Nicholas Raven and the Wizards' Web (The Complete Epic Fantasy)

by Thomas J. Prestopnik

  “It could have been worse, but we’re only two days behind schedule,” Malek said as he walked up to Nicholas from behind, enjoying a break from sled duty. “Otherwise we’d be sitting in front of a fire right now and sampling that Island brew. Still, about an hour from now we may be doing just that.”

  “Only after we unload the sleds, raise the tents and gather the firewood–all in darkness, mind you,” joked a man who pulled the sled as Nicholas pushed from behind.

  Malek laughed. “By the sound of it, Averill thinks I’m some horrific taskmaster, Nicholas. What are your thoughts?”

  “No comment. I’m staying out of family arguments.”

  “You’re a part of this family now, like it or not,” Malek said with a brotherly fondness. “And though we have many jobs before us after we arrive, I plan to let everyone enjoy some well-earned leisure in the days ahead. But right now at least, take time to soak in the beauty of the region. After being outcasts on the desolate northern perimeter for so long, it’s a joy to be standing among the trees and mountains despite the task in Kargoth awaiting us.”

  After Malek waved goodbye and meandered off, Nicholas glanced up and soaked in the wintry panorama as he continued pushing the sled. He exhaled deeply, his breathing keeping tempo with his footsteps as his breath rose in the cold air. To his left stood a dark green swath of trees extending south toward the northern slope of Petaras Peak less than two miles away. Another stretch of woods graced the southwest horizon. Several clumps of pine and other deciduous trees dotted the snowy tract of land in between. A handful of mountain peaks in the area, some craggy and others graced with elegant lines, reached up to the dimming skies as silent monuments to the ages. He wondered what Hobin would think of this chain of mountains, each one vastly taller and more formidable in appearance than any in the Dunn Hills. And though Nicholas thought that both regions possessed stunning beauty and awe inspiring vistas, he felt that the Dunn Hills offered a homespun charm he would prefer if forced to choose. For a moment he missed tramping about their winding, frothy streams, smelling the bittersweet aromas of soil and moss, and hiking along the leafy hillsides dyed in brilliant autumn shades of amber, crimson and orange. Nicholas, knowing that Hobin would want to map every peak here, chuckled to himself, catching Averill’s attention.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked, tossing a backward glance.

  “Just thinking about a wonderful guide who took me and a friend through the Dunn Hills,” he said wistfully. “He’d love it here as he was fond of mapping–”

  Suddenly a voice cried out across the snowy expanse, sending a chilling mix of shock and terror through the hearts of everyone. Nicholas and Averill stopped the sled at once as did the others spread out across the field. All eyes shifted to one particular sled near the head of the pack on the right where the shouts originated.

  “That sounded like Sala!” Nicholas said, hurrying across the snow for several steps before stopping to get a better view as a wave of fear overwhelmed him.

  When Averill joined him, Nicholas pointed to a slight dip in the terrain in the near distance. It appeared that a man was lying on the ground and another was running toward the trees in the southwest. Sala’s voice, now clearly recognizable, still rose in the frosty air in frantic bursts, crying for help as a flock of men trudged through the snow toward him. Nicholas watched as Malek sprinted across the white frozen surface several yards ahead toward the apparently injured man. Nicholas and Averill swiftly followed.

  “He’s getting away!” Sala shouted amid a rising chorus of voices speculating about what had happened and who was running.

  “Hurry!” Nicholas shouted to Averill when he finally spotted Sala’s figure in the growing gloom and ran toward him. Sala wildly signaled with his hands near the fallen man as others swarmed to that location. Looking beyond Sala’s frenzied gestures, Nicholas saw another man stumble in the deep snow. He slowly got up and changed direction, making for a different section of the tree line where the snow was less deep and his path more maneuverable.

  “What do you think happened?” Averill asked.

  “Don’t know,” Nicholas said as he pushed his way through a handful of men hastily advancing from other directions.

  “A sledding accident?”

  “Maybe. But then why would someone be running away from our group? Do you think that–?”

  But Nicholas’ words were drowned out. Thunderous footfalls rapidly closed in from behind and swiftly passed by him and Averill in a gray blur and a swirling gust of fine snow that momentarily blinded them. Shouts of surprise welled up, and when Nicholas’ vision cleared, he saw a large man upon a gray horse expertly weaving a path among the scattered lines of men while heading toward the fleeing stranger. As the horseman shot past Sala’s sled which stood close to the fallen man, he grabbed a filled cloth sack sitting atop one of the crates with one hand while controlling the reins in the other. He pressed forward as the galloping horse raised clouds of fine snow and zeroed in on the escaping individual. But just as the runner briefly turned around to get a better glance at his pursuer, the horseman swung back the sack in his left arm like a pendulum and propelled it forward with all his might, hitting the man squarely in the jaw and knocking him off his feet as the horse flew past like a blazing arrow.

  Though dazed and disoriented, the man struggled to sit up. He glanced over his shoulder, noting that the horse and its rider had sped well beyond him and were only beginning to slow down and turn around. With a grueling effort, he scrambled to his feet and looked frantically about for the next best path of escape before the horseman returned. But something else caught his attention. Another man in near hysterics was running toward him.

  “Dunnic!” Sala’s voice was filled with anger as he barreled toward the escaped prisoner with both fists clenched. A chorus of voices called out to Sala to come back, shocked that he had bolted at the enemy so fast and unarmed.

  Dunnic, seeing no way of escape, pulled a bloody, knife-like object from his belt and raised it in the air, running headlong at Sala. “I’ll kill you too!” he screamed, charging through the snow as Sala moved ever closer, apparently not aware or not caring that Dunnic was armed.

  As the other sledders hastened to Sala’s defense from the north, the horseman snapped his reins in a desperate race to reach Dunnic before he collided with Sala in an almost certain bloody encounter. As Dunnic pressed forward, a vicious smile spread across his face. He knew he would reach Sala before any of the others could save their friend. He gripped the blood-stained weapon and prepared to spring, not caring about what would happen to him once he killed his foe. At that same moment, with almost slow-motion awareness, Sala realized the danger he had rushed into when observing the murderous intent in Dunnic’s eyes. The sound of thunderous horses echoed in his mind like death itself. Sala slowed down as he blindly reached for a sword that wasn’t at his side. Dunnic, nearly on top of him, was ready to lunge forward, his blade in motion, his teeth bared, savoring his final victory he knew was but a moment away. Sala, trying to turn away, slipped on the snow and toppled backward, expecting pain and death.

  But in that same instant, Dunnic felt as if he had crashed headfirst into a stone wall. He fell flat on his back, seeing Sala’s face disappear from view and replaced by a backdrop of deepening blue skies, ashen clouds and then a blinding white light in his mind. He sensed a cold, burning sensation deep inside as he tried to take a breath, but his lungs felt as feeble and useless as clumps of wet parchment. He saw an arrow sticking out of his chest. His vision began to blur. Soon he felt only cold numbness as a collage of distant voices collided in his mind in the swiftly fading light. Then he felt nothing at all, neither heat nor cold nor the snowy ground beneath him. Slowly his eyelids closed for the last time until he lay as still and unmoving as the mountains.

  Sala sat up as Nicholas and many of the others gathered around in stunned silence, grateful that their friend was unharmed while trying to make sense of what had occurred. Sa
la shook the snow from his hair and looked about in dazed wonder.

  “What happened?” he said, breathing heavily, his face flushed. “How did–?” When Sala saw Dunnic sprawled dead on his back a few feet away, he went instantly pale, pointing incredulously at the corpse. “Who did that?”

  The others turned their heads and gazed upon his rescuer. Sala looked up. Through the open spaces between the men he saw Malek standing near a body lying in the snow beside a sled. He held a bow in his outstretched arm, his eyes yet fixed upon the invisible path of his flying arrow. He slowly lowered the weapon and set it aside before attending to his fallen comrade. Tradell and several others joined him.

  Just then, the man on the gray horse sauntered up to the crowd from the opposite direction, the cloth sack still in his hands. He let it drop near Sala’s legs. “Here are your biscuits,” Max dryly remarked before dismounting his steed.

  “Welcome back,” Nicholas said, shaking his hand as Averill and another man helped Sala up. “You’re timing was impeccable.”

  “What’s going on?” he asked with concern while fingering his beard and indicating Dunnic’s body with a tilt of his head. “Is that one of the men from the raft?”

  “Yes,” Nicholas said, bringing Max up to date on the events he had missed since departing fifteen days ago. “It would have been better for us if he had joined Brin at the bottom of the Gray River.”

  “But such wasn’t our fate.” Slowly, Malek made his way to the front, pale and shaken. He gripped Sala on the shoulder, thankful that he was unharmed. “Dunnic was simply another Brin through and through, warped in his mind and blindly devoted to Vellan.” His words were tinged with bitterness as the news he carried was both grave and heartbreaking. “Our good friend, Rollin, has fallen at the hands of that–” He couldn’t complete his thought as he gazed upon Dunnic’s body as three men examined the corpse.

  “How’d he get his hands on a knife?” Sala asked.

  “It wasn’t a knife,” answered one of the men near Dunnic’s body. He bent down and picked up the weapon in question and presented it to the onlookers. “It’s a piece of wood, most likely a bit he snapped off a chunk of the firewood he helped carry.”

  “He must have pocketed it on the sly and sharpened it with a stone,” Sala concluded with disgust. “We should have kept that miserable thing tied up at all times.”

  “But we didn’t,” Malek said. “I’ll assume the blame for that.”

  “What’ll we do with him?” asked the man holding the bloody weapon.

  Malek thought for a moment. “Bury him under a snow mound where he lies. Let nature take care of his body as she sees fit when warmer weather arrives.”

  “And Rollin?” Sala asked.

  “We’ll empty the sled he was pushing except for a layer of crates,” he instructed. “We’ll set his body upon those, covered and with much honor, and transport it to the encampment. There we’ll dig a spot for his final resting place and send word to his family when time and weather allow. But it will be a bitter spring.” Malek walked back to Rollin’s body, now covered with a blanket as Tradell stood over him and softly uttered words for the dead as several men listened with heads bowed.

  A short time later as several men split into two groups to tend to the bodies, Malek took Max aside to talk about his meeting along Thendara Wood with Prince Gregory’s scout. He signaled for Nicholas, Tradell and a few others to join them near a cluster of pine trees as the dimming light cast a bluish hue across the snow. Max reached inside his coat and pulled out a parchment envelope sealed with a blot of blue wax pressed with the prince’s royal imprint.

  “You’ll want to see this,” Max said, handing the unopened envelope to Malek.

  Nicholas, noting that Max’s name had been elegantly printed on the front, looked at him curiously. “You are a patient man, not having bothered to read it yet.”

  Max quietly laughed. “Patience has nothing to do with it, Nicholas. Though I recognize my name on the front, I’ve never really taken to the written word. Just a handful of necessary ones, mind you, to get me by on the road. Perhaps some day.”

  “You have the honors,” Malek said despondently, handing the envelope to Nicholas. “My thoughts are still elsewhere. Give us the highlights if you would, then later we can pore over the details when more time is available.”

  “All right,” he said, pleased to accommodate his request as the others looked on. After sliding a finger under the flap and breaking the seal, Nicholas carefully unfolded the piece of parchment. Prince Gregory’s handwriting in dark brown ink filled the entire page. He skimmed the small and neatly penned words as the last thin rays of sunlight dipped behind the line of peaks in the southwest.

  “What’s it say?” Max asked, his wide brown eyes darting back and forth between Nicholas’ face and the letter.

  “Well, after a few details about the winter war council–which was a brief and cordial affair this time–Prince Gregory writes that King Justin’s army and his allies from Montavia will march south at the first sign of warm weather. They will make for the city of Grantwick in Drumaya,” he continued, his eyes fixed to the letter, “and there join forces with King Cedric’s army and any soldiers that Prince Victor and Princess Melinda can spare from Rhiál and Maranac.” Nicholas looked up. “It seems that they want to contribute to the fight, even if modestly so, in repayment to the Kings for deposing Drogin and ridding their lands of Vellan’s influence.”

  “All contributions are welcomed,” Malek said gratefully.

  “What else does he write?” Tradell asked.

  “Soldiers from the Five Clearings in the Ebrean Forest will also march, most anxious to continue their fight against Vellan.”

  “And finish it this time,” Sala said with growing hope. “It’s a good omen to have our countrymen join us. May they all soon be living again in their respective homelands.”

  “That’s the crux of the message,” Nicholas went on, quickly reading toward the end of the letter. “The several armies will leave Grantwick and continue southwest along the Swift River and Lake Mara. After passing beyond the southern border of Drumaya, they’ll turn northwest into Kargoth and march along the path of the Drusala River.” He paused as he reread some of the words before looking up apprehensively. “They’ll head directly to Vellan’s stronghold in Del Norác to conduct their business as he says. Prince Gregory and his father look forward to meeting with one of our scouts, or two, near the southern tip of Lake Mara at the first sign of spring to coordinate our efforts.” Nicholas looked up as he folded the letter and handed it back to Malek. “Respectfully yours, Prince Gregory of Arrondale.”

  Malek took the letter and offered a slight smile. “Apparently they are readying for this springtime conflict with gusto–and so shall we. Max, I assume you will be volunteering to travel to Lake Mara sometime before spring to get the particulars.”

  “As if you needed to ask.”

  “I think the letter mentioned scouts,” Nicholas chimed in. “More than one.”

  “Oh, did it really,” Malek casually replied.

  Nicholas shrugged as he ground the tip of his boot into the snow. “Well, I suppose one could interpret it that way. Besides, it might be wise to send a pair of scouts to retrieve such important information just in case one was injured along the way.”

  Max furrowed his brow as he caressed his beard, feigning deep thought. “You do have a point there, Nicholas, though I was considering breaking my rule this once and taking someone along with me–just in case, as you say. Know any volunteers?”

  Nicholas smiled. “As if you needed to ask.”

  “I guess it’s settled,” Malek said with growing weariness, handing the letter to Tradell for safekeeping, his demeanor solemn once again. “Now we should press on for camp while we still have the twilight to guide us. I’ll pull the sled carrying Rollin. Tradell, will you accompany me on his final journey?”

  “It will be my honor,” he replied.

&nbs
p; “Thank you. Now let’s close out this dreadful night,” he said with a heavy heart, wishing that springtime were upon them. But he humbly accepted the long and perilous winter still ahead.

  CHAPTER 91

  Something in the Air

  King Justin opened his upper study window in the middle of a quiet morning, inhaling the late-winter air. He gazed north upon the rich green swath of pine trees along the Edelin River that was still ice-encrusted in spots as it flowed behind the Blue Citadel. Below to his right were the fruit orchards, the apple and pear trees in neat rows waiting to burst forth with blossoms and leaves once winter’s frosty breath receded. It had been a long, grueling winter. The King felt a cool breeze brush across his face. Gray and white clouds scraped across the tips of the Trent Hills farther north. Fifteen days remained until the beginning of spring and a brand new year.

  He had stood alone at this open window many times during the last month in the midst of war preparations. The second council had proceeded swiftly and without altercation when it was convened five weeks ago. Now, and over the last ten days, volunteer troops were arriving from across Arrondale, ready to march south at a moment’s notice. Most of the men were encamped in a large field a mile east of the Citadel with smaller camps scattered about where room allowed. Even King Rowan and Prince William had returned from Montavia with their small army, ready to play a part in what everyone thought would be the last major battle of the time. Scouts had fanned out southward to get the lay of the land after winter’s handiwork. They were expected back soon to report on current travel conditions along the main roads as far south as the Red Mountains. King Justin wanted to move as soon as the roads were passable.