Udlotwyn was disturbed. He was
certain that these dreams portended something of great importance, but he could
not identify the city, or even ascertain whether or not it had a real existence
outside of his mind. He wondered whether anyone else had had similar dreams. As
a wizard, he was naturally more sensitive to such things than ordinary people.
But there was no-one he could consult: he was the only remaining true wizard in
that country; perhaps the only one left in the entire world, for all he knew.
For sure, there would be some amateur dabblers in magic, and all he could do
was hope that their foolhardy experiments would not create too much damage.
The dreams continued. Now sounds
were heard too: voices chanting in an unfamiliar language and discordant notes
of harsh music. Udlotwyn became increasingly worried. Finally he decided he
must take action. He read reports that an unfortunate inmate at a mental
asylum, who was generally placid and was encouraged to paint pictures as a
therapy, had produced a canvas of a fantastic city-scape and then lapsed into
violent ravings. In rare moments of coherence he had stated that he had painted
what he saw in his dreams.
Udlotwyn consulted his books of
magical lore. What he eventually found there filled him with dread. The city he
saw in his dreams could be none other than Typhon, that legendary home of evil
warlocks, on the hill overlooking the Blue Marsh. No trace of it had ever been
found by archaeologists, and some authorities maintained it was no more than a
myth. And one name especially was associated with it: Magathan.
Magathan! The most terrible of
all the black magicians of past aeons! Of course, that was not his real name:
no-one would dare pronounce the real name of a great wizard out loud: you never
knew what might happen; though doubtless there would be hidden conundrums that
allowed you to discover it. According to legend, Magathan had not died (for
such a powerful wizard would never die in the way that ordinary mortals did)
but was eternally asleep, no-one knew where, waiting to be awoken.
Udlotwyn wondered whether some
foolish dabbler had discovered his name and thus aroused him. For the situation
was becoming more and more alarming. Groups of people were now reported to be
wandering around, babbling incoherently about searching for a lost city, and in
his dreams Udlotwyn could see them, trekking across the Blue Marsh towards the
gates of Typhon. After much thought, he decided only one course of action was
open to him. He must himself locate Magathan, and if his unquiet soul was
indeed stirring, then silence him by banishing him from the world, if such a
thing was possible. Udlotwyn sighed, knowing that this could be the final task
he would ever undertake as a wizard, and might in every likelihood lead to his
own fall and destruction. But what else could he do?
He concentrated all his powers,
in the hope that somehow he could sense the presence of Magathan in some place
and make his way towards it. Nothing. Nothing at all. What now?
(To be continued)
