Tristan’s face flushed red, and he sputtered, looking helpless. “It is, uh…”
Several boys snickered. One muttered under his breath about useless trash, and the words roiled in Ashton’s gut.
“It is foxglove,” Ashton called out.
“In Latin,” Master Galen snapped, banging his cane on the gravel.
“Digitalis purpurea,” Ashton said. He locked gazes with the snickering boys. “An excellent choice if you want to poison someone. Nearly undetectable in honeyed tea.”
The boys stopped snickering, but the large freckled one scowled, his lip curling. Ashton knew in his gut that teasing Marcus was unwise, but the boy was relentless in his torture of Tristan. Ashton could not let that pass. Not if he was to live with himself.
“Yes, well, thank you, Wells,” Master Galen said before turning to point at another plant. “But there will be no assassinations today.”
Ashton winked at Marcus, a sly smile pulling at his lip, and noted, with satisfaction the jerk of tension to the boy’s jaw. Ashton would have to be careful for the next few days.
Later on in the evening, Ashton hurried down the back hallway of the library, distracted with his pile of books. Marcus emerged from the shadows and stepped into Ashton’s path. A sliver of worry slipped through Ashton. They were alone, and the larger boy still looked very, very angry.
“Lost, Marcus?” Ashton said with nonchalance he did not possess. “Looking for the infirmary?” He squinted his eyes, pretending to see something. “Feeling all right?”
“Still the lying street rat,” Marcus hissed. “You did not do anything to me. You can’t.”
Ashton didn’t like the weird change in the air. Marcus was up to something. “And why not?”
“Because you are a pathetic charity case who is scared of getting tossed out with the trash like you belong,” Marcus sneered at Ashton’s involuntary intake of breath.
Though he knew he did not belong, not truly, like the noble and wealthy boys here, their thoughts about him had not been so blatant. Ashton backed up a step, his stomach roiling with a flare of anger. “I am not afraid of anything,” Ashton said through gritted teeth. “Least of all you!”
Without thinking, Ashton swung, hitting Marcus square in the jaw with his fist. The bigger boy stumbled back, but did not go down as Ashton had envisioned. Instead, his face contorted into something like a raging bull. Ashton turned and bolted through rear the doorway. He ran across the grass to the quarters of the other detachment of novices, the ones from which Ashton and his studious peers were kept apart. Those chosen to be Knights of the Order. Large, aggressive boys who learned swordplay and combat populated those ranks. They lived, trained, and worked in separate parts of the abbey grounds. So fascinated by their warrior-like upbringing, Ashton often stole away during meal times to watch them learn with wood practice blades.
He sped towards the first of their buildings, glancing over his shoulder at a quickly gaining Marcus. Slipping through the doorway, Ashton ran down a lit hallway of hewn stone wracking his brain for what to do next. He couldn’t really just run forever, and he definitely wasn’t going to cower in the shadows like he had with Paddy. Not this time. He slowed, panting as he looked around. This building, older than the others he knew, smelled of metal polish and burning wood. He pushed his way past a large door and into the vast room.
“That was a big mistake, Wells,” Marcus’s voice warbled through the hallway. He sounded in pain and very, very angry. “You want a fight? Let’s fight.”
Ashton glanced around looking for some form of protection, but aside from mats on the floor there was not much in the room. Marcus ran through the door and stopped, panting. A slow, evil smile spread across his face.
“Nowhere to go and no more surprise punches to save your filthy beggar hide,” Marcus yelled. He lunged for Ashton, caught him by the robes, and threw him like a sack of rice to the floor.
Wheezing with pain, Ashton pulled himself to his feet with a wince. “Is that…is that all you have?”
Marcus shoved Ashton viciously back to the floor. His head cracked on the boards. A white hot flare of pain flashed across his vision. Groaning, Ashton got back up, slower this time, but on his feet all the same.
He looked at Marcus with bleary eyes. “Is that why you pick on boys younger and smaller than you?” Ashton winced as he put his shaking fists up. He forced a cocky smile despite his quivering gut. “Because I know a matchstick girl who fights better than you.”
Marcus dove for him, but Ashton was quicker. He stepped aside and extended his leg as he’d seen the knight novices do. Marcus tripped and went skidding on his belly across the polished wood floor.
Scrambling onto his feet, face red, lip bloody, Marcus let out a frustrated growl Ashton had never heard anyone make before. Perhaps the teasing was not a good idea. He backed up a step, wondering how to best avoid a pummeling. Marcus stood a head taller, was at least thirteen, and Ashton had used up all the tricks he had in his head.
Marcus stepped forward, but then stopped, his gaze going to the mat at his feet. “Oh how fortunate,” he said, and reached near the edge of a mat and picked up a wooden practice sword. He lunged, taking a swipe at Ashton. “Just what I need. A switch to throttle the thief.”
Ashton ducked, tripping over his own feet. He nearly went down but, a strong hand gripped his shoulder. The Sword Master stood next to him, a real blade dangling at his hip. Tall and lean with dark hair that fell to his chin, Master Vega fixed Ashton with a strange look.
“He is correct, Marcus,” Vega said softly. “Your fight with him is unfair to say the least. We should fix that before you proceed.”
“Sir?” Marcus asked, confused.
Vega strolled casually to the far end of the room where he reached into a crate. He strode back and held a wooden practice sword out to Ashton.
“Now, it is fair,” Vega said and turned, striding for the door. Over his shoulder, he said to Ashton, “He used your time on the streets against you, Wells. I suggest you return the favor. Come and find me tomorrow if you win.”
Marcus’s gaze snapped back to Ashton who stood with the blade in his hands, his breath coming in heaves. All his loss. His parents. Beatings and hunger. Fear and desperation. It all hardened in his gut at that moment, and Ashton knew that he’d found where he belonged. A place where what he was and where he came from were not shameful, but an advantage.
“What are you looking at?” Marcus said through a shaky voice. “Do you really think you can beat me?”
Ashton gripped the weapon so tight, the leather handle creaked in his hands. He was going to be one of those warrior boys. He was going to be a knight, even if he had to go through Marcus to make that happen. He took a deliberate step towards Marcus. Then another. The bigger boy backed up.
“Raise…your…blade,” Ashton said and attacked.
****
The ground quaked. Another aftershock crumbled bits of the rock wall and sent a rain of leaves fluttering down. The tool in Ashton’s hand slipped and he banged his knuckles on the chassis of the machine, the pain eliciting a frustrated growl. He blew a lock of long black hair from his brow angrily.
Tristan looked over the top of his book at Ashton and chuckled.
“You know the scientists say that these tremors are actually preventing another Great Calamity,” Tristan said. “You should welcome them. They will taper off.”
A flash of memory seared across Ashton’s mind. Burning lakes of lava spewing from the chasms in the city streets and toppling buildings. The inescapable smell of burning flesh and falling ash. He shook his head, driving the images from his mind.
“Yes, well, they’ve been saying that for years, and they still seem just as strong.” Ashton glanced at the abbey. Metal gleamed in the sunlight, the old plaster walls having been reinforced with bracing after the quakes. The ever-present hum overhead bore into Ashton’s thoughts. “Did you hear anything more? About the disturbance?”
&n
bsp; Backlit by the sun, his friend sat on the fence dividing the two grounds of the Order—those of books and those of blades. This time, the after training and meals, was the only time the two friends could meet. Their lives since Ashton’s move no longer intersected regularly.
“I know there’s no need for you to study, old chap, but some of us do not remember everything we read but once. I don’t have time for idle gossip at the moment.”
“So…no, then.” Ashton said and waited.
Tristan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I did overhear the Chemistry Master whispering with another teacher about an incendiary going off during a ‘peaceful assembly’, but then he saw me and stopped talking.”
“You really do need to learn to eavesdrop with more…stealth, Tristan.”
“Risks are more your department,” Tristan said with a smile. He held out the book to Ashton. “You’re certain you’re done with this?”
“I have learned to study quickly,” Ashton answered.
“How do you manage to complete your studies while also training over there?” Tristan leaned against the fence wall. “After all these years they still argue over where you belong. With us or with them.” Tristan nodded towards the novices sparring in the field.
“I am them,” Ashton said and looked over the fence at the group of boys studying under a large tree. He glanced at his friend. “And also one of you.”
“Doesn’t that make you neither, then?” Tristan said and smiled, clearly teasing.
“Probably,” Ashton said with a frown. He knew his benefactor had wanted Ashton to be a Man of Books, not a warrior. Had objected when told of Ashton’s dispensation to be a part of both fraternities. What little Ashton saw of the man had tapered off as the years went by. If he had remained with his nose buried in books, would he have seen more of his benefactor? He wiped his greasy hands with a rag, eyed the contraption on the ground, and sighed. “I should just give up on this.”
“You say that every week at least,” Tristan said and shut his book, jumping down to the grass to hand it to Ashton. “I do not think studying more will help at this point.” He pulled a deck of cards from his robes. “What say you to a game? I have yet to win back my money from you, Wells.”
Ashton smiled down at his longtime friend. Though both were entering their fifteenth year of age, Tristan stood a foot shorter than Ashton, though twice as wide. Years of reading inside dusty rooms had done that. His bald head was reddened by a new shave. Ashton’s own overgrown locks and novice knight leather breeches and tunic made him out of place in the classes where everyone looked like Tristan.
“Another time, friend,” Ashton answered. “I am due at the sparring gym soon.”
A far off gong sounded, and Ashton reached for his sword belt, tying it around his tunic. Tristan shook his head, clearly troubled.
“What?”
“We will get our placement orders soon,” Tristan said. “There is talk of me being sent to what is left of the south. Do you think I will see New Louisiana?”
“You should not have learned to speak French so well,” Ashton said with a forced smile. “And that territory has been Texiana for two years now. The best of both states survived the disaster, I hear. If you do go, I should think you will be able to satisfy your sweet tooth between the beignets and pie.”
“What if you and I are sent to separate parts of the union?” Tristan’s earnest face sent a sliver of sorrow through Ashton’s chest.
For nearly a decade, Tristan had remained Ashton’s steadfast and only true friend. He patted Tristan on the back. “All will be well, friend. You will see.”
Ashton strode through the tall grass towards the armory brooding.
Though the landscape had changed, Ashton’s dilemma had not. Tristan’s comment had hit home. Though Ashton held his own, even bested many of his peers, his position of one foot in each world made him an outcast in both. He had the respect of the other novice knights for his prowess with the blade and in combat, but not their camaraderie despite having lived with them since his tenth year. Ashton had caught the shared looks between them on more than one occasion when he’d offered an answer to a question that was on the more academic side.
And the boys who studied to be Men of Books were no different. Though they knew him as an equal intellectually, they feared him for the soldier he was being molded into.
The clang of blades met Ashton before he entered the sparring room. Novice knights grunted and swung their weapons powerfully at one another, hitting the strapped-on protective gear with muted thwacks. The smell of sweat and blood hit Ashton, and he moved to pull his tunic off to change. Strapping on the forearm guards, he spotted his practice partner and nodded.
The two clashed, blades tinging as they tore at each other with vigor. The others saw besting Ashton as a badge of honor, and this partner was no different. Though Ashton had the height advantage, the other boy had the brawn. Every blow of his weapon made Ashton’s teeth rattle. A crowd formed, the others abandoning their matches to watch. They shouted and clapped with every feign and blow the other boy landed. Out of the corner of his eye, Ashton spied Master Vega and another, unfamiliar figure watching.
Distracted, Ashton missed a block, and his partner’s blade slashed his neck, drawing blood. The crowd stirred, shouting for a finish. Growing in confidence, his sparring partner broke form, lunging. Ashton parried, leapt backwards, hands out as the boy’s blade missed his chest by a hairsbreadth. But Ashton was already countering. Pivoting quickly, he struck blindingly fast, coming in low and hitting his partner with an upward stroke that took the match. A rumble of groans and scattered claps signaled the end of the spectacle. Ashton shook with his partner and peeled off his gear.
“Wells,” Vega called and motioned for Ashton to join them. The stranger, a tall man with alert bearing of a knight fixed him with shrewd pale eyes. “This is Vice Provost Hale,” Vega said, motioning for the group of them to move further from the others. He turned to Hale. “This is the one I spoke to you about.”
“Ah, Mr. Wells, is it?” Hale eyed Ashton before extending his hand. Ashton shook it, confused. “Well done there. The boy never had a chance. It seems Master Vega has not been exaggerating about his young protégé.”
Ashton was at a loss. Vega thought that of him? Enough to tell someone outside this abbey? “Protégé, sir?”
“Top of your class in your studies as a novice of The Men of Books and also here, as a novitiate of the knights. Quite what we are looking for.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Ashton found his voice.
“Mr. Wells, you must understand that the more our world changes, adapts to the aftermath of the devastating quakes, the more the Order must as well. It always has been able to weather major changes in the world. And these strange times are no different.”
“You’ve been chosen, Wells,” Vega said. He held Ashton’s gaze. “For a most important calling.”
“I do not understand.” Ashton felt a shift in his gut. As if everything was about to change.
“The Order of the Sword and Scroll has survived all these centuries for one reason only, Mr. Wells,” Hale answered. “Information. Knowledge of the secrets and inner workings of kingdoms and governments is power. The Order wields that power like no other, but they have to acquire it to use it. There is an elite squadron of knights. One which few know about and even fewer are chosen for. They are formidable in every sense of the word.”
“And you want me?” Ashton stared at Hale with disbelief.
“From what I have seen and heard, yes, Wells. There is a new threat rising. One I fear it may undo all that we have fought to restore in this country. Our strongholds in Europe may be threatened as well.” Hale reached into the pocket of his cloak and produced a silver conscription medallion. One Ashton had only seen boys with noble blood receive. “These men, ones like you, with unusual backgrounds and talents, are The Order’s most feared weapon.”
“Are you saying…” A slow dawni
ng spread through Ashton, and his heart rammed in his chest.
“A spy,” Vega said quietly, his gaze going to the other boys and then back. “Ashton, you are going to be a spy for The Order.”
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The Tremblers
Charlotte Blackburn—a beautiful, intelligent, and gifted tinkerer—lives in a cloistered world of wealth and privilege beneath the Electric Tesla Dome that shields survivors of The Great Calamity. But when her father is abducted, and a strange sickness starts transforming men into vicious monsters, she discovers that technology is no protection at all.
Ashton Wells has a dire mission: Secure Colonel Blackburn and deliver his research to The Order of the Sword and Scroll. But the plan goes awry, and he is left with nothing but the colonel’s daughter who has a target on her back and is willing stop at nothing to rescue her father—including handing over to the enemy the only means to stop the monstrous plague.
Branded as traitors, Ashton and Charlotte brave the treacherous floating sky ports of Outer City to hunt down the elusive inventor, Nikola Tesla—the only person able to activate the strange device that harbors the secret to their salvation.
With the government closing in, a rebellion brewing in the streets, and terrifying Tremblers attacking the innocent, the two must work together to stop their fragile world from crumbling once more into destruction.
Wind Reapers
Charlotte Blackburn—hero, hunted, the unwitting symbol of a dark rebellion—she thwarted the deadly intent of the treacherous Order of the Sword and Scroll, but at a shattering cost. Now, she fights to survive among a tribe of fierce Wind Reapers who troll the wasteland aboard massive metal walkers. But a new storm is brewing and Charlotte is once again the linchpin in a deadly plan.
Of Books and Blades: A Blackburn Chronicles Free Read Page 2
