The Staff of the Winds (The Wizard of South Corner Book 1)

The Staff of the Winds

Book one of The Wizard of South Corner

by

William Meighan

All rights reserved

Copyright © December 2014 by William Meighan

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This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the Author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places or events is purely coincidental.

Acknowledgments:

The author’s heartfelt thanks go out to his wife Amy, who put up with his many hours of disappearing in front of his keyboard and for reading and offering improvements to what he wrote.  Thanks also go to my son Patrick, to my daughter Anne and to Jasone “Boone” Bonet all of whom made significant contributions to the final version of this book.  Let it be known, however, that the author retained the right to get it wrong despite the best efforts of these good people, and any problems that you encounter in this volume are undoubtedly his own fault.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Prologue

Nightmares

She awoke to a loud thunderous BOOM that echoed in the dream that she couldn’t quite recall.  Still half asleep, she saw an unfamiliar red glow pulsing through her open bedroom door. In the shifting shadows, there was a darker bulk moving quickly towards her.  Frantically fighting her covers, she squirmed to throw herself off the far side of the bed, but before she could get both feet on the floor, her right arm was seized in a painful grip causing her to cry out, and she was dragged roughly back and flung over, face down on the bed. Her assailant—there was too little light to determine who it was, but he was big, strong, had rough callused hands, and clearly had not bathed in some time—drove his knee against her bottom, pinning her to the bed and driving the breath from her in mid scream. He grabbed her flailing left wrist and wrenched both arms roughly behind her back.  While his left hand held her wrists together painfully high above her back, he wrapped a leather loop around her forearms near her elbows, drew it achingly tight, almost dislocating her shoulders, then wound the leather strap around and around down her forearms and tied it at her wrists.

It wasn’t until she was thus bound and helpless that he finally spoke.  “The Captain’s in a hurry, and has forbidden us our fun,” he growled with a deep guttural voice “but once they pick out the one they’re looking for, they won’t care about the rest.  Then we’ll have our fun with you.”  As he spat out these words, his hands were busy exploring her body through her thin nightdress, brutally pinching, poking and slapping.  “For now, do what you’re told and give us no trouble, or our fun will start all the sooner.”

With a hand full of hair, her captor yanked her to her feet.  As she gained her footing, she shifted to bring a knee up hard between his legs, but he anticipated her move and shoved her off balance toward the door where she staggered hard against the jamb. She cried out as a flame of agony seared across her over-strained shoulders.  By the time she regained her balance, he had her again by the hair at the back of the head, and was marching her towards the front door and out onto the dirt road.  A fire on the other side of the road explained the light that had glowed through her doorway.

The girl was in tears, not just from the pain in her arms and shoulders or the rough treatment she had received from the hands of this nameless stranger, but from the utter frustration that she could do absolutely nothing about it.  She had never been helpless before.  Growing up, in tussles with her brother or other children of the village, she had always given at least as good as she’d gotten.  But this was different.  Against this man, far superior in size, strength and brutality, who had caught her asleep in her bed, she was completely helpless.  The pure efficient brutality of the man’s actions were inexplicable; she struggled and failed to make any sense of the situation.  This was a peaceful village.  Of course there were always a few who could drink a little more than was good for them and get in brawls in the inn’s common room, but these incidents were rare and quickly squelched by the inn keeper. There was almost no violent crime, and there’d been no war or organized raiding by outlaws in this parish in generations.

In the moonlight outside, she saw that other villagers were being shoved and prodded out of their houses and toward the village green where their attackers seemed to be gathering the entire population and separating them into small groups.  When they reached the green, she was thrust forward to join a group of other women of about her age.  They were huddled together, sobbing.  Some of them had clearly received even rougher treatment than she.  Her classmate, Cynthia, stood there, seeming in shock, with her nightdress torn open to the waist, and deep scratches oozing black blood in the moonlight across her exposed breast and ribcage.  There was little that she could do to comfort Cynthia but to huddle near her. The sight of the poor girl served even more than her captor’s earlier obscene groping and threats to further emphasize to her just how vulnerable and helpless they all were.

It was when she glared around with tear filled eyes to take stock of the number and nature of their attackers that she realized with a gasp that they were not all men.  The majority, while generally man-shaped, seemed in the moonlight to be distorted in some way.  Their shoulders were broader and higher, almost hiding their heads, their arms were longer and more powerful looking, and they were covered in a sparse, blotchy hair.  Most of them were carrying heavy clubs, and all wore a thin leather baldric that supported a long knife, almost a sword, sheathed at their hips.  Several of them leered evilly at her in the moonlight, and the teeth they showed were long and filed to sharp points.  She stifled a scream and cringed away as she realized that as if out of nightmare, she was facing gorn, the vile creatures that were the subject of horror stories made up by older children to frighten their little brothers and sisters, or more accurately, the very real characters of great and ancient malevolence remembered in stories told by the Old Wizard.

When all were gathered in the green, one of the men gave the order to withdraw, and they were herded south, many staggering and stumbling, past the general store and out into the mist covered fields under the uncaring moon.  Some, like poor Mrs. Morgan, were crying out and weeping for small children slaughtered and left behind.

Chapter 1

Market Day

Owen looked forward to market days, and this one more than most.  His parents had agreed to let him spend that night in the village with the Murrays.  Aaron Murray was his life-long best friend, but it was really Sarah Murray that had lately captured Owen’s imagination.  Sarah was Aaron’s younger sister, seventeen years old—the same age as Owen’s sister Marian, who still seemed like a child to Owen—tall and fair, with long auburn hair, a full and pleasing figure, and the deepest hazel eyes that Owen had ever seen.  Courted by most of the boys in the village, Sarah still seemed to save a dance or two for Owen at the feast day celebrations.

Owen awoke as usual before the hint of first light. He could hear his mother stirring life back into the coals of the great wood stove in the kitchen. Marian was no doubt helping her while their father was probably already out milking old Sadie. Owen rolled himself up on the edge of the bed, and threw his pillow across the room in the general direction of his kid brother. “Come on, Evan,” he called, “it’s market day and we’ve got work to do.”

Evan emulated his older brother, but still hated the fact that he slept in the same room with a pillow-chucking rooster. For that matter, even the rooster had not yet crowed to announce the beginning of the day. Given the option, Evan would stay right where he was until the kitchen smells provided certain proof that his mother was about to call everyone to breakfast. Unfortunately, Owen rarely gave him that option. With a groan of protest, Evan pulled back the feather comforter and brought himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. No sense giving his brother cause to throw something else at him this morning. Owen was uncannily accurate even in the sparse light provided by the pre-dawn stars shining through the narrow bedroom window—the moon had long since set in anticipation of the coming sun—and Evan knew from experience that there were harder objects within Owen’s long reach than another pillow.

Seeing Evan rouse himself, Owen proceeded to splash the sleep off of his face with the cold water in the large crockery basin.  With a partially controlled shiver, he toweled himself off and began to dress.  Since he was a young boy, his father had stressed the necessity of being awake and alert when caring for the livestock, and cold water along with the chill coming in from the open window on this predawn autumn morning was more than enough to drive away the last vestiges of slumber.  More than one farmer had learned the hard way just how much damage a three hundred pound boar could do if it managed to sink a tusk into a calf or thigh during a moment of inattention, and Matthew McMichaels was determined to make sure that neither of his sons suffered the crippling lessons that can be taught to the careless on a farm.