The Steward and the Sorcerer

by James Peart

  “But not you,” the King said. “You need him to get back to where you came from. Yours is not a dying world like mine. There is still life there.” He offered the Englishmen a sly grin to match their obvious surprise. “I learned that much when my hands marked his body.”

  “Alright,” Simon nodded, “we do. But you need to escape just as much, considering your plans. I’m suggesting we marshal our efforts and get rid of these spirits.”

  “Marshal?” Iridis said doubtfully.

  “Combine. Join up. Teamwork!”

  “I already agreed I would help you, halfling, but your plan is not a good one. I could just return to the chamber where I found the Druid and finish him for good.”

  “I don’t think you’ll find him there, or you would have already killed him. Help us now and afterward we can go our separate ways.”

  The King stared at them. Finally, he nodded. “But we must do it my way. This is best.”

  “Agreed.”

  14.

  The two friends walked behind the King as he led them toward the great hall inside the main doors of the castle. Simon walked a little adrift of Christopher who was still holding the Drey torch in both hands and watching Iridis’s every step. They walked in silence for a long time. At one point, Simon turned to Christopher. “What do you make of him?” he asked, pointing at Iridis.

  “I think,” his friend said “that he looks elegant in his costume.”

  “But he’s not all there- haven’t you noticed?”

  “He’s sharp enough when he wants to be. That talk about confronting the Faeries just inside the keep, he was likely right about that.”

  “Agreed, but I’d like to know what his plan is. We need to do more than entice them inside and I have a feeling he doesn’t know what to do any more than a Flat-Earther knows how to use a compass. At least Daaynan’s plan had the benefit of your resemblance to Longfellow.” Simon let out a sigh. “It’s times like these you wish you had the distilled wisdom of the great free thinkers to guide you. Kesey.Kerouac. Ginsberg.”

  “They could come up with a strategy, I feel certain.”

  “But they’d fall short on implementation. I feel we’re in better hands than we ought to be.”

  “Why d’you say that?”

  Christopher raised his chin a degree, that familiar look of imperious disdain evident on his features.

  “Our world is full of ideas but you need to slog it to get anything done. If you want to get a simple book published, you must cultivate relationships with the right sort of people and it takes years. If you...”

  “I get it. Whereas here...”

  “Manifestation is nearly simultaneous, thanks to the missing ingredient.”

  “Magic!”

  “And like it or not, we need to be near those who have it, merely to survive.”

  “Yes, well I’ve had it with this medieval Tolkienism. When I return I’m going to take an extended holiday in southern Europe. I’ll start with Venice. I shall live in the Doge’s palace for a month, then charter a boat to Greece filled with silk garments and flog them to the local proletariat.”

  “You’ll need double your allowance,” Christopher observed.

  “At a minimum.”

  Up ahead, Iridis had slowed. They found themselves in the centre of a vast hall that stretched the length of several rooms in any direction they cared to look. Tall pillars supported the ceiling with intricate carvings of men engaged in various activities and repose engraved in the artwork. The ceiling was an enormous dome-like structure that stretched upward for as far as they could see and appeared to swallow much of the light that issued into the hall from outside. A set of enormous doors stood over to their left, leading presumably to the outside. Iridis stopped and turned to the Englishmen, indicating the doors with a sweep of one hand.

  “The drawbridge beyond this,” he said, “is protected by the Druid’s magic, letting no one in or out. The warding lines cannot stand up to my magic, however, as you will see.

  “Once we lower the ‘bridge, we are exposed. It is vital that I stay hidden until the one who leads them steps across the threshold and into the palace. I need one of you to stand against him, remaining at all times inside.”

  “I’ll do it,” Simon said immediately. “Christopher stays hidden near you.”

  The Raja nodded as if he fully expected this answer. “When he sees you have broken the warding lines and are not a Druid, he will think the palace defenceless and will enter.”

  “This is your plan? How do you know he even senses what protects the keep?”

  “He has sensed it. I divined that earlier as I touched the walls of the palace.

  “This enemy is very strong, and it can sense weakness in one who does not have the use of magic, which will play into my hands.”

  “Factually, in your case,” Simon muttered, then dismissed the words with an abrupt wave when it was clear Iridis didn’t understand. Literal versus figurative imagery was lost on him, clearly.

  “Let us begin,” Iridis said simply.

  The King of Naveen placed his hands on the entrance to the keep, one hand on each door. He stood there for a moment while nothing appeared to happen. Then he withdrew his hands and retreated into the shadow of a nearby alcove, a dark recess of the giant hall into which Christopher followed him, the Drey torch he held shining its jade illumination between one end of each stick.

  Iridis looked at Simon and nodded for him to approach the doors and open them. A huge lock secured them in the form of a heavy bolt which you needed to draw back to open them. He did so, releasing the lock and pushing hard against the solid oak structures. They creaked in protest, the workings on the hinges rusty with disuse, yet with an effort they swung wide. The drawbridge beyond them lowered at the same time, connected as it was to the doors via a system of cords and pulleys. Starlight gleamed through the opening in bands of silver.

  Outside, not more than fifty feet away, stood the Faerie beings.

  They looked at each other, the Englishman and these creatures from another age, the former bright and resourceful by any standard back in his world and the latter powerful far beyond the limits of that world.

  The Faeries looked at him, taking in his appearance, manner and bearing. Then they moved.

  The one who led them walked in front and slightly to one side of the three others. Easily seven feet tall, it was cloaked and hooded in a broad, grey shroud, its features lost from view in the shadow of the hood it wore. Only its eyes, vaguely red and piercing, were visible. As their regard fell on him, Simon very nearly fled from his exposed position in the entryway. There was something demonic in their expression, something that touched on an ancient and unspeakable evil. With an effort, he held his ground, his insides filled with an unknowing terror.

  The others were formidable in their own right, though not quite as imposing as the one who led them. They too were cloaked in hooded shrouds, yet the hoods were drawn back to reveal the features of women, their faces harsh and angular. Their hair was roped and coiled, lending it the appearance from this distance, as they moved, of writhing snakes. They reminded Simon of the three Furies from Greek mythology, goddesses of vengeance, or the Daughters of the Night, although these were infinitely more terrifying than the artistic and somewhat whimsical depictions of the Furies he had seen in books of Greek heroes.

  When they came to within ten feet of the entrance to Fein Mor, they stopped walking, forming a half circle around the mouth of the entrance. The one who led them continued to approach, however, nearing the threshold. It was holding in one hand a black wooden staff with coloured runes embedded in the crown. Its hood had slipped to reveal the skin of its face, which was plated with mottled scales. A ghastly sight. It held Simon’s gaze, smiling.

  It was at this point that Simon thought of breaking his stand and running. Terror spilled through him with raw, ablative power, screaming at him to bolt, telling him he was no match for this being. Thoughts raced through his m
ind with random precision. Iridis only wanted him here so he could challenge Christopher without his interference. He wasn’t going to help him. He was likely already gone, having snatched the Drey torch from his friend and disappeared. He cared nothing about the Druid’s plight, let alone was willing to help him.

  He heard these thoughts as if they’d been spoken, felt their nearly tangible insistence, yet still, somehow, he held his ground. He took a deep breath and bit down hard on his fear, unaware that he had cut his tongue with the edge of his teeth. The line between running and his decision to stay was a faint one. If he ran, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself afterward, if there was an afterward. If he were to face this thing he would also likely die yet at least he wouldn’t have failed his friend. Incredibly, an image of Daaynan flashed through his mind. He would fail the Druid too, though what did that matter? Was the sorcerer now important to him in the way that Christopher was? What was the difference?

  The creature was almost upon him by now, the skirt of its robing whispering on the cross-wood of the drawbridge as its free hand lifted toward the entrance. Faerie fire, drawn from somewhere inside it, pooled at its fists. It looked down at Simon from its great height and smiled solemnly, almost with regret as the fire hovered about its unclenching fingers, waiting for direction. Simon was clearly not much of a challenge for it, the equivalent of a goat tied to a stake. It no doubt preferred livelier game yet its ruthless sensibilities did not prevent it from attacking all the same. His eyes cast wildly around for signs of the King but the hall was empty, deepened in shadow cast by the moonlight.

  He closed his eyes and prayed for a swift end.

  The next few moments passed so quickly that they were over before Simon realised anything had happened. The Raja of Naveen stepped from the shadow of an alcove beside the door, materialising suddenly before the Faerie creature. He sidled up to the being, gripping it beneath the shoulder in a powerful embrace, holding it for a beat, then danced away from it and through the entryway into the fields surrounding Fein Mor, lost in the night. The creature let out a wild shriek, its body shaking with the force of what had held it, slumped forward onto the flagstone floor of the hall, the fire it had summoned in one hand stuttering briefly before it was extinguished. It lay therewith its fist upturned toward the Englishman, an expression of disbelief marked on its face.

  An eerie keening rose from among the Furies that encircled the entryway, high and ululating. Their bodies writhed with the impact of some unseen force, their limbs flailing, the screams they uttered seeming to deprive them of power. They too dropped to the earth, thrashing one moment and lifeless shortly thereafter, spent of whatever energy had driven them.

  What Simon knew next was Christopher at his side, tugging his jumper. “Are you alright?” he asked.

  He tried to move, stumbled and fell toward his friend. “Where- where is Iridis?”

  “Gone. Ran out of the castle. He won’t bother us anymore.”

  “And those things?”

  “All dead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I went over and kicked one of them in the side. Unresponsive, and it wasn’t breathing. He’s done what he’s promised, I think.”

  “That’s...that’s good.” Simon walked forward to inspect the body of the creature that had almost put an end to him, swaying instantly, and Christopher caught him before he fell.

  15.

  The next morning, after they had found rooms in which to eat, sleep, and wash, they sat in the ordered peace and relative warmth of a study chamber in the North wing of the keep and discussed what they should do next. Christopher did not particularly want to go home but he could see that Simon did and the method he presented to the other was dismissed out of hand.

  “If we use the Drey torch to get back,” Simon explained to him, “we could be drifting between worlds in that temple for months, maybe years. We might never find England again.”

  “We might have to take that risk. What else can we do?”

  “The Druid...”

  “Him again!”

  “Yes, him. He still represents our best chance of getting back. Or at least his magic does. You’ve said yourself, magic is the key ingredient of this place. It was responsible for taking us out of the world, and it will be responsible for bringing us back.”

  “The torch is magic. So is the temple.”

  “I don’t think it is. It’s more of a way station, a kind of static waiting room. The laws that govern it seem to operate in the reverse way of magic.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “It’s a lifeless place. An antithesis to energy. When we were there with the Druid it spent him, and it did the same to us. Remember how you felt there? When he pulled us out of the temple we were nearly comatose. We only began to feel normal when we arrived in Fein Mor.

  “I believe that Daaynan has access to enormous power on an individual level and more. I think he hasn’t yet fully tested the parameters of that strength and when he does nothing can stand against him, not even the steward of Brinemore and anyone who supports him.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing. He can’t use his power any more. The King took it away. He’s dead in the castle for all we know.”

  “Here’s two things you might have forgotten. One, why didn’t the King kill him? He didn’t, you know. When I asked him if he had, he got angry. He may have brought him near death, but Daaynan’s magic protected him somehow, I’m sure of it.

  “Two, power that hard-won just doesn’t go away that easily. It took him years to acquire it, he told me, spent in something called a Brightsphere, which came from a world between worlds. At least that’s what he said. I suggest we find him and use his power to get us home.”

  Simon rose from his seat and went toward the door of the study, motioning his friend to do the same, and without further argument Christopher followed him.

  They walked from the North wing toward the South end of the keep, past the rooms of reflection, through a complex series of rooms and corridors, poorly lit and without windows. They walked slowly, frequently stopping to regain their sense of direction, noting familiar points on the route the Druid had taken them the other day. Finally, they stopped before the entryway to a room that was much like the one they had materialised in upon leaving the temple, Simon noticing the extra light here that had no discernible origin. He raked his boot over the stone threshold, looking at Christopher.

  “This is it. This is where he took us and where Iridis attacked him and left him for dead.”

  Christopher peered into the chamber, inspecting its contents. “It looks gothic.”

  “Don’t you remember it?”

  He creased his brow, then said “the Druid’s not here.”

  “Well done constable. Now, where d’you think he’s got to? He couldn’t have gone far, not in the state Iridis left him.”

  They walked into the chamber and across it to a door at the other side. Past it was yet another cavernous network of rooms and corridors leading in other directions to different points of the keep, a labyrinth into which they had fled from the King, hastily selecting a route and negotiating its many twists and turns.

  Christopher sighed and was about to march forward again when the other Englishman stilled him.

  “There, behind that statue!”

  To their right, standing in the shadow of an alcove, was an effigy of a goddess. One of her arms was raised, her hands clenched into a loose fist and around it was carved a flame. In her other hand she carried a tablet inscribed with numbers in writing so small it was indecipherable. Her hair was braided into thick ropes in a style much like the Furies’ outside the keep. At the foot of the sculpture, lying almost prone, was the collapsed form of the Druid Daaynan.

  Christopher pointed at the statue, on the point of saying something, when Simon, crouched beside the sorcerer’s body, waved him over.

  “He’s unconscious. Help me bring him about!”

  They attempted to
do this in turn, one of them pressing his hands down on Daaynan’s chest while the other breathed into his mouth. After a time, when they could see this wasn’t working, Simon had the idea of searching through the Druid’s robing for medicaments or healing salves. They found some glass vials in an inner pocket holding coloured liquids and sealed with cork stoppers. Simon was afraid to use them as they could have made his condition worse, not better. Even should they be medicine of some kind, they knew neither the dosage nor the mixture that needed to be administered. After a long time spent arguing over whether they should move the sorcerer and the merits of blind experimentation with the liquids contained in the vials, they retreated into the room where they had left Daaynan in his encounter with the Raja Iridis.

  “He’s deep under,” Simon said to Christopher. “He could be in a coma.”

  “At least he’s at peace,” Christopher said. Simon looked at him, trying to discover whether his friend was being sympathetic or was genuinely envious. Christopher had demonstrated over the past few days that he was alive in ways he had never been at Eton or Cambridge. He hoped it was sympathy, but Christopher was so maddeningly vague it was hard to know. Things had been clearer in his drinking days. Were those behind him now?

  “If he is, we need to get him to a doctor or whatever passes for a healer in this land,” Simon pointed out. “We’re no longer trapped in Fein Mor.”

  “We wouldn’t know where to start. Even if we knew of a place, it could be days away, even on horseback, and the natives may not be friendly.”

  “True. Didn’t Iridis say the steward of Brinemore was expanding his confederation south toward here? By turning him over to a clinic we might be placing him in enemy hands.”

  “So, we go west?”

  “We might...” Simon paused as a thought occurred to him, then he slapped his forehead. “Of course!”

  “What?”

  “We use his power to get us home.”