The Lone Apprentice

by I K Spencer

  The Lone Apprentice

  By I. K. Spencer

  Copyright 2014 I. K. Spencer

  Smashwords Edition

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  Chapter 1

  Garrick was drunk. Not that anyone else in the crowded bar would notice; the stocky warrior hadn't staggered or slurred his speech and the stoic face bore no signs of the sleepiness or rowdiness apparent in many of the other patrons. In fact, he walked, talked and outwardly behaved the same as when he had strolled into Kaslow's only tavern several hours earlier. Garrick knew when he had surpassed his limit because his mind began to play tricks on him and, much to the guardsman's displeasure, the trickery had commenced.

  The first sign was that his senses seemed to have become overly responsive, evidenced by the fact that the voice of the whore at the next table seemed too loud all of a sudden and when he lifted his gaze to look over at her, the common room’s brightness made him squint. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn someone had doubled the number of lanterns while he had been staring at his rum, lost in thought.

  Shaking his head in a vain attempt to restore his normal sight, the drunken guardsman studied the woman. Her auburn hair was tied into a ponytail in an attempt to give her a youthful appearance. She might have been pretty but the heavy make-up she wore made it impossible to tell. The garish contrast of her powder-white skin, blood-red lips, and painted eyes made him queasy.

  The wench roared with laughter at something said by the potential customer next to her. To Garrick's heightened sense of smell, the man was obviously a pig farmer. The laugh drifted into a rasping hack that shook her ample bosom and sent the pig farmer scurrying off with a frown, thankfully out of range of Garrick's overly sensitive nose. However, that left her cheap scent to fill the void and he pushed the rum on the table in front of him away, wishing for some tea to help sober him more quickly.

  He looked at the woman again. She sipped the drink abandoned by the farmer and surveyed the crowded bar for her next mark. She appeared to be in her thirties, like him in the twilight of her profession. He guessed she was probably pretty under the painted face and a bit plump, just the way he liked them. He hurriedly forced the tempting thoughts from his mind to stop the notion before it took hold; he never took whores in the town he used as a home base. As a member of the elite King's Guard, he needed to keep a low profile and such trollops liked to both pry and gossip.

  Garrick felt a sudden twinge of sadness for the woman and a heartbeat later silently cursed himself for drinking too much, recognizing another symptom of his insobriety—a heightened sense of awareness and concern for the world around him. The awareness always included introspection, which he religiously avoided, it being decidedly unhealthy in his line of work. He’d collected too many nightmares over the years and they were better left undisturbed. Now, because of the rum, he would be awake all night with an endless stream of thoughts and emotions running through his mind, refusing to let him sleep.

  He scowled, wondering why he couldn't get drunk like other men and merely fight or pass out, especially the former since he was certainly physically suited to a good drunken brawl. He might be short for a guardsman but he gave stockiness a new meaning. He was built like an ox, carrying over two hundred and fifty well-distributed pounds on his big-boned frame. His arms and legs were still as thick as tree trunks even though the warrior had somehow survived to reach his fiftieth birthday, evidenced by a thickening middle and the gray beard covering his chins. His wide face, free of many wrinkles, and a full head of gray-blond hair usually made him appear younger but the guardsman doubted it was true after so much rum.

  Garrick's steel-gray eyes drifted back toward the whore and found her looking at him. A suggestive smile came to her lips and he gave the implied proposal some thought. He didn't fight when drunk but he often engaged such women as a diversion to the wakeful nights that resulted and he reconsidered his rule for a moment as he smiled back at her.

  He had lived in the small house in Kaslow for over two years now in relative anonymity. The location of the cottage was perfect, tucked away from the street behind some stables. He essentially had no neighbors and no one had tried to get to know him. He hadn't even needed to use his cover story of being a sword maker, much less show anyone in town his bundle of samples. He was away or stayed inside during the day and he rarely ventured into this tavern, thus he had succeeded in remaining nameless while living in Kaslow for over two years.

  He sighed. No, he couldn’t take the risk. Smiling apologetically, he gestured that he had no money, a lie but the quickest way to be rid of her. The whore shrugged indifferently, guzzled the rest of the drink, and skipped off to the other side of the smoke-filled room. Now left with only his thoughts, which was definitely not a good idea, the guardsman signaled the barkeep and ordered tea, eager to hasten the end of his drink-induced musing.

  While sipping his tea, Garrick surveyed the boisterous crowd. The province was mostly farmland and on Saturday or festival nights the small village of Kaslow overflowed with farm lads looking for drink, women, and perhaps a brawl. On these busy nights he could come out without being scrutinized too closely. The tavern itself was simple enough. An unbroken line of shoulder-to-shoulder men screened his view of the rough, wooden bar that ran the length of the wall opposite the entrance. A well-banked fire in the simple stone fireplace on one adjacent wall kept pace against the chilly nights common to northern Isaencarl in early spring. Solid, hand-hewn tables and chairs filled the interior of the common room, sitting on a packed dirt floor. Garrick sat with his back against the wall opposite the fireplace at the farthest table from the exit, which offered the best view of both crowd and door.

  He wondered why he took such precautions, although now practically instinctive after his decades of experience with the Guard, the King’s clandestine network of agents on the lookout for threats, foreign or internal. This unimportant farming province, located several leagues northwest of the great city of Carael and its royal palace, was strategically insignificant. Though a border province, its only border was the Barren Sea to the north and that posed little threat to Isaencarl. The foul sea and wastelands that surrounded it made it a quiet and peaceful neighbor. The critical provinces were those that ran Isaencarl's eastern border with Dolonar. Dolonar had always been a threat; he knew that better than most as a survivor of two wars against the Dolonarians. Guardsmen in those territories were vitally important.

  Garrick accepted years ago that he’d been put out to pasture and that this was to be his final role—spying on simple farm folk. He had been among the upper echelon of guardsmen during the last war but had fallen out of favor in the dozen years since. He had steadily lost touch with the top ranks and had drawn assignments of decreasing importance since the current leader, referred to as "The First" by the rank and file, came to power. Kaslow was the end of the line.

  He gulped the tepid tea and tried to conjure up an image of the guardsman leader Orneson, an unusually small man for a guardsman, Garrick remembered. His empty monthly reports went to Orneson in exchange for gold for his field expenses. The First never had a word for him, good or bad, just the coins. Never, in two years, had there been even one special request from his commander. He felt a sudden s
urge of anger at the puny administrator but then, as was often the case when he drank too much, his brooding turned inward. The bitterness, he knew, was just a front. In reality he had worked himself to this position and he knew from experience that life could be far worse. He didn't mind the peace and easy work—traveling the quiet countryside and visiting all the taverns on the king's gold. All he had to do was to listen and report and he realized that after many years of much more arduous duties, perhaps he could handle nothing more now, near the end. Actually, only a handful of guardsmen his age remained in the field and he supposed his longevity could be considered an honor. Older guardsmen typically held administrative posts or taught at the training academy, passing on their valuable knowledge. He had avoided both and deep down he knew why—he was old and tired and no longer wanted or felt up to new challenges.

  Interrupting his rum-induced musings, Garrick gazed down and found his tea mug empty. Looking around, he found the common room nearly empty as well. Only a couple of small groups of younger men remained, no doubt trying to get the most out of their one night in town. A few revelers with less endurance had passed out, slumped over tables and leaning against walls, but otherwise the tavern was empty.

  "I was beginning to think you were dead," called the barman, giving the guardsman an inquisitive look.

  "A bit too much rum is all," Garrick replied coldly, ending the conversation that might have started.

  Before the barkeep could reply, the woozy guardsman grabbed his cloak and stood, despite protests from his still-sleeping legs. He put some coins on the table and quickly shuffled out of the tavern, chiding himself again for drinking too much and risking his cover. Outside, he took deep breaths of the cold air to clear his head, exhaling plumes of white steam. To the east, the slightly lighter shade to the sky told him that dawn was not far off and he began walking quickly down the muddy road. He wanted to get off the streets before being seen by too many early risers. The shops along the road were dark and quiet but wouldn’t remain so much longer. He thought about a bit of breakfast and a good long nap, when he sobered up enough to sleep. About a quarter mile down the street from the tavern he took a right on a connecting street and abruptly found a wagon barring the way.

  "Oh, kind sir, thank goodness you came along," said a deep voice from the shadows.

  Garrick did not acknowledge the speaker and started to walk around the wain, intent on getting off the street.

  "Please, sir," the man queried as he hurried around the other way and blocked Garrick's path.

  "Please, sir," the man began again. "I am stuck fast and could use a bit of help. I see you are in a hurry. This will take but a minute?" There was an odd quality to the man's voice—a sing-song cadence that felt soothing to the guardsman's ears.

  His path barred, Garrick looked up at the man for the first time. The wagon master was a large man, much taller than Garrick and just as solidly built. He wore a broad-brimmed hat pulled down in front and the light from the lantern he carried cast strange shadows, making his face difficult to read.

  "What is it?" snapped Garrick, an intentional edge of annoyance and urgency in his tone.

  "The wain, sir. She's stuck in the mud and I've got to get this load to Carael," the wagon master answered quickly, his voice plaintive yet odd somehow. "If you could but work the team, sir, I'll push. It will be a while before anyone else will come along. Could you please help me out, sir? I can’t push and hold the reins both."

  "Let's have a look," Garrick replied crisply and took the lantern from the wagon master's hand, eager to be on his way.

  The weary guardsman held the lantern aloft, seeing immediately that the rear corner on the far side of the wain sat well below the other three corners. He lowered the light and hurried around to the other side. He glanced to the east and noted with some consternation that the lamp would soon not be needed. The sided wagon was heaped with barrels, stacked pyramid-style and lashed down with two cross ropes. Small, telltale mounds of white powder here and there suggested the barrels contained flour but Garrick did not ask, not wishing to prolong the interruption.

  He held the lantern out and peered at the lowered wheel, which had come to rest in a hole and was covered about a quarter the way up in the cold, stiffened mud. The muddy hole didn’t seem deep enough to stop the wagon so he crouched and held the lantern underneath. His eyes scanned the length of the axle and came to rest on the right bearing, where he quickly identified the problem. Some debris had wedged itself in the bearing and that, combined with the heavy load, made the small hole insurmountable, even for the massive pair of workhorses adding to the street debris at the moment. He straightened up and handed the lantern back to the wagon master.

  "She's caught up because of crud in the axle bearing. Clean that out and you should be set." Garrick turned to take his leave.

  "Please, sir. Thank you. Could you please wait until I check to make sure I have the proper tools?" The wagoneer didn't give Garrick a chance to answer but turned quickly and ran to the back of the wain, ostensibly to check for tools.

  The man continued to talk in spurts as he rummaged around the back of the wagon, "Thank you. It must be my lucky day, you coming along. I would have never guessed ... Here you are ... No ... There's the one I want ... Sir, which of these do you think would do the proper job of it?"

  It took a moment for Garrick to realize the wagoneer was addressing him. He looked up and saw the sizable man holding up two heavy chisels, one smaller than the other. He shot the man a venomous look but stooped to inspect the axle again, figuring that getting angry would only prolong the interruption.

  Garrick heard a scraping sound as he peered at the muddy axle in the dim light, then a thunderous crash as the wagon side gave way, the rent panel smashing against his shoulder. A heartbeat later the heavy barrels began to tumble down on him. The first struck him on the back and sent him crashing against the wheel, which probably saved his life. Had he been standing upright the full brunt of the load would have bowled him over. The rest of the barrels rained down, landing on him, the road, and one another. When the ten-stone containers stopped moving, he was pinned against the wheel under a hill of barrels. A cloud of flour surrounded the wain, leaving a coating atop the muddy street reminiscent of dirty, week-old snow.

  He was dazed but still conscious. His legs hurt but he could move them slightly and he did not think he’d broken any bones. The wave of barrels had wedged him against the wagon wheel in a sitting position with his arms up, holding the nearest cask away from his face. As his head cleared, anger took the place of shock and he yelled for the wagoneer. The wagon master's first response was a curse, then Garrick heard him approaching.

  "Thank the gods you are alive, sir. I thought you were a goner. I'm coming. Do not move or you might upset the pile."

  The trapped guardsman was having difficulty breathing with the full weight of a barrel sitting on his chest. Ignoring the wagoneer's warning, he twisted a little to the right and was able to slide it off. His arms ached as he lowered them but the breaths came much more easily. The wagoneer, still apologizing profusely, was working his way toward Garrick, tossing and pushing the heavy containers aside as though they weighed nothing at all.

  Garrick frowned, suddenly uneasy for the first time since encountering the peculiar wagoneer. He couldn’t put his finger on anything specific but something was not right. Most of his life had been spent observing others and something felt amiss, not so much a conscious thought but rather a gnawing in his belly and tensing of his muscles. Responding to the anxious feeling, he swiveled his head around to look at the approaching figure. The wagon master stood just a few feet away, a barrel raised high above his head. The large man hurled the heavy cask and Garrick barely raised his arms in time to partially ward off the blow. The barrel hit the guardsman with a thud and knocked his upper body sideways to the ground, twisting him painfully. An instant later the wagoneer loomed above him, roaring with rage as he tried to stomp Garrick’s head
into the ground. Though dazed, Garrick instinctively caught the foot and twisted the man into the pile, dislodging some of the barrels and partially freeing his pinned legs in the process. The assailant quickly recovered and the guardsman pulled a barrel above his head just in time to block another from crushing his skull. A heartbeat later Garrick took a vicious kick to the mouth, twisting to the side with the force of the blow. Pulling his dagger from inside his tunic, Garrick slashed wildly and caught the man just above the knee, leaving the knife lodged there. The wagoneer buckled, choking off a scream. Garrick pulled his legs clear of the pile but could not stand before the attacker pulled the blade from his leg and dove on top of the guardsman. Garrick grabbed the man's wrist and they each struggled to control the blade, locked in a deadly battle of strength and will.

  In the gathering light, their faces mere inches apart, Garrick saw the wagoneer clearly for the first time and was astonished by the intensity of the man's rage. The stranger clearly hated him for some reason, though he would swear he had never seen the man before. The attacker tried to jerk the knife free but he held tight. The stranger possessed considerable strength but Garrick's might was renowned and he began to overpower the assassin. He did not want to kill the man; he wanted answers. He tried to talk to the stranger, his words coming out in gasps.

  "Why ... are you ... doing this?"

  The wagoneer gave no indication he even heard the question.

  "Who ... are you?" Garrick tried again.

  No answer except a moan as the man again tried without success to wrench the weapon free.

  "How have I wronged you?" Garrick pleaded.

  The wagoneer tried desperately to plunge the knife into Garrick's heaving chest but his massive strength proved too much. All at once, the man's face clouded, the rage seemingly draining from him like water from an overturned bucket. His mouth formed a few silent words the guardsman was unable to decipher and Garrick realized an instant too late what was about to happen. The wagoneer suddenly stopped pushing and drew the blade back toward his own chest. Before the guardsman could react, their combined strength drove the blade hilt-deep. The man’s body immediately went slack but his eyes remained focused. Garrick rolled away and clambered to his feet, gasping for breath. He pushed the man onto his back and saw from the position of the dagger that the wound was likely fatal.