Turning, the wizard hurried back into his workroom, and Harlmut trailed him, gazing around in surprise. He hadn’t been up here since Candabraxis had arrived, but he’d hardly expected such drastic changes.
The long wooden table at which he’d seen Candabraxis working dominated the room. Upon it sat an odd collection of bottles, vials, and jars. Some held thick, bubbling liquids of various colors. Others held oddly colored powders, crushed leaves, and bits of root, bark, and bones. Candles burned here and there, heating mixtures and letting off strangely aromatic scents.
In contrast, the walls bore intricate tapestries showing hunting scenes, banquets, and even a few portraits of old kings of Grabentod. Doubtless those had been provided for Candabraxis’s use by one of the servants. The castle had sufficient tapestries tucked away to cover every wall several times over.
Rather than stop at the worktable, though, Candabraxis hurried around it to a clear area of the floor. There, strange diagrams had been sketched in what looked like blood. The wizard set Bowspear’s boot in the center of the pattern, stood back, closed his eyes, and in a deep voice, began intoning a spell.
Harlmut felt a gathering of energy in the room, a strange crackling force that made his hair stand on end and set his teeth on edge. He shifted uneasily. He’d never been so near the creation of magic before, and it made him distinctly uneasy.
Thrice Candabraxis called Bowspear’s name. The candles flickered and almost died, and a strange wind whipped around the room, fluttering the tapestries and stirring various bits of paper on the worktable.
And, just as suddenly as it had begun, the magic ended. Candabraxis sagged a little, as though exhausted. Harlmut took his elbow, steadying him.
“Well?” he asked eagerly. What had the spell accomplished? Had he missed it? “I didn’t see anything—”
Candabraxis had to lean on the worktable to catch his balance. He took a deep, cleansing breath.
“Something is shielding him,” Candabraxis said softly. “It’s a magic more powerful than my own scrying spell. Is there another wizard in Grabentod who could have protected him?”
“No,” Harlmut said. “You’re the only wizard who’s been here in generations.”
Candabraxis furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand, then. Where would he get such a powerful charm?”
“I think I know,” Harlmut said with a grimace. So much for his hopes of finally trapping Bowspear. “He has quite a few powerful friends, including the high priestess of the Temple of Ela. If anyone could get such a charm, she could. But tell me… is there nothing more you can do? Can’t you at least warn Captain Evann?”
Candabraxis shook his head. “I wish I could. However, the same magic that shields him from our enemies also protects him from me…. He is on his own until he returns.”
Thirteen
Harrach, for all his size and strength, could move as softly as a cat when he wanted to. He chose to now. Testing each board in the staircase before putting his full weight on it, stopping for half a minute whenever he made the slightest noise, he moved steadily downward. The wizard knew they were inside his house, but he might not know where they were.
The staircase ended at a door. Harrach pushed gently with his fingertips, and it swung silently open on well-oiled hinges. He found himself looking down a stone corridor lit by a single flickering torch. Again he crept forward.
To his right, a door stood slightly ajar. Through the narrow gap he glimpsed movement. He smiled coldly. This was what he’d been waiting for.
After taking half a step back, he kicked the door open and leapt through, brandishing his sword. A quick glance showed him the room: a chamber with bright tapestries on the walls, scattered pieces of intricately carved wooden furniture, and several tables piled high with papers. A fireplace against one wall radiated a cheerful warmth. The center of the room had been cleared, and intricate geometric designs were drawn on the floor. In the middle of the design, behind a large wooden lectern upon which perched an open book, stood a tall, gaunt, almost emaciated man with a short gray beard the same color as his robes. His head had been shaved. He barely glanced up as Harrach burst in, but kept reading from the book and mumbling to himself.
Harrach almost laughed. It would be ridiculously easy to subdue this wizard. He raised his sword and charged. One blow to knock him out, a gag and some hand restraints, and then they could worry about rendering him harmless. Old stories told of blinded, tongueless wizards who were no longer able to practice their craft. Perhaps such a fate would suit this one….
Before Harrach had taken two steps, though, he felt someone grab his cloak from behind. He whirled—too late. One of the wizard’s servants, hiding behind the door, ripped his cloak away in a single quiet movement.
The talisman—
The wizard stopped mumbling, looked up, and spoke a single word. Immediately Harrach found himself unable to move. His arms felt leaden, and his legs became impossibly heavy weights. Something burred like a cicada in the back of his mind.
Distantly, as though in a dream, he heard the wizard speaking to his servant. As Harrach watched in mounting terror, the man moved forward and began to bind Harrach’s arms and legs with heavy ropes. The servant’s fingers moved deftly, and Harrach realized he’d never be able to free himself. He had a sudden, sick feeling of despair. He couldn’t even call out to warn Captain Evann.
At last, the servant finished tying him and moved away. The wizard said another word, and the heaviness on Harrach lifted. Finding himself able to move, he frantically struggled to escape.
“I’m shocked that you would disturb me,” the wizard said, voice thick with the guttural accent of Rzhlev, “in the middle of a spell. Don’t you know how dangerous that is? Fortunately no harm was done this time. And,” he went on, watching Harrach’s muscles bulge as he tried to break the ropes, “it’s no use fighting. Tying knots is about the only thing my people do well. They are rather … limited in their abilities. I have not been able to teach them anything they didn’t already know. But you and your captain … ah! There are so many possibilities.”
“It’s a trap, Captain!” he shouted as loudly as he could. “Stay back!”
The wizard laughed. “I’m afraid my men are already taking care of him. In a few minutes he, too, will be tied up. Then I’ll have my time to work on you both….”
Harrach glared at him. “Let me loose!”
“Do not be stupid—Harrach, is it?—and do not try to argue with me. Why should I bother when soon enough you will serve me gladly?”
He went to a table and sat, taking up a pen. Slowly, meticulous, he began to draw magical designs and patterns on a piece of parchment.
After a minute, Harrach stopped straining against the ropes. Instead, he studied the room, trying to find something, anything, to help him.
He noticed the stand on which the wizard’s book rested. It was tall, graceful, made of intricately carved wood … an art object, designed for beauty rather than function.
He swung his legs around and struck the stand’s base with his feet. It toppled easily. The wizard gave a sharp cry of dismay as his book fell into the fireplace.
Just as quickly, though, the wizard seized tongs and pulled the book from the flames. The covers were a bit scorched, the edges of the pages a bit blackened, but otherwise it appeared unhurt. The wizard sighed. He brushed it off gently, touching it like a man would touch the woman he loved.
Then he righted the book stand and moved it a more respectful distance from Harrach’s feet. “You really should be more careful,” he said. “Were I less benevolent of nature, I might well have killed you. However, you will serve me soon enough. Lie there calmly and wait. It won’t hurt for more than a moment.”