Authors: Rick Cook
The Wiz Biz (10 page)
“Cloaking spells?”
“They would show.”
“Like the cloaking spell this new northern wizard shows?”
Kar-Sher made an annoyed gesture. “That is different. It would take a truly mighty wizard to cast a spell that effective.”
“Toth-Set-Ra has that reputation.”
“You don’t think . . . ?”
“I think you should be very careful what you assume about the old crow. Now. Are you sure there is no sign of secret magic being made to the South?”
Kar-Sher considered and then shook his head. “Nothing at all.”
“Well, then. Keep your watch.” He turned to go, but Kar-Sher plucked at his cloak.
“Master, will we strike soon? The old crow grows impatient. I do not know how much longer I will hold my position.”
Atros regarded him coldly. “The old crow is impatient for one thing only; this strange wizard. Events are already in motion to snare him. In a day or two that will be accomplished. Meanwhile it keeps our master occupied.”
“What if he finds out about us?”
“He does not even suspect. Keep your wits about you a few days longer and you are safe. Now wait here until I am out of sight.” Atros stepped out into the corridor and strode on.
Kar-Sher waited until he had his nerve back and started up the corridor in the opposite direction.
Neither of them had noticed the fat black spider hanging motionless in her web above their heads.
###
“So,” hissed Toth-Set-Ra as he broke contact with his spy. “So indeed.” He leaned back and rubbed his forehead. Peering through a spiders eyes was disorienting. His brain kept trying to merge eight images with apparatus designed for two.
A spider’s eyesight might be poor, but there was nothing wrong with a spiders hearing. He had heard exactly what he expected to hear.
You run too fast, Atros. It is time you were taught another lesson.
He extended his hand and an amethyst goblet flew to his grasp.
He expected Atros to connive against him, just as he had connived against the Council of the League to win his present power. It was his good fortune that Atros was nearly as clumsy a plotter as he was as a wizard. Powerful enough, perhaps, but lacking the finesse, the last measure of ability that raised a plotter or wizard to true greatness.
He sipped the wine and reflected on the best way to check his subordinate.
Someday soon, Atros, I will send Bale-Zur to you.
But not yet. One does not discard a tool merely because it is flawed. One uses it, preferably to destruction, while a new tool is forged.
Still, this tool was showing signs of blunting. In spite of all the power he had been given, Atros had still not brought him the alien wizard. Toth-Set-Ra rotated the goblet in his hand and frowned at the purple sparks that glinted off its facets. That wizard was the immediate problem, the unknown. Once he had been found and neutralized there would be time to deal with Atros.
A pity I cannot send Bale-Zur to that wizard.
He could, of course. Bale-Zur could find and destroy any mortal whose true name had ever been spoken. Unlike other demons he did not need to know the true name of his quarry. It was sufficient that the true name had been spoken just once somewhere in the World.
It was that special power which had raised Toth-Set-Ra from a minor wizard to the leadership of the Dark League in a single blood-red night of slaughter. But Bale-Zur could only destroy. Toth-Set-Ra wanted to take alive this wizard whom Patrius had died for. He wanted to squeeze him, to wring the secrets of his foreign magic from him. Killing him was an option, but only a last resort.
Bale-Zur was almost as crude a tool as Atros, but both were useful. This other one now, this Kar-Sher, was much less useful. Under his mastership the Sea of Scrying had been useless in the search and all he could do was whine about Northern interference with his magic.
Yes,
the wizard thought.
This one is eminently dispensable.
He paused to admire the play of fire in the goblet again.
But not yet. Not quite yet.
In his own way Toth-Set-Ra was a frugal man. He always wanted the maximum return from his actions.
###
They slept on straw ticks on the floor that night. Lothar offered them his bed in the loft, but Moira declined politely. Before retiring, she took the poultice, which had been simmering in the pot, wrapped it in a clean cloth, and tied it about her knee. She turned her back while she did so and Wiz tried not to look.
By the next morning the swelling had vanished. She did several deep knee bends and pronounced herself healed.
“Lady, if we could get you back to my world, you could make a fortune as a team doctor for the NFL,” Wiz told her. She cocked an eyebrow but did not ask for an explanation.
Lothar insisted on feeding them a breakfast of flat-bread, sausage and beer before they left. Both he and Moira were obviously uncomfortable, but Moira thanked him kindly and Lothar gave them some dried fruit and parched grain to add to the supplies.
It had stopped raining and the sun was shining brightly. As they left the clearing, Wiz noticed a detail he had missed the night before. Four mounds of earth, one large and three much smaller, neatly laid out next to the cabin and enclosed by rude rail fence.
Moira saw him looking at the three small graves. “They only count the children who live,” she said.
Once out of the clearing, they angled away from the path they had taken the day before. The woods were still sodden, but there were no rivulets to cross and, except in the shadiest places, things seemed to be drying rapidly.
Whether because the footing was still somewhat uncertain or to spare her knee, Moira did not walk as fast.
“What happened back there anyway?” Wiz asked when the clearing was lost from sight.
“What do you mean?”
“Between you and Lothar. Everything started out all right, then—boom—it was like you’d bumped into your ex at a cocktail party.”
“My ex at a . . . ?”
“I mean you both got real cold and distant,” he amended.
“Was it that obvious? Moira sighed. “I tried to conceal it. He gave us shelter and aid when we needed it and that is no small thing in the Wild Wood. I should have tried harder to be gracious.”
“Yeah, but why?”
“Because he is a fool!” Moira snapped. “There is no place in the Wild Wood for mortals, Sparrow. Only fools try to live here and they fail.”
“I guess it was rough at first, but he seems to be doing all right now.”
“Yes. Because he bartered away his daughter.”
“What?”
“You heard the child. His daughter has been given to the elves in trade for the safety of his miserable farm!”
“He traded his daughter to the elves?”
“Life in the Wild Wood is hard for those who have little magic.” She smiled a little bitterly. “Call it a ‘fostering.’ That puts a better face upon it.”
“What did they want with her?”
“As the little one said. She is a nursemaid to an elven infant.” Moira’s face softened. “Elves seldom have young. That must have been an event beneath the Elf Hill.”
“Wait a minute,” Wiz protested. “She wasn’t . . . ah, I mean she wasn’t married when she went, was she?”
“You mean was she unspoiled? Probably. Elves prefer virgin’s milk when they can get it.”
“But how . . . ? Oh, magic. Never mind.”
They walked on a bit in silence. “What a fate. Locked under a hill forever.”
“It has its compensations. The elves are kind enough in their unhuman fashion. They do not mistreat their servants.”
“But to spend your whole life like that!”
“No,” Moira said. “Time passes oddly under the hill. Someday, when the elf child needs her no longer, she will emerge as young as when she went in.” She sobered. “Of course that stead will likely long be dust by then and there will be none who know her. That is the crudest fate.”
“Yeah,” Wiz said, thinking of the graves. “I’m not sure living in safety is worth what it cost Lothar.”
“The price has only been partly paid.” Moira made a face. “Wait. As the children grow up they will go one by one to drudge for the elves. Plague, murrain, raids by trolls or others. There will always be another need and Lothar will always return to the elf hill to seek aid.”
Wiz was shocked. “Doesn’t Lothar realize that?”
“Not he,” she said contemptuously. “I have seen his kind before. He hopes long and hard that something will happen. Like most mortals he lives for today and puts off the reckoning as long as he may.” She increased her pace.
“It is an old, old story, Sparrow. As farms get smaller and the soil wears out within the Fringe there have always been those who sought to go beyond it to carve out new homes. But the Wild Wood is not for mortals. It is a place full of Magic, given to others, and mortals violate it at their peril.”
“Well, why not? My whole country was a howling wilderness once and we settled it.”
“Because the magic in the Wild Wood is too strong, Sparrow. Within the Fringe the hedge witches and other orders can stand between the Worlds magic and people. Beyond the Fringe there is too much powerful magic. If we were to make the attempt we would only be swept away and our people with us. Believe me Sparrow, it has been tried and it has never worked. The Fringe is this limit of lands where mortals can live.”
“Umm,” said Wiz again and shifted his pack. “What did Lothar mean when he said his grandfather knew this place?” he said after they had walked a bit more.
Moira snorted. “He was probably making it up. I doubt his grandfather ever came within a week’s journey of that stead.”
“But men did live in the Wild Wood once, didn’t they?*
“Parts of it, yes.”
“Why did they leave?”
“Because they were fools like that man,” Moira snapped. “Because they went where they should not and paid the penalty for it! Now save your breath for walking.” She lengthened her stride and left him staring at her back.
They’re being pushed back,
Wiz thought as he struggled to keep up with the hedge witch.
This whole area was inhabited once and the people have been forced out.
The Wild Wood was creeping into the Fringe like the African desert creeps south in drought. And the results were the same. The people either moved or died.
Would the rains ever come to turn back the Wild Wood? Wiz wondered. Moira’s reaction hinted she didn’t think so. When magic became too strong people could no longer co-exist with it and they had to leave. The part of the world where humans could live was shrinking under the pressure of magic.
Wiz shook his head. All his life he had been taught that wilderness needed protection from encroaching humans. Here the humans were the ones who needed protecting.
Wiz wondered if the trolls, elves and other magical creatures would establish preserves for humans. Somehow he didn’t think so.
Five: Night Flight
“Have you found them then?” The balefire nimbus played about Toth-Set-Ra as he hunched in his high-backed chair.
Atros grinned. “We know roughly where they are. We have only to summon our creatures for the final search.” He shook his great shaggy head. “We have been closing in on them for the last three days. They evaded our ambush at the Forest Gate and fought their way through to the Wild Wood. Then they camped for the night within the ruins of the Rose Palace of Ali Suliman,” (while the search swept past them, Atros did not add). “We lost them somewhat in the next day’s rain, but we have them generally located.”
“How have they avoided you for so long?”
Atros shrugged. “Bal-Simba—blast his eyes—is a clever foe. His Watchers have been working hard to muddy our Sight. The whole of the North is covered with blanking and false trails.”
He hesitated. “There is another thing. The wizard has a most puissant cloaking spell. We cannot find the least trace of his magic anywhere in the North.”
“Indeed?” croaked Toth-Set-Ra. “Oh indeed? And the hedge witch?”
“That is the strangest thing of all. The hedge witch discarded most of her magical apparatus early on. Some trolls found parts of her magic kit strewn about.” He neglected to mention that the trolls were sleeping off a feast and had not reported their finds for three days. That had cost the troll father his head. “Apparently the hedge witch is relying on the other one to protect her.”
Toth-Set-Ra rubbed the line of his cheekbone with a leathery forefinger. “Strange,” he agreed. “Either this one is a most powerful wizard or she is a most trusting witch.”
“I would suggest he is a powerful wizard, Dread Master. Judging from their success at eluding us.”
“But you have found them?”
“We have them penned in a small part of the forest. They are somewhat to the west of the elf duke’s hold.”
“But you have found them?” Toth-Set-Ra pressed.
Atros smiled. “Tonight, Lord. Since we cannot locate them by magic, we must search by eye and ear. I am flooding the area with our creatures and allies. At night they are at their most powerful.” His smile grew broader. “Besides what weary travelers can refrain from lighting a fire to cook their dinner and warm their bones? And a fire in the Wild Wood can be seen for a long way away.”
Toth-Set-Ra looked unimpressed. “And if our wizard chooses to use magic?”
“Our black robes will be watching, ready to pounce.”
“My
black robes,” Toth-Set-Ra croaked softly. “They are mine and do not ever forget it.”
We shall see, old crow,
Atros thought.
After tonight we shall see.
“In any event, it is results I want, not details. Bring me this strange wizard with the most perfect cloaking spell. And bring him to me alive, Atros. Do you understand? I want him alive.”
“Thy will, Dread Master,” said Atros and bowed out of his presence.
There were a few other details Atros forebore to mention. His searchers were mostly allies or those who wanted the reward promised. Worse, nearly half of the searchers were trolls. Trolls are none too bright and far too inclined to murder to be ideal for this task.
Beyond that, Atros knew he could not hold his army together much beyond one night. The creatures not sworn to the League were restless, chancy things who would not stay no matter how great the promised reward. Even the League’s sworn servants could not stay long. Such a concentration would quickly attract the attention of the Council’s Watchers.
Not that it mattered, Atros told itself. One night would be more than sufficient.
Where were they bound?
he wondered. They seemed to have a destination. The elf duke’s hill? That made no sense. Elves were badly disposed to mortals of all varieties. Besides, if they wanted shelter among the elves there were easier roads to take.
Whatever their destination, they would have to swing south shortly or they would blunder into the deadest dead zone in all the North, a place where the tiniest spark of magic would show instantly. By now Atros had a grudging respect for this alien wizards masking spells, but no spell could be good enough to hide them in that.
Atros was well-satisfied as he went down the corridor. Not only did he have things well in hand for the capture of the strange wizard, but his other plans were well in hand besides.
Soon. Very soon.
###
“Where are we going anyway?” Wiz asked, sitting on a stump by the fire.
Moira looked up from stirring the porridge. “Someplace safe.”
“You said that before.”
“I prefer not to name it. There is always the chance of being overheard.”
“Well, what’s it like? A farm?”
Moira laughed. “No, it is a very special place hidden away in the Wild Wood. A place built like no other in the World.”
“You make it sound wonderful.”
“It is that.”
“Have you ever been there before?”
“This deep in the Wild Wood? Not likely. I have heard of it, though.”
“Right now anyplace that put a roof over our heads would be wonderful.”
“Patience, Sparrow. We are perhaps a day or two from our destination.”
“Then what happens?”
“Then you will be safe and I can return to my village.”
“Oh.”
“I have work to do, Sparrow. There are people who need me.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Only . . .”
Moira held up her hand to silence him. “Wait,” she said. “There is something . . .”
With a roar, four trolls charged into the clearing. They were huge and foul-smelling, clad in skins and leather and rags. One brandished a rusty two-handed sword in one hand and others carried clubs.
A troll closed in on Moira, arms extended and fanged mouth agape. Wiz grabbed a burning faggot from the fire and charged. With a casual, backhanded swipe, the creature sent Wiz sprawling through the fire.
Wiz rolled out as the beast got a hand on Moira. Without thinking, he reached back into the fire and grabbed a burning brand. He pointed it at the troll and yelled, “Bippity, boppity, boo!”
The troll was unfazed but the tree behind it exploded into flame with a crackle and roar. The astonished troll weakened its grip and Moira twisted free.
“Moira! Run!” Wiz yelled and ducked under the grasping arms of another troll. He twisted about and pointed the stick at it. “Bippity, boppity, boo!” Another tree blazed up and the troll cringed back.
Whirling in a circle, Wiz pointed the branch and yelled, “Bippity-boppity-boo! Bippity-boppity-boo! Bippity-boppity-boo.” Trees all around the clearing turned to fiercely burning torches and the confused trolls cowered and whimpered in the ring of light and heat.
Wiz sprinted in the general direction Moira had taken. Behind him he could see the forms of the trolls black against the orange-yellow glow. The scent of burning pine filled his nostrils and he coughed from the smoke. One of the trolls groped after him. Wiz pointed the stick at a tree between them, shouted “Bippity, boppity, boo,” and watched the tree turn to a lance of flame in the very face of the monster. Then he turned and ran as fast as he could.
As Wiz charged through the forest, a dim shape flitted from behind a tree into his path. He flinched until he saw it was Moira, her form distorted by her cloak. He clasped her hand and she gave a welcoming squeeze. His cloak was back in the clearing, he realized, as were both their packs. But Moira was safe and none of the rest mattered.
Behind them the reddish glow of the fires lightened the night. Also from behind them came a series of hooting roars.
“They hunt us,” Moira whispered and released his hand. “Come quickly.”
The forest sloped gently downhill and they followed the slope as best they could. Wiz silently blessed the open parklike nature of the Wild Wood here because they could move quickly and quietly through it.
Ahead he could hear the bubble and murmur of a running stream. Behind him came the sounds of the trolls. They seemed to have spread out along the ridge and were casting back and forth, calling to each other as they went. Once Wiz saw a misshapen form silhouetted on the ridgeline by the faint fireglow. He tried to shrink in on himself even though he knew night and distance made him invisible.
They paused on the rocky stream bank while Moira turned this way and that, seeking the best path. There were boulders to serve as stepping stones, but instead Moira led Wiz directly into the chill, swift waters.
“The water will mask our scent,” she explained over the stream’s clamor, “and some things cannot cross running water.”
“You mean like trolls?”
“The trolls are the least of it,” Moira said. “Listen.”
Off in the distance came the sound of a horn and again the hunting roar of trolls echoed through the trees.
My God,
thought Wiz.
Is every nightmare in creation after us?
The water was not deep, but the current was swift and the bottom rocky. By the time they left the stream, some little distance above the place they had entered, Wiz had fallen into holes twice and was soaked from head to foot. Moira had lost her balance once and was thoroughly wet down one side.
With Moira leading they sprinted over the wide pebble beach and into the sheltering dark of the trees. The forest was thicker here and the underbrush more profuse. Wiz and Moira crowded into it and peered back the way they had come.
“Which way?” Wiz panted.
Moira cast about indecisively. “Ahh,” she breathed at last. “They throng to the south and east of us. To the west and north are areas rich in magic.”
“So we go west and north?” Wiz suggested.
Moira shook her head. “To enter a powerful area with the hunt so close upon us would be our doom. With magic all about us we would stand out like ants on a griddle.”
“Lay low?”
Moira didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.
“Can’t you use magic to get us out of this?”
Moira snorted. “If I used magic they would sniff us out at once. We avoid them only because they cannot sense magic upon us.”
A weird, warbling howl pierced the night, chilling Wiz’s blood. Across the stream, a huge wolflike shape loomed on the ridge, outlined by the rising moon. Even in the moonlight its eyes burned red. It was the epitome of all the wolf nightmares of Wiz’s childhood.
“Dire Beast,” Moira breathed. She squeezed Wiz’s hand even tighter and they crept away, clinging to the shadow and thickets. Behind them the wolf creature howled again but made no move to follow.
Once away from the stream bank they ran. They scrambled up another ridge and half-ran half-slid into a valley. The woods were thicker and darker, but that was no comfort. Still the sounds of their hunters rang and the trees seemed to close in about them to the point of suffocation.
There were brambles to catch at clothing and rip flesh. Once Wiz took a thorny branch full in the face and once they had to stop to disentangle Moira’s cloak from a barbed bush. As they worked the fabric off the grasping thorns Wiz saw that Moira’s hands had been cruelly lacerated by pushing through the spindly growth.
Finally, exhausted, Moira led Wiz into a thicket. There was a hollow in the center as if once long ago a tree had been uprooted there. Together they cowered and panted in the little crater beneath the bushes and listened to the sounds of pursuit echoing through the forest.
Dared they stay here? Wiz wanted to ask but he was afraid to make a sound. Besides, he didn’t think he would like the answer. Unbidden, Moira’s words on the first day came back to him.
If you have a choice between the worst death you can imagine and falling into the hands of the League, do everything in your power to die. Had they really come to that?
he thought, looking over at Moira.
Suddenly something hissed in Wiz’s ear like a disturbed snake. Wiz jumped.
“Hsst,” came the sound again. “Hsst, Lady, over here.” He turned and stared but saw nothing. Then part of the bush seemed to twist and coalesce and a tiny man stood beckoning to them where a second before there had been only moonlight and branches. He was clad in a pointed cap, tunic and breeks with pointed shoes. Wiz could not tell the color in the dim light.
“Come this way. Quickly.” The little being turned and skipped through the undergrowth. Moira started to follow but Wiz caught her arm. “Trap?” he panted.
Moira scowled and shook off his hand. She hurried after the little man, who was dancing with impatience.
Wiz was half-blown when they started, but he pushed ahead gamely. The trail led through glades and over ridges until at last they arrived at the base of a hill. As their guide approached, a rock rolled away and pale golden light flooded out into the dark.
“Enter and be welcome,” said a melodious male voice from within.
Again Moira started forward and again Wiz caught her arm.
“Didn’t you tell me to avoid places like this?”
“Would you rather the trolls and Dire Beasts?” she snapped. Wiz nodded and followed her into the hill.
“May there be peace upon you. May you leave the woes of the World behind,” the voice said, as if reciting a formula.
“May there be confusion to our enemies and may we return to the world we know,” Moira said firmly into the air.
“May it be so,” responded the voice and their host seemed to step out of the wall of the tunnel to them.
He was tall, graceful and silver-haired. His eyes were so blue as to be almost purple and his skin was the color of milk. Wiz could see the blue veins underneath.
He wore a long tunic of scarlet, intricately worked, and a collar of beaten gold. His belt was dark leather decorated with bronze the length around.
“My Lady,” he bowed to Moira. “My Lord,” he nodded to Wiz.
“My Lord.” Moira dropped a deep curtsey.
“My Lord,” repeated Wiz and made a clumsy bow. He barely noticed that the rock had slid silently back across the entrance, sealing them within.
Their host regarded them serenely. “I am called Aelric. I am duke of this place and I bid you welcome here.”
“We thank you for your hospitality, Lord,” Moira said. “I am called Moira and this one is called Sparrow.”
