The Children of Isador

by Sam J. Charlton

  Finally, they reached the House of Healing. Crying, groans and screams of pain assailed their ears as Gywna led the way through the wards. The House of Healing was a large hall, divided into wards by large linen screens. Healers, dressed in flowing blue robes, fluttered back and forth like frantic butterflies. Their assistants scurried after them, arms laden with medicine, bandages and surgical instruments.

  They found Miradel at the far end of the hall, tended by a solemn-faced healer. The healer looked up and, seeing Lady Gywna and an Ennadil staring at the man he was treating, he sighed and straightened up, wiping his bloody hands.

  “I am sorry,” he bowed his head, “but there is nothing more I can do for him. He has lost too much blood. I advise you to say good-bye while he is still with us.”

  The healer moved on to the next patient and left them alone. Lassendil walked forward and knelt beside the man on the narrow bed. Gywna hung back and watched silently.

  “Lassendil!” Miradel managed a weak smile, “I thought you perished at Aranith. I’m so happy to see you’re alive.”

  “It would have been better had I died,” Lassendil replied softly, “but my father made sure if Aranith fell, I alone would be spared.”

  Miradel’s fever-bright eyes widened uncomprehendingly but Lassendil squeezed his friend’s hand in reassurance. “But come Miradel, what of my sister? Did you reach Mirren safely? Where is Adelyis?”

  “I failed you,” Miradel replied, his voice weakening to a whisper. “A band of Morg attacked us in the Arden Highlands. Adelyis fought their Shaman. She held them off so we could escape. I tried to save her but she stopped me. I tried Lassendil, I really did . . . I am so sorry. She is gone.”

  Gywna knew she should leave but somehow she was rooted to the spot. Tears streaked Miradel’s face and he clutched at Lassendil’s arm. Their combined grief was so strong, she could almost taste it. It sharply reminded her of five years earlier, of her mother on her death-bed. She would never forget the crushing, overwhelming pain of losing the only person who had ever loved her.

  Lassendil’s head was bent. The knuckles of his hands that gripped Miradel’s were white. Gywna could tell his self-control hung by a thread. She knew then that she must leave him and his friend alone to their grief.

  Unseeing, she walked back through the House of Healing, and out into the weak sunlight. The sun had seemed to lose its heat and the chill of autumn was in the air. A small leafy courtyard led out of the House of Healing before joining a walkway that led back to the main courtyard. Now that the patients had been brought inside, the small courtyard was empty. Gywna took a seat on one of the stone benches. Around her, many of the trees were changing color; green was turning to shades of gold, orange and brown. Autumn was always, for Gywna, a melancholy season but this year it depressed her more than usual for she had now begun to understand that she might never see another spring or summer. She suddenly realized how little notice she had taken of the seasons—she had always assumed she would have a lifetime of summers ahead of her.

  The stone-bench was uncomfortable and cold to sit on, but Gywna rearranged her skirts and silently waited.

  A grey dusk had slipped over the land, promising a chill, starless night, when Lassendil finally emerged from the House of Healing. He slowly walked down the stone steps into the courtyard and spied Gywna sitting in the corner of the courtyard.

  “Have you been waiting here all this time?” His voice was lower than usual, roughened by tiredness and grief.

  “Your friend . . . is he . . .”

  “Yes, he died about an hour ago.”

  The words were spoken with such an air of finality that Gywna ached to reach out and comfort Lassendil. However, she was not used to physical affection, and she knew Ennadil had strong rules of social propriety. She did not want to offend him.

  “Lassendil . . .” she whispered. “I am sorry about your sister.”

  Lassendil came up to Gywna and looked down at her face for a moment. Gywna could see grief etched on every line of his face, but still he had not cried.

  “You know, I think I misjudged you Gywna,” he said softly. “You are a much kinder person than you would like to admit.”

  “What is that? Some kind of back-handed compliment?” Gywna snorted.

  “No it is the truth.” Lassendil gently took Gywna’s arm and placed it over his. “Now let me take you back inside. Your hands are freezing—you have been waiting out here too long.”

  As they walked out of the courtyard, Gywna sneaked a sideways glance at Lassendil. He was so self-contained, so different from her. When her mother had died, she had howled for days, broken furniture, and refused to eat or drink anything. She could see the grief in him, bubbling just beneath the surface, but he refused to give in to it.

  After the day’s excitement, Falcon’s Mount did not sleep until the early hours of the next morning. The city’s frightened inhabitants were aware doom was about to fall and, in between preparing for battle, they tried to make the most of the time they had left. The city’s taverns were full of revelers. The drunkenness was more extreme and the laughter louder than usual, as if they were trying to chase away their demons before war came upon them. The city’s brothels were also the busiest they had ever been and lovers were everywhere, in a hedonistic attempt to live as much as possible before the end. Only the city-guards were sober, standing watch on Falcon’s Mount’s outer walls. They smoked pipes and talked in low voices while, beyond the walls, the night was strangely silent.

  It was the early hours of the morning when a ragged band of men reached the main gates and demanded to be let in.

  “From whence do you come?” one of the guards asked suspiciously. “It is a strange hour to be traveling.”

  “Let us in! I am Marek Tillar of Serranguard. We are survivors of the Battle of the Jade Plains. We were taken prisoner by the Morg and brought to Serranguard. But we escaped and have news of great importance for Lord Fire. Let us in!”

  The great gates rumbled open and the guards warily observed the group of four men who waited on the other-side. Indeed, they wore tattered remnants of battle uniform but the Captain of the guards was suspicious nonetheless. To his knowledge none had survived that tragic battle. These men could be deserters. However, that was not for him to decide—Lord Fire would do that.

  The travelers were escorted up to the palace and plates of food and ale were brought to them. They ate ravenously and were promised hot baths and a soft bed to rest in, just as soon as they had recounted their story. The two City-Lords were summoned from their beds. Bleary eyed, Aran Fire and Theo Brin listened to Marek intently as he described the Battle of the Jade Plains and the subsequent march north. When Marek described the occupation of Serranguard, Theo Brin turned a sickly color.

  It was with some surprise Theo learned that Captain Stellan was still alive and aided by an Ennadil witch and a Gremul.

  “They won’t last long there My Lord.” Marek shook his head sadly. “The fortress is teeming with Morg. The Ennadil Witch said that the Morg were searching for something, a spell perhaps, they are desperate to find. She hopes it will reveal some weakness.”

  Aran Fire nodded, his face creased in thought. “There may be little hope but it is encouraging to discover there is at least one chink in their armor, a weakness we could exploit.” He looked across at the exhausted faces of Marek and the other three men. They had travelled two days and nights without rest to reach Falcon’s Mount; and now they were having trouble staying awake.

  “Rest for the moment,” he said, getting to his feet. He turned to Theo Brin. “We all need to meet for breakfast at first light, the Ennadil and the wizards as well. They too must hear of this.”

  Theo nodded his assent, too weary to argue.

  The City-Lords left the soldiers to the remains of their meal and went back to bed—although neither of them was able to sleep for the rest of the night.

  Jennadil dropped the crust of brea
d he had been buttering and stared at Theo Brin; his face relaxed in relief and sudden joy. “Will Stellan is alive?”

  Theo nodded curtly and glanced across at where Vermel Ham was beaming. The three of them had gotten on well, too well for Theo’s liking. He had always suspected that Will Stellan had had something to do with Jennadil’s escape. Seeing the wizard’s reaction just now made him all the surer. Jennadil was oblivious to the glowering City-Lord and just for a moment, his guard brought down by the good news, his gaze strayed to where Myra sat next to her husband. Her gaze darted upwards and for a second their eyes met, before Jennadil hastily jerked his gaze away. However, it had been long enough for Theo Brin to notice. His eyes hooded and his jowls billowed like an enraged bullfrog. Myra would suffer in private for that stolen glance.

  “Yes,” Lord Fire continued, as Theo Brin seemed temporarily robbed of the power of speech, “and what’s more, he is being aided by two others, one of whom may be of interest to you Lassendil.” He looked down the long table at where Lassendil Florin sat listening to the proceedings. The Ennadil’s face, usually fresh and alert, looked tired and strained this morning. His breakfast sat, untouched, in front of him.

  “Why is that?” Lassendil’s voice was listless and flat.

  “There is an Ennadil sorceress named Adelyis with him. Do you know of her?”

  Emotion rippled across Lassendil’s face. “Adelyis Florin is my sister,” his voice audibly shook. “Just yesterday I learned that she had been taken captive by the Morg but I believed her dead.”

  “She may be before long,” Theo replied nastily.

  “So may we all,” Aran Fire turned on Theo Brin. “Hold your tongue!”

  Theo Brin choked at being spoken to so rudely. He tried to struggle to his feet but got caught up in his robes and had to be pulled back down into his seat by Vermel Ham before he made a complete fool of himself. He sat making strangling noises of rage while around him the conversation moved on.

  “She’s alive,” Lassendil repeated to himself. “I must go to her!” he looked across the table at where the two wizards sat watching him. “I must help her!”

  “You will,” Arridel Thorne spoke up for the first time. “This news that an Ennadil sorceress has survived, changes many things. Give us until this afternoon and we will have a way to be of proper aid to her.”

  “You have a way to defeat the Morgarth Evictar?” Aran Fier’s lean face, brightened.

  “I dare not be so confident as yet,” Arridel Thorne got to his feet, “but there is something I must check. If my suspicions are correct then, yes, we may have a chance to defeat him.” Arridel looked down at where Jennadil was pouring himself another cup of hot milk spiced with cinnamon and honey. “Come Jennadil, breakfast is over. We have work to do.”

  “What? . . . but I,” Jennadil protested but Arridel had already swept from the hall, his black cape streaming behind him like a bat in full flight. Jennadil put down his cup and glowered at the departing wizard. He hated the way Arridel Thorne bossed him around in front of everyone as if he was his lackey. Bristling with annoyance, he got to his feet and followed the older wizard out of the hall.

  At the table, Gywna Brin watched the proceedings with great interest, ignored by everyone present. Her gaze was drawn to the other end of the table where Lassendil sat, his face flushed. She tried to catch his eye but he was oblivious to her. Her father was wheezing like a winded carthorse while Lord Fire talked excitedly with Vermel Ham. Myra Brin sat, even paler than usual, next to her apoplectic husband.

  Gywna’s initial enthusiasm and interest at hearing the news that Lassendil’s sister had survived wore off and she was left feeling alone. She could have dissolved into thin air and no one present would have noticed. Deciding that she would do exactly that, she got to her feet, gathered her skirts and left the hall.

  “I need all those books from the top shelf,” Arridel Thorne pointed to a narrow case of books packed into the library’s far left corner, “get them for me.”

  “No one ever taught you social niceties like please and thank you, did they?” Jennadil grumbled.

  “We have no time for ‘niceties’ as you put them,” Arridel shot back. “Now get to work.”

  Jennadil bit back the sharp reply that was balanced on his tongue and placed a ladder against the bookcase. He climbed to the top and started to pull out ancient, dust-covered books. Carrying the first five, he came back down the ladder and passed the stack to Arridel.

  “Are you planning on telling me about this idea of yours?” Jennadil said as he climbed back up the ladder, “or are you going to just order me about all morning.”

  Ignoring the younger wizard’s sarcasm, Arridel carried the books over to a table and sat down. “I will explain nothing before I’m sure the idea I have is actually possible,” he replied.

  Jennadil silently fumed while he retrieved the rest of the books. Finally, Arridel had a stack of eleven books in front of him. He slowly leafed through the first, oblivious to Jennadil’s presence. Jennadil waited, letting his irritation simmer while Arridel read on. Two hours later, the wizard was three-quarters of the way through the fourth volume when he grunted in satisfaction and straightened up. He looked across at Jennadil, who could have sworn the strange grimace on his face was an attempt at a smile.

  “I’ve found it,” he announced, “and I was right.”

  “About what?”

  “The Power of Three.”

  Jennadil stared back at Arridel blankly. “It’s a spell? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Well you wouldn’t have,” Arridel replied and there was no mistaking the withering tone of voice. “You never did spend much time studying did you?”

  “Go on,” Jennadil replied between gritted teeth.

  “The Power of Three is an ancient and complex spell. It is also highly dangerous to those who cast it, but if we manage it properly it could destroy Morgarth Evictar.”

  Arridel gave Jennadil a piercing look to make sure he was listening attentively before continuing. “Ideally, this spell requires one sorcerer from each of the three races who practice magic: Orinian, Ennadil and Tarzark. However, it should still be effective with you, the Ennadil witch and myself.”

  “How does this spell work?”

  “It uses the power of three elements, earth, air and water to counteract evil—which uses the element of fire. Each of us must wear a crystal that represents one element and conjure up its power. We must do this in unison and we must begin and end at the exact same time otherwise the spell will not work. Once we do this we must direct the spell at Evictar.”

  “It sounds difficult,” Jennadil replied.

  “It’s much more than that,” came Arridel’s sharp response. “In casting this spell and ridding the world of Morgarth Evictar we may also end up sacrificing our own lives. This spell is extremely powerful and if Evictar is too close to us when we cast the spell he may end up taking us with him.”

  “I’m getting more excited about this plan of yours by the second,” Jennadil said with a grimace.

  Arridel gave him a long hard look in response. “Until now Jennadil Silverstern, your life has been a long series of petty, selfish actions. You now have the chance to make your life mean something and if that means sacrificing yourself so that our world is not destroyed then you should be grateful to do it. I know I am.”

  “Well that is clearly the difference between you and me,” Jennadil, in a rare burst of temper got to his feet. His hazel-green eyes narrowed, “and don’t assume to know so much about my life—you don’t know the first thing about me!”

  Arridel Thorne watched as Jennadil swept past him and out of the library, the door slamming shut behind him. “I know more than enough.” Arridel replied calmly, having the last word, even though only the books heard him this time.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE TARZARK STIR

  On the top of his tower, the Tarzark Sorcerer lifted his face and sniffed. A
strange south wind was blowing; a wind unlike any other he had known. It brought scents he could not recognize. Unlike the raw north wind that blew in from across the Great Ocean beyond Isador’s Northern shores, this wind was warm.

  From his vantage point atop Hull Mutt’s second highest tower, the sorcerer could see for leagues in every direction. The leather cape he wore about his broad shoulders billowed and flapped behind him as he stood high above Hull Mutt. Behind him stretched barren, rock-studded terrain until the horizon, while to the south-west reared up the sheer peaks of the Sawtooth Mountains. The Tarzark had a bittersweet relationship with that mountain range, for it was both their protector and their prison. It separated them from the world inhabited by the Ennadil, Orinians and Gremul but it also trapped them in the least fertile, most hostile part of Isador.

  Hull Mutt was the Tarzark’s greatest city. Other fortresses: Snaga Mutt, Snarl and Dagha Argutt studded the vast wasteland but Hull Mutt was the King’s stronghold. It resembled a great black claw grasping sky-wards. Its towers were curved black fingers with the King’s Tower in its center, stretching above all the others.

  King Grull resided here. Grull, cruel and cunning, was loved and feared by his people. Under his rule, the Tarzark cities had grown and prospered. For the last year, ever since the Ennadil had been foolish enough to warn them of the invaders from the south, Grull had built up his armies. Now, a force of nearly twenty-five thousand Tarzark were ready to cross the Sawtooth Mountains. The Tarzark had been patient. They were waiting for a sign that the Ennadil and Orinians had been trampled under the invaders, a sign they were weakening. Only then would the Tarzark attack.

  This sorcerer, Yaduk was his name, had a feeling that time was almost upon them.

  The wind brought with it a silent message.

  Turning from the view, Yaduk strode over to where a gleaming black bowl sat atop a pedestal on the tower’s center. He picked up a clay jug of water and, muttering his guttural tongue, he poured water into the bowl. The water swirled and bubbled as Yaduk continued to chant. The water hissed and mist rose into the morning air. The sorcerer leaned forward, thrust his head in the billowing steam and waited.