The Steward and the Sorcerer Read online

  Standing where it had stood yesterday, cloaked and hooded in its scarlet broad cloak, looking directly ahead at the entrance to Fein Mor, was the Windwalker.

  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing at first. He blinked hard again and again, convinced it was his mind playing tricks on him. But it was there just as before, as real as it had ever been, the wind whipping around the tail of its broad cloak, its face, his face, lost in the shadow of its long hood.

  What manner of creature was this, Daaynan wondered?

  He stood staring at the Windwalker for some time, unable to take his eyes away. Finally, he abandoned his vigil, headed for the deep interior of the keep where the chamber that housed the Druid records lay. There must have been something he missed, he thought. Could it have been an illusion he had fought, like the one he himself had brought about? No, he decided, no illusion could have sustained injuries like those he had inflicted on the creature, nor have produced a smell like the one he had encountered. Besides, an illusion could not match fire with fire.

  It occurred to him that, in searching for mention of this being in the records, he had been looking in the wrong place. There was mention in the books of beings known as Morphlings, shape shifters who could alter their appearance, indeed their whole identity for long periods of time. Upon entering the vault chamber, he reached for the shelf that contained books on Morphlings and Alterforms, scanning through these for some cross connection between these and Windwalkers. It was late in the evening by the time he finished and he was no better off in his search. He went to bed tired, his eyes puffed and sore, grimly resolving to continue his search the next morning. His sleep was fitful, his dreams irregular and broken-sequenced. When dawn arrived, he re-entered the vault and resumed his search, not expecting much. He had the germ of an idea, however, something that stood out from the general tumble of his dreams and stayed in the forepart of his mind. What if he had been using the wrong kind of magic? The idea bore closer scrutiny. He had attacked the creature using conventional Druid sorcery but what if this kind of magic was useless against such a thing as this? It had matched him fire for fire but what if it used another kind altogether, or at least was vulnerable to it? He reflected on this for a time before an idea struck him.

  Of course, how stupid he had been! The answer was obvious. It was a being from another age so it stood to reason it employed a sorcery from that time. What sorcery? The records wouldn’t help him there. However, he now had access to all manner of enchantments and in time could select the right one. Time, after all, was what he had in abundance.

  He decided to test his theory sooner rather than later. He was mindful of his impatience, yet over the past few days a slow anger had been building inside him, railing against the outrage that had been done to him, trapping him in his own home. He would have to act if he were to escape his prison. If he were to best his opponent. First, however, he tried once again to communicate with it.

  He stood in the well of the North Tower, closing his eyes, and summoned an image of the being that stalked him outside the keep. It came to him clearly, a well-defined picture of it standing no more than a few feet from the entrance to Fein Mor. He spoke not in words but in impulse ‘impressions,’ rather like pictures that expressed feelings of what he intended to communicate. He sent them in a code to convey sentences much like his own speech structure.

  For long moments there was no reaction from the Shape-shifter. Then, slowly, it began to respond, sending coded images of its own, tentatively at first, then with greater speed. Many of the images were unfamiliar to Daaynan and as a result much of the communication was lost. There were pictures and summonings of another time, depictions of creatures at rest and in battle wearing markings and using gestures he could not identify. They came and went at speed in a sequence he didn’t understand. He asked it what manner of sorcery it used and the confused impression he received in response was of no immediate help. After a time, he gave up.

  His failure to communicate with the Shape-shifter left him with the same problem, namely how would he discover what manner of sorcery it used? Even if he could have conversed with it would it have come straight out and told him? He thought not but it was curious about him, the Brightsphere had said, and might possibly trade information with him.

  How would he find out the nature of the sorcery it used? The Druid records wouldn’t help him but...

  He shook his head slowly in self-admonition. The Faerie Archives. Of course. It stood to reason if it were a thing from another age, perhaps it went as far back as the age of Faerie. If not, the Archives might yet have some mention of its kind, their lineage, the power they possessed...

  He walked quickly to the South End of the keep, past the Rooms of Reflection and the private study chambers on the ground floor, where once individuals had read giant tomes on magic and had conducted investigations into sorcery in a time when there had been many Druids. The last of their kind had passed on more than a hundred years ago and until now had taken knowledge of the Dark Arts with them into the netherworld.

  He stopped at the bottom of the South Tower and inspected the floor’s stone-flagged surface. There was a metal ring at the edge of one square flag, about the size of Daaynan’s hand, hooped through a section of the stone. He got down and gripped it, dragging it upwards and the flag with it. Beneath was a set of narrow steps that led down into darkness. He cupped one hand slowly and in the centre of his palm a gentle flame sprang to life, illuminating the stairs and a section of a narrow passageway that lay at the foot of them. Walking forward with one raised hand, he negotiated the steps and passageway until he came to a fork. After deliberating a moment, he chose the right-hand corridor and followed down it to its conclusion at a thick door made of oak and hinged with metal. There was a combination of metal studs embedded in the wood at the level of his head. Instead of inserting a key and turning a handle, you needed to press the studs in the correct sequence to gain access to the room beyond. He remembered the code from his druidic teachings. This was the vault that contained books comprising the Archives of the Netherworld and tomes from the age of Faerie. If he were looking for an answer to his current problem, he told himself, he would find it here. He pressed the buttons in order and the door swung inward on its hinges, making barely a sound as it did despite the number of years it had been in existence. There was magic at work here, he knew, preserving what was kept in this room and beyond.

  Facing him were rows and rows of shelves containing books, some of them fitted beneath arches that led into other rooms that stretched in different directions, lending the place the appearance of a honeycombed catacomb. There were no signs over any of the arched entrances indicating where what was filed, yet Daaynan ignored this oversight, walking through a series of entryways until he stood in a chamber that was somewhat larger than those around it with rows of shelves constructed in a circle around him on at least ten different levels.

  This was where the Faerie Archives were stored. His eyes cast around the room for a long moment and he took several books from their perches, examining each one, sometimes lending the pages they contained a cursory skim, reading others in more detail. There was mention of the world of Faerie, of the location now known as Fein Mor before it had become a Druid keep, and of other locations, some of them indistinct, others recognizable in the writings as what they were today. He spent a long time in the chamber, hours running into days, pouring over chapters of various books, unmindful of the passing of day into night and day again, until finally he had what he was looking for. He closed the book he was balancing in one hand, the other hand that provided the light he needed beginning to weaken, the flame thinning and flickering.

  Could this be true, he wondered? He marvelled at such a thing, at his thinking which had been so wrong. He wondered at the approach he must now make, and yet at the same time he knew it was the right move. He would need to make the right preparations yet he was confident this was possible.

  Despite his certain
ty it was not until late the next day when he left the castle.

  He emerged outside the keep from one of the central passageways near to the main entrance where the creature stood, his real self this time and not some projected illusion. The creature seemed to sense this and upon seeing him lowered its hood. He saw in its features his own face projected back at him yet as he looked the being’s face changed, becoming something of what it really was. So, it knew, he thought. Its true face was finely wrought, small boned, almost delicate. Its facial skin was like a fine, gossamer fabric that clung to its bones, its grey hair spilling back from its forehead in thin spools that spun halfway down its back. It smiled at him, its bloodless lips parting in a yawing split, an eerie sight that might cause some to draw back despite themselves but Daaynan did not flinch. Instead he continued his approach, his hands by his sides, not signalling any form of attack, just watching the creature as it seemed to measure every step he took, taking everything in.

  He made no attempt at communicating with it. This was practically impossible at any rate, requiring months of study he did not have. Better for him that he approached things this way.

  When he came within yards of the Faerie it lifted its arms, releasing a blood-curling shriek, and yellow fire came lancing from the tips of its fingers toward the Druid, searing in the heat of the evening air as it travelled. Daaynan made no move either to deflect or intercept the attack yet kept walking toward it. The Faerie crouched to a gnomish squat, the flame shooting upwards from its fingers, concentrated into a single continuous powerful burst.

  The flame struck Daaynan at the level of his head...and bounced harmlessly off him. The Druid barely broke his stride, reacting hardly at all to the attack save issuing a small warding gesture as if to brush some unwanted dirt from his face. The Faerie rose and stared at the other as if unable to comprehend what it had just witnessed. A fraction of a moment later it broke its paralysis by delivering a second attack, similar to the first yet with more concentrated force, directing it against the sorcerer’s midsection and upper body this time. It combined its thrust with a high ululating scream designed to put the other off balance, attacking with more than one sense to unman the Druid.

  Neither strike was successful. The sorcerer was right before the creature now yet the Faerie, through overconfidence or disbelief, did not shrink away. Daaynan reached for its face with both of his rough hands, pinching its nose shut to open its mouth and with one hand summoning a ball of flame that was lighter in density than its own fire, he pitched it deep down inside its throat. He balled his hand into a fist and pushed deeper inside, the fire shooting from his hands and fingers in white-hot contrails, setting the Faerie alight from the inside out. Finally, he stepped back, yet not before closing its mouth with a punctuating snap, holding it firmly shut.

  The Faerie creature listed to one side, unsteady on its feet, ablaze with what had been placed inside it. It opened its mouth to scream yet no sound emerged. It writhed and twisted in an attempt to shake free but to no avail. Then it simply exploded in a ball of conflagration as the fire inside it detonated, large fantails of light sent shooting out in all directions, razing the earth and the night air, consuming everything in its radius. Seconds later the creature was no more.

  The Druid stood for a time at the spot where it had disappeared as if making sure it was really gone, this time for good. The Faerie magic he had cloaked himself in had accomplished its task. It had taken time to construct the Whorl, more than a day, yet it had been successful. He thought of the expression to meet fire with fire and smiled grimly. In this case he had employed Faerie fire to meet the creature’s own. The Archives had told him that the world of Faerie was lighter in density than his own world and to render himself immune to attack from one of these beings he had needed to cloak himself in the Whorl, which was simply a shroud with a heavy density, so compact that any attack directed against him would simply be deflected. He had combined this with fire that had a much lighter density, so light it would break past the Windwalker’s defences and destroy it. And he had succeeded.

  The first Druid of the new order finally turned and walked slowly back toward the castle of Fein Mor, stripping himself of the Whorl. He was exhausted by his efforts but satisfied that what he had set out to accomplish had been done, the enemy bested and a normal state of affairs restored. Yet what was normal, he wondered? What could he expect to encounter as Druid from now on and how would it change him? He would ponder these questions later, he decided. For now, for right now, he would let sleep take him, a long dreamless sleep inside the heart of the keep while Fein Mor protected him from any danger that lurked outside the castle walls, from those who elected to stand against the Druids and what they represented. He was a newly born Druid and was still discovering what that meant but there would be time to do so, plenty of time.

  2.

  His days in Fein Mor passed quickly over the next few weeks. It was perhaps surprising for a man living alone in a stronghold but there was a lot to do. The gardens outside needed tending to keep them from growing as wild as the land around them. Atop the castle, the pennants and flagpoles needed to be cleaned while inside, the many chambers, anterooms, halls and corridors also required cleaning. Then there were his studies. Daaynan spent his evenings poured over books containing reference material to the Northern Earth, as well as recorded spells, thralls and incantations suited to every purpose, memorizing as much as he could, putting some of the enchantments into practice. One of the reasons he had taken so long to dispel the Faerie wraith from Fein Mor, he thought, was his lack of knowledge of creatures or ages that did not belong to this world. He would not make the same mistake twice.

  There was much information on the Northern Earth. He felt it would soon be necessary to introduce himself to those who governed the lands around the stronghold. The steward of Brinemore, for example, was ruler of a vast city to the Northwest. Once a regency, when the royal line had died out Brinemore had passed into stewardship under the care of a ruling family much like the royals. Karsin Longfellow, the current steward, came along in a time when Brinemore elected its officials based on political merit. He had a formidable reputation as both a politician and an astute businessman. He would be curious about the return of the Druid order to the Northern Earth, if only to see what kind of trade negotiations he could open with Fein Mor. He would hold talk with him soon but what would be the nature of that conversation?

  Daaynan was musing over this question when he received a visit from his cousin.

  Jareth Tox was the firstborn of his mother’s younger sister. He was junior to Daaynan by almost 10 years and growing up in the village of Bottom Dell, Daaynan had been cast in the role of Jareth’s guardian, a role he had not always been able to fulfil due to his early ambition to become a sorcerer. Still, Jareth had always liked him, and as far as he could remember never expressed disappointment at his not being around at times when he was needed. Jareth had been an independent child, self-contained, possessed of a defiant nature, the rebellious period of his childhood only serving to highlight these qualities. He had taken to wandering about the Northern Earth from an early age, riding the large thoroughfares on his horse to places he had read and dreamed about, unheeding of the dangers others told him he might encounter there. He loved to visit Brinemore, captivated by the size and scale of the city and the various activities of its inhabitants that had been expressly forbidden in Bottom Dell such as horseracing and riverside gambling. He visited the many opium dens scattered throughout the city where he held conversation with many of the customers who lived fascinating lives- to him at least. Jareth’s parents had urged Daaynan to have a talk with him over this, take him in hand, but by then he had begun his training as a Druid and had little time to spare for anything else. Maybe now he could exert some influence over the boy.

  Jareth stood at the entrance to the keep, a smile breaking out on his face when the drawbridge lowered and Daaynan emerged from its interior.

  “Ha
il, cousin!” Daaynan said. The younger man stood looking at him for a moment before answering. The Druid was covered head to toe in a black broad-cloak with a large hood draped over his face, partially drawn back to reveal his features. At almost seven feet tall, with a large build from his broad, powerful shoulders on down, he cut an imposing presence. The broad planes and angles of his face served to heighten this impression, his look dark, almost severe. But Jareth didn’t seem intimidated. He marched toward the other with a spring in his step, offering his hand. “And hail to you, cousin!” Jareth was young and seemed full of energy. He carried a brash appearance, enhanced perhaps by a mane of long, straw blond hair that was swept down to one side of his face. His features were sufficiently even to give him strength of looks, marred only by the irregularity of an over-long nose and ears that stuck out slightly. He looked around him at the gardens and fields and up at the towering façade of the castle, an approving regard to his expression. “You’ve kept the place well.”

  The Druid shook his head slowly, indicating the well-tended lawns with a sweep of one hand. “I am in need of a proper gardener, someone who knows what they are about so that I can tend to my other duties.”

  Jareth followed his motion. “I don’t know, I would say you’re managing just fine.”

  “Yes, but it takes up too much of my time. Care for the job?”

  The younger man looked taken aback, unsure of what he would say next. That was a rare thing in the child he had been familiar with, he smiled to himself. Maybe that certainty, that take-everything-on nature had changed with his development into a man. He would see.