The Steward and the Sorcerer, James Peart [novels to read in english .txt] 📗

Simon had equally been in shock, standing in dazed resignation that his final hour had arrived.  He stared at his friend, willing himself to believe he had seen what the other had done.  He noticed through a dim haze that his crystal had gone dark, the red flaw at its centre faded away to nothing.  The meaning of this took a while to sink in yet when it did his thoughts turned immediately to the Drey torch which he carried in his robes.  The Tochried, he could see, had overcome its momentary confusion, responding to something Longfellow had said to it in a language that was incomprehensible to him.  Now it was coming for him and Christopher.

Producing two of the sticks and signalling Christopher to stand behind him, he brought the ends close together but not touching.  This time there was an instant reaction.  Green flame- flame that drew matter into the world of origin of the user- exploded in an arc that circled the ends of the sticks, and immediately the Tochried was confronted with an image of the temple, the same one the Englishmen had explored in the company of the Druid.  The familiar white pillars ranged impossibly high and wide for as far as it was possible to see, the strange shield markings visible on the nearest of them.  Alive with its own force, the green fire pulsed and throbbed, the spired edges of its flame dancing in the morning air, drawing the creature toward them, catching it in its siphoning pull.

Then, abruptly, the demon pulled back, lifting its great head as the Steward recited more words in its foreign tongue, turning to Longfellow then swinging back toward the Englishmen in abidance of its fresh instructions.  Simon attempted to ward off its advance by waving the sticks- and between them the image of the temple- at the Tochried, yet it did not slow in its advance.  It reached out through the green contrails of flame, opening its fist to grasp the Englishman’s neck...

Suddenly the Legion Commander was between Simon and the creature, his broadsword drawn, raised to the level of the demon’s midsection.  Turning to Simon, he winked at the astonished Englishman, then spun round and plunged the blade deep into the creature’s stomach, twisting the steel and heaving it free.  Rallying the support of his men, he called them to attack and they came at the Tochried in a single rush, blades and axes drawn, swinging and cutting at it.  Braying instructions to his men, Dechs made sure they struck at the demon’s arms and hands, preventing it from summoning its magic.  The Tochried roared out in consternation, gripping the flat of its belly and swiping at the Legionnaires, batting a number of them to the ground with the broad flat of one massive hand.  They came at it in turns, realising that the Commander’s blade had not done the damage they had hoped.  Each time it tried to bring its hands together or strike some part of its body to enable its peculiar sorcery.  Each time it was frustrated, unable to shake free of the throng of Legionnaires that surrounded it.  Finally, it dropped to an impish squat, sinking beneath the range of their weapons.  Tensing, summoning its strength, it pushed forward into the mass of soldiers that immediately enclosed it, knocking them off their feet.  They lay sprawled on the courtyard’s flagstone surface, dazed or unconscious.  Freed into a clearing of its own making, the demon lunged at Simon, stunning him with a destabilising blow to the head.

Lifting its great hands into the air, it made as if to bring them together in a single, detonating clap that would finally put an end to the Englishmen.

As its hands descended, however, tendrils of yellow flame shot out as if from nowhere, sweeping over its head and coiling and twisting around them, binding them in a fiery knot.  The demon pulled against the tangle and the flames tightened, searing its red-veined flesh, and it bellowed in a spasm of pain and surprise.  It efforted a single monstrous heave, meaning to break free from the fire’s grip, and fell to its knees, its entire body shrouded in the sweep of flame.

Standing hunched in the broken entryway to the compound, a burst of continuous yellow fire streaming from his fingers, was the tall forbidding form of the Druid Daaynan.

He was more imposing than either Christopher or Simon had ever seen him, towering over the members of the company, his dark robes bound close to his skin, his hood drawn forward over part of his face.  From the shadow of it his eyes burned toward the spot where Longfellow and the Tochried stood, a dangerous, volatile regard etched in his expression.  He dropped his arms and the flames died in one last burst that covered the Tochried’s face and hands.

Longfellow drew back in alarm, issuing more words to the demon in its foreign tongue.  The creature had somehow managed to shrug itself free from the fire.  It rose to its feet once more, turning toward the Druid.

“What’s wrong, Steward?” Daaynan hissed.  “Do you lack the courage to face me directly?”

“Ask me that question again when the Tochried is through with you,” came the answer.  “By that time, you will beg me to put an end to what passes for your life.”

“You will only be remembered as a coward.  Is that what you want?”

“You won’t be remembered at all, Druid.”

Turning to the creature, Longfellow pointed at Daaynan.  “Fan Dom!  Set kraht, dahtess!!”

Brushing aside the loose strands of the Druid’s magic, the Tochried came at Daaynan in a sudden, sidestepping lunge, skirting past Dechs and the other Legionnaires who stood between it and the sorcerer, bringing its hands together, sending waves toward its intended target.  Daaynan was already reacting, however, fire lancing from his fingertips to meet the demon’s own peculiar magic, the yellow flames shattering the groundswell of its attack, dispersing the