The Staff of the Winds (The Wizard of South Corner Book 1)

by Meighan, William

  On an impulse, Owen walked across the library to the desk where the old man worked. As he had somehow expected, the journal that had consumed so much of the wizard’s time and effort was not there. Owen searched the immediate area to be certain, but there was no sign of the large leather-bound volume. Gazing around the room, he noticed that other books seemed to be missing as well, although it was hard to be sure in the mess. Owen did not know the catalog of volumes that the wizard possessed. In truth, he had looked into a few of those ancient texts on previous visits and discovered that not only could he not read most of them, but in many cases he could not even decipher the script in which they were written. One thing that made an impression on him now, however, was that in some of the shelves still standing, there were five or six obvious gaps in the rows of books. That was never the case when the Old Wizard was still alive. Invariably, Owen had noticed, if the wizard removed a book from a shelf he always took one from a stack somewhere and refilled the gap. Whoever had killed the wizard, shattering his staff and the hand that held it, had carefully picked through his collection of books and left with some selected volumes in their possession.

  It occurred to Owen then, as he stood gazing about the room, that it would have taken a sorcerer of awesome ability to have overcome the Old Wizard, to have explosively burst the very staff of power in his hand. The thought raised a shiver up his back. Remembering with a start his father’s instructions to be quick and meet him back at the village green, Owen backed hastily toward the door. Just before he reached the opening and escaped back into the morning sun, a glimmer caught Owen’s eye and he stopped. There on the floor, partially concealed by the back cover torn from some ancient text, was a metal object just catching the edge of the sunlight coming in through the door. Owen stooped and moved the torn cover; beneath it was the headpiece of the wizard’s staff. Cast in bronze, it was in the shape of the head of some fierce bird of prey. Its piercing eyes set deep under the ominous brows were represented by gleaming red stones, perhaps rubies, Owen thought, although he had never seen a ruby or any other real gem stones before. The eyes seemed to catch the sun and burn with a fire of their own, and they were staring intently at him. Owen did not want to leave such a valuable piece just lying there on the floor, so he stuffed it in his pocket until he could ask his father what should be done with it.

  Owen had no desire to further investigate the ominously silent houses on this lane, so clutching his staff and maintaining a vigilant watch on his surroundings he hurried back to the village green, where he saw his father already talking to the other farmers who had gathered there. Owen did not see Evan in the group, but Jack Farrell was there listening intently.

  Owen, Aaron and Jack had been the best of friends in their school days, and generally acknowledged as the primary causes of most of the pranks and mischief in the village at that time. It was not uncommon that when young Owen was bent over Mrs. Harris’ broad oak desk for a stern lesson from her switch, Aaron and Jack would be lined up right beside him.

  “I did a quick search all the way up to the east end of the village,” Matthew was saying. “There’s no sign of life. Everyone was taken. Only the very young and the old and infirm were left behind. I found little Sally Morgan and old Ryan with their throats torn out. Probably didn’t want them to slow down their retreat.”

  “Nasty business,” farmer Corrick interjected. “And you think it was gorn; how could that be? The Old Wizard had a spell on this place, whether the villagers knew it or not; no gorn could have come even close, much less marched in and herded everybody out. And besides, why bother? It’s weeks of travel to the north from here to the nearest passes through the Wall. Why hit South Corner when there are so many places closer to home with much less risk of getting caught before they could get their plunder across the pass? And why take all the villagers in any case? It makes no sense.”

  “It was gorn, alright,” Matthew answered. “There was clear enough sign at the Inn, and more further up the row. I don’t know their purpose, I don’t know why here, and I don’t know why the wizard’s spell failed, but there is no disputing who did it.

  “Ah, Owen,” he said turning to his son. “Any trouble? Did you find anyone at the Murrays?”

  “No trouble,” Owen answered. “The Murrays have been taken like all the rest. I also checked on the Old Wizard. He’s dead.”

  “What?” Jedd Corrick exclaimed. “Can’t be. That old man has been here forever. I don’t mean to question your word, boy, but are you sure?”

  Owen colored somewhat at being called “boy” by farmer Corrick, but answered the man’s question. “I’m sure. I found him on the floor of his cottage. It looked like his staff burst in his own hand while he was battling someone or something. Whatever the cause, a splinter from his staff as long as my forearm was driven through his eye and into his brain.”

  “Aye, well, that would kill a man, alright,” farmer Corrick said, thoughtfully. “Likely even kill a wizard. Question is, what do we do now?”

  “I know what I’m doin,” interjected Wil Stanton. “Not that I believe all this foolish talk of gorn coming out of someone’s nightmare,” he continued glancing at Matthew and Jedd, “bandits from the Trackless Hills is more likely. I’m goin back to my farm to rouse out my boys and the dogs. No bandit tribe is gonna mess with me or mine or they’ll learn what comes of it.”

  “And what about the good people of the village?” farmer Corrick answered heatedly. His farm lay next to the Stanton’s, and boundary disputes and other disagreements through the years had made them anything but friends. “Shouldn’t we be doing something about getting them back? Whether bandits or gorn, we can’t just leave them to their fate.”

  “Ain’t no business o’ mine,” farmer Stanton answered quickly, his face and neck turning scarlet with anger.

  “You’ve both got a point,” Matthew interjected, raising a hand to forestall a rejoinder from Jedd. He and Wil were likely to start throwing punches if they were not brought together on the bigger problems before them. “We need to see to our families, and we need to set about doing what we can for the people that have been taken.

  “There’s not enough of us here to go chasing after whatever force was strong enough to do what was done in this village last night. I recommend that we go see to our families and then gather at the Campbell’s to decide our next course of action. Jammie’s got himself a good defensible location on a slight rise with plenty of open ground around it. If this trouble is still in the parish, we’ll be able to see it coming from a good way off.”

  This suggestion was greeted by general murmurs of agreement by the men present, although Jedd Corrick and Wil Stanton clearly did not like being in agreement with each other.

  “In the meantime,” Matthew continued, “we need to send a couple of men to pick up the raiders’ trail while it’s fresh so that we can find out where they’re going and maybe what there intentions are. Owen, are you up to the job?”

  “Yes sir,” Owen answered, proud that his father had called on him.

  “I’ll go with him,” Jack Farrell volunteered.

  “Me too,” Evan quickly interjected.

  “Evan,” Matthew said, turning to his younger son, “I didn’t notice you’d come back. Were you able to find which direction they left the village?”

  “Yes sir,” Evan answered proudly. “They came in and left from behind Ryan’s store to the south.”

  “South!” Wil Stanton blurted. “Couldn’t be. There’s nothing to the south. Where could they have come from? I still say the Trackless Hills is the source o’ this problem.”

  “It’s no great feat to track an army driving 60 or so villagers,” Evan rejoined, coloring. “A blind person could see how they trampled the grass, and with last night’s dew still wet on the surrounding fields, you could see the track continue to the south and a little west all the way down the valley. I can lead Owen and Jack right to them.”

  “I need you for something else,
Evan” Matthew answered. “I want you to ride out to the Campbells’ to let them know what has happened and tell them we’re coming. With your pointer, Jack and Owen shouldn’t have any trouble picking up the trail.

  “Jack, Owen” he continued quickly, cutting off the expected protest from Evan, “you’d best get started. They’ve already got near half a day’s start on you. Go borrow a couple of saddle horses from the Inn and get some provisions from the store. Be extremely careful,” he stressed, “remember what it is you’re following. They’ll likely be watching their back trail, and if there’s a sorcerer in the group, he’ll probably soon know you’re coming. Don’t try to be heroes. Don’t make contact; just find out where they’re going and report back to the Campbells. Once we know more, we can plan a rescue. Any questions?”

  “No sir,” Owen and Jack answered together.

  “Here son, take my bow,” Matthew said to Owen. “I don’t expect you to be doing any fighting, but it’s best to be prepared. Be careful,” he added, and put his hand on Owen’s shoulder. “Your mother and I will be at the Campbells’ waiting for your return.”

  “Evan,” he said, turning to his younger son, “you go borrow a horse as well. I’ll take Molly back to the farm. I’ll meet you at the Campbells’.”

  As the boys headed for the inn, Matthew turned back to the other farmers. “We’ll have to form a team to search out and properly bury the unfortunates who died here last night. Jedd, can you head that up?”

  “Aye, I’ll do it,” farmer Corrick answered, sadly. “I’ll move the missus to the Campbells and come back with my boys and whatever volunteers as are willing. But I’m not sure that ‘unfortunates’ is the right term for the ones who died here. To my way of thinking, they may be the lucky ones.”

  Chapter 2

  Pursuit

  Sarah Murray fought back a groan with every step. She was cold; the morning dew on the tall grass that they had been forced to march through had soaked her from the hips down; her arms and shoulders ached with a deep fire from the tight binding straps that locked her wrists and forearms together behind her back; her feet were cut and torn, and she had been groped, pinched and bruised by almost every gorn and soldier in the group, she was sure, until one of the filthy men who seemed to be in charge told them to leave her alone … for now. Her father and brother had reacted violently to her maltreatment, and were clubbed almost senseless in their hopeless attempts to come to her rescue. Even now, her brother Aaron, two years her senior, had a lump on the back of his skull, and was clearly favoring his right side as he plodded along unsteadily, and her father, Brian Murray, had a line of dried blood running from a gash above his right eye down the side of his face. Sarah did not want to be the cause of any more of their pain, so she kept her lips pressed tightly together lest the groans escape against her will.

  The previous evening had been as quiet and peaceful as any other except for the unreasonable teasing that Sarah had had to endure from her brother and her father. Over dinner, she had made the perfectly innocent inquiry whether Aaron knew if Owen McMichaels was planning to be at the market the next day, and whether he would be staying with them the following night. After all, she’d have to plan accordingly if there was going to be one more for dinner. Ever since her mother had died when she was fourteen, after a long and difficult illness, Sarah had been the woman of the house, with all the responsibilities for keeping and maintaining a home for her father and older brother.

  Instead of just responding to her entirely reasonable question with a reasonable answer, Aaron had grinned at her and said: “Yes, Sarah, for the sixth time, Owen is coming, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go mooning after him the whole time he’s here.”

  “Mooning after him,” Sarah answered indignantly, “since when have I ever gone ‘mooning’ after any of your little friends? I was just wondering what meat and vegetables we’ll need to buy at the market tomorrow. Besides, if I was going to go ‘mooning’ after someone, as you put it, it certainly would not be Owen McMichaels.” At this point, Sarah looked to her father to see if he would back her up as he should, and she was almost certain that she saw his lips quirk up in a humorous smile before he quickly turned his head back down to his plate. It was certainly no picnic, she thought, to be the sole grown woman living in the same house with two such immature men.

  “Sarah,” Aaron responded, his grin growing wider, “you’ve been following me and Owen around like a little lost puppy since you were five years old. Don’t tell me you’re not stuck on Owen, because I’m sure that it wasn’t me that you were so interested in.”

  “I have not,” Sarah denied, coloring just a bit, and angry at herself for doing so, “it’s just that there’s nothing much to do in this village, and the few boys my age are so juvenile.”

  “Aaron, stop picking on your sister,” Brian Murray finally intervened. “I’m just glad that you lost interest in that Darrel Hanson,” he said to Sarah. “That boy will be lucky to rise to the level of his father, and his father is the village idiot.”

  “Oh dad,” Sarah answered, somewhat relieved that the focus had shifted away from her and Owen, “Darrell, may not be too bright, but he is a sweet boy. He just wanted me to teach him how to shoot his bow.”

  This brought a snort from her father and a laugh from Aaron.

  “And why not,” she said, the heat rising in her face, “you know I’m almost as good a shot as you are, even with that ridiculous light weight thing you make me shoot with in feast day competitions.”

  There was the time during their last lesson, she remembered, when Darrell had become too familiar with his hands while she was demonstrating the proper draw, but she was sure that neither her father nor her brother knew about that. Besides, swinging her bow down quickly after the release, which naturally brought the still vibrating string hard up into Darrell’s crotch had put a stop to that. And, she had still buried the shaft deep in the bulls-eye, by the way, she thought with satisfaction.

  “Now Sarah, nobody’s questioning your skill,” Brian said, trying to restore peace. “Its just as I’ve told you before, what a young man tells a young woman he wants is not always what is really on his mind.”

  Later that night, lying drowsy in her bed, Sarah was thinking, ‘and what about what a young woman wants?’ But she knew that Owen McMichaels just thought of her as Aaron’s kid sister. She remembered back to the summer before, when she had first really become aware of her strong attraction to Owen. He and her brother were out by the woodshed in their backyard splitting some large rounds of ash and cherry to lay up to dry for firewood. They were both working and sweating with their shirts off in the hot summer sun. Whereas Aaron was growing into a man of average height, with a lean, wiry physique, Owen was tall and broad with big shoulders and muscles that seemed alive with the work.

  While Sarah hung the wash, she surreptitiously watched Owen swing that great double-bladed ax high over his head and bring it slicing cleanly down, effortlessly cleaving the large rounds on the chopping block before him. He was using his entire body to wield that ax, his cleanly muscled arms, chest and waist clenching with the down stroke, his taught belly and narrow hips rotating with the movement. With each stroke the tough cherry rounds exploded cleanly in two almost in advance of the heavy, silver blade’s arrival. In her imagination, Sarah wanted desperately to relive that day, but this time to invisibly walk that short distance across the yard and glide her hands lightly across those strong shoulders while they worked, down that long flexing back, across that hard, working stomach, and below? Sarah drifted into sleep dreaming of soft white sheets pinned like flags to the clothesline, floating out lightly in the breeze, the warm, strong body of her lover in her arms, with the recurring kachunk of an ax splitting wood in the distance.

  All that night and into the next day they marched, whipped and beaten if they fell off the pace set by the men who drove them. By mid-morning, the people of South Corner were walking in a daze. Putting one foot in front o
f the other in a steady mindless rhythm, plagued by the pain of their bonds, the wounds of their capture, exhaustion born of their efforts, and a growing thirst. The gorn too were grumbling, complaining in their deep guttural tongues of the sun and the long march without rest, but they, like the heavily armed men who drove them, at least carried a water bag at their hip.

  Sarah found herself staring at the water bag, swaying and sloshing on the hip of one of the soldiers ahead of her. It was made of a tightly woven canvas, its seams sealed with pitch, that was joined to a wooden spout with a large cork stopper. The bag sweated slightly, giving the canvas a dark, damp sheen, and cooling the water inside. The bob and sway of that bag was hypnotic, and Sarah used it to draw her mind away from the pain in her shoulders and the ache in her legs. The parched state of Sarah’s mouth and throat, however, continued to grow. Her head was pounding, and she was fighting a light dizziness, desperately trying not to stagger and fall.

  She had seen others of the village fall and struggle desperately to rise with their arms cruelly bound tightly behind them, while their captors cursed and kicked them. Similarly bound as she was, there was nothing that Sarah could do to help, nothing but to mark out those soldiers that seemed most eager to apply the club and the lash to their helpless captives. Struggling to manage her pain and fear, she was replacing it with a smoldering fury aimed at their tormentors. She had been careful to identify and keep track of the man who had set upon her in her bedroom, so that when the time came she would be able to take satisfaction from his destruction. As the day progressed, she had expanded her list to also include others of the most brutal. As for the gorn, they exhibited an eager brutality that seemed to be a natural part of their character. Sarah had no doubt that were the soldiers not there to inhibit them, the gorn would have long since used their long powerful arms and heavy claws to tear the villagers to pieces.