A Logical Magician lm-1

by Robert Weinberg

  A massive form circled the car from the driver’s side to the sidewalk. Dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform, the figure moved at a slow, dignified pace. Jack stared curiously at the being. A solemn, almost-sad face topped a body seemingly carved from solid, unyielding stone. A thick, unkempt beard merged with shoulder-length gray hair, giving the figure the appearance of great age.

  “Who’s that?” he whispered to Simon, lowering his voice as if afraid to break the silence.

  “Charon,” replied the changeling. “Amazing how many centuries he’s managed to survive. He’s been in the transportation business for millennia. Probably because he maintains a low profile. He’s neutral, neither good nor evil. Nice enough fellow, though not much of a conversationalist.”

  “It’s a long way from the River Styx,” remarked Jack.

  “Last I heard, he was working on the Staten Island Ferry,” said Simon. “I guess von Bern made him a better offer. Charon always was a greedy bastard. He sold Cerberus to the circus for a handful of silver.”

  The ancient Greek boatman opened the passenger door of the limo. As if shot by a cannon, a half-dozen jet-black Dobermans erupted from the car. Six pairs of blood-red eyes glared at the mathematics building while six jaws parted in silent snarls, revealing gigantic yellow fangs. The Gabble Ratchets, hungry for life.

  “In olden days,” said Simon solemnly, “the Wild Huntsman drove across the moors in a black coach drawn by six headless horses and followed by his pack of corpse hounds. One of the arch-fiends, he sought souls for his infernal master, and woe be the luckless mortal out of doors on the night of the Wild Hunt.”

  “He didn’t need to adjust much for the modern world,” said Jack cheerfully, trying to fight the feeling of impending doom. “Only now the coach is manufactured in Detroit, the horses are under the hood, and the dogs ride inside on the cushions.”

  Jack punched Simon gently in the shoulder. “Calm down, buddy. Megan said we were safe as long as we remained inside the building. That sounds easy enough. We refuse any rides tonight in that big black limo.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Simon. Raising a hand, he pointed at the car. “Here he comes—Dietrich von Bern, Master of the Furious Host.”

  Even from a distance, Jack could see that von Bern was a giant of a man, standing nearly seven feet tall. Towering over the Border Redcaps, he marched forward, the Gabble Ratchets darting in circles about his feet He wore an elegant black tuxedo, with gray cummerbund and matching bow tie. A gigantic velvet cape swirled behind him in the wind. Striking the only discordant note to his otherwise perfectly matched outfit was the sheathed saber bouncing against one thigh.

  A black goatee, pencil-thin mustache, and thick mane of dark hair gave the German the good looks of a matinee idol. His dark gray eyes smoldered with an inner fire. Only twin scars, one on each cheek, marred his otherwise perfect features.

  “Wounds inflicted by the devil himself,” supplied Simon, as if reading Jack’s thoughts. “Legends claimed that von Bern challenged Old Nick to a swordfight, gambling his immortal soul against an offer of eternal life. A proud, arrogant man, the German was the greatest bladesman of his age. However, Satan, taught by the greatest fighters in history, easily matched the German’s skill. Toying with von Bern, the devil marked him on both cheeks before finally administering the coup de grace. Yet, in a fashion, von Bern achieved his goal of eternal life. Satan condemned him to roam the earth forever as Master of the Wild Hunt, searching for the one prize he can never find. Humility.”

  “Nice story,” said Jack. “Any truth to it?”

  “I doubt it,” said Simon. “But my opinion doesn’t matter. Enough people once believed the tale fact and thus brought the fiend to life. Leaving us to deal with him.”

  The giant had reached the door to the math building. Standing mere, on legs the size of small tree trunks, he drew his saber. Resting the point of the blade on the sidewalk, the German leaned on it like a walking stick. His gaze swept the front of the building until it came to rest on the window of Jack’s office.

  “Truce, Professor Collins,” he called out in a clear, deep voice. He spoke perfect English without a trace of an accent. “I declare a truce. Come down to the entrance so we can discuss our problems face to face. I have some important information that I must tell you. We cannot enter that cursed place so you are safe enough. And I swear on my sacred blade, the Sword of Chaos, that you shall not be harmed in my presence.”

  “What do you think?” Jack asked Simon.

  “It could be a trick,” said the changeling. “But he did swear on his sword. That’s pretty strong stuff for a guy like von Bern. Honor is important even to fiends.”

  “I agree,” said Jack. “After all, this joker is holding Megan and Merlin prisoner. We can’t ignore the possibility he might be willing to make a deal. Who knows what he has on his mind? If it’s important enough for him to offer a truce, we should at least find out what he wants to discuss.”

  It only took a few minutes for Jack and Simon to reach the entrance to the building. Pushing open the door, Jack stared at the huge German. Up close, von Bern was awe-inspiring. Like some vast supernatural dynamo, his body burned with raw, untamed power.

  “All right, von Bern,” said Jack. “I’m Jack Collins. What did you want to say to me?”

  “Truce’s over!” shouted the giant and dropped like a sack of wet cement to the ground.

  Instinctively, Jack leapt for a nearby coat closet, dragging Simon with him. Behind them, the glass doors of the entrance exploded in a hail of gunfire as fifty Border Redcaps blasted the portal with automatic weapons.

  “I thought faeries couldn’t handle cold steel,” said Jack, huddled behind a stack of metal chairs in the cloakroom. “Not to mention.357 Magnums.”

  “That geas phased out around a hundred years ago,” said Simon. “Nobody was exactly sure why, but one day the touch of iron no longer bothered any of us. Sorry for not mentioning it sooner, but you didn’t ask. It never occurred to me they might be carrying guns.”

  “So much for von Bern swearing on his sword,” said Jack, disgusted with himself for believing the German. “Remind me not to be that naive again. There’s no honor among fiends.”

  He paused, frowning. “In the meantime, why isn’t this place swarming with cops? After all, it does sound like World War Three outside. We should be knee-deep in police.”

  “Von Bern probably enveloped the whole area in an amnesia spell before he arrived,” said Simon. “It’s pretty powerful magic. Anyone coming too close forgets why he was heading in this direction and returns to his starting point. The spell effectively cuts off the location from outside interference. Nobody will notice anything wrong here until morning.”

  “An amnesia spell?” repeated Jack, pressing closer to the chairs as several bullets ricocheted into the cloakroom. “No visitors? No interruptions? What great news. I gather that means we’re stuck here until his flunkies get tired of shooting.”

  “Or run out of ammunition,” offered Simon, remaining true to his character.

  16

  Twenty minutes later, the gunfire ceased. Fifteen minutes after that Jack risked a look outside. The Border Redcaps remained clustered on the plaza outside, but their guns were holstered. Von Bern was gone, as were the black limousine and the Gabble Ratchets. Leaderless, the evil faeries stood in small groups, laughing and smoking cigarettes. Not one of them stirred when Jack and Simon sprinted down the main hallway to the teacher’s lounge.

  “That was too easy,” said Jack, huffing and puffing as he tried to catch his breath. “Von Bern must know we weren’t killed by the gunfire. From what you told me, he didn’t strike me as the type that gave up easily.”

  “I concur,” said Simon. “He probably returned to his hideaway to conduct the attack from there. No reason for him to remain close to the action. He directs the Redcaps by simple telepathic orders. They’re too dumb to understand complex commands.”

  The chang
eling paused, the color draining from his features. His complexion turned white as chalk.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Jack.

  “Another possible explanation for von Bern’s departure occurs to me. The amnesia spell works on both mortal and supernatural beings. It’s impossible to summon mythical beasts from within its boundaries. The German might have left the area to call upon some grisly monster to force us out of the building. He has the reputation as a master sorcerer.”

  “But if he couldn’t enter the mathematics complex,” said Jack, “how can whatever horror he summons?”

  “Most legendary creatures are morally ambiguous,” replied Simon. “They act in accordance with their own nature. A few, like werewolves and ghouls, fall into the evil category. Likewise, unicorns are basically good. However, a vast majority owe loyalty to neither side. Thus, whatever geas prevents the forces of darkness from entering this place will not affect them.”

  Wearily, Jack slumped into a plush chair. “Nothing we can do to stop him, right?”

  “Right,” said Simon. “Fortunately, only creatures in the immediate vicinity will obey his call. Pray that nothing particularly dangerous roams the streets of Chicago tonight.”

  “I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” said Jack. “Meanwhile, my body needs rest. I’m taking a nap. Wake me if anything exciting takes place.”

  Less than an hour later, Jack’s eyes popped open. Simon was desperately shaking him by the shoulders. It wasn’t hard to understand why.

  All around them, the lights in the lounge flickered on and off wildly. In one comer, the portable TV clicked through channel after channel, turned off then turned on again. The radio beside it blared loud then soft, spinning through a dozen stations in an instant.

  Candy bars spewed like bullets out of the vending machine. A puddle of burning hot coffee soaked the carpet nearby, while the microwave sandwich maker started then stopped, started then stopped. It was as if electricity had gone mad.

  “What the hell is going on?” Jack shouted.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” shouted Simon, his mouth next to jack’s ear. It was the only way he could be heard over the racket. “I was half-dozing myself and not paying much attention to anything. This whole mess only started a minute or two ago. I heard a sizzling noise, and right afterward, the overhead lights started blinking.”

  “It’s a massive power surge,” Jack yelled back at Simon. “An enormous jolt of electricity that’s fried all the circuits in the machinery.”

  His jaw dropped in astonishment. “What the devil is that?”

  A minuscule ball of white fire, less than an inch across, floated out of the candy machine’s coin return. Tiny bolts of lightning snapped and crackled across its surface. Waves of hot air rippled around the sphere as it drifted towards the soda pop dispenser. Emitting a soft, sizzling sound, the fireball disappeared into the machine. Instants later, a dozen soft drink cans exploded off their racks and into the lounge.

  “It’s a will-o-the-wisp,” cried Simon, ducking beneath one of the projectiles. “Damned imp must be working for von Bern. In olden times, the little buggers were a minor nuisance leading superstitious travelers astray. Amazing how well they adapted to the modern era.”

  “We can’t stay here,” said Jack, beckoning to the door. “Let’s retreat to the hall and see if it follows.”

  It did. Sizzling merrily, the will-o-the-wisp attacked the corridor lights. One after another, the bulbs exploded, showering Jack and Simon with tiny shards of glass.

  “Well, at least now I know the truth about those unexplained power surges the electric company never can explain,” said Jack, shaking glass fragments from his hair. The words resonated through his brain, setting bells ringing.

  “Come on,” he said to Simon, pulling the changeling by an arm. “I have an idea.”

  Using his master key Jack opened the door to the main computer lab. Outside, the electrical imp happily exploded the remaining fixtures.

  “Don’t turn on the lights,” said Jack, moving confidently into the room. “I spent enough hours teaching here that I know my way around in the dark.”

  “I don’t like this place,” said Simon nervously. “Something’s wrong here. It gives me the shakes.”

  “Nonsense,” said Jack with a laugh. “You’re uncomfortable because the machines handle numbers better than you. Stay by the entrance if you prefer. We’ll know in a minute if my hunch is correct.”

  Groping around on one of the desks, Jack located the necessary switch, “Here goes nothing,” he declared and pressed the button turning on the power bar for one of the computers.

  Instantly, the amber glow of the monitor filled the room. Jack quickly stepped back from the machine. Impatiently, the screen prompt blinked, asking for the correct date.

  Like a shark sensing blood, the will-o-the-wisp floated into the lab, the air around it crackling with energy. Straight as an arrow, it shot to the computer. At the last instant, the fireball seemed to hesitate, as if sensing something wrong. But it was too late for the imp to stop. Sizzling, it disappeared into the console.

  The monitor went berserk, a hundred bizarre images flashing across the screen in a miscrosecond. Jack blinked in amazement. It was like watching a high-speed photo montage. He caught a glimpse of a thousand surprised faces—a thousand victims of the will-o-the-wisp—spread out over five centuries. Then, with a snap loud enough to be heard throughout the lab, the power bar clicked off.

  “Surge suppressor,” said Jack, his eyes intent on the dead screen of the monitor. After a minute, he grinned in satisfaction.

  “It’s designed to shut off whenever a major energy fluctuation threatens the system. Which, I believe, in rather general terms defines our friend the will-o-the-wisp.”

  Jack tapped the metal bar fondly. “Ain’t technology wonderful? That annoying little imp is trapped in the computer, unable to power it up. Of course, his presence renders the machine inoperable, but that won’t be for long. Some bright student will realize there’s a defect in the surge suppressor and remove it. That will release the pest. By then, I strongly suspect it will be happy to escape this place.”

  “Me, too,” said Simon shakily. “Let’s leave.”

  They returned to the hall. Glass crunched under their shoes as they walked. “It might not be a good idea to be discovered here in the morning,” said Jack. “Explaining this mess could prove to be awfully difficult.”

  “Not to mention the bullet holes in the entrance,” added Simon. The changeling looked immeasurably better since leaving the computer lab. “I’m an expert at concocting excuses, but this disaster presents a major challenge even to someone of my talents.”

  “Maybe a localized…” began Jack, then stopped. “You hear something?”

  “No,” said Simon. “Not a thing.”

  “Funny,” Jack replied. “I swear I hear rock-and-roll music playing. The noise sounds like it’s coming from somewhere in the building. But we’re the only ones here.”

  “I have spectacular hearing,” said Simon, frowning. “And I can’t hear a note.”

  “That’s strange,” said Jack, stepping over to the wall. He pressed his head against the plaster. “Listen. It’s that song by Quiet Riot, the one about ‘the noise.’ Remember? They filmed the piece as a music video with the walls exploding from the sound.”

  “I avoid music videos if at all possible,” said Simon. “They’re not aimed at my age group.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t hear it,” said Jack. “The bass has the walls vibrating.”

  “Is it getting louder?” asked Simon. The changeling bit his lower lip, his expression thoughtful. “Much louder?”

  “The noise is growing,” admitted Jack. “It’s not loud enough to shake the foundation—yet.”

  Jack put his hands over his ears. That helped, but not much. “What’s happening? Overwhelming sound requires amplifiers like they use at rock concerts. That’s not normally the type of equipment hou
sed in the mathematics department.”

  “I’ve got it,” said Simon, snapping his fingers. “It’s a banshee. Von Bern’s using it to force you outside.”

  “A banshee?” said Jack. “I thought they were Irish spooks.”

  “They migrated,” said Simon. “Not many castles left to haunt these days. Chicago’s large Irish population attracted them to the Midwest. Besides, the girls enjoy singing too much to remain in old stone towers. Now, they live in big apartment buildings, driving the tenants crazy.

  “Using their powers, they create the phantom music you hear lying in bed at night. They’re the stereo playing upstairs or from the next apartment, just loud enough to keep you awake, but that’s never on when you go to complain. Plus, they’re the ones responsible for the loud, giggling noises you hear coming from the bathroom grate at three a.m.

  “No question that a banshee has targeted you for its attentions. They can focus on one person if they wish. That’s why I can’t hear a thing. Usually they tire after a few hours. But, in the meantime, there’s only one sure way to stop them.”

  “What’s that?” asked Jack, pressing his hands tighter. “My teeth are starting to ache.”

  “The old-fashioned solution,” said Simon mournfully. “A banshee quits singing when its victim dies.”

  “That’s not an answer,” declared Jack. “I am firmly against suicide. Especially my own.” He cursed. “If this was the dorms, we’d padlock the bastard responsible for the noise in his room all night and see how he enjoyed life without the convenience of a bathroom.”

  “Not very pleasant, I’m sure,” said Simon. “How did you get offenders to turn off the stereo?”

  “Usually, it took them a couple of hours to understand their predicament,” said Jack. “Until then, we survived by drowning it out with our own systems.”

  Jack laughed wildly.

  “That’s it,” he yelled and rushed for the stairs leading to the second floor. “Follow me.”

  He located what he was searching for in the third office he searched. It rested on the desk of another graduate assistant. Triumphantly, Jack held his prize aloft.