Lyndon Hardy - Secret Of The Sixth Magic

Deliberately, it marched to where Jemidon had fallen, but each step was slower than the last. The mastiff faltered on one foreleg and then collapsed in a heap. With eyes staring in pain, it pawed the ground, struggling for air.

Jemidon rose to his knees, just as another growl warned him to look behind. He whirled and flung up his left arm as the larger mastiff bounded over the rock. The hound bit into the cape-wrapped sleeve and surged forward, landing on top of Jemidon with a rib-jolting crash. Jemidon reached up with his free hand, but his shoulder was already starting to stiffen. His blow stopped short in a stab of pain.

He locked his legs around the dog's barrel chest and tried to tip the mastiff to the side. In response, it spread its front legs in a wide vee and settled its rear to form a stable tripod. Even through the protection of his cape, Jemidon felt the pressure of the teeth and the spasm of the jaw muscles as they gritted down harder on the cloth. The hound jerked Jemidon's arm from side to side, with each tug pushing it backward and up over his head.

For a second, Jemidon ignored the tactic. He concentrated on twisting his arm as much as he could in order to pry it from the viselike jaws. But the hound's grip was too firm; in a moment, Jemidon's arm was well extended above his brow. The dog then suddenly let go and dove for Jemidon's exposed throat. Jemidon reacted instinctively and brought his arm flying back down across his face. In the last split second, he managed to interpose it as a barrier to the gnashing teeth.

Again the mastiff began to work Jemidon's arm aside. This time Jemidon clenched his muscles tight and tried to keep his arm between the foam-flecked mouth and the arteries pulsing in his neck. The beast growled at the resistance. It stopped the jerking back and forth and clamped its grip tighter. The sinews in its neck and shoulders knotted. Then, with a mighty heave, it flung Jemidon's arm aside like a discarded bone.

Jemidon pulled his arm back, but a massive paw stomped on his elbow, pinning it to the ground. Jemidon twisted to the opposite side, but he could not break free.

He tugged and pulled, but he was held fast. The hound saw the end of resistance and howled with success. In desperation, Jemidon flung his other hand palm upward across his throat. The mastiff stared down at Jemidon, clicking its teeth in anticipation. Jemidon closed his eyes for what would happen next.

Suddenly the hound barked with pain. It lurched backward and turned its head to snap at what had dropped onto its back. Jemidon opened his eyes to see Delia astride the huge beast, clutching a small, bloody dagger. The hound's motion threw her to the side; but as she fell, she slashed again between the ribs. The thrust plunged true. In a burst of gore, the mastiff staggered and fell to the ground next to its strangled comrade.

Jemidon rose to his feet. He looked at Delia and pointed at the blade dangling at her side.

"It was to be my last resort, if Drandor had his way," she said vacantly, still not comprehending what she had done.

Jemidon nodded. He looked back to the dead hounds at his feet. Impulsively, he opened the jaws of the one closer. "Fifty-six teeth," he said slowly after a moment. "No wonder they looked so savage." He dropped the head and frowned in thought. "A latticework can be from any smith's shop and an imp from across the sea, if from nowhere else. But there is no breed from which could come such as these."

Jemidon stared back into the blackness. "Drandor," he said. "We still must flee. He cannot be far behind."

"And the lattice and the bottle," Delia answered.

Jemidon grunted and gathered his remaining energy. He ran to fetch the array of wires and beads. "Wrap the imp in what remains of my cape," he called back. "The trader probably knows these trails less well than I."

"Where do we go?"

Jemidon began a shrug and then stopped with the reminder of pain. The cuts in his shoulder were not deep, but they would have to be attended to. And the fight with the hounds had been exhausting. He had no more ideas. "To the hut of Farnel, the master sorcerer," he said as he started to jog down the path, one arm dangling at his side. "We can hope he is already back from the feast." He stopped for a moment while she caught up with him. "I guess I will have to ask for additional favors sooner than I thought," he said.

JEMIDON pounded wearily on the rough-hewn door. The rain had stopped. Dawn was breaking over the high hills to the east. Now, with the light, they needed a shelter in which to hide. Because of Jemidon's injury, they had had to move slowly, and Drandor had remained fairly close behind.

"Away with the summons," Jemidon heard Farnel growl from behind the door. Indeed, the master had already returned. "The presentation is not until noon. And I need not rush. The loose tongues of the other masters made clear how their votes would be cast. I have seen enough tokens bestowed on Gerilac. One more time will hardly matter."

"It is your tyro!" Jemidon shouted. "And I have a problem-something that your experience with the ways of the island may be able to resolve!"

The door creaked open. A bleary-eyed Farnel in a rumpled nightshirt squinted out into the growing brightness, He grunted recognition and motioned Jemidon inside. With a second wave, he indicated the fruit on a side table and lumbered back toward the bed.

"Jemidon offered me aid when I was most needy," Delia said without moving. "I hope the kindness of a master will be even greater."

Farnel turned back, rubbed his eyes, and looked closer at Delia. He shook himself suddenly awake. "Speak again," he said slowly.

"I ask for your help," Delia replied.

"And more, something that gives difficulty to the tongue." A hint of excitement crept into Farnel's voice. In an instant, he was transformed from a groggy-headed old man into a straight-backed master of sorcery, dancing eyes hinting at the dart of thought suddenly alive within.

Delia paused, then spoke again, puzzled. "Do you mean things like fresh cheese or six sick sheep?"

"The voice is a pure one." Farnel looked at Jemidon, rubbing his hands in satisfaction. "Perhaps you have been of some value after all."

"Her delights do not matter," Jemidon said. "That is not why I have brought her here." He was still exhausted from the struggle. The pain in his arm was now a constant throb.

"Nor are they my interest," Farnef snapped. "Can you not hear how she speaks? Are you so intertwined with theories that practicalities of the art totally escape you? That voice! No one on the island, tyro or master, has one that comes close to its purity. Wrapped around a charm, it would be perfection. My peers would offer much of their learning in order to cast a cantrip or glamour with such clarity." He stopped and thought. "Yes, we must try it. It is worth the effort. Far better than debating the virtues of Gerilac's style or struggling with meaningless competitions. If the others hear the value of faultless words, then convincing them of the purity of my art will follow easily. How could anyone resist the truth of what I always have maintained, if it is so perfectly spoken?"

Farnel glanced around his hut and scowled in annoyance at the disarray. "Come in. Come in and make yourself comfortable, lass. I am most curious as to how you will repeat what I will tell you."

"But that is not why we are here," Delia said as she and Jemidon passed through the doorway. She looked around the rough furnishings and eventually sat in the only uncluttered chair. "Drandor may have been close enough to see us enter. I do not care to confront unprepared anything else he might fetch from his tent."

"To aid in some petty squabble is not why I have asked you in." Farnel waved away the words. "We will select the charm before anything else."