The Warlock's Curse (The Syrane Chronicles Book 4), page 2
Margaret had wanted to name him Duncan, in honour of her benefactor. But Jade had suggested not. If the public misconception of the boy was that he was the outsider’s son, association could victimise him. Instead, they had settled upon Malin as an appropriate name. ‘Malin’ was the Old Gundish word for ‘outside’.
“Goodness, that means it’s almost fifteen years since Turgon and Venarri disappeared.” Jade furrowed her brow. “I haven’t heard from Turgon’s wife for a few months. I should write her a letter.”
“Yes, I wonder how she got on with Gamnus and Carg? They were looking into some rumoured sightings around the Carmwick area, weren’t they?”
“Little Ellham,” Jade corrected. “Although I hold little hope after so long. I fear it will be another dead end.”
Margaret nodded, her face solemn. Fifteen years was a long time to be missing. The two mages had given up hope of finding the two alive.
Despite many relentless years of searching every corner of Syrane, Turgon’s brother, Fuirchon Ancalímon, and his father, Elorgon, could not uncover any trace of him.
“The elves have given up,” she said. “Their High Mage and a senior priest of Khor. A very serious loss. When did we attend that memorial ceremony? Over three years ago?”
Jade nodded.
“It surprised me to receive an invitation. After they initially thought we were responsible for their disappearance.”
“A mystery,” Margaret replied.
“Yes, it is. A troubling one, still,” said Jade. “Jongus and Yarn will return to the two remaining places to look, although I wish they would not go to either place. They are best left undisturbed. We found nothing before. I don’t know why they try again.”
Margaret nodded her agreement.
“I’m glad I’ve not been to the Pass of Xiphos. It sounds awful.”
“It is,” Jade replied. “Although I enjoyed the first journey there.” She smiled at the recollection. Duncan and Jade spent several nights snuggled up on the journey to the pass. From there, Duncan went to…
“Olfaern,” she whispered.
Olfaern, home of Xiphos the lych, the tower that was raised from the depths near Dunport fifteen years ago by the power of the vengeful lych. Yarn and Jongus had searched the length and breadth of Syrane for Venarri and Turgon, with no success. They hadn’t double-checked the Pass of Xiphos and Olfaern yet. Despite the extinction of undead from Syrane, no one knew what dangers the tower contained. Duncan had made a few notes himself before Venarri had returned him to his home, and Jongus had taken a transcript with him.
The two women sat in companionable silence for a few minutes.
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” Margaret said.
“You just did,” Jade replied with a grin. “Of course, ask away.”
Margaret laughed and went on.
“The students, the five we have. They are good, I have high hopes for them. They are all still just children. Malin, of course, bless him. Jerrod tries hard, but he is a little slow. He frustrates the older two. Darwynn is such a sweet girl, but she wants to learn everything at once. She is a joy to teach.” Her face clouded over. “Aldis and Gwidion, though. Aldis is so advanced I don’t know what I can do to teach him. Everything comes so easily to him. Gwidion is so impatient, so rude. But I…” her voice trailed off.
“You are concerned?” Jade asked. “They are teenage boys, and they are notorious for being challenging students. We have spoken of them before, but I was of the understanding the behaviour had improved after I had words with them last time.” She frowned. “He’s been here long enough to know.”
Margaret nodded.
“He has,” she replied. “I am concerned. Also, Aldis has reverted to being not very nice to the other students. He is always quite disparaging.” She stopped to brush her hands across her knees, as if to iron out the wrinkles in her dress. “He often seems quite bored in the classes, and sometimes he does not attend, of late. I worry about what he may be doing.”
“He can’t leave the tower. I’d know if he did,” replied Jade.
“I know. I just think that perhaps we should keep our eye on him.” She brightened. “Perhaps if you came to some classes tomorrow?” she asked, her expression one of hope.
“Of course,” said Jade.
“Thank you,” said Margaret. She stood as if to leave. “I think I’ll sleep a little better.”
“I hope you sleep well,” said Jade.
Margaret’s smile widened.
“Thank you, and you too.”
###
A storm lashed the tower, driving rain and wind that made the structure shudder. Gwidion peered through the small window in the shared room. The streets were empty. No one would be out on a night like this.
Yet Aldis was out. Well, he wasn’t here, anyway. He must have been out. Outside on whatever secret business he had in the city. Gwidion sniffed in disdain. His contempt extended not only to Aldis but to all his peers. Despite his loathing, Gwidion harboured no intention of betraying his fellow student’s clandestine exploits to the instructors. No, he would reserve that knowledge for a time when its disclosure could serve his own interests.
Aldis and Gwidion had little in common except a thirst for power. Gwidion, draped in the most opulent robes that coin could buy, presented a stark contrast to Aldis, who consistently adorned himself in attire befitting a commoner; a perpetually worn pair of drab brown trousers and a simple tunic. Aldis’ untrimmed hair begged for the attention of a barber, standing in stark opposition to Gwidion’s meticulously groomed locks, anointed with fine oils akin to those favoured by the women living in the Mage’s Tower.
Gwidion brushed aside the vexing thoughts of his irksome roommate and stood, hands firmly planted on his hips, as he observed the rain relentlessly assaulting the window. The rhythmic drumming of the downpour against the grimy glass grated on his nerves.
Once more, the voice reached Gwidion’s ears. Initially faint, as it always was - more akin to a whisper. Yet, with each passing moment, it gained strength, growing more insistent.
“Zastrokas,” Gwidion uttered in a hushed murmur.
“I am here,” the voice said. Heard only in his own mind, Gwidion knew no one else could overhear their words. “Have you decided?” Zastrokas asked.
“I have,” Gwidion replied. His voice was soft. “I will accept your offer.” He sensed the presence in his mind swell with glee at his statement. Yet still, it questioned him, as if it doubted his resolve.
“Are you certain? The way I offer will not be easy.”
“I am certain,” Gwidion said, his tone firmer this time. “It will be just like before?” he asked.
Gwidion fab Dôn, born to affluent merchants hailing from Gund, was accustomed to gaining precisely what he desired. Moving to the Kingdom of Syrane during his early childhood, the family established itself in Norton Keep, situated well to the south of Torun. It was within the confines of Norton Keep that Gwidion initially heeded Zastrokas’ summons, experiencing a tantalizing glimpse of the possibilities that lay within his reach.
“It will be better than before,” Zastrokas said. “You will have more power than you dreamed.”
A smile adorned Gwidion’s face, his yearning clear. What he coveted above all was dominion, and Zastrokas promised him a magnitude of power far surpassing the meagre offerings of the instructors within this tower. It was a craving that consumed him, an insatiable thirst, an unquenchable flame impossible to extinguish. Zastrokas dangled before him unfathomable knowledge, concealed from the mages of the Mage’s Tower; a wisdom reserved for warlocks who derived their power from pacts with supernatural entities, rather than the conventional teachings found in books or scrolls.
To plunge into this clandestine lore, unravel the mysteries, unlock portals to uncharted realms, and wield control over forces and power eluding the feeble grasp of these mages, this was precisely the catalyst that fuelled the fervent desire burning within him.
Yes. The way is clear.
“Yes, I am certain,” he repeated.
“Good,” Zastrokas whispered. “Cuio i raucëak anann.”
Gwidion frowned. The strange words had no meaning for him.
“I don’t understand you,” he whispered. In his mind, he felt Zastrokas chuckle.
“It’s from the old elvish tongue,” he said. “They haven’t used it since before the Demonswar.”
“I don’t speak elvish,” said Gwidion, irritated.
“Very well.” The voice paused. “I said, ‘then you and I can help each other’.”
3. Death and Taxes.
Sir William Thornhill, Castellan of Norton Keep, shifted uneasily in his majestic chair of office. The Castellan’s Chair, while functional, was quite gaudy, or so Sir William thought. Fastened to the rear wall of his audience chamber, it had an extravagantly tall back. Above him, an ornately carved canopy extended to cover his head. He glanced up; it occurred to him he’d never considered just why the chair had a canopy. He was indoors. Nothing could fall upon him, and there was no need for shelter from light or weather. He sighed.
Yet another useless design.
Maybe he was crankier than usual. The weather turned colder, and every part of him ached. It got worse every year. He had seen many years.
Over eighty of them.
He turned to face the man before him. Garth Bowen was closer to fifty than forty, but still a tall, athletic man with short, grey hair. Twin swords of elvish make hung at his hips; he did not wear the frightening armour today. Bowen carried an old book; a heavy tome bound in leather. Sir William and Bowen had been friends for over thirty years. Since Bowen had served under him in the Order of the Gryphon, a unit of the Royal Rangers called Billy’s Bastards by friend and foe alike. Sir William did not approve of the name, but it had been part of the group’s folklore for so many years he’d stopped being angry at its mention.
“Thank you for seeing me, Garth,” Sir William said.
“Not at all, old friend,” Bowen replied. His own voice was still as vital and strong as a man in his prime, unlike Sir William’s wheezing speech.
“What have you there?” Sir William asked, pointing at the book.
“This book,” Bowen replied. “I retrieved it for a merchant named Bastian.” Sir William frowned, his thick eyebrows knitted together.
“Bastian? Why does that name sound familiar?” he mused.
“Bastian is from Torun,” Bowen replied. “He came here a few years ago and made his fortune from importing coffee.” He smiled. “I drink it myself. It’s quite the drink on a chilly morning.” Bowen’s smile widened. “I like it with a dash of cow’s milk.” He gestured back at the book. “He also has a taste for rare books. I’ll drop it off presently.”
“Very good,” Sir William smiled. “And how fares your business enterprise?”
Bowen sighed.
“I’m actually looking for some help. Since Gamnus and Carg are frequently away and Yarn is in a distant part of the kingdom, I require help with certain tasks they excel at. Carg heals people and Gamnus has some magical skills; both of them are experienced adventurers who are skilled in a fight.” He sighed again. “I find I am confronted with situations I need help with. Last time I was east of the Demonpeaks, a horde of kobalos attacked me. I escaped, but it was a close call,” he admitted.
Sir William shuddered. Kobalos inhabited the subterranean depths beneath the south-eastern regions of Syrane as their domain. The entire region, including the land border that Syrane shared with Gund, had become infested with these fearsome creatures.
The kobalos are formidable beings; tall and imposing. Sharp horns projected from their heads, enhancing their menacing appearance. Their resilient green skin served as natural armour, and their razor-sharp teeth highlight their predatory nature. Their eyes radiate fiery red intensity, each eye bearing two pupils, adding an otherworldly and intimidating aspect to their appearance.
Bowen turned his gaze downward to the book.
“And the retrieval of this book.” He nodded to the tome. “I fought my way out of an ogre’s den, but could have used one or any of their help in doing so.” He frowned. “Having them there would have made the entire job a lot easier, at least.”
He patted the side of the book.
“I fought off the biggest, nastiest ogre you ever saw, and only just escaped. Gamnus would have had a magical trick up his sleeve, or Carg could have healed me when I needed it.” His frown deepened. “I’ve put word out amongst the old crew to see if anyone has a suitable person or two that can be of some help.”
Sir William nodded. Ever fond of getting right to the point of a matter, he turned his attention to the essence of today’s discussion.
“Very well,” he said. “I hope you find someone. Now, Prince Rufus has begged me to seek a successor. A new castellan for Norton Keep.” Bowen’s eyebrows rose, but he did not appear surprised. This was a recurring discussion they had for years. Well, many times when Bowen was in Norton Keep. His continual adventures meant he was often absent for many weeks at a time.
“So you have mentioned.” Bowen’s response was dry, without passion. As castellan, Sir William was governor, watch captain and constable of Norton Keep. Both Sir William and Bowen knew that accepting the role meant giving up adventurous pursuits. “I am, unfortunately, far too busy to take it on right now, Sir William.”
Sir William snorted aloud.
“Busy! The man I want to succeed me claims to be far too busy chasing phantoms and ghosts!” he exclaimed. His weathered brow creased even further as he narrowed his eyes to regard Bowen. “I had hoped you would see that your self-appointed mission to find Xiphos is a waste of time. The lych has been gone for fifteen years or more.”
“Everyone thinks Duncan Hawkwind destroyed him when Hawkwind eliminated Mergoth,” Bowen said. “But I know better.”
“Garth, the dark god Mergoth, is gone, for good this time. The undead cannot draw power from him to exist. Xiphos was undead. He can no longer walk among us.” Sir William’s frown deepened. “Your own friends, who spent much time with Hawkwind themselves, have told you this. There’s nothing they left out of the tales they told. Xiphos is no more.”
Bowen sighed. Indeed, many of his friends had aided Hawkwind, the outsider, in his journey within Syrane. He’d spoken with them all at length about the fantastic adventures the outsider led them on. Gamnus Croy and Carg Nelson, Yarn Darkwood and Richard Hardstaff, King Robert’s own court mage. And of course poor Derek, who had died helping the outsider. Not to forget Jongus Bloodaxe the dwarf, whose cousin Angus had died alongside Karnak the Gundsman in an ambush in Dunport that was an attempt to kill the outsider. Jade Hewen, now High Mage of Torun, had agreed with their reports of the events. Despite that, an instinct told him something was amiss. He stub0bornly shook his head.
“Not as the undead, no,” Bowen replied. His voice remained calm and even, as usual. “I don’t know how he did it, but I believe he’s out there somewhere.” Sir William sighed.
“And you seek to make him pay for causing you to harm the cyclops. Yes, we’ve spoken of this many times. Has that wound not healed by now? Axog and Akaros have forgiven you, surely?”
“They have. And the wound has … its not healed.” Bowen trailed off. “But the scar grows thicker.”
“There, you see? It is only you who clings to this ghastly idea.” Sir William was convinced Garth would see sense. He was a sensible man. “You need to take on some real-life responsibilities rather than this fool’s errand of chasing something that does not exist.” His voice reverberated around the near-vacant room. He gestured to the large audience chamber, empty except for the two old friends who debated this age-old topic. “Since Hawkwind destroyed Mergoth, the Kingdom of Syrane has enjoyed a wonderfully peaceful era.” Hawkwind, the outsider, had returned to his own world soon after Mergoth’s defeat. Bowen’s face took on the obstinate cast it did when he held his temper in check. Sir William snorted. “If you won’t decide to act now, at least do me a small favour, then.”
“What is it you need me to do?” Bowen asked quickly.
Sir William looked up and squinted as his next appointment arrived. The newcomer approached and inclined his head to Sir William and Bowen. Bowen’s face betrayed no emotion, but an ever-so-slight smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.
“Garth, of course you know Sherriff Humphrey?” Bowen nodded and extended his hand in greeting.
“Good fortune,” Bowen said.
Humphrey had a large pack slung over his left shoulder that sagged to his right hip. He realigned the pack and shook the offered hand. Bowen’s smirk was undoubtedly because he knew what Humphrey carried in his pack. The Great Roll, a tally of His Majesty’s tax accounts. The Sherriff handled, among other things, tax collection.
“Sherriff Humphrey will visit some of the insula landlords today. These parts of the keep can be a little on the rough side. I considered, though, that rather than send a platoon of soldiers with the Sherriff as he conducts his business, that the attendance of a renowned personage such as yourself would be enough to keep the local ruffians in line.” He finished with a twinkle in his eye. “And convincing an unscrupulous landlord that their taxes are just as necessary for the running of the kingdom as the next man’s.”
Bowen nodded. Insula were rare in the kingdom, but more common inside walled fortresses like Norton Keep, where space inside the protective walls was at a premium. The insulae were multi-level tenements that provided practical housing for various inhabitants, such as labourers and soldiers and their families.
“Of course. Are there any in particular you will visit?” Bowen asked. Humphrey cleared his throat.
“Just the one today. The tenement owned by Fauriei Agava, a priestess of Chigreus.”
Sir William glowered ever so slightly at Bowen’s audible groan. Revered as the god of longevity and arbiter of lifespans, they say Chigreus has a set of stone tablets upon which he has inscribed the date of everyone’s death. Chigreus had few temples. Instead, statues depicting the god as an ageing bald man with a pure white beard and matching eyebrows are given as gifts to older citizens. Many people maintain a shrine to him in their homes. Visitors to the home bow before his statue, which is often draped in embroidered silk robes.
