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

man placed his hand on Simon’s shoulder.  “Do not worry.  All is not lost.  He would have needed to have taken all five horses well beyond our reach, perhaps a day on foot at a pace not much quicker than walking.  Then he surely needed to rest and feed himself and his horse, not to mention that the animal will eventually get too tired to go on and he must find another.  After that, there are the mountains to consider, those that lie between here and Brinemore.  You cannot bring horses through them- there are no paths or files, even narrow ones.  They effectively form a wall around the city.

“Besides, I have a plan.”

17.

On the night of that same day, far to the northwest in the city of Brinemore, a thin, dark figure approached the sprawling complex of offices and residences that made up the Confederation Council.  Rank moisture filled the air- the threat of imminent rain, storm clouds massing overhead, the sky filled with flares of lightening that threatened to explode in jagged bursts and long knells of pitching thunder.  Cloaked and hooded, its presence ghostlike as it wove its way through the complex, the figure passed through the main gate of an external courtyard, the two guards warding the entrance unaware of its existence, even as it drew back the latch on the gate.

Walking within the meagre shadow provided by the courtyard’s walls, it made its way across the yard and stopped at the foot of a large tower that housed the Steward’s quarters, then proceeded to the back of the tower and passed through a narrow entrance used by the Steward’s personal staff.  This too was guarded by a lone sentry yet the figure passed through unseen.  Security was minimal at this time of night, yet even so those standing watch should have noticed the figure as it brushed past them, almost close enough to touch.  The figure ascended the tower stairway, shedding the night cloak it wore, looping the cloth over one arm as it negotiated the steps.  At the top of the tower there was a small landing, off which there were two doors, one facing it and one to its right, both of which were locked, yet both to which it held a key, in a manner of speaking.

The figure unlocked the door facing it and stole inside.  Here there was a large chamber that served as a hall, off which there was at least one other room.  There was light in that room and the sound of activity.  Someone cooking.  The smells of fresh bread and fried meat and vegetables filled the dwelling.  The figure waited patiently in the shadowed recess of the hall for the resident to emerge.  There was no need for stealth at this point, the figure reflected- it had already locked the door and the guard downstairs did not possess a key, even if he should hear cries for help which it thought he would not- but patience was in its nature and held rewards beyond what was immediately apparent.  Here in this dwelling, it thought, lay the power behind Brinemore and its formidable Northern Army:  Karsin Longfellow himself.  It could dispatch him without a moment’s trouble, it considered, and leave the Confederate Council in temporary disarray, without a successor to immediately replace him who held even a fraction of the man’s strength and ability to lead.  It had thought about this previously and found it was better on that occasion to wait.  As the situation hadn’t changed significantly since then, it had no reason to revise its decision.

Longfellow entered the hall carrying a tray of the food he had been preparing.  He stopped, sensing a change in his surroundings.  Placing the tray on top of a nearby table, he walked over to a torch that hung from one of the walls of the chamber and fiddled with its settings.  The light inside it flared to life, dispelling the shadows that cast their length across the room, including that which concealed Tan Wrock.

“Tan,” Longfellow said in irritation more than surprise.  This was not the first time Wrock had appeared before him like this.  Longfellow’s obvious anger at being sneaked up on hid some deeper emotion the other could not identify.  It intrigued him mildly, yet no more than that.

“You made your own way in, I presume?”

“Nothing can stand before my magic, my Lord.”

“I guess not.  Now what news have you brought at the expense of spoiling my dinner tonight?”

“A little late for such a heavy meal, is it not?”

“You’re welcome to it.  I myself haven’t eaten since noon as I’ve spent the time between then and now tending to affairs of the Council.”

“Thank you, my Lord, but no.”

“Then you don’t mind if I do?”  He sat down at the table on a small stool and began to cut his food and eat, saying between mouthfuls “could you please explain the reason for your visit?”

“I am here because I must tell you that the creatures of Faerie we have dispatched to Fein Mor have once again failed in their task.”

Longfellow glanced sharply at the other man.  Was he a man, though?  He seemed immune to the usual inducements- bribery and women-that he hung before members of the Council.  Then there was his use of magic: it was different to any form of sorcery he had previously heard of, even the Druid’s, and in its own way was just as powerful as that of the current inhabitant of Fein Mor.  It seemed to work its influence more on weak-willed men, less so on men like himself, though he was too wary to test that proposition.  Wrock called it the Thrust, the way he manipulated objects and people without any obvious exertion other than a mere thought.  It was a hidden sorcery, distancing by its nature the user from its effect and therefore it was of benefit to Longfellow.  The Steward could not be seen by the Council to condone