Samual

by Greg Curtis

  Next he moved on to the scrolls, the section where the truly dangerous spells and most potent prophecies were contained. But without a librarian to catalogue them, no one other than a spell caster would have realised that. Heri had had the man thrown in the dungeon long ago for objecting to his changes, and he doubted that the man still lived.

  Sam managed to roll up around seventy or so scrolls into a single bundle and placed them in the bedroll on Tyla's rump. He then squeezed as many more as he could manage within the sack of books. He winced as he heard the aged parchment of some of them crumpling, but he had no choice. It was either that or leave them behind where they could be of no help to anyone.

  Then, suddenly remembering what else he had learned of the elves' enemy, he moved on to the history sections and grabbed a few volumes about the ancient Dragon wars, which he stuffed into a bag he found sitting by one of the desks and then draped around Tyla's neck. It was only a shame he couldn't gather the rest, because somewhere in one of them he knew that that damned verse was written. And with every day that passed he knew with greater certainty that it was the key.

  In short order he was once more mounted on Tyla, Ryshal in his arms and the reigns in his hands, and he knew it was long past time to leave. Ry needed a safe place to sleep tonight, some hot food and drink, and she couldn't travel for too long to reach it. He opened the sealed stone doors leading to the ground floor terrace and the wide steps from there leading down to the courtyard itself, and raised his fire shield as they trotted out into the night.

  Soon they reached the courtyard where more soldiers lay in wait. This time there were hundreds of them, and they lined the battlements which they'd had to climb up to with ropes. These ones though were not so impressed by his magic, and proceeded to rain arrows down on them. Not that they had any effect as the arrows instantly become dust the moment they touched the shield. Sam felt no great animosity towards them, but then they posed no real threat to either Ry or him. He figured these soldiers knew little of what had transpired in the royal chambers. Nor would they know who he was or why a wizard was destroying the castle. All they knew was that the castle had been attacked by a wizard who was even now in the courtyard beneath them, and they were simply trying to defend their home. Sam paid the soldiers scant attention.

  Instead his thoughts turned to transport. With the extra three hundred weight or more of books and scrolls he'd loaded down on poor Tyla, plus Ryshal, and himself in full armour, his mare would not be running very far for long, especially considering how far she'd already run without pause. What he needed was another horse to share the load.

  But then why stop at one? Again, he felt no obligation to be sparing in his theft, and the elves desperately needed as many horses as they could get.

  A single pulse of earth magic collapsed the outer wall to the royal stables, and a quick spell of calling meant that easily sixty more black war horses began following them along the courtyard. Many were still saddled, the sign of a lazy groom. But that too worked to his advantage. Let the soldiers try to chase them with all of their best steeds taken and many of their saddles as well. And it wasn't theft he told himself. It was self-protection, and the barest beginnings of compensation for what had been done to him and his wife. Besides, when they reached the elves he would give them all the horses. They surely had the greater need.

  Some of the soldiers when they saw the horses following Sam tried to give chase. They didn't want to lose their steeds. But they stopped hurriedly and retreated when Sam tossed a few tiny fire balls their way. Better to lose their horses than their lives. In the end it wasn't a difficult problem to deal with.

  A bigger problem was the missing drawbridge and the moat. Sam didn't want to jump the moat again with Ryshal so weak in his arms. Nor did he want to have to exert himself by giving even more strength to all of the horses following. While the magic was still burning fiercely within him, he was strong. But he still couldn't risk running out of magic before he was well clear of the castle.

  A fraction of earth magic on the moat bed solved the problem and soon he had a stone walkway wide enough to carry two horses and carts side by side across it. Of course it completely negated the protective value of the moat, and it would take the stone masons weeks if not months to dig it out again – after they'd repaired the gate and walls that was. But that was a small price to pay for Ryshal's comfort.

  Once outside Sam set Tyla off at a steady trot back to the elves, a herd of Fair Field's finest war horses following. Whichever one of the would be kings prevailed, they would spend a fortune replacing their steeds and a second repairing the keep, before they could even begin to look at the cost of replacing the gold and gem encrusted throne and sceptre. It was something that brought a quick smile to Sam's face. The first in a long time. A faint groan from Ryshal however, soon wiped his face of it.

  She was rousing again. She needed care, and she most definitely needed food. The gruel his brother served his prisoners was surely not enough to keep body and soul together, and it would be a long time before Ryshal was back to full strength. A goal that he knew he had to begin work on immediately.

  Quickly he fished out a small bag of trail mix from his saddle bag. A tiny spark of magic from his hand warmed the bag up, and melted the cooked oats and the honey into a semblance of a thick porridge and brought the smell of vanilla, apricots and cinnamon to Ryshal's nose, rousing her more fully. Pulling some eating utensils out of his pocket Sam fed her a few spoonfuls with infinite care, washing each one down with a little fresh water. It was good wholesome food and he knew it would do her good. He hoped it would bring her some strength for the long days of travelling ahead.

  “Samual?” Her voice was so weak, and yet so wonderful to hear after all those long years of silence. But her obvious confusion worried him. Had she already forgotten that he'd rescued her? What did that say about her health?

  “Yes love. It's me. And you're free. You're safe too.”

  “Free?”

  “Free! I'm bringing you home to your family, and your people. You'll be safe with them, and I'll be with you too. Forever. Rest easy in my arms. I will not let you go again. Ever.” He whispered it to her, before her brief spurt of energy faded and she lapsed once more into sleep in his arms. But by the moon light he could see that she had a smile on her face. She was so weak and thin that it terrified him to think of how easily she could sicken and even die. But she was also alive and in his arms and he was overwhelmed with joy to feel her nestled there. It was time to make sure she stayed that way.

  Knowing that the main danger they faced was being followed by soldiers or worse, assassins, Sam knew that he had to stop any thought of that from entering anyone's mind, be it the surviving king, his usurper, or his soldiers. Remembering the fire prison spell from one of his earliest books of magic, Sam shaped and released a gigantic wall of fire that surrounded the entire citadel. Usually such spells were only designed to hold a person, block a passage way, or simply keep two people apart and as such they were small simple magics. But this – this was something far beyond any of those childhood spells.

  Despite the fact that he had never cast such a massive fire wall, it was surprisingly easy, and although the wall was neither as hot nor as dangerous as it appeared, it looked very impressive. It would also work well. Not many soldiers would dare try to run through a wall of flame fifty yards high, orders or no orders. In fact they would baulk if anyone dared to order them to go through it. It would be a foolish king who gave that command.

  But the best part of the spell was that it would last for at least a day or two; maybe even longer. Once it was formed it drew no more strength from the caster, and its shape was held within the spell woven air itself, almost like an enchantment. No one would be following them.

  And for every hour that it endured, either Heri or Harmion would only be able to stare at it and wonder that they'd ever dared to anger a fire mage. No matter which of them won their duel, they would not risk having th
eir soldiers follow him.

  Of course it still left him wondering. How did he have so much strength? Because he was burning so much magic, and yet always seemed to have more available. Where was it coming from? Was this simply the level of mastery? Or was it something more? He didn't know. But he did know that wherever it was coming from he was going to use it.

  “The Goddess be praised.” Ry opened her eyes once more to take in the sight of a city surrounded by fire. “She sang to me of your growing strength. But I never knew.”

  Sam would have answered her. Told her that it wasn't as impressive as it seemed. But she collapsed into him again, the effort of even remaining awake too much for her.

  The spell cast and Ry asleep in his arms, it was time to go. Sam held his wife close, still wondering that he even could, and thanked the All Father for the miracle of her survival, Then he kicked Tyla in her flanks and began the long journey back to the loving arms of her family.

  Chapter Seven.

  “Bring me Augrim!” Heri bellowed at his guards, angrier than he had ever been in his life. And he had the body to prove it.

  The weasel lay at his feet, nice and dead. He had died badly, and that was the only good thing to have come out of the night. Harmion's soldiers had quickly made themselves scarce after he had struck the fatal blow. But it wouldn't save them. No matter that they had only been following their lord's orders; they had gone against their King. He would have all of them hunted down and hung for that. And though they didn't know it yet, his own soldiers would follow them to the gallows. They had failed him. They had even forced him to fight his own duel. And perhaps most terrible, they had seen him kneel to his brother. He would not forget that.

  As for the weasel he was lucky to be dead. Had he not been, Heri would have made sure his death would have been far more terrible. As it was it had been a hard one. The dart he had thrown had only nicked the weasel's hand and the fool had stupidly laughed at his failure, thinking that he had the battle all but won. He'd laughed at the injury, and displayed the wound to his men as if it was a trophy. And then he'd started coughing. A few moments later his body had started burning from the inside out.

  Basilisk venom! It was always a favourite of Heri's. Who said the Dead Belly Wastes had no value? They grew basilisks! That was value indeed.

  Still, as his own armour had started burning away, the steel melting into a puddle on the floor beside him, he had to admit that the weasel had been more dangerous than he'd expected. Not only better with a blade, but smarter than he'd expected. And whatever he'd coated his sword with, it could have won him the battle. Unfortunately for him Heri was smarter again and his poison had been quick acting.

  The weasel had died and his family would follow him to the underworld in due course. After a lengthy period of suffering of course. In the meantime he had another man he needed to kill. His brother. It seemed that his assassins had failed once again. Which was why he was now bellowing for his magical advisor. A man who he noted had been suspiciously absent during the battle.

  Out of fear or treachery? That was the only question he cared about. But it didn't matter. If Augrim had been on the Fallbright side, he would return to him. The coup had failed and in the end the man only cared about one thing. Getting enough gold that he could continue his arcane studies. If he had been in the Fallbrights' pay he would no longer be receiving any gold from that source. In fact soon the Fallbrights would be unable to pay even their own guards.

  But he suspected it was more likely fear that had kept Augrim away. When his brother had struck and the castle had been shaken to its very foundations, he'd surely guessed that a truly powerful wizard had arrived and had fled. His magic was in the subtle and poisonous. In the summoning of undead and monstrous creatures. In the consorting with demons and the learning of secrets. Even divination. He could not stand directly against a wizard of such power.

  Which also explained why his assassins had failed. He'd never guessed that Samual had gained such power. As he'd dressed for battle the guards had told him of what Samual had done to the castle. Of the massive holes he'd smashed in the walls. And of the throne. His beloved throne! Gone!

  Samual would die for what he'd done – but it would have to be done carefully. He couldn't use an assassin. Or even an army of them. Heri couldn't afford to use any agent that could be traced back to him. He would kill his brother by being clever and using magic and knowledge. Which was why he bellowed for his advisor once more and then sent soldiers after him when the miserable worm still didn't show.

  It was an age before Augrim finally arrived. Far too long, and by the time he appeared Heri was thinking about having him killed too. His hand hurt, and the physicians were busy bandaging it though they could do nothing for the pain. Their salves were useless. The wound wasn't bleeding. It had been burnt closed. He wanted something to kill the pain, not simply cover the wound.

  “You sent for me Sire?”

  Augrim managed a small bow as he entered the chamber. Enough to seem respectful though Heri knew the truth. He could see it in his eyes as he surveyed the room, particularly as he studied the remains of the weasel. The man cared nothing for him; only his own research. He might not have taken the Fallbright's coin this time, but he would have happily continued working for them as advisor if Heri had been the one to die.

  “Ages ago! Where have you been?”

  “Looking at the view Sire.

  Heri stared at him, almost speechless with disbelief. For a moment he wondered if he had heard the wizard correctly. Staring at the view? Was the man jesting? Why would anyone, least of all a wizard, want to stare at a ruined castle? Especially when he had just been summoned by his king? But the man looked serious. Of course he always looked serious. With that stupid little pointed beard of his that he constantly stroked and his black eyes, there was rarely any sign of levity in him.

  “The castle has been attacked! Your King has been injured! And you are staring at the broken walls wizard? Do you deliberately seek to anger me?”

  “No Sire. I seek to understand your enemy. Your brother from what I've been told. And you can learn a lot about a man by his actions.”

  The wizard continued to stroke his beard as he stared back at Heri thoughtfully. He had what the peasants called bacca pipes – long tightly curled ringlets made of greying whiskers that he was inordinately proud of. As a result he stroked them a lot. One day Heri promised himself he was going to shave his beard off – and his head!

  Yet perhaps he had a point? Who knew when it came to wizards? And the man had his uses. He had found him a lot of arcane items over the years. Things which would destroy his enemies if he had the need. And the most precious of them was the sun burst. An ancient magical weapon built to end wars – permanently. It would level a small mountain; an enemy castle by comparison would be no problem. Where the man had found it or how he'd laid his hands on it Heri didn't know. But it was valuable and so perhaps was the wizard's knowledge. For the moment.

  “And did you learn anything wizard?”

  “Yes Sire.” Augrim fixed him with a stare, his face sombre. “Your brother is far more powerful than any wizard I've ever heard of. The damage he's done shows strength such as I've never seen. And the fire wall shows that he can weave as well. This is not the untrained minor fire wizard that left the land five years ago. At the very least he's a master.”

  “I think everyone here knows that!” Heri snapped at him, annoyed to be told something he already knew. Especially when it was so obvious. Maybe it was time to shave the wizard. His whiskers and his throat!

  “But not everyone understands what that means.” Augrim stroked his beard some more. “A master, called so early to his strength speaks to his motivation. Of need and perhaps pain. And if what your guards have told me is correct, it speaks of his anger toward you. Make no mistake Sire, if you anger him again he will come for you. And none will be able to protect you from his rage.”

  That last caught Heri by surprise.
It also angered him. Was it a warning? A not so subtle hint that he couldn't stand against Samual? That Augrim would not stand with him? Heri thought that it might be. That underneath his calm demeanour the wizard was frightened.

  “But more importantly, the fact that he has learnt to weave such powerful magic speaks of training. Advanced training. He has spent these past years studying with someone, and he is not alone. To go against him it would seem is to go against others. It could be war.”

  “War?” That Heri heard even through his pain and rage. And he knew he wasn't ready to fight a war against wizards. Not when he had other enemies closer to home to defeat first.

  “Against whoever has trained him. Other masters probably. Powerful wizards who are unlikely to be human. No human wizard is so strong. And your brother is half elf. I would think he was trained by them. Then again the sylph and the fairy are even stronger and it may be that he has sought them out. He would have sought only the most powerful.”