Wizards Conclave

Chapter 6
A Master for the Tower of Magic

Where are we going?" asked Luthar. "This woodland is strange, is it not?"

Kalrakin paused, drew in a deep breath though his beaky nose, and nodded in satisfaction, even anticipation. "Strange, perhaps. But it makes us welcome! See how the path opens- even the trees grant us passage!" The trail, indeed, was wide and smooth, though darkly shadowed by overhanging limbs and dense foliage.

Luthar hurried to keep up, a step or two behind the tall sorcerer. He couldn't help looking this way and that, wide-eyed, as they advanced along a path that was startlingly clear amid the flourishing underbrush and tall, gnarled trees.

Those trees stood back from them to either side, but loomed very high overhead, extending curving limbs over the trail like a series of shadowy arches. Beards of moss draped many of these boughs. Vines and stalks of dewy underbrush also leaned over the path, fingers of foliage brushing against the hems of their robes, but Kalrakin stalked steadily onward without taking notice. His eyes remained fixed on the path before him, and his long strides carried him forward determinedly.

"Wait! Did you hear something?" asked Luthar suddenly, stopping.

"The wild birds," Kalrakin replied, shrugging. His long fingers stroked his tangled beard as he cocked an ear. "Noisy little fools. All this shrieking makes it hard for a man to think!" He, too, had stopped and now glared into the woods as if to challenge the cawing, shrieking flyers. All the while he flipped his polished white stone back and forth from one hand to the other.

"That's just it-listen! It's more than noise."

Many crows and more exotic birds were calling, a cacophony of sound unlike anything in any forest Luthar had ever visited. There was a musical cadence to the notes, but something more… almost intelligible.

"This is not the woodland we woke up in this morning, my lord," Luthar suggested. "Something has happened here-listen, I beg you!"

The birds cried and cried again, with ever greater urgency, and gradually the swelling sounds took on a distinct meaning.

It was a summons.

"Come, wizards… come to my heights… come to my walls… come to my sacred site____________________"

"The birds are speaking to us," noted the dour sorcerer, frowning so deeply that his bushy eyebrows nearly melded. "Calling us, it would seem."

"How can birds talk in a language men can understand?" Luthar asked, squinting and peering ahead, as he, too, listened intently. "This must be magic!" he exclaimed excitedly.

"Come, wizards____________________"

"Could it be some kind of trick?" asked the shorter sorcerer. "An attempt by our enemies to lure us into an ambush, a trap?"

"Bah-who would dare?" sneered Kalrakin. "In any event, we have no need to fear anything of magic. Remember, I carry the stone of Irda magic!" He raised the white orb in his hands, clenching it in one fist and waving it grandly, as if to ward away the mysterious presence of the forest.

In response, the birds cawed and shrieked with renewed frenzy. This time there was no mistaking the siren call of their words. Kalrakin bulled forward eagerly, leaving Luthar to sprint after frantically as the tall, gaunt sorcerer plunged down the rapidly forming pathway along the forest floor.

As he pushed through the last tendrils of trailing vine, Kalrakin blinked in a sudden wash of sunlight; a clearing had opened before him. His eyes traveled ahead to witness the great structure, a double spire of dark stone and elegant architecture, rising hundreds of feet toward the sky.

"Behold-like a black claw, it scratches at the heavens!" cried Kalrakin.

"Where are we?" asked his equally awestruck companion. "Surely there is no place in the Qualinesti forest like this?"

"My loyal companion, we have left the elven realm behind-no doubt we passed into Wayreth when we experienced the change in the woodland this morning. We are bid welcome to the Tower of High Sorcery-and this is Wayreth Forest. It all makes sense, now. Opportunity awaits!"

"Yes, it can be nothing else!" Luthar agreed, leaning an outstretched arm against a tree and breathing heavily. "And that must mean-"

"That we have been invited, here, of course," Kalrakin concluded. He snorted at the irony: this hallowed place of ancient godly magic, for some reason-a mistake? — summoning two practitioners of wild sorcery.

"Is the Tower dangerous?" There was a clear tremor in the younger mage's voice. "Perhaps we should move farther away from it."

But Kalrakin was already advancing closer, his long legs swiftly carrying him toward the wall and gateway surrounding the Tower. The gate was a wispy thing, a spiderweb of magical strands, which swept open at their approach without any move on their part. Beyond the gate the Tower rose: two lofty, conical spires with a short, round foretower between them. The Tower thrust up from a flat meadow of neatly trimmed grass, the ground smooth underfoot. A single door stood in that smaller, central structure, a plain-looking barrier of weathered hardwood boards, banded by three stands of rusty iron. A large keyhole gaped just below a metal ring, which suggested use as both a knocker and handle.

The Tower rested upon a foundation that seemed to flow directly from the ground itself. It was all smooth black stone, almost glassy in appearance, which swept upward uninterrupted by any suggestion of a joint or seam. It was unmarred by cracks or blemishes. It was as though the bedrock itself had given birth to the Tower, magically extending toward the sky.

Kalrakin touched that cool, smooth black surface, pressing his white Irda Stone against the outer wall. He closed his eyes, shivering slightly.

"I see clearly that this foundation is set very deeply into the ground. The walls here are very, very thick. There are many levels in the Tower, chambers and stairways too numerous to estimate. I find at least one chamber that strangely seems much larger than the Tower itself!"

Kalrakin suddenly trembled, and his eyes opened, shining with excitement. "There is one room in the Tower, a chamber within walls of stone, masked by an enclosed barrier of solid metal. This is a special vault, a chamber of spectacular size built to hold unique treasures. The shell of iron masked my probing powers, but I could sense a quantity of magic there, magic in purity and potency that we have never before imagined."

He pressed his hands hard against the outer wall as if the sheer force of his will would push them physically into the treasure chamber.

But soon, with a shrug, Kalrakin turned and made his way back to the door. As he reached the portal, it opened automatically, swinging inward to reveal a small anteroom with a floor of black slate. A rug of exquisite beauty lay just within the entry.

"How did it open?" asked Luthar wonderingly as he hesitantly approached.

Kalrakin shook his head. "I don't know. I had yet to raise a hand when it swung wide. Once again, we are made welcome. We are invited."

Without delay he stepped through the entry, looking down with amusement at a colorful rug. He wiped his feet then watched with interest as the scuffs of mud vanished a second later, apparently absorbed by the threads of the fabric. Luthar followed him closely, but Kalrakin had already moved on. The anteroom opened into a huge, circular chamber with three large, different staircases spiraling upward, and several closed doors suggesting other rooms around the periphery of this central atrium.

When the tall sorcerer turned his attentions to one of the nearest of the closed doors, staring curiously, its portal swung open. Pleasing aromas-fresh-baked bread, roast meats-emerged, and Kalrakin stepped into a small banquet room. There was a table large enough for perhaps a dozen guests, but now it was set for two, with silver candleholders holding long, burning tapers. A bottle of wine rested in a platinum dish filled with crushed ice; beside it sat a decanter filled with dark red liquid. A haunch of roast beef, steaming hot, oozed juices on a large wooden board, while a loaf of fresh bread and a dish of soft butter were positioned near both settings.

Kalrakin laughed out loud. He stepped forward, poured a glass of the red wine into one of several crystal goblets on the table. He quaffed the drink, losing a few droplets into the tangle of his beard, then hurled the vessel at the stone wall, just above the dark, cool hearth. The glass shattered, shards exploding across the room, leaving crimson drops spattering across the wall.

"Was that necessary?"

The sorcerer whirled around at these words, his beard and hair flying wildly, eyes bulging in shock as a man in a long black robe entered the room from a discreet side door. He bore a staff capped by the golden image of a dragon's head, and his robe formed a hood that draped loosely over his head. His face was aged, but he moved with the grace of a younger man. His eyes were very deep set, and they flashed with challenge as he stepped into the dining room.

Luthar gasped in alarm, clapping a hand to his mouth. Kalrakin drew himself up to his full, imposing height, and glared at the Black Robe like a hawk ready to seize its prey.

"And just who are you?" Kalrakin demanded.

"I am the one who invited you here," said the newcomer. His tone was stern, yet not angry. "I saw that the gates were parted, the food was ready and available, for your pleasure. But I am surprised-and disappointed-that you do not treat this hallowed place with more respect. After all, you come with a legacy of magic; that much I could sense from a hundred… a thousand miles away. We should strive together to make this place alive, again!"

"A legacy of magic?" The sorcerer howled with laughter, and held up the Irda Stone. "This is what you sensed! My magic has fooled you. Yes, it has a legacy, but as different from yours as your three moons. As for me, I spit on your gods, your magic. I would spit on your three moons if I could!"

The Black Robe's face grew pale, and his knuckles tightened where he gripped his staff. "How dare you!" he hissed.

Kalrakin merely sneered. "I have no need to kowtow to you or your silly gods. Your era, and theirs, is through. It is time you made way for me!"

"You shall not dare to blaspheme the gods of magic, not here, in this most sacred of places!" declared the Black Robe in outrage. "Perhaps I have made a mistake. You and your friend must leave this place-now!"

"I have no intention of leaving," Kalrakin replied. With elaborate casualness he poured himself another goblet of wine, took a deep and messy drink, and hurled this second vessel against the wall so that it burst amid the shards of the previous shattered goblet. "No, I like it here," he declared with a bark of a laugh. "And you do not frighten me, Black Robe."

"Go!" roared the wizard, in a voice that rattled the windows and rumbled through the floor and the walls. His robe flapped as if in the midst of a gale, and the staff grew longer in his hand. The gold dragon head seemed to darken until it was blood red in color, and now flames flickered within the image's eyes. "Go at once, if you wish to leave here alive!"

"Let us leave, my lord," Luthar urged in a whisper, coming around the great table to tug on his companion's arm. "We should do as he suggests!"

"Be silent!" Kalrakin snapped, seizing Luthar by the face and pushing him down hard. The rotund sorcerer toppled back heavily to the floor, where he looked between the other two men with wide, frightened eyes.

"Do you not recognize this flesh?" demanded the Black Robe, stepping closer, stamping his staff against the stone floor. More thunder rolled, and his dark eyes flashed as if they might release the force of lightning at any second. Dark smoke spumed from the flared nostrils of the dragon head.

"I see a simple-minded mage," Kalrakin declared, sneering. "One who does not realize that his era is gone. One who is about to learn some lessons."

"I am Fistandantilus!" roared the wizard. "I am the most feared wielder of magic in the history of Krynn! I have consumed the souls of greater men than you, and I am always hungry for more! You are a fool if you do not flee now, running for your wretched lives! Or perhaps you want to feel the tortures of a thousand years-do you think I can't arrange that!?"

"Cheap tricks," Kalrakin said with an arrogant shrug. Once again he flipped the white Irda Stone between his hands. Then he laughed, a sound that brought an almost comical expression of outrage to the face of Fistandantilus. "I do not fear you. In fact, I doubt your power. Your impotence is proof that your time is passed… that my era commences."

"Doubt at your own risk, fool! Depart at once, or I shall unleash that might to your unending regret!" declared the Black Robe. "The black moon is high in the sky, and the power of Nuitari once again thrums in the world!"

"Power? You speak of power! Here is power!"

The sorcerer held up the white bauble. It pulsed, and a stab of light flew outward, a spear of pure energy. The white light made no sound, but the flash of brilliance lingered in the room almost like an echo, ebbing and flowing ominously around the form of the ancient, black-robed wizard. A corona that shone like the sun outlined the shape of the wizard; his staff glowed fiercely. And then the illumination began to grow even brighter, until it seemed that it must turn into fire-yet there was no heat.

Slowly, gradually, it began to wane, allowing the shadows back into the room, plunging everything suddenly into darkness. And when the light had finally faded altogether, the Black Robe was gone. There was no residue where he had stood, no mark to prove that he had even been there.

"Wh-hat happened? Where did he go?" stammered Luthar, climbing nervously to his feet. He had been holding his hands over his eyes so tightly that he left red impressions of his fingers in his cheeks and forehead.

Kalrakin shrugged. "What does it matter? He is gone and will trouble us no more. First let us eat. Then we will have a look around our new home."