Wizard Rising

by Toby Neighbors

  It took nearly a week of travel before he approached the city. He passed the outlying villages that sprang up around any great city. There were vendors under colorful awnings stretched tight like sails from a ship. They spread their wares on blankets and quilts laid on the snow-covered ground. The snow had not been as heavy away from the mountains, and the constant traffic of men and animals had churned the pure white flakes into muddy heaps that clung to everything. The road had become a bog of sucking mud that coated his mount’s hooves and legs.

  The houses here were hovels, most made from mud and thatch, some of scrap wood. The walls of the city loomed ahead, and the people lived here in the shadow of safety, many tending to the less savory demands a large city imposed. On the far side of the city were the riverside docks where goods were shipped downriver and then loaded onto ships fit for sailing up and down the coast. But not in winter, when the seas were too stormy to risk, and so local trade thrived during this short season. There were people everywhere, some herding sheep and goats, others butchering animals. The merchants called loudly to any who passed by, most of whom were on foot. Branock’s appearance caused people to stop and stare. His hairless, slightly scarred head, his disfigured ear, and milky-white eye set him apart. He saw people making gestures with their hands to ward off evil. He chuckled to himself, as if they could stop him from doing anything he desired to do.

  As he approached the city, he saw the guards talking as they leaned on their heavy pikes. Had Prince Dewalt been in the city, the soldiers would have taken their duties much more seriously. The first prince was bright and cared deeply for his people, demanding the best from those entrusted with their governance and safety. He would have made a fine king, but that would never happen now, as King Elwane had sent his eldest son to Osla as an ambassador. In his absence, the city had grown soft and ripe like a plum. When Branock had been to see the King with Wytlethane and Cassis, they had been greeted by the King’s second son, Prince Simmeron. He was a grasping, devious young man, impulsive and overly fond of his power and position. He was also probably behind his father’s illness and would likely have his brother assassinated so that he could be king.

  The streets of the city were paved with cobblestones and had been swept clean of snow. There were merchants here, and Branock planned to visit one soon, but first he needed to make his presence known. The Prince would make him wait, and he did not wish to sit in a cold room with sycophants and minor dignitaries hoping for an audience. He needed a more direct approach. He rode through the winding streets and finally came to the walls of the castle which rose like cliffs in the middle of the city. The gate was guarded more carefully than the city, but this was the King’s own guard.

  “Hold,” said the guard who stepped up into the road before Branock. “State your business in the castle.”

  “I’m here to see Prince Simmeron’s steward,” said Branock.

  “His steward,” said the solider. “Why are you here to see the steward?”

  “Royal business,” said Branock, pushing a sense of trust and acceptance toward the guard. He felt the magic flow out and saw a change in the guard’s appearance. “Is it possible that you could run ahead and bring him out to me? It’s urgent.”

  “Of course,” said the soldier, spinning on his heel. He called for one of the older soldiers to take his place at the gate while he jogged inside.

  Branock rode forward. He was tired and cold and hungry. He looked forward to sitting near a fire and eating warm food again, not to mention lying in a bed rather than on the cold, hard ground. Not that Branock needed much sleep, since his magic could keep him going for days without rest, but eventually he needed to sleep and regain his full strength. He would sleep soon, but one last task kept him in the saddle.

  He waited in a side courtyard while the soldier ran in and herded the steward out into the cold. It took several minutes, but finally the guard returned. He was practically dragging the steward along by his collar, the official sputtering in rage. Branock smiled as the steward caught sight of him. His sputtering protest died as a look of revulsion swept over him.

  “You are the Prince’s steward?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Good,” Branock smiled. “I will see the Prince in the morning. Meet me here after sunup and escort me to him. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, lord,” said the steward.

  Branock did not even have to use his power—the man’s fear would be motivation enough. He turned his horse and rode back out of the castle. He made his way to the finest inn. A young serving boy, shivering in the cold, took his horse as Branock dismounted. His body ached from the cold and from days spent riding. He felt pain in his wounded side that flared from time to time and now seemed to spasm with every step. The young servant stared openly at Branock’s ruined eye. It didn’t bother the wizard to be gawked at, and the boy’s fear would cause him to treat the horse well. Not that Branock intended to keep the small farm horse. He would sell the horse and buy a proper animal before leaving the city, but the horse had seen him this far and deserved a warm night in a proper stable with plenty of oats to fill its belly.

  Branock strode into the inn and was greeted by a short woman with a hooked nose and pinched expression. He could tell she was practiced at hiding her reactions to what she saw and heard. Business secrets were often discussed in her rooms, and she was probably good at listening quietly before entering to bring food and drink. She had obviously prospered by exploiting what she had seen and heard. Branock admired those traits, even if they were underhanded in nature.

  “I need a room, a hot bath, a hot meal, and your best wine,” he said.

  “I’ll have the water heated immediately,” said the innkeeper. “Would you care to dine in the common room?”

  “No.”

  “I see. Right this way, my lord.”

  She led him down a wide hallway to a room at the end. It was large, with a fine wooden table, a couch with embroidered cushions, and a padded chair with a foot rest near the fireplace. A crackling fire was already burning brightly in the room. There was a large bed at the far end of the room, with heavy curtains hanging from a frame around it.

  “Is this room acceptable?” asked the woman with a false sense of modesty.

  “It is. Now send a servant with the wine who can do my bidding,” Branock said as he dropped gold coins into the woman’s outstretched palm.

  She bowed, the coins disappearing into a hidden fold of her gown. Then she turned and left the room, closing the door as she went. Branock walked to the fire. He was wearing dirty, tattered clothes. The boot on his wounded side was misshapen from the fire attack, and he struggled to pull it off. Once both boots were removed, he dropped into the padded chair and extended his cold feet toward the fire. A servant entered carrying a decorated glass bottle of wine and a large crystal goblet. Branock took the goblet as the servant removed the cork from the bottle and poured the dark liquid into his cup. The man set the bottle on the table as Branock tasted the drink. It was smooth and rich, warming him as it flowed down his throat and into his stomach.

  Branock turned to the servant, who was about the age of the young wizard he was pursuing. Zollin had never been far from Branock’s thoughts, but having focused on this part of his plan for the last several days, he had let the boy fall further and further from his mind. Now he was reminded of the task and consequently the dangers involved. He pushed those thoughts from his mind.

  “Run and fetch me the finest tailor in town,” he ordered. “Tell him he is to meet me here with all haste. This should motivate him,” he held up a gold coin. “Then take this boot,” he said, holding out his one good boot, “to the best cobbler in the city. Tell him I need two pairs of his finest work before sunup. There will be more of these if he can please me,” said the wizard, holding up another gold coin. “I’ll need food for a week’s ride, wine in skins but not watered down, fresh but hardy bread, and smoked cheese. I want salted meat, and be sure it’s good
quality. And I’ll need the best horse money can buy here in the morning. If you please me, there will be a few of these for you as well, boy.”

  The servant nodded, taking the gold coins and smiling. He hurried from the room, and Branock closed his eyes. He would be busy soon, eating, bathing, being measured and fit with the finest clothes. His body showed no visible scars, but the unnaturally white skin on his left side was different enough. His bald head, ruined ear, and milky eye would make him stand out among the city. There would be rumors and gossip even now among the servants and city guard. Soon it would include the merchants and nobles, and by morning even Prince Simmeron would have heard of the stranger whose frightening appearance was as intriguing as his rich purse. That was as it should be. He was tired of lurking in shadows, blending in with the crowd. People should know his power and fear him.

  ***

  The next morning, Branock was well rested and well fed. He was wearing leather breeches over linen undergarments. He had a thick wool shirt and leather vest, with a short, fur-lined cape over his shoulders that hung down just below his waist. Tall boots came up just below his knees and he had matching gloves tucked into a belt that was lined with silver studs. As he stepped out into the weak winter sunlight, he was met by a man with a thick beard holding a short rawhide whip.

  “You the man looking for a good horse?” the man said.

  “I am,” said Branock.

  “My name’s Henrick, got the best in Orrock.”

  “Did you bring your best?” Branock questioned.

  “Brought two, just depends on what you want. You looking for speed or reliability?”

  “I take it the faster horse is spirited?”

  “Spirited is a good way of putting it,” Henrick said. “He’s a young stallion, very fast and strong, just needs a strong hand to guide him.”

  “I’ll take him. What’s your price?”

  The man offered a good price and Branock paid him in gold, then sent the young servant who had run his errands the day before to buy a good blanket and saddle for the horse. He gave the young boy a small purse of coins and told him to bring the horse to the castle and to wait for him. Then Branock set off for the castle himself, walking on the cobblestone street with long strides to stretch the stiff muscles in his leg and back. The boots felt good and he was warm in his new clothing despite the icy temperature. With the rest of his body so warm, Branock noticed just how cold his head was now, without any hair. He made a mental note to purchase a hat of some kind before leaving Orrock later.

  At the castle gate, he was met by the same guard as the day before, who escorted him back to the small courtyard.

  “You’re looking better today, if I may say so, lord,” said the guard.

  Branock ignored him. They were met at the courtyard by the steward who looked visibly relieved that the wizard’s appearance wasn’t as frightening as the day before.

  “Ah, right this way, sir,” said the steward. “I’ll take you right up to the Prince. You may have to wait a while, as the Prince is a slow riser.”

  “You can wake him. My business won’t wait,” Branock said.

  “I’ll not be waking his majesty, sir,” said the steward with some measure of resolve. “All courtiers must wait—”

  Branock cut him off before he could finish. “I’m not a courtier, and if you don’t wake your master immediately, I’ll see to it personally that he has you hanged from the castle walls by your feet.”

  “Sir, I protest your foul treatment and I’ll have you know—arggghh—”

  Branock slammed the man into the wall with a wave of his hand. The steward’s feet were far from the floor, his face red, eyes bulging in pain.

  “Do you now understand the measure of my resolve or do you still need to be convinced?” Branock said, his voice harsh in the quiet corridor.

  The steward shook his head and Branock released the spell. The man fell in a heap on the floor. He moaned and rubbed his throat as he gasped for breath. Branock gave the man what he felt was a reasonable amount of time to recover, then he kicked the man.

  “Now wake the Prince,” he growled.

  “Yes, sir, right away.”

  The steward hurried to a flight of stairs, and they made their way up two flights until they were at a large wooden door with horses carved into its surface. There were guards standing like statues on either side of the door. The steward produced a key and opened the door. Branock followed him inside.

  The room was large with lavish furniture scattered about and thick rugs overlapping each other and covering most of the floor. On one wall was a large fireplace that was full of smoking ashes. Opposite the fireplace, on the far side of the room, was a large desk, littered with parchments and slate tablets. There were candles and jars of inks. A large peacock quill lay atop the heap, and Branock was reminded of Simmeron’s vanity.

  There was a door on the far wall, and the steward opened it slowly and shut it behind him. Branock waited in the large outer chamber. After several minutes, the steward stuck his head out from the door and spoke.

  “He’ll only be another minute.” Then he ducked back into the bedroom without waiting for a reply from the wizard.

  When finally the door opened again, Prince Simmeron walked into the room. His hair had been combed hurriedly, his clothes were regal, but his face was swollen from sleep. His eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. His checks were red and his weak chin was spotted with stubble.

  “Who are you?” the Prince demanded.

  “My name,” Branock said, “is not as important as you think.”

  “This realm pays the Torr for protection. You’ve come to the wrong place if you think you can bully me.”

  “I am not here to threaten you, lord,” said Branock in a somber tone. “I wish to be of service.”

  The Prince’s eyes narrowed. It was no mystery that every king wished to have a wizard in his service. But the wizards of the Torr had overcome any who resisted them, and they claimed to serve the Five Kingdoms equally. Branock’s master had grown wealthy and powerful over the years and had provided a measure of equality among the kingdoms. But Branock was sick of waiting in the shadows, oppressed by him. It was his time to rule, and all he needed to succeed was Zollin. But to get Zollin, he had to remove Wytlethane and whoever else his master might have sent against the boy. Prince Simmeron’s vanity and lust for power would provide Branock the resources he needed to bring the boy under his control.

  “Service how?” the Prince asked.

  “The time of the Torr is passing. Two of the wizards who visited you a month ago are now dead.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Is it? I suppose they told you they were here for a boy. They did not know that the boy was my apprentice, for they do not know me. I was born here in Yelsia, and I’ve come now to break the power of the Torr and see that the Five Kingdoms are united under Yelsian rule.”

  “You’ll forgive me a little skepticism,” said the Prince. “I’ve never met you before. And if there were a wizard living here in my kingdom, I would have known it. Nothing happens in my lands that passes my knowledge.”

  Branock bit his tongue. The fledgling Prince was already claiming sovereignty over the kingdom, despite the fact that the King still lived, as did his older brother Prince Dewalt, who was the rightful heir to the throne.

  “I’ve been away for many years, honing my craft, my liege, but I assure you I have the power to save the kingdom. The Master of the Torr is planning to subdue you—surely you are aware of it. Why else would your father have sent your brother to Osla?”

  “He was sent away because he displeased my father. King Felix intended for me to rule, not my arrogant brother. He shall be dealt with at the proper time.”

  “You have plans. Well, perhaps my services are not needed,” Branock said, bluffing. “I shall not take up any more of your time.”

  “Hold,” Prince Simmeron said, the tension in his voice evident. “I have many plans
but I also have a nose for opportunity. You say you are a wizard and that you have killed two wizards of the Torr. How can I be sure of your strength?”

  “I’m sure a man of your quality can devise an appropriate test.”

  “Indeed,” said the Prince. He walked over to where a velvet rope hung and pulled it.

  From the corridor outside came the sound of running feet. Suddenly the door burst open and ten elite soldiers came in, weapons drawn. They were men of the King’s Guard, and they rushed toward Branock. He pushed against them with his magic and it was as if they had crashed headlong into an invisible wall. They all staggered back. Then Branock lifted them, cracking their heads against the wooden support beams in the ceiling and then dropping them in a heap of clattering weapons and armor. The men were dazed and slow to move. Branock had seen no reason to kill them, and so he turned to the Prince, who was smiling deviously. There was an evil gleam in his eye that reminded Branock of Cassis. The elder wizard was forced to suppress a sudden urge to choke the life from his royal body.

  “Convinced?” Branock asked.

  “Party tricks,” said the Prince lazily, as if single-handedly defeating ten of Yelsia’s most accomplished and deadly warriors were child’s play. “Show me some real power.”

  Branock’s eyes narrowed. He had thought the Prince to be somewhat reasonable, but it was apparent that he cared nothing for his people. Not that Branock cared about the soldier’s lives, but he at least appreciated their value. He let the magic build in him for a moment, the raw power scorching his wounded arm, side, and leg. He endured the pain for a moment and then released a surge of blinding, white-hot flame that engulfed the royal guard. The heat was so intense that Prince Simmeron staggered back, but Branock’s work was quickly done. He let the flames dissipate, leaving only the charred remains of the men’s armor and bones in a heap on the floor. The thick rug beneath them had been burned away, but the floor was solid stone and was only blackened from the heat. Some of the furniture around the room was burning, but Branock extinguished it with a wave of his hand. His side was aching and felt raw—obviously his work to heal himself was incomplete, but he would deal with it later. He had plans to make, and now that he had pacified the Prince, he intended to see his plans move forward.