Wizard
of the
North
Wizard of the North by Richard H. Stephens
https://www.richardhstephens.com/
© 2018 Richard H. Stephens
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: [email protected]
Cover Art by Marco Pennacchietti
E-book ISBN: 978-1-989257-01-2
Acknowledgements
Wizard of the North was originally called: The 13 Eyes of Lucifer. While finishing up Soul Forge, I was at a loss as to where the sequel was going. It wasn’t until my cover artist, Marco Pennacchietti, sent me the Soul Forge cover that I had a euphoric moment. He had inadvertently placed a walking stick in the hands of Alhena Sirrus. In all my descriptions of Alhena, I never once had him carry a stick. Through the addition of that simple prop, the entire storyline of Wizard of the North was born.
As with Soul Forge, I would be remiss not to wholeheartedly thank those people behind the scenes. Without their patience and commitment, Wizard of the North would never have gotten off the ground. As always, I am forever indebted to my beta readers. They are the ones who slog through an unpolished storyline and painstakingly point out what needs to be fixed, added or thrown in the bin. Joshua Stephens, Paul Stephens, science fiction author Louise Spilsbury, and the one person who drives me to excel beyond the limits I think I am capable of, Caroline Davidson.
There are three other people who contribute greatly to the process.
I send a large, huge, and mighty thank you to Michelle Dunbar who has trained my wee brain to exorcise my exorbitant use of adjectives.
For expert editorial services, visit: http://isfauthorservices.com
Next, I am always in awe of the talents of my cover artist and logo designer, Marco Pennacchietti. See more of his incredible artwork at: https://www.artstation.com/deimos23390
Finally, I would like to introduce a new member to my Soul Forge team, Ian Bristow. His detailed interior illustrations add a whole new dimension to my stories. It’s a shame that colour pictures are cost prohibitive for me at this juncture as they really are amazing. You can find Ian’s work at: http://iancbristow.com/
and: https://www.facebook.com/bristowdesign/?ref=settings
Wizard of the North is dedicated to Caroline.
Thank you for being the magic in my life.
Map of the Kraidic Empire
Map of Zephyr
Contents
Wizard of the North
Voyage to Destruction
Helleden
Keepy’s Lament
Out of the Ashes
Parting Company
Into the Gap
The Sentinel
Sadie
Descent into Death
High Warlord?
City of Despair
Untravelled Path
Throne of Ash
Wizard’s Gibbet
Treachery
All the King’s Horses
Marble Eyes
Helleden’s Order
Larina
Lake of the Lost
Dungeon Keepers
Serpent’s Eye
A Lonely Road
Grimward
Torpid Marsh
Chamber of Deceit
Brokk
To Kill a King
Into the Serpent’s Nest
Chasing a Wizard
There Comes a Time
Earth Blood
Alignment of Wizards
Instrument of their Demise
Mister Keen
Abomination
Ghastly Death
To Madrigail Bay
Chapter 1 of book 3 in the Soul Forge Saga
Wizard of the North
A storm was imminent. It promised to be a bad one. It would rain hard, and with the rain would come death.
Within a grotto, high atop an active volcano, a wizard hunkered over a vision within the flames of a modest campfire, holding back long wisps of golden hair.
Something strange was occurring hundreds of leagues south of the cave. Something catastrophic. Tears dripped from the tip of the wizard’s nose. The omens foretold the return of a devastating power. A power that had annihilated the unspoiled tracts of the Innerworld a few moon cycles earlier. The same power that besieged Quarrnaine Svelte and her expedition four years ago, but this time it was different. This time, the signs pointed to an absolute apocalypse—a total annihilation of Zephyr, and there was nothing the wizard could do to prevent it.
A cold wind swirled ash into the wizard’s face, burning small holes in the silken robes fluttering about the magic user’s slight frame.
Ignoring the acrid smoke, the wizard leaned closer to the flames, willing the vision to reveal a deeper understanding. Helleden Misenthorpe was at the root of this storm, of that there was little doubt, but there were other participants involved this time. One bigger than the malign sorcerer himself. If this magical storm of doom wasn’t strange enough, there was also something familiar about it. Something that shook the wizard to the core.
The flames burned with more intensity than they had a right to, given the meagre fuel that fed them. They flared up to singe the wizard’s hair and abruptly went out.
The wizard quickly uttered an incantation to relight the fire, anxious to witness the unfolding storm, but the flames refused to come back. The wizard frowned and chanted again, paying attention to proper enunciation. Next to a divination invocation, a vision spell was the hardest one to enact correctly. The embers flickered with promise before fizzling out again, but the wizard had felt that familiar presence again. It was as if someone had mentally reached out, desperate for the wizard’s attention.
“No,” the wizard bemoaned the unresponsive ashes and made a frantic search of the dank interior. Passing over a pile of tattered tomes and brittle scrolls, the wizard found a grimy vial of green ichor—handling it with the utmost of respect. A little hesitant, but with no time to waste, the wizard thought, why not?
Pulling the cork stopper loose, the wizard shook the vial in an effort to hurry the gelatinous substance from the container. Excruciatingly slow, the ichor dripped once, and then a second time, sizzling as it oozed into the embers.
The wizard replaced the stopper and dropped the vial into a robe pocket. With both hands free, the wizard intoned the magical phrase of vision, pronouncing each word exactly as they had been learned.
At first, the smouldering fire hissed and sputtered, but as the wizard panicked anew, a small flame caught, quickly rearing to engulf the entire pit—threatening to climb out of its confines and onto the stone floor.
The extreme heat forced the wizard back against the cave wall. Concentrating like never before, the wizard drew from an unknown reserve, and the vision reformed within the leaping flames. The scene of a bloody battle waged in virtual darkness, except for the fires burning in the fields around a river and the sporadic bursts of what could only be magic, took shape, but this was not Zephyr.
It was difficult for the wizard to determine where the battle took place; certainly nowhere familiar. Immense birds of prey flitted in and out of the vision, swooping down upon hapless victims and then flying out of sight. Men, women, and small misshapen creatures battled for their lives along the banks of a wide river, against an insurmountable number of red demons wielding tridents and other malicious instruments of death.
The familiar sensation reached through the flames, taking the wizard’s breath away.
“Silurian?”
Unseen in the background of the image until now, a cylindrical mountain blazed t
o life. So intense was the illumination that the wizard cowered behind an upraised arm.
The raging fire pulsed once in warning.
The wizard locked onto the compelling pull from within the flames, desperately trying to make sense of what was happening.
The image of the blazing mountain exploded, erupting like a volcano. A visible concussion shot outward, the intensity of the blast obliterating the wizard’s vision.
A violent wind emanated from the centre of the fire pit, stoking the wizard’s flames, a harbinger of the fiery maelstrom that suddenly engulfed the cave.
Voyage to Destruction
Alhena Sirrus stepped onto Gerrymander’s foredeck, using a walking staff to balance himself against the roll of the ship. He found Pollard Banebridge exactly where he left him yesterday; leaning against the ship’s forward rail—the dejected Songsbirthian oblivious to the spray washing over the deck as the bow cut through the heavy sea.
Gerrymander had been sailing east to southeast for more than a fortnight since its sudden reappearance on what Alhena and the rest of the crew hoped was the Niad Ocean. Thorr Sandborne, the ship’s captain, had his helmsman chart a reverse course from the portal that had sucked them into the Under Realm. Nobody knew where the ship had resurfaced. All they could do was hope.
The large vessel travelled slower than her usual pace, the captain careful not to lose the flotilla of boats following her course—many on the cusp of capsizing. The queer folk manning the bizarre armada worked feverishly to keep their bows perpendicular to the rolling waves. Several boats were forced to be towed along behind Gerrymander, far enough back to avoid being tossed in her wake.
It hadn’t been an uneventful trip since their re-emergence from the Under Realm. The flotilla had weathered an extreme storm a few days prior and many of the lesser craft had capsized in its fury. If not for the heroic efforts of Gerrymander’s crew, many more lives would have been lost.
Gerrymander brimmed with extra bodies due to the rescues but no one dared to go near the giant man leaning over the ship’s mermaid bowsprit—everyone wisely giving the colossus a wide berth. Everyone, except Alhena.
Sidling up to Pollard, Alhena rested his elbows on the wet rail and looked out over the rolling sea, respecting Pollard’s silence. Pollard blamed himself for Silurian Mintaka’s death. He had stood on the banks of the mystic river and almost single-handedly kept the demon army at bay with his massive two-bladed sword, providing Silurian the time he required to immerse himself in a suicidal battle with forces far beyond the realm of normal men. In the end, Silurian had succumbed to the river’s pull and was lost. Pollard hadn’t forgiven himself for allowing that to happen. It had been his and Avarick Thwart’s duty to protect the surviving members of the Group of Five. Avarick had performed his duty admirably, even if it had cost him his life.
Avarick’s death had also affected Pollard more than he let on—the two had become fast friends, almost inseparable near the end. A few of Pollard’s closest companions had tried to soothe him since their return, but no one had been successful.
“How is your side?” Alhena inquired of the life-threatening gash Pollard suffered when a demon, straight out of a nightmare, had raked him with its claws.
Pollard grunted. “Better than my heart. It’ll heal.”
Alhena patted the large man’s muscular back and followed his gaze. The moisture laden skies stretched grey to the horizon.
The two men remained that way for the better part of the morning. The same way they had every day since returning to the land of sun and stars. They moved only to readjust their stance as the ship bobbed upon large ocean swells. The icy spray and driving wind did little to phase Pollard, but Alhena convulsed with shivers. He was grateful when Pollard removed his weatherproof cloak and draped it over his shaking body.
Pollard’s exposed skin bristled with gooseflesh, but he wasn’t the type to complain. Instead, he wrapped a massive arm around Alhena and held him close. Together they weathered the day.
Alhena knew it was midday, not by the position of the invisible sun, but because Captain Thorr cleared his throat behind them, bearing bowls of steaming broth. Alhena mouthed a silent thank you and accepted the food.
Pollard and Alhena ate in silence, but as Pollard scooped up his last bit of stew, he stiffened and leaned over the railing.
Alhena squinted, leaning farther over the rail, but whatever the Songsbirthian saw was a mystery. He thought he was being thrown overboard when Pollard slapped him on the back and pointed.
“Do you see that?”
Alhena pulled himself back, glaring at the giant, but Pollard didn’t pay him any attention.
“Smoke. Stretching as far as the eye can see.”
“A volcano?” Alhena’s suggestion went unheard, still unable to differentiate anything out of the ordinary.
“Hey! In the crow’s nest!” Pollard leaned to starboard and looked to the sailor high above the billowing sails. “You see it?”
The sailor, Longsight, leaned over the rim of the nest. “Aye, but no sign of land.”
Alhena caught snatches of Longsight’s response above the roar of the wind and the splash of Gerrymander cutting through the waves.
“Where’s the captain?” Pollard shouted.
Longsight searched the decks. “At the helm. He sees it.”
Alhena felt himself being jerked backward as Pollard spun him around and sent him stumbling toward the stern.
“Come on, old man. Let’s see what the captain thinks.”
Alhena struggled to keep up to Pollard’s long strides, his staff clumping the cadence of his quickened gait. He looked over his shoulder more than once, but only saw the horizon.
By the time Alhena reached the helm’s deck, set high above the rest of the ship’s surfaces, Pollard had already engaged Captain Thorr and the bandy-legged helmsman, Olmar, in conversation. Olmar was the only man Alhena knew to surpass Pollard in height.
Thorr’s tone did not bode well. “If we were transported back to the site of the portal, our course suggests the smoke can only be coming from one place. Zephyr.”
Pollard’s brows knit together. “Then we’ve strayed off course. There aren’t any active volcanoes near Madrigail Bay.”
Thorr threw his hands up, but it was Olmar who spoke. “Nay. If’n we been set right, I knows me course. That’s the Spine of Madrigail, or I’m a Kraidic whoreson.”
“Land ho!” Longsight cried out from the crow’s nest.
Alhena squinted.
Thorr called up to the crow’s-nest. “Can you make out where?”
A long while elapsed before Longsight replied. “Aye, ‘tis the Bay that’s smoking.”
The four men around the helm searched each other for answers.
Crew members, and misshapen Voil—the tortured survivors of the Under Realm’s dark magic—flooded onto the deck, taking in the spectacle.
“I dinnae like it cap’n,” Olmar said, his knuckles white upon the wheel.
Thorr raised his eyebrows, blowing out a long breath. He nodded and jumped into action. “Man the oars! Ready the ballista!” Running to the top of the port side staircase, he commanded, “Arm yourselves! Madrigail Bay is under attack!”
As Gerrymander plowed through the waves, it became apparent to Alhena that the entire horizon was shrouded in black smoke. “Been attacked, more like,” he muttered to Pollard. “And razed to the ground.”
Pollard cast him a grim look.
Sailors swarmed the masts, furling the sails. The ballista crew manhandled a large, barbed missile into place and ratcheted the throws into position; the whole machine attached to a metal faceplate that dominated the central foredeck.
Pollard darted to the starboard stair to greet a small, wizened creature, accompanied by an equally odd looking, slightly taller creature. Pollard stood respectfully aside to allow the Voil elder, Wendglow, to amble up the last few steps to the rear deck, assisted by his muscular, orange-furred, personal aide, Yars
taff. Wendglow appeared as a toddler passing by Pollard, but the ancient wizard’s sharp mind more than compensated for his lack of physical stature.
Wendglow offered Pollard a solemn nod and made his way toward the captain. Yarstaff stopped to hug the big man, his large eyes filled with compassion.
“Greetings, Master Wendglow.” Thorr nodded to the Voil leader and confirmed the rumours that had reached the ancient’s furry ears. “We have asked all your craft to remain back until we determine what’s happening.”
The Voil elder turned to take in the great channel that split the mountains rising before them—the inlet obscured behind a pall of dark smoke. He sniffed at the air and closed his large, round eyes. Nodding, he opened them again. “Helleden.”
The proclamation made everyone stiffen.
Pollard unsheathed his double sword and squinted. Madrigail Bay lay hidden several leagues down the channel. “Helleden? Here?”
Wendglow closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head. “No, not here. Only his stain.”
Alhena shivered. He had lived through one of Helleden’s magical storms—barely. If that was what had happened to Madrigail Bay, it would be a grim homecoming indeed.
The cadence of the paddles slapping water heralded the rhythmic lurch and lull of the deck under Pollard’s feet. The crew fidgeted along the rails, concern on their faces as Gerrymander approached the last bend in the deep channel flowing out of Zephyr’s largest seaport. Pollard didn’t harbour any illusion that the scene they were about to see would be a happy one—the air thick with the smell of burnt wood.
Pollard stood beside the ballista, wanting to be close to the front of the ship without getting in the way should they need to fire the mighty weapon.
Lofty cliffs lined the channel. The slap of the paddles echoed eerily as Gerrymander slipped past the last jutting rock formation and the coastal city of Madrigail Bay came into view. Even though he had expected the worst, he wasn’t prepared for what awaited their arrival.
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