He wanted to keep reading until he was able to solve Garran’s equation for ethereal entropy, but he was pressed for time. He looked at the expensive water clock on top of the polished ironwood bookcase in the study. It was time for his private weapons training. He wondered what weapons it would be today. He hoped it wasn’t hand to hand fighting. Azerick did not care much for barehanded fighting. Being only thirteen years old, he hated the size and strength disadvantages he had against his instructor, even though Ewen would let him use the moves he taught him without putting up much more resistance than he could handle. Azerick figured a primarily all theory lesson had its uses, but he looked forward to the day he could make old Ewen submit due to his own skill and power. However, that would be years off.
Azerick was the son of a successful merchant and of a caste that should have been beyond such a crude thing as actually engaging in any kind of melee outside of fencing. Those of his class hired muscle for that sort of thing, but his father had gotten his start as a sailor and then as captain of his own ship and considered a wide range of self-defense important for any man.
From there he had built a successful trading company that now consisted of six ships: five, two-masted schooners and his three-masted flagship which was a large boat able to make the long journey’s across the sea to exotic lands and bring back rare and sometimes never before seen curiosities and treasures. Azerick often heard the tales of his father and crew having to fight off pirates and hostile natives of some of the unsettled lands across the sea. Lands full of savages, rare spices, and strange, valuable trade goods the local elite paid handsomely for. In fact, his father was due back in a few days from another such lucrative journey.
Azerick loved his father and wanted to make him proud, so he did not mind the martial training. His father said that a good man exercised his brain and his muscles, and any man who let either one go soft could not be truly successful. He actually enjoyed the training and change of pace, but not as much as his books. He would always be a scholar before a warrior, but it never hurt to have a fallback. He had a sharp mind and remembered almost everything he read at a glance. More importantly, he was able to visualize what he read and understand the material at such a level that he could apply it in a practical manner with minimal study.
He closed his book with a sigh and left his beloved study. He walked down the wood-paneled hall and out into the marbled foyer. His martial training took place in the courtyard. The courtyard was a large, flagstone enclosure surrounded by stone walls topped with mostly decorative wrought iron spikes. The entrance to the courtyard was barred by a large wooden gate made of two halves that swung open on hinges to allow passage of carriages and delivery carts as well as a smaller postern door to allow the usual foot traffic built into the wall just a few feet to one side of the larger gate.
As usual, Azerick was a little late and his instructor was waiting for him with a look of impatience upon his face. He was a grizzled old man well past his middle years. What age had diminished in his reflexes and strength, Ewen made up for in experience and expertise. Ewen had served with Azerick’s father for over twenty years, teaching not only him, but also most every sailor serving on his ships how to handle a weapon and fight with their bare hands. These were dangerous times, and any ship not prepared to defend itself likely would not be plying the seas for long. Azerick’s father had been fortunate that he had yet to lose a ship to pirates and only one to a nasty northern storm after it had begun its return trip from one of the far coastal villages.
But Ewen was mostly retired now, teaching a few private weapons classes to the more affluent families. Duels were not entirely unheard of, and a man of breeding should be ready to defend his honor when hired muscle would be unseemly or cause the family to lose face. Anything less than honorable combat was done in secret, “from behind the curtains” was the popular saying.
“Well, well, the young scholar finally pulled his nose outta his books long enough to grant me the pleasure of his pasty lordship’s company” came Ewen’s usual sarcastic remark. “So what was the topic today, eh, how to comfort oneself when a sissy bookworm gets beat up by a girl?”
“Actually it was an alchemic treatise on plants that, when mixed with certain earth elements, will cover and prevent certain offending body odors. In fact, when applied in sufficient quantity and concentration may even do something to mask your pugnacious odor of fish, cheap gin, and silver-piece prostitutes. Although I imagine it would take a truly adept alchemist to create something of that potency.”
Anyone observing this exchange might have seen a cantankerous old man and a precocious, spoiled, rich brat verbally assaulting each other. However, the reality of it was that both were equally fond of each other and almost always started their sparring with words before drawing their practice weapons.
Ewen had drilled into his training early on that if you can get into your opponent’s head, you can get into his arm. Meaning that if you can psych out your opponent or get him angry to the point of distraction, you can get him to make a mistake he might not normally make, and you need to be prepared to strike when he does. The reverse held true as well. Ewen would say repeatedly to never let emotion fuel your fight. Anger burns hot and fast and will burn out of control if you let it. Control is everything.
Smiling, Azerick asked, “So, what is it going to be today, Master Ewen; swords, knives, staff, or bow?” Azerick left out the brawling option, not wanting to give Master Ewen any ideas if he had not already thought about it.
Ewen taught a myriad of weapons and fighting styles. His motto was to be prepared to use whatever you can get your hands on and use it effectively, whether it was a weapon, chair, crockery, or even your opponent or an innocent bystander.
“I think a bit of staff work again today, young sir. You seem to have a real knack for it, and I think I’d like ya to get proficient in one weapon before we try to get more than a passing familiarity with the others.”
Azerick was glad to hear it. Given his youth and size, he felt much more comfortable with the staff than many of the other weapons. He also enjoyed it more than any other weapon he had trained with thus far. Swords were heavy, and his young body tired quickly swinging them around. Knife training was all right, but Ewen was able to use his greater reach and strength to do whatever he wanted, and the bow left his fingers and hand aching to the point it made writing difficult, and that was totally unacceptable.
“Do ya want to warm up first, or are ya ready to begin?” Ewen asked.
“I’m ready. The benefits of youth you know. I do not have to work the dust and rust out of my old bones first like some salty old sailors. How about you?”
“I knew you were gonna be late, so I took advantage of your usual tardiness to warm up before ya got here. Wisdom of experience ya know. Now let’s see how smart that mouth of yours works when I swell your lips to thrice their size.”
They took up their weapons and slowly started circling each other; each one throwing out a few sensing blows and parrying each other’s strikes and counter strikes. Ewen swung his staff down in a standard ten o’clock strike that was aimed for side of the youngster’s head. Just as Ewen had taught him, Azerick brought up the end of his staff, blocking the blow. However, instead of returning to the guard position as he had been taught, Azerick continued to push his opponent’s staff nearly to the ground. He then took a step forward, continued to push Ewen’s staff down and back, then snapped the same end of his staff behind his opponent’s right knee. Azerick braced the other end of his staff between his body and left arm while pulling the far end toward himself with his right hand and pivoted on the balls of his feet. Using his hips to maximize leverage, he flipped the old Weapons Master onto his back.
Ewen let out a whoosh of expelled air as he hit the flagstones. “Bah! Where’d ya learn that, boy? That ain’t nothing I taught ya!”
“I read a book written by a monk of Thelmos on martial exercises. It had a really well-illustrated section on s
taff techniques. I have been practicing some of them on my own. There’s a lot more in books than just being a sissy,” Azerick replied smiling.
Azerick grinned down at his instructor and offered him a hand up. Ewen grasped the boy’s proffered hand and allowed himself to be helped to his feet.
“That’s a clever move. Nice to see you’re studying something other than egghead books and not leavin’ everything to me.” Ewen returned to the guard position. “I think maybe I’ve been takin’ it a bit too easy on ya. Let’s step it up a bit.”
Ewen came at him again, this time with considerably more speed, feints, and blows. The clacking of wood striking wood reverberated throughout the courtyard. Once again, Ewen struck at the boy with an over-hand blow aimed for the top of his head, and once again, instead of ducking or blocking, Azerick caught and forced Ewen’s staff toward the ground and stepped forward, setting his instructor up for another trip to the hard courtyard floor. As Azerick swept his staff toward the back of Ewen’s knee, the crafty old fighter lifted his right leg up high then swiftly brought it down with perfect timing to crush Azerick’s staff to the ground, trapping it between the stones and his foot.
Had Azerick been stronger it may well have snapped off the last two feet of Azerick’s staff. But since Azerick lacked the strength to maintain his grip, the staff was stripped from his hands and clapped loudly onto the flagstones. Another instructor, perhaps a gentler one, may have let the disarmament serve as the lesson. Ewen knew Azerick was headstrong and often needed a firmer hand to drive a point home. Besides, Ewen did not coddle his students like some fancy upper class tutors. Azerick had just enough time to see the triumphant grin appear on Ewen’s face before the Weapons Master finished his disarmament with a swift clout to the back of Azerick’s head.
Azerick went sprawling with a curse face first onto the flagstones. It was a good, hard strike, and Azerick knew he would be walking away from this sparring match with a nice goose egg, but that was not unusual. The stars cleared from his eyes in just a second, and he rolled over onto his back and glared up at his instructor’s grinning face.
“Never assume your opponent is so stupid that he’ll fall for the same trick twice,” Ewen chuckled as he reached down to help up his floored student, “and never let your mother hear that kind of language or she’ll likely thunk ya twice as hard as I just did.”
Azerick’s petulant look quickly evaporated as he grinned at his instructor and allowed himself to be helped up.
“I think this will do it for today. Next time we’ll go at it with blades. Every gentleman and sailor should know the fine arts of fencing and sword fighting.”
“Great! I’ve been studying Master Ellaina DeMarco’s book of fencing!” Azerick exclaimed.
Ewen shook his head. “Boy, is there a book you haven’t read?”
“Oh sure, lots of them, but they are all in The Academy library. I hope I can enroll next year.” Azerick frowned as he thought of all those books that were out of his reach.
“I’m quite sure you’ll be there next year. Your father’s done real good these last few years, and he’s made a lot of friends with some influence. Why, I’ll bet you’ll have all them books in that library read too in just a couple years,” Ewen assured him.
“You think so? That would be so great! I bet I will read them all, too!” Azerick turned to leave. “Bye, Master Ewen! Thanks for the lesson!” he shouted over his shoulder.
Ewen raised a hand in farewell to the retreating youth, chuckling to himself as he gathered up the training equipment. Azerick was probably the only boy he taught who would thank him for putting a lump on his head that likely would have sent most of his students crying to their mommas.
Not a bad kid for a rich boy, Ewen thought once again. Then again, he’s new money. Let another generation or two go by and his kids or grandkids will likely be just like the rest of the spoiled brats. Maybe I’m just being a sour old pessimist.
Azerick’s next tutor was also waiting impatiently for his student in the foyer. Unlike Ewen, there was no love lost between Azerick and his etiquette tutor, Master Astrallia. The boy disliked him immensely, and the feeling was mutual.
Master Astrallia was a fat, pompous, over-dressed popinjay in Azerick’s opinion. He was a regular court sycophant who never failed to miss a court ball or function. Through gall and guile, he had managed to worm his way deep into the aristocracy’s social network. Master Astrallia found Azerick crude, lazy, and precocious. His job was teaching etiquette, court protocol, and the finer points of mingling with the upper class so as not to embarrass one’s self. This, Master Astrallia felt, was an exercise in futility when it came to Azerick. He knew the boy was not stupid in the slightest and that Azerick was a devout reader who could be a preeminent scholar if he kept to the path he was on.
Nevertheless, he was utterly illiterate when it came to proper social behavior. In fact, he was sure the boy went out of his way to frustrate him. He had taught proper etiquette to many children from wealthy families who had a fraction of this boy’s intelligence, but in this case, he was utterly flummoxed. Master Astrallia figured it was probably the trouble with being low-born. There simply was not any noble or high-class blood in him. His father was nothing more than a glorified fisherman or some such thing. You cannot make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, or so the saying goes. Look at the King. Bastard born, his blood was watered down by a commoner, and look at what was happening to the kingdom. It was being torn apart because he panders to the peasants, ignores his nobles’ advice, and incurs their scorn.
There was a considerable amount of prejudice within the upper classes against those of “new money.” Azerick’s family held no titles or positions of power. Technically, they were at the lower rung of the upper class, and those who mingled with the long-established families looked down on those who were coming up. Nevertheless, it was good, steady pay and he needed it. Traveling in the elite social circles required a hefty amount of gold to keep him in the latest fashions.
“Well, if you are done brawling like some common thug,” Astrallia drawled, “we can once more attempt to teach you how to act like a true gentleman.”
“Even a gentleman may find the need to defend himself and what is his.” Azerick looked pointedly at his tutor’s ample girth. "Even you may find a foot of steel hard to digest."
Astrallia’s face colored in blotchy shades of red. “An educated gentleman can always use his wits and words to settle any confrontation. Only an uncouth hooligan who lacks the ability to form complete and coherent sentences has to resort to violence. Violence is the solution of the ignorant and stupid. You would do well to remember that since you are not stupid, and I will hopefully cure you of your ignorance.”
That was another thing Azerick found incredibly annoying about his tutor. Astrallia was not an idiot, and he could easily match him in a contest of words. Instead of paying attention, Azerick daydreamed about catching him behind the knee with his staff and sending all that blubber falling hard to the floor, flailing and rolling like landed fish as he tried to regain his legs. This image brought a smile to his face and kept him in a good mood for the rest of the boring class.
“Did something I say strike you as amusing, Azerick?”
The youth shook off his glazed expression. “No, sir, you are correct in your argument, at least within the circles you travel.”
“Good, I am glad to hear that it is possible to get through to you despite your inferior breeding.”
Had Azerick known that this was going to be his last class with this snob, he may have well tried to lay him out. However, no one could have seen the horror that was to befall him and his family, that he would have had nothing to lose because everything he had was about to be taken.
CHAPTER 4
Three days later, a contingent of the Watch and a court official called on his mother. He was in the study once again reading a tome on mechanical applications when he heard the commotion outside. Azerick went to a side
door and spied upon the proceedings, wondering what could draw such a crowd. His worst fears sprang to mind, that his father’s ship had been lost at sea. But it was summer and the seas rarely posed much of a threat to an experienced captain and crew. Unless it was pirates! Did his father and his ship fall prey to pirates? The truth, as he was about to find out, was far more horrible than he could have ever imagined.
"What is this, sir? What brings you to my home with these armed men?" Celeste demanded. She tried to remain polite despite a fear of something dreadful filling her with anxiety.
The official gave her a look completely devoid of expression or emotion as he unfurled and read loudly from a scroll embossed with the Duke's seal. "Let it be known that due to the treasonous acts perpetrated by one Darius Giles, all rights, titles, and properties of the afore mentioned is hereby declared to be in forfeiture to the crown and are to be seized by the local authority. All forfeitures are to include and encompass those belongings of all direct family members. All those in residence will vacate the premises within thirty minutes of this notice to include family, guests, and household servants. All nonfamily members of the convicted may take their personal belongings; all family of the accused may take only clothing, items of personal but lacking real monetary value, and a purse of no more than ten gold crowns or equivalent currency. Anyone still residing within the premises thirty minutes from henceforth will be arrested, signed by Duke Ulric of Southport." The official rolled the scroll back up and turned an hourglass that he produced from a satchel. “Your time starts now.”
"I do not understand! What has happened to my husband? There must be some mistake!"
The Sorcerer's Path Box Set: Book 1-4 Page 4
