Authors: Rick Cook
The Wiz Biz (8 page)
“He spent all the long summer days working in his orchards while the fruit swelled and ripened on his trees. With plentiful water his fruit was the largest and finest ever. So when the time came he harvested all his boat could bear and set out for his markets on the east coast of the sea.
“He thought it odd that he saw no other vessels, for usually the waters inshore were the haunt of fishing vessels and merchantmen trading in the rich goods of the east. Einrich sailed on, finding nothing in the water save an occasional dead fish.
“When he sighted land his unease grew. For in place of the low green hills of the Eastern land he saw cliffs of dazzling white. As he drew closer he realized that the familiar hills had turned white, so white the reflections almost blinded him.
He sought the familiar harbors but he could not find them. All was buried under drifts of white, as if huge dunes of sand had devoured the land.
“And instead of the sweet scent of growing things, the land breeze brought him the odor of rotting fish. All along the shoreline were windrows of dead sea creatures. Here and there a starving seabird tore eagerly at the decaying flesh.
“Finally, Einrich put ashore in a cove. When he stepped from his boat he stepped onto a beach of salt.
“Einrich had bound his demon to its task, but he had not limited it. The whole of the Southern Sea had been turned to fresh water. The fish within could not live in the fresh water, so they died.
“Worse, Einrich had not instructed the demon where to put the salt it winnowed. The creature simply dumped it on the nearest shoreline. In the space of a few days the greatest and most beautiful cities of the World disappeared under waves and rifts of salt. Their people perished or were doomed to roam the world as homeless wanderers—living testaments to the power of magic ill-used.
“And to this day the demon sits in the Freshened Sea, sifting salt from the water and dumping it on the land. The eastern shores are a desert of salt and the water is still fresh.”
“What happened to Einrich?” Wiz asked, awed.
Moira smiled grimly. “A suitable punishment was arranged. If you travel to that cursed shore, and if you look long enough, you will find Einrich, ever hungry, ever thirsting and hard at work with a shovel, trying to shovel enough salt into the sea to render it salty again.”
“Whew,” Wiz breathed.
“The point, Sparrow, is that magic is not to be trifled with. Even successful magic can bring ruin in its wake and unsuccessful magic far outnumbers the successful.”
“Could I have done something like that, by accident?”
“Unlikely,” Moira sniffed. “You do not have a talent for magic and you have no training. You could easily loll yourself or burn down a forest, but you have not the ability to work great magic. The most dangerous magicians are the half-trained ones. Either the ones who are still being schooled or who think they are greater than they are. The evil they do often lives after them. They and the League, of course.”
“What is the League, anyway? A bunch of black magicians?”
Moira frowned. “They are a dark league. Some of them are black, it is true. But so is Bal-Simba and many others of the North.”
“No, I mean magicians who practice black magic. You know, evil spells and things like that.”
“Evil magic depends partly on intent and partly on ignoring the consequences,” Moira said. “Spells may help or harm but they are not of themselves good or evil.”
“Not even a death spell?”
“Not if used to defend oneself, no. Such spells are dangerous and are best avoided, but they are not evil.”
“All right, what separates you from this League?”
Moira was silent for a moment. “Responsibility,” she said thoughtfully. “Magic is not evil in itself, but tends to affect many things at once. Often the unintended or unwanted effects of a spell are harmful. Like Einrich’s means of getting water for his orchards.”
“We called those side effects,” Wiz said. “They’re a pain in the neck in programming too.”
“Be that as it may, the question a responsible magician must face is whether the goal is worth the consequences. All the consequences. Those who follow the Council of the North try to use magic in harmony with the World. Those of the League are not so bound.”
Moira shifted and the fire caught and heightened the burnished copper highlights in her hair.
“Power is an easy prize for a magician, Sparrow—if you can stay alive and if you are not too nice about the consequences. The ones who join the League see power as an end to itself. They magic against the World and scheme and intrigue among themselves to get it.”
Wiz nodded. “I’ve known hackers like that. They didn’t care what they screwed up as long as they got what they wanted.”
“It may be so on all the worlds,” Moira sighed. “There are always those whose talent and ambition are unchecked by concern for others. If they have no magical talent they may become thieves, robbers and cheats. With talent they are likely to travel south and join with the Dark League.”
“Why go south. Why not just stay and make trouble?”
“Two reasons. First, the Council will not have them in the civilized lands. Second, they must still serve an apprenticeship no matter how much talent they have.” She smiled tightly. “The tests for an apprentice are stringent and many of them are aimed at uncovering such people.
“Once they pass over the Freshened Sea they are beyond the Council’s reach. They are free to work whatever magic they wish and that place shows the results. All of the Southern Shore is alight with mountains of fire and the earth trembles constantly from the League’s magic. The land is so blasted that none can live there save by magic. The very World itself pays the price for the lusts of the League.”
“Why put up with them at all? When we had problems like that we’d kick the troublemakers off the system. Or turn them over to the cops—ah, the authorities.”
“You have an easier time than we do, Sparrow,” Moira said ruefully. “There is no way to bar a magician from making magic, so we cannot ‘kick them off the system.’ As for the authorities, well, the Council exists in part to check the League but this is not a thing easily done. Individually the ones of the League are mighty sorcerers. Toth-Set-Ra, their present leader,” Moira made a warding sign, “is the mightiest wizard in all the World.”
“If he’s so powerful how come he hasn’t taken the North?”
“Because the League contains the seeds of its own destruction,” Moira said. “To conquer the North, the League would have to act in careful concert. This they cannot do because of the rivalries within. The Mighty are more constrained than the sorcerers of the League and so perhaps not so powerful individually. But they work easily together and can defeat any of the League’s efforts.
“The League is like the Phoenix which renews itself by regular immolation. When it
is
sundered by contention and many strive for the Dark Throne, then we of the North have a time of peace. When a strong leader emerges and brings most of the wizards of the South under his sway, the League harries the North and magics are loosed upon the land.” Moira sighed. “Twas ever so. And now we live in a time when the League is united as never before.
“Toth-Set-Ra,” again the warding sign, “is a mighty sorcerer, skilled in magic and cunning in lore. And it is our age’s woe that he has especially powerful tools at his command.”
“It doesn’t sound very secure to me,” Wiz said dubiously.
“Little in life is secure,” Moira replied. “But we contrive.” She rose and moved to the other side of the fire.
“And now let us see if we can get some sleep, Sparrow. Morning comes early and we still have far to go.”
Three: The Watchers at the Well
The land was different here. The valleys were narrower, the ridges more numerous and the slopes steeper. But the trees were as tall and their leaves shut out the sun as fully as they had in the flatter country behind them.
The forest was making Wiz claustrophobic, but since the water meadow open spaces didn’t appeal to him either.
They were following the valleys now, but Wiz wasn’t sure it was an improvement. Moira seemed to become more nervous. When they walked they went as fast, but Moira stopped more often to listen intently. She spoke seldom and only in whispers and she glared fiercely at Wiz every time a branch cracked under his feet.
Finally they came up a gentle rise and looked down into a valley even steeper and narrower than the ones around them. From the disturbance of the treetops Wiz could make out the line of a road or a stream running through its center.
Moira placed her enchanting head next to Wiz’s, so close he could count the freckles on her cheek and inhale the fragrance of her hair.
“The Forest Road,” Moira whispered nodding at the line. “We must follow its track.”
“I thought we needed to stay under cover,” Wiz whispered back dubiously.
“I said we would follow the road, not walk it. If we keep to the wood we should be all right.” She grasped his wrist and squeezed hard. “But make no sound. This place is a natural funnel and if the League realizes we are bound into the Wild Wood, this is where they will set their traps.”
Cautiously then they went downhill until they struck a game trail that ran along the slope. As they moved with it, the land gradually grew steeper. Although he couldn’t see, Wiz had the impression that the valley was narrowing as well.
“Hsst.” Moira tugged at Wiz’s sleeve. “Voices. Off the path.” She looked left and right and then surprised Wiz by scrambling up the steep bank. They climbed like frightened squirrels until they were nearly thirty feet above the trail. They flattened themselves against the slope with a thin screen of bushes between them and the path below.
Two men came up the path. They were dressed in rough homespun. The taller one was lean and balding with a narrow rodent face and greasy stringy blond hair. The shorter one was also blond, but he was beefier, younger and his hair fuller. The tall one carried a machetelike sword that he swung idly with a practiced motion of the wrist. The other had a big knife or short sword thrust scabbardless through his belt. Wiz held his breath as they came close.
“What is it we’re looking for anyway?” the younger man asked.
“Gold, me lad. Two bags of gold walking around in human skins.” He swished the frond off a fern with a casual swing of his chopping sword. “There’s a man and a woman as might be making for the Wild Wood and there’s those who would pay steep for them.”
Don’t look up,
Wiz prayed.
Please don’t look up!
“What do they look like?” the young man asked as the pair passed the spot where Wiz and Moira lay.
“Like strangers, and strangers at the Gap are easy enough to find.”
The man asked another question but they turned a corner in the path and the woods and distance made their speech unintelligible.
Wiz and Moira looked at each other.
“We don’t have to ask who they’re looking for, do we?” Wiz whispered.
Moira gestured him to silence and motioned for him to wait. He realized the pair who had just passed might be the vanguard of a larger party and clamped his mouth shut.
Minutes ticked by before Moira gestured him up and on. They climbed down from their perch and plunged downslope into the forest, breasting through thickets and thrusting past tangles of underbrush. The going was slower and noisier but somehow that seemed like a reasonable tradeoff.
At last Moira stopped them under a large clump of something multi-stemmed and leafy.
“Were those guys from the League?” Wiz asked in a whisper.
Moira shook her head. “Not they. They owe allegiance to naught but gold. There are robbers who haunt the Forest Road. Apparently the League offers rich reward for us and that has served to concentrate them.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We must go on. The problem comes when we reach the Forest Gate ahead. That is a pass barely wider than the Forest Road itself. It marks the end of Fringe and the beginning of the Wild Wood and it will doubtless be guarded.”
“Can we go around?”
Moira shook her head firmly. “We must go through the Gate itself.”
“How do we get through?”
She smiled grimly. “Cautiously, Sparrow. Very cautiously indeed. Now move as quietly as you can, and no talking! That pair were not woodsmen, but a few of these rogues are skilled rangers indeed.”
They went ahead even more slowly now. Wiz joined Moira in scanning the woods. After their encounter with the robbers the forest seemed even more oppressive. Every tree or bush became a potential hiding place until the woods seemed alive with bandits waiting to pounce. A burst of birdsong would make Wiz start and the scampering of a squirrel in a tree would reduce him to terror.
Finally Moira halted and pointed. Wiz followed her finger and saw the Forest Gate.
Ahead the canyon narrowed into a gorge. At the bottom it was only wide enough for the road and a rocky stream. The gray stone walls rose sheer for a hundred feet or more before the canyon widened out and the trees grew on the slope, which rose for hundreds of feet.
And the gate was guarded. Wiz saw four men on the road and one more sitting on the cliff edge. Their manner left no doubt there were more men on down the gorge or hidden by the trees.
“I don’t suppose we could use magic to get through?” Wiz whispered.
Moira surveyed the scene and bit her lips. “It is a trap. Those men are out in the open in hope that we will try something like that. Make no doubt there are magicians waiting to pounce.”
“What then?”
“We thread our way between them. I hope they are not too thick along the slopes. Now be quiet.”
They were higher on the mountainside than the walls of the gorge, a good two hundred feet above the place where the trees began. If most of the robbers were down on the road and there weren’t too many sentinels on the heights and the robbers weren’t too alert, they should be able to work their way along the slope without being seen.
And if frogs had wings they wouldn’t bump their asses every time they took a step,
Wiz thought sourly.
With agonizing caution they worked their way forward. In spite of their steepness the slopes were thickly wooded and well-grown with brush. Most of the time they could see only a few yards in any direction. Wiz kept his eyes on the ground, putting his feet down as carefully as he could. Every time he scuffed the leaves the sound rang in his ears. He was certain the noise they made echoed off the walls of the canyon. Every few yards they halted for a long minute to listen.
Luck seemed to be with them. It was a hard climb up to the slope from the road and few of the robbers were inclined to make it. Those that did were more interested in looking down the road than they were in checking the mountainside. Moving with exquisite care, Wiz and Moira passed the watchers, sometimes so close they could see them through the trees.
The mountainside grew steeper and the ground became more rocky. Trees were scarcer and the brush thicker. The terrain forced them closer and closer to the cliff edge. Below them they could see the gorge curve sharply in a hairpin bend and beyond that the land widened out again.
Finally, at the very point of the hairpin, the wood narrowed to a thin band. And at its narrowest point there was a man sitting on a rock.
He was at his ease, hands clasped around one knee and the other leg dangling. Like his fellows he was looking over the canyon. Obviously the last thing he expected was to find his quarry on the slopes. There was a leather patch over his right eye, the eye closest to Wiz and Moira.
But to get by him they would have to pass scant feet from him.
In the movies this is always where they jump the sentry,
Wiz thought. This wasn’t a movie and Wiz wasn’t a trained commando. The man was at least a head taller than he was and heavily muscled. He was wearing a broadsword, while their only weapon was Moira’s eating knife. The last thing Wiz wanted to do was make like Bruce Lee.
Moira obviously agreed. Crouching low, she began to work her way forward, keeping as much brush as she could between her and the man on the rock. Crouching even lower, Wiz followed.
Moira was almost behind the man when Wiz stepped on a loose rock.
With a crunch and a clatter the stone went rolling down the slope, taking several others with it. The sentry’s head whipped around and he saw Moira behind a bush not six feet from him.
“Hey!” he shouted and sprang to his feet, grabbing for his sword. Moira cringed and made ready to run.
Wiz stood up too. As the man took his first step toward Moira he literally blindsided him and shoved him with all his strength, away from his beloved and toward the cliff edge.
The man whooped, tottered on the brink and then went over the cliff backwards, screaming all the way down.
The scream was cut off by an enormous
splash
and a second later the gorge resounded with curses. When Wiz peeked over the edge he saw that the stream made a pool in the bend of the canyon and the man was in the middle of it, treading water and swearing at the top of his lungs.
A laughing voice called out to him.
“By the nine netherhells I was pushed! They’re up there I tell you. Get after them!”
Again the laughing voice.
“Damn your mangy hide, I am
not
drunk! There’s someone up there and they’re getting away.”
“Better search along that cliff, lads,” came a harsher, louder voice. “Who knows? There may actually be someone up there.”
Wiz and Moira ducked in among the trees and ran for all they were worth, never slowing until they were past the Gate and out on the forest floor again.
There were no sounds of pursuit, but just to be safe Moira led them back and forth through the stream several times and doubled back on their trail twice. All the while she said nothing to Wiz and shushed him when he tried to speak.
By the time Moira was satisfied the sun was dipping toward the horizon. She paused as if considering, and abruptly she changed direction and started angling back almost the way they had come. Finally she struck a track like a sunken road and led Wiz up it.
The road was canopied over with trees and thickly covered with fallen leaves, but there was not so much as a blade of grass growing on it. Here and there were bare spots where he could see paving blocks of blue-gray marble dressed square and neatly fitted together. Occasionally there would be another stone sticking up to one side with a runic inscription on it.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t the Forest Road. It was too wide and too well-built. More, there was a different—feel—about it, and Wiz wasn’t sure he liked the feel at all.
They came over a crest and Wiz looked down on a ruin. Delicate fluted columns and graceful arches protruded here and there from the trees and bushes. Wiz could make out the remains of a wall of the same blue-gray marble running around the place.
It was big, Wiz saw as they trudged down the road toward the ruin. The wall had to enclose several hundred acres. It was hard to imagine what the ground plan could have been, but Wiz formed an impression of a palatial, spacious building that had stood in the midst of extensive gardens.
Moira turned off from the road before they got to what should have been the main gate and searched until she found a breach in the wall. Without a word to Wiz she scrambled over the broken stones and onto the grounds.
She led deeper into the ruin, passing dry fountains surmounted by statues weathered almost to shapelessness, elaborate porticos and paved courtyards which had apparently never been roofed. At last she found a spot that seemed to suit her.
“We will camp here.”
“What was this place anyway?” Wiz asked, staring up at the ruined arches. The pillars were too tall and too thin and the arches themselves were too pointed. Like everything else about the ruin they were at once beautiful and unsettling.
“A castle,” Moira said as she dropped her pack beside him. “They say it belonged to a wizard.”
“I thought we were supposed to avoid magic.”
“It was not my plan to come this way,” the red-haired witch said tartly. “I hoped to be well beyond this part of the Wild Wood by nightfall, but we lost too much time playing hide and seek. This place still has the remnants of the owner’s guard spells and they offer some protection. If it does not meet with your approval I am truly sorry.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, be quiet,” Moira snapped and Wiz lapsed into abashed silence.
As the afternoon turned to twilight Moira sent Wiz to gather firewood. He came back with a good armload which she accepted wordlessly and with little grace. Then she set about kindling the fire. Wiz stood watching her.
“All right,” he said grimly. “Let’s have it.”
“Have what?” She looked up as the fire sprang to life.
“Whatever’s eating you. You’ve been mad ever since we got past the gate and I want to know why.”
“Mad? Me? What have I to be angry about? Just because your clumsiness nearly got us both killed, that is no reason for me to be angry.”
“Okay, my foot slipped. I’m sorry, all right? And in case you hadn’t noticed, I saved your bacon back there.”
“And that makes it right?”
“It sure as hell makes it better.”
“Sparrow, curing a disease is no excuse for causing it. If you had not been so lead-footed there would have been no need for rescue. Bal-Simba has given me the job of saving your worthless carcass. That would be dangerous enough if you were an adult. But you have the mind and manners of a child and that makes it ten times worse. If you do not feel I truly appreciate you, then, again, I am indeed sorry!”
“All right, that’s it!” Wiz shouted and reached over to pick up his pack.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Moira demanded.
