Wizards Fire by Thomas Harter
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Overview: Some called him the Thief of Wills. Others, the Devil of the Wastes, and yet others the Shado-King. Others just used his named. Finindir. The wizardlord was a man, though—on that, most would agree. Perhaps a man possessed by something more than human. Perhaps even a demi-mortal. Nonetheless, a man. And like all men, it had to be supposed that he was born of a woman. Which is more or less where the similarities ended.
It was believed there was no true boyhood to speak of. Nor any real infancy; they claimed he spoke on the night of his birth, gurgling out some manner of curse to his mother. A curse that would take her life. There was no father to bury her, they said. His uncle knew better.
These many years later, he looked down the young man with the eye of a failed artist. In a sense, it was inevitable. The boy, who swung the sledge at the forge with the force of man, was his son, and that immutable fact that worried him for the thirteen years since the boy’s mother had died.
Rexes had ridden down out of the mountain village like an eagle, dropping into the foggy riverside hamlet to bury his sister without a tear. Then he sat down and looked at the slender infant. Finindir had been a beautiful little thing, born with thick yellow hair and peculiarly smart eyes the color of a northern morning sky. He would soon have the strong jaw, and the sturdy bones of the Faer Folk. And if his mouth was already a hard and menacing grimace, his uncle put the blame square on the shoulders of thirst.
In every day of every year since, he had labored to make Finindir a man according to the grim pattern that was known to the Faerish Clans, and elsewhere in the High Faer. His program was as simple as the curriculum of a farm youth. And damn how Rexes labored to his end. Every day, Rexes concentrated on teaching the boy how to ride, how to use a sword, as well as make one. He taught him how to shoot the bow. He taught him to know a horse from arse to tooth, and even at his ridiculously young age, he taught him to ride anything from billy goats to fat old women. Truly, he taught him to know a sword as if it were a sentient thing. He taught him all the blows and defenses of old ways, and he labored to give him both the precision and speed of the newest fighting styles. That was the work of ten years, but the blue, bright eyes and the jaw of little Finindir tricked him.
Now at the end of his time on this Earth, the old man knew that his lifework was a failure, for though he had made the hand of Finindir cunning, and had given his muscles strength, the heart beneath was… wrong. The boy was evil. Not the fierce, demanding personality that some mistake for evil. Nor again was he the conniving manipulator that others might refer to as evil. Truly, evil.
Genre: Fiction > Sci-Fi/Fantasy
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