Gary Gygax - Dangerous Journeys 1 - Anubis Murders (2 page)

"This is the last opportunity for refreshments,

Exaulted Masters," murmured a dozen androgynous servants as thy passed through the upper vault of the tower in which the ceremony was to take place. "Purest water? Infusions? I have coffee, erythrox, cocoa, and tea. There are various forms of tobacco and herbal stimulants in the salon yonder. May I be of assistance?" So the solicitation proceeded as the various timepieces showed the twelfth hour fast approaching.

Sand and water showed but a few minutes remaining. So, too, a thick set of marked candles. A sidereal clock agreed, as did the mechanical gears of a huge, ticking mechanism which was a wonder to all but the most jaded of the thaumaturges present. Massive gears of bronzewood clacked, a silver pair of fins spun and caused a breeze to skitter nearby candle flames. Select apprentices and the younger demonurges stared at the open working as there came gnashings and groanings and accompanying movements within the device. A massive hammer came down to beat upon an iron tube.
BONGgg . ..

A flurry of last-second efforts to complete arcane inscriptions in the intricate interweaving of pentacles, haxacles, and thaumaturgic triangles on the chamber floor accompanied the stroke.
BONG. . .

Metallic powders, chalk, and pigments were placed in exacting detail, so that no figure was unfinished, no symbol lacking. Each utterance written was letter perfect.

BONG . . .

There was a stir as several hefty conjurers moved to positions on either side of the great timepiece. That was both symbolic and practical, for the noise was deafening.
BONG.. .

The last of the servitors left the high-ceilinged hall, their bare feet making whispering noises as they exited in nervous haste.
BONG . . .

Bolts made loud snicking sounds in the otherwise still chamber. The world below the topmost space in the tall tower was now shut out.
BONG. . .

At the sixth stroke in the count toward midnight, many of the demonurges laid enchantments upon the two doors and four windows which pierced the solid stone walls of the room. Because preparations had been made well beforehand, this took only a few breaths to conclude, and the last of their incantations droned into silence as the hammer fell once again.
BONG. . .

The incenses and herbs in the copper braziers in each corner of the hall were set alight with coals from nearby pots. Smoke began to rise in varicolored spindles.
BONG. . .

The dark, oddly shaped candles were set

alight. These fat wax cylinders were ensorcled to never go out no matter how gusty the wind or how fervent the attempt to quench them, save a single magickal command. Each of the three sets—thirteen in an outer ring, eleven in the inner figures, four placed in the conjuring diagram—was carefully compounded to assure a burning time of more than four hours.
BONG . . .

The supporting heka-wielders assembled, each in his or her assigned place. There were rustlings as robes were straightened, various materia made ready.
BONG ...

The six master demonurges who would be principals in the summoning now took their places in the magick circles so carefully prepared. The last of them, a broad-shouldered man with long, greasy black hair, a stone-faced fellow with dull eyes the color of his hair, took sole position in the triangular figure, the chief place of ritual working in a sorcerous conjuration.
BONG . ..

The eleventh stroke. Everyone in the big room was mentally counting the strokes. The dull eyes of the chief demonurge of the Academie Sorcerie d'Ys burned suddenly with fervid light. Ber-trand Frontonac, Haut Omniurge of the college, drew forth a black fan and cleared his throat. The five others nearby likewise made ready to serve as invocators—instruments and voices har-rumphing as would a body of minstrels in preparation for some performance. There was a chorus of indrawn breaths as the huge wooden gears continued to turn and the hammer rose and dropped for the final time.
BONNGGG. . .

Even as the first chant was voiced, a deep and monotonous litany, the works of the miraculous timepiece were stopped short as if to freeze the world at midnight, the instant between one day and the next. To the bass accompaniment of the lesser sorcerers, the demonurgists began to voice their separate parts in the ritual. All time and none at all passed, and in the center of a carefully prepared space there began to grow a whirling smoke or mist. As this grew and thickened, the air in the chamber became cold, and a growing wind tore through the room. When the gusts rose to the force of a shrieking gale, the stuff in the quatragram of conjuration grew to a livid purplish color and slowly formed itself into a discernable shape.

Ominurge Frontonac was now fully animated, feet moving to some inaudible rhythm, hands and arms waving in ceremonial passes as he spoke the final words of the ritual summoning of aerial elementals. Eyes alight with pride and anticipation, voice confident and commanding, Bertrand Frontonac concluded: "You are now called, chained, and compelled, Great Sylph,

Paralda, Prince of Air, Lord of All in that Rarified Element, appear and obey!"

The five assisting demonurges made similar assertions in unison as the accompaniment rose from a shimmering hum to a frenzied chant celebrating the summoning and binding ritual. The dark shape in the quatragram solidified, its monstrous pinions beginning to unfurl, testing the constraints of its space. And just as the assemblage was settling to stillness, there came a collective intake of breath, the stirrings of a startled crowd.

The wings were not feathery pinions after all. The towering entity inside the quatragram was not an elemental prince of air. The drawn figure used for the summoning was breached. The gasps were of horror.

A red-eyed demon was loose among them all.

"NO!" the great sorcerer cried in denial.

"Oh, but yes!" the demon fairly chortled in an incongruous contralto whose sweetness was quite at odds with its tusked mouth and taloned hands. "You are mine according to the grant of the jack-al-headed one of the North, the stealer of the sun," it added almost in a titter. The iron-hard nails shot forth and gripped Omniurge Fron-tonac. Blood spurted, and the doomed sorcerer uttered a wail of agony and despair as the others in the hall remained powerless. The apprentices shrieked and tried to flee. Two of the lesser demonurges joined the panic. The rest stood fast and worked frantically to ward themselves. The fiery-eyed demon cast its gaze momentarily toward the five others nearby and chortled. "Perhaps I'll return for you later." Then it folded the bloody form of Omniurge Frontonac, tucked the corpse under its left arm, and vanished in a clap of iron thunder far louder than the striking of the huge clock.

Only a reek of vilest sort and a few spatters of gore remained to prove that demon and Frontonac had ever been in the oddly silent chamber. The Academie Sorcerie d'Ys had just lost its master. It was an event from which the college and all associated with it might never recover nor live down.

The howling of something like wild dogs was heard distinctly that night in Ys at about the fourth hour after midnight. Oddly, certain fishermen reported similar howlings coming from the sea around the promontory. That, of course, was dismissed.

MEN AS GAUNT AS DEATH

Color began to streak the horizon, and the tops of the rolling waves glistened with a tawny hue. "When will you break your fast, great lord?"

Setne Inhetep had obtained the villa on the Mare Librum only a few days before. The staff which went with the spacious grounds and dwelling were not yet accustomed to the strange habits of the ^Egyptian. Although Setne did not turn, his reply was polite. "Later, thank you, Carlos. You may return to the villa and await us there. It will be no more than half an hour."

The Iberian shrugged, then gave a slight bow toward the tall foreigner's back. "As you command, lord," he murmured. He was careful to withdraw silently, his sandals making only soft shushing sounds in the sand. Carlos knew that all Egyptians were rumored to be mages, and the tall, red-complexioned fellow who was the villa's current master openly admitted to being a wizard-priest Carlos had no reason to doubt, what with the man's shaven head, hawk nose, and sea-green eyes which seemed to look through to the very brain! Carlos made a sign to ward off the evil eye, again careful to do so with his hand shielded from the thin stranger. No sense in taking chances, for the Magister Inhetep might have an eye in the back of his head.

In fact, Setne was vaguely aware of what Carlos was thinking and doing.

Perhaps it was a sixth sense, possibly a mere quirk. Certainly whenever anyone concentrated on the ur-kheri-heb—a wizard-priest when translated from Egyptian to the Iberian or any other tongue—he was able to sense it, unless the individual was one with strong heka hiding his thoughts or Inhetep was distracted. In any event, Setne was not paying attention because Carlos was a simple fellow. He broadcast everything, but it was of no consequence. Besides, the Magister had eyes only for Rachelle. There was one worthy of attention. If only she were so plainly discerned by his powers. . . .

Rachelle raced along the shore, oblivious to all. It was part of a ritual she performed every morning at first light. The regimen consisted of running, calisthenics, various sorts of gymnastics, and swimming, too, whenever possible. This setting was perfect for her. Rachelle shot a glance towards where the Egyptian stood. He was watching, of course. That she was naked bothered Rachelle not a bit. She waved as she sped past him, and Setne gave a little wave in return. If possible, Rachelle exercised at other times of day as well as at dawn. Often, however, because of their travels, it was not possible. She was glad that there was time now. Setne had promised that they would spend at least another few weeks here in Valentia. The red edge of the sun rose, seeming to force its sphere through the waters of the sea in order to reach the air above. Rachelle stopped and stood panting slightly. This was a spectacle she would not ignore.

Inhetep joined her where the waves lapped the sand. "Are you finished?"

Rachelle flashed the tall man a smile of greeting. He had taught her to love sunrises such as this. "No . . . not quite. I will swim a little longer."

"An excellent prospect," Setne agreed. "It will give zest to my appetite, I am sure. Wait a moment and I'll join you."

The huge solar disk now balanced on the horizon, creating a pathway of red-orange brighter than orichalcum. Rachelle laughed, sprang ahead and, seconds later, was out in the low waves. "Old sluggard!" she shouted as she ran farther out. "You'll be plodding about forever, and I need to be active." With that Rachelle dove as if she were a mermaid.

It took only a moment for the Egyptian to slip out of his one-piece white cotton garment, girdled like a kilt and tunic. Setne simply loosened the girdle, pulled the folds of the blouse open and off his arm, and dropped it onto the sand. Still in his loincloth, he followed the girl, although far less precipitously. He was lean, and well over six feet tall. Setne never revealed his age, and it was nearly impossible to guess. Sometimes he looked but thirty, at other times he appeared to be forty. In fact, he was older. As a rolling surge came in, Inhetep launched himself smoothly into it. He was a strong but obviously unexceptional swimmer. "Beware, girl! Wizards do not take kindly to being japed at!" Inhetep shouted as he splashed out toward Rachelle.

There was no possibility of him catching her. Rachelle was able to literally swim rings around the Egyptian. She did so, including several even more insulting maneuvers which took her under and over him, as if a dolphin were sporting with some lesser denizen of the sea. "Come on then, bald priest of Thoth. If you're such a marvelous

magician, let's see you sprout fins and catch me!

Knowing all along that it was a hopeless matter—unless he did somehow transform himself into fish or aquatic mammal—Setne swam in a straight path, away from the beach, ignoring the girl's tauntings and antics. After a few minutes, Rachelle grew bolder and tried to dunk Setne's head into the clear greenish water. "Ahah!" Inhetep managed to cry in triumph as he caught the girl's hand with a movement as quick as a striking cobra. "Now you shall know what true justice is!"

"No!" Rachelle blurted. How many times had she been caught thus? Would she never learn? She was young, lithe, quick, and strong—very strong and very athletic. Rachelle did a somersault, twisted, tore with her free hand at the Egyptian's hold, and found Setne's grasp as unbreakable as a giant and hungry octopus. She heard him answer, "Yes!" and then she was deep beneath the water. Inhetep descended with her. Rachelle knew she could hold her breath for minutes, and her mentor could at best manage a few dozen seconds. She would win.

Setne went along too willingly to the five-fathom depth to which the girl swam. Then he looked at her and grinned. Rachelle's eyes grew large in the dim greenness; she made a face at him as Inhetep let go of her. Rachelle shot up to the surface and sped off toward shore. Inhetep followed leisurely, working along as if he were a fish, for he had sprouted gills. Magick. This was indicative of his relaxed state of mind. The Egyptian almost never used his power so lightly. The girl had been truly surprised at the display. That pleased him.

"That was a dirty trick," Rachelle said as Inhetep came up out of the sea and walked to where she stood.

"You were warned," he countered. "I've had quite enough physical exercise for one morning.