The Wizard of the North

by Richard Stephens

  Pollard’s heavy brow furrowed.

  “It’s okay, Pollard,” Rook interjected. “These fine men have never seen a Voil before.” He turned back to the captain. “His name is Yarstaff. He hails from a realm…well, a land far across the Niad Ocean. He is a friend.”

  “Of yours, maybe,” the captain muttered.

  “Um, yes. He’s our friend. Anyway, we’ve just arrived from Carillon with King Malcolm’s vanguard. Pollard here is with the Songsbirthian Guard,” Rook explained.

  The captain didn’t look impressed.

  The tallest guard took an interest in Rook’s bow.

  Rook glanced over his shoulder. “You like my bow? I’m Rook Bowman. You may have heard of me.”

  None of the guards showed any recollection.

  “The leader of the Group of Five.”

  Still no response, other than bored faces clearly wishing they would move on.

  Rook sighed. How quickly society forgot the deeds of yesteryear. If these men only knew the sacrifices their forefathers had made to allow them to enjoy the life they lived now; albeit with a tyrannical sorcerer bearing down on them.

  Rook grabbed Pollard’s elbow and started to turn him away. “Come on, they’re only doing their job. Perhaps Alhena and the others are in the city complex,” he said, but out of the corner of his eye he caught the uneasy glances shared by the guards at the mention of Alhena’s name.

  “You know him? Alhena? Kind of looks like a wizard with a long white beard, strange white eyes, and uses a walking staff?”

  The captain considered the question longer than seemed ordinary. Finally, he asked, “What of him?”

  “You do know him.” Rook’s face lit up. “That’s who we’re here to see. Where is he? In there?” Rook indicated the Chamber entrance with his eyes.

  The captain’s face darkened. “He left a couple days back.”

  Rook frowned. “He left? To where?”

  “Look, mister Bowman. They don’t tell us stuff like that. Word is he and his mates is gone, that’s all I know. Now, why don’t you move along?”

  “His mates? A female archer and a man as big as Pollard here, right?”

  The captain glowered. “Aye, and another archer bitch.”

  Rook did a double take; not sure he heard the captain correctly. It sure sounded like the man despised Alhena’s group.

  Pollard put a hand on the hilt of his sword, which prompted the three guards behind the captain to ready their polearms.

  “Another archer? Who would that be?” Rook asked, clearly confused.

  “Who cares. If she travels with a traitor, she is no better.”

  That made a little sense. When Alhena had slipped away from the Chamber a few months ago, he had been deemed a traitor. The members of the Gritian militia wouldn’t know any different. It stood to reason that anyone linked with Alhena would be considered a traitor by virtue of their association.

  “Ah, Alhena is still considered a traitor? He was cast out then?”

  The captain grunted. “Hardly. Him and that vat o’shit giant,” the captain’s eyes flicked to Pollard’s threatening glare. “They done killed two of our friends and escaped into thin air.”

  Escaped? Rook didn’t know what to say. He could tell by the demeanour of the guards that they tired of the conversation. He surmised that if it wasn’t for Pollard’s intimidating size, the captain would more than likely have ordered them detained for their interest in Alhena.

  Rook indicated with his head that Pollard should follow him back up the road.

  Pollard stood steadfast for a few moments, his menacing glare daring the guards to make a move to stop them.

  Thankfully, Rook thought, the guards were smarter than that.

  King Malcolm walked beside High Bishop Abraham Uzziah as they made their way down Redfire Path toward the Chamber complex entrance. He listened intently to everything the religious head of Zephyr had to say about the events of the last few months. He was deeply saddened to hear about the death of High Warlord Clavius Archimedes. The man had been a headstrong military leader, but given the nature of his position, he had been the best man for the job. He had served as High Warlord for over a decade.

  A knot of Chambermen strode along around them. The newly appointed Enervator, Jibrael Fox, and another headstrong man who had recently trained with the King’s Guard at Castle Svelte, led the procession into the trench.

  Malcolm noticed Rook, and Yarstaff on Pollard’s shoulders, standing to the side, allowing the group to pass them by. All the king could do was catch their eye and smile as he was hustled past the four guards and into the Chamber entrance.

  Pantyr Korn and Captain Pik managed to get by the guards, but Jibrael put his hands up to prevent anyone else from entering.

  Malcolm was about to protest, but Abraham put his arm over his shoulder and impelled him forward, saying, “I cannot begin to tell you, Your Highness, how relieved myself, and indeed the entire council, was when we heard the happy news of your survival.”

  Malcolm gave the high bishop an odd look. He would hope the council would have been relieved to hear that. It wasn’t the first time Abraham had mentioned it.

  Together, sixteen men and women made a solemn trek into the heart of the Chamber warrens.

  “We need to speak to the matter of who is going to replace Clavius as High Warlord,” Malcolm said as they passed a fork in the tunnel leading to the chambers housing the militia and the entrance to the dungeon. Malcolm was familiar with the complex, having travelled along the passageways many times in the past forty-nine years. They passed three healer’s rooms on their left.

  “Not to worry,” Abraham assured him, “we’ll discuss everything at great length. First, we must address your personal needs. I cannot imagine the horrors you have endured these last few weeks.”

  “Oh, I’m fine, Your Eminence. The sooner we put the immediate affairs of state behind us, the sooner we can turn our minds to moving forward and defending what remains of the kingdom.”

  They passed another tunnel shooting off to the right, leading to the area set aside for the servants.

  A mess hall sat empty on their left followed by a smaller one reserved for the Chamber of the Wise council themselves.

  Abraham stopped at the intersection where the main tunnel veered to the right and ended out of sight at the double doors of the Chamber of the Wise. His intense blue eyes sought out Vice Chambermistress Arzachel Gruss. “Arzachel, why don’t you and the rest of the council show His Majesty’s men the Chamber? The king and I will be along shortly.”

  Clad in a red robe, cinched at the waist by a cord of spun silver, Arzachel bowed her head and held out a hand for Pantyr Korn and Captain Pik to accompany her and the eleven other Chambermen down the main hallway.

  Everybody went with her except Vice Chambermaster Solomon Io.

  Abraham frowned. “Yes, Solomon?”

  “I don’t need to see the Chamber.”

  Abraham’s eyes hardened. “I need you to accompany them. The king’s men may have questions that only you can answer.”

  The vice chambermaster appeared nervous. His eyes found Malcolm’s for a brief moment. The man seemed to shiver. Or was he shaking his head?

  “Solomon.” High Bishop Uzziah’s stern voice interrupted whatever the vice chambermaster had been up to.

  Solomon swallowed, took one last look at Malcolm and cast his eyes to the ground as he trailed after the others.

  Malcolm’s gaze followed the curious man down the corridor. He didn’t notice the high bishop nod to Jibrael. The Enervator trailed after the vice chambermaster.

  “Now, what were we talking about?” Abraham smiled at the aging king. Before Malcolm had a chance to respond, Abraham said, “Right, the joys of power. Come, Your Highness, we shall achieve a more complete comprehension of what must be done once our corporeal needs are tended.” He put his arm around Malcolm’s shoulder and steered the king along the left tunnel toward the Chamber counci
l’s private quarters.

  The king looked over his shoulder. The tunnel was empty save for themselves. “Where are we going?”

  “Hmm?” Abraham asked, distracted. “Oh, my chambers. I think it best we speak alone. I have a rather delicate issue I wish to discuss. One that shouldn’t be aired in public. Is that alright, Your Highness?”

  The atmosphere in the complex felt—Malcolm frowned, not knowing exactly how it felt. Strange? The tunnels were so quiet. Perhaps he was being paranoid, but something about their reception didn’t sit well with him.

  It struck him as odd that the new Enervator had led so many troops that far away from Gritian to meet them. What would have precipitated them to set up at the crossroads to the Forbidden Pass? It was almost as if they were there to prevent anyone from using the less travelled road.

  Unsure how else to respond without sounding mistrustful, Malcolm flashed Abraham a fake smile. “Sure, I guess.”

  Abraham returned a smile of his own. “Of course it is. Then we’ll meet with the Chamber and decide the best course of action going forward, hmm?” Abraham stopped at an iron strapped door barring their progress and pushed down on its brass lever. He swung the heavy door inward, motioning for the king to enter the short hallway beyond.

  King Malcolm had been down this tunnel on several occasions in his lifetime. He mused at the absence of the guards that were normally posted outside the iron strapped door. They passed twelve doors facing each other and stopped at the tunnel’s end, confronted by a bronze strapped door inlaid with intricate scrollwork. He watched Abraham touch several nondescript spots around the doorframe. A soft ‘snick’ sounded and the door swung inward without a sound.

  A welcome blast of warm air hit them from inside the chambermaster’s private rooms. An unfamiliar scent filled the interior, different than what a fire would give off; pungent and abrasive. A wispy haze floated above an ivory-topped table between the leather couch and a chair fit for a king—the High Bishop’s seat.

  The thick door closed of its own volition, coming to rest amidst a chorus of latches falling into place.

  “Come my liege. Have a seat,” Abraham said.

  Malcolm turned his back to the chambermaster. “Did that door just lock itself?”

  Abraham bowed his head. “Aye, but not to worry. It does that by design to bar,” he paused, his colourless lips forming a tight smile, “let’s say, undesirables.”

  What an odd thing to say. Malcolm had known Abraham Uzziah for as long as he could remember. He recalled being taught his letters by Abraham, who had then been a young acolyte of the cloth at Castle Svelte. Malcolm had been a hopeless daydreamer, and Abraham, the simple cleric, had had his hands full trying to keep his attention focused on his lessons. Over the years, and certainly after Silurian came to live at the castle, Malcolm had formed a close bond with the budding priest. Not once during their relationship as teacher and student, and later as friends, had he ever felt anything but trust and respect toward the aspiring man.

  Being as deep as they were within the Chamber of the Wise living quarters, Malcolm had trouble thinking who could be so bad as to entice the bishop to lock them out?

  The king gazed at Abraham, not liking what he saw in the man’s eyes. A deep chill filled him.

  A shadow detached itself from the back wall. From what Malcolm could discern, the face hidden within the cowl didn’t appear entirely human.

  He cast a concerned look at Abraham, expecting to see the bishop as alarmed as he. Instead, the High Bishop of Zephyr gave the hooded creature a nod.

  As fast as Malcolm pulled his sword free of its sheath, the creature proved quicker. It grasped him by the neck and thrust him against the locked door, squeezing so hard that its curved claws punctured the skin around his windpipe, threatening to crush his throat. Zephyr’s sword of state slipped from his hand and clattered on the floor.

  Unable to breathe, the king’s blue eyes flicked unbelievingly to Abraham. Why would he do this?

  The chambermaster’s sinister glare bore into him. “Tell me everything you know about the Wizard of the North.”

  Even if King Malcolm knew what the high bishop was talking about, he couldn’t answer. He shook his head, indicating his ignorance.

  Abraham’s scowl didn’t bode well. “I’m not talking about the new Wizard of the North. He is of little concern and being dealt with.”

  Malcolm’s eyes grew wide.

  “Yes. You know who I mean. The real Wizard of the North.”

  The room became fuzzy. Malcolm’s pupils began to roll up into his head.

  Abraham persisted, “I have reason to believe Phazarus is still alive. I also have reason to believe, that as king of Zephyr, you know who that person is.”

  Malcolm’s eyes flicked open again, fear evident in their dying haze.

  Abraham nodded. “Aye, my liege. At the risk of your life, which I might add is of no consequence in the grand scheme of things, my colleague here shall take the steps necessary to exorcize your secret.”

  Malcolm’s body fell limp in the creature’s grasp.

  Brokk

  Grimward Island was as quiet as a tomb as the first rays of sunshine broke through the trees lining the ridge.

  Silurian and Melody built up the fire to ward off the damp chill that had settled over the island.

  The Grimward had left them the day before, claiming it needed time to gather itself before it even considered honouring whatever boon they sought from it.

  “Do you think it’ll come back?” Silurian poked at the fire with a long stick, sending orange sparks and ash into the air.

  Melody sat beside him on the ground, her robes tucked beneath her. She’d been afraid she might lose a few toes, but thankfully, her feet didn’t appear to have suffered any long-term effects from their prolonged exposure in the ice boot. She nodded as best she could as she worried out the tangles in her long hair with a comb wrought of bone.

  “What the hell is he, anyway? I’ve never seen anything like that before. I know you said he was a spirit of a long-dead wizard, but when I think of spirits,” he shrugged, trying to think about what he actually thought of spirits. “I guess I figured a spirit would be like…I don’t know…ghostlike. Without substance.”

  Melody stopped in mid tug, a pained look on her face as she held a knot of hair at bay. “A ghost? You’ve seen a ghost before?”

  “Well, no. Not exactly.” Silurian jabbed at a log, rolling it over in the flames to expose its glowing underside. Smoke wafted into his face, causing him to lean back. “The Soul was probably the closest thing I’ve seen to what I might consider…ethereal.”

  “Ethereal, huh? Big word.” Melody grunted, pulling a knot of shredded strands free of her comb and tossing them into the flames.

  Silurian shoved her on the shoulder. “I’ll give you a big word.” He shoved her harder, almost tipping her over.

  Catching herself, Melody chuckled and began working at another impossible tangle.

  “Do you think it will help us, this spirit?”

  “I don’t see why not. I’m the current Wizard of the North, so we are kind of like family.”

  Silurian raised his eyebrows. “Aye, the resemblance is uncanny.”

  Melody shoved him back with all her strength, sending him sprawling to the ground laughing.

  Silurian lay on the ground, happier than he had been in a long time, despite what loomed ahead of them. Being with his sister had reawakened his zest for life—the redeeming quality so many people had once told him he possessed in abundance. His ability to see the good in any situation, no matter how dire, had been his biggest strength.

  He rolled to a sitting position and took the time to enjoy watching Melody fight with the comb’s progress through her golden hair.

  It must be a wizard thing, he thought. She was only two years younger than himself, yet the telltale signs of passing years hadn’t appeared to have affected her—her face wrinkle-free, her hair still maintaining its
lustrous, blonde sheen. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear Melody’s twenty-year disappearance had been the result of her winking out of time and popping back into existence a few weeks ago.

  A cold breeze fanned the flames, sending white ash flying from the ring of stones. Melody and Silurian looked around. It wasn’t until they looked straight up that they noticed the skeletal torso descending from above. They jumped to their feet and backed away.

  “Finally, you show me the respect I am due,” it rasped, settling down beside the campfire.

  Melody dropped the comb in her bag and tucked it away. She grabbed her staff. Its runes came to life immediately. “Tell us, Mr. Carmichael. Have you decided to help us or aren’t you as great as you claim.”

  “How do you know that name?”

  “You told us yourself when you mentioned the name of Silurian’s sword.”

  “So I did. No matter. If you truly are the Wizard of the North, I suppose you would know that anyway.” The spirit rose into the air and hovered. “Why have you come to me for help? People are supposed to come to you.”

  “I wish it were that simple.” Comprehension crossed her face as she remembered Phazarus’ teachings. “Thunor Carmichael.”

  The Grimward’s eyes flared. “I have not heard that name spoken for centuries. I had almost forgotten it, and yet, you call me by my birth name. Mase Storms End taught her daughter well.”

  “It was actually Phazarus. My mother never taught me anything to do with her past.”

  “She sheltered you. Fortunate that Phazarus found you when he did.”

  “Found me?” Melody asked, incredulous. “Marble Eyes abducted me. He stole my life.”

  “Saved it, more like.”

  Melody frowned. “Saved it? How?”

  The Grimward remained silent for a while. When it spoke again, its voice sounded almost grudgingly. “Expanding on the Kraidic Empire’s annihilation of all magic users, Helleden came into possession of the Serpent’s Eye, an ancient artifact designed to locate anyone possessing the ability to do what most people could not. The sorcerer coveted the ring for the sole purpose of eliminating the family line that had caused him immeasurable grief over centuries past.”