The Wiz Biz (25 page)

Twelve: The Name is Death

Moira didn’t know how far they had come. The flagged corridors twisted and turned in a way that made her head spin. The floor was uneven and the tunnels that led off usually sloped up or down.

The trickle of water down the center of the tunnel made footing treacherous, but she stayed to the middle nonetheless. To step out of the trail of slime was to risk ramming into a rough stone or dirt wall.

Worst of all, she could not see. There was no light and her magic senses were blocked everywhere by the coarse, suffocating pressure of counterspells. The magic was almost as nauseating as the stink of her goblin guards.

The dark was no hindrance to the goblins. They took crude amusement from her plight, forcing her along at a pace that kept her on the verge of stumbling. Finally, after she had fallen or run into the walls too often, they grabbed her arms and half-pushed, half-dragged her along.

By the time the goblins threw her in a small, mean cell and slammed the door, Moira was bruised, filthy, scraped and bleeding in a dozen places. Her palms were raw from falling and there was a cut on her head which turned her hair damp with blood. Her knees and shins ached.

She pulled herself into a sitting position and dabbed at the cut on her head with the least-dirty part of the hem of her skirt. She tried to ignore the small skittering sounds in the dark around her and refused to think about the future.

###

“Well, Sparrow?” Shiara asked as she ducked to enter the low door of Wiz’s workroom.

“I think we’re about there, Lady.” For the first time in days the crude plank table was clear. The rough wooden tablets which had been piled on it to toppling were now stacked more or less neatly in the corners of the room. The table had been pushed away from the small window and a bench had been drawn underneath it. A brazier in the center of the room made a feeble attempt to take the late-winter chill out of the air but neither Wiz nor Shiara doffed their cloaks. The door was open to let in more light.

“Are you sure you want to be here?” Wiz asked. “I mean it isn’t necessary and it may be dangerous.”

The blind woman shrugged. “It is dangerous everywhere and I would rather be at the center of events.”

Shiara came into the hut and almost bumped into the table in its new and unfamiliar position. With a quick apology, Wiz took her hand and guided her to the bench.

“When do you begin?”

“I’ll let you know in a minute. Emac!”

“Yes, Master?” A small brown creature scuttled out of the shadows. It was manlike, perhaps three feet tall, with a huge bald head and square wire-rimmed glasses balanced on its great beak of a nose. A green eyeshade was pushed back on its domed forehead and a quill pen was stuck behind one flaplike ear.

“Are we ready?”

“I’ll cheek again, Master.” The gnomelike being disappeared with a faint “pop.” Shiara winced involuntarily at the strong magic so close to her.

“I’m sorry, my Lady. I’ll tell them to walk from now on.”

“What was that?” Shiara asked.

“An Emac. A kind of magic clerk. They help me organize things and translate simple commands into complex sets of instructions. I have several of them now.”

“Emacs,” Shiara said, wrinkling her nose. “I see—so to speak.”

There was another “pop” and the Emac was back before Wiz. “We are all ready, Master.”

Wiz looked at Shiara, who sat with her head turned in his direction, beautiful and impassive. The pale, soft winter light caught her in profile, making her look more regal than ever.

Wiz took a deep, shuddering breath. “Very well,” he said and raised his hands above his head,
“backslash”
he intoned.

“$”
replied the Emac.

“class drone grep moira”

“$”
said the Emac again.

“exe”
Wiz said and the Emac’s lips moved soundlessly as he transmitted the order, expanding it into a series of commands to each of the drones.

Far to the South, in a dozen places along the frozen shores of the Freshened Sea, stubby white shapes popped into existence, scanned their surroundings and disappeared again.

“running”
said the Emac.

Wiz was silent for an instant.
Please God, let them find her.
“All right,” he said briskly. “Now let’s see how much Hell we can raise with the League.
backslash”

###

It started as a tiny spark deep in the Sea of Scrying, a pinpoint of light on the graven copper likeness of the World. The acolyte peered deeper into the Sea and rubbed his eyes. Was there something . . . ? Yes, there it was again, stronger and sharper. And another, equally sharp and growing stronger. He raised his hand to summon the black-robed Master. When he returned his attention to the murky water there were four bright spots apparently scattered at random through his sector. Then the four doubled and there were eight, and sixteen, and thirty-two. In the time it took the black-robed wizard to cross the room, over a thousand points of bright magic light had bloomed on the bottom of the bowl. By the time the word passed to Toth-Set-Ra, the Sea of Scrying glowed with a uniform milky luminescence and all sight of things magic in the world had been lost.

###

With a small “pop” an apparition materialized in Moira’s cell.

She clenched her jaw until her teeth ached.
I will be brave,
she told herself.
I will not scream.
But her visitor was the most unlikely demon she had ever seen. It was a squat, white cylinder with a rounded, gray top and two stubby legs beneath.

The dome-shaped head rotated and Moira saw it had a single glowing blue eye. As the eye pointed at her, the thing emitted a series of squeaks and beeps. Then it vanished, leaving Moira awake and wondering.

###

Deep beneath the bowels of the City of Night, three demons guarded the portal to the Pits of Fire. The first bore the form of an immense dragon who coiled in front of the gate. The second demon was shaped as a gigantic slug, whose skin oozed pungent acid and whose passage left smoking grooves burned into the rock. The third and mightiest of the demons appeared as an enormously fat old man with three faces seated on the back of a great black toad.

Ceaseless, tirelessly and sleeplessly the three watched, holding the sole entrance to the lake of boiling incandescent lava and the well of earth magic that was the League’s greatest resource.

Their vigil was broken by a “pop” and a tiny brown manikin stood before the three awesome sentries. Three heads and four faces swiveled toward him but the little man-thing made no move to approach the gate. Instead he opened his mouth and began to gabble in a voice so fast and high as to be inaudible to human ears. The three demons watched impassively until the little brown creature spoke a certain word. Then the dragon demon rose and crept away from the door, the slug demon heaved its acid-slimed bulk to the side of the corridor and the main demon spoke.

“Pass on,” it said in basso profundo three-part harmony.

Without another word the little creature skipped through the now unguarded gate.

Beyond the great iron portal other demons reached deep into the roiling white-hot lava to sift out the magic welling up from the center of the World and turn it to their masters’ uses. Feeding like hogs at a trough, they ignored the little brown creature who pranced in among their mighty legs. They paid no attention when the newcomer drew a pallid wriggling little grub from his pouch and cast it into the blazing pit.

As soon as it touched the flow of magic the grub began to swell. It grew and grew until it was as large as the demons, soaking up magic like a dry sponge soaks up water. The demons shifted and jostled as magic was diverted away from them. They tried futilely to regain their share. But now there were two full-sized worms in the Pit and a dozen more growing rapidly. Unable to shoulder the worms away, the demons milled about in frustration and the flow of magic from the pit to the city above dwindled to nothing.

###

Bal-Simba paced the great stone hall like a restless bear. Now and again he paused to peer over the shoulder of one of the Watchers.

“Anything?” he asked the head of the Watch for the dozenth time that morning.

“Nothing, Lord. No sign of anything out of the ordinary.”

“Thank you.” The wizard resumed pacing. The watcher stared into the crystal again and then frowned.

“Wait, Lord! There is something now.” Bal-Simba whirled and rushed to his side.

“It’s faint. Very faint, but there is something around the edges . . . No, now it’s getting stronger.” The Watcher looked up at Bal-Simba, awed. “Lord, there are indications of new magic in the city of Night itself!”

“What is it?”

“I do not know, Lord. Considering the distance and the masking spells it’s a wonder that we can pick up anything at all. Whatever is happening there must be extremely strong.”

“Hai Sparrow!” Bal-Simba roared. “You spread your wings, eh? Well fly, Sparrow, fly. And we will do some flying of our own.” He motioned to Arianne who was sitting nearby. “Sound the alert. We will make what use we can of the opportunity our Sparrow gives us.”

###

Again the dragons rose from their roosts in the Capital, formed into echelons and climbed away to the south. Again the Dragon Leader reviewed his instructions. A reconnaissance in force over the Freshened Sea, they told him. Scout to the South until you meet resistance.
Well,
he thought,
we’ll see just how far south we can go. And then perhaps we’ll go a little further.
He tested his bowstring grimly.

###

In their dark towers above the City of Night, the magicians of the League flew to arms. Spells pushed upon them from a hundred directions, elemental and relentless. In the harbor ships stirred uneasily as the waters tossed them.

“Get underway immediately,” the Shadow Captain ordered, scowling at the sky. Most of the crew was still aboard the
Tiger Moth
and a mooring is the worst place for a ship to be in a time of danger.

Under the lash of the Captain’s voice the crew rushed to their stations. Hawsers were quickly cast off and two hands scrambled for the rigging. The oars were broken out and fitted into the locks. The crew hastily arranged themselves with an even number on each side. The Captain saw the result and scowled again. Half the benches were empty, but it would have to do. With the mate beating time and the Shadow Warriors pulling for all they were worth,
Tiger Moth
threaded its way through the clutter of ships and made for the breakwater gate and the open sea.

High in the watchtower overlooking the sea gate, a brown-robed mage threw back his arms and began his incantation. As the spell took shape in the plenum beyond human senses, a certain configuration of forces appeared. It was only a small part of the spell, but a lurking worm sensed it and battened onto that configuration. The worm’s own spell twisted the conjuration out of its intended shape and the wizard screamed as he felt the spell writhe away from him and into a new and dangerous direction. The last thing he saw was a blinding, searing flash as the room exploded around him. His fellows, those who were not too close, saw the top of a black tower disappear in an incandescent blast.

The rest of the tower slumped like a child’s sand castle built over-high and toppled into the bay. A huge block of hewed basalt crashed through
Tiger Moth
just aft of the mast, breaking her back and bringing a tangle of rigging down on the poop where the Shadow Captain stood.

Impelled by the force of the block, the
Tiger Moth
plunged beneath the cold black water. Only a few pieces of wood and rigging floated up.

The worm fed on the new power and spawned several copies of itself to lurk in the unimaginable spaces of magic and feed in turn when the opportunity arose.

###

“Master, our spells weaken!” the sweating wizard cried. With a curse Toth-Set-Ra strode to the lectern where the man had been conjuring and shoved him roughly aside. Quickly he scanned the grimore’s page, creating the spell anew, and scowled at the result. What should have been bright and shining was wan and gray. Angrily he reached out for more power, but instead of the expected strong, steady flow he found only a wavering rivulet.

“To the Pit!” he roared at the shaking wizard. “Something interferes with the flow.”

As wizards and acolytes alike hurried to do his bidding, Toth-Set-Ra stared unseeing at the awful runes inscribed on human parchment before him.

Was the Council attacking in retaliation for the raid on the North? He dismissed the idea even as the thought formed. He knew Northern magic and there was none of it here. The Council might have a new spell or two, but everything the League faced was new. Besides, he knew the work of every one of the Mighty and this was unlike any of them.

An attack from within, aimed at himself? He considered that somewhat longer. It would explain how someone had gotten into the Pit to interfere with the flow of magic. Had he given Atros too much power? That too he discarded. If Atros or any of the others had half this much power they would have struck long before. And again, he knew the magics of the League even better than he knew those of the Council.

Then who? As the City of Night shook and towers toppled Toth-Set-Ra racked his brains trying to find the source of the attack.

A doom. A plague. A bane upon all wizards.
The demons words came back to him and the mightiest wizard in the World shivered.

The alien wizard! The stranger from beyond the world. This mass of army-ant spells pressing in on them must be his work.

It was well for the Shadow Captain that he was already dead, for the wizard’s next oath would have blasted him where he stood.
He had the wrong magician!
Somehow this other one, this Wiz, the one they called Sparrow, had fooled the Shadow Warriors. The hedge-witch was a pawn to be sacrificed to protect the Council’s king.

And he had fallen for it. By all the demons in the nine netherhells, he had been duped!

For a moment chill panic shook Toth-Set-Ra. Then he stopped short and laughed aloud. The other wizards in the chantry paused involuntarily at the sound. The Master of the Dark League seldom laughed and when he did it boded something truly horrible for someone. They turned back to their spells and incantations with renewed vigor.