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

he cut his way, fighting, through the city and realised his enemy was nowhere to be found.  Better yet, his surely comical expression when he first laid eyes on the Tochried.  Not even Tan Wrock’s magic could have achieved that.  Karsin Longfellow smiled.  It was almost worth joining the fray to see it.

__________________________________________________________________________________

The Vice-Steward of Brinemore, Scrot Manch, woke up in his sleeping quarters with a start.

There was a noise coming from inside his quarters, the sound of someone talking, though he could not pinpoint its source.  His bedroom chamber was recessed in shadow and the torches mounted on the walls here and in the hallway threw only discreet coronas of indistinct light.  Beyond the hallway there were two sentries posted at the entrance to his quarters, but they were normally too far away to hear and they would never disturb him at this time of night.  The voice gave no clue as to its origin and the Vice-Steward felt suddenly trapped with no opportunity to flee or defend himself.

“Hello, Scrot.”

The Vice-Steward jumped out of bed, reaching for the cloak that lay on his night table, stumbling on the cold, stone floor as he pulled it on.  The voice seemed to be coming from inside him, he thought, panicking.

“Who is that?”

“Never mind who I am.  I have something to tell you that you need to hear.  Do not be alarmed.  You are not hearing things, or at least not in the way you are thinking.  I am not part of you but I have an...ability...to talk into the minds of men...and more besides.”

It was a man’s voice.  The words carried a solemn, grave, pitch, delivered with a faint undertone of humour.  “What do you want from me?” he cried, walking over to the nearest torch and adjusting it so that it cast a halo of brightness into the chamber, the shadows retreating into its corners.

“If I were you I would not speak so loudly, Scrot.  You do not want to attract the attention of the guards. 

“I am not physically here.  I could be in the city,” it said with playful speculation, “or outside it, or miles from Brinemore.  Better that you don’t know where.  Listen to what I have to tell you.

“There are sorcerers approaching Brinemore.  Two of them.  Men.  These sorcerers are nothing like the second-rate magic users you have devoted at least part of your time spent in office to get rid of.  They possess a power combined that would tear the city to its foundations.  Ordinary men do not stand a chance against them in battle or in any other way.”

Manch continued to look around his sleeping chamber, the normal objects in the room appearing to take on sinister proportions, both bizarre and unfamiliar.  “If that’s true,” he said, “then I must alert the home guard, send word to the...”

“The Steward?” The voice was softly laughing now, and Manch felt a vice of alarm tighten around his chest.  “You believe him to be the cause of sorcery, do you not?  Your dead friends and allies in the Council stand testament to that, in your mind.”

“The Steward has promised me that he would work with me to remove sorcery, especially after...”

“After he killed Silt Bron and the others?  You believed that and you were right.  He gave the order that led to their deaths.  He did it to marshal support on his behalf, to strengthen his hold over the Council, and to gather help to make a stand against these sorcerers.  Don’t let your previous view of him weaken now that you have decided to stand with him.”

Manch responded to this, thinking quickly.  “If these two are as powerful as you say they are, he could not hope to do that last thing.”

“He could not.  He has enlisted the help of a third, controlled by someone who has been his ally until now, someone who has been helping him all this while in his execution of affairs of state, governing the manner of that execution.”

In a lunging, epiphanic stroke, Manch came to a terrible understanding.  “It was you!  You killed Silt Bron!”

“Well done, Vice-Steward. Do not be concerned.  I have no wish to cause you harm.  I have said that I have helped Longfellow to date, but that ends now.  I am here speaking to you to that effect, in truth.  Longfellow’s time of service should come to a conclusion.  It is long past due.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Just this.  He is hiding in a chamber beneath the city, constructed before the assembly of your first Council, expecting to wait out the storm that is approaching.  This ‘safe room’ is located directly beneath the Steward’s tower, accessible by a ground hatch at the base of the tower.  I want you to let the Council members know of this act of cowardice.  What they will do with this piece of news is predictable enough, should they act in time, that is.  The sorcerers are almost upon you, wielding their own brand of destruction, and they care not about the workings of a town’s politics.”

“And what should I do?” Scrot Manch asked.

The response was dry.  “Get out of the city.”

27.

The Druid of Fein Mor sat half-collapsed on the back of the great Carrion bird Attarack as it winged the party north over the source of the river Nole.  He struggled to maintain consciousness, not out of tiredness but because the pain he was experiencing had become almost too much to bear, threatening blackout.  The giant creature soared through the evening air, its wings beating slowly and powerfully, thirty feet in span.  They were flying at a height of several hundred feet, clinging to the safety fastenings that were strapped around the bird’s midsection.  The animal was being guided by Mereka through a series of hand and leg motions, cruising now as they passed along the south face of Mount Atterpeak, winding through the Utukum mountains, through its confusion of peaks, gliding skilfully through