Son of a Dark Wizard (3 page)

But over the past few nights a shadow had
passed over him, a subtle misery. It was made of every song he
heard in every tavern, of every story he caught on the street. It
was Atlorus who was getting all the glory for Vonlock’s defeat. Not
that the young boy didn’t deserve a good share of it. But what
about the Zolen soldiers? Was Bringlen’s name to be forgotten
completely? Was history to pay no tribute whatsoever to the Zolen
soldiers who risked their lives for the Kingdom of Morrowgrand?
Where were the songs for the soldiers? Where were the stories?
Atlorus could not have done it alone. Yes, he was the one who
actually defeated Vonlock, but the Zolen soldiers were the ones who
led him through the castle. And what thanks did Bringlen get for
it? A small bag of reward money and a pat on the back. That was it.
Atlorus would be praised and celebrated for the rest of his life
while Bringlen was already forgotten.

Bringlen knew his envy for the young Chosen
One was petty and vain. He knew he should’ve been thankful for the
dark wizard’s defeat like the rest of Morrowgrand. Still, envy
twisted his heart, and so far both ale and whiskey had failed to
wash it away. So Bringlen was not yet ready to journey home. He was
waiting for the shadows to pass, for the weather to grow warmer,
for the songs he heard everywhere to sound like music again.

Bringlen jerked his head up as four men with
bottles in their hands surrounded the table.

“Can we sit here, sir?” one of them asked.
“Can we join you? There’s nowhere else.”

Bringlen rose to his feet. “I’m just
leaving.” No sense hanging around here. It stank and the music was
awful.

Leaving the tavern, Bringlen folded his arms,
shivering in the night’s chill and watching the fog of his breath
curl up toward the stars. The moons were bright tonight. There was
the blue Nyrish moon, a large blue disk in the black sky, its dark
craters and scars clearly visible. Wizards who drew their power
from the light of the Nyrish moon were rare, but also the most
powerful, and since they often abused their power, they were known
as dark wizards. Then there was the Wortax moon with its swirling
shades of green, much smaller than the Nyrish. There used to be
wizards of the Wortax power, in ancient times. But their powers
were weaker and they eventually disappeared.

The shadow man watches, don’t walk
alone
, Bringlen thought. It was some old superstition. When the
moons were full and close together, they resembled a wild man’s
eyes.

Bringlen made his way across the street. The
inn he was staying at was just through the forest, on the other
side. It would only be a short walk.

As he passed under a street lamp, he noticed
a large raven sitting atop it. It seemed to turn its head as he
passed underneath, as if it were watching him. Bringlen thought it
curious. He’d never seen a raven on a winter’s night.

The trees hid the moons as he walked into the
forest, their twisted branches still bare, victims of a long
winter. It was almost too dark to see anything and Bringlen cursed
himself for not leaving the tavern sooner or bringing a lantern.
There were lights just barely visible in the distance through the
trees, almost like stars. The lamps of the inn.

I just have to follow the light
,
Bringlen told himself. He kept his steps slow and cautious. He
didn’t want to trip on some fallen log or catch his foot on some
exposed tree root.

Slowly, he moved forward.

Step by step.

He kept his gaze on the lights in the
distance.

Something scraped against the bark of a tree
on his left. Bringlen froze and jerked his head to the side, but
all was darkness.

A wolf
, Bringlen thought.
I
should’ve brought my sword
.

He kept still. The night seemed to grow
colder, chilling him even under his thick gray coat, as if his body
warmth was being drained. Something broke a twig, shuffled through
the leaves. The creature was moving closer.

Bringlen patted his coat pockets for the
knife he knew he didn’t have.

A light appeared. A bright green light. No,
it was fire. An orb of fire! It shone through the forest, casting a
green glow on the surrounding trees, giving shape to the figure of
a young man in a long dark coat.

And then Bringlen recognized the staff. It
was Vonlock’s staff. That twisted length of iron, those spirals
wrapping the green flame. Centuries old, he’d seen it in more than
a few historic paintings.

“Vonlock.” Bringlen said the name without
thinking.

“No,” the figure replied, moving forward.

No, of course not. This was a boy. Younger,
thinner, shorter. Bringlen squinted, trying to make out the face
behind the green flame. “Who are you?”

The boy held out the staff, revealing his
face. Bringlen recognized it, but before he could recall the boy’s
name, tree branches were wrapping themselves around him, grabbing
his arms, slithering across his chest and his neck, pulling him
backward, lifting him into the air. Bringlen fought against them,
kicking and thrashing, but it was no use. The branches were under
the control of some dark spell. They held Bringlen as though they
meant to crush him. After a moment, he relaxed, caught his breath,
and looked down at the boy with the staff.

“You?” Bringlen said. “The son?”

“You don’t know my name?” the boy said.

“Sorren?”

“You helped Atlorus kill my father, yes?”
Sorren asked.

“You’re dead,” Bringlen said. “I saw you die.
Crushed by stone.”

“And my father?”

Bringlen gasped for breath as the branch
around his neck tightened. “Your father?”

“How did my father die?”

“Please!” Bringlen cried, squirming in the
branches, trying to find some air. “Please! I can’t breathe!”

Sorren repeated his question slowly and
calmly. “How did my father die?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t see!”

“You didn’t see?”

“Atlorus killed him! He did it alone! Nobody
saw!”

“Alone?”

Bringlen took a moment to try to catch his
breath. He’d lost feeling in his hands and his right leg. At any
moment his bones would begin to crunch. “He went into the throne
room alone, wouldn’t let anyone else in. Said he had to face the
Dark One alone to fulfill the prophecy. Nobody saw! I swear to you,
nobody saw!”

“So why did you trust him?” Sorren asked.
“How did you know he could defeat my father?”

“I didn’t,” Bringlen said between gasps.
“None of us did. It was a chance, and we took it.”

“You must’ve had some reason to believe in
him.”

“It was Gashdane,” Bringlen said. The world
was becoming blurry.

“Gashdane?” Sorren repeated. “Your commander?
Head of the Zolen army?”

“He said the boy fit the prophecy. Born in
the right place on the right night. He said he’d seen proof.”

“Where is Gashdane?”

“He’s with the boy,” Bringlen said. “He
stayed with the boy. They took an airship to fly across
Morrowgrand.”

“Winter’s an odd season to go exploring.”

“The kingdom is his reward,” Bringlen said,
his voice barely above a whisper now. “Who do you think they’re
going to crown the new king?”

Bringlen watched as Sorren turned his gaze to
the forest floor and began pacing. The branches loosened and
Bringlen took in a full breath. He head was pounding, but feeling
was returning to his hands and leg. He was too weak to struggle.
Every muscle ached.

Sorren looked up at him. “You really haven’t
been much help.”

“I’ve told you all I know.”

Sorren shook his head. “But it’s not
enough.”

“Please. Sorren. I have a child. I have a
son.”

“An odd thing to plea.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

Sorren flicked his scepter to the side, and
the branches flew out from under Bringlen. Too weak to even flail
his arms and try to break his own fall, the soldier came crashing
to the ground. He slowly rolled onto his back, panting for breath.
His joints stung, and every breath felt like shards of glass.

Sorren’s face hovered over his. “Are you
going to tell everyone that I’m alive?” the young wizard asked.
“You could write some new songs. The ones I’ve heard aren’t very
good. And they don’t get everything right, do they?”

“I swear I won’t tell a soul.”

Sorren put the end of his staff on the back
of Bringlen’s outstretched hand. Bringlen flinched, expecting some
spell to blast through his skin, but nothing happened.

“What was Atlorus like?” Sorren asked.

Bringlen stared up into Sorren’s eyes, but
the young wizard showed no emotion. “He was . . .”
Bringlen thought for a moment. “He was quiet. He
seemed . . . worn out, weary . . .
like he was weighed down. But he . . . he knew he
could do it. He knew he’d win the battle.”

“The battle hasn’t ended,” Sorren said. Then
the green light of his staff faded and he was gone.

Slivers of blue and green moonlight pierced
through the bare forest trees. Bringlen was left on the forest
floor gazing skyward, catching his breath, waiting for his strength
to return.

Sorren sat in his cavern room. No candles or
lanterns were lit, but the glow of his staff gave light to the
pages of the journals and books open on the table before him. He
had been busy for the past several hours, studying how airships
worked and creating a few new tools he’d need soon. His new arm
made things easier. It moved with a steady precision his
flesh-and-blood arm didn’t have.

As he studied the spells of the Nyrish power,
he suddenly realized that his father would never give him any more
lessons. It hadn’t hit him until that moment. His father’s lessons
were over forever. He tried not to think of it. It made him feel
hallow and empty. Incomplete. Almost sick. For a short moment, he
wished he hadn’t survived.

Someone knocked on the door. “Are you awake?”
It was Kovola.

“Come in,” Sorren said.

Kovola entered, carrying a small scroll in
one hand, his face pale and tired as usual. “Agh,” he said,
shivering, wrapping his arms under his cloak. “Freezing in
here.”

“I’m working,” Sorren said. Sometimes
concentration made him absentmindedly drain his surroundings of
energy. At times, it was a useful feature of the Nyrish power.
Usually it only annoyed people.

“Your inconduction is far worse than your
father’s,” Kovola said. “You must learn to control it. You’ll
freeze us all to death.” The old man stood before Sorren’s table
and dropped the small scroll onto the books.

“What is it?” Sorren asked, not putting down
the rod he was enchanting with an elementary fire spell.

“Defeat the Chosen One?” Kovola said. “Is
that what you’re trying to do with all this?” He motioned at the
mess of books and tools and scraps of metal spread around the
table.

Sorren sat back in his chair and glanced
around. “I know I’ll need more.”

“Are you really as blind as all that?” Kovola
asked.

Sorren slid his green goggles down over his
eyes. “Watch out.” The last part of the enchantment required a
spell that would create a blinding flash of light.

Kovola quickly turned his head, shutting his
eyes tightly and shielding them with a hand.

For a half-second, the room blazed in a
blinding bright shade of gold.

Sorren slid his goggles back to his forehead
and held out the rod. He turned it in his hands, giving it one last
inspection.

Kovola turned back to face the young wizard.
“Don’t you realize what they’re doing?” he said, picking up the
scroll and unrolling it. “No one is actually competing with you.
It’s a trick. The council is sending you directly to the Chosen
One. They’re trying to kill you.”

“I know.”

Kovola stood there as if waiting for a more
elaborate response. “You don’t care?”

“It’s expected,” Sorren said, placing the now
finished fire rod on the table. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“So you’re going to play their game? You’re
going to try to defeat the Chosen One?”

Sorren stood up, stretched, and made his way
to his bookshelf full of books and journals, lighting lanterns
along the wall with a whispered charm as he went. “I
will
defeat the Chosen One,” he said, scanning the shelves. “And I need
a map.”

“Thale said you tortured someone?” Kovola
said. “A Zolen soldier?”

“I met a Zolen soldier and asked him some
questions.” Sorren pulled a book of maps from the shelf. “He wasn’t
very helpful.”

“If you want to try to defeat the Chosen One,
I’m not going to stop you,” Kovola said. Sorren could feel the old
man’s icy stare even as he flipped through the book’s pages. “But
do not drag Thale into your plans.”

“He has a good eye.”

“He’s far behind in his lessons,” Kovola
said. “At his rate, I’m not sure he’ll ever even be a mediocre tove
maker.”

Sorren turned and met the old man’s stare. “I
don’t force Thale to do anything.”

“You seem to be missing my point.”

“I’m not going to put him in any danger,”
Sorren said. And he meant it. Thale was the closest thing he had to
a brother.

Kovola was silent. He just stood there,
staring at Sorren as if he couldn’t decide whether or not to
believe him. Then he held up the scroll and said, “If you continue
with this, you’re putting all three of us in danger.”

Sorren collected a few more books from the
shelves and brought them back to the table. He sat down slowly,
spent a few moments sorting through his journals and finding a
fountain pen, then looked up at Kovola. “Why do you stay with
me?”

“I swore an oath of loyalty to the Candlewood
family. You’re the last one left.”

Sorren dipped his pen in ink and began
scratching notes on an empty journal page. “I need help getting an
airship,” he said.