The Weaving of Wells (Osric's Wand, Book Four)

by Jack D. Albrecht Jr.

  “Welcome, Aranthians!” Osric began, but his voice broke under the weight of what they had to forfeit to be where they stood.

  Osric dropped his head as he attempted to regain some strength and composure. It took him longer than he had hoped because of the emotions that escaped the crowd of dwarves as they gathered closer to the balcony. He nearly shut off the Empath gift to escape the flood of uncertainty from their minds, but slowly other emotions began to overwhelm the initial doubt. Hope, pride, and an unyielding desire for justice assuaged his despair. Not only did they want to help deal justice, but in many of them there was also a desire to accomplish their task in the quickest, safest manner and then return home victorious. And Osric could sense a keen intellect in most of the minds standing below him.

  “I realize how much you have sacrificed to be here today, and how much you have pledged to sacrifice in the coming war. It would be arrogant and inconsiderate of me to attempt to equate your commitment with my meager words, but I cannot do more than tell you how grateful and humbled I am that so many of you have arrived to fill out the ranks of this army. You have been Trusted and welcomed into this arena of hope for the future, and I wish for you to know that you are welcome in every sense. While you are here, this is your home and your family, and we will accept you here as equals and as an integral part of the system we have designed. What is ours is yours. For those of you who choose to stay, these terms will remain for as long as you call yourselves Aranthians and reside within our boundaries. For those who choose to leave, after the war is over, know that you will always be welcome here if you wish to return. I cannot begin to express my gratitude, and I vow to commit myself to your safety and well-being, just as you have committed yourself to the well-being and security of Archana. If you will follow me to the ends of this world to secure the future of Archana, I will do my best to lead you well. For now, however, I imagine you are hungry. If I am correct, our kitchens are well prepared for your arrival. Would you all do me the honor of joining me for a meal?”

  Loud cheers rose from the crowd, and as the crowd began to move toward the large doors of the barracks, Osric caught the trailing words of one dwarf: “He be good at talking, but we’ll be seeing if he be good at drinking.”

  And the retort: “Aye, I willn’t be following a man who cannot be holding his drink.” Osric smiled and prepared himself for a raucous evening welcoming his new troops.

  25 — Broadening Options

  The night had been filled with a great deal of extraordinary food. The dwarves were so impressed with the kitchen’s ability to turn out fast, delicious food that they offered the kitchens the entirety of the stores they had brought with them. David had been so overwhelmed by the effort of cooking for the lot and attempting to find a place to store the vast quantities of supplies that he called James out from the duplicate dining hall outside the barracks to aid in the effort. It took nearly the entire staff of both facilities combined to undertake the task of properly storing the resources, and they were forced to use the supply rooms in both kitchens to accomplish the feat.

  They ate and drank well into the night. Osric listened to all of the stories about the gathering a dozen times, and each time it took on different attributes that became more flamboyant as the night progressed. Machai humbly objected each time the teller recited his version of the final speech that swayed the last remaining opponents. Yet, even he bowed his head in sorrow when they arrived at the part of the story when hundreds of dwarves were forced to choose between honoring the outcome of the contest and being able to ever return home.

  In spite of the solemn outcome that had brought them to join Osric’s troops, shortly after the storytelling had ended, the mood quickly returned to joyous celebration and drinking. The dwarves truly understood what it was to commemorate a moment in time with a gathering of their own. As they indulged, they filled the dining hall, all of the halls throughout the barracks, and even large parts of the training grounds. They stood on tables and sang lighthearted chants about beautiful women, legendary weaponsmiths, epic battles, and drunken revelry.

  They were a rowdy bunch of miscreants half bent on gluttony, but in spite of their jubilation, when all of the drinking had ended for the night not a single glass was broken, not a chair or table sat askew. They were a respectful crew, and though many rested in tents until suitable arrangements could be made, the only complaint about their behavior came from a new cook who insisted the food needed no alteration when one dwarf seasoned his own food liberally from a personal stash of spices. It was as great of a first meeting as Osric could have hoped. He even received several comments about how well he could drink. By the time he tumbled into bed, he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of drinking with dwarves, but he felt they had all built a rapport and trust that would unify the troops as they began training together for the coming battle.

  It was far later than he had planned to wake up the next morning when Osric forced himself out of bed, his head pounding and a horrible taste in his mouth. However, after a warm bath and an herbal concoction that Bridgett laughingly called “too-much tonic,” he was more or less functional and ready to go. Despite the residual throbbing in his head and a slightly upset stomach, Osric was still in a surprisingly jolly mood from the night of jubilation, and he trudged on to meet Pendres in the hopes of finding a way to utilize the wells. When Osric arrived at his office, the old recluse was waiting patiently, engrossed in a large book he had borrowed from Eublin.

  “Anything of interest?” Osric asked, squinting at the bright light pouring in through the window.

  “Immensely interesting, but likely not very helpful for our current plight. How are you feeling?” Pendres eyed Osric with an amused smirk. He had indulged little the night before, having instead sat back and watched the revelry.

  “I’ve felt better after battling an ancient caldereth wizard, but I’ll recover.” Osric rolled his neck in protest to the pain and stiffness.

  “Perhaps a month of lying unconscious led you to believe that wasn’t so bad, but I know just the thing to purge the sickness from your mead-soaked muscles. Why don’t we conduct this meeting in the training arena. I can give you some pointers on your bladework, and the exercise will clear your mind. Maybe then we can figure out how to counteract Dredek’s intentions with the well.”

  “Have you even picked up a sword in the last hundred years, old man?” Osric couldn’t resist the verbal jab, but he grimaced at the idea of sparring. Osric had been the best swordsman in Stanton since before he accepted the promotion to Contege.

  “I’m sure I can find a blade lying around here somewhere. How hard could it be?” Pendres only grinned at Osric’s unspoken challenge. He left the book resting on Osric’s desk and led the way out of the barracks.

  Osric felt the anticipation of having a sword in his hands rising in spite of the residual headache, and his step quickened as they walked outside and crossed the grounds to the armory near the practice arena. As they stepped inside, they were greeted by the welcoming scent of oil, leather, and steel. Both men selected well-balanced short swords and small wooden shields. They belted the sheaths quickly and quietly, both thinking about their strategies for sparring with an unfamiliar opponent, and their feet stirred up small clouds of dust as they walked side by side into the enclosed circular arena. Dozens of dwarves and the familiar faces of many Aranthians gathered to watch, but none looked all too ready to join in with the swordplay.

  Osric and Pendres traded a few strokes, warming up and getting a feel for the other’s technique. It took only moments before Osric was engrossed in the activity, focusing completely on his sword and his opponent and forgetting all about his headache. Pendres was far better with a blade than he had anticipated, and soon Osric found himself on the defensive. He countered the attacks with practiced precision, reading Pendres’s intentions through the patterns of movement and the angle of his head, and with the Portentist ability, among other tactics.

  Allowing the
Hunter’s ability to guide his sword with perfect accuracy, Osric anticipated each blow with the Portentist Gift and monitored the emotions of his opponent with the Empath ability. He waited for just the right moment when Pendres was feeling confident and preparing for an aggressive attack. As Pendres paused for the briefest amount of time, drawing back his sword, Osric dropped his shield and drew his wand, rapidly buffeting Pendres with several concussions of air. Dust flew up into the elder man’s eyes, startling and disorienting him. Osric followed the air attack with a spell that snared Pendres’s feet, rooting him in place and knocking him off balance, and then Osric lunged at him with his sword. Pendres fell backward slowly, his arms windmilling and his mouth open in surprise. Just before Pendres would have hit the ground, Osric halted his attack and used his wand to direct a cushion of air under his opponent’s body. The air caught Pendres mid-fall, and he lay splayed out, a hand’s breadth from the dirt, as Osric released the rooting spell. Osric returned his wand to the pouch at his belt and offered the man his hand to help him to his feet.

  Pendres took the proffered hand, hauling himself into a standing position and eyeing Osric with respect. He brushed the dirt from his clothing and spit the dust from his mouth, nodding and smiling.

  “Good. After I heard about your last defeat, I was afraid you didn’t know how to fight. It isn’t your skills with a sword that are lacking,” Pendres said, walking toward the crowd of onlookers at the edge of the arena.

  “It wasn’t my swordsmanship that lost me that fight.” Osric gritted his teeth, thinking back to the battle with Dredek atop the sand dunes in Angmar.

  “So, what was it?” Pendres asked. Osric was silent for a moment, remembering the battle in flashes of anger and desperation.

  “Inferior control over my magical abilities.” Osric stared at Pendres, wishing he could claim that he had learned enough since his defeat to be sure of victory in the future. He had worked hard to develop the coordination between his gifts that had allowed him to best Pendres, but he still doubted it would be enough to beat the experience and power that Dredek wielded so easily.

  “Maybe,” Pendres said. “Or perhaps it was a lack of foresight in how to engage your enemy.” Pendres moved so swiftly that his limbs were nearly a blur. He spun around, grabbing a young irua off of the fence that surrounded the arena and pinning the startled recruit’s upper body with one massive arm, holding his sword across the trembling youth’s throat. Pendres stared across the ring at Osric, locking eyes with the startled leader as dozens of wands and weapons were being aimed at his back. Pendres ignored everyone but Osric, watching the High-Wizard carefully. “What do you do?”

  Osric raised one hand, preventing any interference from his men gathered around the arena. Osric could feel great importance in the moment with his Portentist gift, but he sensed no conflict with his Trust ability or any other gift that would indicate that Pendres was actually a threat. It was disorienting to see one of his men being held hostage by what appeared to be an armed enemy and yet have his gifts all tell him that Pendres was a trustworthy member of their group. Luckily, no one made a move against Osric’s silent orders to stay their hands, but all eyes were locked on Pendres in anxious anticipation.

  “What do you do,” Pendres repeated, “when the enemy has the power to destroy your men, your friends, your loved ones? What do you do when he wields power over you that you cannot counter with your wand or your sword?” Pendres never took his eyes off of Osric.

  Osric swallowed hard, trying to keep the reassurance of his gifts in mind to calm the anxiety raised by what his eyes were seeing. He knew that Pendres would not actually hurt the Aranthian, and thus there must be a reason that he was risking the retaliation of all of the gathered men and women around them. Osric thought about the question Pendres had asked. If he couldn’t fight with his sword or his wand, what else did he have at his disposal? He could use any number of his gifts to attack Pendres, possibly saving the Aranthian’s life but more likely causing his death. Every idea that came to mind resulted in the same risk: if he wasn’t faster than the enemy, his men would die. Osric realized that he could not fight the situation, he couldn’t fight Pendres and guarantee the safety of his man, so there had to be something else he could do to take control back from the enemy. A calm surety washed over him as he committed to his course of action.

  Osric slowly slid his sword into its sheath and raised his hands, sensing Pendres’s emotions with the Empath ability. The man holding the irua hostage smiled subtly, emitting confidence that Osric was heading in the right direction as well as a glimmer of fear that the demonstration would fail. Osric straightened, holding his hands out to his sides, and engaged his invisibility gift. Osric smiled as Pendres’s eyes went wide and he looked around the arena. Osric moved slowly and silently, approaching Pendres at an angle. He drew his wand, careful not to draw attention to his location. He waited until Pendres was feeling unsettled and his attention was monopolized by looking for Osric.

  Osric worked quickly but quietly, drawing magic from Archana and isolating single strands. Osric very carefully anchored the strands to Pendres in strategic locations—the hand that held the sword, the sword blade, Pendres’s head, shoulders, legs, feet, and torso. He walked silently around the two men, making sure he could see their bodies from every angle and verifying that he had not made a mistake. When he was sure that he had isolated Pendres with the strands of magic, and that no strand was touching the irua at any point along its length, Osric returned to his previous position. He took a steadying breath and disengaged the invisibility spell. Pendres’s eyes locked on Osric immediately, and Osric sensed a worried questioning from the old hermit. Osric raised his wand and aimed it at Pendres. He focused his mind and all of his power on using the wand to maintain contact with each of the strands he had attached to the old hermit. He could feel the frustration that Pendres was experiencing as the man realized he could not move any part of his body. Osric used the same ability that had allowed him to catch Pendres before he hit the ground to cast a dense layer of air between the blade of Pendres’s sword and the Aranthian’s neck. If his plan didn’t work, he needed to be sure that the blade wouldn’t accidentally behead one of his men.

  Osric crafted the cushion of air at an angle, so the man’s head would bend backward and slide under the blade as his body moved, just in case. Osric focused his mind on isolating the two bodies, and when he was confident that he could focus on the irua while maintaining the strength of the strands on Pendres, Osric used a spell to summon the Aranthian to him. At the same time, Osric channeled the summoning spell through the strands so that Pendres was summoned separately and perfectly immobilized by the anchoring strands. As the spell was initiated, Osric focused on separating the mass of the two bodies, and the magic of the spell allowed the bodies to arrive at two different locations—the Aranthian on Osric’s left and Pendres on Osric’s right. As the spell was completed, and the two men stood on either side of him, Osric released the breath he had been holding. A roar of cheering burst forth from the crowd, and Pendres’s eyes narrowed as he realized he still could not move. Osric waved his hand, using his ability as a Wand-Maker to manipulate the strands and allow them to fall back and be absorbed into Archana, freeing Pendres. The irua Aranthian ran off toward the gathered onlookers, eliciting further cheering, and Osric turned toward Pendres.

  “How did you know that would work?”

  “I knew if I tried to fight you, you could most likely kill him before I could defeat you,” Osric said. “You held that power, after all. My only option was to find a way to take that power from you.” Osric held his gaze steady, but his hands were trembling. “If it hadn’t worked, then it would have been me who killed him. I was sure it would work because I can only use the power I can control to fight you. My mind, my body, everything within me will fight with every ability I have to fight myself. It was instinct not to kill my own man.”

  “So, you had no idea it would work?” Pendres�
�s tone was soft and compassionate.

  “No, not really. I took precautions in case it failed, but I also had to accept that I cannot control every aspect of a situation and that sometimes my abilities are more aware of how they work than I am. I had to trust the magic.” Osric headed toward the armory. “But it did give me an idea of how to counter the Well of Strands using the smaller wells.”

  Pendres hurried after Osric, nearly breaking into a run to keep up with him.

  “What sort of idea? What are you thinking?” Pendres asked as they entered the barracks. Osric rushed down the halls, around corners, down stairs, and through doorways, and Pendres soon felt lost and disoriented. “Where are you going?”

  “I need to find Gus and Eublin. We also need to find Gareth.”

  “Who is Gareth? I don’t recall meeting him,” Pendres said.

  “He’s the most experienced Stone-Sight we have in residence, and he has spent most of his life mapping out Archana. I need his maps.”

  “There are dozens of books in Eublin’s collections with maps of Archana. What is so special about the ones Gareth makes?” Pendres followed Osric down another flight of stairs. He thought they must be several stories below the ground by now, and he hadn’t even realized there were floors beneath ground level. Osric paused as he tried to remember exactly where the Stone-Sights had been working most recently on the excavation and construction of the lower levels. He turned to Pendres, breathing heavily.

  “Gareth is a Stone-Sight, Pendres. He hasn’t been mapping the surface of Archana; he has been mapping everything beneath the surface. He has collected years of specific documentation of the layers of earth, stone, caves, waterways, and lava flows beneath the ground. I need those maps, because I think I can use them to map the volume of the flow of magic that feeds the wells.” Osric almost turned left, then he stopped and turned right instead. He passed two more branches in the corridors and finally turned left into a large natural cavern. The floor was bare stone, the walls were bare rock that climbed several stories into the air, and Pendres could see small points of light where the ceiling was not completely closed. He wondered where they were in relation to the barracks, if there was access to the cavern from outside. He hadn’t remembered seeing any holes in the ground, so he assumed they must be a good distance from the main path and various walkways on the grounds.