David Grace - The Accidental Magician

"Don't forget the ring."

"Rupert, there is one ring and two of us. Assuming we kill them, the next thing that would happen is that you would kill me or I would kill you. Do not be so anxious to become my enemy. Think a moment Where are they going?"

"Obviously they have some sort of mission. Perhaps there is a place up ahead for them to hide."

"If they wanted to hide there is no better place than Grenitch Wood. Out here they are ten times more vulnerable. And why even stay in the Gogol empire at all? The Fanist knows the passes through the mountains."

"Very well, Diggery, you tell me-what are they doing out here?"

"Have you ever asked yourself, Rupert, where the bloodstone in that ring came from? It had to come from somewhere, didn't it? You worked for Hazar. Where did he get his stones?"

"From Zaco."

"Very good; and where did Zaco get them?"

"He has a mine someplace."

"Someplace?"

"Someplace northwest of Cicero. Do you mean- You think that's where they're going?"

"See! I knew if you thought about it hard enough you'd come to the right conclusion. All this time they've made straight for Grog Cup Lake. What better place to get a powerstone than from such a site?"

"Very well, assume you're right. Suppose they are going to Zaco's mine. What good does that do us?"

"Rupert, think about it for a moment. They're going to break the trail for us. They're going to take all the risks. Let them go. Let them do our work. We will follow quietly behind. If they succeed in destroying Zaco's guards, we'll surprise them and take all the stones for ourselves. If they fail, they may still have weakened the defenses enough for us to complete what they've started. Now do you understand why we're not going to attack them tonight?"

"Very well. I agree to give them a day or so longer. But understand me, Yon Diggery. No matter what else happens, within the next two days I am going to see that Hartford dead."

With a quarter of a mile remaining to the cover of a feather-tree copse at the bottom of the slope, Castor's panting reached an anguished level. The Fanist grabbed him with his upper two arms, lightly tossed him over his shoulder, and began to sprint for the small grove. As soon as he and Grantin had slipped under cover of the feather tree's drooping branches, Chom dived to the ground and pulled Grantin down beside him.

"What's the matter?"

"Someone comes."

"Where?"

"From behind. Someone or something is coming very fast."

Grantin and Castor squinted at the hillside behind them. Though the grass was a lush green, at its deepest point it stood barely a foot high and offered little scope for a stealthy advance. Grantin studied the hillside but spied no pursuers.

"I don't see anything. Are you sure someone is there?"

"Wait, I think see something, to the right about a hundred feet above the top of the ridge there's a sparkle of some sort in the sky."

Chom sped forward, crawling on his four elbows and two knees. The Fanist's gray hide blended perfectly with the fallen leaves, branches, and bare earth beneath the feather trees.

"Chom, what is it?" Grantin called, pointing at the approaching glimmer.

"I am not sure. I noticed it just before we reached the grove. I cannot make it out. It looks like a large glass ball with something dark inside. We will have to wait until it comes closer."

As the apparition neared, the angle at which the sun impinged upon its surface shifted and the sphere became transparent. As it passed abeam of the feather trees its composition was clearly illuminated. More than anything else the craft resembled a soap bubble twenty feet in diameter. Inside, a vital, bronze-skinned man was seated in a rich red-velvet chair. Hazar rode the winds like a king. On the transparent floor in front of the Gogol lord sat a disheveled Mara. To Hazar's left, a thin figure in a black robe and a wizard's pointy hat lay twisted, his body tightly secured with bands of coarse rope. Even allowing for the awkward angle of view, Grantin was certain the body was that of his uncle Greyhorn.

"Do you think he saw us?"

"I do not think so, but our troubles are not over. From now on there are bound to be guards, warning posts, deadfalls, traps, and alarms. We must devise a plan of defense."

"What do you suggest?"

"Grantin, your stone is capable of projecting great amounts of energy. You must work on a spell which could be used to destroy any missiles or physical attacks made against us. Castor, what sort of spells do you possess?"

"I can defend us against psychic intrusion and attacks by magic."

"Very well. Grantin, if you can neutralize Shenar's spell, for my part I will attempt to detect ambushes and traps."

"How am I going to do that?"

"Shenar's hex enfolds me like a blanket. Close your eyes and visualize me through your bloodstone as if it were the window to your brain."

Grantin sat cross-legged on the ground, eyes closed, his fingers caressing the stone. Chom's form swam into view, but hazily, as if seen through wrappings of dirty gauze. Shenar had been a master wizard indeed. His spell had survived even his own death. Grantin visualized a pair of psychic hands which, under the control of his mind's eye, ripped away the gauze that swaddled Chom's form. A moment later Grantin opened his eyes and looked questioningly at the Fanist. "I am free," Chom announced.

A few minutes later the three moved out with Grantin rubbing his bloodstone while Chom and Castor each fingered the powerstone appropriate to his race. Chom led the group a rough zigzag course through clumps of trees, back and forth across the stream, and at least once through a patch of immature razorbrush.

It was after the sixth hour when they reached the last bit of shelter before the mountain. Ahead a grassy meadow extended several hundred yards up to the edge of the mountain's sheer walls. The fugitives studied the clearing in the same way that a cliff diver stares at the sea beneath him.

"Why don't they do something?" Grantin whispered. "They must know we're here."

"Perhaps they don't have enough men to risk meeting us in the open," Castor suggested.

"No," Chom replied. "They are just waiting until they have us bottled up in the caverns where we will not have room to maneuver. A few men in front, a few behind, and they will keep us trapped until we fall asleep from fatigue. They know we cannot maintain a spell forever."

"In that case, why don't we avoid the passage and simply climb the walls?" the Gray asked.

"They would detect us there as well. How long could we repel the boulders they would drop from above?"

"Chom, couldn't you and Grantin construct a bubble like that which carried Hazar-something which would float us up over the wall?"

"Perhaps, but it would take all our energy. A hasty flotation spell might get us off the ground, but we would have no power left to repel Hazar's bolts and blasts."

"Why couldn't all three of us work together on the same spell?" Grantin suggested. "With the power added by the stones it should at least be equal to anything Hazar and his men can command against us."

"What kind of spell?" Castor asked. Chom considered.

"It must be something simple, an image all three of us can grasp at once. Any weakness, any imbalance, could cause a feedback and destroy us all."

"Why not just create a band of demons and send them on ahead to destroy Hazar's defenders?"

Chom and Castor considered Grantin's suggestion and agreed to give it a try.

"Each of us will create one demon," the young Hartford suggested, "and send it through the tunnels to clear the way."

Grantin closed his eyes and caressed the powerstone. In the clearing a hundred yards ahead a misty red shape began to form. In a few seconds the apparition had congealed into an eight-foot-high biped each of whose arms was tipped with five long steel talons. From the beast's mouth protruded four great fangs which dripped droplets of blood-red saliva. With sweat beading his forehead, Grantin opened his eyes and practiced putting the monster through its paces, causing it to march awkwardly left and right and slash the air with its taloned paws.