Print Edition Vol. 8 - The Wizard, the Watcher and the Waif

The Wizard, the Watcher, and the Waif

by Rebecca E. Treasure

Tonight, Grundar would kill the Wizard.

He paced the narrow guard tower, longing for the moment he could shred the blue tabard that had once given him such pride. Every few passes, he would peer through the arrow slit and sigh. The dark woods revealed only moonlight in wintery silence.

Wait for me at the Blessed Lands, darling Herdla, soothe our children. I am coming. First, vengeance.

Grundar turned back to a neglected fire in the brazier. The fire had diminished to a few glowing coals.

No matter. He’d be on his way before the heat seeped from the guardroom. Perhaps the barbarians will stay by their fires. They risk more than me. Their families still live.

He started to sink onto a canvas stool when a tiny knock came from the door. He sighed. Bernar is always early. Most nights, Grundar was grateful for the corporal's prompt arrival but tonight... Grundar steeled himself to kill his replacement before raising the gate.

He unlocked and opened the door with a forced grin. “Evening, Bern--” but it wasn’t Bernar.

A boy blinked in the dim light. The child's eyes stabbed into Grundar. My son, I will avenge you tonight!

Grundar crossed his arms. “How'd you get up here?”

The child peered past him. “I saw the light from your fire, sir. I am very cold.”

“You’re not allowed up here. Git.”

The child’s eyes filled with tears. Thin rags hung above bare feet and wrists, drooping as though over an empty scarecrow.

Grundar scowled. “Oh, fine, but only for a few minutes.”

The boy scampered past. He dropped onto his knees and stretched bone-thin arms to the fading warmth.

Grundar closed the door and stepped around the child, resisting the temptation to tousle the curly hair. He slid another log into the coals, squatted, and blew. Smoke and flimsy ash puffed out before flames snapped to life.

Grundar breathed deep of the crackling wood and smiled, before remembering what the night had in store. “I mean it, boy, a few minutes.”

The boy nodded. “I’m Epohar. What’s your name?”

“Grundar. Where are your parents?”

Epohar shrugged. “Don’t know.”

Grundar nodded. The city had more street children than rats. Herdla had planned to help feed them when she and Grundar's own children came to the city. The barbarians had killed her before she had the chance.

Grundar had nearly killed the barbarian chief in vengeance, but he'd discovered the Wizard was their shared enemy. The Wizard was to blame for all their suffering. Seeing Herdla's tanned face in his memory, Grundar dug into his hip pouch.

He withdrew a travel cake, one of the last she had baked, with nuts and dried fruit. “Here. Eat. Then go.”

Epohar snatched the cake and took an enormous bite.

Grundar chuckled. “Slowly, slowly. Would be a waste to choke on it.”

The boy nodded and settled. “Thank you, Sir Grundar.”

Grundar started to tell the boy to call him “just Grundar” when a rhythmic whistle carried through the window. The barbarian's signal. So. They come after all.

Grundar’s stomach clenched. “Get out of here, boy, and run. Hide in the Temple of Blessings. Ask for Priest Denar. He’ll keep you safe.”

Epohar’s eyes widened. “Safe?”

“Get out now!”

Epohar winced at Grundar's shout. Why did the child pick this night?

Epohar hesitated and Grundar raised his hand, wondering if he could strike the thin face.

The boy vanished with street-kid speed. Grundar closed the door after him. He stomped to the winch, whistled the countersignal, and reached for the crank.

The door behind him slammed open. Grundar whirled around, reaching for his sword. The Wizard’s personal guard filed into the room, followed by the ruler himself. The Wizard, superior and gray from sparse hair to fingertips, paused by the fire and swept back his sapphire cloak.

“Good evening, Sergeant.” The tall wizard glanced around the room. “Street children are so unreliable.”

Grundar measured the distance to the Wizard. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The Wizard closed his eyes. Epohar padded into the room. A wave of the skeletal hand, a word of power, and an orange light flashed in the boy’s eyes, leaving him blinking and confused.

The Wizard smiled. In the light of that smile, Grundar felt as though he’d never basked in a fire's warmth at all.

“I thought a boy about your son’s age would get your attention.” He gestured to his guards. “Disarm the traitor.”

Grundar offered no resistance as the guards took his sword. They missed his knife, tucked under his tabard.

Grundar looked to the Wizard. “You’re the traitor. You use the barbarians to kill your own people. You steal their children! You killed my family. You're insane.”

The Wizard raised an eyebrow. “Ugly, but necessary. They keep the population obedient, ensure new bodies flee the countryside for the city. They’re as important as this street urchin here.”

Grundar kept his face blank over building fury within. Screams and shouts drifted through the window along with oily smoke. The barbarians did their part. Grundar swallowed. “What of Epohar?”

The Wizard cocked his head. “Hmm?” He glanced at the boy, who stared between the Wizard and the guards the way a rat chooses a cat or a trap. “He stole from the market and has served his purpose.”

Hot rage pulsed in Grundar's gut, up his chest, threatening to erupt. His eyes burned from thickening battle smoke and his hatred.

The Wizard dimpled at Grundar's fury. “Your head on a pike, I think, will solve several problems for me.”

Grundar collapsed, cowering.

The Wizard chuckled and turned away. “Kill them. Be careful with his head, I have plans for it.”

Grundar shoved the guard nearest him and rolled forward, pulling his knife. “Epohar, run!”

He released the knife. It sank deep into the Wizard’s back with a satisfying squelch. The Wizard wouldn’t die, not with his magic, but Grundar had given the boy time. A steel blade sliced into his neck just as Epohar disappeared through the door.

At least the boy would live.

#

Epohar stared at the soldiers skewering the head on a pole. Grundar’s head didn't drip blood, his cheeks still looked alive. The face hadn't changed; focused eyes warring with rage on taut lips.

The face had been kind when it looked down at Epohar, caged in his own head by the Wizard. Grundar had given him food and warmth even as Epohar tricked him. Nobody was nice to Epohar.

Epohar couldn't look away, though he knew he should run. He could still taste the cake Grundar had given him. Epohar hadn’t hesitated when Grundar told him to flee. He’d been halfway across the city before he realized the big soldier had died to save him.

Grundar’s head wobbled in the wind. Epohar shuddered. If he hadn't gotten caught stealing, Grundar would be alive. My fault.

“Oi, Epo. Thought you died, eh. Why ain't you dead?” Skrendar slunk from the alley. At fifteen, the gang leader dominated the street kids, and would get picked up by one of the big gangs anytime. “Seen you grabbed by guards.”

Epohar gazed at Skrendar. “I lived.” He held still, though he didn’t see Skrendar’s boys. That didn’t mean the bigger, meaner kids weren’t close. Epohar scanned the nearby rooftops for telltale shadows. Skrendar pulled him into the darkness of the alley.

Skrendar shook his head, greasy hair flopping. “Nobody gets caught by the city guard and lives, eh.” His eyes narrowed. “You a Vessel?”

Epohar faked a laugh. He remembered the Wizard's power steering him like an apple cart, clunky and slow, up the stairs and into the guard tower. He swallowed bile, shame washing over him. “Who’d want a skinny street kid as a Vessel? I’m nobody.” He frowned. Nobody.

Why had Grundar saved him? Leapt at the Wizard to give Epohar time to escape, though Epohar had caused his death. Didn’t make sense. “I lived,” he repeated. “Don’t know why.”

Skrendar whistled a low tone and Epohar tensed. Three boys, nearly grown, dropped from above. They blocked him on every side.

“Give us what you got, Epo, and we’ll try not to break anything, eh.”

“Come on, Skren. Don’t have nothing. Didn’t do nothing.”

“Nobody gets caught and lives. Give.”

The tallest boy reached for Epohar. He ducked under the grab. He’d almost gotten through when another hand closed on his thin shirt. Epohar ripped away, the cloth parting with a tear against his bony chest. Skrendar snarled and leapt, knocking Epohar forward onto the pavement.

Epohar’s face smacked into the hard ground with a hollow sound and wetness burst from a split lip. His head spun. A sharp pain dented one side, then the other, as the boys kicked him again and again. In bare feet they probably wouldn’t kill him, but each blow pushed out more breath.

They laughed now. He had fallen. All that remained was to have their fun.

An image flashed in his head of Grundar’s dive at the Wizard, at certain death. Grundar thought Epohar had been worth fighting for.

They crowded around him, kicking and stomping in turn. Epohar hooked out an elbow and pulled Skrendar’s feet from under him. Skrendar fell. When the greasy hair toppled into reach, Epohar snatched a handful and made a fist. He slammed Skrendar’s face into the pavement as hard as he could.

The other boys stepped back from the sudden gush of blood. They stared at Epohar, their faces darkening. Epohar scrambled to his feet. He was done with the gangs.

I broke the rules.

Little kids weren’t supposed to fight back. A beating here and there paid the toll, so he could share when someone got a meal or coins, got warning when guards came to clear out the nests. Now Epohar would get nothing.

Skrendar moaned. Epohar ran down the alley, leaving his ruined shirt and a trail of blood behind. At least he’d stopped them.

Today.

#

I’m not dead.

I should be.

Grundar remembered cold steel slicing through skin, flesh, bone, air. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to speak, but his tongue and lips felt numb. He couldn’t feel his hands or feet. He tried to raise his head. Nothing happened.

But he could see. Sights came in rapid succession.

A city street awash with sewage.

A long pole and a platform.

An old priest before a temple, familiar eyes almost caught Grundar's before...

A scrawny boy in a dark alley.

Grundar tried to close his eyes but couldn’t. To distract himself, he revisited the clearer images. He was on the street next to the Market Gate. It should reek of offal and waste, but Grundar smelled nothing. Grundar recognized the Temple of Blessings, Priest Denar, and the cooper’s shop. And Epohar, in the alley.

At least he’s alive. Or is it the Wizard, to watch this torture play out? Did I fail the boy, as I failed my family?

A mean face blocked his view, scruffy and unwashed. A guardsman of the Wizard.

Grundar’s view shuddered and the soldier laughed. Abruptly, Grundar catapulted toward the outer wall. Again he tried to gasp, but the reflex died before it left his mind.

Just as suddenly, the forward motion stopped and Grundar swayed back and forth, like a flag in the wind. His brown hair flipped in and out of sight.

A flag in the wind.

Grundar understood in a flash what had happened.

“Your head on a pike,” the Wizard had laughed. And that’s what he’d done.

Grundar's mind began to scream. The sound went on and on between his ears.

Grundar's scream might have gone on forever, but from somewhere beneath the rampaging madness, Grundar remembered Epohar below.

Grundar slashed at the madness with an explosive thought. He had to watch the boy. Four bigger boys had corralled Epohar into the alley.

Grundar’s every remembered muscle strained to reach him, help him. But there was nothing he could do, just like with his family. When he'd heard of the barbarian attack, he'd raced home only to discover their broken bodies strewn across the floor he'd laid with his own hands.

Where is Epohar, where has he gone?

Finally, Epohar limped from the alley, though he’d lost his shirt. He ran, hands clenched around his ribs.

But he'd survived.

The barrier holding back the screaming madness held firm.

#

Shirtless and shivering, Epohar trudged along a gutter, out of the way of passing carts and horses where he could keep an eye on both sides of his path for discarded food or dropped coins. The stink of the gutter, with rotting food and other things swirling about his toes, was preferable to being run over in the street. Besides, the muck kept his toes a little warmer.

Behind him in the whore's district, someone shouted about a thief. Epohar hurried his steps. He hadn't stolen anything, this time, but he was too cold to defend himself.

"Out of the way, brat!" The drunken slurring warned Epohar moments before a stumbling figure whirled past him. Epohar skipped out of the way, but the man had lost his balance and tripped over his own feet. He bounced like an apple over the cobblestones and fell headfirst, against a brick wall.

Epohar looked around, his frozen fingers and toes forgotten. The street, lined with shops closed for the night, appeared to be empty. There had been a definite clinking of coins when the man fell. On the balls of his feet, ready to run, Epohar approached the now-still figure. A small trickle of blood ran down the side of the slack face. Epohar poked him with a frozen toe.

No response.

Reassured, Epohar glanced around again. Still empty. He bent and felt around under the man's body, ready to bolt if the eyelids so much as fluttered. His fist gripped the drawstring of a coin bag and he was off, down the street and into a dark alley in an instant.

He examined his prize, a worn velvet coin purse. Two faded gold M's glistened in the dim light of the moon above. Madame Marva's. Epohar knew the whorehouse. The bigger boys would visit there when they could afford it. A few of the girls Epohar had grown up with worked there now.

He hesitated, weighing the purse in his palm. Enough coins to feed him until next winter jingled in the bag. He pressed his lips together, then took off down the street toward Madame Marva's.

“Impressive,” Marva said when Epohar handed her the pouch. “No finder’s fee?”

Epohar looked down at frostbitten toes aching in the warmth of the brothel and back at her. “No. We hadn't agreed on a price. Better to wait 'til we spoke.”

She laughed. “Well, you can take half the contents, or,” she tilted her head, “wages and a place to sleep.”

"Oh, yes, please."

Marva nodded and directed him into the kitchens. He expected to wash dishes, but instead she told the cook to feed him. When she came back, she held out a thick cotton shirt for him. He pulled it over his head.

For weeks he stayed in the brothel, working in the kitchen and cleaning the rooms, afraid to leave in case Marva didn't let him back in.

Winter turned to spring and Epohar thrived. Grundar would be proud of him for finding a home and a job, if he could know. Epohar asked for an afternoon to visit the Temple of Blessings.

His bare feet made no sound on the cool stones as he ran. Spring evenings grew cold enough to bring thoughts of shoes and jackets, but not with winter’s desperation.

And he'd survived the winter.

He stared up. All thanks to you, Grundar. The head hadn’t decayed. The Wizard’s powers were no secret, but to go so far beyond nature turned Epohar’s stomach. Grundar had been punished. His body long gone, head on a pole for all to see labeled “traitor”. Why keep the head?

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Then he turned to run back to the whorehouse. Once full dark fell, Madame Marva needed him.

But he’d spent too long in his thoughts.

Skrendar and four others had found him again. This time they carried weapons. Rough boards as long as an arm, with nails pounded through them to create vicious maces.

“Shouldn’t have broken my nose, eh.” The bruises along his cheeks and around his eyes were still a sickly yellow.

Epohar dug in his waistband. “Here.” He tossed a week’s wages on the cobblestones. “That’s all I’ve got.”

One of Skrendar’s friends crouched and picked up the coins. Skrendar waited until he finished, then shook his head.

“Not enough.” He gave the mace a whirl. “Heard you got off the street. Working with whores. That don’t seem fair to me. You supposed to be dead, eh.”

Epohar winced. They might finish him this time.

Skrendar leapt forward with a shout. He swung the mace over his head. Torchlight glinted on the nails where the rust hadn’t taken hold. Epohar dodged, spinning to face the boy behind him. Already mid-swing, the boy snarled at Epohar’s weak block. Epohar caught the mace below the nails but forced the minor pain from his mind. The nails would've been much worse.

Epohar launched himself into the stomach of the next closest boy, under the outstretched mace. They fell in a clatter of knees and elbows, too tangled for the others to attack. Epohar struggled for the weapon.

A mace slammed into him. Sharp hot pain screamed down his spine. The boy beneath Epohar relaxed his grip, thinking the battle won, and Epohar forced his arm to reach out and snatch the mace.

Groaning, tears running down his face, he clutched the weapon and rolled to his feet. They spread out, wary.

Wet warmth dripped from his back, but Epohar stood still. “That’s two shirts you ruined, Skren. Don’t think I owe you anything more, eh.”

Skrendar spat. “You’re dead, Epo.”

Epohar could feel his strength draining from the snarling gashes, but he couldn’t weaken now. They might relax their guard and then he--

Skrendar turned his head to speak and Epohar swung the mace with all his tiny strength. It took Skrendar full in the face, the nails sinking into cheek and ear and hair. Without changing expression, Skrendar fell sideways to the ground, the mace with him.

Unarmed, Epohar glared at the others. “Leave me alone.”

They hesitated, looking between the spreading flood from Skrendar’s ruined face and one another. Then, one by one, they disappeared down the alley.

Epohar bent with a groan and searched Skrendar’s pockets. He found coin for a blessing of healing and left Skrendar in the alley. Arching against his dripping back, his tired feet stumbled across the street to the Temple. He glanced up at Grundar’s head and forced the strength to bang on the temple door.

The old priest, Denar, opened the door. He stepped forward with wide eyes to catch Epohar as he fell.

Epohar held out the coins. “Don’t heal it all the way,” he said as he fainted, “or Marva will never believe me.”

#

There’s old Denar on his morning rounds. One of these days he’ll die in the street. Look at him limp.

Grundar flicked from here to there, watching the people below. Some he knew individually; Denar, the cooper and his wife, the guards, the merchants and farmers who came to the market. The rest had grown familiar in type. Street kids and thugs, whores and aristocrats.

Grundar estimated it had been a decade since the Wizard stuck his head on a pole. Raging thoughts of why and what next, his revenge and the madness, were long barricaded behind strong defenses. All that remained was the life below him.

Even Epohar had stopped coming. He could be dead. One autumn, the barbarians had ravaged through the city, burning and raping. Grundar wept--or would have if he could--for both sides.

If only he were sure about Epohar. If he knew where the boy had gone, knew he’d found a life, he might be able to let the madness always clawing beneath the surface take him away.

Movement below caught his attention. A bearded young man in a cotton shirt and pants had stopped, staring upwards. Odd. Children often stopped to gawk, but adults looked away.

Grundar gazed into the eyes peering up at him. The realization ricocheted around his mind. Epohar! Alive, and how tall and strong he'd become. A man, healthy. He even wore shoes, hair and beard trimmed close.

He lived, he succeeded. It was not in vain. I can rest.

Epohar still stood, staring. Grundar couldn't surrender to the madness while he watched. So strong. So alive. It wouldn't be right.

So Grundar stared back, relishing the man below him until Epohar turned and moved away through the crowd. Grundar replayed the scene again and again. When he’d memorized it, he turned back his thoughts over the last months since Epohar vanished. Yes, he realized, the beard had so changed the face Grundar hadn’t seen him, but he’d been there.

Epohar hadn't forgotten him.

This final task complete, Grundar turned to his defenses. He dismantled the memories of Epohar protecting him against the screaming insanity. Herdla rushed in through one lowered barricade. Laughter in the meadow, baking bread, chasing chickens. Followed inevitably by his children's births, their infancies. Brendar's first fish, Hardla’s bright laughter.

Soon he would be lost in the memories and the madness.

#

Epohar turned from the familiar sight.

Another day thanks to you, Grundar.

He'd built a good life for himself in the shadow of Grundar's gift. When Marva had been injured in the barbarian raid, he'd taken over the whorehouse. A lutist and a better cook had transformed the brothel and business was good.

It was winter again. The guilt weighed most in the coldest months. Grundar had never seen spring come again.

Epohar struggled to find time to visit now. It would be easier if he could keep Grundar with him.

I’m tired, thinking impossible things.

His feet froze and, in a daze, he turned and stared up. Could I? Likely. It’s been eight years, no one watches that old head now. But the guards will be on the wall, and the Temple may not approve of the Wizard, but they won’t cross him either. I’d have to avoid both.

He walked home, lost in thought, and scarcely noticed the customers or the girls during the night. He lay awake through the day, plotting and planning, considering and discarding options. By evening, he'd finished his plan and crossed the city to the Market Gate. One way or another, his guilt would be gone by dawn.

One last visit, Grundar. He smiled up at the head, and then turned away, whistling a cheerful tune known to the street kids and other common folk. As he passed the alley where he’d killed Skrendar, the street kids there erupted into a brawl, spilling out into the street. Epohar kept walking, but grumbles from angry wagoneers and merchants blocked from doing their business echoed behind. The shouts of city guards wading into the mix.

Epohar turned the corner and broke into a run. He ducked into an alley, then flipped over a low stone wall into the garden of a wealthy widow. On the privy’s roof, the sharp axe edge glinted in the evening light.

He grabbed the axe. After a vault over the low fence, he paused at the street corner. By now the street kids would have been chased off, but the guards would still be dispersing the crowd. Which meant it was time for--

“Fire!”

The girls were right on time. A faint smoky waft in the air teased his nose. The temple bells rang. Good, the priests would follow the guards to help with burns, though with Epohar's warning to the merchants there shouldn't be any.

Epohar pressed his back to the wall. Boots pounded past. Epohar took a deep breath, counted to ten, and rounded the corner. He directed his own pounding feet back to the wall.

Wiping sweat from his eyes, he once again stood beneath the head. The axe edge glinted in the evening light. Focused chops weakened the wood, cutting into the stout pole a little deeper each swing. When it started to splinter, Epohar dropped the axe and threw his weight against it. With a crack, the pole snapped and fell to the ground.

The head bounced like a pig bladder, then settled on the Temple steps.

Epohar ran and scooped it up, cringing at the soft, warm, flesh against his hands.

Too late. The guards approached, returning to their posts, and he had nowhere to run.

He held out Grundar’s head and looked into the face, as enraged and determined as ever.

“Thank you for my life,” he said. “I don’t know why you did it, but I tried to make the best from what you gave me.”

Then he braced himself for the moment the guards would see him.

The door opened behind him and bony hands jerked him back into the temple. Denar hadn’t gone to the market. Epohar pulled against the frail arms.

“Hide, quick,” Denar said. “They won’t search here.”

Epohar hesitated, then ducked into the temple.

#

Foolish boy, why risk everything for me?

Grundar watched Epohar's plan unfold with rising terror. He had shouted within his mind. No, I’m not worth it, stop, don’t do this, RUN.

Then the pole collapsed and for the first time since that winter night, Grundar’s view changed. He fell, bouncing on the pavement, feeling nothing. When Epohar picked him up, Grundar basked in the glow of life and youth. Epohar had said something, Grundar could only guess at what from the intensity of the gaze, the tense lips and cheeks that spoke.

Then triumph turned to fear, and Grundar thrashed about in his cage. When the temple opened and swallowed them into sudden darkness, he’d felt the madness rise. He couldn’t dream he would escape this torment. He didn’t dare. He would always be trapped.

Grundar gazed at Epohar, who clung to Grundar’s head carefully, never obscuring the face.

Such a good boy, despite everything.

#

Epohar's feet had gone numb.

The cramped storage room where they hid reeked of oiled fish. Epohar would never get the stink from his clothes, his skin, his nostrils. All the whore’s perfume in the brothel wouldn’t cover it.

He snorted and glanced down at Grundar’s preserved head. “I almost envy you.”

The door opened and Epohar winced against a candle’s pinpoint brightness. Denar led Epohar down the narrow corridor into a chamber only a little bigger than the one they’d just left. It didn’t smell of oiled fish, but old age’s aroma swirled around the stuffy room.

“Sit,” said the priest. “It will be safe for you to leave in a few minutes.”

Epohar took a deep breath, raising the head in his hands. “Before I go, can you complete the blessings of burial for my friend here?”

Denar stared at the head for a long moment, a squeamish expression crossing his face.

Epohar raised an eyebrow. “Surely you’ve seen much worse.”

Denar shook his head. “You do not understand.” He released a deep sigh. “I suppose you couldn't. It is not the flesh that bothers me. It is what lies within.”

Epohar started. He turned Grundar’s face and felt his own twist in understanding. “So, he is there,” he whispered. “After all this time.”

Denar nodded and reached for a silver pitcher on his desk. He poured wine for himself and Epohar with shaking hands, adding a tangy fruit layer to the thick air. After a long drink, he nodded again. “The Wizard perverts nature's laws. I’ve never seen it done so expertly, though that is no comfort.”

“Can I put it down? A pillow, perhaps?”

The priest waved his hand. “Anywhere, though I doubt he can feel anything.”

Epohar rested the head on the desk, turning it so the eyes faced them.

The priest leaned forward. “You see, the head is just a Vessel, essentially dead.” He straightened. “But the soul within is very much intact.”

“Can you remove it? I have coin.”

The old man sighed. “If I could, I would have long ago. The Wizard placed Grundar opposite my temple to punish me as much as our friend. I’d attempted to use my meager magic to injure the Wizard. Foolish. Instead of hurting me in return, he showed me just how much more he could do than me.” Wrinkles pressed on wrinkles on the weary face. “I am as responsible for this, in a way, as the Wizard.”

A long drink of the sweet wine coated Epohar's tongue. He stood. “We must free him.”

“I told you, there’s nothing I can do. The most I could do is swap Grundar’s soul with another. Not many volunteers for such torment.”

Epohar considered it but dismissed the thought. What good would Grundar’s sacrifice be if Epohar trapped himself in the end? Besides, he wanted to live. He liked his life.

“What about a prisoner, or a gang leader, someone who deserved punishment?”

Denar glared at Epohar. “I am a priest. No person deserves such treatment.”

Epohar smiled.

#

Grundar screamed, unheard.

No! Not here! Anywhere but here!

Epohar and Denar had talked for hours, drinking glass after glass of wine. More than once Grundar cursed the Wizard anew for not leaving him hearing. Then they’d come to some agreement and retired for the night.

Epohar curled up before the fire, all at once a little boy again. Grundar watched him, the rise and fall of breath in the reddening light from the fire, until dawn crept into the room.

When they awoke, their determination chilled him. The priest dressed in a formal robe. Epohar discarded his shoes, left his shirt untucked, and rubbed soot into his skin.

Then they’d brought him here, to the Wizard’s tower.

The madness had taken them instead.

Yet they walked, bold as tomcats on the prowl, up to the door. They hadn’t even hidden the head. Instead, Epohar held Grundar so he could see the folly played out moment by moment.

A guard opened the door. They exchanged words, and the guard stepped back and let them in.

No! RUN!

#

Epohar tried to silence his pounding heart.

Pointless. Let it enjoy one last beat. In a few minutes, he would likely be dead. Grundar’s sacrifice in vain, the old priest’s revenge wasted on a boy’s dream.

But if they succeeded, the whole city would be free.

Epohar breathed through his mouth. The air here didn’t swirl, it oozed. Fluids far beyond sweat and blood coated the Wizard’s tower. Open doors gave glimpses into depravity and experiment beyond imagining. Epohar kept his eyes straight ahead. Upward they circled on stairs, up to the Wizard.

The guard knocked on a polished black door. It swung open on its own.

“What is it?”

In a flash, Epohar was ten years old again. The cold voice rang out over him and he couldn’t move. It’s just fear, he told himself, you’re just afraid.

But it wasn’t. The Wizard had turned from a window overlooking his city and stopped them in their tracks with a word.

He tapped a long, grey, finger against his lips and scanned them. “I remember you.” He glanced between them, down at the head in Epohar’s hands, and back. “All of you. What are you doing here?”

Epohar wanted to answer, to run, to do anything, but couldn’t. Their rehearsed story of a beggar finding the head evaporated.

The Wizard circled behind them, speaking to the guard. Denar twitched. Freedom from the spell washed over Epohar, but he saw the old man shake his head once out of the corner of his eye and stayed still.

Not yet.

The Wizard circled back in front of them and sighed. “I hope you don’t have some mad plan to kill me. Two of you already tried.” He waved his hand and spoke a word. Grundar’s head grew so hot Epohar released it by reflex.

The Wizard stepped forward and picked it up. He peered into the glassy eyes. “Oh, he has suffered, hasn’t he? Lovely.”

“Now!” Denar shouted.

Epohar sprang forward and clamped both hands over the Wizard’s mouth. They fell to the ground. Grundar's head rolled away. Epohar dug his fingers into the leathery cheeks. The priest had insisted, “Don’t let him speak!”

Denar scooped up the head and began to murmur under his breath. The Wizard struggled more than ever, thrashing around on the floor, but somehow Epohar kept his hands tight. Denar's murmuring grew to a babble, then a shriek, and he dove across the room and touched the head to the Wizard.

Then all fell still.

#

I can move.

Grundar struggled to his feet. He held out long arms, mind straining to remember the use of muscles and bone. He stretched the fingers until the tendons threatened to snap.

He saved me. After all these years. I am whole.

Grundar pressed his hands to his face, feeling the unfamiliar skin, the narrow jaw and lips of the Wizard.

The Wizard is gone.

A sound like a newborn kitten escaped his mouth. Even the tiny noise screamed into his ears, more deafening than all the battle trumpets and drums of an army.

He fell to his knees and wept.

Epohar spoke, his voice so deep now. “It worked.”

Grundar looked up from his tears at Denar.

The priest nodded, stunned. He examined Grundar's head. “I’ll take care of this,” he frowned. “Perhaps I’ll drop it down a well.”

“Or a cesspit,” Epohar said.

That's my head.

No. It was a prison, and I am free.

Epohar turned back to Grundar and extended a hand. “Hello, Grundar. Welcome back.”

Grundar took the boy's--no, the man's--hand and accepted help standing, wondering at the movement, the thrill of an ache in the spine. He gazed at Epohar. He wanted to exclaim his thanks, his joy in watching Epohar grow, the pride threatening to send him to his knees once more.

The unfamiliar tongue didn't want to cooperate, the feelings too raw, so instead he simply said, "Thank you."

Epohar squeezed Grundar's fingers. Another tingle shot up through the new arm at the warmth and strength of the touch. Grundar took a slow breath, exploring the depth of his new lungs. He savored the air, tainted as it was by the stench of the tower.

Then he released it in a gust and gestured to the door. "Come." Denar and Epohar started.

Denar cleared his throat. "I'd like to make sure the spell--"

Grundar cut him off. "We must act." He smiled, thinking of the barbarians and the farmers, the people in the city. He could free them all. So many things to put right. Memories of his family mixed with rising hope and he gripped Epohar's hand. The madness would fade, he would win the battle now. He could do so much.

After all, he was the Wizard.

END