Magician's Heir

by D Bruce Cotton

  When he heard a raspy, “Enter,” Adam opened the door. Dark save for a small desk lamp, Serton sat by the flickering yellow light, and riffled through a stack of papers. The High Mage hadn’t been up long. Still dressed in rumpled night clothes, his thin, white hair stuck out at all angles. Face drawn with fatigue, he looked at Adam with bloodshot eyes before motioning to a chair near the desk. Adam moved a pile of books to the floor and sat down. He remained silent, waiting for the High Mage to speak.

  Serton hesitated a moment, then spoke in his age-rattled voice, “Apprentice Gray, I have had a vision.”

  Adam sat up straight, and a ripple of dread crawled up his back. In his limited experience, most visions dealt with death. “It had to do with Alecia and Aristomus, didn’t it?”

  The old mage pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “First, I must try to explain these visions. They are both alike and dissimilar to the ones you described. They are rare and come upon me under no set circumstances. I might have one at a Council session or while sitting down to a meal. Even during a dream as happened tonight.

  “Like yours, my visions are of the future,” he continued. “But they are less... specific. I experience hurried images, flashes of emotion and light impressions of what they might mean. Seldom is what I see in any logical order. And much is open to interpretation. At times, precognition seems more a burden than a gift.”

  “Please, just tell me what you saw,” Adam implored.

  “Very well.” The old mage placed his hands flat on the desk and fixed Adam with a watery stare. “At first I saw only blackness. But I had an impression of open space, perhaps a field or plain. Thick darkness blotted out the sky; whether smoke or cloud, I cannot say. Then, for the briefest of moments, the veil parted and a pale beam of moonlight revealed...” The High Mage faltered then, voice cracking with emotion.

  “What?” Adam pleaded. “What did you see?”

  Serton covered his face with both hands. “I saw... in the small circle of light, I saw Masters Aristomus and Alecia. They stood alone, back-to-back, their staffs held ready, surrounded by a darkness deeper than the blackest night. And reaching out from the darkness... I saw many hands, straining to reach them.

  “I fear... I fear I may have seen their doom.”

  “No!” Adam jumped up from the chair, face red with anger. “There has to be something we can do, some way to save them!” He slammed his hand down on the desktop. “You can’t just give up!”

  “Of course not!” answered Serton, his voice rough with anger. “Did I not say my visions are open to interpretation?” After a pause, he continued in a softer tone. “Apprentice... Adam, I do not understand it, but by some means this vision is tied to you. It gave me the impression—no more than a feeling, really—if they are to avoid this doom, you must be there. Somehow, you are their only hope of salvation.”

  Adam fell back into his chair, his face alight with comprehension. “So that’s why... all these preparations are for me, aren’t they? You’re sending me after them.”

  “I am. Once already we refused to release you. Now I can only pray it is not too late to amend our mistake. Will you go?”

  Adam’s face split in a fierce grin. “Try and stop me.”

  Chapter 16, Eastern Road

  The first few days of the journey passed quiet and uneventful. Aristomus left Alecia to herself, deciding she needed time to deal with her feelings for Adam. Not until the mission’s third night did she break her silence.

  Aristomus sipped hot tea and warmed himself by the campfire. He paid little mind as Captain Gilson handed out watch assignments and the other soldiers settled down to sleep. When Alecia walked over and sat, he poured her a cup of tea, but remained silent, waiting while she gathered her thoughts.

  “Father, we left in such a rush, we had little time to discuss the journey ahead. What are your plans?”

  Aristomus stared at the bottom of his cup, the remaining liquid aswirl with fine bits of shredded tea leaves. “At one time,” he mused, “mages believed they could foretell the future by reading tea leaves.” He tossed the cup’s remains into the fire. “If only true... if only we could know in advance the results of our choices so we might better live with the outcome. But it is not so.”

  He took a deep breath before continuing, “In normal times, we would take the road through the Great Forest. It is a less direct route, but has its advantages. There is a ready water supply, and it places both the forest and distance between us and the Dark Mage.” He shivered and pulled his robe tighter. “It might also provide shelter from these icy winds.

  “Ah, but time is short,” he sighed. “For the sake of speed, I have elected the Eastern Road north of the Great Forest. This brings us much closer to Mount Dismay, but perhaps haste and small numbers will allow us to slip by unnoticed. Once past the boundary of the Great Forest, we leave the road, turning southeast to ford the Stonemar River. With no delays, we should reach the foothills of the Dark Mountains a few days after.”

  She frowned. “I see.”

  “You disagree?” he asked.

  “No, I do not, father,” she replied. “Any route will have its hazards. No, it is just... I do not know. I have awaited this journey my entire life. Despite the danger, I should be happy, even ecstatic. Yet I find myself... less than enthusiastic. And, no,” she hurried on before Aristomus could interrupt, “it is not Adam, though thoughts of him weigh heavy on my heart as well. This is something different. It is as though a gray pall shrouds everything.” She grimaced and stared hard into the fire. “I am not sure I have the words to describe it.”

  Aristomus nodded in understanding. “I, too, have sensed this lingering aura of doom. And it grows upon me daily.”

  “When first we left Seir, I saw this as a grand adventure. Only now am I coming to realize how many lives are at stake.” Tears glistened, spilling down her cheeks. “I am afraid, father.”

  Aristomus wrapped long arms around his tearful daughter, whispering encouragements. But inside, cold tendrils of fear wormed their way into his heart as he thought, I, too, am afraid.

  DESPITE THEIR FEARS, the mission made good time. A few more days riding brought them to the crossroads of the Lakeshore and Eastern Roads. They continued eastward at a pace meant to cover ground without tiring their mounts.

  But early on the seventh day, thick gray clouds blew in from the north and soon blotted out the sun. The first fat snowflakes fell not long after. The wind picked up and by midday the company stumbled through a blinding snowstorm. The supply wagons bogged down in the heavy drifts, slowing them further. Each time the wheels had to be dug out by hand. The open plain offered no protection from the unrelenting wind and their advance slowed to a crawl. At last, Captain Gilson fought his way through the storm to the four mages.

  “Masters!” he shouted, his voice barely registering over the howling wind. “We must take shelter or risk becoming separated!”

  “Agreed!” bellowed Bartun. The severe wind blew back the mage’s hood, and his black hair whitened with crusted snow. Through cupped hands, he shouted, “We will make no further progress in this storm! Better to camp now than chance getting lost in this weather!”

  Aristomus nodded his agreement and Gilson turned at once to issue orders to his men. They arranged the supply wagons front-to-back to serve as a break against the wind. It allowed the soldiers to dig through the snow, clearing enough room to stake the tents in place.

  It took time, but they erected the shelters at last. The violent storm beat against the canvas walls as the mages huddled together in their smaller tent, wrapped in blankets to stay warm. Two small oil lamps provided light and some meager heat. The four mages shivered, waiting for the storm to abate, as snow dripped from their clothing to pool on the ground cloth at their feet.

  “I mislike this weather.” Rosner shouted over the howling wind and snapping canvas. “Such a storm so early in the season seems unnatural.”

  “But it is winter,” answered
Bartun in his rumbling voice. “And in winter there are storms.”

  “I must agree with Master Rosner,” said Alecia. Her voice trembled with the cold. “There is something amiss with this storm. Did you note the clouds came from the north? When have storms ever come from that direction?”

  Aristomus looked thoughtful. “Aye, Alecia. Though not unheard of, the weather in Tantris most always comes from the southwest. Is it possible this is some new devilment of the Dark Mage?”

  Bartun frowned at Aristomus, then scoffed, “Do you now believe the Dark Mage can control the weather? What next? He is a fierce enemy, true, but let us not grant him powers of such magnitude without first having proof.”

  “You are right, Master Bartun,” admitted Aristomus. “Still, I am a cautious man. Should we not plan for the worst outcome? We go nowhere until this weather breaks, but we should at least warn Captain Gilson so he can prepare for the possibility.”

  Bartun nodded. “Wise words, Master. I will relay your concerns to him myself.” The big mage rose and untied the tent flap. Snow and freezing wind swirled inside as he departed.

  “Father,” shivered Alecia, “Would not such weather hinder the Dark Mage’s forces as well? What advantage would he gain?”

  “Perhaps,” responded Rosner, “he wishes to prevent the success of our mission. The old tales say the giants proved pivotal in his defeat long ago. Would not the Dark Mage desire to slow or prevent the renewal of such an alliance?”

  “Aye, it is a possibility,” mused Aristomus. “But I deem it unlikely. The Dark Mage has never used his powers in so passive a fashion.” The mage shook his head. “No, his methods are far more draconian. He is more likely to strike with an overwhelming force than to attempt something as foul as this storm.”

  Alecia appeared more puzzled than ever. “Then I must ask again: What advantage? Our mission is delayed, true. And there is little telling how long before we can move again...”

  Rosner and Aristomus looked at each other, their eyes wide as realization struck. At the same moment, the tent flaps blew open. Bartun stumbled inside and fell to one knee, his body covered with a thick coat of ice and snow. One word flew from lips blue from the cold: “Ambush!”

  The other mages froze for one silent moment. Then all four scrambled for their staffs before abandoning the tent.

  Outside, the wind and snow blew as fierce as ever. Thick, gray storm clouds boiled overhead, turning late-afternoon into gloomy night. The mages spread out and advanced, bent almost double against the swirling wind and snow. When they reached the two tents erected for the soldiers, they found both partially collapsed. The canvas, torn and blood-splattered, marked those sections not already covered with snow.

  Alecia and Aristomus turned left, using the tents as cover. Bartun and Rosner circled to the right. Both groups rounded the tents at the same time. In the tiny clearing between the tents and wagons, they saw bodies—and pieces of bodies—strewn across the blood-soaked snow. The storm fast covered much of the slaughter in a blanket of white. But in the center of the clearing, a wooden spike jutted from the ground. A lone head stood atop the spike, eyes wide and mouth stretched in a silent scream. Captain Gilson!

  Then, as though someone had thrown a switch, the wind fell silent. One moment it roared, staggering the mages and snapping the ends of their cloaks like whips. The next, all noise ceased. Soft snow fell over a scene as still and silent as a graveyard.

  “By the Power...” hissed Aristomus. In the deathly quiet, his whisper seemed loud as a slap.

  A moment later, hisses and rasping exhalations shattered the silence. Over the supply wagons and mounded piles of snow came dozens, then scores, of the Unsouled. Their movements were slow and jerky, joints frozen by the cold. Any unprotected skin had turned black, frostbitten flesh sloughing off in chunks to reveal naked bone. But their red eyes still burned like the hearts of the damned.

  If not slowed by the cold, the creatures’ sheer numbers might have overwhelmed the mages in the first few moments. Even so, surprise froze them all for a few critical seconds. Then Aristomus’ staff crackled with lightning, shaking the other mages from their stupor. White bolts arched across the clearing, leaving behind the scorched smell of ozone. Alecia reacted next, launching darts of ice which pincushioned the Unsouled. After the first few moments, her accuracy improved. Icy shafts pierced the creatures’ skulls, and they dropped to the stained ground.

  Bartun’s staff dripped a yellow liquid, hissing and smoking in the snow. Twirling the tip of his staff, he formed the liquid into fist-sized balls he cast at the Unsouled. The liquid adhered to whatever it touched, burning like molten acid. The big mage’s aim left much to be desired, but those not killed he often maimed, their disabled limbs leaving them unable to fight.

  Rosner’s power at first seemed invisible. Nothing appeared from the tip of his staff, but as he waved it, Unsouled flew, crashing into one another. Others rose high in the air, to smash head first into the ground when released.

  Despite the overwhelming number of Unsouled, the mages held up under the onslaught. Undead creatures fell by the dozens, forming piles which hindered the advance of those still trying to reach their prey. Had the battle remained unchanged, the four mages might have prevailed.

  But then the Dread joined the fight. Three of the monsters, black as the devil’s heart, climbed over the wagons. Their freakish maws spread wide to emit an undulating wail which pierced the ear and filled the heart with dismay. The three Dread spread out and savored every moment of their victims’ terror.

  Thick cloud cover kept the battlefield dark. With no need to support their undead soldiers, the Dread concentrated all their powers against the mages. The first beast waved its metal-tipped claws in the air, conjuring a ball of utter darkness which it cast into the air. Aristomus intercepted it with a bolt of lightning. The sphere shattered, flinging black droplets everywhere. They hissed and spat, melting the snow wherever they landed. Some droplets fell among the mages, eating holes in their clothing and burning skin.

  Alecia stepped forward to face the next attack. Waving her staff, she formed a huge chunk of ice which she cast at the next sphere of acid. The two collided in midair, but this time no explosion resulted. Instead, the ice battled against the acid’s inherent energy. Both fell to the ground sizzling and popping among the Unsouled.

  “We must fall back,” gasped Rosner. Despite the frigid cold, sweat poured down his face. “They are too many!”

  “Where?” shouted Alecia. “With the soldiers dead and the horses gone, we must fight or die!”

  The shattered black sphere gave Aristomus an idea. He shouted to Bartun and pointed at the closest Dread. Bartun nodded his understanding. He formed a yellow ball of acid with his staff and within moments, the ball grew to the size of a small boulder. It crackled and smoked on the tip of his staff before he flung it high in the air.

  White-hot lightning forked from Aristomus’ staff, blasting the acid at its highest point. The acid exploded with a tremendous concussion; the remains raining down on the Dread. Two of the beasts at the outer edge of the conflagration scrambled back. But drops of acid enveloped the third. Flames sprang up over the Dread’s coarse pelt. The monster screamed in rage as it slapped at the flames, trying to smother them. But it only spread the blaze and, engulfed in flames, soon fell to the ground. Oily black smoke rose from its corpse.

  Distracted by the burning Dread, Bartun allowed the Unsouled to get too close. Three of the creatures pulled him down from behind. He snapped the neck of the first in his huge hands, but the second tore a bloody chunk from his lower leg. The big mage screamed in pain. Rosner came to his friend’s aid, using the Power to throw the two Unsouled across the clearing. Bartun tried to rise, but failed, collapsing back to the ground.

  Aristomus and Rosner closed ranks around the downed mage. Lightning crackled and snapped, keeping the Unsouled at bay. Alecia knelt and placed the tip of her staff against the terrible wound in Bartun’s calf, then c
losed her eyes in concentration. The first flicker of icy cold shot through the mage’s leg and he gasped, eyes wide.

  Too late, Bartun shouted, “Look out!”

  An Unsouled made it past the two mages’ protection. It held a fist-sized rock high in one hand. Rosner turned at Bartun’s shout to fling the creature away. But not before the rock came down on Alecia’s head with a loud crack. She fell over the downed mage, blood spilling from a nasty gash in the back of her head.

  “ALECIA!” screamed Aristomus. Bolts of lightning scorched the air, forcing the Unsouled back. Even the two Dread, now recovered and returning to the battle, shrank before his onslaught. The mage blasted the Unsouled on all sides, his staff a lightning rod of torrid energy.

  But for every Unsouled he destroyed, three more took its place. And the Dread put forth their black might, strengthening the Unsouled and putting ever greater pressure on the mages. The circle around them shrank, the Unsouled coming closer.

  Somehow, Bartun regained his feet, though he couldn’t stand on his injured leg. A stream of hissing yellow acid spewed from his staff in a deadly arc. It cut down great swaths of Unsouled like wheat before a scythe. But their numbers beat the mages down.

  Panting, Rosner wobbled and then fell, his strength exhausted. One of the Dread reached Bartun and swallowed him up in a bear hug, the big mage tiny in the arms of the black monster. Aristomus’ vision swam as he fought to protect Alecia. But his lightning grew weaker, the number of bolts fewer, until he at last fell to his knees in snow fouled by the ebon blood of the Unsouled. The remaining Dread smiled as it approached, its wrinkled snout pulling back from razor-like teeth.