The Wizardry Consulted (Wiz, #4)(62)

Again silence as both men sat lost in thought, Cully in his memories and Wiz in the implications of what he had learned. He needed to absorb all this and the heavy beer was going to his head.

“Well,” he said, pushing his end of the bench back from the table, “thanks a lot Cully. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

The big man grinned his terrifying grin. “Any time you need advice on killing dragons, come and see me.”

“Thanks, Cully.” Wiz turned to go but the tavern keeper cleared his throat.

“You forgot to pay for the beer.”

In a sinking instant Wiz realized he didn’t have any money with him. But Malkin reached into her belt pouch and flipped a silver coin down on the table.

Cully scooped up the coin, bit it, and nodded. “He’s got you paying for him, eh?”

“Wizards don’t use money,” Malkin said carelessly.

“Yeah?” the big man said skeptically. “What do they use then?”

“Plastic,” Wiz blurted. “Ah, little cards, like so,” he opened his fingers. “When you want something you just show them your plastic.”

Cully looked at him with eyes narrowed and Wiz felt foolish.

“And they take this plastic stuff? Just like that?”

“Well,” said Wiz, remembering the times he had gone over his limit, “mostly.”

For the first time the big man’s face showed respect. “You must be a mighty wizard indeed.”

“Where’d you get that silver?” Wiz asked as he and Malkin emerged into the cool evening air.

“One of those pickpockets back at the bridge wasn’t as good as he thought he was,” Malkin said with a radiant smile. “He had money in his pouch too.”

“You picked a pickpocket’s pocket while he was trying to pick your pocket?”

“It was a challenge.”

Wiz just sighed and followed his guide back down the alley, his head full of beer fumes and his mind full of dragons.

So the dragons were getting harder to kill, eh? That made sense too, in a way. The older, more powerful dragons staked out their territories in the center of the Dragon Lands and forced the younger ones to the periphery. That meant that the dragons the humans faced were less powerful and less experienced-less intelligent too, if Griswold was any example. But as population pressure increased bigger, smarter and more dangerous dragons were trying to grab territory on the edge. They’d be harder for human warriors to beat.

He nearly stumbled into a sewage pit and he had to rush to keep up with Malkin.

“Cully is the last of the dragon slayers, huh?”

Malkin nodded. “Far as anyone knows.” Her tone changed slightly. “He may be my father too. Big enough anyway.”

“You didn’t know your father?”

“Nah,” Malkin said. “Left or died or something before I was born.”

“Didn’t your mother tell you anything about him?”

A snort of laughter in the dark. “Barely knew my mother. I was too young to ask questions like that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what? She ‘prenticed me to Mother Massiter when I was bare old enough to walk. I was a slavey there for a few years. Then I came into some growth, discovered my talent and I’ve been on my own ever since.”

“But don’t you ever wonder . . .”

Malkin’s voice roughened. “The world’s full of wondering, Wizard. Now let it be and we’ll be home soon enough.”

They walked along in silence, each wrapped in thought, until they emerged at the foot of the bridge that led out of the Bog Side. There was but a sliver of moon and the bridge was dark. Wiz listened to the water rushing along beneath them and considered what he’d learned. No wonder these people need help, he thought. They’re losing to the dragons and they don’t even know it yet.

He never even saw the shadow that detached itself from the gloom and brought the raised club down on his head with skull-smashing force.

Wiz never saw the blow coming, nor the four cloaked figures that came charging out of the dark. He didn’t have to. The protective spell in his ring sensed the danger and wrapped him in a stasis field, leaving him frozen in the center of the band of attackers.

The first man’s club bounced out of his numbed fingers. Before he could bend to retrieve it, a second, smaller figure twisted in and struck with the speed of a cobra. His dagger flashed down, struck the magic field, skittered off and buried itself in the wielder’s thigh. The man screamed and fell back. The other two stopped their headlong charge and stared at the motionless figure of the wizard, considering their next move.

“I’m struck down,” wailed the little one with the knife. “Laid low by a cowardly wizard’s blow.”

“Ah, it’s nothing but a scratch,” growled the man with the club.

“A scratch?” the wounded man yelped. “A scratch?” His voice went higher and quavered. “It’s a Fortuna great wound in me leg, it is. Nigh mortal, I tell you.”

“Well, stand away and we’ll finish him,” said a third man. “All of us striking together.” He hefted his cudgel and fitted his actions to his words.

The fourth and last assassin had a sword. The three remaining men struck Wiz simultaneously and in turns. They hit him high. They hit him low. They pounded and hammered and thrust and sliced and hacked and hewed. Wiz just stood there, frozen in time and oblivious to their efforts.