Master of the Five Magics Read online

  THE LEGACY OF WIZARDRY

  Alodar gazed at the wizard and read the truth of all that Handar had told him. “But is it certain that I alone must oppose this greatest of demons?” he asked.

  Handar nodded silently.

  Alodar filled his lungs with a slow rush of air. “It is not for this that I have quested,” he said at last. “But I have offered my life once already and that was merely for a queen. How can I sacrifice less for the fate of all our world?”

  “It is as I knew you would say.” Handar tossed Alodar the crystal of magic metal.

  “But when and how should I use it?” Alodar asked. “Now, just before the attack, during the battle, or only if all seems irretrievably lost?”

  Handar slowly shook his head. “That is for the archimage, to decide,” he said softly.

  Master of the

  Five Magics

  LYNDON HARDY

  A Del Rey Book

  BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

  A Del Rey Book

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Copyright © 1980 by Lyndon Hardy

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, Canada.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 80-66556

  ISBN 0-345-27635-3

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition: October 1980

  Cover art by Rowena Morrill

  To my wife, Joan

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE: The Thaumaturge

  ONE: The Queen Besieged

  TWO: Craftsman at War

  THREE: The Castle’s Secret

  FOUR: The Hero’s Reward

  PART TWO: The Alchemist

  FIVE: Honeysuckle Street

  SIX: Luck of the Potionmakers

  SEVEN: The Random Factors Align

  EIGHT: Moltenrock Treasure

  PART THREE: The Magician

  NINE: The Palace of the Cycloid Guild

  TEN: Barter and the Beauty

  ELEVEN: The Unfettered Dragon

  TWELVE: The Improvised Ritual

  PART FOUR: The Sorcerer

  THIRTEEN: Illusions of the Court

  FOURTEEN: The Power of the Eye

  FIFTEEN: The Sorcerer’s Revenge

  SIXTEEN: Alodar Enchanted

  PART FIVE: The Wizard

  SEVENTEEN: The Improbable Imp

  EIGHTEEN: Demontooth Tower

  NINETEEN: Possession by Design

  TWENTY: The Second Quest

  PART SIX: The Archimage

  TWENTY-ONE: Master Times Five

  TWENTY-TWO: The Final Battle

  THAUMATURGY

  The Principle of Sympathy — like produces like

  The Principle of Contagion — once together, always together

  ALCHEMY

  The Doctrine of Signatures — the attributes without mirror the powers within

  MAGIC

  The Maxim of Persistence — perfection is eternal

  SORCERY

  The Rule of Three — thrice spoken, once fulfilled

  WIZARDRY

  The Law of Ubiquity — flame permeates all

  The Law of Dichotomy — dominance or submission

  PART ONE

  The Thaumaturge

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Queen Besieged

  ALODAR closed his mind to the pounding of the huge stones against the lower walls of the keep. He ignored the growl of his stomach and tried to concentrate on the spinning disk. Forty-one days of siege, he thought, and the last five on half rations. Half rations for himself and the other craftsmen, while the men at arms still received full shares.

  “Faster, Morwin, faster until it buzzes like an angry hive,” Alodar listened as the apprentice pushed against the two-hand crank and the giant flywheel slowly increased its speed. After several minutes, a faint tone from the serrated edge mixed with the crash of rock and cry of pain below. Morwin stepped back from the rough wooden frame which supported the rotating wheel and sat panting on the smooth floor of the bartizan.

  “Make the rest of your preparations, journeyman,” the big man in mail next to Alodar barked. “You two may rest if this air gondola proves its worth, but not before.”

  Alodar disregarded the harsh tone. He squinted up at the sun midway between the east and overhead. “They will have to look directly into the glare to see us,” he said evenly. “Your men can begin.”

  “They begin when I tell them,” the sergeant said, pushing his thumb at his chest. “You may have once been the son of Alodun, lord of the buttes, and had the right to command, but now you are no more than the wheelwright. I owe you only what I would give any tradesman.”

  Alodar spilled the air out of his nostrils in a long sigh. “My father struggled six years for the justice due him and went to his grave alone and brokenhearted. The anguish to carry on was too great a price to pay and I buried my feelings with him. I am a journeyman at an honest craft and accept my lot. I desire no empty formality that stirs up the dying embers of the past.”

  He stopped and stared into the big man’s eyes. “And I ask no more than what you should show any man who labors in our common defense, regardless of his station.”

  For a long moment their eyes remained locked, but finally the sergeant shrugged and turned to the group of men crouching within the archway into the keep. “To your positions, then,” he ordered.

  The men rose, and two edged out to the crenelations which framed a deep cut in the hills to the west. The third, the smallest of the three, climbed into a waist-high wicker basket which stood by the spinning disk.

  Alodar stepped to the woven box, withdrew a chisel from one of the pockets in his cape, and hacked a fresh splinter from it. His cowl was thrown back over his shoulders, revealing a narrow face topped with fine yellow-brown hair. His nose and mouth were drawn with an economy of line, plain and straight, with nothing to mark him as either handsome or uncomely. Only his eyes removed him from the nondescript; they were bright and alive, darting like dragonflies, missing no detail of what happened around him. His face held the smoothness of youth, now marked only by two short furrows above his nose as he concentrated on the task before him.

  Standing scarcely taller than the basket’s occupant, he stepped back from the box, holding the scrap of wood at waist level, glanced again at the position of the sun, and began the incantation.

  He spoke with skill; the words came quickly but with the sharpness necessary for success. His tone was even and the rhythm smooth. The two words of power sounded with a lack of distinction. They fitted unnoticed into the stream of improvised nonsense which surrounded them. In a moment he was done.

  Alodar nodded a warning to the man-at-arms facing him and slowly began to raise the splinter upward. Simultaneously the basket lurched and cleared the stonework of the platform. The splinter rose with almost imperceptible slowness but the gondola with its passenger climbed at a rapid rate.

  The big man returned to Alodar’s side. “Can you not go faster? They will spy him before he lines with the sun.”

  “No, sergeant,” Alodar said, not turning to nod in reply but keeping his attention on the sliver he held in his hand. “This splinter is about one part in a thousand of the basket as a whole. For each palm I raise it, your man climbs another forty rods. Were I to move faster, we might use too much of the wheel’s spin just in fighting the wind we would make with our haste. I do not yet wear the cape of a master, but I understand enough of thaumaturgy to do what is proper for this task.”

  The ser
geant grunted and Alodar continued to raise the splinter upward. Several minutes passed and the basket rose to become but a speck in the sky.

  “High enough,” one of the men shouted while sighting through his sextant. Alodar glanced at the wheel. The crank now turned lazy circles about the axle with no hint of the blurring speed it had possessed moments ago. The sergeant followed his gaze and looked back at Alodar.

  “If there is but little wind,” Alodar explained, “there is enough spin left to keep the gondola properly positioned for some time. It takes far less energy to resist a sideward thrust than to fight the earth for height.”

  While he spoke, Alodar began to step in the direction of the hills. The platform far above moved in proportion. The two observers darted their instruments about, sighting first the sun, then the basket, and finally the crags themselves. Alodar made but two slow steps and part of another before one of the observers called him to stop.

  “A little more forward now. Hold it an instant. Now to the left a palm. Freeze it in place,” he directed as Alodar shifted the splinter back and forth.

  Morwin jumped from his inactivity beside the slowly turning disk and ran through the archway to the chamber beyond. He fetched a tripod with a small clamp attached and returned to where Alodar stood with the splinter still at arm’s length. After a few moments of adjustment, the clamp was in position to secure the scrap of wood firmly, and Alodar relinquished his grip. Massaging his now numb arm, he moved quickly to the edge of the bartizan to see the results of his effort.

  He whisked a telescope out from his cape and sighted the basket. It now stood fixed firmly in the sky, suspended directly in front of one of the sheer cliffs that was their target.

  “Luck be with him soon,” the sergeant muttered as he watched with his own glass. “If he does not find a ledge wide enough for the catapult within the hour, we will strike no blow for ourselves this day. And tomorrow may be too late for any scheme, sound or foolish, to prevent a breach.”

  Alodar turned from watching the rider scramble onto the face of the cliff and looked at the plain below.

  “They will be in the bailey within two days for certain,” the sergeant continued. “And even if help did appear, how could it get through all that?”

  Alodar followed the sweep of the mailed arm, and the sick feeling returned to his empty stomach.

  The gray hills in the west stretched from horizon to horizon, stark and unbroken except for the one deep and wide notch, like a missing tooth, directly facing him about half a mile distant. The walls on the right rose tall and sheer, unbroken monoliths, smooth and inaccessible. The slopes on the left were as steep but cracked with fissures, chimneys, and ledges, and upon these clambered the man Alodar had transported there. Between the two faces, a train of wagons and carts, piled with baggage and arrayed with no pattern, hid the floor of the pass from view. Alodar could make out a motley collection of tents rising in its midst, and from the pinnacles of each flew a blue and silver banner.

  Much closer stood an orderly array of artillery, drawn out in a precise circle that Alodar knew completely surrounded the stronghold. With drilled exactness, their crews would load and fire in unison. The great bows of the ballistas hurled their rock hard and flat against the battered outer walls, while the mangonels sent theirs high and lofted to rain down on the foundation of the keep and the surrounding courtyard. Lighter but more accurate trebuchets blasted at the spots already weakened by the heavier siegecraft.

  Nearer still, in more irregular array, many clusters of armed men crouched behind full-length shields shining angrily in the morning sun. The groups farther back used their protection, casually bobbing heads and torsos to see the battle’s progress. Those closer, within range of the defenders’ longbows, huddled in tight balls, exposing no arm or a leg as a target.

  With each volley of the rockthrowers, the answering fire from the manchicolations and loopholes in the castle’s walls would cease, and the men in the field would creep a little closer, their scaling ladders and belfries dragging behind them. From high on the keep, Alodar could see that, long before the clusters reached the outer wall, they would converge into a single continuous ring of attackers.

  “Yes, it would take a large force to break through to us,” he finally agreed, “but Iron Fist has never fallen to assault.”

  “It takes more than stone and iron to defend this mound,” the sergeant said. “Muscle pulls tight the bowstrings and swings the broadswords, and at last muster we numbered fewer than two hundred fighting men. Two hundred for over half a mile of wall.”

  He shook his head with lips pulled into a tight line of disapproval. “A mere two hundred, because Vendora wanted to flaunt her might along the southern border. Almost every garrison in Procolon stripped to nothing, so that those petty border kingdoms think to stop their raids and return to bickering among themselves. Hah, I wonder if those raids seem so important to her now? Fully provisioned, we could withstand anything that Bandor could throw at us. As it is, only the great height and thickness of these walls have saved her crown and pretty neck this long.”

  “But her miscomputation was no worse than mine,” Alodar said, spreading his palms outward. “How would anyone but a sorcerer surmise that one of her most faithful vassals would suddenly lose his reason and plunge through that gap in the west, just when she was here? The gates clanged shut on noble and craftsman alike who happened to be here, and none claim to have foreseen it.”

  “Yes, it is strange,” the sergeant said. “The ferocity of the attack, the way he drives his men on with no regard for their exhaustion. I have heard it whispered about more than once at night that Bandor has lost not his reason but his will. Like a mere craftsman, he has been possessed.”

  Alodar blinked with surprise, but before he could reply he was interrupted by one of the observers.

  “He has found a spot and is signaling for us to proceed.”

  “Sweetbalm, luck is with us today,” the sergeant exclaimed, jumping his thoughts back to the task at hand. “Start bringing up the beams and lashings.”

  Alodar stepped to the stand and released the splinter from the clamp. Holding it at arm’s length, he dropped his hand a fraction of an inch. The basket sank correspondingly, and the wheel again started to spin. He retraced his steps, and it shot across the sky to hover directly overhead. Finally, as he lowered the splinter, it settled gently onto the floor of the bartizan. Again the giant crank was a blur as the wheel spun, but it turned not nearly as fast as when Morwin had first propelled it.

  Alodar rapidly recited another incantation, virtually indistinguishable from the first. When he was done, he flung the splinter high into the air with a dramatic gesture while the basket remained unperturbed on the ground.

  The men-at-arms wasted no time in loading two large notched beams into the basket. Morwin against cranked up the wheel, and Alodar removed a fresh splinter and spoke the incantation. Moving with more haste than before, he brought the splinter directly to the clamp; the basket with its burden hurled from the castle to the cliffs. The sergeant directed some small corrections until the basket hovered directly below the ledge that the rider had found. Morwin moved the clamp and secured the splinter in the new position.

  After the gondola was unloaded, the entire process was repeated many times, with each worker intent upon his tasks. Alodar broke the spell upon the return. Morwin rewound the crank and the men-at-arms packed a new load of beams, brands, or lashings. Another incantation and fixing of a splinter in the clamp and another bundle would be delivered to the ledge in the distance. Several hours later the men-at-arms were the passengers for the final two trips, and then the job was done.

  Weary from the concentration, Alodar looked to the west. “How long will it take them to assemble it?” he asked.

  “At least six hours. They must take care to tune it to exactly the same tension it had here. Every shot will count, and they can waste none on range calibration,” the sergeant responded, his voice now
showing some excitement. “With just a bit more luck, Bandor’s entire siege train will be smoldering ashes by nightfall.”

  They fell silent and waited, listening to time being marked off by the rhythmic crash of rock and swish of arrows below. Near dusk, Alodar sprang up from his vigil excitedly.

  “Look, they are signaling that they are ready.”

  As he spoke, a flaming brand arched upwards from the ledge and down into the valley, disappearing into the silhouettes of the tents formed by the setting sunlight.

  A minute passed with no discernible change in the campsite; but then as the second shot was being launched, the central tent became alive with flame.

  “A hit, a direct hit on Bandor’s tent,” the sergeant shouted. “Look at it take hold of that dry canvas! It will spread to the others in no time at all. And look, here comes the next missile right on the mark as well.”

  A second tent burst into flame, and then a third. Even from the distance, Alodar could hear an alarm gong sound and the rising hubbub of voices.

  “They are shifting targets now; good men.” The sergeant banged his fist down on the wall. “Let us see how those wagons can stand up to a little heat.”

  The incendiaries began falling more rapidly as the crew on the ledge gained confidence in their engine, raking their fusillade back and forth across the pass, starting fires at random in the densely packed train. Alodar could see some of the blazes start up and then quickly be snuffed out; but for every one extinguished, two more sprouted elsewhere in the camp. In some places, the isolated pinpoints of light had converged into large walls of leaping flame, brilliant even against the setting sun.

  Finally trumpets sounded from somewhere within the widening conflagration, and the siegecraft directly between the camp and the castle ceased their firing. Throwing arms and cranks were battened down, rocks tossed back upon supply wagons, and the engines began to withdraw. A frantic mob of men burst from the flame and confusion, like seeds from a flattened melon, and ran to meet them, alternately waving greater haste and pointing up into the cliffs from which came the rain of fire. Alodar heard the zing of arrows from the castle walls increase intensity as the defenders, unchallenged for the first time in days, vented their frustrations. The assault from the west ground to a halt.