The Wizard of the North

by Richard Stephens

  Alhena heard Larina’s harsh whisper, “Not now, Lunkhead.”

  Hoping the women could keep Olmar in check, Alhena addressed the chambermen. “That is preposterous. If Silurian had gone to Castle Svelte without the enchantment of his sword, he would have perished as well. There was nothing he could have done to prevent Helleden’s firestorm.” He struggled to keep his voice civil.

  “If what you claim is true, then what would be the difference?” Abraham’s face was expressionless. “Silurian’s refusal to adhere to the Chamber’s decree has sealed Zephyr’s fate.”

  The chambermaster’s statement didn’t make sense. Surely, he saw the emptiness of his accusation.

  The hunched figure in the black cowl leaned in to whisper something into Abraham’s ear.

  The chambermaster nodded several times before turning his attention back to Alhena. “Where is Rook Bowman?”

  Alhena was taken aback by that question. He remembered Vice Chambermaster Solomon Io’s warning about strange occurrences within the Chamber. He glanced at Solomon, but the vice chambermaster looked away. Was that shame on his face?

  Alhena forced himself to stare into the chambermaster’s eyes. “I do not know, Your Eminence.”

  Abraham’s face behind his long, well-kempt white beard turned red. “Do not add perjury to your long list of offences, senior messenger. You left Madrigail Bay with him and two others not present with you now. One reportedly a demon.”

  “How can you know that? We came straight here.”

  Abraham leaned forward. “How dare you question the high bishop of Zephyr? You stand before me guilty of high treason, but instead of pleading for the Chamber’s pardon, you come before us with the intention of further deceit.”

  The chambermaster’s actions were out of character. He was the religious head of Zephyr. He above most others should see the ludicrousness of his accusations. He was a man burdened with heavy responsibility and tended to come across as strong-willed, but he was also a man known for his patience. A man that would listen without judgment—whose level-headedness enabled him to mete out just punishment. The man seated before Alhena had gone mad.

  Alhena searched for something to say to mitigate the rising tension.

  Chambermaster Uzziah jumped to his feet, and threw him to the ground. “Seize them!”

  Alhena hit the stone platform hard. Olmar roared and the sound of swords being pulled free of their scabbards resounded all around. Two high-pitched shouts echoed within the relatively empty cavern.

  Alhena gathered his wits enough to look over at the broiling mass of confusion. Several guards struggled to pull Olmar off his feet.

  Sadyra and Larina stood over two recently felled guards and braced themselves to face several more.

  The sound of metal banging off something solid averted Alhena’s attention back to the scrum around the sailor. Olmar staggered beneath the weight of five large men, but he refused to go down. Spitting and trying to bite anything within reach, he was doing anything he could to relieve the pressure of the men pinning his arms and legs.

  He let out a mighty roar and threw one of the burly guards off his right arm. He was about to pummel the man wrapped around his waist when the flat edge of a poleaxe whacked him across the forehead, the same metal sound Alhena had heard moments before. The blow stunned Olmar.

  The guards worked together, taking Olmar crashing to the ground. With his arms caught up by several guardsmen, he was unable to break his fall. His massive head rebounded off the stone platform, and he went still.

  “Midge!” Sadyra screamed. She feigned a punch to the head of the man in front of her and doubled him over with a hard kick to the groin, quickly followed by an elbow to the back of his neck as she simultaneously kneed him in the face. The man dropped motionless at her feet.

  Beside her, Larina engaged another guard but he back-stepped away from her high kick and was joined by two others who used their combined weight to drive her off the stage.

  Sadyra, caught between wanting to help Larina and needing to ensure Olmar was alive, wasn’t able to prevent another guard from driving into her midsection and taking her down. She scratched at his eyes, but his metal gauntlet drove into her cheek, smashing her teeth into her lips.

  She spat blood into his eyes and tried to squirm free. A second blow hammered the side of her face. Her head rebounded off the floor and she, too, went still.

  The figure in the black cowl pulled Alhena to his feet and dragged him from the stage.

  Olmar regained consciousness to the sound of metal scraping on metal. As near as he could determine, he lay on a cold earthen floor within a dark room. The only light visible filtered through the edges of a small door in the wall opposite of where he lay, and from around a rectangular slot near the bottom of that same door. The musty room smelled of dampness and rot. Another unpleasant aroma assaulted his senses, but he couldn’t place the odour.

  His head ached in three separate places, the worst of it originating at the back of his head where it had bounced off the stone platform.

  “For the blessed gods.” He jerked sideways as something skittered by his arm and headed toward the door. The sudden movement made his head pound.

  The only things he could hear were the scratching of tiny feet and the odd squeak from somewhere in the darkness behind him.

  A faint gnawing sounded by the door. His addled thoughts focused and he realized the significance. The metal scraping had been the small slot at the bottom of his door opening and closing again. The unpleasant odour came from whatever slop his gaoler had left for him. The gnawing noise meant that the rodent that had brushed against him was eating his meal.

  He forced himself to sit up, wincing as stabs of pain immobilized him. He crawled over to the door and, sure enough, a rodent squeaked its displeasure and scurried away.

  The metal bowl felt filthy in his hand, but at least it was warm to the touch. He brought it close to his nose and almost gagged. He threw the bowl after the fleeing pest, the metal vessel clanging loudly off the rock wall before thudding to the dirt floor.

  A throaty chuckle resonated from the other side of the door. “You’ll not be getting more ‘til the morrow,” the deep voice informed him as it moved off.

  “Bloody ‘ell,” Olmar muttered. “I needs t’ get outta ‘ere and see t’ Pops and me lassies.”

  He felt around the edges of the food slot, but there was no way his sausage-like fingers could pry at the thin gaps around its edges. He pushed at the cover plate. The outside latch rattled, but the slot was too narrow for him to put enough force behind his fingers.

  He felt along the base of the door and discovered the metal door frame was embedded in the earth.

  He inspected one edge of the door, then the top, and down the far side. He couldn’t feel anything that called out to him as a potential weakness, nor had he really expected one.

  Teeth gnawing on metal grabbed his attention. The bowl!

  Olmar dropped to his hands and knees, the sudden change in posture making his head pound harder. Taking a couple of steadying breaths, he groped along the edge of the wall until he located the errant bowl. A squeak of protest greeted him, but it was too dark to see the critter responsible. “Bah, be gone ya little squeaker,” he said to it. Kneeling before the door, he used the bowl to dig at the hard-packed dirt.

  He didn’t know how long he scraped away at the ground, but more than once he heard a cell door squeal upon its hinges. He called out a few times, but no one responded.

  His metal bowl let out a tooth-shattering screech that made him cringe. He had struck a rock. With his tongue between his lips, he scraped around the edges of the shallow depression. Sweat dripped from his nose as he removed thin layers of dirt from the perimeter of the hole in an effort to expose the edges of the rock.

  Hunger gnawed at him while he worked. He rued his decision to feed the slop to the thankless vermin. If nothing else, the gruel might have helped ease his thirst.

&n
bsp; He must’ve dropped off at some point because the squeal of his door slot opening jarred him awake. Before he could focus, a small wooden bowl was pushed through, its outline highlighted by flickering torchlight on the other side of the door.

  He tried to call out but his mouth was so dry his voice came out as a hoarse grunt. “Wait.”

  If the person on the other side of the door heard him, they didn’t let on.

  The wooden bowl slid across the threshold and tipped into the shallow hole, spilling its contents. The slot screeched home and a click marked the activation of the locking mechanism.

  Olmar fumbled at the wooden bowl. It had contained water, but most of it coated the top of the rock he had been trying to worry free. He sipped at the little water left in the bowl, relishing its moisture. It had a strong metal taste, but he didn’t care. He lapped the bowl’s surface to get every last drop, though it was barely enough to wet his mouth. He cursed his luck.

  With nothing to do about his misfortune, Olmar patted the floor around him and located the metal bowl. He began digging again in earnest, hopeful the spilled water had softened up the dirt.

  A metal squeal sounded in the distance, longer and more pronounced than his food slot. Perhaps a cell door being opened.

  Olmar stopped digging and put his ear to the small trap door.

  “Out with ya, old man,” a gruff voice ordered.

  Alhena?

  “Come on now, Uzziah ain’t got all day.”

  The edges of Olmar’s food slot brightened. Someone walked by his cell. He crammed his face against the trap door. “Alhena! ‘Tis Olmar! Are ye okay? Pops!”

  “Olmar?” It was Pops’ voice.

  A loud smack reached Olmar’s ear.

  “Quiet, old man. Don’t you be responding,” the gruff voice commanded, “or I’ll knock you senseless.”

  The brightness around the food slot faded away.

  Olmar jumped to his feet and whacked his head off the low rock ceiling, staggering him, but the pain did nothing to quell his rage. He hammered on the door and bent low, throwing his weight against the steel barrier. The door rattled in its frame.

  “Hey, guard! Yer a dead man! Ye ‘ears me! Dead!”

  Olmar pounded the door for a long time, throwing his body into the unforgiving barrier, time after time, but the door refused to give.

  After a while, the pain in his head became too much to bear. He put his back against the door and slid to the ground, coming to rest on the immovable rock at the bottom of the shallow hole.

  Alhena flinched every time Olmar threw himself against the cell door, the impacts so loud he feared the sailor would bring the tunnel ceiling crashing down. The reverberations sounded like an enraged dragon attempting to bash its way out of a cage to protect its young. The only satisfaction Alhena received was the hint of fear behind the burly guard’s eyes every time Olmar’s door shook in protest.

  Alhena knew the dungeons well. He had been down here on several occasions in the past to translate for foreign prisoners the Chamber had detained over the years. This had been Avarick Thwart’s domain before Silurian had come into the picture. Alhena doubted the present Enervator could aspire to be as ruthless as Avarick had been. Never, in all his years, had Alhena been warier of one individual than he had been of Avarick—the vile sorcerer Helleden Misenthorpe excluded. Yet, in the end, the emotionless Enervator had become an integral part of the Under Realm quest. Were it not for Avarick’s heroic sacrifice, it was likely none of them would have returned.

  Reaching the top of a curving stairwell, their eyes were assaulted by the brightness of the well-lit tunnel that led to the main passageway. Two guards at the top of the steps parted to allow them passage. Jibrael awaited against the far wall.

  “I’ll take him from here,” the Enervator said, grabbing Alhena by the elbow.

  The burly guard tilted his head. “Sir?”

  “He’s an old man, Tarl. What’s he going to do? Die on me?” Jibrael asked, dismissing the guard’s concern. “Have a chat with that animal down there. We heard him all the way up here.”

  Tarl grunted, not looking happy at the prospect of returning to the dungeon level.

  Alhena wrested his elbow from the Enervator’s grasp and spun to face him. “What’s this all about?”

  The tunnel guards stepped forward, and Tarl stopped on the edge of the first step.

  Jibrael ignored them. He reclaimed his hold on Alhena’s arm and impelled him down the tunnel. “You do that again and I’ll break it.”

  Alhena glared at the Enervator, his breaths heavy, but he kept walking. He had little choice. Perhaps Avarick hadn’t been such a bad Enervator after all.

  They turned right at the main tunnel. Curiously, at the fork in the tunnel beyond the eating halls, Jibrael directed Alhena down a smaller passageway to the left, away from the Chamber of the Wise. Toward Abraham Uzziah’s personal chamber.

  The tunnel narrowed and veered right, terminating at an iron strapped, oak door protected by two guards. Seeing Jibrael, one of the guards pulled the door open without being asked.

  Sconces lined the short corridor beyond, illuminating beautifully rendered battle scenes and religious ceremonies carved into the granite walls. Making sure to secure the door, the Enervator led them past six opposing wooden doors set into either side of the tunnel, their frames a flowing extension of the long dead artisan’s masterpiece. They stopped at the end of the short passage before a bronze strapped door.

  Jibrael raised his hand to rap, but the thick door swung silently inward. High Bishop Abraham Uzziah, clad in the red robes of his office, gestured for them to enter with an outstretched hand, and promptly closed the door behind them.

  A modest fire flickered against the far wall. Abraham nodded to a plush, leather couch, and sat himself down on the opposite side of an ornate table inlaid with an ivory top.

  Glancing questioningly at the Enervator who remained rigid by the door, Alhena sank into the leather couch, refusing to be cowed by whatever the two men were up to. He would find out soon enough. Swallowing his resolve, he faced the chambermaster. A strong, aromatic incense wafted upon the air, turning up his nose.

  Abraham gave Jibrael a subtle nod and the Enervator took his leave.

  Alhena thought that odd, leaving him alone with the chambermaster.

  A shadow detached itself from the back corner of the room on the far side of the stone hearth. The dark figure from the Chamber. It shuffled toward him, its black cowl hiding its features. A small thurible swung from the end of a fine-linked chain wrapped about its folded hands—the vessel’s perforated surface emitted small wisps of burning vapour. Long black claws tipped its fingers.

  Alhena gaped. The creature carried his staff within its grasp.

  All the King’s Horses

  Yarstaff followed behind Pollard’s massive bulk, comforted that the man considered him a friend.

  Rook and King Malcolm walked ahead of them as they picked their way over the shattered causeway across the moat and into the broken city of Carillon. A knot of King’s Guard fanned out around the royal procession, ensuring that the grimy-faced people lining the streets bore no visible weapons. Their job was made much more difficult because King Malcolm insisted that any who wished to speak with him directly be permitted to do so. Their progress through the vast city proved excruciatingly slow.

  The majority of the stone buildings were now nothing more than blasted carapaces, their interiors obliterated. Black scars on the ground were all that was left of many of the wooden structures that had once provided the backbone of the merchant community lining the main roadways.

  Several townspeople approached the king and took a knee, the hardship of the past weeks evident upon their downcast expressions. Yarstaff couldn’t hear what they spoke about as he and Pollard offered them space, but it wasn’t lost on him how Rook kept an ever-vigilant watch standing next to the king of Zephyr.

  The captain of the King’s Guard, Umber Pik, came
bounding down the street toward them. He stopped and respectfully awaited King Malcolm’s attention, looking as if he was about to burst.

  King Malcolm finally nodded to the citizens he had been speaking to, nodded his head when they bowed low and walked away. He turned his attention to the captain. “Captain Pik.”

  “M’liege, I beg you follow me at once.”

  “What is it, captain?”

  “Good tidings, m’liege.”

  “Pray, do tell, Pik. It’s not like you to leave your king in the dark.”

  “Nay m’liege, but I’m thinking this is best seen first.”

  The royal entourage moved with increased speed through the devastation. To his credit, and Captain Pik’s consternation, King Malcolm stopped on a couple of occasions to converse with small groups of beleaguered citizens.

  As they approached the last bend in the roadway before the city’s north gate came into view, Yarstaff noted that the cobblestone route appeared much cleaner than that of the road behind them. The buildings around the immediate area hadn’t escaped the firestorm, but the usual pile of debris wasn’t as evident.

  The sound of a horse clopping along the cobbles piqued everyone’s attention. When the magnificent animal came into view Yarstaff was awestruck. He’d heard stories of these transport animals, but he had yet to see one. It was huge. The man on its back looked small in comparison.

  Pollard must have spotted his wonder. “Ah, of course, you’ve never seen a horse before, have you? Not even at Madrigail Bay?”

  Yarstaff shook his head, speechless.

  “With one of them between your legs, the leagues fly by during your travels. A good horse is worth its weight in gold.”

  “Gold?” Yarstaff frowned. “How do you compare a useless metal with such a beautiful animal? Zephyr’s customs are strange.”

  Pollard burst out laughing, but curtailed his mirth when Rook looked over at them questioningly.

  The rider dismounted and took a knee. “My king. News of your well-being brings gladness to my weary heart.”