K. Mills - Wizard squared

It stank of dark magic.

Standing just inside the open doorway, one hand braced against its almost too hot to touch frame, Gerald fought to keep his stomach from turning itself inside out. Every breath sucked the stench of corrupted power into his lungs, sent it flooding through his veins. Was it his overworked imagination or did even his sweaty skin feel sticky and fouled with it?

I don’t understand. This entire palace reeks of Lional. How did none of the other court wizards not notice what was going on right under their noses? And what about Shugat and his gods? Am I supposed to think Lional just-what? Slipped their minds?

Possibly that was the most terrifying thing of all-that Lional possessed such strength, such mastery, that he could hide himself and his workings from the keen senses of a holy man like Shugat. That he could hide from the world-class First Grade metaphysical experts he’d hired to serve him. To die for him.

But then… who am I to talk? I didn’t notice, did I? If I’m so special, if I can do things that make a man like Monk panic, how come I didn’t realize the truth the moment I stepped out of the portal?

The unpalatable answer stared him rudely in the face. Because Lional was unique-and unthinkable. What Melissande’s brother had done was so heinous, so appalling, that nobody thought it could-or would-be done. Or had realized that not only did Lional have the twisted imagination, and the will, to conceive of this plan, but that he also had the means to make his demented dream come true.

Bloody Pomodoro Uffitzi. This is all his fault. If he hadn’t hoarded those grimoires… There’s always one who thinks the rules don’t apply to him. Why does there always have to be one?

And so now, because Uffitzi had been an arrogant plonker, two nations and countless innocents stood on the brink of destruction.

“Unless that ratty old holy man changes his mind and does something before it’s too late,” he muttered, suddenly needing to hear a friendly voice. No matter he was talking to himself-even that was better than the resounding silence of Lional’s apartments.

Shugat. Mighty and mysterious and downright terrifying. Powerful enough to withstand the worst of Lional’s foul magics-yet unwilling to help the helpless people of New Ottosland.

And why is that? Why won’t he lift a finger? I don’t understand.

Unless…

Chilled with fresh horror, Gerald swiped stinging sweat from his eyes. Could Shugat want this? Could Kallarap’s holy man and its sultan and its gods want Lional to run the length of his madness unchecked? Were silence and inaction their way of ending New Ottosland without a single scimitar drawing blood? Of putting an end to their tariff payment problem without directly getting involved?

Or are they convinced that I can handle Lional without their assistance?

Either way, he was in trouble. New Ottosland was in trouble. Because here he stood, a Third Grade wizard-sort of, technically-with extra powers he didn’t begin to understand or control, who’d never so much as set foot in a proper wizarding academy, who’d received his barely adequate qualifications from a modest correspondence course that important wizards like Errol Haythwaite pretended didn’t even exist.

And somewhere not far enough away was Lional, who’d left mere metaphysics behind some four dead wizards ago and had transformed himself into something the world of thaumaturgy had never seen.

Oh, lord. If I don’t stop him here, today-if he gets past me and leaves New Ottosland-then he’ll just keep killing First Grade wizards and taking their potentias.

The thought of Lional, twinned with his dragon and wielding the power of ten First Grade wizards, or twenty, or more, weakened his knees so he nearly dropped back to the carpet. Squeezing his eyes tight shut he gritted his teeth to keep an unmanly whimper trapped in his throat.

I can’t do this. Dragon or no dragon I’m not good enough. Lional with a mere five potentias is more than I can handle. Come back, Reg. I need you. Tell me what to do.

Except-he already knew what to do. And he’d come here to do it. And if Reg were here she’d only try to stop him, so it was best she wasn’t. Because if anyone could talk him out of this crazy plan it was Reg.

“Stop bloody stalling, Dunnywood, you tosser,” he told himself savagely. “You’ve got no choice. Thousands of lives are depending on you-so get on with it.”

The burning tide of fear receded and a little strength returned to his numbed limbs. Swiping sweat again, he straightened out of his slump, took several deep breaths, ignoring the taint in the air, and for the first time looked at his surroundings properly. Lional’s apartments were dim, their curtains drawn and no lamps lit. The light from the corridor behind him barely washed over the threshold, as though the darkness of Lional’s soul were soaking it up, like a sponge.

Letting go of the door frame he snapped his fingers, hoping to ignite whatever candles or lamps might be usefully lying about the place. Incant accomplished he stared, blinking in the sudden illumination, expecting to see Well. Not this.

“Blimey, Reg,” he said, looking around. “I thought at least there’d be a cauldron or a skull. Something arcane and sinister and suitably repellent. Not to mention a few bucket loads of gilt and an ocean of velvet.”

But no. The room he stood in wasn’t plush or opulent or arcanely sinister. It was the antithesis of plush and opulent, every unadorned surface a stark black and white. No chairs, sofas, fountains or froufrous. One spindle-legged desk with a lone burning lamp on it. And not a single darkly arcane artifact in sight. If he hadn’t known without a doubt that this was Lional’s lair he’d never have believed it.

“Mind you,” he added. “This is only the foyer.”

Like his own royal apartments there were three doors leading out of the suite’s severely restrained entrance hall. So if the similarity of design continued, that meant Lional’s bedroom-and Grummen’s Lexicon and whatever other revolting books he kept handy-lay behind that door there. On a deep breath Gerald took a step towards it, then hesitated. Wait a minute, Dunwoody. Just wait. This was Lional’s private domain. No matter the ferocious keep-your-distance hex guarding the corridor, that didn’t mean the place was safe. If he rushed in willy nilly now like some over-excited First Year student he might well trigger another guarding hex and get himself killed before he could do anybody any good.

Remember Reg’s rule: look before you leap. It prevents a lot of unnecessary bleeding.

Thrusting aside his growing sense of urgency he closed his eyes and pushed his potentia through the curdled ether, seeking danger.

And found it, of course.

All three doors in Lional’s apartment were hexed. And not singly hexed either, no. They were link-hexed, which meant that to get into Lional’s bedroom he’d have to unbarricade all three in the correct sequence or risk-well, something disgusting. Wonderful. Clearly today nothing was going to be simple, or straightforward, or quick.

Heart thudding hard again he approached the doors, step by cautious step, reaching out both hands in the hope that he’d be able to sense something to help him proceed. He could feel his potentia quivering, reacting to the incants sunk into the aged oak. Not dark magic this time, not exactly. Just Lional’s twisted thaumic fingerprints leaving a tainted smear in the ether, the multiplicity of stolen potentias garbled and gross. He felt his belly heave, protesting as again he heard the anguished screams of his predecessors… and felt their agony as they went up in flames…

Stop it, you idiot. Don’t think about that. They’re long dead, past helping. All you can do now is avenge them.