Lyndon Hardy - Secret Of The Sixth Magic

"You state that you were prevented," Aiodar said. "Because of something external, you were unequal to the task. And how convenient for you that is. Most of us do not have such luxury. We must look inside instead and understand what are our strengths and weaknesses."

"One cannot overwhelm a metalaw," Jemidon said. "It would be futile to try."

"And was it a metalaw that sent you after graphic abstractions instead of memory drill in Farnel's hut? Did a principle of the universe compel you not to list the simple incantations on paper before the thaumaturge's test? After the third failure with the alchemist's formula, what fundamental rule prevented you from assaying for purity? How carefully did you plan your actions before the stumble in Rosimar's guild?

"And most important, consider this. You have shown a remarkable ability to deduce the underlying principle from the observed effects. With your skills, you have found three metalaws. But if that is indeed your talent, why did it take so long? Why so many years until a stranger hands you the clues? Why not suspect after your first failures that something else was wrong? Why were not they the key that opened this inner box of which you speak and tumbled out the answers?"

The archmage raised his index finger and held it poised in front of Jemidon's face. "Perhaps because the answers were not so clearly cut. Perhaps because, deep inside, you knew that you had not fully prepared, that you had become bored, and that you did not exercise discipline, focus, concentration, or the planning that every master must have. Perhaps because, metalaws aside, you knew in your innermost being that you had not put forth the effort necessary to wear the robe. You preferred instead to dabble at the next in the hopes it would be easier."

"The metalaw is true!" Jemidon shouted and backed off a step. "I have felt the uncoupling. It explains the dizziness, the lapses of memory, and all the rest."

"Not all the rest," Alodar said.

"Why are you telling me this?" Jemidon cried. "You are the archmage, ultimately responsible for all the crafts in the world. There is a battle about to begin outside this very tent, and you spend your time speculating about the weaknesses of someone you have barely met."

Jemidon's chest pounded. The words were too sharp. He did not want to face them after all that had happened. He was a metamagician, and the honor and respect would be his.

"I asked you what you would do," the archmage said. "But more important perhaps is why. Is it for the robe of the master?"

"Yes, yes, I have told you that."

"And anything else?"

Jemidon caught his breath. The archmage had been striking at the old wounds that would not heal, and he had almost lost control. He squeezed his fists tight and looked Alodar steadily in the eye.

"And for Delia," he said. "Delia more than all." He paused a second and licked his lips. "We waste too much time. If you do not believe, I will continue on my own as best I can."

Alodar placed his hands behind his back and stared at Jemidon a long while in silence. Then he turned away and paced back and forth across the width of the tent with quick, precise steps while Jemidon seethed. The archmage stopped at the desk and fingered a magic ring that was now stone-cold. Finally he turned back and looked intently at Jemidon a second time. "I do believe you, Jemidon," he said. "I must. We have too few choices left. As staggering as the concepts are that you relate, they do explain all the puzzles with which we are beset.

"And so I have decided to give you command of the alchemists, magicians, sorcerers, and thaumaturges. Only the wizards must be withheld for their more critical tasks. What you submit has a kernel of merit. It will not hurt to add it to the feeble arsenal that we have.

"But there is more, more for you to be truly ready. If you are indeed to face Melizar, if, in the end, our fate does rest on your shoulders alone, then you must be a master of at least one thing-a master of yourself."

Alodar did not wait for Jemidon to say more. He went to the flap in the rear of the tent and ducked outside. Jemidon hesitated a moment and then hastened after. As he scrambled outside, he saw a shallow depression packed with men, probably more than a hundred robes crammed together with the implements of their nonfunctioning crafts. Near the far lip, a single squad of men-at-arms snapped to attention as they saw the archmage approach.

"You have all trusted my judgment in the past," Alodar said. "And there is little time to explain my decision now." He waved back at Jemidon. "Accept this one as your leader. Follow his commands as you would mine. He may send you into danger, but surely that is to be preferred to waiting passively for rebel blades to come slashing into your midst."

Jemidon squared his shoulders and stepped forward, but suddenly a great shout echoed from the plain. Trumpets blared an opening charge. "The archmage! Where is the archmage?" voices shouted. "Up on the hill behind their lines among the metal boxes! He must come and see. A circle of flame!"

Alodar did not wait for any reaction from the masters, He bolted around the side of his tent and headed for the battle line.

"I will show you my mettle," Jemidon shouted as the archmage disappeared from view. "I will prove the meta-magician I can be."

Jemidon waited a moment for a reply, but heard none. It was up to him to prove himself one final time. Grimly he turned back to the masters.

"You with the flasks and powders. And over there, the sad-faced ones mumbling in the mirrors." He pushed his way to the center of the masters and whirled with arms outspread. "There is not time to worry about resonances. The archmage commands. All of you follow me. We will get as close to the fighting line as we can."

Jemidon ran out of the depression, not looking back to see if any would eomply. But soon he heard the swish of robes and the clank of paraphernalia as he sprinted across the marshy ground around Alodar's tent. Apparently the word of the archmage carried enough authority that they followed without hesitation.

As he cleared the pavilions, Alodar was not to be seen. Instead, up the gentle slope, he saw the two angry lines close on each other and the battle begin. The grate of steel shrieked from a thousand collisions. Like a pair of mating snakes, the two armies writhed across the tilted plain. The men-at-arms with thick shields and shining mail slashed their swords right and left, cutting through leather and hacking off the blades of scythes. But onward the rebels came; mindless of the hurt, unflinching under the rain of blows, they whirled their flails and stabbed with their poles, borne forward by their comrades who pressed from behind. In two or three places, the royal line thinned; and in one, a salient of brown broke through to circle from the rear.

Above the combatants' heads, the sky crackled and sparked. Pungent smells filled the air. Glowing sprites and tiny imps streaked down on bare heads, ripping away tufts of hair in their talons or dropping trails of itching powders in their turbulent wakes. Fox-sized devils sprayed their repulsive odors and radiated the feeling of unquenchable thirst and will-sapping pain.

Towering over them all, the larger demons roared in aerial combat against their brothers, who were commanded by Melizar's manipulant-wizard. Veinous wings of turgid green beat frantically for altitude, trying to elude glowing spheres of sputtering sparks which blackened on touch and sizzled away the pulpy flesh. From gnarled fingers shot bolts of piercing reds and violet that ripped the air into a hot incandescence.

Jemidon looked to the hill and saw on the rubble the circle of flame that had brought the page running to Alodar. Next to the tent, a huge djinn, far larger than the one that had carried Jemidon and Delia away, was twisted into an arch easily twice the height of a man. His cloven hooves and fingertips barely touched the ground. All along his scaly legs, his humped back with the furled wings, and his forehead and upper arms danced a deep crimson flame that shot high into the morning sky. Framed in the arch was the cloaked form of Melizar, the metamagician.