Villains by Necessity (13 page)

"Good luck," scoffed Sam's voice from somewhere above him. The Barigan looked up at the assassin crawling along the rock face about twenty feet from the ground.

"What do you mean?" he inquired.

Sam grabbed the bird's nest; it was empty, a couple years old at least. He took it anyway and began climbing back down. "I got a good look at him when I went and talked to him," he said shortly. He jumped lightly to the ground, and looked away as he stuffed the nest into their wood-gathering sack. "His helmet's one of those that has hinges, so it opens up in the back in two halves so that you can put it on and it doesn't fall off if you turn upside down in a joust."

"So?" asked Arcie, looking up curiously at the assassin.

"His is welded shut."

They filled the sack and made their way back to the group in silence. A fire was lit, and Kaylana began making something that looked like porridge.

"There is not much," she apologized. "The horses with the provisions have not yet returned."

"No game about, either," Sam apologized. "The dragon's smell must have scared everything off."

They sat in the shade as the sun moved overhead, feeling weary from their day and night march and life-ordeath battle. All were sleepy, but once again no one wanted to be the first to slumber. Valeriana looked around them in mild amusement.

"We will be journeying through terrible dangers, where the survival of all will hinge upon the strength of all. And yet we cannot stand sleep in the same company.

We will have to forget our differences and plan our goals.

What are our goals?"

"Kill Mizzamir the wizard and put the world back the way it was," came from Sam. Their silent, armored companion turned his blank visor to look at Sam, but made no other comment.

"Restore the balance." Kaylana watched them from green eyes.

"Get rich!" Everyone looked at Arcie, and he hastily added, "Aye, and of course put the world back the way it was, as Sam said."

The knight nodded, seconding Arcie's last statement.

Valeriana's beautiful face turned stern and sad within the shadows of her cloak.

"And mine is to wreak vengeance upon those who destroyed my people. Unable to do that, however, I must settle instead for preventing their rule from becoming absolute, preventing them from winning the final battle.

Nothing would upset them more now than seeing the world 'put back the way it was,' as you so quaintly put it.

There, then, we are of a common cause. We will strive together."

A moment of silence, then Arcie asked the question that was on everybody's mind.

"Yet can we trust each other?"

They looked around at themselves, tired, sleepy in the morning sun: an indiscriminate thief who would cheerfully abandon even his close friend at any sign of danger; a cold, merciless assassin with the reflexes of a panther and the strength of will and body to kill at the slightest need; a Druid who had implied that she would abandon them and fight against them if the tide ever turned their way; a black sorceress whose race dined upon theirs and who, if she ever regained her amulet, would likely visit great and terrible punishment and pain upon them; and a strange, dark, silent figure in plate mail about whom they knew nothing more than his superb skill as a warrior and the fact that he had not eaten any porridge at dinner.

Sam gave a matter-of-fact shrug. "Who else is there?"

Sam took the first watch that day, and the rest slept. They would have far to go tomorrow, and a strange and dangerous task to perform. The knight sat with his back to the wall, unmoving. Sam assumed he was asleep, at any rate, though the dark steel breastplate showed no signs of a rise and fall. Sam settled down in the dusty gravel, splotched with drying mud, and watched, and thought about gods, the Mad Godling in particular.

In days of legend, gods would often walk the earth and meddle in the affairs of men. Now, in these days of Light, the evil gods were all vanished, and, as if bored by the lack of conflict, the good gods remained in their lofty high dimensions, unseen by mortals and unknown except for the words and powers of their respective priests- who used their divine magic to benefit the people and interpret the will of the gods. The last great miracle had occurred in the days following the Victory. The Darkgate had been locked by means of a great artifact created by the powers of the Six Heroes and the gods. This treasure, the Spectrum Key, had been shattered into six Segments, and the Segments hidden and guarded, as no power known could destroy them, and to leave the Key whole was to risk the opening of the Darkgate should the Key ever fall into the wrong hands. The wards placed on these Segments were such that, should the need ever arise, a true hero could pass the Test set up in magical fields around each Segment, and thus retrieve it. The Tests were designed by the Six Heroes, and then the gods of Light themselves hid the Tests and the Segments with them, concealing them from the eyes of foolish mortals and even from the Heroes themselves.

Now, not long before all this, according to the priests, there was, or rather, had been, a demigod, the offspring of a deity and a lesser immortal being. This offspring, not yet a demigod, was Bhazo, the son of Rhinka, the goddess of wisdom, and Cwellyn, the patron saint of the bards, symbolizing knowledge. Cwellyn, being only a lesser power, actually went to fight at the side of the last few true bards in the battle against the Light, in alliance with the Druids. He tried to win his former lover Rhinka to his side, but she was enraged by his impudence for the attempt and struck him dead with a large meteorite.

With his father's death, Bhazo came into the picture, claiming that, now that there was a celestial vacancy, he should be promoted to godhood. He claimed that, as his father had been a divinity of knowledge and his mother of wisdom, he now be granted the powers of a deity of knowledge and be privy to all the wisdom and secrets of the gods, even those that the gods kept from each other.

But the gods could see into his semi-divine heart and saw there the flickering of greed. Bhazo knew that knowledge is power and knew also that with all the knowledge in existence he could become the most powerful of gods. The gods were angry, but instead of smiting him into dust, they visited an even more terrible punishment upon him: they gave him what he desired.

Bhazo was only a semi-divine being; his mind could not hold all the knowledge of all the omnipotent beings. He went utterly mad, his mind constantly aflood with that which no one mind was meant to know. He was banished to the heavy surface of the material world, to wander forever in mad semi-immortality. Insane, he sought relief from the torment that plagued him, and went to end his life. He fashioned a cord of dragon's breath and built a gallows above the burning light of a chasm that led to the fires at the center of the world. But as he stepped from the platform, feeling the noose jerk tight about his neck, he saw his action through the eyes of the gods and knew that he had only doomed himself still further.

For the gods suddenly appeared, binding his spirit back into his flesh even as it struggled to leave, and made him fully immortal, that he might not slip out of his punishment.

And thus Bhazo was left to shriek and gibber the unfathomable knowledge of all creation to an echoing chasm, the dragonfire noose ever-burning around his neck.

And Valeriana wanted the band of renegades to go and talk to him, for no other being on the world would know the location of the six Segments of the Key.

The morning sun shone into the window of the Silver Tower of the Castle of Diamond Magic in Natodik.

Rainbow color spilled about the walls from the stainedglass border, depicting the glorious triumphs of the Victory.

Mizzamir, resplendent in his silver-white robes, sat at his carved goldenwood desk, reading from an ancient leather-bound tome, the very picture of sophisticated wizardry. Birds alighted on the windowsill and sang a good-morning chorus to him, their eyes glazed with the happiness of it all. He smiled at them with his hazel-green eyes.

A light tap sounded at the door. Mizzamir closed the book, and looked toward the door. "Enter, Sir Fenwick," he said kindly.

The door opened, and the handsome young hero entered, bowing his respects to the great wizard. He was garbed as usual in his fine chain mail, over his shirt and pants of forest green, the color of the nobility of Trois, with the fringed vest and gloves that were the fashion in that country. From his shining leather boots to his peaked hat with its pheasant feather, he was an impressive sight. "Arch-Mage Mizzamir, I have located an agent, such as you requested."

"Oh, good! Very good ..." said Mizzamir, but then noticed something seemed to be troubling the man. He raised his finely arched silver eyebrows in question. "Fenwick? Something troubles you this fine day?"

"Sir ..." the human paused a moment, unsure, then continued strongly. "Are you certain 'tis better to do nothing but follow these villains? Would it not be simpler and safer if I were to lead the Verdant Company in pursuit of them? We could track them with ease, and catch up with them in a matter of days, even faster with your help. Then, we could subdue them, or slay those beyond saving..."

"No one is beyond saving, young Fenwick," admonished Mizzamir gently.

"Subdue them then. I do not like to leave such people running loose, especially to gather together. It is like leaving a viper in one's garden."

Mizzamir shook his head in amusement at the impetuosity of youth.

"Dear Fenwick, I'll not have you or your men risk their lives nor waste their time riding after a troupe of ruffians who will very likely end up killing each other soon anyway. Nothing they do can hurt us."

The mage rose from his chair, and went to stand in the window, looking out at the sun burning its way through a few scattered pink clouds. His voice continued, deep and majestic.

"The Gate is sealed forever, guarded by the Labyrinth I helped build. Our forces hold peace secure. The world is purged of evil as Light assumes its rightful benevolent rule! They can do nothing! The Light shall rule forever!"

He flung his hands wide and upward in a gesture of ecstasy as the sun burst through the clouds and illuminated his silver robes and hair with dazzling light. The magic of his aura spun about him in a shining blur as the radiance cascaded around him and rainbows danced flickering on the walls and ceiling. Showers of light shot from the mage's fingertips and flashed purest white. Fenwick watched in awe. The moment broke as the sun moved back behind the clouds, and Mizzamir turned to look at him with a benevolent smile, the radiance shifting back to its normal gentle warmth.

"Ah, I do get carried away at times. You said you had found an agent for us, Fenwick? Please, bring him in, I do wish to meet him and advise him of his mission."

"Uh, yes, of course," stammered Fenwick, then recovered.

"I'll tell you a bit about him first. He wishes to be a minstrel, but has only started his career..."

"A minstrel, eh?" Mizzamir looked thoughtful. "Not a bard, I hope?"

"No, no ..." assured Fenwick. Bards had been a mixed problem. For one thing they shared too many talents with thieves. For another, quite a number had been allied with the Druids. After the Victory, most of the bards had vanished. The rest had been exterminated, just to be safe. Now, the place of the bards had been taken by the more normal sort of strolling minstrel and storyteller.

These good folk lacked the strange ancient ways of the bards and their mystical powers as well, but they were thus that much more comfortable to have around.

"No, he's to be a minstrel, right enough. He was born good, but not so stridently as you or I, Arch-Mage ... thus I think, with a bit of your magic to conceal his true goodness, he will be able to join the renegades without arousing their suspicions. I will warn you, though, he is fairly naive in the ways of wickedness. His name's Robin.

I'll fetch him now."

He walked out of the room, reappearing a moment later, saying, "Arch-Mage Mizzamir, I bring you the aspiring minstrel, Robin of Avensdale."

Hoofbeats rang on the flagstones outside. Mizzamir's eyebrow arched. Was the prince playing a joke on him and sending someone in on horseback?

His concerns were allayed as Robin stepped into the room. The fellow was a centaur. A young male, with wide, innocent eyes and fair skin. He wore clothing, a mark of civilization: a loose-sleeved white shirt and deep blue vest on his human torso, cut and fringed in imitation of the Troisian fashion and clasped at his human waist with a leather belt. A centaur of the Commots, no less, noted the mage, pleased. The Commots were the only civilized group of the wild but good horse-folk and were of far higher intellect and distinction than their hairy, merry, carousing brethren, with a finer, lighter build.

This young one held a plumed white hat in his hands and looked awe-struck at being in the presence of one of the great wizards. He had long gray hair that matched a horse-body of dark dappled gray, with four white socks over pink hooves, and a gray waterfall of a tail. The centaur saw Mizzamir and instantly dropped his eyes and bowed low, both from the waist and down on one forefoot.

Mizzamir smiled.

"Rise, Robin, and do not fear. So, has Fenwick told you of what you are to do?"

The centaur hoisted himself erect. His horselike, grayfurred ears, set high on his head, flicked forward attentively.

"Only to a small extent, your greatness ..." His voice was an uncertain tenor, only newly changed with adolescence.

"Well enough, then. I will elaborate.

"The people you are going to travel with are evil, vicious, cruel, heartless, wicked in all ways. They may seem clever, but it is cunning. They have no friends and are friends to none. They are villains, the antithesis of heroes.

They are weak, because they do not stand together. They fight as much with each other as they do with their enemies, for they are too self-centered to work together coherently, and will abandon each other in trouble. They are thus always fearful of being betrayed by their companions, insisting that others take all the risks that they themselves might survive danger. They twist all happenings to suit themselves. Their lives now, trying to survive in each other's company, are ruled by disharmony and squabbling."