The Bard of Sorcery

by Gerard Houarner

  "Wyden laughed as it had done the first day of my capture. ‘I have not lied to you, O master of my fate,' was its reply, spoken into my thoughts. `You are one of a very select few who nourish me and keep my temple from tumbling down on me. What greater power can you ask for than to hold a god to your services?'

  "’None, my lord worm. But you have hidden the greater part of your followers from us, in a chamber in the fortress city above us. Why should we few labor for you, while they sit quietly and enjoy the fruits of your blessing? They rob us of our purpose, and our rewards in serving you.’"

  "Now Wyden was curious, and the creature raised its head slightly to take in the city walls. ‘There are no more people in this world—I have searched with care.'

  "’Then you have also been fooled, my great lord, for by my soul there are more eyes staring down on us than you know how to count.'

  "There was wrath in Wyden's voice when it cried out, `Where, where are the hidden ones?'

  "’In a room in the upper reaches of the fortress. A thousand of them, many thousands, smiling for fear their laughter would guide you to them.'

  "There was a scream of rage that shook the rocks loose from the slopes and burned a wound in my mind. Slowly, yet with all the speed I'd wager the god could muster, Wyden reared its head and bared its fangs. It began to climb the mountain, winding up the sides and sending its worshipers into hiding. I raced ahead. Since I climbed straight up, I reached the fortress ahead of Wyden. I set the defensive machines in motion, and those still functioning offered the god enough resistance to fuel his anger and make him believe there were indeed a thousand people raining boulders and fire on him.

  "I went to the uppermost ramparts and yelled like a madman, taunting Wyden on. I gestured to the wall, behind which lay the room of masks, and when the god had almost reached it, I left my post and hastened to the room and hid myself among the faces.

  "An angered god makes short work of a mortal edifice, and it was not long before part of the wall tumbled and Wyden poked its head into what it believed to be a cache of humanity. Ah, then, Tralane, was the test of my desire, for while I had the worm believing what was not, I had power over a god. I sprang forward, and before Wyden could brush me aside I sank my arms into the tissue surrounding the eye. With all my strength I heaved, then fell backwards as the god shook me off. But I came away with my prize—the eye, freshly plucked, was in my hands. The organ dissolved even before I regained my feet, and I was left with the jewel that is the heart of the amulet you carry. The god bellowed with agony, blinded and lost. I ran out and renewed the rain of boulders, then took a sword from an armory and returned to the chamber of masks.

  "Again I sprang forward, and this time my sword sliced into the mouth of Wyden so that its fangs were loosened. These I pulled out with my bare hands before the god realized what new source of pain was torturing its mind. When Wyden knew it had lost its sight and fangs to a mortal, it sank to the floor and allowed the rocks to pile on its neck and seal its head into the room. Yes, I conquered a god—and more. I promised the god I would give it new life if it told me the secret of its eye and fangs.

  "’Yes, please, give me life,' the old god pleaded.

  “'Then tell me, what is the nature of your eye?'

  “’My Eye is the power that brought you across the cresting wave of time.'

  "’And your fangs?'

  "’They have given me victory over my brother gods and poisoned these worlds that are behind and before us, separated by mere moments of existence.'

  "I understood then what I had done, and the magnitude of my deed dizzied me so much that I saw darkness closing in. But I recovered and gave dear Wyden the life I had promised, with my seed. From that union came the Jade Warrior, my ally and instrument. And from that joining I became immortal, never to know the darkness again.

  "But this was only the beginning of my legend, Tralane. I became the ruler of a world; there was not a living thing capable of defying me. I captured and imprisoned my fellow priests of Wyden and separated them into the two rival camps. I fed their hatred of one another, condemning one as the degenerate native race that had supported Wyden while railing against the other group, calling them usurpers and invaders. Then I set them all free to hunt each other down, and there was much sport to be had in watching that deadly little contest. The old race, though far outnumbered, slew the others using their knowledge of the city to trap and kill their enemies. I had to capture them all, so that justice could be practiced on them. In the years that followed, when I was not otherwise preoccupied in implementing my plans, I went down to the dungeons and extracted from one or another of those degenerates a part of their life and soul. The last stands behind you, shocked into immobility by my presence, no doubt. I am the terror of these sub-humans, Tralane. I do not know what I shall do for justice when she is gone…?

  "I took my title, the Emperor of Many Faces, from my victory over Wyden. And what do I rule? This world, for now. But after you have been destroyed, Tralane, after that last portion of my nature has been scourged from all existences, I shall open a door through all the worlds and bid Wyden go through. The worm will be stretched across all the possible worlds of the moment, and will link the entire, ever-breaking, ever-expanding crest of Time. I will control all that is to come, on every plane of existence. There will be one Wyden and one Emperor throughout the variations of Earths. The gods will not stop me, for in that action I will have overthrown fate and destiny, transcended the gods and become Time. Is that power enough for you, Tralane? Will you call me Emperor now?"

  It was indeed power, though not of the genre in which Tralane had been taught by Mathi. The Emperor's power was founded in the material world; it did not seek to escape the limitations of physical reality, but rather to turn the limitations into a tool, serving the purpose of a single will. The Emperor's sorcery was founded on greed, fueled by wealth, and vulnerable.

  Tralane was speechless before the depths of the Emperor's nightmarish vision. There was no doubt of the Emperor's insanity. Even his eyes, framed by the green mask, bulged with tormented emotions. Was this man his father?

  The Emperor had not mentioned a wife, or leaving sons and daughters behind. Was he, after all, only a brother, left with some wizard to study the arts, like Tralane? This Emperor also loved tales, as well as adventure. There was blood between them, but what kind? Was Tralane an heir or a brother to madness? How could he slay his kinsman, knowing he might eventually succumb to the weakness that had flawed the Emperor?

  Wrestling with the issue left him short of breath, so he grasped at words to fling into the air between them.

  "How did you lose Wyden's Eye, then? Can an Emperor be so strong and allow an act of common thievery, or perhaps even an act of personal carelessness, to threaten him with dethronement?"

  "Fool! You still don't understand? It is not your possession of an amulet, or even the swords, that is a danger to me. I did indeed throw the Eye into a pool of worlds, as your would-be benefactor Gibron once told you. It was my purpose to let you come into its possession. I had hoped, with the aid of the Warrior, that you would destroy yourself as so many of my enemies have done. That was the easiest way. But now I must destroy you myself, for it is your being that contains me. No act, no words you could utter would disrupt my plan. It is merely your life that is the threat. And that is about to be remedied."

  "And will you deal with me as you did with Wyden, or the Lady Akyeetha's people? Or can you face me, without deceit, as I hold the symbols of your power? No, my Emperor, the same blood runs through us both. I am also adept at subterfuge, and I am not so easily fooled. The Fangs of Wyden, I'll wager, are as deadly to you as they were to this god's rivals and to your own son."

  "Really, Tralane? And do you think you are the only one who has ever penetrated this far? Do you know what happened to the others, the wise, brave, all-conquering heroes who followed the bait of the Eye and thought they could humble the Emperor of Many Faces?"


  The ruler leaned forward. With a slow, graceful gesture, he set one of the faceless masks near Tralane's head into a spin. He stepped back to where the mask he had previously set into motion was still revolving and examined his handiwork.

  Tralane said nothing, nor did he move in response to the Emperor's gesture. He watched the twirling blank face and heard his strong words wilt in the quiet heat of the Emperor's madness. His eyes began to feel heavy, his thoughts lumbered into one another, and his awareness lulled itself into stupefaction. Dimly, through the rolling fog that was creeping into his mind, the implications of the Emperor's words reached Tralane. There had been others, others like himself, other brothers and sisters from the alternate worlds, and perhaps surviving mothers and fathers—all slain by this renegade. The deed's infamy nauseated Tralane and stoked his hatred. Yet he could not express his revolt against the crime. He saw the blankness closing in on him and recognized too late the Emperor's subtle spell of entrapment. He fought against the listlessness that was burying him, but found he could not lift the great burden of the Emperor's sorcery.

  "A peculiar punishment these people devised for their criminals," the Emperor commented, his eyes now fixed on Tralane. "They would destroy their enemies by stripping layers of the mind, selecting some aspect for preservation while eliminating others. They could preserve the faces of the people they thus destroyed, empty of personality yet frozen in some expression of emotion or mood, forever imprisoned by the limitations of some petty feeling. During the height of their civilization, they were masters of the art. These blanks are my crude imitations of their work. They lack the essence of the heroes I've reduced to this state, something I've been unable to capture. But that is just as well, for it is the essence that I first set out to annihilate. You will be the last, Tralane. Gaze into the emptiness, hero, and lose yourself in that void. I hold a mirror which absorbs your being. How can you resist, when all these others have failed before you?"

  Tralane clenched his teeth and pinched the palm of his free hand with his nails in an effort to retain a hold on himself. Then he relaxed. Cumulain's aroma, her touch, her concerns welled up within him to beat back the emptiness. The black sword, Wyden's Fang, was solid in his hand again, a tool to carve meaning in the mask that was the focus of the Emperor's sorcery. Yet Tralane could still not bring himself to strike his enemy. Even with his own survival at stake, Tralane had the knowledge of relationship with his foe, and that frail link to his own identity was too precious for him to slay. The recollection, which he had long been struggling against, of Detrexan's fate sealed him in paralysis.

  The Emperor set another mask into motion, then stopped the retreat of his hand. His eyes were gazing over Tralane's shoulder, and their bulging concentration changed to amazement, then fear. Tralane felt a prickling sensation at the base of his neck, then nearly whirled about when a hand grasped the hilt of his second sword and pulled the blade out of the scabbard. Tralane fell sideways against the door frame, crouching low and holding his weapon over his shoulder, ready to sweep down and brush aside any attack. Without letting the Emperor out of his sight, Tralane watched the figure behind him advance into the chamber. He smiled grimly as the Lady Akyeetha walked stiffly by him, the sword she held dragging next to her leg.

  The Emperor cried out and backed away. Tralane followed her, then took her flank against the Emperor. A quick glance revealed, beneath the layer of accumulated dirt, a paler skin. Her eyes were not focused on the Emperor, or on anything that was a part of the flesh and blood world. The sword in her hand trembled, just as her limbs shook with the effort of will she was performing at the command of some inner voice.

  Tralane sensed the souls of the dead moving in her. He had seen possession before, and Mathi had taught him some rudiments in how to call and turn back possessing demons, so he knew the nature of Akyeetha's action, which no doubt she would never have undertaken on her own. Once, while serving some middle kingdom's court with songs and arrows, he had seen a band of wild hillmen break their diplomatic containment and burst into a raging mob of murderers. Their appearance of illness and dishevelment prior to the break with their mission of peace matched perfectly Lady Akyeetha's presentation at the moment. He heard the same faint cries, a warning for those whose souls had ears, signaling the approach of spirits. The hillmen had been difficult to subdue, even by the full complement of court guards. The spirit their sensitive minds had absorbed had corrupted them beyond sanity, and they had fought maniacally to the last man. Tralane hoped Akyeetha was not taken by the ghosts, which he saw as those of her friends and family, to the point where she could never regain possession of herself.

  Lady Akyeetha circled to the left of the Emperor, Tralane to the right. The Emperor of Many Faces withdrew from the blank masks to stand among the finished ones, his legs wide apart as if to brace him, his arms extended in front of him. His eyes went from man to woman and back again. Neither Tralane nor Akyeetha stopped their encircling movement.

  The fog that had closed in on Tralane's mind was breaking slightly, as the Emperor's control slipped. Akyeetha's intervention, prompted by her dead ancestors and relatives, was straining the Emperor's concentration, as he now had to face the spirit of the people he had destroyed along with whatever threat Tralane represented, both armed with the Fangs of Wyden. For Tralane, the balance of control was at last shifting to him, just as the weight of power was drifting away from the Emperor towards Akyeetha and the bard.

  A high-pitched keening rose from among the masks, as if their hollow mouths had suddenly won tongues and were mourning the passing of their own souls. At first, Tralane suspected the piercing shriek to be the Emperor's doing, since under its assault he was hard pressed to maintain a hold on his dearly won control over his motions. Then he saw Lady Akyeetha's lips shaped around a howl, the muscles of her throat tensed with exertion. Distinctive voices emerged to lead the chorale of agony emanating from Akyeetha. Her chest heaved, and the bones of the fingers holding the sword were white against her skin. The masks trembled violently as the keening became louder. A haze formed around the woman, obscuring the details of her features and shielding her from the Emperor's defenses. Tralane, when he saw what was happening, laughed at the irony in his deeds.

  Once again Tralane played the heroic savior, but this time his people were the restless, betrayed, unavenged spirits of the dead race the Emperor of Many Faces had conquered. They had fallen to the Emperor, but their struggle against him followed them into death. Hovering on the edges of life and death, waiting while countless other heroes—brothers and sisters to Tralane—fell before the Emperor, seeking one who would rescue them from the borderlands of existence, they had rallied around Tralane's staunch resistance. By rescuing the last of their race and providing the spirits with a vehicle for their revenge, he had won himself an ally. Alone, neither could have defeated the Emperor. Together, they forced the Emperor to retreat.

  But the death struggle had yet to be fought, and neither party was anxious to initiate the final engagement. Tralane swung the point of his sword back and forth, more to ward the Emperor off than to threaten him. Lady Akyeetha was hesitant and awkward, first dashing forward with a vicious thrust of her blade, then collapsing into a stumbling retreat. The haze that had attached itself to her like a second skin also fluctuated in density, as Akyeetha fought to save her identity while still serving her ancestors.

  The Emperor fared little better, as his power was divided between the two, trying to break down their resistance to his will while parrying their swords with invisible shields. Beads of sweat trickled down his neck.

  "Where are you from?" the Emperor asked hoarsely, directing his question to Tralane.

  "You should know—you led me here," was Tralane's shaky response.

  "You are not the one who stole the Eye from Agathom; that was a kind of courage I could easily conquer, one I understood only too well. By Wyden's life, why don't you succumb to my spells? How can you be so strong?"

  "I'm
not so wise and mighty in the art, perhaps, but I've lived in these last few weeks as I've never lived before. Your seductions are meaningless."

  The Emperor recoiled as some root of his being was touched. "What? But I offer peace—"

  "When there are people who need me?"

  "Need you? You are worthless, your life is pointless, except as an extension of my will. No one wants you."

  "The Lady Akyeetha?"

  "Yes, of course, for the moment. But later, will she even turn her head to look at you? She is of royal blood, and we—you, no, we cannot be of such blood. But I offer the eternity of the masks."

  "They are not warm to consider; an eternity of lonely oblivion is all they hide."

  "So? And what will you do in your welcoming crowds? Will you teach Akyeetha to speak and convert her from my plaything to yours? Do you plan to save those who are weaker than you, so they can turn against you when your task is finished? Join me, Tralane. I'll give you Akyeetha. You may keep the swords, the Eye, this world. I will make you an immortal, and we'll rule all the paths the world has taken through time. We'll be gods together; you shall be the warrior, and I the sorcerer. None will stand against us, Tralane."

  "Now you offer me power, Emperor? You are generous with the trophies won from the blood of others."

  The Emperor shook his head in a mixture of disbelief and disgust. "You've gained noble sentiments, where most lose such weaknesses with experience. Don't be a fool; follow your nature. I, better than anyone, know what you truly desire."

  Tralane stood his ground, but the Emperor's words shook him. How could the bard know which of his many contradictory desires was his core nature? Or were they all a part of him, pulling him first in one and then another direction? He was aware of the choice he had for so long abstained from making. He could follow the moment's strongest desire and change with the moment, becoming a satiated slave of his impulses. Or he could select a road, forego the tainted, isolating pleasures offered by the Emperor, and assume the burden of his freedom. The past and future beckoned with equal insistence, just as the forces of magic flowed among the three in the room, never resting, creating more tension the longer a decision was withheld. The point of the fulcrum shrank, and the balance of power became even more unsteady. Both the Lady Akyeetha and the Emperor waited on his decision. The masks in the chamber ceased to tremble as the keening fell to a hum.