Songs of the Dying Earth

“Bah,” said Lirianne. Men were such fools. “White magic and black are two sides of the same terce. The ancient tomes tell the tale, for those who have the wit to read them correctly. Once there was no magic. The sky was bright blue, the sun shone warm and yellow, the woods were full of deer and hare and songbirds, and everywhere the race of man was thriving. Those ancient men built towers of glass and steel taller than mountains, and ships with sails of fire that took them to the stars. Where are these glories now? Gone, lost, forgotten. Instead we have spells, charms, curses. The air grows cold, the woods are full of grue and ghouls, Deodands haunt the ruins of ancient cities, pelgranes rule the skies where men once flew. Whose work is this? Wizards! Their magic is a blight on sun and soul. Every time a spell is spoken here on earth, the sun grows that much darker.”

She might have revealed even more, had not the pop-eyed Chimwazle chosen that very moment to make a sudden reappearance, stumbling through the door with his long arms wrapped around his head. “Get them off!” he bellowed, as he lurched between the tables. “Ow, ow, ow. Get off me, I am innocent, it was someone else!” Thus shouting, he went crashing to the floor, where he writhed and rolled, slapping himself about the head and shoulders while continuing to implore for assistance against attackers who seemed nowhere in evidence. “Twk,” he cried, “twk, twk, wretched twk! Off me, off me!”

Prince Rocallo winced. “Enough! Chimwazle, cease this unmanly caterwauling. Some of us are attempting to drink.”

The rogue rolled unto his rump, which was wide and wobbly and amply padded. “The Twk-men—”

“—remain without,” said Lirianne. The door remained wide open, but none of the Twk-men had followed Chimwazle inside. Chimwazle blinked his bulbous eyes and peered about from side to side to make certain that was true. Although no Twk-men were to be seen, the back of his neck was covered with festering boils where they had stung him with their lances, and more were sprouting on his cheeks and forehead.

“I do hope you know a healing spell,” Rocallo said. “Those look quite nasty. The one on your cheek is leaking blood.”

Chimwazle made a noise that was half a groan and half a croak and said, “Vile creatures! They had no cause to abuse me thus. All I did was thin their excess populace. There were plenty left!” Puffing, he climbed back onto his feet and retrieved his cap. “Where is that pestilential innkeep? I require unguent at once. These pinpricks have begun to itch.”

“Itching is only the first symptom,” said Lirianne, with a helpful smile. “The lances of the Twk-men are envenomed. By morning, your head will be as large as a pumpkin, your tongue will blacken and burst, your ears will fill with pus, and you may be seized by an irresistable desire to copulate with a hoon.”

“A hoon?” croaked Chimwazle, appalled.

“Perhaps a grue. It depends upon the poison.”

Chimwazle’s face had turned a deeper shade of green. “This affront cannot be borne! Pus? Hoons? Is there no cure, no salve, no antidote?”

Lirianne cocked her head to one side thoughtfully. “Why,” she said, “I have heard it said that the blood of a sorcerer is a sure remedy for any bane or toxin.”

Chimwazle went creeping up the stairs with his companions padding quietly at his heels. Lirianne had her sword, and Prince Rocallo a dagger. Chimwazle had only his hands, but those hands were damp and soft and hideously strong. Whether they were strong enough to twist a wizard’s head off remained to be seen.

The steps were steep and narrow and creaked beneath his weight. Chimwazle panted softly as he climbed, his tongue lolling from his mouth. He wondered if Molloqos would be asleep yet. He wondered if the sorcerer had thought to bar his door. He wondered why it was that he was going first. But there was no turning back. Lirianne was close behind him, blocking his retreat, and Rocallo came after her, smiling with those pointy yellow teeth. And the boils on his face and neck were itching abominably and growing by the moment. One just beneath his ear had swelled up large as an egg. A bit of blood was not too much to ask, a favor from one magician to another. Alas, Molloqos might not see it that way. He did not have Chimwazle’s generosity of soul.

At the top of the steps, the three conspirators clustered close together outside the sorcerer’s door. “He’s in there,” said Lirianne, sniffing at the air with her pert little nose. “I can smell his wizard’s stink.”

Rocallo reached out for the latch. “Gently,” Chimwazle cautioned, in a whisper. “Oh, soft goes it, slowly, slowly, it would be discourteous to wake him.” He scratched at a boil on his brow, but that only seemed to make the itching worse.

“The door is barred,” Rocallo whispered back.

“Alas,” Chimwazle said, relieved. “Our plan is foiled. Back to the common room, then. Let us reconsider over ale.” He scratched furiously beneath his chin, groaned.