The Wizard of the North

by Richard Stephens

  “You see? You will know when the wizard draws nigh. The closer you become, the stronger the sensation.”

  Karvus cupped his burning hand, afraid to see what the ring had done to his skin, but when he opened it and examined his finger, there were no signs that he had worn the talisman at all.

  Helleden plucked the ring from the ground. The eye had gone dormant. He wiped off the dirt it had gathered and handed it back to the reluctant emperor. “I suggest you wear it around your neck once the ring detects the wizard.”

  Karvus gaped. The sorcerer was mad if he thought he would entertain placing something as dangerous as the Serpent’s Eye around his neck.

  “Oh, not to worry, my emperor,” Helleden said, as if he had read Karvus’ thoughts.

  Karvus wasn’t certain the sorcerer hadn’t.

  “As I said, the ring’s reaction is proportionate to how adept the magic user is. I can assure you that you will not find one who is even remotely as powerful as I.”

  Karvus held the ring in his fist. The eye flared to life, for but a moment, its surface stinging his hand. He opened his fingers and jerked his hand away. The ring fell, the eye lifeless before it hit the ground.

  Helleden’s smug face spoke of mischief. “Do not forget, my emperor. Bring me back the wizard’s staff. It is the only thing that will prove you have completed your task. You are to leave at once. Horses await you.”

  “Horses?” Karvus questioned.

  “Yes. Tygra Keen has volunteered to accompany you.” Helleden turned to indicate the Kraidic warrior. “To act as insurance, if you will, in case you forget your task.”

  In case I forget my task? Tygra is to spy on me? Karvus struggled with the sorcerer’s meaning. He looked at his trustworthy aide. Surely, Tygra wouldn’t betray him.

  Tygra met Karvus' gaze for a moment before casting his eyes to the ground.

  Helleden pulled the tent flap open and left without a sound.

  Karvus bent down to poke at the Serpent’s Eye. Satisfied the ring no longer posed a danger, he picked it up and held it in an upturned palm, studying it with disgust. To his surprise, the eye flared to life, burning his palm. He pulled his hand away, and the ring dropped to the ground.

  The emperor stared at the flap as it settled in place. What had he gotten himself into?

  A Lonely Road

  Pollard cast his gaze westward. The northeastern face of the Muse rose up from the plains less than a day away. He rode at the head of the king’s vanguard as the remnants of Zephyr’s army made their way south toward Gritian, with the report of Helleden’s forces marching on their heels. The rear scouts had yet to see evidence of the sorcerer’s army, but long-range riders confirmed that a demon horde, bolstered by an even larger contingent of Kraidic warriors, had pulled up stakes in the Altirius Mountain foothills and were systematically destroying anything that hadn’t been pulverized by the firestorm.

  Also following their progress south was the oncoming cold weather. Luckily, it had been an unusually warm winter so far. The ragtag mob following the king’s flight were ill-equipped to deal with the inevitable, cold months ahead. Another good reason to get everyone below the Undying Wall.

  Pantyr Korn rode beside the Songsbirthian, his gaze darting frequently to the fringes of Redfire Path where Yarstaff jogged along, his short strides not seeming to affect his ability to keep up with their horses’ slow trot.

  As big as Pollard was, Pantyr had been able to outfit him with a mount that suited his size. With the Clydesdale between his legs, they occupied the space of two mounted men.

  Somewhere far behind, King Malcolm had insisted today that he walk with his foot soldiers, allowing someone else to ride and rest their weary legs. The procession was four days out of Carillon and thus far had maintained a rigourous pace—the threat of Helleden’s advance provided the extra incentive needed to persevere.

  In the distance ahead, the statues overlooking Alpheus’ Arch came into view. King Malcolm had sent word to the front of the procession to stop at the bridge to allow the horses to graze and drink on the banks of the Calder River.

  “Such a bizarre bridge,” Pollard commented on the towering cornerstone statues of rearing horses that were erected on both ends of the bridge.

  Pantyr followed Pollard’s gaze. “It does seem odd, doesn’t it? There isn’t a finer span anywhere in the kingdom, yet it stands here, in the middle of nowhere. You know why, don’t you?”

  Pollard shook his head.

  “Alpheus’ Arch used to mark the crossroads of a much greater kingdom. From a time before the Kraidic Empire, the Forbidden Swamp, and the Wilds were split from the grand realm. Zephyr was but a southern duchy back then. A time when magic ruled all.”

  Pollard gave the old captain a puzzled look.

  Pantyr laughed. “Don’t be so alarmed. Those days are gone. Other than the recently deceased king’s wizard, may the gods grant him peace, and Helleden Misenthorpe, there really aren’t any magic users left. At least on this side of the world.”

  “What about the Wizard of the North? Is he dead too?”

  Pantyr frowned. “Aye, there is that one, I guess, but he’s so detached from the real world that we needn’t worry about him. He hasn’t come off his perch in over four hundred years. I doubt he’ll bother himself with the petty squabbles facing us now.”

  Petty squabbles? Perhaps in the great wizard’s eyes, they are petty. He slowed his horse’s advance, marvelling at the craftmanship of the weathered horse statues, and indeed all the others that lined the length of Alpheus’ Arch. No less than a hundred gargoyles standing three feet high filled the gap between the four cornerstones.

  Clopping along the bridge deck, Pollard stopped his horse midway to ponder the significance of the two incredibly detailed, godly sentinels facing each other from either edge of the bridge; arms folded as if passing judgment on any who dared cross. Were they depictions of long ago heroes, or did they belong to one of several religions that split the kingdom into factions? Whatever they were supposed to represent, they were intimidating in appearance and grandeur. He gave a slight shake of his head and urged his mount across the remainder of the span.

  Rook sat along the northern bank of the Calder river, basked in the stunted shadow of a great stone horse flailing its petrified hooves. His bow and Avarick’s crossbow lay beside him. It was nice to unload the Enervator’s cumbersome weapon for a short while. He had carried it so long now, that even when he took it off, it felt like it was still perched upon his back.

  King Malcolm sat beside him, taking a break from his sovereign duties—the ever-vigilant captain Pik never far from his side.

  Rook’s mind drifted to when he and Alhena had scrambled up this very bank with a crazed band of Kraidic warriors on their heels. What a wild bunch of days that had been. He recalled they had worried whether the northern empire had thrown its lot in with Helleden. Hindsight had vindicated their fears.

  A small, brown duck floating toward the bridge caught his attention as it made its journey downriver, peacefully bobbing in the strong current funneling beneath Alpheus’ Arch. It turned its beak back and forth, examining the multitude of bodies lining the ornate bridgework and the banks to either side. Someone tossed a heel of bread from the bridge and the duck paddled over, picking away at the chunk before it sank beneath the surface. The current whisked both duck and bread into the shadow of the bridge deck and out of sight.

  Rook envied the duck its simple life—drifting along the current without a care in the world.

  Across the river, Pantyr Korn stood conversing with Pollard, the large man easily identifiable amongst the crowd of horses and people drinking and refilling their water supply.

  “What are you thinking about?” Malcolm’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  “Nothing, actually. Kind of nice for a change.”

  Malcolm prized a stone out of the ground and threw it into the river. “Sounds nice. I wish I could train my brain to do likewise.”
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br />   Rook studied the king’s mustachioed profile. His blond hair had dulled over the years, and now sported more than a few veins of grey—every bit earned, no doubt. He hadn’t seen Malcolm since the great feast of Lugubrius, two decades earlier. Since the day he had become king. Before that time, though, for several years leading up to the Battle of Lugubrius, Malcolm had been almost as much a part of Rook’s life as Silurian.

  As a prince, Malcolm had been a silent, sixth member of the Group of Five. Whenever his father, King Peter, permitted it, Malcolm had accompanied Rook’s band of vigilantes across Zephyr and beyond, righting wrongs that the benevolent king was loathe to officially address for fear of offending certain domestic families, or upstart rulers abroad. The Group of Five were an autonomous band, but often acted under the secret direction of the crown.

  Rook noted the heavy burden harboured behind the king’s warm, deep blue eyes. “Don’t worry, my king. We will raise Zephyr from the ashes and defeat Helleden’s forces, you wait. Our people have great reason for despair at the moment, but when the time comes, they will stand fast.”

  Malcolm’s smile seemed forced. “The people have suffered much over the years, but it’s different this time. Helleden’s attack four years ago almost finished us,” his voice became very quiet, the pain of losing the love of his life, Quarrnaine, a direct result of that attack, “and yet, as a people, we survived. Twenty years before that, Helleden had beaten us back to the walls of Castle Svelte. My father’s death almost sealed our fate then, but we survived. The Kraidic Wars during my grandsire’s days had driven us over the Undying Wall, and yet, we as a kingdom shored up our resolve and beat them back into the sea.”

  The king became quiet. A lone tear slid unabated down his cheek. His Adam’s apple convulsed. He turned glossy eyes on Rook. “This time, it’s different. Never have we been so thoroughly routed. Even when the Group of Five delivered us upon the plains, we raised our blades in defense of those we loved, but not this time. Helleden allowed our army to slip back to Carillon unmolested, and then lowered the hammer when were all in one spot. If he unleashes another firestorm, we’re done for.” He swallowed and turned his gaze back to the water flowing under the bridge.

  The lone duck had reappeared. At least Rook believed it to be the same one. It drew closer to the bank, its head tilted, regarding the pair. Its orange feet paddled for all they were worth to resist the current.

  Rook smiled as the curious fowl bobbed along, inspecting them. “It is my belief that something hinders Helleden from doing so.”

  Malcolm looked him in the eye.

  “If he was capable of delivering another firestorm, he would have done so by now.”

  Malcolm considered his words.

  “For some reason unknown to us, considerable amounts of time have lapsed between the latest storms. It’s been many months since he destroyed the Innerworld and what, over a month now since his last storm? I honestly think something prevents him from casting a spell of that magnitude at will.”

  Malcolm wiped his eyes on a vermilion sleeve. “True, but for how long? If we get caught out in one, we’re dead men.”

  “That I don’t know, but if recent reports prove true, the Chamber of the Wise wasn’t harmed. If we seek answers, there is no better place to start.”

  “Perhaps, if we had the time. There’s Helleden’s army to consider now. Even without another firestorm, the Kraidic reinforcements will destroy us. Look around.”

  Both men took a moment to do just that. Apart from a couple of knots of battle hardened men and women, the royal army consisted of farmers and merchants, tradesmen and courtiers. With Krakus the Kraken leading the reinforcements, Zephyr was surely doomed.

  Malcolm got to his feet. He adjusted his surcoat bearing the royal coat-of-arms: a golden eagle with wings poised for landing, clenching a sword in its talons. “We must not tarry. I’m thinking that Gritian will be but a brief stop. We cannot allow Helleden to pin us against the Undying Wall. I will spread the word that Ember Breath is to be our ultimate destination.” He gave Rook a weak smile and hauled himself up the steep bank to where Captain Pik stood watch. With heads together, they disappeared into the throng.

  Rook sighed. He felt bad for the king. Malcolm was a fun loving, life living soul at heart, but the weight of the kingdom’s perils had snuffed that spark from the once energetic man.

  The duck stopped at the edge of the riverbank and looked up at him, tilting its head as if asking him to share what he knew of the king’s troubles. He gave the duck a rueful smile—he really had no idea how burdensome the affairs of the crown were during peaceful times. He couldn’t imagine the stress Malcolm experienced now. Like the woman with the dead baby, everyone expected Malcolm to have the answers to their problems, when in truth, the king was just another person struggling to find his way through life. Unlike a common peasant, however, the king never had to worry about a roof over his head, nor whether or not he was able to eat. Instead, he worried about whether his subjects had a safe place to call home and the means to provide a living for their families. It was the king’s responsibility to ensure there was enough food for an entire kingdom come the long winter months. Should he erroneously make decisions due to personal prejudices or gut reactions because his heart swayed his thinking, many lives hung in the balance.

  The duck drifted back into the middle of the river and slipped out of sight beneath the bridge.

  Rook watched the last spot he had seen the duck for a while, his mind numb with conflicting emotions, on top of his worry about King Malcolm. Thetis’ betrayal and Silurian’s death were seldom far from his mind.

  He sighed. Perhaps the king should follow the duck’s example and let the current carry his troubles away. Anyone who thought being a monarch was glamour and fun, was sadly mistaken. Holding the fate of everyone’s lives in one’s hands was, of a certainty, a lonely road.

  Grimward

  Silurian withdrew his sword, grabbing the hilt with both hands, and drove its razor-sharp point into the ice. Other than getting the blade stuck, his desperate attempt to break the ice failed miserably. He tweaked his back wiggling the sword back and forth, pulling with all his might to free it. Without warning, it let go. He came close to slicing Melody as he stumbled backward.

  He put his sword away and withdrew Soulbiter again. What choice did he have? Placing a hand on Melody’s shin where it protruded from the ice, he knelt on his knees and jabbed at the ice around her feet. Chips and splinters of frozen water pelted him in the face. He turned his head to avoid taking a shard in the eye.

  The ice around them darkened and heaved. The serpent rose out of the depths directly below.

  Another jolt like that would surely break the surface and drop them into the lake. Given the weight of his sword belt and his bulky clothing, swimming would be next to impossible.

  The underside of the ice darkened again.

  Silurian wrapped his arms around Melody.

  The floe heaved upward. Thunderous retorts of cracking ice marked the serpent’s emergence through the ice. A wave of freezing water sloshed over them as the section of ice they stood upon angled upward and shot forward.

  Silurian’s mind whirled with all the things he was going to have to do to survive a plunge into the lake. He’d have to give up his sword belt, kick out of his boots, and shrug out of his heavy tunic, all while maintaining a grip on his unconscious sister, whose voluminous robes were sure to act like a giant sponge. He could ill afford to lose his grip on her. If he did, she was done for.

  The sheet of ice shattered around them, leaving them suspended on the chunk that had captured Melody’s feet.

  The ice sheet tilted farther. Silurian sucked in a great breath in anticipation. The berg ground to a halt and flipped perpendicular, throwing him through the air. He cried out as he lost his grip on Melody, practically pulling her robes over her head before the material slipped through his fingers.

  He braced himself for the freezing water but
was physically stunned when his body impacted on solid ground. His sword hilt dug painfully into his abdomen and his face scraped upon a slab of rock. Chunks of shattered ice clattered down all around him. He shook the cobwebs from his head. Mel!

  He pushed himself to his knees. He had landed several feet inland with Soulbiter still firmly clutched in his hand. Between himself and the shoreline, a lump of dishevelled, dark blue robes lay unmoving amongst the receding backwash—shards of ice flowed around her and slipped off the low ledge they had been thrown onto.

  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Melody’s staff caught in the backwash as it bumped its way to the lake. He made a desperate lunge and grasped the bottom tip of the staff as it teetered on the rock’s edge, slowly slipping into the lake. With a quick yank, he rescued the staff and scrambled to his sister on hands and knees. Her body lay in awkward angles—a fair-sized ice block imprisoning her feet.

  An ear-piercing screech scared him half to death. The serpent. He looked over in time to see its beady eyes and long snout slide beneath the fractured floe. Two large body coils breached the surface and followed its head into the depths.

  Silurian checked Melody for signs of life. Relief eased his anxiety when she moaned. Her robes were soaked and gooseflesh riddled her skin. He needed to get her off the shoreline, away from the serpent and out of the lake breeze. A fire would be ideal, but he had no idea how to go about making one in short order. Melody was the wizard. It would take him precious time to get one going on his own.

  He felt about the inside of his tunic. His piece of chipped flint was still there. He hadn’t used it since he and Avarick had descended from the mountains into Madrigail Bay. He absently tried to recall how long ago that was, but he had lost all sense of time. It had been over two months, of that he was certain.

  He stood up and used his feet to clear the bits of ice away from her body so that he could safely bend over and hoist her surprisingly heavy dead weight over his shoulder. There was no other way to carry her. He wasn’t a big man, nor overly strong, so cradling her like a small child was out of the question. Her sodden robes didn’t make the chore any easier. Grunting with the effort, he studied the island’s interior. The shoreline rose into a dark woodland populated by tightly spaced trees that grew thick around a high bluff.