Forward the Mage

  The wizard raised an admonishing hand. "But enough of this nonsense," hissed Zulkeh. "We must hasten—for even as I whisper, time wanes!" And so saying, the mage prepared to step onto the landing.

  But he was stilled in his purpose, for at that very moment the door above was flung wide with a great clatter. Startled, our heroes gazed upward and perceived, illuminated from behind, the figure of a woman dressed in an old robe and wearing slippers. She stood there in a most aggressive posture, arms akimbo, fists planted on stout hips, gazing down the steep stairs over a most intimidating bosom, her face—so much was evident even in the dim lighting—disfigured by a sneer of cold disdain. Atop her shoulder, peering down with tiny red eyes, squatted a salamander.

  "Thought so!" boomed the woman in a raucous voice. "It's that old fart, Zulkeh. And the little one with him—just as Les Six described. Well, dotard, come on up and stop creeping around—makes me edgy! Come up, I say!" Her figure disappeared from the doorway.

  "Well, master," said Shelyid, "we might as w—" But he was silenced by the wizard's glare, like unto the fires of eternal damnation.

  "Unspeakable gnome!" oathed the mage. "This disaster is entirely your responsibility! Look you at the result of your cretinous behavior the evening past!"

  The dwarf pouted. "It wasn't my idea, hanging out with those drunks. I didn't want to do it. Although, I had a real good time and they were actually real nice to me even though I don't remember a lot of it and today my head really hurts. But," Shelyid concluded, a preposterous tone of accusation in his voice, "it was your idea in the first place, so if anybody's to bl—"

  No doubt the dwarf's impertinence would have resulted in a most severe and well-deserved thrashing, judging, at least, from the gathering storm upon the wizard's brow. But, in the event, the wretch was rescued by the intervention of an unforeseen savior. For, at that very moment, the witch's voice was heard to say: "Greyboar! Fetch me these two clowns!"

  A moment later, a gigantic form filled the doorway. And a frightful figure it was! Atop a pair of shoulders massive both in size and brutish slope, like unto the forequarters of a great bear, sat a most villainous head—if villainy can be judged from a predatory beak of a nose, beady black eyes, a crop of kinky hair. Not a vestige of a neck separated the head from the shoulders below.

  But our heroes were given little time to examine the newcomer, for two hands the size of platters descended upon them, seizing each by the scruff of the neck. In a trice, wizard and apprentice were lofted from their perch on the steps and deposited within the room beyond. This seemed to have been done without effort, which was perhaps not surprising, given that the arms which connected the hands to the shoulders were of colossal proportions, being not only deinotherian in their circumference but possessed of a length which was altogether monstrous.

  Looking about, our heroes found themselves in a cavernous room, the which was revealed to be the domicile of the witch Magrit, combining, as it did, the multichambered functions of a sitting room, library, laboratory, museum and curio shop. Within the room, besides our heroes, rested three persons: the witch Magrit, the giant just recently described, and a third individual. This latter, a red-headed man so small as to border on dwarfdom, sat in a chair to one side, his little legs dangling several inches off the floor. Upon his freckled and pug-nosed face sat an expression which was composed, in strange combination, of equal portions of amusement and dyspepsia.

  But our heroes were given little time to examine their surroundings, for the witch spoke again, in an exceedingly discordant tone of voice: "What's the matter, you old fart? My place too messy for you?"

  Zulkeh coughed apologetically. "I meant not to offend, madame, nor—I assure you!—is it the plenitude and disarray of objects which disturbs me, nor even the quaint deordination of chamber functions, for I know quite well—being myself, as you doubtless recall, a practicing thaumaturge of vast experience and plenary powers—"

  "Who's the windbag, Magrit?" interrupted the salamander, in a voice both sharp and unpleasant. "Is he always like this, or is he just having a bad day?"

  "His name's Zulkeh," responded the witch. "He's a wizard. And yeah, he's always been like this. I knew him when he was a little twerp of an apprentice at the University. Even then he was a windbag. I balled him once, just to win a bet, and I swear he was still talking in semi-colons with my legs wrapped around his head."

  All eyes fixed on Zulkeh. His apprentice's eyes were the size of saucers. Perhaps the gnome found the image just sketched difficult to reconcile with his master's august person and demeanor.

  As for the wizard himself, every fiber of his being, every nuance of his posture, every minute aspect of his expression, not excepting the scarlet color of his cheeks, bespoke with great eloquence his profound indignation.

  "These are private matters, madame!" he roared. "I must demand that you respect my dignity!"

  He glared at Magrit, then spoke again in a peremptory tone. "Moreover, the event in question occurred long ago, when I was a callow youth subject to occasional japes and escapades. And may I remind you of the unfortunate end of the affair? I should think you—of all persons!—would seek to keep its history hidden."

  "Fuck you," said the witch. "Would you believe," she added, spreading her arms and taking in with her gaze the entirety of the room's occupants, "that no sooner did I screw the little cloddy than he runs—the next morning, mind you!—to the Rector of Novitiates and babbles a confession of the sinfulness of his deeds. 'Course, he depicted himself as the innocent party, dragged to the coupling couch by a scarlet woman, pleading for mercy all the while, practically chained to the bed and beaten with whips, to hear him tell it. Never did get around to explaining how he got a hard on. Not," she added unkindly, "that it was much of a hard on to begin with, now that I think about it."

  The wizard positively spluttered. But the strumpet was unabashed.

  "Yeah, he got me thrown out of the University for—and I quote—'gross and licentious behavior.' Himself, of course, oh, and he was the darling of the deans—'an unfortunate lapse,' they called it, 'but quickly rectified by the honest and timely confession of the fundamentally sound and sterling-charactered apprentice Zulkeh.'" She laughed. "Yeah, but it was just as well. God knows what I'd be like today if I'd stayed in the University!"

  She sneered. "And as for you, Zulkeh, you ought to thank me! Probably the last time you got laid, am I right?"

  The wizard's answer to this horrendously indelicate question will forever remain unknown, for at that very moment did the salamander leap from Magrit's shoulder, scurry across the room, and flash beneath Zulkeh's robe. A moment later, the wizard was hopping wildly about, scrabbling in his garment. The salamander had, it appeared, attained to the mage's private parts.

  "Out! Out! Out, vile beast!" cried Zulkeh. "Out, I say! Out!"

  In a flash, the salamander emerged and scurried back across the room, coming to rest by Magrit's foot.

  "Must be true, Magrit," announced the little monster. "He's got wizard's whang. Most advanced case I ever saw."

  The witch snorted. "Don't surprise me! As a kid, he had 'prentice's pecker. Most advanced case I ever saw."

  Suddenly the tiny horror darted across the room again and disappeared up Shelyid's trousers. And now it was the dwarf who hopped wildly about, scrabbling in his garment. The salamander had, it appeared, attained to the gnome's private parts. A moment later, the foul little beast reappeared and scurried back to Magrit's foot. It peered at Shelyid quizzically, its head cocked.

  "Well?" This from Magrit.

  "Kid's in the wrong line of business," pronounced the creature.

  "Fie upon this monstrous incivility!" oathed Zulkeh. "Madame, you abuse your guests in a most unseemly manner!"

  "Guests?" demanded Magrit. "What guests? The only guests here are Greyboar and Ignace." She looked to the giant and his tiny companion. "Have you been abused?"

  "Not at all," rumbled the giant.

  "You've b
een a most gracious hostess," concurred the other. "Of course," he added, "we still have to do a job for you, you've made that clear often enough."

  The witch glared at the midget. "I know, I know," he said hastily, " 'no freebies from Magrit.' "

  "Not for you, that's for sure," snorted the witch. She turned back to Zulkeh.

  "So much for that! Let me remind you, you old fart, that I didn't invite you here in the first place. You crashed the party. And you didn't even so much as come straight to the front door. Not the great wizard Zulkeh! Didn't the sixth give you perfectly clear directions last night? But no! The magnificent mage has to go crawling through sewers and creeping through cellars."

  She glared at the wizard. For his part, Zulkeh coughed in his throat, somewhat nonplussed by this—alas, it must be admitted—not untruthful charge.

  "What's the matter," demanded the hellhag, "cat got your tongue?" She fixed Shelyid with her malevolent gaze. "You tell us, shorty! Am I right, or not? Didn't the old fart waste half the day down there? Probably kept telling you"— here the obscene ogress dropped her voice an octave—" 'the utmost shrewdery and stealth! the utmost sagacity and cunning! the utmost trickery and maneuver!' "

  Shelyid coughed, somewhat nonplussed by this—alas, it must be admitted—not altogether inaccurate description.

  "Thought so!" snorted the witch. "And what's your name, anyway?"

  "Shelyid, ma'am," replied the dwarf timidly.

  "Don't call me 'ma'am'!" barked Magrit. "Silly title! Magrit's the name. People wanting to be respectful call me 'the proper witch.' If I'm in a good mood you can call me 'the old bag,' or 'the salacious crone,' or 'the horrible harridan,' or—oh hell, any one of a thousand things I've been called." She fixed Shelyid with a piercing eye. "But I warn you, at the moment I'm not in a good mood."

  "Yes, m—uh, Magrit," stammered the dwarf.

  "Well?" demanded Magrit. "Speak up, Shelyid! Am I right or what?"

  The apprentice furrowed his brow. "Well, pretty much. I mean, the master didn't actually—"

  "Silence, dwarf!" Zulkeh glowered at his apprentice. "What means this craven toadying to the witch's impudent interrogation? Be silent, I command you!"

  Discipline restored, the wizard turned back to Magrit.

  "I shall graciously overlook the rude manner of your greeting, madame. Not to mention the impertinent behavior of your familiar!" He bestowed a fierce look upon the salamander. "For, I will admit, my method of entry was perhaps not altogether suave in its approach."

  With a conciliatory gesture, he forestalled the derisive remark even now foreseeable in Magrit's expression. "Let bygones be bygones, if you will. Soon enough, Magrit, you will learn the cause of my apparently outré behavior. But for the moment, may we begin anew? Perhaps with some common civilities! For I have not yet been properly introduced to your other guests."

  Then, observing the intemperate remark about to issue from the witch's lips: "Say rather, your proper guests! Or, if you prefer, the other occupants of this room."

  With some effort, or so it seemed, the horrid hag restrained her natural inclinations. Taking a deep breath, she shrugged her shoulders.

  "What the hell, why not? Zulkeh of Goimr, let me introduce you to Greyboar the strangler and his agent Ignace, lately of New Sfinctr. They're here at the moment due to a falling out with the authorities of that pesthole of a city. Not for the first time!"

  The giant bowed politely. "I'm Greyboar. The little one's Ignace. My card, sir." And so saying, the mage was presented with an embossed calling card held between a thumb and forefinger the size of large sausages. The card read:

  GREYBOAR—Strangleur Extraordinaire

  "Have Thumbs, Will Travel"

  Customized Asphyxiations

  No Gullet Too Big, No Weasand Too Small

  My Motto: Satisfaction Garroteed, or

  The Choke's on Me!

  "But I have heard of you, sir!" exclaimed the mage. "Are you not the same Greyboar who throttled the Marquis de Sangsue?"

  The strangler nodded his head. "I have that honor."

  " 'Twas a masterly stuffocation, by all accounts! And are you not the author, as well, of the legendary strangulation of the Comte de l'Abattoir and his entire party of Knights Companion, done at the very feasting table where they took their pleasure?"

  Greyboar shrugged modestly. "It cannot be denied."

  "How foolish of me not to have recognized your name at once! My apologies, sirrah."

  The strangler dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. Zulkeh turned to his apprentice.

  "You are most fortunate, Shelyid, to make the acquaintance of such a universally admired master of his profession. In point of fact, not simply a master, but, according to the vast majority of experts, the modern exemplar of the chokester's trade. Why, the Encyclopedia Ozarinica has gone so far as to state that Greyboar is the equal of any of the great asphyxiators of history, at least with regard to fingerwork, if not, perhaps, in force of contraction."

  "Sheer tonnage of gullet overpressure is the aspect of the trade which always impresses the amateur," stated Greyboar. "But all practitioners of the craft know the secret lies entirely in the fingerwork."

  "I will certainly defer to your professional judgement on the matter," spoke the mage. "As a philosophe, I am in any event more inclined to respect the aesthetic than the muscular aspects of your craft. And all connoisseurs of the art are agreed that the burking of de l'Abattoir and company was a masterpiece, a masterpiece—not alone in the extreme elongation of the several throats, but in the delicacy of detail. As I recall, each of the chokee's necks was tied in a different knot, am I not correct?"

  "I was particularly proud of the Blackwall hitch," admitted Greyboar. "Sir Mordicus, that was."

  Zulkeh frowned. "I should tell you, sir—I speak now as one professional to another—that your reputation has been somewhat disparaged of late. An article appeared in a recent issue of The Journal of Contemporary Assassination, authored by none other than Dashiel Sfondrati-Piccolomini, in which he argues that your abilities, great though he admits them to be, have been cast in the shade by a rising Ozarine phenomenon by the name of Pythoneus."

  "That twerp!" cried a shrill voice. Turning, all saw that Ignace had left his chair and was hopping about in great agitation. "That juvenile braggart! That pipsqueak posturer! That no-thumbed puppy!" He glared at Greyboar. "I told you we should have squeezed his fanfaron gullet for him when the swaggering snot came through New Sfinctr!"

  Greyboar did not, it seemed, share his agent's concern. He shrugged his shoulders, like an avalanche.

  "Why bother? Plenty of room in the trade. Besides, who cares what some pedant says in a scholarly journal? No offense, sirrah"—this to Zulkeh—"but it's precious few of my customers who ever say they've been referred by the latest issue of the Journal of this or the Annals of that."

  "To be sure," agreed the mage. "We scholars tend to settle our disputes in a—physically, at least—less energetic manner."

  "Still—" began Ignace, but he was interrupted by Shelyid.

  "You mean you kill people for a living? That's awful!"

  Reactions to this unexpected comment varied. Magrit chuckled, the salamander smirked, Greyboar looked aggrieved. But the wizard and the agent Ignace were alike in the look of outrage and indignation which sat upon their respective faces.

  "Bah!" oathed Zulkeh. "Wherefore am I plagued with such a dolt of an apprentice?"

  "Shut your mouth, you nasty little dwarf!" was Ignace's less rhetorical comment.

  "Know, Shelyid," spoke the mage sternly, wagging his finger in the gnome's face, "that this upstanding gentleman is a respected practitioner of an honorable profession whose origins date back to the time of antiquity. How could you be such a lackwit as to confuse him for a common murderer?"

  "But he kills—"

  "Bah!" oathed the wizard. "He does not kill—if I may use your crude expression for a moment—anyone. He strangles them. Is this no
t so, sirrah?"—This latter to Greyboar. "Have you ever once resorted to any method of termination other than the prescribed placement of thumbs and fingers about the weasand and the ensuing application of pressure?"

  "Nope," came Greyboar's reply. "Well, on occasion I've used garroting tools—rope, cord, piano wire and such—"

  The wizard waved airily. "Those are recognized the world over as legitimate extensions of the art."

  "—and, of course, I've often found it necessary to break bones, shred limbs, mangle bodies—but only with respect to secondary persons, bodyguards and the like, who interpose themselves between me and the completion of the job. The job itself is always done with legitimate fingerwork. I'm quite a stickler on this point."

  The wizard nodded his approval. "Precisely so! The maiming, mangling and mortification of secondary persons in the course of a strangler's assignment are, of course, hallowed by tradition."

  But the impudent dwarf was still not satisfied. "I don't care how he does it! He's still killing people for a living! They are dead when you're done with all this fancy choking and stuff, aren't they?" he asked the strangler. And a bizarre sight it was, the little gnome staring up at the person of the chokester, who loomed above him like a buffalo pondering a fieldmouse.

  "Aren't they?" demanded Shelyid again. "Dead, I mean?"

  The strangler coughed delicately. "Well, yes," he said. "Actually, that's rather the point of the whole thing."

  Ignace came between the chokester and Shelyid. "We don't have to take this crap, Greyboar!" he shrilled. He shoved himself up against the dwarf, glaring down at Shelyid—not, let it be said for the record, by such a great height, for the agent barely escaped being a dwarf in his own right.