The Unwelcome Warlock. Lawrence Watt-Evans

name is Sensella of Morningside,” the woman replied. “I was Called about a day and a half ago.”

      “I’m sure we all think it’s just been a day or two —” Hanner began.

      “No, Chairman,” Sensella said, interrupting him. “I never reached the…the…that pile. I got here the same time that big glowing thing did. I wasn’t caught in the guarding spell the way everyone else was.”

      “Oh? Then I’ll want to talk to you, but for now I think we need to concentrate on everyone’s safety. We need to get them out of that…where the thing…”

      “Out of the pit,” Sensella said. “I agree. What can I do to help?”

      Hanner turned to look and assess the situation. Things seemed to be more under control now; he no longer heard actual screams, though there were still shouting voices, and someone was crying somewhere.

      “We’ll need fires to keep everyone warm,” Hanner said. “Shelter, and water, and food. Are there any farms nearby?”

      Sensella looked at him with an expression he hoped to never see again, as if he had not merely failed her, but had failed her so stupidly it amounted to betrayal. “Chairman, we’re in Aldagmor,” she said. “No one has lived within miles of this place for thirty years!”

      “Thirty?”

      “More, really. Thirty-four. You were Called a long time ago.”

      A sudden realization burst upon him. “But my wife…”

      Hanner was interrupted by a sudden blaze of light. As he turned he thought at first that that fool soldier had started a grass fire, but then he saw just how bright the light was, and that it was coming from somewhere high up, and he thought that perhaps that glowing thing had returned.

      Then he saw the black-robed man hanging in mid-air, glowing like a bit of the sun, and his mouth fell open.

      “I don’t understand,” Sensella said from beside him. “I thought the magic was all gone!”

      “Our magic is gone,” Hanner said. “This is something else.”

      “A wizard, maybe?”

      Before Hanner could reply the glowing man spoke, and his voice was magically amplified until it was as loud as thunder.

      “I am the Emperor Vond,” the apparition said, his words rolling across the crowd and echoing from the surrounding hills. “I am the absolute master of the southernmost part of the Small Kingdoms, and as you can see, I alone, out of us all, am still a warlock. It is by my magic that I built my empire, and by my magic that I rule. I am going to return to my realm now, and I wish to return in a manner befitting my station — with an honor guard. Any of you who swear fealty to me will accompany me to my empire, where you will be given positions of authority under my rule. If you wish to join me, simply raise your hands above your head!”

      “By all the gods,” Hanner said. “Who is that? What’s he talking about?”

      “Don’t raise your hands,” Sensella said. “I’ll explain later.”

      Hanner had no good reason to trust Sensella, but he had no reason to trust this Vond, either; he kept his hands by his sides.

      Hundreds of others, though, were less restrained, and as each pair of hands rose, the owner of those hands rose as well, soaring up into the sky to hover a dozen feet below the self-proclaimed emperor.

      Others shouted questions or protests in a variety of languages, but Vond ignored them; he simply lifted his new followers skyward, one by one.

      After about eighty or ninety, by Hanner’s estimate, they began to rise less steadily, and not as quickly; he guessed that this Vond was reaching the limits of his power. Not long after, people stopped rising at all; the remaining raised hands were ignored.

      “Farewell,” Vond said, his voice booming out in a thoroughly unnatural fashion.

      And then he, and his hundred or so volunteers, flew away southward, leaving Hanner, Sensella, and thousands of others in the cold darkness of Aldagmor.

      Chapter Four

      Kelder of Radish Street had gone to bed early after a long day moving furniture, but he had been asleep for less than an hour when he was awakened by a loud thump. His head jerked up and his eyes sprang open.

      The room was dark; he rolled out of bed, found the shutters by feel, and opened them, letting in what little light the surrounding city and the greater moon provided. So far as he could see in that dim glow, nothing looked out of place; he was alone in his attic room, just as he should be, and the furnishings seemed undisturbed.

      Then he heard a scraping, and what he thought might have been a moan, and realized that the sound came from above. Someone, or something, was on the roof.

      He turned to the window, pushed the shutters back, and opened the casement. He leaned out and looked up, but the eaves extended out too far for him to see anything above. Cautiously, he climbed up on the windowsill, hooked his left arm around the window frame, and leaned out further, craning his neck to see over the eaves.

      “Help,” someone said weakly, and the sound guided his eyes.

      A woman was lying on the roof; she was wearing black, and her long, black hair hung over much of her face, rendering her almost invisible in the darkness.

      “What’s going on?” Kelder called.

      “I don’t know,” the woman answered, her voice thin and unsteady. “I fell.”

      Kelder glanced around, confirming what he already knew — old Tarissa’s boarding house was the tallest structure on the block. There wasn’t anywhere this person could have fallen from other than the sky.

      That meant magic was involved. The black clothes probably meant she was either a warlock or a demonologist, but witches or wizards sometimes wore dark colors, too.

      “Are you hurt?” Kelder asked.

      “I think so,” the woman answered.

      “Can you move?”

      There was another scraping, and she inhaled sharply. “It hurts when I try,” she said. “I think something’s broken.”

      Then she wasn’t a warlock; even if for some reason her magic had not protected her from the fall, a warlock could mend broken bones. For that matter, Kelder had heard that witches could block pain and do some healing, so she probably wasn’t a witch, either. He didn’t see a flying carpet or any other devices, but if she was a wizard, a failing levitation spell might explain her presence. Still, it didn’t seem the most likely possibility. “Are you a demonologist?” he called, looking around for anything that might be flying near. “Did a demon drop you here?” He did not want to climb out there and find some horror from the Nethervoid waiting.

      “No. I’m a warlock,” she said.

      “But…” Kelder was confused. “But then how… Why can’t you move? Why can’t you heal yourself?”

      “I don’t know!” she said miserably. “I was flying, and then I wasn’t — it was as if my magic just disappeared.”

      Kelder had never heard of anything like that. Magic didn’t just disappear unless a magician wanted it to. Oh, there were stories about places where wizardry didn’t work — there were rumors that the overlord’s palace in Ethshar of the Sands was such a place, ever since that madwoman Tabaea, the self-proclaimed empress, had died there — but warlockry wasn’t like that. The only places it might not work were out at the edges of the World, too far from the source in Aldagmor. Here in Ethshar of the Spices, it worked just fine.

      He looked at the injured woman, lying helpless on the roof tiles, and then looked down at the street four stories below. There was no way to get her in through his window safely, not if she was really hurt, and there was no