Magician's Heir

by D Bruce Cotton

  “Harrumph! Beastly woman, that Karla!” he muttered as he rubbed his head. “At times I wonder who works for whom!” After a deep sigh, he continued, “I have provided Jacob with the provisions he requested, Masters. Is there aught else you might need? Some tobacco perhaps? I have a small barrel of fine leaf from down Preswyck way. Best in all Tantris, if I say so myself.”

  “Thank you, but no, Burliman,” answered Aristomus. “You have been most helpful. Do you know where we can find the good Captain?”

  “I will take you myself.” Burliman escorted the two out the front door and around the edge of the building. He pointed behind the inn. “He is with his men at the stable, just back there.”

  Aristomus and Adam saw Henslow as he shouted instructions to his men. Under his guidance, the soldiers worked to saddle their horses and tie down provisions. After a word of thanks to the innkeeper, they headed toward the group. When he spotted them, Henslow hurried over and gave a slight bow.

  “Ah, Master Aristomus. You are well come. We will be ready to depart soon now.” Then he turned to Adam and drew himself to attention. “Adam Gray, it appears I may have misjudged you. I cannot credit any agent of the Dark Mage would do as you did two nights ago. You saved my friend’s granddaughter and I... well, I regret my earlier words.” Henslow stuck out his hand. “I hope we can put such differences behind us.”

  Adam grinned as he reached out and gripped the Captain’s arm. “I’m happy to, Captain Henslow.”

  If Henslow’s change of heart surprised Aristomus, he hid it well. “I trust all the necessary arrangements are made, Captain?”

  Henslow turned back to the mage. “As well as possible. We have moved the surviving villagers from their homes into Codtown. Though crowded, they will be much safer here. I have discussed the security arrangements with the leader of the local garrison. The number of casualties limits his options, but I believe they can manage until we reach Seir and arrange for help to come.”

  “Excellent. I will not keep you further, Captain. I am sure you have much to do before we depart.” Henslow nodded his thanks, turning toward a cluster of soldiers with a wave and shout.

  Adam and Aristomus entered the stable and busied themselves with their horses. Well-rested and almost playful, Belle nuzzled Adam when he entered her stall. By the time the two men led the animals into the stable yard, Henslow and his nine soldiers stood ready to depart.

  The company rode out to the main street of Codtown and turned toward the main gate. Silent villagers with haunted eyes wandered out to the street to watch the soldiers depart. Adam lowered his head. It felt like they abandoned the people of Codtown. Moments later, they reached the main gate. They paused there while a group of villagers, armed with an assortment of mismatched weapons and the odd piece of rusty armor, made a show of opening the gate. Henslow nodded his approval.

  The group turned northwest along a road following the contours of Tempest Lake. The air reeked of smoke and gray tendrils still rose from the village. A few minutes ride took the company through a small copse of trees. On the other side, the road wound through a wide, green field overlooking the lake. As they drew closer, Adam saw dozens of dirt mounds covering the field.

  The color drained from his face. Aristomus looked from Adam to the gravesite and back again. “You have seen this before, Adam.” It wasn’t a question.

  Adam nodded. Then he turned away as though to deny what he’d just seen. He felt caught up in a whirlwind of impossibilities, things neither comprehensible nor avoidable. Yet intuition told him he needed to understand them. It might well prove his only chance to survive.

  THE COMPANY CONTINUED the long trek to Seir. In deference to Aristomus and Adam’s fatigue, Henslow set a gentle pace. They rose early, but set up camp well before dark. The days of rest in Codtown and the slower march allowed them to regain strength as time passed.

  After setting up camp on the evening of the second day, the company sat around the fire and finished a meal. Aristomus attempted to instruct Adam on the finer nuances of healing magic, but failed spectacularly. Then a shout of alarm came from a soldier on sentry duty. The off-duty soldiers jumped up and the rasp of drawn steel rang in the night.

  Two figures emerged into the clearing. Adam had trouble making out details, but he thought he recognized Drask, one of the soldiers on watch duty. The other figure followed just behind him; hood pulled up and face cloaked in shadow. Henslow hurried over and spoke to Drask. The soldier turned away to return to his watch while Henslow sheathed his sword and made his way back to the campfire accompanied by the stranger. The other soldiers took their cue from Henslow and returned to their duties.

  “Who is it?” whispered Adam. “I can’t see his face.”

  Aristomus remained silent for a few moments as he peered at the shadowy figure. “By the Power! I believe it is Logen.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “One of the soldiers Captain Henslow sent to warn Lakeshore.”

  Chapter 10, Logen’s Tale

  Adam did a quick calculation in his head. Logen and the other soldier left for Lakeshore at midday, six days ago. To return this fast, he must have stayed in Lakeshore only a single night. And he still must have ridden hard with little rest.

  Logen settled by the fire next to Henslow and across from Adam and Aristomus. When he pulled back his hood, Adam saw exhaustion etched in the man’s features—skin drawn and sallow; the eyes sunken and underlined with dark circles. Henslow ordered one of his men to fetch water. Logen mumbled his thanks and took a long pull from the leather pouch.

  Henslow’s restraint reached its limits. “What news of Lakeshore?” he asked. “Did you warn Lieutenant Siminz? What precautions has he taken?”

  “Captain, I...” Logen hesitated, glancing around at those by the fire. He dropped his head in shame, as though accepting blame for the news he carried.

  “Speak up, man!” shouted Henslow, his patience exhausted.

  Logen turned to Henslow and grasped his arm. “Sir, you must believe me! We traveled the distance as swiftly as possible; making every... every effort! We... we...” Logen lost his momentum, spluttered to a stop.

  Aristomus spoke up then, his voice soothing. “It is plain you bear hard news, Logen. Speak, so your burden might be lightened in the sharing.”

  Henslow took his cue from the mage. He put a light hand on the man’s shoulder and lowered his voice, “There is no blame for you in this, Logen. Any fault lies on my shoulders. We, too, bear tales of death and woe. Yet we cannot share this burden until you give it utterance. Speak.”

  Logen nodded, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, he appeared calmer, resigned to the tale’s necessity. Voice even and face expressionless, he stared into the dark, as though it might place some emotional distance between himself and the pain of his account.

  Logen spoke with hesitation. He glossed over key points and sometimes backtracked to fill in crucial segments. But Henslow and Aristomus questioned and prodded him for details he overlooked or forgot. Though it took time, his tale became more ordered and coherent.

  Adam listened, filled with both dread and fascination by Logen’s narrative. Despite the disjointed nature his account, Adam envisioned what happened as though he’d been there.

  “Darius and I received the task of returning to Lakeshore with all haste,” he said. “Captain Henslow ordered us to bear warnings to Lieutenant Siminz... to say Adam Gray might not be the source of the danger foretold by Master Serton... and to prepare the city for possible attack.”

  When the two soldiers departed the company, they rode hard and well into the night. They stopped only when it became so dark they feared a misstep which might cost their mounts a broken leg. They made a cold camp; their sleep fitful when not on watch. Arising before dawn, they again set a hard pace. By noon, only a few hours separated them from their destination and Logen estimated they would arrive soon after dark. Only then did Darius notice the black smoke on the ho
rizon.

  By mutual consent, the two soldiers pressed their mounts and rode harder still. The pillar of smoke grew larger. Soon it became impossible to deny. The source had to be Lakeshore.

  Twilight fell by the time the two neared the city, their mounts lathered and trembling. Logen urged caution. He feared they might blunder into the midst of a battle. Yet Darius argued they might arrive too late; their two swords might make all the difference. The first group of refugees they came upon settled their dispute.

  The ragged line of townsfolk filled Logen’s heart with pity. Men, women and children trudged along, each weary and downtrodden. Most carried all the worldly possessions remaining to them and all were dirty and disheveled, their faces marked with soot and lined with fatigue. Too many bore wounds bound with dirty strips of cloth stained dark red. Darius tried to question a few, but shock and sheer exhaustion left them unresponsive.

  Frustrated, the two soldiers continued on. The number of refugees proved sporadic and most traveled in small groups. But all wore the same haunted expression. The two men wasted no more time with questions. Instead, they concentrated on their objective. The tall, black column disappeared as full dark arrived, but the acrid smell of smoke continued; the taste of ashes bitter on their tongues. An occasional shift in the wind brought a thick haze of smoke, making them gasp and cough.

  A few moments later, they reached the northern corner of the town. The gray walls still stood and showed no signs of damage. But now they saw the flicker of fires lighting the night sky. Smoke rose from behind the walls, outlined against the orange glow. The road grew crowded with refugees, their eerie silence punctuated by an occasional groan or cry of pain. Logen and Darius had to dismount or risk trampling some townsfolk. They walked their horses along the edge of the fields bordering the road.

  Hurrying as much as their weary legs would permit, they reached Lakeshore’s main gate at last. Logen’s eyes widened with disbelief at what he saw. The gate itself appeared undamaged, but piles of Unsouled lay in heaps to either side of the cleared drawbridge. Though at its deepest there, the moat nearly overflowed with dead bodies.

  Large, hastily raised tents crowded the fields to their left. Based on the moans and cries from within, many served as makeshift hospitals, used to house and treat the wounded. Logen and Darius led their mounts to the largest tent and tied them to the side of a damaged wagon. Before they entered, an old woman burst through the tent flaps. She just made it outside before sagging to her knees, retching. The woman remained there, hands on her knees, and gasped as she tried to catch her breath.

  Darius bent to one knee and placed his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Are you all right? What happened here?”

  The woman looked up. Smudged with grime, her plump face sagged with fatigue. Stray wisps of gray hair stuck out where they escaped the tight bun at the nape of her neck. Soot and splattered blood stained her dress. Darius offered an arm, helping her climb painfully to her feet.

  Logen’s eyes widened as he recognized the woman. “Mayor Steir?”

  “Mayor?” Her voice cracked. “Lakeshore is an empty shell and in need of a mayor no longer.” She peered at the two men. “You... you are Captain Henslow’s men, are you not?” A faint gleam of hope lit her face. “Is Master Aristomus returned? We sorely need his strength!”

  “No, madam mayor,” answered Darius. “He continues on to Seir. Captain Henslow sent us back to... to carry warning.”

  Mayor Steir’s face collapsed then, all hope gone. “Warning? Well then, consider us warned, young man.” Her voice dropped to a husky whisper as tears cut twin runnels through the dirt on her face. “But it comes too late... too late.”

  Darius looked over at Logen, the sympathy plain in his eyes. Then he turned back to the mayor and asked, “Madam mayor? What terrible disaster has befallen Lakeshore? How did this happen?”

  She gave his arm a gentle pat. “You will need to report to Lieutenant Siminz. Perhaps he can speak of it. I... I cannot bear to give voice to such... atrocities. But we must hurry. Lieutenant Siminz took several wounds in the attack. Even now he may be... come, come!”

  Mayor Steir ducked through the tent flaps, Darius in tow and Logen just a step behind. A few smoking oil lamps placed at scattered intervals did little to dispel the shadows. A terrible stench hit the two soldiers: the sharp, coppery smell of blood mixed with the foul odor of loosened bowels. Logen used the corner of his cloak to mask his mouth and nose, glad now he could not see well in the darkened interior.

  But he saw more than enough. Soldiers and townsfolk alike lay on fabricated cots, their groans and cries of anguish pitiful to hear. Neither one a stranger to the sights and sounds of the battlefield, the two soldiers knew this was different. Friends and neighbors lay here; the people they’d sworn to protect.

  As Mayor Steir led them further into the tent, Logen caught brief glimpses of the terrible suffering on all sides: a woman, the side of her face chewed and torn, one arm bent back at a terrible angle; a soldier, his face battered, with a splintered piece of wood protruding from his side; shrieks from a man held down as someone amputated his arm. And worst of all, a small child, the stump of her left leg wrapped in blood-soaked linen and a ragged, stained doll clutched in one arm. Vacant eyes stared from the little girl’s expressionless face, trapped in nightmares. Far too often, he saw bloody sheets pulled over the faces of victims who did not survive.

  Logen shuddered, turning his eyes to the floor as he tried to avoid the surrounding tragedy. He bumped into Darius when the soldier came to a sudden stop. On a small cot in front of them lay Lieutenant Siminz. Still young, only 30 or so, the officer had a slender face and sharp chin. A thin, brown moustache grew under a broad nose and he kept his long hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.

  Both soldiers knelt beside the cot. Skin pale and sweat-streaked, the lieutenant’s eyes still moved behind clenched lids. Blisters scored his left cheek and white bandages, stained red in several places, bound his chest and abdomen. Rough stitches marked a deep cut across his forehead. He would have a nasty scar... if he survived.

  Mayor Steir knelt down on the other side and placed her palm against the young officer’s forehead. “He is feverish,” she announced. “Infection will claim too many of those who might otherwise live. We have used poultices of yellow root and cassia bark, but those herbs run out. Lieutenant Siminz refused them for himself, ordering what medical supplies remain go to the women and children first.”

  She gave the officer’s shoulder a careful shake. “Lieutenant Siminz,” she called. “Wake up. These men must speak with you.”

  The Lieutenant’s eyes sprang open wide. He looked around with frantic eyes as though he’d forgotten everything. When he tried to rise, the pain hit, and he fell back on the cot, his teeth clenched around a loud groan. When the worst had passed, he looked up with a blank expression before recognition bloomed in his eyes.

  “Darius? Logen?” he croaked. “Why are you here? Is Captain Henslow with you?” Again he tried to rise, but Mayor Steir held him down with a gentle hand against his chest.

  “Shh. Quiet now, boy,” she said. “I will not have you hurt yourself further.” Siminz settled back with a moan and Mayor Steir placed a wet cloth over his forehead. “You may speak with him,” she said, her voice stern, “but for a short time only. He will need his strength to fight this fever... and his injuries. Call if I am needed.”

  The two soldiers nodded their agreement as the mayor drifted away, then turned back to Lieutenant Siminz. The officer blinked hard, anxious to learn about the company’s situation. Darius filled him in on the little that had happened since they’d left Lakeshore. Then he explained Captain Henslow’s fear their captive might not be the enemy from Seir’s warning and their need to notify the city.

  Logen interrupted. “But we are too late. Please, Lieutenant, what happened here?”

  “Mere hours after you left, a man appeared at the main gate,” he answered. “He claimed to be a mage and g
ave his name as Meloch. Since he bore a staff, we saw no reason to doubt him. He said he came from the Council of Mages and bore messages for the Guild. I spoke to him myself, explaining Master Aristomus and Captain Henslow had taken a prisoner to Seir for questioning by the Council. Curt and ill-tempered, the mage seemed not at all like Master Aristomus. Refusing to relay his message, he said, ‘What I have is for the mage, not for the likes of you.’

  “He also refused my offer of an escort to go after Master Aristomus. Instead, he ordered me to guide him to the Mages’ guildhall. I tried to explain Master Aristomus had left the building sealed and empty. But he waved away my concerns and demanded we set out at once.

  “When we arrived, he stared at the building for several minutes. It appeared... almost as if he sized up a difficult opponent. Then he placed his hands against the door and mumbled a strange incantation. Black energy pulsed and enveloped the doors. They gave a great groan, as though resisting his power, before they crashed open. Without a single word, he entered, and the doors slammed shut behind him.

  “It seemed odd to me. The magic he used appeared strange... even frightening. And I have never seen a mage using the Power without the aid of a staff.” Siminz sighed. “But I learned long ago it is seldom wise to question the acts of mages, so I turned away to resume my duties.”

  Siminz looked at both men in turn. “That night, the Unsouled attacked.

  “But their attack made no sense. You have both fought the Unsouled. You know their savagery, their love of death and bloodshed. So when we first spotted them at the borders of the Great Forest, we prepared for an immediate assault. I deployed my men and sent a runner to the Mages’ Guild to fetch Meloch. Should we face Dread as well as the Unsouled, we would need a mage.

  “But the Unsouled stopped at the forest’s edge, gathering until their dozens became scores, then hundreds. By the time they advanced toward Lakeshore, the fields had turned black with the creatures. Yet still they did not charge. They seemed unhurried; their victory well in hand.