The Accidental Magician

by David Grace

  "Excuse me," Grantin said. "You startled me. It appears that we are both involuntary guests of the mad wizard." Grantin studied the Fanist carefully. Could this be the native from his dreams? And Shenar. Didn't he vaguely remember a nightmare in which such a man pranced and threw glowing bolts at a caged native?

  "Are you ... I mean, you seem quite familiar to me. Have you been here a long time?" Grantin asked.

  "Almost two weeks," the native replied. "You have business with the small one?"

  "I came to him for help in ridding me of a spell, but it seems that he has more than a simple business transaction in mind. I fear that he means to take advantage of me."

  "I, as well. He asks questions for which there are no answers. You stare at me strangely. Is there some problem with your vision?"

  "No," Grantin replied hesitantly. "It's just that you look very familiar, like someone I've seen in a dream. Do you, by any chance--I know this sounds strange, but is it possible that you wear a blue jewel against your skull beneath the skin of your forehead?"

  The Fanist leaped forward. Grantin cringed against the far wall.

  "You know me? You know of my mission? These are secrets no human may share. Has Ajax sent you to win my release? Are you one of the Brothers?"

  "No, I ... I mean, I don't know. I don't understand what you're talking about. I had a dream. I saw you and, I think, Shenar. In my nightmare you had a blue gem beneath your forehead, and Shenar was torturing you. . . . It's this stone, this blasted stone. It's driving me mad." Futilely Grantin tugged at the ring.

  Using the muscles surrounding his eyeballs, the Fanist increased the bulge of the lens until his telescopic vision gave him a clear picture of Grantin's ring. He studied the gem for just an instant and then relaxed his grip on the bars.

  "I understand," the Fanist said, backing away.

  "You understand! I wish I understood. Don't just stand there. Explain it to me. Ever since I met that woman my life has been a waking nightmare."

  "The stones all sense each other, the overflow of their energies."

  Grantin met the Fanist's explanation with a quizzical expression.

  "Your stone is a powerstone, a magic stone. My stone is the same for me. Red must be the stone for humans. Blue is the stone for my people. In sleep, in times of torment, apparently the stones of one race can sense a bit of the energy swirling about the stones of the other. Shenar wants the secret of our powerstones. I have refused to tell him. Naturally you may not tell him either."

  "Powerstones, secrets . . . I just want to be out of here and home and free of this accursed ring. If I could just do away with all of this, I'd never complain about Uncle Greyhorn's chores again. Isn't there some way that we could pool our resources to escape from here?"

  "Not I. The small one has enchanted me with a spell of great power. I am withheld from uttering the words and making the signs. And you?"

  "Me? Has he put a spell on me? Well, we came in; we talked, and he led me down here. No, no, I don't think he bothered to. Do you think there's enough power in this ring to save us?"

  "Perhaps. You are not a very good wizard, I can tell that. Certainly Shenar does not fear you. It's possible that you might be able to do something before he returns in the morning."

  "You'll help?"

  "As much as I can."

  "Excellent. Perhaps we'll show that midget a thing or two yet. Let me just get a few hours' sleep. It's been a tiring day. Soon I'll be fit as a fiddle."

  "No sleep, not now," the Fanist commanded.

  "My friend--what did you say your name was?"

  "Chom. You can call me Chom."

  "Chom, I am absolutely exhausted. Just a few hours' sleep is all I need."

  "I suppose each race knows its needs best. I would not interfere with a human, but you understand that an hour after sunrise Shenar will cut off your hand, and by lunch he will have made you ready for the pickup."

  "The pickup?"

  "Naturally Shenar will distribute your spare parts to the supplier for the Sawbones' Guild who will appear here tomorrow at the fourth hour."

  Half a second later Grantin had leaped to his feet and reached the bars, ready to begin work. He bent over and with exaggerated care studied the joining between the iron bars and the floor of the cell. He could discover no crack or crevice at the juncture. With exquisite deliberation Grantin clasped his hands around one of the rods and pulled back on it with slowly increasing force. Nothing happened. Beneath his fingers the metal was cool and remarkably slick.

  Off to one side the Fanist quietly watched Grantin's exertions but made no suggestions of his own. After another minute or two of futile effort Grantin shrugged his shoulders and turned to Chom. "I suppose I'll have to take a chance on an impromptu spell."

  Standing back three feet from the barrier, Grantin held forth his left fist, pointed the bloodstone at the base of the center bar, and sucked in his breath preparatory to casting an extemporaneous spell.

  "If I may ask, friend human," Chom interrupted somewhat diffidently, "specifically what spell you plan to cast?"

  Grantin held his breath for a moment, then let it out in a whoosh. "Since we are imprisoned by these bars," he replied somewhat waspishly, "I am going to command them to be gone from our way." Grantin turned away from Chom and again began to raise his hand, only to be interrupted once more.

  "If I might make a suggestion before you start," Chom said while his lower right hand restrained Grantin from commencing the spell, "if you merely command the bars to be gone, they must go somewhere, and I would estimate that they will travel perhaps ten feet until they hit the far wall of the room. From there I calculate that they will rebound back toward us and will continue to ricochet throughout the chamber until they have reduced themselves to a state of molten metal."

  Grantin opened his fist as if he clutched a red-hot cinder and immediately let his arm drop back to his side.

  "Perhaps if I called up a tongue of flame to cut through the iron ... ?"

  "That would be a good idea except for the fact that Shenar has sheathed the rods with the energy of one of his most potent incantations. Any flame strong enough to bum through them would roast us both."

  "Well, I might..."

  "And of course an attempt to shrink the bars would pull the ceiling down around our heads."

  "There's always ..."

  "I have considered bending them to one side, but their energy field has made them brittle. They would shatter and cut us to shreds."

  "All right, I give up. What would you have me do?"

  "Of course it's not my place to tell you how to use your powers," Chom began diplomatically, "but perhaps you know the incantation necessary to shrink us to a small enough size to fit between the bars?"

  "That sounds rather complex. Do you think I could make it up as we go along?"

  "That particular spell tends to give unreliable results unless recited perfectly. I fear that random attempts might result in a grotesque rearrangement of our internal organs."

  "Well, what am I supposed to do, then? We can't cut the bars. We can't bend them. We can't shrink them, and we can't shrink ourselves. I don't know what to do, unless . . ." Turning away from the barrier, Grantin pivoted to study the other portions of the cell. "Can you tell if there's a spell on the walls?" he asked Chom.

  The Fanist rubbed all four hands along the surface of the back wall. After perhaps a thirty-second investigation he looked back at Grantin and shook his head in a gesture copied from the humans.

  "No, they seem to be mere stone," the native declared. "Well, then, we'll ignore the bars. Let's see if I can use the ring to cut a tunnel through the wall."

  "Possibly a workable idea. May I suggest that we begin over here?" Chom said, pointing to the right-hand edge of the enclosed area near the bars. "When Shenar enters in the morning this is the place that will be most hidden from his immediate view."

  Grantin nodded in agreement and approached the indicated section of stone
. Holding the bulge of the bloodstone only a few inches from the juncture of two granite blocks, Grantin tensed his muscles and visualized a white-hot flame six inches long erupting from the surface of the ring. Forcing his eyes open while retaining the image, he spoke in a hushed voice.

  "Flame, hot flame, jolting flame, burning flame! A torch to cut us free I order there to be."

  A white-hot pencil of light appeared in the air a fraction of an inch above the surface of the ring and buried itself in the stone. Dust and fumes bubbled from the fissure, and globules of molten rock dripped to the floor. Scared and shaking, Grantin slowly lowered his arm and lengthened the fissure. In a few minutes the smoke and stench and heat had long passed Grantin's limits of tolerance and he commanded the flame to die. Staggering back, he collapsed in an untidy heap against the opposite wall.

  Chom was apparently undisturbed by these adverse conditions and advanced upon the work site to examine Grantin's progress. Commencing at a point three feet above the floor, the line slanted downward slightly out of true for eighteen or twenty inches.

  "Good, very good. Only eight or nine feet more and we will be able to escape."

  "Eight feet more! I haven't gone two feet yet and I'm exhausted. I've got to rest."

  "Plenty of rest you will get on the sawbones' shelf if we do not finish by morning," Chom replied.

  Wearily Grantin pulled himself to his feet, approached the wall, and rekindled the flame. It was just before dawn when a feverish, exhausted Grantin cut the last inch of the escape tunnel, then promptly collapsed. Chom pulled Grantin to one side and, using all four of his arms for grasping and his two sturdy legs as levers, he began to worry the eight-inch thick plug from the wall. After several minutes' struggle the section fell clear.

  Unceremoniously Chom grabbed the unconscious human by the shoulders and dragged him through the exit. Depositing Grantin in the unlighted chamber beyond, Chom crept back to maneuver the plug in behind them. Using his belt like a sling, straining every last bit of energy from his powerful arms and legs, Chom at last managed to guide the granite back into the wall in the hope that their method of escape would not be discovered until at least ten or fifteen seconds after Shenar entered the room.

  After a minute or two of futile search Chom discovered a glowpod at waist height, which, he reminded himself, would be as high as the dwarf Shenar would be able to reach. Carefully removing the cellulose-like pod from its cradle, he rubbed it gently until static electricity had excited it to a weak phosphorescence. In the torch's feeble glow he soon determined that he and Grantin had taken refuge in a storage chamber. He returned to the sleeping human.

  A rough prodding of Grantin's shoulders failed to wake him. So deep was the human's exhaustion that Chom was forced to slap Grantin's face in order to bring him back to consciousness.

  "Wake up! Wake up! Shenar will be coming any minute now. You must make ready to conquer him with your spells."

  Grantin's eyes fluttered open and for a moment he forgot where he was. He had been dreaming that he was at home in his uncle's castle, asleep in his own bed and with no greater problems than finding a few coppers for the upcoming fair. All at once the terror of his predicament flooded back. Wearily Grantin levered himself into a sitting position.

  "Grantin, we must devise a spell to conquer Shenar-- something that will restrain his hands and his voice."

  "A spell," Grantin said weakly. "I'll be lucky if I have enough strength to stand up."

  "Hurry--he comes. I sense him approaching. You must do it." Chom helped Grantin to his feet.

  The human ignored Chom. He studied the room in which they now found themselves, then lapsed into a deep reverie. At last, with Shenar's sandals scraping on the stairs, Grantin devised a plan and whispered it into the Fanist's earhole. The scheme required exact timing and perfect reflexes, two things which Grantin doubted that either he or Chom now possessed. Nevertheless, it was their only hope.

  As soon as they heard Shenar begin to unlock the cell door Grantin and Chom slipped into the passage outside the storeroom, a hallway that joined the corridor leading to their former cell. To the left was the cell, to the right the anteroom below the castle entrance hall. Peeking around the comer, they saw Shenar enter the cell. Before the wizard had even closed the door Chom was sprinting noiselessly to the right toward the anteroom, weapon in hand, while Grantin slunk back down the corridor toward the utility closet.

  In less than a second Shenar discerned the scars where the granite slab had been burned free from the rest of the wall. Outraged that any mere mortals would dare to try to escape from the great Shenar, the wizard slammed open the door and raced down the hallway as fast as his bandy legs would carry him. At the intersection of the tunnel leading to the storeroom he hesitated, then plunged down the small corridor before widening his search to the more distant portions of his manor. Sliding open the door, Shenar received a second shock to find Grantin, hands on hips, standing insolently in the center of the room.

  "So, you've finally come. You don't move very fast on those shrunken little legs, do you?" Grantin taunted him.

  The sorcerer's rage rose almost to apoplexy. He raised his right hand to cast a spell, but Grantin waved it aside with a casual gesture.

  "Come, now, you don't think you can hex me, do you?" he asked Shenar. "I wear the bloodstone, and my power is that of a hundred ordinary sorcerers like yourself."

  "You will die horribly!" Shenar screamed. He pulled back both hands in preparation for casting his most powerful spell of dismemberment. Fingers stiffened in a V-shaped position, Shenar advanced. The wizard's gown rustled as he straightened his arm to cast the spell. The hiss of his sleeves hid the whoosh of air from behind as Chom brought down a mop handle full upon the wizard's skull. Unfortunately for Shenar, Chom had little experience with the more intimate details of human anatomy, and, basing the strength of his blow on Fanist standards, he badly misjudged the energy necessary to render the sorcerer unconscious. The mop handle shattered. Before he could finish reciting his spell, Shenar fell quietly to the floor, quite dead.

  "I didn't mean to kill him," Chom apologized. "I forgot how fragile you humans are. What do we do now?"

  Grantin shook his head, confused by Chom's question.

  "Should we bury him in the garden to fertilize the plants, or do you humans prefer stuffing the remains into the fireplace?"

  Grantin stared at the pathetic bundle of cloth and flesh that composed Shenar's mortal remains and shook his head in horror. At last he looked at the Fanist and replied in a quiet voice.

  "I think burying him in the garden would be appropriate, but not now. I've got to rest and then eat and then figure out what I'm going to do next. He's not going to bother anyone for the next few hours."

  "Best if we left this place," Chom suggested.

  "You can leave if you want. I'm going to get some sleep first. Besides, I came here for an answer. I need to find out how to remove this ring. Shenar's library may hold the key."

  In a surprisingly human gesture Chom shrugged then helped the weak and shaking Grantin from the room. The former prisoners, now for a while at least masters of the manor house slowly ascended the dungeon stairs. At the top Chom leaned Grantin against the wall, then reached out and threw back the foyer door.

  Crisp early-morning daylight streamed through the opening and for an instant half blinded both beings. Through squinted eyelids Grantin was shocked to see a burly human in the center of the hall. The man turned to face the doorway and likewise registered dismay at seeing Chom emerging from the dungeon. Instantly the intruder bounded back and raced out the front door. A few seconds later the disjointed rhythm of a Rex's two hooves and tail could be heard disappearing into the distance.

  "What--who was that?" Grantin stuttered.

  "We are in danger again," Chom responded. "That was the man who captured me and delivered me here to Shenar. In a day or two he will get over his fear and return with his men. By then we must be gone."

/>   "Who was he?" Grantin repeated.

  "He is the human they call Yon Diggery, the bandit."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Against the rustle of trees and the calls of the birds, the plop, plop, plop of softly dripping water was almost inaudible. The moisture made its way down between the fibers of the sodden tunic and passed as an invisible sheet over the slime-encrusted surface of rough leather britches until at last it collected in large, graceful drops near the point of a mud-encrusted cuff. There it dripped back into the shallows at the north edge of the swamp.

  At the beginning of his journey Rupert's back had snapped off protruding branches like so much dry kindling. In a second or two he reached the top of an arc which brought him clear of the uppermost limbs of even the highest trees. There Rupert seemed to float suspended between heaven and earth. In a few seconds the propulsive energy was spent, and he sped earthward on a ballistic path. As the forest flew upward at him Rupert curled his hurtling body into a tight ball, all elbows, shoulders, and knees.

  He snapped through branches, then rebounded from a limb too massive to break and shot straight forward on a course almost parallel with the ground. In the near distance the trees thinned and spread apart to make room for Stinkhole Marsh.

  Gravity and the laws of aerodynamics overcame inertia, and Rupert's body angled downward. Still at high speed, he struck the surface of the water and skipped like a stone across the first two thirds of the swamp. Dense clumps of yellow marsh reeds finally brought a halt to his forward motion. Still grasping an armful of the rubbery vegetation, he promptly sank to the bottom of the pond.

  With remarkable fury Rupert flailed his arms and legs until he reached the surface, there to take in great lungfuls of the foul-smelling air. Kicking off his waterlogged boots, he somehow managed to reach the shallows. Numbed and almost exhausted, Rupert struggled forward. At last he reached the shore, where he allowed himself to fall backward on the muddy bank. There he now lay, wheezing like an exhausted pack animal on the verge of collapse. With each breath tiny insects were sucked through his open mouth, but even these were now beneath his notice. Only two thoughts occupied the Gogol's mind: first, the knowledge that he had failed Hazar and that it would be death for him to return to Cicero, and second, the rage-born certainty that somehow, someday, he would tear Grantin's living body limb from limb.