Champion of the Gods, Books 1-2

by Andrew Q. Gordon

  Despite Erstad’s words, he needed to dress like a prince for the session. Miceral returned with Erstad’s cup as Farrell pulled his boots on.

  “That was quick.” Miceral bent over to kiss him. Farrell let go of the boot and grabbed Miceral’s head for a slightly longer lip-lock. “Minty.”

  “I aim to keep you happy.” He gave a quick wink and yanked the stubborn boot onto his left foot. “How do I look?”

  “Like the most handsome prince in all the world.”

  Miceral swept him into a hug, leading to a kiss that threatened Farrell’s resolve. “Ral, you have to stop or I won’t go to the meeting.”

  Rolling his eyes, Miceral let him go. “Like you really want to go.”

  “Of course not, but Erstad’s waiting for me. I have to.” He stole a last kiss, grabbed Miceral’s hand, and headed toward their guest and three hours of pinching himself awake.

  FARRELL TRULY hated Petitioners’ Day. With the threat of Meglar looming every day, trying to pay attention to whatever minor dispute someone brought to him—and they were all trifling—proved difficult. Left to his own devices, he’d rather focus on how to defeat Meglar, finding time to ride with Nerti, and of course more time alone with Miceral.

  At the edge of his thoughts, he realized the petitioner had stopped speaking. All eyes focused on him, waiting for a decision. Honorus’s balls! He’d done it again. Fortunately, his first minister knew how to handle this.

  “Gentlemen.” Horgon stood up. “Yours is an interesting and unique issue. Prince Farrell and I shall confer and return shortly with a decision.”

  In other words, Farrell needs a break from your mindless drivel. Relieved, he joined Horgon, stepping away from the dais.

  Horgon placed a hand on his shoulder when they reached the small room behind the chamber. “Normally I’d chide you on the importance of paying attention, but this was particularly painful.”

  “Do I need to know the particulars, or can you just tell me what I think?” Farrell shrugged, aware he had taken the lazy path.

  Horgon laughed. “Both. The facts are simple; the recitation was painful. Barbik, that’s the petitioner, paid for a space to sell cloth in the Respital Market Square. Part of his agreement stated that no one else be allowed to sell cloth within twenty yards of his stall. Another merchant bribed the manager of the square to let him set up closer to Barbik, hoping to poach customers when he got too busy.”

  “So Barbik wants part of his fee back to compensate for the breach.” Farrell didn’t see that as unreasonable.

  “Yes, but—” Horgon held up his hand before Farrell could head back. “Hansor, the manager, has done this before. Most times, people don’t complain because it’s too much time away from work to file the petition and come argue the claim. I suggest you refund the entire fee Barbik paid for the last three seasons. That’ll send a message to Hansor that, if he keeps it up, it will pay for others to levy a claim.”

  Nodding first, he grinned at his minister. “You’re a tyrant. Where can I get lessons?”

  “Never you mind.” Horgon rubbed the top of Farrell’s head. “Let me be the bad guy. Follow my lead, but remember the real punishment is three seasons.”

  “THAT WAS brilliant.” Farrell smirked as he led his advisors from the room.

  “Sounds almost like you enjoyed yourself.” Erstad appeared, followed by Wesfazial.

  “Don’t get carried away.” Farrell laughed. “I prefer to say I made the best of a bad situation.”

  “Figures that’s how you spin this, boy,” Wesfazial grumbled.

  “Changing subjects.” They only had a short break, and he didn’t want to spend it being the butt of their jokes. “What word from Cylinda?”

  Erstad’s smile vanished, replaced with a grave expression. “She’s been busy moving through occupied lands. Meglar’s assault on Northhelm resulted in the destruction of his entire force. You timed your departure well. Meglar’s attack arrived just moments after your shield went down.”

  He shrugged. “That was the idea.”

  “Planned or not, the stones exploded, creating a deadly wave of energy that killed everyone in the valley.” Wesfazial appeared pleased with the information.

  Erstad’s head bobbed up and down. “Word is Meglar went into a rage. Seems he really wanted to capture as many Muchari as he could.”

  Farrell led them to a small, empty dining area not far from the council chamber. The staff had already set out trays of food, so he sealed the room against outside ears and faced Horgon.

  “You need to speak to your people about the danger of being taken alive. Meglar very much wants to capture a Muchari for his experiments.”

  His hand over a sandwich, Horgon paused. “Why?”

  “We believe,” Wesfazial spoke first, “that turning a Muchari into a Chamdon would create both a stronger soldier and one with a greater life span. It’s the latter he’s particularly interested in fixing. Imagine if he could reuse his army instead of having to make a new one for every battle.”

  “Would certainly give us less time to recover.” Farrell pushed his plate away.

  Across the table, Erstad scowled. He flicked his finger and the plate slid back. “Eat your lunch, and no back talk.”

  What good was being a prince if everyone told him what to do? Rather than voice that thought, Farrell did as instructed, sneering at his mentor with the first few bites.

  The others laughed, and the mood lightened. They teased him some as they spoke, but he preferred that to speaking about Meglar and his forces. When they’d finished, he unsealed the room to allow the staff to clean up.

  “A moment, Farrell,” Horgon called to him when he made to leave. “The afternoon session is light and the cases uninteresting. I’m sure you’d rather meet Miceral for weapons practice than sit here.”

  Try as he might, Farrell couldn’t suppress a smile.

  Horgon laughed. “That’s answer enough. Go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “One more thing,” Horgon said before Farrell could turn. “Do you mind if I join you for dinner tonight?”

  “Dinner?” Horgon never asked to join them.

  “Yes, you know, that time when you eat toward the end of the day?” The laugh covered Horgon’s obvious discomfort.

  What a fool he’d been. Who else did Horgon have if Miceral and he ignored him all the time? “Of course. I’d like that. My apologies for not asking you sooner. Making you ask is incredibly rude of me.”

  “No worries.” The smile did little to make Farrell feel better. “I wanted to give you two time alone, but I figured I’ve waited a polite amount now. Is seventh hour too early?”

  “Perfect. I’ll let Miceral know.”

  HOPING TO spar with Miceral before he met Nerti, Farrell fetched his sword. Breathing deep to curb his excitement, he turned the corner into the practice room.

  Miceral and Thomas stood side by side, watching trainees hack at one another. Before he could call out, they stopped the exercise and began a terse evaluation of the students. Unobserved, he quickly stripped off his court clothing, donned his practice gear, and walked onto the training ground.

  Miceral gave him a silly grin when their eyes met. He exchanged a look with Master Thomas, earning a nod in return. Miceral appeared pleased but didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached out for Farrell’s hand and walked him back to the changing area.

  “Hello, my handsome prince.” He kissed Farrell lightly. “How went the weekly complaint session?”

  Shaking his head, Farrell couldn’t hold back a small laugh. “You attend two times and you somehow wiggle your way out. But to answer your question, it went better than expected, as witnessed by my presence. Your father is quite accomplished at these meetings, and I think people are afraid of him in ways they never were of me. Perhaps you Muchari are simply scarier than we wizards.”

  Miceral laughed. “Or perhaps Father has less tolerance for foolishness, and they fear his temper more than yo
urs.”

  “Either way, you may be finding out soon.”

  Miceral’s face took on a quizzical look.

  Trying not to gloat, Farrell added, “Horgon suggested that you ought to learn how to take his place.”

  “Perhaps, but that’s a discussion for another day.” A mischievous smirk crossed his face. “Any chance you can summon that black staff of yours—the one with the metal caps on the end?”

  Casting his partner a confused look, Farrell nodded slowly. Curious request. What did Miceral want with it? “I could, but I see little need for it right now.”

  Miceral walked toward the armory. “Humor me, please?”

  Seeing no one near, Farrell shrugged and intoned the spell. His staff appeared in his hands with a soft pop. Waiting, he twirled the black wood idly, switching from hand to hand.

  Miceral returned with a warrior who didn’t appear much older but had eyes that betrayed his true age. He carried a staff similar to Farrell’s.

  “Farrell”—Miceral gestured toward the newcomer—“this is Master Baylec. Once he trained me. Now he’s assigned full-time to work with Master Thomas.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Prince Farrell.”

  Farrell clasped the offered right arm. “Call me Farrell, please. Master Thomas taught me the folly of pulling rank on his practice field.”

  “From the way this one gushes about you, I had no idea what to expect.” Baylec slapped Miceral on the shoulder. “But I’m glad to see you have a good attitude toward weapons practice. A sword respects no rank. The person best qualified to train is entitled to the highest respect on the grounds.”

  Farrell managed a nod of agreement before Miceral spoke. “Baylec is a master in the art of fighting with a staff. A skill I never mastered very well.”

  “Nor ever really tried, lad, don’t leave that part out.” A wry grin from his one-time student set Baylec laughing.

  “Master Baylec has agreed to train you in staff fighting. He, Thomas, and I discussed the fact that you’re more likely to fight with your staff than a sword.”

  Oh.

  His face must have registered complete disappointment, as Baylec laughed almost immediately. “I can see your friend likes the idea as much as you did.”

  Baylec walked over, put a hand on Farrell’s shoulder, and slowly guided him off to an empty space on the field. “Don’t get that way, lad. I hear from Master Thomas that you’re a fine swordsman but your skill will only be tested on these grounds. Never made much sense to me to teach a wizard to use a sword when they always carried staffs.”

  Farrell smiled. Put like that, staff training didn’t sound like such a bad idea. “I’ve been saying that for years. Nice to know someone sees the logic in not wearing me out with sword training.”

  “Don’t get too comfortable.” Baylec’s snicker deflated Farrell’s good mood. “I promise you, this training will be every bit as hard as any Master Thomas put you through. From my discussions with Miceral, it sounds like it would be best to build on some of your private training. Soon enough that staff of yours is going to be more feared than any sword.”

  Learning to fight with his staff meant one fewer thing to carry. “How flexible are you in your training?”

  Baylec squinted. “What do you mean?”

  “If what you say is true, I want to be able to incorporate combat magic into your lessons.”

  For an instant, Baylec’s eyes focused on the ground. Blinking, he shook his head. “Not sure if we can or can’t, but we can certainly discuss it as we progress.”

  Smiling, Farrell held out his hand. “With that agreement, I accept your offer to train me.”

  The two clasped forearms, smiling like children. “Miceral says you’re familiar with your staff. Show me how you move it.”

  Self-conscious at being put on the spot to perform, Farrell screwed up his resolve and twirled the staff in his right hand. Next he switched hands, then delivered an overhead chop with both.

  Baylec stood silent and motionless. Farrell’s face verged on a frown. Had he done something wrong?

  “Not bad,” Baylec finally said, nodding his approval. “Certainly lets me skip to more than a few basic exercises. Some of your moves are visually pleasing but useless in combat, unless they serve some magical purpose.”

  “Some of the two-handed twirling is useful if I want to spray balls of energy against an opponent, but for the most part what I did was what I do with my staff when I’m bored.” He shrugged, trying not to sound too stupid.

  “Interesting.” Baylec nodded, his eyes focused on the wall behind Farrell. “Is that an example of what you mean by incorporating magic into our training?”

  “One of them, yes.” The others could wait until after they’d had a few lessons.

  “We’ll see what we can do.” He turned, walked off, and came back with two practice staves. “I know you like your own, but I’d like to start with these. Once we’ve covered the basics, you can use yours.”

  Without waiting for agreement, Baylec began instructing, pointing out differences between moves designed for combat and those for show. They hadn’t progressed beyond the basics when Farrell’s reminder spell alerted him with a shrill ringing.

  He bowed to his new weapons master. “My apologies, Master Baylec, but I need to end our session. Nerti is waiting. I promised her unfettered access to Gharaha if she’d help me with a spell I’m working on. This was the hour we set.”

  Baylec gave him a throaty laugh. “I do so enjoy my uncomplicated life. Not to pressure you, but you’re already good with a staff. Though it’s not flashy, I think you can see the advantages of continuing this training for someone with your talents. Just think about it.”

  Baylec bowed and moved off to work with other trainees. Farrell took a moment to say good-bye to Miceral before he opened a Door and left.

  He didn’t bother changing, though he probably should have. Instead he went straight to the prearranged meeting place. Nerti waited for him, giving him a wink when he arrived. He redirected the Door, and they exited almost at the eastern edge of the plains. Nerti wanted to run first, so Farrell used the time to fill her in on his new training.

  “Baylec is an accomplished weapons master who has trained countless warriors. You’d be wise to give serious thought to his advice on what weapon best suits you.”

  Nerti’s smooth gait belied her speed. Farrell’s hair whipping about his face told him they moved faster than it seemed. “I don’t need to think about it. I already know it’s the right thing to do. Other than not training with Miceral, I’m really excited by the change.”

  He leaned forward and Nerti stretched out her stride, running even faster. Through their link, he had the impression she enjoyed the run. When they reached the designated spot, he regretted not riding with her more often.

  Unfastening his staff from his back, he tapped into the closest Source for energy. Still seated on Nerti’s back, he wove the metal end of his staff over the ground, imprinting the magic where he needed it. Slow and deliberate, the work required his total concentration. Nerti’s presence helped focus him, allowing him to work quicker than usual.

  When he had finished, he was about to suggest they take one last run when Nerti interrupted his thoughts. “Miceral asks when you will be back. Horgon told him of your dinner plans.”

  “The Six forgive me! I forgot to tell Ral about dinner. Does he sound mad?”

  Nerti’s presence in his mind disappeared for a moment. “He said he is pleased you told his father to come but wants to know when to expect you.”

  “We’re done here. I accomplished my goal for today and more. If you’d let him know how soon you think we’ll be back to the gate, tell Ral I need about half an hour more to get ready.” His thoughts raced in several directions. “Oh, and ask him if he can request food for three from the kitchen as well. Please?”

  Nerti ran toward the gate, her white coat a vivid contrast to the plains in the rapidly waning light. Farrell u
sed the time to practice what Baylec had taught him, trying to see how well he could move the staff while riding.

  He opened a small Door to the western side of Haven just before they reached the mountainside. They arrived near the unicorn quarters, where Klissmor waited patiently for his mate. Farrell hopped down, kissed Nerti below her horn—something he had learned she liked—and redirected the Door to his rooms.

  Exiting inside the foyer, he waved his hand absently to close the portal. “I’m home.”

  He went straight to the bath chamber. The full tub reminded him he needed to key Miceral to the spell that would allow him to empty it himself. He quickly emptied it, turned on the taps, and started to undress.

  The first tug on the leather vest made his nose wrinkle. Waving both hands, Farrell made the vest disappear, leaving behind an equally smelly shirt. “Got to put a new spell on that.”

  Laughter erupted behind him, and he found Miceral propped against the doorframe. “When did you become so put off by your training vest?”

  “I think whatever Erstad did to enhance the protections meddled with the odor control.” He peeled the offensive-smelling shirt from his torso, and it vanished with a flash before it hit the ground. “In case you didn’t notice, leather doesn’t smell so great after I’ve been sweating in it.”

  Miceral waved a hand under his nose. “Um… yes, I’ve noticed.”

  Sneering playfully, Farrell sat on the edge of the tub and tugged off his boots. “Shouldn’t you be pestering me to hurry up instead of helping me waste time?”

  “There’s no rush. Father won’t be here for another half an hour.” Farrell stared at Miceral, certain they had less time than that. Miceral smiled, motioning for him to get in the now-full tub. “I added a few minutes to your estimate to give you some breathing room.”

  Farrell slid into the hot bath, happy to take a moment to relax. He dunked his head under the water and found a smiling Miceral inches from his face when he flipped his hair back.

  “I think I deserve at least a kiss for being so wise,” Miceral said playfully before he kissed Farrell’s wet face.