The Wiz Biz (3 page)

Finally, she and Wiz piled the stones over the turf. They stuck the charred stump of the old wizard’s staff upright in the top of the cairn.

###

“Dread Master?” The bearlike form of Atros blocked the door. Where the League’s greatest wizard affected the robe of an anchorite, his subordinate wore a black bearskin, belted with studded leather and pinned with an intricately worked and bejeweled brooch. Toth-Set-Ra’s pate was shaven and Atros wore his thick, dark hair to his shoulders, held in place with a golden filet. More, Atros was nearly as large as the hobgoblins and Toth-Set-Ra was tiny.

In spite of the contrast there was no question as to who held power.

“Patrius is dead,” Toth-Set-Ra told his lieutenant without preamble. Atros said nothing. His spies had already told him that and he knew Toth-Set-Ra knew it.

“He attempted a Great Summoning, or so I am told, and he brought someone from outside the World. A man.”

Atros waited impassively.

“I want that man, Atros. I want him badly. See to it.”

“It will take resources . . .” the great bear trailed off.

“You have them. Use them. Search the North. Scour the Capital if you must. But bring me that man!”

Atros bowed. “Thy will, Dread Master.” And he was gone, leaving Toth-Set-Ra to brood.

Out in the corridor it was Atros’s turn to scowl. The old crow had set him a pretty problem indeed! According to his spies the Sea of Scrying had failed to pick up any trace of the man. That scrying demon Toth-Set-Ra was so proud of must have failed or he would not have been given this mission—or the power to command so much of what his master controlled. Whoever he was, this man from without the World must have a very powerful masking spell to so effectively cloak his magic.

Well, magic wasn’t the only way to find someone. That was the old crow’s mistake, Atros thought. If he couldn’t do it by magic he didn’t think he could do it at all. But there were other ways. The Wild Wood was alive with creatures who were either allies, could be bribed to help, who were controlled or who could be enticed into helping. In the lands of Men there were spies, human and non-human. There were the Shadow Warriors. And then there were the massive and mighty magics of the City of Night. Here was power indeed to turn on finding a lone man.

That was the crux of it, he thought to himself as he strode along the dank, unevenly flagged corridor. All that power, but only until he found this man. Oh, he would find him, never fear. That would be the easy part. And there were other things that could be done with the power he had just been given. Perhaps even concocting a nice little surprise for that scrawny excuse for a sorcerer who sat in the room down the hall.

Atros was intelligent but he was no more subtle than the bear whose name he had taken. It never occurred to him to wonder if perhaps Toth-Set-Ra might have considered that possibility as well.

###

Moira knelt weeping over Patrius’s grave. Wiz stood by feeling clumsy and awkward. She was so beautiful he wanted to take her into his arms and comfort her. But when he put a hand on her shoulder she jerked away. He felt like a fool watching her cry, so he wandered around the edge of the clearing.

“Do not enter the woods,” Moira said sharply through her tears. “It is not safe,” she sniffed.

“You mean lions and tigers and bears?”

“And other things,” Moira said grimly.

“You mean like . . . ULP!”

A huge black man stepped into the clearing directly in front of Wiz. He wore a leopard skin over his shoulders and a leather skirt around his huge middle. Around his neck was a necklace of bone with an eagle’s skull as a pendant. In his right hand he carried an intricately carved staff nearly as tall as he was. He grinned and Wiz saw his teeth were filed to needle-sharp points.

He was so black his skin showed highlights of purple and he was the biggest man Wiz had ever seen. It wasn’t just that he was more than six-and-a-half feet tall. His frame was huge, with shoulders twice as broad as a normal man’s. He had a great black belly, arms thicker than Wiz’s legs and legs like tree trunks.

Open-mouthed, Wiz backed away. Then Moira caught sight of him and let out a cry.

“Bal-Simba! Oh, Lord, you came.” She ran across the clearing to meet him, checked herself suddenly and dropped him a respectful curtsey. “I mean, merry met, Lord.”

The black giant nodded genially. “Merry met, child.” He looked over to the freshly raised mound and his face darkened. “Though I see it is not so merry.”

“No, Lord,” Moira looked up at him. “Patrius is dead, slain by sorcery.”

Bal-Simba closed his eyes and his face contorted. “Evil news indeed.”

Moira’s eyes filled with tears. “I tried, Lord. I tried, but I could not . . .” She broke down completely. “Oh, Lord, I am so sorry,” she sobbed.

Bal-Simba put a meaty arm around her shoulders and held her close. “I know, child. I know. No one will blame you for there was nothing you could have done.” Moira cried helplessly into his barrel chest. Wiz stood by, wishing he could help and feeling like a complete jerk.

“Now child,” Bal-Simba said as her sobs subsided. “Tell me how this came to pass. We sensed a great disturbance even before you called.”

Moira drew away from him and sniffed. “He performed a Great Summoning without wards,” she said as she wiped her eyes. “Just as he completed the spell he was struck down.”

“What did he Summon?”

“Him,” said Moira accusingly.

The black wizard looked down on Wiz in a way that reminded Wiz uncomfortably of a cat watching a mouse.

“How are you called?” Bal-Simba asked.

“I’m Wiz. Wiz Zumwalt.” He waved hesitantly. “Hi.”

The black giant nodded. “You are a wizard then. Of what rank?”

“Well no, I’m not a wizard,” Wiz explained. “Wiz is just a nickname. My real name’s William Irving . . .” He stopped as Bal-Simba held up a hand.

“I did not ask for your true name,” he said sternly. “Never,
ever
tell anyone what you are truly named for that places you in the power of all who hear.”

“You mean like knowing somebody’s password? Ah, right.”

“Like that,” the wizard agreed. “I tell you again, Wiz. Never reveal your true name. Now,” he went on in a somewhat gentler tone. “What is your special virtue?”

“Huh?”

“What is it that you do?”

“Oh, I’m a programmer. From Cupertino. Say, where are we, anyway?”

“We are in the North of World on the Fringe of the Wild Wood,” Bal-Simba told him.

“Where’s that in relation to California?”

“Far, far away I am afraid. You were Summoned from your own world to this one by he who is dead.” He nodded in the direction of the freshly raised cairn.

“Oh,” Wiz said blankly. “Okay.” He paused. “Uh, how do I get back?”

“That may take some effort,” Bal-Simba told him. The black giant suddenly became more intent.

“Again. What is your special virtue?”

“I told you, I’m a programmer. I work with computers.”

“I do not think we have those here. What else do you do?”

“Well, ah. Nothing really. I just work with computers.”

“Are you a warrior?”

“Huh? No!” Wiz was slightly shocked.

“Think,” commanded Bal-Simba. “There must be something else.”

“No, there really isn’t,” Wiz protested. “Well, I do watch a lot of old movies.”

It was Bal-Simba’s turn to look blank.

“That’s all there is, honest.” Wiz was facing the black wizard so he did not see Moira’s face fall.

“There must be more here,” said Bal-Simba. He paused for a minute. “Now. I swear to you that I mean you no harm.” He smote his breast over his heart. “I swear to you that I will neither willingly harm you nor allow you to come to harm.” He struck his chest again. “That I may aid you, will you give me leave to look deeper into you?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Wiz said a little apprehensively.

“Then sit here where you may be more comfortable.” Bal-Simba guided Wiz to the rock where Patrius had sat so recently. He reached into his pouch and drew out a small purple crystal. “Look at this.” Wiz gazed at the tiny gem cupped in the great pink palm. “Look deeply. Fix your attention on it. Observe . . . observe.”

Wiz’s eyes glazed and his mouth went slack.

“To business then.” Bal-Simba tucked the crystal back into his pouch and began the task of learning all he could about this visitor from so far away. “Strange indeed,” muttered Bal-Simba, turning from where Wiz dozed in a trance. “Very strange.”

“How so, Lord?” Moira asked.

“There is no sign of magic.”

“No magic! None at all?”

“None that I can detect. Despite his name, this Wiz is as lacking in manna as a newborn babe.”

Moira crumpled. “Then it was all for nothing,” she said bitterly. “Patrius died for nothing! Oh, Lord, I am so sorry.”

“I do not know. There is something—strange—about him, but it is not magic.”

“The effects of the Summoning?”

Bal-Simba frowned. “I do not think so. It goes beyond that, I believe.” He kept silent for a moment. “You say Patrius told you he was summoning a wizard?” he asked at last.

“Yes, Lord.” Then Moira stopped. “Well . . . not exactly.”

“What then exactly?”

Moira screwed up her face in an effort to remember. “Patrius said he was Summoning someone who could help us against the League.” She made the warding gesture. “Someone with great magical power. When I asked him if the man was a wizard he evaded the question. But,” she added thoughtfully, “he never called him a wizard.”

“But he did say that this man had great power?”

“Yes, Lord. He said he looked long and hard to find him.”

“That I can believe,” Bal-Simba said absentmindedly. “Searching beyond the World is long and hard indeed. Hmm . . . but he did not call him a wizard, you say?”

“No, Lord. When I asked Patrius that he would not answer.”

Bal-Simba’s head sunk down on his chest.

“Lord,” Moira interrupted timidly, “didn’t Patrius tell the Council what he was doing?”

Bal-Simba grimaced. “Do you think we would have allowed this madness had we known? No, we knew Patrius was engaged in a great project of some sort, but he told no none, not even his apprentices, what he was about.

“He had spoken to me of the tide of our struggle with the Dark League and how it fared. He was not sanguine and I knew in a general way that he intended something beyond the common. But I had assumed he would lay the project before the Council when it came to fruition. I assumed rashly and it cost us dearly.”

“But why, Lord? Why would he take such an awful risk?”

“Because with the League so strong not all of the Mighty together could have performed a Great Summoning.”

He caught the look on Moira’s face.

“You did not know that? Yes, it is true. All of us together are not enough to make magic of that sort against the Leagues opposition.” He smiled ruefully. “Thus the Council wanes as the League grows greater.”

“Then why . . . ?”

“Patrius obviously believed that by working alone and without the usual protections he might be able to complete the Summoning before the League realized what was happening. He was wrong and it cost him his life.” He nodded toward Wiz. “Patrius risked his life to gain a man of great magical power. Instead he brought us someone who
seems
as common as dirt. It makes no sense.” Again the great Bal-Simba was silent, his head sank down on his necklace in contemplation.

“What do you think of this?” he asked finally.

“Lord, I am not qualified to pass on the actions of the Mighty.”

Bal-Simba waved that aside. “You were here. You saw. What do you think?”

Moira took a deep breath. “I think Patrius made a mistake. I think he intended someone else and under the strain of the attack . . .” her green eyes misted and she swallowed hard as she relived those awful moments “. . . under the strain of the attack he Summoned the wrong person.”

“Possible,” Bal-Simba rumbled. “Just possible. But I wonder. Wizards who make mistakes do not live to become Mighty, still less as mighty as Patrius.”

“Yes, Lord,” said Moira meekly.

“I do not convince you, eh girl? Well, I am not sure I convince myself.” He turned back and looked at Wiz, sitting dazed and uncomprehending on the stone. “In any event, the problem now is what to do with our visitor.”

Moira snorted. “He is an expensive visitor, Lord. He cost us so much for so little.”

“Perhaps, but we cannot leave him to wander. You can see for yourself that he is as helpless as a sparrow. Sparrow, hmm? A good world name for him, especially since the name he uses is too close to his true name. But no, he cannot be left to wander.”

“Will you take him with you, Lord?”

Bal-Simba frowned. “That would not be wise, I think, and dangerous besides. The fewer who know of him the better. No, he needs to go someplace safe. A sanctuary with as little magic as possible. A place where he can remain while I consult the others of the Mighty.”

“My village is . . .”

“Unsafe,” the black giant said. “Already we are being probed. I suspect the League would like very much to get their hands on him.”

“Would it matter so much? Since he has no magic, I mean.”

“Hush, girl. You do not mean that.”

Moira looked at Wiz with distaste but shook her head. Falling into the hands of the League was not a fate to be wished on anyone, even someone who had caused the death of Patrius.

“What then?”

“There is a place. A few days into the Wild Wood where he could find sanctuary. A place of very little magic.”

Moira’s eyes lit and she opened her mouth but Bal-Simba motioned her to silence. “Best not to say it. There might be others about to hear, eh? No, you will have to take him—there—and give him into the charge of the one who lives there.”

“Me, Lord? But I have my work.”

“I will see another is sent in your place. He must be guided and protected, do you not see?”

“But why me, Lord?”

Bal-Simba ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “First, you are here and already privy to this business. The less others know of it the better. Second, you know the way through the Wild Wood. Third, time is of the essence. This place grows increasingly dangerous. And fourth,” he held up his pinky finger and his eyes twinkled, “he is in love with you.”