The Wizard of the North

by Richard Stephens

  Not a single building remained standing; wood, brick or stone. Charred, smoking remains of larger stone buildings were the only evidence that a city had stood here at all. The only landmark remotely intact was the river gate bridge. The massive iron portcullis sat askew of its two tower keepers, blocking the river’s flow. Broken boats and flotsam pushed against its far side, damming the river’s egress.

  One of the sailors close to Pollard said, “Maybe they got away. I don’t see no boats.”

  “The boats are there.” Pollard’s voice killed any optimism the sailor had attempted to evoke. “Look beneath the waves.”

  The sailor frowned until realization set in. He swallowed hard.

  As Gerrymander slid into the harbour, Pollard’s revelation proved true. Ghostly hulks of large ships could be seen beneath the water’s surface. Spars and yard arms protruded from the gently rolling water—some displaying the tattered remnants of burnt sailcloth.

  A female sailor’s shrill scream sounded on Pollard’s right. Everyone jumped. The man in charge of the ballista almost pulled the release lever and put a hole in the foredeck. The sound of retching followed the scream. A bloated, white corpse entangled in the loose rigging of a submerged yardarm, floated on the surface of the water. The only sound in the harbour, other than the water’s rhythmic lapping upon the shoreline, were the cries of carrion birds circling overhead.

  Pollard searched the mountains surrounding the burnt-out city. Come sundown, anyone still alive within the city would have far bigger problems to worry about.

  Helleden

  Helleden wasn’t as patient as a man of his age might suggest. By four hundred and fifty odd years of age, people might think he should have the learned patience of a glacier. The people suggesting it to him would be wrong. The people suggesting it to him would find themselves dead.

  Coming down from his mountain aerie had taken him the better part of the day, but there was no rush. The emperor of the Kraidic Empire could wait.

  Spread out before him, at the base of a foothill abutting this particular crag in Zephyr’s Altirius Mountain range, countless thousands of his minion horde milled about—creatures of varying shapes and sizes, bearing weapons of all descriptions.

  Beyond the writhing throng, a tarpaulin town had been erected around a large, central pavilion, flying the black flag of the Kraidic Empire. He smiled at the vast number of Kraidic troops he would soon have at his disposal.

  He wasn’t a big man by any standard. His wan skin and sunken face cast him sickly beneath long, stringy black hair. Black robes, piped in crimson runes, fluttered about his sparse frame. For a brute, he was small, but his strength wasn’t measured by his size. His strength lay in his mastery of the arcane world. With the demise of the Soul, a satisfying event he had masterfully orchestrated, he had become the most powerful being alive—and, unlike the Soul, he wasn’t bound by ethereal fetters.

  The battle upon the Dead Plains had gone more or less according to plan, but it hadn’t done so without a cost. One of his favourite pets, the Morphisis, would be dearly missed.

  Helleden’s master, the Soul, had been so fixated on Silurian entering the mystic river, that it hadn’t foreseen the wretched leader of the Group of Five overcoming one of its strongest minions. Nor had the Soul figured on Helleden entering the mix.

  Most of Zephyr north of the Undying Wall now lay beneath a layer of black ash. By timing his power draw, Helleden had effectively sapped the Soul of its power at the same instant Silurian had risen to use the Soul’s own power against it. The ensuing demise of the dark deity had blown the top off Iconoclast Spire and rained death on those fighting upon the Dead Plains.

  As well as Helleden’s plan worked, something unforeseen had occurred during its tumultuous climax. A foreign presence had made itself felt within the Soul Forge. One that had been vaguely familiar, and that unsettled him—more so because he couldn’t put a name to it.

  He should have been elated to be rid of the Soul’s over-lordship while at the same time thrilled to have orchestrated Silurian Mintaka’s demise. The swordsman had been a major irritant to his plans for many, long years—him and that damned blade of his. With the Soul and Mintaka buried beneath a hundred thousand tons of blasted rock, Helleden should have been ecstatic, but ironically, that knowledge offered him little solace. There was a new player to worry about.

  Two massive red demons bearing tridents left him at the edge of the Kraidic encampment—his reputation alone was enough to clear a wide swath through the rabble of Kraidic warriors.

  Cognizant of the large group of guards following his progress, he focused on the great tent looming before him, its perimeter surrounded three deep by huge, fur-clad warriors.

  Notoriously ambitious, the Kraidic emperor had had his sights set on Zephyr for many years, but Zephyr’s disciplined army always managed to keep the warring empire at bay. Until now.

  With the devastation unleashed by his latest firestorm, Zephyr’s military might had been eradicated. The combined push of his demon horde, accompanied by the emperor’s savage troops, would prove more than enough to quash any resistance straggling about the crippled kingdom.

  Deploying Kraidic forces in strategic outposts to ensure no insurgency took place behind them was Helleden’s intent, leaving him free to continue his conquest south, below the Undying Wall. All he needed to do was convince Emperor Krakus to do his bidding. Once Zephyr fell, the rest of the civilized world would open up before him.

  Helleden didn’t fool himself. The emperor wouldn’t be happy with his plans to reduce the ferocious emperor to the role of peacekeeper, but Helleden felt confident that when the brute was confronted with that prospect or his life, the boor would capitulate. If Helleden’s threats weren’t enough to convince the emperor, there was always the Sentinel.

  Emperor Krakus paced about his palatial tent, awaiting his audience with the sorcerer—the one referred to as the Stygian Lord. Krakus stroked his greying brown beard, perspiring more than the temperature called for.

  Rumour had it that Helleden would demand he remain behind, serving as a rear guard. Sorcerer or not, Krakus wasn’t about to deny his legions their chance for battle and the spoils of the southlands. If that was Helleden’s intent, the sorcerer had another think coming.

  Krakus looked to the two naked women sprawled on the fur blankets of his travel pallet, and scowled. Even they weren’t enough to lift his spirits. With a snarl, he ordered them out. When they didn’t move fast enough, he roared, “Now!”

  They jumped with a squeal, quickly wrapped themselves in whatever cloth they could find, and bolted through the tent flaps. A series of whistles sounded from outside.

  On the far side of the tent sat an enormous man. The grim look on the red beard’s face matched that of his father. Karvus absently stared at the colossal battle-axe set on the table before him. Several rings twinkled upon sausage-sized fingers as he stroked the heads of his two dybbuk hounds—feral dogs related to the Doberman family but thicker through the chest. Dybbuk hounds were bred to fend off the predatory beasts that preyed upon the tribes calling the Wilds their home. The hounds were devastating when they were employed as a first line of attack.

  Krakus stopped in front of his son. “Who does this sorcerer think he is? Telling Krakus the Kraken what he can and cannot do?”

  If Karvus thought the question was anything but rhetorical he didn’t let on.

  Krakus shook his head, not for the first time. “If he even begins to waggle his fingers in my presence, I’ll shove them up his arse.”

  The tent flaps parted, causing him to jump.

  Immediately the dogs were on their feet, heads low and fangs bared. Karvus issued a command and they settled down; their attention riveted upon the newcomer.

  A black-bearded Kraidic warrior stepped inside, carrying a large war-hammer—his girth no less than that of either man in the tent. Dropping to a knee, he rested the metal head of his weapon on a black throw rug at his feet
, his eyes cast to the ground. “Helleden comes off the mountain, my emperor. He’ll be here shortly.”

  Krakus looked less than pleased. “How many are with him?”

  “His self is all, my emperor.”

  “He comes alone? Into my camp?”

  “Seems the way of it, my emperor.”

  Krakus turned away and started pacing again, the kneeling man’s presence forgotten.

  The man swallowed, daring to look up. His gaze fell on Karvus, who dismissed him with a nod.

  Karvus got to his feet to retrieve a flagon of wine from a central table laden with food and drink. Resuming his seat, he said, “This is the most upset I’ve seen you since the misfits calling themselves the Band of Five, or something stupid like that, forced you to withdraw our troops from Zephyr’s southern coast.”

  Krakus ignored him. “Who is this sorcerer anyway? Does he drink wine? Or eat? Anything?” He spun on Karvus. “Well?”

  Karvus shrugged, taking a big gulp from his goblet. Wiping his lips on his wrist he said, “I imagine he must. He’s not dead. Is he?”

  Krakus glowered. You could never be sure with sorcerers. Shaking his head, he muttered, “If he doesn’t mind himself, he’ll wish he were.”

  The raucous noise of Kraidic camp life fell away outside the pavilion. The silence thundered the implication. Helleden approached.

  The tent flaps pushed in again. The same man entered, taking a knee.

  “My emperor. The sorcerer stands outside.”

  The dogs jumped to their feet, snarling. This time Karvus let them pull at the heavy chains lashing them to an iron stake in the ground. Stretching the tightness from his neck, he stood with his mighty weapon in hand.

  “Bring him in, you fool,” Krakus demanded.

  “Yes, my emperor.”

  The warrior pulled aside a flap and issued orders to unseen men outside.

  Flanked by two Kraidic pikemen as big as Karvus, Helleden Misenthorpe strolled into the pavilion and stopped when the pikemen motioned for him to do so.

  Krakus straightened to his full height, taking in the gaunt sorcerer—the man’s slight body clad in black robes that were festooned with crimson runes. For someone with such a big reputation, the sallow-faced sorcerer wasn’t intimidating at all. It was all Krakus could do not to laugh. He looked at his son.

  Karvus didn’t seem amused.

  Krakus turned back to Helleden. “You’re a brave man to demand an audience with me.”

  Helleden raised an eyebrow.

  “Where’s your entourage?”

  Helleden shrugged.

  “Nobody demands anything of Krakus the Kraken,” Karvus fumed.

  Helleden dipped his head.

  Was the sorcerer being flippant?

  To the side, Karvus clenched and unclenched the haft of his battle-axe, shifting his weight from one foot to another. The dogs tugged at their leads.

  Krakus watched Helleden’s fingers, each digit adorned with multiple rings. Some of the inset stones appeared to burn of their own accord.

  “What is it you want? And be quick about it. I have important matters to attend.”

  Helleden intertwined his fingers at his waist.

  Krakus tensed.

  “I want you.” Helleden said, his voice deeper than one would expect from an average sized man.

  Krakus blinked. “Me?”

  “Your army, really. What you do with yourself is of no concern to me.”

  Krakus’ eyes narrowed. “If you think I’m holing up in this forsaken realm while your, your…” He searched for a more despicable term but came up short. “Your demons enjoy the southern spoils, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  Helleden’s stoic face tilted to one side. “I believe you are the one who is mistaken, emperor.”

  “What?” Krakus spat. “I ought to—”

  Helleden’s calm voice cut in, “Do as you’re bidden.”

  Karvus stepped toward the sorcerer, ready to split his head.

  The dogs, at least half Karvus’ size, strained and snapped their yellowed teeth, saliva spraying.

  Krakus swallowed. He knew what he ought to do. Nobody spoke to him like that. If it had been anybody else, they would’ve already found their head on a pike, but the sorcerer’s calm demeanour unsettled him.

  “Have you not always desired to rule Zephyr? I have given it to you.”

  Krakus trembled, but not with fear. “Given me what? A pile of rubble?”

  Helleden raised his thin eyebrows. “It is Zephyr. A mighty kingdom. Respected by most. Feared by the rest.”

  “Bah! Once mighty. You’ve seen to that. ‘Tis nothing but charred rock and ash now. I may as well go back to Kraidic.”

  Helleden nodded his head. “If that is your wish, but your army remains.”

  Karvus took a step toward the sorcerer, bringing him within reach of the insolent man.

  The pikemen standing just inside the tent flaps tensed. The dogs pulled on the stake so hard it began to shimmy free of the earth.

  Helleden looked Karvus in the eye, his hands slowly untwining.

  Nothing intimidated Karvus. His arm muscles flexed, ready to swing, but his father’s voice stopped him.

  “Karvus, no!”

  An uncomfortable silence settled over the tent.

  Helleden gave the son an empty smile and turned his attention back to the Emperor. “You have until I return to give me your decision.” Ignoring Karvus, he walked from the tent.

  The two pikemen went to block him, but a subtle shake of Krakus’ head stopped them.

  Helleden’s black robes fluttered about him as he passed through the flaps and disappeared into the night.

  Keepy’s Lament

  Madrigail Bay smouldered in the morning mist of the new day. The smell of charred wood and burnt grease lay heavy across the harbour.

  Captain Thorr had ordered Gerrymander to unweigh anchor in the middle of the bay to see out the night. The ragtag flotilla of Voil craft had pulled up around the ship’s bulk, tying themselves together. Thorr didn’t want anyone wandering the desolate city after dark. The stories the night watch relayed to him about the noises they had heard, and the shadows witnessed skulking the city overnight, reiterated that his decision had been a sound one.

  Pollard, glum-faced as ever since returning from the Under Realm, sat in the stern of the large skiff Olmar impelled toward the docks. With the two big men in the same boat, its gunwales threatened to take on water. Three more landing craft launched from the ship, and accompanied them ashore, each of the vessels burdened with armed men and women.

  They approached the same dock Olmar had ferried the quest from all those weeks ago. Yarstaff, Longsight and Blindsight were already ashore, guarding their approach to the severely damaged jetty—an eerie silence muting the bay’s usual cacophony of sound.

  Rook grabbed a rung on the pier’s ladder and stood up, his bow slung over his left shoulder, his quiver and Avarick Thwart’s black crossbow slung over the other. He threw a rope up to Blindsight. “Anything alive up there?”

  Blindsight caught the rope and tied it off. “We haven’t seen anyone yet, but we’re definitely not alone. Something lives out there.”

  Pollard, first up the ladder, unsheathed his sword and walked along the unstable wharf, his footfalls raising puffs of black ash. He passed Yarstaff and Longsight tying off two more landing craft and stopped to watch what was left of the closest building’s skeletal structure for movement. With all the scattered debris swirling about the dock pilings and littered along the shoreline, Pollard assumed the building must have housed volatile substances.

  Alhena and Rook stepped up on either side of him. Pollard sensed, rather than heard, the auburn-haired Sadyra slip in behind. Without looking back, he knew the left-handed archer had her bow strung and an arrow loosely nocked.

  Alhena mouthed the obvious, “Helleden.”

  Rook nodded. He and Alhena were the only ones to have experienced the sorcerer’s fires
torms.

  Olmar’s piercing whistle made them all jump. “Woo-wee. That’s sure’n to be a mess.”

  Everyone turned to glare at the bull-legged mammoth, but he never let on he noticed their sour looks. “No way a man be capable of all this,” he declared. “Sure’n to be a volcaner if’n I had ta guess the right of it.”

  Alhena grabbed Olmar’s elbow and spun him slowly about to take in the surrounding city. “Do you see any ash? Other than the soot left behind by a great fire. If a volcano were responsible, the whole city would be buried.”

  Olmar’s eyes widened. He hocked and spat at a hole in the deck boards. “Well doesn’t that chew ya?”

  The rest of the landing party formed up behind them, an even split of Voil and Gerrymander crew.

  The Voil inched past them and approached the gravelly shore, their peculiar faces lit up in awe. Although the city lay in ruin, the misshapen creatures had never seen anything like Madrigail Bay. The only life they had known was cowering within the sand cliffs paralleling the Marrow Wash.

  “Hey. Easy little guys.” Pollard stomped ahead with Yarstaff at his side and Sadyra right behind. “We don’t know what’s crawling about. Best let me go first.”

  The looks he received from the short creatures were not ones of appreciation. The Voil had lived a life of chaos, enduring creatures fiercer than anything the soft Zephyrites had ever dealt with.

  Olmar shuffled up to join their wary approach. “Aye, me toadies. We need strength ta ward our backsides. See that we ain’t come upon unawares.”

  Pollard offered the only man taller than himself a smirk. At least the midgets listened to the gapped-toothed, bow-legged giant.

  Olmar winked, eliciting a rare smile from Pollard.

  The group entered the remnants of an unstable warehouse, but saw little besides the burnt corpses of a few unfortunate souls who had been trapped within the building when it burned. Nothing of value remained.