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

The green fire shimmered and began to fade, taking with it the image of the Sphere.

“You said you are familiar with our world,” Simon asked quickly.  “What did you mean?”

The figure appeared to darken, growing violet.  “It is a mirror world of the Northern Earth.  Each place is a possibility of the other.  They are connected.”

“And what about Iridis?  How is his world connected to ours?”

“The one who attacked the Druid comes from a dimension of experience far beyond that of the Northern Earth and your...England.  He is a sorcerer of immense power, a ravager of worlds.  He will mould the Northern Earth to his own shaping if he is not stopped.”

“Is he a match for Daaynan?”

“He is a match for anyone who comes in contact with him.”

“Even the steward of Brinemore?

“Iridis’s going to kill the steward, isn’t he?  That’s where he’s headed, to Brinemore.”

“He must not be allowed to reach it.”

The green fire stuttered once more and died, taking with it the image of the Sphere.

Christopher turned to Simon.  “That was pretty clear, wasn’t it?”

“I half hoped that Iridis would put an end to the steward and solve ours and Daaynan’s problems in one stroke.  Now we have two problems: Iridis and Karsin Longfellow.”

“So, we’re going to help him?”

“Doesn’t seem like we have much choice.  Daaynan made it obvious he won’t assist us until Longfellow is no longer a threat, and if Iridis gets there first he’ll want to dispose of him as well before he tends to our concerns.”

“He already has a good head start.  What do we do now?  Wait?”

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

They stayed with the Druid all night and into the next morning, taking turns sleeping in the nearby chamber while one of them stood watch over the sorcerer.  There was no noticeable change in his condition until well into the following afternoon, when he appeared to have developed a fever.  Christopher went hunting for a source of water and some cloth with which to wipe the patient’s brow.  He found a disused rag and some cold spring water but had no means to heat it.  The chamber was warmer than the passage outside it so together they shifted the Druid inside and lay a basin filled with the water next to him.  Christopher stripped him of his broad-cloak and covered him instead with a light sheet he had found, spilling the water into his mouth as expertly as he could in order to rehydrate him, periodically mopping his brow and wiping the skin on his face, chest and shoulders.

Two further days passed with the Englishmen performing the same routine.  They discovered a sharp knife in one of the chamber’s drawers and set about pruning the hair on his chin and cheeks which had grown in wild tufts over the natural contours of his face.  The patient moaned at times, turning fractionally to one side or the other, yet his eyes remained closed.  If he were drifting out of unconsciousness the fever held him back.

On the fourth day, the fever broke.

The Druid stirred to life, looking clean and reinvigorated, thanks to the young men’s ministrations, his steel-grey beard cropped, the dark, weather-lined planes and angles of his face somehow smoother looking.  His eyes were glassy, yet as he stared at them they still held enough of their old, commanding expression to cause the two to flinch from his regard.  And wasn’t there something about them that hadn’t been there before, Simon wondered?

Before he could think on it, the sorcerer was halfway to his feet, shedding himself of the cloth and sheet that lay on his person.  Simon held him steady while Christopher rushed to fetch his cloak.

He stood, pulled the heavy robe over his tall frame and looked around him.  “Are we in Fein Mor?”

Christopher exchanged a glance with Simon.  “We are.”“You’re home,” he said, holding back the reproach in his voice.  Just.

“Iridis,” the Druid exclaimed softly, “where is he?”

“It’s alright,” Christopher said soothingly, “He’s out of the picture, for the time being at least.”  When the other didn’t respond, he said “he’s been taken care of.”  “And you needn’t worry about the Faerie creatures.  Iridis killed them all.”  They told him of the events that had occurred from the time the Druid was attacked to the King’s victory over the Furies and their leader.  Daaynan looked expressionlessly at them, even during the moment when they told him how they had forced Iridis’s hand to get him to help them.

“You said he’s been taken care of.  Where is he now?”

“On his way to Brinemore.”

“Then we must intercept him.  There is no time to lose.”

“Wait a moment,” Simon said, “are you fit to travel?”

“I am fine, Englishman.  It is important that the King does not reach Brinemore.  We must confront him before he does.  At all costs we must confront him.  He is too dangerous to be kept alive in the Northern Territories.”

“That’s what the Brightsphere said.”

The Druid regarded Simon gravely.  “You have much to tell me, but this is not the time.  Go to the entrance hall and wait for me there.  I will return momentarily.”

The Druid had to take them there as they had forgotten the route.  Quickly, they negotiated the twists and turns through the labyrinth of corridors and halls, the young men, although fit and rested, struggling to keep pace with him.  When they arrived at the entrance he left them there but returned in minutes as promised.  His expression was dark, inscrutable as they had known it before, yet the scar on his face was livid with the blood that pulsed beneath it, revealing a counterpoint of emotions.  “The King has taken all the horses from the stables.  No doubt he did not want us to follow him.  Now we must go on foot.”

“But Iridis has had a four-day head start at least,” Simon pointed out.  “You said it only takes three days on horseback to get there.  He’s surely there by now.”

The tall