PROLOGUE

 

Herm Boltblaster held his newborn son for the first-- and last--time. He took the nursing child from its mother Lyrabis and cradled the babe gently in his arms, wrapped in a blanket of midnight blue embroidered with silver stars. The infant, frankly, wasn't too happy about having his meal interrupted, even to meet his sire. He told his father just that but, not having learned much of the language in the half hour since his birth, his protest amounted to emphatic crying.

 

"He has your eyes," Herm told his wife with a new father's grasp of the obvious. Indeed, besides having his mother's unusually bright green eyes the boy also had a shock of jet black hair that matched his mother's tint perfectly. Herm didn't comment on this. Perhaps it was too obvious.

 

"And your lungs," said Lyrabis from her bed. She was still exhausted from the ordeal of giving birth. Her dusky Xornite complexion was a few shades lighter than usual and the strain showed around her eyes, though not in the tender smile she gave her husband. Herm was nearly twice her age, as the gray at his temples attested, but this was the first child for both of them. The joy and pride that lit her husband's face as he held their son almost made her forget the hours of agony she had so recently endured. Well, not to forget the agony, so much as to put it in perspective. Like most pain, it didn't hurt so bad now that it was over. And the results had been good.

 

Herm's expression grew solemn and he drew himself up to his full lordly height, holding the child out before him as if preparing to offer the babe up to The Gods.

 

"We must Name him," he said gravely.

 

As if sensing the importance of the moment, the infant ceased his bawling and peered up at his father's bearded face with something approaching curiosity.

 

Lyrabis sighed. "You aren't still set on calling him Wurfaga, are you?"

 

The infant's eyes grew wide and he resumed crying, louder than before. Tears streamed down his face like the aftermath of a monsoon.

 

"It's a perfectly good name," protested Herm. "It served my father well enough."

 

"But not so well that he saw fit to inflict it upon you," said Lyrabis. "You should follow his good example."

 

"Dearest, if we'd had a daughter it would have been your privilege to name her as you wished, but the naming of a son is a father's prerogative. Such is the custom in my homeland."

 

Lyrabis smiled thinly. "We do not dwell in your homeland, dear husband. And in my country, a child's name is agreed upon by both parents."

 

"Then let us agree on Wurfaga."

 

The baby redoubled his cries, summoning all the outraged volume his tiny lungs could muster, which was quite a bit. Something like desperation filled his waterlogged eyes.

 

Lyrabis transfixed her husband with a pointed look.

 

"It's a fine name!" said Herm.

 

"For a stonecutter, as your father was. If our son was to be a stonecutter, Wurfaga would suit him perfectly. But our son will not be a stonecutter, will he dear?"

 

Herm was wise enough to realize that this argument could only end one way if he expected to maintain any degree of matrimonial harmony. "No, love, he will not be a stonecutter," he said with a good try at meekness. "What name did you have in mind?"

 

"Mercury."

 

The child ceased his crying.

 

Mercury. Herm mouthed the name silently to himself. He had to admit it had more pizzazz than Wurfaga. Not that there was anything wrong with Wurfaga. Wurfaga was an excellent name. But Mercury had a nice ring to it. It was evocative. He liked the sound. As usual, his wife had the better of it.

 

"Mercury it is, then." He laughed. "Mercury, Son of Herm! By Arkayne's silken hood, that's a name to conjure with!" He held the child high. "I Name you Mercury, boy!"

 

That done, Mercury renewed his loud demands for nourishment. Lyrabis held out her arms for the newly Named child and Herm surrendered him to her. She held the babe to her breast and he resumed his interrupted suckling. He was content now. Safe, warm, held, fed, and not named Wurfaga. What more could a baby ask?

 

Herm leaned over the bed and kissed his wife. "I will leave the two of you to rest now. We will announce Mercury's birth to the world in the morning, but I must tell Master Pencader tonight."

 

"Send him my love, then."

 

"I will."

 

Herm shut the door behind him and climbed the narrow stairway that led to the upper rooms of Mage Tower, one of the multi-colored spires that graced the fabulous Alcazara Palace of Caratha. He had been Mage of the Court little more than a year, after leading the League of Benevolent Magic for a decade. Mage Tower was his home and workshop. The conjuring facilities were first-rate, rivaling those at League Headquarters across the river. The living quarters were worthy of a great lord, though it had taken Lyrabis's touch to bring the place up to its potential.

 

Herm was pleased with his life. Lyrabis had brought him much happiness. He had a son. His duties as Mage of the Court were light--he put in a few ceremonial appearances each year, performed card tricks at the Prince's dinner parties, maintained the Alcazara's mystic defenses, oversaw the fireworks on festival days, and blasted an occasional pirate ship to cinders. For this, he got a hundred thousand crowns per annum, free housing, full medical benefits and still had time for the things he enjoyed, like reading, teaching apprentices, and experimenting with the cosmogony of hyper-spatial ergomantic anti-fluids.

 

He reached the high-vaulted observatory at the tower summit. It was a moonless, cloudless night, but the merry glow of torches and lanterns in the Arcade district across the river threw up more light than one would expect. Actually, the Disk Theater had caught fire during the premiere of Qwilliam Quiverstaff's Sir Gallant and the Flame Dragons. The theater was in the process of crashing down on the smoke- choked patrons, many of whom would die praising the production's realistic special effects. The conflagration would rage on through the night and destroy all of the Arcade, spreading as far as the riverfront before it was finally extinguished. In fact, it would be remembered as the worst theater fire in Carathan history. This was all lost on Herm, however, as his mind was elsewhere.

 

He arranged himself before an orb of translucent blue crystal about the size of basketball. It lay on a black velvet cushion atop a low table. Herm stared into the depths of the conjuring stone, clearing his mind of all extraneous thought in preparation for the spell of Communication. He brought his breathing into a slow, steady rhythm and let his mind descend step by step into a mild trance. He made a series of elegant hand passes over the orb, bringing to life within it a soft blue luminescence. When the orb was thus primed he touched it with his mind. The orb caught and amplified his thought, then hurled it out into the gulf of night to go pulsing across the leagues toward the one he sought.

 

Pencader's orb picked up on the third pulse. *Greetings! You have reached the orb of Master Wizard Pencader. The Master is unable to take your call right now, so please leave a message at the sound of the tone. Beep!*

 

*Master Pencader, this is Herm. I--*

 

*Greetings, my boy!* The aged wizard's thoughtspeech was warm and powerful. *I was just screening my calls. The news is good, I trust.*

 

Herm was unrestrained in his reply. *Yes, Master Pencader! I have a son! A son! A fine, healthy son!*

 

*Congratulations. By the way, does your crystal need cleaning? I seem to be getting an echo.*

 

*Sorry.*

 

*Don't be. Your excitement is palpable. How is the fair Lyrabis?*

 

*Resting*

 

*I didn't ask what she was doing.*

 

*She is well and happy. There were no complications.*

 

*Glad to hear it. So does this son of yours have a name?*

 

*Mercury.*

 

*I thought you were going to call him Wurfaga.*

 

*I changed my mind.*

 

*You mean Lyrabis changed it for you. Sensible girl. Mercury is an excellent name. I look forward to meeting the lad. I'm very happy for you, boy. I never had a son of my own, but you were--*

 

The rest of Pencader's message was cut off when Herm's orb exploded. Shards of crystal flew across the chamber like shrapnel. A fragment tore a bloody gash across Herm's cheek, another pierced his right hand. Still others embedded themselves in his robe and tunic. At the same time, the glass ceiling of the chamber shattered, raining down on Herm with a broken clatter.

 

Stygian blackness shrouded the room and all the upper floors of Mage Tower. With it came the sensation of an awful, ancient, impolite, and overwhelmingly evil presence. As Herm staggered to his feet, a thick, scaly tentacle whipped around his body, pinning his arms to his side and lifting him from the floor.

 

"Illumicantus!" wheezed Herm. Brilliant white light dispelled the darkness and revealed his attacker.

 

"Yo, Herm-boy! Been a while." The voice had a guttural, bestial quality. Or, rather, a bestial lack of quality.

 

"Gabblegorgon!" gasped Herm.

 

The Demon Lord, nearly twenty feet tall, stood upon two spindly legs covered with grotesque fur the yellow color of a carpet stained by non-housebroken dogs. His chest, thick as a boulder, was covered with dull green snake scales. His muscular right arm could have been ripped off a giant ape. From his left shoulder sprouted the great serpentine tentacle that held Herm. The demon's face was a hideous amalgam of the worst features of a baboon, a dead pig, and a boiled potato. His blazing red eyes were wild and lit with either madness or severe intoxication. He wore a crumpled purple fedora and an earring made from a human skull.

 

The demon lifted Herm to its eye level. "Yeah, been a long time, Herm-boy. Gonna kill you slow."

 

He licked Herm's face with a long, lime-green tongue. The demon's spittle seared smoking lines across the wizard's flesh. Herm flinched back at the pain.

 

"How can you be free? I bound you for all time in the Shatterless Shackles of Shagnaussey!"

 

"Want to talk about that, Herm-boy. Not a nice thing you do. Hurt me. Hurt my pride. Hurt my rep. Other Lords move in on my turf and nothing I could do."

 

"Sorry to have inconvenienced you."

 

Gabblegorgon tightened his grip, cracking several ribs. "You gonna be real sorry. Real sorry. Real sorry before I'm done with you. Since you ask, though, a bad man set me free. No friend of you. Nor me. But he set me free and tell me where to find you. He tell me too you got a young new wife. That good news, Herm. Make it easy for me to hurt you. Let you watch, Herm-boy. Let you watch while I take your cow of a wife and--"

 

"No!" At Herm's mental command, all the broken glass on the floor flew towards the Demon Lord's face, gashing and slicing his already horrible features. After the first impact, Gabblegorgon scattered the glass as far as the distant city walls with his own psychokinetic powers. In the moment of distraction, however, Herm's body ignited with golden fire, scorching the demon's tentacle. He snapped it like a whip, slamming Herm to the floor. The wizard groaned, and the golden nimbus winked out.

 

"That good, Herm-boy! You fight me, make it fun. Fight dirty too! Make no difference. I win. You sloppy. Get wife, get soft and sloppy." The demon sniffed the air. "Baby too? I smell baby. Me like babies. Them's good eats." Gabblegorgon kicked the kneeling wizard against the far wall.

 

Spitting blood and teeth, Herm struggled to his feet. "You foul pestilence of Hell! I'll destroy you!"

 

The Demon Lord laughed. "Funny, Herm-boy. Last time we met you take me by surprise, trick me, and have your League of Goody-Goody Wizards to back you up--and all you can do is bind me. Now you alone will slay me? Funny." He snapped his tentacle at Herm, who leaped aside with surprising quickness.

 

"Infatallan ni'shar orbix!" conjured Herm, directing a sparkling stream of Phystul's Pyrotechnic Particles at Gabblegorgon. The particles swarmed about the demon's head like a cloud of red and gold hornets, obscuring his vision, upsetting his balance, and burning his hat. Gabblegorgon reeled and stumbled, while Herm followed up with Dynamora's Deadly Discharge and a hundred gigawatt blast of interplanar lightning. He aimed these attacks with masterful precision, cleanly severing the Demon Lord's apish arm. Gouts of greenish ichor jetted from the stump at his shoulder. To help things along, Herm laid down a sheet of sub- ethereal ice beneath the demon. Gabblegorgon lost his footing and fell heavily.

 

"Vile demon! Not for vanity am I called Boltblaster! My power has greatly increased since I bested and bound you! Did you think me idle all these years?"

 

He unleashed a storm of neutrino recombinations that caused tiny explosions over the surface of Gabblegorgon's skin. The backlash blew out the walls around them, hurling flaming chunks of stone and mortar down onto the lower galleries of the Alcazara or into the river, where they sank beneath columns of hissing blue steam.

 

"You should have crushed the life from me in the first moments of your attack, when you took my by surprise, rather than wasting your advantage making threats," said Herm coldly. "But stupidity has always been the curse of the Hellmasters, and you are the dullest of the lot."

 

Gabblegorgon's flesh, pocked with thousands of burning black wounds, shriveled and curled away from his body. Herm surrounded him in a collapsing lattice of shining silver strands that utterly frustrated his effort to stand.

 

"You have ever relied on your imposing size and strength to gain your ends, monster. Your magic is weak, and certainly no match for the power of an arcane master like me, one who has studied all the fundamental forces of Creation and learned to bend them to his will."

 

Gabblegorgon spat a foaming blob of acidic phlegm at Herm's head, but the wizard easily sidestepped the caustic missile and responded with Jagged Bolts of Emerald Fury that sliced through the Demon Lord's body like burning lances from the sky. His agonized howls shook walls and broke windows a mile away.

 

"You are finished, demon! Never again will you trouble humankind nor befoul this world with your unholy presence!"

 

Herm's ferocious attack nearly vaporized Gabblegorgon's body. Yet with a final snarl of hatred, the demon unleashed all he remaining strength in a burst of telekinetic power that, unchecked, would have leveled the Alcazara and most of Caratha. It did not, however, go unchecked. Herm anticipated the demon's last desperate measure and contained the mindburst with an invisible field of subspace antimaterial electroradiance. The mighty telekinetic waves emanating from Gabblegorgon's brain were reflected back upon themselves in a feedback pattern that ripped his dying mind to screaming shreds and reduced his body to null-coated nothingness. Thus perished the Demon Lord Gabblegorgon, undone by a lone mortal mage.

 

Herm's thoughts, however, were not of his spectacular victory, but of his wife and son below. Hurling aside with a thought the rubble that blocked the stairs, he rushed down to the living quarters. All the wall hangings had fallen, the furniture was upset, blocks of stone and ceiling tiles littered the floor.

 

"Lyrabis!"

 

He found her still in her bed, trembling, ashen- faced, and trying with little success to calm Mercury. The baby's cries were wild and terrified.

 

"Herm! What is happening?"

 

"An unwelcome visitor," he said, starting for the bed. "But it's all right now."

 

Unfortunately, it was not.

 

Lyrabis screamed as her husband's head flew from his shoulders and landed at the foot of the bed. His body staggered on for a step or two, spurting blood from its stump of a neck, then realized it had lost its head and sensibly crumpled to the floor.

 

The laughter of Sercifex was like the cruel peal of a funeral bell. She was a tall and well-formed demoness, with chalk white skin, straight black hair, and flashing ruby eyes. Her long, flexible tail ended in a spade-shaped, razor-edged blade, dripping with fresh blood. She jabbed it through the bottom of Herm's severed head and lifted it up to contemplate his shocked expression.

 

"Alas, poor Herm. I don't think he knew what hit him, mortal cow. A pity. I believe it was his concern for you and the whelp that was his undoing, dear. He should have sensed my presence, invisible though I was. Then again, who would expect two Hellmasters to attack in a single night? One is usually enough."

 

Lyrabis clutched Mercury tightly to her breast and stared at the Demon Lady in mute, blank terror. She could not bring herself to glance at Herm's lifeless face. She turned away when Sercifex thrust the head at her.

 

"I was not sorry to see that brute Gabblegorgon fall," mused the demoness. "I could have helped him, I suppose, but why bother? Your husband did a nice piece of work on him. He is to be commended. As am I." She brought Herm's face before her own. "I hope you appreciate, wizard, that I did not waste my advantage of surprise making threats. That's why you are dead." With a contemptuous flick of her tail she sent Herm's head bouncing into a corner.

 

"As you see, dear, I'm utterly ruthless. Do have the courtesy to look at me when I speak to you. Better. Mmmmmmm. I love to see fear and loathing in mortal faces. Priceless. Paralyzed with terror, aren't you, dear? Yes. I sense you're a strong-willed woman, but this evening would overwhelm the strongest, wouldn't it?"

 

Sercifex's spaded tail hovered over Lyrabis like a cobra ready to strike, swaying hypnotically back and forth. Little droplets of blood and gray matter dripped onto the bed covers. Abruptly the blade shot forward, stopping a fraction of an inch from Lyrabis's delicate throat.

 

"I've come to kill you, of course. Naturally, your only concern is for your child. A fine maternal instinct which is totally alien to me. I haven't decided what to do about him. He who summoned me this moonless night bade me kill you and your mate, but made no mention of the child. Rest assured I will not eat him. I do not share the taste of my baser cousins for mortal flesh. I think I will take him back to the Darkest Depths of Hell with me. He will make a clever pet. And if he shares his father's aptitude for sorcery, he will grow to be a most useful minion. Yes! What an unexpected bonus. Give him here now." Sercifex held out her arms. An invisible force ripped Mercury from his mother's grasp and the crying baby floated through the air toward the Demon Lady.

 

"No!"

 

Deprived of her child, Lyrabis found her voice. She staggered upright in the bed and lunged after Mercury, but Sercifex thrust her back by driving the point of her tail through the woman's breast. Lyrabis died with an expression of utter desolation frozen on her face.

 

Sercifex cradled the baby with a crude parody of affection, stilling his cries with a muttered spell of silence. He wailed on soundlessly and trembled violently.

 

"We'll have none of that, whelp. The bungling conjurers of the League draw nigh and the human sheep of this castle are astir, so we must be away. You'll like it in Hell, my little bundle of fear. I'll nurse you on murderer's blood and spider's venom and give you the bones of necromancers as playthings. Doesn't that sound splendid? Still now, while I open anew the Hellgate."

 

Sercifex waved her hand, and a swirling reddish blot appeared in the air before her. With each revolution of its substance, it expanded until the Hellgate was large enough for her to pass through.

 

But before the Demon Lady could make her escape a larger gateway of silver and blue appeared above her, displacing most of the ceiling and upper walls. From it streaked a large white owl that snatched Mercury from Sercifex's grasp and flew out the balcony window with the baby clutched in its talons.

 

Sercifex would have followed the bird to reclaim her prize, but she had other problems. A gigantic hand the color of moonlight and opals reached for her from above. It was unmistakably the hand of a god. Worse for her, it was the hand of the one god the Demon Lords feared above all others: Arkayne, Author of Magic.

 

"Unfair!" screeched Sercifex, avoiding the hand. "You are not supposed to interfere on this plane!" She conveniently overlooked the fact that neither was she. "You violate the Pact!"

 

Arkayne did not reply, but clutched at her. Shrieking with rage and not a little fear, Sercifex dove through the Hellgate and closed it behind her.

 

Arkayne sadly gathered the bodies of Herm and Lyrabis and lifted them gingerly to Paradise.

 

Conjure bore his burden north on soundless wings. With a magical nudge he had sent the human hatchling into a peaceful slumber. That made the flight easier on his sensitive ears. Usually when he carried something it was prey, which was usually dead, and usually did not wail like a stuck banshee. Not that he could blame the little fellow.

 

The owl hated these melodramatic, pseudo-mythic assignments, but when one came up, who did the Master tap? Conjure, of course. A neophyte hero needs guidance? A misplaced prince must be told his true origins? Some obscure bit of oracular doggerel done up by the copy department needs reciting with all the usual theatrics? Send for Conjure. An omen of good fortune is required? There, Conjure, go flap about in the vicinity--in the blasted daytime, of course--and remember to keep to the right. That always confused Conjure. Whose right was he supposed to keep to, his own or that of whomever he was being a good omen for? And why would heroes never look up when they should? The bird suspected he was taken for a bad omen half the time and went unnoticed the other half.

 

Cases like this were the worst by far. Poor child barely hatched, parents slaughtered by the powers of evil, and off he goes to a foster home to grow up ignorant of his true roots until the time came for revenge, or a perilous quest, or whatever The Gods had in mind for him. Conjure had seen it a hundred times before. And it was a safe bet he'd be the one sent down to explain things to the lad when the moment of truth came. Well, maybe not. The Master hadn't given him that particular task since he mistakenly told the Lost Heir to the Chrysoberyl Throne that he was the Lost Heir to the Topaz Seat. The poor lad had set out and avenged someone else's parents, married another man's fated true love, and ruled a kingdom to which he had no actual right. When the proper Lost Heir showed up there was a dreadful row and it took years to get the situation straightened out.

 

It wasn't Conjure's fault. He had been forced to memorize and relate too many convoluted life histories. Over the centuries they started to run together. All those Lost Heirs looked alike anyway.

 

At least there wasn't a kingdom at stake this time. This would probably be the classic revenge scenario, which at least had the virtue of being straightforward. There is the villain who slew your parents, go get him.

 

Or, in this case, her. The boy would be flying into a headwind if he was to take on Sercifex. She was the worst of a bad lot. Which meant, of course, Conjure would be expected to go along and give advice. In sixteen years or so -- they always started young -- he could look forward to dodging death bats and doom vultures in the unfriendly skies of the netherworld while a fumbling, gangly, wet-behind-the-ears heroic archetype tried to assassinate the most powerful Demon Lady in the Assorted Hells.

 

Maybe it was time to request transfer to a desk job.

 

The problem with this work was that is was too predictable. The names changed, but it was the same cycle of events over and over again. Just once, he'd like to see a foundling hero turn out some other way than tall, handsome, athletic, keen of mind, invariably cheerful, brimming with confidence, and selflessly altruistic. But there was no help for it. The Gods cast them all in the same mold.

 

He spotted the foster parents in a small clearing, right on schedule. The Master had put them on standby yesterday when he got a premonition they would be needed. None of The Gods had ever explained to Conjure why they didn't take advantage of their premonitions to prevent all these tragic orphanings in the first place and save everyone -- especially Conjure -- a great deal of trouble. But the bird knew his place and did not question his betters. Ours is not to reason why and so forth.

 

Conjure gave a soft screech of surprise as he recognized the old couple. Jonathan and Martha were the most experienced foster parents The Gods employed. They got only the most important assignments and had at one time or another raised members of almost every royal family and heroic bloodline in Arden.

 

Conjure fluttered down and deposited his burden in Martha's arms before perching on a nearby branch. The hatchling still slumbered under the influence of the owl's spell.

 

"He's darling," cooed Martha.

 

"I thought you two had retired from service," said Conjure.

 

"We did," said Jonathan. "We were called out by Arkayne himself for this case. Short notice too. We haven't even got our prefabricated humble cottage up yet, and we've no cover identities. Usually these things are worked out well ahead of time."

 

Conjure cocked his head. "This hatchling must have special importance."

 

"I think so," said Jonathan. "He must be part of the Big Picture. Our instructions are to raise him like any other foundling, but I got a sense we ought to take special care. Where is he from?"

 

"That's strictly need to know," said Conjure reproachfully.

 

"I'm aware of that," said Jonathan. "I've just got a feeling about this case, that's all. It's going to be different. We've handled stray offspring of The Gods themselves before, and those are sensitive cases, but even those never came on like this, so sudden and with so little explanation."

 

Conjure gave an owlish shrug.

 

"Oh, quit fretting, Jonathan," said Martha. "We'll do our parts and not worry about things that shouldn't trouble us. Now let's get this poor baby under shelter before he catches cold." The baby stirred violently. Martha shot the owl a worried glance. "He looks to be having nightmares, Conjure.

 

"Not surprising." That remark earned the bird a questioning glance from the old woman, but the owl would say no more.

 

"Has he a name?" Martha asked.

 

"Wurfaga would be good," suggested Jonathan. "I've always liked Wurfaga."

 

The baby whimpered in his sleep.

 

"His name is Mercury," said Conjure.

 

NEXT: BOLTBLASTER - CHAPTER 1