and paced back and forth across the width of the tent with quick, precise steps while Jemidon seethed. The archmage stopped at the desk and fingered a magic ring that was now stone-cold. Finally he turned back and looked intently at Jemidon a second time. 'I do believe you, Jemidon,' he said. 'I must. We have too few choices left. As staggering as the concepts are that you relate, they do explain all the puzzles with which we are beset.
'And so I have decided to give you command of the alchemists, magicians, sorcerers, and thaumaturges. Only the wizards must be withheld for their more critical tasks. What you submit has a kernel of merit. It will not hurt to add it to the feeble arsenal that we have.
'But there is more, more for you to be truly ready. If you are indeed to face Melizar, if, in the end, our fate does rest on your shoulders alone, then you must be a master of at least one thing-a master of yourself.'
Alodar did not wait for Jemidon to say more. He went to the flap in the rear of the tent and ducked outside. Jemidon hesitated a moment and then hastened after. As he scrambled outside, he saw a shallow depression packed with men, probably more than a hundred robes crammed together with the implements of their nonfunctioning crafts. Near the far lip, a single squad of men-at-arms snapped to attention as they saw the archmage approach.
'You have all trusted my judgment in the past,' Alodar said. 'And there is little time to explain my decision now.' He waved back at Jemidon. 'Accept this one as your leader. Follow his commands as you would mine. He may send you into danger, but surely that is to be preferred to waiting passively for rebel blades to come slashing into your midst.'
Jemidon squared his shoulders and stepped forward, but suddenly a great shout echoed from the plain. Trumpets blared an opening charge. 'The archmage! Where is the archmage?' voices shouted. 'Up on the hill behind their lines among the metal boxes! He must come and see. A circle of flame!'
Alodar did not wait for any reaction from the masters, He bolted around the side of his tent and headed for the battle line.
'I will show you my mettle,' Jemidon shouted as the archmage disappeared from view. 'I will prove the meta-magician I can be.'
Jemidon waited a moment for a reply, but heard none. It was up to him to prove himself one final time. Grimly he turned back to the masters.
'You with the flasks and powders. And over there, the sad-faced ones mumbling in the mirrors.' He pushed his way to the center of the masters and whirled with arms outspread. 'There is not time to worry about resonances. The archmage commands. All of you follow me. We will get as close to the fighting line as we can.'
Jemidon ran out of the depression, not looking back to see if any would eomply. But soon he heard the swish of robes and the clank of paraphernalia as he sprinted across the marshy ground around Alodar's tent. Apparently the word of the archmage carried enough authority that they followed without hesitation.
As he cleared the pavilions, Alodar was not to be seen. Instead, up the gentle slope, he saw the two angry lines close on each other and the battle begin. The grate of steel shrieked from a thousand collisions. Like a pair of mating snakes, the two armies writhed across the tilted plain. The men-at-arms with thick shields and shining mail slashed their swords right and left, cutting through leather and hacking off the blades of scythes. But onward the rebels came; mindless of the hurt, unflinching under the rain of blows, they whirled their flails and stabbed with their poles, borne forward by their comrades who pressed from behind. In two or three places, the royal line thinned; and in one, a salient of brown broke through to circle from the rear.
Above the combatants' heads, the sky crackled and sparked. Pungent smells filled the air. Glowing sprites and tiny imps streaked down on bare heads, ripping away tufts of hair in their talons or dropping trails of itching powders in their turbulent wakes. Fox-sized devils sprayed their repulsive odors and radiated the feeling of unquenchable thirst and will-sapping pain.
Towering over them all, the larger demons roared in aerial combat against their brothers, who were commanded by Melizar's manipulant-wizard. Veinous wings of turgid green beat frantically for altitude, trying to elude glowing spheres of sputtering sparks which blackened on touch and sizzled away the pulpy flesh. From gnarled fingers shot bolts of piercing reds and violet that ripped the air into a hot incandescence.
Jemidon looked to the hill and saw on the rubble the circle of flame that had brought the page running to Alodar. Next to the tent, a huge djinn, far larger than the one that had carried Jemidon and Delia away, was twisted into an arch easily twice the height of a man. His cloven hooves and fingertips barely touched the ground. All along his scaly legs, his humped back with the furled wings, and his forehead and upper arms danced a deep crimson flame that shot high into the morning sky. Framed in the arch was the cloaked form of Melizar, the metamagician.
As he bounded over the terrain, Jemidon saw the royal flank farthest from the sea crumple and dissolve. A group of bondsmen swung with blades rather than with scythe and flail, trading the thrusts of the men-at-arms blow for blow. Because of their superior number, they had forced the corner back.
Jemidon frowned at what he saw. Most of the rebels' swords appeared to be made of wood. Only about one in ten was true steel. But all the weapons, metal or not, were clanging off the soldiers' shields as if they were of the finest temper. As Jemidon watched, one slipped underneath a slowly dropping guard and crashed against links of mail, popping ringlets and spewing blood.
'I would call the law something like 'same shape, same function,' ' Jemidon shouted over his shoulder. 'No doubt Melizar's replacement for thaumaturgy provides his minions with more than harvest tools.' He glanced at another spot where the freetoilers had broken through and saw women and children behind the fighters, lofting blobs of a purple tar onto the backs of the men-at-arms. Everywhere it touched, the metal glowed red. Drops of molten iron sputtered to the ground. Burning sizzles mixed with howls of pain.
'Something to do with alchemy,' Jemidon said as he signaled for a halt some twenty yards behind the struggling fighters. 'Perhaps 'the base drives away the good.' No matter. I count no more than a score of each. Thaumaturges and alchemists, try examples of your craft. Work more of your magics than they. The others assist as best you can.'
While the masters exercised their skills, Jemidon emptied the coins from the changer into his palm. Quickly he sorted through the collection and reinserted them in the slit in top. He held his breath as he fingered his old worn brandel last and saw it slip away. Working the five levers one by one, he emptied the sorted coins back into his hand.
Jemidon felt the familiar tension of the parting rope and imagined the creak of the fibers as they strained to breaking. For a moment, the line groaned and twisted, but then suddenly it was slack.
Jemidon frowned as he reloaded the changer. There was resistance. As Ponzar had said, metamagicians could struggle over the state of the coupling. Jemidon cast a hasty glance in the direction of the hilltop. It was too far to see more than the Skyskirr's outline, but he felt his presence nonetheless.
Jemidon grasped the changer tightly. He tried to visualize the rope again growing taut. Mentally, he tugged on the line, straining against a force he could not quite comprehend. He placed his feet wide apart and arched his back, swinging both fists to the side. Then he tried to bring himself erect, imagining the rope tied to his collar and tugging him from behind. His muscles tensed and then trembled from the effort. With eyes closed, oblivious to the noise and swirl of battle, he brought his arms forward and then his head. In his mind he saw the rope spring tight and, with a snap, burst in twain.
'Look at that!' a thaumaturge exclaimed. 'The incantation works, the one that has failed ever since the craft went away. I feel the prick in my own arm, just as I have stabbed the doll.'
'And sweetbalm,' an alchemist said. 'Only a trace, but the healer of wounds, nonetheless.'
Jemidon turned to watch a wooden sword splinter on a downsweep. Farther away, a glob of tar solidified in midflight and bounced harmlessly from a shield. A great cry of confusion went up from the pressing rebels. The men-at-arms answered with a cheer. With tired arms, they held back the attack, for an instant stopping the onrushing momentum.
Jemidon smiled. 'Perhaps we should try for the other two crafts as well,' he said. 'A simple ritual like the Neophyte's Cadence; and for sorcery we can use the Song of the Shifting Sands, just as Canthor did. Send someone back to the dunes and-'
Jemidon stopped and clutched the changer. He felt the hint of a tug and then a growing strain. He jammed his fingers under the levers, cradling the device close to his chest. A dull pain shot through his head. He closed his eyes and sank to his knees, curling into a ball. Walls of force around his mind seemed to ripple and tear apart into
