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ASTOCATH SAT COMFORTABLY in Ifhrd’s chair, having made himself at home within the library. It was a shame that it had to be this way without his peer. No doubt Ifhrd would have been eager to show him around. Instead, well ...
He had commented appreciatively to Jorlon on the dozens of the learned books and said there were more here than many other towers could boast. “There were even more,” said Jorlon, “but the magi took many of them when they went off.”
“So what has become of this tower?” Astocath sounded disappointed.
“With Tell’s edict, all but Ifhrd sought foreign lands to settle in, though I think they actually planned to remain as a group at least until they found another kingdom. They got on well enough and could have set up a place together. But we all ought to be fighting for our freedom, not running away.”
“Ah, so long as many young men will fight wars, so there shall be wars. But there are too few of us. Besides, some of us, I am sure, are trying to reason with Tell.”
“What is your tower like?”
“I am the only one. And it’s hard being alone.”
“Join us?”
Astocath smiled. “I might, but I’d like to know who us will be if they ever return!” Then Astocath’s voice hardened, though his eyes glimmered sympathetically. “So you hate Mordrak?”
“Use a stronger word if you can.”
“Why?”
“He’s cold and calculating. He killed Ifhrd and never showed any remorse—not to me, anyway.” Jorlon paused whilst Astocath considered him quietly, then added, “Careless and carefree. He killed Ifhrd by accident, so he claims!”
“Much of your enmity is fired by a magic that rubs against us all the while we’re around him.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.” Jorlon never quiet believed his own words.
“By all accounts, you’re a notable apprentice.”
“Because of my creation in the pickling jar?”
Astocath coughed, somewhat taken aback. “Not so. Magi often talk or boast of their apprentices, like young mothers crowing over their offspring.”
“It would be a privilege to have you for a master; I have heard some things of you.” Jorlon raised his head and he reached his hands to his chest.
“Hmm. I hope you mean it.”
“I do.” Jorlon’s eyes were wide.
“All who come to Mordrak’s side will be challenged by the power that works against us. Furthermore, Tell’s decision to ban us magi was not entirely his own inspired choice. There is a power working against us from somewhere.”
“More than just the priesthood? And is he subject to the curse?”
“He is,” Astocath confirmed.
“So who is behind the curse of Nan-Enn?”
“I’m working on it. Best not to say too much for the present. But it’s a powerful adversary. I’d be surprised if he hasn’t guessed that I know of him.”
“So ... so are you going to help Tell?” Jorlon asked with surprise.
“Yes, I think so. It can only do us good.”
“Are there enough of us to win over?”
Astocath shook his head. “We could not get the whole Circle together for this, even if we weren't so scattered. But each labourer in his own field adds to the whole harvest.”
“Ifhrd never knew how many of us there were.”
“Hundreds in Escavia—a thousand I would guess. I doubt much more, but perhaps.”
“And there are more mystics outside than members inside the Circle.” Jorlon flexed his hands. “I’ve learned little of things other than what Ifhrd ever told me. He believed once the Circle is strong enough, our arch-magi will force other mystics to join us or die.”
“If it seems for the best. But still, I—or we—shall speak with Mordrak come morning. Perhaps things will improve as quickly as we can hope for.” Astocath pursed his lips. “Ah, well. Let’s have more of this wine. It’s good.”
Jorlon poured him more and asked leave to retire to bed. Hours later, Jorlon had fallen into a deep but bizarre sleep, riddled with dreams. As he descended into a pit, he heard himself called by name to meet his doom by a beastly voice. Afraid he was caught in the void, he cried out, “Master! Master!” His own shouts awoke himself, and he opened his eyes feeling sweat lay heavy upon his eyelids. The sun had not yet risen and the shadowed face of Ethrail was dribbling over him. “Master... Jorlon... Master... Wake up!”
Pushing the hunchback away in shocked disgust, he sat up and balked angrily at Ethrail, the cold rushing at him as the blankets fell away did nothing to please him any the more for this rude awakening. “What is it?” he snarled.
“A man, a knight demands Mordrak.”
“Oh?” Jorlon rubbed his eyes. “At this hour?”
“He’s fierce. Lots of men.”
Jorlon felt like shouting, “Well give him over then.” Then he sighed. It was his responsibility to sort the matter out. Jorlon twisted around to place his feet on the cold flagstone floor. Aware of Ethrail’s eyes undermining his dignity, he shouted, “Go and get Mordrak then! Meet me in the courtyard. We’ll see what this is about. Nothing but trouble.”
Ethrail scurried away and Jorlon hurriedly dressed himself. Jorlon looked out of the window; dawn’s first light was beginning to break upon the mountain’s horizon. The sky was indigo. How in all Escavia could ordinary men find this fortress? And that, at night? He cursed as he realised the mystic wards must have worn away. Thinking of Astocath, he wondered if he should wake him. Many thoughts reeled about his head, and he paused to clear his mind. He decided not to trouble Astocath; the mage was, after all, a guest—at least, presently so.
Now, what if Mordrak had designs on capturing this place? ‘We are brigands, after all.’
“What a terrible morning,” he grumbled to himself. He splashed some water upon his face and went outside.
To his relief, the night watch had mustered others from their beds to add to the guard. He crossed the courtyard with purposeful strides, climbed the stairwell to the battlements and looked out of the upper gatehouse window. At least two hundred knights were in view upon the bank of the causeway. Jorlon brought to mind the tunnels that led to the foot of the gorge behind this place. His whole retinue could make good an escape before an enemy could possibly gain a solid foothold across the chasm. A guard stood nearby, to whom Jorlon said, “Times are hard, but we shall pull through.”
“Hard to know ‘zactly what they wants.”
“Our criminal blood, like as not.” Jorlon turned around and looked through another window to the courtyard. “Who’s their leader?”
“Baron Lerion, I think he said, Master Jorlon.”
Ethrail was emerging with Mordrak from his quarters. Chewing his lip, Jorlon went down the steps to join them. “I’m not letting you out, Mordrak. But that leader can come in. You are my guest.”
“I don’t expect a dagger in my back, Jorlon,” said Mordrak. “And I haven’t planned on this. I’m as surprised as you are.”
“I hope so.” He bid Mordrak follow, and they walked to the gate. A herald awaited on the other side. “Who is your master?” Jorlon asked him.
“Baron Lerion,” the herald replied. “He wishes to speak with Count Mordrak—alone.”
Mordrak inwardly groaned as he recalled the banquet promise of justice to Lerion.
“Very well, if my guest so wishes.” Jorlon could have spat. “You can go out to them, Mordrak. Astocath wants to see you later, so be free to return or run, it’s up to you.”
In a while, the gate was opened to Mordrak, who walked across the causeway to meet with Lerion. Tulan was in clear view amongst his men.
“Greetings Count, my Lord!” Lerion faced Mordrak, then turned and called Tulan over.
The squire stepped forward.
“Your man, sir.” Lerion smiled grimly, assessing the seriousness of Mordrak’s stay here, he asked.“Sir, are you safe?” His beard thick and bushy, hiding a rustic face with a typically bulbous nose for a man of ruddy complexion.
“I am. What news do you bring of the wars? I’ve been stuck here for months, rather than weeks.” He could not be bothered to complain further.
“We are set to travel to King Tell and aid him. He has just lost his first battle far to the west. Some are saying he’s lost his skill.”
“Is that what they say? Any idea why?” Mordrak was seeking rumours of madness.
“Not really. But he cannot lose too many battles, no matter how slight their importance may seem, or the empire will collapse beneath him and we’ll have wars all over the place. Some say his loss was deliberate, but why would he want that? No one in their right mind would know!”
“Hmm?” Mordrak frowned. “Best you leave this hour then. At least you have an early start. But surely you have not come merely with these tidings?” Mordrak yawned for want of sleep.
“Yes, with respect, there is unfinished business here, my lord. Not only to confirm your safety, which of course, is my priority.”
“Oh?” Mordrak felt a lump of apprehension well up in his throat.
“These people,” Lerion whispered hoarsely, “these dogs are outright robbers and everyone knows it.”
This was the agenda Mordrak had suspected. “I’m sorting it out. There is a lot going on.” He tried to sound appeasing.
“Sir, my lord! I appeal to your justice. I want reparations for the dead, the widows and orphans; and the bastard heads of this scum to line my city walls.” His fist rested clenched in the air.
Mordrak drew a sigh and raised an eyebrow. Breathing out, he said, “Their leader has been brought to justice. He is dead.”
“Then I want his head, my lord.” He slapped his side. “We’ve never been able to find this place before; I want it now, as recompense.” He looked fearsome. “We wandered a month about those accursed woods, in these accursed mountains, and now we’re here. A month more, I suppose, it will take to find our way out. I hope His Highness King Tell can wait. We’d better have a proper guide. Tulan may be bright, but he’s no match for this witchcraft.”
Mordrak replied, “I shall do my utmost to straighten things out for you as I agreed when we first spoke.”
Mordrak gave the baron license to leave. Lerion said, with a light bow in respect to Mordrak, “I shall depart for King Tell.”
“Good fortune,” Mordrak bade him. “I shall follow as soon as I may.”
“Do you require any of my men?” Lerion asked.
“I will be fine. You take them,” Mordrak said to Lerion. “Good speed and more good fortune with them all. Please let King Tell know I hope to meet him in the capital if he takes winter quarters there.”
The baron left, and Mordrak beckoned Tulan over. “Good to see you. Have Jorlon find him a guide and assure Baron Lerion’s safety.”
“How’s Lady Adriselle? Any news?”
Baron Lerion, who now mounted and having raised his fist, distracted their attention with a shout. “I am wanting justice! And be sure I shall demand it!” Pushing the guide forward, he rode through the gate, followed by the rest of his men.
The boy wraiths laughed at the back of Mordrak’s mind.
You’re trapped!
“Tulan?” Mordrak gritted his teeth. “Do you think he’ll make an enemy of me?”
“Don’t know.” Tulan’s was not a happy face.
“Couldn’t he even say ‘goodbye’?” Jorlon said sardonically, as he stared after them. “Now Astocath wants to see us. You’d better hope that scout is safe.”
“Might be well for us all if he isn’t,” replied Mordrak, immediately regretting his words. “You had best get me a skull some time. I suppose you do have some. A sort of treaty to the Baron there.” He did not say he intended it to seem to be Ifhrd’s.
Astocath stood as the pair entered the library. Jorlon noted his familiarity with Ifhrd’s chair and felt a pang of resentment. “Ah, Jorlon! And Mordrak! Sleep well? My bed was full of bugs!”
Jorlon flushed as Mordrak returned equally impolite greetings.
“Take a seat.” The mage ushered them to their places.
Astocath sat back in Ifhrd’s chair and poured wine. Jorlon wished he were sitting there and wondered if the day would come when he was given the deference for it.
“When do you propose to take me to your King, Mordrak?”
“As soon as you’re agreeable.”
“Ah, well, I am quite an agreeable sort of person. Is your King agreeable? Perhaps a poor question; he is renown for his charisma. Could charm the parrot off your shoulder. You know if I am to help him, I want more than the feather of a basilisk.”
“Like the restoration of your Circle?”
“Why has Tell outlawed us all?”
Jorlon wondered why Astocath diverted from the question.
“I don’t exactly know, but the priesthoods hate you, so I expect he prefers to have the blessings of the gods.”
Astocath frowned. “Yet even druids and the priesthoods are merely tolerated.”
“When they’re not confused for your caste. Besides, they’re relatively peaceable and on the verge of Tell’s tolerance, provided they have abandoned human sacrifice. Hot air and no wind to them.”
Jorlon and Astocath raised their eyebrows as they looked at one another.
“How do you feel about being alone in a room full of arcane lore and two wizards?” asked the mage.
Mordrak looked to the shelves and their volumes of tomes, the ornate easel and the stained-glass windows. “Now that you mention it ...”
Jorlon quickly explained the dawn’s carry-on to Astocath, until there was a knock on the door and a servant presented breakfast.
“Chicken?” asked Astocath.
“Oats, bread and sausages, master,” the servant replied.
“What did Baron Lerion want?” Jorlon asked Mordrak, taking a bowl of gruel.
“To see about aiding King Tell.”
Jorlon was doubtful and made a look to show it. “Amongst other things ...”
Mordrak frowned and considered Jorlon from beneath his brow. Mordrak looked at Astocath who was now slurping from his bowl. “So what are you going to do?”
“We shall have to see if King Tell will grant amnesty.” Astocath paused. “This is disgusting. It’s nothing like chicken tastes to me.” He wrinkled his nose and resumed spooning the gruel into his mouth. “Is there any sausage left? Anyway, the King had better be an agreeable fellow. He has enough problems as it is, has he not?”
“Yes,” replied Mordrak, a little perturbed by the spray from Astocath’s mouth. “I suppose he has.” He looked down at his own gruel and wondered if some of Astocath’s spray was in it.
“We eat light breakfast here,” Jorlon said and fell short of adding, “now we have to feed Tulan too.”
“Worst thing,” mumbled Astocath, biting into a sausage. “Hearty meals for breakfast and lunch. Good dinner at night and supper ... sets you up for the week—so long as you finish the course each day.”
“I like a full stomach,” agreed Mordrak.
‘And I’d like to see your stomach’s entrails wound right around the flagpole,’ thought Jorlon. “So when do we leave?” he asked Astocath, somewhat agitated.
“Hmm.” Astocath looked up to the ceiling. “Tomorrow. I have some reading to catch up on.” He looked at the bookshelf. “Perhaps the following day. You and I have some things to settle whilst Mordrak is otherwise occupied.”
“Occupied?” Mordrak said, “What is there to occupy me? I’m bored stupid.”
“I have found a book for you to read.”
“Can you read?” Jorlon asked quickly and laughed inside when he saw the look of annoyance on Mordrak’s face.
Mordrak slapped his knees. “Tell me, what book?”
“It is an experience a wizard’s assistant had in Faerie.”
Mordrak frowned. “Is Adriselle there?”
Astocath looked away. “Of course not, but I’m betting it is where our enemy is located.” He looked again at Mordrak. “And she is quite perfectly safe. Safer than she could be anywhere else.”
“What happens if you don’t like the King’s terms?”
“She is not a hostage, nor a part of the King’s issue.” The mage lowered his head, his eyes cast up from beneath his brow, but he had difficulty making eye contact.
Jorlon discerned Mordrak’s look of suspicion. “I think Tulan wants her for his wife,” he said. “I’ve seen the way they look at each other.”
Mordrak and Astocath glanced at him.
“I doubt that,” said Astocath.
“Why?” asked Mordrak.
Jorlon saw a look of anxiety flash across Astocath’s face.
“We shall see then. I have things in that book to read.”
***
ALONE WITH ASTOCATH, Jorlon said, “I don’t know how Tulan found us. Ifhrd enchanted the area against strangers last year.”
“You know what is against us. That particular ritual lasts thirteen moons. And it was three moons or so before I got here. However, I shall be pleased to renew it. Now, will you swear allegiance to me?”
“What are your terms?” Jorlon leaned forward.
“Very canny.” Astocath leaned back. Then, sitting up, he said, “You are wily. Good. Now I’ll teach you as best I can and you will do my bidding for three months annually until seven years pass after your inauguration as a fully-fledged mage.” Astocath studied Jorlon’s face as he slowly nodded, considering the bargain. Astocath felt inclined to grant a typical contract. “If you fail to become competent in the arts, which I very much doubt, you will be my servant—a respected assistant—for life, in my pay under whatever circumstances we find ourselves in.”
Jorlon considered for a few minutes. Astocath felt surprised that Jorlon was pondering the offer with such weight.
“So we are agreed?” Astocath prompted.
Jorlon continued thinking for a moment. The most years that most apprentices served was thirteen. Found at a young age, they were rarely younger than twenty-one when they were inaugurated as a wizard proper. But whilst enjoying continued protection as an apprentice, much could be readily learned from the master, and for short periods also having the freedom to research for oneself. Seven years with the right planning could see Jorlon to a way of achieving his dreams for Mordrak ... “Have you considered that I have served some years already?”
“Good experience.” Astocath wondered if Jorlon would push for five years. “And provided you do not fall foul of the Circle,” warned Astocath. “You do want to get on in the Circle yourself, do you not?”
“I do.”
Astocath did not doubt Jorlon would want to accomplish much within the order, but he wondered how much the apprentice would be willing to compromise for his own ambitions. “Then we agree?”
“What of this place?”
“Pah, as any Tower, it is shared.”
Jorlon screwed up his mouth. “I agree. I swear not to betray you.”
“And I agree. I also swear not to betray you. We’ll make all our proper oaths once we find another mage to witness us.”
“Well, what do you believe besets King Tell, Master Astocath?”
“The dark elves, my dear boy, are what is behind this. I believe it is much the work of the unseelie. Though I cannot stake my life on it yet, I am otherwise certain.” Astocath grimaced. “Actually, I suppose I am staking my life on it. I can’t think of any alternative to plan for.”
Jorlon nodded. “So we are going to Faerie! Will the seelie help us?”
“We must get a good offer from Tell and see what the seelie will do to aid us in this,” he replied with a nod. Then he leaned forward. “What were Ifhrd’s last words?”
Jorlon paused for breath. “I don’t know. I-I’m not certain.”
Astocath leaned back with a smug face. “It’ll be a while until we ask that again.” He winked. “I want you to find out.” He pointed a finger, “And Jorlon ... look after Mordrak.” Jorlon looked down at the palms of his hands as if they had the coarse hairs of a werewolf upon them. Astocath could only wonder with how much intensity Jorlon hated Mordrak.