Four days had passed since Grantin had fled, and still there was no word. For Greyhorn the first day was marked by anguished rage, the second by sour, heartsick defeat, and the third by a cautious hope that Hazar might yet find Grantin and the ring. Now, on the fourth day, Greyhorn lapsed into a state of numbed calm.
Since Grantin's departure the wizard had neglected his normal duties; he had skipped his usual Manxday seminar with the assistant commissioners of the Tectors and Artisans Guilds, thereby forfeiting his standard fee of a silver each; his appointment to cast a vermin-extermination spell over the rich acres of Elder Peabody had gone unkept. Even the day-to-day operations of his manor house and surrounding fields had succumbed to general neglect. So disheartened was Greyhorn by the loss of the ring and the consequent collapse of his plans for power that even Maurita's charms failed to arouse him.
What was he to do? The commencement of the Gogol attack had been delayed. Though originally scheduled for the following day, it had been pushed back until six days hence; but then what? In spite of his strong words. Greyhorn was paralyzed with indecision. Even without Greyhorn's support the chances were good that Hazar's attack would succeed. By opposing Hazar Greyhorn might only earn for himself swift disaster.
On the other hand, without the ring, without an important share in the plot, Greyhorn would be reduced to the status of merely another Hartford wizard to be dominated, and as soon as possible, eliminated by the victorious Gogols. And if Greyhorn opposed the devil-worshipers, then what? The small fragment of powerstone contained within Greyhorn's amulet would not be sufficient to protect him against the onslaught which would be launched by the Gogols against a traitor to their grand design.
The more Greyhorn pondered the problem, the more he realized that a favorable resolution could occur in only one of two ways: either he obtained the bloodstone before the attack commenced, or he disposed of Hazar and thus delayed the battle indefinitely. Charged now with a goal for which he could strive, Greyhorn shook off his apathy and made for his laboratory.
In a metal drawer in a metal cabinet bound to the stone wall with deep metal bolts reposed the amulet which Grantin had worn to Alicon. With a wave of his hands Greyhorn released the spell of impenetrable protection and slid open the drawer. From its cushioned bed he withdrew the necklace and slipped it over his head.
Carefully Greyhorn faced westward toward the Gogol empire. The wizard held the amulet in front of him so that he could stare into the stone set at its center. The thumb and index finger of his left hand pinched the left edge of the disk while his right hand grasped the right side in a similar manner. Now the energy of his body flowed across the disk and through the chip of powerstone.
With all his force Greyhorn cast a spell of location and focused his gaze upon the gem. As if of their own volition the pupils of Greyhorn's eyes began to dilate. The bloodstone swelled in hazy display until it filled Greyhorn's field of vision. Within its depths he was able to discern vague pink shapes, some of which seemed to be moving while others suggested trees or bushes, or perhaps mountaintops. The geometry of the splinter was flawed. The most he could hope for was a vague sense of distant forests and landscapes.
With a wail of psychic pain the sorcerer allowed the amulet to slip from his fingers and bounce against his chest. Though emotionally drained, Greyhorn found his nerves tightened to a high, singing pitch. He refused to allow himself to be defeated. He sat panting while frustration danced before his eyes like a haunting apparition.
Half an hour later, when he had recovered from his exertions, Greyhorn rose and approached his communicator lens. Carefully the sorcerer pulled back the drapes which sheltered the device, then moved to a cabinet high on the wall next to the window. Pressed against the left-hand edge of the cupboard was a folder which Greyhorn opened. Inside were two disks of shiny black, plastic-like material of the same dimensions as the communicator lens. With great care Greyhorn affixed one of these disks to the face of the lens, kneading and stretching it until it exactly conformed to every bend and ripple in the glass. A few seconds later and with equal care the other disk cloaked the bulging back side. No ordinary coverings, the disks were specially energized with a spell of Hazar's own construction so that when placed in contact with the communicator they filtered out the vision of the one who cast the spell while at the same time allowing the crystal to function as the focus of the transmitted psychic energies.
Greyhorn placed himself before his gray-black lens, checked his mental armory, and, finding all in readiness, at last passed his hand palm outward before the surface of the now blind eye.
In Hazar's laboratory two hundred leagues to the west his own crystal exhibited no more than a faint pearly glow now invisible in Pyra's ruddy afternoon light. Only slightly did Hazar feel the tug of magic drawing him to his lens. So faint was it, in fact, that he was unsure if he were being called at all. A quick glance at his crystal convinced him that he was mistaken. Back in his manor Greyhorn was already enlarging upon his previously begun curse.
"In his stomach, in his vitals find a canker and a worm. In his guts and in his bloodstream grows a tumor large and firm. In his heart and in his brain, softens mushlike the decay. In his body gathers corruption. When I command, he'll die in pain."
Hazar stood with his back to the lens. Unbeknownst to him Greyhorn repeated his incantation a second time. While the Gogol wizard planned the next step in his rise to power invisible emanations poured from his crystal. To a great degree Hazar's own vitality and spells of protection warded off the deleterious effects of Greyhorn's curse. Even more important was the protection supplied by the bloodstone ring which now rode the fourth finger of Hazar's left hand. Still, augmented as it was by the fragment of bloodstone in Greyhorn's amulet, the incantation was immensely powerful. In spite of all his defenses Hazar's vitals were seized with a wrench at the conclusion of the spell.
Instantly, Hazar sensed the source of the attack. With a sputter of rage the wizard turned and hurled a bolt of force into the lens. Two hundred leagues away the energy flung itself against Greyhorn's shielded crystal. The communicator shattered with a cannon-like roar, its razor-sharp fragments cutting Greyhorn on the cheek, chin, and knees.
"Imbecile!" Hazar screamed as he felt the ripples of the destruction which his spell had wrought in Greyhorn's workroom. "Fool! That incompetent…" Standing, Hazar broke off his shouts as a new bolt of pain lanced through his stomach. Somewhat shocked by the potency of the spell which Greyhorn had managed, Hazar restrained his curses and walked stiffly to his chamber door. Time for the fool Hartford later, he warned himself. He had more important tasks at hand now.
"Derma," he shouted to his aide. "Go find Mara and bring her here, immediately."
Hazar slammed shut the panel and retreated to his couch. Zaco had again delayed shipment of the special powerstones which by the nature of their cut were subject to control through the one worn by Hazar himself, stones that were needed to complete his plan of attack.
Zaco's excuses did not fool Hazar, not in the least. He was having second thoughts. Now was the time for Mara to prove her worth, to reestablish with even greater power the enchantment which she had woven around the Lord of Mammon.