Sorcerers' Isle

by D. P. Prior

“You think…” Snaith started, but stopped himself. He checked Theurig for any hint of mockery.

  Stony-faced. Deadly serious. A flick of his eyes toward the High King. Theurig pasted on a big fake smile, apparently taken as genuine by Drulk Skanfok, unifier-in-waiting of all the clans of Branikdür.

  “Calzod Murcifer!” the High King said, slipping his guards and pulling Theurig into a fierce hug.

  Snaith winced, expecting a resounding crack from the sorcerer’s tortured spine, which might not have been such a bad thing, if it set straight. Theurig wriggled free, elusive as an eel.

  “It’s Theurig, my king. Calzod is…” He threw his eyes along a line of sorcerers, all of whom were now silent and attentive, transformed from a gaggle of hawkers and gossipers into aged counselors, prophets, and soothsayers. Men who knew. Theurig waggled his fingers in the air. “He is here somewhere, Majesty. I was only talking to him a matter of—”

  “Yes, Theurig! Of course,” the High King said. “From the Glade of Inauguration, when the Weyd chose me.” He touched the rust-scabbed coronet on his head. “You bore the crown upon a velvet cushion; brought it from Hélum.”

  A likely story, Snaith thought. Another of Theurig’s tall tales. No one leaves Branikdür for the Empire. At least no one who wants to return.

  “Whisked it from under their noses,” Theurig said, with a crooked bow. Vertebrae cracked when he came out of it, but to his credit the only thing that betrayed any discomfort was the twitching of his cheek. “As charged by Cabyl.”

  Drulk Skanfok stiffened. “The Plague Lord? I thought it was Elesia, the Lady of the Isle.”

  A hint of irritation flashed in Theurig’s eyes, but the High King didn’t notice; he was looking up at the clouds, toward the sanctum of the gods, who were one step removed from the Weyd.

  Theurig coughed into his fist. “Elesia, ultimately, Majesty, but the potency of the crown was first unveiled by Cabyl, who, as you know, is well acquainted with the Death Lord of Hélum.”

  The Death Lord: the Wyvern of Necras, whose image marred Snaith’s chest. The god-protector of the Seven, who ruled the Empire from an impregnable compound, set apart from the people they governed.

  Some said it was the Plague Lord Cabyl who drove the invading Hélumites from Branikdür with an outbreak of the pox. Others attributed their abrupt departure centuries ago to Gosynag the Grey, the lord of storms and rain, the god everyone cursed for Branikdür’s depressing weather. It didn’t matter who it was. They were all aspects of the Weyd, and what the Weyd wanted came to pass one way or another. The source of all the hidden powers that poured from the sky and flowed through the roots of the earth was no respecter of empires, even one that spanned half the known world.

  “You are right,” Drulk Skanfok said into the clouds. He lowered his eyes and set his jaw. “Good to see you, Theurig. The blessings of the Weyd be upon you.”

  Rather than respond with the customary, “And also upon you,” Theurig swiftly said, “Majesty, this here is Snaith Harrow.”

  The High King’s brow furrowed as he took in Snaith, either trying to place him, or wondering why his time was being wasted with such an introduction.

  “Snaith comes from a long line of great warriors,” Theurig said. “His grandfather was chief, until—”

  Chief Crav Bellosh chose that moment to barge his way out of the crowd behind the High King’s retinue. Even dressed in a cloak of swan feathers and with his long hair braided with silver thread, he was still a toad, only no one had the balls to tell him. They probably feared the hatchet in the back that had deposed Snaith’s grandfather.

  “Until what?” Bellosh said.

  “Until his passing,” Theurig continued with an easy smile. “And his father, Bas, has returned home from twelve battles.” He raised an eyebrow, waiting for the High King to react. It took a while for it to register, but then Drulk Skanfok inclined his head and widened his eyes appreciatively.

  “Twelve, you say?” He looked at Snaith for confirmation, but Snaith was mute. What did you say to a High King? What were you permitted to say? Truth was, Drulk Skanfok was so much more impressive in the tales told of his valor. In the flesh, while he was still imposing, he was softer than Snaith had pictured him, a little fatter, though nothing to rival Bellosh. And not only that, but his legendary wisdom and his cutting wit were somewhat lacking. If anything, he seemed more suited to pulling a plow than lording it over an island of squabbling clans. But maybe that was the point, Snaith thought, casting a surreptitious eye over the hawkishly watching sorcerers. Actually, hawkish wasn’t quite right: they were more like a murder of crows, or a clutch of vultures biding their time, waiting to pick over the High King’s remains when his ten-year rule was up in another four.

  “The family have a wattle-and-daub cottage,” Theurig said, and Drulk Skanfok’s nod conveyed that he was duly impressed. “Snaith plans to follow in his father’s footsteps, and he doesn’t lack for talent.”

  The High King stepped toward Snaith, and his two guards came with him.

  It struck Snaith that two was a small number of guards, but then, why would the High King need more? No one would dare harm him. He was appointed by the Weyd, and enjoyed the protection of the full cabal of sorcerers. One move against him and every clan in Branikdür would hunt you down and nail you to a tree. And if the clans didn’t find you, you could bet the sorcerers’ curses would.

  Chief Crav Bellosh was red in the face, lips curled, teeth grinding. He kept his distance, but it was plain he resented this intrusion on his time basking in the High King’s glory.

  Snaith wilted under Drulk Skanfolk’s appraising eyes, the withering looks from his men. One of them scoffed, quiet enough for the High King not to notice.

  And then Theurig went and twisted the knife in the wound: “He hopes to serve you personally, Majesty, among the best of the best.”

  Drulk Skanfok’s chin quivered, and his mouth worked as if he were chewing.

  Snaith shot a glare at Theurig, who sucked in his top lip and turned his gaze skyward in a look of faux innocence. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the High King lunge at him. Snaith’s mind played it out faster than a lightning strike: side step, head bob, jab to the sternum, feint with the left knee, right cross to the jaw, follow with a left uppercut. But he chose, instead, to do nothing. He didn’t even flinch. He’d not missed the High King’s guards flowing to his flanks, nor the scowl on Chief Bellosh’s face. Nor the smug look of satisfaction on Theurig’s for putting him in such a position.

  Drulk Skanfok feigned a hook, went for a clinch, then backed up, coughing out a goodnatured chuckle.

  “Ah, lad, you never even saw me coming. You see that, Bellosh? Same with your men in the circle: too slow. It’s the shelter of those there hills, I tell you. The Malogoi are growing soft.”

  Theurig drifted into Snaith’s line of sight, one eyebrow raised, most of his smirk erased save for a curling hint.

  The High King’s guards visibly relaxed and shook their heads. It was an effort for Snaith to drag his mind away from plans of where to hit them. But Tey remained his tether, and a still-point of order coalesced around her image once more.

  “Put some meat on your bones, lad,” the High King said, stepping in and rubbing Snaith’s crest of hair with affection. He turned away to Bellosh. “Don’t you people feed your youngsters? I tell you, Chief, if I’m ever called upon to unite the clans against a Vanndyrian invasion, as my predecessor was, I’ve half a mind to have yours weave victory garlands while the rest of us go to war.”

  The last time the berserkers sent their longships against Branikdür’s south coast, Snaith had been a babe, not yet able to walk. Fierce warriors with no give in them, was how Bas Harrow described them, before gloatingly recounting how he’d put three down with just his trusty fruit knife. On the western fringe of the Oropan Peninsula, the heartland of the Hélum Empire, Vanndyr was one of the few unconquered nations. A barbaric society of goat-shagging baby-eaters, if the M
alogoi elders were to be believed.

  Theurig insinuated his way to Snaith’s side, placed a gnarled hand on his shoulder. “You are wise beyond measure, Majesty. What Snaith would not hear from me, you have now demonstrated to be true. These young folk believe their own fantasies. You know how it is. He seeks to emulate his grandfather and father, while in vain commanding the tide of the Weyd’s embrace to retreat.”

  The High King craned his neck to look back at Snaith, eyes narrowed to slits. “Oh?”

  “It calls to him, Majesty, but his ears are stuffed with honey.”

  The High King studied Snaith, no doubt looking for some deformity. When he spoke, he averted his eyes. Not out of deference, Snaith suspected; the muttered words, the rumbling tone rather suggested old regret, resignation, the fatalism Theurig was always talking about.

  “I…” The High King raked fingers through his beard. “Give in to it, lad. Accept it. Then it will go easier with you.”

  Snaith glanced at Theurig, then to the High King he said, “I am a warrior, Majesty. The greatest there has ever been. And today you will bear witness to it.”

  “That’s enough,” Crav Bellosh said, taking a step forward.

  “You are too wiry, lad,” Drulk Skanfok said, languidly raising a hand that had the same effect on Bellosh as running into a tree.

  “Aye, Majesty, you’re not wrong there,” Bellosh said, his scoff doing nothing to reduce the redness flooding his cheeks.

  “You have the height but not the bulk,” the High King went on, as if Bellosh weren’t there. “You must fight, as must we all, but you have to be realistic. Calzod here—”

  Theurig coughed.

  “Forgive me… Theurig.” The High King paused, and the hint of a smile played on his lips. “Theurig is an astute judge of character and aptitude. If he believes you to be suited to the mysteries of the Weyd—”

  “But I’m no cripple,” Snaith said. If Theurig was hurt by the remark, he didn’t show it, and the High King betrayed not even the slightest hint of irritation that he’d been interrupted.

  “Well,” Drulk Skanfok said, and he looked at Theurig as if seeking confirmation, “infirmity is not solely confined to the body, or have I misunderstood?”

  Before Theurig could answer, Snaith said, “None of these wannabe warriors is on my level. Just you wait and see, Majesty. I will decapitate them with my bare hands. Their bodies will lie bloodied and broken in the circle.”

  Bellosh rolled his eyes, and yet he’d seen what Snaith could do. Maybe Theurig had gotten to him. Or maybe he wanted to belittle the descendant of the man he’d usurped, undermine Snaith’s confidence, or hamper him with anger, make him tighten up during the fights and take a beating so bad he’d no longer be a threat. Because a backstabber like Bellosh was always jumping at shadows, expecting everyone else to do to him what he’d done to Chief Sol Harrow.

  Theurig shrugged and turned his palms up.

  “I’m serious, Majesty,” Snaith said, dropping to one knee. “I beg you, watch me win the Proving.”

  “If I have the time, lad, but it’s a big festival and there’s—”

  Snaith turned his head as he caught a whiff of musk on the breeze.

  Tey.

  Threading her way through the crowd. Feet bare and caked with mud. Blood-stained cleaver in one hand, the other cinching her black dress together over her boyish chest.

  “Sorry to have bored you,” Drulk Skanfok said, shaking his head more vigorously this time and already stalking away, flanked by his two guards.

  Crav Bellosh delivered a fierce slap to Snaith’s ear and scurried after the High King. “The lad’s not right in the head, Majesty,” Bellosh said. “He’s no reflection of the others. Stay and watch a couple more bouts, and you’ll see wha—”

  “You have bull-riding, Bellosh?” the High King said as they disappeared into the throng. “I’ll come back for the final, but no more preliminaries. And I mean real bulls, not some scrawny half-starved cow.”

  Theurig leaned on his staff, watching Tey with a smug smile on his face.

  “What is she doing?” Snaith said, rising to his feet, lost between what had just happened with the High King and the apparition of Tey floating through the crowd.

  Yet it was no apparition. He could see that from the way people stepped aside and gawped; the way the rents in Tey’s dress betrayed not a tattoo but pockets of white flesh crisscrossed with scars. Sight of them stopped Snaith in his tracks before his first step had made its way from his mind to his foot.

  “Tey!”—Khunt Moonshine, bellowing against the wind. No sign of him yet, but his next cry was nearer. “You crazy fucking bitch. Get back here.”

  Khunt’s broad head and shoulders parted the crowd some way back.

  As if in a dream, Snaith made a beeline for Tey. He was closer than Khunt. Would get there first. Then, as clansfolk drew back from the grisly specter of the girl in the ripped dress, the girl with the cleaver, the girl with the scars, Snaith saw just where Tey was heading. He willed his legs to run, but they responded with barely a trudge.

  Dropping the cleaver, Tey gave up trying to keep her dress closed, and strode with purpose toward the bear.

  “Come here!” Khunt yelled, his breaths blasting out in ragged gasps.

  “Tey!” Snaith cried.

  She turned her head without breaking step. An ugly bruise purpled the skin around one eye. Her lip was split and trickling blood. She frowned. Gave a weak smile. Looked back to the bear.

  And then Snaith was running. Really running. Covering the ground between them in long, flowing strides.

  “No you don’t!” Khunt growled, and barreled into Snaith out of nowhere.

  Snaith rolled with the force, slung out a punch even as he saw just where to place it. Khunt’s head spun round, his legs buckled, and he sprawled face-first in the dirt. His spearhead shot from his grasp.

  The bear roared.

  Tey screamed.

  At the last instant, she tried to turn away. A claw slapped down, spun her to the ground, one leg tucked beneath her. The bear let out a snorting growl then lunged for her. Its chain pulled taut, and all it could reach was her extended leg.

  Snaith slammed into it. Bounced off like he’d hit a wall. He somehow kept his feet and made a grab for Tey’s wrist, but a claw lashed out. Pain flared through his arm. Blood sprayed. Started to gush. He went for a kick, but the claw ripped into the same arm again, and this time he found himself on his knees, not knowing how he’d gotten there. Tey was screaming, the bear was mauling her leg. And there was blood. Everywhere, blood.

  Lightning flashed.

  A hiss and the stench of brimstone.

  And then Theurig was there, driving the bear back with swipes of his blazing staff. The wood swiftly charred, and the flames fizzled out, but before the bear could gather itself for another attack, clansmen surrounded it, jabbing with spears.

  The High King’s voice, demanding to know what had happened. Chief Crav Bellosh, spitting fury and making sure everyone knew it was nothing to do with him. Khunt Moonshine, recovered sooner than Snaith would have liked, accusing his daughter, but no one buying it. Snaith was dimly aware of Khunt being restrained by the High King’s guards, led away shrieking his innocence.

  Theurig’s soothing tones, directly above him. How had Snaith ended up on his back, staring foggily at the heavy skies?

  “Snaith?”—his mother. “The Weyd preserve us. Snaith!”

  He was aware of his father kneeling beside his head, barking commands about stemming the bleeding.

  “Oh fuck,” Tey whimpered from nearby. “Don’t touch. Leave me alone!”

  “Theurig,” Snaith said, voice thready and weak. “Theurig.”

  “I’m here, Snaith.” The rustle of the sorcerer’s robes as he crouched down. “Leave him to me, Bas, Jennika. I’ll make sure he’s all right. The girl, too. The Weyd has spoken, and it’s best that we heed it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bas Harrow said. “He’s my boy, Theurig, and he’s coming home.”

  “He’ll die if I don’t tend him,” Theurig said.

  “I’ve bound wounds before,” Bas said. “Don’t worry, Theurig, I’ll send to you for herbs to stave off the vile. But he’s coming home.”

  “Listen to reason, Bas,” Crav Bellosh said. “You know how it is. Arm’s useless. The lad’s done. Coldman’s Copse—”

  “No one’s killing my boy,” Jennika Harrow said. She sounded fierce. Like the Ear-Collector.

  “Majesty?” The appeal in Chief Bellosh’s voice was sickening.

  The High King licked his lips; glanced nervously at Theurig. “Well, if the family are willing—”

  “No one can interfere with the will of the Weyd,” the sorcerer said, voice deeper than usual, heavy with menace. Snaith caught a blurry glimpse of the spearhead in Theurig’s hand. He must have seen Khunt drop it, gone to pick it up.

  There was a crushing silence, interspersed only by Tey’s sobs and Snaith’s shuddering breaths that would have been screams, had he not choked them with the force of his will.

  Tension so thick it was smothering pressed in around Snaith. His eyes were heavy with sleep. His heartbeat stuttered in his ribcage, echoing the throbbing of his arm. The injury was bad. He could tell from the timbre of his parents’ voices, but it hurt less than a grass cut or a bruise. He’d once heard his father say a serious wound was numb at first, but later would be agony.

  Someone shifted. Fingers stroked his hair.

  “Like I said,”—Bas Harrow—“my son. We know the burden, and we accept it.”

  Theurig hissed.

  “We accept it,” Jennika said, like she’d already taken one ear and was eyeing the other.

  “Fine,” Theurig said. “Have it your way. But the girl’s mine.”

  Snaith tried to object—to the foolishness, to the humiliation. A man who couldn’t fight… kept like a baby… Done, the chief had said, and for once he was right. Best place for him was the Copse.

  But the pain chose that moment to hit. And once it started, it didn’t let up.