The Un-Magician

by Christopher Golden

  “You!” the Grandmaster snapped, pointing at one of his followers. “Go and find out what has happened. SkyHaven’s defenses have been breached. And it isn’t one of the other guilds, because I didn’t feel them coming through the barriers. They’re inside the fortress already! Within these very walls!”

  Timothy, Leander thought.

  “It’s the boy,” Nicodemus sneered, shooting a quick, cruel glance at Leander. “I’m sure of that. Doesn’t it warm your heart, Professor? He came back for you. What wonderful bait you’ve made. Now I won’t have to go to the trouble of tracking him down.”

  Adrenaline had given Leander a burst of strength, but now he felt himself flagging once more. The touch of the wraiths seemed to be spilling sorrow into the places inside him left hollow by Nicodemus’s leeching. Still, he managed to scowl at the archmage.

  “I think you’ll find … that Timothy Cade … is more than you bargained for,” he said, voice ragged, words halting.

  The Grandmaster did not have to say anything to show how absurd he thought this idea. He sniffed and turned to see that the acolyte he had instructed was still standing by the door, waiting for further commands.

  “What are you doing? Go!”

  The young mage nodded gravely, turned, and rushed to the door. It opened for him, swinging outward so that Leander could see the corridor beyond, could see freedom waiting for him.

  In the corridor a lone figure stood in the shadows. It was strange and awkward, bent slightly and with something jutting from the side of its head. The moment it started to move, Leander knew who lurked there, who it was that had come to his rescue.

  As if to announce himself, the release valve on the side of the metal man’s head whistled with a spray of steam. The acolyte who had opened the door shouted in alarm and raised both hands, though whether to cast a spell or ward off the mechanical man, Leander could not tell.

  Sheridan clanked forward with surprising speed and shot out a metal fist. His blow struck the acolyte on the side of the head and the man toppled to the ground in a splay of limbs. Timothy Cade’s greatest invention—and greatest friend—raced past the unconscious man toward the other acolytes who were gathered near the door. Several of them seemed to be too stunned to react immediately, but a female acolyte stepped away from the others and began to mutter a spell, the fingers of her left hand twisting as she drew sigils in the air.

  A panel slid open in the mechanical man’s chest and a thin tube jutted out. Liquid fire sprayed from the tube and the red-haired woman screamed as it engulfed her left hand. She clutched her hand against her body and tried to smother the flames with her tunic, dropping to the ground and rolling away from the door.

  “Idiots!” Nicodemus shouted. “You’re sorcerers! It’s a thing! An object! Destroy it!”

  With the Grandmaster distracted, Leander saw his opportunity. He was still weak and cold, but enough strength had returned to him that he was able to command his muscles again.

  He let himself sag against the clutches of the shadow wraiths, then planted his feet firmly on the floor. Though he felt their dreadful darkness filling him where the magic had been drained, he had not been left completely powerless.

  Across the room, Sheridan ran at the other acolytes. Steam hissed from the valve in his head and his red eyes glowed fiercely. The young mages had been shocked by his arrival and by his appearance as well—to them, Leander realized, Timothy’s creations were their own sort of sorcery—but now they were recovering. Sheridan reached out and grabbed the nearest acolyte and thumped him against the wall. The man slid to the floor, disoriented. A mechanical arm with a buzz saw blade whirred to life as it jutted from his chest, and then another machine appeared from that same hollow in the metal man. This one fired sharp metal projectiles—what Timothy called nails—and two of the acolytes screamed as they were hit.

  But there were too many of the Grandmaster’s servants in that room. Nicodemus himself stood in the center of the chamber, eyes wide, his long mustache giving him an air of austere severity that only scratched the surface of his cruelty. He pointed a finger at the open door and it swung closed. Sheridan would not be leaving the room.

  From across the chamber came several men draped in green, hooded robes, each with the emblem of a green eye woven into the chest. They did not run, but rather flew across the room, levitating. Leander had no idea when they had arrived—in his haze of pain he had not seen them enter—but these were no mere acolytes. They were full-fledged Alhazred sorcerers, like Leander himself. They raised their hands, flesh tinged green like their robes, and spheres of magical power burst to life around their fingers.

  “Do not concern yourself, Grandmaster,” one of the hooded mages said, and his voice was a whisper that made Leander shudder to think what faces hid beneath those hoods.

  Sheridan fought bravely, but the hooded ones were going to destroy him. They flew at the mechanical man, fists crackling with magic.

  “Damn you, no!” Leander roared.

  He tore himself away from the wraiths and felt their mouths and fingers ripped from his very soul. A cry of anguish escaped his lips but his pain did not slow his attack. Leander had hoped to attack Nicodemus directly, but with Sheridan in peril he had no choice but to alter that plan. He thrust out his hands and chanted a small string of words. Leander knew he did not have the power to defeat the hooded ones, but he could delay them for a moment.

  They froze in midair, paralyzed in time.

  But even as Leander stopped the veteran Alhazred sorcerers, the Grandmaster’s young acolytes got the better of Sheridan, grabbing hold of him tightly from either side, avoiding the dangerous tools that jutted from his chest.

  “Enough!” Nicodemus snapped, and with one long-taloned finger he sent a bolt of black light arcing across the room. The hex touched Sheridan’s skull, and a moment later the mechanical man simply fell apart, limbs, trunk, and metal skull clattering to the floor in a heap.

  The light went out of Sheridan’s eyes.

  “No!” Leander shouted, but he was exhausted and fell to his knees in the center of the room.

  The Grandmaster turned toward him, sneering once more, and glanced at the wraiths.

  “Shall we begin again?”

  The wraiths moved in, mouths latching on to his flesh, shadow claws digging into him. The Grandmaster did not hesitate now.

  He was no longer in the mood to toy with Leander.

  “The boy is here,” Lord Nicodemus said. “I believe I am done with you.”

  As he reached out to touch Leander’s chest again, the far wall of the chamber exploded in a torrent of fire. At last something warmed the chill from Leander’s flesh.

  When Verlis had left his home to seek the aid of Argus Cade, he had never imagined his quest would lead him to the devil Nicodemus himself. But even with his family waiting for him, knowing that he was risking everything, he could not have refused Timothy his aid in this battle. Nicodemus was vile. Had he turned his back on this opportunity, no matter the cost, he would have shamed his entire tribe. Indeed, Verlis was here to help Timothy. But it was hardly a favor, for he would have relished the opportunity no matter what the circumstances.

  Timothy knew his way around SkyHaven, and it had been obvious to them all that their destination ought to be the wing of the fortress that had been off limits to the boy while he had lived here. Finding the chamber that was most powerfully protected by the Grandmaster’s magic had been simple enough for one with Verlis’s sorcerous senses. With the rook flying above him and Ivar running behind, Verlis had led Timothy to the corridor beyond that chamber.

  The boy went to the wall—careful to stay clear of Verlis’s path—and put both his hands on it, disrupting whatever magical protections Nicodemus had placed there.

  With a hiss Verlis spewed a blast of fire from his gullet that incinerated most of the wall, blowing pieces of stone into the room. A blazing brick struck a hooded Alhazred mage in the chest and his robes burst into flame.


  Verlis folded his wings tight against his back and stepped into the vaulted chamber. In a sliver of a moment he took in the forces arrayed against them. There were perhaps six young mages, Nicodemus’s acolytes, scattered on one side of the room, near the tall double doors. Several others were on the floor, injured or unconscious. The Wurm’s entrance had disabled one of the hooded mages, but two remained, far more powerful than the acolytes.

  Across the room a man was in the grasp of insidious, flitting shadows, creatures of magic unlike any Verlis had seen before. This, he knew, must be Leander Maddox.

  And, of course, there was the Grandmaster himself. The moment Verlis focused his gaze upon Nicodemus, he felt an ancient hatred in his heart, as though the fury of all of his race was welling up within him. The Wurm opened his jaws and hissed at the Grandmaster. Fire flickered and heat bellowed up from his chest.

  “Wurm!” Nicodemus shouted. “You dare? Filthy, stupid beast, you dare to enter my home?” The Grandmaster shook his head, shielding his eyes from the bright fire that still roared up from portions of the ruined wall, obscuring his view of Verlis and the corridor beyond. “How? I don’t understand. Your kind do not have the magic to—”

  “Don’t need magic,” Verlis growled, wings unfurling, curling his hands into deadly claws. “I’m adept enough, don’t you doubt it. But I didn’t need magic to get to you.”

  Verlis enjoyed the confusion in the archmage’s eyes and the way his mouth worked as he searched for an answer. In a moment Nicodemus would do what he had always done—destroy the things he did not understand. But he was not going to get that moment.

  The Wurm folded his wings again, knowing that his companions would have come up behind him in the chaos of fire and smoke.

  When he put his wings down, the Grandmaster sputtered with fury, for Verlis had revealed his secret weapon, the way in which he had been able to break through the spells protecting this room.

  Timothy Cade stood at his side, the black-feathered Edgar perched upon his shoulder.

  “Boy,” Nicodemus said, as though he were scolding the young man. “You have made me very, very angry.”

  Timothy uttered a soft laugh of amazement. “Good.”

  Nicodemus raised both hands and a massive wave of sickly yellow energy erupted from them, a hex that shot across the room at Timothy with a thunderous clamor. The two hooded mystics attacked as well, emerald light arcing like daggers from their fingers. Several of the acolytes were unprepared, but the others cast spells of their own. The air shimmered between them and the boy as the various magics collided and merged into a churning storm of malice that should have torn him apart.

  The rook took flight, escaping the attack. But the boy did not move.

  A rainbow of mist circled Timothy for a moment, and then dispersed. Verlis glanced down to see the boy’s smile disappear, and then he started toward Nicodemus. From behind Timothy, the Asura warrior leaped into the room and quickly merged with the colors within. He was no mage, but Ivar was invisible to the acolytes, and with the burning debris and the smoke, he moved like a ghost. Edgar cawed loudly, drawing their attention, and Ivar raced to attack the acolytes.

  Verlis turned on the hooded mystics, launching himself into the air in that vast chamber and breathing down a fountain of liquid fire upon them. The mystics defended themselves with magic Verlis himself knew. When they tried to use sorcery against him, he deflected their attacks as well.

  And the battle was on.

  Edgar shrieked and swooped above them and the mages sent spells searing the air toward him. The rook was far more than a bird, however. After all, he had been the familiar to the greatest mage in the world before serving Timothy and had been in combat hundreds of times.

  “Caw! Caw! Run, you amateurs! There’s only one way this is going to end!” Edgar cried as the rook darted down and raked his talons across the face of a pale-skinned acolyte.

  The Asura warrior stepped behind one of the young mages, staff in hand, and he cracked the length of wood across the back of the man’s skull. Before the acolyte had even hit the ground, Ivar had slipped away. Some of them were shouting at the others to find him, to stop the ghost, but they were frantic now and disorganized. In service to Nicodemus they had never imagined having to fight such an unorthodox battle. If it were mage versus mage, they would certainly have been prepared. But they were not prepared for this odd alliance of an Asura warrior, an angry rook, a fire-breathing Wurm, and an un-magician.

  One of the acolytes froze, narrowing her eyes as she managed to get a glimpse of Ivar, despite his blending into the colors of the room. She lunged at him, and he easily sidestepped her attack and shot an elbow back into her face. This fight drew the attention of the others. Ivar shoved the woman backward into two of her companions, and then he slipped into a cloud of smoke and disappeared again.

  All the while he kept track of his friends. Verlis fought the Alhazred mages valiantly, but neither the Wurm nor his opponents seemed able to get the upper hand. Edgar expertly avoided attack. But Ivar saw the array of metal parts on the floor and knew what had become of Sheridan. The Asura’s heart was saddened by this, but there was nothing he could do for Sheridan now. There was, however, another ally who needed his aid. In the middle of the room, Leander Maddox was held captive by dark spirits, their ghostly lips fastened to Leander’s flesh, feeding off him.

  I must reach Leander Maddox, he thought.

  Ivar continued to fight the acolytes, defeating them one by one. He wanted to be sure that Timothy could concentrate on facing Nicodemus. Then he would see what might be done about the dark spirits.

  Timothy advanced across the room toward Nicodemus. The man was cruel and cunning and he knew he ought to have been frightened, yet he could not find any fear inside of him. The Grandmaster was a betrayer at best, and at worst … Timothy’s heart ached when he glanced at Leander and the shadow creatures that were swarming around him. He did not want to know the worst of the things that Nicodemus had been responsible for.

  “You’ve made a grievous error turning against me, boy. I am the only one in the world who can protect you from your enemies,” Lord Nicodemus said imperiously. His long silver mustache quivered as he spoke, and he pointed an accusatory finger at Timothy.

  “You are my enemy,” Timothy replied. “And I can protect myself, thank you.”

  The Grandmaster’s normally pale face grew dark red with fury, and he bared his teeth like an animal. With a grunt he muttered words in an ancient tongue and spread his hands wide. Then he spit at Timothy, but his spittle did not hit the ground. It did not land at all. In the blink of an eye it grew into a large sphere of purplish, oily mucous that passed right over Timothy, surrounding him, trapping him inside this strange bubble.

  Or so Nicodemus had intended.

  Timothy walked right through the bubble as though it wasn’t there, and it burst upon contact with him. He strode up so that he was, at last, face-to-face with the archmage.

  “Have I been gone that long?” Timothy asked, glaring at him. “Remember me? I’m the freak. The un-magician. I’ve come back for my friend. And for you, Nicodemus. I’ve come back for you.”

  Poisonous hatred filled the Grandmaster’s eyes. Timothy could see Nicodemus weighing his options. The archmage knew he had been trained to fight by an Asura warrior. Nicodemus knew that magic could not harm him. Timothy allowed himself a quick glance around the room and he saw that his friends were doing quite well. The acolytes were all unconscious or moaning on the ground, injured. Two other sorcerers remained, and it appeared that Verlis, Ivar, and Edgar had joined forces against them. It would not be long before Nicodemus and his shadow creatures were the only ones standing against them.

  But Nicodemus must have seen this too, for the moment Timothy glanced away, Nicodemus turned and strode to where Leander hung in the midst of the room, suspended several inches off the ground by those black phantoms that preyed upon him. Timothy tried to stop the Grandmaster, but
too late.

  Nicodemus reached toward Leander. “Another step and I’ll kill him.”

  This time Timothy smiled.

  Nearly invisible, Ivar appeared beside the Grandmaster and knocked his hand away from Leander.

  Timothy raced at Nicodemus. The Grandmaster tried to strike him but the boy dodged his blow, then struck out with a rigid backhand. His knuckles rapped the Grandmaster’s skull and the archmage stumbled to one side. Timothy stepped into a second blow, a flat palm against the Grandmaster’s chest, and Nicodemus fell onto the floor. He looked ridiculous sitting there on the ground with wide eyes, trying to catch his breath.

  “The spirits, Timothy!” Ivar called.

  The un-magician turned and saw that the shadow creatures seemed now to be strangling Leander and sinking their fingers into his flesh, penetrating him without making visible wounds. But one look at how pale Leander’s face was, at the despair in his eyes, and Timothy knew that invisible wounds could be infinitely worse.

  “Leander!” he shouted, and he ran to the man, his friend and mentor, the only mage in this world who had ever really looked out for him. Timothy threw his arms around Leander and held him in an embrace.

  The mage went rigid at Timothy’s touch and then abruptly began to sway. Confused and alarmed, he tried to hold Leander up, to keep him from falling. Timothy grabbed hold of him and saw that there was new light in Leander’s eyes, a new awareness that was there in spite of the mage’s weakness.

  Then Timothy saw pale, misty figures flitting about above him and around Leander. His breath caught in his throat as he realized that the shadow creatures were gone. But no, he thought. Not gone. Just free. Free from Nicodemus.

  Leander crumbled to his knees and then slid to the floor. Timothy tried to hold him up but the burly mage was simply too huge. Still there was a thin, exhausted smile on Leander’s face as he looked up at Timothy.

  “Tim,” the mage said.

  “I don’t understand. What happened?”

  “They were all … draining me. Attached to me,” Leander explained, eyelids fluttering, on the verge of unconsciousness. “Grandmaster … leeched their magic out, fed off it for himself. Murdered them, but kept their shades as slaves.”