Magician (101 page)

Milamber nearly spit when he said,
“Damn such entertainment.” He looked at Hochopepa with a
burning expression, one never seen by the fat magician before.
Milamber half stood as he added, “And damn all those who find
pleasure in such bloody sport.”

Hochopepa seized him by the arm and
tried to pull him firmly into his seat, saying, “Milamber,
remember yourself!”

Milamber pulled himself free, ignoring
the command.

Milamber and his companions looked to
the imperial box, where a guard captain conferred with the Warlord.
Milamber felt a strange hot flush inside and for a moment battled a
sudden impulse to use his powers to put the Warlord amid those below,
to see how he fared against those who refused to die gracefully at
his command.

Then Almecho’s voice rang out,
silencing all those nearby. “No, no bowmen. Those animals will
not die a warrior’s death.” He turned to one of his pet
magicians and issued instructions. The black-robed man nodded and
began to incant. Milamber felt his neck hairs rise as the presence of
magic made itself known.

A hushed sound of awe swept about the
stadium as those on the sand below fell senseless, to roll about in a
daze.

The Warlord shouted, “Now go bind
them, build a platform, and hang them for all to see.”

Stunned silence greeted his words, then
shouts of “No!” — “They are warriors!”
— and — “This is without honor!” rang
throughout the crowd.

Hochopepa closed his eyes and sighed
audibly. He spoke to himself much as his companions “The
Warlord lets his famous temper get the best of him once more, and now
we have a debacle before us. This will not help his position in the
High Council or the stability of the Empire.” Like an enraged
beast at bay, the Warlord turned, and all nearby fell silent, but
those at greater distances picked up the cries. By Tsurani standards
this was too much of an indignity to be visited on any save those
without honor. While balking the mob’s sport, the prisoners had
shown they were still fighting men, and as such deserved an honorable
death.

Hochopepa turned to speak to Milamber,
then stopped himself as he saw the expression on his friend’s
face. Milamber’s anger was now fully revealed, his rage a match
for the Warlord’s. Sensing something terrible was about to
occur, Hochopepa sought Shimone’s attention, only to find he
was also silently watching Milamber’s fearsome countenance. All
Hochopepa could manage to say was a quiet “Milarnber, no!”
Then the slave-become-magician was moving.

He swept past the shocked Hochopepa,
saying only, “See to the Emperor’s safety.”
Milamber was reeling with the impact of sudden emotion bottled up for
years, now surging free. A strange and powerful certainty struck him.
I am not Tsurani! he acknowledged to himself. I could not be a party
to this. For the first time since donning the black robe, his two
natures were in harmony. This was a dishonor by the standards of both
cultures, something that filled him with a dread purpose free of any
doubt.

Save those near the imperial box, the
entire crowd was chanting, “The sword, the sword, the sword,”
demanding a warrior’s death for each man below. The rhythm
became a pounding pulse beat for Milambcr, heightening’his
nearly unchecked fury.

Reaching a point between the magicians
and the imperial box, Milamber regarded the soldiers and carpenters
rushing onto the arena floor. The stunned Midkemians and Thuril were
being bound like animals for slaughter, and the crowd’s anger
was reaching a dangerous level. Some of the younger officers of noble
families in the lower levels of the stadium seemed ready to take
swords and jump onto the sand, to contest personally for the
prisoners’ right to die as warriors. These had been valiant
foemen, and many of those watching had fought against both Thuril and
Kingdom soldiers. They would willingly kill these men on the field of
battle, but would not watch this humiliation visited on brave
enemies.

A black flood of anger, loathing, and
sorrow poured through Milamber. His mind screamed in outrage, despite
his attempts to control it. His head tilted back, and his eyes rolled
up into his head, and as had happened twice before in his life,
letters of fire appeared in his mind’s eye. But never before
had he had the strength to seize the moment, and with a nearly animal
joy he dived into the newly opening well of power within. His right
arm shot forward, and energy exploded from his hand. A bolt of blue
flame, scintillating even in the sunlight, hurled downward, to strike
the sand amid the Warlord’s guards. Living men were swept in
all directions, like leaves before the wind. Those just entering with
the materials for the scaffolding were knocked to their knees by the
blast, and those in the lower seats were stunned by its fury. All
noise in the arena stopped as the crowd fell into mute shock.

All eyes turned to the source of that
bolt, while those near him reflexively drew back. He was red-faced
with anger, and the whites of his eyes showed around dark irises as
he scanned the arena. With a short chopping motion of one hand, the
magician said, “No more!”

No one moved save Hochopepa and
Shimone. They had no idea what Milamber’s intentions were, but
in the face of this act they took his command seriously. They hurried
to where a half-stunned, half-fascinated young Emperor sat watching
with everyone else in the stadium. They quickly conferred with
Ichindar, and a moment later the Emperor’s seat was empty.

Milamber looked to his left as a bellow
of outrage sounded. “Who dares this!”

Milamber was confronted by the sight of
the Warlord, standing like an enraged demigod in his white armor. The
Warlord’s expression matched Milamber’s.

“I dare this!” Milamber
shouted back. “This cannot be; will not be! No more will men
die for the sport of others!”

Barely holding himself in check,
Almecho, Warlord of the Nations of Tsuranuanni, screamed, “By
what right do you do this thing!” The cords on his neck stood
out clearly, and every muscle of his body quivered as sweat beaded
his brow.

Milamber’s voice lowered, and his
words came carefully measured with controlled, defiant rage. “By
my right to do as I see fit.” He then spoke to a nearby guard.
“Those on the arena floor are to be released. They are free!”

The guard hesitated for a moment, then
his Tsurani training came to the fore. “Your will, Great One.”

The Warlord shouted, “You will
stay!”

The crowd hissed with intaken breath.
In the history of the Empire such a confrontation between Great One
and Warlord had never occurred. The guard stopped, and Milamber spoke
through a snarl. “My words are as law. Go!”

Suddenly the guard was moving, and the
Warlord screamed his rage. “You break the law! No one may free
a slave!”

His anger boiling back up again,
Milamber shouted back, “I can! I am outside the law!”

The Warlord fell back, as if struck an
invisible blow. In his life no one had dared to thwart his will in
this manner. No Warlord in history had ever been forced to endure
such public shame. He was dazed.

Near the Warlord another magician
leaped to his feet. “I call you traitor and false Great One.
You seek to undermine the Warlord’s rule and bring chaos to the
order of the Empire. You will recant this effrontery!”

Instantly there was frantic activity as
all within earshot scrambled to get clear of the two magicians.
Milamber regarded the Warlord’s pet. “Do you think to
match your powers against mine?”

The Warlord looked at Milamber with
naked hatred on his face. He never took his eyes from the young
magician’s face as he said to his pet, “Destroy him!”

Milamber’s arms shot upward,
crossing at the wrists Instantly a soft golden nimbus of light
surrounded him. The other magician hurled a bolt of energy, and the
blue ball of fire struck harmlessly against the gold shield.

Milamber tensed, suffused with anger.
Twice before in his life, when attacked by the trolls and when
fighting with Roland, he had reached into hidden reservoirs of power
and drawn upon them. Now he tore aside the last barriers between his
conscious mind and those hidden reserves. They were no longer a
mystery to him but the wellspring from which all his power stemmed.
For the first time in his experience, Milamber came to understand
fully what he was, who he was: not a Black Robe, limited by the
ancient teachings of one world, but an adept of the Greater Art, a
master in full possession of all the energy provided by two worlds.

The Warlord’s magician regarded
him in fear. Here was more than a curiosity, a barbarian magician.
Here stood a figure to awe, arms stretched upward, body trembling
with rage, eyes seemingly aglow with strength.

Milamber clapped his hands above his
head, and thunder pealed, rocking those around him. Energy exploded
upward from his hands, held high above his head. A vortex of
coruscating forces spun above him, rising like a bowshot. The
fountain continued until it was high overhead. It began to flatten,
covering the stadium like a great canopy. The dazzling display
continued briefly, then the skies seemed to explode, blinding many
who were looking upward. The sky turned dark, and the sun faded as if
grey veils were slowly being drawn before it.

Milamber’s voice carried to the
farthest corner of the stadium as he said, “That you have lived
as you have lived for centuries is no license for this cruelty. All
here are now judged, and all are found wanting.”

More magicians departed, disappearing
from their seats, but many yet remained. More judicious commoners
fled by nearby exits, but still many waited, thinking this but
another contest for their amusement. Many were too drunk or excited
by the spectacle for the magician’s warning to reach them.

Milamber’s arm swept an arc
around him. “You who would take pleasure from the death and
dishonor of others, see then how well you face destruction!” A
gasp from the crowd answered his pronouncement.

Milamber raised one hand high overhead,
and all became silent. Even the light summer breeze ceased. Then with
a terrible strength, he spoke. They paled at his words, for it was as
if death had become incarnate and had spoken. Echoing throughout the
stadium were the words of Milamber: “Tremble and despair, for I
am Power!”

A shrill keening sound began, with
Milamber at its source. The very air shuddered as mighty magic was
forged “Wind!” Milamber cried.

A bitter breeze reeking of carrion,
foul and loathsome in its touch, blew through the stadium. A low moan
of sorrow and fear was carried away by the wind. It blew stronger
and, each moment it grew, carried more menace, more despair. It
turned colder, until it was stinging to those who had rarely known
cold. Men wept at its biting caress, and high above the stadium,
clouds formed in the murk.

The winds howled, drowning out the
cries of the multitude in the arena. Nobles tried to flee, now too
terrified to do anything but claw past their own families, trampling
the old and slow underfoot. Many were buffeted to their knees, or
knocked from the seats to the sands of the arena floor.

Great thunderheads, black and grey,
raced overhead, seeming to swirl around a point directly over
Milamber’s head. The magician was engulfed in an eerie light,
pulsating with energy. He stood at the center of the storm, a
terrible figure in the dark. The wind shrieked its fury, but
Milamber’s voice cut through the sound like a knife.

“Rain!”

A cold rain fell, blown hard before the
gale. Quickly it grew in tempo, becoming a pounding torrent, then a
deluge. The cascade pelted those below, painfully driving them down,
beating them senseless with a frightening strength clearly unnatural.
A few managed to flee to the tunnels, while others clutched at one
another in terror.

Other magicians tried to counter the
spells but could not, and fainted from the exertion. Never had there
been such a display of raw power. Here was a true master of magic,
one who could control the very elements, come into his own. The
magician who had challenged Milamber lay back across his seat,
stunned, his eyes blinking as he struggled to sort some semblance of
order out of the chaos around. The Warlord tried to withstand the
storm, struggling to remain upright and refusing to submit to the
terror of those around him.

Milamber dropped his arm, then raised
one hand before him, stretching outward. “Fire!” he
shouted, and again all could hear him.

The clouds seemed to burn. The heavens
erupted as sheets of terrible colors, flames of every hue, ran not
through the darkness. Jagged bolts of lightning flashed across the
sky, as if the gods were announcing the final judgment of mankind.
People screamed in primitive terror at the element gone mad.

Then the rain of fire began. Drops
struck arms and clothing, faces and cloaks, and began to burn.
Shrieks of pain came from all sides, and people tried vainly to swat
out the fires that burned their flesh. More magicians disappeared
from the arena, taking their unconscious comrades. Milamber stood
alone in the magicians’ section. The stink of burned flesh
filled the air, mixed with the acrid odor of fear.

Milamber crossed his arms before him.
He turned his gaze downward.

“Earth!”

From below a deep rumbling commenced.
The ground under the stadium began to tremble slightly. The
vibrations grew in intensity, and the air was filled with an angry
buzzing, as if a swarm of giant insects had surrounded the arena.
Then a low rumbling added its harmony to the buzzing, and the ground
began to move.

The vibrations became a shaking, then a
violent rolling, surging, motion. Milamber stood calmly, as if on an
island. It was as if the soil, the earth, had become fluid. People
were thrown down onto the arena floor. The huge stadium throbbed from
forces primeval. Statues tumbled from their pedestals, and the huge
gates were ripped from their hinges, in a crackling splintering of
ancient wood. They moved from before the tunnels in a staggering,
drunken walk, then fell to the sand, crushing those who lay before
them. Many of the beasts below the arena were driven mad by the
earthquake and thrashed in their cages, smashing locks and opening
doors. They fled the tunnels and raced over the fallen gates; they
bellowed, howled, and roared at the fire rain Enraged by terror, they
fell upon the stunned spectators lying on the sand, killing at
random. A man would sit dazed, absently slapping at the burning drops
from the skies, while another a few feet away was being gutted by
some horror from the distant forests.