Dan Parkinson - Hammer and Axe

Megistal was swallowed up in seething, swirling darkness, where dull red, angry glows danced crazy patterns. Twin vortices of blackness seemed to descend from the skies above and swell from the earth below to envelope him. Then the swirling slowed, went mute, and faded. And only one thing was changed about Megistal. Where the look in his eyes had been a slight sadness, now it was anger.

“The Scions knew you, Kistilan. They predicted there would be corrupters, and they knew you would be the first. The elemental powers are not to be invoked; they are only to be studied. They threaten the very fabric of existence on this world.”

“I am favored of the Scions!” Kistilan raged. “I alone am favored of the powers!”

“You, alone?” Megistal asked sarcastically. “There were twenty-one of us so honored.”

“There were,” Kistilan sneered. “But I found the others. You are the last of the rest.”

“So I had feared.” Megistal nodded.

“You are the last of the rest!” Kistilan repeated. “Do you think I have not gone past the powers? Do you think I hesitate to use them?” Seething, he hurled flames and lightning bolts from his fingertips.

Megistal was forced backward by the sheer might of the evil magic pounding at his shields. He had expected elemental forces, but had not thought that Kistilan could have so corrupted them. They were now something new and implacable. Megistal tried to counterattack with spells of his own, but the intensity of the black-robe’s magic buffeted him. It was inconceivable that so much power could be unleashed by one man, and yet it was, and the dark wizard increased its concentration second by second.

Kistilan was at the limit of his strength, drawing upon the pure hatreds that lived within him to give force to his spells. He concentrated, amplified, and regenerated the powers striking from his fingers and saw the red-moon mage begin to crumple. Then, suddenly, the magic was broken, and Kistilan found himself lying facedown on the hard ground. Something had kicked his feet out from under him. He turned his head and looked up at the angriest face he had ever seen.

Damon Omenborn, still hurt and shaken from the torments of magic, stood over the fallen wizard, glaring at him.

“You dare. . .”

Damon kicked the wizard solidly in the ribs. “I dare,” he growled. “That man there”—he pointed at Megistal—“I have despised, because he is a wizard. Because he uses magic. But he is not an evil man. I see that now. He is a mage, but nothing like you. He isn’t evil. You are!” Stooping, the dwarf grasped the man’s lapels and lifted him as a child might lift an oversized rag doll. The mage spat, hissed, and started to mutter, and a hard dwarven hand slapped him so hard his teeth clicked together.

The wizard’s eyes went wild, and his hand pointed at the dwarf. A hard glare lashed out at Damon and ended abruptly as a human arrow—a Cobar arrow—pierced Kistilan’s hand. Then Megistal shouted something that was in no language at all.

Kistilan’s eyes opened wide, and he gasped. To Damon, it seemed that he abruptly became as light as a feather, and the dwarf clung more tightly to the fabric of the man’s cloak. But the fabric thinned, became like smoke, and parted in his hand. Kistilan whimpered, and Damon realized abruptly that he could see right through the man’s head.

For a moment, Kistilan hung there, gasping, fading away. Then he was gone, and Damon stood alone with an empty fist. A hand came from somewhere to rest on his shoulder.

Damon half-turned, looking up at the sad face of a disillusioned wizard. “You had such power all along?” he asked.

“I had it,” Megistal admitted.

“Then, all those times . . . out there, and in the valley . . . you could have killed me. You could have killed us all.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“You were right in what you told Kistilan,” the mage admitted. “I am—by your views—a vile thing, a magic-user. But I am not evil, Damon. Many of us are not.”

“Favored of the powers,” Damon muttered. “What does that mean?”

“It means that I have a burden to bear, that I hope no other man must ever have. My conscience must always be stronger than the powers I was given.”

Others of the Roving Guard had recovered now and were trudging toward them. Among them, surrounded, pushed, and in some cases dragged by grim dwarves, were the remaining captive wizards and the Cobar, Quist Redfeather.

Damon looked up at Megistal, frowning. “Will this conscience of yours permit you to leave Kal-Thax and not come back?”

“I don’t see why not.” The wizard shrugged, an ironic smile touching his cheeks. “I have no further business here.”

“Good!” Damon said. He pointed at the battered humans being brought forward by his guards. “And take these with you.”

“Goodbye, Damon Omenborn.” Megistal lifted a hand in farewell. “I have truly learned from you.” The big wizard muttered, and the air seemed to crackle. Then he was gone, as were the other captured wizards. Only the dour Cobar remained in the midst of the dwarven guards.

“Wait a minute!” Damon shouted into empty air. “Take the Cobar, too!”

From somewhere—from everywhere and nowhere—a chuckling voice responded. “He is your problem, Damon, not mine. You still owe him a horse.”

“My problem,” Damon growled. He glared at the human warrior, who glared right back at him fiercely. Then Damon looked northward, toward Thorbardin, and his heart went cold. On the slopes, armies still fought, but above them the massive face of Southgate was blank metal. The plug was closed. It could mean only one thing. Enemies had penetrated the defenses and were now inside.

“Bring him along,” Damon commanded, pointing at the human.

It was Porcirin the Pure who led the penetration of Thorbardin. A native of faraway Istar, Porcirin was not well liked among the brothers of the Orders of High Sorcery. With his Istarian attitude of self-righteous single-mindedness, the self-proclaimed “Wearer of the Whitest Robe” was considered by many wizards to be a hypocrite, and by some to be a lunatic. He was not of the highest levels of sorcery, having failed two of the three tests of the Scions. He was not trustworthy, he rarely followed the orders of his superiors unless they just happened to suit him, and—in true Istarian fashion—he was something of a fanatic. Still, Porcirin had a talent for debate and a passion for purpose . . . and followers who would bend to his will.

With the departure of Kistilan the Dark from the assault on the dwarven stronghold, and the resultant confusion of the besieging forces, Porcirin had decided that the human-wave assault on the gate was a waste of time, and that there was a better way to recover the Stone of Threes, which was somewhere inside the undermountain fortress. It did not require an army to go and find it, despite Kistilan’s ambitions. Any three sorcerers, providing they were practitioners of the three orientations of magic, could locate the Stone of Threes if they could get close enough to sense its presence.

So, with half the company of wizards missing, and Kistilan the Dark gone off somewhere, Porcirin took matters into his own hands. Calling a number of others together, he pointed at the great, open gate on the mountainside above and said, “The time is at hand. Who will follow me into the lair of the dwarves to recover that which is ours?”

Some turned away, and some simply glared at him, but six among them were persuaded. The task would be simple, Porcirin assured them. The seven would transport themselves—a short distance only, just through the gate and far enough past it to be beyond any simple inner defenses the dwarves might have—then make themselves invisible and go in search of their tower stone. When they found it, they would take it by whatever means were necessary and return to the outside, to resume the task of creating a Tower of High Sorcery in the Kharolis Mountains.