Bumblestook: Book 1, The Accidental Wizard (23 page)

Bartholeumous gave a tug on the chain of power, then headed down the path, involuntarily followed by his prisoner. With hands and feet tightly bound, the hooded man (unable to balance or guide himself through the rocky corridor) bobbed along helplessly; careening into the hard, rough walls and occasionally bumping his head on the uneven ceiling. Finally, after one particularly hard crack on the noggin, he called out.

“Oof! Hold up there a moment, my good man!”

Bartholeumous stopped, turned around slowly and eyed him with one bushy brow upraised.

“You are misinformed. I am not really all that good.”

“Hah!” the prisoner guffawed. “I know something of you, Bartholeumous the Bold. You are adverse to needless suffering, are you not?”

“That depends,” Bartholeumous said.

“On—?”

“What one defines as needless,” Bartholeumous replied, turning about and giving a sharp tug on the prisoner’s chain.

“Oof!”

They continued on in silence. Soon, the path leveled off, opening up into a vast, underground cavern.

The ceiling, arching high above their heads, was studded with stalactites. Some of these had grown long enough to flow seamlessly into the stalagmites, reaching up from the cold, stone floor. These natural, lime-stone pillars glowed with a pale, luminescent light, as vari-colored as the minerals in their composition. The sound of dripping, limestone-laden water echoed loudly, in the cold damp air.

Bartholeumous pulled his prisoner to the middle of the room, where five limestone pillars formed a rough circle. He pushed the hooded man into the center, disconnecting himself from the chain of power with a sharp twist of his wrist. Walking around the circle’s perimeter, he chanted; touching each pillar in passing.

“Pillars of light, walls of glass. Without my leave, none shall pass.”

The luminescent pillars glowed brighter, as a transparent barrier crackled into existence between them; effectively imprisoning the hooded one within the circle. Bartholeumous waved dismissively, causing the chains of power to fall away and disappear.

The hooded man moved his arms and stamped his feet experimentally, then turned about slowly to examine his new prison. He tapped one transparent wall with a gloved finger.

“Tough stuff, these walls of glass. No one’s ever cracked them?”

“Never.” Bartholeumous replied, drawing close to observe his prisoner.

“I suppose my magic is neutralized while I’m in here,” the hooded man remarked casually, craning his neck to assess the height of the walls, which seemed to go all the way up to the vaulted, stone ceiling.

“You suppose correctly.”

The hooded one sighed deeply. “Ah, well. Might as well rest up for the fireworks.” Slowly, he slid down one of the walls ‘til he sat on his heels in a crouch, shoulders slumped and head bowed.

Bartholeumous eyed him coldly, then turned and walked away. Reaching into a hidden pocket, he withdrew a palm-size chunk of amethyst. Holding it in front of his face, he focused on the gem ‘till it glowed, with a pulsating, white light.

“It is time,” he said solemnly, replacing the stone.

With one glowing digit, he traced a large rectangle in the air; drawing it high above his head and down along the stony floor, in electric blue light. Then, stepping back, he made a sweeping gesture that spanned the rectangle’s width and spoke.

“In defiance of time and denial of space, I command a Dimensional Doorway, to open in this place.”

The space inside the rectangle flickered, back and forth, from light to dark; filling the air with an electrical buzz, before settling on pitch black. Several figures appeared on the threshold of the dark doorway. The Triumvirate stepped forward and entered the underground cavern.

They crossed the stone floor to stand in a semicircle, confronting the hooded figure in his glass prison. Bartholeumous joined them, coming forward to tap on the glass. The prisoner looked up.

“I see you’ve brought in the big guns,” he remarked.

Bartholeumous examined him dispassionately, then turned to make his report.

“When I arrived at the Bumblestook home, I found the boy outside with Lancelot Faire. Apparently the Gr-r-r-og got him out of the house just in time. The Faires intercepted this one— ” (he inclined his head toward the prisoner) “—in the act of pursuing the boy and used a Time Fly to slow him down. I found him in the hallway and secured him. Unfortunately, the boy’s parents had already been grabbed by three un-identifieds, who escaped through a Doorway before I arrived. The Wind Spirit facilitated our departure, just as the Human police arrived. And
that
brings us to the here and now,” he concluded, “
and
to our mystery guest.”

“It is time to dispel that mystery,” Impy said, hobbling forward with the aid of his staff. As the hooded man’s head snapped up and his shoulders stiffened, Impy chuckled. “No need for alarm. I have no use for torture—although I’m told my sense of humor is enough to bring a strong man to his knees! I simply meant, it is time for you to take off the hood and show your face.”

The prisoner rose, looking down at the diminutive Wizard from a height of nearly seven feet. One huge gloved hand rose, slowly, to touch the hood, then hesitated.

“Come now,” Impy coaxed. “Or must I resort to the use of deadly puns?”

With an abrupt jerk, the prisoner pulled back the hood. His skin was the color of dark coffee, the top of his head a smooth, shiny, hairless dome. His large face was square-jawed with a broad nose and large, brown, eyes that tilted up at the outer edges.

“Kondor Dal,” Impy said, shaking his head. “Listed as Kondor the Brave in the Wizard’s Registry. I thought as much—the height is difficult to disguise—but I had hoped to be proven wrong.”

The prisoner’s massive chest heaved and his nostrils flared, but he did not blink under the ancient mage’s scrutiny.

“I knew your father and mother—both accomplished Wizards who served The People well in their time. I wonder what they would think of their son’s career choice?”

Kondor remained silent, but looked away.

Rowena stepped forward, closely examining the prisoner, muttering, “Kondor Dal—Dal—that name is familiar to me. Of course—Mira Dal! One of the Heroes of Dragonswing Quest.” She looked up at the giant behind glass. “Any relation?”

Kondor’s eyes narrowed, as they focused on the Hero. “My wife.”

“Then I honor your loss,” Rowena replied sincerely, bringing one fist to her heart and bowing her head.

Kondor nodded stiffly.

Rowena turned to the others. “Dragonswing Quest. Mission accomplished—but with losses. Mira Dal was one of them.”

“Ah-h-h,” Impy nodded knowingly. He leaned back and craned his neck, to better observe Kondor’s face. “Tell me, how did her Transformation Ceremony go?”

The imprisoned Wizard closed his eyes briefly. “Incomplete.”

There was a moment of sympathetic silence. Not everyone who passed on chose to continue in service as a Spirit Guide, but (unless they were banned from the society of The People as out-laws) all Spirits underwent Transformation.

Imperious eyed the prisoner keenly. “Unfortunately, your wife is not the only lost soul. There have been other ‘incomplete’ Transformations.” He turned to Barra-Hoon. “Fetch the Secretary.”

Barra-Hoon went back through the Doorway, returning quickly with a rather large, bird-like, man-creature; an Amorphae, similar in form to the Secretary Bird of Africa. At the end of a long, snaking, feathered neck was a small, round, featherless face. Gold-rimmed pince-nez, perched atop a large, sharp, beak-like nose overshadowed a thin mouth and nearly non-existent chin. His skull was covered with short white fluff, with the exception of a cluster of long, thin, black feathers sprouting from the top. His short, hump-backed torso was clothed in a grey, pinstripe vest worn over a white, button-down shirt. Large, garnet cufflinks secured thick cuffs. His long, thin, stilt-like legs were encased in tight, black, straight-legged trousers. Over all, he wore a short, split-tailed, black overcoat through which poked a scraggle of tail feathers.

The Secretary carried a slim, black laptop in one claw-like hand and a wooden folding chair in the other. Setting the laptop on a nearby rock, he unfolded the chair, and sat, with claw-like fingers hovering over the keys; eying the prisoner with a predatory look from beneath hooded, yellow eyes.

“I realize this may be difficult for you to discuss,” Impy addressed the prisoner, “but, as it is the subject of an ongoing investigation, I’m afraid I must insist on a full report.”

Kondor lifted his chin and stared above their heads. When he began to speak, he was coldly unemotional, as if distancing himself from the tale to tell it. His words were punctuated, by the insidious tapping of the Secretary’s claws upon the laptop keys.

“I was not with Mira when she died. Perhaps if I had been, things would have been different. But I knew when it happened. I felt it. We always had a connection, Mira and I, no matter how far apart we might be. I was at home, on our front porch, admiring the sunset we so-often shared—sapphire blue streaked with rose and flame—”

For a moment he paused, his stern face softening. His listeners glanced at each other uncomfortably, until the giant figure shook his head and resumed his narrative.

“All of a sudden, I felt as if a giant fist had smote me in the chest and ripped out my heart. I staggered back and would have fallen, but for the wall behind me. A dark hole opened in my soul and I experienced a sense of loss so wrenching that I howled, like a beast in pain. I stumbled to the porch steps and managed to sit, just before everything went black. I lost all contact with the physical world. I felt myself being drawn into a whirling vortex. I could sense the presence of others like myself, but could not see or hear them. I could feel my memories, my very sense of identity, being stripped away until I was left with nothing. I was desperate to escape, to find some meaning upon which to anchor myself, but the whirling vortex confused me so, that I could not focus on any course of action for even a millisecond.

Time passed, until I sensed an intrusion in the vortex—like a giant, invisible hand reaching toward me. I felt a peculiar jerking sensation, as if I were but a fish on a hook. Then, suddenly, I was back in my body, sprawled across the steps of my porch, my face on the floorboards, lying in a pool of drool.”

His eyes closed as he ended his tale, the tip-tip-tap of the Secretary ceasing mere seconds after; leaving only the drip-drip-drop of the of the limestone-laden water echoing in the cavern.

Bartholeumous tapped on the glass to get his attention and was rewarded with a hard stare.

“How much time had passed?” he asked.

“Three days I had lain thus. My home is remote, in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri. Not

many pass by uninvited.”

“What did you do next?” Impy asked.

“I went to the Temple, to ask the mages to begin the Rites of Transformation. I waited one full day, before the Senior Mage came to tell me the news. Sunset again—” His voice faltered. “She informed me that Mira’s spirit never answered the Summoning. They concluded that someone, or something, had interfered with her ability to return to the Temple. She told me—she said my wife was lost.”

His eyes flashed angrily and his jaw clenched, as emotion flared suddenly. “All of their training, all of their power, all of their promises to honor the wishes of the Spirits of our people—yet they couldn’t save her!” Kondor growled.

“Is that why you turned to Malador?” Impy asked.

Kondor’s mouth drew tight in a thin, sullen line, his eyes grew hooded and he turned aside without answering.

“We
do
have ways of making you talk—” Impy said, moving around to catch the prisoner’s eye. “—but, unlike Malador and his ilk, I prefer to use the power of reason, and trust that you will speak of your own free will.”

Kondor gestured at the glass walls of his prison. “Is
this
an example of your idea of free will?”

“Merely a precaution against the powers of
un
reason,” Impy replied, looking the prisoner directly in the eyes. “Malador will never let her go, you know.”

Kondor stiffened. “What makes you think Malador has anything to do with my wife?”

The ancient mage leaned on his staff, cocked his head to one side and continued to subject the prisoner to a penetrating gaze.

“I believe Malador convinced you that he could save your wife, free her spirit and help her complete the Transformation. And in return, perhaps a small favor—a trifling thing compared to your wife’s spiritual well being.”

Kondor tried to look away, but found he was trapped by the ancient mage’s powerful stare. In fact, there now appeared to be two beams of silver light connecting them, eye to eye. He stepped back, coming up against the prison wall, pinned like a bug under glass.

“I believe Malador took advantage of your love for Mira, played on your grief over her death and your anguish at the thought of her lost spirit. Despite your association with the Outlaws, I believe you to be a man of honor and integrity. I suspect you were plotting to free your wife
and
foil Malador’s devious plans, even as you did his bidding. You probably think that
we
have ruined your chances to save your wife, but Malador would never let her go, no matter what he promised! You know, in your heart, that he is not a man of honor, ” Impy continued, clear, blue eyes sparking, as he concentrated on maintaining the connection.