Before & Beyond Read online

  He huddled on the floor and stared at the images staring back at him. You are an idiot, he imagined them saying. You are a worthless incompetent disgrace. Be a demon, came the voice of Fhennezel, unbidden.

  Be a demon. Ahlbhenzer rose slowly, awkwardly. A demon wouldn't allow himself to suffer such indignities at the hands of a mere human. He flexed his wings. He had never tried this before, never tried to fly while in the confines of the box. But his prison was large enough. He leapt and flew toward what he hoped was the top of his mirrored cage.

  He rammed solidly into it, fell back, tried again. Within seconds he was completely disoriented. With reflections on all sides, Ahlbhenzer wasn't sure if he was flying into the sides, the top or the bottom. Think, you idiot, he chastened himself as he caromed once again off a wall. You can always find the bottom.

  He stopped flying, let himself fall into an ocean of onrushing Ahlbhenzers. He picked himself up, shook himself, then looked up. If this was the base, the lid could only be directly above.

  Steeling himself, he flew up with all his strength into what had to be the lid. He bounced off, allowed himself to fall, then tried again. The second time he felt something give, just slightly. Encouraged, he tried again. Yes, he did feel the lid move. He tried again; this time he saw a slight separation on one side, a small glimpse of darkness in the all-encompassing light. Ahlbhenzer dropped to the bottom, then walked in that direction until he ran into the wall. Then he flew straight up and was able to raise the lid just a sliver.

  But it was enough. He was ready this time, he managed to wedge his claws into the small opening so when the lid quickly closed they were wedged firmly beneath it.

  Ahlbhenzer would not be denied now; he scratched at the mirrored wall with his clawed feet until he was able to obtain a perilous purchase. He arched his wings and lifted the lid nearly an inch, allowing him to get one hand under the lid. Now he had enough leverage to use most of his strength. Another five minutes of painful effort and he was out of the box and flying free in Cylydar's study.

  Ahlbhenzer was exhausted and aching everywhere from his countless collisions and wanted only to rest. But being free of the box did not make him free of Cylydar, not with the tether which still bound him. He was not used to viewing Cylydar's residence from aloft, having never flown indoors before. It took him several moments to recognize his surroundings, then find the door and leave. He stayed near the ceiling as he flew into the hall. It was doubtful Cylydar would still be up, but then he had no idea how long he had been in the box.

  Not sure how much time he might have, he flew quickly to the library. Would the watch owl see him? he wondered. Did Cylydar have magical alarms in place? He suspected not. All of the magician's defenses he was aware of were designed to prevent trespassers from entering. He was already inside.

  His eyes adapted rapidly to the lack of light. He saw the large tome resting so invitingly on the table and landed next to it. But even as he began to open it he felt the magical leash tighten around his neck. Ahlbhenzer stepped back and felt the pressure ease. Not that way.

  He did a rapid reconnaissance and found a small wand, one which even in his minuscule condition he could wield. Hovering above the book, just beyond the point where he felt the leash tighten, he wedged the wand under the cover then forced the book to open. He quivered as the cover hit the table; could Cylydar have heard that?

  Ahlbhenzer couldn't worry about that now. He read the first page and realized with delight that this was indeed a book of spells. Using the wand again, he turned to the next page, then the next. Until, after what seemed like hours, he found the spell that had bound him for these past few years. And the words that, once spoken, removed the tether forever from his neck.

  One more thing to do; now that the tether no longer interfered, he quickly closed the book and returned the wand to where he had found it. Then back down the hall and to the box. To wait for Cylydar.

  "Wake up, worthless. You and I are going to see Fhennezel," Ahlbhenzer heard Cylydar say as the lid flew open. Ahlbhenzer tried to scuttle away but the magician grabbed him quickly, then threw him to the floor. "I shall tolerate no more of your incompetence."

  Is he going to keep me like this? Ahlbhenzer wondered as he followed behind the magician. He was tempted to fly but thought better of it. Instead he used his wings to help him scuttle across the floor as rapidly as his even shorter legs would carry him. He wondered if the magician knew he had thrown off his magical chains, but by all actions Cylydar seemed unaware.

  "Now sit and be still," and Cylydar set Ahlbhenzer roughly on the great stone table in the laboratory. Ahlbhenzer folded his wings around himself in total servility as Cylydar began to intone an ancient ritual, then made arcane gestures. There was a puff of crimson smoke and Fhennezel suddenly appeared. And was none too pleased.

  "You dare summon me again, Cylydar?" He glared at the mage, then at Ahlbhenzer.

  "I can tolerate this one's insolence and incompetence no longer. This game has gone on long enough. I demand you live up to our agreement."

  Fhennezel picked at his fangs with one giant claw. "We had this discussion before."

  "This incompetent has totally ruined my most delicate experiments, destroyed my most valuable equipment." Cylydar pointed to the overturned trunk and damaged contents that still remained where Ahlbhenzer had dropped them. "I demand retribution."

  Fhennezel glared at Ahlbhenzer. "What have you to say for yourself?" This time he spoke in human tongue, not their language.

  "I couldn't help it. I lost my balance. I did not intend to drop it."

  His lord waved him silent. "I fail to see how an imp could be expected to carry anything that large, Cylydar."

  "He was in his regular size. His current condition is merely for punishment." He made another gesture and Ahlbhenzer suddenly found himself growing. He managed to jump off the table before it collapsed under his regained weight.

  "It took you long enough," Fhennezel said to Ahlbhenzer in demon speech. Then he looked at the magician. "Thank you for returning Ahlbhenzer to what he was; I doubt I could have done as much. Now I am pleased to say our agreement is concluded. We'll be leaving now." With that both Fhennezel and Ahlbhenzer disappeared in a cloud of smoke, leaving the magician coughing and swearing.

  "What did you mean, took me long enough?" Ahlbhenzer asked. They were back in the granite caverns of his own world, and while he wanted only to luxuriate in the burning heat and delightful smells of brimstone and lava, his curiosity had to be satisfied.

  "To graduate, fool. To escape from the magician."

  Ahlbhenzer stared at his lord. "To graduate?"

  "Absolutely. It is necessary you learn how to deal with humans, learn about their true nature, their power and weaknesses. All my underlings go through such an apprenticeship."

  An apprenticeship. Ahlbhenzer quivered with delight that he had pleased his lord. "But what if I hadn't ...passed?"

  "You'd stay with Cylydar until the end of time. I have no use for demons who cannot free themselves from a magician as weak as he."

  "Did Cylydar know this?"

  "No, and there's no reason for him to. He has his uses, as do most humans. When the time is right I'll send him another student. Hopefully," he glared at Ahlbhenzer, "they won't cause me so many headaches. Now be gone with you. I have matters of much greater importance to address."

  Ahlbhenzer was smiling as he left his lord's quarters. Graduation. He was now a demon of full standing! He stretched his wings and let out a roar of delight. Fhennezel would surely be summoning him soon for some assignment or another. Until then, a refreshing dip in the lava pools would be nice.

  Cold Spell

  Dartallon sat at his bench waiting impatiently for the transformation to begin. Around him, the tools of his trade were neatly arranged for easy use: clay jars filled with eyes of bat and tongues of newt, flasks of dew collected during the full moon, vials of quicksilver and dragon’s blood, a miniature casket filled with dead
man’s dust, and a basket full of rare roots and herbs he had personally amassed from every clime. The standard tools of alchemy.

  His attention was focused on the bowl before him. Inside rested a single roc’s egg, painfully (and perilously) collected the previous eve. Dartallon had prepared the philter and spoken the incantation, now it should be a simple matter of time until the egg was transformed into gold.

  But not this much time, he thought as his stomach grumbled in protest. He had planned on enjoying breakfast after completing the morning’s work. Now he regretted it. He glared at the recalcitrant egg, still resplendent in its blue speckled shell. Have I done something wrong? He mentally retraced his steps, then shook his head. He had performed this simple spell a hundred times and he slammed his fist on the bench in frustration. There was simply no reason why the egg shouldn’t be gleaming, solid gold by now.

  “Enough,” and he walked to his cooking pot, where his meal of potatoes and leeks was boiling merrily inside. “At least you work,” he addressed the pot. It required no fire, just Dartallon’s commands to function. He dined quickly, almost tastelessly, only enough to satisfy his hunger. Then he returned to his vigil.

  For the first time that morning he smiled. There was no doubt; one section of the egg was noticeably yellow. Soon the entire egg would be solid gold and his work for the day completed. Perhaps some of my ingredients have lost their potency, he decided as he glanced at several vials. He would have to replenish his apothecary, and soon.

  He was making a list when he heard a knock at his door. “Who could that be?” he muttered as he reluctantly answered the summons. He was greeted by a very irate and wet Gazperan.

  “Why didn’t you answer my call?” his magician guest asked as soon as they were inside out of the rain.

  “Call?”

  “I’ve been trying to contact you all morning!”

  Dartallon looked at the deer’s head mounted on a wall. He used it to converse with other magicians. “It never spoke. Why are you wet?”

  “Because it was raining outside and my shield spell wouldn’t work.” Gazperan stalked to the nearest chair and collapsed in it. “Ever ride a carpet in the wind and rain? I thought it would unseat me the entire trip!”

  “I’m sorry.” Dartallon hastened to a cabinet and returned with a flask of wine and two flagons. “What is so important that you came to see me personally?” he asked after pouring two hearty portions.

  “There has been a summons. The High Council is meeting in five days. Matters of utmost seriousness. Your presence is... demanded.”

  “A meeting? Of the High Council?” Dartallon frowned as he sat down. Meetings of the High Council, the ruling body of the magicians, were rare. For him to be summoned was unprecedented. “What does this concern?”

  “Magic, of course,” and Gazperan snorted, followed almost immediately by a sneeze. “There appear to be difficulties.”

  “Difficulties?”

  “Yes, difficulties.” Gazperan paused to take a hearty swig of wine, but his anger remained unappeased. “Spells don’t work, or aren’t working properly. Do you think I would subject myself to this,” and he pointed at his soaked clothing, “if there wasn’t a serious problem? A shield spell is about the easiest spell to cast!”

  Difficulties with magic? Dartallon frowned as he swirled his own drink. The transmutation spell. “Yes, I’ve noticed that as well. Just this morning ...”

  Gazperan waved him quiet. “I still have four more to contact,” he said and rose. “But this matter is of utmost importance. We have to find out what is going on. If our magic stops working...”

  Nothing more needed to be said. Dartallon walked him to the door and waved as his comrade rose majestically and soared slowly away on his carpet. The implications of this troubling news were staggering, and he shivered as he settled back in a chair.

  Me. They want me at the High Council meeting. He should feel privileged. He did not. He considered himself a competent magician, knew more spells than most. To those of the High Council, however, he would rate no higher than an apprentice, a lackey to fetch ingredients while they executed machinations of the most wondrous kind. Dartallon performed no more rituals that day. Instead he remained in a chair lost in contemplation. And anticipating the upcoming meeting with no small measure of anxiety.

  The High Council normally held its sessions in a manor etched into the side of a towering rocky pinnacle, one unreachable except by exceptional magic. When Dartallon finally arrived, however, he found his fellow magicians mingling angrily at the base of the cliff. Dartallon had not planned on arriving late; he had summoned a griffin with every intention of making a leisurely journey to the rendezvous. The beast, however, had been recalcitrant and he had finally, reluctantly, allowed it to depart. He instead had been forced to appropriate the services of a centaur, which resulted in a mind-numbing trek as the creature prattled endlessly about matters that held no interest for Dartallon. He had finally dispatched his mount and made the last part of the journey on foot.

  He quickly realized that his frustration was shared by all in attendance. Magicians both male and female were gathered in small groups, their conversations focused on the difficulties they had experienced traveling. “My butterfly net collapsed before I was halfway here,” he overheard one woman complain. “I nearly broke my ankle when I fell.”

  “I planned to travel as a whale,” her companion said. “Instead my transformation spell turned me into a sea turtle. It was mere luck the sharks didn’t find me.”

  I was fortunate after all, Dartallon thought as he walked on. He searched among the slowly growing crowd for Gazperan, but as yet one of the few magicians he knew hadn’t arrived. He satisfied his growing hunger at one of the many cooking pots scattered around the plain, then decided to approach one of the white robed men scattered among the participants. Only members of the High Council were allowed to wear the color and he adopted an appropriately obsequious air as he timidly tapped his superior on the shoulder.

  “What is it?” the man scowled as he turned.

  “I am sorry,” he bowed. “I am Dartallon. Gazperan invited me here. I wanted to know why.”

  Dartallon could only guess the man was frowning underneath his full beard. “I know no Gazperan. But that matters not. You are a magician?” Dartallon felt his knees shake as he nodded in affirmation “Then that’s all that matters.” The man turned to go.

  “But why are we,” and he waved toward the horde around them, “here?”

  “Because we are performing a Summoning.” The man glared at him as if he was as dense as a tree. “What did this--Gazperan?--tell you?”

  “That there have been difficulties with magic.”

  “Then look around you. Do you think we planned to hold our assembly in this plain?” He pointed to their castle high above them. “At the very least we would have constructed a grand stairwell to our sanctuary. But we cannot; our power is too unpredictable. Now be off with you. When the requisite number of our members has arrived, we will begin.”

  Dartallon frowned as he walked away. Even the High Council was powerless? Their situation was much more perilous--and pervasive--than he had imagined. There was little on the rocky plain except several cooking pots and rock outcroppings. The Council had created no shelters for those attending, so he made himself as comfortable as possible on a large stone and considered. Everyone used magic, from the simplest farmer to most potent wizard. What could they do without magic? And what was this Summoning he had talked about?

  As the day lengthened the temperature dropped and a strong wind came in from the east. Dartallon wrapped his inadequate cape around himself and began walking among the crowd, hoping the bodies and his movement would keep him warm. His companions tried to summon fire but with little success, the spells dissipating almost immediately. Even the cooking pots gave off little warmth. He was huddling with a group of shivering strangers when a clap of thunder caught his attention. Was it going to rain? he wonde
red and cursed at the prospect.

  Instead the sky began to glow and in the center of the plain a flaming shape began to rise until it hovered a good fifty feet above the plain. Dartallon gasped as he realized he and the others were staring at Albegron, the leader of the High Council. The knowledge filled him with awe and fear; awe that he was in the presence of the most adept magician in the world, fear because he understood that it required all the grand master’s concentration and power to maintain such a simple teleportation spell.

  Albegron’s voice rang out like the cry of an elephant. “The quorum has been reached; the Summoning may begin. Take your positions.”

  Suddenly the ground below them began to glow, revealing a pattern that stretched nearly across the plain. Now Dartallon understood why so many magicians had been summoned: their presence was required to form the necessary rune. He walked along the glowing lines and noticed that at certain places the uniform yellow was replaced by a circle of green. That’s where we are to stand, he realized. He chose a circle and complied. The others did the same and in a relatively short time the magicians were all in place, they attention now totally focused upon their leader.

  “Repeat my words,” Albegron spoke again. “Quiella enza procia.” Five hundred voices spoke in unison. “Doesha une distanzo.” The spell continued, the call and response lasting nearly an hour until, when Albegron finally stopped, the sun had fallen and the plain was in near darkness except for the pattern on the ground and the glow around the floating magician. Dartallon stood shivering, all the while wondering what they were trying to accomplish.

  Then the sky parted with a burst of lighting and acrid smoke. It appeared to him that the firmament had been rent apart by the claws of some unimaginable creature. A figure slowly stepped through the crimson gash, a towering figure of glowing green scales, great leathery wings, long fangs and talons, a forked tail that stretched behind it like a train. A figure that made Dartallon gasp in understanding. A Summoning. Demons. And Dartallon shivered again, this time not from the cold.