Thus read Azalin's most recent laconic message to me.
Since the appearance of Arak we had gradually taken the route of having less direct contact between us, excepting for those periods of experimentation. It was a basic clash of personalities, and we each recognized the danger. I once had a general under my command like that. He was excellent at his work, but neither of us could abide the presence of the other. We relied on messengers to communicate and managed to accomplish much. I repeated this stratagem with Azalin, and it seemed better for us both.
Though I had spent the ensuing months pursuing every tome of knowledge in my possession for a method to use Azalin's true name against him, I had found nothing. Bordering on desperation, I even asked Madam Ilka's tribe to search for me, be it tribal lore or legends from other lands through which they had traveled. But so far, nothing. Biding my time and content with the knowledge that I at last held the key to Azalin's undoing, I continued my search. If only I could find the proper lock in which I could use the key.
The meaning of his latest missive was clear enough. After nearly forty years of lengthy spellwork, constant sniping back and forth, and outright argument, we were thoroughly sick of each other, but fully understood even the briefest of notes. He had another escape attempt planned and needed my help.
It was still a month before the winter solstice, but some time back he'd indicated that he was following a fresh line of attack, which had my curiosity up. I had come to think that he'd exhausted his choices as he was exhausting my patience. But I duly donned a traveling cape, took to the wide night sky, and sped over the all too tediously familiar route to the manor house. I knew every rock and tree and when feeling particularly bored could fly it with my eyes shut.
The few changes I noted were with his house, which had undergone yet another renovation to accommodate his needs. Any night now I expected him to demand a larger place to work. For the last decade he'd expressed dissatisfaction, harping on the growing inadequacy of his facilities. I suspected that if he had his unchecked way, he'd encompass all of Barovia if he thought it necessary to his ends.
The tower still stood, though some of the more explosive failures had taken their toll on the integrity of the stonework. Massive logs had been cut and raised at intervals against the stress points to keep the thing from falling outward. We had both reinforced the structure throughout with spells, so we could trust it would hold up to almost anything.
The attached house was a near shambles again, only now Azalin no longer bothered concealing the shortcomings with illusion. The roof on one wing collapsed entirely after the shaking it took in the trembling aftermath of a particularly bad attempt fifteen years ago. He had merely removed his papers and other records to another part of the place, sealed off the walls, and left it to deteriorate. His private chamber below had been spared, so he was still recording things in his journal, which I busily copied whenever the chance presented itself.
I slipped in through a gap in the front doors (they had also suffered damage) and resumed man-form in the entry and listened a moment, determining that Azalin was in his laboratory as usual. A short walk and I was also there, staring at his latest expensive contrivance. It made his first effort look like a child's toy.
The ceramic brick well was still the center of it and one of the only things unchanged from its original construction. There were some similarities with the rest but on a larger, more elaborate scale. The wall was covered to the ceiling with countless racks holding glass vessels, the liquids within linked by hundreds of miles of copper wire. Twisted strands of it an inch thick were now threaded through holes drilled in the wall where they led outside, imbedded into the earth.
The roof was quite gone, partly by damage and partly by design. The stars shone down unimpeded by glass panes and lead framing. He used spell work to keep out the rain and snow through the year.
Two tree trunks, stripped of their bark and carved with thousands of sigils of power, had been erected high over the well and fitted out with a series of pulleys and other tackle. One piece crossed the other, each cut to fit snugly together at their intersection point. Hanging from hooks below the intersection were the bodies of two goblyns harvested from Forlorn. They were upside down with their throats cut, their rank, noisome blood coating the inside of the shallow well.
Floating at the compass points around it were four perfectly round globes about a foot across. They glowed with hot writhing color, evidence of the dangerously suppressed forces within. Touch them the wrong way and they could blow a person to several thousand well-cooked shreds.
Azalin glanced up as I came in. 'It's about time,' he snapped and bent once more over whatever detail held his attention.
He continued thus for another quarter hour or so, ignoring my presence. Even had I used my travel spell to arrive the moment after getting his note, he'd still have grumbled about my being late. And he still kept me waiting.
I made no comment at this lapse of logic, standing quietly and out of the way as I'd done dozens of times before. Interruption would only prolong our contact. Instead, I stilled my emotions that they might not interfere with whatever was to come, but the powers in the room began to work on my nerves, as they always did. My magical sense was very acute in this place, and the sensation was not often pleasant, especially when there was so much of it stored up ready to be unleashed.
My common sense was not unaffected either. Azalin's current effort was far greater than any previously, and I wondered at his ability to handle it. Was he becoming so desperate for results that he was risking more than was remotely safe? I was reminded of the fable of the braggart, hoping to impress his liege, who tried to ride a bucking horse only to find it turned into a lion when he wasn't looking.
Azalin suddenly finished and glanced up. 'There.' He pointed, not at my usual spot but to a place halfway between the compass points. I offered no argument and simply went there and stood quiet while he made one more check of something.
I am not meek; such insecurity is not in me. I merely tolerated his orders. When it came down to actualities, I was the true power here. Working with this level of the Art, with spells he could design but not execute, Azalin was like a composer with no hands. He could dictate the notes, but it was up to another to actually play the music. And I was an excellent musician.
'The Holding, followed by the Direction,' he ordered. 'I'll deal with the rest.'
Now this was different. Had he nothing fresh for me to memorize? It could only mean he'd designed this casting around spells he'd already long mastered. I didn't care much for that. His dependence upon me for learning new ones was the chief reason why he had refrained from making an open challenge to my authority. What was he trying to do?
Then I had to set my questions aside. He stepped up onto his own place at the lip of the well, not opposite me, but just to my left, also standing between compass points. He held his arms straight out before him, and after a brief pause he began droning the words of summoning in his harsh voice.
A wind immediately whipped up from nowhere and everywhere, sweeping in an endless circle within the confines of the tower wall. It caused all the glass to rattle, thrummed between the copper wires, and made the bodies of the goblyns sway to and fro. The taut ropes holding them creaked lazily.
The liquids in the glass, light or dark, had been transparent, but now slowly began to turn opaque, as though polluted with mud. The lower ranks began to bubble, releasing a noxious vapor.
Azalin's drone rose to an intricate chant, and at the appropriate instant I joined in half a phrase behind his lead, echoing his intent.
The next rank of glass started to spew out vapor, then the next. The effect rose all the way to the top until pale clouds of it, quite untouched by the now screaming wind, cascaded down to the floor like a fall of fog. Or mist.
What in hell-?
I had to concentrate on the chant, one misplaced word, one falter in the rhythm, and the whole framework could collapse. The wind tore at my cloak, but I held fast, keeping my balance. As the fog pooled on the floor and rose, the wind diminished, then ultimately died away.
Azalin's voice faded, but not from lack of breath; the fog seemed to be absorbing the sound, smothering it in some way. It was soaking up the power of his words as they left his lips, and the same was happening to me. The louder I shouted the more was taken away. I could feel my own reserves of strength being drawn off.
To feed what?
The mist rose higher until it reached the lip of the well, then overflowed into it. It began to coalesce, become thicker, less active.
