The Unwelcome Warlock

“Do they ever attack by daylight?”

She glanced around uneasily, and saw Rayel smiling encouragingly at her. “I only know my grandfather’s stories,” she said.

“Well, what did your grandfather say about that?”

“He said...they wouldn’t bother a large group by daylight, but if anyone wandered off alone, a hungry mizagar might try to pick him off. And at night — well, I think this was done by a mizagar.” She gestured toward the bloody remains and churned-up mud.

Hanner nodded. “Then we won’t give them any more targets; from now on, everyone stays together, and we’ll post guards at night.”

“We should burn the body,” Sensella said.

“I’ll leave that to the magicians,” Hanner said. “The rest of us should get moving. The sooner we get to civilization, away from dragons and mizagars and whatever else is out here, the better.”

There was a muttered chorus of agreement, and much of the crowd began turning southward, picking up any belongings they might have put down and starting to walk.

Of course, most of them had no belongings other than the clothes they wore and the magical provisions Piskor had given them. Still, Hanner thought as he watched them, at least they were alive. While several people were limping, or shivering, the mizagar’s victim had been the night’s only known fatality. It could have been far worse.

Hanner turned south himself just as the shouting started.

“Look! Look!” someone cried.

“We’re saved!”

“Run!”

“The wizards have come!”

“They’re here to rescue us!”

“They’ll kill us all!”

Hanner’s gaze followed some of the pointing fingers, and saw the dark little shape in the southern sky, drawing rapidly nearer. It took him a moment to identify it, and he marveled at how sharp some people’s eyes must be, to have recognized it so quickly. It was a flying carpet, and three people were seated on it. The wizards had found them.

“They won’t hurt us!” Hanner shouted. “They sent me a dream last night; they’re here to help!”

His words did not carry well over the general racket, but apparently the people saying they should run were a small minority; most of the crowd was cheering and waving.

The carpet descended until it hung a dozen feet above the ground, above the heads of the milling throng, about a hundred yards southwest of Hanner’s own location; several of the people beneath it were stretching their arms upward, trying to touch it. Some of them were even leaping up toward it, though so far as Hanner could tell none of the outstretched fingers managed to reach the carpet.

One of the people on the carpet was speaking, but his voice was completely lost in the noise of the crowd. Hanner grimaced; warlocks could vibrate the air to make their voices louder, and could therefore be heard over anything, no matter how loud, but these wizards apparently did not have an equivalent spell, and of course there were no more warlocks, except for Vond.

“Quiet!” Hanner bellowed. “We want to hear the wizards!”

Beside him Rudhira was up on her toes, trying to see through the crowd; she was not tall enough to peer over all those shoulders. Once upon a time, Hanner recalled, she would have been able to fly straight over everyone’s heads to the wizards’ carpet, or for that matter, straight to the city; she had briefly been the most powerful warlock in Ethshar of the Spices. Now, though, she was just a tired, frustrated woman in a green skirt and embroidered tunic, trying to follow what was happening around her.

The wizard was still talking, waving his arms, but no one seemed to be listening. Hands were still stretching up toward the carpet, and people were squeezing closer together, trying to get at the wizards.

That could be dangerous, Hanner realized. People could be crushed.

“Hai!” he shouted. “Give them room!”

No one paid any attention, but a moment later the wizards seemed to see the danger for themselves; the carpet rose up a few feet, then swept forward, over the heads of the former warlocks.

Someone screamed.

“Don’t leave us!” someone else shrieked.

Several panicky voices joined in.

“Calm down!” Hanner shouted, arms raised. “Calm down! Let them talk!”

No one paid attention; the wizards were looking at one another uncertainly, and the carpet seemed to be drifting gradually higher, and moving slowly northeast — toward Hanner.

Hanner frowned, and reached out to grab Rayel’s shoulder. He turned, found Sensella, and grabbed her, as well.

Rudhira was looking up at him for guidance.

“Shut up!” Hanner shouted. “You two, all of you who can hear me, tell everyone to be quiet, so we can hear what the wizards have to say.” He pushed Rayel to one side, and Sensella to the other. “Quiet! Listen!”

Rayel got the idea quickly, and began grabbing shoulders, turning people to face him, and hushing them, a finger to their lips. Sensella saw what Rayel was doing and turned to Hanner, who nodded; then she, too, began forcing herself in front of people and trying to silence them.

“Stand still! Face the wizards!” Hanner called, and this time his voice was somewhat more audible over the din — his neighborhood was gradually growing quieter.

As he had hoped, the wizards noticed; one of them pointed at the little cluster of people standing silently, as if waiting. The carpet veered and swooped, and a moment later it was hanging almost directly over the bloody remains of the mizagar’s victim, about fifteen feet up.

The watching crowd gradually quieted.

Hanner grimaced, wondering whether the wizards had noticed the body.

“Is someone in charge here?” the tallest wizard called, when the crowd’s noise had died away enough for him to be heard. He wore a deep purple robe trimmed with gold.

Hanner had not yet decided whether to respond when Rayel pointed at him and said, “He is!”

The wizard leaned forward and peered down at Hanner. “Are you?”

“As much as anyone,” Hanner called back. “I’m Hanner, formerly Chairman of the Council of Warlocks.”

“Ah! I’ve heard of you,” the wizard replied. “I’m Molvarn of Crookwall. I am here as a representative of the Wizards’ Guild, and on behalf of Azrad the Seventh, Overlord of Ethshar of the Spices, Triumvir of the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, Commander of the Holy Navies and Defender of the Gods.”

Hanner bowed at the overlord’s name.

The wizard looked out over the throng; there were still hundreds of raised voices and waving hands, though most of the crowd had quieted and the nearest portion was entirely silent. “I understand you people need help.”

“Yes,” Hanner said.

“You were headed for Ethshar of the Spices?”

“Yes.”

“The overlord does not feel that the city has the facilities to accept so large a group of refugees,” Molvarn said. Then he continued quickly, before anyone could protest, “But we are here to offer you other choices.” He held his hands to his mouth and bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Is anyone here from Ethshar of the Sands?”

A few tentative voices replied, and a few hands rose uncertainly.

“If you could gather over here, please?” Molvarn called, gesturing to his left.

Slowly, with much muttering, people began to move through the crowd toward the indicated spot.

“And anyone from Ethshar of the Rocks?”

Again, a few hands were raised. Molvarn gestured to his right. “Over here, please?”

“Pass the word!” Hanner called. “There must be hundreds of people who didn’t hear — pass the word!”