Days went by and Iucounu's trap, if such existed, remained unsprung, and Cugel at last came to believe that none existed. During this time he applied himself to Iucounu's tomes and folios, but with disapppinting results. Certain of the tomes were written in archaic tongues, indecipherable script or arcane terminology; others described phenomena beyond his comprehension; others exuded a waft of such urgent danger that Cugel instantly clamped shut the covers.Some days later, Cugel is himself the subject of an attempted robbery by a con-man named Fianosther. A struggle ensues, Iucounu is momentarily freed, but Cugel again gains the upper hand on both his opponents.
One or two of the workbooks he found susceptible to his understanding. These he studied with great diligence, cramming syllable after wrenching syllable into his mind, where they rolled and pressed and distended his temples. Presently he was able to encompass a few of the most simple and primitive spells, certain of which he tested on Iucounu: notably Lugwiler's Dismal Itch. But by and large Cugel was disappointed by what seemed a lack of innate competence. Accomplished magicians could encompass three or even four of the most powerful effectuants; for Cugel, attaining even a single spell was a task of extraordinary difficulty. One day, while applying a spatial transposition upon a satin cushion, he inverted certain of the pervulsions and was himself hurled backward into the vestibule... [p. 284]
Returning to the great hall, he consumed the repast set forth by Jince and Skivvee, his two comely stewardesses, then immediately applied himself to his studies. Tonight they concerned themselves with the Spell of Forlorn Encystment, a reprisal perhaps more favored in earlier eons than the present, and the Agency of the Far Despatch, by which Iucounu had transported him to the northern wastes. Both spells were of no small power; both required a bold and absolutely precise control, which Cugel at first feared he would never be able to supply. Nevertheless he persisted, and at last felt able to encompass either the one or the other, at need. [p. 286]
With great care he bound the arms of his enemies, then stepping into the great hall possessed himself of the work-book which he had been studying.I'll interrupt at this point to note that the Spell of Forlorn Encystment was translated directly to AD&D's 9th-level spell Imprisonment -- reversible to a spell of Freedom, complete with "a 10% chance that 1 to 100 other creatures will be freed from imprisonment at the same time if the magic-user does not perfectly get the name and background of the creature to be freed" [AD&D PHB p. 92]. Continuing with the rest of the story:
"And now -- both outside!" he ordered. "Move with alacrity! Events will now proceed to a definite condition!"
He forced the two to walk to a flat area behind the manse, and stood them somewhat apart. "Fianosther, your doom is well-merited. For your deceit, avarice and odious mannerisms I now visit upon you the Spell of Forlorn Encystment!"
Fianosther wailed piteously, and collapsed to his knees. Cugel took no heed. Consulting the workbook, he encompassed the spell; then, pointing and naming Fianosther, he spoke the dreadful syllables.
But Fianosther, rather than sinking into the earth, crouched as before. Cugel hastily consulted the workbook and saw that in error he had transposed a pair of pervulsions, thereby reversing the quality of the spell. Indeed, even as he understood the mistake, to all sides there were small sounds, and previous victims across the eons were now erupted from a depth of forty-five miles, and discharged upon the surface. Here they lay, blinking in glazed astonishment; though a few lay rigid, too sluggish to react. Their garments had fallen to dust, though the more recently encysted still wore a rag or two. Presently all but the most dazed and rigid made tentative motions, feeling the air, groping at the sky, marveling at the sun. [p. 287]
Cugel uttered a harsh laugh. "I seem to have performed incorrectly. But no matter. I shall not do so a second time. Iucounu, your penalty shall be commensurate with your offense, no more, no less! You flung me willy-nilly to the northern wastes, to a land where the sun slants low across the south. I shall do the same for you. You inflicted me with Firx; I will inflict you with Fianosther. Together you may plod the tundras, penetrate the Great Erm, win past the Mountains of Magnatz. Do not plead; put forward no excuses: in this case I am obdurate. Stand quietly unless you wish a further infliction of blue concentrate!"Coming Friday: Commentary and analysis.
So now Cugel applied himself to the Agency of Far Despatch, and established the activating sounds carefully within his mind. "Prepare yourselves," he called, "and farewell!"
With that he sang forth the spell, hesitating at only one pervulsion where uncertainty overcame him. But all was well. From on high came a thud and a guttural out-cry, as a coursing demon was halted in mid-flight.
"Appear, appear!" called Cugel. "The destination is as before: to the shore of the northern sea, where the cargo must be delivered alive and secure! Appear! Seize the designated persons and carry them in accordance with the command!"
A great flapping buffeted the air; a black shape with a hideous visage peered down. It lowered a talon; Cugel was lifted and carried off to the north, betrayed a second time by a misplaced pervulsion.
For a day and a night the demon flew, grumbling and moaning. Somewhat after dawn Cugel was cast down on a beach and the demon thundered off through the sky.
There was silence. To right and left spread the gray beach. Behind rose the foreshore with a few clumps of salt-grass and spinifex. A few yards up the beach lay the splintered cage in which once before Cugel had been delivered to this same spot. With head bowed and arms clasped around his knees, Cugel sat looking out across the sea. [THE END; p. 287-288]
Thieves of the 10th level and above are able to understand magical writings, so any scroll that falls into their hands can be used by them - excluding spells which are clerical in nature. However, with spells of the 7th level and above there is a 10% chance that the effect will he the reverse of that intended (due to the fact that even Master Thieves do not fully comprehend such great magic). [OD&D Sup-I, p. 4]As usual, some small modifications were made to this rule through AD&D 1E and 2E. In 3E this was transmogrified into a rogue-only skill called "Use Magic Device", which more generally gave that class some random chance to use any magic items which were otherwise reserved for other classes.
"If it's magical helpings you lack," the Mouser retorted boldly, "I have a spell or two that would frizzle your elder brother's witches and warlocks!" And truth to tell the Mouser had parchment-crackling in his pouch one spell -- though one spell only -- which he dearly wanted to test. It had been given him by his own wizardly mentor and master Sheelba of the Eyeless Face. [p. 672]Later:
His tone was unmistakably rebuffing, nevertheless the Mouser, dreading a dull evening, persisted, "There is also the matter of that serious spell of mine which I told you, Prince -- a spell most effective against magi of the Second Rank and lower, such as a certain noxious brother employs. Now were a good time --" [p. 691]Much later, as events rise to a climax -- in Gwaay's Hall of Sorcery, at the table with the dozen major magicians:
"... And by the blood of that one whom it is death to look upon..."As it turns out, the Great Spell has in fact disintegrated all of Gwaay's sorcerers to a fine gray ash, and not touched any of Hasjarl's sorcerers (or anyone else). A few pages later:
So sonorously invoked the Mouser, as with eyes closed and arms outstretched he cast the rune given him by Sheelba of the Eyeless Face which would destroy all sorcerers of less than First Rank of an undetermined distance around the casting point -- surely for a few miles, one might hope, so smiting Hasjarl's warlocks to dust.
Whether his Great Spell worked or not -- and in his inmost heart he strongly mistrusted that it would -- the Mouser was very pleased with the performance he was giving. He doubted Sheelba himself could have done better. What magnificent deep chest tones! -- even Fafhrd had never heard him declaim so.
He wished he could open his eyes for just a moment to note the effect his performance was having on Gwaay's magicians -- they'd be staring open-mouthed for all their supercilious boasting, he was sure -- but on this point Sheelba's instructions had been adamant: eyes tightly shut while the last sentences of the rune were being recited and the great forbidden words spoken; even the tiniest blink would nullify the Great Spell. Evidently magicians were supposed to be without vanity or curiosity -- what a bore!
Of a sudden in the dark of his head, he felt contact with another and a larger darkness, a malefic and puissant darkness, of which light itself is only the absence. He shivered. His hair stirred. Cold sweat prickled his face. He almost stuttered midway through the word "slewerisophnak". But concentrating his will, he finished without flaw.
When the last echoing notes of his voice had ceased to rebound between the domed ceiling and floor, the Mouser slit open one eye and glanced surreptitiously around him.
One glance and the other eye flew open to fullness. He was too surprised to speak.
And whom he would have spoken to, had he not been too surprised, was also a question.
The long table at the foot of which he stood was empty of occupants. Where but moments before had sat eleven of the very greatest magicians of Quarmall -- sorcerers of the First Rank, each had sworn on his black Grammarie -- was only space....
Very quietly he stood up and silently walked in his ratskin moccasins to the nearest archway, across which he had drawn thick curtains for the Great Spell. He was wondering just what the range of the spell had been, where it had stopped, if it had stopped at all. Suppose, for instance, that Sheelba had underestimated its power and it disintegrated not only sorcerers, but... [p. 728-730]
His voice trailed off. It had occurred to him to wonder why he himself hadn't been blasted by his own spell. He had never suspected, until now, that he might be a sorcerer of the First Rank -- having despite a youthful training in country-sorceries only dabbled in magic since. Perhaps some metaphysical trick or logical fallacy was involved... If a sorcerer casts a rune that midway of the casting blasts all sorcerers, provided the casting be finished, then does he blast himself, or...? Or perhaps indeed, the Mouser began to think boastfully, he was unknown to himself a magus of the First Rank, or even higher, or -- [p. 732]And a little bit later, as the Mouser and his companion speculate on their next move:
Ivivis frowned. "Gwaay used to say that just as sword-war is but another means of carrying out diplomacy, so sorcery is but another means of carrying out sword-war. Spell-war. So you could try your Great Spell again," she concluded without vast conviction.In the next blog: Cugel the Clever by Jack Vance.
"Not I!" the Mouser repudiated. "It never touched Hasjarl's twenty-four or it would have stopped their disease-spells against Gwaay. Either they are of the First Rank or else I'm doing the spell backwards -- in which case the tunnels would probably collapse on me if I tried it again." [p. 740]
Original Edition Delta
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