The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The demon faded into the gloom. Its semisolid form oozed beneath Trilless’ wards. Abruptly, wind chopped the jeweled calm of the sea, took down the hood of the sorceress’ cloak, and spilled her white hair into her face. But the demon’s bonds held. The gale withered and dropped. The demon’s eyes gleamed, and its jaws parted to reveal pointed teeth as dark as its form. “Lady, I do not know.”

  Trilless gritted her teeth, prodded by frustration and rage. She dared not believe she had taken such a risk for nothing. “Who does know?” She tried to keep her mood hidden, but her question emerged like a shout.

  “More powerful demons,” it suggested, then laughed. “Perhaps.” Its features contorted to a blur, then returned to a facelike configuration. “Though one of your own did witness the ceremony.”

  Trilless considered. The demon had volunteered the information; apparently, it had more to say on this topic, and that intrigued her. Its words gave her two courses to follow, and she chose the more promising one. “By ceremony, do you mean Tokar’s ceremony of passage?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Tokar is dead?”

  “As dead as any Cardinal Wizard can be. His being, as such, was utterly destroyed.”

  Trilless concentrated on the demon’s explanation. A Wizard’s ceremony of passage did result in the utter destruction of body and soul, leaving only memories, including misconceptions and weaknesses, that joined the collective consciousness and became a part of his apprentice. “What happened to Tokar’s successor?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “I do not know.”

  Trilless abandoned this line of questioning, following the other path instead. “You said that one of my own witnessed the ceremony.”

  The bulk of the demon darkened until it seemed less a being and more the absence of being, a dense hole in the cosmos. “I said this.”

  “Who?” Trilless asked. Then, realizing she had left the question far too vague, she clarified. “Who witnessed the Western Wizard’s ceremony of passage?”

  “Many birds.”

  The answer seemed obvious. The Western Wizard had an empathic link with birds similar to the Eastern Wizard’s connection to land animals and her own with denizens of the ocean. The Southern Wizard could command the creatures of transition, those that lived part of their life cycle on land and part in water or those land creatures that laid eggs. Recognizing the demon’s answer as delay, Trilless pressed. “Who is the ‘one of my own’ who witnessed the ceremony?”

  “Carcophan.”

  Trilless’ eyes narrowed. The response seemed unlikely. “The Southern Wizard witnessed Tokar’s ceremony of passage?”

  “No.”

  Trilless froze at the seeming contradiction, retracing her thoughts for the mistake. She rephrased the question more carefully. “Was there a mortal or a Wizard present at the Western Wizard’s ceremony of passage who was not Tokar or his apprentice?”

  “Yes,” the demon said, supplying nothing more.

  “Name all the mortals or Wizards present at the Western Wizard’s ceremony of passage.”

  The demon’s face became manlike enough to reveal a toothy grin. “That, Lady, was not a question.”

  Near-immortality had bestowed patience on Trilless. She did not allow the demon’s stalling to fluster her. “Who is the ‘one of my own’ who witnessed the Western Wizard’s ceremony of passage? And what makes you refer to him as ‘one of my own’?”

  The demon chose to answer both questions at once. “He is a Northman, Wizard. Men call him Deathseeker. The gods use the title Kyndig.” He used the Northern pronunciation Kawn-dee, which translated to “Skilled One.” The demon’s features achieved a near-human sneer. “You call him the Golden Prince of Demons.”

  Trilless recoiled as if slapped. Immediately sensing the new weakness in her wards, the demon thrust at the enchantments that held it. Hurriedly, Trilless fought vulnerability, plugging the gap with webs of utter purity. Her magic burned it. Screaming, the demon struggled backward, deeper into the sorceress’ wards.

  Annoyance made Trilless’ head throb. Pain was a tool of evil, not good. Despite the nature of the demon, she had no wish to torture it. She softened the magics of her bindings, and the demon’s shrieks changed pitch to the deep rumble of laughter.

  Trilless spoke in a controlled monotone. Over time, her magic was losing power while the demon gained more. She could not afford to keep it much longer. Yet, one question still begged asking. “I know Carcophan is plotting against us already. Who is the Southern Wizard’s new champion?”

  The demon writhed in its bonds. It waved one splay-clawed hand and spoke in a voice that could quail a brave warrior. “Carcophan has no champion yet.” The hand dissipated. Though not bound to say more, the demon chose to continue, perhaps hoping to further rattle his keeper. “But it is fated. Carcophan shall command a swordsman unmatched by any other mortal.”

  Trilless paled, but this time she retained control. “Who is this mortal?”

  “I do not know.”

  “What more do you know about Carcophan’s champion?”

  “Only what I’ve told you.”

  Another dead end. Trilless hesitated. There were more questions she would have liked to ask, but none seemed worth the risk. Clearly, unless Colbey died before Carcophan selected his champion, he was the only mortal who answered the demon’s description. That, combined with the early prophecy that linked the Golden Prince of Demons with Ragnarok left her little choice. Her course of action seemed clear. First, Colbey must be questioned about the ceremony he had witnessed. A Wizard’s passage required the use of magics more potent than the sum of all the spells used throughout the centuries of his reign. Any interference could cause consequences she could only begin to contemplate. Since Colbey had become a follower of neutrality, his interrogation could only be carried out by Shadimar. Afterward, Trilless had no choice but to see to Colbey’s death.

  Odin’s laws bound the Wizards to see that their predecessors’ prophecies were fulfilled; yet, as far as she knew, no Wizard had been specifically assigned to instigate the Ragnarok. In fact, it would stand against the survival of nearly all of the gods, the Wizards, and the world to assign anyone to such a task. Fortunately, without a Wizard to back it, the prophecy had little chance of coming to fruition, and Trilless saw no reason why she should not oppose it. Still, it went against her many oaths to confront any mortal directly or to suggest that another Wizard do such a thing. Even if she did, Shadimar might mistrust her intentions. Their causes did, at times, come head to head. She could only choose her own champion, send him or her after Colbey, and hope that Shadimar did not step in the way. To let Carcophan’s champion skew the balance toward evil meant a fate nearly as ugly to Trilless as the Ragnarok. And there was only one way to even the odds between Colbey and whatever champion she chose to send against him. Ristoril, the White Sword of Power. The calmness that accompanied this decision felt as right as the eternity she had dedicated herself to preserve. Many Northern Wizards before her had placed the Great Sword in a champion’s hands.

  “Demon,” Trilless said softly, her mind made up. “You still owe me a service. I would have you retrieve the White Sword of Power.”

  This once, the demon had no taunts. “I shall fulfill your request, though it is folly. Should Carcophan recall the Dark Blade, his champion would still best yours by skill. You take an unnecessary risk with lives you claim to protect. Including your own.”

  Trilless stood statue still. She knew the demon spoke truth. Another prophecy claimed that the Ragnarok would occur when all three Swords of Power existed in Odin’s world of law at once. Previous mages had already crafted two of the Swords, storing them on the plane of magic when not in a champion’s hands. Yet the third Sword had not yet been crafted, and Trilless believed it would require a joint effort of Eastern and Western Wizards to create it. S
o long as the Western Wizard did not exist, she was taking no risk. Without Ristoril, her champion had no chance at all against Carcophan’s chosen one. Surely Carcophan knew this, too. He would have to guess that Trilless might call the White Sword against Colbey. After all, the Southern Wizard had been wise enough to withhold the Dark Sword from Siderin. “You cannot defy me.”

  “As you wish, Lady.”

  Trilless tightened her control on the snarled webs of warding as the demon bellowed harsh, vulgar syllables that made her ears ache. Yet the result of his ravings was beautiful to behold. The sun shouldered through a crack in the clouds, as golden and bright as the elves who dwelt far north of the Amirannak Sea. Gradually, light emerged from the globe, streaming tendrils of sun that dropped from the sky and merged at Trilless’ feet as a starry burst of energy.

  Its brilliance obscured the demon who summoned it. Within the light, a shape took form. Silently, the Sorceress watched as the sun streamers guttered and sank, leaving only a great Sword sheathed in a worn leather scabbard. Despite its imposing size, the plain steel hilt suggested nothing of the Sword’s power. Yet Trilless knew the Sword of Tranquillity as a mother knows her child.

  Lightning flared, breaking the peace of the union between mistress and treasure. The demon’s obligations finished, Trilless could no longer hold it. Enchanted fetters fell from it with a sound like breaking harp strings. The demon howled its challenge, each word louder than the one before. “I’ve served you, Lady. Now, I’ll claim my BLOOD!”

  “No!” Trilless screamed. Breakers frothed against the cliffs as the sorceress pictured the demon ravaging innocents as the price for her knowledge. Tapped of power by the summons and wards, Trilless struggled to gather strength to call magics of slaying upon the demon. Yet, constrained by Odin’s laws to never directly harm men or Wizards, Trilless had no practice with such spells. She had carefully drawn the sequence to the forefront of memory before summoning the creature, and she mouthed the syllables from rote. But now, her concentration seemed scattered, and the hubbub of internal suggestions only added to the confusion.

  Vibrant sparks of sorcery flashed from Trilless, their glow rivaling the sun. They struck the dark shape of the demon, spattering harmlessly to stone. The demon laughed, huge, serrated wings unfurling from its dark formlessness. Blood-flecked saliva oozed from its mouth.

  Despite her weakness and confusion, Trilless held her voice steady and raised one arm. The sleeve slid back, revealing pale, wrinkled flesh. “Take my blood, Vile One. You shall have no other!”

  Bound by the sacrifice, the demon sprang with a wavering howl. His wail filled Trilless’ head, drawing and tugging, as if to pull out her soul. Claws tore her forearm like knives. She retreated, protective incantations burning her throat. Nothing of flesh or law could harm her, but she had dared to call a creature who could. Agony scattered her wits, and she called upon the memories of her predecessors for strength.

  The sea surged and boiled. Trilless fell to her knees, drawing strength from the ocean’s perfect basic power. She recovered her senses quickly and, with them, confidence. Her shouted sorceries regained their rhythm. Light flashed, blindingly brilliant against the demon’s darkness, and the creature vanished before the spell sequence ended.

  Trilless whispered the last few syllables from the deep-seated need for completeness. The demon’s claw strikes trailed blood, four ugly gashes only magic could heal. Had she still been mortal, each would have stolen a decade from her time left to live; but this meant little to one who had survived four centuries and who would choose her own time of passing. She guessed this incident would have a profound significance when passed, with her soul, to her successor.

  The tide accepted Trilless’ blood and swirled it to the sea. Quietly, she began the sequence of magics that would restore the skin of her arm. The pain was not so easily banished, but she turned her concentration to the Sword for which she had paid. It lay so still, yet to her trained eyes so alive with magic. And, with that glance, came the memory of runes carved upon a tablet-shaped stone in the ocean, attributed to the early mages, though no Cardinal Wizard could trace the author through his memories:

  A Sword of Gray,

  A Sword of White,

  A Sword of Black and chill as night.

  Each one forged,

  Its craftsman a Mage;

  The three Blades together shall close the age.

  When their oath of peace

  The Wizards forsake,

  Their own destruction they undertake.

  Only these Swords

  Their craftsmen can slay.

  Each Sword shall be blooded the same rueful day.

  When that fateful day comes

  The Wolf’s Age has begun.

  Hati swallows the moon, and Sköll tears up the sun.

  If, indeed, Odin had crafted those phrases, he foretold his own doom. By legend, the Wolf’s Age began the Ragnarok, when the earth and heavens would run with the blood of men and gods.

  Trilless retrieved the sword. It lay heavy in her hands. Summoning Ristoril to this world formed the first leg of a perilous tripod, and she had to believe that Carcophan would prove wise enough to keep his impatience and pride from doubling the danger.

  The sorceress reminded herself of her own bold words. The Gray Sword had yet to be forged. Without the Western Wizard, she guessed it would be impossible. Lulled by this thought, Trilless rose and headed toward the Northland cities, trying to ignore the dark, forgotten chaos that hovered over the artifact. An aura of dread darkened her features and those of the sea.

  PART 1

  BÉARN’S RETURN

  CHAPTER 1

  Pudar’s Homecoming

  A half moon glazed light across the farm fields and forests of the central Westlands, and the sky seemed gorged with more stars than Colbey Calistinsson ever remembered seeing. Soldiers from a dozen different cities sprawled on grimy blankets or beds of piled leaves. Others gathered to talk or to play games with cards, stones, or dice, their laughter booming over the chorus of insects, the whirring calls of foxes, wolf howls, and the shy chitter of wisules. A general aura of fatigue still enwrapped the armies, even though three weeks had passed since the Great War ended, but triumph sweetened the exhaustion, tempering complaints and easing the grief over lost companions. Siderin had been defeated. The Eastlands had taken thousands of casualties; a long time would pass before they threatened the West again. And soon enough all the Westerners would be home.

  Home. The word held little meaning for Colbey. Born during the Renshai’s hundred-year exile from the Northlands, he had spent his childhood rushing from battle to battle with his tribe, conquering, gathering food and plunder, celebrating those lucky enough to die in the glory of battle, mourning those who lost their lives to lingering injury or infection, and then charging into war again. When not engaged in battle, he practiced for it or taught the techniques to others. To Colbey, violence was simply a way of life. He knew no other.

  Yet, in a matter of days or weeks, that would change. Rache had died in the Great War, leaving Colbey as the only full-blooded Renshai in existence. And Colbey knew from experience that he could sire no children, even had there still been a Renshai woman with whom to try.

  These thoughts made Colbey frown. Standing just beyond the protecting canvas of the officers’ quarters, he stared out over fields so fertile they seemed to flow into one another like a vast green ocean. Fifty years ago, he had stood in this same location, looking out over Westerners’ crops in the moonlight. Then, as always, his people had won the battle, but they had been the invaders not the defenders. Now, Colbey looked out over the campsites of five thousand men, nearly thirty-five hundred of them under his direct command, including the organized military of the great trading city of Pudar and the mustered farmers of dozens of tiny towns. Colbey Calistinsson, the highest officer of the Westland’s largest army. The last of the Renshai led Westerners to war. The irony gnawed at him, quickly replaced by a sense of
obligation. But I’m not really the only Renshai.

  Colbey knew that bloodline meant little. By their own ancient laws, sword skill, not breeding, defined the Renshai. Rache’s long-held belief that he was the last of the tribe had given him the right to teach the Renshai combat maneuvers to another. He had chosen Mitrian, the daughter of a town leader named Santagithi, who was the general of the remaining soldiers in the camp and the West’s master strategist.

  A good choice. Mitrian had a natural grace and dedication to the art; logically, Colbey supported Rache’s decision. Yet deep within, he could not help wondering if it would have been better to let the Renshai remain dead in the eyes of the world after the bloody slaughter by neighboring Northmen that had destroyed all of the Renshai except Rache and himself. He thought of the red harvest of violence that the Renshai had once casually reaped across the world, spurring a hatred so deep that, in some countries, simply speaking the name was cause for execution. Better for all, perhaps, if the “Golden-Haired Devils from the North” remained the corpses everyone believed them to be.

  Still, Colbey did not brood long over lost possibilities. Rache had fathered a son whom he would never see. The toddler lived with his mother in Santagithi’s Town. Mitrian and her husband Garn had left their only child, an infant boy, with a friend in Pudar during the war. Soon, Colbey and Santagithi would arrive in Pudar along with its army. They would retrieve Mitrian’s son, now called Rache in the Renshai tradition of naming children for warriors slain in battle. Once Santagithi and his guard force returned to their town, Colbey’s training of the two boys would commence. And, in a few months or years, when Mitrian and Garn returned from restoring the king of Béarn to his throne, the Renshai would be united once again.

  United. An army of four, two of them babies. And all facing the enmity of nearly the entire world. The odds against Colbey seemed enormous, yet he did not flinch from the responsibility. His loyalty to the Renshai never faltered, though his understanding of their purposes did. Obviously, we can’t ever again become the wanton killers we once embodied as a tribe. Colbey recalled stories of the gory border skirmishes between the eighteen Northern tribes, battles in which the Renshai had committed the worst sin any Northman could imagine. To destroy morale, the Renshai had sliced body parts from their enemies, thereby barring the dead from the rewards of Valhalla’s afterlife. Despite minor disputes over territory, the Northern tribes believed themselves a brotherhood, and the crimes of the Renshai had resulted in their banishment from the North.