The Medusa Plague tdom-2 Read online

  The Medusa Plague

  ( The Defenders of magic - 2 )

  Mary Kirchoff

  Mary Kirchoff

  The Medusa Plague

  The memory that had haunted Guerrand DiThon for months came to him in the eerie way of dreams, and he was both main character and witness to events. The Dream, as he'd come to call it, was always as painfully vivid as when he'd reenacted the historical event during his magical Test in the Tower of High Sorcery.

  Guerrand was the black-robed wizard, Rannoch. He watched himself standing in secret shadow on the Death Walk that encircled the beautiful Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas. Below him, an angry and avaricious mob had gathered with the regent of Palanthas outside the tower's gate, waiting for the Council of Mages to turn over the key to this center of magical knowledge. These ordinary citizens had come, anticipating their first glimpse of the magical wonders inside. None had foreseen witnessing one mage's desperate act of love for the Art, a love all wizards shared.

  As a gesture of his beneficence, the Kingpriest had promised all users of magic sanctuary from persecution at Wayreth, the last and most remote of the original five towers of sorcery. But Rannoch had no intention of retreating to the wilds of Wayreth, no faith in the charlatan's oath of safety there.

  The Conclave should never have given in to the zealots' demands. In doing so, they damned magic, the current of Rannoch's life. Like blood to the body. Like water to the earth. What will feed my soul when the magic is gone?

  The answer was, simply, nothing.

  The Head of the Conclave, a wizard of the White Robes, used a silver key to close the gates of the tower for the last time. As Rannoch, Guerrand could see the eyes of the regent, who would take the key, linger on the tower greedily. The sight of the Conclave's most powerful mage standing shoulder to shoulder with an agent of their greatest enemy made Rannoch's blood boil. The regent reached out his hand, eager for the key.

  Rannoch's voice rang clear and cold from atop the Death Walk and echoed across the tower's courtyard, to the Great Library itself.

  "The gates will remain closed and the halls empty until the day when the master of both the past and the present returns with power!"

  In the body of Rannoch of the Black Robes, Guerrand raised his arms like the wings of some great raven and let himself plummet from the walk. The spikes atop the silver and gold gates spun dizzily toward him, like talons eager to tear at his chest

  Esme woke Guerrand with a kiss to his fevered brow. 'The Dream again?" she asked, honey-colored eyes filled with concern. She brushed his damp, dark bangs to the side. "I came back from the construction site and found you mumbling, with your arms spread."

  Guerrand's eyes were wide with fear until he recognized the small room he shared with Esme in the temporary housing built by the Conclave of Wizards. Guerrand breathed his relief in a huge puff of air and pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Yes, the Dream again."

  Esme shook her auburn head. "I don't know why you've let just one aspect of the Test bother you so," she said, sorting through the tangle of his clothing on a nearbv chair. She handed him a rumpled tunic and trousers. "Here, put these on. Justarius intends to finish the last granite wall in the Red Order's wing today. He needs all six of his representatives to accomplish the task."

  "We're starting early," muttered Guerrand. With the heels of his hands, he rubbed the seeds of restless sleep from his eves.

  "The Council of Three are anxious to get Bastion in place The young woman chuckled. "If you ask me, I think there's an unspoken competition between them to complete their wings first."

  Guerrand nodded absently. Dipping his hands into a basin of cold water, he splashed his face and reflected on how much had changed in the year since the destruction of Stonecliff's magical pillars. Solinari, Lunitari and Nuitan had made it known to the Council of Three that they were most displeased, furious even. Belize's actions had been a flagrant violation of the etxis decree that no mortals attempt to enter the Lost Citadel. To appease the gods and prevent future attempts to enter this most sacred of magical places, Par-Salian, Justarius, and LaDonna had agreed that the Conclave of Wizards would construct a fortress to stand between the mortals on Krynn and the storehouse of all magical knowledge that was the Citadel. The Council gathered the members of the Conclave and drew up plans for an impenetrable fortress that would serve as the final line of defense before the Lost Citadel.

  But the death of the Master of the Red Order and the promotion of Justarius to Belize's position had left the Conclave of Wizards two members short. In appreciation for their courageous and skillful efforts at Stone- cliff, Justarius had offered Guerrand and Esme positions on the Conclave during the building of Bastion. The two had just passed their magical tests at Wayreth and were eager to participate in such a historic event.

  Guerrand's gaze wandered out the window of their room to the construction site. Bastion was teeming with activity, mages and monsters working side by side to create history. Even months of backbreaking labor had not inured him to the majesty of the panorama.

  Bastion was being constructed in a remote area of the Kharolis Mountains, hidden by the lushness of summer trees. When the Conclave had first arrived at the site, the only remarkable thing about it was the smooth gray rock that pierced the valley floor. The stone was taller than Guerrand-taller even than the elves now working around it. Clearly it had not always been there, because the ground was torn and churned as if the stone had just recently erupted through the turf.

  Inscribed upon it in the language of magic was this message: "Whoever accepts the power must bear the responsibility." The Council of Three had made it known that the gods of magic had left the missive as both inspiration and threat. Some of the mages debated the precise interpretation of the stone's inscription, but all agreed that further angering the gods would carry grave consequences.

  Towering behind the stone and dominating the flat, green valley were three enormous architectural wings, incongruously designed by the magical orders to reflect their differing temperaments. Modeled after the cathedral-like Palace of Palanthas, the porcelain white wing comprised the right side of the structure. Par- Salian's design was all intricate spires and flying buttresses fired with a glaze that gave the section a seamless appearance, one ornate joint flowing into the next. White-robed wizards, elves, and humans directed the efforts on the white wing.

  Guerrand watched as earth elementals, enormous creatures of dirt and precious stones, called forth the finest clays from the soil. Water imbued with the essence of magic was added to the purest of this clay, then spun at terrific speed until the mixture resembled a towering tornado of mud. When the whirlwind ceased, a wet section of porcelain wall stood. Fire elementals, tall sheets of living flame, then set to work baking the wall to an unearthly hardness.

  Summoning and controlling such powerful elementals was exhausting work for the white mages, but the grace and beauty of their wing was proof that the effort was worthwhile.

  In contrast, the black wing seemed an odd, artificial- looking endeavor. The onyx edifice felt as cold and imposing as LaDonna herself. More concerned with secrecy than practicality, the members of the black council had designed seven separate, unadorned rooms that couldn't be reached through each other. Splayed out in a semicircle to the left of the white section, the black wing resembled the spokes of a double- rimmed wheel.

  Onyx from rich veins of chalcedony mined in the Kharolis Mountains were carried night and day by stone golems, who were themselves made by dwarven masons of the evil, magic-wielding Theiwar race. Next, rock-fleshed xorns, which always reminded Guerrand of six-limbed fish heads, painstakingly polished the onyx to a high gloss.

  As Guerrand loo
ked on, stone golems were making slabs of the lustrous onyx for the wing's final room. Working tirelessly under the enchantment of the black wizards, the monstrous golems were silent save for the steady thudding of their feet.

  Guerrand shifted his gaze back to the center of the site. A smile of pride lit his face. Without a doubt, he mused, Bastion's red wing was the most distinctive for its expert craftsmanship and its simple but practical design. The wing jutted back between the white and black wings, a simple rectangle made of red granite blocks mined by stone giants summoned from the Khalkists. A battalion of these smooth, gray giants, three times the height of a human, were under the direction of stalwart Daewar dwarves. The behemoths carried blocks of granite on their backs or slung between two of them on tremendous tree trunks borne on their shoulders. More Daewar stonemasons, using precision tools, fashioned burnished red blocks that were then put into place upon magical mortar by the stone giants. The wing was a vision of simple elegance, reminding Guerrand of Justarius's villa in Palanthas.

  The massive blocks of granite and porcelain and onyx would have stood on their own for centuries. But Bastion was an extraordinary edifice, with an extraordinary purpose. To symbolize the cooperative effort of the magical orders, as well as make the structure impervious to time and nature, Bastion's mortar was being imbued with a portion of the essence of every wizard-Ln-good-standing on Krynn. But the process of adding the magical contributions of a thousand wizards was time-consuming. Guerrand had lost count of the hours he alone had spent over the slurry of mortar, endlessly repeating the phrases and gestures of the incantation. It was spellcasting that left a mage's body exhausted, but the discipline had sharpened Guerrand's mind.

  Accelerated by the magic of twenty-one wizards, the project had gone amazingly well, considering the diversity of temperaments of those working on it and the participation of monsters. After six months of planning and three months of construction, the stronghold was only days away from completion. Soon all but the Council of Three would be magically dispatched from the site.

  Par-Salian, La Donna, and Justarius would then combine their considerable magical abilities to etch the final magic onto the building itself and send the shell of Bastion to a place between Krynn and the Lost Citadel. Only those three venerable mages would know the secret of Bastion's final location.

  Guerrand turned his back on the spectacle outside and rested against the windowsill. "I'll be sorry when Bastion's finished," he said. The wizard colored slightly when he realized how selfish he might sound. "Don't set me wrong," he continued hastily. "I understand it's crucial that we prevent anyone from stepping foot inside the Lost Citadel. I'm as afraid as every other mage is of what the gods of magic would do if we allowed it to happen again."

  "You know what would happen," said Esme. "All the mages on Krynn have dedicated a portion of their own magical essence to Bastion. That energy binds the mortar to the blocks, as we wizards have bound ourselves to the Art. The Council of Three warned us that if Bastion fails, the energy will be forfeit to Lunitari, Solinari, and Nuitari."

  Guerrand dropped onto the bed. "We're a part of history, Esme, of the greatest cooperative magical effort in nearly three hundred fifty years! This is what the builders of the towers of sorcery must have felt. Is it so wrong of me not to want it to end?"

  "I've had the same thought," confessed Esme, coloring. "Being a part of this melting pot of skills, this suppression of arrogance and alignment in the defense of our common Art…" Esme shook her head. "We'll not see it again in our lifetime."

  Guerrand nodded, thinking that the last time the Conclave had joined together to save their artifacts- their lives-was from the wrath of the Kingpriest. The realization brought to mind again the black wizard Rannoch.

  "I'll tell you why the Dream bothers me," Guerrand said, abruptly breaking the gentle spell their musings had wrought. He searched through his clothespress for his best red robe. "I've been trying to figure out why the final segment of my Test put me in the body of the black wizard who cursed the tower in Palanthas. I'm a red wizard," he said, his hands on his hips. "I don't understand what that means."

  "I can't answer that either," said Esme. "I can only remind you that the Test exists to weed out those wizards who might be harmful to themselves, to the order, or to innocents. Remember, too, that the Test is meant to teach the mage something about himself." Esme raised a silky brow. "What did Justarius say when you asked him about this after you passed?"

  Guerrand wrinkled his lips in distaste. "He told me that the Council designed all three segments of my Test with two goals in mind. First, they wanted to measure the limits of my magical skills. Second, they wanted to demonstrate that no one is all good or bad or even perfectly neutral at all times. Justarius in particular wanted me to see that each new day, each new situation, brings with it choices.

  "Historically," Guerrand continued, "the black wizard Rannoch chose to throw himself from the Tower of High Sorcery and curse the place, acts considered in keeping with an evil wizard. I, on the other hand, chose neither to jump nor curse the tower. That particularly day, I followed the path of Good and joined the majority of white and red mages who left peacefully. But in the first two segments of my Test, my solutions were inclined toward Evil and Neutrality, respectively."

  "There you have it!" Esme exclaimed, pulling the robe he sought from under a pile of carelessly discarded clothing.

  Frowning his distraction, Guerrand slipped an arm into the sleeve she held out to him. "But in today's dream, 1 threw myself-as Rannoch-from the tower!"

  "That merely validates Justarius's explanation," Esme returned. "Today you chose the path of Evil. In tomorrow's dream, you might follow the white and red wizards again. The point is, your choices balance out and thus follow the ways of the red order."

  Guerrand still looked disturbed, skeptical. Esme's brows drew together with concern. "You're beginning to sound obsessed, and that worries me."

  "You think I like dreading sleep, for fear I'll dream?" he demanded hotly.

  She gave him a frank but compassionate look, one hand on a slender hip. "I think you worry too much about events you can't affect. Things usually happen юг a reason," she said, recalling a line Justarius liked to use. "even if we never learn that reason."

  Guerrand frowned. "Then this is one time when I've got to learn the reason for the memory. I'm certain there's some additional lesson I'm supposed to take from it. What if I miss it?"

  "You'll miss the rest of your life," returned Esme, "if you keep agonizing over this." She strapped her pouch on over her red robe and sensible trousers, preparing to leave.

  Nodding in concession, Guerrand followed the young woman out the door, to where giants and golems worked among mages to make history.

  Chapter One

  Harrowdown-on-the-Schallsea Five years later…

  Gritting his teeth, Guerrand stretched out bis left arm, straining until he thought his shoulder would pop from the socket. It was no use; the juiciest, orange-red rose hips were still a handspan beyond his reach. He would simply have to plow his way through the thorny wild rosebushes that grew on the banks of the Straits of Schallsea. Resigning himself to ruining his homespun red robe, yet thankful for the protection it offered, he held high his small wooden gathering basket and plunged ahead. His sights were locked on his quarry, highlighted against the bright blue of the nearby straits.

  Guerrand stopped abruptly and asked himself, What am I thinking? He shook his head, graying now at the temples because of his Test at the tower, though he was still shy of thirty years. Stealing a glance around, the mage assured himself he was alone on this stretch of heath several rods west of Harrowdown. It was not fear of persecution that made him think twice about casting the simple cantrip that would pluck and carry to him the nutrient-rich fruit from which wild rose petals bloomed. Quite the contrary. The villagers had grown used to-almost complacent about-his magical abilities.

  He had grown five years older since the day
he and Esme had stopped for the night at the Settle Inn in the small, run-down village of Harrowdown, between Hamlton and Restglen in Southlund, the southernmost province of Solamnia. They had chosen it simply because the inn was nearby at the precise moment their legs would move no farther.

  The couple had been wandering northward from the forests near Skullcap without real purpose for more than a fortnight after the building of Bastion was completed, vaguely intending to make their way to mage- friendly Palanthas. Their wanderings had taken them through Abanasinia, a territory decidedly unfriendly toward mages, which was why they were so exhausted. The struggle to keep from getting lynched by barbarian plainsmen or pirates had taken its toll, just as life had taken its toll on his relationship with Esme.

  Guerrand chased the unexpected and unpleasant memory of lost love from his thoughts, as always. There were too many happy moments with her to recall. He focused his thoughts on the task at hand. The rose hips that he would use and sell for a soothing tea were steadily filling his basket when Guerrand heard the loud squawk of his familiar.

  "Kyeow!" Zagarus's white wings lowered him from the cerulean sky to a dark branch of a spreading cypress tree. There you are, Rand! I have a message for you from Dorigar.

  Guerrand looked up from the thorny bushes to the large sea gull. Guerrand had conjured his familiar more than a decade before, in what was perhaps his first successful attempt to wield magic. Zag's head was brown-black in a diagonal from the base of his small skull to his throat. His entire underside was yellow- white. Edged with a sliver of white, his wings and back were once as black as onyx. There was no doubt about it; Zag was getting old. The intense coloration of his leathers was duller than it once was; and his yellow legs shambled more than walked now.

  You were no more than three rods away, near enough to speak with me," Guerrand remarked, referring to the mental link that allowed masters and familiars to communicate even over distance. "I'm surprised you left the comfort of your nest at the cottage," he gibed gently. Settling into the late autumn of his life, the gull was less inclined to fly these days.