The Wizard of the North

by Richard Stephens

  He staggered up the wooded slope. He wouldn’t be able to carry her far—already his thighs burned and his back ached. Cresting the steepest part of the rise, he located a shallow depression at the base of a small cliff. His legs were numb by the time he reached its base. He struggled to lay Melody down without dropping her, and fell to the ground himself.

  “Mel? Can you hear me?” He took her face into his hands, gently shaking her head.

  She didn’t respond.

  He needed to get her out of those wet robes. He swallowed. This was his sister, and a fully-grown woman, but he couldn’t allow hypothermia to take her. He hoped he wasn’t too late as it was, but first, he needed to make a fire.

  It felt like it took forever to gather enough wood, and even longer to get the fire going.

  Confident the flames were burning on their own, he turned his attention to her voluminous robes. Her cloak was cold to the touch. Frigid water dripped from his hands as he manoeuvred her body back and forth, remembering to adjust the cumbersome ice block around her feet. He freed one arm and rolled her onto her front, so he could pull aside the bulk of the hooded garment, before pushing her all the way over to extract her other arm.

  The ice block pinning her feet near the fire began to melt. He considered breaking it with a rock, but thought better of it. It would take too long. Her clothes had to come off first. Thankfully she wore a pair of leggings beneath her robes. Unfortunately, they were just as wet as the rest of her. They would eventually have to come off as well.

  Her wizard’s bag lay on the ground beside her, attached by a thong to a loop of material within a fold inside her robes. It took him a bit to figure out how to unlash it. He placed it by her cloak.

  Since there was nothing he could do about it, he hiked her wizard’s robes above her hips. He wasn’t sure how he was going to remove the wet robes without breaking her limbs. He envisioned that once he got the robes around her waist, he would sit her up somehow and pull her arms free.

  “What are you doing?”

  He almost yelped. His cheeks flamed red, looking into his sister’s bewildered eyes. “I, uh, am undressing you. We need to get you out of these wet clothes.”

  She gave him the strangest look. Her blue lips trembled. “Why?”

  “Because you’re soaking wet.”

  She tried to move her legs. Her face lit up in panic. “What’s wrong with my legs?”

  “Keep still. You managed to freeze your feet in the ice. We’ll get them free soon, but first…” He prodded her to lift her hips.

  “Where are we?”

  Despite his discomfort at undressing her, he tugged her robes past her hips. “Here, sit up,” he said. “We made it to the island.” Seeing the confusion on her face, he clarified. “Remember? You insisted we find the Grimward so you froze the lake.”

  Her wet head nodded slightly. Comprehension registered in her eyes. “How did I get so wet? Did I fall in?”

  Silurian put an arm under her back. “Here, I need you to sit up.”

  She complied.

  “Are you wearing anything under the robes, other than leggings?”

  She was still half dazed. She gave him a distant look until his words registered. Slowly she pulled open the collar of her robes and peered down. She gazed back at him. “A shift”

  “Great. Lift your arms.” He gathered a bunch of the material and pulled the celestial robes over her head. He couldn’t believe how difficult it was. He thought for sure he would yank her arms from their sockets. “You need to help me.”

  She mumbled something incoherent, but her arms slowly released their hold on the wet clothes and he pulled the bundle free.

  Melody crossed her arms over her small chest, her body shivering profusely. The wet shift clung to her, her pale skin visible beneath the thin fabric. “I-I-I’m c-cold.”

  Silurian shrugged out of his tunic. It was damp on the outside, but its lining felt dry enough. “Here, put this on and scooch close to the fire.” He lifted the block of ice around her feet and gently pulled her up to the fireside.

  He laid her entombed heels on a flat rock. Pulling his worn leather gloves from his belt, he put them on and gently started banging the melting block of ice upon the rock. The ice resisted at first, but shortly a few chips broke free and the side holding her left boot broke away. It wasn’t long after that her right foot broke free.

  Silurian inspected her legs where they disappeared into the tops of her knee-high boots. The bottom of her legs and her feet seemed to have been protected by her leather footwear. “How do your feet feel?”

  “Like they’re still trapped in ice.”

  “I think we should leave your boots on until you get some feeling back in your feet. He sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, helping her sidle closer to the fire.

  She shook her head and with his help, removed her boots. Wiggling her toes, she asked again, “Did I fall in?”

  “You don’t remember anything?”

  “Yeah. Some. I froze a large section of water and we walked out on it so I could freeze the rest.” She whipped her head about, searching. “Where’s my staff?”

  “I got it. It’s over there, by your cloak.”

  Her eyes rested momentarily on the cloak and then darted all around.

  “Don’t worry, it’s there.”

  “What about my bag?”

  “It’s there too. Do you remember the turtle?”

  “Turtle? No, what turtle.”

  “The one that turned out to be a monstrous serpent.”

  She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’re safe now.”

  Melody’s eyes searched the landscape. “We’re on the island?”

  “Yes, and unless you have a boat in that bag, we might be taking up residence here.” He felt her shrug beneath his arm.

  “I’ll just make another ice bridge.”

  “Uh, no thanks. I’m not going through that again.”

  They remained quiet for a while. Shadows lengthened into evening. The temperature dropped steadily, but Silurian made himself busy foraging a large pile of brush. He had also constructed a clothes rack out of several branches and draped Melody’s clothing over it, close to the fire. He checked their progress a few times, turning the robes over and inside out, but the cold, damp air wasn’t conducive to drying them with any expedience.

  He worked away, placing Melody’s staff and bag beside her while he enlightened her about the appearance of the serpent. He upended her boots onto tall stakes that he drove into the ground near the campfire. When he was happy that he had collected plenty of wood to fuel the fire, he sat next to her—her damp, straggly hair brushing his face as she leaned into him, shivering.

  “Put my gloves on.” He smiled at how big they were on the end of her dainty arms.

  Darkness fell quickly in the northern climates. The patches of sky seen through gaps in the trees were shrouded in grey cloud. If it rained, they would never get her robes dry.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but a distant cry brought him awake. Small flames struggled to remain alive in their firepit, lapping at the glowing red embers smouldering at its centre. The eastern sky lightened.

  He tried to carefully lay his sister aside, but his movement woke her.

  “What is it?” she asked groggily.

  “Nothing. I’m just going to throw some more wood on the fire.” He looked up. The cloud cover appeared ominous.

  Even with the fire blazing again, they were chilled to the bone. He checked Melody’s clothing. The cloak, hot to the touch, felt dry enough. Her dark blue robes were still damp in several places, while her leather boots were hopelessly wet.

  “Here, put this over you.” He placed the cloak over her shoulders and readjusted her robes atop the brace of sticks he had hung them on.

  The cry that had woken him sounded closer. Mournful and forlorn.

  Melody’s wide eyes mat
ched his own. She located her staff and dragged it across her lap. “What was that?”

  Silurian walked several steps into the trees and tried to see beyond the fire’s glow, but the heavy cloud cover reduced the visibility considerably. “I don’t know. An injured animal?”

  Melody’s eyes darted about. “It sounds human.”

  That’s what Silurian thought, but he didn’t want to alarm her. Shivering profusely, he pulled his sword free of its scabbard and made his way back to the fire.

  A hair-raising moan reached them, coming from the shoreline.

  Silurian swallowed. He plucked Melody’s boots from the stakes and placed them by her feet. Without taking his eyes off the ridge they had climbed earlier, he said, “Get dressed.”

  Melody didn’t have to be told twice. It took her several moments to force her feet into her boots and untangle the folds of her robes, but by the time Silurian looked back at her from the far side of the campfire, she had secured her magical bag and was shrugging into her cloak.

  She grabbed her staff and walked over to him. “Here.” She held out his tunic. “Give me your sword.”

  Silurian let her hang onto his sword while he slipped into his tunic, thankful for its heavy material.

  “Take your gloves, too.” She handed them to him. “I prefer my fingers free.”

  A distressed cry filled the night air, sounding like whatever, or whoever, was responsible for it, stood right in front of them.

  Silurian snatched his sword back as a shadow detached itself from the darkness and floated toward them, its feet, if it had any, clearly not touching the ground.

  As it came closer, the ghastly spectre appeared to be the top half of the skeletal remains of an adult sized person. It held bony arms before it as it came, its left hand clutching a dark wood staff. Glimpses of white bone appeared through the scraps of dirty material covering the rest of its frame. The only real colour the spectre possessed emanated from the depths of its eye sockets. A small orange flame flickered within each gaping hole.

  Silurian had experienced a lot during his time as a Group of Five member and the dark years following the group’s decline, but the apparition drifting toward them raised the fine hairs on his exposed skin. He stepped backward. It wasn’t until the spectre hovered directly in front of Melody that it dawned on him she hadn’t followed his lead.

  His little sister, not so little anymore, stood defiantly in the ghoul’s path. Her head was hidden beneath the hood of her cloak, her staff held firmly at her side—the ingrained celestial runes glowed softly orange.

  “You have entered a domain not permitted to mortals,” a raspy voice intoned, although Silurian was certain the levitating being’s jawbone never moved. An odd smell wafted from the wraith. Was it elderberry?

  “We seek the Grimward.” Melody’s voice sounded confident. “Our kingdom is dying and a magic we require has been lost to us. We believe the Grimward can help.”

  Silurian was impressed. She spoke to the spectre as if it was just another person.

  “Who dares request a boon from the mighty Grimward?” the raspy voice demanded. Its skull turned, seemingly studying Melody’s staff. “Only those foolish or ignorant would dare set foot on my island. Death is the answer I give you.”

  Silurian hurried to Melody’s side, his sword hilt warming in his hands. He only had time to tense his forearms in preparation. The sword’s ten mystical runes flared to life as an invisible force slammed into him and chucked him backward. He landed heavily, close to the dying campfire.

  My island? The words registered in Melody’s mind as she watched her brother’s body crumple beside the flames. Phazarus’ warning filled her. Only a wizard of pure heart could withstand an encounter with the island spirit. Silurian lay unmoving on the ground. “Grimward, stop! You’ll kill him.”

  The spectre cackled.

  To her relief, Silurian groaned and tried to roll onto his side—his movement cutting the spectre’s mirth short.

  The Grimward slipped past Melody to hover over her brother. “What trickery is this? Nobody survives my attack.”

  Melody ran to join them, straddling Silurian’s moaning form. Jabbing her staff against the Grimward’s breastbone she attempted to shove it away, but it wouldn’t budge. Straightening her shoulders, she declared, “I command you to stop this nonsense at once.”

  The spectre drifted against the outstretched staff, pushing her backward, past the campfire, toward the stone wall. If it didn’t stop, it would crush her against the bluff.

  She struggled to side-step out of its path, but couldn’t, and stumbled twice over loose scree before her body bumped against the rock face. She breathed a sigh of relief as the ancient wizard stopped its advance.

  “Nobody commands the Grimward. I will grind your bones to dust.”

  “Nobody except the Wizard of the North, you mean.” She drew back her cowl, her chin held high.

  The spectre retreated, its flaming eye sockets flicking back and forth and up and down. It laughed grimly. “Hah. You are nothing but a woman. Do not let my looks deceive you, I see far beyond the perceptions of mere mortals.”

  “Hah yourself, mister, ‘I don’t know it all.’ Look closer and see what I say to be true. Behold my staff. See it glow.” She thrust her staff forward and shrugged out of her cloak. “Observe my robes. I wouldn’t be surprised if these aren’t the same ones worn by you five hundred years ago.”

  The spectre hovered closer again, its skull tilting sideways. Finally, it backed off and rasped, “Anyone can make clothing like those. As for the staff…”

  Melody didn’t wait for it to find the words it sought. “If you are so perceptive and see that which we cannot, search my soul. Know that I am pure of heart. A woman chosen by Phazarus to carry on our legacy. If you’re as divine as you claim, you know that I, Melody Mintaka, daughter of Mase Storms End, am the true Wizard of the North.”

  The spectre’s eye flames grew, as if in wonder at the mention of Mase Storms End. Its fires diminished to mere pinpricks of light. “Mase Storms End? How do you know that name? Nobody knows that name except…”

  “Her daughter.”

  The spectre backed off, returning to Silurian, who sat up, on the verge of swooning.

  Melody rushed between them. “Leave him alone. He’s my brother.” She gave it a self-satisfied smirk. “Aye, Mase’s son.”

  The spectre’s voice rattled with an uncertain air. “He is also a wizard?”

  Melody chuckled. “Hardly.”

  “Then he is of no importance. How does he still live? Only one true of heart can withstand my blast, and only a wizard at that.”

  Melody shrugged. “How would I know? You’re the all-powerful one. You tell me.”

  When the Grimward didn’t respond, she added, “If you’re looking for someone pure of heart, you won’t find anyone purer than Silurian.”

  “Nevertheless, he is no wizard. He should be dead.”

  Silurian located his sword lying beside him, half buried in leaves. He grasped the hilt and rose to his feet. Another concussive force blew into him, but this time the runes of St. Carmichael’s blade radiated an intense blue light and cut through the invisible wind.

  The Grimward’s eyes flared. “That sword! That’s Saros Carmichael’s sword.”

  “Not anymore. Saros is dead,” Silurian stated vehemently, stepping toward the Grimward. “The blade doesn’t appreciate your attitude. Perhaps you’d like to feel its bite.”

  The Grimward’s eyes flared but it floated backward across the dying fire, out of reach. “Saros is dead?”

  Silurian glanced at Melody. She shook her head, beseeching him to hold off.

  The Grimward’s face tilted sideways, its eye sockets barely visible.

  “Saros is dead?” It rasped again, its voice pathetic.

  “Aye. Killed by Helleden,” Silurian declared.

  The Grimward appeared to struggle to remain airborne and dropped to the dry leaf bed below.
>
  Melody rushed to stand between her brother and the downed spectre. The closer she got, the more the runes along her staff joined with the radiance of Silurian’s sword, illuminating the area around them in a spooky orangey-blue glow. “What is it, Grimward?”

  The woods became deathly still. The crackling fire and soft breeze rattling the tree bows the only sounds and movements upon the ridge.

  A pitiful wail escaped the spectre. It lifted its head, looking first at Melody and then at Silurian, “Saros was my son.”

  Torpid Marsh

  Sadyra followed Larina down the long flight of damp, flagstone steps. It took some time before the flickering torch illuminated the bottom of the descent. Her head ached from the blow it took in the Chamber. She ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek, wincing at the sting where the guard’s fist had cut her lips on her teeth.

  A rusted bucket at the foot of the steps contained several partially burned brands. The women grabbed a few and set off, each carrying a lit torch to guide their way—Larina leading and Sadyra following closely behind Olmar, trying to illuminate the immediate area around him.

  The tunnel floor twisted and turned around veins of granite, but ran straight for the most part, its floor a combination of musty dirt and broken rock. Whoever had built the passage hadn’t worried about aesthetics—the floor suddenly rose or dipped, while the low ceiling did likewise, but in different places. The two archers had little trouble navigating the meandering path, but Olmar constantly scraped his elbows and whacked his head. How he managed to navigate the tight confines at all, bent over and having to shuffle almost sideways while carrying Alhena in his arms, Sadyra had no idea. Midge was a beast. As a result, their progress was slower than they would have liked.