The Steward and the Sorcerer James Peart (read my book .TXT) 📖

mind.  What sort of world was this, where there was no option but to run or fight?  Where their only ally was an opponent he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy?  Maybe it was best to throw in the towel.  After all, they stood little chance on their own against such people.

When at last he came to his senses, it was not a moment too soon.  Breaking from his paralysis, he reached forward and snatched Christopher’s shirt collar, pulling him toward him and dragging them both through the room’s other entryway.  Christopher now running with him- and thank God for that as he did not have the strength to carry them both- they sped through the cavernous network of rooms and corridors, turning right, then left, carrying on for some time before changing direction once again.  He had no idea where they were going- for all he knew they were circling back to the room they had minutes ago vacated.

When he brought them to a stop they stood in a small room at the foot of a stairs which presumably led to the upper reaches of the castle. His sides heaving, he looked over at his friend, concern etched on his features.  He was a little winded but seemed otherwise ok.  Simon gestured at the steps and together they ascended them.  At the top of the steps they found themselves in a sort of ante chamber that led to what he guessed was a private study.  There were shelves fitted on the walls and books of every size and design mounted on them.  A chair fashioned of the same stone the walls were composed of was situated beside a solid oak desk.  There were parchments and other documents on the desk’s surface, rolled and flat, a number of them written on with fluids that looked like ink.  He looked back at the point where they had entered the room.  There was a trap door at the top of the steps with a spring lock.  Over to his right, in a far corner of the study, was an arched entryway or exit.  Beside this was a window that looked out over one side of the keep.  He walked back over to the stairs and dropped the trap, activating the lock.

Christopher had found a bench and was trying to lie down on it with limited success- it was too short and uncomfortable.  “It’s made of stone, Chris,” he commented, moving toward the window.

“Those Faeries aren’t outside, not this side of the castle anyway.  What did Daaynan show us, the East side?  This must be one of the other wings.”  He fingered the sticks the Druid had given him.  “If only there were some way to escape and be sure those things wouldn’t follow us.  I’d attack them, but as Daaynan said, we don’t ‘possess sorcery.’”  His mimicry of the Druid echoed in the confined space of the study, the other’s words seeming to mock him as they rebounded off the walls.

Christopher had given up his fruitless struggle to lie down and squatted on the bench instead, hugging his lower legs, rocking back and forth.  “If we could use the King against them,” he said suddenly, “all our problems would be over.”

“Iridis, you mean?  You were listening, when Daaynan was talking to me about him?  That one is likely to kill us first, just for being here.  You saw what he did to our fearless sorcerer.”

Christopher’s head shook back and forth.  A self-admonition for having spoken too much, Simon thought.  Contribution to events that were happening in the real world, outside the ever-retreating fantasy world he lived in, were in short stock.  Then again, this was hardly what he would have termed the real world a day ago.

He was wrong about his friend, however.  “We could lure him outside,” Christopher said, “make him think we were there.  Force him to confront those creatures.”

He looked at him for a beat in something approaching wonder, then realised what it was he was saying and rubbed one hand over his face.  “How do we ‘lure’ him?  With what?”

Christopher nodded at the stick hanging from Simon’s pocket.  “With those.”

He had to admit, it was the beginning of a plan.

“Ok,” he said, “Daaynan told me...”

“Told us.”  Christopher sounded petulant, but Simon knew his friend meant to admonish him, signalling his commitment to the idea, and, despite knowing the whole thing was preposterous, inwardly he rejoiced.

“Alright...told us that the stick was called a Drey torch.  More precisely it, or they, seeing as how we have four of them, are halves of a whole, their other halves having been positioned on windows at each wing of the castle.  The window to this study does not have one of the halves, so we can surmise that we are not standing in one of the wings.  Nor, by the way, are we near the entrance to Fein Mor, as this window does not offer us a view of these creatures.

“Daaynan said that the torch was made from the green fire, which draws matter and energy into this world from another.  Furthermore, it can draw something real which approximates what it is asked to imitate, should that be the purpose of its summoning.”

“Into the world of origin from another world.”

“What?”

“He said the green fire draws energy into the world of origin from another world.”

“This is the Druid’s world of origin, Christopher,” he said, indicating the stone walls that encircled them in the study chamber, “medieval fantasy land that it is.”

“But it’s not our world,” his friend sniffed contemptuously at Simon’s rebuke.  “I think it refers to the user’s world of origin.”

Again, Simon wondered at his old pal, mixed feelings of shame and a queer sense of pride jangling inside him in a triumphant kind of alarm.  “Alright, what do you think we should...” he started before breaking off.  The two friends stared at each other, saying it at the same time.

“We can use the sticks to go home!”

“You’re damned right.  And I was