Wizards Conclave

Chapter 9
A Master Enslaved

The Master of the Tower had erred. That awareness came very slowly, but it was an undeniable truth.

At first he had welcomed the Awakening, a return to cognizance after so many decades of dormancy. The gods had reached out to him, and he had grown vibrant under their touch, their urging. Quickly, over the course of little more than a single cycle of the black moon, Nuitari, the Master of the Tower had shrugged off the lethargy of the godless years. This eight-day sequence spanned in its passing the fullness of the other two moons, Solinari and Lunitari, so that upon the second rising of Nuitari as a complete, dark circle-the Master could sense this fullness as clearly as could any black-robed wizard-the great structure in the heart of Wayreth Forest began to pulse with a return of long-forgotten vitality.

It happened during the spring of the year, and the Master of the Tower felt fully, vibrantly alive. When all three moons rose into the sky, the power of the gods of magic flowed toward the world, bringing forth that fully cognizant awareness of life.

With awareness there came remembrance, and with those memories, unspeakable pain.

The Master remembered eons of greatness, when these halls had been home to the likes of Fistandantilus, Raistlin the Black, and Par-Salian of the white robe. Power beyond imagination had once coursed through this center of learning and of might. Within this tower the great Portal had glimmered and glowed, tempting wizards over the years with easy transport between the towers of sorcery-all the time serving the sinister purposes of the Queen of Darkness. The Portal had been closed and sealed years ago, and now that queen was dead, and still the Tower stood. It remained aloof from the world, lofty and alone… save for the wizards who dwelled here, and the forest that protected it.

The forest!

The Master's first conscious act in this new age was to seek the comforting presence of that vast woodland, the warm nest that had been its bower since the Age of Dreams. The forest surrounded and protected, barred the unwelcome from entry, and sealed away the petty troubles of mortal lives and lands. That wood was the Tower's cocoon, its bower, its nest.

Yet now, in this new age when the three moons once again ruled the night sky, the Master could not feel this familiar, comforting, surrounding presence. The Master feared that the forest was dead, vanished into the same void that had nearly swallowed the Tower itself. A sense of bleak hopelessness surrounded the Tower, and if not for the strength in the deep-seated foundation stones, the spire might have collapsed in ruin.

Then, faintly, there came a sign-not a word or a message so much as the faintest of impulses, a hint of comfort, a signal that the ancient strength was being stirred and restored. The forest, like the Tower, was alive!

The Master of the Tower strained to enhance that contact, to reassure, to invigorate, but the weakness and hopelessness were too pervasive. Long years, decades, of catatonic unawareness had sapped the Tower's ability to project strength, to wield the sorcerous fundament that was its reason for existing.

But that arcane power held on and began to grow, and the master felt the power of all three gods of magic begin to thrum through those stones, parapets, and foundation. That magical might flowed into the surrounding forest, and the trees and shrubs and grasses began to show small signs of life. Over the course of another moon cycle, limbs once withered and drooping began to grow straight and strong, brown and rotted foliage fell away to be replaced by green buds that, in the course of only a few more days, turned into leaves and blossoms, fruits and nuts.

Slowly that warm embrace encircled the Tower, and the Master felt the vitality of ancient strength build and grow.

But the world beyond remained a vast wilderness, a haven of wild magic and blasphemy, a dark blight of ignorance, of seeking based on false gods. There was no time for rest, or reflection. There was an urgency in the summons of the gods, an urgency that the Tower and forest felt and shared. They had important work to do, and time was the enemy; for, with each passing sunset, the chaotic force of wild magic grew stronger in the world.

The Master of the Tower was a bulwark against that surging tide, but he alone was not strong enough, nor vital enough. The Tower needed a wizard, a mortal master to return here, to take up the challenge. The pulse had gone out across the world, a vibration through the ether that would tickle the fabric of magic, to seek, and to bring such a wizard home, to the Tower.

And now a wizard had come.

Kalrakin stared at the door, his bristling brows tautly knit together by the force of his concentration. Wild magic surrounded him, energy surging through the stones of the floor, entering his feet, climbing his legs, suffusing his body with the force of imminent, inevitable explosion. The sorcerer raised his right hand, where the Irda Stone shimmered with its pearly glow. For more than a day, he had prepared this spell, using the artifact to draw the power from many parts of the Tower, gathering it for this powerful blast.

Kalrakin concentrated his powerful store of magic not at the door-that barrier had resisted all of his previous efforts- but at the granite frame surrounding this entryway. With a cry of exultation, he let the spell go, hurling all his power-and the power of the Irda Stone-at that smooth granite.

Pain wracked his hands, his arms, and his shoulders. A vise closed around his heart, and his cry became a shriek of pain. Kalrakin stumbled backward, smashing his back against the opposite wall. Fire tinged the fringes of his vision, and he choked in agony, straining for a single breath of air. But his lungs would not respond. Blackness closed in, and though he fought to keep standing, he could not prevent himself from sliding down to slump on the floor, shoulders flat against the wall.

Very slowly, he drew a ragged breath, precious air driving back the unconsciousness that threatened to overwhelm him. His legs twitched convulsively. He was drooling into his beard-yet Kalrakin was unable to raise a hand, even to wipe his lips. He groaned. Bracing his hands to either side, he forced himself to sit upright and wiped his mouth spasmodically.

Crimson streaked his hand-from a cut on his lip and from blood streaming from his nose. His fists clenched in fury, and he spat contemptuously at the stubborn door, a glob of bloody saliva that dripped slowly down the deceptively mundane-looking planks.

Finally, he stood, turning toward the opposite wall of the hallway, confronting his own reflection in a crystal mirror, in an ornate platinum frame. With a strangled cry, Kalrakin smashed his fist into the mirror, shattering the glass. Ignoring the shards on the floor, he stalked on through the Tower.

This was the second time he had assaulted the wizard-locked door. The first had been weeks earlier, shortly after he and Luthar had arrived here. The first time the sorcerer had smashed the planks with a great battle axe. The blade, heavy steel of dwarven manufacture, enchanted with ancient magic, had bounced off the wooden planks without making so much as a scratch. Kalrakin had exhausted himself banging on the portal, without making any progress.

This time, he had focused on the stone, holding it while he caressed a multitude of magical items that he had collected while ransacking the Tower. Thus he had drained away the enchantments in pitchers that never emptied, weapons of rare ensorcellment, doorknobs and saddles and lamps that had each been infused with potent magical power. They were mundane and lifeless now, the enchantments having been absorbed by the Irda Stone.

But even that potent blast of stored magic had been thwarted by the wizard lock.

Kalrakin spiraled down a long ways, past many other doors and landings, passages leading through the still-imperfectly mapped tower. He found Luthar in the great dining room in the foretower. The rotund mage sat at the big table, eating noisily.

"Come-I wish to try again."

"You can't wait for tomorrow?" Luthar said with a grimace.

"We have been waiting for too many tomorrows," snapped the tall sorcerer. His hawk-nose jutted angrily toward his compatriot. "We are making no progress-none at all! That door must be sealed by the power of the gods themselves! I sent a surge of wild magic that would have torn down a castle-but it rebounded against me, had no effect on either the door or its frame."

"That makes only five rooms, all sealed, in this whole tower," Luthar reflected. "There are a hundred times that many we are able to enter and make our own. Again, Master, I counsel patience. These doors will open to us, in time. In the meantime, think what we have: food of any variety, as much as we want, provided by the Tower; drink; and treasures galore!"

"Bah-I have no patience for petty delights! Or for fools, Luthar. We have discovered apartments both Spartan and sumptuous; galleries of rare art, pantries and cisterns and training halls. All of them are filled with silly trinkets and novelties-paintings with moving pictures, dishes that wash themselves, rings and bracelets of various natures. But where are the true artifacts: the library of scrolls, the laboratory of potions and elixirs? What of the treasures of the ages, those items that will pave my way to ultimate mastery?

"No, my slow-witted friend, these all-important relics are still hidden away from us. And those are the secrets of the five doors, the doors locked by the ancient wizards, doors that still resist our most potent magic."

"Every lock can be broken," Luthar replied plaintively. "If not with a spell, then with great force. You must collect a greater force.

"No, these ancient wizard locks require a clever solution." Kalrakin said. "Clearly they encompass all sides of these chambers, including the floor and ceiling-I have tried to warp the stones in all dimensions, but they resist every probe, every advance of my wild magic. I need to find another way."

"There are times, Master, when I feel as though this cursed tower is alive, is working against us-it's like a secret enemy, lurking around the corner of every hallway-watching, scheming. I tell you, I don't like it! It is dangerous here, and we don't need this place! The whole world is open to us-maybe we should just go somewhere else?"

"No. There is a purpose here, a reason that we were invited in. The Tower beckoned to us, drew us through the dark wood, brought us safely within. It wanted us to come."

"Now, perhaps, it wants us to leave," suggested Luthar.

The gaunt sorcerer shook his head and ran his fingers through the long tangle of his beard, turning a slow circle as he inspected the dining hall. "I care not what it wants. I am here, I like it here, and I intend to stay. Now, come with me," he said abruptly.

As usual, Luthar had to trot to keep up with Kalrakin's long-legged stride. They made their way to the great central stairway and headed up, the taller sorcerer taking the steps three at a time, while the shorter mage huffed and hurried behind. Passing the scattered remnants of plate mail he had earlier wrecked, the wild magic user returned to the stubborn door that had resisted his most potent casting.

"You dare to taunt me?" he declared softly, addressing that door. He did not expect a reply, but Luthar's words had pointed him toward a truth: There was some being listening, observing, watching him. The Tower was indeed a sentient presence who was testing him-and with this realization, the tall mage had determined a course of action.

Kalrakin kept his eyes on the locked room as he reached his gloved hand behind his back and pushed open the door to another chamber. Only then did he spin around and stalk into that room, one of several small art galleries that he and Luthar had discovered weeks earlier, upon their first explorations of the Tower. The sorcerer waved his hand, and light flared from the crystal chandelier overhead, illuminating a large, irregular chamber that was dominated by a life-sized statue of three humans, a trio standing back to back in the center.

Executed by a talented sculptor out of three shades of marble, the statues depicted archetypes of the three schools of godly magic-or perhaps, the three deities ruling those orders. One image carved in pure white displayed an elderly man, wrinkled and slightly stooped in posture, leaning on a knobby staff. His eyes were kindly, his smile beneficent, and if his flowing beard and hair bespoke great age, his visage had a benign aspect that, when he had first glimpsed this statue, Kalrakin found it patently absurd.

Next to him was the likeness of another man, cut from stone of ebony black. This was a younger wizard, smoothfaced and short-haired, with penetrating eyes. The third image was female, carved from some exotic version of marble that was nearly blood-red in color; the sorceress was of indeterminate age, stern-faced, and slender, and her hands were raised slightly, reaching outward in a gesture of encompassing embrace.

"Artifacts of the distant past," Kalrakin sneered aloud. He leaned back and crowed toward the ceiling. "Pathetic symbols of a time gone by-but they are part of you still, are they not?"

He glared at the trio of statues and raised his hands toward the female figure in red marble. Intertwining his thumbs, the gaunt sorcerer roared, making an animalistic sound of fury. With a sharp gesture he broke his grip and whipped his arms apart-and in that instant the statue shattered, scattering shards of crimson stone across the wooden floor of the gallery.

Kalrakin stood still, every sense quivering. He heard it first as a groan, a sound of nearly physical pain, followed by the faintest of tremors. The floorboards rippled slightly under his feet. "Feel the force of my displeasure!" he shouted to the ceiling, his voice exultant. "And know that there is no limit to the pain I can inflict!"

With sharp, brutal gestures, he then wove a spell of wild magic around the white and then the black statues, leaving them likewise destroyed. Shards of rock in three colors now littered the floor of the gallery, and the suffering of the Tower became tangible. The floor shivered more violently; an elaborately jeweled lamp, with a surface of carved turquoise, trembled atop its marble pedestal. With a flip of his hand, Kalrakin caused that precious treasure to slide from its perch; it fell and broke against the hard floor.

The sorcerer breathed hard, snorting like a bull through his massive beak of a nose. He glared at a shelf of crystal vases then turned to scrutinize a painting of exceptional age, depicting an elven patriarch from beyond the Age of Heroes. He toyed with the thought of further mayhem. But perhaps his point had been made.

With a growl, he exited the room, glaring across the hall at the doorway that taunted him.

"Do you dare to tempt me into further retribution?" he asked, his voice rising. Once more he rooted his feet to the stone floor-and felt the wild magic surge. Curling his hand into a fist, still clutching the Irda Stone, he aimed his strongest blow at the wizard-locked door, expended the full force of his magic in one mighty hammer strike.

This time the force rebounded against him so hard that he was hurled against the wall; his skull rang as he bit down, hard, on his own tongue. He was utterly unconscious by the time his insensate body hit the floor.

The pale, cringing Luthar crept into the hallway, and with a deep sigh, and a small snort of disgust, slumped down next to Kalrakin, to wait.