The Sorcerer and the Witch-King's Heir

The lord of Raven's Gate was a tall, rail-straight man with dark hair worn fashionably long around his shoulders, a long, thin nose, and high cheekbones. He favored the newer style of dress that came across the sea from Fresca, wine red waistcoats and green breeches with tall leather riding boots and ridiculous tailcoats. He looked exactly how you would expect a raven lord to look, which was odd given that it was an inherited position that ceased to have any metaphysical meaning centuries ago. Ilyan could almost remember the first Raven Lord. He had been a burly man with curly hair and beard, who wore heavy furs under his ceremonial feathered cape. The cape had been made from feathers carefully foraged, never from the death of a bird. He had pet ravens who sat on his shoulders and whispered secrets to him. Ilyan had been his sorcerer too, except that they had called him and his kind soothsayers and he wasn't confined to the castle but could come and go from the lodge and the city as he pleased. Ilyan sighed and brought his attention back to the fool in front of him. Lord Calder drummed his fingers on the table and stared unhappily. “I don't want you to go, Ilyan,” he said finally. “There are dark rumors coming out of that country. You're not the first sorcerer to go confront Drumion, and none of the others have been heard from again.” “I'm not going to sit here and wait while my brothers and sisters are in danger,” Ilyan argued. “If you're so concerned for my safety then you and the other highland lords could get off your asses and mount an assault!” Lord Calder was already shaking his head. “It's too risky,” he said. “The Witch-Kings are already formidable in their own right, and if they've amassed an army of sorcerers...” “You can't stop me from going,” Ilyan said. “I'm only informing you as a courtesy.” “But what about the harvest?” Lord Calder argued. “The rains haven't been good this summer, what if we need you to intervene? And then there's the winter to consider. What if there is a plague? Wait until spring, at least; maybe this will all blow over by then.” “I wanted to leave six months ago,” Ilyan pointed out, “and you begged me to wait until harvest. I'm onto your tricks, Crow-Lord. I care for you and your people, I truly do. But something is happening in that kingdom and I cannot stand idly by and do nothing.” “You're walking into a trap, old friend,” Calder warned. Ilyan sighed. “You are probably right,” he conceded. “Let's just hope that I'm old enough and wise enough to get myself out of it.” “Well then, I see there is nothing more I can say.” Lord Calder rose, and held out his hand. “Have dinner with my family tonight, Lord Ilyan. Tell me anything you need for the journey and I will see it arranged by morning.” “Thank you,” Ilyan said. He rose as well, reaching for his staff where it leaned against the wall. “I pray I will see you again soon, my friend.” ** He left the next morning with a merchant caravan heading inland. Seagulls screamed at them as they rode out of the city gates. He looked back once, reining his horse to halt before beginning the descent out of the city and looking back towards the Crow-Lord's tower. He imagined he could see Calder standing on the balcony, watching him go. He knew they would never meet again. The trip out of the highlands took two weeks, and when he reached Asheroth he was deeply troubled to find no one was traveling to the Witch-king's holdings. All trade between the kingdom and the surrounding countries had simply stopping. “Is the border patrolled?” he asked a merchant at the tavern. The burly red-bearded man shook his head. “No, m'lord. No patrols. Just no one goes in...and no one goes about.” “But what about the border holdings?” He shook his head again. “Gone. Either they'd dead, or they've all gone into the cities. No one who enters that country ever comes out again, m'lord. Been that way for, oh, almost four or five years now. I'd stay away, if I were you.” “Wise advice,” Ilyan said, “but I'm afraid I don't have a choice. I think my kin are in danger.” “That's bad business, sir, if you don't mind my saying so. Rumor has it that Drumion has found a way to beat his cousins, that how the war started you know, all these cousins fighting over their granddaddy's throne, but Drumion, well, they say he has an army of sorcerers. Like yourself, m'lord. Every now and then we see one passing through, and they don't ever come back out.” “Do you think he's found a way to control them?” “I couldn't say. I just know that, well, sorcerers are thought well of in every country I've traveled to and I'd be doing you a grave disservice if I didn't warn you to turn around and go home. I know you're worried about your kin, but—no disrespect sir—I don't think you can help.” “I have to try,” Ilyan said softly. “But I thank you for your warning, and the information.” The next morning he rode across the border alone. He passed what should have been a shepherds holding, but the paddock gate stood broken and lopsided, and the cottage roof had fallen in. The road hadn't been maintained, and was full of potholes. Everywhere he looked he saw disrepair. How had so many people just vanished? What was going on in this country? As he left the shepherd's holding he paused, feeling a ripple in the fabric of reality. He turned to look behind him, but there was nothing there. He could sense no presence of another person, or any hint of sorcery. But there was...something. The wind carried ghostly whispers. ....Leo......will he be alright?........did the cult......he didn't remember....... “Hello?” Ilyan called out, but the whispers faded away, and there was no sound but the wind in the drying grass.