The Blackguard (Book 2)

by Cheryl Matthynssens

  Alador stared at his father, trying to remain calm. He didn’t feel calm. How could he, after finding out that his uncle was basically a king that wanted to kill him? “How am I going to do that?” he asked, his voice trembling. “How can I protect them?” Alador thought of Dorien and his mother; his mind flashed to the sweet sass of his little sister Sofie and to the laughing eyes of his friend Gregor. He bristled at the idea of anyone touching a hair on Mesiande’s head. He realized he would do anything to protect her, to protect all of them. “What do I need to do?” Alador asked with slow determination.

  Henrick smiled in triumph. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small object, which he tossed across the fire. Alador barely caught it, his body protesting the sudden movement of his arm. He looked down to see a piece of clouded bloodstone in his hand.

  “You learn to harness what the blue dragon already gave you.”

  .

  Chapter Two

  Alador sat up and looked around. He didn’t know what had startled him awake, but his heart was racing. He slowly stood and scanned the area, picking up the bow he’d laid by his bedroll. He hoped he wouldn’t need to use it, his hands were still stiff and his knuckles bruised. He peered around the wagon, glancing out at the agitated korpen. The sun was not yet up but based on his ability to see, it would be soon. Alador looked over to where his father had been sleeping, but Henrick was gone.

  He slowly let his eyes rove in a circle, trying to find the source of his anxiety. There seemed to be nothing moving but at the same time, the birds were not singing either. He remained watchful until the beasts began to graze once more and the birds began their chirping. Alador moved to the fire and stoked it back to life. He glanced again at his father’s empty bedroll. Where was Henrick?

  Alador sat close to the fire finding comfort in its heat and light. He was still uneasy and there was still no sign of Henrick. His father’s roll had been slept in and looked to have been left casually. He pulled his bow a bit closer. He could not shake the sense that something had been watching him. He stirred the fire absently, glancing often at the wooded surroundings.

  Despite the heat of yesterday, the morning was foggy and damp; he couldn’t see the tops of the surrounding hills. The road they traveled followed along the river valley, and he could hear water tumbling close by, so Alador picked up a pot and headed for the river. There he washed and refilled it, watching the water roll by for a long moment. He was downriver from where he and Mesiande often sat to pass the time. He stuck his hand in the water, as if touching the river here meant he could somehow also touch her. He sighed softly, letting the water trail out of his fingers.

  Alador stood grabbing the pot and headed back to the fire. He thought it was a good morning for tea and considered trying to warm the water magically, but decided that he didn’t feel up to the effort. The grief of all he had lost was still a heavy weight and Alador felt like his magic was to blame.

  Once the water was heating over the fire, he sat back to watch the flames and consider all that he had learned yesterday. Thinking on his father’s challenge, Alador pulled out the small bloodstone Henrick had given him. It had been cloudy the night before, but now it held the same shimmering clearness of the huge stone he’d sold to the trader. His father had taught him the simple skill of pulling the magic from its once murky depths.

  He and his father had talked far into the night, covering topics that moved freely as the night wore on. Henrick had answered all of Alador’s questions without hesitation, oddly enough it was a side to his father he hadn’t seen before.

  He had learned that the average Lerdenian did not live beyond his sixtieth turn due to confrontations for placement and power, and few willingly shared the power they held or the spells they learned. This made the Blackguard unique as it was the first known effort to condense and share magical knowledge, but even then, they were only taught spells that would be useful in battle. Spells from inherited power or gained from bloodstones had to be discovered or taught by a mentor. Alador would have an advantage with his two mentors in Luthian and Henrick, but both were more influenced by red dragon magic. Alador had gotten his skills, or at least those that he knew about, from the blue dragon. The fact he had inherited his father’s skill for tapping into magic was evident by the fact that he’d harvested the stone, but he’d shown no indication that he could use fire-based magic.

  Alador looked up to see his father crossing the field toward him and gave an exhalation of breath. The tension he had been holding onto since he had awoken came hissing out. Henrick was dressed in simple leather pants and a deep blue shirt. His long black hair was pulled back into a tail behind his head, and he was carrying a string of fish, but no pole. Alador raised an eyebrow as he approached. The fish were already clean, and Alador got a stick ready for placing them over the fire as Henrick approached. “Up early and with breakfast?” Alador asked. “Where’s your pole?”

  Henrick smiled and handed the fish to Alador. “Oh, you have your skills and I have mine. I do not need a pole.” He winked and set about packing and organizing the wagon. Alador went down to the river and cleaned the fish. He had them laid out and cooking by the time his father was satisfied with the wagon.

  “While those cook, I think it is time we got in some practice.”

  Alador rose to his feet, actually excited about the idea of learning to control his magic. He turned with a smile to Henrick who then handed him a sword fashioned from wood, replicating a hand and half with a cruciform hilt. “A sword?”

  “Members of the Blackguard have to be able to wield a sword, and while I know you are good with a bow, I have no idea what skills you have with a blade. So let us test them.” Henrick swirled his own wooden sword deftly.

  Alador groaned, he’d never been good with a blade and he still felt the aches and pains of yesterday’s encounters. He had chosen not to hone that skill, favoring his bow instead, although the Lerdenian eyesight he’d inherited from Henrick had kept him from being very good at that until recently. While Daezun had knives for close combat, few had the skill with a sword. Alador took the grip of the wooden sword. He was fairly sure it was too light for an actual blade, but the balance felt right. “This won’t be a fair match…you’re going to trounce me soundly,” he admitted with a frown. “Add to that, I am still hurting from yesterday.” Alador pointed out.

  “You think your enemy is going to care that you already did battle the day before and don’t feel like fighting just now? I assure you he will be ecstatic to learn you are not up to the task.” Henrick’s sarcasm was cutting. Before Alador could speak, he went on. “Now, let us check your ability to parry. I want you to do nothing for a moment but block my blows.” Henrick whipped his own wooden sword about a few times, then saluted Alador with an overdone flourish and began to circle him.

  Alador took the sword in both hands as he had no shield. He watched his father closely. Dorien had taught him not to watch the eyes, but the shoulders and hips of his opponent. That worked just fine, he knew his father could distract with those mesmerizing eyes, so Alador made sure he didn’t look at them.

  Henrick nodded with pride to his son and then came in swiftly. Despite what Dorien taught him, Alador missed the feint to his right and his sword ended up in empty air as his father soundly thwacked his left side. He cursed and fell back, eyeing his father.

  “First rule, Alador: always hold your temper. Your enemy is going to want you angry, for if you are angry, you will be wild and careless,” Henrick cautioned as the two circled. He spun and came around with an overhand blow.

  Alador grit his teeth and he met the attack horizontally, the two swords perpendicular to one another. The resounding connection of wood cracked loudly, and the vibration rocketed down the blade and into his hands. He fell back again, letting go with one hand and shaking it out.

  Henrick paused and looked at Alador. “I see why you use a bow. Remember, do not block with the edge.” Henrick’s scolding tone was factual.<
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  Henrick moved as if holding a sword were natural to him even though Alador could not recall ever seeing him with one. “All right, let us start with some basics.” He laid his sword down and moved behind Alador. “First, your feet. You need to stay fluid so you can move quickly. If you are planted, it will allow you meet a solid blow but prevent an easy pivot.”

  He helped Alador move his feet to a more suitable position. “You want to face your opponent like this - a little to one side, but not fully sideways or it leaves your back open for him.” Henrick demonstrated the position. “Lastly, it is better to deflect the blow close to your hand, as long as you do not risk losing it, but only close enough to shove it away from your body. If you deflect with the least amount of energy, you will last longer in a fight. Also, turn the blade slightly, you never want to block with the edge.”

  Alador listened closely. His father had made clear that his life of safety was over and that survival would depend on what he learned. But far more motivating was that he would take these skills back to the Daezun so that they would be prepared for the day they faced the Blackguard.

  He watched as his father scooped his sword back up and headed over to the fire. He turned the fish over, which brought a small smile to Alador’s face. Leave it to Henrick to make sure the food didn’t burn.

  “Now!” Henrick turned back to face his son. “I will attack slowly. I want you to move so you can meet me and just deflect the blow away. Don’t try to stop it. Don’t try to overpower it. Just deflect it.” Henrick began a dance of slow motion blows, striking first right, then left or stabbing, and Alador moved his sword to slide the blow away. Every so often, his father would give a tip here and there about how to parry a particular swing. When at last the smell of fish caught his father’s attention, Alador’s arms felt heavy and his biceps ached. He collapsed down gratefully by the fire when his father handed him a stick with two fish.

  “It is a good start. We will practice every morning until we reach Silverport,” Henrick announced. He peeled away the skin of his fish with a knife to expose the fresh, warm meat of his breakfast.

  “I’m sorry we have to go by wagon. I know you could be there tomorrow on a lexital.” Alador sighed; he knew he was an inconvenience to his father. He didn’t like being a burden.

  “Every moment we take irritates Luthian, and that is pleasing in itself.” Henrick grinned at his son, and Alador couldn’t help but grin back. “Besides, it gives me more time with you before Luthian takes over and buries you in his precious guard.”

  Alador frowned. He would prefer to stay with his father, but Henrick had made it clear that this would raise suspicion. The more he melded into the Lerdenian society, the safer he would be. “What about practicing magic?” Alador wanted to learn the skills that would help his people defeat any attack his uncle had planned.

  “That, you can do as we travel,” Henrick offered between bites of fish. “We will start with simple cantrips that any child can learn and work our way up to things that take a bit more energy and focus.”

  Alador frowned as he picked at his fish. “How is it that you eat so much and remain so thin?” Alador asked as he watched his father dig into a second fish.

  “Magic is very draining on the body, Alador, especially if you regularly maintain any spells,” Henrick shared, not looking up from the fish. “The magic will drain from the person if there not enough fuel to maintain it. That is why many Lerdenians have white hair. Magic is eating their vitality. I have learned that eating whenever I can minimizes the cost.”

  “Are you?” Alador asked, shrewdly watching his father.

  Henrick looked up at Alador’s tone and his eyes narrowed at his son’s intense gaze. “Am I what?”

  “Constantly maintaining spells,” Alador clarified. “Are you using magic on me?”

  Henrick chuckled. “What spells I choose to maintain are none of your business. However, I will give you this: I have not used any spells upon you since we were in the alehouse discussing your find.”

  Alador’s eyes held his relief. He had some fear that even now his father had been manipulating him through the use of magic. It was possible that he could not trust his father either, but the truth was that, without his father, Alador wouldn’t last a day in Silverport.

  They both finished eating in silence. Afterwards, Henrick finished loading the wagon while Alador coaxed the korpen back into their harness. The two beasts got along, so at least it was an easy task with the smell of fruit in his pocket. Alador gave them both a treat for their behavior and then helped his father insure the fire was truly out. A wildfire in the summer could be deadly to Lerdenia and Daezun alike.

  Once they were in the wagon and back on the road, Henrick handed Alador an old tin cup full of dirt from beside their fire. It even had a fish bone in it. He tossed the bone out, then looked in the cup again. “What’s this for?” Alador asked curiously.

  “We start with a cantrip that should be strengthened by the stone you harvested. Each mage has to find his own method of using small bits of power. Some sing, others hum, some use magic words, and some use motions. The truth is none of this is necessary for simple spells. It is whatever helps you grab onto that feeling of power in the pit of your gut and focuses it through your will. I want you to practice finding that center of power within you and focus it enough to dampen the dirt in the cup,” Henrick instructed as the wagon slowly jostled and rattled its way up the road.

  Alador took the cup and stared at it. He imagined the dirt growing damp, but nothing happened. He frowned. He knew the feeling Henrick talked about; he’d felt it when he practiced at the river’s edge. But he also had to get angry to draw power…No, that wasn’t entirely true. He wasn’t angry when he shot a bow and the target seemed to jump to him.

  Alador considered the cup carefully and tried to feel for his power. His father said nothing as the wagon lumbered along, letting Alador solve this puzzle for himself. Alador looked up as the trail narrowed and brought them closer to the river, between a cliff face and the riverbank. He looked up the cliff and saw several large nests, belonging to the ferath that lived here, large birds that sustained themselves and their nests with fish. Their calls were eerie and reminded Alador of tales of ghosts calling in the night. The sun was fully shining on them now, and the day was already warm. The river twisted its way south, shining in the bright light. Alador sighed remembering his task, and went back to focusing on his cup of dirt.

  He couldn’t find that pit of magic again, though. He wiggled his fingers over the cup, but the only thing he felt was embarrassment as Henrick looked over and grinned. He cursed inwardly at the dry cup of dirt. Frustrated, he looked up at the call of a ferath and thought he saw something in its nest. His focused in on the nest as he did targets in the field, then realized that he had felt that pull within him. The nest appeared closer and glimmered with some piece of metal the ferath had stolen. Alador looked back down at the cup. He’d felt that magic. He closed his eyes, seeking that feeling again. As he did so, he absently ran his finger around the lip of the cup. Slowly, he found a small glimmer of the strange pull. He felt… something… like a string inside of him that stretched from his core to his fingers. He focused on it and imagined the dirt becoming wet. He jumped when his father spoke.

  “Very good.” Henrick lounged with the reins in one hand and his pipe in the other. The wagon still lumbered along the road.

  Alador looked down at the cup just as a strange fog dissipated from it; the dirt on top was damp. He grinned triumphantly, he’d done it. He’d pulled magic without having to be angry.

  Henrick took the cup from him and scooped out the top layer of dampened dirt. “Do it again,” he stated softly.

  Alador took the cup and frowned at his father. “Why?” he asked. He’d done what he was told; he wanted to learn something more useful than just making dirt wet.

  Henrick puffed smoke into a ring before he answered, “Took you too long.”

  Ala
dor sighed softly and worked to do it again…and again, and again, continuing this exercise throughout the day. He would dampen the dirt, and his father would scoop out the wet layer.

  Whenever Alador complained, his father would state that he was taking too long. Finally, when Alador was at his wits end, he thrust the cup at Henrick. “You do it then!” The dirt had dampened within seconds this last time. His head was pounding and he truly just wanted to close his eyes.

  Henrick took the cup and then just handed it back to Alador. He did not say any words or make any motion, but when Alador looked down at the dirt in the cup, it was bone dry.

  Alador looked up at his father in amazement. “How did you do that?”

  “Practice, Alador. Could you shoot a bow with any accuracy when you first learned?” Henrick pulled the korpen over to a small widening of the road where the cliff ledge high above cast some shade against the sun, near a patch of grass for the korpen.

  Alador was grateful for the stop to stretch his legs, but he realized that he was tired and starving. “Well, no.” He understood what his father was saying, though: he had to practice just lining up the arrow before he could even begin to worry about being able to shoot.

  “It is a matter of honing your ability to just feel that center of magic whenever you wish. More complicated spells will require more energy. In a battle, you cannot worry about the time it takes you to find that center. You have to be able to touch it without thought. It needs to be as habitual as breathing.” Henrick also hopped down. “Get something to eat. You have been at it for some time, and I need to send a message to my brother.”