Arch Wizard

Falconfar, Narmarkoun.'

Mario Drake frowned down at his notepad. Who the hell was Narmarkoun?

RAULDRO THE COOK turned sleepily from the cauldron he'd almost nodded off to sleep into, face-forward, his great wooden spoon adrip with the thick brown muck old soldiers liked to call 'old boots and dead cat stew.'

A loud and sudden metallic crash had just burst upon his ears, from not far behind him.

It had sounded for all the world like someone in full armor slamming down on his visored nose on the cobbled main street or Darswords, then bouncing limply to rest.

And-Falcon spit! — that's just what it was.

As he stared at the sprawled warrior, another pair of soldiers-who'd frowningly turned to see the cause of the noise, just as he had-pitched forward onto their faces, too, the morning quiet broken by more crashes. Then another, and another.

Rauldro gaped. As far as he could see, up and down the street, men were toppling over, for no reason that he could see at all.

Invisible arrows? Nay, for they turned visible when they drew blood, and he could see neither blood nor arrows.

Magic? Well, how could that be, with Malraun the Matchless, greatest wizard in all Falconfar, lording it over Darswords, with this army his own swords of war, besides?

The cook shook his head, utterly dumbfounded. The men lay so still. They looked dead.

And he hadn't even given them any stew yet.

Narmarkoun grinned savagely, in the depths of Mario Drake's mind. It was time to have his newfound Shaper write something simple yet dramatic that had nothing to do with any Doom of Falconfar, something he could check easily.

Aha.

He bore down on Drake's mind again. Let the dolt write of a certain castle in Galath soaring up into the sky- and crashing back down again in rubble, killing everyone in it. Velduke Deldragon's fair fortress of Bowrock, perhaps. Or, no, it was too splendid; he might want to dwell in it himself, some day. Why not-

Drake's mind darkened around him, and Narmarkoun dashed such thoughts away and reached out into it, to see what was happening and to strengthen his hold over the Shaper's mind.

Yet the darkness came on in a flood, blotting out everything, and he could hear Drake grimly wondering aloud, 'What's got into me? It's like there's someone in my mind, making me do things! Write things!'

Falcon! The Earth dolt was aware of him! Then there was nothing but darkness; Drake was gone.

The spell was fading!

There was something cold and hard under him. Flat stone. Narmarkoun blinked up at dim vaulted vastness, smelling a familiar slightly sharp, slightly dusty chill. Yintaerghast. He was lying flat on his back in Yintaerghast.

Feeling weak… drained. He rolled slowly over onto his hip, and sat up. The familiar lonely, empty rooms. Good; at least he wasn't facing a sneering Malraun with an army behind the man.

He felt just as empty, and his hand trembled when he lifted it.

Narmarkoun smiled thinly. No, he was in no condition to be hurling spells. Yet he had to know if he'd been right about Drake, had to-

He moved his raised hand in the few simple gestures, murmured the familiar words, and watched the small, spinning brightness form in the empty air in front of him.

'Darswords.' he whispered, too tired to will it silently. 'Show me Darswords.'

In the heart of his little conjured eye the smallhold sprang into view, from the vantage point where he'd stood long ago and murmured one of the words in the incantation. His eye was looking out over the well where three lanes fanned out from the cobbled main street. As Narmarkoun turned it to peer down one street and then another, he saw dead men sprawled everywhere, and more toppling in mid-stride, here and there, as they fled in fear from the unknown slayer who was striking them down.

' Well, now,' he gloated. Hundreds he'd seen, in just these few glimpses. 'Well, now!'

The eye was wobbling and dimming already, sinking toward the floor like a gliding soap bubble; he was overtired.

Yet happy. As he let himself sag back down to the floor, into the creeping embrace of slumber, Narmarkoun murmured, 'I am the foremost Doom in Falconfar, and now all the world knows it! Flee, Malraun, flee and cower-while you still can!'

He waved his hand feebly, as if banishing his rival, as his conjured eye sank into the floor and was gone.

Behind him, across the darkest wall of that vast and dim chamber, a wry and patronizing smile briefly materialized. It was as long as the largest Stormar ship Narmarkoun had ever sailed on, but the foremost Doom of Falconfar was now snoring, and saw it not.

At Holdoncorp, nobody walked to work. From the front gates with their security booth, in the shadow of the mirror-bright silver company name that loomed in man-high letters atop a little artificial waterfall, it was a good mile along a broad and winding drive through the rolling grassy hills of the company golf course to the parking lot security booth.

'Hey, Rusty! Check this out-Monitor Three!'

Sollars's voice was more disbelievingly amused than alarmed, so Rusty finished taking the bite into his meatballs-with-mayo sub that he'd been opening his mouth to take when the usually silent security 'eyes' had piped up. Chewing methodically, he strolled over to the control desk.

Sollars was pointing up at one of the long arc of external security monitors, and Rusty prepared himself for viewing an overly fat, pale and unlovely amorous couple rolling around on a blanket on one of the gently-sculpted hillsides, or perhaps two dogs doing the same thing without a blanket.

He was not expecting to see six dark-armored men, visors down and swords drawn, stalking steadily past the eighth hole bunker toward the Holdencorp building.

At first he was alarmed-they looked so purposeful-but then relaxed. There was no way thieves, vandals, or terrorists would walk a mile in this heat; these had to be fans. Crazies, of course, but fans. A free beta preview sampler disk each from the forthcoming Falconfar expansion set should send them happily on their way. Still…

He flipped a switch and leaned forward over the microphone to announce briskly, 'Ground Floor Security, Ground Floor Security! Six intruders, south lawn, coming in from the eighth hole. They're dressed as Dark Helms- armor and swords, all of them-so take the tear-gas rifle, and make sure enough of you go to outnumber them. Loading Dock Security, vehicles and your tear-gas, ready for backup.'

'Roger that,' one voice rapped out of the speakers, in reply.

A moment later, an older voice drawled, 'Copy. You're not kidding, are you, Rusty? This isn't just you checkin' to see if we're awake?'

'Negative,' Rusty said flatly. 'I mean it. Six crazies with swords that sure look real from here.'

'Uh-huh. Who's their backup?'

Rusty snorted. 'Cut it, Sam, this isn't a joke. They haven't got any backup, of course…'

Yet he hadn't checked, and a good security chief…

He clapped Sollars sharply on the shoulder in a wordless order that set the eye-man to punching buttons and turning magnification and camera-aim toggles like a frenzied spider.

Only to spit out some words of profane astonishment as the feed from Camera South Forty-Six came up on the big monitor, and his finger mashed down a button that brought the flashing sequence of images of empty golf course to an abrupt halt.