EXILED Wizard of Tizare

by Matthew J. Costello

  Falon had expected a city, a town ... something recognizable. A place where mrem had once lived and worked and played. Instead, he saw something that could have grown from the sand itself.

  He would have missed it easily, if Sirrom hadn’t pointed it out when it was still in the distance.

  At first, Falon saw nothing but some irregular bumps, nothing that would catch his attention even in the vast yellow sea of sand. But as they got closer, the shapes became more distinct, even if they still seemed more natural than man-made.

  There was only one location higher than any other, and it just barely protruded above the jagged outline of the ruins. They were walking into the sun now, with about an hour of light left, so that even later as they came quite close the whole area seemed indistinct.

  The nearness of their destination inspired Ashre to trot ahead. Sirrom quickly called him back.

  “Stay with us,” he gently ordered. “I don’t know what we’re likely to face there.”

  Falon assumed that Ashre would be the first to know of any danger. On the other hand, he hadn’t been doing so well with his magic lately. Maybe his village elders were right; it was all just undependable herd magic.

  Falon walked over to Sirrom, Slowly, he was coming to trust him, even if he knew that he was a convicted murderer. There was a sense of calm assurance. Nothing was ruffling his fur.

  “What is it we’re likely to find there?” he asked him. Sirrom pulled at his whiskers. “Most likely nothing. It has occasionally been used as a base to stage raids on the neighboring small villages and cities. But most of the time it’s just an abandoned spot in the desert.”

  “My father,” Taline interrupted, “says that the book was buried with the last Holy One of the cult, someone named Charissar.”

  “Charissar? Wouldn’t grave robbers have made off with the book, and anything else of value?” Falon asked.

  Sirrom shook his head. “I doubt it. The mrem are a superstitious breed. Even a dead cult would make them nervous. As for the Eastern Lords, they reportedly have more gods than there are stars in the sky. I don’t think any simpleminded soldier would disturb the grave.” He turned to Falon, and grinned. “Of course, I could be wrong.”

  Anarra was still behind them, Falon saw. Eyes down, taking the measure of every step, struggling to get through the sand. Even Taline seemed distant from her now, and Falon almost felt sorry for the struggling female.

  Almost, but not quite.

  The ruins, he thought, looking ahead. Should be easy now. Get the book, return to Tizare. Claim the reward, maybe some position in the court of Lord Rhow, who certainly looked like a noble on the move.

  The ruins ... just ahead. And there didn’t seem to be anything that could go wrong.

  •

  Sirrom gathered everyone into a circle, taking full command now—a command that no one challenged. As shadows cut great swaths of brown-black into the alleyways and squat buildings, the buildings lost some of their stolid sunniness.

  “Anarra has torches for everyone,” Sirrom instructed. “Use them. I don’t know if there are any traps and holes to be avoided. I will help you search only because I want to be sure of getting out of here on time. But successful or not, we leave at dawn to return to my farmhouse. If you have time to sleep, do so. If anyone finds the burial site, signal by yelling and calling out. If no one hears you, recover the book and return here. We can all check back here during the night until someone finds the book.”

  Here, Falon saw, was a grim little courtyard surrounded by squat buildings with stairs leading down. If anything, the buildings seemed to submerge below the sand. Some of the entrances were completely blocked by huge boulders. Others looked open for business.

  “And weapons?” Taline asked.

  “Take everything that you brought. Everything. There doesn’t seem to be anyone here now. If they are here, they’re hiding. But we don’t know for sure. Be alert. And, except for me, you’d best stay in pairs.”

  Falon looked at Ashre, who nodded eagerly.

  The last bit of light vanished from the top’ of the buildings.

  Falon gathered his weapons, a heavy, double-edged sword that had seen much use and a shorter, rapier-like sword, a weapon that seemed more appropriate to an assassin. For the first time in his life, he wore throat armor and shields that covered his forearms. His pack was loaded down with three torches, flints, rope, and a chunk of metal rod.

  “For opening the coffin,” Anarra explained,

  “Oh ...” he replied. How silly of him not to know.

  “I’ll take the eastern edge,” Sirrom said.

  Fine with me, Falon thought.

  “South,” Taline said.

  “North,” Falon added.

  “Whoever finishes first can return to look in the west. Good luck to everyone.”

  Then Falon and Ashre were alone.

  “Well, Ash, if you get any bright ideas along the way be sure to let me know.” The kit grinned. “And I don’t want to be chasing you through these buildings. Stay with me. Understood?”

  “Understood. Falon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever been here before?”

  “Me? Here?” He laughed. “I doubt it.”

  Ashre’s face seemed confused. He bit his lip. “You’re sure?”

  “As sure as I can be of anything, I’ve never been off the highlands before. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Just a funny feeling I had. Like you’ve seen this before.”

  “Not as far as I know, Ash. Let’s get going.”

  The young highlander led the way toward the northern section of the ruins.

  •

  For a while it wasn’t necessary to use the torches. There was enough light to see the buildings. And Falon could make out the strange carvings that he found on every entrance.

  They were not in any written language he recognized.

  But once they were inside, in the total blackness, they quickly lit their torches. Falon heard Ashre’s breathing pick up an irregular rhythm. He found himself taking great gulps of the stale, dry air.

  It wasn’t exactly a bad smell. But it certainly was a dead smell.

  The interiors were, for the most part, deserted. The searchers found nothing of interest except the bones and scraps of some visitors who came, ate, and left their garbage as a marker. There weren’t even the furtive darting and glowing eyes of any small occupants.

  Not surprising, since there wasn’t any game for them to eat.

  Gradually Falon and Ashre, made their way to the tallest structure, a temple perhaps. Close up it loomed over the other buildings. It seemed to have an extra floor, and then some kind of open area.

  Falon could easily imagine it as the setting for some strange ceremonies.

  Then it hit him.

  Slowly, starting as an indefinable feeling, uncomfortable, then growing into a chilly, disturbing unease. His fur seemed to stand on end ... his lips pulled back from his teeth. Anyone looking would have seen his fangs protruding and wondered what in the world was wrong with him.

  He turned left, pulling ahead of Ashre, down an alleyway ... that he knew would be there.

  “Wait!” Ashre called.

  But now Falon moved quickly, breathing hard, turning left and right, knowing what each turn would bring. He ran on, not caring that Ashre lost sight of him.

  This is madness, he thought. How can I know this? What kind of sick sorcery has come over me?

  There was only one sorcerer there, he realized.

  Right behind him.

  Young ... innocent ... and loaded to the tips of his ears with powerful magic.

  “Magic is from the beasts!” the elders preached, over and over. “There is no room for magic in the world of the mrem!”

  Falon leaned against the wa
ll. It was a temple, the highlander knew now, a place for ceremonies, dark and mysterious.

  He closed his eyes; and he saw inside the temple.

  He saw the great tomb, right inside the temple walls.

  •

  As soon as Falon had run away, Ashre felt it: the sudden fear, the terrible confusion.

  “Falon!” he called to the disappearing figure, but it didn’t stop. So the kit ran as hard as he could, following the waving trail of Falon’s torch as he weaved his way through the deserted alleys.

  The kit came to an open area. Beyond it was the big building they had seen from the distance, looming over everything else in Gfaar. Across the square Falon staggered against the wall, leaning as if he would fall down if it wasn’t there.

  And then Ashre sensed the danger.

  So strong, he couldn’t imagine how he hadn’t felt it all along.

  They weren’t alone.

  Ashre turned left and right, trying to see where the feeling was coming from, his heart beating loudly.

  “Falon,” he said quietly. “We’re not—”

  He was looking left, then right. . . ;

  Then straight up. To the top of the strange building. The top was ringed with heavy carved statues, massive shapes that looked like nothing—and something evil at the same time. One of them was quivering, shaking, rocking back and forth—right over Falon.

  “Falon!” he yelled.

  Falon turned, so slowly, looking at Ashre.

  The block of stone, now an animal, now a spiraling curve, tottered back and forth and finally tumbled forward.

  Ashre saw a hand just behind it. A glimpse, no more. Still Falon stood against the wall, shaking, his tongue darting in and out, in and out.

  The block was tumbling down, right on Falon.

  Ashre ran, screaming, crying.

  You’re all I have, he thought. What is there left for me if you’re gone?

  Down.

  The kit saw Falon turn and look at him. His eyes showed that he understood nothing.

  No matter, Ashre thought. I’m quick. And strong.

  He sent his body flying into Falon, smashing into him, and Falon staggered backwards, while Ashre stopped dead.

  He fell to the ground, where Falon had been leaning moments earlier.

  The stone—massive, blocking out a whole section of the

  sky—came down.

  Falling down upon him ... as he looked up.

  “Falon!” he screamed.

  Then everything was quiet.

  FOR A second, Falon didn’t know what was happening. He was lost to his dreams, to the haunted feelings this place made him feel. And the undeniable knowledge that somehow, he seemed to know where he was.

  Then, from far away, he heard Ashre calling out to him. It was a faint sound, barely audible amidst the rumble of his crazed thoughts.

  Ashre ... calling him, then knocking him down. The blow sent Falon tumbling onto the sandy ground, rolling over and over.

  He heard him call again. A strangled sound now, not a warning cry but a plea for help. He heard that and, as he scrambled to his feet, he saw the great stone block land on top of Ashre.

  Covering him completely.

  “No!” Falon screamed. He ran to the block, now as still as if it had always been there. Unmoving ... now unmovable.

  “No!” he yelled again, banging his hands against it, over and over and over until they were both bloody. He collapsed against it. His hands still touched the cold stone, as if he could feel the kit’s heartbeat through the block.

  His torch sputtered behind him, lying on the ground.

  Then it went out. He looked up, and he saw where the block had once rested. Other blocks—each one different—circled the temple.

  He stood up and looked around.

  Perhaps the danger wasn’t over.

  But it was still, quiet. No sound except the gentle desert breeze making high-pitched melodies as the wind traveled through the twisting streets and around the flat buildings.

  “Ashre ...” Falon said quietly.

  He turned away. He started crying, rubbing at the tears, trying to clear his eyes, over and over, until the world was one terribly, terribly sad blur.

  •

  How long he stood there crying, Falon didn’t know. Even when his eyes went dry, he still heaved.

  His mind wouldn’t let him stop seeing the final picture. Again and again, the last moment of Ashre’s life was played out before him in cruel detail.

  And only when he thought he’d go mad if he thought of it one more time, only then did he pick up his torch, rekindle it, and walk into the temple.

  His first step away from the fallen statue was the longest he ever took.

  The entrance to the temple was clear, but there were signs that it had been used by others before him. His torch picked up the remains of small fires. He held the torch up and swung it around.

  The wall was covered with some of the same shapes found on the statues that sat on the roof. Here, inside the gloom, they took on the shape of animals, or worse. Here was a creature with eyes all over its chest. There was some animal with legs emerging from its chest.

  He’d blink, and then they were just odd shapes, nothing more.

  The great room was empty. Just past it, though, he saw a hallway.

  He rested a hand on his sword ... not that he’d be able to wield it too quickly. The sheer weight and size of it would mean it would take him a while to get it out and ready.

  Still, it felt better having his hand on it.

  Now that he was without Ashre—to give him warning, to laugh at his fears.

  Had someone pushed that block? And were they in here, waiting for another chance to kill him? Some robber … some renegade mrem ... some liskash?

  If they’re here, he thought, I will kill them.

  Or die trying.

  He moved down the hallway. It was cool, the air almost icy. His torch blackened the ceiling, and his nostrils sniffed at the pungent odor.

  There were rooms on both sides of him as he walked.

  Chambers for priests, perhaps. Or private meeting rooms. Or for whatever strange activities the cult practiced.

  All of them empty and deserted.

  Finally he came to a room with a gate. He pushed against the gate, and it fell from the crumbly walls, clattering noisily to the ground. Whatever secrets the temple tried to protect must have been discovered long ago.

  He stepped into the room and swirled the torch around.

  There were names written on the wall. The letters were elaborate and ornate, decorated with all sorts of flourishes and filigree. There were five names.

  And one of them was Charissar.

  “Charissar ...” he said quietly, and the sound of it in the small chamber startled him. He looked around the tiny room, and at the names on the wall. He stepped outside again.

  Falon checked to see how close the next room was. But he didn’t even see another room. Just a wall, and the end of the corridor. He started back to the small room.

  He thought he heard a sound, from above him, or maybe from outside ... he couldn’t be sure. The sound of steps or rock moving. His claws went into the heavy hilt of the sword, holding it tight. He turned and listened carefully, sniffing at the air.

  But there was nothing more. He turned slowly, back into the room, pausing every few seconds to crane his neck and listen.

  Charissar! Could this be his tomb? he wondered.

  There was, unfortunately, only one way to find out. He found a place to lodge the torch, and then took out his heavy sword. It felt good to have it in his hand, even if he was about to use it to dig.

  Anarra had neglected to include shovels in their handy packs.

  Falon started scratching at the wall, but hi
s blade only cut furrows into the porous stone. He tried following a pattern, scratching at the surface of the wall, trying to find someplace where it felt different.

  Then he realized he’d have to work his blade in deeper. He leaned against the hilt, jabbing his sword into the wall. If it all felt the same after, a few inches, he pulled it out and tried another location, each time wondering if there even was a coffin.

  Then, by the All-Mother, he felt something. His blade seemed to go crunching inward with a sudden ease.

  He had found something.

  Falon worked quickly now, clawing at the stone, trying to expose whatever was inside the wall.

  And slowly the outline of a coffin appeared. The sword was ungainly in his hand, but it cut through the sandstone easily. It crumbled to the floor, and the crystal pile gathered at his feet.

  Then he could see it. A coffin, much more ornate than the simple boxes his villagers went to the ground in. A handle stuck out and he grabbed at it.

  He pulled, but nothing happened.

  He put down his sword and grabbed the handle with his two hands. The torch was burning faintly. He pulled. And suddenly he heard someone step over the fallen metal gate.

  “No!” Falon yelled. He spun around, groping down to the floor for his sword, his wild swipe missing the weapon.

  If this was who. was responsible for Ashre’s death, they were going to die, he swore. He fumbled some more on the ground for the sword.

  “If I were a liskash, you’d be in my belly by now,” the voice laughed.

  Finally he had his sword—“Taline—I thought—”

  She shook her head. “Anarra and I heard voices, screaming. We hurried here and I heard digging sounds inside.”

  Falon lowered his sword. “Ashre ... he’s dead. Crushed ...” He felt his control slipping. It was so cold in here. Cold and dark.

  “No ... by the All-Mother! How did it happen?”

  “He saved me. . . he saved me!” Falon wailed. “Pushed me away from a falling statue. The stone crushed him.”