Lin Carter - The Star Magicians

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The Star Magicians by

Lin Carter

PROLOGUE

For 6,000 years the great Carina Empire controlled the larger part of the Milky

Way Galaxy. But slowly it yielded before the remorseless erosion of centuries.

And as it weakened, the power of the wild, untamed barbarians of the Rim grew

stronger. For a time, the inevitable was staved off by a brilliant stroke of political

genius. The Emperor Rinald Tenth, the extraordinary mastermind of his age,

commissioned the Rim Barbarians themselves to patrol the very stars they

menaced. It was little more than a disguised method of buying safety with

tribute, but it worked—for a time.

Over generations, the Imperial line ran out in weaklings and soft degenerates,

and the Sacred Blood no longer brought forth leaders like Carmion or Rinald or

Diovar. More and more the princelings of the fading Empire in eclipse came to

rely on the mighty "Barbarian Legions"—now so powerful they had a major

voice in the Imperial Council. At last, the Barbarian Legions dominated. At their

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Lin Carter - The Star Magicians

whim they could depose or create Emperors. And finally came that dreaded day

when the Imperial Treasury could no longer pay the gigantic tribute. The legions

struck . . . and, in a single day and night, the mightiest Empire in galactic history

fell in a ruin of flame and thunder.

In the ages that followed, the Empire decayed. Province by province it fell apart

into Star-Kingdoms. Torn by rivalry and civil war, as competing Star-Kings and

Cluster-Lords struggled for the lost Imperial diadem, the fragments of the

Empire lost touch. Communications were failing. Trade declined. Technology

ebbed and entire sciences were lost, obscured in the darkness that was closing

over the once-great civilization like a tremendous wave of darkness.

The civilization of the Galaxy was disintegrating, while, by an ironic trick of

destiny, the Barbarians themselves remained the most monolithic power among

the Near Stars. In their huge nomad fleets, these Star Rovers (as they came to

call themselves) wandered at will from star to star, hastening the collapse of

interstellar culture. No planet could stand against them. Their fleets drifted the

star-trails, looting, destroying, crushing everything that stood in their way.

One world alone stood against the dark night of savagery that was engulfing the

stars. Barren and small, rocky, desolate, inhabited only by a tiny band of ascetics

called The White Adepts, the mystery-world of Parlion alone held out. The

Adepts preserved the lost science, working technological miracles that seemed

magic to the half-civilized worlds of this latter day. Tirelessly they strove in

secrecy and darkness, using their powers of scientific wizardry to reshape history

and forge the Empire anew.

Yet even their strange, awesome powers dwindled to smallness before the

overwhelming armed might of the Star Rovers. World after world the barbarian

Rovers laid seige to, and conquered, pausing only briefly to loot the wealth of

the planets they took, before moving on to another prey.

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Then came the rich trader's world of Argion.

Then came—Calistor, the White Wizard.

1. SCARLET SANDS

On the sixth planet of Havory 36, a binary star in the Wyvern Cluster, the last

scene of a tense drama was being acted out on the bloody sands of the arena, to

the south of Argion City.

The double sun blazed down on crowded tiers of stone seats, and flashed from

barbaric ornaments of rare metals, the gem-studded hilts of rapier and laser gun,

the rich banners of stiff silk blazoned with Clan heraldries. The throng that filled

the stone benches was mostly composed of the conquerors, the Star Rovers and

their captive women. But here and there among the crowd could be seen a few

native Argionids in their distinctive feather-robes . . . traitors and quislings who

joined the star-traveling barbarians at their triumphal games, hoping to curry

favor with the new lords of Argion planet.

Although the crowd had been drinking heavily and the men were hoarse from

shouting, all was still in this suspenseful moment. The throng gazed down in

delicious anticipation . . . waiting for the moment of death, when the bright sands

below would drink hot red blood.

In the center of the arena, the naked Argionid swordsman blinked sweat and

blood from his eyes, narrowing them against the sun-glare. His gaze was riveted

on the monster thard and his brawny hand tightened on the worn hilt of his

longsword, knuckles whitening. A dozen paces from where he stood, the beast

crouched, belly scraping the sand, motionless save for the uncontrollable

twitching of its twenty-foot tail, which bristled with thorny spikes. Its brass-

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Lin Carter - The Star Magicians

colored, bird-like beak gaped hungrily, foam dripping from scaled jaws, flaming

eyes glazed with fury.

The Argionid was superb: a blond titan, thewed like the bronze statue of the hero

Lionus that stood before the arena gate. Although little more than a youth, he

was tall, and for all his well-muscled bulk he was lithe and quick-footed as a

jungle-cat. For seventeen Carina Standard minutes now the youth had

successfully evaded the frenzied lunges of the monster reptile. The marks of his

agile bladework showed: dribbles of green blood marked the thard's blue-and-

yellow-mottled hide. And along its back, where the spinal ridge of jagged horns

rose bristling, several had been sheared away. The young swordsman himself

had received only one wound, a narrow slash across the brow. Slight though it

was, it would prove his undoing, for the blood was running down into his eyes,

blinding him. He blinked again, as the scene swam in a red haze before him.

In the stone rows, the thronged barbarians held their breath, waiting—for,

despite his valiant efforts, the longsword was useless against the giant strength of

the thard, mailed in tough scales that were proof against anything less than a

sizzling laser-bolt.

This the swordsman knew well. His only hope lay in tiring the monster. And this

seemed an empty hope, for the jungle dragons of Argion planet were tireless

engines of muscle and bone.

The blood flowed steadily, trickling into his eyes, the salt-stinging gore drawing

tears that blurred his vision to a swimming haze. He blinked his eyes clear again,

knuckles tautening on the sweaty sword-pommel. At any second now the thard

would charge again . . .

Above, in the royal box, Drask reclined at his ease on the satin cushions, half his

cynical attention on the tragic drama unfolding below, and half on the trembling

young girl beside him, whose nude breasts he was idly fondling. A philosopher

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in his rough way, the Warlord of the Star Rovers mused on the changeful ways

of Fate. In this moment of time the young Argionid swordsman was filled with

robust life, bursting with manly vigor in the full hot morning of his youth . . . in

the next moment, his splendid, virile body would be an awful bundle of bloody

rags, crushed in the inexorable jaws of the slavering thard.

We are toys at the feet of the gods, he thought.

So it was, too, with the pale maiden at his side. But yesterday she had been the

proud princess of a free world, daughter of the 76th Lord Argion, reigning

merchant-prince of this trader's world, heiress to a magificent fortune with half

the princelings of the Near Stars bidding for her hand. Then, in a moment, all

had been changed forever. Out of nowhere had come the star-wandering nomad

fleets of the dread barbarians—the fury of battle, the ravening flame of planet-

mounted laser-batteries—the buffeting thunder of mobile ship-to-planet

hydrolithium bombs—and today she was the listless slave of the conqueror, a

plaything, the toy of a moment, to be cast aside after he had had his amusement.

And so sudden had the change struck, she still seemed dazed, stunned.

Drask's half-smile deepened. The fleet had struck without a moment's warning

from the black abyss of the Rift. Within hours Argion planet had fallen, her

obsolete defense-network drifts of incandescent metal-vapor rising from craters

of fused stone and liquid steel. And now the princess sat, huddled beside him as

one in a dream, eyes blank, limbs flaccid. He would not keep her long, he

thought. . . .

And yet she was a lovely creature. Her young breasts were like warm white fruit,

soft beneath his hard hands. He stroked her slender body—as suddenly the

stillness was rent by a great shout.

The thard struck like a thunderbolt. And the blood-blurred vision of the blond

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swordsman played him wrong. His magnificent young body dangled now from

the scissor-beak, its nakedness clothed in dripping scarlet. As the crowd

thundered with earth-shaking approval, the jungle-dragon ripped the body into

shreds and lifted its own deafening roar in challenge to the many-throated

thunder.

Huddled by Drask, the girl shrank back, her cold flesh crawling with revulsion,

as if the ring-laden hands that touched her body were dripping with the gore of

her slaughtered countrymen.

As the Rover guards baited the thards attention away to the other side of the

arena, removed the mangled corpse and brought out the next "rebel" for his

punishment, the Warlord let his attention return to the girl. Eyes dilated and

nostrils pinched and white, she stared at the scarlet thing that only moments

before had been a vigorous young male.

"A friend?" Drask asked, cynically. His lips twitched. "Perhaps—a lover? Ah, I

sympathize—he had a fine body, for a youth."

Her blue eyes blazed, the stunned languor of shock vanished now.

"You filth," she said.

Drask smiled thinly.

In the dazzling sunlight below, the Rover chieftain, Tonguth, consulted a

parchment scroll. Sweating in his leather tunic and orange cloak beneath the

dazzling light of the two suns, the rough-bearded barbarian downed another

tankard of chilled ale and blinked at his list. The Warlord had reclared him

Master of the Victory Games as special recognition for his bravery during the

Siege of Argion, but Tonguth would rather have lolled in the cool shade of

patterned awning on the stone benches. His sweat-soaked leather and iron

garments chaffed him raw. Grumbling a curse, he rinsed his thirsty throat with

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another tankard of sour ale, and blinked as the next victim stumbled out of the

cages and into the open arena. Glancing at the slim, tattered figure below, he

bellowed the man's name.

"Perion of North Hollis, piper to the court of the late Darion, Lord Argion, rebel

and traitor. Turning from his tunes to red murder, the Piper slew six Star Rovers

with a stolen sword during the capture of the palace. How say you, brothers?"

As one man, the Rovers massed along the climbing rows of stone benches raised

sword, axe, mace, laser gun or Haemholtz coagulator, and thundered one word:

"DEATH"!

The tiny figure below seemed to cringe beneath the weight of that many-tongued

cry. But then it straightened, preened, and with a gallant, rascally impudence,

swaggered boldly out into the full view of the thard. The monster snorted blood

from its throat, and tensed.

Drask smiled thinly, rather admiring the little troubadour's impudent—and

imprudent—courage. Courage in any form was, in fact, his only god—and it

seemed almost a pity it must be crushed out in a red smear. However, one cannot

hold a conquered planet unless the example made of the heroes who have

defended it is so terrible as to daunt potential liberators. And the Rovers were

true barbarians: they wanted to see blood, and pain, and panic. Still, Drask

watched the small figure with more than common attention.

Reaching the very center of the arena, the small minstrel paused, struck a pose,

flourished his ragged many-colored cloak—and bowed to the throng. He doffed

his little plumed cap to Lord Drask. In so doing, its broken cock-feather dabbled

in a pool of the last victim's blood, a touch of poetic irony that pleased Drask's

sense of artistry and drama. The throng, pleased by this gesture and the fellow's

daredevil impudence, applauded noisily.

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But the thard was still mad with bloodlust, and impatient for the kill. A long

ripple of tension ran along the rows of men and woman, a visible thing, as stalks

of neocorn register the pass of the wind's viewless hand. The dragon froze

immobile, save for the twitch of its tail. The spectators drew in their breath.

Tonguth, as Master of the Games, tossed a slim rapier into the arena.

"Here, tunester," he bawled hoarsely. "Make music with this!"

The blade fell in a glittering arc of sun-struck steel to the hot red sand, to thud a

few yards from the bedraggled figure in motley. And then the Star Rovers saw

something unprecedented in all their crimson annals of loot, conquest and rapine.

The ragged minstrel struck a pose—spurned the weapon with his foot—and

turned his back on it, and on the thard.

And he turned a cartwheel.

In the astounded silence, belly scraping the coarse red sand, the thard inched

forward, its burning flame-colored eyes fastened on the slim capering figure of

its next victim. Even Drask held his breath, eyes riveted on the lonely little

figure dancing on the edge of death.

Perion turned a somersault.

The thard paused, hesitant, wavering. Man-things either ran screaming before

him, or stood with naked steel awaiting his charge. They never ignored him . . .

Drawing a dirty kerchief from his pocket-pouch, Perion waved it at the stands to

catch the spectators' attention—then slipped it over his eyes, fastening it with

nimble fingers behind his head. Then, blindfolded, he began fumbling over the

steaming scarlet sand towards the frozen thard, feeling his way along with first

one foot extended and then the other, tapping his way, hands extended like a

blind beggar.

Like a thunderbolt, the thard struck—

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And missed! Perion evaded the beast's lunge with the nimble grace of a dancer.

Raising a blinding storm of sand, the thard halted, turned—struck—

And missed again. Again the slim, ragged figure dodged, blindly.

On the parapet of the arena, burly Tonguth stared, jaws agape, as the minstrel

played with the furious monster, evading its ferocious charges as easily as a

clown, on Year's End Day, dodges the paper dragons in the festive, torch-lit

streets.

"Pick it up, fool," Tonguth muttered, gritting his teeth. "Pick up your sword—

fight!" Such courage was crazed— foolhardy—suicidal—yet even rough

Tonguth felt a glow of admiration for the sort of man who could clown and play

while teetering on the brink of sudden death.

Now, as if tiring of his game, the piper plucked the kerchief from his eyes and

stood, boldly daring the panting, enraged thard to strike again. But it refused to

move, standing still although trembling with frustrated rage, foam slavering

down its gasping jaws.

Then he turned his back on it.

And sat down, tailor fashion.

Drask—even Drask, terrible Warlord of the Star Rovers—gaped and swore with

amazement, struck with the sheer daredeviltry of the little man.

The thard moved, then. Again it hurled its sinuous blue-mailed body at the

taunting figure—but, as if warned by some sixth sense, Perion flipped head-over-

heels in an acrobat's leap . . . and landed astride the thard's shoulders.

For one long, breathless moment, the beast hovered, dazed, as if unable to

believe that such audacity could exist in so small and puny a creature as this

spindly-legged manling. In the next moment it exploded in a frenzy of pure rage.

Leaping, whirling, lashing the sand with its barb-spined tail, the thard cavorted

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madly around and around the arena, raising dense, choking clouds of sand in a

mad attempt to dislodge the thing that clung with uncanny ease to its back.

A gust of wind blew the dust cloud away, treating the astounded throng to an

even more fantastic sight. For now, instead of blindly clinging for his very life to

the back of the whirling, frenzied monster—the minstrel was actually riding the

dragon like a bucking horse! Flapping his plumed cap against its heaving flanks

and beating his skinny heels into the thard's ribs, the little minstrel rode, clinging

with one hand to the beast's pig-like ear.

It was then that someone in the crowd—Drask never knew who it was—cried

out in a loud, ringing voice, "Free him! Life for the juggler!"

In a moment, other voices took up the lone cry. The crowd, its brutal admiration

for pure bravery touched by the gallant spectacle, burst into a thunderous roar of

approval. Whistles, cheers, war-cries, cat-calls—a wild cacophony of noise

applauded the minstrel's feat.

"Free him!"

"Life! Free the piper!"

"Amnesty, Warlord!"

Drask rose to his feet, stilling the mob with lifted hands. When all was silent in

the arena, save for the muffled thunder of the wildly raging beast—he shouted

his answer.

"The voice of the Rovers has spoken! I give life to the little man, and free

amnesty for his crimes—if he can get out of there alive!"

An explosion of laughter followed his words as he sank back into his seat with

rare good humor. And far below, still riding the maddened jungle-dragon, the

tattered jester himself answered in thin, reedy tones:

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LinCarter-TheStarMagiciansScannedbyHighroller.v1.0Proofedbybillbo196.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.TheStarMagiciansbyLinCarterPROLOGUEFor6,000yearsthegreatCarinaEmpirecontrolledthelargerpartoftheMilkyWayGalaxy.Butslowlyityieldedbeforetheremorselesserosionofcenturies.Andasitweakened...

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