David Grace - The Accidental Magician

Grantin in the lead, the two walked northward along the far edge of the gully to again intercept the trail. In spite of their relatively minor detour, ten minutes later they had still not spied the opening into the forest.

"We should have come to it by now," Grantin said nervously. "Have we reached the point where we entered the gully?"

"I cannot tell. It is too dark to see a disturbance in the ground cover. We may have to camp here and look for it in the morning when the light is better."

Grantin examined his surroundings with obvious distaste. Here there was neither food nor shelter, and the water in the stream looked too black and forbidding to drink. Grantin suspected that when night came hordes of sting-wings would descend upon the stream and its environs. He halted and peered between the rearing trees to his left. Thirty or forty feet away the ground swelled upward to form a low hill. Perhaps from its top he might be able to spot the trail.

"Chom, wait here a moment. Let me climb that ridge and see what I can see."

The leaves crunched beneath Grantin's feet and gave him the feeling of walking on a deep, soft carpet. Unlike the banks of the gully this slope was tree-studded and of a gentle incline. From the top he had a surprisingly good view. The lower foliage of the surrounding trees had withered from the lack of sunlight. Ahead of him and a bit to his right, a direction which Grantin roughly reckoned to be the northwest, he spied a markedly brighter patch. The area was fifty yards distant, but it seemed to glow with the red-orange highlights of late-afternoon sun.

Grantin turned back toward the gully and waved for Chom to join him. A few moments later the Fanist stood next to him at the top of the hill. Chom agreed that the phenomenon was worth investigating. As if they had emerged from behind a thick curtain, Grantin and Chom found themselves on the edge of a brightly lighted, almost circular meadow ringed with a peculiar variety of short, stumpy tree. A hundred fifty yards in diameter, the park-like spot was inviting. With the sky open above them Grantin and Chom were able to estimate the true time. Grantin judged it to be approximately the tenth hour, as Pyra was already setting. In less than an hour the meadow would be plunged into full night.

As excited as a child with a new toy, Grantin strode into the center of the clearing, obviously well pleased at its luxuriant ground cover. Chom hung back just within the boundary of the low trees. In spite of Grantin's signals he refused to proceed farther, and a moment later the young man returned to the Fanist's position.

"Chom, what's wrong? Is there something the matter?"

"Nothing that I am sure of, but I sense a strangeness here. I feel we're being watched."

"Watched? Are you sure?"

"No, it is just a feeling I have. I am not sure that we should spend the night here. Perhaps we should go back to the gully and find the trail to Cicero in the morning."

"Spend the night in that dismal gully with the sting-wings? No, thank you. Why are you looking at the trees like that? Is that what the problem is? Are they poisonous?"

"No. I do not think so," Chom said, rubbing his hands over the smooth, dark blue bark. "But they are very unusual. I have never seen a tree like this before. Why should we suddenly find a whole community of them ringing this particular meadow? There must be a reason, but I do not know what it is. I have a feeling about these trees. Something is not right."

"I think your time with Shenar has upset you more than you realize. I don't get any feeling from them at all. Come on, now. Are you going to camp here with me tonight or not?"

Once more Chom rubbed the trunk of the tree. He inspected the architecture of its limbs. The deep bluish-gray bark sheathed the circular trunk to a height of five feet, whereupon two V-shaped branches sprouted upward from either side. The ends of each branch were encased in an egg-shaped mass of fleshy blue-green leaves. Another foot or two above the branching point, the tree's central stalk likewise exploded in a great inverted teardrop of the same thick intertwined blue-green leaves. This crown was four feet in diameter and six feet high. Upon close examination the leaves resembled fat corkscrews so tightly interlocked that Grantin's hand could not be inserted between them.

For a few seconds longer Chom stared at the treetop with intense concentration then he removed his hands and followed Grantin to a spot fifteen feet from the edge of the forest.

For dinner Chom hunted up some mushrooms which he assured Grantin were nontoxic. At the far edge of the clearing the human managed to find a tayberry bush heavy with fruit. These substances augmented the food from Grantin's pack, and the human enjoyed a pleasant dinner. For his part Chom completed his meal with various random animal, insect, and plant delicacies. Not wanting to mar the meadow with a fire, the two curled up to sleep immediately after dinner, Grantin wrapping himself in a blanket while Chom trusted his comfort to his thick hide.

By the third hour AD both travelers were fast asleep. In their slumber they failed to hear the distant whinings of the night creatures, the chirps of the mating insects, the buzz of the occasional stingwing, and the plastic-like rustle and rattle of the life trees. With great care a bud-like stalk pushed its way through the leafy surface of the tree nearest the travelers. Leaf-like petals unfolded to reveal a functioning eye which focused unerringly on their forms.

Now satisfied that the two were indeed asleep, the rustle became louder and more agitated as inch by inch the life trees' shallow roots were plucked from the soil and slid forward. With the greatest deliberateness the trees moved slowly across the edge of the clearing to encircle Grantin and Chom where they slept.

Four days had passed since Grantin had fled, and still there was no word. For Greyhorn the first day was marked by anguished rage, the second by sour, heartsick defeat, and the third by a cautious hope that Hazar might yet find Grantin and the ring. Now, on the fourth day, Greyhorn lapsed into a state of numbed calm.

Since Grantin's departure the wizard had neglected his normal duties; he had skipped his usual Manxday seminar with the assistant commissioners of the Tectors and Artisans Guilds, thereby forfeiting his standard fee of a silver each; his appointment to cast a vermin-extermination spell over the rich acres of Elder Peabody had gone unkept. Even the day-to-day operations of his manor house and surrounding fields had succumbed to general neglect. So disheartened was Greyhorn by the loss of the ring and the consequent collapse of his plans for power that even Maurita's charms failed to arouse him.

What was he to do? The commencement of the Gogol attack had been delayed. Though originally scheduled for the following day, it had been pushed back until six days hence; but then what? In spite of his strong words. Greyhorn was paralyzed with indecision. Even without Greyhorn's support the chances were good that Hazar's attack would succeed. By opposing Hazar Greyhorn might only earn for himself swift disaster.

On the other hand, without the ring, without an important share in the plot, Greyhorn would be reduced to the status of merely another Hartford wizard to be dominated, and as soon as possible, eliminated by the victorious Gogols. And if Greyhorn opposed the devil-worshipers, then what? The small fragment of powerstone contained within Greyhorn's amulet would not be sufficient to protect him against the onslaught which would be launched by the Gogols against a traitor to their grand design.

The more Greyhorn pondered the problem, the more he realized that a favorable resolution could occur in only one of two ways: either he obtained the bloodstone before the attack commenced, or he disposed of Hazar and thus delayed the battle indefinitely. Charged now with a goal for which he could strive, Greyhorn shook off his apathy and made for his laboratory.