The Sorcerer and the Witch-King's Heir

They walked until it was too dark to see, to make up for the time they lost at the duck pond. They stopped when they reached the top of the ridge, and Michael watched in fascination as Leo started a small campfire. The night was clear and he could see the glint of stars in the gap between the trees. Leo kept his boots on this time, and his daggers, but he rolled his cloak up to use as a pillow, and laid the rest of his gear within easy reaching distance. In the distance, wolves howled. Leo stiffened, turning toward the sound. "What's wrong?" Michael asked, halfway through the act of breaking a loaf of bread in half. "I don't know," Leo said. And he didn't, wolves were perfectly natural at this time of year and didn't usually bother humans, but there was a sense of dread creeping up his spine and he didn't like it. "Do you know if this evil cabal of yours had any sorcerers?" "No?" Michael said. "They said all the sorcerers were killed in the revolution." "Not killed," Leo said, but he was too distracted to clarify. "Did they practice any magic at all?" He needed to be specific. This country boy wouldn't have any idea if they did spells right in front of it if he didn't know what to look for. "Did they ever do any blood rituals?" Michael frowned, clearly trying to remember. "Maybe?" he guessed. "They had ceremonies I wasn't invited to. They said I wasn't ready yet because of my family ties. They needed me, but they didn't completely trust me." The wolf howled again, answered by another. They were closer this time. Leo stood slowly, reaching for his sword and his spells, turning slowly in a circle to orient himself. Michael stood also, mirroring his posture. More howls. They were definitely getting closer. Maybe he was overreacting and would look like an idiot in a minute, but if the other possibility were true, saving his pride would mean certain death. He drew his sword and handed it to Michael. "Back to back," he instructed. "I need to feel that you're there at all times. Grab a brand from the fire." Michael took the sword uneasily, his grip completely wrong. "How do I use this?" Leo swore. "You were in an evil cult that wanted to overthrow the republic and they didn't give you any weapons training?" "I was the lost prince," Michael said defensively. "I was supposed to have people for that." "Slaves, you mean," Leo said, too worked up to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I suppose," Michael said. "But I didn't know it at the time. He corrected his grip and stepped back into position. "Don't run," he warned. "Don't move away at all. They're coming from all directions. Be ready." Michael's answer was cut off by a furious snarl, and the largest wolf Leo had ever seen launched himself directly at his head. He raised his right arm, which had a dagger in it, and sliced through the wolf's belly from neck to tail. Blood and entrails spilled out, and the beast collapsed beside them. The second one came from the left. Leo conjured fire and it stepped back, snarling. A third from the right, dodging in to snap at his hand. He threw the dagger and it hit true, lodging in the animals throat. He stopped fooling around and set the second wolf on fire as a fourth burst out of the woods. He felt the pressure of Michael behind him, shouting and cursing as he swung wildly and ineffectively with the sword. It didn't matter if he knew how to hold it, as long as he kept his grip and had the firebrand in the other hand, it should keep him alive for a few more minutes while Leo figured out how to get this situation under control. It was definitely a magical attack. There was no way it wasn't a magical attack. Wolves didn't behave like this. He wasn't even sure wolves looked like this. They were too big, and looked too ferocious to be natural. How could another sorcerer, alive and practicing in his city, have escaped his notice for so long? But maybe he wasn't from this city, whoever he was. Maybe he was new. Maybe the cabal found him after Michael left the order, sent him to get revenge and retrieve the crown. Behind him, Michael screamed, and dropped to the ground. Leo whirled and saw the gash across his right arm, bright blood drenching his clothes. He looked up at Leo, eyes wide with terror and pain. Leo stood over him protectively, watching the forest, waiting for the next wave. He reached for one of the spell bottles and tossed it to Michael. "Drink this." "Will it give me super strength?" Michael asked, his breath coming in short, hitching gasps. "It will make it hurt less, you goose," Leo said. "I am an herbalist, after all." The the wolves charged, and Leo summoned lightning. The big spells had eluded him, when he began to teach himself magic again. The little spells and charms were easy enough, he had learned them from the old wives and folk healers he met as he traveled around the country. Always secretive, always hidden, always glancing over their shoulders to make sure the wrong person wasn't listening in, but eager to pass along the knowledge to another practitioner who knew what to do with it. But Leo wasn't a folk magician, he was a sorcerer. He had once wielded the kind of power that destroyed armies. But he knew about such spells only from history, often horrifying in their destructive nature. Spells to walk through shadows and weave illusions, to change or remove memories, to control other people like puppets. The knowledge and structure of such magic eluded him, no matter how stable he became. He spent long nights frustrated at a death bed, knowing that there must be counterparts to such destruction, that if he had the power to stop a heart, there must be a way to make one start beating again. But both were equally out of his reach, a hole in his knowledge that felt like a missing limb. But lightning...lightning came as easily to him as reading had, once his fractured mind began to heal. Marsha had been delighted when she realized he could read. Not only because it meant he was healing, but because she had someone to look over her books when the tax man came and make sure she wasn't being cheated (she was). He had been watching a storm one night and saw the flash in the sky, and just knew. It called to him and he answered back and that was that. Maybe lightning was like the color of his hair, and the other spells were like your taste in food or partners. Maybe it was something that couldn't be taken away for as long as he was alive. It felt like hours, while the thunder crashed and the rain pounded distantly, somewhere down the hillside, but in reality it was only a matter of minutes before the attack lessened, and then the remaining wolves were running, squealing in fear, away from him and Michael. He let go of the storm and sagged to his knees, exhausted. Raindrops pattered distantly on the forest canopy. It would take a while to dissipate naturally, and it wouldn't rain again for weeks. Michael was alert, his eyes feverish and fastened on Leo with what could only be described as adoration. "I knew it," he said breathlessly. "Knew what?" Leo said. "Let me see that arm." "I knew you were a sorcerer! The last sorcerer and the witch-king's heir! We're going to be legendary!" Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he passed out. ** Leo carried the prince to a cave a few yards higher up the ridge. He started a small fire in the entrance where the overhang protected it from the worst of the rain, and used it to heat water as he set about dressing the wound. It wasn't as bad as he feared; deep, but not to the bone, the bleeding already mostly stopped, with clean edges rather than jagged ones. A claw then, not teeth. That was good. He made a poultice from the herbs in his satchel, and bandaged it with one of Michael's spare shirts torn into strips. Then he made tea. Michael woke up, groggy and disoriented. "Where am I?" he mumbled, then sat up with a gasps. "The wolves! Leo! Are you ok?" "I'm fine," Leo said, raising an eyebrow. "You're the one with the injury." He pointed at the bandaged arm. "Oh, right," Michael said. "You were amazing! The lightning! Leo, you're really a sorcerer. A real one. From my grandfather's day." "Yes, you said that already," Leo said, frowning. "Oh, right." Michael sat up. "Is that tea?" "Yes." He took a mug, and his expression turned serious. "Are you sure you're okay? You're shaking." "I carried you here. I'm just tired." "Does doing magic like that drain like, I don't know, your life force or something? Oh gods," his expression turned to one of horror, "you mentioned blood rituals. Did you have to sacrifice blood?" "No!" Leo laughed, he couldn't help himself. "No. It doesn't work like that. Not for...not for me." "For sorcerers." "I don't remember my training. I don't remember the physics. But the power doesn't come from me. I'm just a conduit. You can burn yourself out, just like you can trying to lift too much weight or running too far, but...I've never come close to that. It was a short fight, relatively." "What happened to you?" Michael said. "If you were a sorcerer than you must be old, really old. Like eighty four years or something. What happened to your memory? How did you survive the war? Why didn't they kill you like the rest of the sorcerers? Did you escape? Are there others like you?" "Michael," Leo interrupted. "Michael, please. I really am very tired, and whoever sent those wolves might still be after us. Can we not talk about this right now? Can we just...can we just sleep for a little bit?" "Of course," Michael said, instantly guilty. Gods, the man was absolutely guileless, wearing every emotion on his face for the whole world to see. Or maybe that was just for him. Without the slightest hesitation, Michael reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him down beside him and curling up into him like he was a familiar quilt. It was...it was nice, Leo thought, pillowing his head on one arm, and wrapping the other around Michael's waist. As he drifted into sleep he heard one last, sleepy whisper: "thank you for saving my life."