The Steward and the Sorcerer

by James Peart

  Simon and Daaynan looked from Christopher to the steward and back again. The two of them could have been identical twins. Every detail, from the set and structure of the face to the natural marking on the skin, was exactly the same. The two stared at each other in disbelief.

  The fright on the steward’s face gave way to suspicion, and from there to action. He hefted the instrument he was carrying, a long-handled blade, and swung it toward Christopher, yelling.

  Daaynan acted faster. Grasping both Simon and Christopher, he shoved them both through the door into the first room. Stepping onto the plinth that rested beneath the platform, dragging the young men with him, he pressed the buttons on the platform in the proper sequence from left to right.

  Nothing happened for a time. Outside, Karsin Longfellow shouted for his guards and came through into the room himself, wielding his blade. He had it raised at the level of Christopher’s head, swinging forward to strike his twin, when a blinding light speared from the platform, embracing the trio who stood on it. Moments later they were gone.

  10.

  Caught in the temple’s blinding whiteness, surrounded by pillars throwing out shooting flares of light, the three intrepid travellers fought to regain control of their senses. The sense of urgency they experienced moments ago vanished in a numbing calmness that stilled their minds to the point of stupor. Only the Druid acted, searching for something on the pillar they stood/lay beside shaking his head, frowning. Simon thought he heard him say, “the markings have almost worn off.” He picked up Simon and Christopher once more, walking them along a row/column of pillars for a time, appearing to count something in his mind. The light seemed to pervade everything, effulgent beams combining to form a halogenic blaze. Simon heard Christopher shriek, but not in pain. He remembered thinking that it was the most incredible sound he’d ever heard. The Druid ignored it, looking around as he walked/floated through the light. They could sense the presence of someone else, far off to their right, barely registering at the edge of their vision. He/it was walking/floating toward them yet the Druid did not appear troubled by this. He stopped instead at one of the pillars, examining it, seeming to reject it, then walked toward another. This time he appeared satisfied. Getting hold of the two young men, he walked them right up to it and they all stepped inside, falling/floating inside its glare, leaving the surroundings of the temple once more.

  11.

  When Simon found his wits again he discovered that he was standing in a poorly lit room built entirely of stone in which there wasn’t a single piece of furniture. Christopher stood beside him, unsteady on his feet, yet pliant, ready to move when he did. Poor Christopher, he was being dragged everywhere by him and the Druid and without a word of protest. It occurred to him suddenly that he owed his friend’s life to Daaynan back in Italy. It was a gratitude he would never express however, as the Druid was acting out of his own self-interest and had not spared a single thought about what would happen to him afterward. He didn’t know where they currently were but he was willing to bet the other had reneged on his promise to send them back to Italy, or at the very least suspended it indefinitely.

  He was aware of someone else in the room. A tall figure dressed from head to foot in a black cloak that could only have been Daaynan. The sorcerer looked around him much in the same way as Simon had, only this time there was recognition etched on his features. This was the Druid’s home, Simon thought bitterly.

  Daaynan gathered the young men about his tall form, crouching slightly and whispering.

  “We have arrived in Fein Mor!”

  Simon was about to speak when the other gestured him sharply to be quiet.

  “No, Englishman, save your recriminations for later. I promised I would return you to your world system and I shall do so. We have other, more urgent matters to discuss and we must do so quickly.”

  Without speaking further, he led them out of the chamber and through a complex series of rooms and corridors, each of them dark and windowless. He walked quickly and purposefully, not stopping once to change direction. The young men walked/half-trotted behind, unable to see much in the darkness beyond the tall form of the Druid. When he stopped, Simon could see that they now stood in a room much like the one they had left, if brighter, though he was at pains to determine where the extra light was coming from.

  The Druid gathered them close.

  “That other, the one called Iridis, has followed us through the temple. I do not know whether he is strong enough to come here: the temple, it seems, has a different effect on everyone. It is imperative that he not catch up with us, yet if he does you must not allow him to touch you. His power relies on that.”

  “What can he do to us?”

  “Of that I am not completely sure. I have sensed his power, however, and it is quite possibly greater than my own, more so now that my magic has been weakened. To restore it will not be easy and I shall need time to recover, time we don’t have. But we have another problem.”

  His hand disappeared inside his cloak. When it re-emerged, it held an object that looked like a stick. It was less than half a foot long, a few inches wide and flat.

  “This is called a Drey torch. I fashioned it out of the green fire, which draws matter, including people, into the user’s point of origin from another world.” He held up the stick. “This is half of the torch, to be precise. The other half is placed on a window ledge overlooking the entrance to this keep. It spies on intruders outside the castle. One half of the torch sees through the other half. I have placed others like it on windows on each wing of the castle. I keep half of each on my person. I am giving them to you now.”

  Simon took them reluctantly.

  “It tells me that there are creatures outside Fein Mor, waiting for me to emerge. Observe.”

  He outstretched the hand that held the torch and waved it briefly in the poor light of the chamber.

  An image materialised before them suddenly, a picture of four individuals standing in a field, angled so that the viewer seemed to be looking down on them. The people depicted in the image looked human, yet it was impossible to tell, given the distance. They were very tall, cloaked in shawls that covered the entire length of their bodies, including their faces which were mostly draped in the shadow of their hoods. One of them stood apart from the rest. He/it was holding a black wooden staff with coloured runes embedded in its crown-like top. He seemed to be waiting. His hood had slipped to reveal part of his features: strange wiry hair protruded from his skin in uneven tufts, wild and sinewed. The skin itself was plated with scales of mottled irregularity.

  Simon and Christopher stared at it in horror.

  “What are they?” Christopher stammered.

  Daaynan looked sharply at Simon, who merely raised his eyebrows at him, inviting an answer to the same question.

  “They are Faerie creatures, similar to the one that I now believe was sent to attack me by the steward of Brinemore. They wait for us outside the walls of this keep. It is Longfellow’s insurance against a strike against him by Fein Mor. The one who leads them, the one who is standing apart from the others, is different from the Faerie who confronted me weeks ago. He is bigger somehow, more purposeful looking. I don’t have my magic in sufficient degree to let me know one way or the other, but I would guess that he is far more dangerous than his brethren.”

  “He looks noble, in a way,” Christopher said. Daaynan and Simon exchanged a look.

  “Ok. What do we do now?”

  “I am not sure, Englishman, that we do anything, at least for the time being. My powers have waned, and neither of you possess sorcery of any measurable kind. However, should we escape Fein Mor, one of you is capable of successfully entering Brinemore unremarked on.”

  “What do you mean? Which one of us?”

  Daaynan answered him by simply looking at Christopher.

  “No! No, Druid, this isn’t an answer to your problems. He isn’t capable of that. You’d better think of some other plan.”

>   “He is an exact copy of Karsin Longfellow. He could be his twin.”

  “And the resemblance ends there. He hasn’t the will or stomach for this sort of...of operation. He’d be killed minutes after entering the citadel, the real one.”

  “He comes from royalty, didn’t you say? He Isa Lord, is he not? He has all the training he needs. What this task requires is for him to lead us to the real Longfellow so we can assassinate him. He needn’t talk to anyone on the way, in fact if he dismisses the people he meets the more in character he will be. The job should be an easy one.”

  “It’ll be anything but! No, think of something else. Can’t you use your magic to create another copy of Longfellow?”

  “By using the green magic?” There was a challenging look in Daaynan’s eyes that Simon failed to recognise.

  “Yes, absolutely! Create an army of them, if you like. March them right up to Longfellow. Storm the bloody citadel, if you like.”

  “Firstly, the green flame is a rough instrument. It will not draw an exact copy of somebody into this world, yet something real that approximates whoever it is asked to imitate. Also, even if I were to recover my magic in time, employing my powers to do such a thing would render me incapacitated for a long time, certainly longer than is practical.”

  Daaynan looked sombrely, almost sadly, into Simon’s eyes. “There is no other way.”

  “There has to be,” Simon insisted, “You’re just not thinking hard enough.”

  “Englishman, I...” The Druid’s words caught in his throat as something gripped him hard and fast from behind. His entire frame went rigid, his mouth open in frozen surprise. His body shook once in a convulsive twist, thrashing against whatever force held him, before growing limp and still. Then he collapsed to the floor.

  Standing in the chamber’s entryway was the Raja Iridis.

  12.

  Simon very nearly forgot what he was about. He stood in shock, gazing at the fallen Druid, his last words to him (‘there is no other way’) echoing in his mind. What sort of world was this, where there was no option but to run or fight? Where their only ally was an opponent he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy? Maybe it was best to throw in the towel. After all, they stood little chance on their own against such people.

  When at last he came to his senses, it was not a moment too soon. Breaking from his paralysis, he reached forward and snatched Christopher’s shirt collar, pulling him toward him and dragging them both through the room’s other entryway. Christopher now running with him- and thank God for that as he did not have the strength to carry them both- they sped through the cavernous network of rooms and corridors, turning right, then left, carrying on for some time before changing direction once again. He had no idea where they were going- for all he knew they were circling back to the room they had minutes ago vacated.

  When he brought them to a stop they stood in a small room at the foot of a stairs which presumably led to the upper reaches of the castle. His sides heaving, he looked over at his friend, concern etched on his features. He was a little winded but seemed otherwise ok. Simon gestured at the steps and together they ascended them. At the top of the steps they found themselves in a sort of ante chamber that led to what he guessed was a private study. There were shelves fitted on the walls and books of every size and design mounted on them. A chair fashioned of the same stone the walls were composed of was situated beside a solid oak desk. There were parchments and other documents on the desk’s surface, rolled and flat, a number of them written on with fluids that looked like ink. He looked back at the point where they had entered the room. There was a trap door at the top of the steps with a spring lock. Over to his right, in a far corner of the study, was an arched entryway or exit. Beside this was a window that looked out over one side of the keep. He walked back over to the stairs and dropped the trap, activating the lock.

  Christopher had found a bench and was trying to lie down on it with limited success- it was too short and uncomfortable. “It’s made of stone, Chris,” he commented, moving toward the window.

  “Those Faeries aren’t outside, not this side of the castle anyway. What did Daaynan show us, the East side? This must be one of the other wings.” He fingered the sticks the Druid had given him. “If only there were some way to escape and be sure those things wouldn’t follow us. I’d attack them, but as Daaynan said, we don’t ‘possess sorcery.’” His mimicry of the Druid echoed in the confined space of the study, the other’s words seeming to mock him as they rebounded off the walls.

  Christopher had given up his fruitless struggle to lie down and squatted on the bench instead, hugging his lower legs, rocking back and forth. “If we could use the King against them,” he said suddenly, “all our problems would be over.”

  “Iridis, you mean? You were listening, when Daaynan was talking to me about him? That one is likely to kill us first, just for being here. You saw what he did to our fearless sorcerer.”

  Christopher’s head shook back and forth. A self-admonition for having spoken too much, Simon thought. Contribution to events that were happening in the real world, outside the ever-retreating fantasy world he lived in, were in short stock. Then again, this was hardly what he would have termed the real world a day ago.

  He was wrong about his friend, however. “We could lure him outside,” Christopher said, “make him think we were there. Force him to confront those creatures.”

  He looked at him for a beat in something approaching wonder, then realised what it was he was saying and rubbed one hand over his face. “How do we ‘lure’ him? With what?”

  Christopher nodded at the stick hanging from Simon’s pocket. “With those.”

  He had to admit, it was the beginning of a plan.

  “Ok,” he said, “Daaynan told me...”

  “Told us.” Christopher sounded petulant, but Simon knew his friend meant to admonish him, signalling his commitment to the idea, and, despite knowing the whole thing was preposterous, inwardly he rejoiced.

  “Alright...told us that the stick was called a Drey torch. More precisely it, or they, seeing as how we have four of them, are halves of a whole, their other halves having been positioned on windows at each wing of the castle. The window to this study does not have one of the halves, so we can surmise that we are not standing in one of the wings. Nor, by the way, are we near the entrance to Fein Mor, as this window does not offer us a view of these creatures.

  “Daaynan said that the torch was made from the green fire, which draws matter and energy into this world from another. Furthermore, it can draw something real which approximates what it is asked to imitate, should that be the purpose of its summoning.”

  “Into the world of origin from another world.”

  “What?”

  “He said the green fire draws energy into the world of origin from another world.”

  “This is the Druid’s world of origin, Christopher,” he said, indicating the stone walls that encircled them in the study chamber, “medieval fantasy land that it is.”

  “But it’s not our world,” his friend sniffed contemptuously at Simon’s rebuke. “I think it refers to the user’s world of origin.”

  Again, Simon wondered at his old pal, mixed feelings of shame and a queer sense of pride jangling inside him in a triumphant kind of alarm. “Alright, what do you think we should...” he started before breaking off. The two friends stared at each other, saying it at the same time.

  “We can use the sticks to go home!”

  “You’re damned right. And I was ready to stay here and help that madman fight his battles for him. You absolute beauty!” He walked up to Christopher and kissed him on the top of his head. The other pulled away from him, flustered, but he was grinning sheepishly.

  “We still have to find out how the sticks work.”

  “You mean does each part need to be reunited with its other half? Let’s test that here and now.”

  Simon produced the stick and held it up in the poor light of the s
tudy, warding his friend clear of where it was directed. He swung the torch in the manner of a switch, right and left in quick succession. He slowed the tempo, brushing it gently from side to side in a series of leisurely strokes. He caught it in both hands, rubbing it with the inside of his fists to try to work the magic loose and swished it again. Nothing worked. He tried a combination of other efforts yet to no avail. Producing the other torch halves, he repeated what he had done with the first with the same results.

  Finally, he looked over at Christopher. “We need to find the other halves.”

  It was a simple matter of approaching each wing of the keep and searching all the windows there. Simon explained to Christopher that Iridis was effectively imprisoned beneath the ground floor of the castle, as he had sprung the lock on the trap door releasing them into the study chamber, sealing him beneath. Christopher looked doubtful, saying something about this place likely having more than one entry point to the basement, yet he countered this with the statement that even if Iridis escaped his confinement in Fein Mor’s lower levels, he wouldn’t be able to negotiate the maze of rooms and corridors with ease, unfamiliar as they would be to him. “And do we know where we are going?” Christopher asked. “We do,” came his answer, “as all we have to do is follow along inside the curtain wall until we reach every wing. The windows will guide the way.”

  Christopher, predictably uptight about the whole idea, more so because he was increasingly being forced to engage with the world that existed around him, eventually began to relax. As the minutes wound on he even contrived to look happy. His family, Simon reflected, would no doubt have said it was because he was ‘interacting’ with the ‘environment’ once more with a ‘concrete goal’ in mind. He remembered last Christmas spent with the Ainsworths at Hastings Glen, their family seat in Warwickshire. Christopher’s outburst on Boxing Day. The train of counsellors imported into their home, summoned by his mother Isobel. Armed with their peculiar jargon, they tried to dissect him, to no measurable gain.