The Staff of the Winds (The Wizard of South Corner Book 1)

by Meighan, William

  Marian awoke first, with the sun warm on her face. It had risen well above the tops of the trees to the southeast, and made their tiny glen seem bright and friendly. The morning was cold, in keeping with the season, but the surrounding woods softened any breezes, and the fall sun still held some power in its rays. Glancing at her brother, she could see that he had rolled the other way and was still asleep. She rose quietly so as not to disturb him.

  There was plenty of small dry tinder in among the surrounding aspens, so Marian cut out a square of sod, lined the hole with stones, and built a small smokeless fire. She filled a pot from her pack with icy clear water from the brook, and put it on to heat for tea and washing. She was more than a little gamy from her activities in recent days, and was looking forward to the feel of soap and a warm wet cloth.

  While the water was heating, Marian gave each of the horses a double handful of grain, and proceeded to brush out their matted coats. A strong sense of guilt ran through her for having neglected them the night before, so she was especially industrious in this grooming. They both seemed to appreciate the attention. Owen’s mare stretched out her neck and made her lips go all funny when she scratched under her belly, and Sam edged his way in to get equal time. When she was done, their coats, already growing long for the coming winter, gleamed with the rich dappling of reds and browns characteristic of health and good treatment.

  Satisfied, Marian left the horses to browse on the sparse green grass and returned her attention to the fire. She had left a collection of small branches near the heat so that they would steam off any lingering moisture and be smoke free when she added them to the fire. She broke and added a few of these, and checking found that the pot of water had warmed nicely. Marian put this off to the side, and replaced it with a smaller pot of water into which she had thrown some ground coffee. She had no way to capture the grounds, but expected that fresh coffee would taste none the worse even if she did have to strain it through her teeth to drink it.

  Marian had her shirt off with her back to her brother and was working up a good lather of soap on her wash cloth when Owen rolled over and said, “I don’t suppose you’ve got a rasher of bacon and about a dozen eggs in your pack, do you? Boy, that coffee smells good. It seems like months since we last had coffee. Seems like months since we’ve last had a fire to brew it over for that matter.”

  “Nope, no bacon or eggs, but I do have warm water and a bar of soap that I’m willing to share,” Marian answered with a laugh. “The smell of fresh coffee will be even better once you’ve scrubbed yourself down a bit. Frankly, big brother, you stink almost as badly as I do.”

  “If you say so, little sister, from my perspective though that’s very hard to believe,” Owen responded with a grin as he rolled out of his blanket and shrugged off his cloak. “Not that I won’t mind washing off some of the dirt I’ve accumulated on this trip.”

  “You’d better let me clean out those scratches on your head and put some ointment on them, too. You never did tell me how you got those.”

  “I just fell and got tangled in a thorn bush,” Owen responded, a wave of sadness passing across his face. He waved a dismissive hand and continued, “Lets finish getting cleaned up, and then bring each other up to date over a cup of that coffee. I’ve learned a few things that you need to know, and I want to hear all about the movements of the gorn.”

  Later, with a clean shave and a fresh shirt, Owen sat comfortably with Marian near the fire cradling tin cups of coffee that were just short of too hot to hold. Owen was savoring the aroma and taking an occasional sip as his sister narrated the story of her ride with Jack to shadow the gorn troop that had left the castle two nights before. Owen asked few questions as he listened to Marian. The destination of the gorn seemed obvious, and given their numbers and the fabled nature of gorn, their intentions could not be good. He just hoped that Jack could get to the Campbell’s in time to raise the alarm.

  “So now it’s your turn,” Marian said when she had finished her narration. She had not mentioned how she had been scared when she had finally found Owen sitting with his hood up seemingly unaware and unresponsive, alone in the forest. “What happened here while I was gone?”

  Owen paused before he responded, taking a good sip of his coffee. What could he tell his sister? Somehow he didn’t think he should start with something like: “Well, I learned that there are fiery red strings that come up from the earth and spring off the end of your nose into the air, connecting you to everything nearby,” or “I met an evil sorcerer who talks to me through a veil of smelly green smoke.”

  Finally Owen began, “The soldiers seem to be settling into the castle. They were out yesterday cutting down creepers and inspecting the walls. I haven’t spotted any of our people, except a few of the girls carrying water from the river. They keep them pretty well guarded, and never far from the main gate.

  “The only traffic I’ve seen in the direction of the Moat was the small party of soldiers leading Sarah and Emily away. I didn’t see anyone come from the other direction, and I haven’t seen any gorn. It may be that they were all in that force that headed back toward the village, or it may be that they are using them for something else inside the castle. They weren’t part of the groups that were out working on the walls.”

  Owen took another gulp of coffee, and a deep breath, “And,” he continued, “I’ve been working with the Old Wizard’s staff head.”

  “What?” Marian said, startled. “Owen that’s crazy. That thing is dangerous. You’ve got to get rid of it.”

  “You’re right that it’s dangerous,” Owen answered sadly, “and I’d love to just throw it away. I wish I’d never picked it up in the first place, but I can’t get rid of it now. We need its help if we’re going to rescue the others, and there’s something else that I haven’t told you.

  “The night you and Jack left in pursuit of the gorn I had another dream. This time I wasn’t flying, though. This time I was in a hallway leading to an old dungeon deep under the castle. I found a secret passage, Marian, a tunnel that leads from near the dungeon out to a hidden door on the outside. I think that it’s an old escape route. I doubt the soldiers or the gorn could know anything about it, it’s pretty well hidden.”

  “That’s great,” Marian said enthusiastically, “we can use it to get into the castle. They won’t be expecting that, and maybe we can sneak our people back out that way.”

  “Yes, well there’s just one problem. I don’t know where the door on this end is. I think it’s in some trees somewhere. I was approaching it in my dream, and there were some big roots in the dirt near the door, but I got interrupted before I could open it to see where I was.”

  “Interrupted? You mean when Jack and I woke you?”

  “No, not exactly,” Owen said, pausing and looking his sister in the eye. “I was in the tunnel heading for the door when suddenly I was pulled away. The next thing I knew I was face-to-face with a sorcerer. He knew me Marian, he didn’t know my name or where I was, but he called me to him. He said that he met me on the bridge, which means he knew that I was in that owl. He thinks that I’m among the prisoners in the castle, and that they were going to put me in the dungeon there. He scared me, Marian. I couldn’t break away from him, and it felt as though his eyes were slowly crushing the life from me. He really scared me.”

  Owen stopped, closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. His heart had started racing as he described the scene to his younger sister and relived it in his own mind.

  For a long moment Marian just sat, staring, her mouth hanging open. Finally she recovered and said to Owen, pleadingly, “That’s why we have to get rid of that staff head. Don’t you see, magic is not for the likes of us? You’re no wizard, and the longer you hold onto it the worse things become.

  “Sure, sure I know,” she continued quickly waving her hand as Owen opened his mouth to interrupt, “it probably saved us back in the woods by the watchtower, but it’s having some kind of effect on you. You’ve be
en changing since we left South Corner, and now you say that a sorcerer has ‘called’ you to him. That wouldn’t have happened if not for the Old Wizard’s staff head. We’ve got to bury that thing, or better yet cast it into the river before he calls you again. Next time you may not be able to get away.”

  “But don’t you see, Marian,” Owen answered sadly, “it’s too late for that. That sorcerer has already found me once, and I think that he can do it again. I don’t know if he can call me while I’m awake, but I’m defenseless in my sleep. I can’t give up the only hope I have to learn to defend myself.”

  “Defend yourself? You’re just a farmer! You don’t know the first thing about magic and sorcerers! How can you possibly defend yourself? Jack and I talked this over. We decided that you’ve got to throw that thing away before it gets us all killed.”

  Now it was Owen’s turn to get angry. “So you and Jack decided. You’ve got no idea what’s involved here, but you two decided. Did you two also decide how we are going to free the villagers of South Corner? Did you decide how I’m going to get Sarah back? Oh, and did you decide what I’m going to do the next time that sorcerer has me in his clutches?

  “You may be right that I don’t know the first thing about magic, but with the help of the Old Wizard’s staff head I might be able to learn, and how do you and Jack propose we defeat an enemy with sorcerers on their side if we have no way to counter their magic?

  “I may just be a farmer, but I know enough not to approach a great-cat without at least a pitchfork in my hands, and if it’s a pitchfork I’m holding, I had darn well better know which is the pointy end if I don’t want to end up as that cat’s lunch. You and Jack seem to have decided to throw away the nearest thing to a pitchfork we’ve got to stave off a sorcerer. Even for a couple of farmers, I don’t think that’s any too bright, do you?”

  The two glared at each other over the little campfire for several minutes, each convinced that the other was being stubborn and wrongheaded, but also convinced that further arguments were not going to do any good now that they both had their blood up. The McMichaels had always had to ward against a proud and contentious streak that flourished in their personalities; because when riled as they now were, cool reason had a tendency to be burned away in the heat of anger.

  Finally, Owen took a deep calming breath and continued. “I’m going to keep the Old Wizard’s staff head a little longer, little sister, and try to learn what it can teach me. It’s my only hope, and to be honest, I don’t think I have much hope left in me.”

  ‘Alright big brother,’ Marian thought to herself, ‘we’ll do it the hard way. You can’t guard that staff head all night and all day, and I’m not going to just wait for it to take you over completely.’

  Owen wanted to go back and watch the castle again in case there was any further activity, but Marian was still concerned about her brother’s black mood. What Owen really needed, Marian thought, was to do some manual labor that would take his mind off of his worries for a while.

  “I don’t know about you, but although I slept like the dead last night, it was damned cold sleeping out in the open.” Some time during the night, a breeze had developed coming down off the mountains, carrying the frigid air from the glaciers at their peaks. “It’s likely to get colder in the coming days. We’d better take the time to build a shelter of some sort or we’re likely to wake up with frostbite some morning soon, or not wake up at all.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right, but if we build something, we’d best build it so that it is not obvious to the casual observer.”

  Scanning the clearing and its surroundings, they settled on a large fir near the edge of the clearing, not far from the spring, that was lightly screened by quakies. Its lower branches spread widely over the ground, making the beginnings of a protective roof for someone lying near its trunk. By nature, that is not a comfortable place to be, however. The lower trunks of the large firs are replete with short, dead branches that will jab the unwary, and the dry needles and other debris on the ground under the tree are sticky with old sap and prick any skin that is not well protected.

  The two started by cutting away some of the lowest branches on the clearing side of the tree to create some headroom, then stripped the trunk of all of the withered growth on that side and swept the ground of all of the accumulated twigs and needles, which were kept for use as tinder. They built a simple frame to support the remaining branches, about seven feet out from the trunk, then interwove the branches they had removed, plus additional bows selected from nearby firs to make their roof a little more water tight and provide the outside wall of their shelter.

  As the work progressed, Owen forgot his troubles, and became fully absorbed in the design and construction of their shelter. By the time they were done, it was approaching noon and they had built a comfortable den that would protect them from the weather, floored with the soft and aromatic tips of fir bows. Just having that base to work from, improved the spirits of both of them. Over a bland meal of old biscuits and dried beef, they resolved to set some wire snares in hopes of catching a rabbit or two to improve their fare.

  The Great Sorcerer and High Lord Adham al Dharr lounged comfortably at the head of the large, oval, oaken table in the Council Chamber of the Grand Council of Sorcerers in the palace of the Baraduhne. As always, he had been one of the first to arrive for this weekly session, and he watched with amused disdain as his “councilors” filed into the chamber and took their places at the table.

  He was amused at the belief, obviously held by some, that coming late to the table in some way indicated a higher level of status. Adham had learned many years ago that the value of that prideful stance was vastly outweighed by the information that could be gleaned by being in position early to closely watch the others as they entered and took their seats. Body language often spoke as loudly as earnest pronouncements. In many cases, it spoke a good deal louder and with greater truth. Fat, pompous Pashteed al Barristol, for example, was always one of the last to arrive, and he was also one of the easiest for a skilled observer to read.

  Pashteed had been raised to his seat on the Grand Council after the demise of his sponsor and mentor Fasid al Sentour during the great work of the stone span across the Deep. Adham al Dharr was secretly quite proud of the way that he had managed ripples in the flow of power that day that saw the end of Fasid and two of his cronies. It had nearly cost Adham his own life in the doing, but the manipulation of power that had successfully burned away those three contentious fools had been so subtle that even Kadeen had not detected the ephemeral shifts in those vast flows.

  The Councilors had arranged themselves down the table in order of rank. In subtle gradation their formal robes ranged from the true black of the robes worn by the High Lord, a black that seemed to suck light and life out of the room, to the dark brown of Thustin al Vormer, the lowest ranking lord in the room.

  As usual, Adham noted that the robes of Pashteed were just slightly darker than his rank would support. Pashteed was most certainly an even greater fool than Fasid had been, and with his inherited title as Councilor of Conquest and Subjugation, which gave him power and responsibility for the perennial war with the Maragong, he was in a position to bring great peril to the kingdom; but Adham saw this as a temporary risk; one that would be resolved soon—made irrelevant with the imminent conquest of the fertile lands across the Deep and the acquisition of the Staff of the Winds. Fortunately, Adham had managed to keep the bumbling Pashteed out of that endeavor entirely.

  The Great Sorcerer gazed down the table for a long minute once everyone was seated, then straightened in his chair. “Now that we are all present, we can begin.” Pashteed looked pompously around the table at his fellows, as if it were they who had caused the delay. “Councilor Pashteed,” Adham continued, “will you bring us up to date on our righteous struggle with the vile Maragong.”

  Pashteed leaned forward in his chair and began reading from his scribbled notes, reporting on victorie
s in glorious battle against a cowardly foe. Adham could have given the report himself, of course, and without all of the equivocations. With what he knew from his own sources, what he had learned watching the obviously nervous Pashteed enter the room, and the general trend of the conflict in recent months, he knew that things were not going well. Somehow, the stirring “victories” of the mighty forces of the Baraduhne over the ineffectual and cowardly Maragong always seemed to result in the regrouping of the opposing armies ever further south into lands once firmly controlled by the Baraduhne.

  With few exceptions, the war which had lasted with only brief respites for generations, had been prosecuted by both sides with the minimal use of sorcery in accordance with the ancient Pact of the Ten Nations. To have acted otherwise would have brought the full weight of the other nine down upon the transgressor. But once Gilladhe’s staff was in his hands, along with the Old Wizard’s private chronicles to guide him in its use, Adham would have no need to fear any retribution from the others. With such power at his disposal, he could end the ages old conflict with the Maragong on terms of his choosing while expanding and gathering strength from the new lands to the east. Under Adham, Baraduhne would rise from the status of a middling and contracting state to that of the largest and most powerful of the Ten. And, when the time was right, he would accomplish this without the meddling of these so-called twelve “Councilors.”