roland continued with his inspection tour. The Bohemian had been correct about slaving activity in Marseilles, Guilhem knew; though he himself owned no slaves, he was acquainted with men in his homeland who did.

  Further reflection on the subject was cut short by the raft’s arrival at its docking point near the center of the city. After tying it up, Roland’s men prepared to unload its cargo of timber. The raft master approached Guilhem and bowed low. “Thank you for accompanying us on the journey,” he said.

  The Duke returned the bow. “Not at all. You have done me a service. Now, if you would do me a further one, might you tell me where I could find someone to assist me in securing passage back to my homeland?”

  “In all honesty, I say, I know not,” said Roland. “I will however hazard a guess that you might seek out such a person in the taverns and public houses near the mercantile region of the city. It is not far from the castle, on this side of it.” He indicated some tall spires rising over the town’s red-roofed dwellings, half a mile or so away. “Yonder.”

  Taking his leave of the raft master, Guilhem made his way along the crowded quay until he reached an avenue leading in the direction of the castle.

  People thronged the streets shouting, singing, arguing, laughing. Guilhem found himself stimulated by the city’s energy. It reminded him in some ways of Adrianople. Words in many strange languages assailed his ears as he walked along. He kept alert for anyone speaking French or Latin but heard nothing in those tongues until he entered the plaza stretching out in front of the castle itself. It swarmed with people going to and fro on their various errands. Then, from the doorway of a building immediately adjacent to the open area, a burst of profanity bellowed in French erupted into the afternoon.

  Guilhem paused in his tracks, as much taken with the fellow’s creative turn of phrase as by the pleasure of hearing his own tongue.

  A portly man with long red mustaches hanging down past his chin strode out of the doorway, directing a final riposte at someone inside. “That would be inclusive of your mother and your horse!” He paused to spit eloquently on the ground. Guilhem stepped up to him.

  “Good sir,” he began. The man whirled on him at once, whipping a thin épée out of its scabbard at his side. He glared at Guilhem with icy blue eyes.

  “And who the blazes are you?” he snarled. “Speak quickly, churl.” As evidenced by his clothes, which were of good quality and well kept, he was a knight of some means.

  The duke’s hand fell to the pommel of his own sword, but he said, speaking French in a mild tone, “Your pardon, sir knight. I am a stranger in this place and heard you curs—that is, speaking. I daresay we are from the same soil, or similar.”

  The portly man glared at him but the anger was fading from his face. “Ah, I see.” He raked Guilhem with a sharp glance, and grunted. “Now it is I who must crave your pardon, good sir.” He slapped his épée into its scabbard. “Kindly accompany me, if you will do me the honor.” He strode off toward the square with Guilhem at his side.

  “The more I am forced to consort with these idiotic Bohemians the more I regret ever having come into the merchant order,” he said. “But my manners have escaped me. I am Sir Onfroi of Poictesme.”

  Guilhem blinked. The realm of Poictesme lay two or three days’ travel to the east of his own holdings. “Sir Onfroi, as fate would have it, we are virtually neighbors. I am Duke Guilhem IX of Poictiers. Or as many call it, the Aquitaine.”

  Onfroi halted in his tracks, whinnying in delight. “Ah ha!” He seized Guilhem’s hand and wrung it so hard that his new acquaintance winced. “Well met! Well met indeed, my lord Duke! Beastly tired of all this Bohemian chatter, I am. Sweet it is to hear the language of home!” He resumed walking or, more accurately to Guilhem’s mind, striding. Guilhem had to trot to keep up with him.

  “See here, Sir Onfroi,” said Guilhem, “I am hoping to find a way to get back to my lands. Are you aware of where and how I may arrange passage for myself? I can pay.”

  “Hmm? Oh, not to worry, not to worry. Take you along with me when I go, if you like, my lord. I have an errand I must see to first.”

  “Oh, yes? What’s that?”

  “Almost embarrassed to say. You see, I was doing some mercenary work hereabouts… not much of a homebody, y’know. I’ve knocked about this region for a few years now, trying to accumulate a bit of money so that I can buy back my family estate. Long story, won’t go into it just now. Tawdry, rather. Not at all my fault. Anyway! On my way now to see the fellow I work for.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Fellow named Bořivoj II, the Duke of Bohemia. Runs the place now, you know. I’m due to meet him in the castle in a quarter hour.”

  “You’re in his pay? How did that come about?”

  “Amusin’ story. I was here sniffing around for work, as you might say, and between times I did a spot of gambling. You know those games can take you to some… interesting places.”

  Onfroi looked expectantly at him, so Guilhem, who wasn't much of a gambler, nodded.

  “Anyway! Here I am one night, playin’ at dice with some fellows in a tavern, and one of the men at the table is winning rather more than he should. I’ve been here and there, you know, seen this sort of thing before. Doctored dice! Corners rounded off. Bad form, bad form. I called him out about it and we had a bit of a ‘do’ there, which we took into the street. Didn’t go well for him.” He grinned. “Long and short of it is, Bořivoj was one of the others in the game. M
ost grateful to me for exposin’ that turd and his turdly schemes. Anyway, Bořivoj and I, we got to toastin’ each other’s health. With one thing and another, along about the fifth tankard he offered me a job. Once I tend to it, my coffers will be filled.” He stopped again and eyed Guilhem. “Listen, why not join me? It’s a bit of a military thing. I could use an experienced man like you, my lord. There’s a bit of coin in it for you, too, I daresay. Eh? I’m sure old Bořivoj would be more than happy to take you on if I vouch for you. Eh?”

  “Oh! Well, umm, that sounds good, I suppose. It isn't as though I was doing anything else; though I do need to get home.”

  Onfroi slapped him on the back. “Stout fellow! We’ll trek back together, in style!” He took off once more with Guilhem following along.

  “So what was all that ruckus back there?” Guilhem asked.

  “Eh? Oh, the... thing. Bit of a misunderstanding about supplies for the campaign,” Onfroi said. “I’ll straighten it out later. Now let’s go find our Bořivoj, shall we?”

  Sir Onfroi marched up to the castle’s gatehouse. The portcullis was lifted for the benefit of daytime traffic, with guards standing to either side watching people come and go. After Onfroi had a few words with one, he and Guilhem were allowed entry.

  Bořivoj II was sitting in a receiving room handing out orders to members of his court. He was a thin, saturnine fellow, apparently in his late thirties, with a black beard trimmed to a point, wearing a long red robe edged with ermine. On his head sat a small gold crown. He had, Guilhem noted as he approached at Onfroi’s side, a sly, rather crafty look. Guilhem felt an instinctive distrust of him, but took care to give no outward sign.

  Bořivoj greeted Onfroi cordially and inclined his head with courtesy when introduced to Guilhem. “It is always a pleasure to meet a fellow noble,” he said in faintly accented French.

  “The duke, here, is eager to join us on the assault of Mojmir’s fortress,” said Onfroi.

  A light flickered in Bořivoj’s black eyes and his expression brightened. “That’s very good to hear,” he said. He waved at hand at his attendants. “Let us go into my planning room.”

  He led them down a hallway into a large room decorated with shields and weapons. In the middle of the room sat a long table littered with maps and charts. Sitting at its head, he motioned for Guilhem and Onfroi to be seated on either side of him, and rang a silver bell for a servant.

  “Wine,” he said to the liveried butler who appeared moments later. He selected a map from among those on the table and turned it so that Onfroi and Guilhem could study it.

  “Here is our adversary’s stronghold,” he said, placing a long, thin finger on the paper. “It lies about two days’ journey to the northeast, and is well protected.” He looked up at the two knights. “I have been trying to vanquish him from my lands for several years.”

  “I have not heard of this Mojmir,” said Guilhem. “What are his crimes?”

  Bořivoj knit his brows. “To explain, I must give you a bit of Bohemian history. My dynasty, the Přemyslids, goes back over a century to when my ancestor Boleslaus II was Duke of Bohemia. At that time, there was a rival family, the Slavniks, who were fighting for the throne. Boleslaus had the family massacred in 995 and we Přemyslids came to power.” He smiled in a languid manner. “We intend to keep it.

  “Now, this Mojmir.” He shook his head, scowling. “I don’t like magicians and wizards. They foment dissent and unrest. Any in my realm I keep under scrutiny. I have learned that Mojmir has had contact with a surviving member of the Slavnik family, a man named Soběslav, who claims descent from his namesake, Soběslav, the brother of Saint Adelbert of Prague—a powerful person in his time. These family associations run deep in Bohemia. I have not been able to determine Soběslav’s whereabouts, but I know exactly where Mojmir is.” He tapped the map with a forefinger. “Here, in the Slavnik family fortress, outside the town of Libice nad Cidlinou, 40 miles due east of Prague, at the confluence of the Cidlina and Elbe rivers.” Leaning forward across the map toward his guests, he said, “Mojmir is a powerful thaumaturge who uses his abilities for evil. He is guilty of sorcery, your grace! Sorcery most foul and unnatural. Not to mention treasonous activities against my rule. I want his head on a stave.”

  “I see.” Guilhem’s heart sank. What with his association with fairies and such, he had no stomach for clashing with a master of magic. But if he wanted to get home, he dared not admit it. Instead, he said: “Well, my lord, even sorcerers have human weaknesses. You say he is well protected. By how many men?”

  “Men? Men? I said nothing of men,” the duke rejoined. “Were you not listening? He is a magician, sir! His fortress is an old watch-tower that he has taken over and surrounded with potent spells and baleful magical beings that drive off all who approach.” Bořivoj appeared not to notice Guilhem’s unease at his mention of supernatural wards. “Sir Onfroi has assured me, however, that his own occult knowledge will be more than a match for Mojmir. Therefore, I have entrusted him with this mission.”

  Guilhem glanced at Onfroi, who responded with a weak smile.

  Bořivoj laid both of his hands flat on the table. “I am relying on the both of you. I will provide you with horses and supplies. Beyond that you are on your own. Bring me Mojmir’s head, or other proof that he is overthrown. That’s all.” He dismissed them with a wave.

  “Bu-but—” Before Guilhem could say more Onfroi bowed deeply to the duke. He seized Guilhem’s arm in a firm grip.

  “Not... a... word,” Onfroi murmured, propelling Guilhem out of the room.

  Outside in the passage, Guilhem shook off Onfroi’s hand. “You didn't tell me you were a magician! That being the case, why do you need my help?”

  The red-haired man tapped his fingers together. “Well, it’s possible that I may have somewhat overstated the truth about my qualifications. I need the money he is offering.”

  “But… upon my soul, Onfroi! This Mojmir sounds like a formidable foe!”

  “He is all of that. Yet I do have several protective talismans that I have purchased from vendors of considerable repute.” By now they were out of the castle and in the crowded square where none would take heed of their conversation.

  Protective talismans? Guilhem shook his head. Doubtless they were of no more efficacy than a love potion purchased from the local witch-woman. “And what of soldiers? Have you arranged for any?”

  Onfroi brightened. “I have in fact hired some doughty men that I met in the taverns,” he said. “Bořivoj advanced me sufficient funds.”

  “This endeavor, to me, smells as though it has the stink of disaster about it, if you want my honest opinion,” said Guilhem.

  Onfroi halted in the middle of the square. He grasped Guilhem’s arm and swung him around to face him. “Have you never battled overwhelming odds?” Onfroi thumped his barrel chest, then flung his free arm out toward the sky. His mustaches fairly quivered with the intensity of his emotion. “Have you never ridden hard into the fray, pennants streaming, convinced that you were about to die, determined to give your all for king and country, and yet you conquered your enemies most expeditiously?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so, but this—I mean to say, Onfroi, a sorcerer!”

  Onfroi waved a hand. “Do sorcerers not have blood in their veins the same as we? It is our business to make sure that Mojmir’s is spilled. Come! Let me introduce you to my soldiers. They are housed above a stable a short distance from here. We depart on the morrow, you know. There’s a spare horse.” He slapped Guilhem on the back. “Take heart! I have complete confidence in you, my friend.”

  * * *

  After interviewing the “doughty men” Onfroi had rounded up, Guilhem found his misgivings far from assuaged. He retired to a nearby tavern with Onfroi to voice his doubt.

  “I was under the impression that you had secured a sizeable company,” Guilhem said. “There are only five of them! Five men against a sorcerer in an impregnable tower! A tower, if I might a
dd, supposedly protected by magic into the bargain.”

  “Don’t let the difficulties blind you to the possibilities,” Onfroi said in an equable tone. “Look at it this way: Mojmir cannot get out of there. He’s bottled up. All we need do is to find his weak spot and exploit it. A small, dedicated force is more likely to succeed in a case like this than a host, don’t you know.”

  “You make it sound simple.” Guilhem said gloomily, taking a sip of ale from his tankard. “But we both know it is not. And these men of yours... they’re a mixed lot, to say the very least. You’ve got one untested soldier, this young Aleksandru. He wants to be a knight but has no training!” He smacked the table with his hand to emphasize the last three words. “None! At best, he might make a good squire.”

  Onfroi seemed unperturbed. “One must start somewhere.”

  “You don’t just go from nothing to knight.”

  “He’s got heart and spirit. His swordsmanship is worthy.”

  “In sparring matches, you say. But he’s never actually fought anyone in battle.”

  Onfroi spread his hands. “As I said, one must start somewhere.”

  “Oh? Then you’ve got Dobrogost and Milosh, who at least have seen some fighting. Dobrogost is a good archer. He must be; he uses a crossbow, and those things are notoriously tricky to work with.”

  Onfroi nodded. “I’ve seen him pin a wolf’s ear to a tree at a hundred paces.”

  “Good. We’ll need every bit of his ability.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “And Milosh. He’s a good one, I’ll admit. I’ve even heard of him. The Duke of Bavaria, Welf, took him on as a mercenary for a while, from what I understand. His swordsmanship is reputedly second to none and he was a good commander...”

  “I told you he had credentials.”

  Guilhem slammed his fist down on the table, making the tankards dance. “Welf let him go because he was drunk half the time!”