Chapter Nine
575 Barovian Calendar
One winter night I awoke to a decided feeling of unease and knew another great change had taken place. I was unsure what it was at first. It was similar to the feeling I got whenever anyone crossed from Forlorn into Barovia, but it seemed much. . . larger. I immediately rose and made use of the crystal to see what was amiss.
A few thousand nights of practice had lessened the difficulty I'd initially experienced viewing into this other land, so the concentration required wasn't nearly as severe. I started with the northwest corner of Forlorn closest to the Tristenoira castle and worked my way southeast. It took about an hour to go over the twenty miles of snow-covered ground. None of it showed the least evidence of tracks, goblyn or otherwise.
That left the rest of the land. I had an insistent and growing feeling that whatever had happened was big enough to be noticed from a distance. Sweeping my viewpoint to the topmost peak of Mount Sawtooth, I used it as a base to see most of the southern portions of Barovia. Nothing unusual presented itself, so I shifted to Mount Baratak in the north.
Success. I couldn't take it in right away, thinking that some stray snow cloud blocked my sight of the Mists. But going lower and closer revealed that the Mists in this spot had drawn back an indefinite distance. Another new land was seamlessly connected to Barovia, stretching out along the northwestern border.
Through the crystal I could move faster than the fiercest winter gale. I descended into this new land to investigate.
I struck a barrier, invisible but palpable, in resistance a duplicate to what I met whenever crossing into Forlorn. It was another border. Another country.
The land stretched on without sign of the Mists ahead, so I continued forward, taking in the sight of more forests with a few isolated dwellings. Small farms and shepherds dominated. No soldiery.
Lamordia. The name whispered itself right into my mind, an announcement from I knew not where.
I continued eastward, skimming the border of my own land. I moved quickly, not bothering with details for the moment, desiring rather to discover the extent of my new neighbor. Much to my surprise, I passed through yet another invisible barrier.
This new land was considerably larger in size than Forlorn, the chief feature being a mountain so vast and high and sprawling as to dwarf proud Balinok.
Indeed, the thing looked to take up an area as large as Barovia itself.
Dipping lower, I brushed over the tree tops to the line of the border, and it was indeed a line. The Barovian forests, where they butted against it, stopped abruptly, along with the snow, though the lay of the land continued unaltered. A hill remained a hill, but trees grew thick on one side, while long grasses and low shrubs covered the other. Much of their growth was pressed in a permanent bend in the direction of the wind, which must have been very strong to be so obvious at this height to me. No trees were in evidence anywhere in this desolation, though the vegetation looked formidable enough to offer concealment for any number of nasty surprises.
I moved closer and followed the edge from one side to the other, about thirty miles of it, and saw no sign of habitation. It looked to be as deserted as Forlorn, but until proven otherwise, I would assume there were hidden dangers here as well. At either end of our borders the imprisoning Mists rose high.
A faint movement on the Barovian side caught my notice, and I focused and swept down upon it. Azalin. With a small pack train.
I wondered how he had found out. Perhaps he'd set up some sort of magical warning against just such an occurrence.
Forced to travel overland, he had to have begun early this morning, which gave me an estimate of when the new land had appeared for he was nearly to the border. He must have taken an ice sled from Vallaki and let the prevailing winds carry him swiftly along the length of Lake Zarovich. Though sometimes dangerous, that would have cut quite a few miles and hours from his trip. Winter travel in Barovia is neither easy nor safe. He would then have to skirt two out-flung spurs of Baratak by toiling through nearly trackless forest. A journey of twenty miles would take nearly the whole day. Even now he was only just making his way along a winding path that would lead to a saddle ridge linking one portion of Baratak to another. Half of it lay in Barovia and half sloped down into the new land.
I put my crystal safely away and made some spell preparations against whatever unknown loomed ahead, then performed the very useful travel casting. By the time Azalin toiled up the summit of the saddle, I was already there and waiting, wrapped snug in my cloak while the night winds tossed drifts of snow around me.
He could not feel the cold himself, of course, but the snow was a nuisance to him and his tired animals.
He made no comment about my sudden appearance in his path, but annoyance was in every line of his posture. How much easier it would be for him to use this particular traveling spell, only he was unable to do so. I was always cordial, pretending not to notice his limitation, something that always irked him. One would think after all this time that he'd have accepted the fact and be over the aggravation. I ever kept the advantage by not gifting him with copper wands charged with it, indeed; I acted as though the idea had not even occurred to me.
He dismounted and tied the reins to a tree, then toiled up the last yards to stand a few paces distant, looking down the opposing slope.
"Have you tried crossing into it?" he asked after taking a good look around.
"Yes. I cannot. "
"The same as Forlorn," he stated.
"When did you notice this new presence?"
"At dawn. I began riding then. "
"Does it look familiar to you?"
"No. "
"Any ideas why and how it came to be here?"
He made a throwing away motion with one gloved hand, as if to dismiss me and my questions, his gaze still riveted ahead. Unless I read him wrong, he looked hungry. The sating of appetite would be far more complicated for him than for me. His greedy lust was for knowledge, something not always easily obtained.
This plane of existence in this pocket of reality was ever stingy with its secrets.
Our mutual silence lengthened. After all these years we did not have that much to say to each other. We already long knew what things upon which we agreed; the rest usually devolved into pointless bickering about which we were both quite bored. He finally turned back to his horses, going to the pack animal and tugging at the ties of something large and bulky strapped to its back. The cloth-shrouded bundle dropped heavily to the snow in a familiar way. Shroud was an excellent description, for it did cover a body.
Azalin threw back the rough fabric, revealing the ragged form of a man dead for about a month. I dimly recognized the face as belonging to a drunken thief who'd tried to break into a house in Vallaki one night during the last new moon.
Unfortunately for him, I'd caught him in mid-invasion and administered my justice accordingly. He'd been very drunk, else he wouldn't have been so foolish as to be out after sunset. So soaked was his blood with cheap wine it had given me a pleasant period of lightheadedness that I hadn't felt in many decades; that was the only reason I recalled his features out of so many thousands of others.
Azalin must have stopped at the Vallaki burial grounds along his way to make a disintemment.
I watched him proceed with the raising ritual. It's a complicated process, but he had honed it to a fine art with much practice and was very quick about it.
Not long after, the thing began to ponderously twitch with a parody of life. It sat up with a groan as month old air rushed out its gaping mouth. Considering the appearance of the corpse, I was glad that breathing was no longer a necessity for me.
The dead thief woodenly rose, shedding clumps of snow and earth and trudged toward the border, with Azalin in its wake. He stopped at the edge, but his zombie continued on under his direction, breaking past the last drift of Barovian snow and plodding through the long, wind-blo
wn grasses.
"Wherever this land's origin, it must not have been winter there," I observed.
He did not reply, his concentration focused on the zombie. Its white, sightless eyes were open, and Azalin would be using them to magically see what was within its range of view. He was linked to the thing in a similar manner as I employed when using my crystal ball.
The zombie continued down until it reached a flat valley running between the land saddle and the foot-hills of the huge mountain.
"What do you see?" I asked, for the creature was becoming too distant for me to clearly follow its progress.
Azalin took his time replying. "Nothing of interest," he finally muttered.
"Grass and brush. It's very windy. "
That I knew already. The pervasive winds did not assault us, though, seeming content to remain on that side of the border. The snow was something else again, making a creeping foray into the new land. If it was winter in Barovia, then it would be winter everywhere else as well.
Azalin abruptly shook his head and dropped back a few steps. I watched him narrowly, for he was not one to exhibit weakness at any time. He recovered and pushed forward until he was right on the border; for all the world he looked like a hungry child peering into a bake shop window.
"What is happening?" I demanded, getting the strong feeling that something was wrong.
He made an unintelligible snarl and continued to stare down the path his zombie had trod in the grass. I also looked long and hard, but even my night vision brought me no sign of his creature.
"I've lost contact with it," he said after a moment. For him to admit any kind of weakness was highly unusual. "I'm going to follow it in. "
Here he glanced at me, almost as if to seek permission, but more to get my reaction to his announcement. This was as close as he'd come to a reference to the Forlorn incident. After that unpleasant business with the goblyns, he'd shown no further interest in quitting Barovia for its neighbor, which was of some relief to me. The last thing I wanted was for him to take charge of his own land.
Dare I take the risk once again? Perhaps he would find this place more hospitable and set himself up as its ruler.
On the other hand, my curiosity was as great as his. If something had dealt with his zombie, chances were it might prove as dangerous to Azalin. Quite a cheering thought, that.
The risks for both of us seemed equal at this point.
I shrugged as if unconcerned. "Do as you please. "
Without further delay, he stepped forward into the grass, shaking the snow from the hems of his robes. He paused after ten paces, carefully looking and listening. I knew he would be alert to any magic in the air as well as trying to re-establish contact with his servant. Another ten paces and nothing happened.
"Can you see it?" I called after him.
"Not yet. "
The wind kicked up to a higher force, and he had to lean into it to keep his balance. It would greatly restrict his ability to hear anything. Ten more paces, fighting the rising wind for each one of them.
"Well?" I shouted.
He made a dismissive waving motion, too occupied trying to stay on his path to answer. The wind howled around him, tearing at his clothing. He struggled mightily against it, and I got the impression he was going to try some spellwork to make the weather more accommodating to exploration. He started to pull a scroll from one of his pockets - Then Azalin staggered as though struck by a large, invisible fist. The force of it was enough to lift him right from the ground and send him flying high and far. Arms flailing and legs kicking, he arced straight over my head and landed with an audible thud, sprawling gracelessly in the snow, his rich robes in much disarray. I hurried over in time to see the look of vast surprise flashing across his face, but that was soon supplanted by anger as he recovered from the assault.
I looked down at him and tried to hide my amusement at his indignity with bright curiosity. "It seems your presence is not welcome there," I concluded.
"Impossible," he snapped, struggling to his feet. I didn't offer to help.
"Then what else could it be?"
He sneered. "Maybe it was more goblyns. "
"It looked more like a backlash effect, which means someone interfered with your hold on that thing. They cut off your control, lured you in, then gave you a bloody nose for your trouble. "
I must have been living up to my name, for the devil was certainly in me at that moment. His red eyes flashed on me for an instant, his expression that of pure, naked hatred. I had seen it before and was unimpressed.
To his credit he managed to hold in his temper and not try anything foolish. He smoothed his facial illusion back to its usual lines of disdain and turned from me to the new land.
"Going to make a second try?" I inquired, all interest.
In answer he strode forward and crossed in - by exactly one pace.
"Any sense of another's presence?" I asked after a moment.
He shut his eyes and - evidently straining as if to hear distant sound - shook his head. "There is a. . . I can't quite. . . "
Then I heard it - a kind of voiceless whisper, the sort that can only happen when spoken directly into one's mind. I recognized it, having heard something very similar centuries ago when making my bargain with Death.
"Arak," it said.
I saw by Azalin's reaction that he "heard" it, too. He quietly stepped back across the border.
"What is the meaning?" I murmured, staring out over the new land's wind-blasted landscape.
He shook his head. "I think that is the name of this place. Arak. "
As he spoke the name the conviction came to me that he was absolutely correct. I grunted a short acknowledgment. We were both too used to the vagaries of the Art to question this strange mental missive. "Do you plan to study this place?"
"Of course I will. "
"After the business with Forlorn, I got the impression you were not especially interested. "
"Only after I'd exhausted all the other lines of investigation it had to offer.
With Arak's appearance, I can now repeat what I have done and compare the two with what I know about Barovia, then see if any useful answers reveal themselves. "
"Will you require more laboratory equipment?" When it came to such material supplies, Azalin was a bottomless pit of necessity.
"I'll inform you if I do. "
"Have you any initial hypothesis to prove with all this research?"
"It has to do with the conjunction phenomenon. "
He'd spoken of his pet theory a few times in the past. He had the idea that our plane occasionally joined itself with others, including the one belonging to the elusive Oerth. In this manner outsiders were able to enter, but the openings must be in one direction only and but temporary in nature. If the gates were a permanent and obvious fixture in the other planes, there would be far more newcomers invading Barovia.
"My thought is that it may be possible for whole sections of lands from outside to be drawn to this plane," he said.
"Why?"
"That remains to be discovered, but it may be for a similar reason why so many bandits and the like are transported here by the Mists. It could be triggered by some harrowing negative event centered around a single powerful individual, a reverse conjunction, if you will. "
"On a very large scale. It seems rather much to center around a single person. "
"Yet you are here; your isolation generated the night of your brother's wedding. "
A reminder I did not welcome. "And what about Forlorn?"
"That worthless creature skulking in the castle apparently collected enough negativity with its pathetic crimes to cause the surrounding lands to break away - or perhaps the Mists came for it. "
After several years of poking and prodding, I eventually discovered the existence of Forlorn's reigning lord. "Creature" was as accurate a description as it could hope to ha
ve, being an unlikely hybrid. At night it was a ghost and by day one such as myself, its movements limited. By common consent Azalin and I generally ignored the wretch, and it returned the favor.
Azalin continued, "I shall attempt to find the reason behind Arak's appearance here. "
I silently wished him luck in that endeavor, for he would certainly need it.
"I am of a mind that other lands may also come to join themselves to Barovia in this plane, like pieces of a table puzzle. Gather enough together and one might understand the whole picture. "
"That could take centuries at this rate. "
He sniffed. "Neither of us is going anywhere. "
"My exact point," I dryly returned.
He deigned not to respond to that, and I took my leave skyward, riding the winds along the new border, going over the ground I had viewed in the crystal. Nothing interesting presented itself. If Azalin's optimism about discovering anything useful paid off, well and good, but I had serious doubts. He'd failed far too often in the past for me to start bolstering myself with hope at this late date.
The idea of sharing eternity with his abrasive company was a dismal one, but unless some other change happened besides the bringing of new inmates and property into the prison, it looked to be the future for us both.
My instincts were that the Barovian peasants here would simply accept the continuation of the land into Arak without question, the same as the mining communities in the south had accepted Forlorn. I had sent declarations out to the boyars in the area, advising anyone against crossing that border owing to the danger presented by the goblyns. I did not forbid the activity entirely, only cautioned that they would do it at their own risk. It's been my experience that once any given activity is prohibited it becomes irresistible bait to lure the foolish into trying it. Though it was a way of clearing out the mental deadwood, I preferred to cleave to my own less wasteful methods. I despise the squandering of perfectly good blood.
The recovery and exhibition of additional goblyn bodies over the years proved to be an excellent determent to would-be explorers and emigrants and inspired the boyars to willingly cooperate in the assembling of a loose domestic militia along the border. When the weather permitted they gathered at least once a moon to do battle drills, and the cultivation of sword fighting skills came to be the fashion among the upper class families. Very impressive, though I doubted if any of them could stand more than five minutes in the heat of real combat before running like rabbits.
Still it was good for their morale to let them think they were loyally able to defend Barovia against all threats. When it came down to it, I was the only real defense for the country; these irregulars were little more than a delaying tactic, though they were not informed of that unpleasant reality.
Not knowing what possible danger awaited in Arak, would have to institute the same policy in the north, prepare for the worst, and hope nothing truly serious happened.
Over the next few months, from the comfort of Castle Ravenloft, I oversaw Azalin's efforts to solve the mystery of Arak. I kept my viewing distanced enough so as not to provoke his suspicions, yet I was able to keep fully abreast of his activities. I was not unaware of his hidden ambitions toward seizing Barovia away from me and was glad of this new distraction for him, though the thought of him taking over another land was not at all pleasant. The threat - however undeveloped at this point - existed, though, so I took pains to stay informed and alert.
He made several attempts to explore Arak using his zombies to no effect before finally hiring a party of explorers. They discovered what I'd already found out through my crystal, that the things he had sent had dropped in their tracks the moment they were beyond his sight, as if another force had taken them over and neutralized them. Except for the unburied and rotting bodies, there was no sign of habitation and no explanation of who or what had caused the backlash.
His expedition went missing the following day.
I was asleep, of course, and only got a terse report from him about the incident. He had waited in vain for their return, finally going in himself to see what had happened but found no sign of them. Their trail simply stopped. He found the remains of a long cold campfire, but all evidence of their passage, gear, animals, and all, had vanished. There wasn't even a trace of a footprint left.
Azalin swiftly returned with no idea of what became of his hirelings. This interested me mightily, for aside from this one act the land appeared to be more deserted than Forlorn, lacking even a haunted castle as a sign of a past population.
The exploratory sojourns ended after this, for no other Barovians could be persuaded to take the risk, and he was reluctant to put his own precious person forward. Then there was the fact that he was less interested in identifying the dangers hidden in the long grasses than working out the actual mechanics of Arak's appearance in our plane. This required slow, patient plodding work, for which he was well suited, though he needed my services often enough. I spent much time in his manor house laboratory helping him devise and test new spells, some of them simple but massive, others disastrously overwrought and doomed to failure. We did not always wait until a solstice or even an equinox to engage in experimentation. It now went on more or less constantly - as did the failures.
Time after time the nagging voice of hopelessness flailed my brain, telling me our efforts were futile; we were trapped here together for good. When my spirits were beaten down enough to listen to it, I would work out possible strategies for destroying Azalin. A daunting task, attempting to kill that which was already dead.
When it came to magic he was my superior, but I had the advantage of being able to learn new spells. Certainly his assassination would be one sure way of avoiding the prophesied war. If once he lost all hope of escape and chose to cut his losses and take over Barovia, war would surely come. I'd prepared for it in many subtle ways, but one cannot anticipate everything. If he attacked, he would play upon my daylight helplessness, and no delaying defense within or without my castle would stand long against him.
Even if I chose to violate the laws of hospitality, made the first move, and managed to obliterate his desiccated body, his life-force would only leap to another vessel unless I found a way to trap it. To truly be rid of him I needed to find where he secreted his essence of Self. It wasn't something he would just leave lying about; he'd be quick to notice an intrusion, so I had to tread carefully. I spent weeks at my crystal until my eyes blurred and shoulders cramped and my head seemed ready to split from the effort of concentration. Inch by inch I went over his manor house and the surrounding grounds, always being careful to stay out of his way during my search. But for nothing. I could not find it.
I did manage to locate his secret journal, which was something to celebrate. He had a very well-concealed private chamber he'd dug out in the cellars of the house that he'd wisely neglected to mentioned to me. I knew he had to have such a place since he had cast many spells over the area as proof against my prying about. As I increased my skills in the Art, I was able to get around them for a time and took what advantage I could. The chamber was loaded with protective trips and traps to alert him to both magical and physical intrusion, so I couldn't actually enter the place. . . his servitors could, though.
On those nights when he was otherwise engaged away from the house, I would distantly control one of his zombies to enter the chamber, take down the book, and flip the pages for me one by one. Azalin had encoded the lot, writing in an unfamiliar lettering, but that did not stop me from faithfully copying down each and every line as I sat miles away in my study.
That done, I set myself to do a bit of translation and after months of slow, patient, plodding work discovered the key to his code. Some of his journal entries were very sprightly in their candid observations. I knew he hated me, but it was quite entertaining to actually see the true depth of it as well as follow his plans for what he would do to me once he had escaped Barovia. I also found his p
lans for trying to take Barovia for himself. Assassination was foremost in his mind for putting me out of the way, and he had devised a dozen different means to do it. I noted them all and quietly prepared subtle counter-measures against them.
One night, after having supped upon a recent addition to my dungeons, I translated a portion of his journal which sent waves of elation and excitement through me. His name. After all of my prying and spying and listening, I had finally found it. With his own hand he'd betrayed himself. As I was often wont to do in my own journals, Azalin would occasionally muse upon past happenings of his life. In just such a passage I found it: Firan Zal'honan. At last, I had his true name. Now, if I could only find the method of using it against him.
***
579 Barovian Calendar Come and be ready.
Thus read Azalin's most recent laconic message to me.
Since the appearance of Arak we had gradually taken the route of having less direct contact between us, excepting for those periods of experimentation. It was a basic clash of personalities, and we each recognized the danger. I once had a general under my command like that. He was excellent at his work, but neither of us could abide the presence of the other. We relied on messengers to communicate and managed to accomplish much. I repeated this stratagem with Azalin, and it seemed better for us both.
Though I had spent the ensuing months pursuing every tome of knowledge in my possession for a method to use Azalin's true name against him, I had found nothing. Bordering on desperation, I even asked Madam Ilka's tribe to search for me, be it tribal lore or legends from other lands through which they had traveled. But so far, nothing. Biding my time and content with the knowledge that I at last held the key to Azalin's undoing, I continued my search. If only I could find the proper lock in which I could use the key.
The meaning of his latest missive was clear enough. After nearly forty years of lengthy spellwork, constant sniping back and forth, and outright argument, we were thoroughly sick of each other, but fully understood even the briefest of notes. He had another escape attempt planned and needed my help.
It was still a month before the winter solstice, but some time back he'd indicated that he was following a fresh line of attack, which had my curiosity up. I had come to think that he'd exhausted his choices as he was exhausting my patience. But I duly donned a traveling cape, took to the wide night sky, and sped over the all too tediously familiar route to the manor house. I knew every rock and tree and when feeling particularly bored could fly it with my eyes shut.
The few changes I noted were with his house, which had undergone yet another renovation to accommodate his needs. Any night now I expected him to demand a larger place to work. For the last decade he'd expressed dissatisfaction, harping on the growing inadequacy of his facilities. I suspected that if he had his unchecked way, he'd encompass all of Barovia if he thought it necessary to his ends.
The tower still stood, though some of the more explosive failures had taken their toll on the integrity of the stonework. Massive logs had been cut and raised at intervals against the stress points to keep the thing from falling outward. We had both reinforced the structure throughout with spells, so we could trust it would hold up to almost anything.
The attached house was a near shambles again, only now Azalin no longer bothered concealing the shortcomings with illusion. The roof on one wing collapsed entirely after the shaking it took in the trembling aftermath of a particularly bad attempt fifteen years ago. He had merely removed his papers and other records to another part of the place, sealed off the walls, and left it to deteriorate. His private chamber below had been spared, so he was still recording things in his journal, which I busily copied whenever the chance presented itself.
I slipped in through a gap in the front doors (they had also suffered damage) and resumed man-form in the entry and listened a moment, determining that Azalin was in his laboratory as usual. A short walk and I was also there, staring at his latest expensive contrivance. It made his first effort look like a child's toy.
The ceramic brick well was still the center of it and one of the only things unchanged from its original construction. There were some similarities with the rest but on a larger, more elaborate scale. The wall was covered to the ceiling with countless racks holding glass vessels, the liquids within linked by hundreds of miles of copper wire. Twisted strands of it an inch thick were now threaded through holes drilled in the wall where they led outside, imbedded into the earth.
The roof was quite gone, partly by damage and partly by design. The stars shone down unimpeded by glass panes and lead framing. He used spell work to keep out the rain and snow through the year.
Two tree trunks, stripped of their bark and carved with thousands of sigils of power, had been erected high over the well and fitted out with a series of pulleys and other tackle. One piece crossed the other, each cut to fit snugly together at their intersection point. Hanging from hooks below the intersection were the bodies of two goblyns harvested from Forlorn. They were upside down with their throats cut, their rank, noisome blood coating the inside of the shallow well.
Floating at the compass points around it were four perfectly round globes about a foot across. They glowed with hot writhing color, evidence of the dangerously suppressed forces within. Touch them the wrong way and they could blow a person to several thousand well-cooked shreds.
Azalin glanced up as I came in. "It's about time," he snapped and bent once more over whatever detail held his attention.
He continued thus for another quarter hour or so, ignoring my presence. Even had I used my travel spell to arrive the moment after getting his note, he'd still have grumbled about my being late. And he still kept me waiting.
I made no comment at this lapse of logic, standing quietly and out of the way as I'd done dozens of times before. Interruption would only prolong our contact.
Instead, I stilled my emotions that they might not interfere with whatever was to come, but the powers in the room began to work on my nerves, as they always did. My magical sense was very acute in this place, and the sensation was not often pleasant, especially when there was so much of it stored up ready to be unleashed.
My common sense was not unaffected either. Azalin's current effort was far greater than any previously, and I wondered at his ability to handle it. Was he becoming so desperate for results that he was risking more than was remotely safe? I was reminded of the fable of the braggart, hoping to impress his liege, who tried to ride a bucking horse only to find it turned into a lion when he wasn't looking.
Azalin suddenly finished and glanced up. "There. " He pointed, not at my usual spot but to a place halfway between the compass points. I offered no argument and simply went there and stood quiet while he made one more check of something.
I am not meek; such insecurity is not in me. I merely tolerated his orders. When it came down to actualities, I was the true power here. Working with this level of the Art, with spells he could design but not execute, Azalin was like a composer with no hands. He could dictate the notes, but it was up to another to actually play the music. And I was an excellent musician.
"The Holding, followed by the Direction," he ordered. "I'll deal with the rest. "
Now this was different. Had he nothing fresh for me to memorize? It could only mean he'd designed this casting around spells he'd already long mastered. I didn't care much for that. His dependence upon me for learning new ones was the chief reason why he had refrained from making an open challenge to my authority.
What was he trying to do?
Then I had to set my questions aside. He stepped up onto his own place at the lip of the well, not opposite me, but just to my left, also standing between compass points. He held his arms straight out before him, and after a brief pause he began droning the words of summoning in his harsh voice.
A wind immediately whipped up from nowhere and everywhere, sweeping in an endless circle within the con
fines of the tower wall. It caused all the glass to rattle, thrummed between the copper wires, and made the bodies of the goblyns sway to and fro. The taut ropes holding them creaked lazily.
The liquids in the glass, light or dark, had been transparent, but now slowly began to turn opaque, as though polluted with mud. The lower ranks began to bubble, releasing a noxious vapor.
Azalin's drone rose to an intricate chant, and at the appropriate instant I joined in half a phrase behind his lead, echoing his intent.
The next rank of glass started to spew out vapor, then the next. The effect rose all the way to the top until pale clouds of it, quite untouched by the now screaming wind, cascaded down to the floor like a fall of fog. Or mist.
What in hell - ?
I had to concentrate on the chant, one misplaced word, one falter in the rhythm, and the whole framework could collapse. The wind tore at my cloak, but I held fast, keeping my balance. As the fog pooled on the floor and rose, the wind diminished, then ultimately died away.
Azalin's voice faded, but not from lack of breath; the fog seemed to be absorbing the sound, smothering it in some way. It was soaking up the power of his words as they left his lips, and the same was happening to me. The louder I shouted the more was taken away. I could feel my own reserves of strength being drawn off.
To feed what?
The mist rose higher until it reached the lip of the well, then overflowed into it. It began to coalesce, become thicker, less active.
My throat ached from shouting, yet I could hear nothing of it. I spared a glance at Azalin. He made a gesture to indicate I should break off and start the holding phase of the cast. I gladly did so, though I was deaf to my own words.
What effect could they possibly have under these circumstances?
The thickened fog, once white, took on a dark red tinge, threads of it nearly going black as it reacted to the goblyn blood.
I felt the energies stirring, growing restive under my control. Was I to be the braggart on the bucking horse? When would it become a lion?
Azalin's voice, thin and tense, sounded within my head. Direction - force it into the center of the well!
He took over the Holding while I complied, gathering up the fog, compressing it into a globe two yards across. It was turgid with blood, but I could glimpse irregularities in its surface, cracks where lighter shades of red shone through.
The globe rose high, apparently drawn to the bodies of the goblyns. Their flesh bubbled where it made contact, turning to liquid that was instantly absorbed into the thing.
I caught a movement from the corner of my eye and dared to look. The bright glowing balls at the compass points were floating toward the well. If they made contact with the one I held there. . . And I did not dare break it off.
They loomed close, converging from four directions at once, crashing with agonizing slowness into the central globe. The wash of power from the impact beat through me, threatening to turn my bones to jelly, yet it seemed right in my perception.
Then the glass in the racks started breaking.
The wind returned, as did my hearing. Instead of a strong breeze it ripped through the chamber like a mountain gale. Azalin still chanted his spell, but I only saw his lips move, the wind drowning out his voice. It caught him, lifting him right from his feet and spun him around the room. He thrashed, trying to right himself, to regain control of the forces but things were too far gone for recovery. Then was I caught in it as well.
Up and down ceased to have any meaning as I cartwheeled in midair. I made a grab for the tree trunk cross-piece and stayed my mad ride for a moment.
Gaping down into the well I saw that the globe was now the center of a vortex of whirling light. Azalin, looking strangely frail, was being inexorably drawn into its center. He stopped resisting, perhaps too stunned or knowing the futility of trying. His figure briefly righted itself. He flung his arms upward, shouting something, then the forces firmly snared him and he vanished down into the roiling core.
The shrieking wind seized me next; I lost my grip, spun once, and went diving headfirst straight for the blinding chaos below.