David Grace - The Accidental Magician

"No? I will tell you so you will understand better what is about to happen to you. It was I who sent the ring you now wear. The ring was your uncle's price for joining forces with me in my conquest of the Hartfords. He and his supporters were to nullify the defenders who normally man the main pass through the Guardian Mountains. Oh, not that I minded giving him the ring, you understand. I have dozens more coming, promised by my associate, Lord Zaco-another friend of Mara's, by the way.

"But Zaco's promises have proved unreliable of late. I fear that the old fool has lost control of his subordinates and that they tell him what he wishes to hear without any intention of following his orders.

"The ring was Greyhorn's price, but when you took it your uncle became petulant, obstinate, and uncooperative. Very well, by concentrating all my energy I could have taken the passes anyway, but Zaco hasn't sent me the promised stones. Still, matters could proceed with only one or two more rings such as the one you wear now. But you were gone with the ring and Greyhorn had withdrawn his support and Zaco's a senile old fool-and so here I sat committed to a battle without sufficient supplies, or at least the crucial support to be assured of enough men winning through the passes.

"And, as if that were not enough, my dear Grantin, your uncle took it into his head to oppose me, to actually commence a series of attacks against my person. Attacks which I could parry, but at what price? All because of you. Greyhorn's support gone because of you. A ring which I desperately need lost because of you. Greyhorn's opposition because of you. You blundering, stupid, incompetent, weak-spined, ridiculous, fatheaded fool, my great plans brought to a standstill all because of you!" Grantin shivered and cringed from Hazar's screams. "I see you are beginning to understand a bit about how I feel. Perhaps you may be able to imagine some of the things I have planned for you… But you are trembling. How ungracious of me to so disturb my guests. Don't let me frighten you too badly. Perhaps you will think of some way to assuage my anger before the time for retribution arrives. I will let you think over the possibilities while I greet your associates."

Hazar now turned his attention to the Fanist. "And your name is Chom, you say. Why do you travel with this young fool?"

"He is what you humans call my friend," Chom replied in a neutral voice.

"A friend? This pea-brained imbecile your friend? Only a fool has a fool for a friend. Is that what you are?"

"If I were truly a fool I would not know it and so would say no. If I were not a fool again I would deny it. There hardly seems to be another possible answer to your question."

"Don't play games with me, you four-armed freak. I'm not afraid of you Fanists like some of those weak-kneed Hartfords. You will die just as easily as anyone else. Don't think otherwise."

Hazar turned his gaze on Castor and briefly addressed the Gray. "As for you, I need no answers, no explanations. You're a mutant, a freak, or insane. There is nothing I need from you except your death. Since you have chosen to befriend these two, to take their part against your masters, then so be it. You will share their fate."

Now Hazar's attention slid slyly to his left, back to Mara. "And last, my dear, delicious Mara."

"My lord, I haven't-"

"Calm yourself. I have accused you of nothing. To the best of your ability you have carried out my commands. You were sent to deliver the ring, and you did so. You were told to bewitch the person who received it from you, and you did so. You were told to make him your slave, and though you've not accomplished it exactly as I ordered, in the last analysis apparently you have done that too. And you have controlled Zaco as best you could. You have followed my orders, and it is not your fault that everything you have touched has turned to ashes. But when did we Gogols ever care about fault anyway? It is results that matter-success, usefulness-and here, Mara, you have failed miserably.

"In order to get Zaco's stones I must go to his mine myself and wrest them from his servants with my own hands. You are bad luck, Mara. Perhaps you are fey. Under more normal circumstances I would simply banish you from my household, perhaps send you to the pleasure rooms, find you a task at which your ill luck would be of no harm. But these are not ordinary circumstances.

"This fellow appears to be in love with you. I don't mark him for a man of courage but, still, who can tell about these things? Perhaps at the last moment he may choose to die rather than cooperate. Occasionally young idiots are gallant that way, so I think I will increase the stakes. If he cooperates and earns my favor, then you shall share his fate. If, on the other hand, he becomes obstinate and requires persuasion or elimination, then you shall also share his fate. In this way we will bend his noble urges to my bidding. Now for-"

Hazar's speech was interrupted by a moaning screech. The curtain flapped more vigorously, heralding an approaching gale. A high-pitched, hissing shriek pierced the darkness.

"It comes. It comes," Croman moaned. "Pull back the drapes; make ready for its arrival." A great gust of air poured in. Borne on the gale was another raucous shriek embroidered with the undertone of huge flapping wings. As the monster neared its destination its calls became more frequent. The sound of its flight rose to a fever pitch. A muffled thud echoed from the terrace, then one last cry, an announcement that its mission was complete. The beat of wings became softer, disappearing until, only two or three seconds later, the night was again still.

As if a trance had been broken, Hazar ordered his over-deacons to retrieve the demon's burden. Croman, Jasper, and Wax scuttled onto the balcony and quickly returned, bearing between them Greyhorn's dazed form.

"Ah, now our little group is complete-uncle and nephew together at last. To show you that I stint no one, Grantin, I will throw your uncle into the bargain if you cooperate with me. You may have his life or his death as you choose. Well, what do you say?"

"Say to what? What do you want me to do? I don't understand. Why don't you just take the ring and have done with it?"

"If I only could-but that's right, you don't understand the powers of the stone. You've had it too long. It's been at least ten days. By now it has attuned itself to your mind. Though you might agree to cooperate the subconscious portions of your brain would take control. Anyone who now tried to cut off your finger would find the blade, his hand, his arm, probably his whole body, ablaze. There is not a thing you could do to stop it even if you thought you wanted to. In a sense the ring has a mind of its own. No, unfortunately, I cannot take it by force, but I can tell you the spells to pronounce, the words to say.

"If you follow instructions you can lend the power of your ring to my enterprise, in exchange for which I will give you the lives of your friends, the death of your uncle, your freedom, his property, and your life. Well, what do you say?"

"While I appreciate your offer, I don't really think I am well suited to the black arts. As an alternative, why don't we just-Ouch!" Grantin grabbed his left foot and hopped in a slow circle while he massaged the toes which had been suddenly caught beneath Chom's foot.

"I am clumsy tonight," Chom apologized. "I think it is because we are all so tired. Instead, could we not rest and discuss the matter among ourselves, since it affects us all? Grantin could give you his answer in the morning."

Hazar fixed a calculating gaze upon the Fanist. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he nodded and gestured for the guards to conduct the prisoners to their cell.

"I will give you to the third hour, no later. After that I will have no more time for you. I will have thirty bowmen take aim and fire at once. Master Grantin's not a good enough magician to stop all the bolts. I will see you all ground into fodder by noon."