Renegade Wizards (12 page)

Memories returned and with it, her training. Suddenly, the lessons of Amma Batros and Segarius flourished in her thoughts.

Her fingers danced and connected before the next wave of dolls could reach her.

“Sihir anak,”
Tythonnia whispered.

The words evaporated. Four darts shot out, two arcing back to strike the one biting into her thigh, the other two slamming into the lead doll. The doll stumbled and fell, while the one latched to her thigh was blasted loose, never to rise again.

The pain vanished almost immediately and Tythonnia could feel her strength return in full force. More important, she could think clearly, and with that came the anger at what she’d done. To have retreated to unsanctioned, chaotic magic and forgotten her training shook her to the very core. She was proud to be a wizard of the Red Robes, but to have abandoned her discipline in a moment of panic was unforgivable. Anger gave way to rage, and Tythonnia pulled a pinch of powder from a small belt pouch.

“Corak pesona!”
she said as she released the spell material. In her mind, the powder overtook the dolls racing for her and another ribbon script of magic was unwritten.

The powder fanned out into a cone of violently clashing colors. It swept over the attacking dolls, and instantly, all four fell into the mud. Tythonnia quickly crawled to them and began stabbing them as hard as she could. It only took a stroke or two before the light dimmed from their button eyes, but Tythonnia stabbed each a couple of times more for satisfaction and good measure.

The three wizards surveyed the damage about them. Fifteen or more dolls lay scattered in the mud, some burned, others ripped apart. Tythonnia, Par-Salian, and Ladonna said nothing. They were too tired, too exhausted from the battle that had sapped their strength and pushed their magics to the breaking point. Ladonna seemed to have fared better than the rest of them, never once succumbing to the dolls, while Par-Salian looked downright miserable with his hair and clothing caked in mud.

“What’s happened to your hair?” Par-Salian said, looking at Tythonnia.

Tythonnia’s hand went to straighten her blond locks, but it was hard to find them beneath the layer of mud that covered her. Even the rainstorm was hard pressed to rinse her clean. Tythonnia and Par-Salian laughed so hard, it was impossible to stop or stand straight. Even a stern look from Ladonna fueled their laughter even harder.

Ladonna allowed her two compatriots to ride out their mirth until they were too exhausted to offer anything but a chuckle. Finally, she asked, “What about the dolls that escaped? I counted two or three of them. And there’s the matter of their creator,” Ladonna said.

“Creator?” Par-Salian asked.

“Yes,” Ladonna replied. She motioned toward the body of the dead villager, the one she spoke to earlier. “He told me that the dolls belonged to an old man living on the edge of town.”

“We must rest first,” Par-Salian said, levity instantly forgotten.

“No,” Tythonnia said. “This isn’t our concern.”

“He murdered these people,” Par-Salian said, motioning to the corpses around them. “He nearly killed us!”

“I think he should die,” Ladonna said.

“Wait, wait. I didn’t say that either,” Par-Salian protested.

“It isn’t our problem,” Tythonnia said. “It isn’t our place
to bring him to justice, only to report him. Our priority is finding our horses and reaching Palanthas.”

“We should at least bring him before the conclave,” Par-Salian said.

“To what end?” Ladonna retorted. “To assuage your guilt for leaving him alive? I say kill him.”

“No,” Par-Salian replied. “And that’s final, Ladonna.”

“Then leave him for the conclave,” Tythonnia said. “Send them a message, and let them decide what to do about him. We need to keep going.”

Par-Salian shook his head slowly as he pondered the matter. It wasn’t an easy choice, Tythonnia knew, but none of them were ready to capture a renegade, much less drag him back across the countryside to Solanthus. That would not only delay them, it would endanger their identities as well. It was better to leave him for the conclave to deal with.

“We find our horses,” Par-Salian announced finally, “and continue on to Palanthas. I’ll alert Highmage Astathan as to what’s happened here.”

To Tythonnia’s surprise, Ladonna said nothing.

It had taken them an hour to find the three horses. Tythonnia’s Northern Dairly had managed to lose her two attackers along the way, though where the dolls had escaped to was anyone’s guess. The three wizards decided to camp at the spot where they’d found the Dairly, in an open field good for grazing with a nearby cluster of five trees. Though all three were exhausted, Ladonna offered to take the first watch while Par-Salian and Tythonnia slept beneath the cloudlike canopy of the green ash.

“You can cast while riding,” Par-Salian said to Tythonnia, as they made ready to sleep. “Nifty trick, that.”

Tythonnia blushed at the compliment. “I was taught to spell-ride. I can cast some spells from horseback.”

Par-Salian nodded in appreciation. “I’m glad you can. You must teach us how you do that.”

Tythonnia nodded before her eyelids fluttered heavily. “We have the time for it,” she said with a yawn. Her eyes closed.

A moment later, Par-Salian’s eyes closed as well.

Ladonna paced around to stay awake. She would have loved to sleep, but her mind was in turmoil as it analyzed scenarios, went over plans of action, and argued with itself. She understood their obligation to the mission, the need to reach Palanthas. It was a reunion she herself eagerly and nervously awaited. But there was the matter of the monster that had animated the dolls. Par-Salian and Tythonnia opposed his execution, which was expected, considering the robes they wore, but they hadn’t heard the dead one speak. They hadn’t heard the dead cry out for vengeance. Ladonna had. She’d heard the terror in their voices, the ghosts of parents searching for their children, the ghosts of children crying to be held. Neither ever seeing the other. They would never be reunited and move beyond the pale of life until someone satisfied their need for justice.

The villagers were more than just terrorized and murdered. They were torn from life, their every connection broken until there was nothing and no one to remember who they were. Ladonna could not abide that. Ghosts created in that fashion would never rest until satisfied, and without rest, they would haunt whomever came upon them.

By no means were the Black Robes saints. In fact, murder and terror were well-regarded tools in their repertoire, but they did not condone either without regard for the specific benefit to the Order of Black Robes first and the Society of High Sorcery second. It was necessary, since many felt that the line between Black Robe and renegade was thin at best. So the members of Ladonna’s order, while advancing personal wishes, always used “benefit of the order” to legitimize their actions in the eyes of others.

Ladonna sighed. The old man responsible for crafting the dolls was proof that magic needed rules, that Ansalon itself needed the orders. She understood the mission, but sometimes the needs of the moment temporarily took precedence over longer-term ambitions. Ladonna knew what needed to be done, and it would be her responsibility alone. She waited a half hour longer, until she was certain her companions were sleeping deeply.

She circled the small cluster of trees once in a wide arc while swinging a tiny bell from a silver string. She incanted the words, barely stirring her own ears with her whispers, and felt the magic slip through her feet and fall along the path she’d trodden. The circle was complete and if anything broke its borders, the spell’s cry would be shrill enough to wake the dead.

At the very least, she wouldn’t be leaving her companions without an alarm. She only hoped that she would be back before they awoke.

The rain had lessened by the time Ladonna spotted the old man’s cabin; it was out of the way and at least twenty minutes from the ruins of the small village. With any luck, Ladonna thought, she could be done and back at the camp within another hour. Ladonna dismounted from her Abanasinian and patted the tall horse on the neck, grateful for its calm temperament. She tied its reins to a nearby tree stump and walked slowly to the cabin. Its ragged curtains were closed, but the frayed edges betrayed flickering candlelight. The walls were rubble stone, cobbled together to form a low-ceilinged house. The roof was thatched and in bad need of repair. Ladonna crinkled her nose at the building; it barely managed as a barricade against the elements, much less a home.

Carefully, she nudged a corner of the wet cloth from the window, enough to afford her a peek inside. It took a moment
for her eyes to adjust and another moment to suppress the shudder that ran through her body.

The one-room cabin held little furniture—a rickety chair to lend company to the rickety table, a molding mat on the floor for a bed, and a cooking pit dug into the earth. A sewing bench rested against one side, where two dozen more dolls hung from hooks in the wall, waiting to be finished. The floor was cleared of grass and covered in a layer of packed dirt. Piled on the floor and table, however, were dozens of small artifacts and trinkets. Jewelry, coins, children’s toys, gourds, bottles, a decomposing chunk of ham already white with maggots, fabric rolls—everything stolen from town, Ladonna realized.

What held Ladonna’s attention, however, was the old man himself. He sat on the bed mat, his back to the wall, attended by a half dozen dolls. Silk cloth torn roughly from a bolt was arrayed over his shoulder; an exquisite quilt covered his lower body. Two dolls fitted him with rings and necklaces, riches for their king. Another doll served him morsels of dried fish and meat from gelatin-filled pots, but the food tumbled from his lifeless mouth.

The old man had been dead for days, by the stink of his corpse. His eyes were white, his body drying. His head lolled to one side, and food covered in maggots filled his mouth. And yet the dolls continued to cater to him as though he lived. They were his friends in life, and his death had somehow tainted them. Did they blame the villagers for his death? Ladonna wondered. Or perhaps he imparted into the dolls some loathing of his neighbors.

Ladonna didn’t know. All she knew was that the companions the old man had created were killing people. Perhaps, even, they might have killed him, though despite their hellish appearance, the dolls administered to the old man gently, even lovingly.

She didn’t know or care.

Ladonna quietly stepped away from the cabin, grateful that the rain had covered her footfalls, and retreated to her horse. When she was comfortable with the distance, she turned and pointed her finger at the home.

“Be undone,” she whispered.

The ruby-colored stone set into the ring on her finger sparkled and turned into a pea-sized ball of flame. It shot straight at the cabin, growing in size until it was larger than a horse’s head. The ball struck a stone wall and exploded it inward. Almost instantly, the cabin collapsed in upon itself, the fire quick to devour the roof and everything inside that was flammable. Curls of flame licked upward.