Warlock

squad than one obviously equipped for the Cloud Range. We have supplies and other uniforms in the man-drawn carts and in a number of rucksacks carried by the enlisted men.”
        
        “The Cloud Range is all but insurmountable,” Gregor said, speaking for the first time. “Has the General sent foot soldiers to scale the peaks?”
        
        “Hardly,” Belmondo said. “We are the Banibaleers. You may have heard of us.”
        
        “Indeed,” Shaker Sandow said, not concealing his admiration. “It is said that your climbing skills are below none and that you scale the sheer walls with less energy expended than a normal man walking the steep streets of Perdune.”
        
        “Aye,” Richter said, “but the streets of Perdune are just utter insanity, designed for madmen and goats.”
        
        For the first time since the officers' arrival, the air of tension was broken, and laughter was heard in the littered study of the Shaker.
        
        Later after small talk and a second round of ale, Richter and young Belmondo left to see to the quartering of the troops in the two largest inns of Perdune, and it was agreed, again, to meet at the Shaker's gate at dawn for the hike to the foot of the eastern mountains.
        
        “I am still against your going,” Gregor said when they were alone again. “You are old, and though you are also fit, you will most certainly find this trip a rugged one.”
        
        “Yet your own powers are not nearly so well developed that you could take my place,” Sandow said to the boy. “And, besides, when you grow as old as I, you will not mind risking life and limb for a change of scenery, for the hope of something brighter in the future than working minor magics and watching Perdune wake every morning.”
        
        “Don't worry,” Mace said gruffly. “If the master finds the way difficult, I can carry him with little trouble.”
        
        “I'm sure you can, Mace,” Sandow said. “Though that would lack a certain dignity ascribed to Shakers.” He began unsnapping the seams of his black robe. “Come, Gregor. Let us divest ourselves of these stupid costumes. There's no longer anyone to impress.”
        

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    3
        
        
        
        Whether it was a manifestation of his powers or just a peculiarity of his mind, the Shaker was a light sleeper. In the morning, the thin light which made its way between the heavy umber drapes of his chamber was enough to make him open his eyes and rise. At night, the sound of Mace or Gregor tip-toeing to the bath was enough to break his slumber. This night, hours before the start of the great trek, this curse was to become a blessing.
        
        His eyes opened on darkness, and he lay very still as he listened to the sound of feet in the corridor of the second floor. He heard the door to Mace's room open, and shortly after someone was pushing his own door wide. As he sat up in bed, he saw the sparkling of what seemed to be a very spastic and erratic candle flame. Behind this meager light was the silhouette of a man, a stranger. Before the Shaker could call out, the sputtering flame was thrown almost to his bed, and the shadowy figure disappeared into the corridor.
        
        Sandow leaped from the bed, grabbed one of his boots which stood beside the nightstand, and stamped out the flame. Slipping those boots on, he hurried to the doorway-just in time to have his ears tortured by the blast and the wash of flames which erupted from Gregor's room. The door to the boy's chamber was torn from its hinges and crashed resoundingly against the opposite wall of the corridor. Acrid clouds of smoke roiled into the hall and made the Shaker cough uncontrollably.
        
        “Gregor!” he shouted into the pandemonium. He received no reply.
        
        Behind him Mace thundered down the hall , and though he was pleased that the assistant was unhurt, he was grief-stricken that Gregor should be dead.
        
        Mace pushed beyond his master and stormed through the smoldering doorway into Gregor's bed chamber. He called the boy's name, his deep tones cracked in a mixture of fear and anguish. He must surely have expected to find his almost-brother crushed and ruined by the explosion. But as the Shaker reached the doorway, almost exhausted by the effort of extracting oxygen from that fouled air, Mace reappeared, nearly invisible in the thick