Apprentice Swordceror

by Chris Hollaway

  Apprentice Swordceror

  The Blademage Saga

  Volume 1

  By Chris Hollaway

  Text Copyright © 2012 Chris Hollaway

  All Rights Reserved

  To my wife and kids, for their love and understanding

  To the Magic Day Gang, for reading and bouncing ideas off

  To the crews at SpecTek and Systems Integration, for the constant nagging

  To Ken, for seeing the diamond under all the rough

  To Kevon, for writing his own story when I got lost

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Kevon lay back against the trunk of a tree, studying the large translucent butterfly perched on his bent knee.

  “Blue.” He breathed the word softly, and the wings began to change from the speckled orange they had been to a crystalline blue color. “Much better.” Kevon decided.

  Lowering his concentration, Kevon sighed as his Illusion wisped into mage-smoke and vanished. He grinned. His Master would not be pleased to see him lounging about and trifling with Illusions. Master Holten barely considered Illusion a true Art, and taught little enough of it. But armed with the basics, Kevon had pushed his skill in Illusion to heights that he had not seen Master Holten even attempt.

  Making a healing potion with Alchemy, or Conjuring a flame to start a fire were satisfying, after a fashion, but they did not come as easily or inspire the joy that filled Kevon’s heart when he worked Illusions. He reflected upon the year he had apprenticed under Holten Magus. Just learning the Arts of Alchemy and Herbalism would have been better than the drudgery of his home life. Illusion was icing on the cake, and Kevon lived for it.

  A sudden crashing in the undergrowth behind him brought Kevon clambering hurriedly to his feet. Composing himself, he listened closer and made out a loud bawling noise amidst the tumult.

  Kevon began visualizing the Illusion rune he had released just moments before. The symbol sprang to mind, and Kevon forced his will into it. The symbol took on an ethereal glow and solidified in his mind. He then focused all of his attention to weaving a new Illusion. Natural creatures were more susceptible to Illusion than Men, so he had little to fear if he acted quickly.

  All at once, Kevon’s body was wreathed in phantom flames. He pushed his Art further, and the flames burned brighter, casting light up to the treetops above him, and flickering shadows all around. Nearing the limits of his skill, he added sound to his Illusion, and the crackling of the flames began to rival the crashing something that was headed his way.

  Kevon stepped back from the tree out into the center of the small clearing. His Illusion burned so brightly that he supposed that he was no longer visible through it.

  A scream sounded over the oncoming din. Startled, Kevon almost dropped his Illusion. Struggling to maintain his composure as well as his Illusion, Kevon backed up further, wary of what might be coming.

  A man burst into the clearing, clothes torn from his passage through the thorny undergrowth. Seeing Kevon, the man hesitated for a second, stumbled, and went down.

  The large bear that followed on the man’s heels lunged and swiped at him, knocking him several feet to the side. The man slammed against the tree that Kevon had been sitting under, the sword he carried flying wide into a nearby bush.

  Screwing up his courage, Kevon advanced, raising his arms and willing the flames and crackling noises to a fevered pitch. The bear turned and fled.

  Exhausted from the expenditure of will, and the sheer gravity of the moment, Kevon slumped to his knees with a grunt. He released the Illusion and the symbol in his mind dimmed and faded away. He turned to see what had happened to the man.

  Although it had been only moments since the attack, blood pooled around the man. As he struggled to pull himself into a sitting position against the tree, blood from a gash on his forehead dripped into his eyes so that he had to blink it away.

  The man looked at Kevon, eyes fearful. “My sword…” he rasped.

  Kevon cringed inwardly. He knew the man had neither the strength, nor the time to fetch the sword. But Kevon did not know if he had the strength, either. Since his apprenticeship had begun, he had not dared to touch iron. It was one of the strictest rules imposed on magic-users, and for good reason. The touch of iron usually meant death for a Mage.

  “I need…” the man coughed, and a gout of blood spattered his tunic and oozed down toward the puddle that was now starting to soak into the ground.

  In the dying man’s eyes was a plea that Kevon could not ignore. He walked to the sword and picked it out of the bush. Shivers went up and down the length of his spine as he held the length of iron. Kevon rushed to the man’s side and laid the sword across his knees.

  The man gripped the hilt of the sword as firmly as his mangled sword-arm allowed. His other hand settled gently on the blade. “Many thanks,” whispered the man, licking his lips.

  The man’s eyes widened, as if remembering something long forgotten. His good hand reached to the cord at his neck, and he pulled it free. “Here. Have. This.” The words came between quick, raspy breaths. He pressed a cold amulet into Kevon’s hand. “And take… the sword… to…”

  Kevon sat there, numb, as the man went still. He had seen the dead before, but never death itself.

  Long minutes later, Kevon still sat looking at the man’s body. He started to stand, but staggered to the side as his knees buckled, and threw up.

  Kevon rifled through his pouches and found a mint leaf to chew on, to ease the bile-taste in his mouth. He pondered the situation. The walk back to town was not a short one, and the dead man was at least half again Kevon’s size. There was no way he could carry or drag him. But he did not want to leave the man for the animals.

  At one end of the clearing was a game trail between two slender pines. Kevon found a sturdy branch and began hollowing out a rut. Half an hour later, Kevon decided that it was large enough. He dragged the body as carefully as he could manage, and laid it in the improvised barrow.

  Pausing to catch his breath, Kevon pulled the amulet from the pocket he had shoved it in earlier. It was a small pewter disc with a bas-relief image of a sword. Kevon regarded the body in front of him intently. This man had belonged to the Warrior’s Guild. If the man’s right arm had not been so mangled and covered with blood, he would have been able to see the sword-brand on it. Swordsmen were rare in these parts, as rare as swords. The nearest guild was probably over a week’s travel away.

  Rested, Kevon tried to remember what the proper ceremony was. Remembering a part of it, he whispered, “May your body rest, as your spirit soars.” Kevon ended the blessing and pushed dirt over the body. He then began making trips from the nearby stream to the grave, carrying fair-sized stones to place over it.

  A good while
later, muscles aching and spirit weary, Kevon was satisfied with his work. All that remained was to clean the blood and grime from his cloak. He kneaded the cloak gently in the stream before shaking it out and hanging it on a branch to dry.

  Kevon returned to the stream to wash his hands and face, cooling away the flush of hard labor. For the first time in hours, Kevon felt relaxed. He re-inspected his pouches to make sure he had all the herbs he needed. If he had been gone this long without completely filling them, his Master would not be pleased.

  Kevon sighed, wishing the sun’s rays would dry his cloak faster so that he could go home. He wandered back to the clearing to make sure that he had forgotten nothing.

  The hair on the back of Kevon’s neck stood on end as he spotted the sword still lying at the base of the tree. Kevon had thought to bury it with the man, but had forgotten in his haste and confusion. The memory of touching the blade’s handle for even so short a time turned his stomach.

  Kevon gasped, remembering his Art. He had not taken the time to discover if the brief contact with the forbidden iron had lessened his abilities. He focused on the Illusion symbol, and concentrated. The azure-winged butterfly from earlier materialized before him, flapping its wings lazily. Another Illusion symbol formed in his mind, and Kevon pushed even harder. The second rune flickered and lit up, glowing to match its twin in his mind. Phantom flames burst from Kevon, as bright and loud as before. Relieved, Kevon relaxed and let go of the Illusions.

  Hiss cloak was still damp by the time he went to retrieve it, but it would dry before he got back. And he needed to get back.

  Kevon reached the road back to Laston several minutes after emerging from the forest. He walked quietly, the weight of the day’s events grating on his nerves. He walked numbly off to the side as a Merchant’s wagon passed him, headed south, maybe to the Inner Cities, or beyond.

  The path began to flatten out and widen as Kevon got closer to town, passing through the surrounding farms that were the main industry here. The little valley was not good for much else. Timber was just as abundant and far more accessible nearer the Inner Cities, so logging was not profitable. The town had a lumber mill, but it was small and had no trouble meeting the needs of the town. There was also a blacksmith, but he rarely fired his forge outside of the winter season. His sons were not yet old enough to tend the family farm by themselves.

  And Laston was not on any trade routes. The only way in or out of the valley was the pass to the south, and not even that once it snowed.

  In Kevon’s experience, there were only two types of folk in Laston; those who wanted to be there, and those who were stuck there. Kevon had been stuck there all his life.

  From the time Kevon could remember hearing the first stories of what lay beyond the valley, he had wanted to travel, to adventure. He longed to join one of the Guilds and make a name for himself; fighting, trading, or crafting. Much to his chagrin, he grew up too gangly, too honest, and too impatient to take up any craft.

  Then Master Holten had come to live in Laston, and everything changed. Kevon no longer played at fighting with the other boys, the stick swords had been long since discarded. The Wizard had chosen him to be his apprentice. His mother had been wary at first, but when she saw how focused Kevon became, she was quite pleased.

  Kevon’s whole life had changed. The first few months had been hard. The duties of a Novice were not much different than those he had left at home. He cooked and cleaned for Master Holten, in-between sessions of meditation, scholarly discussion, and learning to read. After a while, Kevon had been able to focus his energy to help the Wizard cast a spell. That was the first lesson every Mage learned. Master Holten called it ‘Aid’, one of the Lesser Arts. But it was the key to everything else.

  As soon as Kevon had learned to Aid, Master Holten hired another local boy to do the cooking and cleaning. Kevon advanced to Apprentice. He spent more time in discussion with the Master, learning about the different Arts, and deciding which ones to pursue further.

  After seeing demonstrations of the Arts that Master Holten taught, Kevon decided on Illusion. Less than pleased with his Apprentice’s decision, Master Holten had assigned more lessons in Alchemy than Illusion. To Kevon’s further frustration, he had to resume some of the household duties as well.

  Breaking from his reverie as he rounded the last corner before ascending into the town proper, Kevon wondered what his Master would say about the events of the afternoon.

  Chapter 2

  Kevon continued into town, passing by the newer houses on the outskirts near the mouth to the main valley. He decided to avoid the long way around, the wagon path on the north side. He climbed the carved stone steps from one terrace to the next, taking more effort but saving a bit of time.

  Kevon tromped into Master Holten’s house after knocking his boots on the short wooden post by the front door. Most places he would not have bothered, but Holten’s house had a proper wood floor, expertly joined and sanded to a smooth finish. The house, larger than most, had belonged to a retired Merchant until some years ago. Before Holten came, it had been somewhat of an informal town hall, but the extra rooms came in handy for a Master Wizard with enough books to fill two libraries and no end to potions and herbs and such.

  “Apprentice!” came a shout from one of the back rooms.

  “Yes, Master?” replied Kevon, dropping some of his heavier pouches on a workbench and moving toward the room.

  Holten burst out of the back room with a flapping goose by the neck, and thrust it into Kevon’s hands.

  “Have Martin take care of this, and you had best attend to the potions. You’re quite late this afternoon,” the Wizard half-lectured as he returned to the room and closed the door.

  Kevon sighed, and trickled energy into a hastily visualized Control symbol. The goose calmed, and Kevon made his way around to the kitchen.

  “Goose again, eh?” Martin attempted to sound cheerful for a moment, but gave up mid-sentence. “Spring geese seem to be a bit scrawnier than summer ones.”

  “It’s because they’ve just flown so far to get here.” Kevon explained. “But Master won’t call deer in after what happened the first time, more’s the pity.”

  “My mum’s still sore about that,” grinned Martin. “The silly thing grazed its way through our garden, wandered in the front door, and tried to kick its way out the back wall. Didn’t help she was laid up in bed and that hexed critter near climbed on top of her to get at that wall.”

  Kevon had heard the story several times, but it still brought a smile to his face, picturing Martin’s shrew of a mother tumbled from bed into the overturned contents of her own chamber pot.

  “All right. Well, I’ve got to stir potions and you’d better take care of this.” Kevon said, handing the goose to Martin and releasing the Control symbol. Again aware of its surroundings, the goose began thrashing once more.

  Before Martin grumbled, Kevon escaped back through the kitchen door and made it halfway to the laboratory. On his way back through the house, he picked up his pouches and shed his cloak. Potion making was hot work.

  Opening the door, Kevon noted that four of the five sculpted marble braziers were now stocked with glowing coals, and held bubbling flasks. Kevon closed the door and began to work. Moving with a practiced efficiency, he added charcoal to each brazier to keep the coals at the optimum level. Then he turned his attention to the flasks.

  The first two flasks held healing potions. Kevon crumbled pinches of thyme and mugwort into each flask. He then dropped two fresh huckleberries and a thin slice of peeled cucumber into each bubbling mixture. He thought back to his first Alchemy lesson and Holten’s lecturing.

  “Potions are unique in the way that they work,” the Master said. “The brewing distills and captures life essence. Drinking the potion frees the energies to work in the body.”

  The third flask was a different story. It was a cure-all remedy that Kevon had started a week ago. The wooden phial rack in front of its brazie
r was filled with stoppered containers of various shapes, each with a very specific purpose. Thornleaf for poison, Blackroot to reduce fever, and so on until Kevon’s head hurt from thinking about it. Kevon measured the ingredients for this more carefully, taking several minutes to finish the task.

  The fourth lit brazier was new since this morning. From the looks of it, it was a sleeping potion. Powdered thistledown seeds and dried milkweed root were the only two ingredients before the brazier. Kevon mashed a small piece of root into a paste and scraped it up to drop into the flask. After finishing putting the paste and a small pinch of thistle seed powder into the simmering concoction, Kevon turned to the racked bottles behind him to begin emptying his pouches.

  Some of the herbs he bottled straightaway. The rest would have to be set in drying racks over the next week or so, and chopped or powdered depending on the herb and its intended use.

  Having finished the sorting, Kevon returned to the potion table, picking up the pitcher of water on the end nearest the door. He filled each flask to the line etched in the side. Then he stirred each one with a thin ivory stick, cleaning it carefully between flasks.

  More than ready to escape the fragrant room, Kevon breathed a sigh of relief as he exited and closed the door behind him. A flicker of shadow from the doorway of Master Holten’s study caught his eye, and he wandered over to peer inside.

  “Finished?” queried his teacher, shuffling over to reshelf a book.

  “Yes,” Kevon replied. “They should be fine well into dusk for the next tending.”

  “Splendid. How is Martin doing with that goose?” Holten asked.

  “I came straight here from the laboratory. I have no idea.” Kevon paused. “Master?” he began.

  “Yes?”

  “The reason I was late today…”

  “I trust this is not just excuses for your loafing and working silly Illusions.” Holten interjected somberly.

  “Very well,” Kevon continued. “One of the reasons I was late today, is, well… I was burying a man.”