Mazirian the Magician Read Free Page A

Trees towered to either side and the long sundown rays steeped one side in blood, left the other deep in black shadow. So deep was the shade that Mazirian did not see the creature seated on a fallen tree; and he sensed it only as it prepared to leap on his back.
    Mazirian sprang about to face the thing, which subsided again to sitting posture. It was a Deodand, formed and featured like a handsome man, finely muscled, but with a dead black lusterless skin and long slit eyes.
    â€œAh, Mazirian, you roam the woods far from home,” the black thing’s soft voice rose through the glade.
    The Deodand, Mazirian knew, craved his body for meat. How had the girl escaped? Her trail led directly past.
    â€œI come seeking, Deodand. Answer my questions, and I undertake to feed you much flesh.”
    The Deodand’s eyes glinted, flitting over Mazirian’s body. “You may in any event, Mazirian. Are you with powerful spells today?”
    â€œI am. Tell me, how long has it been since the girl passed? Went she fast, slow, alone or in company? Answer, and I give you meat at such time as you desire.”
    The Deodand’s lips curled mockingly. “Blind Magician! She has not left the glade.” He pointed, and Mazirian followed the direction of the dead black arm. But he jumped back as the Deodand sprang. From his mouth gushed the syllables of Phandaal’s Gyrator Spell. The Deodand was jerked off his feet and flung high in the air, where he hung whirling, high and low, faster and slower, up to the treetops, low to the ground. Mazirian watched with a half-smile. After a moment he brought the Deodand low and caused the rotations to slacken.
    â€œWill you die quickly or slow?” asked Mazirian. “Help me and I kill you at once. Otherwise you shall rise high where the pelgrane fly.”
    Fury and fear choked the Deodand.
    â€œMay dark Thial spike your eyes! May Kraan hold your living brain in acid!” And it added such charges that Mazirian felt forced to mutter countercurses.
    â€œUp then,” said Mazirian at last, with a wave of his hand. The black sprawling body jerked high above the tree-tops to revolve slowly in the crimson bask of setting sun. In a moment a mottled bat-shaped thing with hooked snout swept close and its beak tore the black leg before the crying Deodand could kick it away. Another and another of the shapes flitted across the sun.
    â€œDown, Mazirian!” came the faint call. “I tell what I know.”
    Mazirian brought him close to earth.
    â€œShe passed alone before you came. I made to attack her but she repelled me with a handful of thyle-dust. She went to the end of the glade and took the trail to the river. This trail leads also past the lair of Thrang. So is she lost, for he will sate himself on her till she dies.”
    Mazirian rubbed his chin. “Had she spells with her?”
    â€œI know not. She will need strong magic to escape the demon Thrang.”
    â€œIs there anything else to tell?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œThen you may die.” And Mazirian caused the creature to revolve at ever greater speed, faster and faster, until there was only a blur. A strangled wailing came and presently the Deodand’s frame parted. The head shot like a bullet far down the glade; arms, legs, viscera flew in all directions.
    Mazirian went his way. At the end of the glade the trail led steeply down ledges of dark green serpentine to the River Derna. The sun had set and shade filled the valley. Mazirian gained the riverside and set off downstream toward a far shimmer known as Sanra Water, the Lake of Dreams.
    An evil odor came to the air, a stink of putrescence and filth. Mazirian went ahead more cautiously, for the lair of Thrang the ghoul-bear was near, and in the air was the feel of magic — strong brutal sorcery his own more subtle spells might not contain.
    The sound of voices reached him, the throaty tones of Thrang and gasping cries of terror.