The Steward and the Sorcerer

by James Peart

  “Brinemore,” he breathed. “An inspiring sight.”

  “Amazing,” Simon said from behind him, shaking his head. “I never dreamed the Northern Earth had developed this level of civilisation,” he said, rolling his eyes when Christopher remarked “I wonder do they have good strength whiskeys?” “This is no time for drinking,” he snapped. “You are about to impersonate the ruler of a large city state and our lives may depend on the success of your act. Daaynan, tell him.” Simon turned to the Druid, but the other had collapsed forward over his harness and would have fallen off the bird completely had his legs not been fastened to the harness. “He’s passed out! We need to get him down now,” he shouted at Mereka. “See if you can find a suitable landing spot.”

  Christopher pointed to an area guarded by sentries just north east of the centre with buildings that looked to be fortified. “Over there, the citadel.” He turned to Simon. “Do you recognise it?” The other nodded, remembering it from their experience in that world which they constructed from their memories. The heavily gated complex that housed the Council Chambers and the Steward’s residence looked imposing, even from this height, fronted by gates made of solid oak and iron. They remembered how it towered over the surrounding city, its turrets and steeples looming like teeth over those who approached it. The Steward’s tower rose to an impressive height, its orbital roof peering over the citadel and much of the city, varying slightly from how they remembered it in the world of their construction. The Druid’s memory of it must have been hazy, Simon reflected.

  “There,” he pointed at the building, “down by the foot of that tower.”

  Mereka shook her head. “We need to get Daaynan to safety first.”

  “No. It’s important that we get Christopher inside the citadel.” He explained to her their idea to have Christopher replace the Steward.

  “That won’t be any kind of plan if Daaynan can’t recover in time to confront Longfellow,” Mereka argued.

  “You don’t understand. Christopher can give orders as the Steward to Longfellow’s men to attack the King and the Tochried.”

  “And who would win that battle, Simon? Sheer numbers won’t matter, not against those two. The Druid needs to rest and we can only hope he’ll be ready for when the King arrives. There’s a copse slightly beyond the citadel. We can set down there at the edge of it.”

  Simon followed her gaze. It was a small urban woodland, a narrow strip really, barely four trees wide, but the canopy was thick, hiding what lay within so it would serve their purposes. He nodded. “Alright. We can leave him there but someone has to stay with him while the rest of us go to the citadel.”

  “I will,” Mereka said quickly. When Simon looked at her, she added “I’ll make sure nothing happens to him.” Blushing slightly, she turned her face away. “Fine,” Simon agreed. “Chris, you’re coming with me.” For the first time he drew a parallel between himself and Mereka. They were both happy. They each had someone to protect. For Mereka’s part this was true ever since Wade Torn had called her one of his kind back in that tavern in Dhu Nor and an unsteady sense of loss had swept through her.

  They landed at the edge of the copse, Attarack slowly flapping his great wings as he coasted down through pockets of air created by the strong wind, his ponderous head bowing as his talons finally gripped the soft earth beneath the trees. Mereka gently undid both of the Druid’s feet from the harness and lifted him off the bird and carried him into the shade. The young Englishmen slipped their feet free and watched her as she leant over the Druid, administering his forehead with a cloth wetted in a potion she carried in her tunic. Simon pondered the two of them. “Will you be ok?” he asked.

  “I will.” She rose and went over to the Englishman. She slipped the crystal that had been hanging around her neck over her head and presented it to Simon. “Take this. It will protect you from anyone seeking to use magic against you.”

  “But...” he hesitated “...you may need it here.”

  “I have Daaynan, when he recovers.”

  “If he recovers.”

  There was a look of finality in her expression that suggested she would not be persuaded otherwise. He accepted the meta-crystal and the string that held it, placing them inside a pocket in his robe.

  “Remember, when the red flaw is no longer visible, it will serve you no more. When he is himself again, Daaynan will use his blue fire to seek you out.

  “Go now,” she said softly.

  Simon wordlessly offered his thanks and beckoned Christopher to leave with him. Together, the Englishmen mounted the giant bird, securing their legs and feet in the leather fastenings. With a shrill cry, Attarack spread his great wings and rose, circling sharply into the evening air. They watched the land fall away beneath them as the bird carried them higher and higher, turning in the direction of the citadel.

  __________________________________________________________________________________

  Brock and Trey, sentries of the watch in one of the posts along the southern border of the city, had been on duty for almost two days, working consecutive shifts on orders from the Chief of the Home Guard. They sat around a table in the pavilion, gambling, Trey smoking a short pipe filled with tobacco weed, spools of smoke drifting lazily into the darkening skies overhead.

  Brock was thinking about rumours. There had been too many of them recently: the last Chief of the Home Guard’s demise; the Vice-Steward taking over and the Steward gone into hiding; the Northern Army mobilised for an attack that wasn’t coming from their enemies to the east or south where you might expect but from a ragtag body of would-be sorcerers who possessed little or no military training. Brock asked himself this: if the sorcerers were so harmless why had the new Chief of the Home Guard strengthened the watch around the borders of the city, telling the sentries to immediately report any unusual comings or goings?

  He sighed and dealt his hand. They were playing the popular card game Krat, gambling what was left of their month’s pay. It was banned in the city due to its ‘no limits’ betting rule, but out here, unsupervised, who knew or cared? The job was tedious and it was hard to keep your mind sharp. The game, however, was a dangerous addiction. They had already bet well past what they carried in their pockets. He knew people who had lost a year’s pay in one hand of Krat, and he wasn’t about to do that but, Gods, he was bored. Losing big at Krat was a greater threat than being caught playing it, though it could mean your job.

  There was a man approaching the pavilion, walking directly towards them. He looked as if he had come a long way on foot, his cloak, once probably dark blue or black, faded and worn, and frayed at the sleeves. He carried a traveller’s bag that had seen better days, the leather cover scratched and torn. He held it from one end of a broken strap, allowing it occasionally to drag on the ground. He looked like a common wastrel. His face, however, told Brock that he was something more, or had been. He could feel the gaze of the traveller’s eyes as they settled on him, even from 400 feet away. Unsettling. Brock lifted his chin at Trey, who looked quickly around. He was about to say something, taking in the stranger’s appearance, then his mouth closed with a sudden snap.

  “Trouble?” he said to Brock.

  “I don’t know.”

  As he approached, the stranger’s face became more visible. Brock thought it looked somehow regal. His skin was parchment white, almost translucent, the eyes a faint yellow. The latter could have been rheumatism, he supposed, but did not think so. The man seemed curiously dismissive of his surroundings, including the rags that he wore. That was funny, thought Brock. He looked as if he had journeyed the length and breadth of the Northern Territories and endured everything nature had had to throw at him.

  “Looks like a vagabond,” he said to Trey. “Let’s question him anyway.”

  They reluctantly fanned their cards down on the table and picked up the cross-blades they had each been issued, adapted with bows to shoot steel arrows, pointing the weapons at the ground and walking out to
intercept the stranger.

  “Hail there, fellow!” Brock called out, standing a little adrift of Trey, deliberately taking in the man’s appearance. “Are you lost?”

  The man stopped walking. “I am looking for the city of Brinemore,” came the response. His voice was higher-pitched than Brock would have thought, yet it fitted that vague look of royalty in his expression. It carried an expectation of obedience that was nearly comical, given the situation.

  “Well, you’ve found Brinemore alright,” he gestured at the old historical wall that ran behind the post as far as they could see in either direction, “but it’s not open to free traffic today.”

  “It’s in lockdown,” Trey added, and spat tobacco on the ground.

  The stranger looked at them. “I need to enter the city.”

  Brock and Trey exchanged a glance. Brock’s grip tightened on his cross-blade and he lifted it a degree or two.“What is your business here?” Trey said.

  “If I don’t get in this way,” the man said, ignoring him, “I shall find another.” He began to walk between the two sentries, his gait even-paced, leisurely, as if he expected no trouble from the guards.

  “Stop!” Brock commanded, raising the cross-blade to the level of the man’s chest. Trey did likewise. Between them they formed an arc through which it was impossible for him to move without getting struck. The stranger halted, his eyes focused on the weapons, a terrible stillness in his expression.

  “Drop the bag,” Brock said. “Kick it away from you. Good, now get down on your knees. That’s it. Don’t mind the stones, they won’t cut you. What’s your name?”

  “The Raja Iridis,” the man said from his reduced height, watching them carefully.

  “And I’m the King of the Cru Dynasty. Your real name. Now.”

  “It is unpronounceable in your language. Here I am known as Iridis.”

  “Where are you from, Iridis, and what are you doing here?”

  “I have come to put order back to the state. Your...Steward...has been making some bad decisions lately. It is time for change.”

  Brock glanced at Trey. Without speaking he lowered his blade and knelt down beside the man while Trey covered his approach, ready to deliver half a foot length of steel into the stranger’s mid-section should he move in the wrong way. Producing a set of wire strips from an inside pocket of his uniform with which to tie the other, he reached out with his free hand to grasp the man’s arm in an effort to clasp his wrist with one of the strips. As Brock touched him, however, his body was instantly flooded with a cold, spiking numbness that removed all thought, all deliberation of action. It occurred swiftly, without time for him to protest- whatever had penetrated his mind allowed his own to rear up once in alarm before it froze. He sat, half-crouched on the border grassland, as motionless as a petrified sentinel.

  What happened next took a fraction of a moment, Iridis working quickly to explore this man’s mind, rummaging at lightning speed through the narrative of his history to find a connection with the other who presently held a weapon to his head. He knocked aside irrelevant thoughts and actions in search of shared experience like a bear slapping at objects in a goods wagon. Trey, unsure what to do, his hands shaking in panic, fired a bolt of steel from his blade, the arrow missing its mark by at least two feet. When he had collected himself, aiming the bow correctly this time, he felt something lance the surety of his concentration like a cold spear arrowing through the lair of his mind, suspending all thought and action. It was as if his mind had deserted his body yet remained somehow linked by a thin spool of thread. He lashed out at the creature who now occupied it yet his flailing limbs thrashed at nothing and he soon realised he had been reduced to the status of witness in his body’s actions.

  Iridis used Trey’s form to collect the blades, walking into the pavilion with the two sentries, sitting on one of the comfortable looking chairs as they troubled themselves to find him a change of clothing. These men held no magic of their own, unlike the Furies at the Druid’s keep, but as long as they had some common experience that created a strong bond he would have no trouble uniting the citizens of Brinemore under his will. And what better bond was there than that enjoyed by soldiers in their Northern Army? he smiled to himself. No, there would be no opposition there. The Steward’s helpmeet, however, presented a sort of challenge. That one could control men’s minds remotely- and other creatures too. They needed to be close in range- although how close he had no idea- and a handful of individuals were not subject to his control, like the Druid. Iridis had learned all this when he had touched the Fury at Fein Mor. The helpmeet had invaded the Faerie creature’s mind and sent it south to attack the Druid, travelling with it at least part of the way. On touching the Fury, Iridis had immediately felt his stink inside the creature. It had been a curious sensation, to grasp the mind of another while feeling the presence of a third. As a result, he knew what the helpmeet knew and vice-versa. There had been no time to confront him, not then when he’d had to put distance between himself and the Druid’s apprentices- those who wielded the Druid’s green fire. Now perhaps was the time to confront the helpmeet. He only hoped the other would overcome his present caution and probe further into his mind. There was a surprise waiting for him, should he decide to do so.

  As things stood, he would have to deal with the Tochried. The helpmeet controlled this creature from beyond the limits of the city. He knew exactly where. Once he had finished with the Tochried, he would track him down and capture him. Perhaps he would make an example of him. The Druid and he could be put to work outside the citadel as slaves, deferential to the lowest commoner. A faint line creased his brow as he wondered why the Druid had not yet fully succumbed to his power. His magic was there inside him, eating him from the inside out, yet still he resisted.

  He brushed the thought aside. There were more pressing concerns. Once they had been dealt with, by dawn tomorrow, he would be ruler of a new empire. His dying world Naveen would live again.

  28.

  The platoon, led by Commander Dechs, stood outside the fortified complex that housed the Council chambers and the Steward’s quarters. The citadel gates, towering structures made of sturdy oak and fortified iron, were locked behind them with chains made of reinforced steel. They stood in file, gripping swords, halberds and flails, ready to encounter what crossed through the city toward them. Some of the soldiers glanced uneasily to one side of the platoon, at the monster that stood there, motionless, its presence dwarfing that of the men, yet they did not break file. Dechs had told them they would assist this creature in the battle against the sorcerers and they knew not to question the Commander, though he had added that their Steward thought they needed fire to match fire. It stood there like a demonic thing, well over seven feet in height, its thickset eyes impenetrable beneath hairless eyebrows, staring straight ahead as if caught in the grip of a trance. Its skin was red, abrasive, its plated surface eroded in pitted hollows. Thick veins stood out along its legs and arms, callused and rope-like, snaking beneath shoots of wiry hair. It stood apart from the men, though it faced the same direction. Even Dechs gave it a wide berth, though they thought their Commander wasn’t afraid of it. Dechs wasn’t afraid of anything, it seemed. He had led them for several years and before that he served in a subdivision of the Northern Army known to the men in the barracks as the Exile Legionnaires after which this platoon was named. The Exiles were a motley assortment of outcasts, former rebels and misfits, untouchables with little or no purpose that were the first to be sent into battle during the early years of the state’s war with the Drague Territories. Rumour had it that Dechs and his men were once caught by a full regiment of Drague warriors in some nowhere eastern town with no means of escape. The company of Exiles numbered two hundred men against the thousand-strong regiment who were armed to the teeth with blades, crossbows and hatchets. All the Exiles had was the standard broadsword the army had issued them with. Dechs immediately ordered his men to separate into small groups and lie i
n wait in suitable vantage points in the town’s various buildings. Using the town’s infrastructure to their advantage, they ambushed and killed over half the regiment. Moral was running high but many of the men’s swords had grown blunted with use and could no longer be used effectively, the soldiers exhausted from striking the enemy with the flat of their blades. So Dechs gathered up sticks, a stone slab he liberated from a stronghold, and two oak wood planks and fashioned a grindstone on which they sharpened their blades until they could cut paper. Now, they were a hundred and fifty men against 400. Dechs did a brave thing. He walked out into the middle of the town’s main street and challenged what was left of the regiment to come get him. Sensing a trap, the Drague tribesmen circled around the street, using the narrow thoroughfares that ran parallel, searching for the Exiles. The real trap, however, was lying in wait for them at both ends of each thoroughfare from which there was no easy means of escape as the only access past those buildings was to go inside them. This was impossible as Dechs’ men had boarded up many of the entrances. The Exiles stormed into the tunnel-like passageways, scything through the panicked mass of tribesmen with their broadswords, swinging and cutting until not a single man was left alive. Just under a hundred of Dechs’ company survived that day and it became a story that turned their Commander into a legend.

  Dechs stood in front of his men, smiling as he was wont in the calm moments before the storm. It would be a big one. He did not know what manner of men it was they stood against today, but one look at his Steward earlier had told him it would be hot, whatever it was. Longfellow had told him it was not a numbers battle- they faced only two sorcerers- but magic wielders had a way of shortening the odds against you succeeding. The demon they warded did not look as if it needed their protection. There was that. And he suspected there would be an attack from another source. Let it come, he thought. Politicians like Longfellow thought it best to play your own game and not worry about the enemy’s plan. That was effective in battle up to a point but you also needed to study the opposition’s behaviour as well as their motives. Dechs knew what they wanted. The question was would he give it to them? They were being paid not to, but this was a sorcerer’s battle with an outcome that held more importance for them rather than the state. His smile twisted to a grimace. It would be interesting, should he and his men survive, to see who would prevail.