alive on his right.
With hysterical strength, Sunbright hoisted the dead orc before him, pitched it, grunting, into the orc at his left. The orc's eyes flew wide as its dead comrade crashed into it like a sack of grain. The orc tumbled onto its back, its steel helmet striking sparks as it skidded down the short slope, its dead brethren atop it.
Still using the dead orc as cover, Sunbright followed. He scurried along the wall of the pocket, slammed his foot down alongside the tumblers, and skipped onto the round rock. It lurched, as did the man; then he vaulted over.
The trail dropped sharply, steep enough to give a goat pause. But Sunbright Steelshanks could outrun and outclimb goats, and with sure steps and reckless abandon he stabbed his feet here to this boulder, there on that flat spot, to that corner, and so on, hopping, skipping, dropping almost as fast as a stone could roll.
Within seconds he was far below the orcs, if they pursued at all. Gasping, laughing, he yipped with delight like a crazed snow wolf puppy. Gone, for the moment, were sullen black thoughts of death and revenge. He was exuberant.
He was alive!
'See? I told you so!'
'You liar! You had no more faith in him than I did!'
'He won; I won. That's all I care about.'
A sniff replied.
Two wizards glared at one another, but not hard enough to kill. They had to get along, after all. In their own way.
The two were a study in contrasts. Candlemas was a small, podgy, balding, bearded man in an undyed smock of sackcloth tied with a rope. Sysquemalyn was a woman, taller, flame-haired, dressed in a green tunic that sparkled like fish scales, tight white breeches of soft leather, and pointed red boots that laced to the knee. At her breast hung a pendant sporting a gargoyle face whose expression shifted constantly, but which was always ugly and leering. Her clothes were a statement about her personality, as were those of Candlemas, though in a much different way.
Sysquemalyn touched a gold-painted fingernail to the palantir on the scarred worktable. In the smoky globe, Sunbright could be seen, still goat-skipping down the mountain's shoulder, but more cautiously now, aiming for the thorn and rhododendron tangle at the bottom of the gorge. 'He won't last. He'll be full of himself, reveling in victory. He'll probably lie down out in the open and sing to himself and be eaten by wolves before dawn.'
Candlemas nudged her finger off the globe and used the sleeve of his smock to polish off her fingerprint. 'The way you're always denigrating humans, you'd think you weren't one yourself. That you'd ascended to godhood already.'
'I have! Ascended!' The woman arched her back, raked and fluffed up her flaming red hair. 'In my dreams, anyway. And what are dreams but portents of the future? I'll be grander than Lady Polaris someday!'
'I hope I live that long,' sniped Candlemas. 'I can watch the sun crash to earth.'
'Oh, pooh! You're jealous because I'm a real wizard and you're a… a hedgehopper.'
'Better than a bedhopper. Don't touch anything!'
Sysquemalyn slunk around the other mage's workshop idly, like a cat, but also like a cat, she watched her surroundings. The workshop was huge, big enough for a herd of musk-oxen, and high, wide windows all around made it seem larger, for nothing showed past the windows but winter-blue sky. The red-haired wizard had glided to a window and picked up an exquisite silver statue of a paladin on horseback. Candlemas had hundreds of such objects, all as beautiful as he was squat and plain, scattered around the vast workroom.
The woman turned the statue over as if admiring it, then chucked it out the window.
'Hey!' Candlemas ran to the opening, foolishly sticking his head out. When his head passed the spell shielding the window, cold air kissed his bald pate. The statue, of course, was long gone. And so was the wizard, almost, for Sysquemalyn playfully swatted his rump. If he hadn't grabbed the sill, he'd have followed the statue.
'You bitch!' The brown-clad wizard whirled, felt dizzy, and slumped against the stone wall. 'I could have fallen!'
'So? You can fly, can't you?'
'Yes. But I'd fall a long way before I got the spell working! And why'd you chuck out my paladin? That was pilfered from the birthplace of Raliteff the Second!'
'I wanted to strike your barbarian on the head. I cheat, remember?' Idly, Sysquemalyn picked up a pliers and threw it at another window. This time Candlemas shot both hands into the air, first and final fingers erect. The shield spells on the windows, which kept heat in and wind out, thickened, and the pliers bounced off thin air and clanked on the floor. 'Sys, you're a guest. Try to be civil, or I'll make you fly home.'
'Piffle. I go where-Whoops! Company!'
She pointed a gold nail. The palantir shimmered, ethereal smoke inside clearing from the top downward. But that one glance was enough, for the caller had snow-white hair. Only one person they knew was so adorned.
The wizards waited quietly. Candlemas was high steward of Delia, this magical castle in which they stood, and Sysquemalyn was chamberlain. Their duties meshed, for the steward managed the grounds of the castle and the chamberlain the interior. When not engaged in the Work, the furtherance of their own magical might, Candlemas oversaw the lesser wizards who oversaw other humans who oversaw their brethren in the manuring of crops, culling of forest growth, diverting of streams and dams, and the maintaining of many lesser castles and barns and granaries, all mundane resources that kept the manor and lands thriving. Sysquemalyn oversaw her own staff of wizards who in turn supervised others who directed a staggering number of maids and footmen and cooks who kept the castle neat and its people fed; artisans who made furniture, clothing, and other goods; and entertainers and musicians who needed to be prepared at any moment in case the castle's owner dropped by.
Their methods, however, differed greatly. Candlemas felt he must oversee everything personally and drove his wizards and their clerics and farm stewards and huntsmen crazy with fussy details. Sysquemalyn most often waved a laconic hand, ordering her magical lackeys to 'Do it however so.' Then she would return in a day or two to scream and rant and order random folks flogged half to death for guessing wrongly about how to execute such vague orders. So the two, Candlemas and Sysquemalyn, worked together, more or less, and often squabbled, though there were weeks when, because of the castle's vast size, they never even met.
Now an image cleared, and the castle's owner could be seen. Lady Polaris was beautiful, her face calm and poised, her white hair setting off perfect golden skin. A groundling might think her a goddess, but despite staggering powers, she was human, though she'd never admit it. The lady was archmage of Delia, one of many small city- states that made up the Netherese Empire. In the pyramidal power of the empire, Lady Polaris ranked fairly high but was still under the thrall of the preeminent mages. Yet she had under her control many powerful mages of her own, as well as many normal humans.
Two of these mages were Candlemas and Sysquemalyn, who, despite their own awesome powers, were mere apprentices compared to Lady Polaris. So when she demanded their attention, the pair were as meek as schoolchildren caught squabbling on the playground.
Lady Polaris had vast holdings and vast powers-neither of which the two wizards knew much about-so she never wasted time with underlings. She spoke immediately. 'Candlemas, and Sysquemalyn, this concerns you, too. There is something wrong with the wheat harvest. Everyone at court is talking about it, and I said I would take care of the problem, whatever it is. Fix it.' The palantir went blank, a black glass globe again.
Candlemas shook his head. 'What did she say? A problem with wheat?'
Sysquemalyn sniffed. 'Who is she to treat us like peasants? What does she have that we don't?'
'Enough power to turn this castle into a volcano, if she wished it,' muttered Candlemas. 'But what's this foolishness about wheat?'
He stopped at a knock on the doorjamb. Two lesser mages from one of the bottommost workshops stood in the hall. Candlemas didn't even know their names. Timidly, one said, 'Milord? This basket arrived for you.'
Sysquemalyn sniffed, but Candlemas waved them forward with a sigh. Any delivery from Lady Polaris would almost certainly be bad news. 'Yes, yes, bring it here; then get out.' Almost dropping the basket in their haste, the lesser mages fled.
Candlemas approached the bushel of grain slowly, as if it might explode. Archmages were known to slaughter their thralls on short-or no-notice, and anything sent by one was suspect. But kneeling carefully beside the
