The Wizard's
Gift
Michael Waller
Fantasy
Date Published: June 30, 2012
Synopsis
The
last of an ancient group of wizards leaves a gift to the newly arrived race of
men. It is revered and cared for by a line of priests until it is stolen, and
the high priest and his sovereign murdered by a king who believes himself
destined to be a great wizard. But from ancient writings the high priest had
discovered that the gift is not benevolent as was thought. This forces the son
of the high priest, unexpectedly elevated to his father's position, and the
young prince who is equally suddenly king, into a race to find the gift before
it can be used as that may cause the destruction of the world. Accompanied by
the retired captain of the palace guard they hope to speed their journey by
crossing the Wasteland, a seeming desert, which is fabled to be populated by
monsters, and from which no visitor has ever returned. In the course of their
adventures they are hunted by dog faced men and captured by slavers, but the
young prince truly becomes a king, and the priest discovers that he has a
destiny that goes beyond the bounds of his world.
Excerpt
Hiding behind the trees they
waited for the approach of the dogfaced men.
The defile was cut deeply into the hillside and was flanked by rocky
crags that rose almost vertically to the top of the hill. Their pursuers would
have no alternative but to follow them up the defile as the climb on either
side of it would be almost impossible in the fury of the thunderstorm.
Carantor, crouching behind a
tree was the nearest to the gap through which the dogfaced men would have to
come in single file. His plan was to allow a small number of them through
before he broke from cover to face the remainder as they tried to climb through
the gap. Caran Tuith and Bataan stood a few yards back their swords drawn and
ready to deal with those first few in the tight confines of the gully. In the
flashes of lightning they could see down the rocky stairway with its steep
sides, all the way to the bottom, and they were sure that in their present
position they could not be caught unawares. Water ran over the slippery
fragments of rock and between their feet before cascading over the tangle of
exposed tree roots, much of it falling onto Carantor’s back. Oblivious to the
cold water he waited, anxious and alert, for the arrival of the creatures that
had pursued them for three days. He knew that there was no possibility of
hearing their approach amid the noise of the storm, and although the lightning
when it came illuminated the defile and its approach, the heavy rain and the
pitch darkness between the flashes could hide their arrival until the very last
moment.
All three strained their eyes
and ears. Their fingers clenched and unclenched around the hilts of their
swords. The rain had soaked them to the skin and though Caran Tuith and Bataan
had been oblivious to how wet and cold they were during their flight, now,
standing still and quiet, they began to shiver and feel the numbness growing in
their toes.
Bataan thought that he saw
something move to the right of the defile, a large figure silhouetted for a
moment against the blinding white of the lightning. He turned to tell Caran
Tuith that he thought the dogfaced men had succeeded in climbing the cliffs and
were coming over the top of the hill when, in another flash of lightning, he
saw in the young King’s face a sudden alertness as he moved away from Bataan as
if readying himself for combat. Bataan did not need to ask what the lightning
had revealed to his friend. He too readied himself, and turned his eyes back to
the defile trying to discern any shape or movement in the darkness, the figure
on the crest above forgotten.
For a moment the storm seemed to
lessen a little, like a squall at sea that suddenly abates to give a moments
quiet respite before returning with renewed force. In that lull they heard the
sound of movement amongst the rocks as feet dislodged loose stones and sent
them clattering downhill. As the wind and rain returned Bataan thought that he
heard the sound of shouting voices. Then the whole sky flashed white with a
tremendous sheet of lightning that lit the ground before them in stark black
and white. In its glare the three stared in disbelief at the scene in the
defile. The dogfaced men where there, but they were not climbing up to fight.
They were struggling in the mesh of nets whose ends were held by large figures
straining to keep their footing on the crest above. Once more all was plunged
into darkness, and an immediate and deafening crash of thunder showed that the
storm was directly overhead.
Although their faces were hidden
in the dark, both Bataan and Caran Tuith’s wore the same bewildered expression.
The strange tableau, cast into such stark relief by the lightning, was
unexpected and confusing. Almost before they had time to have a second thought
Carantor was with them.
“Run” he yelled over the noise of the storm.
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About the Author
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Michael
was born in Middlesbrough in the North Riding of Yorkshire, UK in 1951 where he
was soon creating havoc as a short trousered rebel. Fortunately as his mother
was head cook at police headquarters his numerous run ins with the constabulary
were dealt with in the privacy of the family home. A junior school run by nuns,
and then an excellent grammar school under the watchful eye of Marist priests
educated him to have a love of literature, music and science. Though they did
nothing to curb his anti-authority streak.
An initial ramble through all
manner of jobs finally came to a halt in the oil and chemical industry where
his love of science and all things technical provided him with gainful employment
for almost thirty years. Whilst working he spent several years in the Middle
East with visits to India, and around Europe before landing in the USA where he
has lived for the past twenty years.
Retired now he writes, take
photographs and restores vintage British motorcycles in upstate New York.
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