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

tendons within them were being swiftly crushed.  The feeling travelled upward throughout his body until his entire form felt as if it were held in a vice-like clutch, turning and shortening until he felt the air being pressed from his lungs.  He had no time to think, just a simple impulse that flashed through his mind with limbic speed: an impression of how his cousin- Jareth Tox- must have felt when he had employed his magic on him during his final conscious moments back at the Druid’s keep.  Magic.  The white fire he had used to kill Jareth.  White fire he could draw on now.

He brought it to bear, the Ceylon fire forming a point at the core of his being, tensing, gathering strength, its tendrilled sparks shooting out at the creature, wrapping around its form, closing, attempting to crush it as he himself was being crushed.  Nothing happened.  the Tochried brushed it aside as easily as it might have a spider’s webbing.

He knew suddenly where he had gone wrong.  This creature came not from a place and time but from a realm where place did not exist.  Thus, materialisation of any kind did not exist, including that produced by the Druid magic.  The Brightsphere, during Daaynan’s training, had told him of such realms, when it had tried to instil in him the message that you needed to fight fire with fire.  What had it said, could he now remember?  His breathing grew short and laboured as he felt the very life being squeezed out of him.  There was little time left, perhaps a few seconds before he lost consciousness altogether.  He sank to his knees, dizziness washing over him.  The Sphere had suggested the conjoining of his magics to defeat the non-material.  Transparent fire!  A combination of coloured fires, with one dominant to achieve its suited purpose.  But which combination, and which prevailing colour?  Which colour was nearest to transparent?  White!  The Ceylon fire, supported by the others.

Calling on every last reserve of strength, reaching right down to the wellspring of his power, he summoned the Ceylon fire once more, tensing one final time as it coursed through his system and exploded out through his clenched fists.  At the same time, he called on all the others: brilliant azure, crimson, vermillion.  Together, they coiled out toward the Tochried, the multifarious streams of light twining in disorganised loops, reaching, stretching out, webbing the creature in a glorious shroud, growing in density, becoming something solid.  Weaving together as one, they slipped around the creature’s face and head like a death mask.  Then the beams tightened and the demon cried out, not knowing what was happening.  They tightened further until something of what lay inside the creature’s head ran down his neck and cheeks, sheeting the surface of its plated skin in its own blood.  The Tochried released a final, earth shattering scream before the Ceylon netting tore its face to pieces, its bones crunching gruesomely as its skull imploded and the Tochried fell lifeless to the ground.

The Legionnaires who remained in the compound alongside their Commander stared at Daaynan as if waiting to see what he would do next.  He watched them back, unsteady on his knees, the force that had carried him here to this place ebbing from him in slow waves.  When they realised what he had done, that it was all over, some of them approached the Druid, the look of admiration they gave him dying as it met their eyes when they could see he was utterly spent, perhaps close to death. Incredibly, he rose and walked toward them, moving very slowly.  He gave the soldiers a wry twist of a smile.  Somehow, he managed not to fall until he was beside the closest of them.  Their Commander pushed through them, catching him as he tumbled to the ground.  Daaynan’s smile was still there.  He looked at the Commander and silently mouthed the words ‘thank you,’ then his vision faded and he went limp in Dechs’ arms.

36.

Simon and the Druid were carried north of Mount Atterpeak to the Wood Sanctuary where they were treated by the shamans who occupied the centre.  The Englishman was put in a large suite by himself where he was placed in a comfortable bed.  Small tables stood one on either side of the bed on which peaceful icons rested, and simple coloured tapestries hung on the walls.  Healers came and went, washing and dressing his injuries, administering herbs and salves to the areas most affected.  For the wound on his head they applied externally a potion that was rich in remedial properties and made him drink a strong brew which restored energy.

He was asleep for much of the time and while he slept he dreamed of home, of England and Italy.  Italy in particular.  He was bathing in a lagoon with Christopher and some girls they had met, the waves lapping at their half-submerged bodies.  His friend’s face looked untroubled.  Lying in the pool, his head arched back into the water, his eyes meditatively focused on some distant point in the sky, he seemed not to have a care in the world.  Smiling, watching him, watching the girls, Simon increasingly became aware of another presence, something foul and malevolent that stalked outside their paradise.  Terrified, he came to his feet, standing between his friends and this thing, meaning to protect them.  A monstrous shadow descended on the lagoon, and within it a viridescent flame threatened to consume them all.  He stood before it, pleading: ‘leave him; take me instead!’  As the light from the fire touched him, he cried out in alarm.  Then abruptly his surroundings changed.  He was in the temple again, its effulgent beams ranging throughout for as far as he could see, innumerable pillars that hummed and pulsed with the life that bore them.  There were shields on the pillars with fine rune carvings.  The ones nearest to him carried an image of home.  The shields were