Open-mouthed, Wiz backed away. Then Moira caught sight of him and let out a cry.
“Bal-Simba! Oh, Lord, you came.” She ran across the clearing to meet him, checked herself suddenly and dropped him a respectful curtsey. “I mean, merry met, Lord.”
The black giant nodded genially. “Merry met, child.” He looked over to the freshly-raised mound and his face darkened. “Though I see it is not so merry.”
“No, Lord,” Moira looked up at him. “Patrius is dead, slain by sorcery.”
Bal-Simba closed his eyes and his face contorted. “Evil news indeed.”
Moira’s eyes filled with tears. “I tried, Lord. I tried, but I could not . . .” She broke down completely. “Oh, Lord, I am so sorry,” she sobbed.
Bal-Simba put a meaty arm around her shoulders and held her close. “I know, child. I know. No one will blame you for there was nothing you could have done.” Moira cried helplessly into his barrel chest. Wiz stood by, wishing he could help and feeling like a complete jerk.
“Now child,” Bal-Simba said as her sobs subsided. “Tell me how this came to pass. We sensed a great disturbance even before you called.”
Moira drew away from him and sniffed. “He performed a Great Summoning without wards,” she said as she wiped her eyes. “Just as he completed the spell he was struck down.”
“What did he Summon?”
“Him,” said Moira accusingly.
The black wizard looked down on Wiz in a way that reminded Wiz uncomfortably of a cat watching a mouse.
“How are you called?” Bal-Simba asked.
“I’m Wiz. Wiz Zumwalt.” He waved hesitantly. “Hi.”
The black giant nodded. “You are a wizard then. Of what rank?”
“Well no, I’m not a wizard,” Wiz explained. “Wiz is just a nickname. My real name’s William Irving . . .” He stopped as Bal-Simba held up a hand.
“I did not ask for your true name,” he said sternly. “Never, ever tell anyone what you are truly named for that places you in the power of all who hear.”
“You mean like knowing somebody’s password? Ah, right.”
“Like that,” the wizard agreed. “I tell you again, Wiz. Never reveal your true name.”
“Now,” he went on in a somewhat gentler tone. “What is your special virtue?”
“Huh?”
“What is it that you do?”
“Oh, I’m a programmer. From Cupertino. Say, where are we, anyway?”
“We are in the North of World on the Fringe of the Wild Wood,” Bal-Simba told him.
“Where’s that in relation to California?”
“Far, far away I am afraid. You were Summoned from your own world to this one by he who is dead.” He nodded in the direction of the freshly raised cairn.
“Oh,” Wiz said blankly. “Okay.” He paused. “Uh, how do I get back?”
“That may take some effort,” Bal-Simba told him. The black giant suddenly became more intent.
“Again. What is your special virtue?”
“I told you, I’m a programmer. I work with computers.”
“I do not think we have those here. What else do you do?”
“Well, ah. Nothing really. I just work with computers.”
“Are you a warrior?”
“Huh? No!” Wiz was slightly shocked.
“Think,” commanded Bal-Simba. “There must be something else.”
“No, there really isn’t,” Wiz protested. “Well, I do watch a lot of old movies.”
It was Bal-Simba’s turn to look blank.
“That’s all there is, honest.” Wiz was facing the black wizard so he did not see Moira’s face fall.
“There must be more here,” said Bal-Simba. He paused for a minute.
“Now. I swear to you that I mean you no harm.” He smote his breast over his heart. “I swear to you that I will neither willingly harm you nor allow you to come to harm.” He struck his chest again. “That I may aid you, will you give me leave to look deeper into you?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Wiz said a little apprehensively.
“Then sit here where you may be more comfortable.” Bal-Simba guided Wiz to the rock where Patrius had sat so recently. He reached into his pouch and drew out a small purple crystal. “Look at this.” Wiz gazed at the tiny gem cupped in the great pink palm. “Look deeply. Fix your attention on it. Observe . . . observe.”