“Then this explains all the terrors,” said Drask. “The banquet-night, with the shadow that fell over the feast, and mocking invisible whispers from the darkness—”
“The shadow was cast by another, subtler device,” Abdekiel explained. “The voice was perhaps a trick done by a concealed button-sized microphone. I have no doubt that when we search through the Piper’s gear in his quarters we shall find many such miraculous implements.”
Tonguth came forward to stand beside the dais. “Well, Lord, all is explained … but best of all marvels, we have the wonder-worker now.” He drew a heavy mace from his girdle, massive hands closing almost lovingly about its oaken handle. Grins flashed among the Barbarian warriors.
Mockery danced in Calastor’s gray eyes.
“Have you indeed, black dog of the Rovers? Well, perhaps you do. And you, my noble Lord Drask of the Varkonna— you have me, but … can you hold me?”
Drask smiled humorlessly, as a wolf smiles, revealing his fangs. “I think we can,” he said. And suddenly, by some magic of his own, the ugly shape of a Haemholtz coagulator appeared in one hand, its deadly snout a cold black eye staring directly at Calastor’s heart.
“Try it!” the mocking voice rang out, filling the great dome with shuddering echoes. “Thicken my blood with your sonic beam—drive a blood-clot through my heart or brain—or, at least, I give you leave to try. But beware, my little Lord of Nothing …”
The White Wizard’s mien changed. His clear baritone deepened to a sinister bass. His gray eyes grew cold, chill and hard as fractured steel—then blazed up suddenly with witch-fires. Slowly he extended his arms, tracing a weird rune upon the air. It hung in midair, a glowing pattern of dim red phosphorescence, gradually fading.
“Fool! Do you think all my power lies in one little ring—that I am helpless now? I, who have sought out and mastered one by one the Secret Laws of the Plenum … the dark and awful lore of god, mage, and demon … the mysteries that thunder in the flaming heart of stars, and that hide, shadow-shrouded, in the Darkness that reigns between the suns?”
With words of heavy thunder and eyes that flashed with strange unearthly fires he held them. Drask’s hand slackened on the butt of his gun. The muzzle of the coagulator wavered—dropped.
“Shall I shake this palace to rubble around your ears, with a single Name of Power? Say, Warlord—shall I wreck the very fabric of this planet, returning it to the molten chaos from which the Hand of Heaven molded it, ten billion years ere you and I were born? Speak! Shall I summon forth from the deepest pits of Hell the phantoms of the hundred thousand men and women your scarlet hands have murdered? Fearless Lord Drask, who boasted you fear naught in Space or Time, neither god, man, nor devil—shall I call upon the vast Power of Parlion … shall I summon the Dissolver-of Worlds from his black realm of negative entropy beyond the very Universe of Stars? Yai—shamdoth! Aaa krom Phandaloom, hadoth ka ph’ngglath Schemshamphor-asch—!”
Weird, glittering, star-white, the mighty form of Calastor seemed to grow before their eyes, looming above the tallest man, veiled in weird runes of flame, terrible eyes blazing like two gray stars.
Tonguth fell to his knees, hands clapped over his eyes. The Rovers shrank back against the wall. Shangkar, white to the lips, threw one brawny arm across his face to blot out the awful vision.
Even—Drask! The Warlord withered, his jaw dropping, his face the hue of dirty wax, terror in his gold eyes. He lifted one trembling hand.
“N-nay, Wizard! Summon not your demons of the void!”
Abdekiel’s voice cut across the scene like a whiplash. Cold, venomous contempt dripped from his words like smoking acid.
“What’s this, my Lord, afeared? Quiver not at this vain fool’s empty eloquence and visual trickery. Behold, I am prepared to defend you with my art—”
The shaman clapped his yellow hands—once—twice— thrice. Suddenly, the blue and crimson drapes that covered the stone walls of Zargon’s Hall like an arras dropped to heap the stone pave with piled fabric. Standing in a row behind them all this while were now revealed a rank of archers with arrows nocked and bows drawn—archers masked against tricks of vision with black vizards. Shoulder to shoulder they stood in a curved rank along the wall, blinded against illusions, arrows aimed at Calastor’s voice. The bows were taut—a hundred arrows, aimed at the White Wizard’s heart!
Still a towering figure surrounded with runes of flame, Calastor thundered, “Arrows, shaman? And are they more potent than a Haemholtz beam?”
“They kill as swiftly and as surely.” Abdekiel’s purring voice was amused, yet rang with vicious undertones of cold menace. “And for all of that, Trickster of Parlion, we have not yet tested a coagulator-ray against your vaunted invulnerability. We have had from you naught but tricks with light and voice, and many, many—oh, so very many!— words.”
The robes of flame vanished. Calastor stood, a mere man, legs spread and great arms folded on his deep chest.
“Then test your arrows now, if you will. I am indeed invulnerable.”
There was no trace of fear in his voice, nor faintest trace of mockery. His clear gray eyes, hooded, stared into the row of archers aiming at his breast. To one side, Lurn felt her heart leap into her mouth. How long could he hold them off with only words? His verbal fencing, she guessed, was built on a profound knowledge of psychology and semantics, but surely, tricks of illusion aside, he was as mortal as any man!
“I think we shall,” Abdekiel purred with tranquil face.! “Know, further, O Invulnerable One, each shaft is tipped with a barb wrought by fire-magic from purest stellafer, the Star-Metal. As you know, O Master of the Names of Power, no magic—or science—can turn stellafer aside, or ensorcel its strange element. Check, I think, thou master-player of Parlion!”
On the blackened bench, the Warlord slowly relaxed, tension draining from his taut muscles, a faint smile of admiration curling his bearded lips.
“Well played, shaman! By Thaxis of the Spears, you are a noble from the moment Calastor’s arrow-riddled corpse lies at my feet. An arrowhead shall be your blazon! Red and white your tinctures: white for this hell-spawn’s garment, red for his swinish blood. Spill it for me now!”
Terror clutched at Lurn. Was that a drop of perspiration on Calastor’s brow? Was that the touch of fear, showing in the muscle that twitched at the corner of his mouth? Why was he silent? Why did he not draw another miracle from his endless store?
Satisfaction gleamed in Abdekiel’s eyes. He made a bow, and hissed silkily, “All humblest thanks unto my gracious Lord. It was child’s play—the cunning chess-master outplays the over-confident novice.”
“He shall find defeat more painful here than in a game of chess,” Drask said grimly.
Now Calastor smiled—but with some effort? And was there a trace of strain in his voice, as he said with an attempt at lightness, “Perhaps … we shall all play another match at a later time, my Lords. You said ‘check,’ O shaman? Then I cry check, and—mate!”
Even as they digested his swift words, the tall figure of the White Wizard flickered—and faded—and vanished like a puff of smoke before a sudden wind. Calastor was— gone!
A hundred arrows slashed through empty air, striking home amid the guards and Chieftains who stood against the further wall! Shrieking, clutching at feathered shafts that stuck in throat and chest, men slumped and staggered—a milling chaos of bellowing, shouting fear.