Arch Wizard

world, all magic, is rooted in me and flows through me. If I die, the world dies with me.'

He swung around to face them, and managed a smile. 'I get sick or angry, bad things happen. Nearby, and right away. So keep me happy. Very happy.'

Urlaun had gone pale, and was swallowing and backing away, sword raised to menace Rod as if he could hide behind it.

Briszyk, however, was glowering suspiciously. 'If all magic flows through you, why aren't you blasting us with a spell, right now?'

'Because I'm not that stupid,' Rod snapped. 'Unlike the lesser Dooms, I know every single magic unleashed in the world affects everything. Sometimes in little ways none of us notice-and sometimes in great disasters, when mountains shake and slide down to bury entire towns, maddened dragons fly through the skies biting every living thing they see below, and castles collapse, crushing everyone inside. Most wizards don't care how much harm they do, but I don't want to do any more damage than I have to.'

He took a step toward the older guard and asked quietly, 'If every time you drew your sword, a dozen people died-not enemies you could choose, but you'd never know who or where your victims were-how often would you dare to unsheathe it?'

Briszyk shrugged, but his glower was gone, and his weathered face was going pale. He took a step back when Rod added quietly, 'How soon would you have to run home and see if it was your wife who died, this latest time your sword came out? Or your son? Your daughter?'

'The Lord of Ironthorn,' Urlaun blurted out, 'wants nothing to do with wizards. We want nothing to do with wizards. We are sworn to defend Ironthorn, and that means keeping wizards out!'

'Does it? As I recall, Lord Hammerhand claims all Ironthorn, but rival Ironthar lords dispute that. Are you sure neither of them welcomes wizards as allies?'

He fell silent and waited, seeing grim uncertainty on both loyal Hammerhand faces. The moment they shot swift looks at each other, Rod added quietly, 'So do you still dare to kill me or turn me away, when I come to Hammerhand in friendship?'

It was Briszyk's turn to sigh heavily. 'You seek audience with Lord Burrim Hammerhand?'

'I do. In peace.' He spread his hands. 'No blades, and no spells.'

Urlaun spat in Rod's direction, but lowered his sword. 'Wizards need neither, sometimes. They can talk a man to death!'

Rod grinned. 'Now that, I'll grant you. I'll try not to, though. All right?'

Briszyk and Urlaun traded glances again. Then the older guard waved his sword in a beckoning command and said curtly, 'Well enough. We'll take you to Lord Hammerhand. You walk in front of us, though, and keep your hands away from your belt. Start casting a spell, and-'

He hefted his sword meaningfully.

Rod nodded. 'I understand. Which way is the trail?'

'That way,' Urlaun said, pointing with his sword.

Rod stumbled forward down the slope obediently. He'd descended perhaps half a dozen strides when the younger guard muttered, 'You don't act like an Archwizard.'

'Oh?' Rod asked over his shoulder, not turning his head. 'How many Archwizards have you watched closely, recently?'

Neither guard made any sort of an answer to that.

Dyune of the Aumrarr knew she was dying.

She was drooling blood, but it felt like she was spitting out fire. Fire that slid out of her endlessly, welling up a-fresh inside her to replace all she leaked out. She could feel nothing but searing fire on her left side-even the left side of her face, now-and her right side felt weak and sick.

Dyune tried to lift her hand, and the sick feeling surged, raging through her and leaving her gasping. Healing was only two rooms from here, but it might as well have been kingdoms away across Falconfar.

'Dying, all of us,' the shaggy man muttered suddenly, close by on her right. 'Less ye've got healing up yer sleeve, woman with wings.'

'I do,' Dyune gasped, or tried to; it came out very much like a whisper.

A handful of moments later she found herself shaken feebly-fresh fire rocked her, forcing out sobs-as a battered face glared into hers nose to nose, and its owner growled, 'Where? Where and how-and no tricks, now! Or I'll-I'll-'

'Kill me?' Dyune fought to smile. 'I tremble, man.'

'Glork ye! Ye're dying, Aumrarr! Can't ye leave off sneering at us poor idiot bumbling man-folk for one glorking moment?'

'Evidently not,' Dyune managed to hiss, but her smile was real this time, and the shaggy man saw that.

'Garfist Gulkoun am I, an' this is my Iskarra, yonder,' he told her, blood welling out of his mouth. He spat it out scornfully to one side, and added, 'And ye found us here because four Aumrarr put us here. After flying us here across Falconfar three days and three nights, too!'

He regarded her for a moment, and then added, 'Seeing as we're dying, too, will ye tell us just what enraged ye so, finding us here in Stormcrag Castle? Is it sacred to ye wingbi-er, Aumrarr, hey?'

Dyune hadn't the strength left to laugh or groan, she found; all she managed was a sort of croaking, heaving choking. 'And I attacked you,' she spat out, when she could form words again.

Garfist merely nodded. 'Ye wouldn't happen to be right sorry over it, and have healing magic handy, would ye?'

Dyune tried-and failed-to laugh again, and settled for whispering, 'Will you heal me, and make peace between us, if I tell you where healing magic is hidden?'

'I will. Strike me if I lie!'

Dyune smiled at that, and whispered, 'Then go out through that door you were trying to get through. The room beyond has three doors in its far wall. Open them-and leave them open. They're weighted to swing shut; use chairs or your boots as wedges, to keep them open. Then close the left-most of the doors, twist its pull-ring to the right, right around a full turn and more. Once you hear a click, wedge the door wide open again, and you'll reveal a stone on its sill, right by its hinge, that's darker than the rest. Push it down. You can then pull out the standing part of the doorframe the door swings closed against. There's a niche full of vials, all the same. Drink two and bring two each back, for your lady and for me. Then I'll say more.'

'Heh. Just a little trust, eh?'

'All I can spare, man. All I can spare.'

The man let go of her, and Dyune sank back into her pool of gentle fire. Warm and welcome it grew slowly cooler and deeper… deeper…

Abruptly she was shaken awake again, as ungentle fingers thrust her head upright and dug at the corners of her mouth.

'I'm-I'm-' she struggled to say, before her mouth flooded with water. Water that was like minted ice, minted ice that had caught a-flame and was sluicing away the deep, smoldering fire that had claimed her left side and crept through much of the rest of her, too…

Dyune arched and gasped, shuddering, as the pain ebbed. She'd tasted these healing quaffs before; Garfist hadn't played her false. She'd helped fill the vials-many seasons ago, it seemed-from an enspelled healing pool the Aumrarr had found in the castle of the dead wizard Heldohraun, and-

Ah! She could see again, tears blinked away and shudderings done, and beheld the man and the woman sitting on either side of her. Garfist had her sword in his hands, and Thinbritches-Iskarra, that's what he'd called her-held her dagger.

'Peace?' she asked them, with a wry smile.

'Peace,' they replied, in perfect unison.

Dyune let her smile sag in relief, drew in a deep breath, and asked, 'Do you know why four of my sisters brought you here? And who they were? How did you come to meet them? I-'

Garfist waved the sword. 'Hold tongue, there! I'll be forgetting all you ask, in a breath or two!'

'Another thing,' Iskarra said crisply. 'We have the blades, remember. So, a question answered for a question answered.'