Narmarkoun nodded, his smile now wide and smug. This confirmed all his suspicions. Lorontar had long ago found a way to this other world, this "Earth," and perhaps to gain riches and magic from it; and someone, not too long ago-Arlaghaun, perhaps-had found another copy of this spell, and used it to bring the bumbler Everlar to Falconfar.
And now, Narmarkoun of Falconfar could fetch folk of Earth, too, and had the basic wits to choose someone more useful than Rod Everlar!
Firmly quelling his glee for as long as it might take, he drew in a deep breath, flexed his fingers, composed himself, and cast the spell as carefully as any calmly competent apprentice, visualizing the only man of Earth he knew.
He was promptly plunged into a welter of emotions-apprehension, above all-and racing thoughts. Just as he'd expected, knowing Everlar was awake. He saw bearded men in scruffy cloth overjacks, scribes they must be, sitting at desks beside piles of identical tomes which they were writing in, and handing to lines of supplicants… and a vast city, stretching to the horizon and dominated by many fortresses whose tall turrets thrust up into the sky higher than any temple or castle Narmarkoun had ever seen… and wagon-roads smoother than any courtyard, crowded with people along their edges and with wagons that looked to be made all of armor and were pulled by invisible steeds…
He resisted the temptation to bear down and seek to share what Everlar was thinking, as that couldn't help but make even the feeble-minded Earth dolt feel his presence. Instead, he performed the age-old mental dismissal that ended a working of magic.
A loop of sparks, visualized in a night-black void, and instantly-as always-the spell was done.
There'd be ample time to work it again when the Lord Archwizard-Narmarkoun felt his lips curling with contempt at merely thinking of that title, linked to the timorous dolt-was asleep, and drift in his dreams long enough to draw memories of others of Earth from him. New victims, to be Narmarkoun's own, and a road to conquering a new realm or two. Or even all of Earth.
Then something happened that dashed all Narmarkoun's glee away in an instant, plunging him from satisfaction to terror.
The scroll was still shimmering slightly, in the aftermath of the magic he'd roused from it. In the surges of that waning power, markings were appearing across the bottom of the scroll. Writings, in Lorontar's hand but scribbled in haste, on a slight angle from the darker, neater script that set forth the spell itself.
Notes, written by Lorontar, the real Lord Archwizard of Falconfar, about Shapers, one such in particular: Rod Everlar.
So unless the dolt now wandering dim-wittedly through Malragard had somehow lived for centuries without showing any signs of age or experience, Lorontar was very far from being as long dead as all Falconfar had thought.
And here he was, the wizard Narmarkoun-least in power of the Dooms of Falconfar, once one discounted foresight and spells of undeath-kneeling on the floor working magic in the heart of Yintaerghast, the spell-shrouded castle of Lorontar himself.
"Falcon!" Garfist snarled, trying to claw his way past Iskarra, who stood in the way, flapping her arms in a sudden flurry as if trying to fly. " Get those glorking doors open!"
"Yes!" Isk hissed at him, her eyes hard and wild as she watched the monsters, now looking their way and starting to move from between the pillars. "Stand back and give me room!"
"Stop me vitals, woman, what're ye-"
Gar found himself staring at a pair of small but deliciously familiar breasts. They danced under his nose for the briefest of instants as Iskarra finally got her worn-through vest and ragged tunic off, into a untidy bundle where her hands met above her head.
He hadn't time to do more than gape before she swung the balled-up garments down like a swordsman using two hands on his blade to hew a foe, and grasped one of the large pull-rings of the great double entrance doors.
It awakened into a menacingly-crackling cascade of blue sparks and leaping blue-white bolts of lightning, as Iskarra cried out in pain, her hair springing out rigid to stand like a halo of tiny spears, and kicked at the ground to turn the ring.
The door ground open, swinging inward with the deep tone of a bell almost too low to hear-and Iskarra lost her hold, staggered back, and sat down hard, moaning.
Watching the monsters coming for them-even faster than he'd feared they could move, of course-Garfist charged over to scoop her up, cradling her to his chest in a tangle of helplessly shuddering limbs, ran in a tight circle so as not to risk falling by trying to halt and head in a different direction with his moaning burden, and darted out through the doors, into the glimmering beginnings of dawn.
Gloom-shadowed Harlhoh rose dark and still against that brightening horizon below, and Gar lumbered down a broad wagon-path toward it, gathering speed and hoping by all the gods there were and might be that he'd not fall, nor find all those hungry horrors snapping at his heels.
Surely they were guardians, enspelled to stay in the wizard's abode and menace intruders, not go chasing off across half a Raurklor hold… aye? Please?
Behind him, bright light stabbed out, falling on his back, and something roared hungrily. The grand entry hall of Malragard had erupted into bright and busy life.
Garfist Gulkoun cursed, briefly but fiercely, then shut up. He needed all his breath for running-or rather, panting so he could keep on running.
That roar came again, and this time it was echoed by a call that was high-pitched, bubblingly wet, and more angry than hungry.
Even over Gar's loud and quickening panting, both beast-calls sounded nearer.
That bed had been empty, its dark blue overshroud unblemished by pillows or-or anything.
Now there was a naked man lying spreadeagled on that dark blue cloth, wrists and ankles manacled to the four bedposts. Naked, hairy, and unconscious, head lolling and staring empty-eyed at nothing.
Those eyes saw nothing, but the face wore a look of terror, tinged with bewildered astonishment.
An expression that was probably pretty close to Rod's own. He knew that terrified, senseless face. It was Onthras, one of the Hammerhold knights who'd been chasing him mere panting moments ago.
So how? The magic of Malragard, of course. Onthras had been caught in a trap, or had been made part of a trap for Rod Everlar. But why? What sort of Doom of Falconfar crafts spells to do such a thing?
Rod stared at Onthras-or the thing that looked like Onthras-and slowly backed away, seeking another way out of the room.
Which is when he saw that, stare and peer about as much as he might, the bedchamber had only two doors: one out into the passage where the rest of the Hammerhand warriors presumably still were, and the one he'd come through, from the bathroom.
Now what?
After a moment, Rod used his sword to thrust aside the skirts of the bed, to see if he dared hide under it, and think.
A face like a skull turned and grinned at him, out of the darkness.
It was a skull, Rod realized a moment later, as he fought down a scream and hastily backed away-and the skeleton in disintegrating skirts that had been lying under the bed clambered out from under it, beckoning to him grotesquely with one long, bony finger.
A bright warning blazed up in Malraun's mind again, rousing him out of a pleasant doze. He was… he was lying atop Taeauna in the bed in Darswords, both of them still moist with sweat. Oh, yes… he'd exhausted himself having his way with her.
Now something back in Malragard had been disturbed again, goading his ward-spells into whirling up in his mind to alert him, and-Falcon hurl, what was it now?
It was the undead husk of the sorceress Telrorna, whom he'd defeated years ago, and drained of life and spells but bound into his service forever, to be his slave beyond death.