Harbinger, A Gearspire Story

by Jeremiah Reinmiller

  Harbinger, A Gearspire Story

  by Jeremiah Reinmiller

  Copyright © 2016 Jeremiah Reinmiller

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication, or any portion thereof, may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews and certain noncommercial uses as permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. All events and characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com

  Harbinger / Jeremiah Reinmiller – 1st edition.

  You can learn more about the author at jqpdx.com.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  HARBINGER

  The Story Continues

  About the Author

  HARBINGER

  Ryle saw the attack coming.

  A twitch in The Professor’s shoulder. Steel flashed. Ryle flicked his sword up, deflecting the blow away. They disengaged and circled.

  Sweat ran along Ryle’s check as he took measured steps, gauged his opponent with care. He adjusted his grip on his sword. The wrappings rubbed against his scarred left palm.

  The Professor’s weathered, mahogany face was unreadable, dark eyes emotionless. The sword danced in the older man’s hands, light gleaming along its edge. His feet whispered along the mat, pale pants swishing in time to his steps.

  A slight hitch in The Professor’s gait.

  Ryle leapt back, sword crossing his body to meet the attack before his eyes saw The Professor’s strike. Steel met steel with a clang.

  That was close. Ryle suppressed the thought. He didn’t have time to spare for anything but the man across from him. The Professor’s blade moved effortlessly; a living extension of the master’s every movement.

  Around them, the spacious hall hung dark and still. The wooden rafters overhead lost in the gloom. Beyond the edge of the mats near the back of the room, water was falling. Nearer, a new motion caught the corner of Ryle’s eye.

  The intrusive thought almost cost him as the Professor struck and he had to dance back before steel touched his cheek.

  Irritation grated against Ryle’s calm over his own foolishness. He pushed the emotion down, and relied on his kenten, on the technique’s centering, to keep anything else from distracting him.

  He circled left, bringing the source of the motion directly into view while watching the Professor. Distraction was death, but ignoring the unknown was also dangerous. The Professor was exactly the sort to introduce a new unexpected element.

  In this case the source of the motion was familiar, and no less grating for it. At the room’s double doors, lit by a dim lantern, stood Paundon, the bastard. His graying hair was slicked back, his light green jacket and trousers stretched over his rotund frame. His presence alone would’ve been bad enough, but stubble cheeked Egan, wearing a crisp white jacket, was by his side. It was a position the lanky swordsman rarely left these days. Not surprising, for what Paundon paid him.

  The Professor sent out a jab. Ryle deflected it and stepped clear of the sweeping low strike that followed. That combination he’d at least seen before.

  His eyes drifted again to the intruders, and inwardly he cursed.

  Egan’s right hand rested atop the leather sword belt crossing his chest, displaying the black bar across the back of his knuckles. Coming here armed was a large enough affront, especially for someone the Professor had banished, but flaunting his swordmark set Ryle’s teeth on edge. Knowing Egan as Ryle did, he was sure it was intentional.

  What a mucking prick. Paundon had probably bought him the mark.

  A step, a flicker of motion.

  Distraction and irritation were a deadly combination, especially against The Professor, but the master had taught Ryle well. His sword turned the attack at the last moment. The reverberations of the impact danced up his arms.

  Too close.

  Ryle redoubled his attention, or tried to. He circled away, removing the intruders from his view but the thought of them remained. They weren’t supposed to be in here. Especially not for private training such as this. Another rule Paundon probably thought he could wash away with more of his coins and influence.

  That the shady merchant was probably right, made the thought even more sickening.

  Ryle deflected the Professor’s next attack, and even countered the one that followed, but his rhythm was off now and once The Professor saw this, only a second passed before a complex series of strikes descended from multiple angles. A rain of steel that even an entirely focused Ryle would’ve been hard pressed to defend.

  The last attack darted through.

  Ryle froze as razor sharp steel caressed his cheek and vanished. A tiny trickle of blood welled up and ran down along his jaw. A reminder that he’d keep for a few days. A mark proving that despite his age, the Professor’s skill remained almost impossible to comprehend.

  Ryle swallowed hard, tasting the anger and shame that rose up through his kenten like the blood on his skin, stepped back, and gave a short nod.

  The Professor eyed him hard. His hooked nose giving him the appearance of a bird of prey eyeing his latest catch.

  From the front of the room, a snorting laugh broke the silence. Egan’s voice unmistakable. “Nice move, slick.”

  At this the Professor’s eyes did narrow, and he sheathed his sword. The twin black bars across the back of his right hand were barely visible against his brown skin.

  Ryle sheathed his own sword, trying to ignore how bare the back of his own hand looked as he slid his blade home. One more week. He just had to make it that far and he’d have his own mark. Though the thrill he’d once held for that idea was not so strong any more. Especially not with Paundon in the room.

  With his weapon stowed, Ryle took a breath and released his kenten. Without the technique’s dampening effects, he once again felt the ache in his forearms, the tingling in his palms. At least the sensations were mild. All those hours of practice were paying off. If only for some good purpose.

  The Professor turned to the visitors, and the grim expression fell from his face, replaced with a reserved yet polite smile. It made Ryle want to spit even more. Even a man of such high regard as the Professor had to handle a powerful figure like Paundon with care. Ryle followed a step behind, ignoring the burning along his cheek as the wound began to sting.

  “Unannounced visitors,” the Professor said. His voice soft as ever. His breaths even, unhurried despite the exertion of the match. “What an unexpected –”

  “Surprise?” Paundon said with a smirk.

  The Professor smiled wider. It wasn’t warm. “Intrusion.”

  Paundon’s cheeks flushed and his lips tightened.

  Egan rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, Mero. What are rules for, if not to be broken?”

  Heat rushed up the back of Ryle’s neck over Egan’s lack of respect. Only years of training kept his feet still and his lips shut.

  “Breaking rules. You are certainly familiar with this concept,” the Professor said. “I was not aware I had allowed oath breakers back into my school.”

  Egan kept a good mask in place, but Ryle still spotted the drop of sweat that broke out along his hairline. “Guess you taught me too well. You told us to look for any opening. When I found an advantage, I took it.”

  More like when you found an easy way out. Egan always had been a conniving, backstabber whose underhanded tactics had drawn the Professor’s ire on more than one occasion. And that was before he’d made his grand departure by selling his former classmates’ w
eaknesses to their opponents during the Sixth Years’ Tournament.

  For a moment Ryle recalled the way his blood had looked as it pooled on the mats.

  “Why are you here?” The Professor asked.

  “To see your pupil,” Paundon said. “I’ve heard good things. I’ve been thinking he’d make an excellent fit for my house. I am collecting some top talent, as I know you’re aware.”

  “But it turns out the saying is true.” Egan sneered down his long nose at Ryle. “You can’t believe everything you hear. I see you haven’t improved since last year’s tournament. Or should I say debacle? How’s your shoulder?”

  The thick scar inside Ryle’s left collarbone throbbed. Fire rushed up his chest. “Why don’t you find out?” The sword in Ryle’s hand creaked as he squeezed the sheathed blade.

  “Glad to.” Egan’s hand rose to the hilt of the sword poking up over his shoulder. The weapon looked new, the handle made of a black metal Ryle hadn’t seen before. As Egan’s fingers wrapped around the grip, a soft hiss filled the air.

  Ryle frowned and reached for his kenten.

  Paundon waved off his lackey with ring encrusted fingers. “We only came to watch. For today. Can’t have future swordsmen of my house coming to blows. Now can I?”

  Ryle felt sick. Heat burned the back of his throat. His hand ached on his sword.

  Before he could do anything, the Professor spoke. “You’ve entered my school. You’ve seen my student. I believe your business is concluded. As is your visit. Good day.” The Professor straightened his posture in a way Ryle had never been able to define, but the set in his shoulders shifted, and any sense of warmth or hospitality blew away.

  Paundon might have power within the borders of Pyhrec, but he stood within the Professor’s walls. The merchant straightened his lapels and plastered a shallow smile across his face. “We’ll see you at the Markers Bid,” he said then turned on his heel and pushed through the doors.

  Egan snorted and after another shake of his head, followed.

  Any thoughts of a few parting words were ripped way when the Professor turned to face him.

  Ryle kept his chin up, face unreadable. He’d been trained better than that.

  At least he thought so.

  “Why did they distract you?” The Professor asked.

  Ryle took a moment to find an answer. This was also as he’d been taught, though not always as he’d done. “They shouldn’t have been here,” he said.

  “And combat is always so controlled. Is that your explanation?”

  “They broke the rules of the school!” Blast. Ryle ratcheted his control a few degrees tighter.

  “Are you claiming combat is fair? That rules are never broken?”

  “No, Sir.”

  A longer moment passed while the Professor’s eyes probed Ryle’s face and Ryle bled and sweated, but didn’t move.

  “You are deceiving yourself. Speak truly.”

  Ryle didn’t want to do any such thing, but he took a breath and let the words come. “I hate those men and everything they stand for. They are betrayers who don’t respect anything good or honorable or just. They shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near this school.”

  Deep down a voice asked if Ryle himself was any better, but he cut it off.

  “They were not your opponents. And even if they were, hatred would not help your cause. You allowed them to break your center.”

  Words he’d heard before. For years. Especially painful now, as he neared the end of his training and the trial that entailed. “Yes, Sir.”

  “You must maintain your kenten. Your technique is still not perfect. Control, always control. At all times and in all things. I have spoken these words before.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Practice. Maintain your center. You will need it for the final technique. Have you understood it yet? You will need it to pass the trial.”

  Ryle’s hand drifted toward the grip of his sword. The one he had forced himself to practice for hours on end. He stopped his hand and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  The Professor emitted a soft sigh. “You’ve at least learned to hold your tongue. Mostly. You have a week before the trial. Prepare yourself.”

  Ryle nodded, and when the Professor nodded back, he headed for the door.

  As he stepped off the mat a boy slipped in through the door. He clutched a note in one hand. From his size, Ryle guessed he was a second year, and still a few years shy of coming of age. The boy sketched Ryle a nod as he hurried past.

  Ryle had been about that age when he joined the Professor’s school. Blast that felt like a long time ago.

  He glanced back to see the boy waiting while the Professor read over the note he’d been handed. From the concerned expression on the Professor’s face, it wasn’t good news.

  Ryle stepped through the door before that concern turned in his direction.

  The courtyard outside the practice hall was gray in the muted light of late afternoon. Heavy clouds pressed down low atop the surrounding wood and stone armory, the barracks, and the greeting hall. At least there was no sign of Paundon.

  The stuffed shirt merchant should’ve been turned away at the front gates. Or at least been escorted inside if he had an appointment in a building where guests were allowed to visit. Ryle didn’t want to speculate if the man had out right bribed or intimidated his way inside. Either was likely.

  He shook free of the thoughts. He shouldn’t be in such a foul mood. Tonight, he was getting out of the school for a few hours to see friends. He wouldn’t let Paundon’s intrusion ruin that.

  He was heading for the armory to store the sword, when movement on a bench by the entrance hall drew his attention. His mood immediately cleared like a ray of sunshine breaking through a storm, and he hurried over.

  Casyne lounged on the bench. As usual she held a sketchpad in one hand and a pencil in the other. She glanced up as he approached and smiled.

  Ryle’s heart almost stopped. A breath later when he’d recovered, he smiled back.

  “Kick the Professor’s ass yet?” She came to her feet in one fluid motion of her long legs. Her blonde hair fluttering about her face before she tossed it over her shoulder with a shake of her head. Then she caught sight of his cheek. “Or not. I guess you’ve still got some work to do.” Her kohl-rimmed, sunshine-blue eyes sparkled.

  He didn’t mind the ribbing. Not from her. For the most part he was too lost in her gaze to notice much else. Breathing became difficult.

  “Getting closer,” Ryle said and winked, or started to. As he stepped in close Casyne leaned up and kissed him on the lips.

  The world away fell as he kissed her back and his sense were filled with the softness of her lips and the sweetness of her breath.

  When she pulled back a couple pounding heartbeats later, a sense of loss filled his chest and it took more than a little willpower to not press forward for another kiss. Strictly speaking she wasn’t supposed to be kissing one of the Professor’s students in the courtyard, and there was still proprietary to maintain, so Ryle held his ground.

  “Find anything interesting to draw?” He nodded to her sketchbook on the bench.

  “In here?” She made a face and her slightly crooked, and still perfect, nose wrinkled. “Good old austerity came by while you were inside and said it had to go take a walk. This place is too depressing.”

  Ryle laughed. Casyne winked.

  “Your project for your instructor going well anyway?” he asked.

  “For Delago, yeah. You can say his name. Only the Professor is so stuck in the old ways that he insists on all these rules and titles.”

  It might chafe a bit, but Ryle admired his master for it. His dedication to honor was rarity in the world Ryle had been raised in.

  “I thought we were meeting at Korvey’s,” he said.

  She shrugged her delicate shoulders. The black silk of her jacket bunched against the gentle curve of her neck and Ryle wished for a quiet place so he could nuzzle his lips
there. “I thought I would surprise you and we could walk over together.”

  He certainly wasn’t going to object to that. This development, like any that increased the rare number of hours he got to spend with Casyne, only improved the evening. He hadn’t seen Korvey or the surrounding artistic district, in a couple weeks and was already looking forward to it. “Let me store this and we can get going.” He unbuckled the sword belt from around his hips and turned for the armory again.

  “I saw Paundon and Egan. Are you okay?” She tried for a casual tone, but Ryle still felt storm clouds roll back across his brain and gritted his teeth.

  “I’m fine.”

  She cocked her head. “I can tell.”

  “Cas, I’m fine. It is what it is. You know the situation.”

  “Do you really think he will bid his way to the top of the contracts?”

  “He did last year.” The buoyant feeling in Ryle’s chest slipped a little further. Uro, the top candidate last year had fled the city rather than accept Paundon’s offer. No one in Pyhrec had seen her since.

  Maybe at one point he’d been excited about the end the trials and the Markers Bid that followed. Back when he had looked forward to earning his swordmark and stepping out into the world. When he’d still been hopeful that he could finally do something useful and good in his life.

  Years of observing the reality of the Bid had ground away that feeling. It wasn’t a place where you could show your mettle, your honor, and your skill, as the event’s insignia declared. If it had once been that, it was now a bloody market were graduating swordsmen and swordswomen preened and squabbled over coins, and men like Paundon swept up new swordmarks into the ranks of their own private armies.

  Ryle felt sick thinking about it, but what the hex else was he going to do?

  “You should come work for my father,” Casyne said.

  It’s like she’s blasted psychic or something. “Cas, we’ve been over this before.”

  “Apparently not enough times. My father would be more than happy to hire you.”

  Ryle highly doubted that. He’d never received anything but a lukewarm reception from her father. And if he was honest, he didn’t blame the man. What was Ryle going to give Casyne? He had no accolades, no family. At least not one he dared speak about. But even if the man looked past all that, Ryle knew he couldn’t risk it.