The Steward and the Sorcerer

by James Peart

  Then he had heard the demon’s cry and the deadly hush that had followed it. Longfellow had told him it would make a difference to the outcome of the battle but not how that would happen. Now though he was beginning to see it. Looking past the faces of those he fought, his eyes travelled to the citizens’ rear guard at the edge of the Trenholm and what he witnessed there caused him to immediately order a retreat. A ripple, apparently constructed of sound, bowled through the forty thousand strong ranks of the foe, cutting through them like a set of monstrous jaws, invisible save for its hideous effect, tearing through fibre and muscle and bone like knife through paper, tearing...no, splitting...its casualties with the force of its impact like a dog shredding a toy caught in its teeth’s snarling grip.

  Abandoning his strategy to defend the Pass, he shouted at his men to withdraw into the citadel. Together they fled back, headed for the fortified complex that housed the Steward’s tower. Behind them, Dechs could see, the pitch of sound had reached the last of the citizenry, caught them in its grip as they spilled into the citadel, screaming and wailing, the ripple echoing off the inner stone walls of the fortress, beginning to quiet and fade, though striking out with its stilling reach like unseen tentacles at those close by. One of his men was caught in its snare and they witnessed in horror as it snaked around his form, lifting him clear to the height of the wall, tearing muscle and bone, his insides exploding in one final wrench as he dropped to the ground in a pool of his own blood.

  The Legionnaires hammered at the doors to the complex, seeking safety within its perimeter walls.

  After a time, the doors swung wide, permitting entry to the compound.

  Standing in the entryway, his face ashen with terror, was Karsin Longfellow.

  “My Lord!” Commander Dechs said as his men ran past them into the safety of the compound, forgetting or abandoning protocol in front of the Steward, flying right and left to either side of him. A number of them closed the doors behind them and secured the heavy iron bolts that were mounted across the interior. A young man stood beside Longfellow, quietly speaking to him in words that Dechs could not overhear. The Steward seemed different, the Commander thought, even given the circumstances. His statesmanlike mien was gone, robbing him of a sense of authority. Also absent was the air of studied distraction he sometimes wore. In this moment he appeared no more than a badly frightened citizen. He was fitted in the Steward’s dress yet the robes hung differently on him, Dechs thought. He wore a crystal fixed to a piece of string that hung around his neck like a pendant. He fingered it like a holy man rubbing a keepsake in an attempt to ward off evil.

  “My Lord, the citizenry is finished,” Dechs reported. “The Northern Army too. The remainder of the army lies in the Drague Territories days away on horseback. By the time they arrive Brinemore will have fallen. The demon sent to protect us from the two sorcerers has destroyed everyone outside of here. They’re all gone. In a matter of moments, it will breach the citadel too and this place. What are we to do?”

  When Longfellow gave no immediate answer, he asked “was this demon charged to protect us in the first place?”

  “Did it not do that?” came his answer, spoken in an uncertain voice.

  Outside the citadel, the air seemed to break in a thunderous clap. There was the sound of wrenching iron and an almighty crack of metal tearing from stone. Longfellow flinched, his eyes widening in shock. Dechs, however, never moved, his gaze not leaving the Steward, his expression one of granite.

  “My Lord, please answer the question,” he said. “Do you know what’s going on here?”

  “I do,” came a voice from behind the two men.

  A man approached the trio from the direction of the Steward’s quarters, a man who in appearance was an exact copy of the one he was addressing. His finely wrought features, the lines etched on his face, the deceptively soft eyes, even the length of his hair, all were identical to the man standing before him. It was Dechs’ turn to be shocked. He looked from one to the other in disbelief. Only the man’s gait, his air of false deference, and studiedly neutral expression- mottled slightly with indignation- told him that the second man was the true Steward. Some of his men sensed it, nodding respectfully despite their confusion, responding to the natural authority that emanated from him in invisible yet unmistakable waves.

  Addressing the other, he said “My Lord, is it really you?”

  “It is, Commander,” Longfellow said. He walked up to Christopher and Simon, circling them slowly, seeming to recognise Simon equally.

  Dechs looked from one to the other, marvelling at their similarity. “Is it sorcery?” he whispered.

  “Yes. This one,” Longfellow pointed at Simon, “fits the description of the individual who helped the Druid when one of my...my scouts...confronted him in the Druid’s keep, a little while ago.” He turned to the Legionnaires. “Arrest them both. Place them in the stronghold.”

  “Tell him the truth,” Simon said to Longfellow. “It was a creature of magic that you sent to Fein Mor. A Faerie being. You have banned sorcery in the Northern Earth, but still find it convenient to use it to further your own ends.”

  “Sire?” Dechs asked.

  “He is a liar,” the Steward said without hesitation, “just like his companion who pretends to be something he is not.” He leaned his face close to Simon’s. “Your Druid does not have the courage to face me, just as he did not back at Fein Mor. Nothing can save either of you now from the Tochried.”

  As if in answer, a crash sounded from outside the compound, iron tearing free from its moorings in stone. The gates had been torn open, Dechs thought. The demon was inside the citadel, approaching the compound.

  Longfellow turned to Dechs and his men. “The Tochried is coming. Rest assured, he will respond to me alone. You are safe from harm.”

  Simon addressed the Legionnaires as well, spreading his hands in appeal. “That thing out there does not discriminate between foe and ally. You have witnessed it for yourselves. Your Steward has commissioned it to stand against two sorcerers he has claimed are enemies of the state, but he also hasn’t learned to discriminate. Iridis may be an irredeemable evil but The Druid Daaynan works for the good of mankind. He doesn’t want to overthrow your Steward. He merely wants good relations between your state and Fein Mor. He acts for the...”

  Longfellow cut Simon off. “Would you listen to a sorcerer’s dogsbody?” he asked with biting sarcasm. “I control the Tochried. Whatever you may think of me for bringing it into being, whatever remaining loyalty to me you have left in this time of crisis, remember this: I am the only thing that stands between you and that demon. Stand by me now and you won’t regret it.”

  But Simon shook his head, his expression filled with bitter contempt. “He doesn’t want your support! He merely wants you not to attack him before he can issue orders to this monster. And what will those orders be? That’s what you should be concerned about. It’s entirely possible that this creature, or whoever has really controlled it till now, wants only to attack your Steward. He has conditioned you against the use of sorcery. If you are really loyal to him, judge him by his own standards. Arrest him instead for violating his own rules. Or leave him to the creature. You decide.”

  The soldiers looked at one another, then at their Commander.

  An instant later, the doors to the compound crashed open.

  34.

  Iridis placed his hand on the Tochried and instantly his surroundings changed.

  This was not like a mind at all, the Naveen King thought, as his vision was filled with a glaring white light, reducing the battlefield on which he stood to the tiniest point at the furthest corner of his vision. The power he felt here was all-encompassing and intoxicating. Alive with its own intelligence, it pulsed and thrummed along lines he was unfamiliar with, weaving and threading to form a singular contour that pounded with an alien stroke. It was something beyond what he would consider a mind. Quickly, reaching out, seeking routes of thought within it, he
found none; just this vast pulse. It did not think in the ordinary way, or maybe not at all. He tried to communicate with images instead, enjoying the same success. Wherever this thing dwelled, nothing physical featured there. It seemed to respond to impulse. Perhaps it fed off...

  Hello, Iridis.

  Iridis wheeled about in alarm, taken completely by surprise. Tan Wrock. Of course. Somehow, he had allowed himself to forget what was controlling this creature. He thrashed against the walls of the creature’s awareness, seeking release, finding in his effort an inability to move, not even the tiniest shift.

  Different, isn’t he? He comes from a realm of existence that precedes space and thought. Place has no importance here. Nor does time, as such. He does not have a name for it- there are no names for things where he hails from- but I call it the Netillus, a word in my language that roughly translates as ‘formless.’

  Far beneath him, on the bottom horizon of the Tochried’s mind, Iridis observed himself smile grimly. Your time is over, helpmate. You and I know that you can only extend your influence on one of us at a time. Release your grip on this thing and try me instead.

  And you think you can control us both? You’re a dupe. You still don’t understand, do you? Those powers you have based on the physical, the so-called minds you govern stirred by your touch. The Tochried has not so much as sensed you yet. But it will, when I merge into you.

  Iridis tried reaching out to the creature with a sequence of impressions, putting them in correct order in an effort to replace thought, then changing image to impulse, creating the idea of freedom from what controlled it inside the Tochried’s mind/non-mind. None of it seemed to work. He sensed the other’s contempt.

  Have at me then, fool! he cried out. See what happens when you confront the Raja Iridis.

  Wrock acted blindingly quick, gathering every last reserve of his power, striking Iridis with the brunt of his force, lines of energy sent streaming through the other’s awareness, echoing through the tangled labyrinth of his mind with a charging intensity in a series of resounding booms, scaling upward in potency and force. On and on he went, finding new avenues and corridors to travel, twisting deep into the heart of the Naveen King, turning as he turned, moving away from the Tochried, beckoned by the mainstay of the other, searching for the source of his lifeblood, penetrating deeper into the core of what awaited him.

  Too late it occurred to him that he could not go back, realising with sudden, sickening understanding that he had become lost in the tangle of endless dark tunnels that countenanced Iridis’ awareness.

  Screaming into the burrowed void, he dimly registered the intersecting cry of the Tochried on realising it had finally been released from Tan Wrock’s hold.

  35.

  As the doors to the complex swung violently open, the company made up of Legionnaires, Steward and Englishmen came face to face with the hulking, brutish form of the Tochried. Its eyes, deep red pools beneath thickset brows, came to rest on the group. In one massive paw lay the broken, lifeless form of the Naveen King. Simon and Christopher both let out a gasp of recognition as they noticed the King, one part of all their troubles, now so easily dispatched. The others, thinking the Raja one of the citizens- perhaps having somehow escaped its attack and returned to make an ill-advised last stand against the creature- backed away from it, fear and wonder drafted on their features alongside a respect for this brave citizen. Only Longfellow and Dechs did not show themselves to be afraid, the former standing very still, silently mouthing words as if rehearsing a speech. The Commander signalled to his men to get ready to charge, lifting one clenched fist in a familiar gesture. The Legionnaires tensed, gathering close, moving forward as one.

  Absentmindedly, the Tochried cast Iridis aside like a rag doll and stepped through the entryway into the compound.

  It brought its hands together in a deafening clap, the sound echoing throughout the courtyard of the complex, booming off the walls and rebounding in a thunderous roar, building a horrible momentum as it travelled toward the men, a wave to sweep them off the face of existence. It would have finished them all if Christopher hadn’t acted in that moment. Darting forward in front of the others to meet the forward pitch of the wave, he grasped the crystal that hung around his neck and lifted it above his chest. Shutting his eyes tight, swallowing the sudden terror that rose up in him like a scream, he swept aside his cowardice and braced himself for the impact. For a long moment that seemed to stretch out endlessly, nothing happened. The moment passed into another and still nothing but the sound of the wave’s undulating pitch. Christopher dared to open his eyes. Through narrow slits he could see the swell had split to form hundreds of separate waves, pitching and rolling of their own accord, targeted at each man. His hold on the crystal tightened, his fingers bleeding where they gripped its edges. He composed a silent prayer to the Gods who ruled this place, pleading with them to finish him quickly.

  A fraction of a second before impact, the single red flaw inside the crystal began to pulsate wildly. Lines of force shot out toward the ruptured swell, catching the arc of each errant wave, shining in one fiercely magnificent pulse that was momentarily blinding, before dying to a dull red once more, the attack over in that fraction of a second.

  The Tochried stared at Christopher as if unable to process what it had just witnessed. Its hands lifted once more yet hovered uncertainly at the level of its chest, deciding if it should send a fresh attack.

  Karsin Longfellow watched what had transpired in numb disbelief. He had simply stood there while the creature attacked and for his inaction had almost been killed! If it hadn’t been for the imposter they would all be dead. How could he have been so stupid? He alone held the key to his survival, the way things should have been, a certainty granted to him by the Darksphere, in the form of an incantation recited to him by the Sphere, a sequence of words that would make the creature his own, overriding any other influence including Tan Wrock’s. He stared at the Tochried. The creature was confused, thanks to the imposter, unused to being challenged in battle. He should make use of it now, before it regained its senses.

  Bringing the words to his lips, he walked forward and addressed it, calling out: “Mih set kraht, fan Dom ii tyl!”The demon narrowed its gaze on him, listening. Turning, pointing at the Englishmen, he added: “Set kraht, dahtess!”

  Simon had equally been in shock, standing in dazed resignation that his final hour had arrived. He stared at his friend, willing himself to believe he had seen what the other had done. He noticed through a dim haze that his crystal had gone dark, the red flaw at its centre faded away to nothing. The meaning of this took a while to sink in yet when it did his thoughts turned immediately to the Drey torch which he carried in his robes. The Tochried, he could see, had overcome its momentary confusion, responding to something Longfellow had said to it in a language that was incomprehensible to him. Now it was coming for him and Christopher.

  Producing two of the sticks and signalling Christopher to stand behind him, he brought the ends close together but not touching. This time there was an instant reaction. Green flame- flame that drew matter into the world of origin of the user- exploded in an arc that circled the ends of the sticks, and immediately the Tochried was confronted with an image of the temple, the same one the Englishmen had explored in the company of the Druid. The familiar white pillars ranged impossibly high and wide for as far as it was possible to see, the strange shield markings visible on the nearest of them. Alive with its own force, the green fire pulsed and throbbed, the spired edges of its flame dancing in the morning air, drawing the creature toward them, catching it in its siphoning pull.

  Then, abruptly, the demon pulled back, lifting its great head as the Steward recited more words in its foreign tongue, turning to Longfellow then swinging back toward the Englishmen in abidance of its fresh instructions. Simon attempted to ward off its advance by waving the sticks- and between them the image of the temple- at the Tochried, yet it did not slow in its advance. It reache
d out through the green contrails of flame, opening its fist to grasp the Englishman’s neck...

  Suddenly the Legion Commander was between Simon and the creature, his broadsword drawn, raised to the level of the demon’s midsection. Turning to Simon, he winked at the astonished Englishman, then spun round and plunged the blade deep into the creature’s stomach, twisting the steel and heaving it free. Rallying the support of his men, he called them to attack and they came at the Tochried in a single rush, blades and axes drawn, swinging and cutting at it. Braying instructions to his men, Dechs made sure they struck at the demon’s arms and hands, preventing it from summoning its magic. The Tochried roared out in consternation, gripping the flat of its belly and swiping at the Legionnaires, batting a number of them to the ground with the broad flat of one massive hand. They came at it in turns, realising that the Commander’s blade had not done the damage they had hoped. Each time it tried to bring its hands together or strike some part of its body to enable its peculiar sorcery. Each time it was frustrated, unable to shake free of the throng of Legionnaires that surrounded it. Finally, it dropped to an impish squat, sinking beneath the range of their weapons. Tensing, summoning its strength, it pushed forward into the mass of soldiers that immediately enclosed it, knocking them off their feet. They lay sprawled on the courtyard’s flagstone surface, dazed or unconscious. Freed into a clearing of its own making, the demon lunged at Simon, stunning him with a destabilising blow to the head.