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

also taken precautions.  When the time came, he himself would be in a safe room several hundred metres beneath the citadel; not, however, before he had issued the demon with its final instructions- a word spoken in the Darksphere’s own language- to put an end to Wrock after it had dealt with the sorcerers and disappear for good.  Once this had happened, he was to make good on his promise to free Ledislas from the Sphere.  Of course, he had no intention of doing so.  It was too valuable for a start.  Also, there was no knowing what the damned thing would do if it were released.

It was minutes before nightfall when he reached the soldiers’ barracks, slipping soundlessly through the imposing entryway, his green uniform of office whispering against the stone wall of the narrow entrance.  Walking steadily past the watch, he made his way along a corridor and down several flights of stairs, emerging in a large vaulted chamber with moisture running from the walls onto a pitted, flagstone floor.  Two dozen heads turned in his direction as he entered the room.  Soldiers comprising a platoon, they stood to attention in four neat columns and saluted the Steward as he approached.

“My Lord!” the foremost soldier cried out.  “Platoon leader Dechs, present as per your bidding!”

“Commander,” Longfellow acknowledged Dechs, motioning the soldiers to stand at ease.  He looked them over, appraising them.  They were commandeered from a division of the Northern Army that was battle-seasoned and hardy, hand-picked by the acting General of the Northern Army now that Silt Bron was deceased.  He had done well, it seemed.  Decorated, judging by the jewellery they wore.  Roughnecks, many of them, despite the shine and polish of their uniforms, with that dead stare in their eyes that only experience in war can produce.  Men who could accept almost anything.  Well, that will soon be put to the test.

“You know who I am,” he said, standing in front of them, to one side of Dechs.  “Some of you I have spoken with over the years.  You have given many good years of service to the state- in the case of many of you, more years than you had originally signed up for.  I am giving you today permission to leave.  Your fighting days are done.  From tomorrow, nothing remains of your time other than for me to thank you for your service.  Those of you who wish it will be given the chance to go home and live with your families, your wives and children, to catch up on lost time.  Not only that, I shall pay each of you a generous bonus, amounting to twenty months’ pay.  You will have time to consider a life outside of the service, perhaps choose a new career, a different profession.  Anything you wish.

“I ask only one thing.  It is the reason you are assembled here today.  I have made it my goal...” Longfellow raised the index finger of his right hand “no, my mission...as Steward to rid these lands of magic doing.  And despite the success I have largely enjoyed there remains a handful of sorcerers who have eluded my attempts to put a stop to their wrongdoing.  Two in particular have escaped the net I have constructed to apprehend these criminals.  They are at this moment headed for Brinemore, trying to sneak into the city like cowards in the dead of night.  They have considerable skills and resources at their disposal and will not be easily bested.  One of them at least possesses the strength of ten or more men.

“Do not be concerned.  Your task is not to confront them directly but to protect an individual who I have enlisted to defeat them.  Commander Dechs has been briefed on the skills that the sorcerers can draw upon and will shortly enlighten you as to the best tactics you can use.  I won’t deny that this is a dangerous assignment and it may involve loss of life.  But, together with this individual, you will hold a significant advantage and as you go into battle you do so in the knowledge that you are maintaining order in a state which you have devoted your lives to protect.

“I will be with you every step of the way.  Good luck, and may the Gods be on our side.”

Longfellow walked up and down the columns, shaking hands with each member of the platoon.  He talked briefly with some of the soldiers, extending words of encouragement and praise.  Finally, he gripped Dechs’ hand, pumping it hard.  The Commander’s face was respectful and solemn, a stoic veil behind which the man could have been thinking anything.

“It’s almost time,” Longfellow said.

“We won’t let you down, my Lord.”

Longfellow had already turned to leave.  “See that you don’t,” were his last words to the Commander.

The Steward of Brinemore walked back toward the gated complex that housed the Confederation Council chambers and his own private dwellings.  Beneath the tower where he resided was a hatch door that led hundreds of feet underground to his safe room.  Built for the onset of a siege, it was fully equipped for its occupant to survive underground for months.  He didn’t intend to stay down there for that length of time but who knew how long the attack on the citadel would last?  The platoon would do their job and try to protect the demon as it confronted the two sorcerers but their role was largely redundant.  He would be amazed if any of them survived the ordeal, those who didn’t turn tail and run for the hills, that was.  It said a lot about the scant trust he had placed in his Commander that he would entertain this thought, but he rationalised it with the knowledge that none of them had done battle with the likes of the Druid before.

So, they were almost upon him, the Druid and the Raja Iridis.  He would have given fifty months pay to have seen the look on Daaynan’s face when