Niven, Larry - The magic may return

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THE MAGIC MAY RETURN

Broxon

any means, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without

permission in writing from the publisher. ,:

AD characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is

purely coincidental.

An Ace Book

PttbHabed by arrangement with the author.

ISBN: 0-441-51549-5

fiat Ace Trade Priming: Fall 1981

First Ace Mass Market Printing: January 1983

Pnblilhed sunultaneously in Canada

Manufactured in the United States of America

Ace Books, 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016

Table of Contents

Introduction ................-..—..........................«..».«•• 6

Not Long Before the End, Lany Niven................... 7

Earthshade, FredSaberhagen............-.......»"»»- 2s

i Manaspill, Deanlng.......-.........-.-.-.-—»-.---- &*

"... but fear itself Steven Barnes..................~........»136

1 Strength, Poul Anderson and

Introduction

Vou are about to enter a fantasy world that belongs to Larry Niven.

Three years ago, Ace published THE MAGIC GOES AWAY, a beautifully illustrated book in which Larry

Niven told the story of the end of magic. As Sandra Miesel said in her Afterword to that book,

"Magic no longer exists in our world. But if, as all traditional cultures assert, it ever existed,

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then why has it disappeared? If magic vanished because its driving energy was depleted, what

caused the shortage? And above afl, how did people react to the crisis?"

to THE MAGIC GOES AWAY was tremendous. Headers If" -d what Larry Nfven did with fantasy, making it

as much a IB of ideas as the hard science fiction for which he Is justly i.. <nous. And in that

response this book was born.

"I have a proposition for you," said Jim Baen, then Ace's science fiction editor, to Larry Niven,

"I will do all of the work and you wID take all of the credit." Niven. of course, has been too

smart to believe a statement like that for more years than he might like to admit, but the project

was a good one. and it prospered. Several well-known science fiction and fantasy authors, admirers

of Niven and of THE MAGIC GOES AWAY, wrote their own stories in the universe that Niven had

created. Larry Niven read each story, and made suggestions from time to time, but each author

brought to the work his or her own magic, and each story is a unique achievement in its own right.

Then Alicia Austin added her magic, with illustrations that make it clear why she has won the Hugo

and World Fantasy Award.

Here is the result: THE MAGIC MAY RETURN. Original stories by Poul Anderson and Mildred Downey

Broxon, Steven Barnes, Dean Ing, Fred Saberhagen—and the original Larry Niven story about the

Warlock, "Not Long Before the End." as a refresher course in the nature of mana,

Enjoy.

IXjotLong

The End

Larry Niven

A swordsman battled a sorcerer once upon a time.

In that age such battles were frequent. A natural antipathy exists between swordsmen and

sorcerers, as between cats and small birds, or between rats and men. Usually the swordsman lost,

and humanity's average intelligence rose some trifling fraction. Sometimes the swordsman won, and

again the species was improved; for a sorcerer who cannot kill one miserable swordsman is a poor

excuse for a sorcerer.

But this battle differed from the others. On one side, the sword itself was enchanted. On the

other, the sorcerer knew a great and terrible truth.

We will call him the Warlock, as his name is both forgotten and impossible to pronounce. His

parents had known what they were about. He who knows your name has power over you, but he must

speak your name to use it.

The Warlock had found his terrible truth in middle age.

By that time he had traveled widely. It was not from choice. It was simply that he was a powerful

magician, and he used his power, and he needed friends.

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He knew spells to make people love a magician. The Warlock had tried these, but he did not like

the side effects. So he commonly used his great power to help those around him, that they might

love him without coercion.

He found that when he had been ten to fifteen years in a place, using his magic as whim dictated,

his powers would weaken. If he moved away, they returned. Twice he had had to move, and twice he

had settled in a new land, learned new customs, made new friends. It happened a third time, and he

prepared to move again. But something set him to wondering.

Why should a man's powers be so unfairly drained out of him?

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It happened to nations too. Throughout history, those lands which had been richest in magic had

been overrun by barbarians carrying swords and clubs. It was a sad truth, and one that did not

bear thinking about, but the Warlock's curiosity was strong.

So he wondered, and he stayed to perform certain experiments.

His last experiment involved a simple kinetic sorcery set to spin a metal disc in midair. And when

that magic was done, he knew a truth he could never forget.

So he departed. In succeeding decades he moved again and again. Time changed his personality, if

not his body, and his magic became more dependable, if less showy. He had discovered a great and

terrible truth, and if he kept it secret, it was through compassion. His truth spelled the end of

civilization, yet it

was of no earthly use to anyone.

So he thought. But some five decades later (the date was on the order of 12,000 B.C.) it occurred

to him that all truths find a use somewhere, sometime. And so he built another disc and recited

spells over it, so that (like a telephone number already dialed but for one digit) the disc would

be ready if ever he needed it.

The name of the sword was Glirendree. It was several hundred years old, and quite famous.

As for the swordsman, his name is no secret. It was Belhap Sattlestone Wirldess ag Miracloat roo

Con-onson. His friends, who tended to be temporary, called him Hap. He was a barbarian, of course.

A civilized man would have had more sense than to touch Glirendree, and better morals than to stab

a sleeping woman. Which was how Hap acquired his sword. Or vice versa.

The Warlock recognized it long before he saw it. He was at work in the cavern he had carved

beneath a hill, when an alarm went off. The hair rose up, tingling, along the back of his neck.

"Visitors," he said.

"I don't hear anything," said Sharla, but there was an uneasiness to her tone. Sharla was a girl

of the village who had come to live with the Warlock. That day she had persuaded the Warlock to

teach her some of his simpler spells.

"Don't you feel the hair rising on the back of your neck? I set the alarm to do that. Let me just

check ..." He used a sensor tike a silver hula hoop set on edge.

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"There's trouble coming. Sharla, we've got to get1 you out of here."

"But . . ." Sharla waved protestingly at the table where they had been working.

"Oh, that. We can quit in the middle. That spell isn't dangerous." It was a charm against

lovespells, rather messy to work, but safe and tame and effective. The Warlock pointed at the

spear of light glaring through the hoopsensor. "That's dangerous. An enormously powerful focus of

mana power is moving up the west side of the hilj. You go down the east side."

"Can I help? You've taught me some magic."

The magician laughed a little nervously. "Against that? That's Glirendree. Look at the size of the

image, the color; the shape. No. You get out of here, and right now. The hill's clear on the

eastern slope."

"Come with me."

"I can't. Not with Glirendree loose. Not when it's already got hold of some idiot. There are

obligations."

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They came out of the cavern together, into the mansion they shared. Sharla, still protesting,

donned a robe and started down the hill. The Warlock hastily selected an armload of paraphernalia

and went outside.

The intruder was halfway up the hill: a large but apparently human being carrying something long

and glittering. He was still a quarter of an hour downslope. The Warlock set up the silver hula

hoop and looked through it.

The sword was a flame of mana discharge* an eye-hurting needle of white light. Glirendree, right

NOT LONG BEFORE THE END

enough. He knew of other, equally powerful mana foci, but none were portable, and none would show

as a sword to the unaided eye.

He should have told Sharla to inform the Brotherhood. She had that much magic. Too late now.

There was no colored borderline to the spear of light.

No green fringe effect meant no protective spells. The swordsman had not tried to guard himself

against what he carried. Certainly the intruder was no magician, and he had not the intelligence

to get the help of a magician. Did he know nothing about Glirendree?

Not that that would help the Warlock. He who carried Glirendree was invulnerable to any power save

Glirendree itself. Or so it was said.

"Let's test that," said the Warlock to himself. He dipped into his armload of equipment and came

up with something wooden, shaped like an ocarina. He blew the dust off it, raised it in his fist

and pointed it down the mountain. But he hesitated.

The loyalty spell was simple and safe* but it did have side effects. It lowered its victim's

intelligence.

"Self-defense," the Warlock reminded himself, and blew into the ocarina.

The swordsman did not break stride. Glirendree didn't even glow; it had absorbed the spell that

easi-

ty.

In minutes the swordsman would be here. The

Warlock hurriedly set up a simple prognostics spell. At least he could learn who would win the

coming battle.

No picture formed before him. The scenery did not

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even waver.

"Well, now," said the Warlock."Well, now!"And he reached into>iis clutter of sorcerous tools and

found a metal disc. Another instant's rummaging produced a double-edged knife, profusely inscribed

in no known language, and very sharp.

At the top of the Warlock's hill was a spring, and the stream from that spring ran past the

Warlock's house. The swordsman stood leaning on his sword, facing the Warlock across that stream.

He breathed deeply, for it had been a hard climb.

He was powerfully muscled and profusely scarred. To the Warlock it seemed strange that so young a

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man should have found time to acquire so many scars. But none of his wounds had impaired motor

functions. The Warlock had watched him coming up the hill. The swordsman was in top physical

shape.

His eyes were deep blue and brilliant, and half an inch too close together for the Warlock's

taste.

"I am Hap," he called across the stream. "Where is she?"

"You mean Sharla, of course. But why is that your concern?"

"I have come to free her from her shameful bondage, old man. Too long have you—"

"Hey, hey, hey. Sharla's my wife."

"Too long have you used her for your vile and lecherous purposes. Too—"

"She stays of her own free will, you nit!"

"You expect me to believe that? As lovely a woman as Sharla, could she love an old and feeble

warlock?"

"Do I look feebler'

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The Warlock did not .look like an old man. He seemed Hap's age, some twenty years old, and his

frame and his musculature were the equal of Hap's. He had not bothered to dress as he left the

cavern. In place of Hap's scars, his back bore a tattoo in red and green and gold, an elaborately

curlicued penta-gramic design, almost hypnotic in its ex-tradimensional involutions.

"Everyone in the village knows your age," said Hap. "You're two hundred years old, if not more."

"Hap," said the W.irlock. "Belhap something-or-other roo Cononson. Now I remember. Sharla told me

you tried to bother her last time she went to the village. I should have done something about it

then."

"Old man, you lie. Sharla is under a spell. Everybody knows the power of a warlock's loyalty

spell."

"I don't use them. I don't like the side effects. Who wants to be surrounded by friendly morons?"

The Warlock pointed to Glirendree. "Do you know what you carry?"

Hap nodded ominously.

"Then you ought to know better. Maybe it's not too late. See if you can transfer it to your left

hand."

"I tried that. I can't let go of it." Hap cut at the air, restlessly, with his sixty pounds of

sword. "I have to sleep with the damned thing clutched in my hand."

"Well, it's too late then."

"It's worth it," Hap said grimly. "For now I can kill you. Too long has an innocent woman been

subjected to your lecherous—"

"I know, I know." The Warlock changed languages suddenly, speaking high and fast. He spoke thus

for

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almost a minute, then switched back to Rynaldese. "Do you feel any pain?"

"Not a twinge," said Hap. He had not moved. He stood with his remarkable sword at the ready,

glowering at the magician across the stream.

"No sudden urge to travel? Attacks of remorse? Change of body temperature?" But Hap was grinning

now, not at all nicely. "I thought not. Well, it had to be tried."

There was an instant of blinding light.

When it reached the vicinity of the hill, the meteorite had dwindled to the size of a baseball. It

should have finished its journey at the back of Hap's head. Instead, it exploded a millisecond too

soon. When the light had died, Hap stood within a ring of craterlets.

The swordsman's unsymmetrical jaw dropped, and then he closed his mouth and started forward. The

sword hummed faintly.

The Warlock turned his back.

Hap curled his lip at the Warlock's cowardice. Then he jumped three feet backward from a standing

start. A shadow had pulled itself from the Warlock's back.

In a lunar cave with the sun glaring into its mouth, a man's shadow on the wall might have looked

that sharp and black. The shadow dropped to the ground and stood up, a humanoid outline that was

less a shape than a window view of the ultimate blackness beyond the death of the universe. Then

it leapt.

Glirendree seemed to move of its own accord. It hacked the demon once lengthwise and once across,

while the demon seemed to batter against an in-

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visible shield, trying to reach Hap even as it died.

"Clever/' Hap panted. "A pentagram on your back. a demon trapped inside."

"That's clever," said the Warlock, "but it didn't work. Carrying Glirendree works, but it's not

clever. ! ask you again, do you know what you carry?"

"The most powerful sword ever forged." Hap raised the weapon high. His right arm was more heavily

muscled than his left, and inches longer, as if GKrendree had been at work on it. "A sword to make

me die equal of any warlock or sorceress, and without the help of demons, either. I had to kill a

woman who loved me to get it, but I paid that price gladly. When I have sent you to your just

reward, Sharla will come to me—"

"She'll spit in your eye. Now will you listen to me? Glirendree is a demon. If you had an ounce of

sense, you'd cut your arm off at the elbow."

Hap looked startled. "You mean there's a demon imprisoned in the metal?"

"Get it through your head. There is no metal. It's a demon, a bound demon, and it's a parasite.

It'll age you to death in a year unless you cut it loose. A warlock of the northlands imprisoned

it in its present form, then gave it to one of his bastards, Jeery of Something-or-other. Jeery

conquered half this continent before he died on the battlefield, of senile decay. It was given

into the charge of the Rainbow Witch a year before I was born, because there never was a woman who

had less use for people, especially men."

"That happens to have been untrue."

"Probably Glirendree's doing. Started her glands

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up again, did it? She should have guarded against that."

"A year," said Hap. "One year."

But the sword stirred restlessly in his hand. "It will be a glorious year," said Hap, and he came

forward.

The Warlock picked up a copper disc. "Four," he said, and the disc spun in midair.

By the time Hap had sloshed through the stream, the disc was a blur of motion. The Warlock moved

to keep it between himself and Hap. and Hap dared not touch it, for it would have sheared through

anything at all. He crossed around it, but again the Warlock had darted to the other side. In the

pause he snatched up something else: a silvery knife, profusely inscribed.

"Whatever that is," said Hap. "it can't hurt me. No magic can affect me while I carry Glirendree."

"True enough," said the Warlock. "The disc will lose its force in a minute anyway. In the

meantime. I know a secret that I would like to tell, one I could never tell to a friend."

Hap raised Glirendree above his head and. two-handed, swung it down on the disc. The sword stopped

jarringly at the disc's rim.

"It's protecting you," said the Warlock. "If Glirendree hit the rim now, the recoil would knock

you clear down to the village. Can't you hear the hum?"

Hap heard the whine as the disc cut the air. The tone was going up and up the scale.

"You're stalling," he said.

"That's true. So? Can it hurt you?"

"No. You were saying you knew a secret." Hap braced himself, sword raised, on one side of the

disc,

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which now glowed red at the edge.

"I've wanted to tell someone for such a long time. A hundred and fifty years. Even Sharla doesn't

know." The Warlock still stood ready to run if the swordsman should come after him. "I'd learned a

little magic in those days, not much compared to what I know now, but big, showy stuff. Castles

floating in the air. Dragons with golden scales. Armies turned to stone, or wiped out by

lightning, instead of simple death spetls. Stuff like that takes a lot of power, you know?"

"I've heard of such things."

"I did it all the time, for myself, for friends, for whoever happened to be king, or whomever I

happened to be in love with. And I found that after I'd been settled for a while, the power would

leave me. I'd have to move elsewhere to get it back."

The copper disc glowed bright orange with the heat of its spin. It should have fragmented, or

melted, long ago.

"Then there are the dead places, the places where a warlock dares not go. Places where magic

doesn't work. They tend to be rural areas, farmlands and sheep ranges, but you can find the old

cities, the castles built to float which now lie tilted on their sides, the unnaturally aged bones

of dragons, like huge lizards from another age.

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"So I started wondering."

Hap stepped back a bit from the heat of the disc. It glowed pure white now, and it was like a sun

brought to earth. Through the glare Hap had lost sight of the Warlock.

"So I built a disc like this one and set it spinning.

NOT LONG BEFORE THE END

Just a simple kinetic sorcery, but with a constant acceleration and no limit point. You know what

mana

tar

"What's happening to your voice?"

"Mana is the name we give to the power behind magic." The Warlock's voice had gone weak and high.

A horrible suspicion came to Hap. The Warlock had slipped down the hill, leaving his voice behind!

Hap trotted around the disc, shading his eyes from its heat.

An old man sat on the other side of the disc. His arthritic fingers, half-crippled with swollen

joints, played with a rune-inscribed knife. "What I found out —oh, there you are. Well, it's too

late now."

Hap raised his sword, and his sword changed.

It was a massive red demon, horned and hooved, and its teeth were in Map's right hand. It paused,

deliberately, for the few seconds it took Hap to realize what had happened and to try to jerk

away. Then it bit down, and the swordsman's hand was off at the wrist.

The demon reached out, slowly enough, but Hap in his surprise was unable to move. He felt the

taloned fingers close his windpipe.

He felt the strength leak out of the taloned hand, and he saw surprise and dismay spread across

the demon's face.

The disc exploded. All at once and nothing first, it disintegrated into a flat cloud of metallic

particles and was gone, flashing away as so much meteorite dust. The light was, as lightning

striking at one's feet. The sound was its thunder. The smell was vaporized

NOT LONG BEFORE THE END

copper.

The demon faded, as a chameleon fades against its background. Fading, the demon slumped to the

ground in slow motion, and faded further, and was gone. When Hap reached out with his foot, he

touched only dirt.

Behind Hap was a trench of burnt earth.

The spring had stopped. The rocky bottom of the stream was drying in the sun.

The Warlock's cavern had collapsed. The furnishings of the Warlock's mansion had gone crashing

down into that vast pit, but the mansion Itself was gone without trace.

Hap clutched his messily severed wrist, and he . said, "But what happened?"

"Mana," the Warlock mumbled. He spat out a complete set of blackened teeth. "Mana. What I

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discovered was that the power behind magic is a natural resource, like the fertility of the soil.

When you use it up, it's gone."

"But—"

"Can you see why I kept it a secret? One day all the wide world's mana will be used up. No more

mana, no more magic. Do you know that Atlantis is tec-tonically unstable? Succeeding sorcerer-

kings renew the spells each generation to keep the whole continent from sliding into the sea. What

happens when the spells don't work any more? They couldn't possibly evacuate the whole continent

in time. Kinder not to let them know."

"But .. . that disc."

The Warlock grinned with his empty mouth and ran his hands through snowy hair. All the hair came

THE MAGIC MAY RETURN

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off in his fingers, leaving his scalp bare and mottled. "Senility is like being drunk. The disc? I

told you. A kinetic sorcery with no upper limit. The disc keeps accelerating until all the mana in

the locality has been used up."

Hap moved a step forward. Shock had drained half his strength. His foot came down jarringly, as if

all the spring were out of his muscles.

"You tried to kill me."

Ttie Warlock nodded. "I figured if the disc didn't explode and kill you while you were trying to

go around it, Glirendree would strangle you when the constraint wore off. What are you complaining

about? It cost you a hand, but you're free of Glirendree."

Hap took another step, and another. His hand was beginning to hurt, and the pain gave him

strength. "Old man," he said thickly. "Two hundred years old. I can break your neck with the hand

you left me. And I will."

The Warlock raised the inscribed knife.

"That won't work. No more magic." Hap slapped the Warlock's hand away and took the Warlock by his

bony throat.

The Warlock's hand brushed easily aside, and came back, and up. Hap wrapped his arms around his

belly and backed away with his eyes and mouth wide open. He sat down hard.

"A knife always works," said the Warlock.

"Oh," said Hap.

"I worked the metal myself, with ordinary blacksmith's tools, so the knife wouldn't crumble when

the magic was gone. The runes aren't magic.

They only say—"

"Oh," said Hap. "Oh." He toppled sideways.

The Warlock lowered himself onto his back. He held the knife up and read the markings, in a

language only the Brotherhood remembered.

AND THIS, TOO, SHALL PASS AWAY. It was a very old platitude, even then.

He dropped his arm back and lay looking at the sky.

Presently the blue was blotted by a shadow.

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"I told you to get out of here," he whispered.

"You should have known better. What's happened to you?"

"No more youth spells. I knew I'd have to do it when the prognostics spell showed blank." He drew

a ragged breath. "It was worth it. I killed Glirendree."

"Playing hero, at your age! What can I do? How can I help?"

"Get me down the hill before my heart stops. I never told you my true age—"

"I knew. The whole village knows." She pulled him to sitting position, pulled one of his arms

around her neck. It felt dead. She shuddered, but she wrapped her own arm around his waist and

gathered herself for the effort. "You're so thin! Come on, love. We're going to stand up." She

took most of his weight onto her, and they stood up.

"Go slow'. I can hear my heart trying to take off."

"How far do we have to go?"

"Just to the foot of the hill, I think. Then the spells wUl work again, and we can rest." He

stumbled. "I'm going blind," he said.

NOT LONG BEFOHE THE END

"It's a smooth path* and all downhill."

"That's why 1 picked this place. I knew I'd have to use the disc someday. You can't throw away

knowledge. Always the time comes when you use it, because you have to, because it's there."

"You've changed so. So—so ugly. And you smell."

The pulse fluttered in his neck, like a hummingbird's wings, "Maybe you won't want me, after

seeing me like this."

"You can change back, can't you?"

"Sure. I can change to anything you like. What color eyes do you want?"

"Ill be like this myself someday," she said. Her voice held cool horror. And it was fading; he was

going deaf.

"Ill teach you the proper spells, when you're ready. They're dangerous. Blackly dangerous."

She was silent for a time. Then: "What color were his eyes? You know, Belhap Sattlestone

whatever."

"Forget it," said the Warlock, with a touch of pique.

And suddenly his sight was back.

But not forever, thought the Warlock as they stumbled through the sudden daylight. When the mana

runs out, 111 go like a blown candle flame, and civilization will follow. No more magic, no more

magic-based industries. Then the whole world will be barbarian until men learn a new way to coerce

nature, and the swordsmen, the damned stupid swordsmen, will win after all.

Earthstiade

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file:///F|/rah/Larry%20Niven/Niven,%20Larry%20-%20The%20Magic%20May%20Re urn.txtTHEMAGICMAYRETURNCopyrightC1981byLanyNivenIllustrationscopyright©1981byAliciaAustin"NotLongBeforetheEnd,"copyright©1969,MercuryPress,Inc.."Eaithtbade,"copyright©1981byFredSaberhagen"Manatpill,"copyright©1981byDeanIng"St...

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Niven, Larry - The magic may return.pdf

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Niven, Larry - The magic may return

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