The Wizard of the North

by Richard Stephens

  The spectre appeared to nod its skull. “Aye, the line of Thoril Storms End. Your mother’s uncle. There were few alive back then that knew of Mase Storms End’s existence. Obviously, Thoril took great pains to hide the fact. Even fewer expected the trace of magic to filter down through her, but somehow Helleden discovered the truth of the matter and dispatched a murder squad to find and eradicate her and her family. The minions blundered by not following up on whether Mase had children. I don’t know how you two were overlooked, but as such, Helleden’s minions never finished the job.”

  The spectre’s eye flames dimmed. “After leaving your parents’ residence, the murderous band went north to deal with the Wizard of the North. While on their way through Spectre Wood, they were waylaid by a band of Kraidic Warriors, and the Serpent’s Eye became part of Emperor Krakus’ collection of exotic trinkets.”

  The Grimward floated closer to her, its ghastly face inches from her own. “When Silurian appeared upon the Plains of Lugubrius and dispatched Helleden’s corporeal body, the sorcerer was alerted to the fact that his minions had failed him. That a direct descendant of Mase Storms End still lived. As long as one remained, he knew he wasn’t safe. After Lugubrius, he would have surely found out about you as well if you had remained in the public eye. If not for Phazarus, Helleden would have murdered you long ago. When he discovers you’re alive, he’ll come for you.”

  “If that’s true, what about Silurian? Like you said, Helleden became aware that our mother had at least one child when Silurian banished him twenty years ago. If we’re so important, why didn’t he pursue him?”

  Silurian stared at his feet and mumbled. “The Soul had other plans for me.”

  Melody nodded and looked away, a hint of fear in her vacant stare.

  Silurian’s skin paled. A cold tingle twitched his cheeks. That explained why his family had been murdered all those years ago. To eradicate the Storms End lineage. Phazarus had alluded to this very scenario. He swallowed at the ramifications of the Grimward’s words. Perhaps Melody should have listened to the old wizard when he cautioned her not to leave Dragon’s Tooth. The vision of the old grotto exploding outward flashed through his mind—there was no going back now. By leaving Dragon’s Tooth together, they had effectively given Helleden the opportunity to eradicate the last traces of Mase Storms End’s heritage. If the sorcerer were to become aware of their movements, they were both in grave danger.

  His sister faced the Grimward, her expression dead serious. “That’s why we need your help. Silurian’s sword has lost its enchantment. The blade alone isn’t enough to rid the realm of Helleden.”

  The Grimward backed away, but its eyes flamed brighter, a mocking tone escaping its unmoving jaw. “And what good did the sword do the last time? How many times must we banish Helleden’s spirit? He simply regroups and comes back, time and time again. Stronger with each subsequent coming. If what you say about Saros has come to pass, Helleden is already too strong to be affected by Carmichael’s Blade.”

  Melody threw her arms up. “Then what do you suggest? Just give in? Give up without a fight? How does that make sense? If there’s the slightest chance we can make a difference, we must seize it, even if it only provides us a temporary reprieve. Perhaps in the ensuing peace we may discover a proper way to deal with him once and for all.”

  The Grimward’s eyes flared and then dropped to small sparks. “You are not listening. Your attempts will prove futile. I cannot condone the Wizard of the North to throw his life away needlessly. Once you’re gone, there will be no other. Our heritage must not die.”

  “I’m a she!” Melody declared, glaring at the spirit. “And I refuse to cower in some mountain hideaway while the rest of the world dies around me.”

  “Then you condemn our order to extinction,” the Grimward said softly. “Go now. I will play no further part.” The Grimward began to turn and drift away.

  Melody stepped forward, grabbing the front of the spectre’s rags. It attempted to pull free, but she wouldn’t let go. She screamed at the skeletal creature, “What use is there for a Wizard of the North if nobody is left alive?”

  The Grimward’s eyes flared. An invisible force whipped Melody’s robes into a frenzy. The Grimward pulled free of her grasp, leaving her clenching a handful of tattered cloth, and drifted away.

  Silurian called after it. “Begone, useless spirit. Go back to the rock you cower behind but do so with the knowledge that the death of your second son might be on your hands.”

  The Grimward’s flight slowed. It disappeared behind a tree trunk and emerged on its opposite side, its fiery eyes staring at Silurian. It floated up to him, its presence causing the runes on Silurian’s sword to shine brightly.

  Silurian braced himself.

  “Brokk is alive?” Its harsh voice was barely audible.

  “Brokk? I don’t know anyone by that name. I’m speaking about Wendglow. I found him in—”

  “The Under Realm,” the Grimward finished for him.

  Silurian nodded. “Aye, the Under Realm. Leading a force of resistance fighters. Their efforts proved invaluable in my battle with the Soul.”

  “The Soul…” the spirit intoned with reverence.

  “Is dead. At least that’s what I believe. Helleden played a big part in that, if you can believe it?”

  The Grimward nodded. “It is not surprising, no. Where is Brokk?”

  Silurian gave the spirit his best contemplative look. “Wendglow? That, I don’t know.”

  “But he is alive, yes?”

  “I don’t actually know that either, to be honest.”

  “But you just said I would be responsible for his death.”

  “I said might.” Silurian saw the spark of hope leave the spectre’s eyes. “We have seen a vision showing the ship I sailed on to the Under Realm, back in Madrigail Bay. Wendglow might be with them.”

  “You are mistaken. No one has ever returned from there.”

  The Grimward began to turn away, but Silurian’s next words held him fast. “Saros did.”

  The Grimward froze. Slowly it turned back.

  “And so did I,” Silurian said as a matter of obvious fact. “If Wendglow, or Brokk as you call him, made it back, I might be the only chance we have of preventing the inevitable, but I can’t do so without the power of my sword.”

  The Grimward said nothing for a while. Silurian and Melody respected its peace. When it spoke, a sense of doubt permeated its tone. “Your sword already possesses an inherent magic. Look how it glows. It deflected my attack. What else do you expect of it? At the end of the day, it is only a length of hammered steel.”

  “I discovered as much in the Under Realm, but unfortunately I have no control over it. I thought I had reimbued it at the mystical river, but my confrontation with the Soul seems to have taken the enchantment with it. I need what your son, Saros, imbued into it. He directed us to the Under Realm, but that ended in disaster.” He shrugged. “Melody informs me that the Under Realm isn’t the only place where that power might be found. Is that true?”

  The Grimward didn’t respond.

  Silurian asked more forcefully. “Is it?”

  “You have no idea of what you seek. It lies in a place you cannot go.”

  Silurian crossed his arms. “I was told I couldn’t go to the Under Realm, but still, I did. I was told I would never return, and yet, here I am.”

  “What you seek is an ancient source of magic. So old that it stems from the lifeblood of the earth itself. It lies beneath the ground, protected by the wyrm. I cannot take you there. My existence is an abomination to the life source. If I were to lead you to it, let’s just say, it wouldn’t go well. For any of us.”

  Silurian frowned at the Grimward’s last words. “We’re not asking you to come with us. All we require is the location. Tell us how to find it. We’ll do the rest.”

  “You aren’t listening. The place is protected by something as old as the earth itself.”

  “What�
�s that supposed to mean?” Silurian asked.

  “The wyrm that attacked you out in the lake.”

  “The serpent?”

  “That’s what you people call it.” The spectre fell quiet. Finally, it whispered, “If you truly mean to go after the earth blood, you must be prepared to die. To harness the magic, you will have to venture into the bowels of the Serpent’s Nest.”

  To Kill a King

  Alhena was adamant. As much as Sadyra argued that it would be suicidal to return to the Chamber of the Wise, especially after what they had done to escape its prison, he wouldn’t be swayed. Even though she pointed out that at least two guards were dead by their hands.

  Olmar’s fire crackled and sputtered on the mass of bull rushes and other bits of swamp refuse—most of it far from dry, but with the size of the fire, the flames dried the fuel almost as fast as it was fed to them. Strange animal cries continued to pierce the still air around them.

  “Pops,” Sadyra pleaded, her hands gesticulating her point, “if we go back, we’ll be hanged at the very least. As tough as Midge thinks he is, the four of us cannot hope to take on the entire Gritian militia. To what end?”

  Alhena calmly waited until she finished her rant. A warm smile creased his wrinkles. “Hear me out. The Chamber council has been compromised, as Solomon claims, but it is worse than that. One of Helleden’s demons has control of the Chambermaster himself, and probably most of the council as well. Vice Chambermistress Gruss of a certainty, but I am sure there are others.”

  Sadyra was about to protest but found her argument suddenly lacked conviction.

  “Aye, a creature makes the decisions for the Chamber,” Alhena continued. “Believe me, I know. I was interrogated by it at length. It used dark spells. I shudder to think what I divulged.”

  Larina’s sweet voice chimed in. “No offense, Pops, but you’re just a messenger. How bad can your secrets be?”

  Alhena regarded the brunette with his white eyes. “Don’t be hasty in your judgment of what you know nothing about. Unless you have followed in a person’s path, you have no idea what secrets they hide.”

  “So?” Larina said, unconvinced. “That sounds like something a wizard would say. Whatever you told them doesn’t change the fact that returning to Gritian is the last thing we should do.”

  Alhena gave her a patient smile. “Perhaps not, but what I learned while in the demon’s clutches has left us no choice. Even though I lay in a trance, I heard everything that went on around me. In fact, I think the creature knew that. It revelled in the knowledge that there was nothing I could do to prevent what was in its mind. Its intentions are troubling beyond belief.” He trailed off.

  Larina stared, willing him to continue, but he didn’t. She turned her glare to Sadyra. “I could slap him when he does this.”

  Sadyra nodded and sat down beside Alhena, shifting her hips so that she could snuggle up to him. She placed a hand on his outstretched leg. “What is it Pops? What could be so bad that we need to risk our lives by returning to the Chamber?”

  Alhena glanced at her hand, and then into her eyes. “The king makes his way south. According to the high bishop, what’s left of the royal forces should arrive any day now.”

  “That’s a good thing, no? King Malcolm will see the wrong in the Chamber,” Sadyra responded, her gaze flicking to Larina and Olmar. “Actually, if that’s true, you’re probably right—we might as well go back.”

  “There is more, and I fear we must hurry. We may already be too late.” Alhena cautioned but offered no more.

  Sadyra squeezed his bony thigh through his robes. “Too late? For what?”

  “To save the king.”

  Olmar startled everyone as he jumped to his feet and staggered, almost stepping into the fire. “Save the king?” he roared. He grabbed a burning branch from the fire, crouched low and disappeared into the tunnel.

  Larina rolled her eyes. “What a lunkhead.”

  Sadyra stood up, about to call after Olmar, but Larina’s voice cut her off. “How far do you think he’ll get with that branch? The flames have probably fizzled out already. He’ll be hopping about, smacking phantom spiders and whining like a big baby.”

  Larina searched for where they had deposited the real torches in the rusted bucket just inside the tunnel. She pulled out half a dozen of the best ones and lit two, passing one to Sadyra. She stashed the unlit brands in the near-empty food sack and waited while Sadyra helped Alhena to his feet.

  Sadyra handed Alhena a walking stick she located near the tunnel entrance and brushed ground debris from the old man’s robes. “Are you okay to walk?” she asked, genuine concern in her voice.

  Alhena accepted the stick. “I am left with little choice. King Malcolm needs us.” He jerked forward, swatting her hands away from his rump. “Stop fussing. It’s just dirt.”

  “Just making sure you don’t carry any more than you need to. Don’t want you having a stroke.”

  Alhena shot her a stern look and started into the dark tunnel. Olmar was nowhere to be seen.

  “Rook? Rook Bowman?”

  Rook spun about on his way back to the stables, the heavy crossbow whapping the back of his shoulder. Pollard and Yarstaff, who now walked on his own, stopped and looked back as well, but their attention was divided between the red-robed figure hailing Rook, and a ruckus happening around the stable yards. Up on the hill, a group of militiamen trotted their mounts around the contingent from Carillon.

  “Rook Bowman. It is you. May God be praised, I found you,” Solomon Io said between breaths.

  Rook frowned. The chamberman’s face shone beneath a sheen of sweat.

  “Please, come quick.” Solomon took in Pollard’s massive frame. “And you too, while there’s still a chance.”

  “Whoa, whoa, chamberman…?” Rook asked.

  “Vice Chambermaster Solomon Io, but don’t worry about my name. We need to save the king.”

  “Save the king? What happened? Where is he?”

  Sounds of battle reached them from the top of the hill. Pollard’s sword slid free of its double sheath. He broke into a run toward the stable yards.

  Rook unslung his bow and was about to follow him, but Solomon’s voice stopped them.

  “Not that way! There’s no time. We need to get the king away from Chambermaster Uzziah,” Solomon pleaded and started toward the entrance shed. “This way.”

  Rook stood rooted to the spot, confused. A battle was being waged atop the hill. Helleden’s vanguard must have caught up to them already.

  Pollard and Yarstaff, his small sword in hand, turned around and ran past Rook, following Solomon toward the Chamber’s entrance shed.

  Before Rook had a chance to piece events together, one of the four guards at the Chamber entrance cut Solomon down as he tried to pass between them. Ignoring Solomon who crumpled to the ground, the guards turned to intercept Pollard.

  Rook swallowed. None of it made any sense. These were Chamber guardsmen. Why would they attack Solomon? He pulled two arrows from his quiver and ran after Pollard and Yarstaff.

  The three largest guards held Pollard momentarily at bay at the end of their polearms.

  The fourth guard swiped at Yarstaff, but the Voil was quick, sidestepping the barbed tip of the man’s halberd.

  Rook dropped to a knee. With his bow held sideways, he notched an arrow and let fly. The missile took Yarstaff’s attacker in the ear. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  The remaining guards attempted to pin Pollard against the rock face beside the entrance, but Pollard’s double sword caught two of the three polearms between its twin blades. With a quick twist and pull, he yanked the weapons from the guards’ hands, all the while leaning away from the jab of the third halberd.

  Rook didn’t hesitate. As bizarre as the unfolding scene appeared, it was obvious the Gritian guardsmen were not friends. His arrow punched a large dent in the largest guard’s shoulder armour, knocking him away from Pollard.

  Before
the guard regained his stance, Yarstaff jumped him from the side, his sword slicing the stunned man’s neck from ear to ear as the orange furred Voil rode the guard to the ground.

  The last two guards drew their swords and warily backed away from Pollard’s superior reach.

  Rook loosed a third arrow, burying itself into the left cheek of the man closest to Yarstaff.

  Pollard engaged the last guard who met his first swing in stride. The power behind the blow, however, was ferocious and drove the man backward. Pollard’s recovery swing pinned him against the side of the entrance shed.

  The sound of pounding hooves distracted Rook. Several militiamen had broken free of the horses circling the stable yards and charged down the trail, weapons in hand, whooping and hollering.

  At first, Rook thought they were coming to join in the battle against the traitorous guardsmen, but when he looked back to Pollard, he realized his peril. His friend had already dispatched the last guardsman. The only people left in the trench were Pollard, Yarstaff, and the wounded vice chambermaster.

  “To the Chamber!” Rook shouted, putting his head down and sprinting toward the entrance. He would be lucky to reach it before the thundering horses rode him down.

  Yarstaff pulled on the entrance doors but they were locked. He backed off to let Pollard try.

  Pollard pushed and pulled on the handles to no avail. Roaring, he stepped back and raised a black leather boot. His first attempt cracked the thick wood, knocking it askew of its frame. A second kick demolished the door, sending jagged splinters careening into the tunnel beyond.

  A crossbow bolt thudded into the doorframe near Pollard’s chin.

  Another bolt whistled by Rook’s head and ricocheted off the stone wall on his left. Hazarding a quick look back while trying not to run in a straight line, he saw that the lead horse was about to run him down. He ducked and stumbled, barely keeping his feet beneath him as Pollard yanked a guardsman from inside the entrance and threw him flailing through the air. The man impacted the lead horse in the head, causing it to crash to the ground and throw its rider. The next two horses went down hard over the top of the first. An errant sword clattered beside Rook’s feet.