The Staff of the Winds (The Wizard of South Corner Book 1) (26 page)

The two glared at each other over the little campfire for several minutes, each convinced that the other was being stubborn and wrongheaded, but also convinced that further arguments were not going to do any good now that they both had their blood up. The McMichaels had always had to ward against a proud and contentious streak that flourished in their personalities; because when riled as they now were, cool reason had a tendency to be burned away in the heat of anger.

Finally, Owen took a deep calming breath and continued.  “I’m going to keep the Old Wizard’s staff head a little longer, little sister, and try to learn what it can teach me.  It’s my only hope, and to be honest, I don’t think I have much hope left in me.”

‘Alright big brother
,’ Marian thought to herself, ‘
we’ll do it the hard way.  You can’t guard that
staff head all night and all day, and I’m not going to just wait for it to take you over completely.’

Owen wanted to go back and watch the castle again in case there was any further activity, but Marian was still concerned about her brother’s black mood. What Owen really needed, Marian thought, was to do some manual labor that would take his mind off of his worries for a while.

“I don’t know about you, but although I slept like the dead last night, it was damned cold sleeping out in the open.”  Some time during the night, a breeze had developed coming down off the mountains, carrying the frigid air from the glaciers at their peaks.  “It’s likely to get colder in the coming days.  We’d better take the time to build a shelter of some sort or we’re likely to wake up with frostbite some morning soon, or not wake up at all.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right, but if we build something, we’d best build it so that it is not obvious to the casual observer.”

Scanning the clearing and its surroundings, they settled on a large fir near the edge of the clearing, not far from the spring, that was lightly screened by quakies.  Its lower branches spread widely over the ground, making the beginnings of a protective roof for someone lying near its trunk.  By nature, that is not a comfortable place to be, however.  The lower trunks of the large firs are replete with short, dead branches that will jab the unwary, and the dry needles and other debris on the ground under the tree are sticky with old sap and prick any skin that is not well protected.

The two started by cutting away some of the lowest branches on the clearing side of the tree to create some headroom, then stripped the trunk of all of the withered growth on that side and swept the ground of all of the accumulated twigs and needles, which were kept for use as tinder. They built a simple frame to support the remaining branches, about seven feet out from the trunk, then interwove the branches they had removed, plus additional bows selected from nearby firs to make their roof a little more water tight and provide the outside wall of their shelter.

As the work progressed, Owen forgot his troubles, and became fully absorbed in the design and construction of their shelter. By the time they were done, it was approaching noon and they had built a comfortable den that would protect them from the weather, floored with the soft and aromatic tips of fir bows. Just having that base to work from, improved the spirits of both of them. Over a bland meal of old biscuits and dried beef, they resolved to set some wire snares in hopes of catching a rabbit or two to improve their fare.

The Great Sorcerer and High Lord Adham al Dharr lounged comfortably at the head of the large, oval, oaken table in the Council Chamber of the Grand Council of Sorcerers in the palace of the Baraduhne. As always, he had been one of the first to arrive for this weekly session, and he watched with amused disdain as his “councilors” filed into the chamber and took their places at the table.

He was amused at the belief, obviously held by some, that coming late to the table in some way indicated a higher level of status.  Adham had learned many years ago that the value of that prideful stance was vastly outweighed by the information that could be gleaned by being in position early to closely watch the others as they entered and took their seats.  Body language often spoke as loudly as earnest pronouncements.  In many cases, it spoke a good deal louder and with greater truth.  Fat, pompous Pashteed al Barristol, for example, was always one of the last to arrive, and he was also one of the easiest for a skilled observer to read.

Pashteed had been raised to his seat on the Grand Council after the demise of his sponsor and mentor Fasid al Sentour during the great work of the stone span across the Deep.  Adham al Dharr was secretly quite proud of the way that he had managed ripples in the flow of power that day that saw the end of Fasid and two of his cronies.  It had nearly cost Adham his own life in the doing, but the manipulation of power that had successfully burned away those three contentious fools had been so subtle that even Kadeen had not detected the ephemeral shifts in those vast flows.

The Councilors had arranged themselves down the table in order of rank.  In subtle gradation their formal robes ranged from the true black of the robes worn by the High Lord, a black that seemed to suck light and life out of the room, to the dark brown of Thustin al Vormer, the lowest ranking lord in the room. 

As usual, Adham noted that the robes of Pashteed were just slightly darker than his rank would support.  Pashteed was most certainly an even greater fool than Fasid had been, and with his inherited title as Councilor of Conquest and Subjugation, which gave him power and responsibility for the perennial war with the Maragong, he was in a position to bring great peril to the kingdom; but Adham saw this as a temporary risk; one that would be resolved soon—made irrelevant with the imminent conquest of the fertile lands across the Deep and the acquisition of the Staff of the Winds.  Fortunately, Adham had managed to keep the bumbling Pashteed out of that endeavor entirely.

The Great Sorcerer gazed down the table for a long minute once everyone was seated, then straightened in his chair.  “Now that we are all present, we can begin.”  Pashteed looked pompously around the table at his fellows, as if it were they who had caused the delay.  “Councilor Pashteed,” Adham continued, “will you bring us up to date on our righteous struggle with the vile Maragong.”

Pashteed leaned forward in his chair and began reading from his scribbled notes, reporting on victories in glorious battle against a cowardly foe.  Adham could have given the report himself, of course, and without all of the equivocations.  With what he knew from his own sources, what he had learned watching the obviously nervous Pashteed enter the room, and the general trend of the conflict in recent months, he knew that things were not going well.  Somehow, the stirring “victories” of the mighty forces of the Baraduhne over the ineffectual and cowardly Maragong always seemed to result in the regrouping of the opposing armies ever further south into lands once firmly controlled by the Baraduhne.

With few exceptions, the war which had lasted with only brief respites for generations, had been prosecuted by both sides with the minimal use of sorcery in accordance with the ancient Pact of the Ten Nations.  To have acted otherwise would have brought the full weight of the other nine down upon the transgressor.  But once Gilladhe’s staff was in his hands, along with the Old Wizard’s private chronicles to guide him in its use, Adham would have no need to fear any retribution from the others.  With such power at his disposal, he could end the ages old conflict with the Maragong on terms of his choosing while expanding and gathering strength from the new lands to the east.  Under Adham, Baraduhne would rise from the status of a middling and contracting state to that of the largest and most powerful of the Ten.  And, when the time was right, he would accomplish this without the meddling of these so-called twelve “Councilors.”

Pashteed had meandered to a conclusion while Adham was pondering his future.  He sat back in his chair, myopically looking around for questions from the other councilors, but of course there were none.  All present knew that his report had been more fantasy than fact.

“Thank you, Councilor Pashteed, for that enlightening report. Councilor Kadeen, please report on our efforts to the east.”

Kadeen was unique at this table, and a rarity in the history of the Baraduhne. He was a man not born of a noble house—there was no “al” to be found in his name—but a man who had risen from a background that he had taken great pains to hide to power through his own skill and guile. This was not just rare among the Baraduhne, it was strongly discouraged, often fatally discouraged, by the noble houses who guarded their ancestral status with extreme jealousy. The fact that Kadeen had survived long enough to achieve his current position as Councilor to the Great Lord himself spoke volumes about his intelligence and his ruthless ambition. He had proven himself to be a valuable tool in Adham’s hands, but a tool to be used with caution and watched with care.

“Thank you, High Lord.  Fellow Councilors, the project across the Deep goes well.  Our advance force has crossed the bridge with acceptable, though higher than expected, losses.  The Wizard Gilladhe, may his name be ever cursed, has been destroyed; the storied castle of Carraghlaoch, long a thorn in the side of our ancestors, has been taken, and we have begun to gather slaves from the local population to assist in the next phase of the operation, the draining of the Deep.”

An excited buzz arose around the table at this news of total victory. Several here had been skeptical of this plan from the first, not only of the nearly impossible task of creating the bridge across the Deep, but also of the likelihood of defeating the Old Wizard and the expected armies of the East. To learn that it had been achieved, and with such a modest force, was almost overwhelming.

“I have dispatched Commander Furstiv al Bardon to take command of our forces there and to provide a firsthand assessment of the situation.”

“I could use him at the front,” muttered Pashteed, just loud enough to be heard around the table.

“I expect to hear back from him any day. Our cadre of engineers and additional slave laborers stand ready to move on the receipt of his recommendation.

“High Lord, fellow Councilors, our great victory over the lands to the East, a victory that has been denied us since legendary times, is almost at hand.”

With this conclusion, Kadeen took his seat. The buzz rose to a roar of comment and approval.

Kadeen had deliberately not mentioned the Staff of the Winds, Gilladhe’s journals, or the Old Wizard’s apprentice, of course.  These topics were not for general discussion.  Of those at the table, only he and Adham al Dharr knew the details; for the rest, they were things of myth and rumor if they were aware of them at all.  To Kadeen and Adham could be added a select few currently on the other side of the Deep, and those few would not be returning until the Staff and the journals were safely in the hands of the High Lord, or those of Kadeen himself if things went according to his plan.

Chapter 10

Ambush

When Jack left Marian at their vantage spot north of the tower wood, he led his horse further north behind the hill deep into the trees until he was sure that no watcher from the tower top or from the edge of the tower wood could possibly see him. He then mounted and worked his way on a twisting path through the trees in a generally north-easterly direction. His original intention was to move quickly, and come out on the trail to South Corner well ahead of the gorn. This was not to be. The ground was too rough, and the woods too close to make good time on horseback. Tight patches of evergreen and closely spaced aspen seemed to deliberately inhibit his progress. The deer trails he followed seemed to duck under the branches, or follow twisting routes through the dense brush, making it impossible to ride, or often even lead his mount, so that he spent a great deal of time seeking alternate paths that would take him in the general direction he needed to go.

As he struggled north, Jack gradually worked his way east to converge with the road. Eventually, the woods began to thin, but Jack could no longer be certain of his location in relation to his enemy. He had pushed to make the best time that he could, so that he would be ahead of the gorn when he reached their line of march, but the gorn’s path of travel had been much easier and more direct than his. He feared that he may not have overtaken them as he had hoped and that when he finally did reach the road, he would find that they had already passed ahead of him.