Wizard's Heir (A Bard Without a Star, Book 1)

by Michael A. Hooten

  He walked until he found a stream that had clusters of birches around it. He walked around several, touching the bark and following the branches out to their tips. The various forms he had assumed had him thinking that becoming a tree was unnecessary, but he was curious as well; he hadn’t been a plant yet. Holding his hands above him, and the image of the tree in his mind, he began the shape shift. He felt the change slower than before. His toes stretched out into the dirt, and his legs fused together. His chest shrank to the size of his neck, and his arms receded while his fingers lengthened. His toes split and split again as they pushed deeper into the soil. Gwydion felt stretched to the breaking point when the world seemed to stop.

  He could feel the winter, knew that it was nearly over. He could not feel the wind at all, but the water in the ground rushed past with a similar sound. Days turned over, one after another, but time felt curiously distant. He sighed deeply as a peace he had sought for months made its way into his heart.

  He might have spent the winter there by the stream, but he became aware of a group of men nearby. He casually expanded his awareness, feeling through his roots the thrumming of horse hoofs on the forest floor, and through the whispering in his branches a discussion among the trees about fire, and swords. His tree thoughts were concerned with the possibility of a forest fire, but the human core of him wondered what business they were conducting far from other men, in an uninhabited portion of the cantref.

  He reluctantly assumed human form again, and crept towards the men, sword in hand. He stopped a few yards back from their camp, hidden by the trees, using the wind to help him hear what they were saying.

  “Give it up, Iolgu. It’s not worth it.”

  “Of course it is!” Iolgu said. “There are more marks to be had. A bit of bad luck, and you’re ready to just give up?”

  “A bit of bad luck cost Filig his life, you idiot. I don’t want to be the next to experience that kind of luck, no matter how trivial it might seem to you.”

  “But I’m telling you, spring is the best season,” Iolgu said. “The marks are big and easy. What do you think, Dorath?”

  “I think both of you of you had better shut your gobs and remember who’s in charge around here. I decide when we’ve had enough. And I decide which marks to go for. Filig jumped out in front of that merchant before I had a chance to see that he was carrying a crossbow, and we were damn lucky to get away from there! Now, once Felmid is back, we’ll talk about what’s next. Until then, shut it!”

  The news of another man made Gwydion uneasy, and he spun around just in time to see a thick branch being swung at his head. He tried to block it, but wasn’t fast enough, and the crack on his jaw spun him into oblivion.

  He woke to find himself bound to a tree, arms stretched uncomfortably behind him. He shook his head to try and clear the fog, and a hand grabbed his hair and lifted his head. “See? I told you I didn’t kill him.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re such a genius, Felmid.” The man who spoke stood up and wiped his hands on his leather vest. He stood close to seven feet tall, and was heavy with muscle. A dark scar ran down one cheek.

  “Why didn’t you just kill him, Dorath?” asked Iolgu. He was thin and wiry, with a dark bristly beard.

  “You don’t recognize him?” Dorath asked. “It’s the heir apparent.”

  The fourth man whistled. “Now that’s luck, indeed. I’ll bet Math will pay a pretty penny to get him back.”

  Gwydion’s head was clearing, and he considered his options. Dorath came over and squatted in front of him. “How much do you think you’re worth, eh?” His breath was foul and Gwydion saw plenty of missing teeth. He also didn’t look as powerful with his sallow skin and bloodshot eyes.

  “Nothing,” Gwydion answered.

  The smug smile faded. “What? How do you mean, nothing?”

  “I mean, if my uncle finds out that the likes of you captured me, he’ll kill me himself before paying you one coin of ransom.”

  Felmid took a hissing breath. “You lie!”

  “It’s a trick!” Iolgu said. “It has to be!”

  Dorath’s concern faded back to a grin. “That’s right,” he said. “I heard you think you’re cleverer than everyone else. Well, it won’t help you this time, boy.”

  Gwydion grinned in return. “It already has,” he said, and shapeshifted into a raven.

  The bandits cried out as the ropes fell away and he flew up into the trees. He spotted his sword and his harp beside where he had been bound, and he led the men on a chase through the trees, drawing them further from their camp. When he figured they had gone far enough, he turned and sped back towards them, causing them to dive out of the way, cursing. He landed in human form, scooped up his sword, and turned to face his foes.

  Iolgu reached him first, attacking with a wild cry and his sword held high. Gwydion didn’t even think about what to do; he simply stepped inside the man’s guard and thrust his sword in his belly, twisting as he did. The spray of blood shocked him, but he could not stop to even be sick; Felmid was already upon him.

  Gwydion feinted twice, and was parried both times. He saw the unnamed bandit moving around him, trying to come at him from behind. He considered the possibilities, then made a lighting attack towards Felmid, driving him back momentarily. That allowed Gwydion to flip Iolgu’s sword off the ground with his foot. He grabbed it backwards, a move that he had only read about before. The blade laid the length of his forearm.

  The two bandits were coming towards him again, and Felmid feinted, forcing Gwydion back, and within range of the other bandit. Gwydion saw his blade coming down, and threw up his arm, using Iolgu’s blade as a shield. The man cursed and tried to hit low, but Gwydion blocked that move, too.

  Felmid was advancing again. Gwydion wanted to flee, but the adrenaline made him want to finish the job as well. He backed up so that he was against a tree, and fended off several attacks. He noticed Dorath standing off to the side, looking a bit bored with the whole affair. It made his blood even hotter.

  He reacted by fighting more defensively, trying to draw the men into making a mistake. When Dorath said, “Come on, he’s just a boy,” Gwydion knew that he had them.

  The unnamed bandit fell first, from a lightning slash from Gwydion’s reversed sword that caught him across the face. He fell to the ground screaming and cursing. Gwydion turned his full wrath on Felmid, using both swords in a vicious attack. He soon struck an unprotected spot on his shoulder, and despite Felmid’s pleas, followed it with a death blow to the heart.

  The unnamed bandit was crawling towards Dorath, who looked on him with disgust. “Please, Dorath, help me!” the man cried.

  “Gladly,” Dorath said. He drew his sword, a heavy blade nearly the size of a claymore, and with a single chop, severed the man’s head from his shoulders.

  “I’m not sure whether to curse you or thank you, boy,” he said, wiping the big blade on the dead man’s cloak. “You’ve cost me several good men, but then again, I don’t have to worry about splitting the gold we’ve gathered with them, either. Or about splitting the gold I’m going to get from your ransom, either.”

  Gwydion was breathing hard, swallowing bile from the stench of blood. “You seem awfully sure about catching me, considering that I’ve just killed all your men.”

  “Of course I do. Because I’m pretty sure I know what will make you lay down your weapons.” He put one heavy boot on the harp case.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Gwydion said.

  “Wouldn’t I?” Dorath asked. “I have seen you play. You look like a little girl with her first crush. I’ll bet this harp means more to you than your title. Maybe more than your life.” He leaned on the case, and Gwydion could hear the leather creak against the strain.

  Gwydion laid down the swords. “You may be right about that,” he said.

  Dorath grinned, and scooped up the harp case, slinging it onto his back. “Gods, that was easier than I expected,” he said. “And I suppose I can get y
ou to agree not shapeshift after I tie you up, right?”

  Gwydion’s shoulders slumped. “I promise,” he said.

  Dorath came up and kicked the swords away. Towering over Gwydion, he said “I was beginning to think you were going to be a challenge, did you know that?”

  “You have underestimated me so far,” Gwydion said.

  “But I’ve got your precious harp, and your promise. And you idiots with your honor keep your word. I know I didn’t underestimate that about you.”

  “True,” Gwydion said. “But I didn’t promise not to shapeshift before you tied me up.” He waited for just a moment to see Dorath’s reaction, and then turned into a bear.

  Dorath went from looking down at an abject prisoner to looking up into a growling face. He turned to run, but Gwydion grabbed the harp case and pulled him back. Dorath slipped out of the straps and scrambled away. Gwydion set the harp down gently and gave chase.

  His new shape felt lumbering, but he covered ground quickly, and tripped up the bandit with one swipe of his paw. Dorath tried to draw his sword as he fell, but couldn’t get it out of the scabbard before Gwydion reared up and hit him again, knocking his shoulder out of joint with a sickening crunch.

  Dorath fell to his knees. “Mercy,” he said. “I beg of you.”

  Gwydion hesitated, and Dorath came up with a dagger, which he plunged into Gwydion’s side. Gwydion roared in rage and cuffed him away, leaving deep gouges in his leather vest. Dorath tried to charge again, and Gwydion fell on top of him, pinning him with the dagger underneath and crushing his dislocated shoulder. Dorath screamed and squirmed, trying to escape. Gwydion bit down once, snapping his neck in powerful jaws.

  He rolled off the bandit and shifted back to his human form. Holding the wound in his side closed, he staggered over to his harp, cradling it as best he could. “Uncle! Help me!” he cried.

  A strong wind jumped up and shrieked through the forest. The pain from his wound began to make his vision blur, but he saw the ghost form of his uncle appear in front of him. “Nephew! What has happened here?”

  “Bandits,” Gwydion said through gritted teeth. “I killed them all, but I am injured. Can you help me?”

  “Of course.”

  Gwydion felt the world shift beneath him, and he was momentarily in a world that was not Glencairck, but there was another shift, and he was in the tower. He heard Math calling for the physician and for attendants to help him. The tower felt so hot after the forest, but he could not move even to take off his heavy clothes.

  Hands were helping him, prying the harp away, stripping him and laying him flat. Blethin, the physician, was probing his side with sure fingers, but each touch felt like fire. “It’s not too bad,” he said to Math. “A bit deep, and there has been some blood loss, obviously. I think we can stitch him up, and he’ll be fine in a few days.”

  “Would you oversee his care?” Math said.

  “As my lord wishes,” Blethin said. “Alright lads, get him on the blanket. Gently, gently. Now everyone lift.”

  Gwydion felt himself rise into the air, and promptly blacked out.

  Math let Gwydion have a few days of uninterrupted rest. Gil came to see him though, and marveled at Gwydion’s adventures. The shapeshifting didn’t interest him, but he wanted to hear about the bandits over and over. When Math summoned him to the tower several days later, Gwydion figured his uncle had heard the story nearly as many times as he had told it, and he was right. But Math had a question that Gil had never thought to ask.

  “Why didn’t you just flee when you had the chance?”

  Gwydion had spent plenty of hours asking himself that very question. “I think that I felt responsible for taking care of the problem.”

  “Why?”

  “I am your heir apparent. They knew it, I knew it, but even more, any other people that they had robbed or killed would have known it, too. And even though those victims may never have known that I ran away, the robbers would have. They didn’t need any more encouragement.”

  Math smiled. “Very good, nephew. You have finally shown signs of duty, and honor.”

  “Thank you, uncle,” Gwydion said with a bow.

  “There is just one thing left to ask: are you comfortable in your own skin again?”

  Once again, Gwydion had spent lots of time asking himself the same thing. “I have taken many forms now,” he said. “Most I took with plenty of forethought, but I have also practiced the shift itself, moving from skin to skin. And when the time came, I was able to take a new form, one that I had not tried before, without any thought of whether it was safe, or whether I might lose myself. Because I knew who I was, and I knew, finally, that I was in control.”

  “Would you always shapeshift in a battle?”

  “Hardly ever,” Gwydion said. “It would reveal too much of my power, and make the general populace trust me even less.”

  “Excellent reasoning, nephew.” Math looked through his wide windows, where the winds swirled the fat flakes of a late snowfall, but did not bring them into the tower. He said, “I have a new task for you.”

  “Yes, uncle?”

  “I want you to tour the caer. Meet the people that you will be lord of one day, and learn of their cares and concerns.”

  Gwydion glanced out at the snow. “It hardly seems the right time.”

  “I want you to leave after Beltain,” Math said. “You will be my full heir then, the Tanist of Gwynedd. I expect you to be ready to fulfill your duties as such.”

  “Of course,” Gwydion said.

  “Spend your time reading about our land in the library. Bethyl will guide you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And take your harp; you will find that it will open doors that your rank will not.”

  After he had left the tower, Goewin said, “I never thought I would miss the rogue in him.”

  Math smiled. “He is dealing will quite a bit right now. He will be back to himself soon enough.”

  Goewin sighed, “And I suppose I will miss this part of him when it does.”

  “My dear,” Math said, “Your wisdom is extraordinary.”

  “My lord is too kind,” she said, blushing.

  They sat awhile in silence, until Math said, “Who would you trust more, the rogue Gwydion or the serious young man that he seems to be now?”

  “Neither,” Goewin said. “I still think he’s up to something, whether he’s staying silent or using his charm.”

  “Perhaps that is the problem,” Math said. “Everyone has an opinion of him already, and it seems to be set no matter how he changes.”