The Wizard's Heir

by J. A. V Henderson

  The waters of the moat leapt up into the wave of smoke and fire. Steam billowed up in great clouds all around them. Flashes of fire and streams of water twisted and snarled in the air. Stuart could hear houses being smashed to pieces. He found himself on the ground, barely realizing how or when he had been knocked backwards, barely able even to register what was going on before his very eyes.

  The flames spilled backwards. The waters resided. Waters from the spring began to refill the moat as the steam rose up and dissipated around them. Smoke still rose from every direction from the city. Within the smoke there, there was not a timber left standing throughout the city. Charred matchsticks were all that could be seen. Beyond that, deep in the city, the glow of red within the blackness was beginning to grow again. The fires were regrouping.

  Alik found himself prodded into a fire-lit corridor, his friends behind him and the Narrissoreans all around them. Soldiers all in black with grand battle-axes lined either wall between torches hanging on the walls. True to his word, Deran had enough Narrissoreans around them to have killed them all even without the advantage of the dark. When they came out into the light, Xaeland’s hand hovered toward his sword, but he quickly thought better of it.

  The hallway they were in ended in a large set of double doors carved—so it seemed—into a bony, serpentine design—some sort of creature not even Xaeland had seen before: something with clawed hands and feet and two visored reptilian heads.

  Saria noticed General Marrann and a few of his soldiers seated at the opposite end of the hallway, staring at her. So he had survived! And there was Nessak with him. The trader half rose on the sight of her but was pushed back into his seat. The grim truth came to her, seeing the guards surrounding them: they were awaiting judgment.

  “We request audience with the emperor at once,” announced Deran to the grand captain. “I, Deran, general of Narrissor, have fulfilled my quest and brought his prize.”

  “Wait,” replied the captain. He turned, approached the great gates, and declared, “Isshythh!”

  One of the heads carved in the door jerked toward the captain, then bowed and returned to its position. A rattling sound began to come from the door as pieces of the creature unlocked from each other and separated. The creature—no, it was two creatures—the creatures unwound from each other and stepped down, one on either side of the doorway. Rifters. When they stood fully erect, they were twice the height of the tallest of the guards.

  The captain passed by the two guardians. Alik stared after him. From within that place there emanated that feeling of crushing, of suffocating, of heaviness that he had been growing stronger and stronger since they had entered the palace—or rather, since he had left the isle. He struggled within simply to stand straight. He seemed to lean one way and then the other. Deran stood nearby, close enough to drag him in…but between them there was a line, barely visible, cutting through the hallway from out of the new throne room in the direction of the old throne room and from there back to the Well of Night and even beyond. For a moment, the weight seemed to disappear and the crushing to cease. A moment later, the captain reappeared.

  “General Deran, you are commanded to enter,” the captain declared. “Guards! Secure them and enter.”

  “Thank you,” replied Deran. The captain had already turned and was leading the way in. The royal guards stepped out in unison, boxing in each group of Narrissoreans along with the prisoners they held.

  They entered the throne room of the emperor.

  If Alik had expected anything, it was not what he saw. Then again, at this point he was not sure what he saw anymore. Ghosts flitted past his mind. Palm trees and strange scurrying creatures he could not quite see waved and crept though the slit in creation running across the throne room, just beyond the corner of his eye. Everything was going blank in his mind. Words were disappearing. Words—commands—power.

  To the left and to the right were lines of soldiers of one nation or another. From either wall the spacious room was dimly lit by torches—no, by flames rising out of the mouths of many overgrown, tentacular, fly-catching plants. The line or slit running through the world continued here, barely more visible than a trace of light along the floor seen out of the corner of the eye uncertainly but unmistakably. Other lines here and there seemed to network out from it, some jagged, some weaving, some running swiftly north and south, all leading up to the throne. Before the throne stood General Krythar, dark and cruel-looking in the light of the flames. And on the throne….

  The Emperor Morin II, son of the great Morin who with the Wizard Kirion had designed and built the Stone, was small, thin, with a vague look of lostness in his eyes. His eyes turned toward Alik and seemed to look past him. His long robe was wrapped tightly around his body as though to keep warm. The blackness of the robe was so black that it sucked in the eyes of the onlooker; so black that it was as if the lines of creation were trapped within its warp and woof. His hair was as long as a girl’s, but scraggly, even a bit unkempt. He seemed young but could not have been: he must have been hundreds of years of age. Alik sensed the presence of the shards somewhere within the folds of that black, black robe. Green: the wildness of the shard of the labyrinth…sky blue: the biting coldness of wind…red: the all-consuming avarice of fire…imprinted strongly with the presence of the elder Morin, its creator.

  Deran and his band of Narrissoreans bowed. A flame in one of the flowers on the left side of the room flickered toward them. All else was still.

  “Who are these filthy wretches you bring before us, Deran?” demanded General Krythar.

  “Your Greatness,” Deran addressed himself to the emperor directly, boldly ignoring Krythar. “For years this man”—he indicated Krythar—“has been trapping and killing my countrymen, the rock elves of Narrissor, and casting shame on our nation. Today he has failed to do the same with me, for I have accomplished the glorious quest and brought you that which you have for so long sought so dearly: the shards of the Stone.” And with a flourish he emptied the contents of his bag into the palm of his hand: the shards of water, earth, animal life, and souls.

  The shards hung above his hand, glowing of their own accord, humming with the power of the universe. Almost involuntarily Morin stood but did not move closer. Even his eyes dared not look at the shards but remained locked upon Alik’s.

  “Rock elf dog! Emperor, he has come here with these dirty rebels to overthrow you,” Krythar shot back.

  “These so-called rebels are those who have helped me, one way or another, to obtain the shards,” Deran demurred.

  “If I may, your Greatness,” spoke up Jevan, “I am Arran Delossan, scribe of the republic of the Western Isle and ambassador to the monarchy of Anthirion. I come to request a cessation to the hostilities between your nations and mine and a restoration of the just freedoms of our people.”

  “You dare to making of demands to the king of kings, you wretched nobody?!” roared Krythar.

  “I have made no demands,” Jevan answered, “only….”

  “Silence it!” Krythar cut him off.

  Two soldiers moved in to restrain the old scribe but Heao stood forward, his eyes closed, his hand extended as if to feel its way. “Blood…scorched to the stones, welling up: silent. The dogs that lick the sides of the king lay strewn, one here, one there, the body over which they fawned no more to be found.”

  “Silence that thing!” Krythar exclaimed.

  “Silence,” Heao continued as the soldiers lay hold of him. He opened his eyes and looked into the eyes of the first guard. “Silence,” he said. “Silence,” he said to the other guard. “Silence.” He knelt to the ground, placing his head in his hands. The guards lowered their weapons, unsure what to do.

  Krythar approached. “Cut out his tongue an’ letting him to living and seeing his words false.”

  Alik stepped forward. “No,” he said.

  “Enough,” said the emperor. Morin stepped forward, his eyes simultaneously on Alik and the shards. “Let
the…power…be…one.” His left hand extended toward the shards, dropping a corner of the impenetrable black cloak to reveal the tip of a long black sheath, the demon sword of Morin I, Legaria. “It should be coming unto me, Kavai’ia i ce,” he uttered.

  The shards began to float toward Morin but then stopped. The lines tautened between Morin and Alik.

  “What…is this?” gasped the emperor. “You are truly coming…against?” His right hand dipped inside the black cloak and swung around with the blade of the demon sword.

  “What? No!” cried Deran—but too late. Though the blade passed by him many feet away, multiple claw marks raked across his face and neck. He toppled.

  Immediately Grasp was also in the hands of Xaeland and the four Narrissoreans holding him were laying slaughtered around him. Saria wrenched free of the half-goblin Narrissoreans holding her and palmed the knife lying in Alik’s belt, the unbreakable knife of Caimbrand the Great, slashing the throat of one of Alik’s captors. Hands descended on her from every side. Jevan threw himself to the floor as Morin reacted, slashing through the air toward them with his demon sword. A howl of wind whipped over them, tearing down two of the guards in front of Alik as it passed.

  Morin held on. “They must be coming!” he hissed. “Who is daring….” He saw Xaeland’s dark figure coming at him and slashed again with his sword, this time toward Xaeland.

  Xaeland raised his sword Grasp and the demons met with a snarl. “The end has come for your reign of tyranny,” declared the page knight.

  “Destroy him!” shouted Morin. “He should be burned…ah, siravai’ia!”

  The fires leapt up from all of the plants growing around the room and swirled through the air toward Xaeland. But Alik held up his hand and declared, “Gase’ia de’i: they should not.” He added, glancing at the approaching guards, “There should be, ecaramavee’ia…terror.”

  If their witnessing of the seemingly effortless defeat of their lord’s most grievous weapons was not enough to instill terror in all present, the power of the shards was more than enough. Guards and soldiers scattered or threw themselves to the ground. Chaos reigned.

  Morin ignored this. Striding forward, he took hold of the shards physically. A cruel smile gleamed in his eyes. “Yours,” he whispered. “All at last are yours.”

  As Morin took hold of the shards, Xaeland reached him through the panic of the guards and swung his sword with all his strength. Grasp roared through the air and hit Morin with a clang. The sword exploded. Molten fragments rained to the floor over Morin’s cloak. Xaeland fell, dazzled, blood welling up from a deep gash down his hand.

  Morin turned. “What? You thinking to be set againsting of me? No sword can pierce this cloak, woven with the power of the shards!” He held the shards over Xaeland. Xaeland crumpled to the floor as though crushed. “Yes, he should be crushed,” said Morin.

  “No!” He saw Saria coming at him out of the corner of his eye and swung his demon sword toward her. She dove to the ground but not fast enough: the rush of the air and the claws of the airy demon hit her over the top of the head and knocked her senseless. The knife slid across the floor to rest against Jevan’s arm.

  Jevan could, for a moment, only stare at the knife. Amidst the myriad scratches covering the hilt he thought he saw, inscribed in old high Ristorian letters, “Justice is Unbreakable.” Then may justice preserve me, he thought. He picked up the knife. He stood—as quickly as he could—and plunged the knife into the shoulder of the emperor.

  The unbreakable cloak tore. Morin cried out. The sword dropped from his arm. A flash of light threw Jevan across the floor. The shards inside the cloak careened across the floor in the opposite direction. The flames above the plants dropped, and the plants began thrashing, their tentacles writhing in every direction. Alik held on tightly to his mental grip on the shards. He could feel the frayed ends from the cloak—what kind of spell had been on it?—jerking about the room, crossing randomly. On the far side of the room one of the plants was suddenly instantly obliterated. The flame burning it stretched out along the frayed lines of the world, flashing blue then orange then green. The frayed line whipped over his head, barely missing him, then jerked back, hitting him square in the back before he could evade it and crumpling him to the floor with a groan.

  Morin scrabbled blindly for the fallen shards, raving, “They should be punished, punished, dhevasai’ia, punished!”

  Lightning split the room over Jevan’s head, raising his hair on end. A second bolt zagged across the room from wall to wall, sticking for a moment against the wall before dissipating. Then all the air around them was filled with bolts of lightning. The walls glowed and the air buzzed. Alik stood and held up his hand weakly, saying, “It shall pass: vea saa’aa.”

  Now everyone in the room was on their bellies on the floor except Alik and Morin, Xaeland and Krythar, and Heao, who was kneeling. Xaeland reached the fallen sword of Morin, Legaria, put his foot over the blade, and snapped it in two against the floor. At the same time, Krythar reached the fallen shards and gathered them up. A flash of electricity arced through his hands and he dropped them again with a yelp, falling to the ground. He sat, momentarily stunned, then reached down again, covering his hands with his cloak and picking up first the green shard, then the red shard, then the glowing, flashing shard. He crawled toward Morin, giggling and gleaming. Morin reached him with a few strides, and he offered the shards up to him, raising them above his head so that the folds of his cloak fell over his head as he did. Morin grabbed them and shoved him back violently.

  Morin basked in the shards, electricity and gravity pulsing around him. Alik felt himself dragged toward him. He caught hold of Saria as she began to slide toward Morin also. She groaned. Her foot disappeared…then her other foot. “What…,” she groaned weakly. Electric blue streamed sideways past her: it was the chamber of the Well of Night, Alik suddenly realized—but it was gone when he looked at it, replaced first by a hedge of ferns captured in two dimensions and then a shock of clear blue icy sky. Morin held aloft the shards, the torn edge of his cloak unraveling sideways into dust, faster and faster. Xaeland reached out for the shards….

  Morin spun. “Diaezavai’ia!” he hissed. No one of his guards rose from their terror to help him, but a viny tentacle shot out at Xaeland from one of the burning guardian plants, wrapping around Xaeland’s feet and dragging him to the ground. “None shall touching!” Morin seethed. “Now: what was broken…pyris, aeris, floris, zoris, terris, hydris, couris: afarer!”

  At once all was white, more intense than the light of a hundred suns. Alik felt all reality slipping around him and murmured the words for binding, binding, binding. All of the fires, all of the lightning flashing back and forth across creation, all of the burning plants…all streamed into the rippling fracture opening to the north and south and east and west. Snow touched Alik’s hands. Saria’s eyes were wide open now and she was staring into his eyes. He clasped her hand and thought very simply, through.

  The throne room remained, smoking blackness, charred from end to end. The doors were gutted and empty save for piles of ashes fused to the floor here and there. And above Krythar City, a great black cloud rose up.

  General Gradja Marrann woke to a persistent nudging in his shoulder. A distinct sensation of apocalypse filled his mind. What was it? His memory began to fall into place, and then he shot bolt upright. “Where am I?” he asked.

  Stuart, who was standing over him with Sianna and Piachras, answered, “You are in the Haven of Taravon, the Guardian Prince, besieged on all sides by your armies and the armies of all the northlands. How you have come here we do not know.” He looked around. Nessak was also there, seated at a distance, his shirt half open to reveal the mark there of the Order of Page Knights.

  “I was in the antechamber of the throne room of the emperor in Krythar City,” Marrann gushed. “Everyone else was running. There was fire and lightning, death and chaos. Morin shouted out, “What was broken…something, couldn’t u
nderstand…. Then there was such a white light as has never been. I felt being burned, dragged…then I was here.”

  “When did these things happen?” asked the grave Ristorian imposingly.

  “But a moment ago,” said Marrann. “But see here: if I am truly in the Haven of Taravon, I must have been delirious for several days. What day is it now, and in what month?”

  “It is the eve of the new year and the new age, the last day of the last month of the twelfth age,” replied Stuart. “In Morin’s throne room…you saw a boy?”

  “Yes,” assented Marrann. “He stood before the emperor as a prisoner of General Deran of Narrissor and his Questors. He prophesied against the emperor.” He paused. “I do not know what happened to him. But now if what you say is true, I would have to have been transported here almost instantly, for I was awaiting judgment before the emperor this very day at about this very time.”

  Stuart glanced at Sianna. “That sounds not like Alik…more like Heao.”

  Sianna addressed Marrann. “Sir,” she asked, “who else was with this boy?”

  Marrann nodded. “There was the snow elf girl—tall and thin, blonde, long-eared, cold and violent. I think she was slain by the sword of Morin. There was also a warrior in a dark cloak who attacked the emperor with a demon sword…but his sword was broken against the impenetrable cloak of the emperor. Impenetrable…I should say there was an elder man with graying hair who tore the impenetrable cloak with a knife—I know not by what fell magic. And yes, there was another boy there, too, I recall…or it might have been a girl: I didn’t get much of a look at him.”

  “And the emperor?” asked Piachras.

  “All was destroyed behind me,” said Marrann. “But then again, as I escaped—maybe this is some kind of rift?—it seems all the more likely to me that the emperor and Krythar the rift-master and the others also escaped similarly.”

  Stuart drew Sianna and Piachras aside. “What may we surmise from all this?” he asked them in a low voice. “So they confronted the emperor in his throne room: we cannot tell the outcome of that confrontation from what has been said. At best we could guess that all died there and we are left to our own against these hopeless odds. At worst, Morin may have the shards and all hope is finally lost.”