Pawn's Gambit: And Other Stratagems

  They topped the rise, and as Marja had guessed, the rounded top of the Lighttower was indeed visible through the grass and scrub. Saladar placed his heartstone between their two hands, hoping it would be able to keep both of them calm if the spirit started screaming again. Cautiously, they moved forward.

  There were no windows on this side, but facing them from the rear of the Lighttower was the shaded opening of a doorway. The obvious direction for an attack to come from—though with spiritual beings that might not mean much—and Saladar kept his eyes on the black rectangle as they walked.

  But the spirit didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the approach behind it. No unearthly face appeared in the shadows; no ethereal form swooped down from the blue sky toward them … and as they continued on without even one of the well-remembered shrieks splitting the air, Saladar began to find the situation increasingly odd. And increasingly ominous.

  Marja did too. “Do you think it’s hiding?” she whispered nervously in Saladar’s ear. “Waiting to ambush us?”

  “I don’t think so,” he murmured back. “I’m beginning to think it’s incapable of attacking anyone.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  They reached the doorway, and there Saladar paused and took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, prying his fingers away from Marja’s. “Wait here a second.”

  “Saladar—”

  “Just for a minute,” he assured her. “I’ve got an idea of what’s going on, but I have to be sure.”

  Setting his teeth, he stepped under the low lintel into the Lighttower … to find the spirit waiting for him.

  Not that it had much choice in the matter. Spread-eagled against a glinting star shape larger than a man, its red eyes turned toward Saladar from the window where its imprisoning pentagram had been propped up; it glared at him in an eloquent silence of rage.

  For a moment Saladar gazed back. Then, with a grimace, he half-turned back toward the doorway. “It’s all right, Marja,” he called.

  She came in quickly, a strangled gasp escaping her lips as she moved up behind him. “Gods above and demons below,” she breathed. “What is that?”

  “The source of your trouble. As you see, I was right about Abron Mysti or Colinthe offending someone. I was just a little off as to who the offended party was.”

  Marja stared at the spirit for a moment. “Whoever it was who was angry with us trapped that—whatever it is—on that pentagram?”

  Saladar nodded. “I think it’s called a Fury. Not a very intelligent type of spirit, from what I’ve heard, but relatively easy to trap. And perfectly adequate for terrifying people and beasts with.”

  Marja inhaled raggedly. “Why isn’t is screaming at us now?”

  Saladar shook his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps whoever brought it in here set up a geas as part of the spell so that it would only scream at people coming through the pass. Or maybe the fact that we got past it means it won’t try to terrify us anymore. Either way, be grateful for small favors.”

  Marja looked over her shoulder, frowning. “How did they get it in here? The doorway—look, it’s not nearly big enough.”

  “I know. They must have assembled the pentagram in here and then said the trapping spell.” He studied the pentagram. “That coating looks like tight windings of silver threads, probably wrapped around fresh oak branches.”

  “Silver?”

  “Heartstone magic can’t touch silver directly,” he explained. “Whoever set this up certainly didn’t believe in making things easy.”

  She looked at the Fury. “Is there anything you can do?”

  “Oh, certainly.” Saladar hesitated. “Basically, all I need to do to release the Fury is to break the pentagram.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that a released spirit doesn’t go back immediately,” he said heavily. “It’ll stay here for several seconds … and it’ll use those seconds trying its best to kill us.”

  “It’ll what? But we’re trying to help it.”

  “Doesn’t matter. As I said, Furies aren’t very intelligent. They’re driven by rage and hatred, and they don’t much care who or what they attack.”

  Marja looked back at the doorway again. “Could we move it safely? I mean, just away from the windows, where it can’t see the pass?”

  “Won’t do any good,” Saladar shook his head. “Spirits don’t see things the same way we do. If it was ordered to scream at passersby, it’ll do that whether it’s by the windows or not.”

  Marja hissed between her teeth. “So we can’t leave the Fury here, and we can’t release it. What can we do?”

  “Move it outside, of course, where we’ve got more room. And for that”—he took a deep breath—“we’re going to have to widen the doorway.”

  She stared at him. “How? The Lighttower is part of Wizardell, and I already told you how strong the walls are.”

  He nodded. “I remember. It just means I’ll have to try to break that part of the spell.”

  “Wait a minute. You said that without the spell-strengthening the walls would collapse.”

  “Yes.” Saladar pursed his lips. “But it should be possible to break the spell just around the doorway without harming the rest of Wizardell.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “You think so?” Her tongue darted across her lips. “That’s not very reassuring. Maybe you ought to wait until you know for sure.”

  Saladar shook his head. “There’s no point in waiting, Marja. I know as much as any other wizard—”

  “Except you’ve never used that knowledge—”

  “And anyway, now that we’re here we might as well try,” he cut her off sharply.

  She stared at him, eyes hot with anger. “And besides which, if we take too much time thinking about it, some other wizard may come by and steal your thunder?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Isn’t it?” she retorted. “Then why are you so eager to risk my town? Because you are risking it, you know. If Wizardell collapses, the trade routes will start up somewhere else and Abron Mysti will die.”

  “Abron Mysti is already dead!”

  For a long moment they just glared at each other. Saladar squeezed his heartstone, willing it to calm him. Eventually, it did. “Marja, look,” he sighed. “It’s been two months since the Fury was trapped here. The trade routes are already changing—you know that. If you don’t get them back this year, before winter closes the mountains, they’ll never return. There isn’t any choice; we have to take the risk.”

  “‘We’?” she asked, voice dripping with irony.

  “Yes, we,” he told her. “Because I’ll be in here when I speak the spell. If Wizardell collapses, I’ll go with it.”

  He made her wait outside, as far away as she was willing to go, while he spoke the necessary spells.

  It was straightforward enough, but that didn’t make it any less nerve-racking. First he traced a large circle of shimmering red fire around the doorway with the tip of his heartstone. A long and convoluted spell, and the thin red line changed to blue and then to green and then to white. A second, equally long spell, and the section of rock within the circle began to look faintly hazy.

  Saladar licked his lips, watching tensely for just the right moment. The haze began to coalesce, forming itself into a thousand thin lines across the stone. Almost … The lines drew in more and more of the haze, grew brighter and clearer—

  Now! He shouted the last part of the spell, squeezing the heartstone between palm and thumb and pointing it at the circle. The heartstone flared in response—

  And with a tremendous roar, the rock within the circle shattered.

  Saladar staggered back, head throbbing with the echo of that thundercl
ap. Dimly, he was aware of the sound of running footsteps—

  “Saladar!” Marja called, appearing in the freshly enlarged doorway and stepping hurriedly across the rubble with little heed for the treacherous footing.

  “I’m all right,” Saladar assured her. “Just … a little dizzy.”

  She caught his arms, an anxious expression on her face. “The Wizard’s Curse?” she whispered.

  “Will you forget the Wizard’s Curse?” he growled. “Come on—I’ll need your help to get that pentagram out of here.”

  She looked over at the Fury. “Will it … ?”

  “It can’t do anything to us while it’s trapped there,” he assured her. A strange tiredness seemed to be creeping over him. The Wizard’s Curse? Angrily, he shook away the thought.

  He looked over to find Marja’s eyes on him. “But you said it would try to kill us when the pentagram was broken?” she asked carefully.

  He nodded. “Yes, but don’t worry. If I do this properly, neither of us will be anywhere near the Fury when it gets loose.” Looking at the spirit, he braced himself. “Come on.”

  It was a long climb to the top of Mount Mysti, a climb made longer still by the need to drag his heartstone along the ground the entire distance. But at last they made it. Turning around, bracing himself against the icy wind, Saladar looked down.

  They were indeed high up. Below, the top of the Lighttower was a foreshortened knob at the edge of Wizardell’s straight-walled gap. To the Lighttower’s right, at the very base of the mountain, was a toy star with a pebble beneath each corner, the pebbles being the boulders he and Marja had moved under each of the pentagram’s five points. Even from this distance the setup looked strange, reminding Saladar of an oddly shaped table … or an oddly shaped altar.

  “Is this going to be far enough away?” Marja asked into his thoughts, her teeth chattering in the cold.

  “I hope so,” Saladar said, breathing deeply of air that seemed somehow too thin. “There doesn’t seem to be anywhere higher to go.”

  “Gods above and demons below,” she muttered. “I wish this was over.”

  “It will be soon.” Turning away from the edge of the mountain, Saladar studied the ground around them. A large jagged outcropping caught his eye, and he stepped over to it. Tapping it with his heartstone, he spoke a spell.

  Imperceptibly at first, then with ever increasing amplitude, the boulder began to rock in place. Back and forth, back and forth, until, all at once, it broke free, thudding to the ground at Saladar’s feet. Walking around to its far side, Saladar held his heartstone to it and pushed, rolling it over to the edge where Marja waited. “Right there,” she told him, unfolding one of her arms and pointing to the ground.

  “I see it,” Saladar nodded, his eyes picking out the end of the thin red line his heartstone had left glowing on the ground. Shifting direction slightly, he maneuvered the boulder onto the line.

  And all was ready. “Here we go,” he muttered to Marja. Gripping the heartstone, he put his hand against the boulder and threw a last look below. Taking a deep breath, he called out one final spell and pushed the stone over the edge.

  It rolled slowly at first … then faster, and faster, picking up speed as it tumbled down the mountainside. Once, it hit a hidden bump and bounced high in the air, eliciting a gasp from Marja. But it didn’t matter; the boulder’s path, traced so laboriously by the heartstone, wouldn’t let it escape that easily. The stone hit the ground again, caught back onto the red line and continued down. Saladar squeezed the heartstone and held his breath—

  And with a final bounce, the boulder smashed directly into the center of the pentagram.

  The silver coating could protect the star from the power of a heartstone; against a falling rock, it was of no value whatsoever. Even from so far above, Saladar could imagine he heard the wrenching smash of wood and metal—

  And with a shriek that seemed to freeze his blood in his veins the Fury rose from the wreckage.

  Beside him, Marja screamed; but it was already all over. Even as the pale form arrowed upward toward them, red eyes flaming with mindless hatred, it was beginning to fade, its shriek taking on a strange, faraway quality. By the time it reached the mountaintop, it was nothing but pale red eyes and a blast of bitterly cold wind.

  For a long moment they just stood there, listening to the shriek fade into the breeze. Then, slowly, as if in a dream, Marja turned to look at him. “You did it,” she breathed. “You really did it.”

  “We did it,” he corrected her. “I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

  Carefully, almost shyly, Marja took his hand in hers. “Saladar—” She laughed suddenly, a short barking sound; and as he gazed at her, he saw two tears trickle down her cheeks. “Do you know that, for the first time since Nunisjan left … I think I understand why?”

  Saladar put his arm around her shoulders, sympathetic tears blurring his own vision. Her eyes—there was a flicker of life again in those eyes, a flicker he’d not seen there before now. After three long years, he could sense that the healing of her soul had finally begun … and for that alone he would gladly have risked—

  “What is it?” Marja asked, sensing the sudden tightness in his body.

  “Nothing,” he said, as casually as possible. “But we probably ought to get back.”

  Her face was suddenly stricken. “Gods and demons!” she whispered. “You mean … before … ?”

  He nodded, a tight knot settling into his stomach. Now came the waiting … the waiting for the unknown. “I’d like to be back in Abron Mysti before the Wizard’s Curse takes effect.”

  The night was full of strange dreams, but it was the faint noises outside that woke him the next morning. He was in bed, in Marja’s cottage, and for a moment he just lay there, feeling oddly disoriented. Outside, the faint noises continued; easing out of bed, he went to the window to look.

  Down in the center of town, the citizens of Abron Mysti had taken to the streets in obvious celebration. Beyond them, between the foothills leading into the mountains, he could see a line of travelers and their beasts heading into Wizardell.

  Into Wizardell … and into Gyran Pass beyond.

  For a long minute, he stood there, the bitterly familiar taste of defeat on his tongue. Then, closing his eyes against the sight, he turned back and began to dress.

  Marja was still asleep by the time he was ready to go. For a moment he paused at the door to her room, gazing down at her face as shame warred against the requirements of courtesy. The shame won. Quietly, he turned away, crossing to the outer door and slipping outside. He had enough contempt for himself; he didn’t need to feel hers as well.

  The bridge was still in place and still untended, though the bridge keeper would undoubtedly be returning to his post very soon now. Crossing the river, Saladar headed away from the mountains. There was no need to look back, but as he topped the first rise in the road, he couldn’t help doing so anyway.

  Beyond the celebration, the line of travelers into Wizardell could still be seen, and Saladar felt his lip twist with impotent fury. So Gyran Pass had been reopened, and Abron Mysti saved … and once again, history had repeated itself. While he’d hesitated—while he’d wasted time with a woman not his own—someone else had beaten him to the goal.

  Once again, he’d missed out on a chance to use his wizard’s Power.

  Tears welled up in his eyes, but even as he turned away from Abron Mysti, he knew it wasn’t over yet. Not until he was dead would it be over. He’d spent years of his life becoming a wizard … and somehow, somewhere, he would find a way to use his hard-won Power to serve.

  And when he did, he would gladly pay the price the Wizard’s Curse demanded of him … because no matter what horror that price turned out to be, he would go to face it having finally achieved his life’s goal.

  And neither sickness nor fr
ailty nor even death itself would ever be able to take that away from him.

  Hitmen—See Murderers

  It had been a long, slow, frustrating day, full of cranky machines, crankier creditors, and not nearly enough customers. In other words, a depressingly typical day. But even as Radley Grussing slogged up the last flight of stairs to his apartment he found himself whistling a little tune to himself. From the moment he’d passed the first landing—had looked down the first-floor hallway and seen the yellow plastic bag leaning up against each door—he’d known there was hope. Hope for his struggling little print shop; hope for his life, his future, and—with any luck at all—for his chances with Alison. Hope in double-ream lots, wrapped up in a fat yellow bag and delivered to his door.

  The new phone books were out.

  “Let your fingers do the walking through the Yellow Pages.” He sang the old Bell Telephone jingle to himself as he scooped up the bag propped up against his own door and worked the key into the lock. Or, rather, that was what he tried to sing. After four flights of stairs, it came out more like, “Let your … fingers do the … walking through … the Yellow … Pages.”

  From off to the side came the sound of a door closing, and with a flush of embarrassment Radley realized that whoever it was had probably overheard his little song. “Shoot,” he muttered to himself, his face feeling warm. Though maybe the heat was just from the exertion of climbing four flights of stairs. Alison had been bugging him lately about getting more exercise; maybe she was right.

  He got the door open, and for a moment stood on the threshold carefully surveying his apartment. TV and VCR sitting on their woodgrain stand right where they were supposed to be. Check. The doors to kitchen and bedroom standing half-open at exactly the angles he’d put them before he’d left for work that morning. Check.

  Through his panting Radley heaved a cautious sigh of relief. The existence of the TV showed no burglars had come and gone; the carefully positioned doors showed no one had come and was still there.