The Last Cleric

by Layton Green

“Who are you?” Val asked.

  “Wizard Guard to the Queen,” said the wizard who had saved him, floating over to the carriage. He pointed at the open door. “Get in.”

  The queen? Where am I? Who are these people?

  Val studied the grim faces of the wizards, sensed the enormous power they wielded. It was a battle he could not hope to win. Or even wage, in his weakened state.

  Chin high, pain lancing through the thigh the ghoul had bitten, Val stepped into the hovering stagecoach and took a seat in one of the high-backed chairs facing each other in the passenger compartment. Three of the wizards took the remaining seats, and the one who had spoken stepped into an enclosed section at the front. The carriage rose a hundred feet into the air and then soared out of the cemetery.

  Val watched the journey through a glass window. It took a lot of magical muscle to fly five men and a carriage.

  Power, Val said to himself. That’s what these strange mages exude.

  Power.

  Despite the direness of the situation—he assumed he was being hauled back to prison—these grey-cloaked wizards intrigued him.

  After trying and failing to engage them in conversation, Val gave up and returned to the window. At first they passed the same scenery from earlier, a swath of countryside followed by a sprawling ghetto, but within minutes a massive cityscape emerged out of the darkness. Despite his efforts to appear calm and in control, Val felt his jaw slowly dropping.

  Like a black mamba slithering between two mammoth circuit boards, an inky river dissected a metropolis that dwarfed even New Victoria. But it wasn’t the size of the city that made Val stare in wonder. He had seen bigger back home. Instead it was the might and majesty of the wizard strongholds flanking the river, thousands of fortresses brightening the night sky with a wild array of glowing stone facades, some as squat as castles, some soaring hundreds of feet high. It was different, though: Val didn’t see any of the dream-like architecture or graceful spires that marked the New Victoria Wizard District. These buildings were more traditional, keeps and barbicans topped by parapets and hulking domes, towers and obelisks accented by Gothic arches and cupolas. More brawn, less elegance.

  As he absorbed the size and general shape of the city, he thought he knew this place. He had assumed the prison was near the Wizard’s District of New Victoria, but he realized they had taken him to an entirely new city. A new continent.

  “This is London,” he murmured. Or Londyn, in this world. Despite the rise of New Victoria as the new power center, he knew Londyn was the official capital of the Realm and home to the monarchy.

  It still looks pretty important to me, he thought, as the carriage soared right through the middle of the city, high above the river. Wizards and flying carriages filled the sky around them. As with New Victoria, there was no sign of steam power or the use of natural gas, though from his studies, he knew the wizards possessed knowledge of both technologies. It had gone unspoken in class, but he guessed they kept the population under thumb by using only magic-driven innovations. Flying carriages and sky barges, glow orbs and heat stones.

  He soon realized they were aiming straight for what resembled a larger version of the Tower of London back home: a monolithic, white-gray fortress enclosed by a wall taller than most of the surrounding buildings.

  The carriage descended, coming to rest in a courtyard the size of a football field. Guards were everywhere, including a quartet of giant orbs floating above the guard towers in the corners. Val shuddered when he looked closer and saw roving eyeballs and razor-tipped tentacles covering the gelatinous surface of the orbs.

  One of the wizards threw a hood over Val’s head before helping him out of the carriage. Judging from the increasing echo of his footsteps, they had walked him across the courtyard and into the interior of the fortress. He descended thirty-six steps before they deposited him in a stiff-backed chair. The room smelled like sage and candle wax.

  Where had they taken him? Why wasn’t he back in his cell?

  Sensing the presence of the gray-robed wizards beside him, he didn’t dare lift his hood. Long minutes later, he heard the sound of booted feet approaching, and then the swish of robes.

  Someone removed his hood. Val blinked at the sudden light. He was in a high-ceilinged room with rich furnishings and tapestries draping the walls. A chandelier made of pearls and intricately wrought golden sconces provided illumination.

  A squat woman with a round, shriveled face stood before him, flanked by a dozen majitsu in black robes and silver belts. All four of the gray-cloaked wizards were still present. They bowed to the woman, who was dressed in white finery and holding a diamond-topped scepter that thrummed with power.

  “You may stand,” she said to Val, in a haughty, upper-crust British accent.

  Val stood, his head spinning from trying to figure out what was happening. The woman looked exactly like the photos of Queen Victoria he had seen back home.

  “My Queen,” he said respectfully, performing the same bow as the others. Resistance, he knew, would get him nowhere.

  “It is not often that we are forced to imprison the mage-born. A spirit mage, no less. You may not have realized,” she said, “that you were confined beneath this very fortress.”

  “I did not,” Val said.

  “A clever ruse you performed,” she said. “Befitting your reputation as a man of ability. You did not, however, think to escape from the Wizard Vault so easily?”

  “No,” he said truthfully.

  The queen’s wrinkled mouth compressed. “To ensure a wizard’s death, we call a cuerpomancer. In your case, however, we wished to see where you would land. With whom contact might be made.”

  “To see if I’m with the Revolution,” he guessed.

  She tipped her head. “Despite your transgressions, we do not wish to see talent such as yours go to waste. Thus our intervention in the pit, when no rebel forces came to save you. Some among us would see you executed, ’tis true. But others would see you go free–if loyalty to the Realm was proven.”

  Val felt a thrill of excitement, as well as surprise. Who had intervened on his behalf? Dean Groft? Adaira?

  “Tell me, young one, why did you seek the Planewalk?”

  Val took a deep breath, thinking as quickly as he could, electing to stay as close to the truth as possible. He didn’t feel comfortable disclosing his father’s identity. He wasn’t sure how Dane Blackwood fit in with these people, especially given the persecution of the Roma clans, and he didn’t want them targeting Will and Caleb. “My father disappeared when I was very young. We never knew what happened to him. I sought only to locate him, your Majesty. A boy searching for his father. I apologize deeply for my transgression.”

  “Was there no alternative?”

  “I tried everything. In the end, I sought out a phrenomancer, who claimed my father was still alive.” The lie about his father pained him. When Val was in high school, Dane Blackwood had perished during the archaeological expedition in which he had found the legendary sword Will now carried. His father had fallen off a cliff in Dordogne—yet how could a spirit mage have plunged to his death? Was his magic somehow expended? Or had something more sinister occurred?

  “I knew of no other way to reach him,” Val continued.

  “Why did you not ask permission?”

  “Would it have been granted?”

  She took in his response, gazing at him with a neutral expression. “There exists a little known provision in the Common Law that allows a prisoner to be freed in service to the crown. Should you choose to accept it, I have a mission that, if completed, would secure your freedom.”

  Val was stunned. He didn’t even care what the offer was. If the choice was execution, or live and have a chance to find his brothers, he would do anything she asked.

  “I understand your desperation,” she said, sensing his feelings, “but hear me first. You may have noticed,” she turned to a raised dais that supported an empty glass case beneath the chand
elier, “the absence of the Star Crown. An artifact bestowed in the Golden Age by Myrddin himself, as a symbol of the newly formed Congregation.” She turned back to Val. “A year ago, the Crown was stolen.”

  “From here?” Val said, incredulous. “By whom?”

  “A renegade gypsy spirit mage. Tobar Baltoris. He seduced one of our own to gain entrance, and fled through a spirit door. His actions alerted my guard—” she glanced at the gray-cloaked wizards “—and they pursued the thief to Exmoor. Imagine if the Star Crown, the very symbol of the might of the Congregation, were to fall into the hands of the Revolution!”

  “So it hasn’t?”

  “Not yet. But neither do we possess it. The Crown is not just symbolic—it is an artifact of great power, to an extent we did not even realize. When our wizards located Tobar, he placed the Star Crown on his head and attempted to flee through the dimensions. One of our own mages attempted to stop him. We do not know exactly what occurred, except that our spirit mage and the Wizard Guard who went in pursuit—some of our most powerful conjurers—have not been heard from since. And the tract of heath and moorland where this battle took place—a swath of rugged countryside largely unpopulated—has also disappeared.”

  “I don’t understand,” Val said. “How can land just disappear? What’s there now?”

  “A strange, opaque fog. I am told it is an impenetrable magical barrier. Except, perhaps, to a spirit mage. My scholars speculate that an implosion of opposing magical forces and some unknown power of the crown was the cause. Yet no one knows what lies across the fog, and I cannot risk another spirit mage.”

  “Except me,” Val said grimly. “You can risk a prisoner about to be executed.”

  She gave a curt nod. “It is, perhaps, an impossible task. Moreover, there are fates more uncertain than death in the realms of spirit. Do you still, Val Kenefick, choose to accept this mission?”

  He took a deep breath, his voice more uncertain than before. “I do.”

  “Then go. Find a way across the barrier, and return the Star Crown to its rightful place. This is the only way to convince the Conclave that you do not favor the Revolution.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I wish for this mission to succeed,” she continued, clasping her hands in front of her, “and fear it is beyond your limited capabilities at this stage of your education. There is another prisoner who shall accompany you, and I will allow you to select three additional companions.”

  To his surprise, she stood there and waited for him to choose. After a rushed but agonizing decision, he gave her three names. She inclined her head towards one of the gray-cloaked wizards, who floated out of the room.

  “How long before I know if they’ve accepted?” he asked. He didn’t relish the idea of confinement in wizard prison for another few months.

  “I will give them one day to decide. Another to wrap up their affairs and gather their belongings.” She gave Val a parting glance before sweeping out of the room with the imposing cadre of majitsu and Wizard Guard trailing behind her. “Lord Alistair will send those who agree through the Pool of Souls. Three days hence, regardless of who comes, you will depart.”

  -4-

  “I can’t believe you’re going,” Caleb said.

  Will started donning the soft leather armor the local tanner had supplied. “You can still come with me.”

  “Thanks but no thanks. The trip to Leonidus’s castle was one too many death-defying adventures for my lifetime.”

  “Maybe you wouldn’t have to go inside the pyramid.”

  “And do what, wait in the jungle by myself?”

  Will pulled a pair of calfskin breeches and a gray woolen cloak over his armor, then slid into his boots. When he finished dressing, he walked over and put his hands on Caleb’s shoulders. “I can’t bear the thought of splitting up.”

  “Then don’t go. Simple as that.”

  “I have to, Caleb. We need something to help Val. We need to find a way home. And these people . . . our people . . . they need our help.”

  “Our people? This isn’t even our world!”

  “Do we refuse to help someone simply because they weren’t born in our neighborhood, our city, our country?” Will said quietly. “And it is our world. It’s Dad’s world.”

  “This better not be about Xena the Warrior Princess,” Caleb muttered.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Will said, though he couldn’t deny his feelings for Mala.

  “Be careful, or she might sneeze and accidentally kill you. Then sell your sword on the black market.”

  Will strapped on his scabbard. “Mala’s a good person. I just don’t think she realizes it.”

  “My little brother, always trying to change the world.”

  “If everyone was a pacifist like you, I wouldn’t need to.” Will picked up Zariduke and held it lengthwise in his hands, studying it. When he finally looked up, he said, “I’m terrified.”

  “As you should be.”

  “I don’t belong with them.”

  Caleb sat beside him and draped an arm around his shoulder. “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re a warrior now, Will.”

  “I’m a novice.”

  “Not after the escape from the mines, and what I saw during the wizards’ attack. Plus, you have a cool secret weapon.”

  “Dad’s sword can’t stop an arrow. Or any other non-magical weapon.”

  “Not that, dork.” Caleb poked him in the heart. “This. More than any of them. More than anyone I’ve ever known. You better come back to me, little brother. If I’m going to die in this world, I at least want you by my side.”

  “No one’s going to die in this world,” Will said, trying to force himself to believe it.

  Will left the room with a heavy heart, nauseated by the thought of splitting up from Caleb. Though he had to admit his brother was in no condition for a journey, and his limited skillset would make him a liability.

  Before he met with Tamás, Will stopped by Dalen’s room. He found his friend practicing his budding illusionist skills, using the light streaming through the window to transform a crystal in his palm into a multi-hued prism.

  “Take care of yourself, buddy,” Will said.

  Dalen set the crystal down. “Lucka, I wish I was going with you.”

  “Next time. Keep an eye on Caleb, okay?”

  The young illusionist looked doubtful. “I’ll try. I’ve never seen anyone who can outdrink an entire clan.”

  “I know,” Will said quietly. “Do your best.”

  Dalen flashed an infectious grin. “Maybe they’ll let me be the wizard on the next expedition.”

  Will clasped forearms with him and took his leave. For all his talk about his adventures with his Da, Will suspected Dalen’s life journey had been a rough and lonely one.

  He seemed happy here, though. The Freetown gypsies had taken him in. Even better, a local illusionist had accepted Dalen as his apprentice.

  After saying goodbye to Marek, who was waiting on the next caravan east to rejoin his family, Will searched in vain for Mateo. Had his cousin returned to the Blackwood Forest? Was he off mourning his brother?

  Yasmina wasn’t around, either. That hurt. He guessed she was off in the surrounding forest, doing whatever it was wilders did, but she had promised to meet him to say goodbye. He traipsed across the ruined town looking for her and Mateo, the smell of death and ash still lingering in the air, his stomach clenching at the extent of the devastation. The colorful tents and pavilions of Freetown lay in heaps of charred canvas, the sparkling fountains dry and lifeless, pubs and inns leveled.

  The mood of the people was even grimmer. Those who remained were mostly revolutionary fighters, the injured, and healers. Others had stayed because they had nowhere to go, squatting in lean-tos on the beach as they worked to repair their wagons.

  Will watched three golden-bodied, crimson-winged simorghs circle and then descend into town, their long tails fluttering behind them. The party’
s ride to the lost pyramid of the sorcerer king. Will hurried to the central square to join the rest of the group.

  Long and sinewy like a reptile, yet feathered and beaked like a bird, the powerful simorghs were perched like regal statues in the middle of the square. Tamás was standing by the shattered beer fountain with two people: Mateo, and a slender woman wearing a forest green traveling cloak, brown boots, and a green-and-red bloodstone pendant. Their wizard, Will guessed.

  “Mateo!” Will said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I wanted to say goodbye.”

  “Why would you want to do such an unpleasant thing?” Mateo grinned, and Will noticed the rucksack and buckler at his feet, the shortbow strapped to the back of his patchwork cloak, and a thick leather belt coiled around his waist. A wooden hilt stuck out from the front of the belt.

  “You’re going with us?” Will said, thrilled at the prospect.

  Mateo embraced him, his brown eyes tinged with sadness. “We will search for the coffer and avenge my brother together.”

  Tamás introduced the woman, who looked a few years older than Val, somewhere in her mid-thirties. “Selina is your sylvamancer for the journey.”

  Will knew sylvamancy was one of the eight core disciplines, and that was about it. Something to do with forests and the natural world, he assumed. He didn’t care. He was just happy they had a wizard.

  “Don’t you mean our sylvamancer?” Will said, noticing Tamás wasn’t carrying any gear.

  Tamás took him by the arm and led him away from the others. “My people are in disarray. Scattered along the Barrier Coast. They need their leader here, with them.”

  Will didn’t know what to say. He was counting on Tamás’s steady presence and prowess on the battlefield.

  “Mateo is my equal in a fight, I assure you. One of the best we have, an urumi blademaster. He and Selina will be valuable assets to the expedition. With you and Mala by their side . . . I have high hopes for your success.”

  Will felt buoyed by his confidence, though he knew Tamás was a born leader and trying to raise morale.