The Mammoth Book Of Warriors and Wizardry (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Sean Wallace

  In the morning, he walked back to the city, but avoided the gate. Using an entry route and methods known to the Guild, he made his way to the house where he kept his strongroom. He watched from concealment for most of the morning, but saw no signs that the house had become of interest to anyone other than himself.

  Finally, he sauntered up the walk. While he was getting out his key, he noted that the almost invisible hair he had pasted across the crack between door and jamb was still in place. He went in and found no trace of an intruder.

  Whistling, he hoisted the sack that contained Firondel’s curios and descended the hidden passage to his strongroom. He opened the great door and stepped within – to find that the space was empty. Worse, he was plunged into sudden darkness and surrounded by a roaring wind. When the noise stopped and light returned, he was in a place he had only seen from the outside: the headquarters of the Ancient and Worthy Council of Wizards and Thaumaturges.

  He looked about him at the figures seated on the tiers of benches and saw no friendly faces. The questions began, and the inducements to give satisfactory answers.

  Raffalon stuck to a plausible story: Glabro, resentful of Hurdevant in particular and generally jealous of his worthier colleagues, had planned the entire exercise. The thief had been a mere hireling, and knew nothing of the spells the wizard had woven to defeat their wards and defenses. He did not mention the Demiurge or his workshop.

  In the end, if he was not totally believed, he was not totally disbelieved. “What shall we do with him?” said Zhazh Optimus, the current chair of the Council, when the wizards understood that they had gained all the satisfaction they were likely to achieve. Several suggestions were advanced, while Raffalon trembled. After a few moments, he interrupted the argument.

  “Whatever you do to me,” he said, “please don’t let it be what Glabro threatened me with if I did not perform.”

  Zhazh eyed the thief the way a bird eyes a worm. “And what would that be?” he said.

  Raffalon recited, as if by rote, “Ixtlix’s Sprightly Wearaway, Chunt’s Descending Flambeau, and a spell that would send me into the desert.”

  “All three together?” said a spectrally thin thaumaturge. “It would never work. No harmony of fluxions.”

  The thief made a gesture expressing his inability to judge the matter. “I only know what he told me,” he said. “He’d done it to someone once. It sounded awful.”

  “Hmm,” said Zhazh. He went to one of the bookcases in the Council chamber and ran his finger along the serried spines, looking for a particular volume. “Hurdevant had a theory about synthesis.” He found the tome he was seeking and opened it. “And if Glabro could do it . . .”

  He paused, a finger halfway down a page, and smiled a wizard’s cruel smile. “Ixtlix’s Sprightly Wearaway, Chunt’s Descending Flambeau, and a sending spell, you say?”

  “Oh, no!” cried Raffalon. “Not that! Anything but that!”

  AT THE EDGE OF DYING

  Mary Robinette Kowal

  Kahe peeked over the edge of the earthen trench as his tribe’s retreating warriors broke from the bamboo grove on to the lava field. The tribesmen showed every sign of panicked flight in front of the advancing Ouvallese. Spears and shields dropped to the ground as they tucked in their arms and ran.

  And the Ouvallese, arrogant with their exotic horses and metal armor, believed what they saw and chased the warriors toward him. The timing on this would be close. Kahe gathered the spell in his mind and double-checked the garrote around his neck. His wife stood behind him, the ends resting lightly in her hands. “Do it.”

  Bless her, Mehahui did not hesitate. She hauled back, cutting into his throat with the knotted cord. Kahe tried not to struggle as his breath was cut off. Black dots swirled in his vision, but he could not afford to faint yet.

  With each breath he could not take, with each step closer to death, Kahe’s power grew. As the tribe’s warriors reached the trench and leaped down, he scanned the lava field to make certain none was left behind. Vision fading, he unleashed the spell coiled inside him.

  The heat from the firestorm singed the air as it swept out from his trench. Even through his graying sight, the blue flame burned like the sun as it raced toward the Ouvallese battalion. Screams rose like prayer as his spell crisped the men in their armor.

  As soon as the spell rolled out, Mehahui released her hold and Kahe fell against the damp red soil. The grains of dirt blended with the dots dancing in front of his eyes, so the very earth seemed to move. Air scraped across his tortured throat as life flooded into him. He gasped as the goddess’s gift of power faded.

  Beyond his own wrenching sobs, Kahe heard the agonized screams of those Ouvallese too distant to be instantly immolated. He prayed to Hia that his spell had gotten most of them; the goddess of death and magic had rarely failed him. Still, the kings of the tribes would have to send runners out to deal with the burned soldiers; a dying enemy was too dangerous to allow to linger.

  Mehahui patted him, soft as a duckling, on the back. Her round face hovered in the edge of his vision. “Stay with me.”

  Kahe coughed when he tried to speak. “I am.” His throat scraped as if it were filled with thorns. He knew she hated seeing him downed by a spell, but flirting with Hia was the only way to get the power he needed for a spell this big. Pushing against the earth wall, Kahe sat up.

  His head swam. The dirt thrummed under his hands.

  The vibration grew to a roar and the earth bucked. A wall collapsed. Dirt spilled into the trench, as the earth quaked.

  No. A sorcerer must have been at the edge of his firestorm and, by almost killing him, Kahe had given him access to Hia’s power – only a dying man would have enough power to work magic on the earth itself. As the trench shifted and filled with falling rocks, the spell he needed to counter it sprang to his mind but without power. He turned to Mehahui even while knowing there wasn’t enough time for the garrote to work. He fumbled for the knife at his side.

  The tremors stopped.

  Dust settled in the suddenly still air but he had not cast the counter-spell. Even if he had, it would have been as a rush lamp beside a bonfire.

  Around them, men in the earthworks called to each other for aid or reassurance. Trickles of new dirt slid down the wall in miniature red avalanches. King Enahu scrambled over a mound, using his long spear as a walking staff.

  “Hia’s left tit! You’re still alive.” He slid down the side of the trench, red dirt smearing his legs with an illusion of blood. “When you stopped the earthquake, I didn’t think you could have survived the spell. Not so soon after working the other.”

  “I didn’t stop it.” Kahe watched Mehahui instead of the king. Her skin had bleached like driftwood and she would not meet his eyes.

  Beside him, King Enahu inhaled sharply, understanding what Kahe meant. “There’s another sorcerer in the ranks? Hia, Pikeo, and the Mother! This could be the saving of us. Who?”

  Mehahui hung her head, her hair falling around her face like rain at night. “It’s me.”

  Kahe’s heart stuttered, as if he had taken makiroot poison for a spell. Hia only gave her power to those on the road to death. “That’s not possible.”

  “I’m dying, Kahe.” His beautiful wife lifted her head and Kahe could not understand how he had missed the dark circles under her eyes.

  With only a thin blanket covering her, every breeze in the hut chilled Mehahui. She shivered and kept her attention focused on the thatched pili-leaf ceiling while the surgeon poked at her.

  Iokua stepped back from the table. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?” he asked.

  Clinging to the blanket, Mehahui sat up. “Could you have done anything?”

  “I could have tried.”

  They had studied under the same masters at the Paheni Academy of Medicinal Arts; she didn’t need Iokua to tell her that only palliative care was possible. “Are you finished?”

  He nodded and Mehahui wrapped her felted
skirt back around her waist. Her hands shook when she tucked in the ends of the fabric. “Will you tell Kahe? I can’t.” She pulled her hair away from her face, securing it with the tortoiseshell pins Kahe had given her for their fifteenth anniversary. She tucked a red suhibis flower behind her left ear so her married status was clear – not that she needed it. Everyone in the united tribes knew Kahe.

  Iokua tugged at his graying doctor’s braid. “As you wish.” He paused to pick up the sandalwood surgeon’s mask and settled it on his face. The image of the goddess hid his worry behind her fragrant, smooth cheeks. Carved filigree of whale bone formed the mask’s eyes, giving no hint of the man beneath.

  He pushed aside the hanging in the door of the hut. Outside, Kahe was pacing on the lanai. He stopped, face tightening like leather as he saw the surgeon’s mask, but he came when Iokua beckoned him.

  Mehahui could not say anything as she took her husband’s hand. The scars on the inside of his wrists stood out in angry relief.

  Iokua bowed formally. “Your wife has a tumor in her abdomen.” The mask flattened his voice.

  “Can you cut it out of her?” Kahe sounded like she was still strangling him.

  “No.” The surgeon’s mask was impassive. “I’m sorry.”

  Despite her husband’s touch, Mehahui felt herself shrink into the far distance.

  “How long does she have?”

  The mask turned to her, cold and neutral, though the voice underneath was not. “I suspect Mehahui will know better than I.”

  And she did know. Underneath the constant ache in her belly, the mass hummed with the goddess’s power. She had known she was dying, but until today she had been afraid to prove it.

  Kahe grasped her hand tighter. “Mehahui?”

  Blindly, she turned toward him. “Weeks. Maybe.”

  As soon as they were alone, Kahe said, “Why didn’t you tell me?” When had the soft curves of her face turned to planes?

  “You would have tried to heal me.”

  Hia dealt out the power to kill but was more sparing with her willingness to heal. She would grant a life only in exchange for another. Kahe could have healed Mehahui, could still heal her, but only if he were willing to be taken to Hia’s breast himself. And to do that would leave the king without a sorcerer.

  He stood and paced the three strides that their tiny house allowed. The pili-leaf walls pressed in on him and his throat still felt tight. After all the times Mehahui had nearly killed him, only now did he feel the impact of death. He went over the list of poisons in his kit. “Makiroot acts slowly enough that I could work spells for the king until it was time to heal you. I’d be stronger than I am from strangling, so—”

  “Stop. Kahe, stop.” Mehahui clutched the sides of her head. “Do you think I could live with the guilt if you wasted your death on me?”

  “It wouldn’t be a waste!”

  “Will you look beyond me? Paheni is being invaded. The South Shore Tribe have allied with the Ouvallese and we are overwhelmed. Hia has given us this gift and—”

  “A gift!” If the goddess presented herself right then, he would have spit in her face.

  “Yes, a gift! It’s like Hia and Pikeo’s Crossroads all over again. Can you imagine a better meeting of death and luck? It’s not as if I am a common housewife – I’ve worked at your side; I know all the spells but I’ve never had the power to cast them. Hia gave me this so we can win the war.” Mehahui held out her hands to him. “Please. Please don’t take this from me.”

  Kahe could not go to her, though he knew she was right. Her power would only grow, as his mentor’s had at the end of his life. In short order, she would surpass what he could do, and the tribes needed that to turn the tide in their favor.

  But he needed her more. “How long do you have? Think deeply about it, and Hia will tell you the time remaining.”

  Mehahui’s gaze turned inward. He watched her, sending a prayer to Pikeo for a little bit of luck. Hia’s brother could be fickle, but Kahe no longer trusted his patron goddess.

  “Eighteen days.” Those two words shook Mehahui’s voice.

  But a tiny seed of hope sprouted in Kahe. “That might be enough.”

  “What? Enough for what?”

  “To get you to Hia’au.” Pilgrims from every tribe went to the goddess’s city to die and sometimes – sometimes Hia would grant them the power to heal with their dying breath.

  Mehahui looked at him like he had lost his senses. “But we lost Hia’au to Ouvalle.”

  Kahe nodded. “That’s why we have to win this war quickly.”

  * * *

  King Enahu’s great house, despite the broad windows opening on to a terraced lanai, felt close and stifling with the narrow thoughts of the other kings who had gathered to meet with him. Kahe’s knees ached from kneeling on the floor behind Enahu.

  King Waitipi played with the lei of ti leaves around his neck, pulling the leaves through his fat hands in a fragrant rattle. “We are sorry to hear of your wife’s illness, but I fail to see how this changes any of our strategies.”

  Kahe bent his head before answering. “With respect, your majesty, it changes everything. Mehahui will be stronger than me in a matter of days. What’s more, she can cast spells at a moment’s notice. We can take the battle right to the Ouvallese ships and handle anything that they cast at us.”

  “I’ll admit it’s tempting to retake Hia’au.” The bright-yellow feathers of King Enahu’s cloak fluttered in the breeze. Across his knees lay the long spear he used in battle as a reminder of his strength.

  King Haleko said, “I, for one, do not want to subject our troops to another massacre like Keonika Valley.”

  “I understand your concern, your majesty. But the Ouvallese only have one full sorcerer from their alliance with the South Shore tribe. With Mehahui’s power added to mine, we can best them.”

  “Of course I do not doubt your assessment of your wife’s power” – King Waitipi plucked at a ti leaf, shredding it – “but it seems to me that the South Shore tribe is making out much the best in this. Should we not reconsider our position?”

  So many kings, so few rulers.

  King Ehanu scowled. “Reconsider? The Ouvallese offered to let us rule over a portion of our land. A portion. As if they have the right to take whatever they wish. I will not subject my people to rule by outlanders.”

  “Nor I.” King Haleko nodded, gray hair swaying around his head. “But this does raise some interesting possibilities.” King Haleko’s words raised hope for a moment. “Would the infirm in our hospices offer more sorcerers?”

  “You would find power without knowledge. Hia’s gift only comes to those who study and are willing to make the sacrifice of themselves.”

  “But your wife—”

  “My wife . . .” Kahe had to stop to keep from drowning in his longing for her.

  In the void, King Enahu spoke. “The lady Mehahui has studied at Kahe’s side all the years they have been in our service.”

  Kahe begged his king, “This war could be over in two weeks, if you let us go to the South Harbor. It would not divert troops; only a small band need come with us. No more than ten to protect us until we reach the South Harbor where the Ouvallese are moored. We could wipe them out in a matter of minutes.” And then, though he would not say it out loud, he could take Mehahui to the Hia’ua and pray that one of the dying in the goddess’s city would heal her.

  King Enahu scowled. “Pikeo’s Hawk! You’re asking me to bet my kingdom that your wife is right about how long she has to live. What happens if we extend ourselves to attack and are cut off because she dies early? Everything is already in place to stop Ouvalle’s incursions into King Waitipi’s land. I need you there, not at the South Shore.”

  “Well.” King Waitipi let the lei fall from his hand. “You’ve convinced me this merits more discussion and thought. Let us consider it more at the next meeting.”

  Kahe slammed his fists on the floor in front of him, send
ing a puff of dust into the air. “Eighteen days. She has eighteen days. We don’t have time to wait.”

  The men in the great hall tensed. Kings, all of them, and disrespect could mean a death sentence.

  Half-turning, Enahu let his hands rest on the spear across his knees. “Kahe. You are here on my sufferance. Do not forget yourself.”

  Trembling, Kahe bit his tongue and took a shallow breath. He bowed his head low until it rested on the floor. “Forgive me, your highness.”

  King Waitipi giggled like a girl. “You are no doubt distraught because of your wife’s condition. I remind you that she will find grace with Hia no matter the outcome of our meetings.”

  Kahe knew that better than any king could.

  But to wait until they made up their mind was worse than trusting Mehahui’s life to the hands of Hia’s brother god, Pikeo – luck had never been his friend.

  If they did not decide fast enough, he would take Mehahui and go to the goddess’s city without waiting for leave. He tasted the chalky dust as he knelt with his forehead pressed against the floor. Leaving his king would mean abandoning his tribe in the war.

  Surely Hia could not ask for a higher sacrifice. Surely she would spare Mehahui for that.

  Mehahui could not remember the last time she had seen a crossroad instead of the usual roundabout. Most people went out of their way to avoid invoking the gods with crossed paths, connecting even forest tracks like this with diagonals and circles.

  She half expected Hia and Pikeo to materialize and relive their famous bet.

  A cramp twisted in her belly. Mehahui pressed her fist hard into her middle, trying to push the pain away. It was clear which god would use her as a game piece if they appeared. Doubling over, a moan escaped her.

  She tried to straighten but Kahe had already returned to her. “Are you all right?”

  Mehahui forced a laugh. “Oh. Fine. Hia’s gift is being a talkative one this morning.” She unclenched her fist and patted him on the arm. “It will pass.”

  “Can I do anything?” He caught her hand and squeezed it. Every angle of his body spoke of worry.