The Wizard's Heir

by J. A. V Henderson

  “Essadden?” exclaimed Stuart and Ciarthan at once.

  “Yes, the lost of Ristoria,” Xaeland nodded. “Many years ago they took refuge in this land, but they were desecrated and ruined by Thaurim’s sick manipulations. So now they have given the ultimate sacrifice to bring all of Thaurim’s evils to a sudden end. They fought the beasts of Labrion Tower for us, gaining for us the wizard’s tower. There we fought Thaurim and Krythar combined, and in a desperate moment Alik captured the shards and leapt out the window, as I have described. Krythar fled us, rifting to safety, but Thaurim at least has met his long-delayed death.”

  “Whose hand have we to thank for that blessed news?” asked Eathril.

  “Xaeland’s,” Piachras spoke up quickly.

  “And here is the wicked blade of flames, Thaurim’s sword Igneis,” said Xaeland, casting the demon sword to the ground before them in two pieces.

  A Ristorian aide entered the tent laden with food, which was quickly distributed and blessed. Xaeland ate silently and hungrily, and when he was done, he concluded his account briefly, “After we escaped the tower, the last of the Essadden elves collapsed the supports of the tower, bringing the whole structure crumbling down into the precipice. So ended both Labrion and Essadden.”

  For a time no one spoke. At last Ciarthan said, “As for Essadden, may they find their peace at last.”

  “There is a legend,” said Malaoenidea, mystically, “that there are always to be seven elven tribes: no more, no less, until the end of the ages. Now we see only destruction, but somewhere in our pale blue world there is seen new birth.”

  “Unless this is the end of ages,” Xaeland muttered.

  No one answered, but presently Ciarthan said, “The world feels darkened to me, although this may be but the sign of a more hopeful morning to come. I only regret that the Mirror of Emeria, with its divining waters, is so far away, unable to provide discernment. But I trust the council of my friends and advisors who are here. What, friends, is to happen to the remains of this host while the enemy’s strength grows to the north and south and his eye focuses on the scene of this destruction?”

  “Indeed,” said Eathril; “while some of us are seeking this boy, the army cannot remain where it is now. Even if we were in possession of the accursed tower, which we have now learned is no more, we would never be able to hold it against a concerted effort—the which will surely come quickly, as you say.”

  “My dear lord, Ciarthan,” Stuart spoke up, “if you have followed me this far, the next step is not so difficult. The messengers I am sending to Ristoria and Therion shall recommend to them that the general populace retreat into hiding—to the mountains, to the plains, or to the secret places of Ristoria’s forests. This will make them a little safer from attack, with what military and police strength they still have. As for the army, I should allow any who wish it to return to their homes.”

  Eathril snorted. “Do not expect many of Emeria to depart now. If any doubted the improbability of your story in Emeria, in Labrion every word and more have been proved true.”

  “And yet they may depart,” said Stuart. “Even now it is not too late for Emeria to return to hiding, at least until such time as Emperor Morin might reunite the Stone. But hear me out.”

  “We value your council; speak on,” Sianna said.

  “My thanks, and the thanks of Ristoria,” said Stuart. “Whoever does remain will march north with the armies unto the hidden haven of the Guardian Prince, Taravon, the scion of Travvis, son of the wizard Kirion by his wife of this world. It was Travvis who defeated and slew the first Emperor Morin in the First War of the Stone. Taravon holds a secret place on the borders of the northern lands from which it may be we shall be able to strike a decisive blow against the enemy, either through some windfall of purely military texture, or by facilitating the fortune of our boy, Alik, if he should be captured or drawn to the North.”

  The Song of Sailing

  Upside-down with the attraction of the earth flying,

  The wind a cruel thing of suffocating ice impenetrable,

  All the world is in an irredeemable chill of rush—

  And yet holding on: alien earthly claws ground deep,

  Breaking numb blood now cooling iron beaten, quenched—

  Once there was fog: now even that is invisible

  Behind eyes clenched by blasting freezing all-pervading,

  A desperate cold but mouth and tongue also froze,

  I hold the power of elements: the hate of water and beast

  In the darkened air, I am a spiring gyre;

  Lost in this ocean, I fly.

  VI.ii.

  In the early hours before dawn the remnants of Emeria and Ristoria set out, unseen and unseeing beneath the darkness of the fog by any but the few shivering and yawning companions standing above the ruined camp. By some implicit understanding, no one spoke from either the company or the army passing by beneath it. Only, now and then, there was the muted wail of a waking drake, or the shuffling of Heao’s shoes in the gravelly grass, or the brusque clearing of Haleth’s throat, to disturb the dead.

  Xaeland stood apart from the others, shadowy in his enshrouding black cloak, his head bowed so as to be completely enfolded in his own darkness. Caelhuin was huddled on the ground beyond. Stuart and Sianna stood overlooking their departing country-folk while Piachras strode vigorously back and forth. Jevan and Rigel stood back a bit to give the Ristorian scribe and the displaced Emerians their room. Jevan huddled in his grey cloak and squinted in the foggy darkness, now and then rubbing his eyes where his glasses should have been, while Rigel stood stock-still, his sword and shield slung over his shoulder. Heao walked circles around the two of them and now and then kicked up a pebble, shooting it through the grass.

  The train of the remnant elven armies disappeared behind a knoll in the rolling, rocky landscape, reappeared partially as a procession of floating heads and bow-tips, then disappeared completely at last. Stuart sighed and put his hand on Sianna’s shoulder. She returned the gesture. Finally, Xaeland turned and declared, “Let us go.” Without waiting for a response he shifted into a long, fast stride, and Caelhuin jumped to his feet to join him.

  “All right, come,” Stuart said; and with that the journey began.

  They followed in darkness, unseen and seeing no one else, until the faint light of the morning began to glaze the curtain of the fog. The breaking darkness and the memory of pain were transformed in those hours amongst them into a spirit of poetry, though if anyone dared speak out loud they were quickly silenced by Xaeland’s sobering glare. All these factors together combined together in Heao’s mind to build up around Xaeland an aura of mysterious, untouchable, terrible awe.

  Heao and Jevan followed at a respectful distance from the dark presence of Xaeland, keeping by Stuart and Sianna, opposite Piachras and Rigel. Stuart seemed especially alive; and more so with every hour. He alone, with an occasional soft verse whispered to Sianna or quiet word to Heao, seemed immune to Xaeland’s reproaches.

  Haleth, bored by the silence, darted now ahead, now behind. It was thus that he first noticed Xaeland’s own mumbling. “What’s that you say there?” he asked, catching up with the shadowy man.

  Xaeland flashed him a scowl and did not immediately reply otherwise. “Something that comes to me,” he finally answered; then added, “you should recognize it.”

  Haleth thought he was not going to get anything else out of the man and asked, “Do you think the drakes will hear?”

  “Possibly,” Xaeland replied. “Not probably. If any, not many.” He paused. “’There are two darknesses: I stoke the flames. Darkness of night and dark of names. The shadow lashes out, but cannot lapse the glass. Sand has been ignited, molten, by your word: so am I ignited with a glowing dream.’”

  “’Deliverance,’” Haleth responded. “Helm’s Song.”

  Xaeland nodded.

  “So you are familiar with our national literature?” Xaeland snorted. “What?” ask
ed Haleth.

  “That Helm’s battle against the shadow-dragon Dracel happened on Therian soil makes Helm no more Therian than Stuart.”

  “Why,” Haleth responded, “Helm is the very spirit of Therion. His perseverance, his courage, his earthy wisdom and magnanimity—he was more Therian than the plains we tread.”

  The corner of Xaeland’s mouth twitched upward. “Nice,” he said, “but the man was from Brolethiria.”

  Now Haleth snorted. “Not very likely. What good ever came from that benighted country?”

  Xaeland tensed slightly. “You would do well to know your company, blacksmith,” he said. “Helm was from Curtim, a little fiefdom in the Brolethirian mountains. They lived in close communion with the Essadden elves until the disappearance of that tribe. There are dozens of references in the political records of the time witnessing to the town’s location—up to its destruction in the wars. Even in your version of Helm’s Song he is called by his men ‘The Rock of Curtim,’ and his men are ‘the men of the Curtim rocks and fields.’”

  “But that is all absurd,” Haleth objected. “Pardon my previous words about your homeland, but still....”

  “Shh!” hissed Xaeland. Then, quietly, raising his hand, he said, “Let it pass.”

  The others soon gathered up around them. Stuart perked up his ears to hear. Presently, he reported: “Three people, one of them wounded, possibly. They are heavily laden.”

  “Eighty yards or so,” said Sianna. “Piachras and I shall go around in case they try to flee. We shall remain within range of ear until you accost them.”

  The fog was quite light by now, but nothing was visible. The air flickered a morning gold in the wake of Sianna and Piachras as they disappeared. Heao tried to be quiet in the crunching grass but Xaeland kept turning and scowling at him nonetheless. In the distance there was a drake’s call.

  “Bloody drakes,” came a muted female voice nearby.

  From the direction, Heao thought for a moment it was Sianna, but then it was answered by a completely unfamiliar voice, “Pipe down, Penna, why don’t you just bring ‘em all down on us?”

  Xaeland motioned for Rigel to draw his sword, and as the steel rang out he shouted, “Who’s there?”

  “What the...,” came a man’s response.

  “Someone’s there,” came a second. A sword was drawn.

  “Swords, men,” Rigel ordered.

  “I am with you!” exclaimed Jevan—though as it happened he was completely unarmed.

  “By the plains of Theroll!” cried Haleth, drawing his weapon.

  “And by Caimbrand’s flames!” added Stuart, his sword ringing forth with a melodic croon.

  “Look out—aah!” There was a wet crash and a shout.

  They broke through the fog to see Caelhuin rolling across the grass with a wiry young man, and a leathery woman with a Ristorian cloak and lavender-blonde hair was on her knees, desperately slashing into the group with a knife. Another man was fleeing into the fog but suddenly jerked back and fell prone. Out of the fog Sianna and Piachras appeared.

  “Hold!” shouted Xaeland, diving for the Ristorian woman. She was quick: she switched her blade to face the new threat just as he bowled her over. The dagger spun free with a red flash.

  “In the name of the free nations everyone drop your weapons!” shouted Stuart.

  There was not much left to drop. Caelhuin rolled away from his opponent, who remained groaning and immobile on the ground. The second man did not seem to be conscious. Only the woman struggled on beneath Xaeland’s grasp, though unable to budge an inch, and even she gave up when Stuart repeated his order—twice. Then Xaeland let her go. She staggered to her feet before Stuart, but when she saw him a look of terror came over her.

  “A Ristorian! Disgraceful!” he exclaimed. She shivered before him. “What is going on here? Desertion? Treason? Pillage? Running?”

  “Please, Sir,” she began.

  “And here is a Therian rider,” Sianna declared, dragging her own catch forward. “And an Emerian,” she added with contempt.

  “Say not ‘Emerian,’” spoke up Piachras.

  “Or ‘Therian,’” added Haleth.

  “National identity does not belong to those who have abandoned their nation in its need,” Stuart said coldly. He drew his sword.

  The lavendar-haired elf fell to her knees. “Sir, nothing belongs to the dead. What good would it serve for us to have died back there? What good could we do for Ristoria that way?”

  “Ask your fallen brothers and sisters who might still have lived,” Stuart answered. “Do you challenge the judgment of Ristoria, Therion, and Emeria that this sacrifice was necessary?” An edge of anger touched his voice. With the tip of his sword he cut away the tassel of cyndan leaves from her collar. “Or perhaps you thought to redeem yourselves to Ristoria by stabbing at a knight of the Page’s Order.” He sliced the brooch of her cloak and it fell away.

  She gaped, flabbergasted, staring back and forth now from Stuart to Xaeland and Caelhuin. “I...they...but he was attacking Paiat! He just jumped out of the fog...what could I think?” She turned to Xaeland. “What could I think?”

  Xaeland had wound a bandage around his arm and was carefully applying his bloody hand to the steel of his sword, which he had only drawn partly, about half a foot. He turned away as she turned to him. He turned away as she turned to him—but Heao saw from where he stood how the blood disappeared as it touched the blade.

  The woman turned back to Stuart. There were tears in her eyes. “Please, Sir, allow me one more chance. I swear I will redeem myself. Don’t cut me away.”

  “You know the penalty for what you have done,” Stuart said.

  “Please.... Then spare Paiat and Erne: I’ll take the blame for all of us. It was my fault.”

  “They must answer to their own laws,” Stuart declared.

  “Sir,” spoke up Jevan.

  “What is it, Master Delossan?”

  “Respectfully, Sir, I agree with the lady. I think you should spare her life.” Stuart and the woman both looked at Jevan (of course they both knew that death was not the penalty). “Sir,” Jevan continued, “it hardly matters to us. The worst punishment would be for them to be alive if our quest should fail. Maybe they will only run off to wherever they go, but...anyway, all the evil has been done already, and nothing we do now will make it up.”

  A drake-cry rang from somewhere uncomfortably close—maybe within a mile. Stuart paused, his sword still raised and glistening. The woman waited on her knees. The slender Emerian who had been tackled by Caelhuin tried to rise to a sitting position, groaned, and managed to lift his head to watch. Stuart asked the woman, “Your name is?”

  “Penna, Sir—Perrenna Kalina.”

  “Have you seen any sign of a boy....”

  “Or a strange bird,” Xaeland put in.

  She looked confused. “A drake? Another Labrian monster?”

  “A boy, fleeing the battlefield—possibly flying,” Stuart said. The idea of Alik, the heir of Caimbrand, committing the same crime as these deserters occurred to him, but he quickly shoved it aside.

  Penna shook her head feebly. The injured Emerian spoke up. “Sir, I can say something about that.”

  “You saw something?” asked Jevan.

  The man winced. “Heard, Sir. The sun had already set. There was a sound like rushing wind and a low, rumbling crow. I swear there was the sound of babbling children beneath the noise—but it might have been a single boy. I thought for certain...aah! I thought it was some demon forged out of the pit, for the sound of it. Then...then a blast of wind hit me, I stumbled, next thing I knew, I was running.”

  “Which way?” asked Xaeland.

  The man said, “I think I had the feeling that it originated from the depths of Labrion: that is all.”

  Xaeland nodded. Stuart lowered his sword pensively. “What if...,” began Haleth.

  “Don’t speak of it,” commanded Stuart. “Come, let us go.” He sheathed his
sword.

  “My Lord,” spoke Penna Kalina.

  “I have cut you off today,” Stuart replied. “My companions bear witness, you and your two fellows have died. My companions bear witness, I will bind you back on again if you should come back to life. Rejoin the army at Taravon’s Haven. There lies your chance.” He pointed to the north. “Take it or not—as you will.”

  The party formed up around Stuart as he strode away: west, away from Labrion Plateau and all its evils.

  For several hours they walked without incident. Jevan at first made some weak attempts to speak with Xaeland, but they didn’t fly. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you not think you should have someone look at that wound?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, then.”

  Heao, encouraged by Haleth, was more persistent. “Is it true you were inside Labrion, Sir?”

  Xaeland glanced down at him and kept walking. Haleth strode alongside them.

  “And you saw Alik?”

  After a moment Xaeland answered, “Ask Piachras.”

  After another moment—a shorter one—Heao said, “I saw what you did with your sword.”

  Instantly: “Forget it.”

  “But how did you do it?” asked Heao. To Haleth he explained, “He put the sword against his cut, and then....”

  “Forget it!” Xaeland hissed.

  Heao began to get the idea. Meekly he asked, “Can I see it?”

  “No!” snapped Xaeland. Then he thought to add, “Don’t try sneaking it out, either. It’s dangerous. It likes blood.” He gave Heao a meaningful stare.

  “What, ‘sit possessed?” Haleth asked. Xaeland didn’t answer immediately. Haleth became alarmed. “Is it a demon sword?!”

  Xaeland glared at him. “Yes,” he answered.

  “A demon?!” asked Heao. “Are you not afraid?”