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

“Daaynan said he probably wouldn’t be...” Simon told him, reaching for something inside his cloak.

“Probably wouldn’t?  I don’t care for that assessment.  I think we should get the hell out of here.”

“Calm down, Chris.”  He produced a familiar looking pair of sticks, each under half a foot long and three inches wide, waving them before his friend.  “We have the Drey Torch, remember, like we used on the Naveen King?  He makes a single move to attack us and we wave these in front of him as we did with Iridis.  Besides, he’ll get such a shock when he sees you, he won’t be able to move.”

“Why do we have to confront him at all?  Why can’t I simply impersonate him, give directions to his soldiers as we agreed I’d do, leave out the other bit?”

Simon exhaled softly.  “We need to capture him first to successfully do the other.  Now, follow me in.”

He pushed the door wide and together they stole into the quarters.  They found themselves in a large chamber that looked to be a vestibule off which there were two other rooms.  It was dark, the only light permitted into the chamber coming from outside through long, narrow vents much like the windows that existed in Fein Mor.  Simon gestured Christopher to walk to the far wall of the chamber while he went along the nearest wall leading to the adjoining rooms, yet Christopher vigorously shook his head.  Simon shook his fist and silently repeated the gesture, his lips thinning, disappearing into his mouth.  He peered through the entryway into the second room and found it almost completely dark, the chamber empty. Walking over to the next room he found the same to be the case.

Striding over to Christopher who lay against the far wall, he announced: “There’s no one here.  We’re alone.”

Christopher eyed his friend cautiously.  “What do we do now?”

“Grab some of the Steward’s clothes.  We’re going to the soldiers’ barracks.”

BENEATH THE CANOPY of the narrow strip of woodland north east of the citadel, Mereka and the Druid hid from the storm that was approaching the city in the form of the Naveen King and the creature borne into this world to confront him.  Daaynan slept still on a soft patch of earth, his movements frequent, his closed expression troubled.  Mereka tended to him, wiping running sweat from his brow with a cloth, talking to him softly, occasionally placing her cool hands against his temples in an effort to reassure him.  He spoke sometimes in his slumber, muttering words that were at times incomprehensible to her, at others spoken so clearly, he might have been awake and engaged in conversation.  At one time he thrashed out violently, calling someone’s name over and over, his voice loaded with an acid bitter betrayal, promising harsh recriminations.  “Jareth!  Jareth, why did you do it!?  I’ll find you!  I’ll deal with you!  Murderer!”  He had a cousin by that name, Mereka thought.  Could it be Jareth Tox?  She had never met him but had heard Daaynan talk of him over the years.  What had passed between them?  He fell back into a fitful rest, his mind roaming other matters, spitting out names and places she didn’t recognise.

There was a noise coming from somewhere near the edge of the copse.  The sound of human voices, shouting and talking excitedly.  Judging by the fixed range of their voices, they had stopped, involved in a discussion of some kind.  She spied through the camouflage of leaves and branches, unable to get a clear view of them in the settling darkness beyond snatches of their clothing which suggested they did not belong to the army.  Citizens of Brinemore, perhaps.  They hadn’t yet noticed the pair but if they continued walking toward the plants and trees they almost certainly would. They idled where they stood for a time before deciding to move on, beginning to walk in the opposite direction.  Unaware of their predicament, Daaynan called out Simon’s name.  “Christopher’s dead,” he lamented, “apparently talking to Simon, “but it’s not my fault.  Believe me, Englishman, I had nothing to do with it.  He would have died sooner were it not for you,” he whispered in a croak.

A number of citizens turned in the direction of the Druid’s voice and in that moment if Mereka hadn’t dropped flat to the ground they would have seen her.  She lay beside Daaynan on the bed of plants and earth, breathing as quietly as she could, one hand cupped over Daaynan’s mouth, the steam from his breath itching her skin.  The members of the party stared out past the canopy for a while, then shook their heads and continued walking, resuming their conversation, headed away from the woodland and the citadel.

She exhaled softly, not willing to think of the consequences to their being exposed.  Should this group or any other return, they may not be so lucky again.  She needed to revive Daaynan and she would have to do it now, regardless of his condition.  Rising to a squatting position, she fished inside her cloak, producing a small jar containing a cloudy looking potion that he had given her at some point in their travels.  He had been given it by a healer known as Tolke Straat, he’d said.  A powerful mixture known as Liquid Velvet, it acted as an accelerant and could revive a body from the deepest of slumbers.  Twisting open the cap which was attached to a small syringe, she opened Daaynan’s mouth and squeezed the syringe gently over it, allowing the potion to drip inside.  She considered the amount she had fed him then gave him some more.  Putting away the mixture, she leaned now over the Druid, lifting his frame somewhat, her hands supporting his head and neck.

“Daaynan,” she called softly, cradling him.  “Daaynan, we’re in trouble.  You must wake.”

There was no response.  She called to him over and over with the same result. Had she given him the right amount?