Arch Wizard

that ended a working of magic.

A loop of sparks, visualized in a night-black void, and instantly-as always-the spell was done.

There'd be ample time to work it again when the Lord Archwizard-Narmarkoun felt his lips curling with contempt at merely thinking of that title, linked to the timorous dolt-was asleep, and drift in his dreams long enough to draw memories of others of Earth from him. New victims, to be Narmarkoun's own, and a road to conquering a new realm or two. Or even all of Earth.

Then something happened that dashed all Narmarkoun's glee away in an instant, plunging him from satisfaction to terror.

The scroll was still shimmering slightly, in the aftermath of the magic he'd roused from it. In the surges of that waning power, markings were appearing across the bottom of the scroll. Writings, in Lorontar's hand but scribbled in haste, on a slight angle from the darker, neater script that set forth the spell itself.

Notes, written by Lorontar, the real Lord Archwizard of Falconfar, about Shapers, one such in particular: Rod Everlar.

So unless the dolt now wandering dim-wittedly through Malragard had somehow lived for centuries without showing any signs of age or experience, Lorontar was very far from being as long dead as all Falconfar had thought.

And here he was, the wizard Narmarkoun-least in power of the Dooms of Falconfar, once one discounted foresight and spells of undeath-kneeling on the floor working magic in the heart of Yintaerghast, the spell- shrouded castle of Lorontar himself.

'Falcon!' Garfist snarled, trying to claw his way past Iskarra, who stood in the way, flapping her arms in a sudden flurry as if trying to fly. ' Get those glorking doors open!'

'Yes!' Isk hissed at him, her eyes hard and wild as she watched the monsters, now looking their way and starting to move from between the pillars. 'Stand back and give me room!'

'Stop me vitals, woman, what're ye-'

Gar found himself staring at a pair of small but deliciously familiar breasts. They danced under his nose for the briefest of instants as Iskarra finally got her worn-through vest and ragged tunic off, into a untidy bundle where her hands met above her head.

He hadn't time to do more than gape before she swung the balled-up garments down like a swordsman using two hands on his blade to hew a foe, and grasped one of the large pull-rings of the great double entrance doors.

It awakened into a menacingly-crackling cascade of blue sparks and leaping blue-white bolts of lightning, as Iskarra cried out in pain, her hair springing out rigid to stand like a halo of tiny spears, and kicked at the ground to turn the ring.

The door ground open, swinging inward with the deep tone of a bell almost too low to hear-and Iskarra lost her hold, staggered back, and sat down hard, moaning.

Watching the monsters coming for them-even faster than he'd feared they could move, of course-Garfist charged over to scoop her up, cradling her to his chest in a tangle of helplessly shuddering limbs, ran in a tight circle so as not to risk falling by trying to halt and head in a different direction with his moaning burden, and darted out through the doors, into the glimmering beginnings of dawn.

Gloom-shadowed Harlhoh rose dark and still against that brightening horizon below, and Gar lumbered down a broad wagon-path toward it, gathering speed and hoping by all the gods there were and might be that he'd not fall, nor find all those hungry horrors snapping at his heels.

Surely they were guardians, enspelled to stay in the wizard's abode and menace intruders, not go chasing off across half a Raurklor hold… aye? Please?

Behind him, bright light stabbed out, falling on his back, and something roared hungrily. The grand entry hall of Malragard had erupted into bright and busy life.

Garfist Gulkoun cursed, briefly but fiercely, then shut up. He needed all his breath for running-or rather, panting so he could keep on running.

That roar came again, and this time it was echoed by a call that was high-pitched, bubblingly wet, and more angry than hungry.

Even over Gar's loud and quickening panting, both beast-calls sounded nearer.

That bed had been empty, its dark blue overshroud unblemished by pillows or-or anything.

Now there was a naked man lying spreadeagled on that dark blue cloth, wrists and ankles manacled to the four bedposts. Naked, hairy, and unconscious, head lolling and staring empty-eyed at nothing.

Those eyes saw nothing, but the face wore a look of terror, tinged with bewildered astonishment.

An expression that was probably pretty close to Rod's own. He knew that terrified, senseless face. It was Onthras, one of the Hammerhold knights who'd been chasing him mere panting moments ago.

So how? The magic of Malragard, of course. Onthras had been caught in a trap, or had been made part of a trap for Rod Everlar. But why? What sort of Doom of Falconfar crafts spells to do such a thing?

Rod stared at Onthras-or the thing that looked like Onthras-and slowly backed away, seeking another way out of the room.

Which is when he saw that, stare and peer about as much as he might, the bedchamber had only two doors: one out into the passage where the rest of the Hammerhand warriors presumably still were, and the one he'd come through, from the bathroom.

Now what?

After a moment, Rod used his sword to thrust aside the skirts of the bed, to see if he dared hide under it, and think.

A face like a skull turned and grinned at him, out of the darkness.

It was a skull, Rod realized a moment later, as he fought down a scream and hastily backed away-and the skeleton in disintegrating skirts that had been lying under the bed clambered out from under it, beckoning to him grotesquely with one long, bony finger.

A bright warning blazed up in Malraun's mind again, rousing him out of a pleasant doze. He was… he was lying atop Taeauna in the bed in Darswords, both of them still moist with sweat. Oh, yes… he'd exhausted himself having his way with her.

Now something back in Malragard had been disturbed again, goading his ward-spells into whirling up in his mind to alert him, and-Falcon hurl, what was it now?

It was the undead husk of the sorceress Telrorna, whom he'd defeated years ago, and drained of life and spells but bound into his service forever, to be his slave beyond death.

She'd been aroused from the dusty spell-slumber he'd left her in, under the guest bed, by an intruder who could wield magic. Yet hadn't blasted her.

Rod Everlar, for all the thick-headed knights in Galath.

He really should do something about the pitifully blundering Lord Archwizard, but… well, it wasn't as if it was Narmarkoun, or an arduke of Galath who'd gathered a dozen hedge-wizards, or someone competent.

Malraun chuckled, finding himself on the edge of sinking into slumber again. He roused himself enough to clamber off the bed to where he'd left his other whips and scourges, find thongs enough to bind Taeauna's wrists and ankles securely to the bedposts, and tie her thus, arched out at full stretch and bound cruelly hard.

As he finished knotting and tugging, and sank down onto her again, she smiled up at him, mute but bright- eyed.

Part way through trying to smile softly back at her, Malraun the Matchless fell asleep again.

'So that's why we couldn't see where Jelgar went,' Thalden murmured, stepping through the magic and then back out of it again.

'Don't toy with it,' was all Syregorn replied, 'or, like as not, it'll start toying with you.'

The passage full of doors seemed to stretch on forever. 'Seemed to' were the right words, because at one step Thalden had found a place where Malraun's magic crafted an illusion: the image of the passage stretching on and on, dwindling into the distance, when it actually became a short flight of stairs, descending to a door.

Closed, of course, and as featureless as all the rest of them. Malragard did not yield up its secrets to intruders, except the hard way.

They'd found no sign of Onthras, but a lone, staring eyeball impaled on a needle-thin metal spike that had