by Rick Cook
Then it was diving on them again.
Wiz rolled and rolled toward the edge of the clearing, heedless of the snow and mud. Kenneth’s bow thrummed again and Wiz heard the whine of the arrow as it passed close to his right. Then the beast shrieked and there was a heavy thud as it struck earth. Wiz looked up to see the golden dragon-thing on the ground not five yards from him. The wings were still spread and the animal was using a wickedly-taloned hind leg to claw at the arrow protruding from its breast. There was a spreading scarlet stain on the glowing golden scales and the creature roared again in rage and pain.
Suddenly a second arrow sprouted a hand’s span from the first. The animal stopped pawing at the arrow in its chest and brought its head up to look across the clearing. There was a disquieting intelligence in its eyes. Its head snaked around and it caught sight of Wiz. Without hesitating the beast dropped its leg and started toward him.
Kenneth’s great bow sang yet again and another arrow appeared in the thing, in the shoulder this time. But the beast paid it no heed. It advanced on Wiz with a terrible evil hunger in its eyes.
Wiz whimpered and scrambled backward, but his heavy cloak had wrapped itself around his legs and it tripped him as he tried to rise.
The creature craned its neck forward eagerly and the huge fanged mouth gaped shocking red against the golden body. The arrows in the chest wobbled in time with its labored breathing and the dark red blood ran in rivulets down its body to stain the snow carmine.
Again an arrow planted itself in the thing’s body and again it jerked convulsively. But still it came on, neck craning forward and jaws slavering open as it struggled to reach Wiz.
The great eyes were golden, Wiz saw, with slit pupils closed down to mere lines. The fangs were white as fresh bone, so close Wiz could have reached out and touched them could he have freed an arm from the cloak.
Suddenly the beast’s head jerked up and away from its prey and it screamed a high wavering note like a steamwhistle gone berserk.
Wiz looked up and saw Kenneth, legs wide apart and his broadsword clasped in both hands as he raised it high for the second stroke against the long neck. The guardsman brought the blade down again and then again, slicing through the neck scales and into the corded muscle beneath with a meat ax thunk.
The beast twisted its neck almost into a loop, shuddered convulsively, as was suddenly still.
The silence of the clearing was absolute, save for the breathing of the two men, one of them panting in terror and the other breathing hard from exertion.
"Lord, are you all right?"
"Ye… yes," Wiz told him shakily. "I’ll be…" He drew a deep breath of cold air and went into a coughing fit. "What was that thing?"
"One of the League’s creatures," Kenneth said somberly. "Now you see why you must not walk alone, Lord."
Wiz goggled at the golden corpse pouring steaming scarlet blood from the rents in the neck. "That was for me?"
"I doubt it came here by accident," Kenneth said drily.
Wiz tried to stand, but the cloak still tangled him. He settled for rolling over onto his hands and knees and then working the entangling folds of cloth out of the way before rising.
"You saved my life. Thank you."
The guardsman shrugged. "It was Bal-Simba’s command that you be protected," he said simply. "Can you walk, Lord?"
"Yes. I can walk."
"Then we had best get you back to the compound. You’ll catch cold, wet as you are."
Wiz looked down at his soaked and muddy cloak and for the first time felt the icy chill of his wet garments. He shivered reflexively.
"Besides," Kenneth said thoughtfully, "it is beginning to get dark and mayhap there are more of the League’s creatures about."
Wiz shivered again and this time it had nothing to do with the cold.
Back at the compound, Shiara was concerned but not surprised at the attack.
"We could hardly expect to keep ourselves secret forever," she sighed. "Still, it will be inconvenient to have to be much on our guard. I think it would be best if you discontinued your walks in the Woods, Sparrow."
"I was thinking the same thing myself, Lady," Wiz said fervently from the stool in front of the fire where he huddled. Save for a clean cloak he was naked and the fire beat ruddy and hot on his pale skin as he held the garment open to catch as much warmth as possible.
"Uh, Lady… I thought we were supposed to be protected against attacks like that."
Shiara frowned. "Sparrow, in the Wild Wood there is no absolute safety. Even with all the powers of the North arrayed about us we would not be completely safe. With Bal-Simba’s protection we are fairly immune to magic attack and the forest folk will warn of any large non-magical party that approaches. But a single non-magical creature can slip through our watchers and wards all too easily."
"What about a single magical creature?" Wiz asked.
Shiara smiled thinly, her lips pressed together in a tight line. "Believe me, Sparrow, I would know instantly of the approach of any magic."
From the corner where he had been listening, Kenneth snorted. "If all they can send against us are single non-magical beings then they stand a poor chance of getting either of you." He tugged the string of his great bow significantly. "Lady, I own the fault today was mine. I was not properly alert. But rest assured it will not happen again!"
"It would be well if it were so," Shiara said. "But I am not certain they expected to get anyone in today’s attack."
"They came darned close," Wiz said.
"Oh, had they killed or injured one of us the League would have been happy indeed, but I think they had little real expectation of it."
"Then what is the point?" asked Kenneth.
"In a duel of magics you seek at first to unbalance your opponent. To break his concentration and unsettle his mind and so lay him open to failure. I think the League’s purpose in such attacks is to upset us and hinder our work."
"Then they failed twice over," Wiz said firmly and stood up. "I’m dry enough and I’ve got work to do tonight. Kenneth, will you hand me my tunic?"
Another day, near evening this time, and Wiz had another creation to demonstrate to Shiara.
"Here, let me show you." Wiz made a quick pass and a foot-tall homunculus popped into existence. It eyed Wiz speculatively and then started to gabble in a high, squeaky voice.
"ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ1234567890," the creature got out before Wiz could raise his hand again. At the second gesture it froze, mouth open.
"What good is that thing?" Shiara asked.
"You told me wizards protect their inner secrets with passwords? Well, this is a password guesser. When it gets up to speed it can run through thousands of combinations a second." He frowned. "I’m going to have to do some code tweaking to get the speed up, I think."
"What makes you think you can guess a password even with such a thing as that?" Shiara said.
Wiz grinned. "Because humans are creatures of habit. That includes wizards. The thing doesn’t guess at random. It uses the most likely words and syllables."
"Ricidulous," Shiara snorted. "A competent wizard chooses passwords to be hard to guess."
"I’ll bet even good wizards get careless. You remember I told you we used passwords on computer accounts back home? There was a list of about 100 of them which were so common they could get you into nearly any computer and the chances were at least one person had used one of them.
"Look, a password has to be remembered. I mean no one but an idiot writes one down, right?" Shiara nodded reluctantly. "And you have to be able to say them, don’t you?" Again Shiara nodded.
"Well then, those are major limits right there. You need combinations of consonants and vowels that are pronounceable and easy to remember. You also can’t make them too long and you probably don’t want to make them too short. Right? Okay, this little baby," he gestured to the demon on the table, "has been given a bunch of rules that help guess passwords. It’s not a random se
arch."
"But even so, Sparrow, there are so many possible combinations."
"That’s why he talks so fast, Lady."
They brought Moira on deck the day the Tiger Moth raised the southern coast.
With no one at her oars and no wind behind her, the Tiger Moth ghosted between the great black towers that guarded the harbor. From the headlands of the bay mighty breakwaters reached out to clasp the harbor in their grasp. Where the breakwaters almost touched, two towers of the black basalt rose to overlook the harbor entrance. Great walls of dark rhyolite enclosed the city with its tall towers and narrow stinking streets snaking up the sides of an ancient volcano.
Everywhere the southland was bleak and blasted. The earth had been ripped open repeatedly by magic and nature and had bled great flows of lava. Now it was dark and scabbed over as if the wounds had festered rather than healed. The sky was dark and lowering, lead gray and filled with a fine gritty ash that settled on everything. In the distance dull red glows reflected off the clouds where still-active volcanoes rumbled and belched. The chill south wind brought the stink of sulfur with it. Nothing lived in this land save by magic.
Moira was hustled off the ship and hurried up the street by a dozen of the false fishermen. After days in the cramped cubby it was agony for her to walk. But her captors forced the pace cruelly even when she cried into her gag in pain.
The street ended suddenly in a great wall composed of massive blocks of dark red lava. The party turned right at the wall and there, in a shallow dead-end alley, was a tiny door sheathed in black iron. The Shadow Captain knocked a signal on the door and a peephole slid back, revealing a hideously tusked unhuman face. Quickly the door opened and Moira was thrust through into the midst of a group of heavily armored goblins. The goblins closed in and bore her off without a word or backward glance.
"Only one magician, you say?" Toth-Set-Ra asked the Shadow Captain harshly.
"Only the woman, Dread Master. There were two other humans within the walls, the former witch they call Shiara and a man called Sparrow. She called him Wiz."
"And they were not magicians?"
"I would stake my soul upon it."
Toth-Set-Ra eyed him. "You have, captain. Oh, you have."
The Shadow Captain blanched under the wizard’s gaze. "I found no other sign of a magician there," he repeated as firmly as he could manage.
"There should have been at least one other magician, a man. You’re sure this Wiz or Sparrow was not a magician?"
"He had not the faintest trace of magic about him," said the Shadow Captain. He was not about to tell Toth-Set-Ra there had been something strange about that man.
"We shall see," Toth-Set-Ra said and waved dismissal. "Now return to your ship and await my pleasure." The Shadow Captain abased himself and backed from the room.
Toth-Set-Ra watched him go and drummed his fingers on the inlaid table. He was frantically anxious to know what this new prisoner could tell him, but he was skilled enough in the ways of interrogation to know that a day or two of isolation in his dungeons would do much to break her spirit. Question a magician too soon and she was likely to resist to the point of death. First you must shake her, wear away her confidence. Then she would be more pliable to magical assaults and more susceptible to pain.
Tomorrow would be soon enough. Let her lie a while in the dungeons. Then let five or six of the goblins use her. And then, then it would be easy to find out what she knew.
He smiled and his face looked more like a skull than ever. Yes, it would take a little time. But then, he had the time.
"(defun replace—variables (demon))" Wiz muttered, sketching on a clean plank with a bit of charcoal. "(let((!bindings nil)))"
"Lord."
"(replace—variables-with-bindings(demon))"
Wiz turned from the spell he was constructing to see Donal standing in the door, near blocking out the light.
"You made me lose my place," he said accusingly.
"Sorry Lord, but it’s Kenneth. He’s asked for you and the Lady."
Reluctantly Wiz put down the stick of charcoal and stood up, feeling his back creak and his thighs ache from sitting in one position on the hard bench too long. "What is it?" he asked. "More trouble?"
Donal regarded Wiz seriously. "I think he wants to sing a song," he said.
"A song?" Wiz asked incredulously. "He takes me away from my work to sing a song?"
Donal’s face did not change. "Please, Lord. It is important."
As they stepped out of the hut, Wiz realized it was mid-morning. The air was still chill, but no longer iron-hard. The sun was warm even as the earth was cold. Spring was on its way, Wiz thought idly as Donal led him to the courtyard. Shiara was already there, sitting on the stump used to chop firewood, her stained and worn blue cloak wrapped firm around her, but the hood thrown back and her hair falling like a silver waterfall down her back.
Kenneth stood facing her. He was holding a small iron-stringed harp Wiz had never seen before. From time to time he would pick a string and listen distractedly to the tone.
Music, Wiz thought. In all the time I’ve been here I’ve never heard human music. His resentment dulled slightly and he pulled a small log next to Shiara for a seat.
Shiara reached a hand out of her cloak and clasped Wiz’s hand briefly.
"You may begin Kenneth," she said.
Kenneth’s expression did not change. He struck a chord and a silvery peal floated across the court and up to the smokestained peak of Heart’s Ease.
"Now Heart’s Ease it is fallen
for all the North to weep
And the hedge witch with the copper curls
lies fast in prison deep"
His voice was a clear pure tenor and the sound sent chills down Wiz’s spine. There was loss and sadness in the music and the pain Wiz had felt since that terrible night Heart’s Ease fell came rushing back with full vigor. Instinctively he moved closer to Shiara.
"And none can find or follow
for there’s none to show the way
and magic might and wizards ranked
stand fast in grim array
There’s neither hope nor succor
for the witch with copper hair
for the Mighty may not aid her plight
deep in the Dark League’s lair
Where the Mighty dare not venture
the meek must go instead
for shattered hearth and stolen love
and companion’s blood run red.
There’s the Lady called Shiara
with blue, unseeing eyes
whose magic’s but a memory
but still among the wise.
There’s a Sparrow who’s left nestless now
bereft by loss of love
whose land lies far beyond his reach
past even dreaming of
With neither might nor magic
their wit must serve in place
and wizard’s lore and foreign forms
twine in a strange embrace
But the fruit of that embracing
is nothing to be scorned
and the hedge witch with the copper curls
may yet be kept from harm
And if there’s no returning
the witch with flame-bright hair
the price of a Sparrow’s mourning
be more than the League can bear."
Kenneth’s voice belled up over the harp and the song was strong off the ruined stone walls behind.
"For there will be a weregeld
for life and hearth and love
though worlds may shake and wizards quake
and skies crash down above.
Aye, there will be a ransom
and the ransom will be high
for the blood-debt to a Sparrow
the League cannot deny."
He stopped then, lowered the harp and bowed his head.
"Thank you, Kenneth," said Shiara. And Wiz stepped forward to embrace the
soldier roughly.
"The mood was upon me, Lady," Kenneth said simply. "When the mood is upon me, I must."
"And well done," said Shiara, standing up. "Thank you for the omen."
"So, Sparrow," she sighed. "We go soon. Do we go tomorrow?"
"I don’t know Lady," Wiz protested. "I’ve still got some spells to tune and…" Unbidden a quotation from his other life rose in his mind. There comes a time in the course of any project to shoot the engineers and put the damn thing into production. He raised his chin firmly.
"Tomorrow, Lady. Tomorrow we strike."
Twelve
The Name is Death
Moira didn’t know how far they had come. The flagged corridors twisted and turned in a way that made her head spin. The floor was uneven and the tunnels that led off usually sloped up or down.
The trickle of water down the center of the tunnel made footing treacherous, but she stayed to the middle nonetheless. To step out of the trail of slime was to risk ramming into a rough stone or dirt wall.
Worst of all, she cold not see. There was no light and her magic senses were blocked everywhere by the coarse, suffocating pressure of counter-spells. The magic was almost as nauseating as the stink of her goblin guards.
The dark was no hinderance to the goblins. They took crude amusement from her plight, forcing her along at a pace that kept her on the verge of stumbling. Finally, after she had fallen or run into the walls too often, they grabbed her arms and half-pushed, half-dragged her along.
By the time the goblins threw her in a small, mean cell and slammed the door, Moira was bruised, filthy and scraped and bleeding in a dozen places. Her palms were raw from falling and there was a cut on her head which turned her hair damp with blood. Her knees and shins ached.
She pulled herself into a sitting position and dabbed at the cut on her head with the least-dirty part of the hem of her skirt. She tried to ignore the small skittering sounds in the dark around her and refused to think about the future.