Nomadin

by Cormier, Shawn P.

  That was it!

  "Kinil ubid illubid kinar!" he cried aloud. The words tumbled over each other in his panic.

  Nothing happened. He held out his hand, palm up, like he had in his study back home, and recited the spell again. "Kinil ubid, illubid kinar!" Still no light. What was he doing wrong? It was a perfect magical sentence. No unnecessary adverbs. No double negatives. All the right tenses. It was a song, for crying out loud! He looked closely at the space above his hand. It was there! The light was there! He could see it—the faintest of embers, like a hesitant firefly.

  "Kinil ubid illubid kinar!" he shouted again.

  The wolves attacked, their fury spent on the giant dog alone, as if Ilien didn't exist. A half dozen shaggy brutes piled in, snapping jaws seeking to hamstring their prey. More wolves raced past Ilien to join the fray. The valiant dog would be torn to pieces before his eyes.

  The battle Ilien witnessed was a blur of fur and fangs, a titanic conflict of guttural snarls and piercing cries from dog and wolves alike. The pack swarmed over itself, a rushing wave of teeth and claws, swamping the dog, dragging it under. The clack of teeth and screams of wolves filled the air, but slowly the dog emerged, rising on a sea of twisting bodies. It shook itself free, snatching a wolf from off its back and tearing it to pieces. It waded through its enemies, ripping life from any it could reach. But there were just too many.

  Ilien ran forward, the Illwood branch raised high, shouting his battle cry above the din. Before he could strike, the darkness fled around him as the top of the hill exploded with dazzling light. He looked up in amazement. A tiny blazing sun hovered high above the clearing.

  "Globe!" he cried.

  But the wolves had tasted blood. They pressed their attack, undaunted by the magical light. Several turned on Ilien and he struck out with the Illwood branch to keep them at bay. The wolves circled, eager yet patient, fainting, darting out of reach. They soon found their mark. They leapt on Ilien from behind and he fell beneath a swarm of stinking, grey bodies.

  As Ilien felt the first fangs strike, he heard the call of horns in the night. Moments later other horns called back, their crystal sound filling his heart with hope. A rescue has come! Still the wolves attacked, but their screams and howls began to fade away. A wolf chewed mercilessly on Ilien's leg but he felt no pain. Am I dreaming? Or is this what death is like? he wondered. The horns called again. The din of the wolves disappeared and darkness closed in around him. He looked to the sky, into Globe's brilliant light, and saw the face of a beautiful, young girl hovering over him.

  Yes, he thought. I am dying. I am. And this must be heaven.

  Chapter VII

  Evernden

  "Time to get up, Ilien. Rise and shine, sleepy-head. Come on now. It's getting late."

  His mother's voice called to him, muffled, from another room. Her voice grew louder, reluctantly pulling Ilien from the deep sleep that washed over him in comforting waves.

  "Good morning, Ilien. Or should I say afternoon? It's nearly one o'clock."

  Ilien struggled to open his eyes, and when he did, he saw the underside of the blanket that covered his face. Cheery light shined through the tight stitches of his mother's knitting work and he suddenly felt warm and safe. The dream had felt so real. The Eastland soldier, the witches' clearing, the wierwulvs, the talking dog—it had all been a bad dream, nothing more. There hadn't been any adventure at all. He was safe and sound in his own bed, in his own house, on a bright, sunny Saturday. A surge of excitement raced through him and he shot the covers off and jumped out of bed.

  "Where's Gallund?" he asked his mother, who was busy picking up his dirty clothes from off the floor.

  She turned with a smile. "Downstairs reading, I think." A slender woman, short of stature like her son, she none-the-less had the ability to gather an amazing amount of dirty laundry in her arms.

  Ilien bolted from the room and flew down the stairs. The midday sun streamed through the two kitchen windows and splashed all over in warm, shiny pools. Gallund sat in one such pool at the kitchen table, reading the morning paper. Ilien grinned. The paper, of course, was Ilien's spellbook, disguised for the time being as the Southford Gazette. Gallund looked up, annoyed that he was being watched so intently.

  Ilien danced across the room and flung his arms around the frazzled wizard, who let the paper he was reading flop to the brightly lit table. "Gallund! I'm so glad you're not dead. You wouldn't believe the dream I had."

  Gallund suddenly grabbed him and held him at arms length, his cheeks flushing bright red and his brows darkening above them. "Ilien, listen to me. Go back at once."

  Ilien pulled away, but the wizard tightened his grip, drawing him close, his eyes bright with alarm. "Go to the front door and leave," he insisted. "Don't look back, no matter what happens. Remember what I say, some appearances are not what they seem."

  He released Ilien and took up his morning paper again just as Ilien's mother came into the room.

  "Would you like some breakfast, dear?" she asked.

  Ilien rubbed his arms where the wizard's firm grip still lingered. What was that all about? He started to answer his mother when Gallund shot him a warning glance, then continued reading his paper.

  "How about some coffee and scrambled eggs, your favorite?" she said.

  Ilien froze, his eyes growing wide. Coffee? His mother never let him drink coffee, and she knew how much he hated scrambled eggs. Her voice, there was something different about it. He twisted around, a bucket of ice in the pit of his stomach. But then she winked, and he realized it was only a joke. His mother was always joking like that. Of course she knew he hated scrambled eggs. He looked back at Gallund, relieved, his fears melting away.

  "Illustus bregun, illustus bregar," the wizard muttered under his breath, and Ilien turned to peer at his mother, suddenly sure of nothing.

  As soon as the last word of his spell was spoken, Ilien's mother flickered. She actually flickered, disappearing for an instant. If Ilien had blinked he would have missed it completely. The fear returned, except this time it was a white hot coal in his chest.

  "Is something wrong?" she asked, moving into the sunlight and suddenly holding a frying pan. Ilien gasped. Her eyes shimmered in the light, glowing like two hot coins.

  "Run!" shouted the wizard. "To the front door and don't look back!"

  His mother dropped the frying pan in alarm and it clanged to the floor as Gallund shot to his feet, his lips moving feverishly as he incanted another spell. Hot, blue flames shot from his fingers and struck the woman in front of him, igniting her clothes and hair. The smooth wooden floorboards beneath her bloomed red and orange then burst into fire, turning the kitchen into a raging inferno.

  Ilien raced for the door as his mother screamed in pain. My god! He's burning her alive! He froze halfway across the room, his world turning in circles before him. He had to save her! He couldn't let her die! Then Gallund's words came back to him. Some appearances are not what they seem.

  His mother's scream tore through him again. "Ilien, help me!"

  The wizard's voice rang clearly over the din. "Run, Ilien! Run!"

  Ilien sprang awake with a shout, unsure if he was awake at all. The ruined cries of his mother echoed ghost-like in his still reeling mind. Blue flames roiled in the air before his eyes and choking smoke clouded his vision. He heard a quiet voice repeat his name, clear and insistent, and the still lingering dream fled, leaving him lying on his back with cold sweat springing out upon his face. The grim visage of Thessien hovered over him. Ilien tried to talk but the soldier placed a calloused hand on his shoulder and turned and spoke to someone beside him.

  "He's coming to."

  Ilien flinched in pain. There was movement in the room and a young girl dressed much like a man came into view.

  "Don't move," the girl insisted. "Lie still. You were bitten many times."

  Ilien tried to speak again and managed a croak. The girl moved close and brought a polished, silver cup to hi
s lips. He drank a cool, sweet liquid, the strange draught warming him, soothing his tense muscles and clearing his tired mind until he felt as if he were floating bodiless in the air. He began to drift off into a deep, peaceful rest.

  He opened his eyes with a start. The face of the girl before him was the same face he had seen in the forest! He tried to speak again, this time managing a few words.

  "You rescued me."

  "Rest," the girl said.

  Ilien suddenly remembered the giant dog who had fought to save him.

  "Dog?" she said in response to his mumbled question. "I didn't see a dog. Only wolves. Now rest, Ilien. You have no worries here. You are safe in the king's castle at Evernden, and your courage has saved your friend's life. Lie still and rest."

  Ilien closed his eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  He stayed in bed for three more days, Thessien by his side. His room was small and drab, with walls of rough hewn stone. The bed and a chest at its foot were the room's only furnishings, except for a single chair in the corner. In that chair Thessien kept vigil. Every morning the girl came and offered Ilien the polished, silver cup with its strange, cool drink, and each day his strength grew quicker than he thought it possibly could. All the while he wondered about the mysterious dog who had befriended him, the monstrous canine who could somehow speak. He feared the worse, that it had been mistaken for a wolf and shot with arrows, only to slink off into the forest and die.

  On the third day, Ilien looked at his wounds. To his amazement, they were nearly healed. Only one razor-thin and reddened mark remained, the trophy of the deepest of his wounds on his left leg, and he wondered what strange medicine could invoke such quick healing. Thessien, tight-lipped as usual, merely shrugged from his chair, but did manage a grim smile when he saw the slashing scar. That afternoon the girl came to see them again as Ilien was getting dressed. His clothes had been washed and mended and he found his house key and pencil, miraculously quiet, still in his pocket.

  "I'm glad to see you're feeling better," she said as she swept into the room just as Ilien quickly pulled on his shirt.

  He was about to ask her what had been in the silver cup, but he fell speechless again. Where before she had worn the clothes of a woodsman, she now wore a dress of green and gold that lightly brushed the floor as she walked. Her hair, rather than tied short, fell in loose curls down past her shoulders. And her face—emerald green eyes, skin pale and smooth like egg shells, one small dimple beside her mouth. She was looking at Ilien curiously, the hint of a smile on her lips.

  Before Ilien could come to his senses, a tall, broad man with a windburned face and rusty-brown hair piled high upon his shoulders stepped into the room and stood behind her. Hard lines creased his red face, and a pale scar of his own curled the left side of his mouth into a permanent snarl. The scar flushed crimson as he regarded Ilien with obvious disdain. He put a hand on the girl's shoulder. The hand was missing a finger.

  The girls seemed to stiffen at his touch and her smile faded. "Kysus, I trust all is ready." Her voice was lined with unease.

  The man nodded, withdrawing his hand to place it in the pocket of his tunic. "All is ready, My Lady." His voice was deep and gruff and when he smiled, his upper lip pulled back like an angry dog's.

  The girl addressed Ilien as if all the previous warmth she had radiated before had been so much childishness. "I've been asked to bring you before my father," she said, her voice now cold and formal. "He is eager to hear your tale, and curious to learn why you're here."

  "Why we're here?" Ilien question Thessien with his eyes, who sat stone-faced and silent. "Hasn't Thessien told you what's happened?"

  The girl moved a step further from the red-haired Kysus. "My father wants to hear it from you yourself. After all, you are Gallund's apprentice, and Thessien, well—" She smoothed her dress. "He is only an Eastland soldier, after all."

  Kysus chuckled. Thessien remained silent.

  Ilien felt the blood rise to his face. "And who is your father?"

  "Why the king, of course," she answered, slightly bemused.

  Ilien suddenly felt foolish, and grimaced. "I meant no disrespect," he said. "It's just—I mean—I've never met a princess before."

  The girl motioned stiffly to the door. "I've never met a wizard's apprentice before so we have much in common. Later we will talk. But now we must see the king."

  The princess led the way, with Ilien and Thessien following. Kysus trailed behind.

  Ilien was astounded at the magnificence of the castle. Where his room had been bare, dim and stuffy, the hall outside was decorated handsomely with portraits and colorful tapestries where ever wall space was free. On one side, large-paned windows overlooked the forest outside, letting in the bright afternoon sunlight to warm the gleaming stone floor beneath their feet. On the other side, scores of doors, intricately carved with battle scenes, winged dragons and unicorns, opened into other well-lit rooms. Ilien couldn't help slowing to peer in at the men who went about their business, serious men in grey attire who took no notice of him but held council together around large, wooden tables, or sat stolidly alone behind stately mahogany desks. The people who passed them in the hall nodded curtly to the princess, many of them dressed in the same grey clothes as the others, but some in uniforms decorated with red, green and blue insignia and bearing swords in gleaming black scabbards. The ceiling overhead seemed impossibly high to Ilien, and he wondered just how tall the castle was. The rumors back home were all wrong. Evernden did have a castle—a true king's castle!

  They stopped before wide, splendidly carved double doors. "I'll tell my father you're here." With that the princess pushed through and the doors closed behind her without a sound.

  Kysus regarded Ilien with a wan smile, then set about sharpening a knife he had tucked into his belt. Ilien didn't feel much like talking anyhow. Thessien stood as if at attention. The look on his face spoke of his apathy toward the castle's beauty. Ilien, on the other hand, couldn't take his eyes off the double doors in front of him. The scene carved into them was enormous, covering every inch from top to bottom. It showed two armies at battle. Hundreds of intricately cut horsemen and foot-soldiers waged war in the very center where the two doors met. Farther back near each door's hinge camped the opposing armies, etched in mesmerizing relief. Hundreds more men lay wounded in between under the banner flags of their kings.

  Ilien moved forward to get a better view of a particular scene near the center of the battle. A lone figure stood on a small crest of earth with his hands outstretched toward the advancing enemy. A halo encircled his head. A wounded man lay sprawled at his feet. A sheet of flames fanned out from the lone figure's fingertips, shielding the wounded man from his enemies. Ilien peered closer and saw that the man on the ground wore a crown. He looked at the standing figure again, leaning nearer the door. The figure looked familiar.

  The door swung open.

  "My father will see you," the princess announced.

  Ilien was still rubbing the lump on his head when he came before the king.

  The king of Evernden was not a large, imposing man as Ilien had imagined. He was rather small and plain for a king, looking much like Ted the grocer back home. The room past the double doors was also not impressive, lacking the extravagant trappings of the rest of the castle. In its center stretched a long, rectangular table made of rough-hewn wood. Around it sat ten men in high-backed chairs wearing grim, ill-tempered looks. The king sat at its far end.

  When Ilien entered the room, everyone, including the king, rose from their seats.

  "I'm glad you are well, young Ilien," the king said in a voice that only reinforced the image of a commoner.

  Ilien felt surprised and flattered that a king, even a common-looking king, knew his name, let alone called him by it. When the king gestured toward the table of unhappy advisors, Ilien saw he wore a golden ring set with gems of red, green and blue hues upon his forefinger. "Please. Sit."

  There were fo
ur empty chairs at their end of the table. The princess sat opposite Ilien, with the ever-present Kysus beside her. Thessien, though, remained standing by the door. Ilien thought he acted a bit rude, and was worried about what might happen to someone who acted a bit rude to a king, but the king ignored him.

  "My daughter has informed me as to how you came here," he said, raising an eyebrow in her direction. "But I do not know why you are here. So tell me, why has Gallund sent his apprentice through my backyard to see me? And why hasn't he come himself? I dare say, he could have saved you a lot of trouble sending you by road."

  Ilien shifted in his chair, all eyes upon him. He looked at Thessien. The soldier only nodded.

  "I bear bad news," Ilien announced quietly, nearly choking on his words. "I'm afraid Gallund is dead."

  Shouts rose around the table and some of the king's men jumped to their feet, knocking their high-backed chairs to the floor. The king remained unruffled, sitting quietly amidst the uproar.

  "Gallund dead? What of the spell?" asked a stocky grey-haired man who gripped the table edge with both hands, his jowly face turning pale as he looked from one to another.

  "Who is responsible?" asked the man opposite him, almost tripping on his fallen chair.

  "The Necromancer—that's who!" shouted someone else.

  Ilien tried to listen to what everyone was saying, but soon the room grew too loud for him to hear anything at all. The princess beside him looked confounded as well. Thessien watched quietly from the doorway. The entire room hushed and chairs were quickly righted as the king rose from his seat.

  "Even though I feared it was true, how am I to believe this?" he asked. "Who could kill a Nomadin? These are not dark times. Tell me. Who?"