Ragnarson looked thoughtful when Michael mentioned theman in the mask, then lapsed into indifference again.
"I never saw a city that big.... It made Hellin Daimiel look like a farm town. Oh. I almost forgot. She said to bring you this. Well, Varthlokkur, but he isn't around. It might not wait till he finds me." He handed Ragnarson an ebony casket.
Bragi accepted with a slight frown. "Elana's thing." He turned it over and over before trying to open it..
The lid popped up....
The ruby within was alive, was afire. It painted their faces indevil shades.
"Please close it."
They jumped. Swords whined out. They looked upward.
"Close it!"
Ragnarson kicked the lid shut.
Varthlokkur descended from the sky, his vast cloak flapping about him. Above him floated the Unborn.
Trebilcock, Ragnarson thought, at least had the decency to be surprised. Hopefully, someday, he would be afraid too.
"Where the hell did you come from?" Haaken demanded.
"Afar. Radeachar came for me when he saw the pale man and his companion coming through the Gap. You were hard to locate. What're you doing here?"
Haaken made a gesture which included Ragnarson, Elana's grave, and the Royal Mausoleum.
Meantime, Bragi lost interest again. He sat down, reopened the casket.
"Damnit, I said close it!" Varthlokkur growled.
Ragnarson quietly drew his sword.
High, high above, a tiny rider on a winged steed spied another red flash. He circled lower, passing over unseen because he was invisible from below. He recognized three of the men. "Damn!" he spat. He soared, and raced northward. He didn't notice the great bird which circled higher still.
Varthlokkur shuddered and glanced around, feeling some-thing. But there was nothing to see.
The Unborn darted this way and that. It had felt the presence too. After a moment it settled into position above Varthlokkur'shead.
The others felt it too. Bragi lowered his blade, looked around, realized what he was doing. Attacking Varthlokkur? With simple steel?
It was getting dark. Ragnar lighted the torches he alwaysbrought because his father so often dallied till after nightfall.
The flames repulsed the encroachment of night....
Something shifted, made a small mewling sound beyond the light.
Weapons appeared again. A soft, hissing voice said, "Enough. I come in friendship."
Ragnarson shuddered. He knew that voice. "Zindahjira."
That sorce'rer's life-path had crossed his before. The first time had been once too often. Zindahjira wasn't even human-or so Bragi suspected. When this wizard went abroad by daylight, he wrapped himself in a blackness which reversed the function of a torch.
Varthlokkur was the more powerful, the more dread magician, but, at least, came in human form.
Must be what we sensed, Ragnarson thought.
Something else moved at the edge of the firelight. Bragi had the satisfaction of seeing Michael Trebilcock startled.
Two more things appeared. One went by the name The Thing With Many Eyes, the other, Gromacki, The Egg Of God. Each was as inhuman as Zindahjira, though not of his species.
They were sorcerers of renown and had gathered from the far reaches of the west. With them were a half-dozen men in varied costume. Not a one spoke. Each seated himself on the graveyard grass.
"This's the right place," Haaken muttered.
"Who are they?" Ragnar asked, terrified. Gundar, luckily, had fallen asleep during Michael's story.
Trebilcock kept his sword ready. He was wondering too.
"The Prime Circle. The chief sorcerers of the west," Haaken whispered.
Cold steel fingers stroked Ragnarson's spine. Fear stalked his nerves. It was a dark day when this group covened, putting their vicious grievances in abeyance. "One's missing," he observed.
When last they had gathered it had been for Baxendala, to greet the eastern sorcery with their own.
An implacable enmity for the Tervola was the one thing they had in common.
"He comes," said the mummylike being called Kierle the Ancient. His words hung on the air like smoke on a still, muggy morning.
An inhuman scream clawed the underbelly of the night. Torchlight momentarily illuminated the undersides of vastwings. A rush of air almost extinguished Ragnar's brands. Anxiously, he lighted more.
The flying colossus hit ground thunderously. "Goddamned clumsy, worthless, boneheaded.... Sorry, boss."
A middle-aged dwarf soon strutted into the light. "What the hell is this? Some kind of wake? Any of you bozos got something to drink?"
"Marco," said a gentle voice.
The dwarf shut up and sat. Ragnarson rose, extended a hand. The newcomer was an old friend, Visigodred, Count Menda-layas, from northern Itaskia. Their lives had crossed frequently, and they almost trusted one another.
"We're all here," Varthlokkur observed. "Marshall...." "Who was that on the winged horse?" Visigodred asked. Everyone looked puzzled. Including Varthlokkur, who should have understood.
Ragnarson caught it, though. He remembered seeing a winged horse over Baxendala missed by everyone but himself. He remembered thinking the rider was a mystery which needed solving.... But by someone else. Even this convocation couldn't excite him for long.
Varthlokkur went on. "Marshall, I tracked bin Yousif into Trolledyngja, where he had overtaken Colonel Balfour. He's back in the south somewhere now."
Since Bragi didn't ask, Haaken did. "What happened?" "I don't know. Bin Yousif was thorough. He didn't even leave a shade I could call up. But he got something, fast as he rode south."
"Michael," said Haaken, "tell the wizards your story." Varthlokkur was in a state before Trebilcock finished. "Shinsan, Shinsan," he muttered. "Always Shinsan. They've done this to force me to obey. How is it that they always cloud my mind? Must be something they did while I studied there.... Was she well? Was she safe? Why Argon? Why not Shinsan? Marshall, what'd you do with the jewel? That we must unravel if we're to repulse O Shing again. It won't be just four legions this time."
His words gushed. The man in the golden mask-he must be one of O Shing's craftiest Tervola-had conjured one hell of a dilemna for Varthlokkur.
Dull-eyed, staring at Elana's grave, Ragnarson handed himthe casket. Varthlokkur frowned, not understanding Bragi's lassitude.
Haaken touched his cloak diffidently. He beckoned Visigo-dred, led both a short distance away, explained Bragi's problem.
Behind them, having grown bored, Zindahjira created balls of blue fire, juggled them amongst his several hands. He threw them into the air. They coalesced into a whirling sphere which threw off visible words like sparks flying from a grindstone.
He was a show-off. A loudmouth and a braggart. For some quirky reason, he liked being called Zindahjira the Silent.
The blue words were in many languages, but when they queued up in sentences they invariably proclaimed some libel on Visigodred's character.
Their feud was so old it was antique. What irritated Zindahjira most was that Visigodred wouldn't fight back. He simply neutralized every attack and otherwise ignored the troglodytic wizard.
Visigodred ignored him now, though his assistant, the dwarf, made a few remarks too softly to reach his master's ears. Zindahjira became furious....
This sort of thing had driven Ragnarson to distraction in the past. It symbolized the weakness of the west. The wolves of doom could be snuffling at the windows and doors and everyone would remain immersed in their own petty bickerings. Right now Kiste and Vorhangs were threatening war. The northern provinces of Volstokin were trying to secede to form an independent kingdom, Nonverid. The influence of Itaskia was the only stabilizing force in the patchwork of little states making up the remainder of the west.