stone blocks crashed down on them.
Rod joined the spreading, blinding dust, falling through it almost gently to slam bruisingly down onto the flood of fallen stone blocks.
He was awake now, and coughing hard, fingers of bright morning reaching out around and past him, and Harlhoh spread out below him, its far-off folk shouting in alarm and fleeing through the streets.
The crashing and shuddering went on, long-unseen spells flaring into sudden visibility in the air as the foundations they'd girded so long cracked, and walls and pillars fell. Rod saw gigantic spider legs writhing and curling in agony, and a falling wall flatten a purple-black hulk in a great spray of purple gore and quivering, convulsing tentacles.
Stone blocks tumbled, a wolf-head shook back and forth and bit at the air in helpless pain ere it sagged from view, and then there was nothing moving but the dust.
'So my plan worked,' Rod croaked aloud, standing on the still-shuddering stones and clutching at his bruises, 'but almost too well. I dreamed of Malragard falling, and…'
Behind him, another wall fell, hurling him into the air just far enough for his legs to go out from under him, and the landing-on his side and behind-to be wincingly bruising.
He groaned aloud, then rolled over, sat up, and tried to peer around through the dust. There wasn't much to see; there wasn't much left of Malraun's tower.
Thoroughly awake now, Rod Everlar wondered how long it would take the wizard to show up.
After all, that was probably just how long a certain fantasy writer had left to live.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Your Majaesty, I am no Doom of Falconfar,' the black-bearded man in the robe protested, spreading his hands like a merchant proclaiming his innocence in a market-stall. 'I can work small magics, honest magics, spells no velduke nor knight nor drover need fear save some hidden power, some dark secondary effect. When I am hired to blast down a hanging rock or enlarge a storage cavern, I do so with all the care I can, and-'
He shrieked, threw up his spread hands as all the color fled from his face in an instant-and toppled forward to fall flat on his face on the floor.
'Falcon-cursed hedge-wizards,' one of the king's bodyguard growled, striding forward from beside King Melander Brorsavar's throne to nudge the sprawled and silent man with one gleaming-booted toe. 'Get up, man. Your dramatics impress His Majesty
'Thalden,' the King of Galath murmured gently, 'stand clear from yon mage. Touching him may be neither safe nor prudent.'
His knight obeyed in some haste, turning a puzzled frown to hs king.
'Majesty?'
'He was not indulging in dramatics,' Brorsavar murmured.
'Look; is his nose not broken?'
A thin thread of blood was running out from under the motionless head, to flow its unhurried way across the tiled floor of the court.
'Falcon,' the knight muttered, drawing back. 'What struck him down so, d'ye think?'
In reply, King Melander silently spread his hands just as the fallen wizard had done, to signify he knew not. The knight barely had time to see the gesture, and no time at all to catch any courtiers' eyes and decide if a polite chuckle was appropriate, when there came a stir from beyond the nearest entry arch, and the guards barring entrance there.
'Let me
The King of Galath made a brief, beckoning gesture to signal the archway guards to let the new arrival through.
It was one of the court scribes, a man neither young nor humble. He had never before been known to appear before the throne sweating and wild-eyed with fear, but he was in such a state now. Melander wordlessly extended his hand toward the man, palm out, signifying that the scribe should speak.
The scribe bowed low, almost falling in his nervous haste, then went down on one knee, and then blurted out in a rush, 'Great King, all the wizards you hired to scry the realm and map it have collapsed! All of them, at once, dashed senseless to the floor as if by some giant hand!'
'Dead?' Brorsavar asked calmly.
'N-no, though some of them bleed from mouth or nose or eyes, M-majesty,' the scribe stammered. 'One of them was clutching his head and mumbling, and we tried to question him. We shook him and spake loudly in his ear, but he fell dumb and dreaming like the rest. We heard him say just this: 'a great Shaping, and it begins.' Majesty, I thought you should know.'
Then the scribe's gaze fell upon the man lying not far from where he was kneeling, and a little shriek of fear burst from him.
'Easy, Nollard,' the King of Galath said soothingly. 'Rise, and go take wine from our stewards yonder, and drink.'
He stood, and added in a dry voice, looking out across the court, 'I begin to fear that many of us, as this day unfolds, may have cause to join you.'
Through another archway came the muted thunder of running booted feet, and the cry, 'Majesty! Grave news!'
King Melander Brorsavar smiled wryly. 'And so, as they say, it begins.'
Malraun the Matchless sat up in bed, awake in an instant, alarmed. Though Darswords was quiet around him, something was very much awry.
In distant Harlhoh, something had shattered the very foundation-spells he'd cast when strengthening and warding his tower.
Which meant a wizard more powerful than any he knew of, anywhere in Falconfar, was at work with destroying spells-or something else had caused the tower to shatter and fall.
Either way…
He bent and kissed the bound and helpless Taeauna. Not out of any great affection, but so as to most swiftly and efficiently strengthen his mind-link with her, so it could be used to snap back to her body if he needed to flee in haste from trouble. Surrounded by all of the greatfangs bred by that idiot Narmarkoun, for instance, or-
Shrugging away such useless speculation, he closed his eyes and said the word that would take him in an instant to Malragard.
So it was that he never saw the flash of triumph in the eyes of the bound Aumrarr behind him.
Lorontar had been waiting a long time for Malraun to do this.
The wizard Narmarkoun stood alone in a large and gloomy hall in Yintaerghast, staring at a glowing sphere of his own conjuring that floated in the air before him.
He'd laughed aloud when Malragard had fallen. Oh, would Malraun be furious! The man of Earth, wandering alone and halfwitted, somehow avoiding all the traps that had claimed the lives of veteran warriors, high-priced thieves, and the most daring of Stormar wizards-for-hire. Only to do
Nicely Shaped, indeed!
The dolt Everlar was still alive! He'd somehow brought the tower down around his ears-crushing most of Malraun's prized beasts, mind! — yet not been himself crushed in its fall! There he was, coughing in the dust, staggering away from the heap of gowns he'd snored on and-
But hold!
As the dust eddied and drifted, and Rod Everlar came stumbling out into a relatively clear area of floor, another figure appeared in midair just above him, literally standing over him.
It was Malraun, here by his own teleportation magic.
Narmarkoun snarled out wordless hatred, watching the Matchless One start to step down from the invisible, momentary platform of force his magic had created. Once Malraun set boot on the tiles of Malragard, the teleport
