One Hundredth Magic Read online

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  Zumaya Publications

  www.zumayapublications.com

  Copyright ©2002 Jeffrey Turner

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  The troll roared and sprang forward with surprising speed. Nikkolynda began a desperate chant and threw one arm across his face defensively, but the troll kicked it aside and landed a foot in the wizard's chest hard enough to drive the wind from his lungs. Stunned, unable to even draw a new breath, Nikkolynda lay sprawled on the grass and watched the troll reach for him. Just as its claw-tipped finger grazed the wizard's cheek, a winged figure slammed into the troll's chest and drove it back toward the Cauldron...

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Zumaya Publications, 2002

  Look for us online at: www.zumayapublications.com

  ISBN: 1-894869-62-1

  Copyright 2002 by Jeffrey Turner

  Cover art and design by Martine Jardin

  "FOR KERRY..."

  PROLOGUE

  The last rays of sunlight cast an orange glow behind the treetops as the dwarf ran. Bright red drops stained the leafy underbrush as he passed, and the weight of his footsteps left a clear trail of broken branches. One gnarled hand gripped the opposite arm in an unsuccessful effort to staunch the flow of blood. Pain blazed, and the dwarf stumbled to a halt. He leaned against the thick bole of an oak and panted.

  Like most of his kind, the dwarf's body was short but powerfully built. His beard was thick and cropped square a few inches below his chin. His brown tunic was cinched by a broad leather belt, from which hung a short, empty scabbard. The tunic was torn in numerous places, as were his thick leggings. A dark bruise discolored the swelling skin around his right eye, spreading further over his cheek as he rested. More blood trickled from the ridge of his forehead, down his face and into his steel-colored beard.

  After a moment his breathing slowed and the dwarf cocked his head. A few birds called and a squirrel chattered at something in the high branches. The thick scent of moist vegetation filled the dwarf's nostrils, and a rabbit darted past his feet and into the undergrowth.

  Suddenly, the evening air fell completely silent. A steady rumbling grew in the distance, so low in pitch the dwarf wasn't sure whether he heard it with his ears or felt it through the ground. He pulled away from the tree, leaving a bit of his sleeve snagged on the rough bark as he fled again.

  As the trees grew closer together the sun vanished entirely. The dwarf ran swiftly despite his wounds but wondered if he'd chosen the wrong direction. He'd expected to cross the river by now and find a place to make a stand. The pain may have distorted his sense of time, he decided, but not direction. Sure enough, the trees soon broke on the grassy banks of the Nivom. The water ran fast at the bottom of a twenty-foot drop, but a stonework bridge spanned the gap. The dwarf crossed without slowing. He already knew the bridge lacked collapse pins. It hardly mattered, as his pursuer could probably cross the river without aid.

  Small squares of light appeared through the trees ahead, and the dwarf forced his burning legs to move faster. As the sun slipped completely out of sight the rumble came again, louder this time. A cluster of small cottages appeared, windows open in expectation of a warm night. About a dozen of the squat homes stood in a circle, each constructed from interlocking logs. Behind them, long stalks of corn waved in the evening breeze, beckoning him to hide amongst their carefully plotted rows. The dwarf headed instead for the nearest cottage and burst through the door without breaking stride.

  A man and a woman sat at a small table in the middle of the cottage's front room. They dined from wooden bowls, which rested on their table next to an oil lantern. One chair flew backward to land in the cold hearth as the pair leaped to their feet. The woman screamed, drowning out the slam of the door. The dwarf, ignoring her, spotted an iron bar resting against the wall. He snatched it up and nearly threw it into the door bracings. When he turned, the man faced him with a short sword in one hand. The blade was rusty and chipped, a perfect match for the dirty, torn shirt and trousers worn by its owner.

  “Thorl, kill it!” said the woman. She cringed behind her husband, staring wide-eyed at the dwarf.

  Leaning against the door, fighting to catch his breath, the dwarf said, “Windows. Must bar the windows."

  Thorl took a hesitant step forward, keeping the table between himself and the intruder. “The man's hurt, Muri.”

  “The thing that did this is only seconds behind,” said the dwarf. His throat hurt, and his arm felt afire. “Have you got another weapon?"

  Thorl made up his mind quickly. “Muri, close the windows. Here.” The last was directed to the dwarf. Thorl reached between the wall and the firebox, extracting a long wood axe. He tossed it across the room. Despite his injuries, the dwarf caught it easily and took up a position next to the door. Muri had already thrown the bolts on both small windows.

  “In the back, Muri.” The woman looked at the dwarf and started to speak, but Thorl gestured angrily toward the bedroom door.

  “Your name, sir?” he asked.

  The dwarf's eyes remained set on the door. “Ervin Harkannian, for what it's worth. You've got my apology for bringing danger to your house, stranger. My family's indebted to yours."

  “What—” began Thorl, then fell silent as thunder rolled over the low roof.

  Ervin Harkannian glanced toward the hearth. His ally's hands shook visibly. “It makes the noise to cause fear. When it comes through the door, I'll plant your axe in its chest. Be ready with the sword."

  Thorl swallowed and nodded, just as the unearthly noise abated.

  Something slammed against the wall of the cottage, well away from the door. A sharp crack rent the air as the central log split in half. The dwarf cursed and darted forward, throwing up his injured arm to shield his face as a second blow sent chunks of wood flying into the room. The lantern crashed to the floor, spilling a puddle of burning oil on the packed dirt.

  A dark form exploded through the wall on the third assault. Thorl shouted and Ervin swung the axe with both hands. Every muscle in his powerful body drove the attack. His knotted arms guided the axe unerringly toward gray flesh, but the sharp head struck the undefended target and stopped. The handle disintegrated in the dwarf's hands.

  “Fire and—” began Ervin, then a clawed hand shot out to grasp his neck. The dwarf's body flew through the air. It crashed into the wall behind Thorl and slid to the floor, coming to rest next to the dropped sword.

  Thorl stood frozen in place, watching helplessly as the creature approached. Its eyes glowed with a sickly yellow cast. Bright blood mixed with a pestilent green pus dripped to the floor, oozing from gashes where the thing's fangs cut into its own lips. Thorl forced himself to look away. He turned his gaze to the hole in his ruined wall. The constellation of the winged archer hung low on the horizon. For a moment, Thorl imagined the celestial hero coming to life, turning his b
ow toward the creature's exposed back. Then the claws flashed again, and the stars disappeared.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Alexander Finnell entered the walled city of Hurst through its western gate. His travel papers proved unnecessary; the purple-clad guards allowed him to pass unchecked. The lack of interest surprised him. He'd seen more than a few trade caravans harassed by patrols during his journey, and he'd expected the City Guard to examine everyone entering the gates.

  Pedestrian traffic was heavy at the height of the day, however, and the soldiers simply watched the merchants and travelers go by. Behind Alexander walked a company of gnome builders. All six of the bald little men were harnessed to their supply wagon, which was laden with woodworking tools and scraps of lumber. Alexander had taken a turn pulling the previous day in exchange for a portion of the gnomes’ evening meal. The small men chattered constantly about the intricacies of building for human proportions, providing him with educational entertainment for a good part of his journey. Now, however, he stayed a few paces ahead of the gnomes and allowed the hood of his light cloak to obscure his face. Guardsmen had a tendency to notice mixed-race traveling companions, and Alexander desired to remain inconspicuous.

  It occurred to him that maybe he should identify himself after all. The guards might send him packing back to Addamantia, where he could hardly be faulted for being denied entrance to Hurst. His hopeless mission could be ended before beginning. On the other hand, the guards could just as easily toss him in a local jail as turn him away. Alexander kept his eyes forward and strode on, wondering for the hundredth time how much further relations between Addamantia and Hurst had deteriorated while he traveled.

  As he passed, the guards’ heads snapped up as if controlled by one mind. Alexander tensed and reached slowly for his pouch, but the men were looking beyond him. The gnomes caught the motion and a few turned to see what deserved such attention.

  “Great Lord, will you look at that?"

  “Hey, Argoll, don't drop the damned load!"

  “Ever seen one o’ them before?"

  “Not this far north, no doubt about that."

  “This thing don't pull itself, you bums!"

  Curiosity got the better of Alexander, and he glanced over his shoulder without slowing. Behind the gnome wagon strode the most incredible woman he remembered seeing in his thirty-four summers. She was slender and tall, nearly Alexander's six feet. A thin, gauzy skirt hung to her ankles, but her upper body was clad only in a leather halter. Her hair, the color of dark honey, was braided and piled atop her head. Narrow eyes angled in toward a small, chiseled nose, but Alexander's attention was captivated by her skin. The woman's flesh was bone-white except where narrow black bands encircled her arms and body. The bands continued up her neck, fading as they crossed her high-ridged cheeks. Alexander finally took note of the long dagger tucked into her belt alongside three flat, curved sticks.

  He chided himself for being distracted by her beauty and turned his attention to the horse she led. Its shoulders rising to just the height of its owner's, and its coat was completely white, though Alexander couldn't see its entirety. Six large saddlebags were strapped over the horse's back. From one of them dangled a long, slender sword.

  “Great Lord, a tigri! Here in the Western Realm!"

  “Dammit, Ovrod, if you don't pull your share I'll—"

  “Take my tether, I'm goin’ back to talk to her."

  “Yeh, Argoll, offer yourself for her dinner, hey?"

  Alexander checked the guards. They were rooted in place, still engrossed with the tigri. The gate was behind the gnomes now, and Alexander was passing between the two walls. The outer, he estimated, rose to fifty feet and was topped by a wide catwalk. The inner wall was identical, with stonework so smooth that only dwarves could have built it. High above, sunlight glinted off polished helmets.

  Looking forward, Alexander spotted the great Keep towering over the eastern end of the city. There'd be yet another wall surrounding it, he knew, but the nearest buildings obscured it from sight. A shadow passed below the sun. Squinting, Alexander could just discern the silhouette of what appeared to be a large bird. A line of rickshaws stood on the side of the road, their drivers leaning against the empty carts as they waited for passengers.

  “Hey, Alexander, man, you off to find work?” The speaker was Argoll, the leader of the gnome crew.

  Alexander dropped back to keep pace with the builders. The top of Argoll's head barely reached Alexander's waist and the gnome's leathery, greenish skin glistened in the bright sun.

  “Going to find an inn,” Alexander said, “then have a look at the city."

  “Yeah, we'll be raisin’ the new barracks along the nor'west wall. You need work, you come see Argoll. Can always use a Tall One on the crew, hey?"

  “Hey, yourself. Thanks for the offer, Argoll.” The pair shook hands quickly, then Alexander picked up the pace and strode quickly away. He remained on Governor's Way, memorizing the shops that lined the thoroughfare: a butcher, an apothecary, a seamstress and a candlemaker on one block. Distinct smells wafted from each door—the sweet tang of blood from the first, a sulfuric stink from the second and the flowery scent of tallow candles at the last. Most of the buildings were two-storied, with a shop on the ground floor and, most likely, dwellings above. A chirurgeon's office appeared, next door to a healer. If one couldn't fix you, Alexander though wryly, the other would happily give it a try.

  A horde of children pushed past at breakneck speed and Alexander automatically dropped his hands over his pouches. The urchins darted by a thin young man perched atop a wooden crate. His dark green cloak was pinned to his elbows, which snapped above the heads of his sparse audience. The man spoke with an impressively deep voice, which carried across the crowd to Alexander's side of the road.

  “...in the very road you now travel! Note the potholes over which you tread, the filth and garbage left untended for days. These are but small symptoms of The Despot's reign, the callous disregard for the needs of..."

  The street was actually in pretty decent shape, thought Alexander, and continued on his way.

  Nearly an hour later, Governor's Way brought him to Shipman's Plaza, the heart of Hurst. The plaza was a monstrous marketplace, some four or five blocks square and covered with merchant stands. Wares of all variety were in evidence—clothing, weapons, farming tools and enough food to march an army for weeks. Alexander paused to buy an apple, flipping the teenage girl a copper coin with the Addamantian falcon stamped on both sides. He watched carefully as the girl examined the crest and nodded. One good sign, he decided. Perhaps trade negotiations had taken a turn for the better. He shifted his pack to the other arm and bit into the fruit.

  A crowd was forming a few paces away. He weaved his way to the front and stopped behind two dwarves. An old man clad in a long yellow robe had his hands pressed flat to a large boulder. The old fellow's white hair fluttered wildly in the breeze, and one of his eyes pointed a different direction than the other. Next to the massive stone he appeared inordinately frail. Behind him stood an enormous wooden cart, to which two large horses were tethered. As the crowd watched and whispered, the old man began rubbing his hands in circles over the face of the boulder.

  “I don't think it's him,” said one of the dwarves.

  “Blood and fire, Helvaard! Why the hell else would a thousand people be watching the old codger stroke a rock?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Helvaard. “This better be worth my afternoon. Jantaru, my arse."

  Beneath the old man's hands, the consistency of the rock was changing. The gray surface glistened. Jantaru's fingers sank into it abruptly and the rock ran over his hands like thick clay. A collective gasp arose from the audience, Alexander included. Helvaard's companion jostled him with an elbow, but neither dwarf looked away.

  More and more of the boulder softened beneath the artist's hands, and he began shaping it. The gnarled old fingers kneaded the rock, smoothing it in some places and pinching in othe
rs. A head took shape slowly, but not the head of a man. Its ears swept upward into sharp points, and its “skin” was a series of thick ridges. Jantaru cupped his palm and rounded out shoulders, hunched high enough to bring them level with the alien ears.

  The spectators behind Alexander pressed forward as the crowd grew and more people strained to watch the artist work. He shifted his pack off his shoulder and onto the ground at his feet, setting one boot firmly over a strap. He kept one hand near his dagger and with the other finished his apple, but his eyes remained fastened on the rapidly forming sculpture.

  “What'd I tell you?” said Helvaard's companion.

  “Shut up,” Helvaard said. “Don't distract him."

  The old man, however, appeared far beyond distraction. His eyebrows rose and fell in an almost comical pattern as he worked. For a few seconds at a time his hands would wander aimlessly over the rock, then his eyes would widen and a new featured appeared beneath his fingers.

  As the figure's upper body took shape, Alexander realized he'd lost track of the passing time completely. A minute or an hour might have gone by—he had no idea. The cool metal of his aquitaine hung against his chest, but he had no desire to fish it out and check the time.

  Bat-like wings formed behind the sculpture's heavily muscled chest. They fanned out behind the stone shoulders, spanning another two feet to either side of the body. Jantaru then turned his attention to the smooth ball of the face, pinching and poking at malleable stone, which hardened almost instantly when the artist's touch was removed. Narrow eyes appeared, followed by a wide mouth. Jantaru used his fingernail to etch long fangs, and the nose was simply a ridged slash down the center of the skull. When the face was complete, Jantaru paused for a moment and examined his work. Low voices rose in the crowd, as if the spectators had suddenly discovered their ability to speak.

  “It's hideous,” whispered a woman somewhere behind Alexander.