Michael Mathias - The Wizard and the Warlord

Lord Revan harrumphed, regaining everyone’s attention. “Our course is set! We must act before he can ruin our plans.”

“What if he is right?” one of the wizards of Teak said. “You are awfully determined to connect your own son’s child to the Arbor Heart. Is it the good of our race you are truly after, or is it family glory?”

“I will not argue with you, Varial,” Revan said. “Stay or go, but do not get in our way.” He turned slowly around, looking into the eyes of the others. “The time is at hand. We can afford to wait no longer.”

Most of the elves were nodding in agreement. They had begun clasping hands, forming a powerful spell circle. Revan left Milea shivering in the middle of the ring and took his place.

Varial Teak and one of Revan’s own cousins eased away from the gathering. Before they were out of earshot, Varial turned and said, “I fear you are misinterpreting the invocation, Lord Revan. The Heart of Arbor won’t quicken in the unborn child. The spell is meant to be cast on a woman not yet conceived. You are risking your grandchild for naught.”

“Go away, Varial. You and Matern are traitors to your own blood,” Revan growled. “Leave us.”

The two unsure elves turned and moved quickly away.

The sun was starting to set and the forest was growing colder. The members of the spell circle began to chant, following Revan’s lead. Slowly, the rhythmic repetition of words turned into an eerily powerful melody.

Milea stood inside the circle. She was clearly terrified. The air around her began to charge with static, and the hot, clean smell of ozone assailed them all. The ground under her feet shimmered in a mosaic of pastel reds and blues. Then, slowly, it gathered into a steady emerald glow. The snow inside the circle melted away. Suddenly, Milea’s chest lurched and her arms went wide. She lay back slightly, but didn’t fall. Her robe and hair flowed strangely up and away from her, as if the wind were blasting her from below. All of the elves, and even the earth around them, began to pulse lightly with the beat of the Arbor Heart.

Milea’s expression was ecstatic, as if she were feeling great pleasure. Slowly, she pulled her arms in and hugged herself. Her eyes shot open but her expression went blank. The pulse was hammering into her, and some of the elves realized, as she had, that what they’d just summoned wasn’t what they had intended.

The clean, ozonic smell grew hot and sulfurous, and as the emerald glow darkened to crimson, the smell of the air turned to brimstone.

Milea heaved, clutching at her swollen belly. For a moment it looked as if she would collapse. Then she stood and strode quickly away, shouldering herself out of the circle. When she separated the hands of the elves she passed between, the spell was broken. The ground inside the circumference was smoldering and rank. The elves were gasping in dismay, all of them pale and sickened.

“What have we done?” one of them asked.

“Lord Revan,” another started, with terrified amber eyes. “This is not the will of the Arbor Heart.”

“The Willowbrow boy was right,” another one added, backing away from them. “This is blasphemy.”

Lord Revan stood trembling from both rage and fear alike. It had not been the Heart of Arbor they had summoned, and that angered him. For thousands of years his family had served the forest. They were owed a reward for that service. What terrified him, though, was that he felt something happen inside the girl, something unwholesome. The Arbor Heart, in his mind, had betrayed him.

The gathering disbanded, all of them feeling ill and deeply concerned with what they had just done. Revan went straight to the dwellings of his people and ordered the sentinels who served his bloodline to hunt down Dieter Willowbrow, Varial Teak, and Matern Redwood. He was certain, and he made his point to several of the elves in the circle, that those three elves had somehow conspired to taint their spell. He convinced enough of them, and then swore that he wouldn’t rest until they paid for their treachery with their lives.

In Westland, the feast was just getting underway. In the huge, torchlit gathering hall, the High King and Queen Rosa welcomed their guests to the tables in full regal splendor. Though the lords and nobles of Westland would feast before a roaring fire in the great hall, even the common folk were enjoying the hospitality of the High King’s plentitude. All the lesser halls, and even some of the more open courtyards, were open for all who wished to fill a plate or draw a mug or two of watered ale.

Lines of people from Castleview City formed and led out beyond the North Road gate. There was plenty of fare. Lady Able, who’d suffered the Zard occupation with them, made sure that no one would be without. Fifty fat pigs had been roasted for the affair. Two cows, an elk, and more chickens than they could count had been prepared. Outside the castle there wasn’t much in the way of vegetables or bread, but there was meat and ale aplenty.

When Queen Rosa asked Lady Able what would happen to the food left over, she was answered with a smile. “What the orphanages don’t get will go to fatten the pigs for the upcoming Yule feast.” Lady Able thought she was clever for not being wasteful. Even now, as the feasters took their seats in the Great Hall, she was clucking about it to the noble ladies around her.

The king’s long table was loaded with bread, vegetables, and the side of a bull elk that might have weighed as much as three men. Baked swan, glazed pigs, and steaming bowls of cabbage and stewed carrots filled the places in between. There were silver trays covered with iced pastries, candied yams, cookies, pies and cakes, as well.

The end of the royal table was wide, and both the king and queen sat there side by side. Sitting in the first seat on the king’s right was Master Wizard Sholt, then Lord Spyra, King Jarrek, and the captain of the castle guard. On Rosa’s left was Lady Lavona, the queen’s newest friend and confidant. Next was Lady Able, who had been determined to sit across from Lord Spyra, even though she had to crane her neck up and and around the ribcage of the roasted elk to see him.

The dwarves had a table of their own; they were all drinking merrily and getting their fill. The mood was wonderfully carefree, and it seemed as if the wounds of the past few years were finally healing over.

Queen Rosa stood and whistled like a salty deck girl. As the people hushed to hear her words, she whistled again, enjoying the looks she was getting for doing so. The royal herald caught on and began banging his staff on the stone floor. The dwarves thought it was the beginning of a song and began banging their goblets and silverware on the table in time. Mikahl and Jarrek thought this was hilarious, and after a bit of shouting and shushing, it grew quiet enough that the crackle and pop of the roaring fire could be heard.

“The queen wishes to speak,” the herald called out. “Silence for the words of our wonderful hostess.”

Suddenly, Rosa was speechless and flustered. A silly grin of delight spread across her face. Amazingly, she could hear the roar of the flames themselves. She had never been as happy. All eyes were on her now, especially Mikahl’s. She smiled radiantly. Her skin was peachy and her eyes twinkled brightly. She finally started to speak, but the loud pop of a smoldering knot in the hearth made her jump and giggle. Everyone in the room was smiling. She put her left hand over her mouth to hide her embarrassment and reached her other hand for Mikahl. He took it and let her guide him to his feet beside her.

“Are you drunk, my love?” he asked in a whisper.

Both Lady Able and Lady Lavona heard this and erupted in a peal of excited giggling.