Magician (45 page)

The officer inspected the boy’s
clothing. Next he knelt and inspected the boots on Pug’s feet.
He stood and barked an order at the soldier who had fetched him, who
saluted and turned to Pug. He seized the bound boy and led him away,
on a winding course through the Tsurani camp.

At the center of the camp, large
banners hung from the cross pieces of standards, all set in a circle
around a large tent. All bore strange designs, creatures of
outlandish configuration, depicted in bold colors. Several had glyphs
of an unknown language on them. It was to this place Pug was half
pulled, half dragged, through the hundreds of Tsurani soldiers who
sat quietly polishing their leather armor and making repairs on
weapons. Several watched as he passed, but the camp was free of the
usual noise and bustle Pug was used to in the camp of his own army.
There was more than just the strange and colorful banners to give
this place an otherworld feeling. Pug tried to note the details, so
if he could escape and report, he could tell Duke Borric something
useful, but he found his senses betrayed by so many unfamiliar
images. He didn’t know what was important in all he saw.

At the entrance of the large tent, the
guard who pulled Pug along was challenged by two others, wearing
black-and-orange armor. A quick exchange of words resulted in the
tent flap being held aside while Pug was thrust through. He fell
forward onto a thick pile of furs and woven mats. From where he lay,
Pug could see more banners hanging on the tent walls. The tent was
richly fashioned, with silklike hangings and thick rugs and pillows.

Hands roughly pulled him upright, and
he could see several men regarding him. All stood dressed in the
gaudy armor and crested helms of the Tsurani officers except for two.
They sat upon a raised dais covered with cushions. The first wore a
simple black robe with cowl pulled back, revealing a thin, pale face
and bald pate: a Tsurani magician. The other wore a rich-looking robe
of orange with black trim, cut below knees and elbows, so that it
gave the look of something worn for comfort. From his wiry, muscled
appearance and several visible scars, Pug assumed that this man was a
warrior who had put aside his armor for the night.

The man in black said something in a
high-pitched, singsong language to the others. None of the other men
said anything, but the one in the orange robe nodded. The great tent
was lit by a single brazier near where the two robed men sat. The
lean, black-robed one sat forward, and the light from the brazier
cast upward on his face, giving him a decidedly demonic look. His
words came haltingly, and thick with accent.

“I know only . . . little . . .
of your speech. You understand?”

Pug nodded, his heart pounding while
his mind worked furiously. Kulgan’s training was coming into
play. First he calmed himself, clearing the fog that had gripped his
mind. Then he extended every sense, automatically, taking in every
scrap of information available, seeking any useful bit of knowledge
that might improve his chances of survival. The soldier nearest the
door seemed to be relaxing, his left arm behind his head as he lay
back on a pile of cushions, his attention only half focused on the
captive. But Pug noticed that his other hand was never more than an
inch from the hilt of a wicked-looking dagger at his belt. A brief
gleam of light on lacquer revealed the presence of another dagger
hilt, half protruding from a pillow at the right elbow of the man in
orange.

The man in black said slowly, “Listen,
for I tell you something. Then you asked questions. If you lie, you
die. Slowly. Understand?” Pug nodded. There was no doubt in his
mind.

“This man,” said the
black-robed one, pointing to the man in the short orange robe, “is
a . . . great man. He is . . . high man. He is . . .” The man
used a word Pug didn’t understand When Pug shook his head, the
magician said, “He family great Minwanabi. He second to . . .”
He fumbled for a term, then moved his hand in a circle, as if
indicating all the men in the tent, officers from their proud plumes
“. . . man who lead.”

Pug nodded and softly said, “Your
lord?”

The magician’s eyes narrowed, as
if he were about to object to Pug’s speaking out of turn, but
instead he paused, then said, “Yes. Lord of War. It is that
one’s will that we are here. This one is second to Lord of
War.” He pointed to the man in orange, who looked on
impassively. “You are nothing to this man.” It was
obvious the man was feeling frustration in his inability to convey
what he wished. It was plain this lord was something special by the
lights of his own people, and the man translating was trying to
impress this upon Pug.

The lord cut the translator off and
said several things, then nodded toward Pug. The bald magician bobbed
his head in agreement, then turned his attention toward Pug. “You
are lord?”

Pug looked startled, then stammered out
a negative. The magician nodded, translated, and was given
instruction by the lord. He turned back to Pug. “You wear cloth
like lord, true?”

Pug nodded His tunic was of a finer
fabric than the homespun of the common soldiers. He tried to explain
his position as a member in the Duke’s court. After several
attempts he resigned himself to the presumption they made of his
being some sort of highly placed servant.

The magician picked up a small device
and held it out to Pug. Hesitating for a moment, the boy reached out
and took it. It was a cube of some crystal-like material, with veins
of pink running throughout. After a moment in his hand, it took on a
glow, softly pink. The man in orange gave an order, and the magician
translated. “This lord says, how many men along pass to . . .”
He faltered and pointed.

Pug had no idea of where he was, or
what direction was being pointed to. “I don’t know where
I am,” he said. “I was unconscious when I was brought
here.”

The magician sat in thought for a
moment, then stood. “That way,” he said, pointing at a
right angle to the direction he had just indicated, “is tall
mountain, larger than others. That way,” he moved his hand a
little, “in sky, is five fires, like so.” His hands
traced a pattern. After a moment Pug understood. The man had pointed
to where Stone Mountain lay and where the constellation called the
Five Jewels hung in the sky. He was in the valley they had raided.
The pass indicated was the one used as an escape route.

“I . . . really, I don’t
know how many.”

The magician looked closely at the cube
in Pug’s hand. It continued to glow in soft pink tones. “Good,
you tell truth.”

Pug then understood that he held some
sort of device that would inform his captives if he tried to deceive
them. He felt black despair wash over him. He knew that any survival
hopes he entertained were going to involve some manner of betraying
his homeland.

The magician asked several questions
about the nature of the force outside the valley. When most went
unanswered, for Pug had not been privy to meetings on strategy
matters, the question changed to a more general nature, about common
things in Midkemia, but which seemed to hold a fascination for the
Tsurani.

The interview continued for several
hours. Pug began to feel faint on several occasions as the pressure
of the situation combined with his general exhaustion. He was given a
strong drink one of these times, which restored his energy for a
while but left him light-headed.

He answered every question. Several
times he got around the truth device by telling only some of the
information requested, not volunteering anything. On several of these
occasions, he could tell both the lord and magician were nettled by
their inability to deal with answers that were incomplete or complex.
Finally the lord indicated the interview was over, and Pug was
dragged outside. The magician followed.

Outside the tent the magician stood
before Pug. “My lord says, ‘I think this servant’”
—he pointed at Pug’s chest— “ ‘he is .
. .’ ” He groped for a word . . . “ ‘He is
clever.’ My lord does not mind clever servants, for they work
well. But he thinks you are too clever. He says to tell you to be
careful, for you are now slave. Clever slave may live long time. Too
clever slave, dies quickly if . . .” Again the pause. Then a
broad smile crossed the magician’s face. “If he is fortun
. . . fortunate. Yes . . . that is the word.” He rolled the
word around his mouth one more time, as if savoring the taste of it.
“Fortunate.”

Pug was led back to the holding area
and left with his own thoughts. He looked around and saw that a few
other captives were awake. Most looked confused and dispirited. One
openly wept. Pug turned his eyes skyward and saw the pink edge along
the mountains in the east, heralding the coming dawn.

T
he
rain was unceasing.

Huddled near the mouth of the cave, a
group of dwarves sat around a small cook fire, the gloom of the day
reflected upon their faces. Dolgan puffed upon his pipe, and the
others were working on their armor, repairing cuts and breaks in
leather, cleaning and oiling metal. A pot of stew simmered on the
fire.

Tomas sat at the back of the cave, his
sword set across his knees. He looked blankly past the others, his
eyes focused on some point far beyond them.

Seven times the dwarves of the Grey
Towers had ventured out against the invaders, and seven times they
had inflicted heavy losses. But each time it was clear that the
Tsurani’s numbers were undiminished. Many dwarves were missing
now, their lives bought at a dear price to the enemy, but dearer to
the families of the Grey Towers. The long-lived dwarves had fewer
children, years further apart, than did humans. Each loss diminished
dwarvenkind at a much more damaging cost than could have been
imagined by the humans.

Each time the dwarves had gathered and
attacked through the mines into the valley, Tomas had been in the
van. His golden helm would be a signal beacon for the dwarves. His
golden broadsword would arc above the fray, then swing down to take
its toll from the enemy. In battle the keep boy was transformed into
a figure of power, a fighting hero whose presence on the field struck
awe and fear into the Tsurani. Had he possessed any doubt about the
magical nature of his arms and armor after driving off the wraith,
they were dispelled the first time he wore them into battle.

They had gathered thirty fighting
dwarves from Caldara and ventured through the mines to an entrance in
the south portion of the captured valley. They surprised a Tsurani
patrol not far from the mines and slew them. But during the course of
the fighting, Tomas had been cut off from the dwarves by three
Tsurani warriors. As they bore down on him, their swords raised high
overhead, he felt something take hold of him. Darting between two of
them, like some maddened acrobat, he had slain both with a single
stroke from one side to the other. The third had been taken quickly
from behind before he could recover from the sudden move.

After the fray, Tomas had been filled
with an elation new to him, and somehow frightening as well. All the
way back from the battle, he had felt suffused with an unknown
energy.

Each subsequent battle had gained him
the same power and skill of arms. But the elation had become
something more urgent, and the last two times the visions had begun.
Now for the first time the visions were coming unbidden. They were
transparent, like an image laid upon another.

He could see the dwarves through it, as
well as the forest beyond. But upon them played a scene of people
long dead and places vanished from the memories of the living. Halls
decked with golden trappings were lit with torches that threw dancing
light from crystal set upon tables. Goblets that never knew human
touch were raised to lips that curved in unfamiliar smiles. Great
lords of some long-dead race supped at banquet before his eyes
Strange they were, yet also familiar Humanlike, but with elven ears
and eyes. Tall like the elvenfolk, but broader of shoulder and
thicker of arm. The women were beautiful, but in alien ways.

The dream took shape and substance,
more vivid than any he had experienced so far. Tomas strained to hear
the faint laughter, the sound of alien music, and the spoken words of
these people.

He was ripped from his reverie by
Dolgan’s voice. “Will you take some food, laddie?”
He could answer with only a part of his awareness, as he rose and
crossed the space between them to take the offered bowl of meat stew.
When his hand touched the bowl, the vision vanished, and he shook his
head to clear it.

“Are you all right, Tomas?”

Slowly sitting, Tomas looked at his
friend for a moment. “I’m not sure,” he said
hesitantly. “There is something. I . . . I’m not really
sure. Just tired, I guess.”

Dolgan looked at the boy. The ravages
of battle were showing on his young face. Already he looked less the
boy and more the man. But beyond the normal hardening of character
expected from battle, something else was occurring in Tomas. Dolgan
had not as yet decided if the change was fully for good or ill—or
if it could even be considered in those terms Six months of watching
Tomas was not long enough to come to any sort of conclusion.

Since donning the dragon’s gift
armor, Tomas had become a fighter of legendary capabilities. And the
boy . . . no, the young man, was taking on weight, even though food
was often scarce. It was as if something were acting to bring him to
a growth sufficient to fit the cut of the armor. And his features
were gaining a strange cast. His nose had taken on a slightly more
angular shape, more finely chiseled than before. His brows had become
more arched, his eyes deeper set. He was still Tomas, but Tomas with
a slight change in appearance, as if wearing someone else’s
expression.