Son of a Dark Wizard (4 page)

“We don’t have the money to buy an airship,”
Kovola said, “nor the materials to build one.”

“That leaves one option.”

“Sorren . . .”

“Meet me in the room of mirrors in an
hour.”

Any mirror could be enchanted into a portal
door as long as it was appropriately flat, reflective, and
unbroken. Tall mirrors could be stepped through easily, while
smaller hand mirrors could be used for transporting small items,
engaging in face-to-face conversations, or spying on anyone with a
mirror nearby. A set of two mirrors were needed for two-way
portals, but with the proper set of coordinates, and enough skill
in portal making, one mirror could serve as a one-way portal to
almost anywhere on the planet.

Sorren was enchanting the mirror before him
as a one-way portal door that would open on a rocky mountainside in
Morrowgrand’s southwest. The Ashwood Mountains, as they were
called. It was on those mountains that Landoran airships delivered
their cargo to Morrowgrand traders, importing goods like textiles,
crystals, glowstones, and foreign metals.

“So you want to steal a cargo airship?”
Kovola asked, as he and Sorren stood before the mirror. Sorren was
pointing his staff toward the mirror, finishing the
enchantment.

“It’ll be easy,” Sorren said. “No one will
miss a little cargo ship. Pirates are seizing them all the time.”
He whispered the final phrases of the portal enchantment in his
mind. He then muttered another spell under his breath and the
reflections in the mirror faded to darkness. Slowly, the image of
the night sky appeared beyond the glass, countless stars
surrounding a pair of half moons. The black silhouettes of
coniferous trees lined the bottom of the image. The climate was
warmer in southwestern Morrowgrand, and the Ashwood Mountains were
home to many small patches of forest.

Sorren stepped forward, peering into the
image. He had always wanted to explore the Ashwood Mountains. They
were the setting of many ancient legends and no traveler claimed to
know all their secrets. And the sky seemed so much bigger on the
mountainsides. Vonlock had once promised him they’d one day walk
the mountains together, but it had never happened. Sorren gripped
the staff tightly in his flesh-and-blood hand.

“Ready?” Kovola asked.

Sorren didn’t answer immediately. He was too
busy taking in the sight of the wide skies and the countless
stars.

Then he gathered the supplies he had set by
the mirror. The fire rod he had prepared earlier, which would melt
through locks. A Nyrish lucator, a fist-sized instrument made of
copper and shaped like an egg. When installed on an airship’s
engine, it would allow the ship to be powered by the Nyrish power
rather than regular fuel. Finally, a small mirror in a simple black
wooden frame, just big enough for Sorren and Kovola to crawl
through. It would serve as a return portal as soon as Sorren
enchanted it. Without it, it would be a long journey back to these
northern caverns, even in an airship.

“Here,” Sorren said, handing Kovola the small
mirror. “Don’t break it.”

Kovola took it without a word.

“Where are you going?”

Sorren turned to see Thale standing in the
back of the room, the lens of his tovocular eye twisting in and
out.

“Tend to your lessons,” Kovola said sharply,
clearly annoyed.

“I finished all the readings you assigned,”
Thale said.

“Read them again.”

“We’re stepping to the other end of
Morrowgrand,” Sorren said. “To the Ashwood Mountains.”

“Is the Chosen One there?” Thale asked.

“Back to your lessons!” Kovola said.

“I’m only commandeering an airship,” Sorren
said. He gave a quick whistle, and Quove flew out of the shadows
behind Thale to stand on Sorren’s right shoulder. “But there
is
something you can do for me.”

“Sorren . . .” Kovola
said.

“Find my pocket watch beside my bed,” Sorren
said, “return here, and time how long this takes me.”

And with that, Sorren turned to the mirror
and stepped through its glass.

“And while you watch time tick away,” Kovola
said, “
study
.”

“I will,” Thale said very reassuringly.

Kovola sighed and followed Sorren through the
mirror.

* * *

Hoff was sick of flying airships. The long
hours adjusting directions and speeds over wild ocean weather. The
cramped-up stuffiness of the small navigation room. The smell of
old food, dirty laundry, and the sweat of other men. It was always
too hot or too cold.

At least Vonlock was gone. News of his death
had spread quickly through the skies as passing airships eagerly
shared the stories they’d heard. Perhaps under the rule of a new
king, Hoff would see more business in Morrowgrand, and flying there
would actually be worth the journey.

Hands on the airship’s helm, Hoff caught
sight of his destination. A row of twelve tall torches along the
Ashwood Mountains in the distance were a welcome sight after more
than a week spent over ocean waters. The sight always gave Hoff a
sigh of relief.

It took half an hour to guide the small cargo
airship down and around the mountain peaks. He brought his ship to
a fixed-float beside a rocky mountain clearing not far from the
torches, opened the airship’s cargo hatch, and lowered the loading
bridge.

Leaving the confines of the navigation room,
Hoff pounded on the doors that lined the hallway outside. “Wake up,
you worthless sacks of dirt!” he shouted, his voice coarse and
gurgly from years of glowstone smoking. “Wake up! Time to unload.”
As his three loaders stumbled out of their rooms rubbing their eyes
and looking indifferent, Hoff continued shouting at them, his
orders colored with words only sailors of the sky could
appreciate.

Stepping down the loading bridge and onto the
rocky mountainside, Hoff took in a deep breath of the warm mountain
air, filled with its smells of dirt and mountain stone and ocean
winds.

A small hut sat across the mountain clearing,
its windows lit, thick gray smoke puffing from its chimney. A small
bald man was already emerging from it, his arms in his coat
pockets, trudging his way toward Hoff. Hoff recognized him, even at
such a distance. It was Nottlod. He’d been managing this
mountainside’s imports for as long as Hoff could remember. He
grinned as he drew near, and Hoff shook his hand.

“Hoff,” Nottlod said, his voice as soft as a
child’s. “On time as usual. How was your flight?”

“Too cramped and stuffy as always.”

“Good, good,” Nottlod said. “More carpets and
tapestries, yes?” Hoff’s men were already beginning to unload the
ship, setting large wooden crates in rows nearby.

“They seem to sell well enough,” Hoff
said.

“Nobody weaves tapestries in Morrowgrand,”
Nottlod said, pulling a small piece of parchment and a fountain pen
from his pocket. “Sign here.”

Hoff took the parchment and looked it over,
making sure the numbers added up and the price was right. “Nottlod,
tell me. Are the stories true?”

“The stories?”

Hoff signed the parchment and handed it back
to Nottlod with the pen. “Is Vonlock dead?”

Nottlod raised his eyebrows and nodded, a
look of bliss on his face. “Gone forevermore. Killed by a boy named
Atlorus, I’ve heard. It was all foretold by some old prophecy.”
Nottlod looked up at the sky, as if suddenly entranced by the
stars. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

Hoff had no idea what the little man was
talking about.

“If a child could kill
Vonlock . . .” Nottlod went on, “if some wild
prophecy like that could come true . . . What else
can the stars see? What sort of stories are they telling now?”

“Have you actually seen him?” Hoff asked.
“This child . . . This Atlos?”

“
Atlorus
,” Nottlod said, turning his
gaze from the heavens and pulling a bag of coins from another
pocket. He handed the payment over to Hoff. “No, of course I
haven’t actually seen him. Why? Do you think it’s all a lie?”

Hoff shrugged, untying the bag and emptying a
small portion of the coins onto his palm. “It only sounds like a
child’s storybook to me.” His hid the coins in a pocket inside his
jacket and retied the bag, sliding it into another pocket. “But as
long as Vonlock’s dead, I don’t really care about anything
else.”

“Maybe I’ll travel north to the castle,”
Nottlod said, “and see if I can catch a glimpse of the boy myself.
I’ve never had any excitement like that before. You know what they
call him? What they call the boy who defeated Vonlock?”

“The . . .
the . . . great and powerful boy?”

“The Chosen One.”

Hoff laughed. It came out of him like a
storm, a strong gurgly laugh that made his stomach hurt.

“Why is that funny?” Nottlod asked, looking a
little insulted.

“You Morrowgrands,” Hoff said. “You’ve been
living in the shadow of this dark wizard for so long, you’re
romanticizing his death. Prophecies and Chosen Ones.”

Hoff laughed again, but Nottlod said nothing.
Hoff tried to stop, but Nottlod was walking away before Hoff could
relax.

The Chosen One
, Hoff repeated in his
mind.
Poor Morrowgrands, the simpleminded fools
.

For the next fifteen minutes, Hoff watched
his men unload the ship, barking at them every now and then to go
faster. He eventually grew tired, sat on one of the crates, took a
pipe and a couple glowstone marbles from his pocket, and began
smoking between gagging coughs. His eyes were transfixed on the
craters of the Nyrish moon almost directly above when one of his
men approached.

“Captain,” he said, “look. Over there.
Something happened to Nottlod.”

“Hmm?” Hoff lowered his pipe and peered over
his shoulder. In the distance, Nottlod’s body was lying face down
on the ground in front of his small hut.

“Keep unloading,” Hoff said as he slid off
the crate. He couldn’t run with his terrible lungs, but he walked
as fast as he could toward the fallen man.

“Nottlod?” Hoff called out. “You all right?
Nottlod?”

When he reached the little man’s side, he
coughed and tried to catch his breath. Nottlod wasn’t moving. Hoff
knelt down and grabbed Nottlod’s shoulder, turning the man over
onto his back. He put two fingers on the Nottlod’s neck, checking
for a pulse. The man’s skin was warm and he was still
breathing.

“Nottlod?” Hoff said, keeping his gurgly
voice as low and calm as possible. “Nottlod?” He shook the man’s
shoulder.

Nottlod groaned. Good, he was alive. He
must’ve just fallen down or something.

Hoff scooped the small man in his arms and
carried him into his hut. The small room beyond the front door was
bathed in the warm glow of firelight. A desk sat near the window,
piled with papers and log books. Before a wide fireplace sat a
large cushioned chair with a blanket tossed over its arm.

Hoff gently set Nottlod in the chair and
pulled the blanket over him. The little man let out another groan
as if he were lost in a dream, and his eyes fluttered open. “What?”
he said, his voice weak. “Hoff? Why are you here? What
happened?”

Hoff studied Nottlod’s eyes. Hoff wasn’t an
expert, but the little man seemed to be healthy, only exhausted.
“You must’ve collapsed outside. Exhaustion I suppose.”

“Exhaustion?” Nottlod repeated.

“Just get some rest,” Hoff said. “We’re
almost finished unloading, then we’ll be on our way.”

“Yes,” Nottlod said, nestling his head into
the chair’s back cushion. “Yes, so exhausted.”

Hoff peered around the room, considering
stealing something. Now would be the perfect opportunity. But the
thought vanished from his mind when he noticed something
strange.

Hoff made his way to the front door. The
silver door knob and the lock under it were completely misshapen.
They looked to be oozing down the door, as if they’d somehow
melted. Hoff cautiously put a finger on the drooping metal. It was
cool to the touch.

Just outside the door, something moved, some
black flag twisted in the air. Hoff gasped and took a step back
before realizing it was only some stupid bird fluttering about.
Hoff watched as it flew around in small spirals before landing on
the rocky ground in front of him. A large raven, it looked like.
Hoff thought it very strange. He’d never seen a raven on these
mountainsides. For a moment, Hoff could’ve sworn the raven was
looking at him, studying him.

“Bah!” Hoff shouted, raising his arms and
racing toward the bird. It quickly flew away and Hoff stood there
and laughed and coughed until his throat stung.

He froze when he looked back toward his
airship. All three of his men were lying across the boxes, their
arms and legs sprawled out, dangling down from the crates.

“Hey!” Hoff called out, walking toward them
and waving his arms. “Hey, you putrid filth rags, what are you
doing?” The less polite words he called out as he neared them did
just as little to wake them.

When he stood beside one of his lazy loaders,
he raised a hand and slapped the man hard across the face. The
man’s eyes went wide and he sat up.

Hoff grunted. “You made me hurt my hand, you
rat scum! What do you think you’re doing? I don’t pay you to
nap!”

The man put a hand on the side of his neck.
“Something touched me.”

“What are you talking about?”

The man looked at his boss, his face pale, as
if he’d just seen someone die. “Something touched my neck. Cold as
ice. It drained me. I could feel it draining me.”

“Draining you?”

“Like it was stealing my energy.” He looked
at Hoff with watery eyes. “Oh, captain! It’s a spirit! The spirit
of the mountain! The woman who wanders, looking for her lost child!
I’ve been touched by the wandering woman! I’ve been touched by a
spirit! I’ve been cursed! I’ve been—”