The Last Wizard of Eneri Clare

by April Leonie Lindevald

  There was a pause in struggles everywhere on the field as eyes turned toward the flash of glowing blue, some in curiosity and apprehension, and others in knowing expectation and relief. The moment seemed to stretch out in stillness and silence, like a reader closing his eyes to rest them at the turn of a page, or a breath held suspended before the exhalation. And then, line upon line, slow, steady, and inexorable, the shield-bearers began to march forward.

  In hindsight, it was a foolish move – in fact, considering the circumstances, it was downright idiotic. But almost no one knew where they were, and with whom. The battle, miles away, was almost sure to have already begun, and would be claiming the attention of anyone who mattered. Darian had been so restless in the house for the past few days. It was the first morning since they had been there that dawned with a promise of relief from the oppressive heat, even if it was a bit overcast. At the time, there seemed no harm in venturing out on the mountain to pick the last of the berries. It gave the young king something to do out in the fresh air, something that had purpose. And later on Lynette and Nelrose could help Mark’s mother bake some tarts, and they all could enjoy the fruits of the morning’s labors. It was a quiet, lovely morning on the mountainside, despite the clouds. There was a breeze, and there was birdsong, alpine flowers, and a rich harvest.

  Chasing the tasty treasures from bush to bush, the infant king wandered off a little further from Delphine’s side than was prudent, but she always had him in her sight, and Mark was paying more attention to the both of them than to his own gathering. He was poised, some twenty arm-lengths away, to spring into action if the need arose. Glancing up from the berry bushes every few seconds, he saw the gap between Darian and Delphine continue to widen, and began to think that he should intervene. But he was so mesmerized by their innocent carelessness, their laughter, their seeming obliviousness to the realities of war, or the burdens of royalty. For that moment, they were just a charming young woman and a golden-haired little boy, enjoying a moment of play. His heart swelled to see them like that, and he fell in love with them both in the sheer simplicity of their delight. Not wanting to intrude on such a perfect moment – not wanting to re-introduce them to fear, uncertainty, and heaviness without cause – he hesitated. He held his tongue, held his position. Perhaps if the day had been brighter, one of them might have seen the shadow that fell over them much sooner…

  Jarrod the crow beat the air with his powerful wings, propelling himself along at a dizzying clip toward his destination. His heart soared, however, at even a greater altitude than his gleaming dark frame. Proud he was, and full of excitement, to be serving the king and the regent as a personal secret messenger. Intoxicated with the good news he was sent to deliver, and confident, since his last mission had proceeded without incident, he was not what one would call ‘cautious’ with his flight plan. Nor did it occur to him to be on the alert for anyone or anything which might be following him. Singing himself a croaking travel song, which quite engaged his attention along the way, he already had the sprawling ranch house in his sights before he noticed the immense gryphon on his tail. In a heartbeat, he realized what was happening. Alarmed, he made a sharp turn, and tried to seduce the creature into following him to some other place. Cawing and kicking up a fuss, brave Jarrod offered himself up as a decoy to the sharp-eyed, fearsome beast, but it was too late. It had already spotted a much more interesting prey, right out in the open, ripe for the picking. All of Jarrod’s desperate maneuvers were ignored as the gryphon smiled; the master would be very pleased at his cleverness.

  Jarrod flew to a high branch in a nearby pine and watched in horror, shrieking a frantic alert to the intended victims as the gryphon swooped down…

  He never knew if it was the uncommon flurry of noise overhead, or the sudden disappearance of even the palest sunlight above him that made Mark’s head snap up to see the gryphon approaching with a glint of purpose in its golden eye. Acting on instinct, he sprang from the bushes and began to run. But in an instant, one awful instant, he realized that Darian and Delphine had wandered so far apart that he only had time to reach one or the other. Now, Delphine too had noticed the swift descending danger, and was running too. But, to his horror, the bard saw that she was headed away from the little king, who was standing stock still, mesmerized by the great winged creature. Gods! Mark thought, the fool girl is trying to use herself as bait, to draw the beast’s notice. And it looked like it might be working. Recognizing the red-haired sister of the Lady Regent, the gryphon banked and followed her over the meadow. There was still time for Mark to intervene, but he had to decide now. Mark, a poet, a bard, a thinker, but not a warrior at heart, was forced into the unenviable position of choosing in that moment whom to save: the helpless king to whom he had pledged his life in fealty, or the woman whom he loved more than life itself. He stumbled. But then, as if in answer to his soul’s cry of anguish, he saw Delphine stop running and turn to face him. He heard her shout with all her might, “Mark, the king! Save Darian. To the king, Mark!”

  It was as if the angels had trumpeted instructions, and the bard turned toward the frozen little boy, closed the gap between them in a flash, scooped him up in his strong, wiry arms, and headed for the house. Only once did he look back over his shoulder, without missing a step, to see the gryphon’s vise-like talons close about the slim waist, and lift Delphine from the ground. She reached a hand out toward him as he thought he heard the words, “I love you,” echo on the wind. And then she was gone, the fabled beast winging away on the far-off horizon.

  Panting and sobbing, Mark reached the door of his family home, the sanctuary he had always trusted. He handed his small, precious charge over to waiting arms, and fell to his knees on the threshold. His trembling hands covered his tear-streaked face, and his breath wracked his slim frame in waves. But, invisible to those who clustered around him, was his heart, torn to ragged bits.

  An eerie silence descended over the battlefield, as the combatants looked up to see what new surprise was about to be introduced by the Crown’s forces. Flashes of sapphire blue caught everyone’s attention, but as the shield bearers strode forward and spread out, and nothing lethal shot out of the large oval objects, Drogue’s troops began to relax and turn back to their more immediate tasks. They shrugged their shoulders, and assumed the new object was simply a new-fangled defensive tool meant to distract and impress. Jorelial Rey was circling overhead on Tashroth, but she stayed near to the block of shield bearers, where she had the best vantage point to see what was about to happen. Tvrdik, still riding up and down the sidelines on Wynne, working at disarming with magic as many of Drogue’s warriors as possible, tried to sneak a look between spells. He realized he was holding his breath in anticipation of what their secret weapon would do on a real field. As the fearless shield bearers marched into the thick of the struggle, what the dragonrider and the mage actually saw almost brought a cheer to their lips, and tears to their eyes. The chance they had taken against all odds was working. It was actually working.

  The blue shield warriors had been well trained to keep their shields low and defensive, until they had targeted some particular subject. They would then approach as near as they dared, and raise the blue mirrored surface in a sudden gesture, angled so that the intended victim could not help but confront his own reflection. The rest was up to the blue light itself. At first, there were one or two brilliant flashes of blue as the shields were deployed, a few scattered cries of surprise, and pockets of eerie stillness on the field. Within moments, it seemed, blue lights were exploding everywhere, and all over the valley, attackers were disengaging. What each of them saw in the mirrors they confronted cannot be described here, nor indeed known, as each being who gazed into the blue fire had a unique experience, perceiving the deepest truth of his own being. It was the repertory of reactions that was so fascinating to watch. Dozens of hardened mercenaries stopped to stare at their reflections, then made abrupt turns to walk off the field, an
d out of the Yechtze altogether. There were those who dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, weeping in shame and despair. Some were so crazed by what they saw that they tried to turn their weapons on themselves, while their one-time adversaries from the Legions of Light stepped in to intervene. Some, perhaps, saw potentials in themselves they had never known before, and threw up their hands whooping, and laughing, and dancing playful jigs.

  Tvrdik asked Wynne to pull up, and they watched in amazement from a bit of high ground, as the entire field of conflict transformed before their eyes into a theater of the absurd. The shield bearers advanced with grim purpose, training their mirrors on one hapless victim after another. Those defenders of the Crown who had been in mortal struggle moments before, knew not to look full into any of the blue mirrors, although a few here and there might have been caught by the powerful light of truth, to no lasting harm. The rest took to gathering up all the fallen weapons, backed off the field, and retreated behind their own front lines to watch the spectacle unfold. Even the dragons ceased their harassments, and rose in the air, circling and observing. As if to put a fine point on the wonder of the moment, from somewhere in the crowd of Legionnaires, the soaring, pure, unearthly voice of Nyree rose once more in a haunting arabesque of melody. She was answered quickly by other voices from the bardic company, voices deep, and strong, and somehow sacred. The heart-piercing sound, coupled with the behavior of those who had stared full into the mirrors, unnerved the rest of Drogue’s army, so that many turned and fled the field, making signs with their hands to ward off evil spirits. Overhead, Lord Drogue was flying in tight circles on his winged horse, gesticulating and shouting orders until his voice sounded raw, and the veins on his head stood out. But almost no one was listening.

  Jorelial Rey closed her eyes for just a moment in satisfaction. The day was not yet over, but the balance had tipped, and once again, they had pushed back the foe with sheer creativity and a touch of magic.

  Mark could feel the hands and hear the voices urging him back, trying to comfort him – beloved hands, and voices of his dear family. But not the touch or the sound he longed for most of all. It had not been some horrible nightmare after all – Delphine was gone, and they were all compromised. Somewhere, beneath the noise in his aching head, he knew he had done what was necessary, but at what cost? A big part of him just wanted to lie there and grieve, oblivious to time, without hope, beyond reason. But another voice within told him his work was not done, and he needed to take action. The king must be moved, or they would all be at risk – his parents, his beloved sister, and Lynette, as well as the infant monarch. He had sworn to protect them with his life. Somehow, the Lady Regent must be told. And maybe Delphine could still be saved! Delphine…the thought of his bride brought the pain rushing in all over again, as he began to imagine what awful things could be happening to her. He had to find the strength to pull himself together and take charge.

  As he struggled with these thoughts, an unfamiliar voice reached into his despair and tugged at him – a deep voice, baritone, with a rich timbre and cultivated accent.

  “Master Bard. Sir, rouse yourself. You must get up. Hurry. Precious time is being wasted.” Mark sat up and opened his eyes. He had been lying sprawled across the doorjamb, only minutes since the awful events he could not even name had taken place. As he wiped the tears from his eyes, he noticed in the background his family, Darian in the arms of Nelrose, all looking very drawn and alarmed. But his eyes came to rest on the speaker who had addressed him, very near his face. That rich baritone belonged to a huge grey dire-wolf, who stood regarding him with deep, unblinking, amber eyes. Behind him stood a second, smaller and paler in color, but with as compelling a gaze.

  “Who…who are you?” Mark’s own voice sounded hoarse and ugly.

  “I am Baldezir, and this is my wife, Shekilah. Jarrod the crow came to find us when he saw that trouble had found you. We came as quickly as we could, and are here to help if we may.”

  “Why would you do that, sir wolf? We are strangers to you, and we are magnets for danger.”

  Shekilah answered, in a velvety, rich alto, “On your wedding day, it was promised you that the Fellowship of Talking Beasts would look after you and your bride, do you not recall? It was said that we would always be nearby in time of need. We have kept the two of you in our sights ever since, some of us or others, and we are pledged to assist you now. We bear no love for the tyrant Drogue, and are as keen as you to see him defeated in his schemes. And we are all quite fond of the Lady Delphine, and would not allow her to come to harm, if we could do something about it.”

  “We must act quickly though, or we will be too late,” Baldezir insisted.

  Mark was on his feet and listening now, his better instincts rallying to the fore. “I am most grateful to both of you for your help, and I am in your debt. But what must we do?”

  Baldezir thought, “Your wife is a great prize for Lord Drogue, worth far more to him alive. We hear the battle does not go well for him. It would be my best guess that he will attempt to use her as a hostage, as leverage…that buys us some time, but how much?” the dire-wolf scanned the rest of the room, “And none of you are safe here anymore…”

  Desperation drove Mark to suggest an impossible idea, “Baldezir, forgive me, but do you think you would be able to carry me? Over the hills as far as the battle site? I must get to the Lady Regent to tell her what has happened, and enlist her aid, and that of the dragons. Tvrdik will help us too, with his magic…do you know the Valley of the Yechtze?”

  The great beast sized the man up, “You are tall, but slender. You would not be heavier than a deer carcass, or one of my cubs. I can carry you. And I know the way to Yechtze.”

  Mark turned to Baldezir’s companion, “Shekilah, do you know the warren of caves that face the stream about three quarters of a mile west of here? We have sheltered our sheep there sometimes during storms. There are boxwood bushes that nearly conceal the entrance. My father also knows the place…” He could see his father nodding in agreement.

  “I have whelped a litter there myself,” Shekilah assured him, adding, with a hint of mischief, “Be wary when next you take your sheep there.”

  “Shekilah, would you be willing to guide the king, Lynette, and my family to those caves? They will not be able to travel as fast as you can, and will require protection, but I don’t think they would be discovered once there.”

  “I agree. Few know of this place, and it cannot be spotted from above. I can get assistance. My brothers and I will escort them safely. I will be back soon; have them ready to go.”

  “It is a good plan,” Baldezir said, and nuzzled his own wife once before sending her off to do as she had promised. Mark’s mother sprang into action, gathering up things that might be needful, should they be in exile for any length of time. Mark’s father came to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “My heart aches for you, Mark. How swiftly a beautiful day can turn to a nightmare! You need to go right now. Bring her back safely. Do everything in your power. Don’t worry about us. We will be safe in those caves, and your mother and I will watch over Darian. Trust the she-wolf, son. She will do as she promised. Go now.”

  Father and son regarded each other with great emotion. Mark nodded, and they embraced. The older man turned to assist with the packing, and when Mark saw that all was being handled, he approached Baldezir.

  “We must go,” the wolf urged.

  Mark hesitated, uncertain how to proceed, but Baldezir continued, “Here, take that rope there and tie it around my shoulders and neck, like a harness. Not too tight. There, that’s it. Make sure it will hold. Now, lie down flat on my back, face down, and grip the rope tightly with both hands. Press with your knees a bit. Don’t worry, you are not heavy for me at all. Settled? Good. Hold on. We are off.”

  And they were, as Baldezir flew out the door amid cries of “Godspeed,” and “Farewell.�
� As they turned away from the house, Mark just caught sight of Shekilah racing in with two other brawny wolves by her side, true to her word. His fears for his family, and the king thus allayed, he buried his face in the coarse fur beneath him, held tightly, and prayed.

  Gargan wiped a filthy sleeve across his eyes, but only succeeded in smearing more mud, sweat, and cheese all over his face. He and three of the men assigned to his command had just succeeded in righting one of Drogue’s outsized catapults, that had been tipped over by a dragon. But the launch arm was stuck in the upright position, and the rope that would have pulled it back to reset had been singed clear through. Gargan’s thoughts were full of blood and frustration. He had expected this battle to be quick and exhilarating, setting them well on the path to establishing Lord Drogue on the throne of Eneri Clare. Instead, the whole exercise had been disastrous. Why couldn’t the fool defenders just march out and fight like normal folk, show their mettle? And how dare they seem to be succeeding at every lunatic attempt to derail Drogue’s forces, superior by every measure? Right about now, he would give a year of his life just to be engaged in a real, adrenaline pumping, manly, dangerous exchange of swordplay, instead of digging a stupid machine out of the mud. He stared at the soldiers awaiting his next order, all burly and able, but dumb as rocks. Shaking his head, he called for a length of rope, and pointed to the top of the catapult, where someone would have to climb up and re-attach it. The rope appeared, but the men hesitated, glancing up in terror at numerous dragons still performing acrobatics in the sky above. Gargan was about to lose his temper, when from out of nowhere, Drogue himself swooped in, on his winged black steed, hovering just over the bedraggled group.

  “I thought I told you to get this one up and running! What is taking so long?” the self-styled Prince called down.