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ISIS™ 2.
……………………………………
Copyright 1950 by John Carney
ISIS is a registered trademark of Castle Research, Inc.
All rights reserved.
No part of this program may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any computer language, in any form or by any means, without prior written approval of the copyright holder. Nasty events could be the result.
This means you.
……………………………………
“Jesus, nineteen-fifty! They didn’t even have computers then!”
Jeremy read what appeared next.
YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO RUN ME WITHOUT CHECKING OUT THE OPERATING SYSTEM, BUT I’M GLAD YOU DID, ANYWAY. TURN AROUND AND LOOK, DARLING.
Jeremy jerked his head up and said, “Huh?”
He wheeled around in his chair and nearly fell off.
“Hello, Jeremy.”
She was about five feet seven inches tall and had long shiny black hair. Her eyes were large and blue, her lips full and pouting. She had a straight nose and high cheekbones and wore a slinky cocktail dress of black velvet, slit up the left thigh, with high-heeled black patent-leather shoes. Her legs were long and exquisitely turned, and she had on black net stockings.
Jeremy had some trouble with his lips. “Who — who — who are you?”
“I’m Isis.”
She came up and kissed him full on the mouth.
Six
The Plains of Merydion
He put down the chalk, picked up a dry cloth, and wiped the piece of slate, erasing the last part of the message. The sending technique was primitive, but it had worked.
He set the slate down and picked up his flagon of wine. He drank deeply. When the flagon was empty, he sat awhile in thought.
Presently he got up and left the tent.
Gart, the warlord, was seated by the fire gnawing a haunch of mutton. It was late, and most of Gart’s army was asleep. Campfires burned low on the plain. A hide-and-seek moon played in the clouds above. Out in the darkness, sentries walked the perimeter of the camp.
Gart looked up from his meal. He smiled, gap-toothed and devilish, his beard glistening with grease. “What goes, magician? Communicating with your spirits again?”
“No, I phoned home.”
“Eh?”
“Sent a message.” The magician sat down on a flat stone by the fire. “To my family.”
“Ah. Things go well, I trust.”
“No, unfortunately not. There is trouble, and I must leave to attend to it.”
Gart was dismayed. “But we fight in the morning!”
“My apprentices can handle it. Besides, you have the advantage in numbers.”
“I was counting on a supernatural advantage, magician.”
“You will have it. Fire spells, forfending spells, zone-of-death curses, everything.”
“But you are more skilled than any apprentice, and skill is all in these things.”
“The spells are simple, because magic — here, at least — is a simple matter. And not very potent, either. I have told you many times that if you win the day, it will be by dint of superior military talent and cunning. These you have in adequate supply.”
“That I’m capable is true enough. But any extra leverage, however slight, is desirable.” Gart threw down the haunch and picked up a wineskin. “I’m afraid you will have to stay, magician.”
The magician said quietly, “I’m afraid that will not be possible.”
Gart tilted the skin and a stream of wine poured into his mouth. He grimaced and spat it out, threw down the skin. “Soured! Damn that provisioner. I’ll have him hoisted by his stones and left to savor like a game hen.”
The magician was silent.
Avoiding the other man’s gaze, Gart searched the night sky. The fire crackled, and insects buzzed.
Suddenly the warlord’s head swung around, mouth twisted into a sneer. “Very well, go! You know I can’t force you to stay. Bear in mind, though — I won’t forget. When next the nobles sit in council, I will vote against you on every issue! I will be a thorn in your foot, a canker on your lip. I will block you!”
“You would do that, anyway.”
“I’ll … damn it all to hell!” Gart got to his feet, picked up the mutton and heaved it out into the darkness. Grunting in disgust, he stalked away.
The magician stared into the fire for a moment, watching it glow and pulsate and send puffs of smoke into the night — cryptic signals.
He went back to his tent and packed his things. He didn’t have much. He stuffed the satchel, gathered up his maps and battle plans, and left.
He went to Jarlen’s tent and woke him.
Jarlen blinked. “Master?”
“I’m leaving. Think you can carry on without me tomorrow?”
“You won’t be here?” Jarlen sat up. “I don’t know. I … I think so. Perhaps.”
“Uh, could you be more definite?”
Jarlen rubbed his eyes. Then he nodded. “I can do it.”
“That’s more like it.” He handed the boy a sheaf of papers. “Here are the battle plans. You’ve seen them before. Study them, then burn them before the battle. Draw your pentacles straight and true. And don’t muff any incantations. If you do, you’ll have to start over from the beginning.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good. Get up. You’ve got work to do.”
