Night of The Eye

by the vision, Guerrand charged again at the mage's back.

But Guerrand's speed was not equal to his enemy's cunning and experience. Belize spun and faced him, then thrust his left hand forward. Guerrand stopped and ducked, expected an attack spell. But the breeze only kicked up on the hilltop again, bending the tall grasses, dashing Guerrand's hair into his eyes. The apprentice brushed it back in time to see Belize throw a dingy gray cloth between them. The cold wind blew from all directions, tossing the glove about. Suddenly the thing leaped into the air and hung there, jerking and pulsing with a pale, inner light. In a heartbeat the glove became a hand, stretched to the size of a man, and continued growing until it loomed high above the apprentice.

Guerrand stepped to his left. The hand shifted smoothly with him. He jumped to the right, but again the enormous hand mirrored his movement, keeping itself exactly between Guerrand and Belize. However Guerrand moved, he could not get around the monstrous palm.

Guerrand snatched the dagger from his belt and plunged it hilt-deep into the giant palm. When he drew it back the shining blade was darkened with blood, which streamed down the hand and dripped to the grass. But the magical thing seemed in no way diminished.

'The Night of the Eye is upon us,' Guerrand heard Belize say. 'I can waste no more time sparring.'

Guerrand dropped to his stomach and steeled himself for the spell that would finally kill him. To the amazement of both mages, there came instead a nerve-shattering squawk as a white bird flashed out of the dark sky and smashed against Belize's ribs. The startled wizard stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his trunk. The bird flapped about Belize's head, then shot away, upward into the sky.

Guerrand would recognize that squawk anywhere. Zagarus! The apprentice leaped to his feet and waved the bird toward him. His heart soared when he saw the figurine of Esme clenched between his familiar's webbed feet.

However startled, the older wizard was far from stunned. Even as he fought to maintain his balance, Belize sent a sizzling arrow of light shooting from his extended fingertip. Sparks flashed in the sky, the sea gull shrieked in pain, and Belize knew the missile had hit its mark.

But Zagarus was not the only victim. Guerrand's fate was magically linked to his familiar's. Clutching his side in agony, the apprentice tumbled to the ground.

Chapter Eighteen

Hiking along the moonlit shore of the strait, Lyim whistled 'Three Sheets to the Wind.' He'd just learned the ditty from a sailor at the Dorcestars, a two-room guest house along the route between Thonvil and Hillfort. The apprentice had spent several enjoyable days there since the victory at Castle DiThon, locked in the pale, fleshy arms of the host's daughter, waiting for word of the next merchant ship headed south. Flushed with ale and passion and victory, the apprentice erupted in song:

Sing as the spirits move you,

Sing to your doubling eye,

Plain Jane becomes Lovable Linda

When six moons shine in the sky.

Taking the last swig from the bottle Nivi had tearfully sent to keep him warm, Lyim turned bleary eyes skyward to the white and red moons, remembering distantly that the black one would align with them tonight. Strange, he thought, that I should learn this song on a Night of the Eye. Art did imitate life. Lyim's voice rose again in the chill night air:

Sing to a sailor's courage,

Sing while the elbows bend,

A ruby port your harbor,

Hoist three sheets to the wind.

Lyim certainly was three sheets to the wind, and it felt marvelous. He had certainly earned such indulgence. Unlike the song, though, his harbor was no longer port wine, but Hillfort. He would soon sign upon another rocking ship, where there would be no wine at all until Palanthas.

The prospect threatened to depress him, so he cast it aside. Instead, he threw back his head to bellow out another verse, but a flash of unnatural light farther down the coast, up where the moors turned into cliffs, made him pause.

A trick of the wine? Of the aligning moons? Lyim shook his head and blinked fiercely. The lights remained. Curiosity, and a willingness to postpone the start of the dreaded sea voyage, brought Lyim to veer left from the shore. It took only minutes to cross the heath to where the hills began. He scrabbled, loose-jointed, up the rolling slope, closing on the odd, colorful flashes. The frigid breeze that rose instantly, inexplicably, went unnoticed in the warmth of drunkenness.

In the peculiar brightness of the moons, Lyim could make out several moving figures farther up the hill, near what looked to be a pair of enormous, rectangular boulders. He squinted, but his vision would not clear sufficiently, forcing him to creep closer. Lyim hid behind a trampled shrub, unsure if he was approaching magical friends or foes.

The apprentice was close enough now to hear heated conversation. '… dispatched the invisible stalker after you and that wretched apprentice Par-Salian saddled me with.'

'So you have been trying to kill me…'

The voices were familiar, yet incongruous here. As if in a dream, Lyim peered around the shrub. What he saw turned the wine in his veins to ice and sobered him instantly.

Belize stood guard over Guerrand, who was trapped inside a bizarre cage of tentacles. The scene was too unexpected, too shocking, to believe. What were they doing here… and together? Was it possible Belize had learned of the trip made on Guerrand's account and was exacting punishment? The reasoning was too ridiculous, and yet it was the only connection he could draw between his master and his friend. Something warned Lyim to listen just a little longer before stepping forward to demand an explanation.

The apprentice's horror mounted as Belize revealed that he'd arranged the death of Guerrand's brother. Lyim still could make no sense of these events, could find no cause for Belize's actions. But he could no longer deny Belize's opinion of him, which made it easy to decide where his own loyalty lay.

Events on the hillside only spiralled further out of control. Lyim watched Guerrand abruptly slash through the tentacles and escape his cage. Charging at Belize with his sword, Guerrand was stopped when his weapon turned into a branch of wood. A massive, interposing hand rose up before his friend, and still no useful idea came to Lyim's mind. Then, in an even more bizarre turn of events, a bird smashed into Belize, but it was Guerrand who inexplicably crumpled to the ground, holding his side.

The impetuous apprentice believed any spell would be better than this peculiar indecisiveness. Needing no components for the one that came to mind, Lyim muttered, 'Boli sular,' and held his breath against Belize's reaction.

Guerrand held his ribs and fought against the horrible burning in his right side. The pain spread through his chest and did not stop until it reached his right shoulder. He knew the torment he felt was an exact reflection of Zagarus's injury, so he twisted around painfully until he could see where Zag had fallen to earth. Guerrand's familiar lay in a crumpled heap, but his wings fluttered fitfully as he struggled to right himself. After a few awkward attempts, the gull simply fell back and lay still. Guerrand looked inward, expecting an emptiness of the soul. He sighed in relief; Zag lived. The bond-the inexplicable presence-he'd felt since conjuring the familiar was still there.

Then Guerrand noticed the small statuette of Esme, lying on the ground next to the sea gull. She was away from Belize, safe at least for the moment.

The ache in Guerrand's side was beginning to throb so that it took all his reserves to turn and look back toward the plinths. The gigantic hand still stood between him and Belize. Lying prone, the apprentice got glimpses of Belize poring over his trunk again.

Just then, an unaccountable scream of rage burst from Belize. Guerrand saw the archmage frantically clawing