The tanner’s shed yielded a length of thong. Now…where to find a copper brazier? Dru had been quite specific; only copper would do. Hugging the pot of dry clay and coal to his chest, Ulvian ran across the open compound to the coppersmith’s hut. Inside, he found an abundance of copper plates, nails, and ingots, but no brazier.
Outside once more, Ulvian huddled under the eaves of the hut for a moment, pondering where he might find what he needed. Only two kinds of people used copper fire pans: priests and cooks. There were no clerics at Pax Tharkas, but there were certainly cooks.
Half an hour later, Ulvian was back at the grunt gang barracks. He knelt by Dru’s bed and reached a hand out to awaken the sorcerer.
Before Ulvian touched him, Dru said quietly, “Do you have it all?”
“Yes—and it wasn’t easy.”
“Good. Put it under my bed and go to sleep.”
Ulvian was taken aback. “Aren’t you going to do anything now?”
“At this hour? No indeed. Morning will be soon enough. Go to bed, my prince. Tomorrow will be a busy day, and you’ll wish you had slept tonight.” So saying, Dru rolled over and closed his eyes. Ulvian stared, mouth agape, at the sorcerer’s back. With no other recourse, the prince shoved the pot, the cooking brazier, and the leather strap under Dru’s bed and lay down on his own sagging, dirty cot. In spite of the excitement of the night’s foray, he was asleep in a few minutes.
The soft sound of rattling chains caused Ulvian to open his eyes. A pair of scales was hanging in the air over his bed. The fulcrum of the scales was broken, and one of the golden pans was tilted, its chains sagging loosely. From the tilted pan, white powder fell, landing on Ulvian’s chest. It looked like the clay powder he’d gotten for Dru.
“What’s this?” he muttered, trying to sit up. Strangely he could not. A great weight seemed to settle on his chest, just where the powdered clay rested. But it was only a small heap of dust, his mind protested. It couldn’t hold him pinioned in his bed.
The pressure grew and grew until the prince found it difficult to draw breath. He lifted a weak hand to deflect the stream of powder cascading down. When his fingers touched the golden scale pan, he snatched them back quickly. The pan was red hot!
“Help!” he gasped, continuing his efforts to rise. “I’m suffocating! Help!”
“Be still,” said a soft, chiding voice. Ulvian opened his eyes and encountered blackness. He was lying facedown on his bunk, his nose and mouth buried in his dirty scrap of blanket. The prince bolted to his feet, flinging the blanket aside.
A wild glance around showed Dru sitting cross-legged on his own bed, mixing something in a wooden bowl. The grunt gang barracks were otherwise empty.
“What’s the matter?” Dru asked, not looking up from his task.
“I—I had a bad dream,” stammered the prince. “Where is everybody?”
“It’s the half-day of rest,” replied the sorcerer. “They’re all at breakfast.” He set aside his stirring stick and poured a bit more water into the bowl. The stick was thickly coated with gluey white clay.
Ulvian’s breathing returned to normal, and he ran his fingers through his tousled hair. When he was calm, he went to see what Dru was doing. The sorcerer had made a ball of clay the size of two fists. He wet his hands and picked up the mass. The thong and copper brazier sat on the floor by his bed.
“One of the simplest kinds of spells is image magic,” said Dru, sounding like some sort of schoolmaster. “The sorcerer makes an image and consecrates it as the double of a living person. Then whatever he does to the image happens to the living person.” He rolled the clay into a long cylinder and tore off smaller bits, which he dropped into the bowl. “A more advanced spell creates an image that has no connection to the living. From that image, another double can be born.”
Fascinated, Ulvian knelt on one knee. “Is that what you’re doing?”
Dru nodded. “With this small figure, I will generate a much larger double that will do my bidding. Such clay creatures are called golems.”
He had molded the rough form of a stocky body. To it, he attached clay arms and legs, and a round ball for a head. With chips of coal, Dru made eyes for the image. Laying the clay doll on the bed, he dipped the leather thong in the damp bowl.
The sorcerer tied the wet thong around the waist of the clay figure. Then he sent Ulvian to get some live coals and kindling from the fireplace. With a crackling fire laid in the brazier, Dru began dangling the clay figure over the flames.
“Rise up, O golem. Gather yourself from the dust and arise! I, Drulethen, command you! The fire is in you, the dust of the mountains! Gather yourself and do my will!” Unlike his usual soft tone, the sorcerer’s voice was changing, deepening, strengthening.
Wind whistled through the chinks in the crude barracks walls. Outside, the grunt gang members lounging around the breakfast wagon grumbled loudly about the dust being whirled into their eyes. In the barracks, Dru twisted the thong in his fingers, making the clay doll spin, first left, then right.
“Rise up, O golem! Your form is here! Take the fire I give you and arise!” Dru shouted. Ulvian felt his skin crawl as the sorcerer’s voice boomed through the room. The rafters of the poorly built barracks rattled, and bits of dried moss fell through the cracks.
Steam began to rise from the white clay doll. The smell of burning hide filled the prince’s nostrils, threatening to gag him. The air vibrated, sending a tingling all along the surface of Ulvian’s skin. The walls of the building groaned, and suddenly the complaints of the workers outside ceased. In seconds, hoarse shouts replaced the muttered grumblings.
“What’s happening?” whispered Ulvian.
Breathing heavily, Dru never ceased his turning of the clay figure in the flames. “Go and see, my prince!” he gasped.
Ulvian went to the door and threw it open. The astonished faces of the grunt gang were looking off to the left, toward the quarries and the tent city. When he turned his face in that direction, the prince saw that a whirlwind of white dust writhed heavenward near the open pits where the limestone was cut. Elves, men, and dwarves ran from the area, shouting things Ulvian couldn’t understand.
As Dru’s invocation continued, the whirlwind coalesced into a thick, white body, twice as tall as the tallest tents. The black eyes on the featureless face mimicked the coal chips on the sorcerer’s doll.
“By the gods!” Ulvian exclaimed, turning to Dru. “You’ve done it! It’s as big as a watchtower!”
The sorcerer’s hand was nearly invisible, shrouded by the steam rising from the baking clay figure. “Go!” he hissed. “The confusion will cover you. Get my black amulet!” Dru clenched his eyes shut, and tears trickled down his cheeks. The steam was scalding his hand. “Go! Hurry!”
“I will, but remember our bargain. You know who I want punished!” As he left, Ulvian closed the barracks door behind him. The grunt gang were all gone, and the dwarves who managed the food wagon had taken refuge underneath it. The clay giant was moving, striding stiffly across the camp, smashing through tents and huts as it went. The ground shook each time it took a step. No one tried to stop it. The workers weren’t soldiers, and what arms there were in camp were of little avail against a twenty-foot-tall golem.