The Golden Key (Book 3) (26 page)

8

Sardach hovered well away from the entrance of the cave, his
form spread wide to avoid destruction if Angus’s magic could reach that far. He
didn’t think it could, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. The wizard was
inside the cave, and he was alone. His friends had left him behind—Sardach had
followed them a short distance to make sure—and he wondered why. For some time,
he thought Angus was dead, but then he felt the thought coming from inside the
cave and recognized the tone. It was Angus.

Sardach listened to the wizard calling for him but didn’t
respond until he was sure he had secured an escape route. Then, tentatively, he
sent the thought,
Angus?

The response was rapid: Angus threatened to destroy him. The
impertinence! Sardach was an elemental, and the wizard had a little wand. He
fumed, his rage magnified by the potency of Argyle’s command.
Bring me the
key. Use whatever means necessary.
He was almost compelled to enter the
cave, so close he was to fulfilling Argyle’s command, but something held him
back. It wasn’t the wand—it had hurt him, certainly, but Sardach had left
himself vulnerable; he had not expected the wizard to be a threat—it was the
key. Did Angus have it? He
said
he did. He
said
it was in the
cave with him? But was it a trap?

Sardach retreated to get a broader view of the mountain,
testing it for other means of ingress into the cave. He was just beginning his
search when Angus sent an interesting offer: A Wizard’s Pact.

Sardach focused his attention on the cave, trying to peer
inside it while he delved into Angus’s mind. Was it a trap? Did he understand
the significance of that statement? Did he know the Bylaws of Conjuration? They
had been written long ago for demons and later expanded to include the
elementals, but they had long-since been forgotten. But not by Sardach. He knew
them well, and for centuries he had sought a way to use them to free himself
from his enslavement to Argyle, but there were no exit clauses available to him.
The conjuration had been properly done, the contract had been sealed, and he
had been bound to this world indefinitely.

Or had he?

The Bylaws of Conjuration were quite clear: Only one
demon—or elemental—could be summoned at a time, and no demon—or elemental—could
be controlled by more than one master at the same time. Did Angus know this? If
he did, why didn’t he realize that Sardach could not be bound by such a Wizard’s
Pact as long as he was bound to Argyle through the conjuration? What if he set
aside the technicality that Angus hadn’t conjured him? He
was
offering a
Wizard’s Pact….

Sardach was intrigued.
What bargain?
he thought,
reinforcing the connection between them. If the wording were improper, the
agreement would be nullified—but would Angus know this? Would he know the
proper language to secure the deal?

I have no need of the key,
Angus thought to him, and
Sardach’s attention heightened.
But I am in need of your assistance. Do for
me what I ask of you, and the key will be yours.

Sardach stiffened, involuntarily drawing in upon himself.
The
key!
he thought fiercely, barely restraining the urge to plunge into the cave
and rip it from Angus, wand or no wand. Then, quite suddenly, he calmed down.
By
whatever means….
Whatever
means! It had been a command, one voiced
with urgency and sincerity, one that had compelled Sardach to obey. It had been
clearly articulated, and there was much room for interpretation in such a
command.
Much
room….

As he thought about the implications of Argyle’s command,
Sardach asked Angus,
What tasks must I do?
It was the formal phrasing of
the contract, and so far Angus had followed the proper sequence—at least in
broad strokes. He hadn’t summoned him from his home, but Sardach was already
here. Was the summoning
necessary
for entering into a Wizard’s Pact in
such situations? The Bylaws were comprehensive; they covered contingency after
contingency, but this particular situation had not come up before. No demon,
once conjured, was ever subject to the will of another conjurer. But.…

Take me to Iscara,
Angus thought, sending him a
colorless image of her.
Have her heal me. Then take me to Argyle. I will
give him the key and gladly be rid of it. Then return me to Hellsbreath.

Sardach waited for Angus to continue, but he didn’t. Why
not? These were simple tasks, easily accomplished, the kind of tasks that
didn’t require an elemental’s intervention. What more was there? He was
puzzled, and he asked,
Is that all?
It was important to be clear, in
case the Damnable Bureaucracy got involved.
They
were sticklers for the
language expressed in a Wizard’s Pact, and that meant
Sardach
also had
to be a stickler for that language.

Yes,
Angus thought to him.
You have my word as a wizard
that I shall ask no more of you. Do I have your word that you will see no harm
is done to me until these three tasks are done?

Sardach puffed up and then pulled himself into a tighter
configuration. He puffed up again…. Could it be this simple? Could he, after
centuries of servitude, be freed by performing these three simple tasks?
By
whatever means
, he thought, feeling a sense of guarded ecstasy. He probed
the Bylaws, sought confirmation, sought refutation, and found neither. This was
an anomaly, an unforeseen, unanticipated situation. The command was vague, but
it was clear. If the means for returning the key was the severance of the
contract with Argyle, then it was necessary to sever that contract—and that
would fulfill Argyle’s final command! He would be free from him! And all he had
to do.…

It is agreed,
Sardach thought to him, amazed that he
was able to think it without feeling the dreadful grip of the legalese stifling
his thought. A moment later, he plunged toward the cave—and slowed rapidly as a
discomfiting thought settled in upon him: What if Angus doesn’t have the key?

He entered the cave cautiously and came to a stop in front
of Angus.
Show me the key,
he demanded.

Angus looked at him for a long time before he finally said,
“Your word.”

Sardach cringed. He had hoped to avoid the trap of language,
but Angus had seen through him. He wanted the added layer of assurance, but it
wasn’t necessary. Still, by giving Angus his word, he would also be binding
Angus to his own. He shifted his structure until he was solid enough to squeeze
air through himself, and his wispy voice wheezed, “My word as an elemental, I
agree to the bargain struck.” It was the seal of the Wizard’s Pact, and as long
as Angus fulfilled his part of the contract, then Sardach would be compelled to
fulfill his own. Then he would once more be free.

Angus reached inside himself and brought out a small object.
He held it out before him and said, “I believe this is the key Argyle seeks.”
As soon as it was out of his pocket, Sardach knew it was
the
key, but he
needed confirmation. He settled in around it, tasting its flavor, sensing the
faint, lingering essence of Argyle and the more recent, muted reek of Typhus.
It
was
the key! The contract could be fulfilled!

Sardach wrapped himself around Angus and solidified the
tendril he used to carry those he needed to carry when he flew. It was an
uncomfortable thing to do, but it was
necessary
. The tendril slithered
under Angus’s armpits and around his chest. He lifted—but Angus told him to
wait. He needed to secure the key, and Sardach agreed. It would be hideous if
Angus couldn’t fulfill his end of the bargain because he had dropped the key
and lost it. He waited until Angus had put the key back away, and then waited a
few seconds more for Angus to pick up the other thing. It wasn’t a part of him,
but he had long-ago learned the importance humans placed on such things. When
Angus said he was ready, Sardach lifted him gently from the floor of the cave
and carried him outside. As he left the mountain, he accelerated at a pace that
was slow for him but much faster than humans could normally manage. Then he
headed unerringly for Tyrag.

He had only gone a short distance when Angus’s mind grew
calm, and then he increased his speed yet again. He was careful, though; there
was no sense in being careless. He had waited over a millennia to be freed, and
he could easily tolerate another week in this horrid world. But Angus was badly
injured, and he needed tending to quickly. How could he get him to Iscara? He
couldn’t fly into the city proper while carrying Angus; there were too many
wizards about. He would be seen, and that would not go well for him or for Angus.
But he couldn’t take Angus through his secret passage to Argyle’s lair the way
he had carried Typhus, either; the sequence of his tasks were quite clear:
Iscara’s healing first, and then to Argyle with the key.

Perhaps he could bring Iscara to him? Sardach pondered the
problem as he flew. He had plenty of time to make a plan; it would be a two day
flight to Tyrag. He would arrive late at night, when most people were sleeping,
and that would simplify things….

9

Angus jolted awake as a jarring pain ran through his left
foot, shot up his knee, and sprouted into an agonizing scream that could have
been heard for miles. Then he was flying again, and the pain eased to an
intolerable throb.

Angus?
Sardach queried, but Angus was too distraught
to answer. His foot was worse—far worse—than it had been when he had fallen
asleep. If it weren’t for the bandages holding the flesh in place, he was sure it
would be slipping off the bones. And now the rot had spread to his knee and was
creeping upward. The stench was horrid.

Still the mind
, Angus thought in desperation.
Still
the body. Still the mind. Still the body.

Sardach cradled him in his tentacle as if he was an octopus
wrapping its arms around its prey, and then, as if he were a baby being gently
lain down to sleep in its box, Sardach set him on the cool, hard earth. The
stubble from last year’s grain sagged under his weight, giving him a little
cushioning as Sardach entered him.

It was a horrid sensation, like swallowing a torch that kept
smoldering. Sardach wasn’t burning him, of course—his robe saw to that—but
the
taste
was atrocious and it smelled like when he had burned himself in
the Angst temple.

The pain eased, and his mind grew still. His body….

I will sustain you,
Sardach thought.

Angus frowned, and shook his head.
I cannot walk on this
foot.

The tendrils enveloping him shifted to smoke—all but one; it
gradually transformed its shape until it became a walking staff. It positioned
itself in his left hand and gripped his fingers. The rest of Sardach slithered
under his robe and wrapped itself around him.
I must not be seen
,
Sardach said, the warmth of his body challenging the robe’s magic, feeding on
it, growing stronger. Then Sardach lifted him from the ground and held him
upright, the staff-like tentacle jabbing into the ground like an anchor.
I
will walk for you
.

No,
Angus said.
I cannot walk. The weight—

—will be mine to bear,
Sardach finished as he moved
Angus’s right leg forward. He cringed as his weight shifted to his left
foot—but he felt none of it. The burden of that weight fell on the staff, not
the foot, and a moment later, his left foot moved forward. It was a strange
sensation to have something else moving his legs, and Angus fought against it,
trying to regain control of his own movements. His body stopped, and Sardach thought,
Let me be your legs. We must hurry. When we get to the gates, you must gain
entry. I cannot speak for you.
Then he was walking again, and Angus fought
against the urge to stop his legs.

The fires of the city were shining brightly on the horizon
and gradually came into focus as they approached it. They were two large fires,
one each on either side of the city’s main gate, which was closed and barred. Several
soldiers stood guard at the gate, and a small group of people sat on the ground
beside the road not far from the gate. Why hadn’t the guards let them inside?
Why were they waiting to enter the city? Would the guards allow
him
to
enter the city? What could he do to convince them to do it? Any more delay
could be deadly.

He hobbled forward—
Sardach
hobbled forward—and came
to a stop in front of a soldier who held up his hand and demanded, “Who are you
and what business have you in Tyrag?”

There were three other guardsmen standing just a few feet
behind the first and off to the side. Angus dismissed them and faced the one
who had challenged him. “My name is Angus, and I seek ingress,” he said. “My
business is my own.”

“Ingress?” the guardsman repeated as he turned to the
others. “Any of you know of this fellow, Ingress?”

The others milled around, but before they could answer,
Angus sighed and shook his head. “Ingress is but another word for entry. I wish
to enter Tyrag.”

The guardsman scowled at him. “The gates are closed. You
must wait until dawn and be inspected.”

Angus frowned and shook his head. “I must gain entry at
once,” he said. “I—” the soldier was scowling at him and Angus paused. What
would convince—

“Forgive me,” Angus said, “I am weary and did not properly
identify myself. My name is Angus the Mage. I am a member of the Banner—” he
smiled at the irony “—of the Wounded Hand. I seek entry to Tyrag for I am in
dire need of the services of the healer Iscara. I daresay I may not last until
morning without them.”

The guardsman looked at him shrewdly for a few seconds but
said nothing. Instead he turned and nodded to his men and one of them scurried
off toward the main gate.

Angus didn’t wait for him to return. Instead, he said the
words that were supposed to grant him the same privileges of the guardsman
standing before him. “I demand my banner rights be respected. My need is
urgent.”

The guardsman waved him off and asked, “Where is the rest of
your Banner?” His tone was skeptical, as if he doubted Angus’s claim. “Surely
they are with you?”

Angus frowned and shook his head. “They are on their way to
Hellsbreath on urgent business,” he said. “My injuries were too severe for me
to join them.” He paused and took a long breath, then added, “My magic is
exhausted, and so am I.”
Let me have my body,
he thought to Sardach,
placing as much of his weight as he could on his right leg and gripping the
staff tightly in his left hand. “I cannot,” he winced in pain and lifted his
left foot from the ground. He leaned heavily on Sardach to keep from falling,
and took a deep breath. “I cannot last much longer without her aid,” he
half-whispered as he closed his eyes and bowed his head. When he looked up
again, the pain was crawling over his face as he grimaced and asked, his voice
harsh, “Surely you have heard of her talents?”

The guardsman shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the
other as he scowled at Angus. But he said nothing for a long moment, and then
his indecision was saved by the return of his subordinate.

“Sir?” the guardsman prompted as he approached.

The leader turned and snapped, “Well?”

His subordinate came to a rigid stop. “There is such a
banner, Sir. It was formed by one named Hogbart—” He stopped as Angus laughed
and shook his head.

“It is pronounced Hobart,” he said, his voice shaking nearly
as much as his left arm and right leg. If they didn’t make a decision soon, he
would collapse—unless he let Sardach support him again.

The guardsman glanced at him, shook his head, and returned
his attention to his superior. “There is a wizard named Angus, and this one
resembles him closely. There are some differences, but they could easily be
accounted for and are well within the expected tolerances for such descriptions.”
He paused and suggested, “Perhaps if he told us who else—”

“Ortis, a Triad, and Giorge,” Angus said, his voice clipped
as if he were barely restraining his anger. “I replaced Teffles, who replaced
Ribaldo. I’m sure the records also indicate that I was temporarily banned from
Hellsbreath for improper use of magic, but such ban was lifted upon paying
restitution.” He lifted his head—it was difficult to keep from falling over—and
glared at them. “Would you like me to show you how it happened?”

The guardsman who had gone to get the information paled and
shook his head. “No, no,” he said, turning quickly to his superior. “It won’t be
necessary, will it, Sir? He put a hole in their wall….”

The guardsman in charge turned toward Angus and his scowl
was gone, but it hadn’t been replaced with a welcoming smile. Instead, he sized
Angus up again and asked, “What healing do you need?”

Angus glared and said, “Will you grant me entry or not?”

The guardsman continued to contemplate him—

—and Angus’s arm gave out. His elbow bent and he sagged
forward, sliding down Sardach’s make-shift staff. His shin hit the surface of
the road, and he screamed in agony. Then he collapsed, his grip held firm to
the staff
by
the staff.

The guardsman was surprisingly swift to act. He moved
forward and gently rolled Angus onto his back. After a quick glance at the arm splinted
under his robe, he turned to the legs and lifted the hem of his robe. He stared
for a long moment, and then turned to his men. “Stretcher, now. Send word to
Iscara that her skills are needed. Make haste. He may be one of us.”

Angus glared at the soldier for a long moment, and then,
through clenched teeth, he said, “I should have told you the King’s Shield was
dented.
That
would have been quicker.” Then he leaned back, closed his
eyes, and focused on the mantra. It was fairly easy to do; Sardach was still
inside him, giving him what aid he could.

A few minutes later, they gently—
very
gently—placed
him on a stretcher and four of the men carried him slowly to the gate. He clutched
the staff to his chest, and refused to let them take his backpack. They could
have done it anyway, if they wanted to—he was too weak to prevent it—but they
didn’t. As they went, the guardsman in charge leaned down and asked, his tone
drenched in concern, “Were you serious about the King’s Shield? We’ve heard
rumors….”

Angus continued reciting the mantra as he considered his
response. “Perhaps,” he said at last, his voice weak. “There may be fish on the
wind,” he added, “but not here.” He closed his eyes and struggled to keep from
losing consciousness. When he opened them again, he wasn’t sure if he had succeeded.
He was already on a wagon trundling through the streets of Tyrag. The leader of
the guard was at his side, and his men were riding along beside it. It was a
harrowing experience; each bump in the road jostled his shoulder, rubbing the
shattered bones together. Fortunately, it didn’t last long before he faded into
unconsciousness and stayed there.