Mazirian the Magician Read Free

stood up. “Ho girl,” he cried, “you have come again. Why are you here of evenings? Do you admire the roses? They are vividly red because live red blood flows in their petals. If today you do not flee, I will make you the gift of one.”
    Mazirian plucked a rose from the shuddering bush and advanced toward her, fighting the surge of the Live Boots. He had taken but four steps when the woman dug her knees into the ribs of her mount and so plunged off through the trees.
    Mazirian allowed full scope to the life in his boots. They gave a great bound, and another, and another and he was off in full chase.
    So Mazirian entered the forest of fable. On all sides mossy boles twisted up to support the high panoply of leaves. At intervals shafts of sunshine drifted through to lay carmine blots on the turf. In the shade long-stemmed flowers and fragile fungi sprang from the humus; in this ebbing hour of Earth nature was mild and relaxed.
    Mazirian in his Live Boots bounded with great speed through the forest, yet the black horse, running with no strain, stayed easily ahead.
    For several leagues the woman rode, her hair flying behind like a pennon. She looked back and Mazirian saw the face over her shoulder as a face in a dream. Then she bent forward; the golden-eyed horse thundered ahead and soon was lost to sight. Mazirian followed by tracing the trail in the sod.
    The spring and drive began to leave the Live Boots, for they had come far and at great speed. The monstrous leaps became shorter and heavier, but the strides of the horse, shown by the tracks, were also shorter and slower. Presently Mazirian entered a meadow and saw the horse, riderless, cropping grass. He stopped short. The entire expanse of tender herbiage lay before him. The trail of the horse leading into the glade was clear, but there was no trail leaving. The woman therefore had dismounted somewhere behind — how far he had no means of knowing. He walked toward the horse, but the creature shied and bolted through the trees. Mazirian made one effort to follow, and discovered that his Boots hung lax and flaccid — dead.
    He kicked them away, cursing the day and his ill-fortune. Shaking the cloak free behind him, a baleful tension shining on his face, he started back along the trail.
    In this section of the forest, outcroppings of black and green rock, basalt and serpentine, were frequent — fore-runners of the crags over the River Derna. On one of these rocks Mazirian saw a tiny man-thing mounted on a dragon-fly. He had skin of a greenish cast; he wore a gauzy smock and carried a lance twice his own length.
    Mazirian stopped. The Twk-man looked down stolidly.
    â€œHave you seen a woman of my race passing by, Twk-man?”
    â€œI have seen such a woman,” responded the Twk-man after a moment of deliberation.
    â€œWhere may she be found?”
    â€œWhat may I expect for the information?”
    â€œSalt — as much as you can bear away.”
    The Twk-man flourished his lance. “Salt? No. Liane the Wayfarer provides the chieftain Dandanflores salt for all the tribe.”
    Mazirian could surmise the services for which the bandit-troubadour paid salt. The Twk-men, flying fast on their dragon-flies, saw all that happened in the forest.
    â€œA vial of oil from my telanxis blooms?”
    â€œGood,” said the Twk-man. “Show me the vial.”
    Mazirian did so.
    â€œShe left the trail at the lightning-blasted oak lying a little before you. She made directly for the river valley, the shortest route to the lake.”
    Mazirian laid the vial beside the dragon-fly and went off toward the river oak. The Twk-man watched him go, then dismounted and lashed the vial to the underside of the dragon-fly, next to the skein of fine haft the woman had given him thus to direct Mazirian.
    The Magician turned at the oak and soon discovered the trail over the dead leaves. A long open glade lay before him, sloping gently to the river.