Nestor fell, desperately grasping at the ragged edge of the chasm to slow his descent. And as he did so, he whistled a charm. His robes rippled wildly. Two broad, white wings appeared upon his back. With much effort, the mage beat his way into the sky, up and away from the threat. A guttural chant gave him an enormous gryphon’s head. Nestor inhaled once and began to spit fireballs at his rival.
Dalbaeth held up his hands to shield himself. But his beard was singed by the first shot. Cursing, he summoned a giant mirror from a blade of grass, and held it directly before him. The mirror was angled in such a way that Nestor’s winged reflection appeared in its silvery-green depths. And now, each deadly fireball Nestor launched hit the mirror and was repulsed—right back at its source.
A wild ricochet caught Nestor’s left wing. In a moment the feathers were ash. Feebly flapping his remaining wing, the mage plummeted to the ground. He struck hard and lay still upon the cold stiff grass. The remaining wing and gryphon’s head disappeared.
Dora, watching everything, cried out in horror.
With a nod of satisfaction, Dalbaeth tossed the mirror into thin air where it vanished. He hurried toward the fallen mage and stood over him, his arms held wide.
“Come, spirit of earth,” he cried. “Cover this wretch with stone. Imprison him forever.”
“No,” Dora cried. “No!”
She had to stop him. But how? He was an all-powerful wizard who could control the very elements. All she knew were some household spells. And a felak’s trick. Her heart beat quickly at the thought. The felak’s spell, yes.
Gasping, she whispered the syllables in quick succession.
Nothing happened.
Dora repeated the spell once more. And then again.
Dalbaeth coughed. He sneezed. Purple fur sprouted on his chin, his hands, even his boot tops. He was covered from head to foot with a coat of purple fur. It was in his eyes, in his nose, even in his mouth. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Choking, the wizard fell to the dry ground, uttering muffled curses.
Nestor rose up on one arm, saw what was happening, and gestured with his staff.
A huge iron cage, glowing with unearthly fires, formed around Dalbaeth. The fur-covered wizard scarcely noticed.
For a moment, Nestor sagged to the ground.
“Master,” Dora called. “You’ve won. We must leave.”
Nodding weakly, Nestor gestured and drew Dora to him. With another odd motion, he brought them both surging back out of the cold wind and into the noisy, smoke-filled wizards’ convocation in Little Harbor.
“Nestor,” cried Annesh. “You have returned! So quickly. Where is Dalbaeth?”
Nestor opened his mouth to speak. But no voice came forth.
The old mage gasped for air and fell backwards. If not for Annesh’s strong arms and quick reflexes, Nestor would have fallen, senseless, to the polished brick floor of the hall.
“Air! The man has fainted!” Annesh roared. “Give him air! And bring the herbalist.”
A tall, thin man with two grey braids approached at a run. He knelt quickly over Nestor and examined the fallen mage carefully. He rose, shaking his head.
“Nestor is old. Very old,” the herbalist said. “He has overextended his powers and is rendered impotent. Mute.”
Dora bit her lip in despair. “Forever?” she said.
“I do not know,” the herbalist said sadly. “Perhaps with time he will recover.”
Annesh patted Dora on the head. “Child, it’s not fair to you to be apprenticed to an incapacitated wizard. I shall arrange for a more appropriate master. Or would you prefer a witch as mistress?”
A witch as mistress! Dora hesitated in confusion. “I don’t know. Haven’ t thought much about it. A witch, you say? That might be nice. But what will happen to Nestor?”
“You leave him to us. Now run along and have something to eat,” Annesh said. “We’ll arrange for your transfer afterwards.” He shooed her out the door and into a crowded dining hall filled with dark-robed apprentices.
Dora filled a plate with roasted meat and orange sugar bread, and took a place at the far end of the farthest long table. No one looked at her. No one spoke to her. She stared at the food. Chewed a mouthful of bread without tasting it.
She put down her knife. Stood up, left her plate on the table, and hurried from the room.
The great hall was empty. She ran through it, her footsteps echoing, until she found a smaller room off to the side, near the main entrance.
Nestor lay within by the fire. He was stiff and silent, staring glumly into the flames. At the sound of her footsteps he gazed up. His eyes were the color of blue ice.
She could not leave him. Would not. Annesh would understand.
Nestor sat up, scowling.
“Want to go home?” Dora said.
He nodded wanly.
“Well, let’s go then.” She gestured impatiently.
Nestor shook his head. His lips moved but no sound came from them.
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You can’t talk, can you?” She gave the old wizard a smile that was half exasperated, half affectionate. “And you didn’t teach me any spells for transport, did you?”
Her only reply was a look of disgust.
With a sigh, Dora fixed her blue hood into place over her bright hair and sealed her cloak against the cold. “Come along, then. I’ll see about hiring a horse. And so much for the grand power of magicks.”
Nestor rose slowly and sealed his cloak tightly about him.
Dora reached for his arm. For a moment, the old mage pulled back, eyes blazing. Then he shrugged.
And together, hand in hand, the old wizard and his apprentice set off for home.
The Naga
Peter S. Beagle
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The following tale is a fragment of a recently discovered first-century Roman manuscript, tentatively ascribed to Caius Plinius Secundus, known as Pliny the Elder. It appears to be an addendum to his great Encyclopedia of Natural History, and to have been written shortly before his death in 79 A.D., in the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. How it fell into the present writer’s hands is another story entirely, and is no one’s business but his own.
Let us begin with a creature of which report has reached us only from those half-mythical lands beyond the Indus, where dwell many dragons and unicorns as well. The naga is described by such traders as travel between India and the Roman provinces of Mesopotamia as being a great serpent with seven heads, like the beast known to us as the hydra. Leaving aside the history of Hercules’ conquest of the Lernaean Hydra, authorities have related numerous encounters with these animals off the coasts of Greece and Britain. The hydra has between seven and ten heads, like dogs’ heads; these are generally depicted as growing at the ends of prodigiously muscular necks or arms, and they do not devour the prey they seize but drag it to a central head, much larger, which then tears it apart with a beak like that of a monstrous African parrot. Further, it is said that these heads and necks, cut in two, do grow again: on the instant, according to the Greek writers, but their capacity both for lying and credulity surpasses all bounds that one might reasonably impose on other peoples. Nevertheless, of the hydra’s actual existence there can be little doubt—I have myself spoken with sailors who had lost comrades to the voracity of these beasts, and who, in vengeance, would boil one alive and devour it themselves whenever they should capture one. I am advised that the taste of the hydra is quite similar to that of the boots of which soldiers often make soup in desert extremities. The flavor is not easily forgotten.