Wizard’s Bane

Donal’s face did not change. "Please, Lord. It is important."

As they stepped out of the hut, Wiz realized it was mid-morning. The air was still chill, but no longer iron-hard. The sun was warm even as the earth was cold. Spring was on its way, Wiz thought idly as Donal led him to the courtyard. Shiara was already there, sitting on the stump used to chop firewood, her stained and worn blue cloak wrapped firm around her, but the hood thrown back and her hair falling like a silver waterfall down her back.

Kenneth stood facing her. He was holding a small iron-stringed harp Wiz had never seen before. From time to time he would pick a string and listen distractedly to the tone.

Music, Wiz thought. In all the time I’ve been here I’ve never heard human music. His resentment dulled slightly and he pulled a small log next to Shiara for a seat.

Shiara reached a hand out of her cloak and clasped Wiz’s hand briefly.

"You may begin Kenneth," she said.

Kenneth’s expression did not change. He struck a chord and a silvery peal floated across the court and up to the smokestained peak of Heart’s Ease.

"Now Heart’s Ease it is fallen
for all the North to weep
And the hedge witch with the copper curls
lies fast in prison deep"

His voice was a clear pure tenor and the sound sent chills down Wiz’s spine. There was loss and sadness in the music and the pain Wiz had felt since that terrible night Heart’s Ease fell came rushing back with full vigor. Instinctively he moved closer to Shiara.

"And none can find or follow
for there’s none to show the way
and magic might and wizards ranked
stand fast in grim array

There’s neither hope nor succor
for the witch with copper hair
for the Mighty may not aid her plight
deep in the Dark League’s lair

Where the Mighty dare not venture
the meek must go instead
for shattered hearth and stolen love
and companion’s blood run red.

There’s the Lady called Shiara
with blue, unseeing eyes
whose magic’s but a memory
but still among the wise.

There’s a Sparrow who’s left nestless now
bereft by loss of love
whose land lies far beyond his reach
past even dreaming of

With neither might nor magic
their wit must serve in place
and wizard’s lore and foreign forms
twine in a strange embrace

But the fruit of that embracing
is nothing to be scorned
and the hedge witch with the copper curls
may yet be kept from harm

And if there’s no returning
the witch with flame-bright hair
the price of a Sparrow’s mourning
be more than the League can bear."

Kenneth’s voice belled up over the harp and the song was strong off the ruined stone walls behind.

"For there will be a weregeld
for life and hearth and love
though worlds may shake and wizards quake
and skies crash down above.

Aye, there will be a ransom
and the ransom will be high
for the blood-debt to a Sparrow
the League cannot deny."

He stopped then, lowered the harp and bowed his head.

"Thank you, Kenneth," said Shiara. And Wiz stepped forward to embrace the soldier roughly.

"The mood was upon me, Lady," Kenneth said simply. "When the mood is upon me, I must."

"And well done," said Shiara, standing up. "Thank you for the omen."

"So, Sparrow," she sighed. "We go soon. Do we go tomorrow?"

"I don’t know Lady," Wiz protested. "I’ve still got some spells to tune and…" Unbidden a quotation from his other life rose in his mind. There comes a time in the course of any project to shoot the engineers and put the damn thing into production. He raised his chin firmly.

"Tomorrow, Lady. Tomorrow we strike."

Twelve The Name is Death

Moira didn’t know how far they had come. The flagged corridors twisted and turned in a way that made her head spin. The floor was uneven and the tunnels that led off usually sloped up or down.

The trickle of water down the center of the tunnel made footing treacherous, but she stayed to the middle nonetheless. To step out of the trail of slime was to risk ramming into a rough stone or dirt wall.

Worst of all, she cold not see. There was no light and her magic senses were blocked everywhere by the coarse, suffocating pressure of counter-spells. The magic was almost as nauseating as the stink of her goblin guards.

The dark was no hinderance to the goblins. They took crude amusement from her plight, forcing her along at a pace that kept her on the verge of stumbling. Finally, after she had fallen or run into the walls too often, they grabbed her arms and half-pushed, half-dragged her along.

By the time the goblins threw her in a small, mean cell and slammed the door, Moira was bruised, filthy and scraped and bleeding in a dozen places. Her palms were raw from falling and there was a cut on her head which turned her hair damp with blood. Her knees and shins ached.

She pulled herself into a sitting position and dabbed at the cut on her head with the least-dirty part of the hem of her skirt. She tried to ignore the small skittering sounds in the dark around her and refused to think about the future.

"Well, Sparrow?" Shiara asked as she ducked to enter the low door of Wiz’s workroom.

"I think we’re about there, Lady." For the first time in days the crude plank table was clear. The rough wooden tablets which had been piled on it to toppling were now stacked more or less neatly in the corners of the room. The table had been pushed away from the small window and a bench had been drawn underneath it. A brazier in the center of the room made a feeble attempt to take the late-winter chill out of the air but neither Wiz nor Shiara doffed their cloaks. The door was open to let in more light.

"Are you sure you want to be here?" Wiz asked. "I mean it isn’t necessary and it may be dangerous."

The blind woman shrugged. "It is dangerous everywhere and I would rather be at the center of events."

Shiara came into the hut and almost bumped into the table in its new and unfamiliar position. With a quick apology, Wiz took her hand and guided her to the bench.

"When do you begin?"

"I’ll let you know in a minute. Emac!"

"Yes, master?" A small brown creature scuttled out of the shadows. It was man-like, perhaps three feet tall, with a huge bald head and square wire-rimmed glasses balanced on its great beak of a nose. A green eyeshade was pushed back on its domed forehead and a quill pen was stuck behind one flap-like ear.

"Are we ready?"

"I’ll check again, master." The gnome-like being disappeared with a faint "pop." Shiara winced involuntarily at the strong magic so close to her.

"I’m sorry, my Lady. I’ll tell them to walk from now on."