Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (30 page)

And stille I believe it maye well be that they too are childrenne of the Living God. Are not we not allso fallen short of the grace Devyne and the glorie of Heavens Son? Soon I goe to humblee preach His Truthe to the chiefs of the great clanne of Grimwalde…

Bessarias shook his head, and a faint smile crossed his lips.

“I can’t imagine the orcs were particularly receptive to his message.”

“No, it is said that he was killed and eaten less than a week after he entered the Grimwalde.”

“And this is your inspiration? You truly are insane!”

Herwaldus smiled tightly, shaking his head.

“Twenty-five years ago, a traveller came to our chapter house in Bruscato. He asked for permission to take holy vows and join our number, and after some discussion, he was welcomed into our brotherhood with thanksgiving and much praise for the name of our Lord Immanuel.”

Bessarias nodded, impressed with the tale’s conclusion despite himself.

“I take it his skin was a greenish color, with a countenance most bestial?”

“Exactly. Brother Grimfang was an orc, from a small body of believers who are descended from the three individuals baptized in the name of our Lord by Saint Diaspelian before his death. I came to know the brother well before he died, and despite his fearsome appearance he was a gentle spirit of uncommmon wisdom and faith. So you see, if Diaspelian did not fear to go and speak the truth before that terrible people, how then should I despise the opportunity to do the same before yours?”

Bessarias sighed, both saddened and confused. Somewhere, there was truth in all of this, but the gist of it eluded him. He had no idea if Herwaldus was truly a madman, a masochist, or a wise and holy prophet. But he was sure of one thing. Events had moved far beyond his ability to control them. He glanced at Kilios and shrugged.

“As you will, Herwaldus. I admire your bravery, if not your judgment. May your god be with you tomorrow.”

The aged monk smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Bessarias. You have been a gracious host, and I am grateful. But my fate will be as it will. Do not trouble yourself over it.”

“Very well, I will not. Besides, I have a cat to hunt down. And may the seven hundredbastard spawn of Belial curse me if I don’t beat another nine lives out of him!”

• • •

The Great Hall was more crowded than Bessarias had ever seen it. Acolytes rubbed elbows with stooped, creaking adepts, all eager to witness what promised to be an epochal duel. Not since Moldar the Dire’s infamous challenge of Ulandir Brighthand had the whole assembly shown such interest in a challenge, although the crowd of spectators was much larger today.

Only four witless acolytes had shown up on that occasion to watch the celebrated necromancer extinguish his brilliant young rival; three, accidentally caught up in Moldar’s evil working, shared Ulandir’s untimely doom, while the fourth, his reason shattered by the terrible cries of his companions, wandered outside the following winter and froze to death.

Mastema, unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be found. Bessarias had only made a half-hearted search for the little beast, knowing full well that his pet knew him well enough to lie low until the first flush of his anger had passed. Still, he kept his eyes open for a glimpse of grey fur or a pair of supercilious yellow eyes.

At the Grandmaster’s gesture, Bessarias reluctantly joined the other Magistres on the central dais. Together, the Seven formed a loose circle around the human, who looked tiny, frail, and ugly in the midst of all these elves. Galamiras had already prepared the working that would protect them and the crowd should anything go awry with Gilthalon’s summonings; it was something he had personally developed after the debacle of Moldar’s cruel victory.

“Shams!” cried the Custodas Occulti, and in response there was a faint shimmering in the air above the dais. It was barely visible, but it sparked an outburst of excitement in the watching crowd.

“Fakre!” shouted Alisiassa.

“Nasre!” “Sij!” “Eism!”

Bessarias sighed, fuming inwardly, but powerless to intervene.

“Bakra,” he muttered dutifully.

The crowd buzzed at his obvious reluctance, but the working did not require enthusiasm, only proper form. The shimmering solidified into a transparent but palpable shield of pure power forming a large cylinder that fit within the larger circle of the ringed Masters. Gilthalon, wearing a striking black robe edged with gold, stepped confidently into the magic shield and dramatically raised his hands to complete the spell.

“Kadir!”

The Assembly clapped and roared with approval as the handsome Magistras Daemonae acknowledged their cheers, then turned to face his opponent. The shimmering shield could only be broken by the Custodas Occulti in conjunction with at least three of the participating Masters, and if anything should happen to him, then both Gilthalon and Herwaldus would be trapped inside for the six days it would take for the powerful working to expire.

With elaborate courtesy, Gilthalon quickly sketched a protective circle around Herwaldus, then himself. Bessarias nodded, satisfied that the diableriste was content to obey the strictures laid out for him. It was not long before there was a popping sound, and a small imp, only knee-high to the human, appeared inside the shield. It had blue skin and tiny horns that were barely more than buds.

As the crowd of magicians exploded with laughter, Gilthalon gleefully gestured toward Herwaldus, inviting him to respond. The monk did not seem to know he was being mocked, for his face was grave as he dropped to one knee to examine the miniscule demon.

“What is your name?”

The imp glanced back at Gilthalon, who nodded.

“Bromphethskagsruinmela,” it answered in a high, piping voice.

“Well, Brom … Bromphim … whatever your name is. Begone, I say, in the name of my Lord Immanuel.”

The imp shrugged helplessly and with another brief pop, vanished from sight. Gilthalon’s eyebrows seemed to rise of their own accord, but he did salute the human’s achievement with applause that was not entirely derisive.

“Well done, human,” he called. “Now how about this?”

The Magistras summoned a much larger demon this time, with massive black wings and the head of a bull, armed with a pair of sharp tusks that jutted dangerously upward from its lower jaw. Whereas the first spirit had appeared almost harmless, this brute looked anxious for violence.

“I am here …” it rumbled in a low voice that reeked of evil.

“Have a go at the gentleman in that circle there, will you? There’s a good fellow.”

Bessarias shot an angry look at Galamiras, but the Grandmaster only smiled and pointed to the circle of flames that sprang up around Herwaldus each time the bull-headed demon attempted to strike at him. Gilthalon was playing fair. The malignant spirit roared in anguish, then turned on its summoner, only to be driven back by a whip of silver fire that suddenly appeared in the Magistras’ hand.

“I wouldn’t recommend stepping out of that circle there,” the demon master told the monk as he lashed the howling spirit.” “Our friend is more than a little agitated, I’m afraid.”

“Begone, by the blood of the Lamb,” Herwaldus ignored the demonlord. “Begone, in the name of my Lord Immanuel I command you!”

Vast silence filled the hall as the angry spirit disappeared with a furious scream. Gilthalon dropped his whip, which lay crackling and hissing as his feet as consternation filled his face.

“You didn’t even know his name!”

“I don’t need it. My Lord is the Alpha and the Omega.”

Herwaldus bowed politely, but not before Bessarias saw his lips twitch with a small smile of satisfaction. Gilthalon saw it too, and it fanned the flames of his ire. His cheeks reddened, and the gold of his eyes darkened to a furious bronze as he began a third summoning.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” the Magistras Morte commented, as Gilthalon’s chanting continued for an ominously long time. “Think the shield will hold?”

“Nothing can break it,” Bessarias heard Galamiras answer confidently.

“I do hope you’re right.”

Bessarias hoped so too, as upon the cessation of the demonlord’s chant, a noxious golden fog began to coalesce and swirl inside the magic shield only ten feet in front of him. As it solidified, it became quickly apparent that there was something very large writhing and thrashing about inside of it, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw that some of the more cautious spectators in the back were beginning to slip quietly out of the Great Hall.

If Herwaldus was having second thoughts about this whole venture, Bessarias couldn’t blame him. Even from the safety of his position outside of the impenetrable shield, he felt as if his insides were turning to water. Next to him, he could feel Galamiras gathering his power. Swallowing hard, he did the same.

Gilthalon looked confident, though, and his expression was initially one of savage delight. But his composure was shaken, along with the Great Hall itself, when a vast thunderclap boomed and echoed repeatedly off the stone walls and he found himself on his knees before a terrible six-armed being, twice the height of an elf, all fire and metallic flesh, with a serrated sword in every hand except for the one pointing at the Magistras Daemonae. Its beautiful, androgynous face was distorted with affronted outrage.

“Who are you?” it demanded as four silver wings unfurled behind its back and almost touched the gilded timbers of the ceiling.

The diableriste pushed himself to his feet, and in anger found his courage as he stared up at the tall angelic creature. He gestured threateningly with the whip of arcane fire.

“What concern is that of yours? I have summoned you, and you will obey me!”

For a moment, Bessarias thought the great archdemon might test the power of Gilthalon’s circle, but something in Gilthalon’s determined face must have dissuaded it, for its wings abruptly descended and its blazing radiance dimmed a little. The Magistras nodded slowly.

“You fear to try me? Then you are wise. But if you would test yourself, you may try him. He claims that he can master you, that you shall flee at his command.”

As the demon turned around, it shot a last, withering glare at Gilthalon, but saved its most scornful sneer for Herwaldus, who was eyeing the great being with an unreadable expression.

“Then come out of the circle, if you think yourself equal to the task, human.”

Slowly, deliberately, the old monk scuffed the protective chalk with his left foot. His eyes locked on the demon’s, he took a single step forward, accompanied by a chorus of gasps from the watching magicians. Bessarias looked away, not wishing to witness the human’s violent end. He was surprised when he heard nothing but the old monk’s high-pitched voice.

“You have no power over me,” Herwaldus announced. He folded his arms and seemed to grow in stature, in authority. “Nor will you harm me. You know who I am, and you know the one I serve.”

The demon said nothing. It only growled low in its throat.

“What is your name?” the human demanded.

“Vashyash,” it answered in an imperious voice.

“Go then, Vashyash, leave here and return no more. In the name of my Lord Immanuel, who lives and reigns at the right hand of the Father, I command you!”

“I hear. I obey.”

Gilthalon shrieked in protest, but to no avail. Swifter than it had come, the demon dissolved into the golden cloud, which rapidly disintegrated, leaving only the bittersweet scent of myrrh behind. Then Herwaldus turned to face Bessarias, and with a sad smile, bowed respectfully.

“I trust the demonstration was satisfactory?”

Then he reached out, and to the great horror of every magician present, stuck his arm right through the magical shield. Its translucent shimmering immediately became opaque, then, with a blinding flash brighter than the noonday sun, exploded into a myriad of colors that rapidly faded into nothingness.

The little monk bowed his head humbly and made the sign of the cross on his chest. But because all eyes were fixed upon him, no one saw a grey flash leap onto the pavilion and spring at the man’s spindly legs while he was still giving thanks to his god.

“Glory to Your great name, Almighty Father …”

“I warned you, you idiots!” Bessarias started at the sound of his familiar’s voice.“Mmmph!”

Herwaldus shrieked and clutched at his leg, almost toppling over on top of his attacker. It was Mastema, and he had buried his sharp feline fangs into the soft muscle of the human’s calf.

“Bind him!” Gilthalon screamed furiously, taking advantage of the human’s distraction, and the Magistras Materiale was quick to obey. Herwaldus suddenly flew backward through the air, and smashed into the stone wall behind the dais. He hung there, stunned, suspended by invisible chains that the Magistras rapidly wove out of the air itself as Mastema smiled in bloody satisfaction.

“Pah!” he theatrically spat out a small chunk of withered manflesh. “I’d rather eat swamp goblin.”

“What are you doing?” Bessarias shouted at Gilthalon. “He has done no wrong!”

“No? You saw what he just did. We cannot permit him to live!”

“So what are you going to do, kill him now?” Bessarias appealed to the Grandmaster. “Look at him, Custodas. He’s helpless!”

“I hope so. If I thought he could escape those binds, I’d let Gilthalon kill him right now.” The Grandmaster’s eyes were dark with worry. “But we really must learn more about the source of his power. We must have it from him, one way or another.”

“What, you’re going to torture him?”

“If we must. Though I hope it won’t come to that.”

Gilthalon, however, was not interested in the source of the human’s power. Humiliated in front of his peers, the demon-master was intent on revenge. Even as the two magistres spoke, he was approaching Herwaldus with his golden eyes filled with hate. Twirling his fiery whip in his left hand, the diableriste smiled cruelly as he came to a halt in front of the monk.

“I can’t say that I was not impressed. But you should have let Vashyash kill you. He can be untidy, but at least he is quick. I, on the other hand, am not so inclined to mercy.”