The Azure Wizard

by Nicholas Trandahl

  He turned from the window, leaving it open to allow the pleasant mountain breeze entry into his humid room, and fell onto his bed belly-down with a heavy contented sigh. The effects of the mead still teased at his thoughts and in a flash Ethan was snoring. He dreamt of a vibrant azure sky. He stood upon a grassy hill shrouded in wildflowers of all hues, and he marveled at the perfection of the pure blue shade of the all-encompassing sky. And then in an instant he felt terror from above, as if the very blue and vastness of the sky were about to swallow him up and consume him. The fear had very ancient roots, almost mystical, and Ethan groaned fretfully in his sleep.

  When Ethan departed The House of Chronicles the following morning he was indeed set off clean and well-supplied. Eikjard, who had apparently taken a liking to the young wandering storyteller, let him use his own washtub and soap. Ethan’s heavy woolen clothes, suitable for the climate in the Barony of Vhar but heavy and impractical in the Baronies to the south, were left with Eikjard to be cut up and used a scrubbing rags in the tavern. He gave Ethan a pair of light brown cotton trousers with a drawstring waist and two linen shirts, one dark green and one blue. The clothes were sized for a man of Eikjard’s size, and though both he and Ethan were nearly the same height the barkeep possessed substantially more girth. Thus the articles hung from Ethan’s wiry frame making it appear as though he had been starved and lost much of his body fat. Nonetheless Ethan welcomed them greatly in the summer heat and dressed in his new trousers and the blue shirt.

  He folded up the green shirt and placed it in his satchel. In addition his satchel was filled with a loaf of fresh bread, a trio of shiny green apples, and a bit of sweet honeycomb. Eikjard also gifted him a gallon water skin that he filled with crystal clear spring water. Just after leaving the inn Ethan also found ten silver pieces in the bottom of his satchel, yet another parting gift from the kind owner of The House of Chronicles. Ethan hoped that maybe one day he could return and repay Eikjard.

  Before he had taken his bath Ethan also trimmed his hair, cutting it off at about chin-length, but his fresh growth of facial hair he choose to keep. It helped to assure him that he was changing into a new person, and that with each new step southward he was leaving the Ethan Skalderholt he knew behind. Hence with a sincere farewell to his new friend, Eikjard Grayshard, Ethan left out of Lumberwall’s south gate not knowing when or if he would ever return to the Barony of Vhar.

  Immediately outside the south gate that penetrated the wooden stockade encircling the town of Lumberwall Ethan found himself on a wide dirt lane that meandered southward into the surrounding stands of oaks, pines and aspens as the land gently flowed from the foothills of the Vhar Mountains into the Forests of Greenwell. A quick inquiry with a Lumberwall guardsman at the gate identified the road as the Three Baronies Road. Ethan knew of this road from his font of historical knowledge as the first road that the people of the Three Baronies built together following the defeat of Illumis at the conclusion of the Ancient Age. It carved north to south across the land of the Three Baronies from Lumberwall south to Greenwell City before completing its long trek at Taedroke, the capital settlement of the Barony of Wendlith.

  The Three Baronies Road was busy this close to the town with merchants and travelers heading to and from civilization. As the stockade around Lumberwall shrunk behind Ethan’s back he became more surrounded by the deciduous trees that marked the territory in which the Barony of Greenwell’s border lay. After only about a mile of gentle downhill strolling Ethan found himself at the border between the Baronies. The only identifier of the boundary was a stone arch that crossed over the road, shrouded in moss and lichens that obscured the engravings of some phrase written in the runes of the Old Tongue.

  Standing aside the arch were a duo of Greenwellian Knights, outfitted in shiny chain hauberks over which were worn dark green velvet tabards emblazoned with a white design of a rearing full-antlered stag, the symbol of the Barony of Greenwell. In addition the knights wore steel brimmed helms over chain coifs. Chain greaves and gauntlets as well as leather boots completed the ensemble. A small log cabin rested in the woods nearby that obviously served as an outpost for the knights when they were on duty guarding the border.

  As he approached the boundary between the two Baronies, Ethan was overcome with anxiety. He knew numerous tales of Greenwellian heroes and the acclaimed Greenwellian Knights, tales of the noble deeds that they had done in the defense of their barony, but now confronted with them the storyteller worried that the stories he had learned were exaggerated and that they would put Ethan through a barrage of questioning and interrogation. Before he could continue on with his pessimistic thoughts the deep baritone voice of one of the knights interrupted him in a thick Greenwellian accent. “Hail there, traveler!”

  Ethan nervously grinned and better secured his satchel over his shoulder. He replied, “Good day, sirs.”

  The one that had spoken had a scarred square face decorated with a thick hanging black moustache and bushy black eyebrows hanging low over his piercing blue eyes. Sheathed across his broad back was a heavy iron, two-handed sword for dire encounters, but at his left hip was a finely-crafted steel short sword that lacked a cross guard. The lack of the cross guard on the weapon identified him as a warrior that was used to acting first in combat and finishing the fight with a single blow. Thus the Greenwellian had no need for parrying an opponent’s strikes. The middle-aged man ambled from his place aside the arch and stood in the middle of the road. He asked, “What’s your business in the Barony of Greenwell, friend?”

  “Oh, I’m just seeking residence in your barony.”

  The knight nodded his head with a slack frown that denoted disinterest, but the fierce intensity of his gaze bespoke pure suspicion. This wasn’t beyond Ethan’s attention.

  “Don’t fret, Sir. My family in North Ridge, a village up on Whitethorn Mountain in northern Vhar, is now all gone to the Ancestor Lands. Since I was a young boy I have longed to venture into the lands of the south. Now, unfettered as I find myself to be, is as good a time as any.”

  The knight relaxed slightly and spoke in a more casual manner, “Well, where do you intend to go, lad, and what do you intend to do in the Barony of Greenwell?”

  Ethan sighed. He let out a quick shrug before explaining, “As to where I intend to travel, I guess I will sojourn ever southward along the Three Baronies Road until I find somewhere I feel that I can remain. And as to what I intend to do in your barony, I’m not rightly sure. You see, I’m a storyteller, but I know outside of the Barony of Vhar telling tales and legends isn’t as a prestigious or respected an occupation as it is in the mountains. So I just don’t know.”

  “Well,” the knight began, “you’re right about troubadours and storytellers. In Greenwell here they aren’t exactly spoken of in esteemed circles. Here they are usually wanderers, struggling in wealth and health, and lonely, lad, very lonely. The next settlement down the road, Pineburg, caters well enough to Vharians, and more specifically storytellers, because it’s so close to the border of the Barony of Vhar. Most of your people that emigrate here from the mountains end up in Pineburg or maybe just a little bit further south along the Three Baronies Road. These next few towns manage to have a little of that rustic Vhar charm that you folk adore so much. Beyond that, though, you’re going to be hard pressed to make yourself any kind of decent living as a storyteller. Maybe you could make some serious coin in Taedroke, the merchant’s city of Wendlith, as a true Vharian storyteller would be quite some oddity there. But that is far too distant to travel by yourself and with the equipment that you carry.”

  Ethan took it all in with a frustrated sigh. He ran his fingers through his hair and exhaled loudly. In a moment of indecision he put some serious thought into returning to Lumberwall and taking Eikjard up on his offer. He glanced back up into the hard face of the Greenwellian Knight, a face that had experienced much in the land of the Three Baronies, and he asked sheepishly, “What would you do, Sir, if you were in my inexpe
rienced and ill-equipped boots?”

  The knight smiled a fatherly smile and shrugged, his chain armor punctuating the shrug with a slight jingle. “I don’t know, lad. I suppose I am biased towards joining the Knighthood, but I can see easy as the sun that you aren’t built of the stuff it takes to join. Don’t get me wrong! You may have courage and you may have heroism, and already I can see you as a man of passion. But a Greenwellian Knight has got to be a man of muscle and brawn, capable of wielding a heavy blade with ease and wearing armor all day. You, lad, would be better off just getting a job in Greenwell City of some sort or maybe joining the College of the Three Baronies. Most youngsters your age strive to get as much, and from what word I receive from up north you storytellers are often a bright and talented lot of lads and lasses.”

  Ethan gave a solemn nod. Is this what he came here for? Is what was left to him after leaving the Barony of Vhar, naught but a dull life of study or boring employment? Sure it’s what just about everyone else in the land of the Three Baronies did, travel to Greenwell City to study or find work if they couldn’t do as much in their own barony, but Ethan had always felt that there was something more in store for him; adventure, excitement, and perhaps even love. He had to admit, the prospect of joining the Greenwellian Knights did appeal to him with its assured adventure, camaraderie and respect. In the Barony of Vhar and the Barony of Wendlith Ethan knew that there were no knightly orders, just guardsmen specific to their hometown. It would be something new and thrilling, but the old knight was right. Ethan was too thin and short, too weak. He was sure that he would be miserable in combat. As to courage and heroism, he believed it impossible to be undertaking this personal quest alone and without a weapon into places he had only heard about in tales without possessing courage and maybe even a bit of heroism. Oh well, Ethan thought, he would just continue on down the road and see what opportunities presented themselves to him.

  He thanked the knight and nodded to the other younger knight that had been standing off to the side, and he continued walking. He walked beneath the ancient arch and felt a resurgence of purpose and exhilaration as he set foot in the Barony of Greenwell, and a smile unknowingly crept into his whiskered face. With his back to the knights and about ten yards between them the older knight yelled out, “Wait, lad!”

  Ethan turned around, a hand holding the strap of his satchel where it crossed over his shoulder, the wind blowing softly through the surrounding woodlands and slightly swaying his chin-length tresses. The knight trotted forward a few steps and spoke, “Try the Foresters of the Three Baronies, lad. They’re lonely, poor wanderers much the same as storytellers like yourself. Their headquarters are located in Greenwell City as well.”

  Ethan smiled generously and whispered to himself, “Of course, the Foresters.”

  “What, lad?”

  The hopeful storyteller’s gaze shot back up to the knight and he replied, “Oh nothing, sir. Thanks for your insights, and I may take you up on the Foresters. Good day, sirs!”

  Chapter Four

  Scarlet

  It was late that night when Ethan found himself in the town of Pineburg. He marveled when he found that it was at least as big as Lumberwall, but he also knew that many settlements in the Barony of Greenwell were as big or bigger. Greenwell City and Taedroke in the far south were said to be real cities spilling across the countryside and filled to the brim with varied folk.

  This town, though, was designed in the Vhar fashion much the same as Lumberwall. It was surrounded by a timber stockade and most of the town’s structures were constructed of stone ground floors and timber upper floors. The town guardsmen Ethan had seen in the capital of the Barony of Vhar were replaced in the settlements of the Barony of Greenwell by Greenwellian Knights. A church of the Ancestors, slightly smaller than Lumberwall’s, stood proud reaching towards the blue radiant moon and the night sky’s numerous twinkling stars where the Ancestor Lands was said to lay. And beside the church was the castle of the local lord, a large keep of stone walls and turrets.

  Even though it was well into the night hours numerous people swaggered about the town’s dirt lanes, drunk and singing to their joyous contentment. Ethan followed the revelers to the nearest inn, a great structure called The Border’s Bed that also contained a taproom that comprised its lower floor. En route to Pineburg Ethan had eaten one of his apples, half of his loaf of bread, and his bit of honeycomb. In addition he had drank all of his water skin, but thus far it seemed fresh water was much more available in the wilds of Greenwell than those of Vhar for soon after finishing he heard the trickle of a small stream just off the side of the road. From it he had engorged his water skin with the stream’s icy water, and he had washed his hands and face.

  He entered the taproom, and once his eyes and ears adjusted to the smoky candle-illuminated environment with its loud exotic music and merry patrons he took it all in. The music in Vhar was comprised mainly of percussion and horns, music that matched the rugged northern environment, but here in the Barony of Greenwell the music was encompassed of stringed lutes and harps in addition to flutes. Ethan thought that those instruments suited this land of green deep deciduous woods and glades. The people, garbed mainly in linen and cotton of bright greatly varying colors, danced and drank and kissed and conversed. A fight or two also occurred, but those were quickly quelled with good-natured negotiation or the bouncer, an obvious Vharian of great size and stature.

  Ethan used half of his silver pieces to rent a room for the night and purchase a meal. Once the gruff middle-aged woman behind the bar gave him his plate of thinly-sliced mutton topped in onions and a pint of berry mead, a very tart but flavorful dark purple brew, he turned and faced the taproom looking for a place to sit down and eat. He scanned intently over the crowds of patrons, but found them to be seated at every one of the tables and booths in the room.

  A glum sigh was about to escape his lips, but he swallowed it down when he noticed a familiar figure seated alone at a small, square table placed beside the hearth, which was providing just a little warmth and a soft glow with a pile of smoldering embers. It was the woman who had been performing at The House of Chronicles just as he had entered. She wasn’t wearing her burgundy dress from the day before but instead she wore a pair of black form-fitting trousers, a white linen shirt with a low-cut collar, a dark red wool vest that she left open, and matching dark brown hide bracers and boots. Ethan recognized her only from her long pale blond tresses that she had laid across her shoulder and down the right side of her chest. Her hair, almost a shade of white, was far lighter than her healthy-looking, darkly tanned skin. On the floor, leaning against the leg of her chair, were a worn leather satchel and a scabbard that contained a curved short sword. The dim light of the embers reflected off of a ruby embedded in the pommel of the beautiful weapon.

  Ethan wondered for a second if she would even remember him, and if she did would she be kind enough to let him eat at her table. He swallowed down his anxieties and shrugged. “Might as well give it a try,” he said to himself.

  The storyteller moved through the crowds keeping his mead and plate above the heads of the patrons that he passed. As he neared her, the minstrel’s gaze angled upward and met Ethan’s intent yellow eyes. He was stunned when her vibrant crimson eyes settled on him, enveloped him. He was stunned so much in fact that he stumbled a bit, and a drop of his berry mead sloshed over the rim of his mug. The liquid splashed onto the gleaming oily forehead of a long-haired large man, perhaps thirty summers old, as he chuckled at a crude joke from one of his three companions sitting at the table with him.

  Ethan hadn’t noticed his error, and as he continued towards the table of the minstrel the man’s laughing died and he slowly stood behind the small storyteller. “Hey, boy,” a deep raspy voice barked from behind Ethan.

  Ethan turned around slowly as he replied, “Yes sir. What seems to –”

  Interrupting him was a fierce heavy fist that swung mightily into the left side of his jaw. Ethan’s
world turned a blinding white and his ears buzzed like a million honey bees stirred angrily from their hive. He vaguely sensed that he was tumbling to the ground, but he didn’t register the landing in the least. As the buzzing waned and the white hue that clouded his sight began to disperse into spots, he realized that he was indeed on the floor of the taproom amidst shouts and laughter. He raised his gaze to the tall, very muscular man with a slightly receding hairline and a shoulder length brown ponytail. Ethan’s attacker wore a sleeveless, stained, cotton shirt with its front untied from the neck to the top of his six-pack. He popped the knuckles of his right hand just by clenching his fist, and he grinned cockily down at the disorientated Ethan.

  “Watch where you spill your drink, you little worm, or next time you won’t wake up!”

  Though he was easily as tall as most Vharians, Ethan knew instantly his attacker was of Greenwellian blood due to his rich accent and green eyes. The large bouncer was even slightly smaller than the man, and he stood off to the side waiting for the fight to resolve itself. Ethan tried to stammer an apology, but he was instantly wrapped in aching pain from his jaw He tasted warm blood in his mouth. The man leaned over peering down into Ethan’s battered face, and he sneered, “Well, are you going to apologize or aren’t you?”

  Before Ethan could attempt to groan out an answer a silky feminine voice with a very exotic lyrical accent answered the man. “You apologize, oaf.”

  Her voice was soft and quiet but it belied such fierceness, intensity, and commanding that the large brawler was taken aback and he stammered for a reply. This only enraged him further and he stood completely erect, his head nearing the wooden planks of the ceiling. He was mimicked by his three seated companions, all men of similar build and disposition, and they also stood up crossing their arms and thus making their already imposing muscles bulge further. Ethan took this as his opportunity to get out of the way of these men and he rolled feebly to the side beneath a table. He then confirmed his suspicions on the identity of the female speaker when he saw his defender was no less than the minstrel he was intending to sit with.