The Wizard's Sword (Nine Worlds of Mirrortac Book 1)

by Paul Vanderloos

  The Wizard’s Sword

  By Paul M. Vander Loos

  Text Copyright © 2011 Paul M. Vander Loos

  All Rights Reserved

  Acknowledgments

  The story of The Wizard’s Sword has gone through a number of ‘lives’ and formats. Thanks to the people who have shown faith and support in my work to keep me persevering. For this Amazon Kindle version I’d like to acknowledge the Irish cover artist Michael Lenehan whose works you can find at DeviantArt online. His site is http://mick2006.deviantart.com

  Table of Contents

  The Wizard’s Sword

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 – Mountain At The End Of The Earth

  Chapter 2 – The Womb of Mateote

  Chapter 3 – The Forest

  Chapter 4 – Greenfaug and The Spirit of Yu

  Chapter 5 – The Restless Erfin

  Chapter 6 – The Sparkling Plain of Petrosium

  Chapter 7 – The Battle of Beeble-Zub and Wa-Ku

  Chapter 8 – The Endless Lake

  Chapter 9 – Teachings of the Divine Green

  Chapter 10 – Journey to the Centre of the World

  Chapter 11 – Visioning of the Lost World

  Chapter 12 – Pathway of the Lost

  Chapter 13 – World of Sorcery and Illusion

  Chapter 14 – Return of the Sacred Staff of Thaum

  Chapter 1 – Mountain At The End Of The Earth

  The woods were a forbidden place for erfins. The scent of the fir trees was pleasant as the erfin Mirrortac went in search of firewood for his hearth, his paw-like hands deftly picking out the dry twigs and branches as he kept a wary eye at the woodland deep for any danger. Beyond the woods were the steep slopes of Mateote – the Mountain At The End Of The Earth – its snow covered summit partly obscured in cloud. Erfins were afraid of the mountain and believed the oblivion of the Netherworld awaited anyone foolish enough to attempt to cross over. Even before one reached the foothills there were nite-wolves to contend with – vile smelling creatures with shaggy hair, fanged grins and cold yellow eyes.

  Mirrortac stumbled and cursed the ground. He bent down to massage his sore toe and saw the faint sheen of metal winking up at him from amongst the litter of fir needles. Coming down into a squat he sifted away the litter with his fingers, exposing more of the metal. His eyes widened and he sighed with awe. Beneath his hands was a short sword of exquisite design; its hilt adorned with three stones of precious amber and its blade gleaming as though it had only been fashioned yesterday. Glancing into the dark of the wood, he picked it up and handled it with reverence. The sword was weighty yet balanced easily in his grip. He stood up and swung the blade through the air, feeling at once the clean gliding motion and a sense of strength and power. He tested it against the grey fur on his legs. Its cut was precise, deadly. Where had such a weapon come from, he thought. No erfin owned a sword though there were tarnished examples on the walls of the Halls-of-Eol and the High Halls of Mateote. The high priest was keeper of a ceremonial sword that was rarely used and was unlike this one, though it had been kept sharp and in good order. No, this was a warrior’s sword and countless seasons had passed since erfins had been feared warriors. All their enemies had been conquered and none remained to challenge the might of the fierce erfin warrior. The last to be conquered were the Madin, who were mountain people, but in the end, it was the mountain that brought their demise. Forced upwards, the Madin were trapped on the edge of the earth. The erfin warriors were remorseless in their pursuit and sent the last of the Madin warriors over the edge and into the great abyss beyond. Both peoples were from the same stock. The erfins were grey of fur and thickset with pointed cat-like ears and large eyes. The Madin’s fur was courser and they were slightly taller than their erfin cousins.

  Now, gone were all the warriors. The last had died many moons ago but the stories of their conquests had been passed down from generation to generation until they had attained mythological status alongside the great god of the mountain and the gods of the day and night skies, Luma and Mogog.

  Mirrortac brushed fragments of soil off the crevices in the hilt and looked up as his neighbour, Fillytac, approached from across a meadow of nif-grass. His was the portly figure of an elder erfin, his fur shaggier and exhibiting the silver tips of age. His eyebrows lifted theatrically above luminous green eyes and his voice betrayed surprise.

  ‘Mirrortac, what have you there? Is that a sword?’

  The younger grinned. ‘Yea! I must have walked over it dozens of times. I can’t imagine how it has escaped my notice all these moons.’

  Fillytac bounded the last few steps and stood staring at the sword while he regained his breath. The blade gleamed in the afternoon sunlight.

  ‘What will you do with it? Present it to the priests to display on the walls of the great hall?’

  Mirrortac ran his fingers along the blade.’That would be the place for it,’he said, uncertainly.’But I think I shall keep it for a few days; show it to Yenic and the child-fins. It is such a fine piece of work!’

  Fillytac glanced sideways at his friend. ‘Why would you want to do that? The child-fins might cut themselves on that nasty thing. It would be safest on the walls of the hall without delay ... they can see it there.’

  ‘You are an untrusting wretch,’ Mirrortac grinned. ‘I’ll nought let the child-fins handle it. I found it so I should be allowed to keep it for just a few days; then, I’ll take it to the hall where it can hang until time stops.’

  Fillytac huffed. ‘Suit yourself. Though I nought see the sense in it. I have my fowl to put to roost, Good day!’

  The elder ambled off through the nif-grass, leaving Mirrortac holding the sword. He smiled to himself, then tied the sword to his waist with a few lengths of grass before returning to his task of gathering firewood. When he had finished, he hurried away with his arms loaded up, his padded feet quietly wading through the last of the warm season’s crop of nif-grass, which so many erfins depended on as a herbal seasoning and medicine. A howl echoed through the deep of the wood behind, reminding him of the increasing menace of the nite-wolves which were growing in numbers and beginning to raid the village fowl runs under the cover of night. Mirrortac saw ahead the familiar log huts of Fotwood village, which was in the southern part of the valley of Eol. Skirting the southern edge of the village was a large lake - The Waters of Three - forming the drainage bowl for the Werd Stream, which originated on the western ridges between the mountains of Elfa and the great Mateote in the north.

  The sun of Luma sank below the trees as Mirrortac turned up the front path of his home. He dropped the wood into a large pile near the front door and was greeted with the glee-filled faces of his two daughters, Fentil and Wynper. They leaped up to be nuzzled and cuddled while he took care to keep the sharp blade of the sword away from their small bodies. Wynper noticed his find and her eyes opened as wide as two bright moons. ‘What is dat, daddy?’ she shouted, alerting her sister who now too was curious about the strange object. The two she-erfins reached out their hands to touch it.

  ‘Nay!’ Mirrortac grabbed both their hands in a grip. ‘It is very sharp. I will let you look but you must not touch.’ he said firmly.

  The two girls nodded and Mirrortac released his grip.

  ‘Now, inside with you both. I want to show your mother too,’ he said.

  The girls raced inside, babbling excitedly as their father followed, bowing once to Mateote as he crossed the threshold onto the matted floor. Yenic raised up her head from before the hearth where she slowly stirred the contents of a stone pot with a wooden implement. ‘Di
d you get enough firewood?’ she asked, ignoring the sword dangling from her husband’s waist. He nodded quickly and winked at his daughters. They burst into giggles, their attention focussed on the sword. ‘I suppose you better show us what you got,’ Yenic allowed. ‘Something from the hall elders? In thanks for carving a new door for the hall, no doubt.’ she guessed.

  Mirrortac dismissed the suggestion. ‘Nay. I found this in the Wood-Of-The-Nite-Wolf where I collect the firewood!’ He produced the sword and laid it on the floor before them. ‘A warrior’s sword ... I must have stepped over it many times in the seasons. The blade is perfectly preserved!’

  Yenic looked upon the sword with astonishment. ‘I can’t believe it!’ she said. ‘It is so beautiful, yet so cruel in purpose.’ she shuddered. ‘Put it away, somewhere out of reach of the child-fins. It disturbs me.’ She withdrew and held the children close to her.

  Fentil put on her best serious face. ‘Daddy, will you be going into battle like the old warriors you told us about?

  Mirrortac brushed her head affectionately. ‘Nay my child-fin. We have no enemies now, except the wolves, and one sword is no match for them I’m afeared.’

  ‘Then, why not make more swords and kill all the nasty nite-wolves?’ she offered, exhibiting the typical logic of a child.

  Mirrortac half smiled at this. ‘There is no sword-stone in the valley, my little one; and no furnace hot enough to melt it down. We are prisoners to the nite-wolves in the woods and the lorcs in the stream and the waters of the lake.’

  Wynper edged forward and sat in her father’s lap. Turning her head up at him she asked, ‘What does a lorc look like, Daddy?’

  ‘They are nought kindly in appearance. A lorc is a fat creature with ugly sharp teeth and a very big mouth. It is twice as big as an erfin and black like the night; and it has a tail like the slups fish with tiny eyes. Lorcs will eat any beast that walks too far into the water, and it likes erfins most, so never give it the chance ... hmm?’ his eyebrows lowered as he narrowed his eyes at his children.

  ‘Nay daddy!’ they chorused. Wynper opened her mouth wide and roared at her sister. Fentil screamed and ran off with Wynper after her. Mirrortac picked up the sword and strolled over to the wall where he stood for a time pulling at his beard in thought. He disappeared out the door and returned soon after with a mallet and two wooden pegs, which he drove into the wall and secured the sword beyond reach of his children. Yenic withdrew the cooking pot and placed it on the table nearby. She called the children in and they all ate, munching noisily on the seasoned foté - the fowl that constituted the primary source of food for erfins.

  Mirrortac awoke with a start. The hut was silent, and beside him, Yenic was making shooshing sounds in her sleep. He shook his head, trying to shake away the dreams he was having. He could still hear the screams as if they were real; screams to turn the blood, screams of rage and hatred. And with them the vision of warriors in the pitch of battle. He shut his eyes then flashed them open. He was still dreaming! He frantically rubbed his eyes, moaning as the dream images took form in the air before him.

  On either side of him, he could see a great army of erfin warriors, their many swords gleaming sharp silver in the light of Luma. The warriors were in the battle dress of wolf-hide belts and breastplates of tempered metal inscribed with the mystic symbols of protection and the head of a nite-wolf. He could feel the weight of his own armour, sharing the sensations of the warrior he had become. He felt his throat constrict and a harsh rasping voice cry out in defiance. ‘Warriors of Erfin! Before Luma reaches the end of the earth, we will drive the Madin out of their caves of dung and beat their flesh into the stone of their mountains. Death to all the Madin!’

  The warriors answered with one voice. ‘Death to the Madin!’ – their anger carrying across the plain and into the foothills of the mountain range ahead of them. One of the warriors nearby turned towards Mirrortac and said, ‘I say to you, Merftac, why do we stand here wasting the light of Luma when our blades ache at our sides. Let us be rid of these hairy-sons-of-the-Netherworld. Let us splatter the rocks with their blood!’

  Merftac’s voice answered out of Mirrortac’s mouth. ‘Yea, you need be patient no longer, Narssup,’ he said, and unsheathing his sword, he stabbed it out towards the mountains. ‘Erfin warriors! Let us show these Madin the might of the empire! To the hills!’

  With these words, the warriors let out loud hoots, baring their teeth in rage. In a single mass they charged towards the foothills. A call rose up from behind a series of boulders ahead. Madin warriors leapt into the open, answering the erfin charge. The erfins fought fiercely, driving the Madin back. Metal blades clashed and the ground was soon littered with the bodies of warriors from both sides, their blood mingling and dripping over the stones. The Madin bore swords of smoky quartz and wore animal hides bearing the symbol of the great predatory bird of the mountains, the gakar, its wings outspread, cut into the leather.

  Merftac and his warriors drove the Madin farther and farther into the foothills where they were ambushed. Many warriors were lost but the fury of the erfins and the superior might of their metal swords and breastplates eventually overcame the brave Madin warriors who turned and retreated towards the safety of the high mountains. Merftac and his warriors set after them, keeping close behind their heels as they traversed a thick and foreboding woodland and up the slopes of the largest mountain they had ever seen. Mirrortac recognised it immediately: the sharp ridges and the mists that haunted its summit were of the great Mateote.

  Upwards went Merftac and his warriors, unafraid and filled with the battle rage. The Madin scattered but none could escape the relentless net of the erfins as they encircled every avenue of escape. One brave Madin warrior held his ground and was able to disable and kill eight erfin warriors before he ducked between his pursuers and escaped into a cave above a waterfall. Merftac ran after him, leaping down from a rock ledge above the cave and wading ankle-deep in the cold waters of the stream. When he reached the cavern, he caught sight of the Madin’s feet scrambling into one of a series of narrow tunnels that led away from the cavern and deeper under the mountain. Merftac crawled in behind him, shuffling on his belly in the darkness. Around a bend, he saw the Madin in a shaft of light and realised he was trapped at a dead end that opened above a cliff. Grinning at the helpless Madin who was unable to turn around in the narrow space, Merftac shouted curses at him. He tried to get at his sword but found the space was too tight around him. The Madin inclined his head at him and cried out, ‘What vexes you wolf-dung? Have you forgotten that the Madin are kin of the tall stones? Kill me and I shall take you into the Netherworld with me!’

  Merftac flew into a rage. ‘Cursed seducer of demons! Merftac is nought afraid of this spittle of gakar such as you! I will fight you with my bare hands and send you to the Netherworld alone!’

  He tried to grab the Madin by the feet but he kicked back as hard as he could then flung himself beyond the edge of the cave; flipping back quickly as he held on to the side of the cave with his clawed paw-like hands and thrusting himself back to face Merftac. The two locked arms and wrestled, all the time cursing each other as they writhed and twisted their bodies in the narrow space of the tunnel. Merftac pinned his feet into the stone walls and levered them towards the precipice, pushing the Madin inexorably nearer the edge. The Madin kept a firm grip on Merftac as his feet slid over the edge but with another huge shove, Merftac forced him out and he fell against the cliff face, still holding the erfin so tight that his claws dug into Merftac’s shoulders. The erfin was hanging inverted, his leg muscles straining as he hooked his feet into the rock walls of the passage. Beneath them, the rock face fell down sharply and disappeared into a thick bank of cloud. The Madin grinned up at the erfin with a wild look in his eyes, and then threw back his head and laughed hideously. Suddenly his face went pale and his eyes seemed to stare back with incomprehension. Abruptly, he let go of the erfin and fell, his body tumbling and slapping across the protruding
overhangs, finally to disappear into the cloud.

  Merftac reached back and pulled himself up into the entrance. Then, glancing up the cliff face above, he heard the distant sound of battle and watched the bodies of the last Madin being cast over the cliff and into the nothingness below. The tired warrior surveyed all around him but could see no more land, only a long series of cliffs, falling away into oblivion. ‘We have come to the end of the earth,’ he said to himself.

  Finally, darkness.

  Mirrortac found himself at the doorway. He lifted his hands that were shaking uncontrollably. His whole body was soaked in sweat and he could feel tingles all through him. He was startled as a hand gently came to rest on his shoulder. ‘What is the matter?’ Yenic said from behind him. ‘I heard you yelling; it was horrible. It gave me the shivers to hear it’.

  Mirrortac turned into her arms. ‘I must take the sword to the hall at dawn and present it to the priest. It is bewitched with a warrior’s madness,’ he said, breathing in gasps. ‘I saw him kill and throw the Madin into the Netherworld. May Mateote spare us from any such battle. They were nought heroes but wanton killers.’

  Yenic looked up at her husband with luminous eyes, caressing his brow with loving fingers. ‘What is clouded in the darkness shall be clear in the daylight,’ she whispered. ‘Come, you must rest.’

  As the first light filtered through the slats of the windows, Mirrortac arose. He had decided that there would be no delay in removing the sword from his home and putting it under the safe protection of the priests who knew what to do to lock in the madness haunting the sword. Outside, the day was fresh and there was no hint of the trials of the night. Small birds chattered and sang in the fir tree branches and a cool breeze swept up from the lake waters, sending the nif-grass seed heads nodding. Mirrortac reached up to lift the sword from the wall but discovered it had somehow become stuck. Applying considerable strength, he pulled vainly at the hilt and cursed it. In a huff, he gathered his mason’s tools and attempted to prise the blade from its place. It held fast. Then with tongs, he removed the two pegs and was amazed when the sword remained unmoved. He swore at it again. ‘You demon’s blade! If you will nought yield to me then I will bring a priest here to release the spell.’