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  Despite her ferocity, she was vastly outnumbered. There were still a good dozen assailants remaining. And even with her back to the wall of a building, they could come at her from three sides. The end of such an uneven contest was inevitable, given a willingness on the part of her opposition to press the fight to its conclusion, disregarding their own casualties. And small though they might be, and rattish in their countenance, there was no denying that her assailants were possessed of a ferocity the equal of her own. As I watched, a knife blade slashed the woman's hip. It was not a particularly deep cut, hardly more than a scratch, but she immediately hissed. A look of great pain came into her face. Her opponents squealed with triumph.

  It was only then that I noticed the odd sheen of their knives. Poisoned blades!

  It was that outrage which finally snapped my trance. I dropped my baggage and charged forward carrying my easel like a three-pronged lance. An easel! You laugh! But no ordinary easel, this. For, combining the teachings of my various uncles, I had long ago designed this easel with a condottiere's sense of art. Each of the legs came to a sharp point, edged like a razor. Furthermore—but that in a moment.

  For now, let me say with all due modesty that I slew three of the scoundrels with a perfectly executed coup d'arrière tripodiste. Then, before their bodies had even hit the ground, I drew my sword from its cunningly disguised sheath in the upright of the easel. A moment later it was plunged through the back of the nearest poisoner, piercing his heart. A quick twist of the wrist to free the blade, and a moment later another poisoner was run through the back. Another quick twist of the wrist—

  "Through the back?" you say. Certainly! Though I am an artist, I am also a most proficient swordsman. I was trained by my uncle Rodrigo from the time I was six.

  "As pretty-faced and brash a boy as you are, Benvenuti," he'd said to me (not without a sneer), "you'll be bound to land in a duel by the time you're sixteen. Some outraged husband, no doubt. So you'd best learn to use a blade at least as well as you learn to use a paintbrush."

  I was a good student, and even my uncle eventually admitted that I had the knack of swordplay. But his instruction was stern and severe. Many was the time I was soundly cuffed—even thrashed—for committing what my uncle Rodrigo considered the greatest of all swordsman's sins.

  Chivalry.

  "Who d'you think you are, you little snot?" he would roar, applying the whip. "Some great lord of the land parading around with airs? You're a wretch of an artist, you dolt! None of this bowing and posturing for the likes of you!"

  Whimper and plead though I would, each transgression of my uncle's code would earn me the full ten lashes. A stern regimen, but by the time I was seven I could recite the code in my sleep:

  Whenever you can, stab 'em in the back.

  Better yet, stab 'em in the back in the dead of night.

  Best of all, stab 'em in the back in the dead of night while they're asleep.

  If you've got to stab 'em in the front, try a low blow.

  If none of that works, then use all your skills as best you can, you stupid dummy.

  My uncle would, I believe, have been pleased. The masterpiece with the easel. The next two, felled with a backstab. From then on, of course, my foes were alerted and I was forced to face them from the front. But the next two went down before my low blow—not without bestowing a look of great indignation upon me as they expired. A strange morality—set upon a woman with poisoned knives, but take offense at a sword through the groin.

  Alas, after that it became sticky. Two more of the villains were dispatched by the woman before the poison began to take effect upon her. She half-collapsed against the wall, dropping her knife. Hissing with triumph, one of the men hurled himself upon her, blade high. Foolish move! Even as the impetuous hyena moves in too quickly for the kill of a wounded lioness. For the woman seized his throat in both hands and wrung his neck. A most horrible sound, really. She then flung the body at the others, bowling two of them over like tenpins. But that was her last gasp. She slumped to the ground, dead or unconscious.

  In a frenzy, I forced my way to her side, in order to protect her now-helpless form from certain death. Six assailants were still left alive.

  No, five. For as they came in upon me, I suddenly changed tactics and thrust high, piercing one right through the throat.

  Unfortunately, my blade was momentarily caught in his neck bones as he fell, and I was unable to withdraw it in time to parry a blow from another. His knife sank into my side.

  Not deeply, not deeply, for I twisted aside even as the thrust came in. But the pain! It was as if I had been injected with acid! I recall my astonishment that the woman had simply hissed when so struck. I myself screamed like a banshee.

  But there was this much to be said for the agony, that for a brief few seconds it galvanized me to a pure fury. A moment later, two more of my opponents were overborne by my rage, their blades beaten down, their faces slashed, their guts spilled onto the street.

  Alas, the galvanizing pain was soon replaced by a great weakness. I staggered back, lost my footing. Then I fell against the wall of the building, right next to a door. It is strange how, at such moments, one notices the most insignificant thing. For my eyes fixed themselves upon a small, much-worn placard dangling by one screw from the door. Death House of Goimr, it read.

  The irony of it caused me to laugh. I think it was that wild laugh which momentarily stayed my remaining opponents. The three paused, stooping over me. It was that pause, perhaps, which saved my life.

  For at that moment, the door to the death house opened and a giant emerged. A true giant—even in my dazed state, I now realized that the woman whom I had taken for a giantess was but a very large woman. But this man! He had to stoop in order to get out of the door—and it was a large door. Eight feet tall, at least, he must have been.

  My three opponents were transfixed by the sight. Not the size of the newcomer alone, but the way his eyes rolled about, the way he giggled like a madman, the drool issuing from his loose lips. And the words he spoke: "Isn't this just the craziest thing? Who would have thought it would come to this! And in Goimr—of all places!"

  He beamed down at the three knifemen.

  "Don't you just love it?" he asked. Then he raised the huge club which I now noticed for the first time—and so, judging from their expressions, did my opponents—and crushed one of them like an insect.

  The other two—no cowards, I will say it—instantly launched themselves at the giant. In vain. Another swipe of that immense cudgel and both of them went flying. One of them was clearly dead—I could see the rib cage shattered like the side of a barrel. For a moment, I thought the other dead as well. But he struggled to his feet, shaking his head to clear the daze. He stared up at the giant, who was shambling toward him, club raised high.

  "Madness and confusion, madness and confusion, oh it's so lovely," babbled the giant. He cackled with glee. I think it was that insane cackle which finally broke the villain's nerve. He turned and raced down the street.

  Or, I should say, tried to race down the street. It took the giant but four huge strides to catch up with his prey and smash him to the ground. I could hear the skull splatter.

  Then darkness claimed me and I knew no more.

  * * *

  My consciousness returned slowly, my hearing leading the way.

  "And how is my dear aunt?" Such was the first sound I recalled. It was spoken in a high-pitched man's voice.

  "The same as usual," came the reply, this in a female voice pitched so low that I don't know what to call it. Contralto profundo? The voice continued: "Head in the clouds."

  "Oh, Gwendolyn—always so stern! When did you join the Sisterhood, by the way?"

  "Me? A Sister?" A snort. "Not likely!"

  "But I understood you to say you were carrying a message for Zulkeh from the Abbess Hildegard. I assumed—but then! Perhaps I misunderstood. Probably did. Probably imagined the whole thing. I'm crazy, you know." Mad c
ackling. "Hear voices all the time."

  "Stop drooling! It's disgusting."

  "Sorry. Can't be helped. Goes with my dementia. The head psychiatrist at the asylum's told me many times that—"

  "Wolfgang, shut up!"

  Even in my semiconscious state, the momentary silence which followed seemed filled with reproach. Then, a sigh, and the contralto profundo spoke again. Quite a beautiful voice, really, once you got used to the rumble.

  "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I just don't want to hear it. And to answer your question, the reason I was carrying Hildegard's message is because she asked me to. She said the Sisters were being watched too closely."

  "This is a long way to come just as a favor."

  Another sigh. "Tell me about it. Halfway across Grotum, a good part of it on foot, with a knife fight at the end of the trip. And I never did get to deliver the message."

  "Can't be helped. Zulkeh left yesterday. Just as well, all things considered. The Fangs would have taken him before he finished his first sentence, replete with arcane allusions to the classics."

  "Is he really that bad?"

  The male voice snorted. "The world's greatest pedant, my dear Gwendolyn. I take it you've never made his acquaintance?"

  "Don't meet too many pedants in my circles."

  "I should think not!"

  "Must you roll your eyes like that?"

  Mad cackling. "Such intolerance! Quite odd, really, given your extreme ideological views."

  The female voice snorted. "Eight-foot-tall lunatics who can afford to buy their own private insane asylums don't qualify as members of the downtrodden masses."

  "I should hope not! But tell me, what exactly was this message you were to deliver?"

  Silence.

  "Oh, come, come, Gwendolyn. If you can't trust a madman, who can you trust? After all, who'd believe me anyway? Can you picture the scene? It's marvelous! Myself, strapped to the rack—wouldn't fit actually, they'd have to build one special—the dungeon filled with Inquisitors and Cruds and Fangs! The great ones! Cardinal Ignomini! The Angel Jimmy Jesus! God's Own Tooth! They speak! Their voices filled with hate! 'Tell us, Wolfgang, what were you doing down there in the secret passageways leading off from the abandoned death house?' Myself, screaming with pain! 'Oh! That feels good! Excruciating agony! Just what the head psychiatrist at the asylum recommends—' "

  "Wolfgang!"

  "What? Oh, sorry. But the man's a genius, you know? A giant in the field of psychology. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, strapped to the rack, screaming with ecstasy. 'I was talking with the notorious agitator Gwendolyn—the demoness herself! The Queen of the Railroad. And she was telling me how the Abbess Hildegard asked her to hike all the way across Grotum—just as a personal favor, you know?—in order to tell Zulkeh, the world's egghead supreme, that he was mixed up in Joe business.' And then—"

  "How did you know?" demanded the woman's voice. A voice now frighteningly harsh.

  "But it's obvious! Why else would Hildegard get involved? And why else would you agree to come?"

  "I didn't do it because of Joe! Can't stand all this Joe nonsense. It's one of the reasons I'd never join the Sisterhood. It's idiotic. We're all supposed to stand around contemplating our navels. And meantime Ozar gobbles up Grotum along with the rest of the world. Let the poor starve! Let the dwarves be butchered!" Her voice assumed a clipped high-pitched tone. " 'When Joe comes back, dear, these things will all get straightened out. In the meantime, we must do our best to salvage what we can.' "

  "I must say, that's quite a good imitation of Hildegard. My favorite aunt—I'm really very fond of her. She's quite mad, you know? A classic obsessive-compulsive—especially when it comes to her correspondence with God! The head psychiatrist at—"

  "Wolfgang!"

  "Oh. Sorry. Where was I? Other than in a state of lunacy? Oh, yes. You were about to tell me the message you were to deliver to the wizard."

  "I was not. Besides, you seem to know all about it already. And while we're on the subject, just exactly what were you doing in the death house?"

  "When?"

  "When you came out and clubbed the rest of the Fangs, you idiot! What were you doing here?"

  "I was watching you, actually. There's a peephole in the door. You were marvelous. Just marvelous! Hacking and hewing Fangs right and left! Reminded me of this ax murderer we have in the asylum. Wonderful man, really. Of course, the head psychiatrist took away his ax. Can't blame him, I suppose. Therapy's difficult with an ax in your skull, even if you're the world's greatest psychiatrist. But it was horrible the way the poor madman wailed and—"

  "Wolfgang—shut up! Just shut up about your damned asylum! You mean to tell me you stood there and watched the whole thing? And didn't do anything? You lousy bastard!"

  The male voice sounded aggrieved. "Didn't do anything? That's crazy! If you'll pardon the expression. Didn't I come out and finish the job?"

  "Not until I was already cut and for all you knew dead from those damned poisoned blades!"

  "Nonsense. It was obvious the Fangs were trying to capture you alive. To put you to The Question, don't you know? Better to be dead, of course. But if they'd been an assassination team they'd have been wearing green cockades. Green for gangrene, you know? They're really quite maniacal, the Fangs, in a horribly sane sort of way."

  "You mean they weren't trying to kill me? It sure seemed that way! No sooner did I knock on the door than they came piling out of the death house. Didn't say a word, just started stabbing at me right away."

  "Yes, yes, I know. As I said, a lot of maniacs. They've gotten it into their heads that Zulkeh's meddling with the King's dream would stir up awful things. You should have heard them carrying on in here. They came in not six hours ago. Absolutely furious that they'd missed the wizard. Ransacked the whole place. A frightful scene! There's nothing here except a lot of old bones, of course. The wizard took all his stuff with him when he left. I watched the whole thing from my hideout." Mad cackling. "Amazing! Such disrespect for the dead from such paragons of piety! Crypts dumped, bones scattered, urns shattered! I'm afraid that by the time you knocked on the door they'd worked themselves up into quite the devout frenzy. You should have heard them pouring out of the catacombs and racing up to the main level."

  "What if I'd been an innocent bystander?" demanded the woman.

  Absolutely insane and hysterical laughter followed this question.

  "What's so damned funny?"

  "My dear Gwendolyn! Are you such a naïf? What a question—and coming from you! Gwendolyn Greyboar! The Terror of Theocracy! The Lady of the Lowlife! The Nabobs' Nemesis! Dumb as a schoolgirl!" Suddenly the mad voice was tinged with anger. "When has anyone been an innocent bystander in the eyes of the Godferrets?"

  "All right, all right," grumbled the woman. "But I'd still like to know why you didn't come out sooner."

  "Well, actually, I was about to take the plunge when this marvelous young man came along. Such a hero! And so young and handsome! The coup with the tripod! Brilliant! And what an exquisite backstab he's got. You were probably too busy to notice, dear. A pity, really. Best backstab I've seen in years. Skewered two of them in a trice. And then! When the Fangs turned to face him! The low blows! Oh, marvelous! Marvelous! That kind of treacherous swordwork's a lost art, nowadays. Haven't seen such cunning bladesmanship since Rodrigo Sfondrati-Piccolomini. It was—"

  "My uncle," I mumbled. I tried to open my eyes, but I couldn't.

  "He's waking up!" exclaimed the woman.

  "What a silly goose you are. He's been awake for some time. Now he's regaining consciousness." Clucking sounds. "Really should require you sane people to take courses in psychology. Won't find a lunatic who can't tell the difference between being awake and being conscious. It's the key to the whole thing, you know? Insanity, I mean. The head psychiatrist at the asylum wrote a wonderful—"

  "Wolfgang! You mean he's been listening to us talk?"

  "Well, not exactly. More
accurate to say he's been hearing us talk. 'Listening' implies consciousness, you see. And I was just explaining that in his article the—"

  "Shut up! You idiot! He's heard too much!"

  The sound of motion, somehow ominous. Then the man's voice: "Gwendolyn!"

  I opened my eyes. The woman—yes, it was she, the lioness—stood crouched above me, her great knife upraised for a death blow, her eyes blazing.

  "Perfect!" I cried. "Right there! Don't move! My brushes! My paints!" I tried to move, couldn't.

  The woman frowned. Her frown had to be seen to be believed. I began weeping with frustration. A masterpiece it would have been! Goddess In Judgement.

  "What did he say?" she said, turning her head. My eyes followed her gaze. There, sitting on a stone slab, was the shambling giant who had emerged from the doorway and administered the final blows to the knifemen. A lunatic, it was now obvious. He began a wild and insane cackling.

  "He wants to paint your portrait!" he howled. "A true Sfondrati-Piccolomini! Of the artistic branch! Can't bear to die without painting his doom first—oh, marvelous. Marvelous!"

  He wiped tears from his eyes, then babbled further.

  "Really a much finer lot than my own clan, I'll be the first to say it. Not such good scholars, the Sfondrati-Piccolominis, but you'll never find such great mad artists among the Laebmauntsforscynneweëlds."

  "He wants to what?"

  "Portrait," I whispered. "Your portrait. You're perfect. Just like you were before—in the fight."

  She gazed down at me. Slowly lowered her cleaver. Shook her head.

  "You're as crazy as he is," she growled.

  "Perhaps some introductions are in order," said the giant in his oddly high-pitched voice. "I am Wolfgang Laebmauntsforscynneweëld, of the noted scholarly clan of that name. This magnificent lady with the great cleaver in her hand is Gwendolyn Greyboar, famous throughout Grotum for—"

  "Shut up, Wolfgang! He's an Ozarine, by the looks of him."