Xind, sorcerer of the Third Circle as the Dark League counted such things, passed a fat hand over the water as if wiping away a smear. "Hmm, yes. Wait, there’s something… By the heavens and hells! There are no wards. That’s a great wizard without protection!" His head snapped up. "Let the word be passed quickly!" The gray-robed apprentice crouched at the foot of the dais jumped up and ran to do his bidding.
Xind stared back into the Sea of Scrying and his round, fat face creased into a particularly unattractive smile.
"Fool," he muttered to the spark in the bottom of the bowl.
The haze in the clearing turned from wispy gray to opaque white to rosy pink. It contracted and coalesced until it took the form of a dark red door with a silver knob, floating a yard off the meadow. The grass bent away from it in all directions as if pressed down by an invisible ball. Moira concentrated on her chanting and pushed harder with all the magic she possessed.
As if in slow motion the door opened and a man came through. He stepped out as if he expected solid ground and slowly toppled through when he found air. His eyes widened and his mouth formed a soundless O. Then everything was moving at normal speed and the man extended his arms.
Wiz took two steps and fell three feet onto grass in what should have been a level walk. He caught himself with his arms and then collapsed with his nose in the green grass, weak, sick and disoriented. The light was different, he was facing the wrong way and he was so dizzy he couldn’t hold his head up. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on keeping his stomach in its proper place. The grass tickled his nose and the blades poked at his tightly shut eyes, but he ignored them.
Patrius made a flicking gesture at the man and then returned to the business of completing the spell. Moira, absorbed in her chant, barely noticed the small drop of dark fluid fly from the Wizard’s fingertips and strike the new arrival on the temple. It splattered, spread and sank into the flesh and hair, leaving no sign of its passing.
In the great, high, vaulted chantry of the Dark League, four black-robed wizards huddled about a glowing crystal. They murmured and moved like a flock of uneasy crows, all the while peering into the depths of the stone. Around them forces twisted and gathered.
The attack came with a rush of magic, dark and sour. Moira cried out in terror and gestured frantically but she was thrust aside ruthlessly as the bolt lanced into the clearing and struck Patrius full-on.
A crackling blue nimbus burst out around the old wizard. He raised his arms over his head as if to shield himself, but his clothes and beard burst into flame. In an instant he was a ghastly flaming scarecrow capering about the clearing and shrieking in mortal agony. He toppled over and the screams turned to a puling whimper. His flesh blackened and charred.
Finally there was nothing but a smouldering husk with knees and arms flexed up against the body. He was so badly burned that there wasn’t even a smell in the air.
Moira cowered sobbing on the ground, the blazing after-image burning in her sight even through her eyelids. Wiz had gone flat on his face when the bolt hit.
All right, Wiz told himself. Time to get up. On three. One, two… He realized he wasn’t going to make it, so he settled for rolling over on his back.
"Lord?" a small voice asked tentatively.
Wiz opened his eyes. Standing over him was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her waist-length hair was the color of burnished copper. Her skin was pale and creamy under a dusting of freckles. Her eyes were deep sea green. She was wearing a long skirt of forest green in some rough-woven material and a white peasant blouse with a scoop neck. Wiz stared.
"Are you hurt, Lord?" the vision said in a lilting, musical voice. As she bent down to help Wiz up he was treated to an ample display of cleavage.
"N-n-n-no," Wiz managed to stammer, dizzy from the transformation and awed by her loveliness. He looked into her face. "You’re beautiful," he said softly.
Moira saw the look in his eyes and swore under her breath. Fortuna! An infatuation spell! Patrius had bound this unknown wizard to her with an infatuation spell. Gently she helped the alien wizard to his feet and wondered if she should curtsey.
"How are you called, Lord?" Moira asked respectfully.
"Ah, Wiz. I’m Wiz Zumwalt, that is. Who are you?"
"I am called Moira, Lord, a hedge witch of this place." She ignored the discourtesy of his question. She reddened under his fixed gaze and wondered what to do next. She had already sent an urgent call for one of the Mighty to attend them, but even by the Wizard’s Way that would take time. Wizards did not like to be bothered by idle chatter, but this one stared so.
"Lord, are you of the Mighty in your home?" she asked to make conversation.
"Say what?"
"Forgive me, Lord. The Mighty are the wizards of the first rank in our land."
"Wizards?" Between the transition and Moira, Wiz’s brain wasn’t working and he had never been much good at small talk with beautiful women.
"Magicians. Sorcerers," Moira said a little desperately. Wiz looked blank and a dreadful thought grew in the back of Moira’s mind. "Forgive me Lord, but you are a wizard, are you not?"
"Huh. No, I’m not a wizard," Wiz said numbly, shaking his head to clear it.
Moira felt sick. This man was telling the trth! There was no sign or trace of magic about him, nothing save his odd clothing to distinguish him from any other mortal. She turned away from him and tears stung her eyes.
"Hey, what’s wrong?" Wiz laid a hand on her shoulder.
"Everything," Moira sobbed. "You’re not a wizard and Patrius is dead."
"Patrius… ?" Wiz trailed off. "Oh my God!" For the first time he saw the charred corpse at the edge of the clearing.
"I’m sorry," he said. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Yes," Moira said fiercely. "You can help me bury him."
"If you value your life," the black robe hissed, "keep your mouth shut and your eyes on the floor. Toth-Set-Ra has little patience with impertinence." Xind led the acolyte down the flagged corridor. Their sandals scuffed on the rough stone floor and guttering torches in iron brackets gave a dim and uncertain light to guide them.
The guards at the door were hobgoblins, creatures somewhat larger than men and nearly twice as broad and bulky. Their laced armor shone blackly by the torchlight and the honed edges of their halberds glinted evilly. At the approach of the wizards they snapped to attention.
"Two with news for the Dread Master," Xind said with considerably more assurance than he felt. "We are expected." The hobgoblins nodded. One reached behind to swing open the great oaken door.
Both wizard and acolyte prostrated themselves on the threshold.
"Rise," croaked a voice from within. "Rise and speak."
The room was dark but a baleful green light played round a high-backed chair and the figure hunched in it.
Shakily, the pair rose and moved toward the light.
The man in the chair was wizened and shrunk in on himself until he was more a mummy than a living man. But his eyes burned red in the black pits of his hairless skull and he moved with the easy grace of a serpent coiling to strike. The light seemed to come from within him, playing on the chair and the amethyst goblet in his hand. The reflected greenish glow made Xind’s complexion appear even more unhealthy than usual.
"We have slain a wizard, Dread Master, one of the Mighty of the North."
"Yes," Toth-Set-Ra hissed. "It was Patrius. May his soul rot forever. And you destroyed him. How nice."
The novice started and opened his mouth to ask how the wizard knew, but Xind trod on his foot in warning.