Son of a Dark Wizard (2 page)

Mordock grinned. “We’ll send him straight to
his own grave.”

The young wizard at the end of the table
stood up, kicking his chair backward. “No one has answered me!”

All seven other wizards around the table
stared at the young man.

“
Who
is Vonlock’s heir?” he asked.

“His name is Sorren,” Oakren said. “He’s
Vonlock’s son.”

THREE DAYS LATER

A tall old man with long scraggly dark green
hair leaned on his iron staff, waiting in front of a large wooden
door built into the cavern’s wall. A twelve year old walked up
beside him, holding the tray of breakfast food he’d been ordered to
bring.

The boy’s name was Thale. He’d been old
Kovola’s apprentice for as long as he could remember, learning to
make things for wizards, things that only worked with the power of
the Nyrish moon. Toves, as they were called. And if you could not
be a wizard, being a tovemaster was the next best thing. Of course,
he could only make simple things, like clocks and music boxes that
didn’t need to be wound. But someday he’d learn the secrets of
making staffs and portal doors and dark mirrors. Someday.

“Is he awake yet?” Thale asked, inching
toward the door.

“Yes, he’s been waiting,” Kovola said. “Just
remember, do not say anything about—”

“About his arm. I know.” Kovola had only
warned him twenty times. Thale wasn’t even sure how Sorren had lost
the arm. Kovola had mentioned something about finding him buried in
a pile of stones, but nothing more.

Kovola opened the door slowly. “Sorren? We
have your breakfast.”

Thale followed the old man through the door
and into the wide cavern room. Everything was so dark within these
cavern walls. Thale wondered if he’d ever see Vonlock’s castle
again. It didn’t seem likely now that the Chosen One and a small
army of Zolen soldiers had taken it over.

Still, Thale didn’t mind the darkness. He
could see in the darkness very well thanks to his tovocular eye.
When he was five years old, he’d been attacked by a wandering
mountain wolf, and his left eye had been torn from its socket.
Rather than giving him a glass eye or an eye patch, Kovola had
immediately set about creating a tovocular eye to be placed in the
empty eye socket. It looked like a very small spyglass, gold with a
dark bluish green lens, and could be removed at night when Thale
went to sleep. But when it was in, Thale could see with it, and it
worked better than a human eye. Everything was in focus, colors
were vibrant, he could zoom in and out on things, and he could see
in the dark.

Sorren’s room was cold and barren. A large
bed sat against the far wall, its blankets crumpled. A table sat
close by, piled with metalwork tools and small bits of scrap metal,
copper and silver and brass.

Sorren stood by a mirror next to the table,
pulling on his long black duster coat, collar up as usual. His hair
was a thick mess of black and, as he turned around, Thale saw a
pair of thin dark green goggles on his forehead. Sorren was one of
the rare wizards whose powers often produced flames and sparks too
bright for his own eyes. His skin was pale, almost ghostly white,
the reward of a childhood spent in shadows. Like most wizards of
the Nyrish power, he was nocturnal, and woke only after sunset.

“Ah, breakfast,” Sorren said, eyeing the tray
of warm cinnamon bread, fruit, and truddleberry juice.

“Your arms . . .” Thale
said.

Kovola nudged him with his staff.

Sorren reached out with his left arm, curling
his gloved fingers. It moved with a faint whirring noise.

“You’d never know, would you?” Sorren said,
smiling. He pulled the glove off and pushed his sleeve up,
revealing his new mechanical arm, an intricate system of brass and
silver that moved as naturally as the real thing.

“Hardly the thing you should be doing with
your spare time,” Kovola said, clearing a space on the table. “You
need rest. Thale, tray here.”

Sorren slid the glove back on. Kovola may not
have cared, but Sorren was not about to waste time resting. He sat
at the table, took a sip of juice, and whistled. His raven, Quove,
flew to his side and began pecking at the bread.

“Oh,” Sorren said, “I’m going to create a
portal soon. For Mordock.”

“Do you think that wise?” Kovola asked. “You
should keep this place a secret. If the Chosen One knows you are
still alive . . .”

“We don’t have to worry about Mordock,”
Sorren said. “And he has my father’s staff. I want it back.”

“I understand that, but . . .”
Kovola seemed hesitant to say something. The old man turned to
Thale. “Could you leave us for a moment?”

Thale nodded. Sorren watched as the one-eyed
boy left the room, closing the door behind him, then turned to
Kovola. “What is it?”

“It’s what we’ve both been avoiding,” Kovola
said. “We need to decide where best to go into exile and find—”

“Exile?” Sorren interrupted, munching on
fruit. “I’m not going into exile.”

“Sorren,” Kovola said, with that gravely
serious voice of his, “your father was assassinated.
Your
assassination was attempted. Eventually they’ll realize you
survived. You cannot stay in Morrowgrand.”

“I’m going to become the next Head of the
Nyrish Council,” Sorren said, sipping his drink. “I can’t do that
while in exile.”

Kovola sighed and shook his head. “You’re
thirteen years old, Sorren. The Nyrish Council is full of Wizard
Kings and old powerful sorcerers. A thirteen year old Head of
Council? It’s impractical. It’s impossible. You are only going to
get yourself killed.”

“Have some cinnamon bread,” Sorren said,
shoving a crumbly piece of bread in the old man’s hand and rising
to his feet. “I need to find my journals. I haven’t made a portal
in years.”

“Sorren . . .” Kovola started,
but said nothing else. Quove flew to Kovola and landed on his
wrist, pecking at the bread in his hand until the old man angrily
shooed the bird away.

* * *

“Sorren,” Mordock said, stepping through the
portal with an obviously fake smile. “The entire council was so
relieved when we heard you had survived.”

“Good for them,” Sorren said, studying the
staff in Mordock’s hand. It didn’t look to be damaged at all. The
green flame burning at the top confirmed that the staff belonged to
him now. His father’s color had been purple. Sorren held out a
hand. “I’ll take my staff now.”

Mordock seemed to ignore him as the shadows
of the portal behind him faded back into a tall mirror’s glass.
“You must be so broken inside,” he said. “I mean, to lose your
father and your castle and your claim to Morrowgrand’s throne all
in one night . . . I can’t imagine what you must be
going through.”

“My staff,” Sorren said.

“The council has actually decided to hold a
service in memory of your fallen father,” Mordock said, “so that
his memory may live on.”

Sorren whispered the words of a spell in his
mind. The staff tore out of Mordock’s hand, flew across the room,
and Sorren caught it. “Well, have fun with that.”

Mordock grimaced and rubbed his palms
together as if the force of the spell had stung his skin. Oh well.
He’d asked for it. “Come now, Sorren, don’t you want to honor the
memory of your father?”

Sorren knew neither Mordock nor any other
wizard of the Nyrish Council truly honored his father or his
memory. Mordock was only trying to pour salt on an open wound. It
would not work.

“Did the council decide on the tasks for the
trial?” Sorren asked.

Mordock nodded and pulled a small scroll from
the inside of his coat. “It’s only one task. Whoever achieves it
becomes Head of Council.”

Sorren turned the staff in his hands,
learning the feel of the curves and twists of the cold iron, the
warmth of the green flame on the side of his face. It had been
passed down through the Candlewood family for centuries and was
more solid than stone. He’d always imagined being much older when
it would finally become his own.

Sorren held out a hand to take the
scroll.

Mordock held it close to himself. “I must
warn you,” he said, “this is no game. This is how wizards die.
We’ve agreed that since you have not bound yourself to the trial
with blood, you may choose to withdraw if you wish.”

“How kind of you,” Sorren said, repeating the
seizing spell in his mind, sending the scroll flying out of
Mordock’s grip and into his own. He slowly unrolled it until he
could see the three small dark red stains of the other wizards’
dried blood. He held his staff in his elbow, whispered a spell to
prick his ring finger, and smeared his own blood along the bottom
of the page.

“Now I am bound,” he said.

Mordock did not seem amused by this. “You
arrogant fool. You are going to die like your father and you will
not be mourned.”

Sorren whispered a spell to reopen the portal
behind Mordock. “Goodbye, Mordock. I’m sure you’re very busy
today.”

Mordock glared at Sorren, then turned and
walked back through the portal. Sorren waited until the shadows of
the portal faded away before unrolling the rest of the scroll.
Quove flew to his shoulder as he read over it.

Most of the scroll simply outlined the
standard procedures for a trial of succession, and what being bound
by blood in the Nyrish power meant. The task set for the trial was
written near the bottom. It was only four words.

Defeat the Chosen One
.

The name of Atlorus spread through the land
of Morrowgrand like the winds of a storm, the young boy who had
defeated the tyrannical Wizard King Vonlock. They called Atlorus
the savior, Morrowgrand’s lost prince, the Chosen One. They told
stories about him in the taverns, sang songs about him on street
corners. Children in village squares reenacted his triumphant
battle against the dark wizard, and at night their parents promised
them they’d soon live in a better world. They destroyed the dead
king’s statues, memorials Vonlock had built in honor of his own
power. They toppled his gallows, where he’d sentenced men to hang
if they dared even whisper a word against him. They threw his
guards in jail, even as they claimed their loyalty was never
true.

Yet no one said a word about how Vonlock was
defeated, how a boy so young and powerless could kill a wizard so
mighty. No one had a clue as to how Atlorus had done it.

Walking the roads at night with Thale, Sorren
guessed he was one of the few who had actually seen the Chosen
One’s face when they confronted each other that night. Sorren had
seen the face flash before him each night since, the wide eyes, the
pale skin, the quivering breath, the utter fear. The stories and
songs portrayed the Chosen One as some miraculous angelic warrior,
a strong and noble child. Sorren knew the truth. Atlorus was a
coward.

So how had he done it?

Sorren and Thale kept in the shadows of the
sidewalks, away from the murky light of the flickering street
lanterns. Sorren also kept the flame of his staff too small to draw
attention; it was the size of a speck of dust. It was unlikely that
commoners in this part of Morrowgrand would know Sorren’s face, but
he wanted to be safe. When they came to the tavern, they waited on
the other side of the street, under a street lamp near the edge of
the forest.

“How well can you see the tavern from here?”
Sorren asked.

Thale’s tovocular eye gave a faint mechanical
bzzt
. “I can see a fly on a sweaty man’s forehead through
the window.”

“Do you know what Zolen soldiers wear when
they’re in public?”

“Dark gray coats with three blood-red lines
on the sleeve?”

Sorren patted Thale on the shoulder. “Tell me
when you see a Zolen soldier leave the tavern. Then you can go
back.”

“What are you going to do?” Thale asked.

“I want to meet him.”

“Does Kovola know we’re here?”

“You can tell him when you go back.”

“Are you going to . . . You’re
not going to . . . Are you?”

“I’m going to meet him,” Sorren said, “and
I’m going to get a few answers.”

“Yes, but . . . Are you going
to . . .”

Sorren looked at Thale with a blank
expression, then suddenly slapped himself on the neck. “Bah,” he
said, studying the palm of his hand. “Mosquito.” He brushed his
hands together. “Treacherous little things.”

Thale made no more attempts to ask whatever
question he was apparently too afraid to ask. Fair enough, Sorren
thought, since he knew he didn’t know the answer.

* * *

It was a quiet night for Bringlen. He sat
alone at a table near the back of the tavern. His cup was now
empty, and his thirst was gone. He leaned back in his chair with
his eyes half closed, wandering on the edge of sleep,
half-listening to a nearby lute player’s song. The tune was
traditional but the words were new.

Goodbye, Vonlock, now meet the flame!

For all the wicked pay a toll.

Now may the devil write your name!

Now may his fire take your soul!

Days ago, Bringlen was proud to have been
part of the small group of Zolen soldiers who had helped Atlorus
break into the dark wizard’s castle. As a Zolen soldier, he hardly
ever ventured out of the small but peaceful Zolen Republic. Zolen
soldiers were proud, well-trained, and mostly kept to themselves,
defending the borders of their small independent nation. Sneaking
into Morrowgrand to help assassinate its greedy king had been a
bizarre and risky mission for them, but they knew if they could
earn Morrowgrand’s trust, the expansive kingdom would make a
powerful ally for their nation. After their victory, Bringlen had
imagined journeying home on a new horse, embracing his wife at the
door of their home with large bags of reward money and a wonderful
new story for their four year old son.