Forward the Mage

by Eric Flint

  "You want to come with us?" asked Greyboar.

  Zulkeh coughed again. "It seemed to me, you understand, the occasional footpad or highwayman—"

  "No problem, professor," said Ignace, grinning widely. "Sure and you can come along. Greyboar'll no doubt enjoy the philosophical conversation. And, it's true," he added, his grin now evil, "we're not likely to be bothered by cutthroats."

  "Haven't actually been mugged since I was eight," rumbled Greyboar. "The thing went badly for the footpad, and word got around. He survived, of course, I was too short to reach his throat, but—well—"

  "Best thing that ever happened to the guy!" chipped in Ignace. "He made lots more as a beggar than he ever did as a cutpurse. People always chipped into his hat, feeling as sorry for him as they did, all twitchy and mangled up like that."

  "Yeah, sure, it'd be a pleasure," said Greyboar. "On the way, I think I'll teach Shelyid a little fingerwork. Kid's got a great natural choke." He forestalled Zulkeh's protest with an upraised hand.

  "Nothing fancy, nothing fancy. But the boy can't study sorcery every minute of the day. And you never know when a little professional fingerwork will come in handy, even in your trade."

  "Well, yes," allowed Zulkeh. "There is the occasional rowdy demon. Oft cranky, your demons, especially if you summon them during copulation."

  "If you want to come, we're leaving now," announced Ignace.

  "We are ready. Are we not, Shelyid?"

  "Oh yes, professor. The sack's right here."

  "Let us be off, then. For even as I speak, time wanes!"

  "Wait! Wait!" cried Shelyid. "We forgot something!"

  The wizard frowned. "And what is that?"

  "Well, it's the first of the month, right?"

  "Yes, 'tis November 1, Year of the Jackal," replied the mage. "What of it?"

  A huge grin split the gnome's face. Shelyid extended his arm, palm facing up.

  "Payday!"

  A black frown began to take form on Zulkeh's brow. But it faded, to be replaced by a rare smile.

  "Why, so it is," spoke the mage. "As the contract says—Article III, clause a, if I am not mistaken—'the short-statured-but-fully-qualified-apprentice shall earn the wage of one shilling a month, to be paid on the first day of the month.' " The wizard fumbled in his purse, drew out a coin, and placed it in Shelyid's hand.

  "Of course," spoke the mage, "from a logical standpoint this entire business is somewhat absurd. You are yourself, after all"—he coughed—"well, let us simply say that the funds actually originate from you in the first place."

  "Is it not ever so?" demanded the first.

  "Is not all value created from the toil of the suffering masses?" asked the second.

  "Only then seized in its entirety by the grasping hand of the exploiter!" added the third.

  "To be added to his already-obscene accumulation of plenty!" This from the fourth.

  "From which bloated mass of wealth but a pittance is returned to the laborer!" The fifth.

  "Upon which starvation wages the downtrodden working classes eke out their miserable existence," concluded the sixth.

  No doubt a long-winded economic debate would have ensued, save for the intervention of Wolfgang.

  "Crazy thing, money!" he boomed. "And they say we lunatics are insane! Nonsense—just another example of the superiority of lunacy over lucidity! Only sober-minded rational people with their feet planted firmly on the ground would ever come up with such a goofy idea as money! Won't find us demented types worrying over money! We've got real things to fret over! How do unicorns propagate when they've got this fetish about virginity? Why does a troll's tongue drool when it's naked as an egg and has sweat glands? Why are krakens extinct? Are they extinct? Did they ever exist? Why do—"

  "Come, Shelyid, let us be off!" cried the mage, hustling his apprentice out the door. "For even as the lunatic raves, time wanes!"

  PART XVIII

  In Which We Conclude This

  Volume of Our Chronicle By Resuming,

  With Firm Resolve Though Great Distaste,

  Our Skeptical Scrutiny of the Autobiography of

  That Sfondrati-Piccolomini Fellow, in This Portion

  of Whose Tale Are Related Impudent Revelries Over

  Recent Reverses Suffered By The Lawful Order

  of Grotum As Well As Divers and Dramatic

  Encounters and Leave-Takings.

  The Autobiography of Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini,

  Episode 9: Dogs, Divas, Dements and Departures

  So it was on such a wretched horse that I rode onto the estates of General Kutumoff.

  As I thought, the trip had taken a day longer than predicted. It was not until the morning of November 1 that we arrived at our destination. The estates were vast, or so they seemed to me. But when I made comment to that effect, Gwendolyn told me that they were actually quite small, by Groutch standards. I realized again the impossibility of gauging Grotum by Ozarine scales. Though rich and mighty, the Ozarine—not to speak of Ozarae proper—is small in geographic size. Whereas Grotum! A world in itself, it sometimes seemed to me.

  Truth to tell, I had no idea we had entered onto the estates until Gwendolyn told me. To all outward appearances, the estates seemed much like the rest of the countryside of the Mutt. Prosperous, well-tended fields; farmers busy about their business; modest but well-kept farmhouses.

  "Not quite what I had expected," I remarked.

  "How so?"

  "Well, from all you've told me of what you call the Groutch land question, I'd rather been expecting to see miserable, half-starved serfs, stooped in their labor, overseers cracking whips, that sort of thing."

  Gwendolyn was shocked. "On the estates of General Kutumoff?"

  I saw the storm gathering on her brow. This experience, if you've never undergone it, is somewhat akin to watching a mounting tidal wave. From the vantage point of a very small, very flat island.

  "Obviously I misunderstood!" I hastened to add.

  "I should think so!"

  I was relieved to see the storm pass. After a moment, Gwendolyn even laughed.

  "I keep forgetting how little you know of Grotum. The Mutt is—not like the rest of Grotum."

  "I can believe that! Not that I've seen much else beside the forest and Goimria."

  At that moment our conversation was interrupted by a great baying sound. I looked ahead. My blood ran cold. Toward us, racing like the wind, was an enormous pack of—dogs? Wolves? Snarls? I couldn't really tell. Whatever they were, they were utterly horrifying. It wasn't simply their size, but the gaping jaws, the slavering tongues—most of all, the frenzy with which they were bounding toward us. Futile though it was, I reached behind me for my sword.

  "Oh, will you relax? It's just the General's puppies. They're always excited when people come to visit."

  "Those are puppies?"

  But it could not be gainsaid. Once the—creatures—reached us, they began acting just like eager and undisciplined pups. Gwendolyn leapt off her horse and the beasts swarmed all over her. A minute or two of rough play followed.

  I myself remained on my horse. A vast horde of the things gathered about me, peering up with puzzlement, whining and whimpering with confusion at my unseemly behavior. I remained, I say, on the horse.

  "Oh, Benvenuti, you're such a spoilsport. You'll hurt their feelings."

  "Let them die of heartbreak. I am not romping about with puppies the size of timber wolves."

  Laughing, Gwendolyn shook off a half dozen of the brutes and remounted. She gave me a mischievous sidelong glance.

  "And here I thought you wanted an adventurous life."

  "And so I do, Gwendolyn. A life full of drama and romance and high adventure. Reasonable adventures. Rescuing fair maidens from ogres. Slaying dragons in their lairs. Storming the gates of hell. Not—I repeat, not—suicidal acts involving puppies the size of timber wolves." A horrible thought came to me. "Do the adult dogs roam loose?"

 
; "All over the place. The General doesn't believe in kennels." She was giggling now. "The look on your face—it's priceless! But you can relax. The grown-up dogs are very dignified. Very aloof with people, until they get to know you. Especially Fangwulf."

  "Who—or should I say, what—is Fangwulf?"

  "He's the General's head dog. The leader of the pack." Again, that mischievous sidelong glance. A great foreboding filled my heart. Immediately confirmed.

  "I'll have to make sure the General introduces you to Fangwulf," she said.

  * * *

  Some time later, a great mansion loomed on the horizon. A lane led to it from the main road, shaded by trees on either side. I had expected to turn down that way, but Gwendolyn continued along the main road. In response to my quizzical eyebrow, she explained: "The General won't be there. He's always at his shack, except for a few evenings when Madame Kutumoff forces him to attend one of her soirees."

  A mile or so further on, we turned down a trail leading off from the left of the road. Then, through a small wood, and into a clearing. At the far edge of the clearing, nestled under the overhanging boughs of a huge sycamore, rested a hut. It was easily the most ramshackle structure I had yet seen in the Mutt.

  I pointed to it, chuckling. "Now that's more what I thought housing for the downtrodden serfs should look like."

  "Ostentatious, isn't it? It's the General's shack. I think he overdoes the thing, myself. But he's quite proud of the tradition."

  I forbore comment. Odd place, the Mutt, I believe I've mentioned before. As we drew near, I noticed some mounds scattered about in the clearing near the hut, looking for all the world like little haystacks. As we came nearer, they began to move. The truth dawned upon me.

  "They're the size of buffalos," I whispered shakily.

  "Nonsense! Any decent buffalo will weigh in at around a ton. The dogs don't average but three, maybe four hundred pounds."

  "Dogs are not supposed to be that big," I hissed.

  "Why are you whispering?" boomed Gwendolyn. The sound of her powerful voice brought the monsters to their feet. But I was relieved to see that they made no move in our direction. They simply stood there, watching us impassively.

  As Gwendolyn drew up before the hut, a man emerged. Rather short, perhaps a bit on the heavy side. Altogether, completely unremarkable in his appearance. A battered campaign hat was perched on his head. He leaned on a cane held in his left hand. In its right he held a short, very pungent cigar.

  "Hello, General," said Gwendolyn.

  "Gwendolyn," responded the General, nodding his head. Gwendolyn began to introduce me, but before she got two words out of her mouth a pack of raggedy children came boiling out of the hut.

  "Gwendolyn! Gwendolyn! Gwendolyn! Gwendolyn!" they shrieked, capering about. A moment later Gwendolyn was off her horse and repeating—more gently—her earlier antics with the puppies. I was forced to the painful conclusion that the love of my life had no sense of aristocratic reserve whatsoever.

  Eventually, she extracted herself from the squealing pack.

  "General Kutumoff, meet Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini."

  A look of interest came into his face. "So this is the young man I've been expecting."

  I was taken completely by surprise. So, judging from her expression, was Gwendolyn.

  "How did—I didn't say anything about Benvenuti in my note."

  The General looked at her. "Oh, I wasn't expecting him to come with you, Gwendolyn. But I received a letter from his uncles a month ago saying he was coming to Grotum. Ludovigo and Rodrigo said the boy was bound to get into some kind of trouble, which means he'd wind up here sooner or later. And since he's here with you, I'd say he's in serious trouble."

  A plain-looking fellow, but I learned then that he was perhaps the most observant man I ever met. What he saw in Gwendolyn and me at that moment—some subtlety of expression, or posture—brought a gleam into his eyes.

  "Young Benvenuti," he said, puffing on his cigar, "I believe you have committed the gravest of sins. I speak as a soldier."

  "And what is that?"

  "In classic Sfondrati-Piccolomini manner, you have engaged yourself simultaneously on two fronts. I predict you will have an adventurous life."

  I flushed, as did Gwendolyn. The General chuckled.

  "I don't disapprove, mind you. Love is not war, appearances and popular opinion to the contrary. Gwendolyn, it's nice to see a softness, for once, on that blade of a soul. As for you, young Benvenuti, it's always a pleasure to see a bloodline run true. You are, I trust, illegitimate?"

  I gaped like a fish. Nodded.

  "Excellent, excellent. I approve of Sfondrati-Piccolomini bastards. Got no use for the rest of that lot." He turned back into his hut. "Come in, come in."

  Entering, I found that the hut was much bigger on the inside than it had seemed from without.

  "You've added on," said Gwendolyn.

  The General looked uncomfortable. "Yes, yes, I have. It's still the smallest residence on the estate, mind you. But I admit I'm stretching the limit of tradition. Still, I had no choice. The children needed more room to play, and Fangwulf was getting grumpy, not being able to stretch out properly."

  I could see it coming, tried to head it off, but Gwendolyn was too quick.

  "Benvenuti's just dying to meet Fangwulf!" she cried. The words out, she gave me an immense grin. Completely unfazed, she was, by my answering scowl.

  Amusement gleamed in the General's eyes. "Well, of course he wants to meet the top dog." He stuck two fingers in his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle. A moment later, a batch of children's heads were in the door.

  "Go fetch Fangwulf," said the General. The faces disappeared in a flash.

  "And mind you follow protocol this time!" he roared after them.

  "He's a good dog, Fangwulf," explained the General. "But as he gets on in years, he's getting prickly about the formalities."

  A minute or so later, a girl—perhaps six years old—skidded into the hut. She drew herself up into a rigidly military posture. Then, in a shrill voice, intoned the following:

  "All hail Fangwulf! Fangwulf of Wide Fame!

  "All hail the Fleshripper! The Hideous Hound!

  "Fangwulf of the Loping Stride!

  "The Ravening Gullet Himself!

  "Sired by Consumption out of Omnigorge!

  "The Slouching Rough Beast!

  "Its Hour Come Round At Last!"

  How shall I describe the dog who came into the hut? From a dispassionate, scientific, objective standpoint, the task is not too difficult. The beast was something of a triple-lifesize cross between a mastiff and a wolfhound, combining the most fearsome features of both—the great jaws of a mastiff with the long legs and teeth of the wolfhound. The fur was relatively short and bristly, colored black and brown except for a white spot above one eye.

  But all this was trivial. For I am an artist, with an artist's eye, and I could not help but think of a portrait of the great horror. The difficulty was in choosing a suitable title.

  Death Incarnate would be too abstract. The phrase doesn't capture the saliva dripping from the great canine fangs.

  Slavering Beast of Hell, on the other hand, connotes a certain mindless rage. And while I could not miss the oceanic fury in those glowing red eyes, neither could I escape the great, cold, pitiless intelligence which gleamed there also.

  Other titles flashed through my mind as well, in that last moment of my life: Satan's Nightmare. The Big Crunch. Doom Itself.

  I thought Gwendolyn's description was utterly inappropriate.

  "Isn't he just the most beautiful dog!" she cried. And so saying, Gwendolyn flung herself onto the monster. When my horrified paralysis passed, I discovered that the thing was licking her face. While she, for her part, rumpled his fur and nuzzled his jowls. Fortunately, the more energetic antics she had conducted with the puppies earlier were forgone.

  I saw the General's eyes upon me, weighing and judging.


  "I—that is, he's certainly quite impressive," I said, very weakly.

  "Nonsense. He's a hideous creature from the darkest pit of hell. Not even a snarl could stand against him, except perhaps an ancient forest snarl. Snarls are just great natural killers, while he's been bred for it, generation after generation."

  He gazed at the affectionate embrace, took a puff on his cigar. Then, with a gesture, he drew me out of the hut. Once in the clearing, he drew another puff on the cigar, and shook his head.

  "You don't understand Grotum yet. You may never. It's a handicap, being Ozarine."

  I started to speak. He held up his hand.

  "Please, please. I was not criticizing. Your uncles were fine officers. Two of the best that ever served with me. Bitter men, of course. Couldn't really accept Grotum. And born at least a century too late to be Ozarine. Not the least of Ozar's many crimes, that it drives its best to become mercenaries."

  He took a last puff on his cigar and threw the butt away. "Enough of that. You've a lifetime to learn these things, and you seem to be off to a decent start. Very good start. Precious few men in this world have a heart big enough to give to Gwendolyn. Fewer still have a heart big enough to win hers. I congratulate you, sir."

  I didn't know what to say.

  "Don't know what to say? Excellent, excellent. It's a fine and proper thing for bold young men to be tongue-tied by the sagacity of their elders. A fine and proper thing."

  He turned back to the hut. "And now, I need to speak to Gwendolyn. I have news."

  At that very moment, Gwendolyn herself came out. "I need to talk to you, General. I just found out a few weeks ago that the Ozarine are sending a Rap Sheet to—"

  "I know, Gwendolyn, I know."

  Gwendolyn was stunned. "How did you—"

  The General smiled. "I found out about it the same way I found out that the problem's already been taken care of. From Hildegard."

  Gwendolyn was speechless. The General's smile widened.