by Rick Cook
Moira sighed in exasperation. "Mid-Summer’s Day is the longest day of the year. All magics associated with the sun and fire are at their most potent this day and magics of green and growing things are unusually potent as well.
"It is a day of power, Sparrow, and not a day for mortals to be about."
"We’re out."
"Not by choice, Sparrow," Moira said grimly. "Now come." She slung a large leather pouch over her shoulder and shrugged one of the packs onto her back. Then she stood and watched as Wiz struggled into the other one. As soon as he was loaded, they started off across the bridge.
Well behind them, Alber stuck to the relative safety of the road. Thus he was easily seen by a soaring raven gyring and wheeling over the green and leafy land.
Alber saw the raven as it glided low over the road. He made a warding sign, for ravens are notoriously birds of ill omen, and hurried on his way.
Above him the raven cocked his glossy black head and considered. Like most of his kind he knew enough to count one and two and one person travelling alone was not what his master searched for. There were two, and the bird’s keen eyes could see no sign of anyone else on the road.
But this was the only human he had seen today and this one was well away from the normal haunts of man. The raven was not intelligent, but he had been well schooled. With a hoarse caw he abandoned the search to his fellows and broke away to the south to report.
The forest deepened after Wiz and Moira passed over the river. They left the road around the first bend past the bridge and toiled up a winding game trail that ran to the top of a steep ridge. By the time they reached the top even Moira was breathing heavily. She motioned Wiz to rest and the pair sank down thankfully under the trees.
Through a gap Wiz could look ahead. The valley was a mass of green treetops. Beyond the valley lay another green ridge and beyond that another ridge and then another fading off into the blue distance. There was no sign of habitation or any hint of animal life. Only endless, limitless forest.
This was no second-growth woodland or a carefully managed preserve. The oaks and beeches around them had never been logged. The big ones had stood for centuries, accumulating mosses and lichen on their hoary trunks, growing close and thrusting high to form a thick canopy overhead. Here and there was an open patch where one of those forest giants had succumbed to age, rot or lightning and the successors crowding in had not yet filled the place. There were snags and fallen limbs everywhere, green with moss and spotted with bright clumps of fungus.
This is the forest primeval, Wiz thought and shivered slightly. He had never thought that trees could make him nervous, but these huge moss-grown boles pressed in on him from all sides, their leaves shutting off the sun and casting everything into a greenish gloom. The breeze soughing through the treetops sounded as if the forest was muttering to itself or passing the news of invading strangers, like jungle drums.
"I see why they call it the Wild Wood," he said.
"This is not the Wild Wood," Moira told him. "We are still only on the Fringe of the Wild Wood."
"Does anyone live here?"
"None we would care to meet. Oh, a few cottagers and a small stead or two. But most who live on this side of the Blackstone have reason to shun their fellows. Or be shunned by them. We will best avoid company of any kind until we reach our destination."
"Where are we going anyway?" Wiz sidled closer to her.
"To a place of refuge. You need not know more. Now come. We have far to go."
It was late afternoon when they came over the second ridge and descended into another valley. Although the forest was as dense as ever, there was a water meadow through the center of this valley. The broad expanse of grass was a welcome sight to Wiz, oppressed as he was by the constant trees. Here and there trees hardly more than shrubs luxuriated in the warmth and openness. Also interspersed were small ponds and marshy patches marked by cattails, reeds and sweet blue iris.
They halted at the edge of the open and Moira surveyed the cloud-flecked sky uneasily.
"Nothing," she sighed. "Now listen, Sparrow. We cannot go around because there are bogs above and below. We must cross and do it quickly, lest we be seen. Once we start we must not stop." She looked him over critically. "We will rest now."
Moira knelt, scanning the meadow and the sky above it while Wiz caught his breath.
"Moira?"
"What?" She did not stop searching the meadow.
"We’re being chased, right?"
"That is why we are running."
"Well then, can I ask a dumb question?"
"Of course," the hedge witch said in a tone that indicated he had been doing nothing else.
"Why are we being chased? What did we do?"
"We did nothing. It is you they want, Sparrow, and they want you because Patrius Summoned you at the cost of his own life."
"Yeah, but why?"
"We do not know that, Sparrow."
"Do they know?"
"I doubt it."
Wiz shifted slightly. "Well, if you don’t know and they don’t know then why the bloody—heck—are they chasing us?"
"They hope to learn from you what Patrius’s aim was."
"But I don’t know either!"
Moira snorted. "I doubt they will take your unconstrained word for that, Sparrow."
"Look, I don’t want any part of this, okay? Can’t we talk to them? Isn’t there some way I can prove I don’t know anything and then they can leave me alone."
"Sparrow, listen to me," Moira turned to him. "The Dark League of the South is not interested in your innocence or guilt. The fact that Patrius Summoned you is enough to make them want you. Probably they want to squeeze you for the knowledge we both know you do not possess. Possibly they simply want you dead or worse."
Moira laid her hand on his. "But either way, Sparrow," she said gravely, "if you are given a choice between the worst death you can imagine and falling alive into the hands of the League, do everything in your power to die."
Wiz dropped his eyes from her intense stare. "I get the picture."
"Good." She turned back to the clearing and checked the ground and sky again. "Then make ready. We will not try to run because the ground is boggy, but walk quickly!"
Moira rose and moved into the clearing with Wiz on her heels. The thigh-high grass whisked against their legs as they walked and the soil squished beneath their feet. Unlike the forest, the meadow was rich with life. Insects buzzed and chirped, frogs croaked or plonked into puddles as they went by. Dragonflies flitted by and once a yellow-and-black butterfly circled their heads.
In spite of the sunshine and wildlife, Wiz wasn’t cheered. Except for an occasional bush, the travellers were the tallest things in the meadow. He felt like a large and very conspicuous bug on a very flat rock, and the further they got from the suddenly friendly line of trees, the more nervous he became.
Moira was feeling it too. She pushed ahead faster, her head turning constantly. She dared not use active magic, but she listened as hard as she could for any sign of others’ magic.
Suddenly Moira dropped in her tracks. She went down so quickly that Wiz thought she had tripped.
"Get down!" she hissed and Wiz sprawled in the wet dirt beside her.
"What?" Wiz whispered.
"Something in the air of to our left. No, don’t look! The flash of your face might betray us." After a second she bobbed her head up for a quick look.
"Fortuna!" she breathed. "It is searching the area. All right, see that tree ahead of us?" She nodded towards a big bush a few yards up the trail. "When I give the signal, crawl to it. Understand?" Again her head bobbed up. "Now!"
On hands and knees they crawled for what seemed to Wiz to be an eternity. He dared not raise his head, so all he saw was a narrow strip of wet black earth and green grass stems on each side. By the time he pulled up under the bush he was panting, and not entirely from exertion.
They dragged themselves back far under the overhang
ing branches, heedless of the mud or the tiny crawling things in the litter of dead leaves. As soon as they were settled, Moira pulled her cloak off her pack and threw it over them, turning two people into one lumpy brown mass and leaving just a narrow crack to see out.
Even as frightened as he was, Wiz was exhilarated by Moira’s closeness. Her warmth and the sweet, clean odor of her was wonderful and the danger added spice.
"What is it?" he whispered.
"Shhh."
Then a shadow passed over them and Wiz saw what they were hiding from.
The dragon glided noiselessly above the trail they had just left. Its hundred-foot batwings were stiff and unmoving as it let the warm air rising from the meadow bear it up. Its long flat tail twitched slightly as it steered its chosen course. The four legs with their great ripping talons were pressed close to its body and its sinuous neck was fully extended. It came so low and so close that Wiz could see the row of white fangs in its slightly open mouth.
Wiz’s breath caught and he tried to sink into the dirt. Instinctively he grabbed Moira’s hand and they clung together like frightened children while the nightmare beast swooped above trees and turned to cross the meadow from another direction.
Clearly the monster had seen something on the water meadow. Again it glided across and again it flew directly over the bush where Wiz and Moira cowered. Wiz felt as if the dragon’s gaze had stripped him naked.
Four times the dragon flew over the meadow and four times Wiz trembled and shrank under Moira’s cloak. Finally it pulled up and disappeared over the trees.
For long minutes after Wiz and Moira lay huddled and shaking. At last Moira threw the cloak back and sat up. Reluctantly, Wiz followed suit.
"Was that thing looking for us?" he breathed at last.
"Very likely," Moira said, scanning the skies warily.
"Are there more of them?"
"Dragons are usually solitary creatures and one so big would need a large hunting territory."
She frowned. "Still, I do not know of any like that who live nearby. Wild dragons make ill neighbors. It may be the one from the southern lake or it might be one of the ones who lair in the hills to the east. If it is coursing this far afield there may be others."
"Wonderful," Wiz muttered.
Moira sighed shakily. "I dislike playing hideabout with dragons, but we should be safe enough if we stay under the trees and are careful about crossing open spaces."
"Sounds good to me."
"There is risk, of course," Moira continued, half to herself. "The forested ways are not always the most free of magic. Besides, with the forest close around us we will not have as much warning of the approach of others."
"Others?"
"Trolls, wolves, evil men and others who do the League’s work."
"Great," Wiz said.
Moira missed the irony entirely. "Not great, but our best chance, I think." She folded the cloak. "Now come. Quickly."
"Well?" Atros demanded.
"The searchers are out as you commanded, Master," said the new Master of the Sea of Scrying. "But so far nothing."
"With all the magic of the League you cannot find two insignificant mortals?" Atros rumbled.
The Master, only hours in his post, licked his lips and tried not to look past Atros’s shoulder at the place where a newly flayed skin hung, still oozing blood, on the stone wall of the chamber. The skin of a very fat man.
"It is not easy Master. Bal-Simba—cursed be his name!—has been casting confusion spells, muddying the trail at the beginning. The Council’s Watchers are on the alert and we cannot penetrate too deeply nor see too clearly." He paused. "We do know he has not taken the Wizard’s Way."
Atros rubbed his chin. Walking the Wizard’s Way was the preferred method of travel for those who had the magical skill to use it. But it was also easy to detect anyone upon it. Perhaps this strange wizard preferred stealth to speed.
"And those already in the North," he asked, "behind the Watchers’ shield of spells?"
"Our best servants are creatures of the dark. On Mid-Summer’s Day their power is at its weakest. Our dragon allies and our others seek as best they can, but there is so much magic upon the land that it is hard to scan." He gestured into the Sea of Scrying. Atros looked and saw sparks and patches of magic everywhere.
"Someone mighty enough to be worth the risk of a wizard like Patrius must leave a track even through that," the giant magician objected.
The newly made black robe lowered his head. "We have found no sign, Master."
Atros bit his lip thoughtfully. It was possible for a magician to hide his presence through cloaking spells, but such spells usually betrayed that something was being hidden. Either the League’s servants were unusually inept or this magician from beyond the World was extremely powerful. Someone that powerful might indeed tip the balance against the League.
Unless…
"Is there sign of aught unusual in the cities of the North?"
"Nothing, Master, save what you know. Nothing unusual anywhere in the North’s territories."
"Then perhaps he whom we seek is not within the North’s territories," Atros said suddenly. "Patrius performed his Great Summoning on the Fringe of the Wild Wood? Then search the Fringe most carefully. And extend your search into the Wild Wood itself."
"Thy Will, Master," said the Watcher. "But there is no sign of anything unusual on the Fringe. Besides, it will mean weakening our search of the North’s lands."
"If he was in the North’s lands we would have some sign ere now," Atros said. "Perhaps he goes another way to mislead us."
It was the Master’s turn to rub his chin thoughtfully. "If he pushes into the Wild Wood he brings himself closer to our servants and his magic will stand out even more strongly against the non-human magics of that place."
"Only if he uses magic," Atros said. "If he weaves little or none he will be much harder to find, will he not?"
"What kind of wizard travels without magical protection?"
"A most powerful and dangerous one. So search carefully." Atros paused for a moment, looking down into the Sea once more.
"But our alien wizard will not find it so easy to shield his travelling companion," he said. "Tell your searchers to look carefully for signs of a hedge witch in the Wild Wood. That should stand out strongly enough."
They camped where dusk found them, spreading their cloaks against a fallen log. Moira would not allow a fire, so their dinner consisted of some bits of jerked meat and a handful of leathery dried fruit. Normally Wiz didn’t eat red meat, but things were decidedly not normal and he gnawed gratefully on the pieces Moira placed in his hand.
As the twilight faded Moira took a stick and drew a design around them and their resting place.
"The circle will offer us some small protection," she told him. "Do not leave it tonight for anything."
"Not even for… ?"
"Not for anything," she repeated firmly.
Without another word Moira rolled herself in her cloak and turned away from Wiz. He sat with his back to the log staring up at the unfamiliar stars.
"This is soooo weird," Wiz said, more to himself than Moira.
"Sleeping outdoors is not what I am used to either," she said.
"No, I mean this whole business. Dragons. The magic and all. It’s just not like anything I’m used to."
Moira rolled over to face him. "You mean you really do not have magic where you come from?"
"The closest I ever came to magic was working with Unix wizards," said Wiz.
"Eunuchs wizards? Did they do that to themselves to gain power?"
"Huh? No. Not Eunuchs, Unix. Spelled…" Wiz realized he couldn’t spell the word. He recognized the shapes of the letters, but they twisted and crawled in his mind and no meaning attached to them. When he tried to sound the word out only runes appeared in his head.
"Never mind, but it’s not that at all. It’s an operating system."
"Operating system?" Mo
ira said frowning.
"An operating system is a program which organizes the resources of a computer and virtualizes their interfaces," Wiz quoted.
"A computer? One who thinks?"
For the thousandth time in his life, Wiz wished he were better at making explanations. "Well, kind of. But it is a machine, not alive."
"A machine is some kind of non-living thing then. But this machine thinks?"
"Well, it doesn’t really think. It follows preprogrammed instructions. The programmer can make it act like it is thinking."
"Is it a demon of some kind?"
"Uh, no. A demon’s something else. It’s a program that does something automatically when called. Unless of course it’s a daemon, then it’s active all the time."
Moira wrinkled her brow. "Let us go back a bit. What do you have to do with these creatures?"
"They’re not creatures, really."
"These demons, then."
"I told you, they’re not demons. A demon is something else."
"Never mind all that," Moira said impatiently. "Just tell me what you do."
"Well, I do a lot of things, but basically I’m a systems-level programmer. That means I write programs that help applications programs—those are the things people want done—to run. ’’
"What is a program?"
Wiz sighed. "A program is a set of instructions that tells the computer what to do."
"You command these beings then?"
"I told you, they’re not…"
"All right. These creatures, or not-demons or whatever they are. You command them?"
"Well, kind of."
"But you have no magic!"
Wiz grinned. "You don’t need magic. Just training, skill, discipline and a mind that works in the right way."
"The qualities of a magician," Moira said firmly. "And with these qualities you master these—things."
"Well, you try to. Some days you get the bear and some days the bear gets you."
"There are bears involved too?"
"No, look, that’s just an expression. What I mean is that sometimes it’s easy to get the computer to do what you want and sometimes it isn’t."
"Powerful entities are often hard to control," Moira nodded. "So you are the master of these—whatever they are."