by David Grace
"Only in heartfelt gratitude and a sincere promise to someday return tenfold any favors which are done me," Grantin replied with a poor imitation of sincerity.
"Goodwill means precious little to the outcast wizards here in Grenitch Wood. Have you no gold or silver? Gems or coins?"
Grantin shook his head.
"How about that trinket?" Sara asked, pointing at the ring.
Grantin considered the suggestion for no more than a tenth of a second. Without hesitation he replied:
"The ring--that is, I suppose, a possibility. I will say this: any wizard who cures me of my problem may have the ring for the effort of slipping it from my finger-- though, to be honest, that might not be as easy as it seems. This lovely bauble is a family heirloom. In order to restrain my parting with it for some insignificant purpose, my father, when he put it on my finger, laid a powerful spell which prevents the ring's removal. Any sorcerer who is skilled enough to neutralize the injunction may keep it as his pay."
"Master Grantin, for some reason I am not convinced you are exactly what you seem. There's something about all this which doesn't seem quite right to me--but then, what business is it of mine? It's of little importance, in any event."
"Then you know of no such wizard?"
"Oh, there's a mighty wizard barely three leagues away. Skilled in all the arts, black and white. A man with magnificent powers, and interested in a new challenge, too. But he's not for you."
"Even with all his powers you think he could not do the job?"
"Oh, he could do it, I'm sure, if anyone could, but...."
"But?"
". . . but he's hopelessly mad. His mind's more twisted than an acre of briars. He thinks of nothing but his magic and power and revenge upon the world."
"Do you think he would kill me out of hand?"
"Oh, no, he's crafty and often displays great cunning, but he wouldn't kill you for no reason."
"Well, then, I should be safe. What reason would he have to harm me? All he need do is cure the nightmares and keep the ring as his pay. I go my way and he goes his. The worst that can happen is he can refuse to help me or prove unequal to the task."
"His worst is much worse than that. He's the most arrogant man alive. He's as sensitive to failure as a wound is to salt. He boasts that he is the greatest wizard in all of Fane. It would gall him to admit defeat. If he failed to remove your spell you would not leave his manor house alive. Oh, he's a twisted man. It think it has something to do with his size."
"He's large and ferocious then."
"No, Master Grantin, a dwarf barely four feet tall. His physical deformity he can hide under wizard's robes, but his madness shows through his eyes."
"Still, if he's as powerful as you say, it is unlikely that he will fail. You don't know what it's been like these last few days since . . . since I've suffered under this curse. I have no choice. I must take the chance. What's the wizard's name? Can you give me directions to his house?"
"His name's Shenar. To reach his manor, continue on through the village and follow the river north for two leagues. You'll come to a small stream. Follow it one league to the east. It passes within sight of the big, dirty stone mausoleum where he plays his games and plans his spells."
"For someone who thinks he is a man to be feared you certainly seem to know a lot about this Shenar. How is it you are so well informed?"
"That's not so strange. You see, he's my son."
Sara paused at the doorway and shook her head in pity at the now chastened Grantin.
"Enough of all this, Master Grantin. It's your life, sure enough. Do what you think best. Don't take good advice when you hear it. I've got work to do. I have to earn my keep."
Sara turned away and walked out into the middle of the main street. A moment later Grantin, stiff-legged, trotted to her side.
"Why don't you let me help? When your chores are done I'll give you a hand with lunch and think over what you've told me. Shenar will still be in his house this afternoon if I haven't changed my mind."
With a nod of gruff assent Sara accepted Grantin's proposal. Both strode forward to the edge of the settlement.
The work loosened Grantin's muscles and to his surprise he gained a strange pleasure from the strain of physical labor. When Pyra was slightly past its zenith, dogs and humans alike ceased work, the bassets to retreat for their afternoon siesta while Grantin and Sara lunched on berries and salad, toasted puffballs, jelly apples, and thick slices of coarse bread.
Some two leagues away Rupert sat amid tussocks of tall grass, his back against a granite ledge, eyes closed. With the employment of one of his standard spells he had arranged to utilize the eyes of the Siamese scout. Hidden in the branches of a tree only a few yards from Sara's hut, the cat watched the humans finish their lunch. Bits of their conversation occasionally drifted in her direction. Though the animal understood little human speech, Rupert was well able to find meaning in their words.
"So, Master Grantin, in spite of everything you've decided to visit Shenar."
"How did you . . . ."
"I can see it in your eyes. I'm not a wizard's mother for nothing. I, too, have my talents."
Only a portion of the conversation reached Rupert. What was that name again--Shenar? Closer, cat, closer.
Reluctantly the Sealpoint crept farther out along the branch. This was dangerous territory. Here in the tree retreat was impossible. Stealthily, step by step, the Siamese edged her way out along the branch until she was almost directly above the table.
"Do you mind if I come back here to spend the night after I finish with Shenar?"
"Why should I mind? The chances of your returning are almost nil, so what do I risk by saying yes?"
Grantin flicked his eyes down to the remnants of the meal on his plate. The old woman hated her son--and feared him too. Whatever the bitterness between them, it must have poisoned her mind. He wasn't gratuitously cruel, she admitted that. Only when he had a reason, a purpose, would Shenar be a bad risk. And Grantin would give him no cause. No, he would play to perfection the part of an ignorant peasant, his real motives hidden by the story of a nightmare curse.
A leaf fluttered down and landed at the edge of Grantin's plate, then a second leaf settled to the table two inches from the first.
Grantin picked up the second leaf and snapped it in half. Holding the sap-stained edges beneath his nose, he inhaled the wintry mint fragrance peculiar to the snaf tree. He tossed the pieces back onto the table.
A third leaf had joined its cousins. What was going on here? Was the tree diseased? Grantin tilted his head and scanned the branches above him. Something was not quite right, something out of place. The color was subtly wrong, not silver-green but more gray--gray like the fur of a cat! Grantin jumped to his feet and backpedaled away from the table to view the limb at a different angle. Now Sara also arose and began weaving from side to side, trying to peer through the branches.
"Cat! Cat! A cat in the tree! There's a cat in the tree."
Instantly moaning bays echoed from several nearby huts. The dogs snoozed no longer, their siesta interrupted by the news of the interloper. They erupted from their hovels and sprinted forward to surround the tree. The cat barely had time to back off along the branch and reach the central trunk before four or five bassets were standing on hind legs, paws against the bark.
Grantin stood immobile beyond the circle of howling dogs. Sara hunted up a rock. She wound back her arm and threw the stone with great force, but the cat ducked behind a branch. The missile bounced off an intervening limb to land amid the baying dogs. Sara seemed to have expected that and was equipped with another stone. Only a second or two behind the first this rock whistled forward on a more accurate course. At the last instant the cat leaped aside, but in missing the stone she fell from her perch. Instantly the dogs were upon her.
Two leagues away Rupert raced to break the spell before the instant of death fed back into his own mind. He escaped the reaper's scythe, but no
t by much. His head rang and he could still feel the burning pain of sharp teeth puncturing his throat. Panting, Rupert relaxed back against the boulder and composed himself.
"That's a bad sign. Master Grantin," Sara said, nodding at the carcass of the cat. "They never come this far without a good reason. I don't know what this is all about, but I'd wager that it has something to do with you. She must have overheard your plans. You'd be wise not to go anywhere near Shenar's castle now."
What should he do? Absentmindedly Grantin fingered the ring. In his nervous state he gave it a sharp tug. A hot spike jolted his nerves. He let go of the band.
"I have no choice. Shenar is my only hope."
Sara shrugged and walked Grantin as far as the river. There she bid him farewell, convinced that she would never see him again. A few minutes later Rupert had recovered from the shock of the Siamese's death. He knew where Grantin was headed. By traveling in a straight line through the woods he would be able to intercept the youth before he reached Shenar's castle. Shenar--ah, that was a name out of the past. At one time he and his mother had been Zaco's deacons, before they had incurred his enmity and fled Cicero in disgrace. Perhaps he would settle a score with Shenar as well after he had finished with the Hartford. Rupert stood, brushed the moss from his pants, and then set out across the forest. He walked at a fast pace, keeping a steady beat by repeating over and over his instructions from Lord Hazar:
"The finger, the hand, the arm, the head, cut off the ring before he's dead. The finger, the hand, the arm, the head ...." Rupert chanted as he marched through the woods.
Chapter Nineteen
By fits and starts the overgrown trail paralleled the river bank. Most of the time there was only the vaguest hint of a path, usually no more substantial than the absence of major obstacles along an imaginary line of travel. When he started Grantin had expected that he would reach Shenar long before dark, but as the afternoon progressed he became more and more unsure about arriving before Pyra set. The Black Pearl River meandered like a drunken caterpillar. The trail, such as it was, more or less followed the river's course.
On one occasion when the river slanted off to the left Grantin attempted to continue straight ahead through the underbrush. After only a few hundred yards he had lacerated his left hand on a thorn-studded branch, mildly twisted his ankle in a rodent burrow, and become totally confused about his true direction of travel. After a very few seconds' contemplation he turned one hundred eighty degrees and followed his broken trail back to the point where the river snaked to the left.
Having come equipped for cross-country travel, Rupert was not so handicapped. Before he left Cicero he had recorded from Lord Hazar's files both a map and a spell of true direction and firm bearings.
The map showed the position of Catlet, the Black Pearl River, and the stream to which Sara had alluded. Rupert need only compute the angle necessary to take himself to a point one league from the mouth of the stream, then pronounce the spell while facing in that direction. The incantation of true direction and firm bearings laid a ramrod-straight corridor of psychic energy along Rupert's line of sight. Until he released the spell Rupert would feel a gentle wind blowing in the direction he wished to travel. As long as this imaginary breeze remained on the back of his neck he could not stray from his chosen path.
Equipped with the practical accouterments of heavy leather boots, a stout staff, strong coarse trousers, leather jerkin, and silver-studded black leather gloves, Rupert was fully prepared to bull his way through the underbrush.
It was almost the ninth hour by the time Grantin reached the juncture of the stream and the Black Pearl River. There he paused for a few moments to rest. Sitting on a rock by the edge of the brook, he splashed cold water on his face and treated himself to a long drink of the sweet clear fluid. He heaved a heavy sigh and glanced at the open sky above the river. By the first hour Pyra would set. If he had not reached his destination he would be trapped alone without food or shelter in the depths of Grenitch Wood. Cursing his fate, he heaved himself to his feet and marched upstream.
The going was easier here. The stream was narrow and fast flowing. Its course followed almost a straight line.
It was not quite the tenth hour--the dinner hour, Grantin's stomach reminded him--when he caught sight of a bit of stonework which he took to be a tower of Shenar's manor. With renewed energy he increased his pace. After traversing only a few yards he halted again. Something was wrong. Nervously Grantin looked around him but could detect nothing amiss.
Silly, what could be wrong? All he had to do was walk straight ahead for another five minutes and then knock on Shenar's door. Yet, for some reason, Grantin's legs refused to move. His skin tingled. His eyes stared intently at one particular section of the underbrush. It was almost as if he expected to find some danger there.
Grantin decided to humor his new, highly sensitized powers of intuition. Bending over, he fished a fist-sized chunk of stone from the edge of the stream. Grantin cocked his arm and cast the missile with unerring accuracy. The rock ricocheted off the attacker's left hand, shredding skin and bruising bone. With a scream Rupert dropped his staff. Unintentionally Grantin had given the deacon a wound more grievous than he could know, for it was with his left hand, the fingers of which were now painfully bruised, that Rupert cast his most potent spells.
White-faced with pain, Rupert sucked his bleeding fingers while Grantin, taking advantage of the lull in the attack, scrambled to find another rock.
"You there," he called nervously. "You'd better leave me in peace, for I am a dangerous man."
"Dangerous man!" Rupert screamed after removing his bleeding fingers from his mouth. "You are a dead man! You imbecile, you miserable misbegotten excuse for a man, you weak-kneed, soft-spined pup of a Hartford. I eat the likes of you for breakfast. Your life is numbered only in seconds."
"Stay back!" Grantin shouted as Rupert began a more stealthy yet determined advance. "I'll do more than cut your fingers if you don't stop!" Grantin screeched.
His anger risen now to a fever pitch, Rupert cast a broken-fingered left-handed curse. The air between the two men shimmered. A blast of torrid air, like the draft from a kiln, washed over Grantin's body, charring his clothing and reddening his skin. Thoroughly frightened, he retreated two steps and sought to shield himself with his arms. The spell had a great effect upon Rupert as well. Several times in the past he had used that incantation. On each occasion his victim had instantly burst into flame, but now here stood this whelp of a Hartford with barely his hair singed. The magic in the fellow's ring was powerful indeed. Perhaps he would not return it to Lord Hazar after all.
Rupert drew back his arm, prepared to cast another, more deadly bolt, but then stayed his curse. What was it Hazar had said? The finger must be removed before he's dead. No, he must wait to kill him. He had to get the ring first. Rupert changed his aim and caused pits to explode in the ground around Grantin. Earth, stones, and leaves filled the air and splattered against Grantin's already disheveled clothing.
"How dare you molest a wizard of my great power!" Rupert shouted. "I could take you apart bone by bone if I so desired. Tell me now, while you still have a few moments left to live, what reparations do you offer me to dissuade me from this pleasant task?"
"Nothing . . . . I have nothing. I apologize. Excuse me. Please, it was all a mistake."
"No gold, no silver, no precious stones?"
"No, nothing."
"What about your ring?"
"I can't. It won't come off. It's welded to my finger by a magic spell."
"Welded to your finger by a magic spell, is it? It happens that I have a solution for that." Rupert removed a razor-sharp dagger from his scabbard and tossed it at Grantin's feet. "Cut off the offending digit, throw it and the ring to me, and I give you my word that you may pass in peace."
"Why is it that everyone wants me to cut off my finger?" Grantin wailed as he stooped to pick up the knife.
"Come on, now, what are
you waiting for? Get on with it or I'll make fast work of you."
Almost as if in a trance Grantin studied the mirrored highlights reflected in the blade. He brought it closer to his finger. Almost against his will he planned where he would begin his butchery. Grantin juggled the blade clumsily. Its needle-fine point pricked his skin just above the knuckle. A brilliant scarlet bead welled up in high contrast to the nut-brown hue of his flesh. The sight of the blood snapped Grantin from the spell which Rupert's threats had cast over him. He remembered the incantation he had tried while lost in the forest.
In the blink of an eye he again balled his fist and pointed the ring at Rupert. Before the deacon could utter a word Grantin screamed: "Out of my way!"
Like a stone flung from a slingshot Rupert's body was hurled backward, up through the trees, until in a moment it had passed from sight toward the far horizon.
Shocked by the effects of the spell, Grantin paced forward until he reached the spot Rupert had occupied mere seconds before. Looking up, he could see the tunnel of broken limbs which Rupert's body had bored through the forest canopy. Perhaps a thousand yards ahead the trail reached an apogee and then slowly straightened and curved downward.
Off beyond the tree-line Pyra was beginning its evening descent. Grantin had to hurry. He must leave the woods before full dark. Slapping his hands together, he brushed the dirt from his palms, then sprinted toward the portal of the castle of the mad wizard Shenar.
Chapter Twenty
Invisible gusts of heat rolled from the caldrons scattered about Hazar's basement kitchen. One human only was present to supervise these, the most demeaned of the Ajaj. Obese and sweat-stained. Cockle, the chief cook, reclined on a stool near the far wall.
Higher than Castor's waist, the edge of the wort bin presented the Ajaj with yet another obstacle on this his first day of kitchen service. Straining forward to the limit of his reach, his fingertips touched the end of one of the cylindrical yellow-gray roots. The vegetable wobbled. Under the prodding of Castor's questing fingertips it bumped forward over its hair-fine filaments until it was fully within his grasp. Shifting his weight backward, Castor allowed his soft-furred stomach to slide across the edge of the bin until he had moved far enough for his feet to touch the floor again.