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MORDRAK KNEW JORLON expected gratitude. Jorlon had all the cards and knew it, and made the most of elevating himself at Mordrak’s expense. But he certainly made sure he wasn’t appearing to grant any sign of gratitude though he was loathe to confront this apprentice with a lesson demanding the courtesy he was entitled to. The sad fact was, of course, the rascal was entirely necessary to locate Adriselle, let alone a wizard. Nevertheless, the apprentice had invited Mordrak to accompany him to a set of ancient standing stones, explaining that there they would meet with Astocath and Adriselle. They made reasonable speed across a wilderness towards their goal.
A week or so later they were still riding across these wild lands, a heath, its flatness broken by brush and scattered woodland, following something of a road. A recent fall of rain refreshed the air, but Mordrak felt damp beneath his chainmail, which agitated his mood as the chill of it cooled against his body. He fumed to himself, swearing he would seize the fortress Sylvendene as he had promised the angry Baron Lerion. Furthermore, there was little about Jorlon's manner that could be trusted. Maybe Adriselle had been stolen away by demons, or even the wraiths that haunted him. ‘What I witnessed in Ifhrd’s tower,’ he lamented to himself, ‘is that anything could have happened.’ And if Adriselle had been taken by one spirit or another, she would surely be dead.
He finally decided to take this brat in hand. Mordrak spurred his horse to come aside Jorlon. “So what exactly did Astocath say to you?” he asked, barely checking his impatience.
“’Gilead Stones next moon, arrive. Astocath.’”
“Couldn’t he be more specific?”
“Mind spells are dangerous. It’s fortunate I’m advanced enough in my studies to be acquainted with the possibilities at all,” Jorlon replied with a supercilious air.
“You said the championships were every three years. So how old are you?” Mordrak could never determine his age, except he would not yet have seen twenty years.
“I’m eighteen or so. We’re much the same in years,—that is to say, I am not much younger than you. Not with all things considered,” the apprentice replied
“You look younger than that, usually.”
“I don’t kill people for a living.”
Mordrak smarted and expected to hear the wraiths’ laughter, but there was none, which in some ways made their manifestations the worse, and he was lost for a sensible retort.
They rode for hours without speech. Then Mordrak was again at his wits’ end. “How do you know Adriselle is safe?”
The only sounds were the hooves of their horses and birdsong. He felt he should be glad to be alive, but he could not appreciate life until his sister was safe by his side. He clucked his tongue; if it weren’t for her missing again things would be progressing reasonably well if they were to meet with a helpful wizard. He wished Tulan were here to share the burden; Mordrak had sent his squire home to report to Muldon that Adriselle was missing.
Mordrak's problems had multiplied, however; Jorlon had been unwilling to co-operate, finding safety in his hidden castle and making excuses that he lacked the appropriate form of arcane knowledge to find the wizard responsible for the curses. Jorlon claimed he had the power to confirm Adriselle was with Astocath, but for some reason, this mage they were to meet had barely communicated. All was vague. Jorlon could be as elusive as the fortress of Sylvendene.
After so many weeks, he was still in the hands of these outlaws. Merchants and more people besides had returned home from the hands of these brigands, yet here was the key to Tell’s health—and not only to King Tell, but to himself as well, as countless others had long since fallen under the curse. Not to mention Adriselle's fate. To this, the spilled blood of the merchant guards demanded justice, yet Tell and his subjects all needed the wizards’ help. It was a mess, for how could King Tell expect the magi to be peaceable under the writ that was over them? Consequentially, whatever part the magi had to play, the aggrieved Baron Lerion was sure to continue his demand for wergild. The wizards would want amnesty in return for their part, which would arguably be given out of goodwill rather than obligation to the crown. Tasting the enmity of a spell-craft master, if the wraiths and nightmares were anything to go by, how could he stand against these magi if they were to turn against him? The end of this scenario would require a steadfast verdict since not everyone could live happily ever after—not after all this.
Surely Tell would have to repatriate the wizards, find a way to distinguish them from warlocks and witches, and somehow keep peace with the priesthood who had so fervently encouraged him to banish them all. Jorlon said that some wizards were combined within some sort of unifying order: The Circle of Medeas. Together they regulated themselves basically from attracting too much attention as well as cooperating with one another to limit wizard wars.
“We should be there before nightfall.” Jorlon broke through Mordrak’s line of reasoning.
Mordrak glanced up at the sky, judging they had perhaps another hour before sunset. He replied, “Surely there are trolls about, or worse, goblins?”
“All sorts. And rabbits.”
“Rabbits? Killer rabbits?” Mordrak wondered. The world was relatively new to him as to his sister but no one had ever mentioned killer rabbits.
Jorlon laughed, not unpleasantly, but Mordrak sensed a hint of mischief behind it and scolded himself for being.so easily fooled, even if it was only partially.
“Only if they’re not cooked properly. I fancy rabbit rather than this hardtack.” Jorlon tapped the bag of provisions that hung from his saddle.
Mordrak scowled.
***
THEY SAT AROUND THE small campfire. “I thought you said we would have arrived by now?”
“They're farther away than I thought.”
“Do you know exactly where they are?”
“I know of them.”
“This is a waste of time! You cannot be trusted!”
After a while, they finally bothered themselves to erect a small tent, since the night promised to be a chill one. They would take in turns to take watch every few hours. Neither were happy with their circumstances.
Mordrak did not enjoy the rabbit. It had been easy for Jorlon to paralyse by spell, but the muscles stayed rigid throughout the cooking, so eating the meat was like chewing on leather boots. Mordrak's irritation remained, having no idea why they were not yet at the standing stones of Gilead as Jorlon had promised they would be by now. They were still half a day’s ride away if Jorlon was out of character and honest about guessing it.
“The forest looks too different from how I remembered it,” Jorlon said in his haughty tone. “There’s no knowing how we’d have found a way through if I’d risked it. This heath is longer but more reliable.”
“Well, I hope Adriselle’s at the stones. I suppose Astocath will wait?”
“I know him about as well as you do.”
“He’s a wizard!” Mordrak snapped back. “You told me enough of their tales. And Ifhrd knew him ...”
Jorlon shrugged and finished his plate of roasted rabbit. “There’s lots of wizards in the world.”
"He hates you!" A voice crept into the back of Mordrak's mind. The voice came as a shock as he hadn’t suffered them for a while. He had begun to believe he had mastered the problem, but now his mind shattered once again.
Mordrak raised his voice. "Quash your disgusting contempt toward me—you, a mere apprentice to a no-good profession. I am a knighted nobleman who may well take your facetious head.” Seeing Jorlon about to react, he said, “Hold your tongue if you think to out-word me, you rap squalled knave!”
Jorlon looked alarmed.
“We should have gone by ship to him.”
“That wasn’t an option.”
Mordrak laid his pewter plate heavily on the grass and brushed away an interested fly. He wondered if he should reach for the hardtack—he was still very hungry.
“But perhaps that is how your sister is coming back. Walking the ether is tricky.”
“What? I thought she was with Astocath!”
“Perhaps she is.” Jorlon sounded defensive.
“But you said he took her!”
“How should I know?”
“But—”
“I never promised,” he said reasonably. “We assumed, that’s all.”
“We? You said she was safe!” Mordrak cried out in disbelief, knowing that whatever peace he had for her had been ill-founded. “And now you’ve brought me out here to meet her!” Mordrak rose to his feet.
“I had to make you feel better. She’s safe. Bad enough knowing Ifhrd was lost.” Jorlon also picked himself up from the ground.
“Ifhrd? He’s dead, what does he matter to this?”
“What do you mean, ‘what does he matter?’ You killed him!”
“No! You’re a liar! I did not mean for Ifhrd to die. I need him!”
“Kill him! Kill him! You know he deserves to die!”
“And I should kill you! You’re not fit to live, you know so little!”
Jorlon stabbed his finger at Mordrak, jabbing as though with a dagger in hand, pronouncing bullet-like enunciations with his accusations. “You know only the moment!—the moment of death. I hope she’s dead! Dead! I hope she’s dead!”
“Shut up! You filthy liar!” The taller of the two, Mordrak loomed over the apprentice, but then suddenly he thought he had fallen into a black chasm. All he could see was darkness as he felt blood stream before his eyes as if they had burst open. He held his head in his hands. The wraiths heckled him in the background. He could not see them, but he knew it was they, though he wondered too if Jorlon was aggravating them.
“You’re not a man, no more man than beast ... less man ... more beast! Beast-man! Beast-man!” they taunted in unison.
He shouted above the cacophony filling his head, filling his ears, but their words resounded over his cries.
“She’s with us. She’s gone. She’s in our pit—you’ll be in the other. Never will you see each other again. Cry! Cry! Mordrak, cry! Cry you both, forever and forever!” Then their ghostly chant lost him his balance, and he lay curled before Jorlon.
She will cry her song of lament
Your cry of sorrow will not reach an ear
You shall know in your black-state heart
She’ll never know end to her fear.
Cry! Adriselle, Cry! So alone
Cry! Mordrak, Cry! You felon
Both crying and weeping
Knowing the other is wailing!
Then the voices were gone, and Mordrak arose to his feet. He shook his head as if to cast off clinging imps from his hair and more quickly regain his sight. As he began to recover his nerves, Mordrak was heartened to see there was not a mark of blood upon him. The endless hours of waiting within Ifhrd’s castle, suffering nightmares of never meeting his sister again, had driven stakes deep into his heart. His mood darkened with this heavy-laden evening sky; were the brutal clouds the metal they appeared to be, they would readily fall upon his shoulders. Sharing the same fate as Loki, awaiting in torture beneath a mountain of venom, he was trapped.
They looked at one another in angry silence. The apprentice had stopped waving his finger. The young man sighed. “There is every chance Astocath made a crossing to save her. He’s a good man by all accounts. It could be,” he paused, his voice cold and calculating, “that the image was another being—your enemy. You’ve got to fight your enemy!”
“You know nothing!” Mordrak felt dizzy and nauseous. He was glad he had eaten little. “She’s with Astocath.” Perhaps the conviction in the statement would make it true.
Jorlon seemed to smirk at him, his eyes and mouth mocking and humiliating him, as if he knew all the tumult within his mind and soul was sheer madness that perhaps, given a moment, Jorlon might readily cure.
“I should take your head!” Mordrak shouted at the apprentice with his fists clenched.
“Pah! You’ve enough problems without the murder of me to add to them,” Jorlon replied with a sneer.
Mordrak’s face twisted with anger and his muscles flexed, bristling with a will to clutch Jorlon’s throat. “Shut up! Get to sleep. I’ll keep guard. All night.”
“Don’t tell me when to sleep, you great heap of metal! How dare you tell me what to do?”
Mordrak could feel every muscle in his face tighten with rage, and with a sense of impotence against Jorlon, who seemed to know no fear, Mordrak jabbed his fist at him. He missed, hardly deliberately, but wished so much to knock the boy’s teeth back into his brain. It seemed Jorlon had used a spell to protect himself.
Jorlon said nothing. Mordrak stood looking at the apprentice, who in turn stared at Mordrak as if the knight were upon another world. The apprentice looked satisfied as Mordrak turned to stride away in a delirium that had overborne his manipulated senses, and brought him to a lonesome copse. Defensive spells were a wonderful thing, Jorlon reflected.
Moments later, Jorlon could hear wood smashing against wood and oaths being shouted over the hammering. He felt cold as if his spirit was being battered to annihilation. Hoping Mordrak would fall unconscious, or even dead, consumed by his rage, Jorlon sat watchfully by the fire, feeling bruises burgeon against his soul. Discomforting as it was, he found it in himself to laugh quietly at Mordrak.
The face of the moon shone between the clouds. Owls hooted, wolves bayed in the distance, and otherwise all about them was stillness. It was as if the night creatures were awakening to their hour. So remote was this corner of the land, no noise such as Mordrak’s would be familiar to them. A bird screeched and Jorlon felt his skin crawl. Then the bird screeched again.
At length, Jorlon approached the knight. He felt vulnerable in this apparent solitude. He sneered at Mordrak, who lay still and motionless at his feet. The apprentice wanted nothing except to express his hatred for this man to his awakened face.
‘How I hate you! How I should kill you. I know what needs doing, and you’re not needed to do it. You should die, you skunk. Filth you are, and filth is all you’ll ever be. The faeces of every flying insect are higher than you.’ But he did not make a sound. Really, he did not want Mordrak to know the depths of his hatred. Not until the time was right. He did not want to awaken Mordrak.
He knelt down heavily by the knight’s side, wishing he had fallen upon him and bruised him sorely, broken every rib in that stinking, breathing carcass. The words conjuring in his mind were vehement. It did not seem right that such powerful hatred was nurtured in his heart. But he dismissed his conscience. Mordrak killed Ifhrd and he showed no remorse. What does it matter? Mordrak’s careless words repeated in his mind.
Then he spoke to Mordrak gently, smoothly, as if he spoke encouraging words of respect: “I’m going to be so pleasant to you, you won’t know what to do when the truth dawns. Why, your mind is addled and you’re almost a lunatic as it is. Look how the moon smiles down upon his victim. Oh! If only you could see the rod of the man in the moon, feel how he beats at you. And you—you are unable to flinch a muscle. How I would like to see you sweat with your mind screaming against all the torment I could add to your lot.” He paused. “You ... bag of ...” He felt glad Mordrak was no corpse.
Jorlon took Mordrak under the arms and dragged him to the fire as roughly as he dared. “I hope Adriselle is happier than she’s ever been with you. How you would hate that.”
Mordrak lay still, and Jorlon hunched himself by the fire, moving only to kindle and care for the flames, for the night had become very cold. In time, as Jorlon thought and dreamed of torture chambers and dark, dank caves for Mordrak to wander in lonely solitude, the moon slowly swung through his course until the sun arose.
Jorlon was pleased that he could derive so much satisfaction in hating someone. It was only for the fear of being quite alone out here that Jorlon did not attempt to slowly waste Mordrak into a living death. He knew he would have to study sufficiently to do so properly, effectively; but he would cause a suitable opportunity for that and so much more in good time. Jorlon had decided for himself the studies he would pursue once he was free and able. He would investigate the arts, would learn to drive Mordrak deep into the ground from where there would be no escape. What pleasure, to fulfil the wraiths’ promises! In the process, he would mind his prestige within the wizards’ order, for he wished for the ultimate mage’s title of Medeas.
***
HAVING AWOKEN STIFF and sore with a head like a beehive, Mordrak dismissed breakfast. He felt barely alive as they continued their journey towards the rendezvous with Astocath—and more importantly, Adriselle. He could not remember the night before. Everything seemed hazy and not quite right.
At first, he did not appreciate the magnificence of the Gilead Stones; Mordrak’s head still felt fuzzy, his senses vague and uninterested in Jorlon, who also was half-asleep upon his horse. But as they made their way up the hill, it was the awesome sight of these standing stones that made his eyes water. What would have otherwise been thirty or so rectangular blocks of stone were fashioned with rare workmanship into men and women. One of each gender bore a horizontal block. These were set in two rings—an outer and an inner.
“How in the entire world have these got here?” he asked himself. He wished to ignore the apprentice, who seemed to be in a world of his own since they had risen.
As if drifting from a dream, Jorlon replied. “The elves built them. They’re for stargazing. However, as the stars travel, so we magi can use these sites for speedy and reasonably safe passage from place to place, site to site—at the right times, which are frequent enough.”
Mordrak snorted. “So the elves built them, and you use them?”
They arrived at the outer circle. The grey arched stones stood proud, higher than two full-grown men. Runes were carved into their sides. Dismounted now, Mordrak walked his horse in one direction. Jorlon rode the other way.
Mordrak called out, “I can feel the power—it’s awesome!” For once, he found the mystique natural, nothing as unnerving as the aura of Jorlon and his craft. He looked around and saw Jorlon grinning. Was he sly? Mordrak thought of himself as through the eyes of this villain: So speaks one who detests magic! Knows nothing ... Was it true one could circle the stones the wrong way, go around in the wrong direction, and thereby fall under a curse?
Jorlon looked up at the bright sky. “It is said there is life elsewhere in the universe. Much life here doesn’t like the mystical though. And we know there are other worlds.”
Mordrak replied, “We cannot get to the moon.”
“Likely never shall.”
“So where is Astocath?”
Jorlon shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Perhaps you should contact him?”
Jorlon nodded. “Yes, I could if I had a link.”
“Then get one.” Mordrak’s tone was not quite harsh but moderated.
Jorlon smiled gracefully. “Then I shall look to see if I can manage another way.”
Aware Jorlon could sense him, watching his every move, Mordrak anxiously looked at him walk away from his chestnut mare. He did not go out of sight but crouched and buried his head in his arms. Finally, he straightened again, stretched and returned to his horse, Tiser.
“He’s gone back, hasn’t he?” asked Mordrak ruefully. “Tired of waiting. What did you say?”
“I said, ‘We’re here’.”
“That’s it?”
“Like I told you. It’s dangerous—and uncanny. I don’t even know if I had a link. You just have to be patient, or you’ll get us all into danger, if not killed outright.”
“Where is he?”
“Looking for somewhere to rest, like as not, eh Tiser?” Jorlon patted the horse and sat down beside him to wait.
Mordrak wandered about wishing he could feel confident. It was hard work relating to Jorlon. Their attitudes were certainly different; cross-wired aspirations made things strained, naturally enough. Overall, Jorlon’s attitude had improved.
A figure emerged over the brow of the hill on the opposite side of the rings. He was short of height, but of a reasonable build, though perhaps his appearance was broadened by a voluminous cloak. He had a staff to mark him as a distant traveller. That the mage neither called nor waited for another, he must be quite alone; there was no sign at all of Adriselle.
Seeing Jorlon rise to greet this fellow, Mordrak decided he would await introduction before he asked after his sister. He feared the worst.
“Astocath?” called Jorlon.
The mysterious figure was now almost upon them. He smiled. Mordrak looked at the eyes. The face seemed experienced, honest, beset by trauma and disappointments, yet really did not seem quite human—although surely natural, by whatever standards natural for a wizard could be. Jorlon had said most mages’ appearances were distorted, which gave reason for ordinary mortals to distrust them at even ‘face value’.
“I am Astocath,” the man said.
“I am Jorlon. This is Mordrak. He is titled a count.”
“Where’s Adriselle?” Mordrak could restrain himself no longer as he felt the wraiths returning, lurking, slinking, waiting to pounce from the shadows. He felt time pass, the moments creating tension, impatience, wrenching the answer from the aged mage’s wrinkled throat. He could not wait a minute longer, whatever patience he possessed.
The silvery-grey eyes looked at him as if he knew nothing of her.
“So where is Adriselle?” he repeated urgently, more desperate than before.
Then the fellow smiled encouragingly. “I have taken Adriselle to a safe place where she’ll be free from your enemy and not be a liability.”
To Mordrak’s ears, this disappointing news was not so burdensome, strange as this man may seem, “Safe?” he asked. “But where? Who's protecting her?” Mordrak opened his mouth to speak again, but licking his lips, Astocath interrupted:
“I had expected someone older, for some reason. No matter. But we mustn’t let our emotions run too high.”
“Jorlon and I aren’t too friendly,” Mordrak replied slowly. “In fact, he is a downright impertinent brat!”
“Well, you’re a King’s man. He’s an outcast,” replied Astocath, and he looked at Jorlon. The wizard's face hardened with sincerity. “If we are to travel together, you will give this man respect.” His face greyed as the colour of mountain rock.
Jorlon blushed with humiliation. Raising a fist and jabbing it toward Mordrak, he cried out, “He killed Ifhrd!”
Astocath’s shook his head in surprise, and he turned to the knight, horrified. “You did what?”
Mordrak raised an open right hand. “I did not slaughter the man! It was that beastly devil!” His fingers curled into a fist, and he hissed, his face flushed crimson and his angry eyes narrowed at Jorlon. “You—you’ve tricked me here!”
“How so?” shouted Jorlon. “You ran Ifhrd’s sword through him.”
“No, through the summoned beast! It disappeared and caused Ifhrd to take the wound.” Mordrak implored with his hands open in emphasis.
Astocath looked confused. “We’ll discuss this at Sylvendene. I know Ifhrd is dead, but not how. But if you count this man a murderer, Jorlon, what are you doing with him here?”
Jorlon shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s come meddling in affairs he has no understanding of. I should have killed him for vengeance.”
Mordrak stood back and gazed upon Astocath, and then Jorlon. He believed Astocath would kill him because Jorlon wouldn’t. Surely that was Jorlon’s plan: to have him quietly disappear. But given Astocath’s reaction, this would be far from the case. Perhaps it would be better to win Jorlon over now while he had half a chance.
“Let’s go, hmm?” Astocath said grimly.
“Let’s get the question of Ifhrd sorted out now,” Mordrak demanded impatiently. “I did not murder Ifhrd. He fell by the expulsion of that beast. I’ve told Jorlon all this. That he had set me free—I was his hostage. He should be used to the idea, else why would he let me go?” Mordrak felt like taking his sword to the two of them.
Astocath waved his finger. “No matter. And from what I could see, I never sensed murder, which is the point. The fight was between Ifhrd and the troglodyte.”
“And now I see you have no horse.” Mordrak’s tone was sullen.
Astocath took his dagger, which was sheathed next to his sword, and asked Jorlon if the mare was his. Jorlon nodded, so he cut away some hair from the chestnut’s mane. Then, sheathing his dagger, and smiling to the apprentice to win his confidence, he put two fingers into his belt-pouch and lifted out a small pebble. “Magic essence, yes?”
Jorlon nodded.
Taking this between his forefinger and thumb and gripping Tiser’s hair, Astocath incanted for less than a minute and threw the items to the ground.
Mordrak stepped back in disbelief. A huge stallion of Tiser’s deep chestnut sheen appeared before them, and by the time it ceased growing, it was a good two hands taller.
“He shall serve me for a year and a day. Let’s call him ‘Quest’.” Astocath looked at Mordrak with a certain countenance the knight knew was a warning not to underestimate the mage’s abilities.
Mordrak looked at the beast doubtfully. He expected it to shimmer as he supposed an illusion would. It did not. Although it carried no saddle or bridle, it seemed to be of solid substance. It was probably not an illusion at all.
Astocath deftly mounted Quest, saying, “And there’s an easy way of discerning truths.” He slapped the horse. “Right, let’s be off!”