Son of a Dark Wizard (6 page)

“Where are we going?” Thale asked.

“Takotoa Forest.”

“Is the Chosen One there?” Thale asked.

Kovola grunted. “Takotoa Forest? Are we going
to see . . .” His shoulders dropped and he rubbed
the back of his neck. “Oh, please, Sorren, not him.”

“I need his help,” Sorren said, lifting his
staff and dropping it through the mirror on the table. “I’m going
to go wash up.”

“You know he doesn’t much care for you,”
Kovola said.

“Who does?” Sorren held out a hand for Quove.
The raven flew to it, and Sorren dipped the hand down through the
portal.

Kovola scoffed. “What makes you think he’ll
help you?”

“I’ll ask him to.” Sorren leaned forward and
sunk headfirst into the mirror and into the caverns on the other
side of the kingdom.

Kovola peered down through the portal and
watched as Sorren stood up on the other side and disappeared into
the shadows of the cavern. Then the old man flicked back his
scraggly dark green hair and turned to Thale.

“Listen,” Kovola said, “I know you’ve never
been on an airship before, so enjoy it tonight. But from now on, it
would be safer for you to stay in the caverns.”

“Why?”

Kovola shook his head and looked back through
the portal, silent, as if he didn’t know what to say. Thale
waited.

Finally, Kovola gestured at the portal and
spoke softly. “Sorren doesn’t . . . Sorren
is . . . I’m not sure he understands what he’s
doing, what sort of dangers he’s playing with. He just lost his
father. His home. His future. You saw the cut on his arm. There was
no reason for that to happen. He’s exploring the edges of his
talents. I know he’s always been a bit brazen, reckless with his
power, but his father was always there to . . . He
listened to his father. And now, having lost so much, maybe he
feels like he has nothing left to lose . . . I can
no longer guess what he is becoming.” Kovola put a hand on Thale’s
shoulder and spoke slowly. “Be careful.”

Morning was turning to noon as a small crowd
gathered around Atlorus and Gashdane. An old woman stood before
them, wrapped in a tattered brown shawl, recounting the miseries of
village life she’d known under Vonlock’s rule.

“His guards came at the end of every season
and stole half our harvest. Our children starved. Our numbers have
dwindled. We weren’t even allowed to build churches. We gathered
anyway. We gathered at night in the hills and we prayed.” The old
woman looked at Atlorus. She seemed to smile with only her eyes.
“You are the answer to twenty-five years of prayers. The gods
themselves have sent you.”

Gashdane put an arm around the woman’s
shoulders. She seemed so frail, as if she might crumple in on
herself like old paper. “We’ll send food,” Gashdane said. “And
builders. And clothes and supplies and medicines. What Vonlock took
from your village . . . from
you . . . it will all be repaid tenfold.”

The old woman put a hand to her mouth and
wept.

Much of the morning had been like this.
Atlorus and Gashdane, followed by a handful of Gashdane’s Zolen
soldiers, were exploring the small villages along Morrowgrand’s
southern coasts, listening to the stories of the people. Gashdane
had insisted this sort of touring was necessary to gain the
kingdom’s trust. Gashdane would embrace the villagers and promise
them a new beginning. If they were not overly emotional, Atlorus
would promise to remember them and shake their hands. Sometimes
they would bow to him as if he were already a king.

It felt strange to be so highly praised. What
if he couldn’t live up to their expectations? What if defeating
Vonlock was the last remarkable thing he’d ever do? Of course, he
could hardly ask these questions to anyone. So many people had
suffered living in the shadow of a dark wizard for so long.
Anything they had of value had been taken from them. Under Vonlock
and his elite guards, they had lived like slaves. They needed hope.
How could Atlorus deny them that? He would do whatever he could to
help them.

Wiping tears from her face, the old woman
walked forward and gently put her arms around Atlorus, her shawl
smelling of dirt and mildew. Atlorus didn’t care. With her warm
hands pressed against his back, he thought of his mother. For a
short moment, he was four years old again, gazing up at her, the
sun and the summer trees behind her. Was she still there now?

The old woman kissed his head and mumbled
what sounded like a prayer in a foreign language, then slowly
walked away, becoming part of the small crowd. Several people bowed
to Atlorus. Some made slow circles in the air with their hands, a
rare blessing among them. Children stared at him as if they’d never
seen anything so wondrous before and never would again.

Atlorus nodded, but could hardly stand to
even make eye contact with them, looking to the clouds along the
horizon behind them instead. He didn’t deserve such praise. As the
crowd began giving voice to some song of peace, Atlorus waved and
turned back to the airship.

“The dark reign has ended!” Gashdane was
still speaking to the crowds, his voice bellowing over their song.
“A new world is coming! It has just been born! A new
Morrowgrand!”

Atlorus owed a lot to Gashdane. It was
Gashdane who had guided Atlorus from his home and instilled him
with the courage necessary to fulfill the prophecy. It was
Gashdane’s faith in him that had saved Morrowgrand.

* * *

There were many rooms on Vonlock’s royal
airship. Bedrooms and ballrooms and libraries and lounges. It had
been designed for luxury. Now Atlorus, Gashdane, and a small group
of Zolen soldiers had the entire airship to themselves and were
living like royalty.

Atlorus had taken the second largest bedroom
for himself. The largest bedroom had most likely belonged to
Vonlock, and Atlorus would not have been comfortable sleeping in a
bedroom that once belonged to the darkest wizard to ever exist. He
didn’t believe in ghosts, but he believed in lingering memories,
shadows that took time to fade. Anyway, the second bedroom was
luxurious enough. A wide canopy bed sat in the center, small tables
at its side, a bookshelf overflowing with treatises on wizardry and
tove-crafting, a large wardrobe filled mostly with white shirts and
long dark coats, and a large bureau with long rows of drawers.
After having been raised in tiny forest huts and random mountain
caverns, just this one room seemed like a palace.

Atlorus took a key from his pocket and
unlocked a bureau drawer. Good. It was still there. The weapon he
had used to defeat Vonlock. The weapon only he could use because he
was the Chosen One. Somehow, checking that it was in place put
Atlorus at ease. It was as if he and the weapon had become
connected, as if they were part of each other. He needed to look
upon it now and then to keep sane.

A voice whispered his name.

“Atlorus . . .”

Atlorus froze. He kept a hand hovering over
the weapon as he slowly glanced around the room.

He was alone.

The whisper came again.
“Atlorus . . .” It sounded distant, and Atlorus
wondered if it was only in his head. He continued scanning the room
for any sign of life.

Then he noticed it. A small mirror beside his
bed had turned black. Completely black. Atlorus cautiously made his
way toward it, leaving his weapon in the drawer. The mirror wasn’t
just black. There was a man inside. An old man with a long silvery
beard, staring right through the glass at Atlorus.

“Atlorus,” the old man said, leaning forward.
“Is that you, Atlorus?”

Atlorus couldn’t speak. His voice was stuck
in his throat. He tried to swallow, but couldn’t.

The old man smiled and waved a hand
dismissively. “No reason to be scared of me, young master. You are
Atlorus, the Chosen One. I cannot hurt you.”

Atlorus turned to the bedroom door, ready to
race away and find Gashdane.

“No no no, don’t go!” the old man pleaded. “I
have something to tell you! You are in great danger!”

Atlorus turned back, meeting the old man’s
wide-eyed gaze, and finally found his voice. “Danger?”

The old man nodded. “You are being hunted,
young master. Forgive me for channeling you through a mirror. I had
to warn you.”

“Who are you?” Atlorus asked, inching toward
the mirror.

“I am called Mordock,” the old man said. “I
am a wizard of the Nyrish Council.”

The Nyrish Council? They were dark wizards,
wizards who drew their powers from the Nyrish moon and frequently
used it to rule over others. Vonlock had been part of the Nyrish
Council, hadn’t he?

“Some would call me a dark wizard, it’s
true,” Mordock said, as if reading his thoughts. “But do not be so
quick to judge all wizards of the Nyrish power by the cruelty of
Vonlock. We were victims of his tyranny too. We did not have the
strength to overthrow him ourselves. You have saved more than a
kingdom. That is why I am indebted to you. And why I feel I must
help you now.”

Atlorus took slow breaths, trying to let
himself relax. “You said I was being hunted?”

“There were two dark wizards in Vonlock’s
castle,” Mordock said. “Vonlock and his son. Did you see
Sorren?”

Atlorus nodded. “We saw each other across a
hall. Near the staircase that leads to the throne room. He didn’t
even try to stop us. He just stood there watching.”

“You let him live?”

Atlorus shook his head. “The Zolen soldiers
threw bombs. Hand bombs. Devil’s breath. We were using them against
the guards.” Atlorus held up a hand, mimicking holding the weight
of a small bomb. “He deflected them. With a spell, I guess. But the
explosions broke one of the thirty foot statues on the side of the
staircase. It fell right on him and the stone just crumbled.”
Altorus shuddered at the memory. It was like something from a
nightmare. It was the look on Sorren’s face as the statue fell on
him. No fear, no remorse, no anger, as though his impending death
meant nothing to him. “He was crushed by stone.”

Mordock’s gaze had somehow grown colder.
“No,” the old man said. “Sorren did not die that night.”

Atlorus wasn’t sure how to respond. How could
anyone have survived what had happened to Sorren?

“Sorren lives,” Mordock continued, “and his
mind is consumed by one thing: avenging his father. He is hunting
you, Atlorus, every hour of every day.”

Atlorus thought this should make him afraid,
but somehow the news didn’t affect him. It was like something from
a story or a dream, something distant and unreal.

“Of course, you shouldn’t worry,” Mordock
said. “You defeated Vonlock. You can defeat Sorren too. Just be on
your guard. He
will
find you. And it will probably be
soon.”

“How do you know this?” Atlorus asked.

“I have seen him,” Mordock said. “I have seen
him make an oath of blood to defeat you. I do not have the power to
contend with him. You are the only one who does.”

Atlorus sat in silence for a while, imagining
ways in which Sorren might burst into his room. He’d have to keep
his weapon close by at all times from now on. There would be no
rest until Sorren joined his father.

“That is all I can tell you,” Mordock said.
“I am risking a lot by giving you this message. If Sorren finds
out . . . But nevermind that. It is worth the risk.
It is
you
I put my faith in, Atlorus. You face great trials
for one so young, but you will do great things, I know. I must go
now. Break your mirror when I am gone. It was enchanted by Vonlock
himself, and I do not know how many other mirrors it may share
enchantments with.”

And then the old man disappeared, and Atlorus
sat staring at himself. After a moment, he took the mirror and
smashed it against the table’s edge. Then he took the weapon from
the drawer and held it tightly, promising to keep it close.

It took two days for the small cargo airship
to reach the Takotoa Forest. It would’ve taken longer if the
airship had been running on ordinary fuel, but now that it was
running on Sorren’s Nyrish power, it could fly twice as fast. Being
connected to the ship through his power, Sorren could sense the
ship’s speed throughout his body. It was as if it made his heart
pump differently.

It was dusk when Sorren brought the ship to a
fixed-float near the edge of the forest. He and Kovola descended
from the ship’s loading bay and walked into the forest, the green
flame of Sorren’s staff lighting the way. Kovola held a compass and
a small map torn from a book, and he pointed his dark iron staff in
the direction he thought they should go.

Sorren had wanted to bring Thale along. His
tovocular eye would’ve been useful in the darkness. But Kovola had
insisted that Thale needed to stay in the caverns and study from
some other old thick musty book with fading ink. Sorren felt a bit
sorry for him. Training to be a tove maker had to be one of the
most boring adventures in the world.

Quove seemed to enjoy flying ahead of them,
hopping from branch to branch, every now and then swooping down to
catch some snack on the forest floor, an insect or a small mouse.
Sometimes the raven vanished from sight completely, but Sorren knew
she wouldn’t wander off too far.

They finally came to a small round cottage
with a yellow door. Its windows glowed with firelight and thick
gray smoke bellowed from a chimney in the center of its roof.

Kovola folded up the small map. “This must be
him.” He shoved the map and compass into a pocket.

Sorren walked forward and tapped on the door
with his staff.

Footsteps. Latches being unlatched. The door
creaked open, only a bit, revealing half a face, a tall man in his
late-twenties with a mess of brown hair and a pair of rectangular
spectacles. He squinted. “Sorren?”

“Sage.”