Wizard's Shield

By Kenneth McDonald

Sovereign is a magical shield that gains awareness in a wizard’s laboratory, imbued with consciousness but without any knowledge of who or what it is. Given to a warlord seeking power over the chaotic northern lands, the shield struggles to come to grips with its existence, tormented by scraps of memory from what feels like a past life. Sovereign becomes a tool in the struggles for power between the northern warbands, but that struggle draws the attention of the powerful lords of the south, who send their best—the notorious mercenary band, Valen’s Wolves—to investigate. With warlords, mercenaries, and wizards all interested in the fate of the shield, will anyone finally uncover its secret?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth McDonald
• Release date: Dec 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466192485

Kenneth McDonald

I am a retired education consultant who worked for state government in the area of curriculum. I have also taught American and world history at a number of colleges and universities in California, Georgia, and South Carolina. I started writing fiction in graduate school and never stopped. In 2010 I self-published the novella "The Labyrinth," which has had over 100,000 downloads. Since then, I have published more than fifty fantasy and science fiction books on Smashwords. My doctorate is in European history, and I live with my wife in northern California.

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Wizard’s Shield

By Kenneth McDonald

[e-mail]

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Kenneth McDonald

* * * * *

Dedication: To Suzanne

For all of it, everything

Yes, that too

* * * * *

Chapter 1

Awareness came and went in disjointed flashes.

He was vaguely conscious of sounds, lights, noises, but it was all confused, and he could not derive meaning from those scattered perceptions. There were voices, some that seemed tantalizingly familiar, but those too faded without comprehension. Somehow it felt like there should have been pain, but there was nothing, no physical feeling of any sort, just a vague sense of drifting within a dark void. That seemed wrong as well, but only in a distant sense, like a fading memory.

All of those perceptions blurred together in a wild medley, and then the darkness swelled around him, catching him up, absorbing everything else. He felt a moment of what might have been regret, but then that too faded and disappeared.

* * *

When awareness returned, it brought some clarity with it.

He could see, though it was some time before he could make sense of what he was seeing. There was an odd distortion around the edges of his vision, as though he was peering through the bottom of a pitcher of blown glass.

The floor and walls were of unadorned stone. One wall arced in a broad curve, suggesting that the chamber might have been inside a tower. There were no windows; what light there was came from a pair of crystalline spheres that rested in sconces set into the walls. The glow they shed was pale but constant, and did not flicker like a torch or lantern. For some reason, he felt uneasy looking at them.

The place was a laboratory. The walls were lined with shelves, while a pair of stone tables dominated the center of the room. All were cluttered with objects, an uncanny collection of artifacts that he could make little sense of. Complicated contraptions of glass and metal sat next to plainer bottles, flasks, and bowls that contained all manner of substances. There were books as well, dozens if not hundreds of them, bound in leather or wood or even metal plates, old bronze gone green with age. There were skulls and other remnants of what had been living things; a pair of disembodied eyes seemed to look back at him from inside of a clear glass jar, floating in fluid.

His attention shifted to the tables, where the march of arcana continued. A mound of yellowed parchments was stacked on one of them, and next to them, perched on the very edge of the surface, was a dagger with a curved blade. The hilt was set with chips of gemstones that flashed in the light, but his gaze was drawn to the blade, a short arc of steel. It seemed to swell, expanding to fill his perceptions, and he felt a sudden cold terror from which he could not escape. He wanted to flee, but couldn’t move, couldn’t control anything other than the narrow focus of his vision.

He heard a noise, and the sudden jarring awareness of it allowed him to tear his attention away from the menacing knife. The sound was the turning of a key in a lock, he realized. It was followed by the sound of the door opening, to his right, somewhere outside of his field of view.

A figure came into view. It was a man, his skull shaved bare, the skin around his neck and along his jaw wrinkled with age. He wore a faded yellow robe stitched with odd designs in black and silver thread. The man crossed to one of the shelves and drew down one of the books there. He paged through it, muttering to himself.

Marzul, he thought. He didn’t know how he knew the name, but the awareness of it sent another cold thrill of fear through him, much like the sight of the dagger had before.

As if alerted by the thought, the man looked up, right at him. Marzul smiled, an unpleasant expression that revealed teeth as yellowed as his robe.

You are aware, he said, coming forward. He put the book down on one of the tables. Faster, much faster... excellent, most excellent.

He wanted to draw away from him, but could not; he had no awareness of his body at all, no physical awareness at all save for the limited span of his vision, and the sound of the man’s voice. That too sounded somewhat distorted, as though he was hearing it echo from the inside of an iron pot.

Marzul lifted a hand and spoke other words, words he couldn’t identify. There were flashes around his fingers, and he felt a... twinge was perhaps the best description, an odd sensation as though his soul was being caressed by the man’s power. By the wizard’s power, he realized. That realization awakened a flicker of memory, but then the spell faded, and he lost it. That wasn’t all that was lost; that brief moment of awareness had left new questions behind.

Who am I?

The wizard came close enough that he could see the creases in the skin of his face, see the crooked gaps in his teeth. Marzul reached up, so close that his hand spread out over the narrow cone of his vision, but if the wizard touched him, he could not feel it.

Confused? Yes, yes, that is natural. The transition was more effective than I could have hoped. The soul wants to live, it clings to life with a strength it does not even know. That desire will provide more than enough power to make Vitellian happy. You will serve, you will serve very well indeed.

The wizard laughed, and drew back. The prisoner looked around desperately for any avenue of escape, but there was nothing he could do; he could not move, could not even feel his body. Could not even remember what it had felt like.

Marzul turned back to the closer table and picked up a fold of cloth. It was a thick woolen blanket, which he shook out and then lifted as he turned back toward the prisoner. He couldn’t do anything to stop him as the drape came up and blocked out everything, leaving only an empty darkness that swallowed up his awareness once again.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

Enfolded in the black, he was only dimly aware of the passage of time. When he finally became aware of a sound, he latched onto it, letting it draw him back to reality. It was voices, muffled and indistinguishable, but definitely more than one person.

He didn’t feel it when the drape was pulled away, but the sudden intensity of light was blinding. It took him a moment before he could see clearly. He was still in the laboratory. There were a few differences; there were more of the light-globes, filling the room with their glow, and the tables had been pushed back, leaving a clear space in the center of the room. Someone had placed a huge standing mirror next to one of the tables; his gaze was drawn to it, but it stood at an angle that showed only an empty expanse of wall in its shimmering face.

Marzul was there, clad in a neater robe of dark wool this time, decorated with a stole of silver linen and an elaborate velvet hat that generously concealed his bald head. But the wizard was not alone. The prisoner did not recognize any of the men who stood in a group near the door. They were on the very edge of his vision, and he could not make out many details, but it was clear that they were rough men. They were garbed in leather and furs, and some of them wore pieces of armor over that, shirts of mail links or plates of battered iron. They were armed with an equally diverse assortment of weapons, swords and axes and bows for the most part, with a generous allotment of knives stuck through belts or tucked elsewhere about their persons.

Marzul tossed the drape into a corner behind him, and turned to face the warriors. You see, Lord Vitellian, what I have prepared for you.

A man stepped forward from the group. He was big, with broad shoulders and thick arms, and a neck like a tree stump. Ugly scars covered his face. He looked straight at the prisoner and frowned. I thought you were going to make me a weapon.

Marzul’s lips twisted into a grim parody of a smile. You have no shortage of swords and axes in your company, Lord Vitellian. This... this, is something special. With it on your arm, no foe will be able to defeat you.

Vitellian’s frown deepened, but he came forward, reached up. The prisoner again felt no contact, but his vision shifted dramatically as the warrior took hold of him, pulled him down off the wall. He was briefly disoriented, but then, as the big man turned toward the mirror, he could finally see himself, see what he was.

The mirror was a good one despite its size, the bulky outline of the warrior only slightly distorted in the silvered glass. There was no other person visible in its face, only a bright circle on the man’s arm, a metal disk a little less than an arm’s length across.

He was a shield.

He could not explain how he knew it, other than the fact of what he could see in the mirror, but as soon as he saw the shining reflection, he knew what he was. He still could not feel the grip of the warrior’s hand upon the straps set into his rear face, or his motion through the air as the big man hefted him, his eyes peering over the upper edge of the surface. He was fashioned of what looked to be a solid plate of silvery metal, bright in the light of the multiple lamps, but not like the glossy sheen of a sword’s blade. The front of the shield was decorated by a vague design of lines and angles that together, he realized, represented the abstract depiction of a face. His face, he realized with a start, but not literally so; the stylized, flat markings did not stir any memories, nor were they detailed enough to be recognizable as any specific person.

He was so caught up in the image reflected in the mirror that he missed most of the conversation going on between the warrior and the mage. He was finally shaken out of that reverie, however, by the warrior’s deep voice.

Feels light, too light. This is flimsy, I would rather have a slab of wood rimmed in iron, to face a man with an axe.

The shield bears a strong magic, Marzul said. You need not fear an axe, or an archer’s bow, or even a magician’s spells, when you carry it.

Vitellian’s brows rose on that last comment, but the face in the mirror still looked dubious. You ask me to trust my life to your sorcery.

The wizard offered a slight bow. That is why I asked you to bring your finest warriors, that I might offer a small... demonstration, of the shield’s efficacy.

He gestured toward the open space cleared on the far side of the room. Vitellian, however, hesitated. Ganzer, he said. You will test the wizard’s little toy.

He unlimbered the shield and offered it over to another man who stepped forward into the room. He was a lean, hard-edged man, dark where Vitellian was fair, and while he lacked the other man’s bulging muscles, he moved with the fluid air of a man who’d spent a lifetime in a career oriented toward violence. He had two long dirks tucked into his belt, and wore a shirt of chainmail over a long leather tunic.

Let us hope for your sake that the wizard’s magic is strong, Vitellian said with a laugh, as the other man took the shield. Ganzer shrugged and started across the room, but as he turned away the shield could see the flash of anger in his eyes as his face was briefly caught in the mirror.

The room swayed as the shield was lifted onto Ganzer’s arm. He faced back across the room, where Vitellian was gesturing several of his warriors forward. There were three of them, and they carried small recurved bows that they strung and readied, drawing arrows out of the quivers at their hips. The barbed iron heads seemed almost malevolent, gleaming slightly in the light of the glow-lamps.

The shield’s field of view stabilized as Ganzer braced himself. Begin the test, Vitellian ordered, stepping back next to the wizard, a predatory gleam in his eye.

The archers obeyed, lifting their bows, drawing them back, and releasing in practiced motions. The three arrows slammed into the shield and bounced clear.

Ganzer lifted the shield and looked over its surface. Not a mark, he said.

Decent, but hardly impressive, Vitellian said. I would expect any good shield to absorb an arrow.

You barely scratch the surface, my lord, the wizard said. The shield’s power is far, far greater. He turned to Ganzer. Call upon the shield’s power. Speak the word, ‘Taltherian’. Its power will flow upon your command.

Ganzer lifted the shield into place again, and said, loudly, Taltherian!

The shield felt a surging of sensation. It was similar to what the wizard had done when he had cast his spell, before, but this time the power came from within. There was something else, as well, a flowering of memory as the command word was spoken, but again it danced away before he could claim it. His vision shimmered briefly before taking on clarity again, and the distortion that had fogged it suddenly faded, and the scene took on a stark clarity.

You may be more aggressive with your testing, my lord, the wizard said to Vitellian.

Fire! the warrior yelled.

The archers went to work again, drawing their arrows and unleashing a rapid-fire barrage at Ganzer. Again the shafts bounced clear, one after another. Ganzer held his ground, and soon there was a small pile of broken arrows at his feet, scattered like kindling.

Vitellian abruptly reached into his belt and drew out a dagger. He hefted it and hurled it with a single quick lunge, launching it toward Ganzer’s face. The warrior brought the shield up reflexively, knocking the knife clear an instant before it would have gone into his eye. Unfortunately, that opened his lower torso, and even as the dagger went flying another arrow came in under the shield’s edge toward his gut.

But the arrow never hit; it too bounced clear, even though it had clearly missed the shield. Vitellian pursed his lips, considering. Swords! he finally said.

The warriors put down