The Wizard of the North

by Richard Stephens

  They left the warehouse and walked along the debris-strewn shoreline toward the River Gate Bridge, checking any building they could still enter as they passed. In each building they found similar scenes to that of the first. The only people they found were those of bodies burnt beyond recognition.

  Many of the larger buildings still smouldered, too hot for entry. They were forced to bypass them, turning up their noses at the greasy smoke wafting about, smelling of charred meat. It proved to be a long, grim morning.

  The sun rose high overhead, dispelling the mist hugging the harbour, but it did little to rid the bay of the black clouds wafting above the smouldering structures.

  They crossed the River Gate Bridge without much difficulty, the structure an iron-worked behemoth—twisted, and blasted, but somehow still standing. The great portcullis sat askew within its warped tracks, mostly submerged and acting as a dam. Its latticed surface caught everything the mighty Madrigail River threw at it as the river emptied into the harbour. Floating in the morass of detritus were countless dead fish, drowned animals and the grisly remains of people, their bloated bodies slowly being ground into a slurry amongst the swirling debris. The smell was reprehensible. Nobody dallied crossing the river gate span.

  Trudging along the southern shoreline, skirting ruined warehouses and twisted piers, they came upon the first person they had seen all day who hadn’t been incinerated. A large, bald-headed man stood out in the open, scavenging through the remains of what Pollard surmised had been the saloon, Wharf’s Retreat.

  “Isn’t this where—?” Rook began.

  “Aye.” Pollard’s rough voice answered.

  “And that looks like—”

  “Keepy.”

  The ample-stomached man known as Keepy watched their approach from the blasted ruins of his tavern, his pudgy face deranged and dripping with sweat. He plucked a nasty meat cleaver from the rubble and stood to face the strange group.

  Pollard lifted his hands in a placating manner. “Keepy. We mean you no harm. It’s me, Pollard, of the Songsbirthian Guard. We were through here a few—”

  Keepy waggled his weapon. “Thwart! I should’ve known.” He spread his arms, turning about, indicating the destruction. “Only you could bring such disaster. Look what ye’ve done. Stay away. I’ll not warn ye again.”

  Pollard winced, putting his hands up to placate the irate barkeep. “Keepy, hear me. Avarick is not with us anymore.”

  Keepy hocked and spat in disgust. “Good. But you are nae welcome either. If you’re here, he’s sure to follow. Don’t ye think ye’ve caused enough sorrow?” He dropped his arms to his sides, slumping. Was he weeping?

  Alhena detached himself from the group and picked his way through the charred debris. He put a consoling hand on Keepy’s thick forearm. “Avarick will bother you no more. He is dead.”

  It took a moment for Keepy to comprehend Alhena’s words. “Good,” he muttered, staring at the rubble at his feet. Remnants of a great oaken bar lay in splinters behind the barkeep. His shoulders trembled. “Gone. It’s all gone.”

  Alhena looked back at Pollard who began making his way through the destruction. The Songsbirthian raised his eyebrows.

  Alhena reached out and hugged Keepy, his arms barely enough to encompass half the man’s girth.

  When Keepy finally smeared his soot-covered face on his filthy apron, Pollard held out his arms, indicating the rubble. “I hope you don’t expect me to fix this.”

  Keepy looked like he wanted to throttle him, but snorted instead, a faint smile lifting the gloom from his face.

  Pollard placed an arm around the proprietor and steered him from the rubble.

  Out of the Ashes

  Silurian opened his eyes. His head felt like a mountain had fallen on it. He reeled with disjointed thoughts. Am I dreaming? Am I dead? Where am I?

  He felt weak. Like he hadn’t eaten in a long time. He lay beside a pile of rock debris within a small cave. Light seeped through a narrow space atop the rockslide blocking what he assumed must be the entrance to the grotto. He tried to sit up, but the simple act filled him with vertigo. How did I get here? The last thing I remember…

  No!

  He sat bolt upright, pebbles flying from his tattered clothing.

  The Soul!

  He looked rapidly in all directions, trying to take in everything at once.

  Where is it?

  His last memory slammed into him. He had stood defiantly before the creature known as the Soul, his life about to end, and then…what? Someone else had made their presence felt. Two others, actually. One sinister, and one startlingly familiar.

  He knew too well the sinister presence. Helleden had been in the Soul Forge with them. Maybe not physically, but his attendance was certainly perceived.

  The other presence, though. It felt like…it couldn’t be. Unless I’m dead.

  He remembered trying to resist the Soul’s desire of taking over his body. Helleden’s appearance had distracted the Soul, effectively allowing Silurian to seize the opportunity, and attack. The last thing he recalled was the cavern disappearing within a blinding white flash, and then…he was here.

  Where was here? The blasted grotto was too small to be the Soul Forge, and yet, it felt familiar.

  My sword?

  He located his scabbard, twisted beneath him. St. Carmichael’s Blade was gone.

  His thoughts turned to the quest. The last person he had seen was the giant, Pollard. Brave, valiant Pollard. A mountain of a man, standing fast upon the shore of the mystic river, singlehandedly holding off the demon attackers.

  And Rook. Although he hadn’t seen him at the end, he had heard his best friend encouraging him to be strong and the thump of Rook’s arrows eradicating one black terror after another.

  He was certain he no longer existed beneath Iconoclast Spire. He no longer sensed the Soul’s presence. Had he killed it? A horrible thought caught his breath. So awful he began to sweat. His eyes grew wide. Perhaps he had enabled the creature to free itself from the Under Realm? No, if that were true, the creature would be in possession of his body.

  Scrambling to his feet, he examined the blocked cave mouth and began tossing chunks of rock from the pile, careful to avoid the larger slabs as they dislodged and slid past him. The more debris he moved, the more outside air blew in, cold and biting.

  Pulling enough rock aside, he climbed the mound and poked his head through the opening. To his surprise, looking down, all he could see was the topside of what appeared to be a solid layer of grey cloud. Above him, however, the sun shone, filtered by multiple layers of wispy mist.

  The sun? The sun!

  He was no longer in the Under Realm. He slid down the pile, back into the cave, flabbergasted, but grateful. I’m alive, but where?

  A husky voice sounded behind him.

  “Don’t move or I’ll cut your kidneys out.”

  Silurian didn’t need to be told twice.

  “Who are you? How did you get in my cave?” The voice sounded strange. Muffled. Almost forced.

  Silurian answered, “To be honest, I have no idea. I don’t even know where here is.”

  “Turn around. Slowly.”

  Silurian did as he was bidden. Before him stood a figure, about his own height, hidden beneath a dust-covered black cowl and flowing, midnight blue robes decorated by moons, stars and all sorts of celestial bodies.

  Silurian’s legs buckled. He knew this person. Not well, but enough to realize he wasn’t out of danger yet. Before him stood the Wizard of the North.

  He put his palms up, trying desperately to remember the spellcaster’s name. “Look, um, wizard. I mean you no harm. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just, ah, clear enough of these rocks away and be gone from here.”

  He studied the cave. The walls were marked by scrapes, probably from flying rock shards. Toward the back of the hollow, a large black smear marred the ground. The remnants of a firepit?

  “What happened here?”


  The wizard said nothing, studying him. Deciding, perhaps, whether or not to let him live. The gruff voice asked, “How did you get here?”

  Silurian was too exhausted to offer any sort of resistance. He dropped to the ground on his posterior. “Look. I have no idea. If I told you the last thing I remember, you’d call me daft.”

  “You were in the Under Realm,” the wizard said. A statement, not a question.

  “Uh, yes I was, as a matter-of-fact. How do—”

  “I am the Wizard of the North. I know everything. You were with the Soul.”

  Again, not a question.

  If the wizard thought Silurian was one of the Soul’s creatures, it wasn’t going to end well. “Um, yes. My name is Silurian Mintaka. I’m not—”

  The wizard advanced on him. From within the flowing folds of the wizard’s robes a sword appeared.

  Silurian tried to stand, but in his haste, slipped on the debris and fell hard to his backside.

  The wizard stood directly above him, holding the sword with long, dainty fingers. The blade covered in runes. Ten in total. Five exquisitely etched along each side.

  A high-pitched shriek escaped the wizard’s lips. Shoulders trembling, the sword tip dropped to the cave floor as the wizard threw back her cowl.

  If Silurian’s adrenaline hadn’t been shooting through his veins, he would have fainted on the spot.

  He had survived many bizarre twists of fate in his lifetime, but nothing remotely prepared him for who stood before him now. Beyond everything that was rational, even in his wildest dreams, he would never have guessed the identity of this person.

  His sister.

  Melody let the ancient relic drop from her hands to clatter amongst the rubble. She covered the lower half of her face with her hands. Unbridled tears rolled off her cheeks. Trembling, she fell to her knees. She appeared to be struggling to say something, but the words didn’t come.

  Silurian scrabbled over the rocks on hands and knees, oblivious to the sharp edges digging into his skin. He grabbed his sister and drew her close, squeezing her so hard he worried he might crush her, but she never complained. When he tried to disengage, she clutched him tighter.

  She was alive. He was incredulous. After everything that had happened to him, all the trials and hardships, the betrayals and loss—it all fled his thoughts. The only important thing left in his mind was the unbelievable notion that Melody, the dearest person in the world to him, was alive. He hadn’t seen, nor heard from her in over twenty-three years, and now, out of the incomprehensible chaos, here she was.

  He didn’t know how long they sat intertwined amid the blasted rock, high above the world. He didn’t care. He was content to sit with her like this for the rest of his life. He lost track of how many times he asked her, “Is it really you?” Each time he felt her sweet head nod into his shoulder.

  Finally, they released their embrace, the grime on their faces smeared by tears. Silurian grabbed a fold of her celestial robes and dabbed at her face, hopelessly trying to clean her face. He let the cloth go and cupped her cheeks in his rough hands. “It is you.”

  Her chin lifted and fell in his grasp, her watery eyes shining, and her delicate lips turned up. “Yes, silly, it’s me. Mel.” She spit out a laugh. “Remember? The one who kept Hairy awake?”

  Silurian laughed, his eyes misting up again as he fondly recalled the reference. A time, back in their youth, when they had faced the world alone and afraid, and survived. How could he forget Hairy, the troll? They had almost become its dinner more than once.

  “But how?” Silurian asked, releasing her face and plucking absently at her garb. “And this? You look like a wizard I once met.”

  She nodded. “The Wizard of the North?”

  “Yes, that’s him. He wore robes similar to—”

  “These,” she finished for him. “That’s because they’re his. Or were, I guess. He passed them on to me.”

  She smiled at the bewildered look he gave her and nodded quickly as the revelation settled in.

  “You mean…you are the Wizard of the North?”

  Her ear to ear smile confirmed it.

  “But? But,” he stammered. “Wizards are men”

  “Aye,” she laughed. “Thus, the cowl.”

  “The Wizard of the North gave you his robes? When he left? As a gift?”

  “Aye, you could say that, but it’s a long story best saved for another day.” She sounded all grown up. “The important thing is you are alive.”

  Silurian’s next words caught in his throat. He wanted to ask her more about where she had been all these years, what she had been doing, but her comment brought another thought to the forefront of his mind.

  “Yes. I am.” He looked about the cave again, seeing the burnt remnants of tomes and shards of pottery scattered about. This was a wizard’s lair, of that there could be no doubt. “My instincts tell me you have something to do with that.”

  “Um, maybe a wee bit.” She held a forefinger a hair’s breadth above her thumb. She grabbed his wrists. “What were you doing in the Under Realm?”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you know who I was with?”

  Again, she shook her head, but her smile slipped from her pretty face.

  He stared hard at her until her eyes grew wide.

  Silurian nodded. “Aye. Rook was with me.”

  Melody’s smile fell from her face. Her eyes widened further and she swallowed hard.

  He pulled her into his arms.

  Melody fought back tears. “Rook,” she said, sounding far away.

  “He was alive the last time I saw him.”

  She leaned back to look him in the eyes. “Why were you in the Under Realm?”

  “Searching for a way to re-imbue the lost enchantment on that sword.” His ice-blue eyes darted to the discarded relic beside them.

  “So, it’s true. I saw a vision of a blazing mountain peak erupting like a volcano just before my fire pit exploded. That was you and Rook in the Under Realm? Oh, Sil…” Her bottom lip quivered. She fell back into his loving embrace, holding him tight.

  She remained wrapped in his arms until the worst of her grief subsided. Finally, she leaned back and allowed Silurian to wipe her face with a fold of her robes.

  Sniffling to clear her nose, she gazed at him through glossy-red eyes. “That was weeks ago.”

  “Weeks ago? You left me lying in the rubble that long?”

  She shrugged. “I knew it was you. At least, I was pretty sure, but I couldn’t be certain I hadn’t called a demon into the cave in your guise. As you can see, getting out of here isn’t that easy.”

  “A demon? That looked like me?”

  She nodded her head slightly. “Through my vision, I sensed the Soul’s malevolent need to possess you.”

  “Then how do you know I’m me now?”

  Again, the shrug. “I don’t, I guess. You’ve been unconscious for days. I kept you hydrated and fed you. You ate quite well, actually considering you had no idea what you were doing.”

  He frowned at that. “I find that hard to believe. You pulled me through the flames and then just left me. For weeks?”

  “You were in a kind of coma that I couldn’t revive you from. I healed your physical ailments the best I could, and believe me, you were a mess. My biggest fear was that I was doing all this to rescue a demon. I’ve never done anything like this before. It just sort of happened.” She shrugged. “I’ve been trying to use charms to divine the truth about you, but,” her gaze took in the pile of charred books, and shattered vials, “I can’t locate the potion the old Wizard of the North concocted for something like this. It must’ve been destroyed when my campfire blew up.”

  Silurian mulled that over. He’d never heard of anyone being transported from one place to another. It wasn’t like he had been in the next room.

  He looked around. The cave narrowed at its back end, looking like it continued
through a narrow gap, deeper into the mountain. He tried to come up with the words to ease the obvious hurt that the news of Rook’s involvement brought. He felt it acutely himself. Unable to think of anything meaningful, he studied the cave some more. It had been such a long time since he had been here.

  Melody shivered. She stood up, grasped his hands and pulled him to his feet. “Since you were nice enough to let the cold air in, we should get a fire going. Help me gather the wood scattered about.”

  Silurian got up and rummaged about the rear of the cave, picking up splinters of wood that appeared to be pieces of an old chest, and placed them beside her makeshift firepit—a scorched patch of ground surrounded by blackened rocks. He uncovered a stick that was almost as tall as himself. Leaning it against the cave wall he lifted a foot to break it in two.

  “Not that one!” Melody shrieked.

  Silurian halted his foot in midair. “Huh?”

  “That’s my staff,” Melody said. She strode over and plucked the gnarled length of dark wood out of harm’s way.

  Silurian nodded. “Your staff. Of course.”

  Melody bent over the circle of rocks, arranging the scraps of wood. She spoke a phrase that meant absolutely nothing to Silurian, and a flame took shape within the centre of her little construction, quickly catching the bits of fuel around it.

  Silurian raised his eyebrows, impressed.

  “I’ve got something I need to tell you.” She looked up at him, her face serious. “Something you’re not going to want to hear.”

  Silurian swallowed, remembering the rest of the people that had accompanied him to the Under Realm. “The quest?”

  She gave him a sympathetic look. “Worse.”

  Parting Company

  Keepy had led Gerrymander’s landing party from the wreckage of Wharf’s Retreat, that first day back in the Bay, up the side of Pantheon Rock—a remarkable spur of granite abutting the southern shore. Here the city’s survivors sheltered in a network of burial caverns.

  The citizens had described the firestorm that had ruined their city to the men and women from the Gerrymander. They spoke of the disappearance of the sun. The sky had suddenly turned black and then fireballs coalesced high overhead and rained down upon the city.