by Dorian Hart
The letter…there was certainly some sort of glamour making the words glow. Had he inadvertently robbed a wizard on one of his extralegal excursions? Or maybe, maybe, the invitation was on the level. This was already a momentous day, the day he had channeled Delioch’s healing energies, years after being cast out of the church. Was the letter related? Had Abernathy used his wizardry to sense the power he had so briefly touched? Who knew? He didn’t have much time to think about it—the first day of spring was tomorrow—but the possibility made it worth the risk.
* * *
Dranko Blackhope arrived at Abernathy’s tower the following afternoon and noticed for the first time that it had no doors. Though he had ranged far and wide through Tal Hae over the years in search of prospects, targets, and cheap liquor, Dranko had never visited the wizard’s tower in the city’s northwest corner, in an old park that offered few opportunities for his ignoble trade. He had seen the upper portion of the smooth stone cylinder from afar but had no clear picture in his head of what the place looked like at ground level. Now that he stood before it, he found that its bottommost section was no different than the rest of it—seamless stone, unsullied by carving or graffiti or anything else. The tower was a tall featureless post thirty feet across and nearly a hundred feet high, rising from the grass like an ancient menhir. Indeed there was no reason to think it was hollow, save for the fact that a mighty wizard was purported to live inside of it.
There were no windows either, and Dranko didn’t give himself good odds of being able to scale the smooth tower wall to check out the roof. His mind flashed to his friend Praska, a fellow novice in the church and a co-conspirator in many of his childhood pranks. She’d try to climb the tower, no question; she could climb almost anything. Gods, what would she say if she could see him now, answering an invitation from an archmage? Whatever happened next, this might occasion his first trip back to the church since his exile, just to tell her all about it.
After a quick scout-around that revealed no immediate ambush, Dranko walked a slow, careful perimeter of the tower, running his hands over the stone in case there was a door masked by illusion. That seemed like the kind of thing a wizard might do—test Dranko’s reasoning and resolve to see if he was truly worthy of whatever it was he’d been summoned for. But, no, there was nothing. The sun had already dropped behind Tal Hae’s western wall, and sunset was imminent.
He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Hello? Abernathy? I’m here. You going to let me in, or what?”
A bird chirped and the sound of a dog barking came from several blocks away, but Abernathy, if he was really inside this pillar of rock, did not respond.
“Great,” Dranko muttered. “I should have guessed this was some kind of idiot joke. Maybe someone from the church who still—”
With no noise, lights, or warning of any kind, Dranko found himself somewhere else. He blinked his eyes. Gone were the park and the tower and the fish smell of Tal Hae, and in their place was something more like a parlor, or a library. (Not that he had much experience with parlors and libraries; the church of Delioch had both, but with his reputation for troublemaking Dranko had seldom been allowed to visit them.) This place had a cozy, comfortable, happily disorganized feel despite being quite a large room. Bookshelves lined the stone walls, and many of the scrolls and books lay on their sides or had spilled onto the floor. A half dozen small tables were heaped with more books and leaves of parchment, as well as inkpots, quills, pots of wax, and an assortment of small curios. Among them were valuable figurines and objects d’art, small and easily palmed.
But while the objects and furnishings of this scholar’s lounge were interesting, Dranko quickly focused his attention on the people who stood nearby. Five others, three men and two women, were looking around in confusion or wonderment, and Dranko guessed that they had not been expecting to get magicked directly into Abernathy’s tower, or to find themselves part of a larger group. They stood in different parts of the library, none too close to any of the others. It seemed that each of the six of them was waiting for someone else to speak, so Dranko broke the silence. “I don’t suppose one of you is Abernathy?”
Everyone looked expectantly at everyone else.
“Did all of you get one of these?” asked a sandy-haired kid, holding up a card that matched Dranko’s. “I’m Ernest Roundhill, by the way. My friends call me Ernie. Nice to meet you.” He was an honest-faced young fellow with a sword at his belt. Dranko pegged him at eighteen years old.
“I’m Aravia Telmir,” said a girl on his left. She looked out at the others from beneath the brim of a large and ridiculous conical hat, purple, adorned with little stars and moons. Did she think she was going to impress a powerful wizard by playing dress-up? The hat shaded her face enough that he couldn’t know her age, though from her voice he guessed late teens or early twenties.
On the other side of Ernie was an elderly woman holding a cleaver dripping with blood. She was in her sixties, and dressed like Dranko imagined someone’s mom would dress: long peasant skirt, dingy blouse, tattered scarf, bonnet around her gray hair. Laugh lines dominated her face.
“My name is Ysabel,” said the old woman. “You young people can call me Mrs. Horn.” She held up her cleaver and graced the room with a friendly smile. “Try anything, and you’ll be my next victim.” When Ernie took a quick step away from her, she laughed. “No, no, don’t get the wrong idea, young man. I was butchering a deer a moment ago. Never thought that invitation was really from a wizard.”
Dranko grinned at her. “Noted.” Her return smile went straight to his eyes, not his tusks. He liked her.
“Tor. Tor Bladebearer.” Tor was a tall, muscular, and well-dressed youth who carried himself with a grace and confidence Dranko didn’t see much of in the poorer parts of town. A nobleman’s son, maybe? There was a sheathed sword strapped to the boy’s back, and the kid could doubtless do some serious damage with it, but his face was guileless and full of wonder. Dranko would have bet a gold crescent that “Tor” was a pseudonym.
Closest to Tor was a grim, dour-faced man, probably in his mid-forties, and like the two youths he carried a sword. His right hand was on its grip, though he had not yet drawn it, and his eyes were wary, flicking around between Dranko and the others. Of his fellow guests in the library, this guy was the only one sizing him up in the same way he was doing to them. Competent and humorless; probably a soldier or mercenary.
“I’m Grey Wolf.”
Dranko tried not to laugh, but a poorly-stifled snort came out. “Your name is Grey Wolf?”
“No,” said Grey Wolf. “But it’s what I prefer to be called. Is that a problem?”
“Hey, no, that’s great. Whatever makes you happy. I’m Dranko Blackhope.”
Grey Wolf scowled and narrowed his eyes.
Ernest squirmed uncomfortably at the exchange. “So, anyone know why we were…magicked here by an archmage?”
“Teleported,” said Aravia. “The correct term is ‘teleported.’”
Dranko updated his impression of the girl. Maybe she was a wizard herself? The hat was still outlandish.
“Teleported,” Ernie repeated. But no one answered the question, and an awkward silence lasted almost half a minute.
Dranko hated silence as a rule. “Maybe this is a test. Maybe we’re supposed to find Abernathy somewhere in his tower, and the first person to catch him wins a sack of gold.”
Ernie laughed and Grey Wolf rolled his eyes, but Dranko was only half-kidding. He walked to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. He shook it, turned it both ways, and even put his shoulder into the door in case it was merely stuck, but they appeared to be trapped in the library. Maybe there was a hidden exit somewhere, but it would take hours to search properly through all the clutter. He glared at the door. If only he had his tools…
Grey Wolf sighed and sat down in one of the room’s wooden chairs.
The boy who had called himself Tor Bladebearer (a name no less silly than Grey Wol
f) picked up a little onyx dog from the table nearest him and examined it idly. “All of the archmagi work for the king, right? I’ll bet King Crunard asked Abernathy to assemble a team for some kind of secret mission. He must have picked me because of my swordsmanship. What about the rest of you?”
“I am a wizard,” said Aravia proudly. “I have been studying under the master Serpicore for over two years and have learned several significant spells.”
That answered that, then. A young wizardess, full of herself.
“Really?” exclaimed Ernie. “That’s amazing! What kind of spells do you know?”
Aravia smiled, straightened, and spoke in a crisp and practiced manner. “I’ve learned heatless light, minor arcanokinesis, minor lockbreaker…”
“Lockbreaker?” Dranko interrupted. “Now we’re getting somewhere!” He gestured to the door. “How about lock-breaking us out of here so we can find Abernathy and let him know we’re waiting for him.”
“Do you really think Abernathy would have locked us in here if he wanted us to break out?”
All eyes turned to the far side of the library, where a woman stood mostly hidden in a shadow. She was almost a ghost, with cheesecloth-white skin and hair so pale it must have been bleached or dyed. But the odd thing was, she was wearing black Ellish robes, and everyone knew that all Ellish sisters had dark hair. Maybe she was part of a weird secret sect within the Ellish temple? Who knew? But like the rest of her sisters she didn’t like the light; though she stood in the darkest corner of the room, both of her hands were shielding her eyes from the library’s lamps.
She also had a weapon on her belt, a stout club with a spiky flanged head. Dranko frowned. Had he missed a follow-up message that warned the wizard’s guests to come armed? Was there going to be some kind of arena battle staged for Abernathy’s amusement? The general feeling among the citizens of Charagan was that the mighty wizards in their towers were of a benevolent sort—wouldn’t they have taken over by now if they weren’t?—but no one knew for certain. Perhaps Abernathy was a cruel, ruthless sorcerer who enjoyed making strangers fight one another for sport. Dranko hoped not; the tenets of his faith would put him at a severe disadvantage.
“Maybe,” he said. The closer he looked, the more freakish he found her appearance. It was possible that Ell had put a curse on her, but he didn’t know much about the Ellish religion. Ell was the Goddess of Night. Her clergy were all women, who never went outside during the day.
“What’s your name?” he asked her.
“Morningstar of Ell.”
“Well, Morningstar of Ell, maybe Abernathy is testing our initiative, and wants us to figure a way out. Aravia, what do you say about that lock?”
An eager expression came over Aravia’s face and she moved toward the door, but before she had crossed half the distance the door swung inward without needing her arcane persuasion. In walked an elderly man, in his seventies at least, with a long hooked nose, wrinkled face, and startling blue eyes. An untended white beard sprouted from his chin. He was dressed in a plain white robe and had white slippers on his feet.
Dranko repressed a snort. The wizard was certainly dressing the part.
The old man stopped inside the doorway and sighed with relief. “Ah. Good.” His voice was aged and crackly. Wizardy. “All here then?” He counted them with a wrinkled finger, but frowned when he was finished. “Are there any more of you? Did anyone leave the room?”
“No, sir,” said Ernie. “It’s just the seven of us.”
“There are supposed to be eight,” said the old man.
“You must be Abernathy,” said Dranko. “Nice place you have here.”
“I must be, and I do. Now, tell me your names, please.”
One by one the guests introduced themselves to the wizard. When Grey Wolf gave his nom de lupine, Abernathy shook his head. “No, I mean your real name, Mr. Wolf.”
Grey Wolf stared at the wizard for a moment. “Ivellios Forrester.”
“And you, ‘Tor Bladebearer,’” said Abernathy. “That’s not your real name either, is it?”
“N…no,” stammered Tor. “But I’d rather not say it in front of strangers. Uh, no offense.”
Abernathy scratched his face through his beard. “Very well. Are your initials ‘K.B.’?”
“No.”
“How about ‘D.F.’”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
Dranko held his breath, but Abernathy didn’t come back to challenge him. Was it because he had chosen the name “Dranko” at such a young age?
Abernathy looked around the room one more time, then stooped to glance under the nearest table. “Do any of you know a man named Kibilhathur Bimson?”
The question was met by blank stares and shaking heads.
“Well, it was an old spell, and my tower is built to prevent…oh, never mind. You seven will have to do.”
“Do what, exactly?” Dranko asked. At the same moment Morningstar said, “Why have you brought us here?”
Dranko expected the old man to launch into some grandiose speech, but instead the wizard merely brought his fingertips to his lips. Several seconds passed during which Abernathy did nothing but pass his gaze around his guests.
“The world is in some danger,” Abernathy said at last. “It has been for some time. Recently that danger has grown more immediate, to a degree such that I felt I needed a team of…agents would be the correct term, I think. For—”
“I knew it!” Tor interrupted gleefully, only seeming to realize afterward that he had interrupted one of the (supposedly) most powerful men in the world.
Abernathy smiled indulgently at Tor and continued. “…For reasons I don’t have time to explain, we archmagi don’t leave our towers and don’t have an adequate sense of what goes on outside of them. You will be my eyes, ears, and hands out in Charagan.”
“For how long?” asked Grey Wolf. “I have a job to get back to, you know.”
Dranko wondered the same thing himself, but he bristled at the guy’s self-important impatience. He forced out a smile, showing his tusks.
“What are you, a bouncer, Mr. Wolf? Or can I call you ‘Grey?’”
Grey Wolf glared at him silently.
Abernathy fixed his penetrating blue eyes on each of his guests in turn. When they were turned to Dranko, he squirmed in spite of himself. Could wizards read minds?
“I don’t know for how long, exactly,” Abernathy admitted. “Maybe a long time. And perhaps this will become a permanent arrangement.”
“No thank you, then,” said Morningstar. “I appreciate the offer, but I should not stay away from my duties at the temple for very long.”
The wizard sighed and walked to the nearest wall. With a wave of his hand a window appeared in the stone; he gazed out of it upon the rooftops of Tal Hae.
“I could compel you,” he said wearily. “Some of the others felt I should.”
“Others? Others who?” Tor’s voice was clear and deep, but his inflections were boyish.
“The other archmagi,” said Abernathy. “Some disapprove of me summoning you at all, and the others feel that I should simply coerce you with threats. For instance, I could say something like, ‘Serve me in our kingdom’s hour of need, or I will turn you all into toads!’ But I am disinclined to that sort of bullying.”
Grey Wolf looked meaningfully toward the door. “So we can say no?”
“You may,” said Abernathy. “But I will put one condition upon you, in return for my forbearance regarding transforming you into amphibians. And that is, I would like each of you, in good faith, to allow me to try convincing you without threat of force, or blackmail, or any kind of improper strong-arming. I’ll visit you each tonight at the Greenhouse. If you promise to hear me out, and should I not sway you to service of the Kingdom of Charagan, you will be free to return to your lives.”
“That sounds more than fair, Mr. Abernathy,” said Mrs. Horn, every bit as polite as Grey Wolf was insolent. “But if yo
u don’t mind my asking, why did you summon us to be your…agents? If the world is in danger, shouldn’t you have picked great warriors or other powerful wizards?”
Ernie Roundhill’s eyes went wide. “Am I here because of the statue of me in Murgy’s basement? Do you need us to hold up the sky?”
Abernathy’s expression became hard to read. “I don’t know who Murgy is, or about any statues, although I’m sure that’s an interesting tale. And the sky is not falling, except in the most metaphorical of senses. No, you were chosen by a very unusual spell I cast three days ago. The spell was designed to select several people who will be instrumental in helping protect Charagan from the evils that beset it. It chose you. But why you specifically? I don’t know.”
The old wizard didn’t have much experience in lying to people, that was certain.
“What kinds of missions are you going to send us on?” asked Tor. He looked like a puppy eager for a walk.
“Scouting, initially,” said Abernathy. “After that, it will depend on what you learn.”
Tor’s shoulders slumped a bit. “Will there be fighting? Battles against the forces of evil? Monsters?”
Dranko snorted. “Monsters? Forces of evil? Are you serious?”
But Abernathy wasn’t laughing. “That is entirely possible,” said the old wizard. “My boy, whatever your life was like before today, it is likely that should you accept my offer, you will be afforded opportunities for adventure and glory that few in a generation are given.”
Tor grinned like a six-year-old offered an entire apple pie, but Ysabel—Mrs. Horn—clicked her tongue. “Abernathy, don’t you think I’m a trifle old for adventures and glory? And I’m just a farmer. Unless you intend adventurous sewing, or a glorious feeding of the chickens, I can’t see that I’ll be much good.”
Abernathy gave the old woman an apologetic look.
Ernie’s voice had a noticeable wobble. “So it’s, uh, dangerous, then?”
“Very likely,” said Abernathy. “I won’t lie to you. Though some among the archmagi feel you should be left in the dark until you earn our trust, I think it is important for you to know what we’re dealing with.”