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

you this.”  In a flash of movement from beneath his robing he produced a knife, long and serrated on one side- a hunting blade- and in one, quick action delivered its length into Daaynan’s midsection, the blade cutting easily through the cloth protecting the other’s stomach, burying itself to the handle.

“Karsin Longfellow wanted me to give you this,” Jareth said.  He pulled the handle down, slicing through the contents of the older man’s lower stomach before letting go.

Daaynan fell to the floor, shock flooding through his body and he heard his cousin’s voice as if from far away:“That’s the end of you now, Druid.  Your body will soon let go and you will have a relatively painless transition to the Netherworld.  You’re luckier than most, Longfellow told me to kill you quickly, afraid as he was of your sorcery.”  Jareth laughed.  “He doesn’t care for your assistance, he’s not interested in any shared venture between you and Brinemore, he simply wants you removed from the picture.

“It’s funny, with all your power, with everything you could do, all it took was a simple blade to put an end to you.  I ought to thank you, I’ll be telling this story for the rest of my life, how a lowly steward’s clerk put an end to the Druid of Fein Mor.  I think I’ll take a souvenir...your heart, while it’s still beating.  I’ll display it in a case on my...”

A flash of something white issued from Daaynan’s fingers, shimmering faintly, weakened by the Druid’s near lapse into unconsciousness.  It spiralled up toward Jareth, the grains of light turning in a disorganised coil, curving toward the younger man.  The light covered the young assassin in a bright shroud, at first no more than a pale webbing of light, then strengthening in density, becoming something physical, it slipped around Jareth’s head and face like a hood.  It tautened suddenly and the young man cried out, uncomprehending.  It tightened further until beads of water and blood pooled in the spaces between the webbing and Jareth issued a single, hoarse bray, the skin on his face torn to shreds, his jaw and cheekbones snapping as his skull collapsed, and he lapsed into silence.

Daaynan lowered his hand, satisfied that the other was dead.  He had been lucky, he reflected darkly, that the Ceylon fire had worked; he had never used it before.  He’d known that his cousin was lying when he said that he was sent here as the steward’s messenger, but not of his intent.  He would not make that mistake again, he thought.  Mistake.  The shock had worn off and now he was very tired, his breath faint and uneven.  He would welcome death like this.  It came to all of us.

The Druid closed his eyes and descended into darkness.

3.

The sun crested the horizon over the mountains of Manor Harmon, far to the south of Brinemore, spreading great swathes of red and yellow across the sky as if from the brushstrokes of a gifted artist.  Early morning light spilled over the land, over the hills and dales, through the windows of houses and cottages, stirring their inhabitants to life and the morning risers washed and cleared their throats from the sleep of the previous day.

Tolke Straat dressed and left his cottage, making his way toward the healing centre at the edge of the Manor.  He greeted or nodded at those he encountered on the way, never stopping once to hold palaver.  The injured and sick needed attention, as they always did and the past night’s rest, supervised by healers’ aides, provided but a brief respite.

Straat entered the building’s complex of rooms and corridors, headed for the ground floor station, known as the Watch.  On duty were two apprentice healers and a supervisor.  Straat greeted the supervisor, a large orderly named Marek Lend and with him went over the notes of the previous night’s activity.

“Any change in the Druid’s state?” he inquired of Lend.

The other shook his burly head.  “The wound is long and deep.  He came awake once last night but was ranting and seemed unaware of his surroundings.  We administered sleep droplets to put him under again but his sleep was feverish.  The medicine we gave him yesterday hasn’t had time to work its effect yet, I’m beginning to wonder if it ever will.”

Straat nodded.  “Increase the dose and monitor him closely.”

As Lend went about his duty, the other considered their most recent patient.  It was the first time they had treated anyone from Fein Mor, let alone one of its Druids.  Normally those sorcerers took care of themselves, with magic and healing salves from roots and herbs the Manor healers were unfamiliar with.  It was said that there was only one sorcerer there now and he had been subject to attack ever since his induction as Magus.  Apart from his stomach wound there were burn marks on his face and upper body but these were superficial.  His main wound, caused by what appeared to be a hunting knife, was far more problematic.  The knife had cut several organs yet not sufficiently to warrant surgery.  The loss of blood was a problem.  They had cauterised the wound and stopped the bleeding but not before an enormous amount had escaped.

The Druid possessed healing magic.  Perhaps, Straat thought, they could wake him and get him to use it on himself. Tolke Straat pondered this decision, then put the matter aside and went on his daily rounds, his thoughts on the other patients at the Manor.

Daaynan awoke to find himself surrounded by black light.  Or was he really awake?  He couldn’t tell.  Darkness swept all around him, enfolding him in its embrace, comforting him.  It seemed to move with him, its presence a gentle pressure against his robing, protecting him.  It was good here.

There were boundaries to the dark light, however.  Beyond it, he sensed, was a hostile world. If he ventured too far, if he stepped through the boundary lines that separated this place