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

thing.  He walked out into the middle of the town’s main street and challenged what was left of the regiment to come get him.  Sensing a trap, the Drague tribesmen circled around the street, using the narrow thoroughfares that ran parallel, searching for the Exiles.  The real trap, however, was lying in wait for them at both ends of each thoroughfare from which there was no easy means of escape as the only access past those buildings was to go inside them.  This was impossible as Dechs’ men had boarded up many of the entrances.  The Exiles stormed into the tunnel-like passageways, scything through the panicked mass of tribesmen with their broadswords, swinging and cutting until not a single man was left alive.  Just under a hundred of Dechs’ company survived that day and it became a story that turned their Commander into a legend.

Dechs stood in front of his men, smiling as he was wont in the calm moments before the storm.  It would be a big one.  He did not know what manner of men it was they stood against today, but one look at his Steward earlier had told him it would be hot, whatever it was.  Longfellow had told him it was not a numbers battle- they faced only two sorcerers- but magic wielders had a way of shortening the odds against you succeeding.  The demon they warded did not look as if it needed their protection.  There was that.  And he suspected there would be an attack from another source.  Let it come, he thought.  Politicians like Longfellow thought it best to play your own game and not worry about the enemy’s plan.  That was effective in battle up to a point but you also needed to study the opposition’s behaviour as well as their motives.  Dechs knew what they wanted.  The question was would he give it to them?  They were being paid not to, but this was a sorcerer’s battle with an outcome that held more importance for them rather than the state.  His smile twisted to a grimace.  It would be interesting, should he and his men survive, to see who would prevail.

SITTING ASTRIDE ATTARACK, his great wings soaring through the darkening sky, the two Englishmen circled above the fortified complex looking for a suitable place to land.  They could have chosen any spot, Simon thought, as the complex was almost completely deserted.  He finally guided the bird down toward the Steward’s quarters, remembering it from his time spent in that other world, the one Christopher kept referring to as the ‘template world.’  It was shortly after they had met the Druid, or rather when Daaynan had torn them both out of their holiday in Italy.  Chris had been brooding over his past, Simon had been worried about his future, and Lady Went had been mourning the loss of her son to drink.  He’d read somewhere the suggested axiom that all change is good.  The source had gone on to say that it allowed you to see things from a fresh perspective.  By that token, he considered, Daaynan had certainly been a catalyst for change in both their lives, though he could not bring himself to measure it in terms of good or bad.  Challenging, certainly; threatening, definitely; exciting, even life-altering, it had afforded Chris a new lease of life.  He had managed to remain sober and even during the occasional lapse, for example on the way to Carasan, his bouts of drinking included none of the maudlin, bitter reflections he was wont to express as had the Chris of old. He had finally discovered a sense of who he was, even if some of the new character traits he’d acquired were somewhat less than virtuous.  His dislike of adventure, for example, which seemed to translate as pure cowardice.

Of himself, was he a better man?  Chris had said he was like the Druid, yet Simon had dismissed the notion out of hand.  He thought better of it now.  ‘You have a great sense of duty to people,’ his friend had told him, somewhat shamefully, thinking perhaps of his own situation and Simon’s repeated attempts to bring him out of himself.  Lady Went had asked him to, of course, and she was a formidable woman to say no to.  But why had she asked him and not any one of a dozen of his other friends?  Why had he been the only one on holiday with him?  If the Druid had pulled Chris out of their world and not him, what would the result have been?  But he knew the answer to that and there were some things it was better not to question.

“Here, at the foot of the tower!” He shouted back to Christopher above the wind.

They brought the Carrion down on the courtyard floor, its great talons skating briefly on the flagstone surface before finding purchase.  Casting around for a suitable object, they found a hitching post nearby and tied the bird’s reins to it.

The Steward’s tower was the most imposing building in the complex, in the entire citadel for that matter.  It stood in a decorated courtyard inside the complex: its raked and brushed masonry adorned with flags symbolising different state regions; its turrets stretching up into the sky, looming over the citadel; the finely carved stone stairs inlaid with iron images and symbols.

They mounted the steps, treading carefully without the use of a hand rail, quietly so as not to alert anyone of their presence.  One mistake and you were over the side, tumbling down a sheer, vertical drop, yet they had negotiated the stairs before and contrived to maintain their balance. At the top of the stairs were the two familiar doors.

“The one to the left houses the plinth which we stood on to leave the template world and get back to the temple,” Simon told Christopher unnecessarily.  “The Steward’s quarters are directly ahead.”

“The door’s open,” Christopher said, whispering.  “Should we just go in?  What if