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

The creature lunged, reaching for him with its great arms and hands, seeking to crush the life from him.  In that moment, had Tan Wrock not acted, it would have had him.  Wrock employed the Thrust, pushing out at the monster with every ounce of his strength, sparing nothing in reserve.  His mind touched that of the creature and, instantly, he wished it hadn’t.  This dwarfed anything that resembled a mind, far greater than anything he had ever encountered before- an horrific strength of will and resolve matched by a repugnant consciousness.  He wanted to recoil from such a thing yet knew that if he did, if he hesitated in the slightest degree they would both be dead.  Instead he pushed further, repelling wave upon wave of nausea that threatened to overcome him, driving forward with the Thrust until he felt something give within the creature’s mind.  Sensing a breach in its will, he filled it with his own thoughts, gathering them to form a single command which he repeated over and over again.  “Stop!”

The creature froze in mid-step, turning its great head to face Wrock, the terrible intelligence in its eyes crossed with a pain that was new to it, laced through with something Tan finally recognised, something he had witnessed before many times in those he had chosen to prey upon.  Obedience.  Tan Wrock smiled.

The monster now stilled, it stood awaiting its instructions.

25.

For four hours the small company led by the Druid- and navigated by Mereka- journeyed north from Carasan, twisting its way through the thick forests that bordered the outskirts of the town in the direction of which they were headed.  The wind whipped around them as they travelled, angling at them in sudden, cycling bursts, trying to wrest their flapping cloaks from their pitching frames. After a time, the overhead clouds- which had tracked them since their journey to Carasan with dogged persistence, breaking and spilling rain- shifted west, and the sun shone down out of a cobalt blue sky, piercing the broad canopy of trees in shafts of glorious light and warming the woodland shade.  Movement was at times again restricted, the group forced to slow its pace as it cut past ferns and shrubs and other, larger plants, including some trees such as Maples and Birches that curled over their path, obstructing their advance as they wound upward toward the sun.

Daaynan reflected on the task that lay ahead of them.  The King was close to Brinemore by now.  He felt certain of it, though his senses did not work the way they traditionally had and his knowledge did not spring from the Druidic magic within him.  He was close, or he was already there.  Which meant it could already be too late for them to stop Iridis and there was no longer any purpose for their journey.  Daaynan did not tell the Englishmen this as it might dishearten the two travellers.  They must act as if there was still time, especially now that their goal threatened to slip from their hands.  His goal, he amended.  Those two were only here because he had promised to try to return them to their England, rather than out of a sense of duty that would protect a world they had not known existed a matter of days ago. Thinking of it now, though, he was not so sure.  Simon, in particular, seemed more and more invested in the affairs of the Northern Earth and his chances of success in bringing the Steward of Brinemore to account for his actions.  Of the two, he was the more confidant, and he liked to make decisions for Christopher, who was initially indifferent and later flatly opposed to the idea of helping him.  Between them, however, they had changed their minds about the quest so many times he had lost count.  Was this the way things were in their world?  How did they function when they carried around so much doubt in themselves?  It seemed a world of compromised values and what Simon termed ‘decadent’ behaviour, presumably when thinking about his friend.  Such a person could not hope to live long in these lands.  Or even his own, Daaynan considered, remembering that the other had been marked for death when he had pulled him out of it.  Christopher was a member of the ascendant elite in England, Simon had told him, a Lord like Karsin Longfellow, though it seemed that, unlike the Steward, he had done nothing to earn this title other than to expect others to do things for him.  His overindulgence in drink, he felt sure, was merely a result of such an attitude, not a disease as Simon called it.

Daaynan looked at the others.  They were walking in single file through the forest, Daaynan cutting a path through the brush and scrub ahead of Simon.  Mereka, having abandoned the task of navigating the group, had fallen back several paces and was now talking to Christopher.  Mereka was another individual whose use the Druid did not value highly on this trip.  At least Christopher looked like the Steward, presenting in Daaynan’s mind an idea for a plan to enter Brinemore without alerting Longfellow’s scouts.  This was something the Druid’s magic could not achieve with the same results, the same attention to detail.  Christopher’s face, and his shape and build were identical to the Steward’s.  A virtual doppelganger.  The only benefit to having Mereka come with them as far as Daaynan could see was that Longfellow’s men would be on the lookout for two people, not four (His senses told him that- that they knew the Druid was not alone- though he had only suspicions as to how he knew).  It was true Mereka was helping them to find the Carrion bird so that they might reach the city in time, but he was beginning to think that this might not be necessary after all, that events were conspiring to overshadow or otherwise alter their