Free City of Sorcerers by Mary H. Herbert

lay black in the gathering night, cloaked in shadow and mystery.
    More than a few clansmen muttered a prayer to stifle the fear that chilled them. They rode away hurriedly without looking back, leaving the opened grave to the mercy of the night.

    * * * * *

    The canyon fell deathly still. Nothing moved. No living creature set foot within its boundaries. Night passed slowly into the deep, chilled hours before dawn.
    Within the mound, darkness as black and thick as ink filled the chamber much as it had for over two hundred years. But, something was different now. The seals that had shut out life, light, and air were broken; the heavy stone lid of the sarcophagus was lying on the ground; the wooden coffin itself, so carefully built and nailed shut, was cracked. For the first time since the coffin had been sealed, fresh air was leaking into the interior.
    Outside the tomb a waning moon rose above the hills and cast its dim radiance into the canyon. A finger-thin beam of light eased through the small hole in the mound's roof to shine into the darkness of the chamber. As the moon rose higher, the pale shaft of light moved until it came to rest on the coffin directly below.
    Something began to stir. A faintly luminous wisp of air curled from the crack in the coffin. It hung almost hesitantly between the stone and the wood before it wafted upward. More followed it like a thin, reddish smoke. The glowing air writhed and twisted about the moonbeam, slowly rising toward the ceiling. The mist began to pour our faster, as if encouraged by the fresh air and the light. Soon it filled the whole chamber with a ghastly phosphorescence.
    The shaft of light faded and vanished as the moon sank toward the west, but the mist continued to glow with its own bloody radiance. It stopped writhing and hung in the chamber, motionless and still.
    Another tendril of red mist began to creep out of the crack in the coffin. This one was darker and thicker; it spilled over the edge of the sarcophagus like a heavy scream of fog. Silently a shape took form from the dark mist. As tall as a man and as nebulous as smoke, it hovered by the platform drawing the last of its substance from the coffin. Then it deliberately moved toward the chamber's entrance. At the door the reddish form paused and extended a part of itself through the stone. When nothing happened, a strange sound like harsh laughter emanated from the figure. Eagerly the shape plunged through the stone into the dark night and was gone as quickly as it had formed.
    The mist left in the tomb began to settle. By dawn it was gone, leaving only a barely discernible coating of red dust over everything in the chamber. The coffin rested in its stone housing, as still and enigmatic as death.

    CHAPTER THREE

    By late morning, the clansmen had returned to the canyon. A small party of ten, drawn from the Khulinin, Dangari, and Jehanan clans, came clattering into the box canyon with spades and orders to rebury the mound. There were no chieftains, priests, or elders among them since the council was meeting again to debate the difficult subject of magic and the training of magic-wielders. The young men had come willingly for the chance to see the mound and the opportunity to turn a hot, dirty job into a merry-making gathering. They started shoveling dirt back onto the sides and top of the mound while they talked and laughed and looked forward to the food and cooled wine they had brought in their saddlebags.
    Four men went to the entrance. Priest Ordan had specifically asked them to replace the lid of the sarcophagus before they covered the door. They pushed the stone entrance open and entered the dark chamber.
    "Krath's blood!" the Khulinin exclaimed. "What is that stench?" A foul putrescence filled the room as thick and gagging as smoke.
    "It wasn't here yesterday," the young Dangari rider said. "Maybe the old man is rotting in the fresh air."
    "He should be dust and bones by this time. Let's just get the lid on and