The Wizard of the North

by Richard Stephens

  “Don’t let them escape!” someone shouted from farther back.

  By the time Rook reached the entrance to the main Chamber tunnel, Yarstaff had already slipped inside. Pollard stood outside, clutching the limp form of another guard in front of him—the guard’s body bristled with several crossbow bolts and an arrow. Pollard had used him as a human shield.

  Rook stopped outside the entranceway and knelt beside Solomon’s badly bleeding body. The chamberman’s crimson robes were darkened with blood on his right side, but his pained eyes were open. Rook reached under his armpits and dragged him over the shattered remains of the door and into the tunnel. Pollard remained outside—the sound of bolts and arrows impacted dead flesh and bounced off stone.

  Rook dragged Solomon into the tunnel and propped the dying man against the wall. Yarstaff stood a few paces farther in, watching for anyone approaching from down the tunnel.

  “Leave me,” Solomon said through gritted teeth. “Find the king. Abraham has taken him to his chambers.”

  In good conscience, Rook couldn’t leave Solomon to die, especially since he was the vice chambermaster.

  Solomon convulsed in pain. His watery eyes rolled back into his head for a moment before he became lucid again. He stared at the crossbow prods extending beyond Rook’s sides and smiled grimly. “I know that weapon.”

  Rook had been focused on the unseen commotion outside. Yarstaff ran past them, back to the where Pollard stood. The giant’s battle cry gave him the shivers. He looked back at Solomon. “Huh?”

  “That crossbow. I’ve seen it before.”

  Rook frowned, his eyes flicking from the dying man to where Yarstaff stood clutching his sword. An arrow slammed into the door jamb above the Voil’s head; Yarstaff ducked after the fact.

  “Pollard!” Rook called out, standing up. “Pollard, get in here!” He knelt again, trying to afford the chamberman his undivided attention. He reached behind him and shrugged free of the crossbow’s strap. “You mean this? I bet you have. It was Avarick Thwart’s.”

  Solomon smiled at the mention of the deceased Enervator. “Ah, good ol’ Avarick. Despised by most, feared by all. We could use a man like him right now.”

  Rook gave him a nervous laugh. “Ya, I don’t think he’ll be coming.”

  “Give me the crossbow.”

  Rook watched the entrance. Yarstaff was calling to Pollard. Rook glanced questioningly at Solomon. “What?”

  “The crossbow. Leave it with me. Lay the quarrels beside me and call your giant. I’ll hold the bastards back.”

  “You’re a chamberman. I can’t leave you here. Malcolm will have my head.”

  Solomon tried to laugh but ended up coughing so hard he spit up blood. Controlling himself, he said, “I’m not naïve, Sir Rook.” The honourific made Rook swallow. “The healers cannot save me now. Let me do this. I have never been much of the hero type, but my gut tells me this is the proper thing to do. Allow me my last wish.”

  Rook didn’t know what to do. Solomon made sense. Perhaps it would buy them time to locate the king. But to leave him to die, a chamberman, no less, didn’t sit well. The crucifix attached to the shiny gold chain dangling about Solomon’s neck denoted the man as a bishop as well. The prospect of abandoning him scared the hell out of Rook.

  Rook stood again, his mind racing. He wasn’t sure what Pollard was doing out there, but as big as the Songsbirthian was, one well-aimed arrow would be all it would take to fell him, and that would nix any chance they had of rescuing the king.

  Rook ran to the doorway in time to see Pollard’s broad shoulders backing into the shed—the big man holding aloft a different guard as protection now. Blood stained his arms and hands, but he didn’t appear to be wounded. Hopefully, the blood wasn’t his own.

  Pollard cried out and hurled the limp body at a group of militiamen making their way forward. A crossbow bolt and an arrow thudded into the second door that now hung open. Pollard roared and attempted to go back out to threaten them but Rook grabbed the neckline of his brass cuirass and pulled him into the shed.

  Yarstaff jumped out of the way as Pollard stumbled into the tunnel, whacking his head off the door jamb.

  “Leave them! We need to find the king.”

  Without waiting for a response, Rook backed into the tunnel and paused before Solomon.

  Solomon forced a pained smile. “Go.”

  Swallowing his conflicting emotions, Rook charged up the tunnel with Yarstaff on his heels and Pollard running hunched over, doing his best to keep up.

  They hit the first fork in the tunnel just as a loud roar rose up behind them, causing them to stop and look back down the passageway.

  Vice Chambermaster Solomon Io had somehow managed to get to his feet and confronted an increasing number of militiamen pushing into the shed.

  Solomon shouted, “Halt, in the name of the Chamber!”

  Rook couldn’t hear the heated conversation that ensued, but Solomon held the group at bay. Rook wanted to run back down the tunnel to assist him, but to do so would be suicide. It was only a matter of time before someone shot Solomon. They were wasting the precious time the chamberman gained for them.

  “Come on,” Rook said, his voice lacking conviction. Yarstaff and Pollard followed him past the healer’s chambers.

  They kept left at the second fork and passed the dining halls. Reaching the intersection where the main tunnel veered right, heading to the Chamber proper, Rook couldn’t recall whether Solomon had said the king was taken to the chambermaster’s chamber, or the Chamber? If he remembered the layout correctly—it had been so long since he had last been here—the smaller tunnel would take them to the council’s personal quarters. If he wasn’t mistaken, that tunnel also came to a dead end. They would be trapped within tight surroundings.

  The main tunnel would take them to the voluminous cavern housing the Chamber of the Wise. Again, he believed it to be a dead end, but at least they would have room to swing a sword. He sighed. That was the problem with the Chamber complex; there was only one way in, except...

  Rook looked back the way they had come. No one had appeared around the distant bend beyond the healer’s chambers yet. Solomon was doing an admirable job of holding off the masses.

  It had been almost twenty-five years ago that the former Chambermaster had shown the Group of Five an alternative exit. Where was it? Rook was sure it hadn’t been in the council’s personal chambers, but he didn’t think it had been in the Chamber, either.

  The sound of hurried footfalls reached them from down the curved, narrower tunnel, prompting Rook to lead Pollard and Yarstaff up the main tunnel toward the Chamber of the Wise. The tunnel curved to the right and the intersection fell out of sight behind them.

  Ahead, the tunnel terminated at a set of unguarded, finely tooled, oak doors.

  Rook stopped at the entrance to the Chamber of the Wise and held up a hand to stop Pollard from throwing the doors open. Rook tested the right door. Other than being heavy, he was able to pull it toward himself. He took a tentative look inside.

  No one stood guard on the inside either. Strange. He was under the impression the Chamber was guarded constantly, day and night.

  Movement from a multi-levelled stage at the Chamber’s far end grabbed his attention, visible in the light cast by hundreds of flickering rush lights spaced throughout the vast cavern. Several red robed people milled about upon the first tier, along with men and women clad in green militia livery. Rook couldn’t make out the king’s golden locks, but he was sure that was Captain Pik’s vermilion surcoat visible behind a wall of burly pikemen.

  One of the pikemen stepped sideways, revealing the grey-haired horse trainer, Pantyr Korn. It was tough to tell from this distance, but neither of the king’s men looked happy. They appeared to be in restraints.

  Rook closed the door without a sound. “I don’t like the look of this. I can’t see Malcolm, but his captain and the horse trainer are in there, and they look to be in trouble.”
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  Pollard gritted his teeth, stepping back and forth on the spot.

  “Easy, big fellow. Have you ever been in the Chamber of the Wise before?”

  Pollard shook his head.

  “Okay. The Chamber is huge. A wide aisle connects these doors to a stage at the far end. When I say far end, I mean, far,” Rook informed them. “The council members are in there as well as countless militiamen. If they have ranged weapons, we’ll never make it to the other end, you hear me?”

  Pollard nodded, his eyes dark. Rook knew it would take a perfect shot to stop Pollard, but he also knew, if they were to survive the bizarre events occurring in Gritian, Pollard’s fighting skills would be critical.

  “We will enter the Chamber like nothing is wrong. We don’t know for certain if what’s happening outside has anything to do with these people. They may be oblivious to the uprising. Put your weapons away so we don’t spook them.”

  Pollard glowered, but Yarstaff nodded his oversized head and sheathed his sword.

  Rook’s stern look prompted Pollard to do likewise.

  “Alright, here we go. Nice and easy.” Rook casually pulled the door open. As big and heavy as it was, the door swung on hidden hinges without a sound. It wasn’t until they were partway down the aisle that a militiaman pointed in their direction and everybody on the stage turned as one to watch their advance.

  “Rook, get out of here! It’s a trap!” Captain Pik tried to push his way between two of the pikemen, but was thrown backward into the stone wall. A third pikeman punched the captain between the eyes with a metal grieved fist. Pik’s body slid to the ground.

  Pollard’s sword was in his hand almost as fast as Rook had nocked an arrow.

  Yarstaff followed suit, his large eyes searching the rows of seating on either side of the aisle.

  Retreating back down the entrance tunnel wasn’t an option. Not without the king. Scanning the mass of people upon the stage, Rook still didn’t see Malcolm. Nor could he see Chambermaster Uzziah. A cold feeling filled him. King Malcolm wasn’t here. They had taken him to the chambermaster’s quarters.

  The Enervator, Jibrael Fox, barked an order from the centre of the platform, and a dozen militiamen descended the steps and stormed down the aisle toward them, weapons in hand. None of them bore a ranged weapon. With his own bow, and Pollard’s presence, they stood a chance. His thoughts turned to the group who were being held up by the vice chambermaster, just as the double doors behind them flew open.

  Four men with crossbows slipped inside the cavern. Two stepped right while the other two stepped left, allowing those behind them access to the Chamber. The crossbowmen dropped to a knee and brought their weapons to bear.

  Jibrael Fox hurried to the top of the steps. “Seize them! They come for the king!”

  The Enervator descended the steps and strode quickly down the aisle, his sword not drawn. Jibrael obviously relied on his men to do the dirty work for him.

  “Drop your weapons or my men will cut you down,” Jibrael ordered, stopping a fair distance away, mindful of Rook’s bow. “Do it. Now!”

  They were grossly outmanned. With the arrival of the marksmen, Rook saw no way to fight their way free. He put one hand up in resignation and bent over to place his bow on the ground. “Do as he says, Pollard. Don’t do anything rash. We’ll find another way.”

  Yarstaff placed his sword on the ground.

  Pollard wasn’t as forthcoming. He spat at the Enervator, his deep voice growling. “You’re a tough man, hiding behind the militia. You’re no Enervator. Avarick would’ve cut your heart out and fed it to you.”

  “Pollard, let it go,” Rook urged his friend as two guards snatched up his bow and quiver and roughhoused his arms behind his back to slap his wrists in irons, before relieving him of his sword belt. “Now’s not the time for this. You’re no good to the king dead.”

  Pollard glared at the men creeping up the aisle from the doorway. They stopped and tensed.

  “Pollard!” Rook hissed.

  An audible sigh escaped those closest as Pollard threw his massive weapon to the ground.

  Even though the Songsbirthian was unarmed, it took an emphatic bellow from Jibrael before anyone garnered the courage to apprehend him. When the first two men took hold of Pollard’s forearms and attempted to slap an undersized set of manacles around his thick wrists, Pollard resisted, throwing one man to the ground. Four more guards moved in to hold him, but Pollard thrashed about, his weight too much for them to manipulate with any degree of success.

  Jibrael Fox approached the struggling group and withdrew a long dagger. “Hold him, I’ll settle the big dummy down.”

  “Pollard, stop fighting!” Rook pleaded. “The king needs you!”

  Pollard mashed the face of the man in front of him with his forehead, before grudgingly submitting and letting the swarm of guardsmen take him to the floor. He thrashed around on the ground, not making it easy for those attempting to apply restraints.

  When the guards finally bound his hands behind his back and applied a heavy set of shackles to his ankles, everyone got back to their feet except for the largest man who kept a knee firmly planted between Pollard’s shoulder blades, while two others knelt upon his calves.

  Jibrael walked up to Pollard and kicked him hard in the ribs, striking the wound Pollard had received in the Under Realm.

  Pollard grunted and gritted his teeth. He nearly threw the man off his back. Spit flew from lips. “Just you wait, maggot. I’m going to squash you.”

  Jibrael laughed. “That would be a neat trick considering your position. I’ve had my fill of big galoots like you lately.” The Enervator stomped on the back of Pollard’s head, smashing his face against the floor. He quickly stepped away again, as Pollard roared and threw the man restraining his shoulders.

  The two men on his legs barely held him on the ground long enough for others to jump in and weigh him down again.

  “Ya, walk away, coward! Takes a big man to let others do his dirty work!” Pollard ranted, trying to turn his head to follow Jibrael walking away from him. Blood streamed from his lips.

  Jibrael spoke to one of his men as he walked past him. “Get them up on the platform. If that piece of shit gives you any more trouble, slit his throat.”

  Rook tried to shrug off the two men grabbing him by the elbows and shoulders as they shoved him toward the stage. Ahead of him, a single guard hurried Yarstaff along. Rook wanted to see what they were doing to Pollard, but his escorts reefed on his arms and thrust him forward.

  He stumbled on the stairs at the end of the aisle, but his guards never missed a step. They dragged him up the short flight, bashing his shins off the unforgiving steps.

  Once on the stage, he was ushered beyond the wall of pikemen and unceremoniously launched toward the back wall. Pantyr Korn did his best to soften the blow as Rook hit the stone facing with his right shoulder, stumbling over Captain Pik’s body.

  Rook dropped painfully to his knees, unable to break his fall. Captain Pik didn’t look good. He studied the captain’s chest, hoping to see evidence that he was still breathing.

  A large pikeman stepped up to Rook and dragged him back to his feet. “Leave him,” the guard ordered as he pinned Rook against the wall, and stepped back into line.

  A group of flustered guards struggled to drag Pollard up the steps. Rook had to admire him. As stupid as his actions might yet prove to be, Pollard’s stubbornness had instilled fear in the eyes of more than a few of the guards.

  It took six seasoned men to muscle Pollard onto the stage, their efforts denoted by grunts and heavy breathing. Sweat streamed from their faces and darkened their green jerkins.

  The wall of pikemen gave Pollard a wide berth as the guards finally impelled him against the back wall. As Pollard was pushed beyond the pikemen, someone stuck out a boot to trip him.

  Pollard fell heavily to the stage floor. He rolled onto his side and spat at the pikeman nearest him, daring him to approach.

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bsp; Rook looked around. Where was Yarstaff?

  The Chamber doors opened and a deep voice sounded, drawing everyone’s attention. “Give us a hand down here. King Malcolm needs assistance.” Chambermaster Uzziah stood between the double doors. At his feet lay a motionless body clothed in vermilion—long locks of golden hair spread out upon the ground.

  A shadow slipped wraith-like through the doors and disappeared amongst the darker places clinging to the cavern walls. Rook tried to follow it, but as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone again. Perhaps he imagined it.

  It was hard to register the absurdity of what was going on. The shock and hurt couldn’t be any worse than if someone kicked him in the stomach. He glanced around in disbelief. This was the vaunted Chamber of the Wise. A place of lore. A bastion of safety.

  Four militiamen hurried down the aisle. They reverently picked up the king’s limp body, each man taking an appendage, and hoisted Malcolm into the air as they made their way to the stage.

  Abraham pulled the doors shut. Withdrawing a golden key from within the folds of his robes, he sealed the doors behind him before following the king’s body.

  Rook looked to the four highbacked chairs set off to his left. He counted the red robes. Eleven chambermen and women mingled around thronelike seats, some of their faces seemed more anxious than others. The entire council was present. All except Vice Chambermaster Solomon. He hoped the man’s death had been quick.

  As the king was paraded past the line of pikemen, it appeared the monarch hadn’t suffered any physical trauma, but the way his head lolled to the side clearly showed that he was, at the very least, unconscious.

  Pollard struggled to gain his feet, the movement disconcerting the militiamen closest to him. They readjusted their stance and readied their polearms.

  Rook hoped Pollard had enough sense to restrain himself.

  The guards laid the king to rest on the cold, stone floor at the feet of the chambermen. As the group of red-robed figures parted to allow the king amongst them, Rook caught a glimpse of Yarstaff lying on the ground beside Malcolm. What had they done to him?