us’ own blood, drawn only that morning. With that he wrote his own name in larger script, overlaying that of Garian. Again the powder dried the blood.
Next, murmuring incantations, Albanus folded the parchment strip in a precise pattern. Then he returned to the platform and placed the parchment into the open mouth of the clay figure.
Stephano, leaning now against the wall, giggled inanely. “I wondered why you wanted the mouth like that.” At a look from Albanus he swallowed heavily and bit his tongue.
Producing chalks smuggled from Stygia, land of sorcerers far to the south, Albanus scribed an incomplete pentagram around the feet of the figure, star within pentagon within circle. Foul black candles went on the points where each broken shape touched the other two. Then, quickly, each candle was lit, the pentagram completed. He stepped back, arms spread wide, uttering the words of conjuring.
“Elonai me’roth sancti, Urd’vass teoheem … .”
The words of power rolled from his tongue, and the air seemed to thicken in silver shimmers. The flames of the unholy candles flared, sparking a seed of fear in the dark lord’s mind. The flames. It could not happen again as last time. It could not. He banished the fear by main force. There could be no fear now, only power.
“ … arallain Sa’m’di com’iel mort’rass … .”
The flames grew, but as they grew the room dimmed, as if they took light rather than gave it. Higher they flared, driven by the force of the dark lord’s chant, overtowering the clay figure. Slowly, as though bent by some impossible and unfelt wind, the silent flames bent inward until the points of fire met above. From that meeting a bolt, as of lightning, struck down to the head of the statue, bathing it in glow unending, surrounding it in a haloed fire of the purest white that sucked all heat from the air.
Frost misting his breath, Albanus forced his voice to a roar. “By the Unholy Powers of Three, I conjure thee! By blood and sweat and seed, vilified and attainted, I conjure thee! Arise, walk and obey, for I, Albanus, conjure thee!”
As the last syllable left his mouth the flames were gone, leaving no trace of the candles behind. The figure stood, but now it was dried and cracked.
Albanus rubbed his hands together, and put them beneath his arms for warmth. If only it had all gone correctly this time. He glanced at Stephano, shivering against a wall that glinted from the myriad ice droplets that had coalesced from the air. Terror made the sculptor’s eyes bulge. There was no point in delaying further. The hawk-faced man drew a deep breath.
“I command you, Garian, awake!” A piece of clay dropped from one arm to shatter on the stone. Albanus frowned. “Garian, I command you awake!”
The entire figure trembled; then crumbling, powdering clay was spilling to the platform. And what the figure had moulded, stood there, breathing and alive. A perfect duplicate of Garian, without blemish or fault. The simulacrum brushed dust from its shoulder, then stopped, eyeing Albanus quizzically.
“Who are you?” it said.
“I am Albanus,” the dark lord replied. “Know you who you are?”
“Of course. I am Garian, King of Nemedia.”
Albanus’ smile was purest evil. “To your knees, Garian,” he said softly. Unperturbed, the replica sank to its knees. Despite himself Albanus laughed, and the commands poured out for the sheer joy of seeing the image of the King obey. “Face to the floor! Grovel! Now up! Run in place! Faster! Faster!” The duplicate King ran. And ran.
Tears rolled down Albanus’ cheeks, but his laughter faded as his eye lit on Stephano. Slowly the sculptor pushed himself erect from his crouch. Uncertainty and fear chased each other across his face.
“Be still, Garian,” Albanus commanded, not loosing Stephano’s gaze from his own. The simulacrum ceased running and stood quietly, breathing easily.
Stephano swallowed hard. “My … my work is done. I’ll go now.” He turned toward the door, flinching to a halt at the whipcrack of Albanus’ voice.
“Your gold, Stephano. Surely you’ve not forgotten that.” From beneath his tunic Albanus produced a short, thick cylinder, tightly wrapped in leather. He hefted it on his palm. “Fifty gold marks.”
Cupidity warred with fear on Stephano’s countenance. He licked his lips hesitantly. “The sum mentioned was a thousand.”
“I am unclothed,” the simulacrum said suddenly.
“Of course,” Albanus said, seeming to answer them both.
From the floor he picked up a length of filthy rag that Stephano had used while sculpting, and with it carefully scrubbed away part of the pentagram. Many things, he knew, could happen to one attempting to enter a closed pentagram charged with magicks, and each was more horrible than the last. Stepping up onto the platform, he handed the rag to the simulacrum, which wrapped the cloth about its waist.
“This is but a first payment, Stephano,” Albanus went on. “The rest will come to you later.” He thrust the leather-wrapped cylinder into the simulacrum’s hand. “Give this to Stephano.” Leaning closer, he added whispered words.
Stephano shifted uneasily as the image of the King stepped down from the platform.
“So many times,” Albanus murmured, “have I been forced to endure the babble that spills from your mouth.”
The sculptor’s eyes narrowed, darting from Albanus to the approaching figure, and he broke for the door.
With inhuman speed the simulacrum hurled itself forward. Before Stephano had gone a single step it was on him, a hand with the strength of stone seizing his throat. A scream tore from him as obdurate fingers dug into the muscles on either side of his jaw, forcing his mouth open. Futilely Stephan clawed at the hand that held him; his fingers might as well have scraped at hardened leather. With that single hand, as if the sculptor were but a child, the replica forced him to his knees. Too late Stephano saw the cylinder descending toward his mouth, and understood Albanus’ words. Desperately he clutched the approaching wrist, but he could as easily have slowed a catapult’s arm. Remorseless, the construct forced the gold deeper, and yet deeper, into the sculptor’s mouth.