Druzil's recipe, the chaos curse, was worth it, Aballister decided. He had taken its creation as his personal quest for Talona, as the great task of his life, and as the gift to his goddess that would elevate him above her priests.
The interplanar gate was closed now; Aballister had powders that could open and shut it as readily as if he were turning a knob. The powders sat in small, carefully marked pouches, half for opening, half for closing, lined up alternately on a nearby table. Only Druzil knew about them besides Aballister, and the imp had never gone against the wizard's demands and tampered with the gate. Druzil could be impertinent and was often a tremendous nuisance, but he was reliable enough concerning important matters.
Aballister continued his scan and saw his reflection in a mirror across the room. Once he had been a handsome man, with inquisitive eyes and a bright smile. The change had been dramatic. Aballister was hollowed and worn now, all the dabbling in dark magic, worshiping a demanding goddess, and controlling chaotic creatures such as Druzil having taken their toll. Many years before, the wizard had given up everything―his family and friends, and all the joys he once had held dear―in his hunger for knowledge and power, and that obsession had only multiplied when he had met Talona.
More than once, though, both before and after that meeting, Aballister had wondered if it had been worth it. Druzil offered him the attainment of his lifelong quest, power beyond his grandest imaginings, but the reality hadn't lived up to Aballister's expectations. At this point in his wretched life, the power seemed as hollow as his own face.
"But these ingredients!" Aballister went on, trying, perhaps hoping, that he could find a weakness in the imp's seemingly solid designs. "Eyes of an umber hulk? Blood of a druid? And what is the purpose of this, tentacles of a displacer beast?"
"Chaos curse," Druzil replied, as if the words alone shout dispell the wizard's doubts. "It is a mighty potion you plan to brew, my master." Druzil's toothy smile sent a shudder of revulsion along Aballister's backbone. The wizard had never be come overly comfortable around the cruel imp.
"Del quimera cas dempa," Druzil said through his long and pointy teeth. "A powerful potion indeed!" he translated falsely. In truth, Druzil had said, "Even considering your limitations," but Aballister didn't need to know that.
"Yes," Aballister muttered again, tapping a bony finger on the end of his hawkish nose. "I really must take the time to learn your language, my dear Druzil."
"Yes," Druzil echoed, wiggling his elongated ears. "lye quiesta pas tellemara," he said, which meant, "If you weren't so stupid." Druzil dropped into a low bow to cover his deceptions, but the act only convinced Aballister further that the imp was making fun of him.
"The expense of these ingredients has been considerable," Aballister said, getting back to the subject,
"And the brewing is not exact," added Druzil with obvious sarcasm. "And we could find, my master, a hundred more problems if we searched, but the gains, I remind you. The gains! Your brotherhood is not so strong, not so. It shan't survive, I say! Not without the brew."
"God-stuff?" mused Aballister.
"Call it so," replied Druzil. "Since it was Talona who led you to it, that her designs be furthered, perhaps it truly is. A fitting title, for the sake of Barjin and his wretched priests. They will be more devout and attentive if they understand that they are fabricating a true agent of Talona, a power in itself to lavish their worship upon, and their devotion will help keep orc-faced Ragnor and his brutish warriors in line."
Aballister laughed aloud as he thought of the three clerics, the second order of the evil triumvirate, kneeling and praying before a simple magical device.
"Name it Tuanta Miancay, the Fatal Horror," Druzil offered, his snickers purely sarcastic. "Barjin will like that." Druzil contemplated the suggestion for a moment, then added, "No, not the Fatal Horror. Tuanta QUIRO Miancay, the Most Fatal Horror."
Aballister's laughter trebled, with just a hint of uneasiness in it. "Most Fatal Horror" was a title associated with Talona's highest-ranking and most devout priests―Barjin, Castle Trinity's clerical leader, had not yet attained that honor, being referred to only as a Most Debilitating Holiness. That this chaos curse would outstrip him in title would sting the arrogant cleric, and Aballister would enjoy that spectacle. Barjin and his band had been at the castle for only a year. The priest had traveled all the way from Damara, homeless and broken and with no god to call his own since a new order of paladin kings had banished his vile deity back to the lower planes.
Like Aballister, Barjin claimed to have encountered the avatar of Talona and that it was she who had shown him the way to Castle Trinity. Barjin's dynamism and powers were considerable, and his followers had carried uncounted treasures along with them on their journey. When they first had arrived, the ruling triumvirate, particularly Aballister, had welcomed them with open arms, thinking it grand that Talona had brought together so powerful a union, a marriage that would strengthen the castle and provide the resources to complete Druzil's recipe. Now, months later, Aballister had begun to foster reservations about the union, particularly about the priest. Barjin was a charismatic man, something frowned upon in an order dedicated to disease and poison. Many of Talona's priests scarred themselves or covered their skin with grotesque tattoos. Barjin had done none of that, had sacrificed nothing to his new goddess, but, because of his wealth and his uncanny persuasive powers, he quickly had risen to the leadership of the castle's clerics.
Aballister had allowed the ascent, thinking it Talona's will, and had gone out of his way to appease Barjin―in retrospect, he was not so certain of his choice. Now, however, he needed Barjin's support to hold Castle Trinity together, and Barjin's riches to fund the continuing creation of the chaos curse.
"I must see about the brewing of our ingredients for the god-stuff," the wizard said with that thought in mind. "When we find a quiet time, though, Druzil, I would like to learn a bit of that full-flavored language you so often toss about."
"As you please, my master," replied the imp, bowing as Aballister left the small room and closed the door behind him.
Druzil spoke his next words in his private tongue, the language of the lower planes, fearing that Aballister might be listening at the door. "Quiesta bene tellemara, Aballister!" The mischievous imp couldn't help himself as he whispered, "But you are too stupid," aloud, for no better reason than to hear the words spoken in both tongues.
For all of the insults he so casually threw his master's way, though, Druzil appreciated the wizard. Aballister was marvelously intelligent for a human, and the most powerful of his or her of three, and by Druzil's estimation those three wizards were the strongest leg of the triumvirate. Aballister would complete the cursing potion and supply the device to deliver it, and for that, Druzil, who had craved this day for decades, would be undyingly grateful. Druzil was smarter than most imps, smarter than most people, and when he had come upon the ancient recipe in an obscure manuscript a century before, he wisely had kept it hidden from his former master, another human. That wizard hadn't the resources or the wisdom to carry through the plan and properly spread the cause of chaos, but Aballister did.
* * * * *
Aballister felt a mixture of hope and trepidation as he stared hard at the reddish glow emanating from within the dear bottle. This was the first test of the chaos curse, and all of the wizard's expectations were tempered by the huge expense of putting this small amount together.
"One more ingredient," whispered the anxious imp, sharing none of his master's doubts. "Add the yote, then we may release the smoke."
"It is not to be imbibed?" Aballister asked.
Druzil paled noticeably. "No, master, not that," he rasped. "The consequences are too grave. Too grave!"
Aballister spent a long moment studying the imp. In the two years Druzil had been beside him, he could not recall ever seeing the imp so badly shaken. The wizard walked across the room to a cabinet and produced a second bottle, smaller than the pl
ain one holding the potion, but intricately decorated with countless magical runes. When Aballister pulled off the stopper, a steady stream of smoke issued forth.
"It is ever-smoking," the wizard explained. "A minor item of magical ..."
"I know," Druzil interrupted. "And I have already come to know that the flask will mate correctly with our potion."
Aballister started to ask how Druzil could possibly know that, how Druzil could even know about his ever-smoking bottle, but he held his questions, remembering that the mischievous imp had contacts on other planes that could answer many things.
"Could you create more of those?" Druzil asked, indicating the wondrous bottle.
Aballister gritted his teeth at yet another added expense, and his expression alone answered the question.
"The chaos curse is best served in mist, and with its magical properties, the bottle will continue to spew it forth for many years, though its range will be limited," Druzil explained. "Another container will be necessary if we mean to spread the intoxicant properly."
"Intoxicant?" Aballister balked, on the verge of rage. Druzil gave a quick flap of his leathery wings, putting him farther across the room from Aballister―not that distance mattered much where the powerful wizard was concerned.
"Intoxicant?" Aballister said again. "My dear, dear Druzil, do you mean to tell me that we have spent a fortune in gold, that I have groveled before Barjin and those utterly wretched priests, just to mix a batch of elvish wine?"
"Bene tellemara," came the imp's exasperated reply. "You still do not understand what we have created? Elvish wine?"
"Dwarvish mead, then?" Aballister snarled sarcastically. He took up his staff and advanced a threatening step.
"You do not understand what will happen when it is loosed," Druzil barked derisively.
"Do tell me."
Druzil snapped his wings over his face, then back behind him again, a movement that plainly revealed his frustration. "It will invade the hearts of our targets," the imp explained, "and exaggerate their desires. Simple impulses will become god-given commands. None will be affected in quite the same way, nor will the effects remain consistent to any one victim. Purely chaotic! Those affected will ..."
Aballister raised a hand to stop him, needing no further explanation.
"I have given you power beyond your greatest hopes!" the imp growled forcefully. "Have you forgotten Talona's promise?"
"The avatar only suggested that I summon you," Aballister countered, "and only hinted that you might possess something of value."
"You cannot begin to understand the potency of the chaos curse," Druzil replied smugly. "All the races of the region will be yours to control when their own inner controls have been destroyed. Chaos is a beautiful thing, mortal master, a force of destruction and conquest, the ultimate disease, the Most Fatal Horror. Orchestrating chaos brings power to he who remains beyond its crippling grip!"
Aballister leaned on his staff and looked away. He had to believe Druzil, and yet he feared to believe. He had given so much to this unknown recipe.
"You must learn," the imp said, seeing that Aballister was not impressed. "If we are to succeed, then you must believe." He folded his leathery wings over his head for a moment, burying himself in thought. "That young fighter, the arrogant one?" he asked suddenly.
"Haverly," Aballister answered.
"He thinks himself Ragnor's better," Druzil said, a wicked, toothy smile spreading over his face. "He desires Ragnor's death so that he might assume captainship of the fighters."
Aballister did not argue. On several occasions, young Haverly, drunken with ale, had indicated those very desires, though he had never gone so far as to threaten the ogrillon. Even arrogant Haverly was not that stupid.
"Call him to us," Druzil begged. "Let him complete our test. Tell him that this potion could strengthen his position in the triumvirate. Tell him that it could make him even stronger than Ragnor."
Aballister stood quietly for a few moments to consider his options. Barjin had expressed grave doubts about the whole project, despite Aballister's claims that it would serve Talona beyond anything else in all the world. The priest had only funded Aballister's treasure hunt on the wizard's promise, made before a dozen witnesses, that every copper piece would be repaid if the priest was not overjoyed with the results. Barjin had lost much in his flight from the northern kingdom of Damara: his prestige, his army, and many valuable and powerful items, some enchanted. His retained wealth alone had played the major role in preserving a measure of his former power. Now, as the weeks dragged on with rising expenses and no measurable results, Barjin grew increasingly impatient.
"I will get Haverly at once," Aballister replied, suddenly intrigued. Neither the wizard nor Barjin held any love for either Ragnor, whom they considered too dangerous to be trusted, or Haverly, whom they considered too foolish, and any havoc that the test wreaked on that pair could help to diminish Barjin's doubts.
Besides, Aballister thought, it might be fun to watch.
* * * * *
Druzil sat motionless on Aballister's great desk, watching the events across the room with great interest. The imp wished he could play a larger role in this part of the test, but only the other wizards knew of his position as Aballister's familiar, or that he was alive at all. The fighters of the triumvirate, even the clerics, thought the imp merely a garish statue, for on the few occasions that any of them had entered Aballister's private quarters, Druzil had sat perfectly motionless on the desk.
"Bend low over the beaker as you add the final drop," Aballister bade Haverly, looking back to Druzil for confirmation. The imp nodded imperceptibly and flared his nostrils in anticipation.
"That is correct," Aballister said to Haverly. "Breathe deeply as you pour."
Haverly stood straight and cast a suspicious gaze at the wizard. He obviously didn't trust Aballister―certainly the wizard had shown him no friendship before now. "I have great plans," he said threateningly, "and being turned into a newt or some other strange creature is not part of them."
"You doubt?" Aballister roared suddenly, knowing that he must scare off the young fighter's doubts without hesitation. "Then go away! Anyone can complete the brewing. I thought that one as ambitious as you ..."
"Enough," Haverly interrupted, and Aballister knew his words had bit home. Haverly's suspicion was no match for his hunger for power.
"I will trust you, wizard, though you have never given me cause to trust you," Haverly finished.
"Nor have I ever given you cause not to trust me," Aballister reminded him.
Haverly stared a moment longer at Aballister, his grimace not softening, then bent low over the beaker and poured the final drops. As soon as the liquids touched, the red-glowing elixir belched a puff of red smoke right in Haverly's face. The fighter jumped back, his hand going straight to his sword.
"What have you done to me?" he demanded.
"Done?" Aballister echoed innocently. "Nothing. The smoke was harmless enough, if a bit startling."
Haverly took a moment to inspect himself to be sure that he had suffered no ill effects, then he relaxed and nodded at the wizard. "What will happen next?" he asked sharply. "Where is the power you promised me?"
"In time, dear Haverly, in time," replied Aballister. "The brewing of the elixir is only the first process."
"How long?" demanded the eager fighter.
"I could have invited Ragnor instead of you," Aballister pointedly reminded him.
Haverly's transformation at the mention of Ragnor forced the wizard back several steps. The young fighter's eyes widened grotesquely; he bit his lip so hard that blood dripped down his chin. "Ragnor!" he growled through gritted teeth. "Ragnor the imposter! Ragnor the pretender! You would not invite him, for I am his better!"
"Of course you are, dear Haverly," the wizard cooed, trying to soothe the wild-eyed man, recognizing that Haverly was on the verge of explosion. "That is why ..." Aballister never finished, for Haverly,
muttering under his breath, drew his sword and charged out of the room, nearly destroying the door as he passed. Aballister stared into the hallway, blinking in disbelief.
"Intoxicant?" came a sarcastic query from across the room.
Drawn away by the screams of "Ragnor!" Aballister didn't bother to answer the imp. The wizard rushed out, not wanting to miss the coming spectacle, and soon found his two colleagues as they made their way through the halls.
"It is Haverly, the young fighter," said Dorigen, the only female wizard in the castle. Aballister's evil smile stopped her and her companion in their tracks.
"The potion is completed?" Dorigen asked hopefully, her amber eyes sparkling as she tossed her long black hair back over her shoulder.
"Chaos curse," Aballister confirmed as he led them on. When they arrived at the complex's large dining hall, they found that the fighting had already begun. Several tables had been flung about and a hundred startled men and ores, and even a few giants, lined the room's perimeter, watching in amazement. Ragnor and Haverly stood facing each other in the center of the room, swords drawn.
"The fighters will need a new third in their ruling council," Dorigen remarked. "Surely either Ragnor or Haverly will fall this day, leaving only two."
"Ragnor!" Haverly proclaimed loudly. "Today I take my place as leader of the fighters!"
The other warrior, a powerfully built ogrillon, having ancestors both ogre and orc, and carrying the scars of a thousand battles, hardly seemed impressed. "Today you take your place among your ancestors," he chided.
Haverly charged, his foolishly straightforward attack costing him so deep a gash on one shoulder that his arm was nearly severed. The crazed fighter didn't even grimace, didn't even notice the wound or the pain.
Though plainly amazed that the vicious wound had not slowed his opponent, Ragnor still managed to deflect Haverly's sword and get in close to the man. He caught Haverly's sword arm with his free hand and tried to position his own weapon for a strike.