The Wizard of the North

by Richard Stephens

  As soon as the gatehouse had collapsed, Pollard had been one of the first people into the rubble, tossing chunks of rock as large as a man from the pile in a vain effort to rescue those unfortunate enough to have been buried beneath the crushing rock.

  Rook stood near the base of the pile, accepting whatever debris the people handed to him, and in turn, he handed it off to a man on the ground. He kept a wary eye on the opposite gate tower. Judging by the cracks spiderwebbed across its face, the rest of the entranceway could come down at any time.

  They were able to save two victims from the rockslide—one seriously injured. As for the rest of the people caught beneath the avalanche, they had become nothing more than fuel for the greasy fire pit crackling in earnest below the southern gatehouse.

  “We’re through!” Pollard’s voice roared above the noise of the workers and the raging funeral pyre.

  Rook looked up, but Pollard and Yarstaff had disappeared over the pile. Reaching the top of the barrier, he spotted Pollard standing with his shoulders slumped in front of where the palace doors had once stood.

  By the time Rook reached them, Pollard, Yarstaff and a few bone-weary townspeople were pulling debris away from the entranceway. If King Malcolm had been in the castle when it fell, Rook prayed that the gods would rest his soul.

  It was well after dark when word filtered through the small army of tired rescuers sat about several campfires around Castle Svelte’s inner bailey. A crew of masons had uncovered a stairwell leading into the bedrock against the southeastern wall.

  Rook struggled to keep pace with Pollard’s huge strides, but Yarstaff had little trouble as they scrambled along the edge of the broken battlements to where the wall intersected Ring Lake’s western shore. Several torches marked a path leading into a hole the masons had burrowed beneath the thick wall of what had been the keep. Though hard to see in the darkness, Rook was certain that the bulk of the southern tower lay collapsed atop the wall above.

  He tried not think about how dangerous the makeshift tunnel was—thousands of tons of rock, perched precariously on top of the shattered bulwark, just waiting for that little extra pressure to send it crashing to the ground below.

  Rook ran into the dark, tight space and banged into an irregularity in the hurriedly dug tunnel. He tensed, expecting the tower above to shift and crush him. Someone he couldn’t see bumped him from behind, jamming the frame of Avarick’s crossbow painfully into his back. The close space dulled the voices of those within the passage.

  Taking a deep breath, Rook navigated the darkness with palms held out before him. A torch flickered around a bend in the tunnel up ahead. As the flaming brand came into view, Rook saw that it had been driven into the ground beside a gaping black hole leading down, into the bedrock.

  A steep, narrow flagstone staircase circled out of sight into the earth. As fast as he felt safe doing, Rook descended into the ground. Voices echoed within the long stairwell. Reaching the bottom step, he bumped into Pollard’s wide back and peered around the hulk to see what was happening.

  Coming toward them, at the head of a multitude of relieved faces, was one of the best sights Rook had experienced in a long time. A tall, slender man with golden locks walked across a stone bridge spanning a narrow cleft in the ground. Within his arms, he carried the limp form of a small child.

  Everyone was hard put to take a knee upon the small landing.

  King Malcolm stopped before them, a forced smile on his face, the weight of the kingdom evident upon his features.

  One of the masons stood up and plucked the child from the king’s arms and held her against his shoulder. The other rescuers stood as well.

  The blonde-haired girl couldn’t have been more than four years old. She opened tired eyes, her face smeared with grime. “Bumpa?”

  “Aye lass, I’m here, Boo. These nice men have found us. Everything is going to be okay,” the king said softly.

  “That’s nice,” the girl said through a yawn, wrapping her arms around the mason’s neck and closing her eyes again.

  Malcolm started shaking hands and embracing the dusty masons confronting him, but his eyes suddenly fell on Rook. It was obvious the king wasn’t sure who had captured his attention, but Rook’s nod filled Malcolm’s face with disbelief. “Rook Bowman?”

  Rook forced his own smile and stepped forward, extending his hand, but King Malcolm pulled him into a strong embrace.

  “Oh, merciful God, it’s true,” the king said as he pushed back to arm’s length, taking in Pollard and Yarstaff. “And in unique company, I see. Where is Silurian? Is it true you two are together again? I can hardly wait to see him after all these years.”

  Rook’s grave expression spoke volumes. “There is much we must discuss, my liege, but first, let’s free you from this place.”

  Rook and Pollard, and even Yarstaff, filled the king in on what had happened during their ill-fated journey to the Under Realm. Malcolm was visibly shaken to learn of Silurian’s fate.

  A ragged assortment of the King’s Guard stood around a nondescript campfire close to the collapsed palace gates, nervously watching over their charge. King Malcolm sat on a salvaged wooden bench amongst the common rabble of Carillon. Given the events of the past few months, the captain of the guard didn’t appear happy about it, but Malcolm insisted. These people, his loyal subjects, had worked tirelessly for weeks with little food and much heartbreak in a desperate attempt to rescue him and those fortunate enough to find sanctuary beneath the castle.

  Pollard, duty bound as always, assured the captain that he wouldn’t let anyone get too close to the king, but now, standing vigilant behind Malcolm, he realized that his promise would be impossible to keep.

  The royal family was well-loved by their subjects. King Malcolm’s insistence to sit and commiserate with the common folk served to drive that admiration home. For those responsible for his royal carcass, however, times like these were the reason many of the brave men and women went grey earlier than their family history dictated.

  Pollard admired the king’s resolve. As worried as Malcolm was about Zephyr, the king obviously knew he couldn’t solve their problems overnight. Instead, he patiently entertained a long line of folk who, if for no other reason than to give themselves a spark of hope, had to see the king with their own eyes. Malcolm never lied to them about Zephyr’s state of emergency, but neither did he allow that knowledge to reflect his inner despair. He reassured each and every citizen that steps were underway to put things right.

  Already, riders had been dispatched to every major settlement in Zephyr with news of the king’s survival, commandeering many of the precious horses still left alive.

  A haggard lady, her clothes tattered and stained with soot, approached King Malcolm with a bundle clutched tightly within her shaking arms. She stopped and dropped onto the bench beside him, her scattered demeanour causing Pollard and the king’s guard angst, but the king merely watched as the distraught woman shoved the bundle into his arms. Pollard restrained himself from leaning over the bench and ripping the bundle from the king’s grasp. She might be handing him a nest of snakes.

  Malcolm looked questioningly at the woman. She sniffed loudly, wiping a filthy cuff across her runny nose, and nodded for him to see for himself.

  The king offered her a patient smile and pulled aside the bunting to reveal the remains of a baby girl, her cherub-like face slightly charred.

  Pollard gaped. His heart broke at the sight, but his warrior’s sense of protectionism had him wondering why someone would thrust a dead child into the king’s lap. The poor woman wasn’t in her right mind, and who could blame her, but that gave further rise to his anxiety. Who knew what the woman was capable of? He stepped around the bench to take the child from the king’s arms.

  Malcolm held up a hand, his attention never leaving the grieving mother. “Nobody knows where the love of God goes,” the king said softly. He pulled a lock of the woman’s greasy hair from the front of her reddened eyes. �
�But know your sweet child has been spared what is surely to come. She has been blessed by your love and is doubly blessed to sit with the Creator. Mourn hard for her loss, m’lady, for that is your due. I pray there’ll come a time that you’ll be able to see beyond the darkness and rejoice in the fact that she has passed unto a life greater than our own. Rest assured, your sweet child peacefully awaits the day you’re united again.”

  The woman sniffed loudly and stared blankly into Malcolm’s warm eyes. Just when Pollard feared she would lash out or say something out of line, she nodded and accepted her tiny bundle back from the king. Without a word, she shuffled into the night.

  “I believe that is the last of them, Sire,” the captain announced.

  “Very well, Captain Pik. See that your people have secured the perimeter of the inner bailey at least, and then get some rest. Tomorrow will be the beginning of many things.”

  “Aye, m’liege. The perimeter is secure. Watches have been posted along the outskirts of Carillon, and scouts patrol the roads. Tomorrow I will show you what we spoke of earlier.”

  “Excellent. Until then, go find some rest.”

  “Sire?” Captain Pik asked.

  The king rose wearily to his feet. “Not to worry, captain.” He indicated with a nod to Pollard and Rook. “I’m in good hands, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The captain seemed hesitant, but when the king raised his eyebrows, Captain Pik bowed and took his leave.

  “A good man,” Malcolm said. “With Captain Pik on duty, we’ll all be safe. He’ll not sleep tonight. I doubt he’s slept more than ten hours since the castle fell.” Malcolm walked amongst the dying campfires crackling near the moat, nodding and offering reassuring smiles to any still awake.

  Pollard had no idea where they were going so he merely followed, watching the backs of Malcolm and Rook, listening to their conversation. Yarstaff, quiet as usual, loped along in his wake.

  “So, what now?” Rook asked.

  Pollard observed how casually Rook spoke with the monarch. The two had obviously shared a history.

  The king stopped and shrugged, facing the demolished palace. “I wish I knew. We can’t stay here. Helleden’s forces drove us back to the castle before it fell. On the night of the firestorm, rumour reached us of a sizeable Kraidic army coming down through North Gate along the Slither. I fear they mean to join with Helleden. I’ve dispatched runners to my bannermen to see what forces are left to us.” His voice dropped away, “If any.”

  A cold chill tingled Pollard’s skin.

  “And no one’s heard from Gritian?” Rook asked.

  “Nay. You three know more than I. If the firestorm reached Madrigail Bay, it stands to reason Gritian wasn’t spared.”

  Rook glanced back at Pollard and Yarstaff, worry etched across his features.

  It wasn’t lost on Pollard that the king said, ‘you three.’ He had included Yarstaff in his observations. In the king’s eyes, the small creature had earned the right to be included in the proceedings. Time would tell whether the rest of the kingdom shared the king’s sentiments.

  Malcolm continued, “As bad as that seems, something even more profound has grabbed the attention of the Ivory Throne during the weeks leading up to Helleden’s attack. One that will carry more dire consequences than the sorcerer’s war.”

  Pollard frowned. What could be worse than the scourge of Helleden?

  Rook echoed Pollard’s misgivings. “Surely nothing can be worse than Helleden aligning with the Kraidic Empire.”

  Pollard noted Malcolm’s face portrayed something not present while he handled his subjects. Fear.

  “With the destruction of the Forbidden Swamp, the creatures of the Wilds are now free to wander,” the king explained. “Even if we’re able to muster a defense against the sorcerer, only God knows how we’re to deal with the menace the Wilds present.”

  Pollard swallowed. He hadn’t thought about the ramifications the destruction of the Forbidden Swamp might have on the western kingdoms. The swamp had acted as a buffer of protection from the unspeakable beasts inhabiting the wilds. If what the king feared came to pass, the Ivory Throne would remain nothing more than a throne of ash.

  Wizard’s Gibbet

  Silurian stumbled, almost falling face first to the canyon floor. A sizzling whoosh of air swept by him, impacting the panther-like creature creeping toward them and slamming it hard against the cliff wall. He ran toward it to take advantage of its vulnerability, but slid to an abrupt halt.

  Getting up from the base of the cliff was not one, but two giant panthers.

  “Shit!” his sister swore, very much out of character.

  Silurian recovered and stepped backward. “What did you do?”

  Melody held a hand over her gaping mouth. “I’m not sure.”

  “One not enough for you?”

  Melody glared at him but didn’t respond. She intoned more words Silurian had never heard before.

  “Um, please don’t make them any larger,” he said as he tried to gauge the two panthers’ intentions. As skeptical as he was about Melody’s next spell, he needed to keep their attention on himself to give a chance to cast it.

  The panther nearest him charged, covering the ground in three rapid bounds.

  He had been ready for the attack, but the panther’s speed left him reeling. He spun away from its headlong lunge and swung his sword at a lightning-quick paw that struck out at him on its way past. In his peripheral vision, the second cat had gone after his sister.

  Melody’s voice increased in pitch. Fearing she was being mauled by the second panther, he took his eyes off his attacker. Curiously, the second cat was nowhere to be seen.

  His momentary inattention prompted the panther to spring at him again. Hundreds of pounds of muscled fur, raking claws and flesh-ripping fangs flew through the air so fast he was powerless to avoid its path. He tried to raise his sword to intercept it but he wasn’t fast enough.

  A ball of fur whapped into his chest, knocking him back a couple of steps. Blinking rapidly, he tried to make sense of what had just happened. He should’ve been knocked to the canyon floor, fighting for his life.

  A black kitten with long upper fangs mewled on the ground at his feet, hissing and swiping a tiny paw at the air before it.

  “Aren’t they cute?” Melody asked.

  “What just happened?”

  “You asked me not to make them bigger and that gave me an idea.”

  “What if you hit me?”

  Melody shrugged. She patted her leather bag and raised her eyebrows. “I guess you’d be riding in here from now on.”

  The untravelled path rose steeply southward out of the Gap. Melody started doubting the route, but eventually it turned back upon itself and carried on into the western fissure.

  Before the trail climbed halfway up the wall, they came across a slight depression in the cliff face and called a halt to their hike before the sun lost its grip on the land altogether.

  There wasn’t any wood to be had so they sat side by side, shivering in the growing darkness.

  Melody invoked a small spell on the staff. The hidden runes glowed softly, providing them with a faint, welcome heat.

  “What was that spell you cast back there? The first one that nearly got us killed?” Silurian asked as he tried to chew on a small piece of wizard’s bread.

  “It was supposed to incinerate it.”

  Silurian laughed. “I think I soiled myself when I saw the second cat.”

  “You and me both. I don’t know what went wrong. I used the right spell but I must’ve enunciated the words wrong.”

  “You did what?”

  “Enunciated the words wrong. I must’ve placed emphasis in the wrong place, or slurred one of the words.”

  “Perhaps you should leave the sorcelling to the experts,” Silurian muttered.

  Melody frowned. “Sorcelling? Is that even a word?”

  “Beats me. Sounded good though, huh?”

  Melod
y didn’t answer. She was doubting her decision to leave her wizard’s cave. A cold that had nothing to do with the night air made her shiver. I can’t believe I destroyed those priceless books. Phazarus will have a fit if he’s still alive. She smiled ruefully. If only he were here now. It would be worth facing his wrath to have his comforting manner watch over them. She didn’t think herself worthy enough to live up to the expectations the old wizard had placed upon her. Her strength lay in divination and seeing, not in employing standard magic.

  Sure, she could use unguents to blow things up, or heal wounds, or poison people. Her staff provided her a semblance of protection with the various charges Phazarus had instilled within its runes, but when it came to combat, her skills sorely lacked the understanding required. If she were to be of any help to her brother when he faced Helleden, she needed to be better.

  She began second-guessing her actions against the panther. She had almost gotten them killed. Thinking back on it she knew what she should’ve used. Fire.

  Silurian’s hand startled her as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “I’m sorry. You did good. You stopped the threat and found the path out of here.”

  “Ya, but it shouldn’t have been so hard. I don’t think I’m cut out for this wizard stuff.”

  He hugged her closer. “Bah. I don’t know anyone else who is half as adept as you at blowing things up.”

  She gave him an incredulous look, but he smiled and hugged her closer.

  They sat silent for a long time, staring into the star-filled sky beyond the lip of the fissure at an odd wispy cloud scudding about, and listening to their soft breathing and stomachs growling.

  A lone cricket chirped somewhere close by.

  Cresting the end of the path leading out of the Gap, Silurian took in the desolate landscape. Off to the west, a line of trees dominated the horizon. Spectre Wood. Even from this distance, the dark treeline had a haunting effect on his senses. Perhaps due to the rumours Melody had instilled.