“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.
“Doesn’t seem to matter what we do,” the shortest one gasped at last. “It hurts us worse than it does him.” He rubbed his shoulder. “Got me bursitis going again, it has.”
“We could set him on fire,” the tall one with the sword said speculatively.
“Not likely he’d burn,” said the third. “He’s an expert on dragons after all.”
“Let’s throw him in the river then.”
“Don’t look at me,” the aggrieved voice came out of the shadows. “I’m wounded out of commission.”
“Three of us can handle him all right. Come on boys.”
The men clustered around Wiz and tried to jerk him aloft. But the stasis spell worked in proportion to the applied acceleration and Wiz would not move.
“He’s heavy as lead,” one of them grunted.
“Let’s tip him, then,” said the man with the sword. “Maybe we can move him that way.”
By slowly tilting the frozen Wiz back on his heels and working him forward inch by painful inch the thugs got Wiz to the stone rail.
“Now,” the tall one panted, “how we going to get him over the railing?”
“Maybe we could hoist him up and tip him like?” the one with the sword said dubiously.
“Won’t do any good if he lands in the mud bank,” the third said, having regained his breath.
The two looked at each other and then leaned over the rail to peer down to the river.