Villains by Necessity (2 page)

And now, thought Arcie, now he's as useless as the tits on a boar hog, giggling his way through his second glass of wine. I gives him a year, p'raps two, before he joins his victims in the everafter. He'll die before he whitewashes.

Sam was starting to sing softly. Pitiful. "Come along, laddie. Let's go."

They stood up and walked out, Sam owlishly counting out a handful of coins to the barkeeper. Arcie resolved to get the fellow back to the ex-Guild before his drunk reached the angry stage. As they stood by the group of merchants and caravaners sitting at the bar itself, Arcie noticed a fat purse slung on the waist of one of the men, conveniently hidden from others' view by the edge of the bartop. Being short has many advantages, he mused, as, almost without thinking about it, he employed a Ferretfoot's Brush-Cut and slit the strings of the pouch with the sharpened edge of a silver coin. His short but nimble fingers raised the flap to slip the pouch off the belt without spilling its contents onto the floor...

CRACK!

Arcie yelped as a complex mechanical device snapped on his fingers, immediately attracting the rather unwelcome attention of the entire bar.

I'll be baked! the Barigan thought. Fizarian pouch-trap!

I must be losing me touch. He rubbed his sore fingers ruefully and the bar reacted to the incident by closing around them. Haven't seen one of them in ages...

He looked up at Sam, grinned, and shrugged. Sam had his hand over his face. There was no point in trying to make a break for it, not in this crowd of good citizens.

Arcie felt a firm, gloved hand descend on his shoulder.

He craned his neck to look up into the stern face of a town guard. He grinned cheerfully and tipped his cap.

"This is another fine mess you've gotten me into, Arcie."

"They wouldna have picked ye up as well if ye hadna been wearing the blacks."

"Can you get out?"

"Och, I'm fair skilled, laddie, but I'm surely not this good."

Sam peered through the gloom of the dungeon cell to the far wall, where the Barigan was chained. Not only was the small man virtually nailed to the wall with iron clasps on his neck, waist, wrists and ankles, but his hands had been encased in gauntlet mittens. The guard had taken all his clothing but his breeches, rather than bothering to simply search and seize his weapons and lockpicks, as they had done to Sam, and now Arcie's bare toes wiggled by way of a wave. "They must have built that specially for you," commented Sam. The wine had made his mind feel fuzzy and sleepy and depressed.

"Mayhaps. One o' yon guardsmen do have a sort of a pet peeve against me. They did swore did they ever catch me ..." He tried to shrug in his bonds and gave his twisted grin.

Despite changes on the outside world, the cell was almost reassuringly traditional. It was dark and gloomy and had moldy straw on the floor. A flickering torch outside cast strange shadows into the cell. Sam saw these things from his own manacled roost on the wall. Echoes of dripping water drifted down the corridors now and then, and now he heard the unmistakable sounds of footsteps.

"Someone's coming."

A moment later, with a ringing of keys and clanking of a lock, the door creaked open. Into the cramped cell stepped Oarf, the Captain of the Guard, and Mizzamir, the most famous and powerful wizard in the entire world.

Sam and Arcie stared.

Oarf, a burly warrior with maybe a few too many years of cozy living, looked Sam and Arcie over and gave a chuckle that made his chain mail jingle musically. Sam noted that the Captain's sword was secured in its scabbard by a peace knot. Things must be getting really bad ... or rather, really good, he thought.

"Ho!" chortled the Captain, poking at Arcie's midriff with a mailed finger and patting Sam on the head, then with a tinge of disgust wiping a bit of black grease off on Sam's tunic. "What have we here, then? Looks to me like a couple of social miscreants. Poor fellows, it's not much of a life for you, is it? Always on the run, sleeping with one eye open, fighting for your life in dark alleys ..."

Sam tried to shrug, but his bonds made it difficult. "It's a living."

Arcie piped up. "Aye, though rather, he can really make a killing in his line of work."

Sam was watching the wizard. Mizzamir was a figure held in great respect, the last surviving Hero. Bistort, like all the towns of Dous, was run by a mayor who was part of a Council made up of other mayors that made decisions for the whole of Dous. Sam knew Mizzamir would occasionally make an appearance here, Dous being short of mages, but he had never thought to see the great wizard.

Mizzamir was an Elf, one of the very few left in the world. After the Victory, that fairest race had vanished into some land beyond man's knowing, saying that their work was done. Only a few, Mizzamir among them, had remained, sacrificing that eternal Elven paradise to devote their lives to educating and aiding the humans of this world. Mizzamir had been one of the small band of Heroes that had fought the conclusive battle that ended in the Victory, about a century and a half ago. Mizzamir was head and founder of the Thaumocracy of Natodik.

He was handsome despite his years, with long silverwhite hair and a beardless, delicate face that showed the grace of the long-living Elvenkind. He wore pure white robes embroidered with mystic symbols in silver and gold thread, with a collar that came up to fit snugly around his neck. His fingers sparkled with rings, and chains around his neck held several important looking pendants. He held a staff so carved and inlaid it looked like a rolled-up rood screen. The wizard was fairly crackling with magic significance. Mizzamir caught Sam looking at him and gave him that high-huff yet kindly and infinitely patronizing look that Elves were so good at; Sam countered with his best silent snarl and a glare.

Meanwhile, Oarf was going on, talking to Arcie, as he seemed to be the friendlier of the two criminals. "Well, fortunately we're going to be able to help you there. No more will you have to live in darkness and evil."

"Ye are going to kill us?" Arcie looked like a hurt puppy, his bright blue eyes pure frightened innocence, while his toes stealthily worked at the loop of keys on Oarf's belt. Oarf chuckled again.

"No, of course not, little fellow," (Arcie hated that term.) "We've got something much better ..."

Mizzamir turned his back to Sam and spoke. "Perhaps you've heard of the spell of Attitude Adjustment?"

"Attitude... are that like how one measures how high a mountain are?" asked Arcie. Mizzamir smiled.

"No, little one..." Arcie tried not to wince. "We who understand the workings of the universe realize that our world is influenced by the forces of Good, of Light, and by the Evil forces of Darkness. This is because our world, Chiaroscuro-"

"Chiar-wha?" exclaimed Arcie.

"Chiaroscuro. It is the name of this world that we live on," Mizzamir explained.

"And what's it need a name for?" demanded Arcie.

"Tis not like there be a whole lot of others for us taste mix it up with." He was hoping if he acted dangerous enough, Oarf might step a little closer to toe-range. Mizzamir decided to ignore his comment and press on.

"Our world, with its magic used by both mages and monsters, draws the energy for that magic from two alternate dimensions, one of pure evil force, and one of pure good..."

While Mizzamir went rambling on about gates and portals and power flows, the two captives paid little attention.

Arcie smiled and nodded while plotting his escape, and Sam was feeling the effects of wine and stress and wondering muzzily if he could manage to vomit on Oarf from this distance.

"And, you see," Mizzamir went on, "because of the way that these two forces affect everything in this world, so do they affect persons as well. The forces that dominate a person's beliefs control their actions, and viceversa. People themselves are either good or evil, to one extent or another ... For example, myself and Captain

Oarf here are followers of the way of Light and Good..."

Here Oarf nodded proudly. Arcie looked impressed and carefully worked his big toe through the metal ring of keys. Mizzamir shifted slightly and put his back to the door. He didn't like the itchy feeling Sam's dark gaze was making between his shoulder blades.

"Yes, ourselves and other right-thinking persons, as most all persons are these days, follow the path of Good.

Yet some poor, misguided folk, who either through ignorance of the effect of their actions or through deliberate callousness live... in... the darkness... of... evil..."

He turned his gimlet gaze on Sam. The assassin resisted the urge to stick his tongue out.

"I wish he'd get to the point, Sam thought. I want to go back to my hole in the wall and go to sleep.

Arcie apparently was of the same opinion.

"So what are yer point, Mizzy?" he asked. Oarf had shifted out of range, and Arcie took a break from his clandestine efforts. Mizzamir glared over his fine handsome nose at the man with the wiggling toes.

"The point is, that no longer do we have to go about our old, brutal, nasty ways of punishing criminals like yourselves. Instead we have a simple, painless, magical process that will free you from the evil and darkness that holds you and win let you take your place in society as a decent member of the community." Sam and Arcie exchanged glances. They didn't like the sound of that.

The Elven wizard rolled up his sleeves and flexed his fingers. Oarf stepped back respectfully as Mizzamir continued, "Yes, a simple magical process, to cleanse the soul and spirit of evil and fill it with goodness and light. A process that I have perfected, and passed on to all the great wizards of all the cities and towns of this fair world, so that darkness need never threaten our ways of peace and light again. Common criminals, evildoers, who for once the only option was death, are now living happy, productive lives... many of your peers among them," he added, "looking from one shocked face to another.

Sam moved abruptly and now seemed to be vibrating softly. In fact he had thrown every ounce of wiry muscle against his bonds and was pulling himself taut as a bowstring with the effort of trying to rip the iron cuffs free from the mortar. The mage's words threw him into panic.

He knew with cold terror what Mizzamir was saying, and he didn't want it. His mind was his own, his thoughts his own, his will his own. The thought of losing his identity sent adrenalin pumping through his veins, reacting with the wine ... The dungeon seemed to go darker, and little spots and sparks flashed in front of his eyes. The cuffs on his wrists felt red-hot as he strained every muscle against them. But it seemed no use. His back ached and his chest burned, but his hands remained chained fast.

Without relaxing a muscle, Sam hissed through his teeth, "He's going to turn us into farmers, Arcie."

The reality suddenly dawned on the Barigan. His jaw dropped and banged on the iron collar. "But but but but ... that's not just whitewashing... that's brainwashing! I like being the way I am!"

"Oh, you'll like being a good person," assured Oarf.

"Everyone does. All the other evil crooks and killers we've caught and done this to thanked us afterwards."

"Yes, and you'll soon forget I even did this, once it's over ... your past of darkness and fear will just seem like a bad dream, long ago ..." Mizzamir smiled a complacent, patronizing smile. Arcie caught his breath. Grains of sand were starting to fall away from the wall bolts of Sam's right-hand manacle.. Beads of sweat stood out on the assassin's forehead, and streaks of black sweat (black?) were running in little rivers down his neck as he strained, trembling ever so faintly. Arcie spoke again to keep attention away from the assassin.

"Ye canna do this! Don't we have but any right to say as we want to live our lives? Aren't ye being twice as bad as ever we were by forcing us into this?"

"No, silly fellow! This is for your own good," chuckled Oarf with an encouraging wink.

"And for the good of all," added Mizzamir, reaching for his spell-focusing components. Sam knew with sick certainty that despite Mizzamir's kindly appearance, he wasn't a wizard who forgot his spells. Arcie stammered incoherent protests.

"Now then ..." Mizzamir opened one of his many belt pouches and took out two small squares of mirror and two small scraps of spotted fur. Putting one of each aside, he turned to Sam. "I shall cast upon you first, since you seem calmer than your chubby friend ..." Arcie drew in his breath angrily. Sure, maybe he was a little short for his weight, but "chubby"! As Mizzamir held up the fur and mirror and took on that inward look of a mage in the process of spellcasting, Arcie had an idea. As the wizard began to chant, soft gold and lilac tendrils of magic floated from his fingers and reached for Sam, like insidious vines.

"Aletha mainaria t'thuluck..."

The chant echoed in Sam's ears. His wrists, hands, back, and fingers screamed in agony, but his voice was silent. In the power of the mage's spell, a dark haze, shot through with crimson flames, seemed to hover around Sam; the strands of gold and violet strove to unweave the dark haze, but the crimson singed them, held them back ... but the flames were dying ...

Arcie peered over the mage's shoulder at Sam. The assassin would probably be furious with him later, but there was no other choice.

He caught Sam's gaze, and whispered, "A thousand in gold fer the head of the Arch-Mage Mizzamir."

Arcie's words flew like arrows into Sam's brain and exploded at the core of his being, ignited by drunken anger.

He opened his eyes, but his vision twisted inward. His mouth formed a word.

"Accepted."

Time slowed to a crawl. The chant was a dull, slow dissonance in his ears. Down within was the fire, beyond magic, beyond training, the dark seductive glimmer of onyx and ruby that had kept him alive as a bastard child in the slums of the city, that had made him feared as a young man working his way up the ladder of the Guild, that had ended the lives of many men. The deep fire that knows no good nor evil but only the target and the path to it. Sam looked outward and saw the white figure of the wizard. Then he opened his veins, and the fire flared in his blood and lit his eyes and filled his brain with a roar.