The Wiz Biz

by Rick Cook

  Wiz drained his drink before answering. “Couple of hours, I guess. I’ll have to run a bunch of tests to make sure nothing else is wrong.” He stood up and stretched. “But first I’m going to get another Coke—if the damn machine isn’t empty again. You want one?”

  “Nah,” Jerry said, typing rapidly and not looking up. “I’m probably gonna knock off in a few minutes.”

  “Okay,” said Wiz and sauntered out the office door.

  Save for the clicking of Jerry’s keyboard and the hiss of the air conditioner the corridor was quiet. Wiz glanced at his watch and realized it was nearly five A.M. Not that it mattered much. Programmers set their own hours at ZetaSoft and that was one of the reasons Will Zumwalt was still with the company.

  The drink machine was next to a side door and Wiz decided to step out for a breath of dawn air. He loved this time of day when everything was cool and quiet and even the air was still, waiting. As long as I don’t have to get up at this hour! he thought as he pushed the door open.

  ###

  The magical lines of force gathered and curled about the old wizard. They twisted and warped, clawing at the very fabric of the Universe and bending it to a new shape. Far to the South, across the Freshened Sea, a point of light appeared in the watery depths of an enormous copper bowl.

  “A hit,” proclaimed the watcher, a lean shaven-skull man in a brown robe.

  “What is it?” asked Xind, Master of the Sea of Scrying. He descended heavily from his dais and waddled across the torch-lit chamber hewn of blackest basalt to peer over the acolyte’s shoulder.

  Looking deep into the murky water his eyes traced the map of the World in the lines cut deep into the bowl’s bottom. There was indeed a spark there. Magic where no magic ought to be. Around the edge of the bowl the other three acolytes shifted nervously but kept their eyes fixed to their own sectors.

  “I do not know, Master, but it’s strong and growing stronger. It looks like a major spell.”

  Xind, sorcerer of the Third Circle as the Dark League counted such things, passed a fat hand over the water as if wiping away a smear. “Hmm, yes. Wait, there’s something . . . By the heavens and hells! There are no wards. That’s a great wizard without protection!” His head snapped up. “Let the word be passed quickly!” The gray-robed apprentice crouched at the foot of the dais jumped up and ran to do his bidding.

  Xind stared back into the Sea of Scrying and his round, fat face creased into a particularly unattractive smile.

  “Fool,” he muttered to the spark in the bottom of the bowl.

  ###

  The haze in the clearing turned from wispy gray to opaque white to rosy pink. It contracted and coalesced until it took the form of a dark red door with a silver knob, floating a yard off the meadow. The grass bent away from it in all directions as if pressed down by an invisible ball. Moira concentrated on her chanting and pushed harder with all the magic she possessed.

  As if in slow motion the door opened and a man came through. He stepped out as if he expected solid ground and slowly toppled through when he found air. His eyes widened and his mouth formed a soundless O. Then everything was moving at normal speed and the man extended his arms.

  ###

  Wiz took two steps and fell three feet onto grass in what should have been a level walk. He caught himself with his arms and then collapsed with his nose in the green grass, weak, sick and disoriented. The light was different, he was facing the wrong way and he was so dizzy he couldn’t hold his head up. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on keeping his stomach in its proper place. The grass tickled his nose and the blades poked at his tightly shut eyes, but he ignored them.

  ###

  Patrius made a flicking gesture at the man and then returned to the business of completing the spell. Moira, absorbed in her chant, barely noticed the small drop of dark fluid fly from the Wizard’s fingertips and strike the new arrival on the temple. It splattered, spread and sank into the flesh and hair, leaving no sign of its passing.

  ###

  In the great, high, vaulted chantry of the Dark League, four black-robed wizards huddled about a glowing crystal. They murmured and moved like a flock of uneasy crows, all the while peering into the depths of the stone. Around them forces twisted and gathered.

  ###

  The attack came with a rush of magic, dark and sour. Moira cried out in terror and gestured frantically but she was thrust aside ruthlessly as the bolt lanced into the clearing and struck Patrius full-on.

  A crackling blue nimbus burst out around the old wizard. He raised his arms over his head as if to shield himself, but his clothes and beard burst into flame. In an instant he was a ghastly flaming scarecrow capering about the clearing and shrieking in mortal agony. He toppled over and the screams turned to a puling whimper. His flesh blackened and charred.

  Finally there was nothing but a smoldering husk with knees and arms flexed up against the body. He was so badly burned that there wasn’t even a smell in the air.

  Moira cowered sobbing on the ground, the blazing after-image burning in her sight even through her eyelids.

  ###

  Wiz had gone flat on his face when the bolt hit.

  All right, he told himself. Time to get up. On three. One, two . . . He realized he wasn’t going to make it, so he settled for rolling over on his back.

  “Lord?” a small voice asked tentatively.

  Wiz opened his eyes. Standing over him was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her waist-length hair was the color of burnished copper. Her skin was pale and creamy under a dusting of freckles. Her eyes were deep sea green. She was wearing a long skirt of forest green in some rough-woven material and a white peasant blouse with a scoop neck. Wiz stared.

  “Are you hurt, Lord?” the vision said in a lilting, musical voice. As she bent down to help Wiz up, he was treated to an ample display of cleavage.

  “N-n-n-no,” Wiz managed to stammer, dizzy from the transformation and awed by her loveliness. He looked into her face. “You’re beautiful,” he said softly.

  Moira saw the look in his eyes and swore under her breath. Fortuna! An infatuation spell! Patrius had bound this unknown wizard to her with an infatuation spell. Gently she helped the alien wizard to his feet and wondered if she should curtsey.

  “How are you called, Lord?” Moira asked respectfully.

  “Ah, Wiz. I’m Wiz Zumwalt, that is. Who are you?”

  “I am called Moira, Lord, a hedge witch of this place.” She ignored the discourtesy of his question. She reddened under his fixed gaze and wondered what to do next. She had already sent an urgent call for one of the Mighty to attend them, but even by the Wizard’s Way that would take time. Wizards did not like to be bothered by idle chatter, but this one stared so.

  “Lord, are you of the Mighty in your home?” she asked to make conversation.

  “Say what?”

  “Forgive me, Lord. The Mighty are the wizards of the first rank in our land.”

  “Wizards?” Between the transition and Moira, Wiz’s brain wasn’t working and he had never been much good at small talk with beautiful women.

  “Magicians. Sorcerers,” Moira said a little desperately. Wiz looked blank and a dreadful thought grew in the back of Moira’s mind. “Forgive me Lord, but you are a wizard, are you not?”

  “Huh. No, I’m not a wizard,” Wiz said numbly, shaking his head to clear it.

  Moira felt sick. This man was telling the truth! There was no sign or trace of magic about him, nothing save his odd clothing to distinguish him from any other mortal. She turned away from him and tears stung her eyes.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” Wiz laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “Everything,” Moira sobbed. “You’re not a wizard and Patrius is dead.”

  “Patrius . . . ?” Wiz trailed off. “Oh my God!” For the first time he saw the charred corpse at the edge of the clearing. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes,” Moir
a said fiercely. “You can help me bury him.”

  ###

  “If you value your life,” the black robe hissed, “keep your mouth shut and your eyes on the floor. Toth-Set-Ra has little patience with impertinence.” Xind led the acolyte down the flagged corridor. Their sandals scuffed on the rough stone floor and guttering torches in iron brackets gave a dim and uncertain light to guide them.

  The guards at the door were hobgoblins, creatures somewhat larger than men and nearly twice as broad and bulky. Their laced armor shone blackly by the torchlight and the honed edges of their halberds glinted evilly. At the approach of the wizards they snapped to attention.

  “Two with news for the Dread Master,” Xind said with considerably more assurance than he felt. “We are expected.” The hobgoblins nodded. One reached behind to swing open the great oaken door.

  Both wizard and acolyte prostrated themselves on the threshold.

  “Rise,” croaked a voice from within. “Rise and speak.”

  The room was dark but a baleful green light played round a high-backed chair and the figure hunched in it.

  Shakily, the pair rose and moved toward the light.

  The man in the chair was wizened and shrunk in on himself until he was more a mummy than a living man. But his eyes burned red in the black pits of his hairless skull and he moved with the easy grace of a serpent coiling to strike. The light seemed to come from within him, playing on the chair and the amethyst goblet in his hand. The reflected greenish glow made Xind’s complexion appear even more unhealthy than usual.

  “We have slain a wizard, Dread Master, one of the Mighty of the North.”

  “Yes,” Toth-Set-Ra hissed. “It was Patrius. May his soul rot forever. And you destroyed him. How nice.”

  The novice started and opened his mouth to ask how the wizard knew, but Xind trod on his foot in warning.

  “He was performing a Great Summoning, Dread Master,” Xind said, his head bowed respectfully.

  “Indeed?” croaked Toth-Set-Ra. “Oh, indeed?” His reptilian gaze slid over his subordinates and settled back on the carved goblet. “And what was it that was Summoned?”

  Xind licked his lips. “We do not know, Lord. The distance was too great and . . .”

  “You do not know?” Toth-Set-Ra’s voice grew harsher. “You disturb me with news I already know and you cannot tell me more than I can sense unaided?” His stare transfixed the black robe, steady, intent and pitiless. “What use are you, eh? Tell me why I shouldn’t finish you now.”

  “Because you would lose our services,” the acolyte said steadily. Xind blanched and trembled at the young man’s audacity and Toth-Set-Ra shifted his basilisk stare to him. The acolyte stood with his eyes respectfully downcast but no hint of trepidation in his manner.

  “Servants such as you I do not need,” snapped the wizard. “Incompetents! Bunglers! Blind fools!” Without shifting his eyes, he threw the amethyst cup at them. It passed between the pair and shattered into priceless shards on the flags. Both men flinched away.

  “Very well,” he said finally. “Prove your worth. Find out what Patrius died to birth. If you are quick and if it is important I will give you your lives. If not, I have other uses for you.”

  The wizard sat glaring after them for several minutes. Finally he sealed the door with a gesture which raised a wall of blue fire across it. He went to a cabinet of age-blackened oak, opened it with curious and diverse gestures and removed an elaborately engraved box about the size of a man’s head.

  Carrying it gently he brought it back to the table. He set the box carefully in the center of the pentagram inlaid in silver in the dark onyx top and then, stepping back, made a gesture. The top flew open and a small red demon appeared in a puff of smoke. The demon flew toward him only to be brought up short by the pentagram. It dropped to its knees and pressed its clawed, misshapen hands against the invisible walls, seeking a way out.

  “It is secure,” croaked Toth-Set-Ra. “Now, by the spells which made you and the spells which bind you, I would have word of the world.”

  “There is pain and suffering,” squeaked the demon.

  “There is mortal misery and unhappiness, and boredom and ennui among the non-mortal.”

  “Specifically!” snapped the wizard and the demon fell back gibbering under the lash of his voice.

  “What you will, Dread Master. What you will of me?”

  “The Wizard Patrius.”

  “Dead, Dread Master. Struck down unprotected by your servants as he strove to weave a powerful spell. The Mighty in the midst of the mighty laid low.”

  “The spell?”

  “A Great Summoning, Master. A Great Summoning.”

  “His assistants?”

  “None, Master. None save a hedge witch.”

  Toth-Set-Ra frowned. “And the Summoned?”

  “A man, Master, only a man.”

  “A magician? A wizard?”

  “I see no magic, Master. Save the hedge witch’s and Bal-Simba, who comes after Patrius’s burning.”

  “And what is his virtue? What is the special thing which made Patrius summon this one?”

  “I do not know, Master. I see no answer.”

  “Then look ahead,” commanded Toth-Set-Ra. “Look to the future.”

  “Aiii,” gibbered the demon. “Aiii, destruction for us all! Pain and fire and the fall of towers. Magic of the strangest sort loosed upon the land! A plague, a pox, the bane of all wizards!” He capered about the pentagram as if the table had become red hot.

  “How?” snapped the wizard. “Is he a wizard, then?”

  “No wizard, Master. Magic without magic. Magic complex and subtle and strange. A plague upon all wizards, a bane. A bane! Aiii, Good Master, let me leave him! Aiii!”

  Toth-Set-Ra scowled. The demon was frightened! He knew from experience that it took a very great deal to frighten a demon and this one was so terrified it was almost incoherent.

  “Leave then,” he said and made the gesture of dismissal. The demon vanished in a puff of smoke and the lid of the box snapped down.

  Toth-Set-Ra sat long scowling at the carven box while the heatless blue light from the flame at the door played across his leathery face and reflected from the sunken pits of his eyes. A plague upon all wizards. What could that be? And why would Patrius—may his soul rot!—risk his life to Summon such a one? The Northerners relied on magic fully as much as the League. Magic was as vital to life as air. More vital, he corrected himself. There were spells which allowed a man to live without air.

  Might the demon have been mistaken? Toth-Set-Ra cocked his head to one side as he considered the notion. It was not unknown for demons to be wrong. They were, after all, no better than the spells that created them. But this scrying demon had never failed him. Not like this.

  A trick by the Northerners? The scowl deepened. The wizard held out his hand to the side, fingers extended, and an amethyst goblet, twin to the one that lay in fragments on the floor, filled with wine from an unseen pitcher and flew to his clawlike grasp. Yes, it was possible the Northerners had staged the incident for the League’s benefit, or even spoofed both the demon and the Sea of Scrying.

  Toth-Set-Ra took a sip of the magically concocted vintage and shook his head. What possible advantage could the North have gained that was worth the death of their most powerful wizard?

  Assuming Patrius was dead, of course . . . Too many possibilities! He needed more information and quickly. He motioned toward the door and the curtain of fire vanished as suddenly as it had come. He struck a tiny gong and instantly one of his goblin guards was in the doorway.

  “Atros, to me,” he commanded. “At once!” The guard bowed and vanished in a single movement and Toth-Set-Ra scowled into the bottom of his wine. He would have an answer. If it took every wizard, every spell and every creature at his command, he would have an answer. And quickly!

  ###

  They raised a mound over Patrius where he lay. Moira set Wiz to finding rocks
while she used her silver knife to cut the green sward into turfs. The profanation rendered the knife useless for magical purposes, but she didn’t care. She placed the turfs about the charred hulk who had been the greatest and best of wizards. From time to time she stopped to wipe away her tears with the sleeve of her blouse, unmindful of the dirt that it left streaked upon her cheeks. There was no proper shroud to be had, so Moira covered Patrius’s face with her apron, tucking it in carefully around the body and murmuring a goodbye before she gently laid the bright green sod over him. The tiny flowers nodding in the grass made a fitting funeral bouquet.

  Finally, she and Wiz piled the stones over the turf. They stuck the charred stump of the old wizard’s staff upright in the top of the cairn.

  ###

  “Dread Master?” The bearlike form of Atros blocked the door. Where the League’s greatest wizard affected the robe of an anchorite, his subordinate wore a black bearskin, belted with studded leather and pinned with an intricately worked and bejeweled brooch. Toth-Set-Ra’s pate was shaven and Atros wore his thick, dark hair to his shoulders, held in place with a golden filet. More, Atros was nearly as large as the hobgoblins and Toth-Set-Ra was tiny.

  In spite of the contrast there was no question as to who held power.

  “Patrius is dead,” Toth-Set-Ra told his lieutenant without preamble. Atros said nothing. His spies had already told him that and he knew Toth-Set-Ra knew it.

  “He attempted a Great Summoning, or so I am told, and he brought someone from outside the World. A man.”