Dangerous Games (35 page)

The heroes huddled close around the chanting Candlemas, shut their eyes in anticipation of being crushed in rubble, but found the corridor and the rest of the building intact, the flagstones solid under their feet. A neat trick, almost a miracle, the first by a man almost a god.

Floating past the ruined walls and shorn roof, Karsus boomed his challenge, “Mystryl! I’ll have your power!”

High above, covering the sky from horizon to horizon, the goddess manifested as thunderclouds was in full retreat. She drew back, still remote, calm-faced, with dark, staring eyes wide as mountain lakes. As her retreat continued, Sunbright and Knucklebones and Aquesita wondered where she’d go, where she’d hide from the power-stealing Karsus.

Only Candlemas couldn’t see, for he doggedly read his scroll. He was almost to the bottom, and the four humans sensed the magic take effect. Sunbright felt lightheaded and ethereal, as if he dreamed awake, the same as when he’d been drawn into the future by that long spell of not-time. Knucklebones hugged Sunbright’s arm as her bones and heart went hollow. And Aquesita, one hand trapped by Candlemas, was torn between a distant other world she’d never known, and her familiar homeland that was falling apart before her eyes.

“Look!” cried Knucklebones. “Lady Mystryl is—”

“Gone!”

Sweeping her arms wide, closing her volcanic eyes, Mystryl, Lady of Mystery, Controller of the Weave, ceased to be.

In a flash, the sky was clear.

Where clouds had been stacked thick and dark and roiling, there was suddenly nothing, only blue sky so vast and deep the heroes thought they saw stars. A brilliant sun, sharp and hot as if rainwashed, glared overhead. It was high noon on a spring day. The heroes’ shadows lay almost directly under their feet.

But their feet were lifting from the ground, for the city was dropping.

Sunbright scooped Knucklebones, Aquesita, and the still-chanting Candlemas into his brawny arms and kicked out a foot to wedge himself between corridor walls. Already debris was sliding out the doorway into the ruins of the workshop.

Half clinging, half pushing, Aquesita pointed mutely at a craggy lump in the distance. The sister city Ioulaum dropped like the rock it was.

Tiny objects like shed feathers could be seen trailing upward, left behind: pennants, tents, banners, awnings, anything that might float on a breeze. The enclave built on an inverted mountain tipped, spun, capsized, then struck the side of a mountain. A corner burst off, a hundred buildings tumbling free like ants spilled from a hill. The face of the city struck, an entire culture destroyed. The enclave skipped sideways like a flung rock and exploded into fist-sized chunks of white and yellow and red. In three seconds, buildings, universities, streets, homes and tens of thousands of people were wiped out.

As would happen now to the enclave Karsus.

In a second, the heroes understood what happened, for the goddess’s act had been clear, had communicated itself to them so that all people—all survivors—might comprehend. And remember.

Rather than allow herself to be usurped, rather than have her powers stolen, rather than let Karsus become a god, the Mother of All Magic sacrificed herself. With the last powers of this greatest of gods, she wished herself out of existence, and vanished.

And took all the magic in the world with her.

The Phaerimm, who were magic to their core, disappeared.

Karsus was left alone in the room, hovering, struggling to keep the magic within himself. But the might of the fallen star was gone, vanished, as if it had never existed. The mage clenched his fists and cried in rage and frustration and sorrow. For the first time in his life, Karsus was denied something he wanted, and he would destroy his world to get it.

Having seen none of this, Candlemas had hurried, barked the last of his spell just in time. His enchantment had taken root in the past, and already the four people faded. Exhausted physically and mentally, the pudgy mage dropped the empty paper and tightened his sweaty grip on his lady’s hand.

But Aquesita tore away, screaming, “No! I won’t desert the empire in its hour of need!”

A ghostly Candlemas gave a hollow croak and grabbed for her. Only Sunbright’s sturdy hand—transparent as glass—kept him from breaking the spell’s enchantment.

Stumbling into the ravaged workshop, a now solid, worldly Aquesita tripped over sliding wreckage and reached high to catch the hem of her cousin’s tattered white robe.

“Karry, hang on! You must save—”

That was all Candlemas, Sunbright, and Knucklebones heard, for they disappeared. Their ghostly eyes misted over, like a curtain of fog shrouding them, until Aquesita and the flaring, howling Karsus were something from a dream.

Only Aquesita, Karsus’s cousin and sole living relative, the one person in the empire who loved him for himself, saw his final moments.

Struggling to retain his magical might, Karsus employed every holding spell he knew. But the mixed and fading and fluky magic betrayed him, even as he’d betrayed himself in trying to steal the powers of the goddess who controlled all magic at its roots. His cousin watched in horror as Karsus, savior of the Netherese Empire, was transformed into stone, larger than life, denser than granite, redder than blood.

By then, the enclave had tipped almost vertically. Karsus, once a god, now a red stone statue, tipped far into space and plummeted, and his loving, ill-fated cousin fell after.

For an instant, Karsus understood what had happened, how Mystryl had sacrificed herself for the common good of god and man, an unselfish sacrifice he never could have conceived of. And how his loving cousin had sacrificed herself believing in him, as the empire had believed in him.

And how he’d betrayed them all.

With this last, godlike insight, Karsus’s selfish heart broke.

Even as, seconds later and far below, the statue-man drove into the ground and came to rest, while the greatest city of the empire, named after its greatest mage, exploded into fragments.

In the space of half a minute, the Netherese Empire, beloved of the gods, was snuffed out like a candle flame.

That was bad.

That was good. Their empire is finished.

As are we, almost.

Never. The Phaerimm are eternal.

And greatly reduced in numbers.

No matter. We survive.

With the humans reduced to flint axes and fire, we shall even prosper.

Increase in number.

And destroy humankind once and for all.

Let us so pledge.

Aye, so pledge we all.

On a surprisingly peaceful mountainside, miles away from the falling Empire of Netheril, sat a star-eyed girl named Mystra.

A smile crept across her face, a tingle ran through her body, and a soft voice—a cloud’s voice—whispered in her ear, “Soon.”

*

Still tightly clutching Knucklebones and Candlemas, Sunbright blinked and cast about. Spring sunlight filtered through the tops of red pines and pin oaks. Scarlet cardinals and yellow goldfinches flitted through rhododendron bushes. A warm balm of pine sap and churned earth and oak tannin kissed the air. Somewhere close, a snuffling badger rooted under rocks. Behind was a low hillside cleft like a loaf of bread, marred by a shadowed crater. In the churned loam and sand before the cave were footprints of moosehide boots and warped sandals. The tracks went into the cave but didn’t come out. Sunbright raised on tiptoes and peeked. Neither he, nor Candlemas, nor the star, were inside.

So they’d returned only moments after leaving.

They were home.

Blowing a great sigh of relief, Sunbright released his death grip on his two comrades. He laughed aloud, saying, “Well, Candlemas! You’re a genius! You not only brought us home…”

His merriment died as he remembered: there had been four people when their journey back had started.

Knucklebones grunted with relief and tugged her worn leathers into place. Curiously, she stared around at the northern forest, familiarizing herself with the terrain, wary of enemies, for old habits die hard. But just as quickly, she saw to the pudgy mage.

Candlemas slumped to the ground, landing with a thump on his fat rump. With sandy hands he rubbed a face still singed by Karsus’s fire blast. He wept openly, blubbering and hiccuping like a baby.

Sunbright and Knucklebones said nothing, just sat on either side of him to catch their breath. Knucklebones stroked his knee, Sunbright his back.

Eventually the mage cried himself out. Then slowly, his voice cracked and broken, he talked.

“She didn’t understand. She thought Karsus could save the empire. She was as blind as him, seeing only what she wanted. She had the same dream, that the empire would always grow, always expand, forever. But nothing lasts forever.”

“No,” Sunbright murmured. “That was the death of the Netherese Empire, which the Neth thought would outlast the sun. In three hundred and fifty-eight years, and a few minutes, it’s naught but a memory.”

“Like Sita.” Candlemas croaked. “I loved her so….”

“And she loved you,” Knucklebones cooed. “But it was not to be. The fates decided otherwise.”

“Oh!” The mage snuffled. “Oh, you were right, Sunbright!”

“I was?” The shaman pondered. “That’s a first. About what?”

“Magic, knowledge, life.”

Candlemas sniffed and caught his breath.

“Magic is too great a force to control. You can only use a small portion of it, follow it, not bend it to your will. It’s like trying to divert the tide. You’ll only drown.”

The forest was silent except for the cheep of tree frogs and the carol of birdsong. The three companions basked in the warm sun, resting after their labors, for once not running, fighting, killing, dying. But Candlemas shriveled inside, his heart broken as surely as Karsus’s, and he knew it would never wholly mend. He’d given his heart and lost it, and his chest was hollow but for the splintered fragments.

The sun was low in the sky when Candlemas finally rose, dusted off his hands, and smoothed his scorched, filthy robe of military cut. Sunbright and Knucklebones had dozed off holding hands. Gently the mage touched their scarred arms to wake them. Both were instantly alert and up, then wondering what to do.

Candlemas stared upward. Hovering in a blue spring sky, a mile high, was the enclave of Castle Delia, a stopping ground for the young Lady Polaris. Sunbright followed the mage’s stare, asked gently, “Ready to go home?”

A surprising shake of the head. Candlemas said weakly, “I was in no hurry to return, for I left nothing behind. Some money, a spare robe, rooms full of trinkets and trash. I wanted to stay with Sita, and make a home there. That’s gone, and I’m back, but there’s less now than there was before. There’s no place for me anywhere.”

Sunbright laid a broad hand on his shoulder.

“Where will you go?”

Resigned, not really caring, the mage nodded south.

“There’s a small keep, leagues off, in the hills near the lakes. I know it from my stewardship. It’s abandoned. Probably Lady Polaris …” He paused at the mention of her name, then continued, “Probably Lady Polaris doesn’t even know she owns it. I’ll move there in lieu of pay. She owes me enough for my years of service. From what I saw in—the enclave—I have a notion how to cure the crop blight. Maybe Polaris and the nobles don’t care if a cure is found, but many innocent people still suffer. It will be a worthwhile use of magic for once, saving crops instead of tinkering with hair curlers and gambling dice.”

He glanced at the high castle, then finished, “I can walk there. It’ll give me time to … think about Aquesita. I never said goodbye….”

Sunbright squeezed the mage’s shoulder, said softly, “I’m afraid you must say it now. To us.”

Candlemas turned woodenly.

The shaman smiled, but sadly.

“I’m bound north,” he said, “It’s time for me to go home, back to the tundra and my tribe. I’ve debts to settle and stories to tell, and my birthright to reclaim. I’m ready now to face them, now that I’m a proper shaman.” He looked a question past Candlemas.

Knucklebones hitched her belt, settled her black-bladed elven knife on her hip. Her one green eye stared back.

“I’ll go.”

That brought a smile of thanks from Sunbright.

Slump-shouldered, infinitely weary, Candlemas only nodded.

“Then there’s nothing else to say.”

“One thing.” Sunbright said, holding out a scarred, brown hand. “Thank you, friend.”

Candlemas clasped hands, was dully surprised to find how strong his own hand felt in the barbarian’s big one.

“Yes,” the mage said. “Thank you, friend. You’ll be a great shaman, for you’ve taught me much already.”

“And you’ll cure the crop blight magically, and save simple folk from suffering, so they’ll sing praises to your name. I can prophesy that.”

Candlemas smiled weakly in thanks.

They turned and walked away. Two north, one south.

About the Author

Clayton Emery has been a blacksmith, a dishwasher, a schoolteacher in Australia, a carpenter, a zookeeper, a farmhand, a land surveyor, and a volunteer firefighter, among other things. He was an award-winning technical writer for ten years. His novels include Tales of Robin Hood; Shadow World #1: The Burning Goddess and Shadow World #3: City of Assassins; the Whispering Woods trilogy for Magic: The Gathering; the Robin & Marian stories in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, and other works. He lives in New Hampshire with his wife and son, and has played the dungeons & dragonsŽ game since forever.

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