In The Manse of the Magician Part Two
The staircase brought them to a dining hall on the second level. In its center, another dead-eyed servant was placing cups and plates on a long trestle table. He finished his task and withdrew without a glance or a word. At the far end, a large fireplace was flickering with a newly-kindled blaze.
Doors were set at intervals around the walls, opening into individual sleeping chambers. One was designated as a sick room for Thurmond. Sarah took the room next to it, Roscoe and Torgul chose one next to the stairs.
Bart despised Sarah more and more, resented her uncanny knack to thwart him. Without a single word, merely by being herself, she had compelled him to enter this hellish abode. He was uncertain which was worse—being at the mercy of a vile magician or being forced about by some bastard girl.
He claimed a large chamber at the far end of the room and shut the door behind him. Here, at least, he could be free from their low-born company. Asmodeus’s commands compelled him to treat with this rabble, but when this obligation was fulfilled, all that would change. Then he would settle the score with his self-proclaimed sister and repay the sneaking little thief who had stolen his treasure map.
The dining hall and sleeping rooms were large and well appointed, yet all were fraught with the same sour smell as the reception hall. The servants had made only the most cursory efforts in preparing the rooms for the guests. The center areas had been swept, but the corners abounded in cobwebs and dust. The glass windows were heavy with grime, the linen damp and yellow with age.
The feast, when it arrived, was dismal. The wine had long since turned to vinegar, the bread was sodden and lumpy. The meat, which they assumed to be pork, was spongy, gray, and so foul of flavor that the diners immediately spat their first bite onto the floor.
The Adventurers, like all people of their time, were quite accustomed to the taste of partially decayed meat. Hunters routinely hung their grouse and heron until the neck rotted and the body fell from the head, lending the flesh a gamey flavor that many found delectable. Roscoe was quite fond of a well-hung bird.
But Malachai’s pork tasted like something exhumed from a grave. A troll might find it toothsome, but no human could ever stomach such putrefaction.
Outside, the soldiers were having a similar experience. Malachai had, true to his word, provided them with everything necessary for their comfort and convenience. The servants brought iron spits and kettles for cooking, thick felt tents, fodder for the horses, casks of ale, and an abundance of meat and bread. But the ironware was encrusted with ancient rust and the tents were heavily spotted with mildew. The ale was flat, the fodder moldy, and the meat was the same gray horror served to the Adventurers.
The soldiers at least had access to the rations carried by the pack animals. The Adventurers made do with the unpalatable bread and whatever scraps they could find in their rucksacks.
The rest of the night was equally unpleasant. Restful sleep was impossible, for the clammy air carried the vague murmurings of spirits unseen. Sarah found her chamber insufferable—the dank bedclothes seemed a very shroud. When she could stand it no longer, she got up and padded around the room in bare feet.
She knew what she had to do. It would be a desperate risk, and the others would try to dissuade her if they knew, so it would be better if they remained unaware. She harbored grave suspicions regarding Malachai and his intentions. If these proved to be true, they must flee at once from his evil abode.
No stairway connected the guests’ dining hall with the upper floors—the only way to go was down. Sarah descended the stairs to the entry hall, intending to try the passages concealed behind the tapestries. She found only blank stone walls. Her search for hidden doors revealed nothing—no telltale outlines, no concealed keyholes, no secret latches, nothing.
She returned to the dining hall and examined the windows until she found one she liked. The wooden sash was ancient and swollen, unwilling to open. Sarah secured a knife from the eating-ware scattered about the dining table and began to scrape away at the putty holding the glass in its frame. The stuff was old and crumbly—easily removed—and in short order, she had the glass out, filling the room with cold night air.
The young witch wiggled out the opening, scrambling a bit until her feet found a ledge running along the mansion’s second level. Luckily, it was wide enough that she could stand upon it without too much fear of falling.
Looking up, she spied a light pouring through a window two stories above her and half the building’s length away. It might, she decided, be possible to climb to that window, for the damp sea air had crumbled the mortar between the mansion’s stones, forming many gaps in which her fingers and toes might find purchase.
She wished that Pozi was there. That girl could climb like a spider on a waterspout! She would be up that wall in an eyeblink, delighted for a chance to prove herself. But Pozi was not there, so there was nothing else for her to do.
Sarah began to slide along the ledge until she stood directly beneath the lighted window, then she began to climb, wedging her fingers and toes into the narrow cracks. Her progress was slow and painful, but she gradually approached her objective.
A sudden thought caused her to freeze in fear—would the descent not be more difficult than the ascent? Could she make it without falling to her death? She must, she knew, put such fatal thoughts from her mind. Steeling her resolve, she resumed her upward course.
The young witch gasped with relief as she at last pulled herself onto the ledge running the length of the fourth level. Moving as stealthily as she could, she peeked into the lighted room. Malachai sat in a posture of meditation in the center of a magic circle. His lips moved as if he were chanting, yet no sound came to her ears. A narrow-bladed sword lay across his outstretched palms.
She scanned the rest of the room, seeking any detail that might suggest the magician’s true intentions. The walls were lined with high shelves crammed with magical bric-a-brac. Many held what looked to be large glass jars, others bore long rectangular tanks, also of glass. Parchment scrolls were stacked on a nearby table. She could see nothing more.
Malachai ceased his soundless chanting and opened his eyes. He looked up as if aware that he was being observed. Sarah ducked back from the window and fled back down the wall as fast as she was able. Under such conditions, the descent was much easier than she had anticipated. Back in the dining hall, she replaced the glass in the sash and secured it in place with lumps of soggy bread.
When she turned to go back to her room, Roscoe was standing directly behind her, hands on hips.
“Learn anything?”
Sarah did not know how to reply—she felt like a child caught by her mother at some mischief.
“Nay, I just….”
“Then try again tomorrow night. Just make sure Torgul doesn’t see you slipping out—he’d want to go with you. And as long as you’re awake, how about taking a turn sitting with Thurmond?”
Roscoe went off to bed, leaving Sarah alone and rather amazed in the dining hall.
Morning finally arrived. At some point in the night, unseen servants removed the uneaten remains of the bad dinner and set out a breakfast of the same sorry fare. Always a vigorous and enthusiastic eater, Roscoe was beside himself with disappointment.
“It seems our good host is not much given to the pleasures of fine victuals. If this nasty slop is the best he can offer, I’m like to wither and starve, so I am—and I don’t want to wander these halls as a hungry ghost.”
These words had scarcely left his mouth when he noticed the magician standing at the top of the stairs. He had heard every word.
“Is something the matter with the food?”
Roscoe immediately shifted to a more respectful tone.
“Oh, nay, nothing the matter, as it were. First class viands, to be sure. It’s just…”
When his voice trailed off, the magician pressed the point.
“Just what?”
“Well, sir, the fare is perhaps a bit too rich for our simple tastes. Take the wine, for instance. It’s been aged a considerable time. Now I’m aware there’s gentlefolk what like their wine old—the older the better, in fact—and pay a high price for it. But we’re just simple people what ain’t used to such fanciness.”
Malachai’s face displayed no trace of emotion.
“Anything else?”
“Nay, nay, nothin’ else, nothin’ at all. The bread is quite good—just like I like it—a bit damp and doughy inside. But some of the others…well…they prefers their bread a bit more baked. And the meat was a tad too high for their tastes. Myself, I prefers a well-hung bird or hare. But it’s the girl, sir—she’s needin’ somethin’ less strong, so she is.”
Malachai said nothing, in no way acknowledged Roscoe’s words. Then Sarah spoke up.
“Master Malachai! I would speak to you as well.”
The magician replied with a slightly impatient look. Again, he said nothing.
“Master Malachai, I have with me a number of magical items that remain unidentified—talismans, charms, potions. Would you be willing to establish their purpose? They might be very useful in our quest.”
The magician replied.
“As I have said, I do nothing for nothing. I will identify the nature and purpose of your trinkets, but for a price. If I do this thing, you must allow me to choose any three of them for my own—my choice, no matter how valuable they might be. Do you agree?”
“Aye, sir, I do. You may take any three of the items for yourself. Please proceed.”
She dug into her pannier and spread them on the table—medallions, amulets, fetishes, scrolls, a ring, and a small padded box. Malachai’s interest must have been great, for his brow wrinkled slightly as he examined them.
“None of these possess great power. Use them once, perhaps twice, and their psychic energy will be exhausted. Most are for humble purposes. This charm, for example, will draw redworms to the surface—good for a fisherman in search of bait. This other is for the harvesting of nuts—it causes them to fall from the tree on command.
“Some are cures. This potion will drive away boils or chilblains. Wear this medallion to ward off the bloody flux. This small black charm will cure sheep of the shaking sickness.”
He opened the padded box to reveal six small glass bottles packed within.
“These are potions of restoration, the same as I gave your friend. You might find them very useful. All except this one….
He removed one of the bottles and ran his thumb along its side. A skull and crossbones appeared, then disappeared.
“That one is a deadly poison, so beware.”
The magician replaced it in the box and picked up a plain silver ring.
“Now this is unusual. It allows you to understand the cries of the Great Oog.”
This piqued Sarah’s curiosity.
“If I may ask, what is an Oog?”
“A gigantic terror bird. Its beak will rend a man as readily as you tear a piece of bread.”
“I’ve never before heard of such a creature.”
“That is because it does not exist in this world. But should you ever come across one, you will be able to comprehend its cries as it eats you.”
Was this intended as a joke? Did Malachai have a sense of humor after all? Sarah was uncertain, but she guessed that he probably did not.
The magician next held up a small yellow feather and a tiny whistle made from the bone of a bird’s leg.
“More bird magic—surely the work of a shaman. Wave this little feather to invoke a gentle breeze to cool a hot summer day, but be careful—the more you wave it, the harder the breeze will blow. The whistle will allow you to summon and, to a degree, control a flock of birds.”
He next examined an assortment of small glass vials sealed with wax.
“The liquid inside this clear vial will dispel any illusion, even the most potent. Simply smash it to release the essence inside. This brown one will emit an unendurable stench—break it at your peril. Drinking this red potion will enable a man to jump across a gulf of twenty feet. The blue one will let sing you like a castrato in a cathedral choir.”
A small golden amulet drew his attention.
“Now here’s a talisman of greater power—it will compel a cacodemon to reveal its true name.”
Malachai next pointed at a small brown item that resembled a dried human tongue. His eyes seemed to gleam with repressed delight—well, almost.
“Place this under a man’s bed to induce the most dreadful dreams.”
He turned to the final item.
“This necklace of teeth is interesting—it will cause the wearer to perform an act of reckless courage.”
Sarah indicated the scrolls.
“I have two of these, each carries three unknown spells. Can you identify them?”
“Nay, to read a scroll spell is to cast it.”
Sarah nodded, she had expected such a response.
“I thank you, Master Malachai. Some of these charms will be of great service, I am certain.”
“I will now make my selections.”
Strangely, Malachai’s first choice was the charm to summon fishing worms. Was he an avid angler? Sarah could not imagine him with a pole and creel. He then selected the talisman for compelling a cacodemon—no surprise there. And lastly the ring of the Great Oog. The magician apparently desired to hold discourse with a nonexistent creature.
Malachai’s attention returned to Roscoe.
“I would remind you that you owe me a service for saving your friend. I expect you to undertake it this very day.”
Roscoe held out his hands, beseechingly.
“Now, sir, you said it yourself, so you did, poor old Thurmond ain’t goin’ to be up and about for another day or two. And it wouldn’t do to go off without him. Young as he is, he’s our best fightin’ man.”
This was a lie. Thurmond’s fighting skills were progressing rapidly, but his skill level still lagged behind those of Roscoe and Torgul. In reality, the Old Adventurer was unwilling to leave his helpless friend alone with Malachai.
“Very well, but the task must be completed by tomorrow evening. I will spend tonight and tomorrow in a deep state of trance as I complete the…instrument…that will cause the defeat of the Black Stone. It must be carried south in two days.”
Roscoe had another important question to ask.
“Would you care to reveal, sir, the exact nature of this task we are to perform for you?”
“A gang of rampaging giants have been plundering the fishing villages nearby. You must destroy them.”
Giants!
Did such a creature even exist? They had all grown up on tales of giants, though no one had ever seen one. Or knew of anyone who had. Or had even heard of someone who had. Surely such abominations dwelt only in old stories and legends.
Giants were said to be as tall as trees, stupid as a pile of rocks, and mean as a dozen drunken werewolves. They possessed ravenous appetites and devoured any human luckless enough to fall into their hands. Giants were also said to be great hoarders of gold.
Roscoe cleared his throat.
“You said a gang of giants, Master Malachai? Not just one giant?”
“Nay, there are several.”
Roscoe swallowed hard, clearing his throat.
“Then wouldn’t it be wiser to send some demon to kill ‘em off, or maybe smite ‘em with some deadly curse?”
“Not so. I do nothing for nothing, and the miserable fishermen could never meet the price of such intervention.”
“And yet you’re helpin’ ‘em by settin’ us to this task.”
“The villagers provide me with certain useful things, so I will not have them eaten by monstrosities. There are other reasons, but they will remain my own.”
“How will we find these brutes?”
“Ride east along the sea cliff until you pass the third village. The giants are living in hillside caves half a league onward. And remember, the task must be fulfilled by tomorrow night. Fail in this, and you will know my profound displeasure.”