The Chronicles of Nevin Reasoner: The Complete Duology

by Thomas Lombard

  And Corissa? She was King Lucan’s confidant and emissary. She was also a Gilsum-born woman, yet married an officer of the Antrim army and widowed before the marriage flowered. She would be the one most likely to question Anson’s motives, though more from loyalty to her Antrim king than animosity toward Anson. Could the others make her understand?

  There was no telling what the elves would think, especially Zael, the Elf-Lord. For generations the elves had remained aloof and disinterested over the war between the kingdoms of Antrim and Gilsum, but now Zael was reluctantly drawn into the conflict. Elven ways were mysterious to Anson, though there were moments when Zael seemed to approve of the goal for peace sought by their unlikely alliance.

  In the end, what would it matter what any of them thought? Anson had no choice but to strike out alone. He dared not debate his plan with the others. If he did not survive, the others could still carry on. Better than anyone, Anson knew the soldiers would kill him and any comrades instantly if they had any suspicion he was a mage. The King of Gilsum had a paranoid fear of mages and put a high bounty on their heads. No soldiers would turn down the opportunity when there was no other way to obtain such riches. Anson finally sat up and quietly put on his soft leather boots.

  He looked around to see if there was anything he should take with him, but this was only a semi-conscious attempt to divert his thoughts from the peril ahead. If he succeeded in getting to the Gilsum camp, he knew he must not reveal the existence of their mission under any circumstances. He would willingly die to protect the identity of his fellows of their so-call alliance, just as he might die anyway at the hands of the Gilsum soldiers he sought to warn.

  A breeze began to rise and rustle the tall pines. It was time to go.

  * * *

  It was well before dawn when Anson quietly left the camp behind him. Aided by natural noise that disturbed no one, the leaves rustling in the breeze eclipsed the silence of the night. A body or two turned over in sleep, but the chorus of leaves made soft footfalls unnoticeable. Anson took no parcels or belongings and quickly reached the edge of the encampment. As he moved within sight of the sentries, he hoped he would not have to resort to spellwork to make his way without alarm.

  Spellwork proved unnecessary. The guards immediately recognized Anson, but ignored him. They knew he was the human mage befriended by Zael, an uncommon thing for them to witness because their Elf-Lord had rarely shown respect to humans. Although elves did not engage in spellcasting, the guards knew that Anson was gifted at magery and held him in esteem for it. Because magery was a mysterious art it did not strike any of them as unusual for a mage to trip about at night, although some might have thought it curious that Anson would walk toward the river. Still, none saw his actions as suspicious. Anson was allowed to pass without challenge and the mage quickly disappeared into the darkness.

  Anson stopped when he reached the edge of the tree line where the elves would defend their Wood against the expected intrusion of Gilsum soldiers. He was close enough to the Grayflood River that the sound of the swiftly running current could be heard above the rustle of trees. The river was close ahead, across an open area from the tree line to the shore. He readied himself for a dash across this area.

  Before Anson could take another step, a huge hand grabbed his shoulder from behind. He wheeled to face Gren, the droll. Though Anson had seen Gren speak with elves, it was a surprise for the droll to show that he had partially mastered human speech as well.

  “Go where?” demanded Gren. The droll towered over Anson.

  “I have got to get to the river, Gren. Let me pass.”

  “River has danger. No pass.”

  “You do not understand, my friend. I must find a way to get across and stop the Gilsum army from entering the Elvenwood.”

  “No! Much danger! No!”

  In the darkness, Anson could not clearly see the tall creature’s face, but there was no doubt that Gren was determined to stop him. “Please, Gren. If only there was a way I could explain this to you. You must not try to stop me.”

  Gren understood the perils that lie ahead in attempting to cross the river plus the subsequent danger of confronting enemy soldiers. Anson took some steps backward, but Gren had anticipated his movement. With little effort, the droll grabbed Anson by the jerkin and with one hand lifted him up and set him in the crotch of a tree.

  “Stay, good human. Have no danger.”

  Looking down from this perch, Anson had two recourses. Either he could have Gren accompany him or he could resort to magery to get by the droll. Quickly he decided the best decision was to use a spell of somnolence, which would put the droll to sleep without causing him any harm. He canted the words and focused the spell at Gren. Because of the droll’s size and determination, Anson thought he would have reiterate the spell to work up enough psychic energy but that was not the case. The spell worked with surprising quickness, probably enhanced by Gren’s focused attention on his mage friend.

  Gren tried to shake off the strange cloudiness enveloping his mind, then fell to one knee and toppled over with a muffled groan. Anson climbed down the tree and knelt over the droll. Seeing that Gren was safely put to sleep, the mage gave him a gentle pat and a smile of appreciation for his friendship and protection, and started toward the riverbank.

  * * *

  After several minutes, Anson reached the near shore of the Grayflood River, still a safe distance away from a campsite tended by a small band of Gilsum soldiers who crossed the river days earlier. This small detachment was sent ahead of the main phalanx to cut trees to build large rafts for transporting more soldiers. As a result of their work, there were logs strewn everywhere with piles of wood chips. The air was heavily laden with the smell of resinous sap. In their makeshift camp, the men slept noisily, completely unaware of the stranger only yards away on the upstream shore. Two guards were posted, but both were also weary from a day of hard labor and dozed on their feet.

  Anson left these men behind and made for a hulking object ahead on the shore. It was a small rowboat used by the men to cross the river, pulled up on shore completely out of the water. The boat was much too heavy for Anson alone to push off; besides, one person would not be able to control it in the swift current. Anson frowned at his situation. He had neglected to conceive a plan for crossing the river.

  “Now what am I going to do,” he muttered to himself, not expecting to be heard.

  “You will do what you have to,” came a reply from the dark.

  Anson spun toward the sound of this voice and immediately recognized its source.

  “You have a way of showing up in the midst of apparent trouble, Hillister.”

  “I would disagree, Anson. What most see as troublesome is often less than mere appearance,” said the slender man now standing only a few feet away. He was still dressed in the same tan robe belted at the waist with a white rope, the ends hanging down to about knee height.

  “Surely you know that I seek to cross the river, yet you imply it is only an apparent problem. I cannot walk on the water or fly across.”

  “True, you can do neither of those things, but you do have powers. You know what must be done, yet you have not given enough thought to the means at your disposal. You and your companions have powers to solve such problems. Use them.” Hillister turned to head back to the shadows at the edge of the tree line, but stopped to give Anson a friendly nod that seemed to convey encouragement.

  Anson said, “Wait, Hillister! I am just a simple mage. I have no high powers!” Anson took a step, but the man stepped quickly away toward the trees.

  Not sure whether to fear this mysterious figure or deny their conversation even took place, Anson sighed deeply. He dismissed fear, sensing that Hillister sympathized with their intentions to stop the war between Antrim and Gilsum. But for some unknown reason, Hillister was restrained in what he would say and what help he could provide.

  Somewhat annoyed at the enigma surrounding Hillister’s words, Anson brought b
oth hands to his hips. If he was supposed to have the requisite powers to do something about his situation, as Hillister said, what could he do? He could not fly across nor manage a boat in the swift water. The only calmness to this river was above the water. That must be it! The mage from Huxley was struck with an idea: He could try to levitate the boat and travel over the water.

  Anson concentrated his mindpower and searched his memory to recall the words for levitation, a delicate spell he used with small objects. Anson had no experience trying to levitate something as large as an oar, let alone an entire rowboat. He untied the anchor rope used to secure the boat to shore. After searching his memory for the words, it took several failed iterations before he got the words in the right sequence. Finally, the boat began to quiver. He repeated the words and increased his concentration. The boat began to rise—and rise—until it reached the height of a tree, fell weakly into the water and floated away with the current.

  What happened! Anson stood dumbfounded at his success at levitating the boat. What have I done wrong? He remembered something Nevin said about directing the action of a spell. What did Nevin call those spell elements? “Coordinates?” Something about position in space and framing the object of the spell. And that talk about entropy, how could that apply to this situation? Anson shook his head to dispel these uncertainties and focus on his problem.

  The boat was hopelessly unavailable, so the mage looked around for something else to aid him. There were several discarded tree limbs lying nearby, apparently too small to be used for the soldier’s rafts. He did not have the time or materials to build a proper raft himself, but another idea occurred to him. Anson concentrated again, this time with attention to desired position in space, and cast quick levitation spells to raise three limbs till they were about waist height off the ground. He moved them while suspended until they were side by side, and then tied them together with discarded anchor rope. Once bound, and with his mental energy properly focused, he pushed the makeshift raft over to the river’s edge, still hovering securely in the air. Once he climbed aboard the suspended raft, he made a silent acknowledgment to Nevin for his insight about “coordinates.”

  Anson could sense that his focus on the levitation spell was limited, more so than less demanding spellwork like indifference. He guessed he had a matter of minutes before the spell wore off and the makeshift raft would fall. He also realized he had no way to propel the raft over the water. Chastising himself again for poor planning, he looked about for a paddle but there was nothing that would serve. Anxious to get moving before dawn broke, he reasoned that he might be able to propel the raft by using his feet. He laid face down on the makeshift raft and let his legs dangle over the side. By stretching his feet, he could push off against the bank at the water’s edge. Doing so, the raft coasted forward several feet, now hovering over open water. Stretching further, the mage discovered he could get some propulsion by frog-kicking his dangling feet against the water, especially where he could gain purchase on exposed rocks. Lunge by lunge, he gradually edged farther out across the river. This method of propulsion worked steadily until he eventually neared the far shore, but it only worked because he maintained levitation just above the surface of the water.

  Dawn was approaching and Anson knew he must not be seen carrying out an act of magery. When he was a dozen feet from the shore, he felt his raft quiver slightly as it correlated with his mounting fatigue. He furiously kicked his outstretched feet to propel the final distance. As he closed in on the far bank, the quivering increased to a wobble and the raft fell into the water as the spell expired. Anson thrashed about and managed to wade the last few feet to safety. Once the wet mage was on dry land, he dropped to his knees, exhausted. Too fatigued to move on, he lay on his back to recover his strength. After a few minutes, he gave a singular laugh aloud at the odd sight this must have been.

  Chapter 7

  A bond grows

  “Is the droll dead?”

  “He’s not dead, but he’s unconscious and I can’t rouse him.”

  “Where is Anson?”

  “I don’t know. When I woke up, he was missing.”

  A short distance from their camp, Zael and a few others had gathered around Corissa and Nevin. The two humans were kneeling over Gren, who was flat on his back. It was just past sunrise when they discovered the droll. In the weak light of dawn, Nevin could not tell what had happened to Gren but there was no indication of injury.

  “Maybe he was attacked by Gilsum soldiers, perhaps some advance scouts.”

  “Could it be injuries he suffered from his fight with the troll?”

  Zael knelt down for a closer look. “The droll has been slept,” he said.

  “Slept?”

  “A sleeping spell was put on him,” Zael answered. “Anson must have done it, and recently from its effect. That is why it is so difficult to wake him, Sir Nevin. He will recover without harm before long.”

  One of the elves whispered something privately to Zael, who nodded but said nothing until a look from Nevin indicated the need. “Brune asks whether Anson has gone to warn the Red Shirts of our presence.”

  “That’s ridiculous! Anson would not give us away!” Nevin snapped, rising to his feet and towering over everyone present. “That’s absolutely crazy and you should know it!”

  “Brune thinks your mage friend might warn them to prevent the loss of many human lives.”

  Nevin shook his head to deny the allegation; he paced off a few steps to sort things out. Even an amateur psychologist should be able to figure out what happened here. There aren’t that many variables, he thought. He scratched his growing stubble of a beard. A moment later he threw his head back and snapped his fingers, startling most of the elves gathered about them. “I get it now. I think I see what he has done.”

  “What do you mean, Nevin?” asked Corissa.

  “He must have gone to the Gilsum camp, as Brune suggested, to ask them not to invade the Wood. That’s just what he would do after he realized that Zael wouldn’t back down from attacking those men.”

  “It is the Red Shirts who have made the first attack when they invaded Elvenwood. My plan is one of defense!” protested Zael.

  “It is all the same to Anson,” Nevin shot back. “To kill men—or elves, or any creatures—is intolerable to Anson, as it should be to you, Mr. Elf-Lord!”

  Several gasps preceded a sharp silence after this accusation, but Nevin was not through defending his friend. “You never hesitated to take the most violent course, Zael. You could have explored other possibilities to detain the Gilsum soldiers, but you were quick to decide on a plan that would kill or injure most of them. You may not like to hear it, Zael, but you’re as prone to military madness as those red-shirted men.”

  Brune, standing next to his leader, may not have understood all of Nevin’s words, but it was evident from the tone that the human was quite angry. Brune took a step forward and dropped a hand to the hilt of his dagger. Zael quickly motioned for him to stop.

  “All right, Tall One. Say what you think has happened here.”

  Everyone relaxed a little and Nevin continued, “When Gren saw where Anson was headed, he must have either tried to stop him or go with him. Anson had to resort to a sleep spell in order to get away from the droll. He would not put Gren in jeopardy.”

  Brune emphatically shook his head, asking why Anson would put himself in such peril when his side had the strategic advantage. Nevin knew Anson well enough to answer, but it was Zael who spoke, “He does not want anyone killed or hurt, Brune. This mage would sacrifice himself to save men he does not even know, even men who would kill him if they knew his identity. He has not betrayed us, but in his way he is trying to save us. Sir Nevin, if they discover he is a mage, he is lost. Can you save him with magic?”

  “I’m sorry, Zael. If I could do something, I would.” Nevin shrugged helplessly. Corissa put her hand on his arm. Her eyes showed concern, but she offered no solution. Both of them realized that t
he next step was Zael’s to take, and the elf leader was now ready to move.

  “Whether Anson lives or dies will be soon decided,” added Zael. “But we cannot wait to see what happens to him. The Red Shirts will try to move their soldiers across the river today and we must get into position to maintain our advantage, even at the risk of imitating human aggression.” Zael might have been stung by Nevin’s criticism, but it was clear the elves were still going to defend their Wood.

  Zael was handed a stout wooden rod about six feet long. “Sir Nevin, here is the staff you requested. I suggest you stay close to Lady Corissa. I can spare no one else to guard you, so you will have to be alert for your own protection. If you are overrun, shout for help and we will try to aid you.”

  Zael curtly passed on instructions to a nearby elf who snapped to attention then ran off. A few minutes later, elves started to appear from all sides and gather in the center of the glade.

  Soon a large crowd had assembled and the number astounded Nevin. He recalled that Zael made reference to a large contingent, but there now had to be two hundred or more elves massed in the glade, though not all of them were armed. Over the past few nights, Nevin had enjoyed their pleasant, affable nature as he got to know these forest denizens, but now their mood was somber. The odd-sounding collective murmur of elven voices made this scene seem surreal, and the sheer number of bodies made for a visual and auditory contrast with the forest surroundings. This was the only time Nevin had noticed their sounds standing out from the natural sounds of the woodland. Zael strode to the center of the glade, stopped and raised his hand. There was immediate silence. No birds trilled. Even the rustling of leaves stopped as if the wind and trees seemed subject to obeisance before the Elf-Lord. Zael spoke slowly and deliberately in a common tongue so that all present would get every word.