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

the edge of his teeth.  The line between running and his decision to stay was a faint one.  If he ran, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself afterward, if there was an afterward.  If he were to face this thing he would also likely die yet at least he wouldn’t have failed his friend.  Incredibly, an image of Daaynan flashed through his mind.  He would fail the Druid too, though what did that matter?  Was the sorcerer now important to him in the way that Christopher was?  What was the difference?

The creature was almost upon him by now, the skirt of its robing whispering on the cross-wood of the drawbridge as its free hand lifted toward the entrance.  Faerie fire, drawn from somewhere inside it, pooled at its fists.  It looked down at Simon from its great height and smiled solemnly, almost with regret as the fire hovered about its unclenching fingers, waiting for direction.  Simon was clearly not much of a challenge for it, the equivalent of a goat tied to a stake.  It no doubt preferred livelier game yet its ruthless sensibilities did not prevent it from attacking all the same.  His eyes cast wildly around for signs of the King but the hall was empty, deepened in shadow cast by the moonlight.

He closed his eyes and prayed for a swift end.

The next few moments passed so quickly that they were over before Simon realised anything had happened.  The Raja of Naveen stepped from the shadow of an alcove beside the door, materialising suddenly before the Faerie creature.  He sidled up to the being, gripping it beneath the shoulder in a powerful embrace, holding it for a beat, then danced away from it and through the entryway into the fields surrounding Fein Mor, lost in the night.  The creature let out a wild shriek, its body shaking with the force of what had held it, slumped forward onto the flagstone floor of the hall, the fire it had summoned in one hand stuttering briefly before it was extinguished.  It lay therewith its fist upturned toward the Englishman, an expression of disbelief marked on its face.

An eerie keening rose from among the Furies that encircled the entryway, high and ululating.  Their bodies writhed with the impact of some unseen force, their limbs flailing, the screams they uttered seeming to deprive them of power.  They too dropped to the earth, thrashing one moment and lifeless shortly thereafter, spent of whatever energy had driven them.

What Simon knew next was Christopher at his side, tugging his jumper.  “Are you alright?” he asked.

He tried to move, stumbled and fell toward his friend.  “Where- where is Iridis?”

“Gone.  Ran out of the castle.  He won’t bother us anymore.”

“And those things?”

“All dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“I went over and kicked one of them in the side.  Unresponsive, and it wasn’t breathing.  He’s done what he’s promised, I think.”

“That’s...that’s good.”  Simon walked forward to inspect the body of the creature that had almost put an end to him, swaying instantly, and Christopher caught him before he fell.

15.

The next morning, after they had found rooms in which to eat, sleep, and wash, they sat in the ordered peace and relative warmth of a study chamber in the North wing of the keep and discussed what they should do next.  Christopher did not particularly want to go home but he could see that Simon did and the method he presented to the other was dismissed out of hand.

“If we use the Drey torch to get back,” Simon explained to him, “we could be drifting between worlds in that temple for months, maybe years.  We might never find England again.”

“We might have to take that risk.  What else can we do?”

“The Druid...”

“Him again!”

“Yes, him.  He still represents our best chance of getting back.  Or at least his magic does.  You’ve said yourself, magic is the key ingredient of this place.  It was responsible for taking us out of the world, and it will be responsible for bringing us back.”

“The torch is magic.  So is the temple.”

“I don’t think it is.  It’s more of a way station, a kind of static waiting room.  The laws that govern it seem to operate in the reverse way of magic.”

“What d’you mean?”

“It’s a lifeless place.  An antithesis to energy.  When we were there with the Druid it spent him, and it did the same to us.  Remember how you felt there?  When he pulled us out of the temple we were nearly comatose.  We only began to feel normal when we arrived in Fein Mor.

“I believe that Daaynan has access to enormous power on an individual level and more.  I think he hasn’t yet fully tested the parameters of that strength and when he does nothing can stand against him, not even the steward of Brinemore and anyone who supports him.”

“You’re forgetting one thing.  He can’t use his power any more.  The King took it away.  He’s dead in the castle for all we know.”

“Here’s two things you might have forgotten.  One, why didn’t the King kill him?  He didn’t, you know.  When I asked him if he had, he got angry.  He may have brought him near death, but Daaynan’s magic protected him somehow, I’m sure of it.

“Two, power that hard-won just doesn’t go away that easily.  It took him years to acquire it, he told me, spent in something called a Brightsphere, which came from a world between worlds.  At least that’s what he said.  I suggest we find him and use his power to get us home.”

Simon rose from his seat and went toward the door of the study, motioning his friend to do the same, and without further argument Christopher followed him.

They walked from the North wing toward the South end of the keep, past the rooms of reflection, through a complex series of rooms and corridors, poorly lit and without windows.  They walked slowly, frequently stopping to regain their sense of direction, noting familiar points on the