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

lance the surety of his concentration like a cold spear arrowing through the lair of his mind, suspending all thought and action.  It was as if his mind had deserted his body yet remained somehow linked by a thin spool of thread.  He lashed out at the creature who now occupied it yet his flailing limbs thrashed at nothing and he soon realised he had been reduced to the status of witness in his body’s actions.

Iridis used Trey’s form to collect the blades, walking into the pavilion with the two sentries, sitting on one of the comfortable looking chairs as they troubled themselves to find him a change of clothing.  These men held no magic of their own, unlike the Furies at the Druid’s keep, but as long as they had some common experience that created a strong bond he would have no trouble uniting the citizens of Brinemore under his will.  And what better bond was there than that enjoyed by soldiers in their Northern Army? he smiled to himself.  No, there would be no opposition there.  The Steward’s helpmeet, however, presented a sort of challenge.  That one could control men’s minds remotely- and other creatures too.  They needed to be close in range- although how close he had no idea- and a handful of individuals were not subject to his control, like the Druid.  Iridis had learned all this when he had touched the Fury at Fein Mor.  The helpmeet had invaded the Faerie creature’s mind and sent it south to attack the Druid, travelling with it at least part of the way.  On touching the Fury, Iridis had immediately felt his stink inside the creature.  It had been a curious sensation, to grasp the mind of another while feeling the presence of a third.  As a result, he knew what the helpmeet knew and vice-versa.  There had been no time to confront him, not then when he’d had to put distance between himself and the Druid’s apprentices- those who wielded the Druid’s green fire.  Now perhaps was the time to confront the helpmeet.  He only hoped the other would overcome his present caution and probe further into his mind.  There was a surprise waiting for him, should he decide to do so.

As things stood, he would have to deal with the Tochried.  The helpmeet controlled this creature from beyond the limits of the city.  He knew exactly where.  Once he had finished with the Tochried, he would track him down and capture him.  Perhaps he would make an example of him.  The Druid and he could be put to work outside the citadel as slaves, deferential to the lowest commoner.  A faint line creased his brow as he wondered why the Druid had not yet fully succumbed to his power.  His magic was there inside him, eating him from the inside out, yet still he resisted.

He brushed the thought aside.  There were more pressing concerns.  Once they had been dealt with, by dawn tomorrow, he would be ruler of a new empire.  His dying world Naveen would live again.

28.

The platoon, led by Commander Dechs, stood outside the fortified complex that housed the Council chambers and the Steward’s quarters.  The citadel gates, towering structures made of sturdy oak and fortified iron, were locked behind them with chains made of reinforced steel.  They stood in file, gripping swords, halberds and flails, ready to encounter what crossed through the city toward them.  Some of the soldiers glanced uneasily to one side of the platoon, at the monster that stood there, motionless, its presence dwarfing that of the men, yet they did not break file.  Dechs had told them they would assist this creature in the battle against the sorcerers and they knew not to question the Commander, though he had added that their Steward thought they needed fire to match fire.  It stood there like a demonic thing, well over seven feet in height, its thickset eyes impenetrable beneath hairless eyebrows, staring straight ahead as if caught in the grip of a trance.  Its skin was red, abrasive, its plated surface eroded in pitted hollows.  Thick veins stood out along its legs and arms, callused and rope-like, snaking beneath shoots of wiry hair.  It stood apart from the men, though it faced the same direction.  Even Dechs gave it a wide berth, though they thought their Commander wasn’t afraid of it.  Dechs wasn’t afraid of anything, it seemed.  He had led them for several years and before that he served in a subdivision of the Northern Army known to the men in the barracks as the Exile Legionnaires after which this platoon was named.  The Exiles were a motley assortment of outcasts, former rebels and misfits, untouchables with little or no purpose that were the first to be sent into battle during the early years of the state’s war with the Drague Territories.  Rumour had it that Dechs and his men were once caught by a full regiment of Drague warriors in some nowhere eastern town with no means of escape.  The company of Exiles numbered two hundred men against the thousand-strong regiment who were armed to the teeth with blades, crossbows and hatchets.  All the Exiles had was the standard broadsword the army had issued them with.  Dechs immediately ordered his men to separate into small groups and lie in wait in suitable vantage points in the town’s various buildings.  Using the town’s infrastructure to their advantage, they ambushed and killed over half the regiment.  Moral was running high but many of the men’s swords had grown blunted with use and could no longer be used effectively, the soldiers exhausted from striking the enemy with the flat of their blades.  So Dechs gathered up sticks, a stone slab he liberated from a stronghold, and two oak wood planks and fashioned a grindstone on which they sharpened their blades until they could cut paper.  Now, they were a hundred and fifty men against 400.  Dechs did a brave