by Rick Cook
“Shiara taught you far more than was good for either of you,” Moira snapped. “You have proven yourself unworthy of her teaching and of her trust.” She paused and considered. “Normally a matter such as this would be handled by your master. But you,” she sneered, “have no master.”
The way she looked at him made Wiz feel as if he had crawled out from under some forest rock.
“Doubtless this matter will be placed before the Council and they will decide your fate. In the meantime you must be kept close and watched since it is obvious you cannot be trusted and your word cannot be relied upon.”
She turned and stalked out of the clearing and back toward Heart’s Ease. Wiz opened his mouth to call after her, then trudged up the path in her wake, fuming.
Ten: Storm Strike
“Moira, wait!” Wiz ran up the path after her. She kept walking, eyes straight ahead.
“Okay,” Wiz said defensively, as he trotted along beside her. “So it got a little out of hand.”
“A little out of hand?” Moira screamed. “A LITTLE out of hand. Ohhh . . . This is beyond all your stupidity. Not only do you learn nothing, you cannot even be trusted to keep your word.”
“Now wait a minute . . .”
“Get back to the keep. You must be kept mewed for your own safety and ours as well.” She threw him a contemptuous glance. “Tomorrow I will destroy your tools before they wreak more mischief.”
“Destroy it? But I was right!”
“Go!” Moira commanded with a hefty shove in the small of his back. Wiz stumbled forward and gave his beloved a wounded look.
“Must I take you by the ear?” she demanded. “Now go!”
###
Shiara was collapsed in a chair with Ugo hovering about her. Her skin was ghastly pale and she was breathing in quick shallow pants.
“Magic,” Ugo said. “Big magic and close pain her.”
Wiz started guiltily. Of course. That much magic must have hurt her terribly. Seeing Shiara was even worse than Moira’s anger.
“It seems that our Sparrow adds untrustworthiness to his other accomplishments,” Moira said tightly. “He has been using your ‘purely theoretical discussions’ to learn to practice magic.”
Ugo threw Wiz a look of poisonous hate.
Shiara clenched her fists on the chair arms so hard her knuckles turned white and levered herself erect. “Go to your room and remain there,” she commanded. “We will decide what is to be done with you tomorrow.”
“I’m getting damned tired of being ordered around,” Wiz said.
“Your feelings and the state of your soul are of very little concern to me right now,” Shiara said. “Now go. Or must Ugo escort you?”
“Look I’m sorry . . .”
“That too is of no concern to me. Ugo!”
“Okay, okay,” Wiz backed off hastily as the wood goblin came toward him with fire in his eyes. “I’m going.” He spun and started for the stairs.
###
“What was that?” The voice of Toth-Set-Ra boomed out in the head of the new master of the Sea of Scrying.
“I do not know, Dread Master. Something to the North . . .”
“Imbecile! I know that already.” Toth-Set-Ra’s mental “voice” settled back into normal tones.
“It appears to come from a quiet zone in the Wild Wood.”
There was a thoughtful pause. “Yessss. I know of the place. Send word that it is to be investigated. I want to know what caused that.”
Toth-Set Ra turned back to the grimore he had been perusing. His hand caressed the elaborately illuminated parchment made from human skin but his eyes would not focus on the glowing runes that squirmed wormlike across the page. The end to you and all yours the demon’s voice echoed tinnily, mockingly, in his ears. A bane, a curse a plague upon the race of wizards. Magic beyond magics.
He slammed the book shut and stalked out of his chamber. “Send Atros to me by the Sea of Scrying,” he flung over his shoulder to the goblin guards.
The watchers around the rim of the great copper bowl bowed low as he swept into the vaulted stone chamber and fell back respectfully as he approached the edge. Toth-Set-Ra ignored them and stared deep into the sea.
The waters within were stained the color of weak tea by the blood of virgin sacrifices but the map graved on the bottom was easy to read. Glowing gems marked the cities of the World. A blood-red ruby, pulsing fitfully with inner light, represented the City of Night on the southern shore of the Freshened Sea. To the north and inland was the blazing blue sapphire which represented the headquarters of the Council. Here and there other gems winked green or blue or red or orange, their depth of hue marking the strength of the magics to be found there.
The effect was breathtaking, like a handful of gem-stones strewn carelessly across the bottom of a rocky pool. But Toth-Set-Ra paid no heed. His trained senses searched for bright spots not marked with precious stones. Those were places of new or unexpected magic.
There, well within the line setting the Wild Wood off from the Fringe was a glowing white pustule on the reddish copper surface. It was fading, the wizard saw as he bent his full attention to the spot, but it had been strong. Very strong and uncontrolled while it lasted. In the center of one of the quietest places in the Wild Wood, too.
He scowled again and reached out, weighing and savoring the magic that marked this place. It was powerful, that he knew almost without bothering to look. He sensed the disturbance in the weather, but he could see no purpose in it. There had been a mighty wind, but nothing seemed to have been accomplished.
His scowl deepened. Strange. Great spells were almost always supposed to accomplish great purposes. The spell itself was strange as well. It was as if a mass of minor spells had suddenly worked in the same direction.
Toth-Set-Ra was reminded of a marching column of army ants. Individually insignificant, they assumed enormous power because they all moved together. He savored the image and decided he didn’t like it at all.
Behind the wizard, the door opened and Atros entered quietly. He spoke no word and Toth-Set-Ra paid him no heed. Heart’s Ease. Yes. That was the place. Heart’s Ease.
Then Toth-Set-Ra’s fist smashed to the rim of the bowl, making the waters within quiver and the magical indications dissolve. He whirled to face his lieutenant. “Storm that place,” he commanded, his brows dark and knit. “Bring me the magician responsible for that magic.”
“Dread Master . . .” Atros began.
“Do it!” Toth-Set-Ra commanded. “Do not argue, do not scruple the cost. Do it!”
The big dark man bowed. “Thy will, Lord.”
“Alive, Atros. I want that magician alive.”
“Thy will, Lord.”
Toth-Set-Ra turned back to the Sea of Scrying, searching it with his eyes, trying to pry more meaning from it. Atros bowed again and backed from the room, considering the ways and means of accomplishing the task.
A purely magical strike was clearly impossible. The Quiet Zone lay well beyond the barriers set up by the Northerners. Magical assault would be detected immediately and countered quickly. If he was willing to spend his strength recklessly he could undoubtedly penetrate the Northern defenses, but he might not have time to find and seize the magician before the counterassault.
Fortunately, thought the big wizard, I have minions in place. The old crow thought always of magic, but there are other ways to accomplish things. This time magic would be the mask, the shield; the cloak flourished in the opponent’s face. The dagger behind the cloak would use no magic at all.
Even as he strode down the corridor, he began issuing orders into a bit of crystal set in his cloak clasp. Before he had reached the end of the hall those orders were being carried out.
###
As Wiz was making his sullen way up the stairs at Heart’s Ease, the City of Night erupted into a hive of activity. Lines of slave porters toiled down the gloomy narrow streets, bent under the burden of provisions and weapons. Apprent
ices, wizards and artisans all jostled each other and the slaves as they rushed to carry out Toth-Set-Ra’s commands.
In the bay, ships were hurriedly rigged and loaded. In the mountain caves where the dragons and flying beasts were kept, animals were groomed, harnesses checked and packs were loaded.
Within minutes of Toth-Set-Ra’s order, the first flights of dragons were away from their cave aeries high on the mountain that loomed over the City of Night. They issued from their caverns like flights of huge, misshapen black bats. Their great dark wings beat the air as they climbed for altitude and sorted themselves into squadrons under the direction of their riders.
In a tower overlooking the bay, the busiest men of all were the black-robed master magicians who would coordinate the attack and make the magical thrusts. Down in the great chantry beneath the tower, brown-robed acolytes and gray-robed apprentices turned from their magical work and set to preparing the spells the black robes commanded. Astrologers updated and recast horoscopes to find the most propitious influences for the League and those which would be most detrimental to the Council.
Further below, in the reeking pits where the slaves were stabled, slave masters moved among their charges, selecting this one and that to be dragged out struggling and screaming. Whatever the spells, they would require sacrifices.
Far to the North, a spark appeared in a crystal.
“Lord, we are getting something,” the Watcher called out as the pinpoint of light caught his attention.
The Watch Master hurried to his side. “Can you make it out yet?”
The Watcher, a lean blonde young man stared deep into his scrying stone. “No Lord, there is too much background, or . . . Wait a minute! I think we’re being jammed.”
“A single source?” The Watch Master bent over to peer into the crystal.
The Watcher frowned. “No Lord, it is spread too wide.” The Watch Master straightened up with a jerk.
“Sound the alarm. Quickly!”
###
On a cliff overlooking the Freshened Sea, the Captain of the Shadow Warriors reviewed his troops’ dispositions and permitted himself a tiny smile of satisfaction.
For months he and his men had camped undetected on the enemy’s doorstep. They used no magic in camp, save for the communications crystal the commander wore about his neck. Even their great flying beasts were controlled, cared for and fed without magic. Instead their magicians had spent their time listening intently to the world-murmurs of magic from the Northerners.
For months the men had subsisted mostly on cold food. Cooking was limited so the smoke might not betray them. In twos and threes they had penetrated miles inland, observing and sometimes reporting back to their masters in the City of Night.
Thinking on that, the Captain frowned. This was not supposed to be an assault mission. But now his patrols had been hastily consolidated into a strike force and ordered to penetrate a Quiet Zone to assault a castle and capture the magicians laired there.
The message he received was as short as it could be so the Watchers of the North would not intercept it. Burn the keep called Heart’s Ease and bring the magicians there alive and unharmed to the City of Night. That was all, but for his well-trained band that was enough.
He had no doubt his men could do it. The castle defenses were minimal and although his men did not normally use magic, they had it at their call.
In the forest clearing three flying beasts waited. Their gray wrinkled skin bore neither hair nor scales. Their long necks and huge blunt-heads thrust aloft as their great nostrils quivered in the wind. The huge batlike wings were unfurled to their full three-hundred-foot span and the animals moved them gently up and down at the command of their mahouts. Unlike dragons, these creatures were cold-blooded. They must warm themselves up before they could fly. Even from this distance the captain could smell the carrion stench of the animals.
Ritually, the Captain checked his weapons. The long, single-edged slashing sword was over his back with the scabbard muffled with oiled leather at the mouth. His dagger and axe hung at his waist. The contents of the pouches and pockets scattered about his harness: poisons, powders of blindness, flash powders and pots of burning. A blowgun lay alongside his sword and the needles were sheathed in their special pouch. Everything was muffled and dull. There was nothing on him or his men to shine, clink or clatter and almost nothing of magic.
Their enemies might see the Shadow Warriors but even the Mightiest of the Mighty would be hard-put to sniff them out by magic.
The Captain moved to his flying beast and an aide formed a stirrup so he could mount. Behind him the five Warriors of his troop had settled themselves onto the beast’s broad back, their feet firmly placed in the harness.
The animal shifted slightly as the Captain settled in and opened its gaping mouth to honk complaint. But without a sound. Its vocal cords had been cut long ago so it might not betray itself in the presence of the enemy.
The Captain looked over his shoulders. Three other beasts were visible with their warriors aboard and their mahouts holding the reins without slack. To the side one of his sergeants signaled that the beasts out of his sight were also ready. The Captain nodded and raised his arm in signal.
In unison great leathery wings beat the air, raising flurries of dead leaves and dust as the animals clawed for purchase in the sky. Once, twice, three times the animals’ mighty wings smote the air and then they were away, rocking unsteadily at first as each animal adjusted its balance, and then climbing swiftly into a sky only touched by the rising moon. From other clearings on the forested top beasts rose by twos and threes to soar into the clouds. As they climbed they sorted themselves out into four formations of threes. They might have appeared to be on a mass mating flight, save that not even these creatures mated so deep in winter.
The long, snakelike necks stretched forth and the animals squinted to protect their eyes from the searing cold.
The cold bit sharp and fierce at the Captain despite his gloves and the mufflerlike veil wound around his face. He flexed his fingers to keep them supple and otherwise ignored it. Cold, hunger and hardship were always the lot of the Shadow Warriors and they were trained from childhood to bear them. Again he considered the plan and nodded to himself.
A glance behind him showed the Captain that the other warriors on his beast were flat against the animal’s back, partly to cut the air resistance and partly to stay out of the wind.
As the gaggle of flying beasts scudded through the sky, the Captain kept a close watch for landmarks. With the force under a strict ban on magic, he could not use more reliable methods. His trained senses told him there was little magic below or around him to conceal any use of magic by the Shadow Warriors.
Far below a lone, lost woodsman caught a glimpse of the horde as it hunted across the sky. With a whimper he thrust himself back into a bramble thicket and hid his eyes from the sight.
As the Shadow Warriors flew east the other parts of the operation fell into place.
###
The stone hall was boiling with activity. All along the line Watchers called out as new magic appeared in their crystals. Reserve Watchers rushed to their stations. Magicians whispered into communications crystals. Wizards took their stations, ready to repel magical attacks and to add their abilities to those of the Watchers. Finally, from their laboratories and lodgings, the Mighty began to arrive. The room filled with the nose-burning tang of ozone and shimmers of magical force.
Bal-Simba entered with Arianne at his side. He stood in the doorway for a moment, surveying the organized chaos, and then moved to the great chair on the platform overlooking the room.
On the wall opposite a map sprang into existence showing the Lands of the North and much of the Freshened Sea. Already there were six arrowheads of red fire approaching the Southern Coast. Six strikes coming in at widely spaced points, two of them obviously directed at the Capital. Here and there nebulous patches of gray and dirty green glowed on the map where the Sight w
ould not reach.
Bal-Simba leaned forward in the chair to study the pattern of the attack.
“What do you make of it?” he asked his apprentice.
“If half of that is real,” she said, gesturing to the colors on the map, “it is the biggest attack the League has ever mounted. Do you suppose that has something to do with the great disturbance in the Wild Wood this afternoon?”
“No, that was something else.”
“This is powerful, but it seems—disorganized—as if it was hastily put together. Also, we have had no reports from the South to suggest an attack was being readied.”
Bal-Simba waved her to silence. “Let us watch and see if we can find the underlying pattern.”
Down in the pit three sweating magicians worked to keep the map updated. To the right of Bal-Simba’s great chair on the platform five of the Mighty sat in a tight ring around a glowing brazier, mumbling spells. Now and then one or the other of them would throw something on the fire and the smoke and the reek would rise up to fill the chamber. Down in the earth and up in the towers, others of the Mighty worked alone, weaving and casting their own spells to aid the defense.
“Seventh group coming in,” sang out one of the Watchers. “Airborne. Probably dragons.”
Bal-Simba studied the configuration written in lambent script on the wall.
“Launch dragons to intercept. Tell them not to stray over the water.”
“Dragons away, Lord.”
“Time to intercept seventeen minutes,” another talker reported. Others huddled over crystals keeping contact with the dragon force.
“Porpoises report three krakens moving toward the Hook. Formation suggests they are screening something else.”
Around the room crystals glowed green, red and yellow as the talkers contacted the forces of the North and prepared for the struggle. From the most battle-ready guard troops to the hedge witches in the villages the word went out. All the North braced to receive the assault.