A Touch of Magic

by Gregory Mahan

  So, Paranol made the most sense. Unfortunately, that also put Randall walking toward Ninove, the seat of King Priess’ power. That thought filled him with dread. Even though Randall knew Ninove was far from Paranol, he still felt like he was walking into the mouth of danger.

  Still, it was the only plan he had. Pa had said that Paranol would normally take five or six days travel if he took the cart and if the weather was good. Randall figured that he could probably make it in a little over week, if he pushed himself. That was only about fifteen miles per day. It would be hard, but he could do it.

  The more Randall thought about it, the more he convinced himself that Paranol was the best choice. He even started fantasizing about taking on a job there, and making a life for himself. He imagined himself settling down and stealing away to secretly visit his family whenever he could. He might even find the time to continue his training with Master Erliand! So, with such romantic notions swirling around in his head, Randall put the day’s events behind him and continued toward Paranol, sure in the belief that he would soon have things sorted out.

  Remembering his mother’s advice, Randall kept off of the road, and instead decided to skirt the eastern edge of Black Eel Marsh. That path would keep him off of the road without taking him too close to the marsh itself. Randall hoped the less favorable ground would slow any pursuit on horseback. He also hoped that because his travel would take him within a couple hours walking distance from the marsh, the militia might not come looking for him in that direction at all. People were killed by the bog-wights often enough that parents used them as bogey-men to frighten their children into behaving. It was a very real danger, and while Randall knew he was taking a risk, it was a small one. He wasn’t actually planning on going into the marsh, after all!

  Randall soon found the travel much rougher going than if he’d used the road, and he began to suspect the journey to Paranol would take far longer than a week. Even the relatively tame grasslands surrounding Geldorn had rocks, thorny weeds and other impediments that slowed him down. Once, he almost twisted his ankle stepping in a gopher hole. Another time, he nearly stepped on a snake. He circled the reptile at a respectful distance and vowed to keep a closer eye on his feet.

  Soon, the thought of lunch brought an answering rumble from Randall’s empty stomach. He decided to take a short break and see what kind of provisions his mother had packed for him. Dumping the sack out on the ground, Randall found some nuts and apples, as well as some tough journey bread. A small cook-pot, a thin blanket and a length of leather cord had also been stuffed in the bottom of the sack.

  Randall also found a short knife in the bag. Pulling it from its leather sheath, Randall saw that it was more of a fighting blade than a utility knife, though it would still cut apples well enough. It was plenty sharp, and Randall used it to cut himself a walking stick to help him cross the roughest patches of land and beat the tall grass as he traveled. He didn’t want to meet up with any more snakes.

  Except for the blade, the sack was just the kind of thing his mother might pack for his father when he left on the occasional journey to Paranol for supplies that couldn’t be traded for in Geldorn. It wouldn’t feed him the entire way there, unless he planned on eating short rations every day, but it would mean he wouldn’t have to hunt as much along the way.

  Finishing his lunch, Randall realized he had hit his second wind, and was anxious to get moving again. He re-packed the travel sack and slung it over his back. He took some leather cord and affixed the knife’s sheath to his belt and slipped the blade inside. Once he had everything settled and in place, he resumed his journey refreshed and with a little more confidence, and quickly fell into a ground-eating pace.

  By the time dusk was upon him, Randall was surprised to note that he wasn’t going to make it to Paranol in a week after all. He was going to make it much sooner. He had already reached the southeastern edge of Black Eel Marsh!

  Off in the distance, he could see the tall, thin shapes of the marsh trees, silhouetted by the setting sun. The ground was growing softer here, and the grasses and clover he had been walking on were beginning to be speckled here and there with sedges and broad-leafed marsh plants. Randall had skirted nearly the entire length of the marsh!

  Even with the rough going, Randall had easily walked twenty five or thirty miles at a stiff pace, only stopping occasionally to drink at a stream or tiny pond and catch his breath. Shortly after lunch, he thought he might be beginning to develop a blister on his heel, but by late afternoon, the ache had worked itself out and his feet felt fine.

  Randall didn’t know if it was the fear of capture or the sense of purpose that drove him, but he had walked the entire day without much of a break, and without exhausting himself in the process. If he could keep up this pace, he’d be in Paranol in only three or four days! He’d get there much earlier than anyone would have expected.

  Randall figured the marsh itself was probably an hour or two away. Another hour’s walk would put him at the most dangerous part of his journey. As the road to Paranol curved northward, it would push Randall dangerously close to the marsh’s eastern edge. At that point, Randall would be skirting the small section of land squeezed between the marsh and the road, putting him in danger of both the bog-wights and any patrols from the road. He decided that it would be better to tackle that obstacle in the daylight, and decided to bed down where he was for the night.

  It wasn’t until he was struggling to slip out of his undershirt, still stiffened by the Buk rune, that he realized the source of his boundless energy. As Randall twisted and squirmed to get out of the tunic, he heard something heavy hit the ground, and weariness crashed down on him like a giant invisible hand pushing him to the earth. He sank to his knees in weariness, spotting what had fallen out of his tunic. Master Erliand’s healing talisman! Of course! Randall was in good shape, but there was no other way he could have pulled off a thirty mile walk without the punishment taking its toll on his body.

  The instant he picked the talisman back up, he began feeling better. He knew he’d have to hold onto it all night if he wanted to wake up refreshed and ready for the march tomorrow. After a bit of thought, he took out the cord from the leather bag his mother had given him, and fashioned a necklace to hold the artifact, so he could keep it close by as he slept. It was large and unwieldy bumping against his chest, but even with all of the inconvenience, he felt better having it on his person.

  He made a cold camp, making no campfire to draw attention to himself, and dug a bit of food out of his travel sack. Biting on an apple, he thought about his predicament.

  I’ll have to try to trap some game tomorrow or the next day, he thought.

  It may have been springtime, but the nights still got chilly, and he could use the fur for warmth. His mother had packed a thin blanket, but it barely covered him adequately. The thought of fresh meat made his mouth water, and brought a small smile to his face. He drifted off to sleep, clutching the talisman to his chest, and dreaming of the taste of rabbit stew.

  Randall awoke early the next morning and quickly broke camp. He pulled on his boots and tunic and started walking. The talisman had done its work during the night, and Randall wasn’t even sore from yesterday’s grueling march. Still, even at his accelerated pace, he was no match for a man on horseback, and he felt a pressing need to put a lot of distance between himself and Geldorn.

  He quickly fell into the ground-eating pace of the day before, bolstered by the talisman pressing against his chest. Time flew as Randall marched, and he kept a close eye on the marsh trees in the distance and the sun overhead. By mid-morning, he noticed that the encroaching marsh was gradually pushing him in a more north-eastern direction. He was reaching the point where the eastern edge of the marsh and the road to Paranol were only a few miles apart.

  This section of land had claimed the lives of travelers several times in Randall’s lifetime. When the bog-wights became too numerous, they would often ambush small caravans and lone tra
velers, forcing the militia to action. It was a fairly predictable cycle: some poor traveler would be mauled or eaten by the bog-wights, or attacked by bandits. Then the militia would spend a week or two working along the road, killing bandits or bog-wights until the roads were safe again. After a short period of intense activity, the militia would begin spending more and more time at the inn, drinking and carousing. And so it would go, until another incident on the road.

  Randall hadn’t heard of any unwholesome activity on the road in the short time he’d been in town, but then again, one never did until the first story of the season started spreading through the town’s gossip mill like fire through sagebrush. The fact that Bobby and the other militiamen were still lazing around Frank’s Inn led him to believe that the first attacks of the season had yet to be reported.

  Randall didn’t want to be the first casualty of the season, regardless of how remote the danger. Still, he was certain that soldiers would be looking for him on the road, and that was a much more definite risk. It would be better to stick as closely to the marsh as possible and hope for the best.

  Another hour passed without incident, and soon he would be past the hazardous bottleneck. Afterwards, without the fear of the marsh, he would be able to travel overland to Paranol, far from the road. With his talisman, he’d still make good time.

  He was just beginning to relax when he heard hoof beats in the distance. Someone nearby was riding at full gallop! His head jerked around quickly, looking for the source of the noise. Coming from the direction of the road, were two men wearing militia armor!

  Randall quickly dropped to his belly in the tall grass and kept his eye on the figures. Had they seen him? After a couple of minutes, he was sure they had. They were coming straight toward the area where he was hiding!

  He slowly pulled the knife from his sheath and crept forward, toward the oncoming soldiers. That was one of Master Erliand’s lessons: do the unexpected. Randall needed any advantage he could get, and he was sure that they would expect him to bolt and run. Or, they might expect him to freeze in place and hide, giving them time to flush him out. So, instead, he crept toward them, hoping to catch them off guard. If he could meet them in battle sooner than expected, he might be able to take one of them out and even the odds before they even knew what hit them.

  Randall silently cursed his luck when they surprised him, too. Both riders slowed to a stop and un-slung crossbows from their backs when they were about fifty yards from where he had originally dropped into the grass, leaving him close, but still too far away to do much good. If he rushed them now, they would have plenty of time to cut him down before he even got close.

  “I think he dropped into the grass right over there,” one man said and the other nodded. Randall recognized one of them as the soldier who had put the over-size armor and helmet on him at the job fair last year. He bit down hard on his anger.

  That man had set off the whole chain of events that had led Randall to this point! If it weren’t for him, Randall would be working in a bakery or a carpentry shop right now, living a normal life. Not on the run, living off of the land like some hardened criminal! The rational part of Randall’s mind knew that this man had nothing to do with his Talent, and that Master Erliand would have picked him up just the same. But part of his mind wanted to pin all of his problems on a single source, and the man in front of him was the perfect scapegoat.

  The other man broke Randall out of his reverie by calling out loudly: “Might as well stand up boy! That king’s herald let us know your little secret! That magic trick you have only works all close-up, like. If’n we sit back here and take pot shots at you, there’s nothing you can do about it. Better to end up arrested than dead, boy.”

  Randall held still. He doubted that the men meant to let him live either way. After a couple of long minutes, the man harrumphed and shot a crossbow bolt over Randall’s head and into the earth near where Randall had originally dropped into the grass.

  “Have it your way, boy. We got all day,” the man called out as he wound the crossbow string up to ready it for another shot. “When we don’t come back, more will come looking for us. And then we can fan out and have ourselves a nice slow search. ‘Course, by then, I’ll be mad ‘cause you made me sit up here in the sun. Can’t say as I’ll treat you easy if’n it comes to that.”

  After winding his crossbow back up, the soldier knocked another bolt, and took aim again in the area near where Randall had gone to ground. When the other soldier did the same, Randall was struck by a flash of inspiration. If they both shot, he could make a run at them when they were both trying to reload their crossbows. He could easily cover the ground before they could set another bolt, and hopefully catch them completely unarmed. Their swords were still in their scabbards! It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the only one he could think of.

  And he didn’t have time to think of a better one! Two crossbow bolts whizzed over his head, to thud into the ground behind him. He had to move—now! Pushing himself up from his hiding place, he started running full-tilt at both men, screaming in fear and defiance. Both men seemed completely taken aback that Randall was so near and hesitated long seconds before acting, allowing him to close the distance further.

  The younger of the two militiamen seemed unable to switch mental gears to account for this unexpected turn of events. He continued to wind his crossbow, but at a faster, fear-driven pace. The older soldier was more seasoned, and once the momentary surprise wore off, he dropped his crossbow and spurred his horse into a gallop, drawing his sword as he raced toward Randall. It wasn’t exactly what Randall had hoped to accomplish, but it was too late to turn back now.

  Well, at least it’s only one of them, Randall thought, grimly, as he prepared for the clash.

  Erliand had schooled him on this kind of combat. If he were to ever play the role of a caravan guard, there would inevitably come a time where he faced men on horseback when he was on foot. “Fight the horse, not the man,” his master had instructed.

  As the soldier galloped within sword-reach, he pulled his sword arm back, screaming his own battle cry into the air. He meant to slice Randall open on the run. It was the kind of move the militiaman might have practiced hundreds of times against bog-wights. But, Randall was no mindless bog-wight. As he came into range of the other’s weapon, Randall slid down low, below the sword’s reach, and stabbed the horse in the haunches as the soldier sped past.

  The horse immediately began bucking and kicking violently, landing Randall a glancing blow on the shoulder that nevertheless numbed his arm down to the fingers. Luckily, it wasn’t his weapon arm, and he kept a tight grip on his knife. The horse’s wild gyrations had thrown the soldier from the saddle as well, and as he scrambled to his feet, Randall leapt upon him and plunged the knife deep into the side of his neck twice, causing blood to spray outward in a fountain.

  As he turned to face the other soldier something slammed into his ribs, tumbling him onto his back. He was sure the injured horse had landed him another kick, but as he collected himself and scrambled to his feet, he was surprised to see a crossbow bolt sticking out of his side. He was dazed, and barely felt the prick of the bolt’s head, though his side ached dully where the crossbow bolt had slammed home.

  At that moment, all of the anger that Randall had been biting down on came boiling to the surface. He looked around and found the guard that had shot him—the same guard that had laughed at him so long ago. Even though shock numbed him from the pain, Randall was sure he was going to die from his wound. From the bolt’s location, it certainly had pierced a lung, and probably had torn into his liver. But as long as anger kept him on his feet, he planned on taking his vengeance out on the man that had killed him.

  It wasn’t fair. His life had been ruined. He would die out here in this field, cut down like a common criminal. He would never know love. He would never see his family again. And nobody would care, because he was devil touched. He was unclean. Everyone in his town wanted him dead
. And it was this man’s fault. This man, at least, would pay.

  “You!” Randall growled out, murder in his eyes, and began walking toward the soldier.

  The sight of Randall stalking toward him with an arrow shaft sticking out of his lungs unnerved the soldier, and his jaw dropped. He paled and his eyes widened, and his hand involuntarily flew to his mouth in horror. His horse began prancing backward and pulling at the reins, blowing out noisily and tossing its head left and right.

  “You!” Randall bit out again, more forcefully than the last time, jabbing his finger at the soldier, frozen in fear.

  The soldier snapped out of his trance, and with a yelp, wheeled his horse around and dug his spurs into its flanks.

  “You’re not getting away,” Randall vowed under his breath. It was only then that he realized that he’d drawn in a dizzying amount of magic from Llandra. He was so full of it, he felt as if he would burst. The soldier’s horse had felt it. The soldier had too, even if he might not be aware of the cause of his sudden terror.

  Randall reached out with his hand, toward the soldier, as if he could simply reach out and grab him off of the horse from twenty yards. And in his mind at that moment, Randall felt a connection between himself and the fleeing man. He felt connected to the earth, and the sky, too. Everything seemed to be exactly where it should be, at this moment in time. The power within him seemed to hush, as if waiting. Everything around him seemed to slow, and all the anger melted away from him. Fear and despair were gone, too. All that was left was this one, singular moment in time, where everything was perfectly connected.