Space Magic (8 page)

-o0o-

Ulrich sat at Agnes’ trestle table, grinding charcoal into a fine powder with a mortar and pestle he had found in the ruins of the wizards’ cottage. Nearby, Agnes dipped goose feathers into a cauldron of boiling water to soften them for cutting. Ulrich’s goose-bitten finger throbbed, a reminder of the eternal enmity between geese and the scribes who steal their eggs for ink and their feathers for quills.

“You said these weather daemons are very powerful,” said Agnes. “Why work such great magic in such a tiny village?”

“Many villages have a weather daemon or two. But Johannes and Heinrich together were able to bind stronger daemons than either of them could alone.” He paused in his grinding, lost in memory for a moment. “It’s a pity they didn’t stay together. Do you know why Heinrich left?”

“It was his ambition. Johannes was content to stay where he was born, and work more and better spells for the benefit of the village. Heinrich was always pushing, always reaching for more and more power. He ached to be a king’s wizard. Finally it came to a huge screaming fight, and he left the village in a foul temper. But without Johannes he was nothing. He eventually became wizard of Mehlen, and died there.”

“I do not know Mehlen.”

“I’m not surprised—it is an even smaller town than Lannesdorf.”

“I remember how Heinrich treated his horse—whipped the poor beast so hard I feared for her life. I wondered sometimes why Johannes put up with him.”

“He told me once that he had tolerated Heinrich for the sake of the magic they could do together. But in the end it was Heinrich who left, and good riddance.”

-o0o-

Ulrich set down his quill and rubbed his eyes. After two weeks of scrubbing, stitching, and inking, the letters seemed to swim upon the page like a thousand tiny black fish. But this was the last of it.

The sound of Agnes’ family snoring in the outer room mingled with the drum of rain on the thatched roof, the hiss of wind through the cracks in the walls, the rhythmic splats from the mud puddle under the leak in the corner. The smoky flame of the tallow candle wavered in the draft. He wondered what hour of the night it might be.

He turned back over the pages, looking for any remaining spots of mold or illegible words. Here and there he touched up a letter, but he knew he was only delaying the inevitable. Finally he brought from his belt-bag the fragments of the wax seal that had closed the spell-book—wax mingled with wizards’ blood. He melted the fragments together in the candle’s flame, let the melted wax fall onto the cord that held shut the book. Then, fingers trembling, he pressed his father’s signet ring into the wax.

Nothing happened. The spell was sealed, and he still lived.

He let out a breath he had not even known he was holding, and knelt to thank God for his success. Then he dragged his weary body off to bed. He did not even bother to undress.

-o0o-

A short time later he was jerked from sleep by an enormous clap of thunder.

He sat up, trying to shake the sleep out of his head. A long flash of lightning showed the wide eyes of Agnes and her family, huddled together in fear—the thunder followed just a moment later, seeming to smash a lid of darkness down over the scene. Between peals of thunder Ulrich heard a tremendous rattling roar—hail pelting the roof and walls.

The youngest child wailed. Another bolt of lightning showed Ulrich her terrified face, and one tiny hand reaching out to grasp at Agnes’ sleeve. Thunder rolled across the roof.

Ulrich struggled out of the bed, groped for a candle. Then the roar of hail doubled in volume as the front door was flung open. A flash of lightning revealed Konrad and a dozen other villagers, their dripping faces contorted with rage and fear.

“Enough of wizardry!” Konrad yelled. “Agnes, stoke the fire. We will burn the cursed book this very night!”

“There is no telling what might happen then!” Ulrich shouted.

“Silence!” Konrad replied. “It could scarcely be worse than this. Nikolaus, bring the book.”

“No!” Ulrich yelled, and dashed into the inner room. He snatched up the spell-book.

Lightning flared again, a long stroke that cast a net of blue-white fire across the scene. Nikolaus and Agnes blocked the door, their eyes hard; Konrad stood behind them. Water trickled down the windowless walls. No escape.

Ulrich clutched the book to his chest. Then, with a growl, he lowered his head and charged—straight at the wall.

The rain-sodden clay gave way and he crashed through, feeling the sticks within the wall claw at his face and arms. He tried desperately to protect his eyes and the book at the same time. He got his head and upper body through, but then his legs met resistance and he tumbled face-first into the cold mud outside.

Hail battered his head, a sharp broken stick jabbed into his thigh, and his mouth and eyes were clogged with foul, clinging mud. He struggled blindly, writhing in the ruins of the broken wall. Hard clods of clay fell onto his back and head.

Then he felt hands grabbing at his feet. Panicked, he surged forward, finally winning free—all save one shoe, pulled off by someone inside the house. Freezing mud squelched between the toes of the bare foot.

Ulrich struggled to his feet, rubbing mud from his eyes with one hand, awkwardly juggling the heavy book with the other. He heard a confusion of voices behind him as a large section of the wall collapsed, delaying pursuit. Konrad shouted something, but his words were lost in the sounds of hail and thunder.

This was clearly no natural storm. The hailstones that seemed to pound in on him from all directions were black, not white, and had the size and twisted shape of knucklebones. Lightning flared again and again, blue-white flashes mingling with greenish afterimages in his eyes. The thunder was nearly constant. And there was a weird, lightheaded sensation, as though he were falling, which he had experienced before in the presence of great magics.

“There he is!” A tremendous bolt of lightning accompanied the shouted words, revealing Konrad standing in the door of Agnes’ collapsing house. His finger pointed directly at Ulrich, and two villagers began to move in his direction before the light faded.

Ulrich ran.

His head and shoulders were battered by the black hail as he ran, hunched protectively over the book, unbalanced by its weight. His bare foot slid painfully across the hailstone-littered mud and he nearly fell, but he caught himself with one hand and kept going. Shouts and the splashes of feet in puddles sounded not far behind.

Another flash of lightning revealed a fork in the path. The left fork led into the woods—the natural destination for any outlaw. He could lose himself there with ease. But unless he found shelter soon, the hail would destroy the spell-book as surely as any fire.

He took the right fork. Konrad and the others were right behind him.

Ulrich left the path and charged through the trees. Branches whipped his face; sticks and sharp rocks assailed his bare foot with every step. But it delayed his pursuers, and with his desperate haste he gained a little way on them.

Then the ground fell away from him.

Ulrich cried out in surprise as he slid down a muddy embankment and splashed into the freezing waters of the creek. He felt the book slipping from his arms as he regained his feet, and it was only with a frantic grab that he prevented it from falling into the rushing water. He heard shouts behind him. With an effort he hoisted the book over his head, then waded into the creek.

The chill water ripped at his legs, threatening to topple him over, but he pressed forward. Deeper and deeper he slogged, feeling the current tug at his leggings, then at his jacket. He had no idea how deep the water might be after months of rain, but he forced himself to keep going. Water splashed to his waist, his chest, his armpits, sucking all warmth from his body. He could feel nothing from his feet. His arms burned from the effort of holding the heavy book above his head. He kept going.

Finally the creek bed began to slope upward. He struggled on, feeling his body grow heavier and heavier as he rose step by step from the roaring water. At last he reached the bank and collapsed onto a log, letting the book fall into his lap. His muscles twitched from exhaustion and he trembled all over from fatigue and fear.

Another bolt of lightning illuminated the scene. Three villagers stood, pointing, on the opposite bank. Konrad was half-way across, his face set in an expression of determination and hatred.

Ulrich hauled himself to his feet and stumbled up the bank, seeking higher ground. Hoping to lose himself in the trees.

He staggered through a black world, freezing cold and lit only by irregular flashes of lightning. Again and again he ran headlong into a tree or fell into the mud. Thunder roared like God’s mocking laughter. Blood pounded in his ears, even louder than the thunder; breath rasped in his throat.

Then, just as he entered a clearing at the top of a small hill, his bare foot snagged on a protruding root and he sprawled full length, the book flying from his hands. Desperately he scrambled forward on hands and knees, found the book caught in the branches of a thorny bush. The cover was still closed; he prayed none of the pages had been damaged. He levered himself to a standing position, clutching the book to his chest.

A flash of lightning revealed Konrad’s lined face not three feet from his own.

Ulrich backed away from the apparition, his free arm flailing as he toppled backward into the bush. Thorns clawed at his hands and face, caught his clothing. His own weight and that of the book pinned him to the bush, whose branches hampered his arms so that he could not rise.

Trapped.

Konrad smiled as he stepped forward. “You look tired, sir,” he said. “Let me take that heavy book for you.”

Ulrich struggled against the entrapping bush.

Konrad reached for the book.

And then a blue-white sheet of fire stretched across the sky, accompanied by an immediate smashing pressure of sound. It was all too huge for Ulrich’s eyes, his ears, his brain to comprehend, and he lost consciousness.

Some time later—he had no way of knowing how long—he was able to see and hear again, to move his limbs, to wrench himself free of the bush. The night was still dark; the lightning and hail still raged.

Konrad lay unmoving on the ground, already covered with a layer of the black hailstones. His hat and shoes were missing; much of his clothing looked burnt.

Wearily Ulrich picked up the book and began walking.

After an eternity, he came to the mill. Its wheel groaned loud enough to be heard even over the ringing in his ears.

He splashed through the creek and into the darkness under the mill-wheel’s axle. Here was a small space where he had spent many a pleasant hour with Bechte. As he ducked inside there was a sudden movement, and a fox dashed out between his legs. The space was foul and muddy, but at last he was shielded from the pounding hail.

Shivering, he wrapped himself into a ball around the book. He would wait here until daybreak, then find a better hiding place.

-o0o-

He awoke with a start to the sight of Agnes’ dripping face. Her mouth was set in a scowl, and he scrambled back away from her, cracking his head on a projecting timber.

“Agnes!” he gasped, stupidly. “How did you find me?” His own voice sounded peculiar to him; his ears felt stuffed with straw.

“I grew up by this mill. You are not the only one who knows of this trysting-place.”

A little wan daylight seeped through chinks in the wall, and outside the hail had been replaced by a driving rain. Thunder still rolled.

“I’m sorry I broke your wall.”

“You should be!” she snapped. “Half the house collapsed behind you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and meant it. “I should never have come here.”

“Be quiet and move over. My bottom’s getting soaked.”

He moved away from the entrance, letting Agnes pull herself fully inside. There was just room for the two of them. Agnes’ eyes were white in her mud-smeared face, and Ulrich knew he must look far worse.

They sat in silence for a time. Finally he said “Are you going to tell them where I am?”

“I don’t know. Half of them want to burn the book, and God knows what would happen then. But I’m not sure what else I can do.”

“You can help me. I know what I did wrong. I can fix it, I think. But I need some things.”

“What kind of things?”

“A candle. And some sealing wax. And a sharp knife.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Are you sure this won’t make it even worse?”

“I think so. I only hope I have the courage to do it.”

She began to back out of the hole, then paused. “May I ask you one question?”

“Anything.”

“These daemons... they control the weather. Rain, wind, sun. Why could they not keep one book dry?”

“I... I don’t know.”

“No matter.” And she left.

-o0o-

But it did matter. It tugged and tugged at Ulrich’s mind while he waited for Agnes to return. She was right; keeping the spell itself safe from harm was a simple and standard part of any spell. How could a wizard of Johannes’ abilities have forgotten it?

Ulrich cast his mind back over the last two weeks of work. He had not read every page—much of the
Zauberschrift
was beyond him in any case—but he did remember seeing a clause for protecting the spell-book.

He broke the seal. A twinge went through him at that, but the weather did not seem to worsen, and he leafed through the book in search of the passage he recalled. The light was terrible, there was barely room to turn the pages, and his vision was blurred from exhaustion, but eventually he found it.

It was indeed, as near as he could puzzle out, a clause for protecting the spell-book. But there was an addition in Heinrich’s crabbed hand:
you and all your brothers shall in this, and in all things, be obedient to Heinrich the wizard above all others
.

Tired though he was, Ulrich seethed. That power-besotted bastard Heinrich had given himself personal command of all the daemons, hiding it here in this obscure clause. And worse, he had done it badly. He had inserted his text in the phrase that invoked the protective daemon, and the insertion had mangled the language of the invocation. This error had left the spell-book completely unprotected. It was a wonder the book had lasted as long as it did.