David Grace - The Accidental Magician

"I have no choice. Shenar is my only hope."

Sara shrugged and walked Grantin as far as the river. There she bid him farewell, convinced that she would never see him again. A few minutes later Rupert had recovered from the shock of the Siamese's death. He knew where Grantin was headed. By traveling in a straight line through the woods he would be able to intercept the youth before he reached Shenar's castle. Shenar-ah, that was a name out of the past. At one time he and his mother had been Zaco's deacons, before they had incurred his enmity and fled Cicero in disgrace. Perhaps he would settle a score with Shenar as well after he had finished with the Hartford. Rupert stood, brushed the moss from his pants, and then set out across the forest. He walked at a fast pace, keeping a steady beat by repeating over and over his instructions from Lord Hazar:

"The finger, the hand, the arm, the head, cut off the ring before he's dead. The finger, the hand, the arm, the head…" Rupert chanted as he marched through the woods.

By fits and starts the overgrown trail paralleled the river bank. Most of the time there was only the vaguest hint of a path, usually no more substantial than the absence of major obstacles along an imaginary line of travel. When he started Grantin had expected that he would reach Shenar long before dark, but as the afternoon progressed he became more and more unsure about arriving before Pyra set. The Black Pearl River meandered like a drunken caterpillar. The trail, such as it was, more or less followed the river's course.

On one occasion when the river slanted off to the left Grantin attempted to continue straight ahead through the underbrush. After only a few hundred yards he had lacerated his left hand on a thorn-studded branch, mildly twisted his ankle in a rodent burrow, and become totally confused about his true direction of travel. After a very few seconds' contemplation he turned one hundred eighty degrees and followed his broken trail back to the point where the river snaked to the left.

Having come equipped for cross-country travel, Rupert was not so handicapped. Before he left Cicero he had recorded from Lord Hazar's files both a map and a spell of true direction and firm bearings.

The map showed the position of Catlet, the Black Pearl River, and the stream to which Sara had alluded. Rupert need only compute the angle necessary to take himself to a point one league from the mouth of the stream, then pronounce the spell while facing in that direction. The incantation of true direction and firm bearings laid a ramrod-straight corridor of psychic energy along Rupert's line of sight. Until he released the spell Rupert would feel a gentle wind blowing in the direction he wished to travel. As long as this imaginary breeze remained on the back of his neck he could not stray from his chosen path.

Equipped with the practical accouterments of heavy leather boots, a stout staff, strong coarse trousers, leather jerkin, and silver-studded black leather gloves, Rupert was fully prepared to bull his way through the underbrush.

It was almost the ninth hour by the time Grantin reached the juncture of the stream and the Black Pearl River. There he paused for a few moments to rest. Sitting on a rock by the edge of the brook, he splashed cold water on his face and treated himself to a long drink of the sweet clear fluid. He heaved a heavy sigh and glanced at the open sky above the river. By the first hour Pyra would set. If he had not reached his destination he would be trapped alone without food or shelter in the depths of Grenitch Wood. Cursing his fate, he heaved himself to his feet and marched upstream.

The going was easier here. The stream was narrow and fast flowing. Its course followed almost a straight line.

It was not quite the tenth hour-the dinner hour, Grantin's stomach reminded him-when he caught sight of a bit of stonework which he took to be a tower of Shenar's manor. With renewed energy he increased his pace. After traversing only a few yards he halted again. Something was wrong. Nervously Grantin looked around him but could detect nothing amiss.

Silly, what could be wrong? All he had to do was walk straight ahead for another five minutes and then knock on Shenar's door. Yet, for some reason, Grantin's legs refused to move. His skin tingled. His eyes stared intently at one particular section of the underbrush. It was almost as if he expected to find some danger there.

Grantin decided to humor his new, highly sensitized powers of intuition. Bending over, he fished a fist-sized chunk of stone from the edge of the stream. Grantin cocked his arm and cast the missile with unerring accuracy. The rock ricocheted off the attacker's left hand, shredding skin and bruising bone. With a scream Rupert dropped his staff. Unintentionally Grantin had given the deacon a wound more grievous than he could know, for it was with his left hand, the fingers of which were now painfully bruised, that Rupert cast his most potent spells.

White-faced with pain, Rupert sucked his bleeding fingers while Grantin, taking advantage of the lull in the attack, scrambled to find another rock.

"You there," he called nervously. "You'd better leave me in peace, for I am a dangerous man."

"Dangerous man!" Rupert screamed after removing his bleeding fingers from his mouth. "You are a dead man! You imbecile, you miserable misbegotten excuse for a man, you weak-kneed, soft-spined pup of a Hartford. I eat the likes of you for breakfast. Your life is numbered only in seconds."

"Stay back!" Grantin shouted as Rupert began a more stealthy yet determined advance. "I'll do more than cut your fingers if you don't stop!" Grantin screeched.

His anger risen now to a fever pitch, Rupert cast a broken-fingered left-handed curse. The air between the two men shimmered. A blast of torrid air, like the draft from a kiln, washed over Grantin's body, charring his clothing and reddening his skin. Thoroughly frightened, he retreated two steps and sought to shield himself with his arms. The spell had a great effect upon Rupert as well. Several times in the past he had used that incantation. On each occasion his victim had instantly burst into flame, but now here stood this whelp of a Hartford with barely his hair singed. The magic in the fellow's ring was powerful indeed. Perhaps he would not return it to Lord Hazar after all.

Rupert drew back his arm, prepared to cast another, more deadly bolt, but then stayed his curse. What was it Hazar had said? The finger must be removed before he's dead. No, he must wait to kill him. He had to get the ring first. Rupert changed his aim and caused pits to explode in the ground around Grantin. Earth, stones, and leaves filled the air and splattered against Grantin's already disheveled clothing.

"How dare you molest a wizard of my great power!" Rupert shouted. "I could take you apart bone by bone if I so desired. Tell me now, while you still have a few moments left to live, what reparations do you offer me to dissuade me from this pleasant task?"

"Nothing… I have nothing. I apologize. Excuse me. Please, it was all a mistake."

"No gold, no silver, no precious stones?"

"No, nothing."

"What about your ring?"

"I can't. It won't come off. It's welded to my finger by a magic spell."

"Welded to your finger by a magic spell, is it? It happens that I have a solution for that." Rupert removed a razor-sharp dagger from his scabbard and tossed it at Grantin's feet. "Cut off the offending digit, throw it and the ring to me, and I give you my word that you may pass in peace."

"Why is it that everyone wants me to cut off my finger?" Grantin wailed as he stooped to pick up the knife.

"Come on, now, what are you waiting for? Get on with it or I'll make fast work of you."