Wand: A Fantasy of Witches, Wizards, and Wands
Chapter Twenty-Eight

Plattsburgh sits on the western shore of Lake Champlain, and is bisected by the Saranac river 14 miles due north of Keeseville.

The section of forest the sorcerer was standing in was a jungle filled with natural and otherworldly predators. I-87, a four lane highway running south, however, offered a safer route. There was even a tall chain link fence bordering the Interstate. It would deter some species of mythic (a few of which were simply too lazy to climb fences in the hunt for their prey), but wouldn’t keep out shagas, glimmerlings or wraiths. Then again, those mythics tended to prefer the forest anyway, and shagas at least were highly territorial, preferring a valley a hundred miles away.

The sorcerer had traveled the I-87 many times in search of supplies. But he’d never been in this section of the Preserve before; it was taking a bit of wandering to find the interstate.

Within an hour of their narrow escape across the bridge, it had begun to pour. On a rise they paused to rest, and through a clearing in the trees they could see smoke billowing up into the rain. Keeseville and its inhabitants were dying. Even if a patrol of Mage officers made it there within the hour, it would be too late to do any good. Troll hordes worked fast.

“Try this—gold,” Lint hiccupped, offering a bottle of Blotts Beer to him.

“Where’d you get that?”

Lint hiccupped, clearly drunk. “I stopped off in this business, um, Dumble’s Doors and Windows, in Keeseville while you was dousing that troll. They had an ice box still filled with bottles though not cold.”

When the sorcerer merely stared, Lint took another swig. “Well excuse me, master. But those gammy trolls had already hamed the ward, so I says to myself, ‘what’s the worry, Lint? Why not fetch yerself a nice bottle of suds or two while all these boggers is getting themselves banjanxed?’ You know?”

The terrible sound of bargs howling in the distance brought them both instantly to their feet, though Lint swayed a bit and dropped his beer. “Oh, savage throne, what do we do?”

Without a word the sorcerer snatched up his mirror and hightailed it down to the Ausable River. As quietly as he could he crossed it at a low point, keeping the mirror over his head when the water reached chest height. Once he was safely on the other side of the river and had crested the bank, the sorcerer crashed through the dense forest as best he could, soaking wet, toting a hefty mirror, ground soft with the fresh rain.

Eventually, the sound of the bargs growing quieter, (though he feared the roar of the downpour might be concealing their actual proximity) he spotted what he’d been searching for: the fence bordering the interstate. He slipped down the embankment to the fence.

Lint trekked into being to his right. The leprechaun was clearly plastered, because he tripped and slammed face first into the chain-link fence.

“Take the mirror,” the sorcerer ordered. “And trek ahead to the turn onto the Twenty-Eight. Wait for me there.” He grabbed hold of Lint and picked him up until they were nose-to-nose. “And be careful. That mirror is worth more than your holy golden throne.”

“Oi!” Lint shook loose and fell. “We Danaan can get fully scuttered, and still we got more co-coordin . . . coordination that you tall spellslingers.” He hiccupped and toddled over to the mirror. His hair was all matted down beneath his top hat, giving him a dreary, Keebler Elf look. He touched the mirror, waved his other hand through the air and . . .

“What’s wrong?”

“The mirror,” Lint said. “It won’t go. Must be it’s got a enchantment keeping it grounded. Oh-ho,” he laughed drunkenly. “I guess yer taking it with you. See you at the Twenty-Eight.”

Alone with his mirror, the sorcerer sighed. “Damn.” Now he’d have to take the thing with him on the Interstate. If he ran into anyone, unfortunate questions would be asked.

Without there being no State Department to tend to the roads and lawns for the past fifty years, the edge of the forest was threatening to spill over the chain link fence. Saplings twined through the links, merging with the galvanized metal to create an amalgam of nature and civilization. Simply climbing and hopping over the eight foot barrier was out of the question; his burden needed to be handled with care, not simply tossed over the side.

It was too dangerous to earthcraft his way beneath it. The tremors might shatter the mirror. A pair of bolt cutters would work best. He sat down before the fence and kicked at it a few times. It didn’t budge. Probably its metallic web continued down a foot or two.

A magical working he could use to bypass a metal barrier would prove successful, but it was costly. Most likely it would drain every last vestige of the bioplasma he’d stolen from that jaguar they’d encountered a few miles back. The big mountain cat had gotten the jump on them, thanks to a party of sprites who’d flashed the sorcerer and Lint as a distraction. But the leprechaun had stunned it with his snappy magic, giving the sorcerer a chance to recover.

With wizardry, sorcery, and bolt cutters out of the question, he chose to rifle through his well-stocked belt. He came up with sodium bicarbonate, ammonium bicarbonate, and a vial of amalgamated strontium nitrate. Powdered antimony would provide the catalyst for the alchemical reaction. He collected some rain water in his canteen and mixed the solution, combining the appropriate amounts of ingredients using nothing more than a tap-and-drop method perfected through intuition and experience.

Once they were all deposited in the canteen, he gently swirled the potion. A glowing red smoke began to emanate from the mouthpiece. With a practiced hand the sorcerer doused a two-by-five foot section of the fence with his potion. He tossed the melted canteen aside and, before the concoction had time to completely dissipate from the fence, he lit a wooden match and tossed it.

Deep crimson fire ignited. Flames shot outwards, singing the sorcerer’s raincoat. He backed up. The sight frightened a flock of gray jays that had been twittering nearby.

It was over in seconds. The forest fell quiet, with the only sound being that of metal ticking as it cooled.

The sorcerer waited a few moments to make sure he wouldn’t get singed by any molten droplets, and then retrieved his mirror and marched straight through the opening. His feet hit the pot-holed but still useful pavement of I-87, where he paused on the side of the road. The closest creature was a bald eagle, perched thirty feet overhead on the very top of the gangly spruce directly behind him. He set his bag and the mirror down, then sent out a small pulse of energy to summon the eagle. It flittered down and landed on his outstretched arm, talons biting into flesh. Its shocking weight forced his arm down. With his free hand the sorcerer made a series of gestures before his face, passing the hand back and forth in increasingly wider arcs until heat waves began to simmer in front of his shades.

The eagle seized and dropped dead to the pavement, making a sad hallow thud.

Its life-force had fueled the glamour. People tended to ask fewer questions when they encountered a man who appeared to have dull hazel eyes compared to one with glowing sockets or shades on his face during a gloomy day. Bald eagles were large birds; with the energy siphoned from it and the bit he’d added from his thievery of the cougars’ bioplasma, the illusion should last a good half a day. Long enough to reach the rarely used 28, where he could make his way home in solitude.

He tossed the bird through the hole in the fence; it made another sad thud.

A few carriages passed the sorcerer during his southward trek. Only one stopped.

The six-horse brougham ferrying Department workers—as indicated by the DME sigil of the olive branch and Ares torch set within a Circle—reined in beside him after about two miles of hard walking.

“Good day, sir,” the young driver greeted him, reins in hand. “Need a lift?”

Despite being in possession of protuberant unblinking eyes (in addition to a constellation of acne), this teenage driver offered no sign of perceiving the shades or glowing eyes. Either the sorcerer’s illusion was working or the lad had the best poker face in history.

“Thanks,” the sorcerer waved. “But I’m just headed to Crowningshield to meet friends.”

“Well hop in, then. It’s on the way,” bug-eyes said. “Just came in from Plattsburgh after picking up these workers from a convention there. I’m dropping them all off at their homes.”

“Thanks, but I don’t mind the walk. I could probably use the exercise, to be honest.” He patted his slight paunch.

“Nonsense,” bug-eyes said, struggling with the reins. “It’s loads safer back there in the coach. Just check out this Department ride. Look at those sigils. They’ll keep out glimmerlings and specters and I bet even wraiths. Though they haven’t been put though that test yet, thank the stars. Hey, what’s that under your arm, anyway?” He glanced at the canvas covered mirror with those pronounced eyes. “Hey now, you wouldn’t be smuggling buffer weapons, guns and such, into the Preserve, would you be?”

“This deep in?” the sorcerer grinned. “You think I could make it this far into the interior without being stopped? You flatter me, son. Besides, what use are firearms in a brutch as large as the Preserve?”

Bug-eyes laughed. “Well whatever it is, I’m sure you don’t want to be lugging it all the way to Crowningshield. Hop in. There’s room.”

“As I said,” the sorcerer spoke in a firmer tone, “I could use the exercise.”

“Are your mad?” bug-eyes made an exasperated sound. “It’s like forty degrees and raining. One of the Gypsy’s in the back there has a warming spell going. You should check it out—”

“Dickon,” a man’s head appeared through the porthole window. “What’s the hold up? Let’s go already.”

“Sorry sir,” bug-eyes fiddled with the reins at the sound of the man’s voice. “It’s just, I saw this man walking and carrying burdens, I figured he could use a ride.”

“Well what’s taking so long?” this directed at the sorcerer. “Get in, already.” The man ducked back into the coach, apparently fully expecting to be obeyed.

Bug-eyes shrugged.

“Thanks anyway,” the sorcerer began walking again.

Suddenly the driver was pacing along beside him. “Sir, please. You should do as Michael says. What’s the harm?”

He’d hunted and slaughtered countless mythics, confronted the most powerful sorcerer in history, engaged in astral battle with the Old One, but here he was being wrestled into submission by some pimply faced kid. The Fates sure were fickle bi—

“Excellent,” bug-eyes beamed when the sorcerer turned round and headed towards the brougham.

When he reached the door, it opened and hands appeared, making to relieve the sorcerer of his mirror. Nothing else for it. The sorcerer climbed up into the carriage. It was indeed much warmer inside. Gypsies were good for something after all, it seemed. He found an empty cushioned seat and took it. Seven faces stared at him. When he took back his mirror, the one who’d helped him with it introduced himself.

“Jim Petersen, assistant to the curator of magical artifacts.”

“Lana Borden,” a cleverly dressed witch said from beside Jim Petersen. She did not offer her hand, as it was occupied in the warming spell and would likely burn whoever touched it.

Three more men and another woman introduced themselves in turn. Collectively they represented a goodly number of divisions within the Department, including the Office of the Regulation of Magical Paraphernalia, the Office of Warding and Enchantments, and the mundane but still absolutely necessary shipping and receiving. Finally the last stranger, the very Michael who had prompted this impromptu meeting and a thirty-something man in offensively excellent shape, introduced himself.

“Michael Delving.”

The sorcerer had heard the name. “Warlock?”

“Just finished up my term in the Elder Watch a couple weeks back,” Michael boasted.

That gave the sorcerer pause. “You tended to the Elder?”

“I did,” the warlock said. “Now I’m on my way to meet Agabus Duchaine near the Institute.”

“Duchaine, really?” the sorcerer said. He changed topics: “So what’s the Watch like.”

“It’s not as glorious as most people imagine,” Michael said. “Pretty boring, actually.”

With the brougham lurching and jostling over every hole and divot, the sorcerer was hard pressed to retain control of his mirror. Lincoln Smith, sitting beside him, offered to assist. The sorcerer resisted. He focused his attention onto Michael. “But it’s quite an honor, from what I understand. Only the most loyal and devout warlocks are permitted into the Elder’s Sanctuary. Isn’t that correct?”

“That’s true,” Michael nodded solemnly.

The sorcerer leaned forward. In a forced whisper he said, “What’s he like, the Elder?” But he knew. He’d met the Elder, just once, back when the sorcerer had defeated Grimwood, the task for which the Elder had always woken. The great Magnus de Montfort had spoken to the sorcerer, and then resumed his long self-imposed slumber, to wait until Grimwood found his next host.

Michael shrugged, looked out his window at the passing line of trees. “Sometimes, when I’m alone in the Sanctuary, I swear I can feel his energy pulsing through the entire room. It’s so positive, you know? Not a trace of darkness. You know, they say the last time he woke, he melted a solid steel door to get to Grimwood—using nothing more than his own bioplasma. But then that Agravaine kid had done the Elder’s job—” he smiled nervously. “It’s too bad he hasn’t woken. With the mythics and all that’s going on . . . some people think we should wake him.”

Michael paused, perhaps realizing for the first time just how enthralled his listeners were.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should not be saying these things.” He was quiet a moment, contemplative. “It’s strange. Normally I can keep my mouth shut. Maybe the geas has worn.” He closed his mouth and sat back, a grim look of fierce distaste marring his handsome features.

He could not know and would never suspect that the sorcerer had been working his own enchantment to loosen the warlocks’ tongue. Information on Magnus de Montfort, Elder of wizardkind, the most powerful practitioner in history, was a rare currency.

Who knew when it would come in handy?

The next few minutes passed in stilted silence. During a lull in the jostling ride, while the driver came to a stop at a four way, Jim Petersen spoke up.

“Well I think the warlocks have a point.”

Lana Borden slapped his leg. “Quiet with that,” she snapped. “It’s sacrilege.”

“I’m just stating an opinion,” Jim returned. He switched his focus to Michael, and thereafter alternated between looking at the warlock and the sorcerer. “It just seems to me, that if the Elder is supposed to be some kind of protector of wizardkind then he should be awake right now, protecting us from the mythics. No, I take that back. He should’ve been there to stop the Mythmage from opening all those doors fifteen years ago in the first place. Where was he then?”

Lisa scowled and dropped her hands. Within seconds the warm air in the coach began to dissipate.

Joe Brown, of the Office of the Regulation of Magical Paraphernalia, nodded at Jim. “I hear you. If the Elder can sense every time Algernon Grimwood returns and awaken himself in response, then why can’t he perceive other times of great distress among his people?”

“You didn’t tell us your name,” Michael interrupted, wearing a very serious expression.

The sorcerer adjusted his hold on the mirror. “I didn’t? That’s odd. My name is John Ward.”

“What’s in the canvas, John?” Jim asked, to which he received another swat by Lana. “What?”

“That’s rude,” Lana exclaimed.

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“Yeah, that’s exactly my point.”

“It’s okay,” the sorcerer forced a smile. He waited a moment, but everyone seemed intent on receiving an answer, though Jim was edging away from Lana.

“It’s a mirror.”

A pair of gasps followed this declaration.

Michael sat bolt upright. The sorcerer noticed the warlocks’ right hand crawl towards his belt. “A mirror? Why are you carrying around a mirror?”

“I’m on my way to visit a friend in Crowningshield,” the sorcerer explained. “He mentioned in a letter that he would like it very much if I would bring him my old closet mirror. What?”

“That’s a dangerous thing to do.”

“Well, sure, but I’ve been very careful not to break it.”

Michael waved this aside. “That’s not the point. Don’t you read the Magic Times? The Mirrorman escaped custody. He’s out and on the move.”

“What?” the sorcerer, AKA the Mirrorman, said, shock in his tone. “When?”

“Like, weeks back,” Jim said. “Jeez. You need to get with the times. Yeah, DME ordered all mirrors in the Institute collected and placed under lock and spell. There’s a hold on all sales of mirrors larger than a speaking stone.”

“That’s ridiculous,” the sorcerer laughed this off, adjusting the mirror again. “I highly doubt the Mirrorman has any interest in going back to school.”

“Actually that’s precisely what the Grand Vizier is afraid of,” Michael squinted at the sorcerer’s eyes, almost as if he’d seen something there he shouldn’t have. “Before his capture, the Mirrorman made at least two attempts to penetrate the Institute’s defenses. No one knows why, but rumor has it he was looking for an apprentice.”

“A sorcerer’s apprentice? Isn’t that a bit . . . cliché?” Despite the cooler air, a single bead of sweat traced a wet line down the sorcerer’s forehead. Michael watched intently.

Did the warlock notice the sweat disappear as it passed behind the disillusioned shades?

The fingers of Michael’s right hand twitched and he moved to stand—but at that very moment the coach lurched violently and veered to the right, jostling the passengers.

The sorcerer tossed Jim off his body and scrambled to check on his mirror. Behind the thick protective canvas, it was intact. He let out a great sigh of relief.

Lana, on her stomach and gazing through the porthole window, unleashed a shrill scream.

“What is it?” Michael withdrew his athame.

“Golems!” Lana shrieked. “Two of them!”

The sorcerer sighed. With all the hardships he’d endured on this little trip, he couldn’t help but wonder if Endor was having him on. His enchantment kept her from escaping or sending for help, but it didn’t keep her from lying to him; maybe she’d made the whole traveling-mirror-to-Nick thing up. He stood. The coach began to tremble, and it wasn’t the golems doing it.

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