by T. O. Munro
Dema glanced out of the window, where the sun was settling slowly to the West. It would set later for her Lord than for her, so she had a few minutes more before the warmth of the token at her neck would herald the calling of her Master’s voice. On the wind she caught some enquiry made of a guard outside. It was the reedy voice of secretary Vesten posing the question. While, individual words were inaudible, the contempt that dripped from the guard’s response was discernible even at this distance. “Oh Odestus,” she moaned. “Where are you?”
She shut her eyes a moment overwhelmed by a new fatigue. In an instant she was back in the cellar of the merchant who wanted to be a wizard. The night of the fateful first accident, with Odestus bustling in fearful fury, his anger somehow transcending his ridiculous pose, head down eyes closed.
“Don’t look at me,” he was screaming.
“I’m not looking at you,” she had replied as consumed by fear as the merchant. “I’ve shut my eyes see.”
“I daren’t look. Why did you do it?”
“Why? What? Do you think I meant this to happen?”
“My father took him on. He’s been in our family for years, look what you’ve done to him.”
She bit back the bubble of hysteria that was rising in her throat. As he now stood the loyal family butler could be in the family for decades more, centuries even, albeit more as a garden ornament than a fully functioning retainer.
“He just blundered in here, I heard the noise, I thought it was you. I looked up, our eyes met…”
“I can see exactly what happened, by the Goddess have you seen his face? He looks terrified.”
Dema had indeed seen the new statue’s face and had thought surprise more than fear best described his expression. However, such semantics were not things to argue over with Odestus in uncharacteristically belligerent mood.
“What do we do?” she’d asked, feeling more helplessly in Odestus’s hands than at any time since the night of transformation. “We’re in this together, remember.”
“Of course I remember. Dabbling in magic and creating a medusa, it’s not an easy crime to forget. Never mind what you’ve done to poor Vejes!”
“Have I killed him?”
“No, or at least not yet.”
“You’re speaking in riddles little wizard.”
“I’ve spent the days in frantic research, trawling through the library scrolls on anything to do with magic. Got myself some pretty funny looks from the librarians I can tell you, but I’m finding out quite a lot by day, while you’re wandering my cellar petrifying the household servants.”
“He shouldn’t have come down here, I thought you told them all not to come down here.”
“He’s the butler, he goes wherever he damn well pleases. Or at least he did until you turned him into a bloody sculpture.”
“How long until he’s missed?”
“Depends which chambermaid was expecting him to visit tonight.”
“You could say he ran away. Say he stole from you.”
“Maybe, but I’ve a better idea. I have to say I guessed this day might come and my research has brought a little enlightenment.”
“Something to change me back?”
“No, not yet at least. Though I am not sure how complete your transformation is. The medusae of the Eastern legends were not quite as you are. But it seems one of the other scrolls in the bundle I bought might serve our purpose. It is a spell and I have taken some trouble to embed this one in my mind. It appears that petrification by a medusa is reversible, the stoned can be turned back to flesh. There is a risk, the shock of turning back can kill, always assuming that the initial transformation did not kill the soul as it stoned the body.”
“How much risk?”
“It depends on the age and health of the victim and the length of time since the stoning. I may end up with nothing more than a fleshy corpse.”
“That at least would be easier to explain than a statue.”
There was an explosion of fire in her cheek as he had slapped her, a blow that her closed eyes had not forseen. As hers opened in shock, his had shut and the little wizard had cowered away, eyes clenched and averted but his unrepentant voice was shot through with fear. “You deserved that,” he said. “This is a man you may yet have killed. Maybe I am wrong, maybe you have become one of the heartless monsters that they expunged from the eastern lands when the Monar Empire was still young.”
“I am not a monster,” she had retorted with a trembling lip.
“Then go and wait in the wine cellar while I try out this spell.”
“What if he remembers what he saw?”
“Apparently some short term amnesia is usual in these kind of transformations. With luck he’ll not even remember coming down into the cellar. Now go and wait, and pray to the Goddess.”
She’d done so, crouched between the casks and bottles, fingers entwined as she heard the arcane incantation and the crackle of magic in the adjoining chamber. There was a soft thump of something falling to the floor, not stone at least, and the light patter of cheeks being slapped.
“Vejes, Vejes, wake up!” Odestus was calling.
There had been a groan from a throat other than the wizard’s and a dry voice had rasped, “oh Master Odestus, what happened. How did I get here?”
“I found you at the foot of the stairs, Vejes, you must have had a funny turn. Do you remember anything?”
“No,” the retainer mumbled in puzzlement. “No, I heard some noise in the cellar, I remember thinking it might be thieves in after the wine so I was going to…. but no. I can’t remember what happened after that. What time is it, Master Odestus?”
“Half an hour after evensong, you have been here for hours, Vejes. Come let us get you upstairs.”
“But the thieves?”
“Nothing is missing, no mark on you at all, no harm’s been done. It was probably mice. Now let’s get you upstairs.”
As merchant and butler made their way heavily up the wooden steps, Dema in her hiding place had put a hand to her offending eyes and found them wet with tears.
Now in her castellan’s chamber in Listcairn, Dema put her hand again to her eyes and found them dry, unstained by tears since before she had been exiled. She gave another long wincing sigh, and then felt the familiar heat in the token by her neck as her Master made his mental presence known.
***
Haslerig was with the mages when the call came. Maelgrum’s disparate army offered few obvious companions for a bookish ex-priest. The orcs would spit at his humanity as he passed, the outlander warriors would look with scorn on his feeble frame quite devoid of martial prowess, the legions would stir and rattle their shackles in hunger for his flesh. Only with the wizards did he feel some fraction of ease. True the powers that the exiled mages had honed in the presence of the Master greatly outstripped anything Haselrig could have achieved even when admitted by the Goddess’s favour into the blessing of priestly magic. But, as they sat around a makeshift table breaking bread, at least Haselrig did not look out of place, and the wizards humoured him in admitting him to their presence.
There were a hundred or more of them in Maelgrum’s army, exiles all. Some hoary old men with straggling beards, some wizened women, but as many again of middle years or even bridling with the arrogance of youth. Some had spent decades beyond the barrier, their passion for the illegal arts kindled long before they had any knowledge of the Master who would train them to new heights. Others had learned more recently in secret cells and groups across the empire, inducted into thaumategry and reassured that there were friends beyond the barrier who would make exile something to be embraced rather than feared.
Now they were returned to rain fire and lightning on the empire that had cast them out. At the battle of Proginnot the hammer blows of their spells had shattered the royal line, with only a few elven mages to launch any retaliation. Those not used as artillery had been shepherding the mindless legions into the attack and now the discussi
on around the table was between those necromancers on the one hand and the sorcerers on the others.
“I can’t see why we wait,” Marwella the aged crone who led the necromancers was saying. “Let us drive the legion into the town and Morwencairn will be cleansed of the living in a few short hours.”
“Fool,” the ruddy bearded sorcerer named Rondol retorted. “Your legion can barely walk uphill, let alone scale a wall. You can do nothing until we true wizards have blasted down their walls and gateways.”
“Then why aren’t you getting on with it?” Marwella snapped, sucking toothlessly on a piece of bread.
Haselrig knew why, Maelgrum’s will was not to risk his precious wizards within range of the town’s slings and arrows. The siege at the moment was maintained at a distance while the lich husbanded his force and waited for the the powerful reinforcement that a few days’ patience would bring. However, the antiquary knew better than to share his Master’s plans even with an impatient pair of wizards.
It was at that point that Xander broke in with a grin on the gathering. The wizards eyed him with suspicion. While Maelgrum’s training had made something of a warrior wizard out of the unlikely and unfocused material of the traitor Prince, the rest of the wizard company viewed him with disdain. His skill was too coarse and his temperament too unsettled for them to feel any comfort in his company and Xander in turn preferred to associate with people who would reflect or augment his own high opinion of his powers.
The traitor Prince ran his gaze around the table and then fixed on Haselrig. “The Master wants you, librarian, and he wants you now. Judging by the ice in the air around him you must have done something very wrong.”
Haselrig was trembling as he stood up. “I have done nothing,” he insisted squeakily, all too aware that innocence was no protection where their undead Master was concerned.
His legs carried him with nervous haste to the plush octagonal pavilion in the centre of the camp. The orc guards admitted him with the relief of those seeing another target for the freezing fury that emanated from within the rich canopy of heavy gold braided cloth. Already shivering from fear, Haselrig found his teeth chattering at the subzero temperatures within the tent. The lich was pacing across the thick carpet before his heavy hardwood throne. The metal surfaces were coated in a fine frost of frozen vapour and the deep red light of Maelgrum’s eye sockets throbbed with menace.
He spared Haselrig the briefest glance before beginning his interrogation. “What know you of the art of planar gatesss, Hassselrig?”
Haselrig flung himself prostrate on the floor and exclaimed, “my knowledge is much less than yours, oh Master.” The formula of fawning flattery had been his safest recourse in countless other crises, but on this occasion it seemed only to deepen the lich’s anger.
“My own knowledge isss infinite, I do not need you to tell me ssso. My quessstion wasss what isss your knowledge?”
“Only that which you have seen fit to share with me, in person or in the papers you have bid me examine.”
“Then tell me. What sssecretsss have you gleaned through that inssspection?”
“Ah,” Haselrig gulped. There was a great peril waiting for him in the question. Maelgrum suspected him of something and, in his fear, the antiquary could quite credit that he had committed some inadvertent fault which might have compromised his Master’s plans. However, bereft of any idea where he might have occasioned his Master’s distress, every answer he gave could trigger some explosive trap of undead fury to go off in his face.
“Hasss the cat got your tongue little one?” Maelgrum prompted. “Sssay what you know of the planesss and the gatesss. Ssspeak sssoon or die ssslowly?”
“Yes, Master. At once. Well the planes are the different planes of existence, intertwined in space and time, but yet entirely separate and invisible to each other. The gates are the openings between the planes which only great masters like yourself can create or control.”
Maelgrum sniffed, “why every child would know asss much. If that isss all I have taught you then you are a worthlessss ssstudent.”
“The planes each have their own worlds and inhabitants. I know you have long explored the infinite reaches of the planes and brought many of their denizens as servants to strengthen your power and glory, most recently the visit of the winged ladies.”
Maelgrum nodded. “You are obssservant. Perhapsss too much ssso. What elssse have you noted?”
“But little, my Master. I know only that the twisted structure of the different planes means that time and space do not run in step in each of the planes. A skilled navigator of the planes can use this to their advantage, taking a path through the planes to arrive in one place but a moment after leaving a spot many leagues away.”
“A moment after?” Maelgrum’s head tilted to one side.
“Just so, Master.”
“And you have ssseen the gatesss I have ocasssionally opened?”
“As great oval windows in the air, Master, that a man or beast can see and step through, though I have not yet been fortunate enough to earn your favour in travelling thus myself.”
Maelgrum came towards the prone and trembling ex-priest and knelt before him. A fog of freezing vapour descended on the shivering human. “Now Hassselrig tell me and ssspeak true, what know you of a blue gate?”
“A blue gate?” Haselrig’s best defence was his ingenuous surprise at the question. “Why Master, I know nothing of a blue gate.”
“Have you read of sssuch a thing, ssseen one, or ssspoken of it with anyone, perhapsss with the lady?”
“Dema?” Haselrig almost laughed at the thought. “The Lady has little enough time for me, or I for her, and we have never spoken of any of the magic of the planes.”
There was a long still pause while Maelgrum weighed the ex-priest’s answer. It was only when the Lich stood up, that Haselrig realised he had been holding his own breath.
“You are disssmisssed,” Maelgrum announced airily as he turned and settled into his throne.
A brief spark of curiosity flourished in the relief that washed over Haselrig. As he struggled to his feet he asked, “what does it mean, Master, the blue gate? Is it something you have done?”
“It isss sssomething I will do, Hassselrig, sssomething I mussst do.”
“When Master?”
The question hung between them for a moment until Maelgrum uttered, with some surprise, three words that Haselrig had never heard him say before. “I don’t know.”
When the ex-priest stood open mouthed, the Lich waved him impatiently away. “Go Hassselrig. I have other ssservantsss I mussst ssspeak with and thisss evening I find your sssight offendsss me.”
Haselrig needed no greater encouragement to scurry from his Master’s presence.
***
Kaylan was puzzled. Resigned to his fate he had resolved to sell his life dearly with the rising Sun and now it seemed that no such payment would be necessary.
Pursued by the nomads, he had at last emerged into clear air from the stubbornly thick fog bank that stretched from North East to South West. However, he had gone but a mile or so further before his horse had caught its foreleg enough to lame it. Abandoning the animal, he had headed south on foot, towards the Hadrans. Exhaustion had overwhelmed him at a small copse of trees, just as a line of pursuers had emerged from the fog. Distant specks though they might be, Kaylan knew that the horses they had husbanded through the fog would soon close the distance between them and him. Nightfall had given him time to prepare himself for the unavoidable, sleeping fitfully and always looking towards the distant campfire of his nemesis.
But when dawn broke, there had been no sign of the nomads or the Governor. The open plain was clear all the way to the obstinate fog into which they must have returned. Kaylan picked his way North again, on foot. At the abandoned camp of the nomads he found the signs of a fire, charred timbers on which suffocating dirt had been poured long before the wood was exhausted. The tracks showed them retracing the
ir path back into the fog.
The thief scratched his head. What had changed the Governor’s mind? Had he realised what a wild goose chase they had been drawn on? If so had Kaylan bought Niarmit enough time to escape them, always assuming they could pick up her trail in this deep fog. Kaylan himself was in no hurry to subject himself once more to the disorientating mistiness. He sat a while in the nomads’ abandoned camp, the stress of pursuit receding but also with it went his chances of serving or finding Niarmit.
***
Quintala swung herself into the saddle just as the triumvirate of Rugan, Kychelle and Giseanne emerged into the courtyard. Around her the lancers were mounting up in the dim morning light.
“Where are you going, sister?” The Prince demanded, the familial greeting tarnished somewhat by his petulant tone.
“What does it matter to you where I go, brother?”
“No one may depart here without my leave,” Rugan began in robust voice. At a cough and a severe stare from Kychelle he added more gently. “It is a matter of common courtesy.”
“I have found courtesy to be in somewhat short supply in my stay here,” she rebuked him.
“We have need of your counsel,” Kychelle interrupted before Rugan could respond.
Quintala snorted contemptuously. “For ten days now I have rattled down your rich corridors, while the voice and views of my Lady’s wardrobe mistress have been heeded more than mine. You had your chance of my advice and made clear you wanted it not.”
“Tomorrow my army marches for the Palacintas and the border with Morsalve, there will be a place near its head for you,” Rugan announced.
“Tomorrow, always tomorrow, brother. I am done with waiting for your tomorrows.”