The Wizard's Heir

by J. A. V Henderson

  “I shall go with Master Alik,” Arrythh declared. “My guards and the rest of you may follow on horse to Belan. Master Delossan, Master Heao: you have been requested to ride our scribe’s horse, the horse of Master Stuart, to the encampments. It will bear you swiftly enough.” And with that, Arrythh climbed onto the platform and into the cab, guiding Alik along with him. Cheers of goodwill and blessing hailed them as they climbed aboard; then the elves beside the wheels heaved them in motion and the cab swung down and away, gathering speed. Before long it was out of sight.

  For some time Alik was too much in shock to ask anything or understand anything. He was vaguely aware of the trees speeding by, the glisten of the ever-moaning river, and now and then the flickering shadow of a bird or squirrel. At one point he was aware that they had landed at another platform: the cab slowed, the trees came somewhat more in focus, they stopped, the floor of the cab and the bench on which they sat were rolled forward into a new cab, and they were off again. After that, overcome by the exertions of the day and by a host of things too amazing to understand—and still weak from his wound—he gave in to sleep.

  When he awoke it was nearly dawn. He had the sense of having traveled quite a distance, and in fact they were still traveling just as fast as before. The trees had changed. The purple-leafed cyndan trees were thinner and more dispersed amongst the normal autumn reds and golds.

  Arrythh stirred presently and rose with the sun. He yawned, smiled pleasantly, and took in his surroundings. He nodded. “Not long now,” he told Alik. Almost before he had said it, Alik saw another platform approaching and felt the cab begin to slow. They didn’t seem to be anywhere at all yet: all he could see was forest.

  The cab swung in over the platform and stopped, and the elf contingent wheeled the deck out of their cab and into another. Alik noticed Arrythh drop them each a coin. Then the pulley-operators put their weight into the wheels and they were off again.

  “We shall be there long before your friends,” Arrythh told Alik. “Even Master Channethoth’s steed cannot travel this fast. Normally they use it for transportation of goods and news, but of course this is an emergency.”

  Alik knew better than anyone that it was an emergency, and he nodded.

  “I did not speak of it before,” Arrythh continued, “but I feel it necessary to tell you what awaits us.” He paused as though waiting for Alik’s consent and, receiving it, went on. “Our high scribe, our leader until the annointing of a new Ristorian king, Stuart Channethoth, was for a long while gone in a last-hour attempt to negotiate a peace settlement amongst the Anthirians. This effort, we have learned, was to no avail, and now Anthirion lays in ruins from the coasts to the plains. Indeed, we feared the worst for our scribe himself when we saw his horse returning without him, but as it turned out, it was ridden by your friends, Master Delossan and Master Sedhar, who gave us news of him.

  “Now, then, when Master Delossan reported to us the fall of Anthirion, the fall of your island, and the sudden departure of our scribe to find you, we knew at once that the travail of the end of the ages was upon us.”

  Alik recalled the tall, powerful elven warrior who had tracked him and Deran...Deran...into the waterwood. He felt, inexplicably, that it was this same elf whom Arrythh was speaking of. He wanted to tell Arrythh he had seen the scribe; that he had come so close to finding what he sought—as had Alik. But he was too slow.

  “We questioned Master Delossan then concerning our scribe’s reasons for pursuing you, and he told us of you: about your elvishness, he called it, your love for nature; about your abilities in the water and your seeming power over it; about your parents and the strange language you speak—pardon me please.”

  “Hydris,” murmured Alik. It was because of the water shard which he had carried—and now been abandoned by—that they were looking for him. It was because of the shard that he was not only another boy. That did not seem odd or ironic to him, for he would have preferred to be nothing, as he was now, than to have suffered what the world had thrust upon him. But was that totally true? “Kyr diec,” he thought out loud. Not “nothing” of course. But to be as nothing. To have lived freely. To have traveled peacefully. To have...to have what? He had no answer for that: only the half-feeling of an immense beauty and power laying just beyond the edges of his perception. Something he had no words in any language to describe. Something that could not be without a fight to the death: a bloody, all-consuming fight to the death against desperate odds.

  “Then High Scribe Master Channethoth returned to us from the far south,” Arrythh continued. “He is now in Belan with my father, awaiting us with the Ristorian Army...and with Emeria.”

  Alik detected the sense of dreamy joy in that word. “Emeria?” he asked.

  “The lost nation of the Emerald River Valley elves,” Arrythh explained. “They were said to have been wiped out long ago, in the ending of the Draco-Goblin Elven Wars. That they rise again is yet another confirmation of Camber’s Prophecy: ‘North and south and east....’ Master Channethoth will certainly be eager to meet you at long last.”

  “A...but...what reason...me?”

  “What reason, Master Alik? Why, because the prophecy points to you. That itself is cause enough. Also, you wield, they say, the power of the sea.”

  An ironic smirk crossed Alik’s face. “Hydris gauai i Labrion.” This, however, only succeeded in producing an awkward pause.

  “Very well,” Arrythh spoke up. “You may be mysterious, Master Alik—at least for now. I only pray you will consent to help Master Channethoth...or that he does indeed keep the knowledge of your speech. Do you not, however, miss...friends?”

  Alik shot him a strange look but could think of nothing to respond. Arrythh almost squirmed under his scrutiny until it was finally (thankfully) diverted—by the approaching of the last platform and their speedy journey’s end.

  The pulley cab swung low into the last platform on its trip. The woods were dense all around, with only a few wooden (but ornately crafted) buildings evident amidst the trees. The country was golden with leaves shimmering in the sun.

  Arrythh rose and thanked the elves on the platform with generous tips. Alik rose and followed him. He thought from the other elves’ looks they were expecting a tip from him as well, but he didn’t have any money to give them. “Belan,” Arrythh read to Alik the sign at the end of the platform. “We are here: the frontiers of Ristoria.”

  Alik nodded, and they went down.

  As they descended the path into town, Alik was most taken by surprise by the houses they passed. They were so much like the craggy knolls and ancient, gnarled trees of their surroundings that he nearly jumped when a door opened up out of one knoll and a pretty elven woman emerged carrying a bucket of water. His eyes followed her inadvertently. She herself could have been a bit of tree from her thick, unbelted brown cassock and silky gold-brown hair.

  Then there were the soldiers: four of them were posted at the entrance to the town. Alik had seen soldiers in Ristoria City, but when he saw them now, it was as if he had never seen anything like them before. Each was almost completely shrouded by his cloak, which was a heavy gold-brown just like the leaves but without any apparently conscious intention of mimicry. Moreover, the general appearance of these soldiers’ hair, faces, and arms held an uncanny naturalness entirely different (he thought) from the civilized grandeur of the capital. On seeing Arrythh, the soldiers came to attention, but even their strict military stance was more like the supple stiffness of a lofty cedar than the rocky stiffness of a pillar. Arrythh and Alik passed without a word: but not, Alik was sure, without a most wary scrutiny.

  It was not until they were a good ways past the guards that Alik realized Arrythh had reversed his own cloak, which had been violet before like the cyndan tree leaves, so that it now showed the same color as that of the guards. His demeanor also seemed to have changed: where before had been a care-free aristocrat’s son was now an earnest youth more like a page or a novice knight.
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br />   For the size of the town, it seemed to Alik as though the streets were amazingly packed. Dozens of carts and teams of horses passed by them in the streets carrying piles of violet and gold-brown cloaks, cyndan leaves, bandages, dried foodstuffs and enriched elven breads, equestrian equipment, canvas, bows...and arrows beyond count. All these were headed in the same direction or else returning empty from thence. Arrythh turned in the same direction.

  They were not in the town long. The road they took turned left from the road they had come in on and quickly found the edge of town. There they passed a larger contingent of soldiers: two squads at least, most engaged in checking each of the passing carts.

  Two soldiers stopped Arrythh and Alik. “Young Master Pendrax,” the first guard addressed Arrythh, “you are back quickly.”

  “Sir, not as quickly as I would have had it. Yet, for the sake of haste, we took the river back.”

  The guard nodded. “And this boy...he is the one?”

  A scowl crossed Alik’s face but he said nothing. “This is Master Alik Cambrian,” Arrythh stated simply. Again, Alik was conscious of the guards’ eyes on him—but in a different, more frightening way. This was more like...honor.

  “I have already taken the liberty, Master Pendrax, of sending word of your arrival to your father,” the guard said. “You may pass. My regards, and good fortune.”

  “Good fortune and grace to you as well,” Arrythh replied. They passed.

  Above the town the road rose over a hill and back into the woods. At that time of year the grass was dry and littered with leaves. Crumbling granite boulders covered with lichens and shrouded with thick underbrush added to the hill a hundred defensible watchposts. If it had not been for the steady stream of horses and carts, he would never have expected a thing.

  As they went over the crest of the hill the woods beneath them populated as if by magic with thousands of tents, soldiers, wagons, horses, messengers, and piles of armaments. All about, soldiers were training, practicing drills and maneuvers, distributing the Ristorian cloaks, eating, resting, or talking in small groups.

  Arrythh paused. “A finer or a more desperate assembly of soldiers you are not likely to meet twice in any age,” he said wistfully. Then a moment later he added, “There is my father’s tent. That is where we must go.” He pointed out a large tent covered with rough hewn grass an arrow’s mark away toward the heart of the encampment. As they watched, a Ristorian messenger came up to the front of the tent and two figures came out. The first, a tall, thin Ristorian with long, glistening ivory-gold hair twining down the back of his gold cloak, a sharp, almost chiseled gaze, and a gold-tipped spear, Arrythh identified to Alik as his father, the general. The second Alik recognized himself: it was the elven warrior from the waterwood, High Scribe Stuart Channethoth of Ristoria.

  Arrythh waved to his father. His father waved back, gesturing for them to come down. Before they had gone down ten steps, however, a peppery-haired archer with a green tunic and a Ristorian cloak rode up from behind them on a great bay stallion and reined in. “Young Master Pendrax, Master Cambrian, I presume; well speed yourselves, mount. I am going down myself; the council is about to begin.” And with that he deftly lifted Alik onto the saddle behind him. Alik was about to struggle, but to his surprise Arrythh was already climbing on after him and thanking the archer by name. General Cerregan.

  They reached General Pendrax’ tent in moments, and just as quickly as he had been swept up, Alik was set back down. Not knowing what to think, he simply waited for Arrythh, then followed the archer general in.

  The council tent was already full. They were the last to enter. All around the walls of the tent gleaming lamps had been set up, and another lamp, a wide, round dish of oil, was burning in the middle of the council table. The tent was very bright. Arrythh whispered in Alik’s ear, “No matter what you hear now, Master Alik, never fear; I will be right beside you.”

  As though on cue, General Ulaen Pendrax spoke up, “And here, lords and ladies, is the boy himself of whom we have heard so many amazing reports: wielder of the sea’s power, master of the wizards’ tongue, heir of Caimbrand, Master Alik Cambrian.” Alik swallowed hard, but Arrythh was indeed right there.

  “Then we are all present,” declared Stuart Channethoth. “As host and high scribe of Ristoria, I, Stuart Channethoth, convene this council. General Pendrax has been so good as to have introduced to us Master Alik”—his gaze descended on Alik and rested on him for several seconds—“so let me complete the introductions. General Ulaen Pendrax, commanding general of the forces of Ristoria and of the unified elven forces of the Labrion Campaign.” General Pendrax sat down at Stuart’s right. “Ciarthan of Emeria, designated sovereign of the lost nation now re-found, of the Emerald River Valley elves.” Ciarthan, white-bearded, robed in purple, and holding a staff twined about with a carved vine garland, sat down at Stuart’s left.

  “Marshall Ravin Barrandt, commander of the Therian city and district of Pirioth on the mountain marches of Labrion, ranking marshall of Therion on the late demise of Marshall X’ristofer (may he rest in the light), authorized by King Hathiris of Therion to represent his interests here.” Ravin Barrandt, a short, skeptical-looking man with flowing black hair and a mustache, tan, weathered skin, a tan-colored uniform, and heavy studded-leather and chain mail armor, sat beside General Pendrax. “Sir Rigel of Taiz’, sole surviving general and knight of the fallen nations of Anthirion.” General Rigel, hawk-nosed with dim blue eyes, pure white hair, and a murry astroid shield, bowed and sat beside Marshall Barrandt.

  “Generaless Siana of Emeria.” A young, fascinatingly vibrant elven woman with very light, almost crystal blonde hair, a face sparkling from a light not of the council tent’s lamps, and a thick-looking golden Ristorian cloak over her emerald tunic, sat beside Ciarthan. “General Eathril of Emeria.” A thoughtful-looking elf next to Siana, with hair colored nearly the same, a bronzed green martial tunic, and a curved ax, sat down. “General Cerregan of the Emerian cavalry.” Cerregan, the archer who had carried Alik and Arrythh down to the council tent, sat down next to Eathril and gave Alik a wink with his twinkly eyes. “Sir Piachras, champion of Emeria.” A proud, close-shorn elf with a turquoise tunic and alabaster-colored belts, turquoise and alabaster osprey shield, and heavy, double-bladed falchion, sat down by Cerregan. “Minstreless Malaoenidea of Emeria.” The raven-haired minstreless of Emeria sat down, shifting her black-emerald-violet-blood-colored dress around her.

  “Master Haleth of Kishaltis in Therion.” Alik was suddenly horrified to recognize the large, burly-limbed Therian who had nearly captured him before Narr...before the caverns. The man met his stare somberly, ran his hand over his dark beard, and sat beside General Rigel across from the Emerians. “Lastly, Master Flan.” A strangely familiar, fiery red-haired young man with long, effeminate hands, a Yllani herder’s dress, and a gold Ristorian cloak nodded and sat down beside Haleth. Alik sat down in the last seat—at the end of the table, between Flan on one side (and Arrythh at his shoulder) and the Emerian (what was Emeria?) minstreless on the other.

  “Let us begin,” concluded Stuart.

  “All thanks, Master Stuart,” General Pendrax replied, “and may I be as fortunate as to half deserve the authority with which I have been entrusted for our common cause.” Stuart sat and General Pendrax rose, leaning on his gold-tipped spear. “All of us know of the urgent crisis facing not only Ristoria but all our free nations. After the demise of Anthirion—may she be revived, General Rigel—there can be no doubt that the emperor of the North has awoken once again his ancient desire for power and destruction. Not long after that fact, the king of Therion sent his ranking commander, you, Marshall Barrandt, to petition us for aid in making what offensive action we could against the enemy; and soon after that, our High Scribe Stuart Channethoth returned with the unhoped-for miracle of Emeria’s survival and their aid. Now, last of all, Caimbrand’s heir has come to us at long last, whose ancestors Ristoria and all the world owe such
a debt to for help in times of need that I may now hope in truth for victory to bless us all, whatever we do.

  “Our target you know: it is Morin’s fortress on the northern border of Therion, a center of plague, villainy, and aberration: the tower of the Wizard Thaurim on the brink of the Labrion Plateau in the Spire Mountains, the holding place of the wizards’ shard Zoris which, they say, has power over the essences of animal life. We will attack the plateau and capture the shard, while it yet remains there by our enemy’s arrogance. We are here now to devise by what means we might accomplish this goal. Marshall Barrandt?”

  Marshall Barrandt stood abruptly. General Pendrax sat back with a deep, restful breath, then quiet. Barrandt began, “Labrion has long been Morin’s thorn in the skin of Therion. Labrion Castle stands on the brink of the plateau, over a thousand-foot precipice that descends into the wild-lands of the Spire Mountains. It is accessible only from the base of the plateau, which empties onto the rocky southern marches of the White Plains. There is only one army protecting the castle, and it is spread out to guard the whole base of the plateau as well as the castle itself. Our reports give inconsistent information about the size of the army—anywhere from five thousand to something nearly equal our combined strength. An all-out, unexpected assault by all our forces, however, should be able to destroy it before it can consolidate.”

  General Eathril interrupted, “If Labrion has stood so long so near so vulnerable over Therion, how is it Therion has not itself liberated this place of villainy?”

  Marshall Barrandt replied hotly, “If Therion had any assurance from Anthirion or Ristoria or any other source at any time....”