The Steward and the Sorcerer by James Peart (books suggested by elon musk .TXT) 📕

and out of buildings, walked along streets and avenues, gathered in parks and markets.

“Brinemore,” he breathed.  “An inspiring sight.”

“Amazing,” Simon said from behind him, shaking his head.  “I never dreamed the Northern Earth had developed this level of civilisation,” he said, rolling his eyes when Christopher remarked “I wonder do they have good strength whiskeys?”  “This is no time for drinking,” he snapped.  “You are about to impersonate the ruler of a large city state and our lives may depend on the success of your act.  Daaynan, tell him.”  Simon turned to the Druid, but the other had collapsed forward over his harness and would have fallen off the bird completely had his legs not been fastened to the harness.  “He’s passed out!  We need to get him down now,” he shouted at Mereka.  “See if you can find a suitable landing spot.”

Christopher pointed to an area guarded by sentries just north east of the centre with buildings that looked to be fortified.  “Over there, the citadel.”  He turned to Simon.  “Do you recognise it?”  The other nodded, remembering it from their experience in that world which they constructed from their memories. The heavily gated complex that housed the Council Chambers and the Steward’s residence looked imposing, even from this height, fronted by gates made of solid oak and iron.  They remembered how it towered over the surrounding city, its turrets and steeples looming like teeth over those who approached it.  The Steward’s tower rose to an impressive height, its orbital roof peering over the citadel and much of the city, varying slightly from how they remembered it in the world of their construction.  The Druid’s memory of it must have been hazy, Simon reflected.

“There,” he pointed at the building, “down by the foot of that tower.”

Mereka shook her head.  “We need to get Daaynan to safety first.”

“No.  It’s important that we get Christopher inside the citadel.”  He explained to her their idea to have Christopher replace the Steward.

“That won’t be any kind of plan if Daaynan can’t recover in time to confront Longfellow,” Mereka argued.

“You don’t understand.  Christopher can give orders as the Steward to Longfellow’s men to attack the King and the Tochried.”

“And who would win that battle, Simon?  Sheer numbers won’t matter, not against those two.  The Druid needs to rest and we can only hope he’ll be ready for when the King arrives.  There’s a copse slightly beyond the citadel.  We can set down there at the edge of it.”

Simon followed her gaze.  It was a small urban woodland, a narrow strip really, barely four trees wide, but the canopy was thick, hiding what lay within so it would serve their purposes.  He nodded.  “Alright.  We can leave him there but someone has to stay with him while the rest of us go to the citadel.”

“I will,” Mereka said quickly.  When Simon looked at her, she added “I’ll make sure nothing happens to him.”  Blushing slightly, she turned her face away.  “Fine,” Simon agreed.  “Chris, you’re coming with me.”  For the first time he drew a parallel between himself and Mereka.  They were both happy.  They each had someone to protect.  For Mereka’s part this was true ever since Wade Torn had called her one of his kind back in that tavern in Dhu Nor and an unsteady sense of loss had swept through her.

They landed at the edge of the copse, Attarack slowly flapping his great wings as he coasted down through pockets of air created by the strong wind, his ponderous head bowing as his talons finally gripped the soft earth beneath the trees.  Mereka gently undid both of the Druid’s feet from the harness and lifted him off the bird and carried him into the shade.  The young Englishmen slipped their feet free and watched her as she leant over the Druid, administering his forehead with a cloth wetted in a potion she carried in her tunic.  Simon pondered the two of them.  “Will you be ok?” he asked.

“I will.”  She rose and went over to the Englishman.  She slipped the crystal that had been hanging around her neck over her head and presented it to Simon.  “Take this.  It will protect you from anyone seeking to use magic against you.”

“But...” he hesitated “...you may need it here.”

“I have Daaynan, when he recovers.”

“If he recovers.”

There was a look of finality in her expression that suggested she would not be persuaded otherwise.  He accepted the meta-crystal and the string that held it, placing them inside a pocket in his robe.

“Remember, when the red flaw is no longer visible, it will serve you no more.  When he is himself again, Daaynan will use his blue fire to seek you out.

“Go now,” she said softly.

Simon wordlessly offered his thanks and beckoned Christopher to leave with him.  Together, the Englishmen mounted the giant bird, securing their legs and feet in the leather fastenings.  With a shrill cry, Attarack spread his great wings and rose, circling sharply into the evening air.  They watched the land fall away beneath them as the bird carried them higher and higher, turning in the direction of the citadel.

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Brock and Trey, sentries of the watch in one of the posts along the southern border of the city, had been on duty for almost two days, working consecutive shifts on orders from the Chief of the Home Guard.  They sat around a table in the pavilion, gambling, Trey smoking a short pipe filled with tobacco weed, spools of smoke drifting lazily into the darkening skies overhead.

Brock was thinking about rumours.  There had been too many of them recently: the last Chief of the Home Guard’s demise; the Vice-Steward taking over and the Steward gone into hiding; the Northern Army mobilised for an attack that wasn’t coming from their enemies to the east or south where you might expect but from a ragtag body of would-be sorcerers who possessed little or no military training.  Brock asked himself this: if the sorcerers were so