Son of a Dark Wizard (13 page)

“Shadowvin?” Baylet asked.

Sorren didn’t answer.

“Oh,” Baylet said, shivering, pulling at the
fur that hung over his shoulders. “Cold winds in these parts. The
owls know something.”

Sorren took another bite of the apple, wiping
the juice that dripped down his chin. “The owls know
something?”

“It’s what Maewyn says whenever she gets a
chill,” Baylet said. “That the owls know something. That the owls
are warning her.”

Sorren studied the branches above. Thin
branches, thin green needles, slivers of a cloudy blue sky. No owls
in sight.
You people and your owls may drive me mad before I
escape your forest
, he thought.

Sorren stretched out his flesh-and-blood
hand, resting it on Baylet’s shoulder. “I do fill my heart with
something,” he said. Then he slowly inhaled, pulling Baylet’s
energy out of him and collecting it into himself. Baylet’s head
dropped forward and his eyes fluttered and closed before he fell
sideways, fast asleep.

“Get some rest,” Sorren said, tossing his
half eaten apple out into the forest and grabbing his spear. He
turned to Quove and whistled. The raven flew ahead and Sorren
followed.

“You’ll know it’s him by his mechanical arm,”
Atlorus said to the group of four soldiers standing before the edge
of Owl’s Fortress. “Don’t let him see you. And don’t hurt anyone
but him. Owl’s Grave is my home. If you never see him alone, then
don’t attack.”

Atlorus wasn’t even sure Sorren had survived
the crash in his tiny cargo ship, but it was impossible to land the
royal airship in the thick forest to find out. Sending in a small
group of soldiers with a number of hand bombs was all he could
think to do without venturing into the forest himself. He did not
have time for such an adventure. Now that he’d seen Sorren alive
with his own eyes, he wanted to be crowned king as soon as
possible. Then he’d be able to form an army of his own and wouldn’t
have to depend on Gashdane and his foreign Zolen soldiers.

“You have your orders, men,” Gashdane
said.

Atlorus spun around. He hadn’t realized
Gashdane was behind him, watching. Gashdane stood there against the
side of the airship, the hint of a smile on his lips.

“What is it?” Atlorus asked as the Zolen
soldiers began disappearing into the forest.

“You’ve changed,” Gashdane said. “Gone is the
nervous frightened boy who never wanted to leave his home.”

In his fist, Atlorus rolled the black crystal
against his palm. “I almost had him.”

“You’ll have him in the end,” Gashdane said.
“It’s the prophecy. His death is written in the stars.”

Atlorus walked up the bay door bridge, back
aboard the grand airship. “Let’s return to the castle now.”

“But you still have more—”

“I want to be crowned,” Atlorus said. “If I
ever see Sorren again, I want him to see the Chosen One on his
throne. Then I’ll finish him.”

Even though he walked alone, and even though
every step sent the pain of a twisting knife shooting up his leg,
Sorren refused to let himself limp. He followed the shadow of his
raven through the trees, trusting the bird to lead him to game.
Quove was the real hunter here, after all. She often survived on
catching and eating mice and baby squirrels.

Sorren clutched the spear in his mechanical
hand, using it like a walking stick, poking it into the ground with
each step. With his flesh-and-blood hand, he reached out to run his
fingers along the bark of the passing trees and through the
branches that twisted out toward him, letting the needles stab his
skin and make his fingers sticky.

After some ten minutes of venturing further
through the forest, Sorren’s raven began to slow. She’d linger on a
branch, then fly to another, pausing before flying again. Sorren
knew they must be getting close to whatever creature the bird was
leading him to.

Finally, Quove flew to a branch and kept
there, turning back to face Sorren. Sorren watched her for a moment
to be sure she didn’t intend to fly off again, then began scanning
his surroundings. Surely something was near.

Thud
.

A sound in the distance, like a giant stone
slamming into the ground.

Thud
.

Sorren held his spear close. The forest ahead
was an endless labyrinth of trees. Small puddles of what little
sunlight broke through the canopy freckled the forest floor,
shimmering in and out of each other, dancing to the soundless
rhythms of the wind.

Thud
.

The slow but steady footsteps of a beast.
Sorren saw something move between the trees in the distance, a
fleck of white.

Thud
.

It was slowly coming his way. Sorren had to
hide. That way, he could take the creature by surprise. He turned
to the branches above and whispered a spell to them. Slowly, they
bent down like a mother’s arms, curling around him and pulling him
from the ground. He whispered a few more spells to them, arranging
them around so that he had a clear view of the forest below. It was
hardly comfortable being wrapped in the branches of a pine tree
with all its needles, but Sorren was more focused on staying as
quiet as possible.

The slow footsteps continued.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Closer and closer.

Sorren readied the spear in his silver-copper
hand, turning it so that the stone arrow at its end pointed
downward. Now there was nothing but to watch and wait.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud
.

Finally, the beast came into view. It was a
rire. Just as Sorren had hoped. It looked larger than the ones he’d
seen in paintings. Three times the size of a mountain bear, with
long scraggly strands of thick white fur, splotches of color
splattered about like spilled paint, green here, blue there, red,
purple, yellow. With its wide black triangular nose and large
floppy ears, its head looked like a giant scruffy dog. It would
look almost friendly if it weren’t for the two long fangs that
pointed down from under its top lip like a pair of white swords.
Its eyes were large and night-sky black. Its head turned from side
to side gently, as if it were curious, pondering everything in
sight. With every step, it kept its shoulders and head held high,
like a knight approaching his king.

It was the most majestic animal Sorren had
ever seen.

Sorren aimed his spear at the rire, just
below its head, at the side of its neck.
I’m sorry about this,
my friend
, he thought.

But rather than utter the spell that would
send the spear shooting through the forest air, Sorren hesitated
and watched.

The rire was sniffing at the air, taking deep
breaths as if it had caught some curious aroma. It began stepping
in circles, every step both mighty and gentle. It moved like music,
and Sorren was caught up in its soundless song. No painting could
capture the grace of its dance. For a moment, Sorren forgot why he
was there.

Something gray fluttered in the tree beside
Sorren. Turning his gaze from the rire, he saw a large owl perched
on a branch by his side, gray and black stripes running along its
feathers, rings of gray framing its pale yellow eyes. Sorren met
its wide-eyed stare. Craning its head, the owl looked at Sorren’s
mechanical hand and up and down the spear it held, as if wondering
what the wizard might be doing.

Thud
.

The owl turned and looked down at the rire
below.

Sorren whispered a spell to the branches and
they slowly lowered him to the forest floor. The rire was facing
away from him, and he was careful to keep his movements as silent
as possible, but dead twigs snapped beneath his feet and the rire
froze.

Sorren stood up straight, once again pointing
the spear at the mountain of white fur. The rire was at least twice
his height. He could easily imagine the creature killing him with
one swipe of its massive paw.

The rire began turning back around, and
looked Sorren straight in the eye. It didn’t seemed threatened or
angered, even as Sorren pointed the spear at its neck. It continued
sniffing at the air, watching Sorren.

Sorren almost wanted to pet the rire, to know
how that thick white blanket of fur might feel beneath his hand.
He’d know soon enough. He passed the spear from his mechanical hand
to his flesh-and-blood hand. Without blinking, keeping his gaze
upon the giant beast, he uttered a short spell to the breeze.

Instantly, a blast of wind took the spear
from Sorren’s hand, sent it racing through the air, and lodged it
deep into the neck of the beast.

The rire groaned, or tried to, its cry coming
out as a low gurgle. Its head turned skyward and it fell to its
side, the ground rumbling as its body crashed against the forest
floor. Above, dozens of owls flew from their hidden places in the
trees, taking to the sky and vanishing. The rire kicked its legs,
but they soon grew still. One last long breath escaped the rire’s
mouth and Sorren knew it was dead.

Quove flew to Sorren’s shoulder as the wizard
approached the fallen animal and put his flesh-and-blood hand on
the creature’s chest. The fur was soft and deep and warm, and
Sorren let it run through his fingers. Then he found the bone
whistle in his pocket and blew the signal.

Third whistle. Game had been caught.

* * *

“A rire!” Entackus said. “Look at this! A
mother rire!”

The hunters were racing forward, gathering
around the dead beast with bright eyes and wide smiles. Some of
them paced around the creature as if to inspect it, running their
fingers through the animal’s thick fur as Sorren had done.

“Very impressive, Shadowvin” Rozzom said,
putting a hand on Sorren’s shoulder. Sorren resisted the impulse to
twist away from the man’s grip. “You
are
a hunter, then,
aren’t you?”

“How did you bury this so deep?” Entackus
asked, pulling at the spear projecting from rire’s neck. “Rire skin
isn’t thin.”

Sorren held up his silver-and-copper arm,
curling his fingers. “I have an advantage.”

Rozzom looked around. “Where’s Baylet?”

“He fell asleep.”

“Asleep? How could he fall asleep? He loves
the hunt.”

Sorren shrugged.

“So . . . you killed this by
yourself?” Entackus asked, running a hand along one of the rire’s
long fangs.

“I did,” Sorren said.

Entackus glanced at Rozzom. Just a quick
glance with no expression, but Sorren knew it meant something
between the two.

“I know how you did it,” one of hunters
smiled. He was clad in the furs of a pale yellow mountain cat. He
walked toward the face of the rire, pointing at its eyes. “You
weren’t afraid. You looked her right in the eye and stood your
ground. Gave her no reason to panic. Isn’t that so?”

Rozzom clapped his hands. “Parthus and Tidas,
go pack up the tents and the equipment. The hunt is over. Fendor,
get the bags. We’ll have to make multiple trips for all this meat.
Let’s start skinning her. Coridin, a sword.”

One of the hunters tossed Rozzom a sword. It
was a plain looking thing, with a bland hilt of dark rough leather
and an undecorated scabbard. Rozzom unsheathed it and held it out
to Sorren. “Would you like the honor?”

Sorren glanced at his half-reflection in the
silver blade. “What honor?”

Rozzom laughed. “Draining her.”

“I’m not so practiced with that,” Sorren
said.

Rozzom laughed again and walked toward the
rire’s neck, motioning the other hunters to step back. He tugged at
the spear protruding from the animal’s neck, slowly slid it out,
and tossed it aside. Then he raised the sword high above his head,
adjusted his grip on the hilt, took a deep breath, and pulled it
down in a swift slanted arc. The skin of the rire’s neck ripped
open and a torrent of dark red blood splashed out, oozing across
the forest floor like a sudden flood, steam rising from its
surface.

The hunters cheered.

Sorren looked away and leaned on a nearby
tree, suddenly weak.

It took several hours to walk home. But even
the hunters carrying the largest loads of rire meat and sweating
like melting snowmen seemed to march on in good spirits, somehow
finding the vim to raise their voices in song as the team trudged
on. Sorren didn’t recognize the melodies or lyrics of their
ballads. They sounded like strange poems from ancient lands, songs
about eagles and rivers and mountains and rising suns.

Sorren himself held a leather bag over his
shoulder, clutching it in his mechanical hand, a load of muscle and
meat that had been pulled from the rire’s legs and massive paws.
The smell was foul, but Sorren kept a small piece of pine branch in
his other hand, holding it to his nose when he needed relief.

Baylet walked close by, carrying a wide
basket of rire fur that the forest dwellers would no doubt use to
make clothes. Baylet had been confused as to how he’d fallen
asleep, but he seemed to remember little of his conversation with
Sorren and wasn’t asking questions. Perhaps he was embarrassed.

The sun was setting when they finally made it
home, and the rest of Owl’s Grave celebrated their early return
with the fervor of a long awaited holiday. The children seemed
fascinated by the rire fangs Rozzom had pulled from the animal’s
mouth and the strange colors of the animal’s fur. The adults were
quick to set up another bonfire, this time with flames of purple,
blue, green, and orange. They began smearing pieces of meat with
wild spices and slapping them on black pans.

Sorren handed over the bag he’d carried,
receiving wide-eyed grins when Rozzom told the others that he was
the one who’d slain the rire. They slapped his back and offered him
drinks he didn’t want but drank anyway.