Battle for Elt: The Taking of the Wizard Bearer

by A. C. Hutchinson

  “What are you doing?” Sir John objected with his hands in his hair.

  “Gabel can take her back to the city.”

  “You're not taking her as well,” Tarquin insisted. “She's mine. She's always been mine.”

  Stetland ignored the man and carried the woman towards the door. Beyond it, he could see the boy on the stony ground, sitting up, with Marcus kneeling by his side. As he reached the door, he heard the rasp of Tarquin's breathing. Stetland made to turn when a glint of metal flashed before his eyes. The large man drove a small dagger into the neck of the woman lying limp in Stetland's arms.

  “No!” Stetland cried, placing the woman on the floor with all the respect he could afford. He reached for his sword and unsheathed it. Whirling around with his weapon outstretched, his sword sliced through Tarquin's neck. The large man's head fell from his shoulders and bounced on the floor like a child's ball. Headless, Tarquin fell to his knees and then toppled sideways.

  Stetland returned to Tarquin’s wife, kneeling by her side. He cradled her to him. Blood continued to gush from her neck.

  I failed her. I failed the boy.

  He looked through the doorway into the light. The boy had witnessed everything, he realised. Stetland felt ashamed at how badly events had unfolded.

  “I'm sorry,” he said to the startled face of the boy.

  The boy said nothing. He only stared back, face pale.

  “Well, that went well,” Sir John said sarcastically. “Two dead bodies and an orphaned child. A good day's work, I'd say.”

  “We should burn the bodies,” Stetland said, looking back and forth between the two victims. What a mess.

  They burned the bodies separately. It was usual to burn the bodies of married couples side by side, sending them to the afterlife together. In this instance, though, Stetland thought it appropriate to send them separately. Tarquin's body was burned in the field away from the house; he wasn't offered prayer. The woman, whose name he learned from the boy was Patricia Gains, was given a full ceremony. The boy watched in silence as the smoke from her burning body spiralled into the sky as if it were her spirit rising to the heavens.

  “If you're thinking of sending Gabel back to the city with the boy,” Sir John said in Stetland's ear, “then we should get on with it. The hour grows late.”

  “No. The boy will come with us,” Stetland said.

  Sir John sighed. “I had a feeling you were going to say that. We should leave him at High Hunsley, though. He's not our responsibility.”

  Stetland thought otherwise. He's been talking to me in my head for weeks. He is my responsibility. “We'll see.”

  “What's your name, boy?” Sir John said to the child.

  “It's Christian,” Stetland said. He didn't know how he knew the boy's name. He couldn't remember the boy ever telling him.

  The boy smiled and said: “That's right. Christian Santiago.”

  Sir John looked from the boy to Stetland and back again. “Right, well, you're sounding better.” He ruffled the boy's hair. “We'll take you to High Hunsley. Lord Merek will look after you. You can ride in the saddle with me.”

  The boy looked at Stetland before addressing Sir John: “I don't wish to be rude, sir, but can I ride with the Dark Rider?”

  “Of course,” the head guard said. “If that's your wish, who am I to object?” Sir John walked away, head held high.

  “Have I offended him?” Christian said.

  “Probably,” Stetland said quietly. “But don't worry about it. He'll get over it.”

  A short time later, they were on their way. Ahead, Drewton Hills grew closer, their green fields peppered with jagged rocks, like the catapult-pounded walls of a besieged city. The sky above had become crowded with clouds, pregnant with the first snows of winter. It wouldn't be long before they breached.

  The ground beneath them had become uneven and cluttered with rabbit holes and rocks. As they slowed, Christian talked for the first time since leaving the cottage: “You are something of a legend, sir.”

  “No need to call me sir,” Stetland said. “I am no knight.” Although I am a lord. But that's another story.

  “Everyone talks about the Dark Rider.”

  “I prefer to be called Stetland. And who is everyone?”

  “My friends. We used to pretend to be you. It is said you once saved an entire village from Volk's men single-handedly.”

  “I wouldn't believe everything you hear,” Stetland said, remembering the battle vividly. He still bore the scar across his chest.

  “Volk's men took my mother and killed my father.”

  Like so many. "I'm sorry. Where are you from, Christian?”

  “Staddlethorpe.”

  “And how did you come to be living where we found you, with that horrible man?

  “Volk's men burned my village to the ground. An army of short, thickset men, with long, thick beards.” Savages. Otherwise known as Men of the North. “They killed so many that day. The one who killed my father and took my mother had an eye missing and wore a red jewel on a chain around his neck. He still haunts my dreams. I saw the other men doing things to the women – bad things. Tarquin Gains sometimes did the same to his wife.” Stetland gripped the horse's reins tightly, anger flowing through him. I'm glad that man's dead. I only wish I could have saved his wife. “I crawled on my hands and knees, with the village burning around me, and managed to reach the woods. From there I ran until the sound of screams and the smell of burning were distant. I walked for days after that, hiding whenever I saw Volk's men. Eventually, I came upon the cottage where you found me. I knew it was a bad place. My head told me so. But I was tired and hungry.”

  “How long ago was that, Christian?”

  “I don't know . . . I lost count of the days . . . but I think it was about six months.”

  Stetland wondered how many times the boy had been beaten in that time. He wondered how many times the boy had witnessed rape and violence. He wondered how many hours the boy had been made to work like a slave. “It's all behind you now, Christian. You're safe with us.”

  The boy fell silent. Stetland could feel the rise and fall of the boy's chest against his back. Then, Christian pointed to Gladden and said: "Is he a wizard?"

  “He is indeed,” Stetland said. “His name is Gladden. Have you ever met a wizard before, Christian?”

  “No, never. But I've heard a lot about them. I've heard that they can summon a storm and tame dragons.”

  “There are a lot of tales about wizards. Some true, some not. What is certain is that wizards aren't as powerful as they once were. No one knows why, but their abilities have become weaker with each generation.”

  “Is the wizard bearer his sister?”

  “Yes. Do you know anything about wizard bearers?”

  “I know they give birth to wizards.”

  “They give birth to twins,” Stetland explained. “A boy and a girl. The boy will be a wizard. The girl another wizard bearer. They only give birth once in their lifetime. Childbirth is so traumatic that it renders them infertile. Do you know what that means, Christian?”

  “It means they can't have any more babies, right?”

  “That's right. A wizard bearer will remain as young as the day she turned fourteen until she becomes fertile. That can happen at any time in her long life. Some wizard bearers have been well into their eighties before they have come of age.”

  “And the one that's been taken, has she had her babies yet?”

  “No, but she's ready. We think they're taking her to the city of Wyke, Volk's stronghold. He'll . . .” Stetland didn't know how to explain Volk's possible intentions to a child.

  “Have babies with her?” Christian said.

  “Yes.” This boy knows more than he should.

  “I've heard that Volk is more powerful than any wizard there ever was.”

  “Nobody really knows who, or what, Volk is. Some say he's no more than an alchemist, others say he's the incarnation of all th
e evil that ever was.”

  “I bet my mother is in Wyke now.”

  Stetland knew that was a possibility. She would most likely be a slave like most of the woman Volk's men took. But a slave in the kitchens or a slave in the bedchamber? Perhaps the boy was better off not knowing. Or perhaps the boy already knows his mother's fate. After all, he has a gift.

  “We're going to High Hunsley, then?” Christian said. Stetland was glad the boy had changed the subject.

  “We are indeed. I'm friends with King Merek. I'm hoping we'll find the wizard bearer there.” As long as Volk’s men have not threatened the king meaning we are refused entry. “Have you ever been to High Hunsley?”

  “No. My mother told me about it, though. She said it's not part of the realm anymore and that the lord there declared himself king.”

  “That's right. Since way before you were born. Nineteen years ago, in fact.”

  “Because of King Merek's sister, right?”

  “Yes. Although Merek was not a king back then. His father, Ademar, was the lord who declared himself a king; Merek was just a boy of fifteen. His sister, Lade Elysande, was eighteen. She was in a love with a boy from Kingstown. The realm was meant to be looking after her, but they let her leave the city, alone. She was robbed and killed on Drewton Hills. Lord Ademar never forgave King Bahlinger for letting her leave. In truth, the relationship between Kingstown and High Hunsley was fraught long before then; Ademar was just as stubborn as King Bahlinger. But on the day of Elysande's murder, Ademar declared High Hunsley a city on its own.” The boy was quiet, listening “Ademar never really recovered from the death of his daughter and six months later he caught a fever and died. Merek became king at the age of fifteen and carried his father's grudge against Kingstown.”

  “But you're a man of Kingstown too, right?”

  “I left there a long time ago.”

  Before the boy could ask more questions, Gabel pulled up his horse and shouted: “Campfire. Looks recent.” A scorched circle smouldered in the grass. The skeletal remains of two rabbits lay close. “They can't be more than an hour away.”

  “They'll still reach High Hunsley before us,” Stetland said. He looked to the sky. “And it will snow, very soon. The hills are no place to be in a winter storm.”

  “Then we must hurry,” Gladden said.

  “We can be over the top before it even starts,” Marcus agreed.

  As if to mock the young soldier, a snow flake drifted down from the sky like a feather on the wind. They watched it fall to the grass where it was joined by another and another.

  “There's a tunnel,” Stetland said. “Built by the Ancients. It will take us through the hill.”

  Sir John scoffed. “It's a death-trap. A thousand years it's stood. It could collapse at any moment. I'd rather take my chances with the hills.”

  As they talked, the snow intensified. Stetland brushed wet flakes from his stubble. An idea then occurred to him. He turned in his saddle to look at the boy. “Christian. The way you saw me in your dreams, it's a gift you have. A gift that will get stronger as you grow. But you can use it to see the future. Have you done that before?”

  The boy liked his lips. “Yes. But visions just happen, sometimes. I can't force them.”

  “Close your eyes,” Stetland persisted, undeterred by the boy's reluctance. “See us arriving at the gates of High Hunsley.”

  “But I've never been there.”

  “It matters not. Concentrate.”

  Christian closed his eyes.

  “This is insane,” Sir John said. “You're putting our fate in the hands of a boy and a gift that many, including myself, believe is nonsense?”

  Stetland quietened the head guard with a raised finger.

  The boy opened his eyes. “The gates of High Hunsley, is there a mountain carved in its wood.”

  “Yes,” Stetland said.

  “That's common knowledge,” Sir John protested.

  “The gatekeeper,” Christian continued, “has a long grey beard and three warts on his left cheek.”

  Stetland nodded. “His name is Greybeard. He's manned the gates there for sixty years.”

  “I see us arriving there. It's dark. The snow is thick on the ground.” The boy paused. “And we used the tunnel to get there.”

  “Are we all there? All six of us?”

  “I don't know. Maybe . . . maybe we're one less—”

  Christian's words were interrupted by a darting arrow. Stetland leant backwards, hearing the whoosh of the arrowhead as it passed an inch from his face.

  “Arrows,” Marcus shouted.

  “To the tunnel,” Gladden screamed.

  As Stetland kicked a heel into his mount, more arrows came, two at a time, from the cover of bushes at the far side of the clearing. This was a trap, he thought. They knew we'd stop here, to inspect the fire.

  He urged his horse into a gallop, following the others in a mad dash for cover. Arrows darted past them like a swarm of dragonflies. It was only luck that no one was hit. As this thought worried Stetland's mind, Gabel fell backwards from his horse landing awkward on the ground. Stetland pulled up his mount, circling back to where Gabel lie. There was another whoosh in his left ear. We could all die here, Stetland thought. Sir John pulled up his horse too. Stetland called to him to continue on to the tunnel. The others were still riding, misted by the falling snow, perhaps unaware that Gabel had fallen. It took Stetland only seconds to determine that Gabel was dead; there were two arrow in his throat above his breastplate and blood seeped from his mouth like vomit. Arrows continued to fly. Perhaps the snowfall is making us a hard target.

  “Is he dead?” Christian yelled. “Is he?”

  Stetland ignored the boy and turned his horse back towards the tunnel. An arrow nicked the horse's hind causing the animal to whinny and buck. Stetland steadied his mount with a “whoa” and then drove his heel into its side. They were soon moving again, charging towards the hills. I must get the boy to safety.

  They reached the tunnel unscathed. The others were waiting in its arched mouth.

  “Where's Gabel?” Marcus said.

  Stetland shook his head.

  “No!” Marcus protested. “That can't be . . .”

  “Take the boy,” Stetland said to Sir John. “Ride through the tunnel. I'll catch up to you.”

  “Let me come with you,” Marcus said.

  “You'll get your chance for vengeance soon enough, Marcus. Now, go. Our mission is to rescue the wizard bearer, or have you forgotten that?”

  With the boy safely on the back of Sir John's horse, Stetland charged away. He unsheathed his sword, holding it high. The horse cut through bushes, tilting left and then right. The thud of its hooves on the hard, frost-laden earth mirrored the sound of his heartbeat.

  As he approached a thick mass of undergrowth, wiry and brittle in its bare winter state, he caught a glimpse of two darkly clothed figures. They were collecting their things as quickly as they could, perhaps hearing the sound of approaching hooves. No wonder they only managed to kill one of us, Stetland thought. Stupid, incompetent fools. No training. No guile. Stetland let his horse continue at a gallop, jumping over a small bush; then he was on them. Without stopping, he slashed his sword across both men's throats. He heard them choke and cough as he left them behind. Then, pulling on the reins, he turned his horse around and trotted back towards them. Both men had dropped their possessions and were attempting to stem the blood flow from their necks with their bare hands. Some would leave them to die slowly, choking on their own blood, he knew. But Stetland had more mercy. He dismounted and proclaimed “for Gabel” before driving his sword into the first man's chest. Placing a foot on the man's shoulder, he pulled the blade free. Blood had soaked the man's black tunic, making it glisten in the ethereal light of the falling snow. The other man attempted to turn and run, making gurgling noises as he fled. Stetland stabbed the man in the back. The man fell forwards, sliding off the sword, landing face down in a hawthorn bush.
Stetland took a cloth from his saddle bag and wiped his steaming blade before returning it to its sheath. Then he set off at a gallop back towards the tunnel.

  As his horse passed under the stonework at the tunnel's entrance, the distant glare of Gladden's staff caught his eye. The temperature in the tunnel was perhaps ten degrees cooler than outside. A chilling wind disturbed Stetland's shoulder-length hair, blowing around the exposed skin on his neck like the icy touch of a dead man's hand. Had the tunnel not been shrouded in darkness, he knew his breath would be visible in front of his face. His horse ran on blindly. Stetland hoped his mount wouldn't trip on fallen masonry and break its leg. The tunnel stretches on for a mile. A long way to walk, especially in the dark.

  He was gaining ground on the others. Much too quickly, he thought. As the curved roof and its stonework became visible in the light of Gladden's staff, Stetland realised that the rest of his party had stopped. He whipped the reins and urged his horse onwards.

  When he reached them, their horses were moving impatiently from side to side, snorting and whinnying. Christian was clinging to Sir John's back, his head pressed against the head guard's tunic, the whites of his eyes glinting in the light from Gladden's lit staff. Beyond the three fretting horses and their riders were five faceless figures donned in black robes. Monks of the Night, Stetland thought. That's all we need.

  Stetland trotted his horse forward. “Let us pass. We mean no harm.”

  The closest of the five figures lifted his head. His skin, stretched taunt across his eyeless head, was as pale as a ghost. His nose was just a shallow rise, with two dark slits as thin as cuts left by a blade. The top of his head was hairless, the skin vaguely transparent, revealing the smooth skull beneath.

  “There's a seer among you,” the monk said. His voice, soothing, no more than a whisper, was spoken through a wide, lipless mouth that reminded Stetland of the frogs he’d netted as a child on fishing trips with the then prince Bahlinger. “He speaks, but his lips do not move. He sees things that are yet to pass. A seer with great power, but wisdom yet to learn.”

  “He should not threaten you,” Stetland said. “We mean only to pass.” Beside him, Stetland saw Marcus stroking the hilt of his sword. Don't do anything stupid, boy.