Nicholas Raven and the Wizards' Web (The Complete Epic Fantasy)

by Thomas J. Prestopnik

  “Sign me up for the first crew,” Nicholas said, eager to move after spending so much idle time on the river. “My muscles need a challenge. They’re screaming out to be put to good use.”

  “Oh, they’ll be screaming all right after you complete your first run,” he replied with a chuckle. “Screaming in pain.”

  Nicholas shrugged with indifference. “They were screaming in pain when I climbed Gray Hawk Mountain. This should be a breeze compared to that.”

  “We’ll see,” he replied, happy to see that Nicholas’ demeanor had lightened since last night. Though Ivy would most certainly be on his mind more often than not, Malek knew that the young man would only drown in discouragement if he didn’t focus on other aspects of life during his and Ivy’s long separation over winter.

  Nicholas seemed none the worse for wear when he returned to camp from the raft with the first group shortly after noontime. Two individuals, one pulling and one pushing, were assigned to each toboggan-like sled filled with a small portion of the crates and barrels of foodstuff and other items retrieved from the raft, including a few casks of ale and wine. Nicholas felt invigorated after the workout and looked forward to sampling some of the provisions for lunch after they unloaded the haul and piled it in the storehouse. Later though, while roaming the campgrounds with Sala, he privately admitted that he was feeling a few distinctly different aches and pains after the sled run as compared to his climb up Gray Hawk.

  “A good night’s sleep should work them out of my system,” he said matter-of-factly over the crackling wood of a nearby bonfire. “Tapping one of those casks of ale might help, too.”

  “Malek, I’m sure, will parcel out that treat judiciously,” Sala replied. “Just be ready for tomorrow’s run. After a few more trips, we should have the raft half unloaded. Some of us will take the rest up Kaddis Creek to unload at another camp.”

  Soon they passed two men splitting wood in a small clearing. The sharp crack of maple and pine logs being ripped apart echoed in the brisk air. As Sala continued with Nicholas’ tour, voices of other men joking and laughing around a roaring fire caught their attention. As Sala went over to talk to them, for a wistful moment Nicholas was reminded of the many occasions he enjoyed frequenting the Water Barrel Inn. Whether throwing dice while savoring a mug of ale or conversing with friends by the fire, he only remembered good times visiting the establishment, that is, until the first night of the Harvest Festival. Everything had changed that day as accusations of robbery were flung about in front of his friends and neighbors.

  Nicholas missed his old life, uncertain if he could ever get it back. Despite all he had done to fight against the Vellans, Caldurians and Loks of the world, he wasn’t sure if those deeds would absolve him of fleeing Kanesbury after Constable Brindle had taken him into custody. For all the weeks and miles he had traveled, he wondered if anything in his personal life had really changed.

  “They want to talk to you,” Sala said, having spoken to the men. He gently tapped Nicholas on the shoulder. “Did you hear me?”

  “Hmmm?” Nicholas looked up, his thoughts scattering.

  “Ivy on your mind?” he asked. “You were standing there still as a tree. I didn’t know if you were sleeping or taking root.”

  Nicholas grinned. “There are other things I think about, but I won’t bore you with the details.”

  “Good, we don’t have time,” Sala replied, leading Nicholas to the others gathered around the fire. “These fine gentlemen want to hear all about your story.”

  “My story?”

  “We heard you had quite an adventure of late,” someone in the group remarked.

  Nicholas looked at the five men of varying ages huddled in the glow of the firelight, all unshaven and with a veneer of fatigue from their months in the wild. Yet all had a gleam of hope in their eyes and were genuinely pleased to meet Nicholas. One older man with long locks of gray hair peeking out beneath his tattered hood was stirring a large kettle suspended over the fire on a tripod of sturdy branches, its bubbling contents steaming in the cold air.

  “Seems Sala and I are just in time for lunch,” Nicholas said, eliciting a round of laughter.

  “Not quite,” the older man replied, signaling him to look at the boiling concoction.

  Nicholas obliged, leaning in to better observe the brownish liquid, not quite sure what kind of stew the man was preparing. But when he placed his nose above the kettle and inhaled, he grimaced and lurched backward to the amusement of the others.

  “What in Laparia is that?” he cried, cringing at the odor.

  “That’s Fedwin’s famous brew,” Sala told him. “But it’s not for drinking.”

  “Unless you want to double over and writhe in pain, or so I’d imagine,” Fedwin replied as he continued stirring the kettle with a large wooden paddle. “We use it to coat the bottoms of the sleds to make them move easily over the snow. A formula I perfected after many failed attempts.”

  “Fedwin was an apothecary in the village of Ipa in the north region of Surna,” one of the men explained. “He has a wizard’s touch with roots, herbs and the like.”

  “But I’m not a wizard,” Fedwin replied. “What I’ve got here is some bark from several biliac trees, a handful of gingish root and a few other secret ingredients. After it cools and I strain it, the others will brush it onto the bottom of the sleds and let it dry. They’ll glide over snow as if you were moving across ice.”

  “My sled could have used another coat,” Nicholas joked as he rubbed his sore shoulder, already feeling part of the group.

  “All of them will get a new coat overnight,” Fedwin assured him. “But enough about sled maintenance. We want to hear some exciting stories from our guest.”

  “Tell us about your journey through the Dunn Hills,” said the youngest in the group who appeared a few years older than Nicholas. “We heard rumors that you were searching for a real wizard. No offense, Fedwin.”

  “And there was also talk of a magic medallion, and a key to something or other,” remarked a second man who sat comfortably upon a tree stump. He stood and insisted that Nicholas have his seat. “We’re eager to learn how you defeated the Enâri.”

  Nicholas glanced wide-eyed at Sala. “Word gets around.”

  “It’s difficult to keep a secret among a bunch with too much time on their hands,” he joked. “But go on, Nicholas. Have a seat and start talking. We’re starved for entertainment.”

  “Very well,” he said, uncomfortable with all the attention yet pleased to be accepted so quickly. After a round of introductions by Sala, Nicholas described his flight from Kanesbury and setting out on an adventure he had never expected. “One moment I’m hiding in Amanda Stewart’s ice cellar fast asleep, only to be awakened and discover that I’m wanted for murder. But that turned out to be the least of my problems,” he told his captive audience as the forked flames licked the cold air like snake tongues.

  As he watched the mesmerized faces in the fire’s glow, a sense of joy welled inside him that he had not experienced since dancing with Ivy. For a moment he felt as if he were back home on a brisk autumn night among friends, whiling away the hours with food, drink and stories without a care in the world. Nicholas savored each moment as the words poured out of him and the fire danced wildly, blissfully unaware of the passing time and the uncertainties of life that only moments ago had haunted him.

  Over the next two days, Nicholas and the others repeated their trek to the raft and hauled more goods to camp, following the snowy paths through the maze of leafless trees and towering fragrant pines. When the vessel had been half emptied, Malek appointed Sala and four others to guide the raft several more miles up Kaddis Creek the following day. There the remaining goods would be retrieved by a second camp. Nicholas volunteered for the mission at once, so Malek relented and added him to the crew.

  Early the next morning as a light snow fell, Nicholas readied his gear for the journey. He was anxious to get out, fearing the onset of bored
om if he remained at camp. But just as he and the others were about to leave, an individual wandered into camp from the north. He trudged wearily through the trees and snow, his tall, large frame bundled in a weather-stained coat. A hood was pulled down over his forehead and a wool scarf wrapped tightly around his neck and face. As Nicholas looked upon the stranger with suspicion, Malek hollered out in joy.

  “Maximilian! I’d recognize you behind that ratty scarf even in the dead of night,” he said as the man approached.

  “My dear Idelia knitted this ratty scarf,” he replied, his voice deep and pleasantly gruff. Slowly he unwound the woolen article from around his face and removed the hood, revealing a short brown beard, a mop of curly hair and a mischievous smile. “But I won’t tell her what you said the next time I get home.”

  Malek introduced the visitor to Nicholas. “Max has been gone for almost six weeks, serving as our eyes and ears abroad. He’s one of our finest scouts.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Nicholas said, extending his hand to Max who held it in a vice-like grip for several seconds.

  “Likewise,” he replied, gazing curiously at him and the other five men who were preparing to leave. “What’s going on?”

  “We have good news,” Sala told him.

  Max appeared only mildly impressed. “As do I. But I’d wager mine’s better than yours.”

  “You can tell me after I bid these men a safe journey,” Malek said, suddenly signaling to Nicholas. “I’ve reconsidered and think you should remain here. I want you to hear what Max has to say. There are other things I need to discuss with you, too.”

  “Are you sure?” Nicholas asked, disappointed that Malek had altered his plan seemingly on a whim.

  “You’ll be glad you stayed behind. I’ll send someone else in your place.”

  Nicholas relented, offering a perfunctory nod. “If you think it’s best.”

  Malek returned a knowing smile and motioned to Tradell who stood nearby. “How about sending one of the two prisoners as a replacement for Nicholas? Maybe it would be good to separate them for a while and have one do some work other than piling firewood or hauling water from the stream.”

  “My thought exactly,” he said. “But not that vile character, Dunnic. He’s been corrupted by the Northern Isles beyond any point of reason. I don’t think there’s a chance he’ll ever see things our way. But Brezzan, the other one, might cooperate. His heart doesn’t seem to be in the fight anymore. A few days among some decent company and he might not want to leave us.”

  “We’ll turn him into a proper citizen yet,” Malek replied. “Let him go on the raft if he chooses, under strict supervision, of course.”

  After Tradell left to recruit the prisoner, Malek said goodbye to Sala and the others. He then escorted Nicholas and Max to the cabin. A meal was prepared for Max, and soon the three were sitting down in the eating area when Tradell entered the cabin.

  “The six are on their way to the raft,” he said, pouring himself a mug of hot tea from a kettle hanging over the fire and joining the others. “Brezzan was more than happy to go along for the ride. He admitted that Dunnic was getting on his nerves, endlessly prattling on about loyalty to Vellan and the like.”

  Nicholas chuckled as he sipped from his mug. “Apparently Dunnic is just another version of Brin–and I thought Brin was one of a kind.”

  Max wore a tattered vest over several thin shirts and smelled of wood smoke. “Who’s this Brin fellow?” he asked. He dipped a piece of bread in venison stew and shoveled it into his mouth. A shower of crumbs fell over his beard and into the bowl. “And prisoners?” he added in a darkly comedic tone. “Are we running our own Deshla here?”

  Nicholas furrowed his brow, glancing across the table at Malek and Tradell. “Deshla? What’s that?”

  “Vellan’s infamous prison in Del Norác,” Max casually replied. He raised a spoonful of stew to his lips. “He had it built at the base of Mount Minakaris not far from his stronghold.”

  “We’ll talk about that shortly,” Malek said, casting a sharp glance Max’s way. “It’s one reason I invited you to this meeting, Nicholas. But first let’s hear what Max found out on the road.”

  “All right,” he replied, his curiosity rising. “So I gather the boy here doesn’t know about our plan to–”

  “He knows very little,” Tradell coolly jumped in, catching Max’s eye and silently warning him to stick to the matter at hand. “What did you learn up north?”

  “Oh, sorry,” he said as he downed another spoonful of stew, realizing that there were still some secrets at the table. Max reached for a loaf of bread and tore off another piece. “I had some interesting news during my travels,” he continued. “I ran across troops from Arrondale along King’s Road on their way back to Morrenwood. They had just returned from fighting in Montavia.”

  Nicholas’ eyes lit up. “Was Prince Gregory there?”

  Max leaned back, both surprised and intrigued that Nicholas knew something of the events so far north. “So you’re familiar with the state of affairs in Montavia, Nicholas, and act as if you know the King’s son. Do you have Prince Gregory’s ear?”

  “I was privy to some of the plans King Justin and his son had made to oppose Caldurian in Montavia.”

  Max raised his eyes. “I’m impressed. Still, I hope you don’t know what information I’m about to reveal or else my time scouting will have been in vain.”

  “I assure you that I don’t, Max. I’m as anxious as the others are to hear what you have to say.”

  “Good!” he replied with an enthusiastic slap of his hand upon the table which rattled the bread plate and bowl. “I like an attentive audience, but I won’t keep you guessing any longer. Word from up and down the military lines was that the occupation of Montavia is over. Caldurian and the Islanders were handed a swift defeat after the arrival of Prince Gregory’s troops.”

  “Wonderful news!” Tradell chimed in. “I only hope that that wizard was one of the casualties of war. I’ve heard many unsavory rumors about that foul apprentice to Vellan.”

  “Sorry to say, but he isn’t dead, though more about him later. Anyway, Caldurian’s downfall isn’t the best part of my story,” he continued while sopping up the last drops of stew in his bowl.

  “Oh? Then what is?” Malek asked.

  Max glanced up. “Those Enâri troops that the wizard used as his personal army? All destroyed, to the very last one.”

  “All killed? Or was it something else?” Malek inquired, appearing more inquisitive than surprised.

  “Killed, yes. But from what I was told, they were obliterated in mere moments,” he explained. “All of them–and all at once. They just disintegrated into the sand and soil they were made from. A most peculiar sight according to the soldiers I spoke with.”

  “I can imagine,” he replied, glancing at Nicholas. “So Frist’s lethal spirit sought out the Enâri wherever they were gathered, and not just in Kargoth. A potent strain of magic in that particular spell.”

  “The spirit had twenty years to incubate,” Nicholas replied. “Who could say what strength it possessed when finally released? Frist wasn’t even sure.”

  “I wish I had been there when the key was turned,” Malek said, picturing the momentous and turbulent moment in his mind.

  Max cleared his throat with mild irritation as Nicholas and Malek, engaged in a private conversation, had seemingly forgotten he was sitting there. The two men turned simultaneously to Max with apologetic smiles.

  “Sorry, Max. As you might guess, there are a few important matters you need to know,” Malek said.

  “So it seems,” he said, pushing his bowl aside. “Tell me, who’s this Frist you speak of? And what of this talk of lethal spirits? I’m guessing that my news of the Enâri defeat isn’t the wild revelation that I thought it would be.”

  “Not totally.” Malek asked Nicholas to briefly tell his story to bring Max up to date. He did so as Max listened with fascination, absorbing ever
y captivating detail.

  “I’d like to hear more about your journey from Kanesbury to here when we can spare the time, Nicholas. You’ve apparently seen more adventure in your several weeks abroad than I have over the last year,” Max replied with a hint of feigned envy.

  “Some of that adventure I wish had never happened,” he said with thoughts of Ivy on his mind. But not wanting to sidetrack the meeting with his problems, he pressed Max with a question. “Did you speak with Prince Gregory? I’m eager to hear of his march to war.”

  “Yes, but only for a short time. The prince was nearly a mile away at the head of the line when I finally approached him for an audience. But by the looks of me after so much time in the wild, I didn’t think he’d grant me one,” he added with a cheery laugh. “But I jest. I’ve met the prince several times before on my travels and have developed a bond of trust with him. He’s aware of our efforts here in the Northern Mountains against Vellan’s forces and was kind enough to indulge my inquiries. I even caught a glimpse of Caldurian who was being taken to Morrenwood as a prisoner.”

  Tradell gasped. “Caldurian?”

  Max nodded. “According to the wizard Tolapari who had accompanied the prince to war, Caldurian was rendered powerless, at least temporarily so, yet was still under heavy guard near the front line. I didn’t get all the particulars as to why, and unfortunately, I wasn’t allowed to talk to the wizard or even get near him.”

  “Still, you must have learned much,” Nicholas said. “When were the Enâri destroyed? And did Prince Gregory mention anything of Leo’s return to Morrenwood?”

  “No is the answer to your second question,” he said. He reached into an inside vest pocket and removed a thin, narrow rectangular piece of maple wood. It was the length of his hand and four fingers wide, having been striped of its bark and smoothed with a sharpening stone. There were several tiny notches and other marks that had been pressed into the wood with a knife, some impressions larger than others and in varying directions. “Though Prince Gregory and his army had waited as long as he could for Leo’s return, they finally departed Morrenwood on, let me see here–” Max quickly consulted the markings on the piece of maple, counting some of the notches with his finger. “–on the twenty-fourth day of Old Autumn. The Enâri creatures were destroyed shortly after the prince attacked Caldurian’s forces at dawn six days later–hmmm, the second day of New Winter according to my notches. So Leo obviously returned to Morrenwood shortly after the prince and his army had departed.”