The Wizard's Heir

by J. A. V Henderson

  In between the groups of Lossian soldiers by the trees the parapet began to sink in. Stones crumbled away from the outer crenellations and fell over the edge. “It’s collapsing! It’s collapsing!” someone shouted. A few soldiers who were too close leapt away or fell as the stonework gave way completely. Rock rained down on the defenders below, throwing them into disarray.

  Then the charge came to the center. Tomerians and goblins, having breached the chasm, spilled over the outer walls roaring and yelling. The defenders of the breach steeled themselves. The archers atop the walls, too busy with their own struggle, could offer no support at all.

  Against the collapsing battle scene, amidst clashing swords and limp bodies strewn all across the parapets, Sianna appeared, her swords tucked into her belt, four torches held aloft in her hands. Stuart’s heart leapt and a wave of cheering went up from all the Emerians. One of the Lossians pointed to her and shouted something. Sianna sped through the carnage toward the nearest of the rumbling trees, where a few branches were overhanging the part of the parapet controlled by Stuart and Ciarthan. She held up the torches to the branches. The Lossians drove forward around Stuart but could not break through. It seemed to take forever…were the branches too wet? No! The fire caught and held. The tree let go of the wall, shaking and waving, but the flames only fanned wider.

  “Now!” exclaimed Piachras at the base of the wall. “All axes, now!” The axe-men struggling against the waving roots of the tree lopped off the last remaining roots facing them, and with a rush of flame, the tree toppled to the ground along the line—into the Tomerians and goblins swarming to the breach in the inner wall. “Take them all down!” bellowed Piachras, overcome with adrenaline. “Torches! Axes! Valor for Emeria and Ristoria!”

  As he was shouting, the war-cry leapt up all around them from the field. Out of the mist charged a new wave of goblins, hooting and hollering and waving about long scimitars and battle-axes. Piachras turned, his heart falling. “Watch the front!” he shouted. But the line was ill-prepared for this new onslaught, and he knew it could not handle both the trees and the goblins at one time without help from above. The attackers swarmed over and around them, pushing them back, tearing them down, swallowing them whole.

  Malaoenidea watched the battle from the gate tower on the city wall, raising the trumpet to her lips. It was time. The line could hold no longer. Line upon line of attackers faded into the mist as far as could be seen. She blew the call for the retreat into the city long and hard.

  Piachras and his crew looked up briefly. There was the minstreless upon the gate tower, her flowing green robe blowing around her. He choked down his disappointment with a burst of energy, battering down one assailant and thrusting through a second. The city’s southern gates burst open, and there was Taravon, glistening in his gilt steel armor, flowing out through the gates with a company of his shining knights galloping on their bright red steeds. The goblin line before the gate collapsed as the riders broke over them. A sense of panic surged out from them in all the armies of the northerners: a sense of elation in the defenders. “The guardian prince!” came the word on either side. “The guardian prince! The guardian prince!”

  Piachras led his force toward the gates, mowing through the frightened goblin forces in between. Goblin and Tomerian commanders all about were rallying their troops to hold fast, but right now, the terror of Taravon’s mounted knights slashing through their ranks reigned supreme. White-flecked arrows began flashing by all around. One of the knights went down. As the last of Piachras’ force retreated into the city, the gates began to close. The knights circled around and withdrew under a growing hail of arrows. Taravon’s horse reared up as the gates boomed shut and the bars slid into place. The outside world was gone.

  Taravon’s horse lurched to the ground inside the gates, nearly pinning its rider beneath it. Arrows protruded from under its breastplate and mail. Taravon collapsed next to the noble mare in the arms of his people, exhausted. “I am unhurt,” he declared. In a lower voice he told his people, “Lift me.”

  Above on the wall, most of the trees were already in flames or catching fire. The Lossian soldiers stranded on the wall continued to fight fiercely but with little hope. The parapet was collapsed in two places between two of the access towers, and the Lossians were pinned on either side. It was a fight to the death, their only remaining hope being in their comrades on the ground, where the attack on the breach was currently at an impasse.

  All around the city except at the breach, where the fighting continued relentlessly, the attackers were withdrawing to just beyond the outer walls.

  Piachras and his troops gathered round Prince Taravon. “My friends and comrades,” the prince spoke—at first weakly, but then more and more animatedly—“In this dark hour when we seem to have lost all hope—when the enemy presses in, and even the forces of the supernatural seem poised against us—when the gates are shut before us and no escape remains to be seen—in this hour, a light has shone. The fight before us is a deadly one, a struggle for the freedom and the peace of all those we have left behind, living or dead, and of all who remain within these walls. But there is hope! We have a powerful helper who will fight for us when the air chokes, when fire erupts, when the trees themselves come against us. In this very place four hundred years ago, the wizards entered our world with their great machine, the Stone, which held power over all the forces of nature. But we know that pride consumed them and the Stone was broken, its shards, still powerful, scattered to the winds. Ever since that day, the wizard emperor and his son after him have hunted the shards in their desire to reunite them at last and to dominate all creation. Ever since that day, it has been spoken that one day the heir of the most powerful of the wizards would find and reunite the shards. My friends and comrades, today it has been revealed that the most powerful of the wizards was not Morin—no, nor not Kirion the Great—but a young Ristorian, orphaned by fate and apprenticed to Kirion, himself the descendant of legends, unknowingly an heir of the power of Caimbrand the Great. The wizard’s heir has come to us today! And he has gone before us to fight for us against Morin himself, a battle of powers against powers, fates against fates, natures against natures. In this battle we hope: that the powers of Morin may be silenced once and for all and the peace of the world restored forever.”

  From the east side of the city there came a thundering explosion. Taravon heard it and continued. “In the meantime, my friends, my comrades, we must carry on a little while longer with the same bravery and resolve you have all shown till now. Whatever you may see, whatever you may hear, whatever attack may come, natural or supernatural, remain steadfast. If the mountains themselves should fall upon us, remain calm, for our salvation is coming. We shall fight them for the walls; we shall fight them for the city; we shall fight them for the towers. We shall make them pay in blood for every inch of free ground, for as long as we can!”

  From the west side of the city there came another thunderous explosion. The troops seemed to waver but Taravon did not. “For the Haven!” The knights and citizens cheered in response. “For Ristoria!” The Ristorians let up a cheer from all sides. “For Emeria!” The Emerians raised up a cheer. “For Therion!” The few Therians present let up a cheer. “For Aerisia!” The Aerisians present cheered. “For the Anthirian peoples!” The Anthirians roared. He fell silent, breathing heavily. Then at last he mustered up the strength to speak again and said, “Go, defend the city.”

  Smoke was beginning to rise from the east and west sides of the city. The sound of some sort of commotion seemed also to be coming from the east side. “Lord,” Piachras addressed the prince, “send your knights to the west side of the city and rely on my company to defend the east.”

  “We will join you,” came a female voice beside him. Looking, he saw a tall, regal Aerisian lady in a silky black dress overlaid with silver mail.

  “Lady Anaerias,” he bowed.

  Taravon nodded his assent as his aides helped him away. “Follow
me!” roared Piachras, starting off toward the smoke on the east side of the city at double time.

  “Aerisians step out!” called the Lady Anaerias, following him.

  They quickly marched through the city, fanning out as they approached the commotion. A little militia of haveners and Orisian troops from the wall were fighting from house to house and from street to street against a large body of Tomerian soldiers welling through a new, still-smoking breach in the city wall. Those inside the wall already outnumbered all the strength of Piachras and Lady Anaerias combined.

  “Take the rooftops,” Lady Anaerias quickly ordered her troops.

  Piachras divided his command in two. “Left flank, right flank,” he directed. “Attack at will.” He joined the right flank. The troops divided, wielding their weapons as they ran. They charged down the street into the Tomerians, meeting them with a roar and a clatter of hundreds of weapons. Piachras plowed throught he first line, the second line, into the third line with reckless abandon. Swords whizzed around him but could not pass his armor. With his battle-axe he lopped off the arm of one Tomerian; with his glaive he smashed the helm of another. His troops surrounded him as he fought and cleared the way around him. “We are the wall!” he shouted as he thrust into a third assailant. “Push them back!”

  He sensed more than saw or heard the left flank reverberate into the attackers opposite him. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw arrows begin flocking overhead, whizzing into the body of the Tomerian army. Aerisian arrows. The Tomerians began to drop in droves. Confusion began to stir in their ranks. There is no confusion here, he thought. He struck out with his battle-axe as a shield, bowling over one enemy on his side as he parried two more with his glaive.

  On the south side of the city, Stuart and his fellows at last managed to clear the parapet of enemy soldiers. He wiped clean his blade with a prayer, “May I be cleansed of the guilt for this blood,” and turned to look around. Sianna was all right beside him. King Ciarthan and General Rigel were also unhurt, if winded. Below, as far as the eye could see into the fog, the world was covered with advancing foes. At the breach in the wall, the line of defenders was weakening, the soldiers tiring. He looked to Sianna, who was catching her breath. “We have tarried on the wall too long, I fear,” he said.

  “Then let us go down together,” she replied, her voice seeming frail, so frail.

  “Not without a chaperone,” interjected old Rigel. “I’m no good up here any more. I will come with you.”

  “Phrios,” commanded Stuart, “do not leave the wall if you can, until all the arrows are exhausted.” He clenched the arm of his old friend. “We shall not meet again, I fear.” Phrios bit back a tear and simply saluted.

  “I shall command the wall,” declared Ciarthan, gazing down on the advancing armies covering the plain.

  “My king,” Sianna objected, “your people will need you.”

  He glanced at her. “Do not fear for me, dear. Our fates have long been sealed, and they are not such as to mourn, but to sing.” She hesitated still. “Go,” he said. “That is my command. Go, and remain always in love.”

  “My king,” she shed a tear.

  “Archers!” ordered Ciarthan, his voice booming. “Fire at will!”

  Stuart took Sianna and Rigel down the spiral stairs of the lookout tower to the breach in the wall. With the little preparation they had gained from the earthquake, the defenders of the city had dug out enough of the rubble from the explosion to stand protected from the enemy to their waists at the center of the breach. Above there, the rubble was piled higher and higher until it was nearly a wall. The rocks were strewn from end to end with bodies of either army. The stones were slippery with blood, the air thick with smoke. The soldiers of either army scrabbled like ants up and down the piled debris. It was in these piles of rock on either side of the breach that the line was beginning to fail—was, in fact, almost gone.

  Stuart and Sianna charged up into the rubble on the left side, nearest them, and Rigel circled round to the right. Together Stuart and Sianna reached the line of the attackers, a mixed group of goblins and Tomerians. Stuart plowed into the nearest of the enemies with his powerful longsword, and Sianna danced at his side, flashing her double swords like a whirlwind. On the opposite side, Rigel drew a lance and fastened his shield to his sword arm. Whatever of his dexterity was lost to age, he made up in excess by his practiced precision and decades of predicting and outmaneuvering the movements of his foes.

  Stuart and Sianna rose up the slope, piercing they way through the descending attackers until they reached the crest of the rubble and were nearly surrounded. Soon a mound of surprised attackers was rising around them, enemies who were not expecting anyone over the top of the rise. Sianna slashed out to the front while Stuart defended her back as more and more of them came around from below to take them out. Here and there a well-aimed arrow from Phrios or Ciarthan saved them from near death.

  For a few minutes it seemed as though the line was recovering or even making headway. Rigel dominated the battle on the right while Stuart and Sianna did likewise on the left, and in their presence, the whole line in between was emboldened. For a few minutes they could have held that space against the whole might of the north. But soon amongst the northerners, Tomerian and goblin alike, the word began to stir: “Prince Sovanov! The grand prince of Tomeria!” The rumbling of some terrible machine could be heard through the smoke and the fog, then numbers and directions being shouted out…then “Fire!”

  “Catapult!” shouted out General Rigel in warning. A massive stone came crashing down into the battle, but the range was too short and it crushed a handful of goblins underneath it. Tension stirred on both sides.

  “Archers!” Stuart shouted up to Phrios and Ciarthan. “Find the machine and burn it!” Phrios himself leapt to the task, lighting an arrow and noching it on his bow. But there was no archer still alive in the world who could have hit that mark under those conditions—who could have cut down the catapult operator and sliced open the cables of the machine with an arrow at twice the range, had he been still alive. Phrios waited for another boulder from the machine to come tumbling through the air, then adjusted his aim and fired. But the arrow disappeared into the smoke and fog with no apparent effect whatsoever. He readied another.

  The boulder crashed over the line of the defenders—too far, but not so far as to have missed completely. Several of the archers around Phrios joined him and lit fire arrows. They could hear shouts against the din of the battle, distances and directions and the command to fire. Phrios narrowed his eyes, prayed, and fired. There was a cry from somewhere out there. Then the third projectile stone sailed through the air, smashing into the heart of the line in the center of the breach, crushing two defenders and knocking flat a Tomerian soldier at the front of the fighting. Phrios’ archers fired after the whirlding fog, still without any apparent success. A fourth missle crashed into the line, killing one and tearing another hole in the defense. Perrenna Kalina fell backwards, knocked cold, while her companions Paiat and Erne were crushed outright. Then a fifth crashed down, opening up another hole in the line. Then a sixth, then a seventh. Phrios thought he might have caught something on fire with his next arrow, but it was too late: the line was beginning to break apart.

  When the last stone bowled through the line, the Tomerian attackers let out a whoop and charged into its wake. The line snapped in two, each side reeling back from the troops swelling up behind it, then disintegrating entirely. Rigel and his companions were quickly cut off from behind, and a moment later they had disappeared wholly.

  Stuart looked around and could see the same thing happening behind him. He grabbed Sianna and scrambled down the slope through the debris. Sianna was caught off guard and stumbled. The Tomerians swarmed about her but a spray of arrows from above pinned them every which way in the rubble. Ciarthan and Phrios shouted down from the wall, “Fly, Stuart; fly, Sianna! To the tower! Fly!” Stuart pulled Sianna to her feet and lunged down the
slope, hitting the goblins and Tomerians gathering at the bottom so hard that they parted like water.

  “For General Rigel of Taiz’!” shouted Stuart, wheeling against the attackers and beheading the nearest. “For the noble warrior of Anthirion!” His sword crushed the helm of a goblin captain and shattered in molten fragments.

  “Kill him!” they shouted—but now it was Sianna’s turn to save him, and her swords took down the nearest dozen of them before she dragged him away into the city.

  Hot behind them they could hear the whooping of the enemy armies spattered with cries of death and the ringing of steel from every quarter: the crash of battle-axes on armor, the whiz of arrows, the smashing of doors, the screams of the hapless, the spread of death as they ran.

  VIII.ii.

  In a dark night, on a plane of jet blackness, time rushing and crawling by, Alik lay, clenching tightly to the hand of Saria as the girl in black approached. Behind or around him he sensed Xaeland, Heao, and Arran Delossan, all motionless, perhaps unconscious, and the beast next to Xaeland. Move, move! he commanded himself—but no words could come out, and no motion could he conjure.

  Zarya moved closer, gliding over the darkness as though a part of it. The two rifters moved closer with her, and around them, the two drakes. He noticed a knife in the hand of the girl. She sneered at him. A boy, he heard within himself. Her eyes had the contorted evil of…his mind flashed back to the caverns of the Labyrinth, to the cavern of Narrissor…to the tower of Labrion…Krythar. There he saw her, hunting him with her drakes in the fearful waterwood, striking on the Labrion stair, relentlessly tracking the armies retreating from Labrion across the plains, across the desert, across the mountains, to this place. And now I have you, she seemed to say. Now this all comes to an end. She reached Jevan and slowly, inexorably, plunged in her knife.