The wizard shifted the heavy staff to his right hand, and holding it out from his side, but still resting its foot upon the flags, he chanted again. Another broad streamer of white fire struck the grisly remains of Salaman Goth, and in seconds, it too was nothing more than a dark smear on the stones of the courtyard, leaving nothing but the blackened iron mask, face down.
Again Allazar studied his hands, and turned towards his companions, his own eyes as wide as theirs.
“Is it safe?” Gawain called.
“Yes, it’s quite safe, Longsword.” Allazar called back, adding quietly, “I think…”
“What is that thing,” Gawain asked later, impressed, when all three were sat on their saddles in the alcove.
“Ffymmffin wufff.” Allazar managed through another mouthful of a second beef sandwich retrieved from his pack.
Elayeen gave the staff an inquisitive look, but was too busy chewing on a sandwich of her own. Chicken, she had said, prepared for her the night before on the road from Jarn. Gawain sniffed haughtily and popped another strip of frak into his mouth, and Elayeen nestled close at his left shoulder.
“Dymendin wood.” Allazar managed after swallowing, almost in awe of the stick, “It’s very rare. Extremely rare.”
“Some kind of magical weapon?”
“No, Longsword. And… yes. On it’s own it’s just wood. Very heavy, but just wood nonetheless. What you see is the entire trunk of a Dymendin tree, the roots and branches ground off. It grows so slowly, one ring of growth every two hundred years, or thereabouts. Salaman Goth said this one was 5000 years old. Small wonder so few survive.”
Allazar dragged the staff with his free hand and allowed it to rest on the packs which lay discreetly between himself and the two crowns. “Feel it, Longsword, it’s only wood. It cannot harm you.” And with that, he took another great bite of his sandwich.
Gawain tried to lift it, but was surprised at the weight. “Dwarfspit, it’s heavy as iron, yet warm to the touch as any other wood.” He encouraged Elayeen to feel the weight of the staff but she was content simply to finish her sandwich, brush the crumbs from her lips, and draw Gawain’s left arm over her head and around her shoulders as she settled comfortably against him.
“It’s heavier than iron, in truth.” Allazar said quietly. “The wood, growing so slowly, is very dense. Imagine a mighty oak, five thousand years old, compressed into a rod not three inches in diameter. This wood will not float. Nor can it be cut by steel. Those bumps you see are where the slender branches and roots were ground off through years of rubbing upon a gritstone. The sheen is the result of polishing which, given the hardness of the wood, would have taken the craftsmen I dread to think how long to achieve. ”
Gawain allowed the staff to settle back on the packs once more. “Yet it seemed to give you great power, in the courtyard.”
But the wizard shook his head sadly. “Alas, no. Dymendin serves in the manner of a lens, as glass does to light. It can focus a wizard’s power, perhaps amplify it a little, and conduct it. There is a limit to the energies a D’ith Sek wizard can safely discharge lest his hands and arms burn. When the strange aquamire burst from you at Ferdan, your sword seemed to act just as Dymendin would for a wizard, though your hands were wounded by the discharge. Without the staff, a D’ith Sek would suffer in the same way. Salaman Goth, with all the power of aquamire within him and centuries of study could produce the lightning blasts you saw, and absorb my feeble energies, with the staff. Without it, he would have incinerated himself had he tried to send such blasts as he did.”
“Then it is a weapon, the hands of one who wishes it to be so.” Elayeen announced softly.
Allazar nodded sadly. “It must be taken to the D’ith Hallencloister, and there the Sardor and the Council of Sek will decide its fate.”
Gawain snorted in disgust. “Under no circumstances at all must that happen wizard! It shall remain the property of Raheen, a trophy of war entrusted to your keeping until I decide otherwise.”
“But Longsword, I am D’ith pat, the lowest of wizards, I cannot begin to do justice to such an artefact as this. In the hands of a trusted ally of the D’ith Sek…”
“There are none.” Gawain announced. “Your hands, wizard, are those I distrust the least. And that’s an end to it. I don’t care if you only use it to whack rabbits on the head, it does not go to your treacherous brethren where it would doubtless be used to create another Salaman Goth of Goria. The stick is yours. What was it they called you at Ferdan?”
“The First of Raheen.” Allazar mumbled self-consciously, staring at his sandwich.
“There you are then. First of Raheen, Keeper of The Stick.”
Allazar was about to protest, when he noticed Elayeen’s eyes were closed and her breathing deep and slow. He smiled, and tilted his head slightly towards her in answer to Gawain’s questioning look, then quietly rose, and walked away into the gloom, carrying his pack and bedroll, and almost as an afterthought, the Dymendin staff.
7. What News?
Several times in the night, from his cracked and drafty alcove in the south-eastern corner of the Keep, Allazar heard soft voices in the dark. He smiled, and slept as best he could, hoping he’d seen the last of the rains at least until they were all safe back in the lowlands and in more sheltered and salubrious surroundings.
It was a lance of dawn sunshine streaming in through a rent in the east wall which woke the wizard, and he moved quietly on rising so as not to disturb the crowns of Raheen, until he finally realised they were not in the sentry’s alcove where he had left them sleeping. With a rising sense of disquiet Allazar slung his bag over his shoulder, hefted the staff entrusted to him, and strode quickly across the great hall and out into the sunshine.
“Good morning, your Majesties,” he sighed, spotting them in the middle of the courtyard, and they noted the relief in his voice. “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”
“No, Allazar,” Gawain said graciously, his voice tinged with sadness, standing close to Elayeen, their arms about each other’s waists. “I was describing what once stood here, and where… telling stories…” Gawain trailed off, and shrugged.
Allazar studied them both closely.
“You needn’t fear, Allazar,” Elayeen said softly, “G’wain and I have other feelings to keep the worst of the throth at bay for now.”
“Ah.”
“I think it was Elayeen’s arrival in Downland yesterday that triggered my somewhat unseemly outburst in the hall. I should have known,” Gawain explained, a little embarrassed. “But there was so much happening, so much competing for attention inside my head it wasn’t until the Gorian’s attack that I realised my lady was so near.”
“Ah,” the wizard nodded sagely, “At least it wasn’t my half a cow wedged between two loaves. Your lady’s arrival would indeed explain much, including your twinned resolve and strength before the horror that was Salaman Goth.”
“Together, we are a force to be reckoned with,” Gawain agreed, smiling proudly, “My lady and I,” and in the early morning light, before Allazar and before the last surviving ruin left standing in Raheen, he kissed Elayeen, and led her back inside.
Allazar followed, glad he himself was not throth-bound to either of them, lest they knew of the great bubble rising in his throat and the tears that threatened should it break upon the sight of them together in such pitiful surroundings.
They shared breakfast together, sitting on the great marble steps overlooking the Circle of Justice, into which Elayeen had steadfastly refused to step. Indeed, it had taken Gawain more than a few soft words to persuade her to sit so close to the thrones at all.
“I am faranthroth,” she had said quietly, “It does not feel right for me to trespass thus in the hall of your fathers, nor in their great circle.”