The Wizard's Heir

by J. A. V Henderson

  The general smiled and retreated to his tent, brought out a silver horn, and blew a long, powerful reveille.

  The blast rolled across the plains, through the fog, as far as the Pathon Fields to the east and the city walls to the west, if one were extremely keen-eared. Such a one was the large-eared, brown-haired swordsman Donnell. As the reveille sounded from the east (where as yet only the impression of the sun could be seen because of the obscuring fog), Donnell, the dark-skinned and dark-haired warrior Doughal, the redhead Flan riding a sultry cinnamon-colored mare of Nessak’s, and the blond archer Finnlagh with his dragon bow slung over one shoulder and a sheaf of long black arrows over the other, were gathering outside the city gates, and Donnell perked his ears at the sound.

  “A host of curses on the fog,” muttered Finnlagh by way of greeting.

  “Reveille,” said Donnell.

  The city had been stirring with activity all night—notably, military activity—but now, it was unnaturally quiet. Only a few military detachments came and went around the city, if the reports of the castle trumpeters could be considered accurate. As Xaeland’s group of four warriors came together, one of these detachments was just arriving from the north, and Finnlagh veiled his bow and arrows with his rough grey cloak.

  Donnell held up his hand to the rest of the group and rested it on his rapier. Flan tossed his elven short-cloak over one shoulder and reigned in his horse. Finnlagh pulled out an arrow beneath the concealment of his cloak. “Why look there!” exclaimed Donnell loudly, “here are a dozen more of knights coming to Anthirion! One would have thought a royal tournament was going on!”

  There were in fact almost twenty soldiers in the detachment, but a few of them were pages and a number of the others were only newly knights by their appearance. The leader’s page bore a yellow pennant with a stylized azure serpent shape, indicating they were lieges of Calamir of Brijaas.

  “Insolent fool,” sneered the leader—a captain, by his markings—“who are you to Anthirion?”

  “I really am a fool,” claimed Donnell earnestly, “which is my only excuse for having remained so long alive in this strange country where there is a war or a rumor of war every day.”

  “Captain,” the leader’s second-in-command started.

  “This time it is for real, and your little party of fools had better find a safe roost out of the storm,” the captain replied scornfully. “Whoa, boy,” he added to his stallion, which was gnashing at its bit and stamping its hooves in great agitation. He turned his attention back to Donnell irresistibly and continued, “The king has declared the council of Oris City to be in dire revolt, I’m sure you know, and that means war. He himself has already left for battle, but he has reserved for us the honor of riding out to arrest or cut down the Ristorian so-called negotiator and the ambassadors in revolt.”

  “I am so relieved to hear that!” exclaimed Donnell, himself becoming more and more agitated with every second as though somehow tied to the captain’s horse. “I was so afraid, you know, I went out and bought myself this pretty sword here to protect myself.” He drew his blade and showed it to the captain.

  The captain snorted. “A silly little rapier like that won’t do much against an armored brigand, much less a knight.”

  Donnell cursed and struck the ground. “You see, Doughal?” he said. “That’s exactly what I told the man who sold it to me. And he had the gall to tell me the worst problem I might have was getting it stuck in some bloody beetle-brain’s metal-plated gut!” With this last word, “gut,” the agitation that had been building up in Donnell as he spoke peaked, and he thrust the tip of his rapier with all that built-up fury through the center of the captain’s metal breastplate.

  The captain gaped, floundering for air and trying clumsily to draw his sword. For a split second the entire company was dumb-struck; then Donnell heaved the sword out of the captain’s breast, pulling him to the ground still shaking. The second-in-command drew his sword but before he could speak a word there was a shrill whistle and his horse reared up beneath him, throwing him to the ground. Someone shouted the order to attack even as Flan charged into the battle bare-handed and Doughal grabbed one of the knights’ horses by the legs and overturned it by brute force. Two more knights in the rear of the column crumpled in their saddles before they could draw a sword, struck by one arrow.

  The horses, led by the captain’s and his second-in-command’s stallions, broke rank, following Flan on his sultry mare away into the fog. Finnlagh reloaded his bow.

  A horn sounded from the city walls. Finnlagh patiently aimed his arrow for the trailing knight and fired. Donnell jogged up to him with his first arrow, wiped clean on the grass.

  “A few less to worry about,” said Donnell. “Good shot.”

  “Traitors!” the captain shouted at them.

  Doughal pressed him to the ground. “Who gave you your orders to ride on the negotiator?” he demanded.

  “The king did,” retorted the captain. “Who gave you orders to stop us?”

  “The king directly, or through someone else?” Doughal persisted.

  “The order came directly from the office of the chamberlain, from his honor Cashlant’s office, sealed with the royal seal,” the captain rasped. He struggled to get up and Doughal struck him so hard he was still.

  “Cashlant again,” Donnell scowled. “So the castle’s been taken.”

  “We’d better be going,” said Finnlagh. He slid the arrow into its sheath and hid his bow beneath his cloak again. “Tell Xaeland.”

  Another horn answered from some distance to the east. Donnell glanced in its direction and nodded bitterly.

  Caelhuin woke by the fire in the nearly-deserted refuge deep in Anthirion City, hearing Donnell’s call across the miles. He sat up and nudged Xaeland, who was sitting nearby, watching Alik and the girl across the fire. Alik was still asleep. The girl had not slept at all and had not yet spoken a word, but sat opposite Xaeland over Alik’s body, waiting. For his part, Xaeland did not press her.

  Xaeland could not exactly read minds, but he could understand when Caelhuin planted a thought in his own mind. “Tell Donnell we will meet him at the grove south of Pathon—and beware of rifting drakes,” Xaeland said out loud to Caelhuin. Caelhuin nodded.

  Xaeland turned his attention to the children, produced a bottle of clear liquid, and went over to Alik. The girl shrunk back but did not get up.

  Xaeland, as though just noticing her, stood up to his full height and set his hands on his hips. “What’s your name, little one?” he asked. She did not reply. “Caelhuin,” Xaeland called. Caelhuin turned his head, revealing his white eyes and scorched flesh. “Saria Tellys,” said Xaeland. “Thank you. What is your ancestry? Who are your parents?” Again she did not answer. “Your mother’s name was Sairinda. Your father was called Saolus…to protect his people…but his real name was Saolano, son of Lailani and Jennith.” He approached her suddenly and she rose to retreat, but too late. He seized her arm and pulled down the collar of her shirt to reveal a small tattoo of a dragon rampant, crudely rendered, thrust through with a handled greatsword, just below the small of her throat. She trembled fearfully and made a feeble attempt to struggle free. He let her go. She rapidly backed away to the far wall but did not leave.

  With the same hand he stripped away his own cloak and undid the first clasp of his shirt. There, beneath a very ugly knife scar, was the same sword-and-dragon insignia, with the letters “P” and “K” above and below. “Your father was a brave man, and I knew him well, though briefly, several years ago,” said Xaeland to Saria. He did up the clasp again and picked up his cloak. “We had heard that he was dead but we had not heard that his daughter was still alive; forgive us for not having come to express our condolences. We grieve with you. How did he die, and can he be avenged?”

  Saria’s lips trembled and she shouted out, “He was stabbed in the back by a pitty Narrissorean questor who betrayed his trust and led the Tomerians to our house! They killed hi
m and my mother and burned our house to the ground!”

  “A goblin or an elven Narrissorean questor?” Xaeland asked.

  “Elven: full-blooded,” she replied. “At least, that was what he told my father.”

  “General Deran, most likely,” Xaeland growled.

  “Deran?” she asked, trembling. “But we traveled here from the isle with a man named Deran. He’s here in this city now, hunting us!”

  He looked up.

  All of a sudden Caelhuin jumped to his feet as though in pain. “What are you going to do with us?” asked Saria.

  “Drakes? An army!” said Xaeland to Caelhuin. He turned to Saria. “You’re coming with me. You and Alik both.” He remembered the vial that he was still holding in his other hand and bent over Alik, uncapping it and waving it beneath the boy’s nose. Alik woke with a start.

  “Kyir...!” said Alik, then trailed off. He covered his eyes with his hand as though blinded.

  “Can you see, Alik?” Xaeland asked.

  Alik slowly lowered his hand, blinking in amazement. “Kyr iseil-xe...,” he murmured.

  “Get up, boy,” Xaeland said. “We don’t have much time. The city is under attack.”

  “Under attack!” exclaimed Saria.

  “Saria!” exclaimed Alik.

  Xaeland pulled him to his feet. “You have a Page Knight’s daughter here to visit you, and a friend,” he said. He ran with Alik, and with Saria close behind, toward the front entrance of the enclave. There was a scream from close-by outside. No sooner had he parted the curtains of the entrance than an arrow jabbed itself into the fabric just beside his head. He cursed and broke it off, retreating. “Where’d the watchman...,” he mutter, but cut himself off.

  “Back door?” asked Saria. Xaeland pulled them back in the opposite direction.

  At that moment Caelhuin drew a knife and jerked his head upward, and a falling shadow hit the fabric of the roof and sliced through it with giant claws. “Come on!” shouted Xaeland, running. A huge, semi-human beast with bulbous flesh and yellow eyes thrust itself through the roof and fell upon Caelhuin, who before it even landed slashed it across its face with his ready knife. The beast screamed and tried to lock its claws on its opponent, but was partly blinded by the blood in its eyes and missed clumsily. Caelhuin dodged and slashed his knife across the tendons of its wrist, then threw its feet out from under it before it could recover and finished it off with a jab of his knife.

  Saria stared in amazement as the blind and senseless warrior glanced after them and wiped his knife off on the monster’s shiny, leather-ish clothing, but she barely had a moment before Xaeland pulled her into the passage leading out the back of the alley. “I thought he was blind!” she protested.

  “A dragon doesn’t need to see,” snapped Xaeland. They came to the end of the passage and he peered through a slit in the door. The streets were filled with fleeing people of every type...fleeing from what? “Fine,” said Xaeland, and pushed the door open. Caelhuin caught up with them.

  “What was it?” Saria asked.

  “Come on,” said Xaeland. “Rifter.” He pulled the children onto the street, throwing the edges of his cloak over them and walking briskly with the flow of people. Caelhuin pulled his cloak about him and followed, closing the door. Saria didn’t even want to ask what a rifter was.

  There was a screeching cry from behind them—to the north—and screams broke out among the fleeing crowd. “Stay under the cloak,” Xaeland warned Alik and Saria. “They may be looking specifically for you.”

  “But...,” said Saria. As though to complete her sentence another screech pierced the air behind them.

  “I will protect you,” Xaeland promised, drawing his heavy golden sword part-way. The blade glowed igneous reddish-gold and growled hungrily in its scabbard, and Saria gaped in amazement at it as its hilt twisted around Xaeland’s hand like the fingers of another hand.

  Out onto the street behind them burst the first drake, then a second and a third, then an entire flock. The crowd screamed and devolved into a stampede, heading in their direction. At the same time the secret back door of the enclave burst open and two more giant rifters barged out onto the street and spotted them.

  “Cut across the street,” said Xaeland, redirecting his steps. “When I tell you, duck.”

  Alik clasped the shard hanging on his necklace. Now that he could see, by whatever miracle of Xaeland’s that was possible, everything he saw seemed terrible. The rifters crashed out into the street after them, splitting the crowd like a wave. One was a scaly greenish monster in a shiny greyish suit, and the other was similar to the first rifter Caelhuin had killed. Behind those two, two more appeared, and with them a small black-haired girl in black leather and with a lean black short-bow appeared. She raised the bow and fitted an arrow. “All right, duck!” exclaimed Xaeland, pushing the children to the ground and dodging himself out of the way as the arrow whirred over their heads and buried itself in a pale, white-haired man’s knapsack.

  The crowd rushed around them on every side. Xaeland pulled the children to their feet, then saw the lead drake plunging at them and drew his sword, whipping it arc-like through the air over his head. The drake swerved out of the way but Xaeland continued his swing, letting go all but the last finger of the sword hilt, which melted and extended like a lash, roaring as it did and slicing the drake’s head clean off.

  A scaly, bat-like body with a spiked snake’s tail tumbled past them. Xaeland glanced back to find Caelhuin or the rifters but could not see either. “Stay close!” he shouted, holding up his demon sword. The sword purred; a trickle of red blood dripped down its blade and disappeared as though into the metal.

  A phalanx of fourteen drakes formed out of the descending flock, shaped itself into two double lines of seven, and attacked. Xaeland pushed back a curse and tore off his cloak. “Stay with me!” he shouted again. The drakes plunged. Xaeland swung his sword, connecting with one drake and splitting the front line away from him, then swung his cloak into the second line, catching the center three and pulling them out of the air and violently hurling them away from him. “Together, run!” he shouted. He took Alik by the hand and started for the cover of the buildings across the street, but at that moment a giant elephant-eared yellow rifter stepped out of the crowd directly in his way and swung a heavy mace into his chest. Xaeland raised his sword but didn’t have time to meet the blow, and he crumpled to the ground. Saria screamed. Alik twisted out of Xaeland’s hand and dodged into the crowd beneath a fruit cart someone had been trying to take with them. A drake fluttered under the cart after him and sunk its teeth into his arm. He yelped and pulled the shard off of his necklace, sending the necklace flying in pieces in every direction, and stabbed the drake through the top of its head. Blood rushed all over his arm and he flung the little creature free.

  The shard glowed: south, south. That was his only hope. Follow the people. He heard Saria calling but did not see her. The girl in black and her monster guards appeared out of the scattering mob, heading straight for him. There was Xaeland—maybe. Then the fruit cart tipped over, and he had to run.

  II.iv.

  Anthirion City filled with screams and howling, but not a single clarion or trumpet blast was heard. Out of the sea fog, blazes began to pop up all around the city with no one to extinguish them. They spread from house to house and through the cluttered alleys and narrow streets. Dark shadows loomed up over the docks, breathing out Tomerian soldiers in scores. The sea-wind was just beginning to pick up, and as it drove out the fog, it revealed the Anthirian fleet docked in flames and a fleet of Tryphallian warships unloading its grey-clad Tomerian army into the city. But the city was already rising into flames from the drakes and the breeze. The river was filled with ash and debris and hundreds and hundreds of bodies, living and dead, who were trying or had tried to let the river carry them to safety. In the northern quarter things were even worse. In the southern quarter, the Beggar’s Quarter, many were lucky enough to escape in
to the Impassable Bogs, the northern reaches of the waterwoods. What happened to them after that was up to fate.

  The king’s army, oblivious of the wreckage pursuing them, rode on to the Pathon Fields.

  The Pathon Fields were about halfway between Anthirion City and Oris City, the second-largest city in Anthirion. In past times there had been a pyrrhic battle fought there between Anthirion and its loyal states on one side and Ferria, Andel, Ariante, Steed, and Sedar on the other. Anthirion had won the battle, but had lost its king and so much of its fighting strength that it had been forced to grant the independence of the confederate states. A memorial had been built there: a circle of stones upon a hill in memorial to the fallen heroes and leaders of the battle. It was known as a peace memorial because all the states were free to come there to honor their dead.

  Jevan and his company slowly rode to a halt beneath the hill. “Sir Delossan,” announced General Rigel, “this is the hill.” Jevan could clearly see the stones crowning the hill, for the fog was not dense beneath the hill and it only rose part-way up the slope.

  “Heao will come with me,” said Jevan, “as will the general and the king’s four appointed councilors. All else will stay here.”

  “And remain alert,” added General Rigel.

  “So be it,” said Jevan. “If we are to die today, all of us, it will be for peace.”

  A copse of trees stood out of the fog about a mile to the north. Beyond that there was the Aris River. The Oris River was still invisible below them to the south.

  To the north, beyond the vision or hearing of any of Jevan’s company, a herd of horses thundered into the Aris River: horses with silver and blue bridles. At the head of the herd rode Flan, neighing wildly, and nearby behind him Donnell, Doughal, and Finnlagh. They climbed up the opposite bank in a spray of light and veered toward the Pathon Fields, and as they did so, Finnlagh made a flying dismount and sprinted toward the copse of trees alone.