The Wizard of the North

by Richard Stephens

  The king bid the grey-haired man rise. When he spoke, Yarstaff heard the wonder in Malcolm’s voice. “Captain Korn? Is it really you?”

  The horseman accepted the king’s hand and rose. “Retired captain now, Sire, though you honour me with your memory.”

  “Nonsense, Pantyr,” Malcolm said, calling the captain by his given name. “You are a hard man to forget. And Mrs. Korn?”

  Pantyr’s gaze fell.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Malcolm grabbed the old man by the wrists, causing Pantyr to look into his deep blue eyes. “I assure you, we will deal with those responsible for this.” His look encompassed their surroundings.

  “Nay, my king. Adessa died a few years back. I came to Carillon a couple of days ago. You’ve heard about Millsford?”

  Malcolm gave him a solemn look. “Aye, and I am grieved by the news.”

  Pantyr forced a sad smile and then extended a hand to Rook. “Rook Bowman. The people will be glad to see you.”

  Rook shook the proffered hand as Pantyr Korn handed the reins to a young man who appeared out of seemingly nowhere, and then clapped his hands together. “Anyway, Sire, come see what your noble citizens have been up to.”

  Yarstaff and Pollard fell in behind the king, Rook and Captain Pik, as Pantyr led them toward a long, newly erected building that backed onto the city wall on the far side of what was left of the northern gatehouse. Wagons loaded with hay were parked just beyond.

  “This must be your doing, Pantyr,” the king stated, nodding his approval.

  “The majority of the horses are from my stables near Millsford. The good people of Carillon have been instrumental in helping me rebuild suitable lodging for them.”

  Yarstaff took in the dirty faces of the city folk Pantyr indicated. Men and women in leather and chainmail armour stood about the open area fronting the gaping city gate. Many were busy picking up the endless debris scattered about, while other more official looking ones made a point of checking anyone entering the city.

  It wasn’t long before he and Pollard began drawing the attention of the city watch. A small pocket of curious guardsmen near the broken gate conversed amongst themselves, their attention focused on the two of them, but especially him. Word of his race’s presence in their kingdom had obviously not reached the north gate. As one, four dour males and two serious looking women broke away from the gate to confront them.

  Pollard stepped in front of Yarstaff. “Greetings.”

  A bald-headed, black-bearded man separated himself from the group, giving Pollard a serious once over. Yarstaff figured the man must surely be smart enough to realize that engaging Pollard in a confrontation would not end well.

  The man scratched at his thick beard and made eye contact with Yarstaff. He pointed with his chin as he spoke to Pollard. “What do you call that?”

  Pollard crossed his arms over his chest. “That, my ill-mannered friend, is Yarstaff. He is a Voil.”

  The bald man’s colleagues spread out, surrounding them.

  If their actions caused Pollard unease, he never let on.

  “Is that what you call it?” The leader spat on the ground. “I’m thinking we don’t care for it in Carillon. Or anywhere else in Zephyr, for that matter. Nor do we appreciate the fact that you want to protect it.”

  Pollard’s heavy brow knitted. He lowered his arms to his sides. “Is that so? I’ll tell you what I don’t like.” His gaze flicked to each man and woman. “I don’t like ungrateful folk who refuse to extend the hospitality of their king. In fact, it isn’t Yarstaff I’m protecting.”

  The man frowned.

  “I’m protecting you,” Pollard growled.

  As Pollard’s threat sunk in, the group tightened their circle.

  Pollard’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword but left it within its scabbard—the movement prompting the group to brandish their weapons.

  Yarstaff tensed. His sword suddenly in hand, he faced the woman and man nearest to him.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Rook called out, stepping away from the king and jogging back to intervene. He stopped at the edge of the armed group. “What’s going on here?”

  The leader stepped toward Rook, his sword lowered. “That man has brought a demon into our midst. You’d best be watching your back, mister.” The man eyed Rook’s black wood bow.

  Rook gave the man a condescending smile, his eyes taking in the rest of the group. “If you think you’re man enough to lock swords with Pollard, be my guest.” Rook laughed and turned to walk away.

  The leader glared at Rook, but his words were obviously intended for Pollard. “Turn it over to us and we’ll be on our way.”

  Pollard answered the request by pulling his sword free of its double sheath.

  The bald-headed man backed away a couple of steps. The sword was longer than a halberd. He swallowed but refused to back down. Instead, he motioned for his companions to get ready.

  “Stand down!” the king’s voice commanded.

  Captain Pik stepped away from King Malcolm and strode with purpose toward them. “What’s the meaning of this, Sir Allan?”

  The bald leader glared at the captain. Yarstaff sensed the man’s struggle to keep the edge from his voice as he pointed his sword at him. “There’s a demon amongst us.”

  Pik stormed up to Sir Allan, clearly unhappy. “That, rock head, is no demon. He’s under the king’s protection.”

  “The king’s protection?” Sir Allan sputtered.

  “Aye, Sir Allan,” King Malcolm’s deep voice sounded as he approached. The gathering crowd parted to allow Malcolm passage.

  Pantyr Korn walked beside King Malcolm. “Allan, you fool. How dare you bare steel in the king’s presence?”

  Sir Allan sheathed his sword and dropped to a knee, his cohorts quickly following his lead.

  Malcolm, as usual, was the calming influence. “Arise Sir Allan. You’re merely doing your duty to protect your kingdom. I can only hope that all still alive share your spirit, but I’m afraid you’ve wronged in this instant. Before you is a man named Yarstaff. He, and many others like him, have come to us from a faraway land offering us much needed aid during our darkest hour. He may appear different than you or I but I assure you he shares our purpose. His people have lived under Helleden’s tyranny for over four hundred years.”

  Sir Allan and his cohorts looked stunned by that last statement.

  “This is a good time for me to utter my first royal decree since the castle fell.” King Malcolm walked over to place a hand on Yarstaff’s shoulder. “I command everyone here to bear witness and spread the word. The Voil have arrived on our shores and are pledged to the House of Svelte. They are assisting your peers in Madrigail Bay to rebuild. The Voil are not a part of Helleden’s army.”

  Yarstaff felt self-conscious as everybody studied him.

  “Now begone. Attend to your duties. We have hard days ahead,” King Malcolm ordered. As the crowd dispersed he addressed Yarstaff and Pollard. “Please accept my apologies on behalf of my people. They have been through a lot.”

  Pollard slid his blade into its scabbard. “No apologies necessary, Your Majesty. I imagine my friend’s appearance is unsettling given the nature and proximity of Helleden’s army. I was shocked the first time I saw the Voil.” He dropped his hand on top of Yarstaff’s head and gave him a playful shake. “But know that what Yarstaff and his people lack in size, they make up for with heart. With all due respect, my liege, I would choose Yarstaff to ward my back over any two men you might handpick. That is no lie.”

  Malcolm smiled at Yarstaff. “Those are strong words indeed, Yarstaff. I do not doubt Pollard’s sincerity. I pray you allow my kingdom the chance to adjust to your people’s presence. Given time, you’ll come to know we are decent people.”

  Yarstaff bowed his head. “You don’t have to convince me, King Malcolm. I’ve gotten to know a few of your citizens quite well recently.” He beamed up at Pollard. “They have been nothing but kind to me.”

 
; “Excellent.” Malcolm turned his attention to the newly erected stables. “Captain Pik. We need to take a quick accounting of my bannermen.”

  Pantyr Korn cleared his throat. “If I may, Your Highness? I’ve already seen to that detail. In fact, several riders have returned from the west and the south.”

  The king looked impressed. “Excellent Pantyr. Hopefully our riders will meet up on the road. What news have you?”

  “Thunderhead and Storms End have both suffered grievous losses, but their commanders have promised troops by the full moon. The survivors from The Forke and Millsford are here in Carillon.”

  “All of them?” the king interrupted, looking around in dismay.

  “Aye, Your Highness. They are being housed near the south gate.”

  Malcolm nodded grimly.

  “On a happier note, Songsbirth was spared and reports out of Gritian claim that the firestorm fell short of their position. High Bishop Uzziah beseeches you to travel to him post haste. His Eminence fears you have been lost, but I sent a rider early this morning to inform the Chamber that is not the case.”

  “That’s excellent news indeed,” the king nodded. “With any luck, everything south of the Undying Wall is unaffected as well.”

  “Aye, Your Highness, but considering the distance, those riders have yet to return to confirm that. Of more concern, though, are the northern riders. None have reported back.”

  Malcolm gave the retired captain a knowing look. “Aye, nor do I expect to hear from them. We received news the day before the firestorm of Kraidic forces marching down the Slither.”

  “I had no idea, Your Highness,” Pantyr said, his eyes widening. “I have sent the riders to their death.”

  “You couldn’t have known. We must hold out hope that they’re slow returning. Perhaps they decided to reconnoitre Helleden’s army.”

  A silence settled over the group. Yarstaff followed them into the new stables, the smell of hay, tack, and manure overwhelmed his senses. Stall after stall lined the back wall of the building, a horse in each one, their heads poking into the hay covered aisle, observing the king’s company as it stopped before each compartment to admire them.

  “You have done a fine job here Pantyr. How many do we have?”

  “In this stable?” Pantyr shrugged. “Fifty.”

  King Malcolm nodded. It was better than nothing, but not enough to make a difference when Helleden came calling.

  “Plus twice that near the south gate,” Pantyr added.

  “And the outstanding riders?”

  Pantyr did a quick calculation on his fingers. “Counting the northern riders, probably fifteen, or so.”

  “Less than two hundred.”

  “Aye, Your Highness.”

  Malcolm turned his attention to Captain Pik. “How long do you think it’ll take to mobilize everyone left in Carillon?”

  “To fight, Sire?” Pik was taken aback by the sudden question.

  “No Pik. To flee.”

  Marble Eyes

  Serpentine shadows slithered across the open square, curling and undulating in rapid succession amongst the weed infested cobblestones, the air alive with a rattling hiss.

  Snakes? Silurian followed his sister’s lead and climbed atop one of the stone slabs beneath the gibbet tree. He leaned out to get a better look at the countless shapes twisting their way toward the wizard’s gibbet. “What the hell are they?”

  The runes on Melody’s staff glowed brightly in the darkness. Silurian feared it had caught fire. His sister turned small circles atop the stone slab she had selected, two over from his own, and concentrated on whatever wizards did when danger lurked. She didn’t respond.

  The irony wasn’t lost on him. Here they were, in the middle of the town everyone referred to as Wizard’s Gibbet, standing on the very stones the magic users’ persecutors had constructed to hang them, but instead of looking up to view the instrument of their demise, he and his sister were looking down—at long, slender predators, no thicker than a gallows’ noose.

  Whatever they were, the entire square writhed with them, their eerie hissing dominating the night air, making Silurian’s skin crawl.

  They definitely weren’t what he had sensed in the building a little while ago. A blast of light shot into the bulk of the mass nearest Melody’s side of the tree. The impact churned up the ground, throwing bricks, dirt and screeching creatures into the air. The unexpected conflagration startled Silurian, almost dislodging him from the false safety of his perch.

  Melody’s eyes rolled back into her head, the top of her staff pointed outward. The glowing runes dimmed considerably, but as she chanted her strange words, they increased in brightness, flaring up to send another charge into the squirming mass—closer this time, on his side of the tree.

  Silurian staggered as the concussion shook the ground. Dirt and slimy chunks of the blasted creatures pummeled him. A full-sized cobblestone whistled by his head, pelting the gallows tree behind him.

  The two explosions had served to halt the advance of the snake-like creatures, but it hadn’t averted the attack.

  The dark mass of hissing creatures lifted beak-like faces and scaled, tubular bodies into the air, balancing on tiny, clawed feet and sniffed in their general direction.

  From the upper story windows of the buildings lining the square, Silurian watched in horror as hundreds upon hundreds crawled like giant centipedes along the walls. Unless Melody was able to fire her staff quicker, it wouldn’t be long until the sheer mass of creatures overwhelmed them. His sword would be of little use against a swarm of the creatures.

  More hissing sounded behind the tree. He spun around. The creatures were filling in the roadway behind them, cutting off their only escape route.

  “Mel,” he said sharply, but she didn’t appear to hear him, her concentration absolute. “Melody!”

  He jumped from his slab toward her, bounding quickly across the gaps, and vaulted onto her stone. He clutched her robes to prevent himself from falling.

  Her pupils dropped back down to where they should be, her face clouded in confusion. “What the…what are you doing?”

  “Mel, we have to get out of here. There are too many of them. You need to clear a path.” Silurian pointed north, behind the gibbet tree, to where the apparition had fled up the roadway. Even as he spoke, he realized that Melody wouldn’t be able to clear the serpents fast enough. Not knowing what to do, he turned to see the original mass of writhing creatures had overcome the shock of Melody’s blasts and were advancing again.

  Melody dipped her head and rolled her eyes back into her head, the vision disconcerting to Silurian.

  His own eyes were wide, darting every which way at once, and then it hit him. “Mel!”

  When she didn’t respond, he grabbed her shoulders and shook hard. “Mel! Listen to me!”

  Melody’s pupils dropped into place. “What happened? What’s the matter?”

  Silurian grabbed the small leather bag hanging under her arm inside the folds of her cloak. “We need that brick.”

  Melody wrested the bag away from him. “Don’t touch that. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “Okay, okay. Just grab that brick.”

  She gave him a puzzled look but she flipped open the flap and rummaged about.

  His heightened anxiety made him want to rip the bag from her hand to expedite the process. It shouldn’t be that hard to pick a chunk of a brick out of a small bag, but he steadied himself with the knowledge that it was a wizard’s bag.

  “Here it is.” Melody withdrew the bundled object and carefully revealed it, all the while Silurian gestured with his hands for her to hurry up, and give it to him.

  She did so, carefully.

  “Great. Now make your eyes disappear and do whatever it is you do to fire up that stick.”

  “Staff.”

  “I’m going to throw this into the middle of the street, near the square’s exit. Do you think you can zap it?”

  �
��I don’t know. I guess so. I’m not sure how accurate I am. I usually just say the words and the staff reacts. It’s not like I’ve competed in a competition or anything.”

  “Fine, Mel, fine. Just do it.”

  Melody took a steadying breath. Somehow, amidst the tension and the ruckus in the square, she withdrew into her wizard trance. Her eyes rolled back and the dully glowing staff runes brightened.

  Silurian waited, watching the glow increase in intensity. When he thought it was time, he adjusted his grip on the brick and tossed it toward the square’s exit.

  The triangular brick rotated slowly in the air as it arced through the bright background light of the rising moon.

  The brick dropped from the sky, its flight shorter than he had hoped. As soon as it hit the ground, the entire square shuddered beneath his feet. Before he realized what had happened, a deafening report reached his ears on the cusp of a shockwave that catapulted him backward from the gibbet slab.

  Had he the time to think about it, his first thought would’ve been of the bed of serpents he was being thrown into, but as the unguent on the brick detonated, his world blurred.

  He landed heavily on his back, well short of the line of advancing creatures, knocking the wind from him. Wracked in pain, unable to draw a breath, he searched for his sister through watery eyes. She lay closer to the mass of serpents, unmoving in a tangle of dark blue robes and black cloak.

  He rose to his knees, forcing himself to suck in air—the action opening up his throat. Heaving breaths, he half crawled, half stumbled, ignoring his discomfort in a desperate attempt to get to Melody. Just beyond her out-flung arm lay her staff, its fading runes visible along the length of dark wood.

  “Mel, get up.” He shook her, on the verge of panic.

  Her head lolled to one side. Her crazed eyes fluttered open, darting everywhere at once. She sat up. “My staff!”

  Silurian retrieved it and pulled her to her feet, shoving the staff into her hands.

  She checked for the leather bag. With a relieved sigh she pulled it free of her tangled robes and shoved it safely back into place.