He used it now, surreptitiously adding his own calling to Arnogle’s-and sure enough, it wasn’t necessary to spread his arms. The ghosts rose from the trees at the edges of the meadow, boiled forth from the stream, even materialized from the air itself. Scores of them flocked toward Arnogle with long, drawn-out moans.
“Thank you, boy,” Arnogle called, then bent to the silent task of cajoling the spirits, mind to mind, into helping him fight his enemy Pilochin.
Blaize watched in admiration. He could scarcely talk to the ghosts he summoned—that he could do so at all was a testament to Arnogle’s teaching. Given a few more years of work under the master’s expert guidance, he would probably be able to bargain with the ghosts well enough to achieve his ends, for Arnogle was as skilled a teacher as he was a ghost leader.
If he survived! There, at the far side of the meadow, Pilochin came forth with a dozen men-at-arms and five apprentices, bearing the tank, hose, and nozzle of his magic. For a moment, Blaize entertained his old skeptical doubt that fire-casting was actually magical at all, but only a very clever use of devices and potions; its secrets were certainly well guarded. But he shoved the thought away—mechanics or magic, it could certainly slay himself and Arnogle this night, and every one of Arnogle’s dozen guards to boot. Besides, Blaize couldn’t deny that Pilochin knew all the minor spells for love philters, drying up cows’ udders, disease curses, and all the other day-to-day magics that were necessary for any magician to keep his peasants in order—and bent to his will.
Blaize understood that the peasants were going to have a master, no matter what, and if it weren’t a kind and just master, it would be a tyrant—so he had determined to become a magician in order to oust the despot who ruled his home village and made his parents’ lives miserable. Then Blaize would become lord himself-and would be a kind master.
Tonight, though, he might be without a master himself. He knew that ghost-leaders didn’t usually fare too well against firehurlers. When all was said and done, specters might be frightening, but fire was lethal.
Arnogle must have finished, for the ghosts turned, howling like furies, and sped off toward Pilochin’s men. The apprentices around the tank held their ground until the wraiths were almost upon them. Then one or two stepped back, then another—then all five were running pell-mell away, leaving Pilochin to saw the air with his arms, shouting in a rage at the ghosts, as though any of his spells could have stopped them. No, past him they went, chasing his men. Pilochin turned to glare at his rival, but Arnogle gave a shout of triumph. “Upon him, my men! Bring him home bound and trussed!”
The guards cheered and charged toward the lone magician. Pilochin stood rigid with defiance, then wavered, then finally turned to run.
With a hoot of delight, Arnogle ran to take possession of the firetank, shouting, “Come on, boy! Spoils to the victor!” But Blaize stood a moment irresolute; it had all been too easy, far too easy. Both wizards brought only bodyguards, because more men could not be trusted. What use were armies when this issue would be decided by magic? Pilochin’s levies would have run in fright from the ghosts, and his sheets of flame would have stampeded Arnogle’s plowboys. Better by far to bring only the veterans of his bodyguard, who could be relied on to hold their places no matter how frightful the assault.
But Pilochin’s bodyguards had fled like the greenest recruits when any seasoned soldier would have stood his ground, knowing the ghosts could do little but frighten. Oh, they could tell tales so gruesome as to make the most hardened murderer quake inside—but nothing more. They could send tendrils of madness into a man’s mind, make him turn his weapons on those beside him, but they themselves could do little with their own hands, and any troops used to their assaults could withstand them.
Then why had Pilochin’s men fled?
Arnogle seized the firetank with a cry of victory—a tank to which the hose was not even connected, and suddenly Blaize realized the trap. He cried out, “No, Teacher! They would not let their mystery fall into our hands, they would not—”
But Arnogle’s bodyguards clustered around to help him with the waist high tank. All together, they laid hold of the ring at its top, then lifted, and some premonition of disaster made Blaize throw himself on the ground a split second before the tank burst into a huge yellow ball of flame, devouring Arnogle and his bodyguards with a ravening roar. A wave of heat washed over Blaize; he hugged the ground, eyes shut tight, until cool air followed hot. Then he dared look up to see Pilochin pointing at him and crying, “There! Seize his apprentice! Then on to make sure of his lands and serfs!”
The guards came running back, and Blaize scrambled to his feet, turning to run, tearing off the robe that tangled his legs as he ran stumbling and staggering over the rough ground, blinking away hot tears that threatened to press out from his eyes, tears for Arnogle and for his valiant guards.
As he ran, Blaize called out, “Aid me, those who have answered my call! Protect me from those who chase me, I beg of you!”
His mind went where his voice did. Most of the ghosts ignored it, but a few understood his predicament and swooped at Pilochin and his apprentices, moaning and howling with distress and warning—but not enough; Pilochin’s guards dodged and ran around the spirits, who swerved to follow, misty arms reaching out to seize, brows lowering over hollow eyes in anger. The guards ducked beneath them, though; one or two even ran right through a ghost. They came out shuddering with cold but ran all the faster for it.
Nonetheless, the swerving and dodging slowed them badly—slowed them enough so that Blaize was able to plunge into the cover of the woods. His ghostly friends had bought him just enough time.
There was no light as he fled, and soon a low limb knocked off the tall cone of his apprentice-magician’s hat. A small ghost sailed before him, though, its glow just enough to let him see roots and fallen branches in his path. Even so, he stumbled now and again, but he plowed ahead with determination, certainly running faster than Pilochin’s men, who had no guide and had to thrash about in strange territory. Blaize could hear their cursing, but it grew fainter with every passing minute. He risked a glance backward and saw a dozen dots of light bobbing and weaving. They had brought lanterns, then, but the flames couldn’t possibly cast enough light for them to see the trail very far ahead. Even as he watched, one lantern dipped suddenly, shooting to the ground, and Blaize heard the cursing of a man who had tripped.
The ghost moaned in warning and Blaize turned back to his own trail just in time to see and leap a huge bulging root. He leaped it and followed his spectral guide, who zigged and zagged so often that in a matter of minutes Blaize was sure he had lost his pursuers. Still the ghost sailed onward until at last it stopped, turning back to Blaize with a groan that soared into a laugh of delight, and Blaize could make out the very faint thought, in the back of his mind, that he was safe now. He sent a rush of thanks outward to the ghost, who winked before disappearing.
Alone at last, Blaize sank to his knees, gasping for breath. Still, alarm pushed him, and he stood up again as soon as he could, no longer panting, but sorely weakened. He decided to turn toward the southwest and his home village—after all, Pilochin probably had no idea where Blaize had grown up.
Then he stopped, wide-eyed and apprehensive, looking at the trees about him, and realizing that it wasn’t only Pilochin’s men he had lost, but himself, too.