The Wizard of the North

by Richard Stephens

  Ghastly Death

  Silurian’s blood turned cold as he grasped the significance of the screech. The second serpent had entered the tunnel. He dreaded the repercussions of the serpent when it found its mate dead at the bottom of the pillar.

  Across the gap the stone arch had spanned, one of the Kraidic warriors reeled in the rope Silurian had thrown back at him.

  Melody issued instructions. “Find a place to tie it off and throw it back to him.” She spun on the other man—the one with the battle-axe—Keen he had called himself. “I told you to stay where you are. I won’t tell you again.”

  At least she finally seemed to be taking his warnings seriously about the Kraidic warriors.

  Another screech echoed up the tunnel, much closer this time.

  Silurian faced the lifeblood fount. Time was running out. Inhaling deeply to calm himself, he raised St. Carmichael’s Blade with two hands, point down. The blade’s gleaming surface turned blue in the mystic ambience of the well. It was eerily similar to the look the sword had while on the Dead Plains in the Under Realm, and within the cliffside home of the Voil when the deranged wizard Menthliot had attacked him. Those events felt like a lifetime ago.

  He turned his head sideways, squinting in the fount’s light. The runes etched into the side of the blade facing him were the ones Wendglow read as, only the worthy shall prevail. He swallowed. He didn’t feel worthy at the moment, isolated atop a pillar, deep within a serpent’s nest with no means of escape, while his sister stood on a crumbling ledge faced by two Kraidic warriors, and an angry serpent racing in to confront them.

  Another screech reverberated within the cavern sending chills down his spine. He struggled to focus. His hands shook. The blade’s tip rang rhythmically against the fluted stone bowl as his thoughts whirled. Melody was in danger. Even with an enchanted blade, he was helpless on this end of the broken bridge. He might as well be half a world away.

  St. Carmichael’s sword broke the surface of the substance bubbling within the fount. A shiver vibrated him to the core. Not from the approach of the wyrm, but from something bigger—something much deeper than a physical bond could generate. A distant shout sent spasms through his body. It hadn’t come from the environment around him. It sprang up from the depths of the earth, reaching out to him, beseeching his aid; lamenting the torment that Helleden had inflicted. The anguish so profound it cut off Silurian’s ability to breathe, but there was something else. A presence so foreign, and yet, so familiar. It reached up through the fount, fingering its way up the sword’s length—tracing the runes of St. Carmichael’s blade as it came to claim him.

  Silurian let go of the sword, lest he suffocate. The earth’s suffering was unbearable. His numb mind refused to allow him to regrip the sword even though he chanced losing it to the well. A maleficent yearning urged him to ignore the all-encompassing misery and sorrow. To embrace a fate not of his choosing—one that felt impossible to resist.

  St. Carmichael’s Blade slid slowly into the blueish liquid, immersing itself to the hilt. Blue light shone from the ends of its fancy quillons, blinding him further.

  He put a forearm over his eyes. As much as his brain screamed at him to look away—to break the captivating thrall he had fallen under—he found himself powerless to resist. His body swayed. He staggered a couple of steps in a stupor, his mind focused on the wellspring, oblivious to his surroundings.

  A high-pitched voice shrieked at him, seemingly a long way off. He knew that voice. It belonged to…to…he couldn’t quite place it. Whoever it was, they sounded in a panic. Think, Silurian, think. You know that person.

  He put a hand to his forehead and took a sideways step, wavering on the verge of losing his balance and then correcting himself and staggering back. Something was wrong. He knew it intrinsically, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

  From out of the haze, a demonic laughter chilled him to the bone. He knew at once the person responsible. He sensed Helleden’s malicious stain. Here, in the…the serpent’s nest!

  Helleden wasn’t the smiling type but hovering over the scrying bowl high atop the Wizard’s Spike, a self-righteous smirk lifted the corners of his thin lips. He had lost contact with Barong, but it mattered not. One more magical discharge from the northern wizard would provide him with enough power to complete his firestorm.

  Nor could he believe his good fortune. While concentrating on the battle developing somewhere in the midst of the Lake of the Lost, another source of magic had made itself known. A source so powerful that Helleden staggered as its presence flooded the ethereal pall enwrapping the tower chamber. It disrupted his concentration and nearly severed his mastery over his spell. The backlash created by a sudden release of the power he siphoned from the two wizards had the very real potential of running amok and smiting him instead. He shuddered. Had he lost hold of his tenuous tethers, the only thing that would be left marking the Wizard’s Spike would be a crater in the ground.

  From where he stood, this foreign magic source had at least as much potency as that wielded by the Soul itself. He realized immediately what he sensed. It was the fabled fount of earth blood. Thunor Carmichael was wise to have kept it hidden from him all these years. Perhaps a side trip north was in order.

  The scrying bowl rippled along its northeast edge. It was time to unleash the storm.

  Silurian’s knees buckled. It was happening again. Helleden’s presence meant one thing. The sorcerer was channeling the power required to conjure another of his hellish firestorms, and Silurian was providing the sorcerer the means with which to do so. Whether Silurian was unwitting or not made little difference to those who fell under the storm’s shadow.

  “Silurian!” A voice screamed at him, seemingly close, and yet, it was if the high-pitch reached out to him through a hazy dream. The pitch similar to a woman’s voice. A friend. His sister!

  His mind snapped out of the stupor that threatened to devour it. The chaos unfolding within the serpent’s cavern slammed into his consciousness. He teetered precariously on the lip of the wellspring platform. One misstep and he would plunge to a certain death atop the two serpents at the base of the pillar. Two serpents!

  A fireball sizzled into the pit of the chamber, hammering into the serpent that had stalked them on the lake.

  The outraged creature threw itself sideways, but the fireball exploded into its side, blasting it against the base of the pillar.

  The column shook under the force. Silurian flailed his arms helplessly, certain he was about to pitch over the edge. Catching his balance, he dropped to his knees and crawled away from the brink. He rose unsteadily to his feet and almost fell over again. Across the gap, the man named Keen charged at Melody whose eyes had rolled back into her head in her utter concentration to conjure a powerful spell—one she probably thought would be more effective than a simple fireball. He swallowed. He had seen the results of her bigger spells.

  “Watch out!” Even as he shouted, he knew his words fell on deaf ears. Once committed, the rest of the world ceased to exist for her.

  The red-bearded Kraidic warrior slammed into Melody, driving her against the cavern wall. Her head bounced off the rock and her body went limp. Her staff fell to the ground. Its orange glow winked out.

  “Throw me the rope!” Silurian demanded.

  The black-bearded Kraidic warrior, Tygra, gave him a hard look, but his attention was drawn to the turmoil below. The serpent had begun climbing the pillar.

  My sword! Silurian’s mind spun with so many mixed emotions. Melody needed him. The Kraidics had proven as treacherous as he feared. The serpent scrabbled up the pillar beneath him, its claws grating on the column. Helleden.

  St. Carmichael’s Blade’s had sunk beneath the surface of the bubbling fount. Silurian reached out to grasp the pommel but stopped, afraid to reopen the channel to Helleden. Hadn’t he done enough damage aiding and abetting the vile sorcerer? The deaths of tens of thousands of innocent Zephyrites already weighed heavily upon
his soul. The only solace remaining to his tortured mind had been gleaned through his sister’s re-emergence into his world. Her presence had provided him a bastion to cower within—a means of escaping the forlorn voices that tortured his soul.

  “But she is a woman. We have her staff. She can’t do us any further harm.” A male’s voice sounded from across the broken bridge.

  “You dare refuse me?” another voice growled. “She’s a wizard. Kill her before she kills us.”

  Silurian grasped the hilt of St. Carmichael’s Blade as it slowly sank into the gelatinous liquid. He pulled it free of the earth blood, its gleaming blade radiating the blue light of its infused enchantment. He sensed Helleden’s presence again, but the stain disappeared as soon as the sword cleared the fount. Blue wisps of fire licked along its edges and dripped to the ground. The sorcerer forgotten, he had only one thing on his mind. He strode to the edge of the broken bridge and held his ancient sword before him, pointing it at the Kraidic warriors.

  Tygra had his back to him. The black head of his warhammer swung over his head, arcing its way to crush Melody.

  “No!” Silurian’s voice resonated above the screech of the climbing serpent. A fist-sized ball of blue flame shot from his sword, striking the hammerhead as it made its way earthward.

  Tygra’s hammer crunched violently into the volume of blue robes, but the fireball had diverted its trajectory—the blow impacting the edge of Melody’s garments.

  Both Kraidics’ faces lit up in astonishment. They turned to face Silurian, but instead of fear, their faces were filled with smug satisfaction.

  Silurian frowned. The warriors’ calm reaction puzzled him. Unsure of what they would do next, he channeled more flames along St. Carmichael’s Blade, the blue fire coalescing in preparation for a second discharge.

  A set of three claws clamped onto the stone beside Silurian’s feet, followed immediately by a second set on his other side. He stumbled backward as a massive head, lined with scales and brimming with jagged teeth, roared—its fetid breath blew his long hair about. If not for the wellspring arresting his backward flight, Silurian would have toppled off the far side of the platform.

  The serpent’s white eyes locked on him. Its forked tongue licked at the space he had just occupied. It let forth a deafening screech and hoisted itself higher. Pulling its head back momentarily, it lunged forward, turning sideways in an attempt to snap Silurian in two.

  St. Carmichael’s Blade recoiled in his hands, twice in quick succession, each blast burying itself into the back of the serpent’s mouth. The creature’s momentum halted, but the blasts hadn’t caused it any real discomfort. It had simply swallowed the blue flames. It leaned in toward the fount, opening its mouth wider.

  With his back pinned painfully against the stone well, Silurian scrambled to the side, raising his sword to take a swipe at the serpent’s mouth, but his foot caught on the forgotten egg, dislodging it as he stumbled.

  The egg wobbled toward the edge of the platform, its movement catching the serpent’s attention. Silurian caught himself, quickly putting the fount between himself and the serpent.

  The serpent screeched and snapped at the egg but it didn’t have enough room to manoeuvre between the platform and the ceiling above. Instead of preventing the egg from rolling off the edge, the serpent hurried it over the brink.

  The creature screeched. It withdrew its head so quickly that it dislodged a small stalactite, the mineral buildup shattering upon the platform.

  Silurian couldn’t see the egg as it dropped away, but the telltale sound of a crack and corresponding splat marked its destruction.

  The cavern echoed with the serpent’s agonized lament. Silurian swallowed. His eyes caught those of the Kraidic warriors. They, too, realized their imminent risk. It didn’t matter who was responsible for the egg’s demise. None of them were getting out of the lair alive.

  Silurian ran to the edge of the bridge. He dropped to his knees and looked beneath the platform. Far below, at the base of the pillar, the mourning serpent emitted the saddest sound he had ever heard.

  The creature suddenly straightened. It looked up and screeched. With a mighty leap it latched onto the pillar a third of the way up and clawed its way toward him.

  “You fools. We need her.” He rose to his feet and glared at the Kraidic warriors. “She’s the only one capable of getting us out of here.”

  The red-bearded man scowled. He held Melody’s staff in his hand. His companion had repositioned himself to take a proper swing at her, but the man calling himself Keen held out a hand. “Hold.”

  Judging by the cast of their eyes, the serpent was over halfway up the column. It wouldn’t be long before they would all be fighting for their lives. They had managed to take down the female serpent, but Silurian had a bad feeling about this one. They had been lucky. Without Melody’s magic to distract it, there was no way any of them were going to get a chance to hit it and survive.

  The serpent’s claws scraped the granite pillar, the vibrations felt through his leather soled boots. He had no idea which side of the column the beast would surface from, so he backed against the wellspring.

  It wasn’t lost on him that after everything he had been through over the last few months trying to reclaim his lost enchantment, here he stood, his sword shining brightly, proudly showing off its new-found vitality and yet, stranded on the platform, he may as well have attempted to cut down a tree with a herring. Melody was his sole concern and he was helpless to protect her. If the beast didn’t get her, the Kraidics would.

  The column shook as something huge knocked against the underside of the platform. Three claws appeared along the edge of the broken bridge, followed by a second set spread out along the platform’s broken rim. A grey-scaled head rose into view, its angered eyes searching.

  Silurian’s eyes grew wide, not entirely due to the creature’s presence. Behind it, on the ledge against the cavern’s wall, the Kraidic warriors made a hasty retreat down the precarious trail and out of sight. They must have taken Silurian’s word to heart. The black-bearded man had thrown Melody’s limp body over his shoulder.

  Hope stilled the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. If he could find a way to keep alive for just a little while longer, he might distract the serpent long enough for the Kraidics to escape. As soon as the thought hit him, so did its futility. Once clear of the serpent’s lair, they would dispatch Melody anyway. His brief hope died.

  The serpent’s small eyes locked on his position. Its tongue flicked out, sensing him. It turned its head to snap at him, but instead it froze. Its eyes opened wider, following the descent of the Kraidic warriors.

  Its hot breath gagged Silurian as it screeched its displeasure. Suddenly it was gone from the platform, throwing itself after the fleeing men.

  Silurian rushed to the edge of the platform, his momentum almost carrying him over the brink. The serpent crashed into the ledge several paces above the warriors. Melody’s body bumped and flapped on Tygra’s back, exposed to the serpent.

  Silurian backed away from the edge, poising himself. He didn’t think he could generate enough speed to jump that far across, but in his state of panic, he couldn’t think of any other way to save his sister. Swallowing his doubt, he hardened his resolve. If he were to die here, he might as well dictate how that happened.

  With one large step followed by three quick strides, he generated as much spring as his forty-five-year-old legs had in them. Bolstered by the adrenaline of the moment, he sprang into the air, and dropped well short of his target.

  He fell through the air, arms and legs flailing, his sword clutched in one hand. He couldn’t help thinking, what possessed me to think I could make such a leap?

  Halfway down he extended his sword arm, jabbing at the serpent’s backside. He missed miserably.

  He marvelled at how fast the cavern’s floor rose up to claim him. He turned his head sideways, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes tight, as if those feeble action
s would protect him from death.

  A cold wind buffeted his hair in every direction, filling his head with the strangest sensation. It was as if something pushed back against him, the feeling so dramatic he almost passed out. Cold water shocked him.

  The cold stone of the cavern floor pressed against his face and outstretched hands. A high-pitched screech reverberated from somewhere above. A cold surge of air buffeted his straggly hair and lifted away as a shallow wave sloshed over him.

  Is this what death feels like? He wondered, afraid to open his eyes. He slapped his hands against the ground in disbelief. St. Carmichael’s tangs rang off the stone. Not believing what his senses told him to be true, he opened his eyes. He lay close to the bulk of the dead serpent, the curve of its scaly hide close enough to touch with an outstretched hand.

  He wasn’t prepared for the vision above him. Tattered rags flapped below the ascending form of the Grimward. Thunor Carmichael had saved him. Against everything the old wizard’s spirit had claimed it could not do, here it was in the serpent’s nest, the gateway to the earth blood.

  Silurian frowned and sat up, trying to calm the shock seeping through his shaking limbs and threatening to immobilize him. The battle was far from over. Shale clattered down to the ground near the base of the wall and splashed into the rising water level as the serpent snapped at the Kraidic warriors, their orange shrouded forms barely visible from where Silurian watched.

  A warmth flushed through him. The light the staff gave off meant Melody was alive. He attempted to stand but dropped back to his rump with a splash.

  Shaking uncontrollably, he cursed himself. He was better than this. He had lived through so much—had faced creatures like the Soul and survived, and here he sat, in a foot of cold water, his body powerless to do much more than shiver.

  An enraged shriek chilled him to the bone. The Grimward had engaged the serpent. Silurian couldn’t tell what the spirit was doing, but it had diverted its attention away from Melody and the Kraidic warriors.