The Azure Wizard (26 page)

“You have been here asleep for nearly six days. We tended your wound with Fever Vine to combat the infection and we used chewed Blue Root to quicken the healing of your skin and flesh. It seems to have worked flawlessly,” the Woodfolk war-leader explained with an obvious air of pride in the work of her people.

“Have you heard from Ethan, the man who used Wizardcraft?” May inquired worriedly without missing a beat.

Férfa cast her gaze downward and shook her head. She said flatly, “We have not heard from the Wizard nor seen him since he used Wizardcraft to whisk himself away to the northern lands where the mountains gleam in the sunlight.”

May’s eyes abruptly welled up with tears but she desperately fought them back. She didn’t know why she had that reaction. It wasn’t like he would know where the Woodfolk camp was, or that May was awake and longing for his easy smile and soft touch. She just wanted Ethan now more than anything else in all the Three Baronies.

“You must eat, Forester. It has been some time since your belly was full,” explained Férfa, and in reply to the Woodfolk’s statement May felt tremendous pangs of hunger and thirst.

Férfa produced the bowl to May and the Forester slowly examined its contents. She was overjoyed to find that the bowl held only cool lightly-tinted broth. “It is venison broth. Sip it slowly.”

May nodded in reply and did as she was told. Not a word passed between them until May had drained every last drop of broth from the bowl and set it on the ground next to her bed of ferns. “I need to return to Greenwell City, Férfa. My order and my mother are in tremendous danger. I must get back to my headquarters if I am not already too late.”

“Yes, I know,” the Woodfolk replied.

Férfa handed the bundle of skins and furs to May with a warm smile. “Your clothes were bloodied and torn. We used them to make more blankets for our encampment’s inhabitants. These will have to do.”

May examined the articles of exotic woodland clothes and raised an eyebrow incredulously as she stared back up into the face of the smirking Woodfolk woman.

An hour later May stood on the edge of the Woodfolk encampment, a haphazard collection of little domed huts containing about fifty or sixty nude Woodfolk. The thick fog was beginning to thin and the air felt humid and very warm. May actually felt grateful for the outfit she wore. The civilized Greenwellian Forester wore a wide band of fur-lined buckskin that barely covered her breasts, a buckskin loincloth that hung downward in thin triangles over her groin and rear, and soft fur boots that fit her lower legs quite snugly. She was sure going to get a lot of stares when she entered Greenwell City, if she entered Greenwell City. She had a four day hike through the Deep Wolf and Woodfolk-infested Forests of Greenwell before she reached the relative safety of the city.

May stared out into the towering expanse of very dark green foliage and still dark oak trunks and Férfa approached her from behind. “Are you sure you don’t need any food or water?” the Woodfolk asked.

“I’m quite sure, Férfa. If there’s one thing we Foresters of the Three Baronies learn, it is to make do out in the wilderness. I’ll be all right finding my own food and drink,” she stated.

Férfa nodded and then responded, “You would have made an excellent Woodfolk, Forester. The Wizard is lucky to have you as a friend.”

“More than a friend, actually,” May smirked to herself and she began walking southwards.

“Please take this though! I very much doubt a city-dweller could take on an acid-mouthed Deep Wolf with her bare hands, even a Forester such as you!” Férfa chuckled.

May turned around just as the Woodfolk woman tossed her deadly stone knife by the blade in a slow arching toss towards her. May easily snatched it out of the air by its leather-wrapped handle and examined it. Its blade of pale gray stone had a very keen edge to it on one side and was dull on the other side. The end of the blade was slightly curved and tapered to a very deadly point that could easily end the life of whatever threatened her en route to her mother and hopefully Ethan.

She brought the dagger to her forehead and saluted the Woodfolk woman in thanks. At that May turned back around and began a brisk determined pace into the thick forest.

“What in the name of Lady Quinn the Martyr …,” Ethan whispered after he and Ross the Greenwellian Knight got over their disorientation due to the Wizardcraft transportation of the Wizard.

For the last ten days the two had teleported to each of Vhar’s villages. Most of the villages had suffered a lot more than a few casualties due to Blood Bears and what appeared to be Wizardcraft-altered Ice Cats. Villagers had described them as identical in appearance to the already dreadful Ice Cats but with eyes from which flowed pale blue glowing mist and fangs made of jagged ice before a mouth of blue radiance. Instead of a roar the voice of an Ice Cat was now the sound of shattering ice. Ethan and Ross had seen the remnants of their attacks, frozen mutilated corpses with gaping abhorrent wounds sheathed in a skin of bluish ice.

In each village Ethan and Ross had to explain the cause of this catastrophic turn of events in the fauna of the Vhar Mountains, and each time they were met with resentment and threats. But the promise of a swift and safe transport to the safety of Lumberwall usually quelled the anger of the commoners. So day after day, Ethan used his Wizardcraft to transport the each village’s entire remaining populace two at a time to Lumberwall. Now, after repeating this procedure in eight other hamlets, only one remained. Ethan had saved his hometown of North Ridge for last, and he regretted that decision immediately upon viewing the carnage that he and his knight companion were witness to.

The timber structures of North Ridge were blackened smoldering ruins. The smoke that still ascended from the burnt ruins rained a continuous fall of light ashes. Bodies were everywhere, some naked and some clothed, some scorched and some pale white and drained of blood, some eaten from and some whole, some old and some young, but all were lifeless and still.

A slow somber trek through the village told the two companions that all of the village’s twenty-five families were more or less accounted for. “What in the Soul Wastes caused this, Ethan?” asked Ross, the brim of his helm low and shadowing his face.

Ethan pulled his recently-bought black cloak of heavy tightly woven wool tighter over his thin body that was clothed in fresh clean clothes, a shirt of double-layered dark blue linen, trousers of dark brown wool, and soft buckskin shoes. His heavy hood was always worn up concealing his bizarre features from curious villagers.

Needless to say, his body was now completely shrouded from head to toe in bisymmetrical blue runes, swirling and arcane. His face beneath his bushy red beard and moustache was a complex array of curving flowing sigils that weaved flawlessly down his body to the soles of his feet. His eyes also were hued with a slight blue radiance, no longer his original amber color. The pale azure glow was evident upon casual observation, even without the use of Wizardcraft.

Still, he did not know any more Wizardcraft powers other than his ability to transport himself and one other person, or two other people without himself, to a place that he had been or that had been described to him. He hadn’t even received a vision since the initial one he had gotten when Wizardcraft first came to him, and he presumed that the vision was just the reaction of Wizardcraft entering his body.

The dark heavy clouds that smashed against Whitethorn Mountain above the village began to release a chilly drizzle of rain on the ruin of North Ridge but still smoke rose and ashes turned to mud. Finally, after minutes of wandering in horror and shock Ethan answered the knight, “Berserkers, cannibals of the Ice Wilds. They have come south into the Barony of Vhar.”

Ross was still garbed in his blood-stained dark green tabard, chain hauberk, coif, and helm. The Greenwellian unsheathed his straight-bladed cross guard-lacking short sword and peered cautiously about the ruins of the village as rain deluged from the brim of his helm. He pondered his situation for a moment, slowly sheathed his short sword, and withdrew his mighty two-handed sword from the wide scabbard he wore on his back.

“It’s all right, Sir Ross,” Ethan explained, “they have already gone. Judging from the state of the bodies and the smoldering embers, this happened at least a day or two ago.”

“That may be, lad, but I’m still not putting this blade away,” returned the warrior.

Ethan said nothing and he strode up to one ruin in particular, his home. It was barely recognizable as a structure as it was only a couple vertical black beams and piles of blackened tinder and rubble. Ethan gritted his teeth and his lips peeled back from them in a fierce sneer. “The Ancestors truly have cursed me. There will be no Ancestor Lands for Ethan Skalderholt, no reunion or eternal peace, only death and sorrow. There is no home left for me. How could May care for me, a Wizard who has brought ruin to the world and all he holds dear?” he growled quietly.

Ross didn’t answer. Either the middle-aged knight was ignoring him or didn’t hear him in the din of the mountain rain. Ethan didn’t care.

He whirled around, his heavy cloak flowing behind him, and he barked, “We leave now! There is nobody left alive here!”

He stomped forward and grasped the Greenwellian Knight firmly on the shoulder, and without hesitation the Wizard’s eyes blazed blue and he whisked them away in a sudden flash of similar-hued light.

Later that night Sir Ross entered the common room of The House of Chronicles by himself. Just bathed, his closely-cropped black and silver hair and his thick mustache were smooth and shiny, and he wore his tunic of dark green linen belted at the waist and a pair of black hose that he wore tucked into his large black boots. His two-handed sword was with his armor up in his room, but as always at his side he still wore his short sword.

Upon descending the stairwell he was encapsulated in pipe smoke and found himself among mirthless patrons, all of whom were clustered into divided little groups signifying the villages they were from. A storyteller, a young Vharian man with bright red hair and a garish colorful outfit, told some Ancient Age tale of the Vharian hero Doriand the Hammer Lord that was accompanied by the strings of a talented harpist, a rarity in the northern lands. Ross scanned the room and unsurprisingly located his Vharian companion, concealed by his black hood as usual, at the bar in the shadow of the stout barkeep and owner of the establishment, Eikjard Grayshard.

As Ross stepped into the common room and moved through the solemn crowds towards Ethan he thought of how hospitable Eikjard had been. The barkeep had allowed he and Ethan to stay in the inn free of charge and also enjoy the food, drink and tales without cost. He and Ethan apparently had some sort of prior relationship for they often exchanged tales of what Ethan had seen and of what the young man had been a part of since the dawn of summer many weeks past. Tonight, though, was no time for such tales.

En route to the bar the barmaid, Molly was her name, passed by Ross with a smile and she asked, “Dinner, Sir Knight?”

He nodded and spoke in reply with a weary grin, “Surprise me, oh maiden of cooking.”

“Aye,” she smirked as she continued on her way.

As she walked away and Ross strode forward, he glanced over and admired her round bottom through her long wool skirt. If she wasn’t an item with that Eikjard fellow, Ross wouldn’t hesitate to plead with her to visit him in his chamber tonight. He shrugged to himself. He was married with four kids, three men and an adolescent girl, but it had been so long since he had been home and lain with his wife, gotten a good rutting.

When he reached Ethan he noticed the young storyteller was smoking a thin-stemmed pipe slowly. A plate of peppered chicken and steamed carrots sat cold and untouched on the counter before him. “I didn’t know you smoked, lad,” Ross spoke.

“I never had before, but the tales say that Wizards were unable to drink mead and spirits as the Wizardcraft they possessed reacted violently with the intrusion of inhibiting fluids,” Ethan answered grimly.

“Do you believe the tales?” inquired the knight.

“I do now. I vomited a little while ago from just a sip of honey mead. But I need to partake in some sort of vice to assuage my dark thoughts,” explained Ethan in a voice wrought with bitterness.

Ross glanced questioningly across the counter to Eikjard, whose face was set in a deep frown behind his long beard of shaggy blond and white hair and heavy bushy brows. The barkeep nodded slowly in agreement with Ethan’s explanation and continued polishing a mug with his wool rag, a cast-off from Ethan’s old clothes, from the first time the storyteller had passed through Lumberwall.

“Well, do you care if I join you?” inquired the knight.

Ethan motioned for him to take a seat on the stool next to his, and as the knight sat Eikjard poured honey mead into the mug he was cleaning and placed it before Ross. When Ross sat down and took a swig from the sweet brew he glanced to the side and saw the storyteller’s chin and nose protruding from the hem of his dark cowl, and he saw the fine, swirling tattoos of blue that marred the pale skin. Ross quickly averted his eyes. He still wasn’t used to the brands of the Wizard.

“What’s next? We’re done with this barony, right?” asked Ross as he smoothed the end of one of his moustaches between his black-gloved fingers.

“I am, yes. But I can’t ask you to come with me to Taedroke, Sir Ross. Word has come to us here in Vhar of smoke and too few refugees pouring in from the Barony of Wendlith into Greenwell daily. I expect it to be bad, just as … North Ridge.”

“So,” began Ross, “you’ll need a warrior to cover your ass. And what better warrior can you find than Sir Ross Silverstag, grizzled veteran of the Greenwellian Knights?”

“No, Sir Ross, we are friends now and my friends usually come to a bad end. I won’t put you at risk.”

“I’m not of the superstitious sort, Ethan, and you need to realize that your ability to transport people can’t get you out of everything that the Ancestors will throw at you.”