Forward the Mage Page 43

  "I told him not to use the whips!" were the last words of a consul, even as he disappeared into the great maw.

  "Damn all Cruds and their schemes!" came from a stalwart Colonel of Lance, expiring on the chandelier whence a single blow of the snarl's paw had sent him and his several and separate portions.

  The most common expression of regret, of course, was the ubiquitous phrase: "He could have at least fed the thing!"

  In this entire holocaust, I can hear the reader's shaken query in my mind's ear: was there a single instance where the dwarf Shelyid used his influence to stay the monster? Even for a moment? Even if in vain?

  Not one.

  To the contrary! The gnome urged the ravenous beast on! Yes! Yes! I say it again! Time and again, Shelyid was heard to say, in the childlike tones of a boy excusing his pet's misconduct: "That mean Mr. Inkman! Starving you like that!"

  From this day, came a sea change over the attitude of the Alfredae—of its scribal class, I should say—toward the dwarf. Of Shelyid's pathetically addled mind, of course, our view remained unchanged. But where, in times gone by, superior and subordinate notaries alike—even Alfreds themselves!—were oft heard to say: "Still and all, a sweet-tempered little fellow"—never again! Nay, never again! In the stead of such benevolent comments came the frequent habit, on the part of superior and subordinate notaries alike, of referring to the evil-souled apprentice by those cognomens which were to become, all too soon, the common property of the civilized world entire:

  Shelyid the Terrible.

  Shelyid the Merciless.

  Shelyid the Cruel.

  The Runt Rampant.

  The Thuggee Dwarf.

  Kali's Gnome.

  The Midget Sans Merci.

  Pygmy the Impaler.

  And, of course: The Rebel.

  But worst of all was the sea change which now also began among the lesser lice—the pen-fumblers, the ink-spillers, the mis-spellers, the lack-grammars, the declension-bunglers, the—well!—in sum, that entire motley rabble which is known as the class of louselouts.

  For these dregs reacted otherwise than the cultured strata. Oh, otherwise indeed! Throughout The Snarlrun, while their betters stood silent, aghast, able to keep quill to paper solely by dint of long training and stern regimen, did the canaille gather upon Shelyid's shoulders and cavort shamelessly. Disgusting slogans did they chant:

  "Two, four, six, eight! What do we appreciate? Masticate! Masticate!"

  Most popular of all: "De Flense! De Flense!"

  In defiance of all custom, 'twould be from this time forward that the lower lice would develop their own terms and definitions. The insolence began with the rabble's own nicknames for the apprentice, which cognomens became, all too soon, the common property of the globe's sansculottes:

  Shelyid the Plucky.

  Shelyid the Bold.

  Shelyid the Brave.

  The Runt Rambunctious.

  The Disabused Dwarf.

  The Gnome Unleashed.

  The Midget Sans Peur et Sans Reproche.

  Pygmy the Mahdi.

  And, of course: The Rebel.

  Soon enough, sentiment would lead to deed. Began then that period in Alfredae history known as The Troubles. Mad philosophies appeared, swept the mob, only to be discarded in favor of outlandish ideologies, which, in turn, were casually cast aside for doctrines still more extreme. Bands of savage young louselouts arose, who scuffled shamelessly with the respectable apprentices and sub-scribes. It became dangerous for an educated louse to scurry at night through entire sections of Shelyid. Why, the hooligans even declared the dwarf's left leg a "No Go Area"—and woe to the penlouse who ventured thereon!

  But I race ahead of our tale. The Troubles lay still ahead—though not far distant! But 'tis well said that "narrative must follow its own course," and so do we return to the moment:

  Shelyid and snarl were now in a great corridor on the ground floor of the Embassy. Ahead of them, at the end of the corridor, a door was open. Beyond, the lights of the city could be seen.

  "That's the way out!" cried the dwarf. "Come on, let's go!"

  The snarl made its way quickly down the corridor, approaching a door to their right, through which could be heard a great hubbub. Then, just as the beast was passing the door, the hubbub was stilled by a piercing voice.

  The words could not be made out, but the snarl froze, twisted its head, swung forward its ears. The voice was heard again. Again. And yet again.

  Now did the beast's features assume that expression which gives the snarl its name. Without warning, the monster hurled itself at the door!

  The door splintered under the blow. The snarl forced its way through, uttering such a roar as to waken the dead. They were in a great ballroom, filled with people, all of whom were at that very moment transfixed with terror at the sight of the snarl.

  But, in truth, the huge crowd was—in its overwhelming majority—quite beyond danger. For the snarl's attentions were fixed entirely upon the person of a single figure within the room—a thin man, practically skeletal, tall, dressed all in black. The man stared back at the snarl with equally rapt fixation, his blue eyes flashing with the look of eagles.

  Such eagles, at least, as have aroused the mortal fury of the legendary roc.

  "Oh shit!" he cried. But the Savior of the Rellenos was made of stern stuff. Even as the great monster bounded toward him, maw gaping wide, Inkman stood his ground.

  "Soldiers, arrest that beast!" he ordered.

  Then, seeing the soldiers fleeing the scene, Inkman's voice rang with paramount authority: "Notables of Ozar! Nobles of Pryggia—arrest the soldiers!"

  Then, seeing the nobility and the plutocracy trampling the soldiery underfoot in their mad rush for the doors, Inkman's voice grew stentorious with imperial command.

  "Traitors! Arrest yourselves!"

  Then, even as the doom was upon him, Inkman faced his end with that sangfroid which is the hallmark of all great champions of law and order. His last sentence, crackling with a tone which can only be described as Olympian:

  "Stop, beast—on pain of investigation!"

  Alas, crackling tone was now replaced by crunching bone.

  So passed Rupert Inkman, Crud among Cruds, Groutch chief of station, brilliant investigator, dazzling interrogator, the Scourge of Sedition, the Hammer of the Right, and many other prestigious titles, positions and cognomens—but hereafter known among the Groutch masses, I am grieved to relate, as The Just Dessert.

  Eventually Shelyid was able to coax the snarl to leave aside its frenzied Crud-crunching, though not before Inkman's last finger bone disappeared into the horrid maw.

  "C'mon, baby," he whispered urgently into the beast's ear, "we gotta go!" The snarl, apparently sated both in body and soul, obediently ambled through the double doors leading to the entry beyond.

  A moment later, dwarf and beast were padding through the deserted streets of Prygg. It seemed that word of the slaughter had spread throughout the city. Even many blocks from the embassy, all doors were shut, all shutters barred. No one walked abroad that Halloween night!

  Or, almost no one.

  "Psst! Shelyid!" came a low and hoarse cry from an alley to their left. The snarl's hackles began to rise, but fell soon enough as it became clear that Shelyid was ecstatic.

  "Oh, it's Magrit!" cried the dwarf. "And Les Six!"

  Sure enough, 'twas the disreputable septet in the flesh. They ventured out from the alley and came up to the dwarf—keeping a certain distance, to be sure.

  Amazingly, Les Six were speechless. Magrit was not, quite.

  "I've seen everything now," she muttered. Then, to Shelyid: "You want to come with us? My house is just around the corner."

  The apprentice hesitated. "Well." He stroked the snarl's shoulder. "Well, yes, I guess I'd better." He started to climb down from the monster, then hesitated.

  "Maybe I should stay with her just a while longer," he said. "Just to make sure she gets out of the
city all right."

  Good fortune is always brief. Les Six found their voice.

  " 'Tis true!" cried the first.

  "The snarl needs a shepherd to guide it through the streets!" pleaded the second.

  "The perilous streets of the Pryggian night!" gasped the third. "Filled with ruffians and footpads!"

  "I can see the horrid scene now!" wailed the fourth. "The snarl ambushed!"

  "The bloodthirsty cutpurse advancing, knife in hand!" moaned the fifth.

  "The snarl at bay! Cornered! Back to the wall! Whimpering for mercy!" This from the sixth, and back around to the first.

  "But 'tis a pitiless rogue, yon blackguard of—"

  "All right! All right! You've made the point!" shrilled the dwarf. He climbed down from the snarl. For a moment, dwarf and monster stared at each other, their eyes not two feet apart. The beast licked Shelyid's face with a great purple tongue. The dwarf giggled, then clutched the terror's neck. His puny little arms didn't reach halfway around.

  "Take care of yourself," he mumbled into the mass of fur, then stepped back. Another moment of this absurd mutual admiration. Suddenly the snarl was gone, flitting down the alleys like a ghost, heading toward the great rocky crags to the west, which shone in the moonlight above the rooftops.

  Now afoot, like a proper gnome, Shelyid followed Magrit and Les Six in the opposite direction. Once only he looked back.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  A Wizard's Wrath. A Dwarf's Biography Retold. Unfortunate Misunderstandings Thereof. The Wizard Abashed. A Dwarf's Decision. A Contract Is Negotiated!

  And so it was that the first sight which greeted the wizard Zulkeh upon entering Magrit's chamber was that of his apprentice, perched on a couch, a shawl wrapped about his little shoulders, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in his hands. Magrit sat next to him on the couch. Les Six were scattered about on various seats. Wolfgang sat in his special chair in the corner, his features hard to discern in the dim lighting.

  The gnome was chattering away as if he had not a care in the world. He was immediately disabused of the notion.

  "Miscreant!" oathed Zulkeh from the doorway. "Disobedient rascal! Insubordinate delinquent! Mutinous—"

  His peroration was cut short by Greyboar, who pushed him into the chamber from behind.

  "Do you mind letting the rest of us by?" growled the strangler. He staggered into the room and let fall the sack off his shoulders, heaving a great sigh of relief.

  "Am I glad to be rid of this thing!" he puffed. He eyed Shelyid with respect. "How long have you been lugging around this—this burden of eternal damnation, anyway?"

  "Ever since we left Goimr!" piped up the dwarf. "Thanks a lot for taking care of the sack. I know it's real heavy. It was hard at first, but I've gotten used to it, and besides, it's like the master said! This trip's improved my muscular tone and strengthened my stamina, just like he said it would!"

  "Bah!" oathed Zulkeh. "Think you this feeble praise will deflect the force of my chastisement? Which even now sweeps toward your diminutive person as the cyclone of the tropics falls upon the monkey chattering in his palm tree!"

  The mage shook his staff and advanced to the center of the room, glowering down at his apprentice. "Gnome, you have displeased me beyond measure! Aroused my temper! Wrothed my wrath! Incited my—"

  "SHUDDUP!" came the united cry from every throat in the room save Shelyid's. And as, among the throats numbered in the room, were those of the witch Magrit and Les Six—I leave aside the now-revealed-to-be-stentorian voice of the normally-soft-spoken-though-possessed-of-windpipes-like-unto-the-moose-of-the-north Greyboar—the wizard was stunned into silence.

  "You are an asshole," stated Magrit.

  "A gaping asshole," clarified the salamander.

  At this point, Les Six would no doubt have contributed a round or two, but Ignace—of all people!—rose to the mage's defense.

  "Still and all, he's a good wizard," said the agent. "I wouldn't have thought so before this little escapade—but there's quite the hexman underneath all that verbiage!"

  Magrit looked at Ignace, then back to Zulkeh.

  "Yeah, I know," she said sourly. "That's why I knew it would work." She adjusted the shawl around Shelyid's shoulders, saying: "He's a windbag, he's got an ego would paralyze Narcissus, he's self-righteous like the Old Geister in his cloud-shrouded citadel wishes He could have wet dreams about, he could dry up a middle-sized lake with hot air, he could bore an oak tree into falling over in the hope of escape, he—" She paused, took a deep breath. "He has the screwiest ideas about the real world—gravity's caused by graveness, can you believe it?" Another deep breath. "But when it comes to real magic, he's a hell of a wizard. I hate to admit it, but he's probably the best actual sorcerer in the world."

  She rose suddenly and advanced upon Zulkeh, who was standing as rigid as a post. Seizing the mage's shoulders with her thick hands, she shoved him into a chair. Then, returning to her seat, she spoke again:

  "While we've been waiting for you, Shelyid's been telling us all about his life."

  "Cheerful little fellow," commented the first.

  "Nary a complaint uttered," added the second.

  "Not a peep!" emphasized the third.

  "Naught but a recital of events," summarized the fourth.

  The round now took an ugly turn.

  "Difficult to fathom such innocence," mused the fifth.

  "In light of selfsame events," agreed the sixth.

  "'Tis not the beatings, of course," protested the first.

  "Certainly not!" concurred the second.

  "Good for sprouts to be switched now and then!" snorted the third.

  "Though perhaps not with oaken staffs," qualified the fourth.

  "Nor with the frequency of pellets in a hailstorm," added the fifth.

  "Should at least let the wounds heal," developed the sixth.

  "The blood dry." The first again.

  "The scars fade." This from the second.

  "Nay, 'tis the other little matter," stated the third.

  "The selling into slavery," specified the fourth.

  "The attempted selling into slavery," quibbled the fifth.

  "The distinction is of little moment," countered the sixth.

  "From the moral standpoint," explained the first.

  The round now took a very ugly turn.

  "As has oft been expressed by the toilers in their various congresses and assemblies," began the second.

  "Speaking with one voice, and in no uncertain terms," added the third.

  "The downtrodden masses," continued the fourth, "have declared the traffic in human flesh an abomination."

  "An historical anachronism," chipped in the fifth.

  "A monstrous crime 'gainst humanity," concluded the sixth.

  "To be dealt with by any representatives of the suffering classes—" The first.

  "Elected in formal congress—" The second.

  "Or self-appointed—" The third.

  "Due to the press of circumstances." The fourth.

  The round now took an extremely ugly turn. Such, at least, seemed the best interpretation of the fact that Les Six had put down their teacups, risen to their feet, circled the mage, clenched their meaty fists.

  "You wouldn't happen to have the odd bucket of tar lying about, Magrit dear?" asked the fifth.

  "Forgotten in a corner, perhaps?" queried the sixth.

  "Hot tar," clarified the first.

  "The unused pillow here and there?" inquired the second.

  "We'll be needing feathers," explained the third.

  Fortunately for the dignity of the mage, a new party interjected himself into the scene.

  "Just hold on a moment there, lads," rumbled the strangler. Les Six turned as one man and glared at the strangler. Greyboar raised a huge hand, in a calming gesture.

  "I'm a man likes peace and tranquility," commented the strangler mildly. "And what's all this about, anyway?"

  The minutes which f
ollowed did not, one suspects, take their place among the mage's fondest memories. For Les Six and Magrit proceeded to provide Greyboar and Ignace with the biography of the dwarf Shelyid, as the youth had recounted it to them over the hours gone by. Particular emphasis was placed on the apprentice's relationship to his master. More precisely, on the wizard's notions of discipline, and his concept of the rights of masters over their wards.

  As the story unfolded, Shelyid attempted, on several occasions, to lighten somewhat a tale which, it is difficult to deny, would seem dark to the uninformed listener.

  "Oh no!" he cried in one instance, "You're exaggerating like you shouldn't! The master only beat me seven times that day, not ten! And it's true, I was really slow to learn the lesson." He blushed. "I'm never good at theology, especially the part about how God's love of man is expressed in crippling diseases and such." Then, in a small voice: "It's 'cause I'm so stupid, and you have to be real smart to understand theology. Really, really smart—like a genius. Like the master."

  "And there's another point we'll be needing to discuss, good my mage," stated the first.

  "The constant emphasis on the youth's lack of brains," explained the second.

  "As contrasted with the brilliance of the scholar," elaborated the third.

  "With which we ourselves will soon be blessed!" cried the fourth.

  "As the illuminatus corrects our dull-witted mistakes—" The fifth.

  "Our crude technique—" The sixth.

  "Our disrespect for the classics—" The first.

  "Our gross ignorance of the fine points—" The second.

  "As laid down in the writings of Jack Ketch Laebmauntsforscynneweëld—" The third.

  "Vigilante Sfondrati-Piccolomini—" The fourth.

  Fortunately for the mage, this particular round was again quelled by Greyboar. Even more than the strangler's warning growl, however, it was perhaps the sight of the little apprentice moving over to stand by Zulkeh's side which caused Les Six to settle back in their chairs.

  The strangler himself made no comments throughout the entire tale. Early on, Greyboar rose and went to the fireplace. He returned to his seat holding the great iron poker which stood by the mantel. In the minutes which followed, the strangler proceeded to idle away the time twisting the poker into a succession of knots. During the recital of Zulkeh's various attempts at the Caravanserai to sell Shelyid to slavers and circus owners, Greyboar tired of knot-tying. He now stretched the poker into a long iron wire, with which he idled away further minutes making a cat's cradle.