The Steward and the Sorcerer by James Peart (small books to read .TXT) 📗

an extended holiday in southern Europe.  I’ll start with Venice.  I shall live in the Doge’s palace for a month, then charter a boat to Greece filled with silk garments and flog them to the local proletariat.”

“You’ll need double your allowance,” Christopher observed.

“At a minimum.”

Up ahead, Iridis had slowed.  They found themselves in the centre of a vast hall that stretched the length of several rooms in any direction they cared to look.  Tall pillars supported the ceiling with intricate carvings of men engaged in various activities and repose engraved in the artwork.  The ceiling was an enormous dome-like structure that stretched upward for as far as they could see and appeared to swallow much of the light that issued into the hall from outside.  A set of enormous doors stood over to their left, leading presumably to the outside.  Iridis stopped and turned to the Englishmen, indicating the doors with a sweep of one hand.

“The drawbridge beyond this,” he said, “is protected by the Druid’s magic, letting no one in or out.  The warding lines cannot stand up to my magic, however, as you will see.

“Once we lower the ‘bridge, we are exposed.  It is vital that I stay hidden until the one who leads them steps across the threshold and into the palace.  I need one of you to stand against him, remaining at all times inside.”

“I’ll do it,” Simon said immediately.  “Christopher stays hidden near you.”

The Raja nodded as if he fully expected this answer.  “When he sees you have broken the warding lines and are not a Druid, he will think the palace defenceless and will enter.”

“This is your plan?  How do you know he even senses what protects the keep?”

“He has sensed it.  I divined that earlier as I touched the walls of the palace.

“This enemy is very strong, and it can sense weakness in one who does not have the use of magic, which will play into my hands.”

“Factually, in your case,” Simon muttered, then dismissed the words with an abrupt wave when it was clear Iridis didn’t understand.  Literal versus figurative imagery was lost on him, clearly.

“Let us begin,” Iridis said simply.

The King of Naveen placed his hands on the entrance to the keep, one hand on each door.  He stood there for a moment while nothing appeared to happen.  Then he withdrew his hands and retreated into the shadow of a nearby alcove, a dark recess of the giant hall into which Christopher followed him, the Drey torch he held shining its jade illumination between one end of each stick.

Iridis looked at Simon and nodded for him to approach the doors and open them.  A huge lock secured them in the form of a heavy bolt which you needed to draw back to open them.  He did so, releasing the lock and pushing hard against the solid oak structures.  They creaked in protest, the workings on the hinges rusty with disuse, yet with an effort they swung wide. The drawbridge beyond them lowered at the same time, connected as it was to the doors via a system of cords and pulleys.  Starlight gleamed through the opening in bands of silver.

Outside, not more than fifty feet away, stood the Faerie beings.

They looked at each other, the Englishman and these creatures from another age, the former bright and resourceful by any standard back in his world and the latter powerful far beyond the limits of that world.

The Faeries looked at him, taking in his appearance, manner and bearing.  Then they moved.

The one who led them walked in front and slightly to one side of the three others.  Easily seven feet tall, it was cloaked and hooded in a broad, grey shroud, its features lost from view in the shadow of the hood it wore.  Only its eyes, vaguely red and piercing, were visible.  As their regard fell on him, Simon very nearly fled from his exposed position in the entryway.  There was something demonic in their expression, something that touched on an ancient and unspeakable evil.  With an effort, he held his ground, his insides filled with an unknowing terror.

The others were formidable in their own right, though not quite as imposing as the one who led them.  They too were cloaked in hooded shrouds, yet the hoods were drawn back to reveal the features of women, their faces harsh and angular.  Their hair was roped and coiled, lending it the appearance from this distance, as they moved, of writhing snakes.  They reminded Simon of the three Furies from Greek mythology, goddesses of vengeance, or the Daughters of the Night, although these were infinitely more terrifying than the artistic and somewhat whimsical depictions of the Furies he had seen in books of Greek heroes.

When they came to within ten feet of the entrance to Fein Mor, they stopped walking, forming a half circle around the mouth of the entrance.  The one who led them continued to approach, however, nearing the threshold. It was holding in one hand a black wooden staff with coloured runes embedded in the crown.  Its hood had slipped to reveal the skin of its face, which was plated with mottled scales.  A ghastly sight.  It held Simon’s gaze, smiling.

It was at this point that Simon thought of breaking his stand and running.  Terror spilled through him with raw, ablative power, screaming at him to bolt, telling him he was no match for this being.  Thoughts raced through his mind with random precision.  Iridis only wanted him here so he could challenge Christopher without his interference.  He wasn’t going to help him.  He was likely already gone, having snatched the Drey torch from his friend and disappeared.  He cared nothing about the Druid’s plight, let alone was willing to help him.

He heard these thoughts as if they’d been spoken, felt their nearly tangible insistence, yet still, somehow, he held his ground.  He took a deep breath and bit down hard on his fear, unaware that he had cut his tongue with