The Steward and the Sorcerer

by James Peart

  Torn gestured at the creature, turning to the rest of the company and with a theatrical flourish he said “Say hello to Attarack!”

  26.

  Karsin Longfellow passed along the courtyard that housed the Steward’s quarters, past the halls of the Confederation Council chambers, through the gates of the fortified complex, and outside toward the citadel barracks. The sentries on duty nodded curtly as he went by, their features exhibiting deference. Longfellow offered them a thin smile, keeping his expression neutral. It belied his true feelings, which he kept well in check, hidden from everyone around him. Everything seemed to be happening at once. The sorcerer known as the King was almost upon the city, Tan Wrock had informed him. It was almost nightfall, and Wrock had told him the other would arrive shortly after this, though he did not give a specific time. Let him come, he thought. The Tochried would put an end to him and perhaps the Druid as well, though he would believe that when he saw it. Daaynan had so far escaped three attempts on his life: first the Faerie creature, after that his cousin, then those Furies. The thing that lay housed inside the Darksphere had promised him that the Tochried would finish the job. Tan Wrock thought so too. He was in control of its mind and privy to the limits of its strength of which there didn’t appear to be any. Wrock had gone into hiding, Longfellow reflected. His dwelling on the outskirts of Brinemore was reported to have been vacated a day ago. His guess was that the other had accommodated himself in one of the outlying towns of the region. He clearly did not want to be around when the two sorcerers arrived. How wise of him. As Steward he had also taken precautions. When the time came, he himself would be in a safe room several hundred metres beneath the citadel; not, however, before he had issued the demon with its final instructions- a word spoken in the Darksphere’s own language- to put an end to Wrock after it had dealt with the sorcerers and disappear for good. Once this had happened, he was to make good on his promise to free Ledislas from the Sphere. Of course, he had no intention of doing so. It was too valuable for a start. Also, there was no knowing what the damned thing would do if it were released.

  It was minutes before nightfall when he reached the soldiers’ barracks, slipping soundlessly through the imposing entryway, his green uniform of office whispering against the stone wall of the narrow entrance. Walking steadily past the watch, he made his way along a corridor and down several flights of stairs, emerging in a large vaulted chamber with moisture running from the walls onto a pitted, flagstone floor. Two dozen heads turned in his direction as he entered the room. Soldiers comprising a platoon, they stood to attention in four neat columns and saluted the Steward as he approached.

  “My Lord!” the foremost soldier cried out. “Platoon leader Dechs, present as per your bidding!”

  “Commander,” Longfellow acknowledged Dechs, motioning the soldiers to stand at ease. He looked them over, appraising them. They were commandeered from a division of the Northern Army that was battle-seasoned and hardy, hand-picked by the acting General of the Northern Army now that Silt Bron was deceased. He had done well, it seemed. Decorated, judging by the jewellery they wore. Roughnecks, many of them, despite the shine and polish of their uniforms, with that dead stare in their eyes that only experience in war can produce. Men who could accept almost anything. Well, that will soon be put to the test.

  “You know who I am,” he said, standing in front of them, to one side of Dechs. “Some of you I have spoken with over the years. You have given many good years of service to the state- in the case of many of you, more years than you had originally signed up for. I am giving you today permission to leave. Your fighting days are done. From tomorrow, nothing remains of your time other than for me to thank you for your service. Those of you who wish it will be given the chance to go home and live with your families, your wives and children, to catch up on lost time. Not only that, I shall pay each of you a generous bonus, amounting to twenty months’ pay. You will have time to consider a life outside of the service, perhaps choose a new career, a different profession. Anything you wish.

  “I ask only one thing. It is the reason you are assembled here today. I have made it my goal...” Longfellow raised the index finger of his right hand “no, my mission...as Steward to rid these lands of magic doing. And despite the success I have largely enjoyed there remains a handful of sorcerers who have eluded my attempts to put a stop to their wrongdoing. Two in particular have escaped the net I have constructed to apprehend these criminals. They are at this moment headed for Brinemore, trying to sneak into the city like cowards in the dead of night. They have considerable skills and resources at their disposal and will not be easily bested. One of them at least possesses the strength of ten or more men.

  “Do not be concerned. Your task is not to confront them directly but to protect an individual who I have enlisted to defeat them. Commander Dechs has been briefed on the skills that the sorcerers can draw upon and will shortly enlighten you as to the best tactics you can use. I won’t deny that this is a dangerous assignment and it may involve loss of life. But, together with this individual, you will hold a significant advantage and as you go into battle you do so in the knowledge that you are maintaining order in a state which you have devoted your lives to protect.

  “I will be with you every step of the way. Good luck, and may the Gods be on our side.”

  Longfellow walked up and down the columns, shaking hands with each member of the platoon. He talked briefly with some of the soldiers, extending words of encouragement and praise. Finally, he gripped Dechs’ hand, pumping it hard. The Commander’s face was respectful and solemn, a stoic veil behind which the man could have been thinking anything.

  “It’s almost time,” Longfellow said.

  “We won’t let you down, my Lord.”

  Longfellow had already turned to leave. “See that you don’t,” were his last words to the Commander.

  The Steward of Brinemore walked back toward the gated complex that housed the Confederation Council chambers and his own private dwellings. Beneath the tower where he resided was a hatch door that led hundreds of feet underground to his safe room. Built for the onset of a siege, it was fully equipped for its occupant to survive underground for months. He didn’t intend to stay down there for that length of time but who knew how long the attack on the citadel would last? The platoon would do their job and try to protect the demon as it confronted the two sorcerers but their role was largely redundant. He would be amazed if any of them survived the ordeal, those who didn’t turn tail and run for the hills, that was. It said a lot about the scant trust he had placed in his Commander that he would entertain this thought, but he rationalised it with the knowledge that none of them had done battle with the likes of the Druid before.

  So, they were almost upon him, the Druid and the Raja Iridis. He would have given fifty months pay to have seen the look on Daaynan’s face when he cut his way, fighting, through the city and realised his enemy was nowhere to be found. Better yet, his surely comical expression when he first laid eyes on the Tochried. Not even Tan Wrock’s magic could have achieved that. Karsin Longfellow smiled. It was almost worth joining the fray to see it.

  __________________________________________________________________________________

  The Vice-Steward of Brinemore, Scrot Manch, woke up in his sleeping quarters with a start.

  There was a noise coming from inside his quarters, the sound of someone talking, though he could not pinpoint its source. His bedroom chamber was recessed in shadow and the torches mounted on the walls here and in the hallway threw only discreet coronas of indistinct light. Beyond the hallway there were two sentries posted at the entrance to his quarters, but they were normally too far away to hear and they would never disturb him at this time of night. The voice gave no clue as to its origin and the Vice-Steward felt suddenly trapped with no opportunity to flee or defend himself.

  “Hello, Scrot.”

  The Vice-Steward jumped out of bed, reaching for the cloak that lay on his nigh
t table, stumbling on the cold, stone floor as he pulled it on. The voice seemed to be coming from inside him, he thought, panicking.

  “Who is that?”

  “Never mind who I am. I have something to tell you that you need to hear. Do not be alarmed. You are not hearing things, or at least not in the way you are thinking. I am not part of you but I have an...ability...to talk into the minds of men...and more besides.”

  It was a man’s voice. The words carried a solemn, grave, pitch, delivered with a faint undertone of humour. “What do you want from me?” he cried, walking over to the nearest torch and adjusting it so that it cast a halo of brightness into the chamber, the shadows retreating into its corners.

  “If I were you I would not speak so loudly, Scrot. You do not want to attract the attention of the guards.

  “I am not physically here. I could be in the city,” it said with playful speculation, “or outside it, or miles from Brinemore. Better that you don’t know where. Listen to what I have to tell you.

  “There are sorcerers approaching Brinemore. Two of them. Men. These sorcerers are nothing like the second-rate magic users you have devoted at least part of your time spent in office to get rid of. They possess a power combined that would tear the city to its foundations. Ordinary men do not stand a chance against them in battle or in any other way.”

  Manch continued to look around his sleeping chamber, the normal objects in the room appearing to take on sinister proportions, both bizarre and unfamiliar. “If that’s true,” he said, “then I must alert the home guard, send word to the...”

  “The Steward?” The voice was softly laughing now, and Manch felt a vice of alarm tighten around his chest. “You believe him to be the cause of sorcery, do you not? Your dead friends and allies in the Council stand testament to that, in your mind.”

  “The Steward has promised me that he would work with me to remove sorcery, especially after...”

  “After he killed Silt Bron and the others? You believed that and you were right. He gave the order that led to their deaths. He did it to marshal support on his behalf, to strengthen his hold over the Council, and to gather help to make a stand against these sorcerers. Don’t let your previous view of him weaken now that you have decided to stand with him.”

  Manch responded to this, thinking quickly. “If these two are as powerful as you say they are, he could not hope to do that last thing.”

  “He could not. He has enlisted the help of a third, controlled by someone who has been his ally until now, someone who has been helping him all this while in his execution of affairs of state, governing the manner of that execution.”

  In a lunging, epiphanic stroke, Manch came to a terrible understanding. “It was you! You killed Silt Bron!”

  “Well done, Vice-Steward. Do not be concerned. I have no wish to cause you harm. I have said that I have helped Longfellow to date, but that ends now. I am here speaking to you to that effect, in truth. Longfellow’s time of service should come to a conclusion. It is long past due.”

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Just this. He is hiding in a chamber beneath the city, constructed before the assembly of your first Council, expecting to wait out the storm that is approaching. This ‘safe room’ is located directly beneath the Steward’s tower, accessible by a ground hatch at the base of the tower. I want you to let the Council members know of this act of cowardice. What they will do with this piece of news is predictable enough, should they act in time, that is. The sorcerers are almost upon you, wielding their own brand of destruction, and they care not about the workings of a town’s politics.”

  “And what should I do?” Scrot Manch asked.

  The response was dry. “Get out of the city.”

  27.

  The Druid of Fein Mor sat half-collapsed on the back of the great Carrion bird Attarack as it winged the party north over the source of the river Nole. He struggled to maintain consciousness, not out of tiredness but because the pain he was experiencing had become almost too much to bear, threatening blackout. The giant creature soared through the evening air, its wings beating slowly and powerfully, thirty feet in span. They were flying at a height of several hundred feet, clinging to the safety fastenings that were strapped around the bird’s midsection. The animal was being guided by Mereka through a series of hand and leg motions, cruising now as they passed along the south face of Mount Atterpeak, winding through the Utukum mountains, through its confusion of peaks, gliding skilfully through breaks and rifts. The wind was strong but intermittent, whipping against them in short, powerful bursts, then dying to nothing, the cycle of gusts an irritant but it merely threatened to destabilise them- they were each securely strapped to a harness.

  He glanced back at Christopher and Simon who were sat behind him and Mereka, the pain of even this simple movement causing him to wince and buckle forward. He held on tightly to the fastenings, grimly determined to maintain consciousness, directing his thoughts on the group, on the ordeal that awaited them.

  “Are you alright, Daaynan?” Mereka asked. She had been turning frequently to look at him.

  “I...will be fine,” he said. Whatever magic the King possesses, my own is fighting it-...I won’t give up.”

  Mereka’s face was etched in concern. “There’s not far to go now. When we set down, I shall cast about for a shelter to place you while the sickness passes.” She paused, thoughtfully. “Do you think your companions are up to the task that awaits us?”

  He considered his response. If there was one individual from this group that could be relied upon to keep his wits about him when they arrived at Brinemore, it was Simon. He told her so. “I have prepared a speech for Christopher to deliver to the Brinemore soldiery.” He paused, wincing with a sudden pain. “Simon will make sure he delivers it correctly.

  “The Englishman reminds me of someone I knew growing up in the Dell. He was a sorcerer’s apprentice and someone I occasionally confided in regarding the use of magic when others wouldn’t listen or were afraid.” Mereka nodded in understanding, thinking perhaps of her own former talents. “He distanced himself from the villagers later in life. When I asked him why this was, thinking it had to do with his being singled out for mistreatment because he’d been different, he told me that he neither thought good nor ill of them. There was a young woman he’d had a liking for, a woman who had been well respected in the Dell. Many thought her to have been the reason for his ambivalence to the villagers, yet it was not the case.” A wave of dizziness washed over the Druid suddenly, and he pitched forward in his seat, lifting his arm against his forehead, breathing shallow mouthfuls of air. Mereka reached back, her arm outstretched to help him recover his balance, but he waved it away with cold resolve. Behind him, Simon and Christopher were talking, exchanging words quickly and in hushed tones, too engrossed in each other’s company to notice him. He waited for the spell to pass, then resumed speaking. “He was a rare sort, this man, and not just because he had use of magic. He was both clever and dispassionate, not swayed by the other person’s origin or loyalties. An honest, objective intelligence in a world of ignorance and false allegiances. I heard he prospered in cargo trading off the western coast.” He paused. “Simon is like this man.”

  “Where are they both really from, old friend? It’s not the Dell, or anywhere that I know of in the Northern Earth.”

  “I took them from another time and place.”

  “You mean you...abducted them?”

  The Druid met her sudden, intense gaze, his eyes, usually hard and unforgiving, yielding slightly yet spying past her at some unfathomable truth, the existence of which only he could warrant.

  “On arriving in these lands,” he continued, “Simon could have surmised that I had...abducted...him for selfish reasons, and perhaps initially he did, yet he took care to investigate the circumstances leading to my decision. His and Christopher’s world may be filled with compromise and hesitation, but this is only skin deep with him. Christopher, on
the other hand, revels in regret and uncertainty and, I suspect, would have died long ago had it not been for his friend. I also think that both of them stand apart from the place they live in. They are part of the culture of their England and yet they are also outside of it, able to view it from more than one perspective. This might well be the reason they have survived here. Simon, assessing everything he encounters logically, dispassionately, might survive in any age. Christopher, perhaps, merely does not belong to the place where he was born. It could be that this thing- this standing outside one’s circumstances of living- is practiced more in the age in which their England finds itself. The age of exploring different styles and customs, of trying new things. In someone like Christopher, this would be decadent. In Simon, it is a more constructive thing. Simon’s world of machines and miracles...” he trailed off suddenly, “I wonder what it would be like there.”

  Mereka placed a hand on his shoulder. “That’s enough talk for now.” She went on to say more but was interrupted by the two Englishmen who were chattering excitedly, pointing down over to the west. They followed the Englishmen’s gaze and Mereka’s breath hitched in her throat. The grass and trees beneath them had given way to roads and buildings that stretched as far as the eye could see, ringed by ancient historical walls that signalled the administrative boundaries of the city. Homes of differing styles and designs ran into shops and trading houses that dwarfed in size and enterprise anything they had seen in Carasan. They flew over neighbourhoods with vast urban parks filled with creeks, lakes and ale gardens connected by walkways decorated with plants and flowers of every conceivable variety. Dotted throughout the city were old palace estates fronted by castle ruins on grounds that had been converted to markets and games arenas. Some of the buildings, Daaynan knew, were unchanged since the Punic Wars hundreds of years ago. Road converged to form broad avenues that ran through the centre of the city featuring giant trading halls, museums and galleries. There were thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of people beneath them, a maelstrom of humanity forming a thronging pulse that moved in and out of buildings, walked along streets and avenues, gathered in parks and markets.