Apprentice Swordceror

by Chris Hollaway

  * * *

  Kevon spotted the sword under the tree as soon as he entered the clearing. He dismounted, and walked past the blade to stand silently before the mound of stones.

  After a moment, he knelt respectfully and spoke.

  “Sir, I may never know who you were, or why you were here. Your sword may never reach who it was you intended to have it.” Kevon paused. “But I will try.”

  Kevon stood and contemplated the mound for a minute more. Then he turned and strode over to where the blade rested under the tree. He reached down and grasped the hilt. Blackness enfolded him.

  * * *

  Kevon woke to a warm snuffling in his ear. He had a bad taste in his mouth, and felt as wrung-out as he had when Aiding Master Holten’s Sending the day before. Kevon’s hand lay inches from the hilt of the blade, and he jerked back reflexively.

  What had happened? His mind raced as he compared the two times he had touched the blade. The first time had been only slightly uncomfortable, and this time had evidently been unbearable.

  The mare nickered and began grazing on the new grass in the center of the clearing.

  Kevon sat, staring at the sword. He realized that if he was going to keep his promise, he would have to figure out how to handle the blade, overcome his fear of it.

  Bracing himself, he reached out again and closed his fist around the hilt…

  There was a moment of queasiness, but nothing else. Kevon lifted the blade and took a few swings. From the corner of his eye, he saw the mare’s ears fold back, so he stopped and held the blade close to his side.

  Annoyed that he was no closer to figuring the mystery out, Kevon took a few moments to roll the sword into the center of his bedroll and cinch it back into place behind his saddle.

  Kevon led the mare to the stream to drink, then sat and rested for a while before remounting and returning to the road.

  Several times during the day, Kevon reached back into the end of his bedroll to touch the sword’s hilt. Each time, his stomach turned slightly for a moment, and then he was fine again. Kevon found the situation fascinating.

  As dusk approached, Kevon could just see the mouth of the South Pass. Ahead, mountain walls rose to either side of the road. He turned the mare off the road and went about a hundred steps into the trees before he found a suitable area to bed down for the night.

  Kevon swung down from the saddle and unloaded his mount. He tethered the mare to a nearby tree, kicked an area free of debris, and made a circle of rocks. He found some dead branches lying about, broke them into suitable lengths, and placed them in the improvised hearth.

  It was not yet cold or dark enough to need the fire yet, but it was too dark to study the book with which Holten had entrusted him. Kevon picked up the sword.

  He looked closely at the weapon for the first time. It was by no means a fancy weapon, but it was elegant in its own way. The front edge of the blade was slightly curved, well sharpened, and a little wavy. The thickness varied a bit from place to place. Kevon supposed it was from sharpening out nicks and chips. It came to a triangular point, which was sharp almost to the point of looking fragile.

  The sharpened edge continued about a hand’s-breadth down the back side before it widened into a flat surface nearly half an inch across. This too showed signs of wear as if notches had been smoothed out by a whetstone. The crosspiece was a simple narrow flare of polished iron. The hilt and joint were wrapped in well-maintained leather, up to the smooth iron sphere on the pommel.

  Kevon held the sword in his hand and twisted his wrist to get a feel for it. Though he was no swordsman, the blade just felt right in his grasp, if a bit heavy for his untrained arm.

  Kevon took a few practice jabs. He twisted, and decapitated an imaginary foe behind him. After a minute or so of disemboweling orcs and parrying strikes from enemy soldiers, Kevon reluctantly laid the sword down by the saddle and provisions near the head of his spread bedroll.

  A slight breeze chilled the sweat he had raised with his childish prancing. Kevon smiled and turned his attention to the branches in the fire ring.

  Nothing.

  The requisite images for the spell formed as usual in his mind, but there was no rush of exhilaration as the magic flowed into them to do his will.

  Kevon sat, trembling. He cursed himself inwardly for daring to think that he, little more than an Apprentice, was different. For thinking that he should be able to do things that Master Wizards dared not contemplate.

  He had toyed with a forbidden blade, and his magic had left him.

  Kevon drew his bedroll around him, and wept long into the night.

  Chapter 5

  Kevon woke to a light dusting of snow. It seldom rained or snowed at the north end of the valley because of the height of the surrounding mountains, but he had heard that there were often storms higher up. The narrow slice of sky he could see on the low light of approaching dawn was clear though.

  He rummaged through his saddlebags for breakfast, choosing a hunk of bread and a small wedge of cheese. He ate silently, glancing at the fire ring and wishing he had some way to make a spark.

  Unbidden, the symbols for the fire spell from the night before formed in his mind. Power began to trickle through them, and Kevon pushed with all of his mental might.

  The branches in the fire ring roared into flames, as did the pile beside the ring. He cried out in alarm, and the spell dissolved, the flames dying down to natural levels. Kevon kicked dirt onto the pile of wood beside the ring, and it went out quickly.

  Perplexed, he crouched beside the fire and finished his breakfast. It seemed the strangeness of the last few days was showing no signs of slowing.

  He tried to reason out why his Art was behaving so erratically. Before this, Kevon had been able to reliably start a fire, but had never produced flames of this magnitude. Granted, his nervousness about losing his magic, and the shock of the spell starting to work had caused him to put more effort into it.

  Obviously, contact with the sword had not lessened Kevon’s magical ability in the least, he decided. But his inability to use magic last night still disturbed him. He had suffered no ill effects in his first encounter with the blade, when he had taken it to its owner. He had also been able to use magic afterwards, unlike last night.

  The whole affair made Kevon’s head hurt. He rubbed his hands together over the fire, brushed the crumbs from his cloak, and began to re-saddle the mare. He envisioned a different set of symbols and stifled the fire with a shove of his Art.

  Soon, everything was snugly affixed to the horse’s back, everything but the sword and his bedroll. He stood near where the weapon lay, unconsciously clenching and unclenching his right hand.

  Echoes of his promise at the Warrior’s grave whispered through his mind. He braced himself, knelt down, and grabbed the sword.

  The shock tore through him like a thunderclap, but he was ready for it. He struggled to keep his breakfast down, steadying himself against a nearby tree trunk. And then…

  Nothing.

  Kevon stared at the sword for a second, then rolled it into his bedroll and strapped it down behind the mare’s saddle.

  He tried to call forth his butterfly Illusion, but the symbols remained dull and dark in his mind. Shrugging, he mounted and rode back to the mouth of the pass.

  He reined the mare up short before entering the narrows of the pass. This was the furthest he had ever been from home. Except in stories, the world, to Kevon, was no larger than this valley. He had come to the pass once before, almost two years ago. It had been then, when the news of his father’s death had been followed by one hardship after another that Kevon had contemplated running away. But by the time he had reached this point, he had begged a ride on a Merchant’s wagon that had happened down at just the right time.

  “Here I am again,” muttered Kevon. “Older, wiser, stronger, wealthier, and better fed,” He sighed. “And still just as scared.”

  He clucked, tapped his heels into the mare�
�s flanks, and entered the pass.

  * * *

  The South Pass was long. Kevon wondered what drove Merchants to even consider a trip to Laston. Perhaps they were being punished by their superiors.

  The road wound around the side of one mountain, then peeled off around another, offering views of smaller uninhabitable valleys around each bend. At regular intervals, Kevon could look up and spot the place the road was heading, a notch in the mountain range that loomed close to the south.

  As the day wore on, the wind picked up and clouds began to streak the sky. Kevon pushed the mare, stopping only once at a spring-fed string stream to water the horse and refill his water skins.

  Night was approaching faster than Kevon liked. He figured the open road was not a place he wanted to be during a storm at night. The terrain off the road, however, was far too vertical for his taste. He rode on.

  Darkness pushed in on Kevon before he reached his goal of the high pass. Feeling too exposed to stop, Kevon formed a small, bright Illusion of the sun, and pushed it out ahead of him. After a while, he had to dismount and lead the mare to keep his concentration intact.

  Then it started to rain.

  Half an hour later, weary, dispirited, and soaked to the bone, Kevon led his mount under the half-shelter of a large pine that grew in a wide spot off the track just inside the narrows of the high pass.

  He still had the presence of mind to loosen the strap on the saddle and tip it and the rest of his gear to the ground before he slumped against the tree and passed out.

  * * *

  The sunrise seems all wrong. Kevon thinks to lift his head to shield his eyes from the green glow that steadily brightens, but he is too exhausted. It seems that the green glow is coming closer, but Kevon is paralyzed, unable to lift even a finger, or turn away. The glow softens and resolves into two points of light that continue their approach.

  As the lights grow closer, Kevon feels more as if he is the one moving. His suspicion is confirmed as his approach slows and he discovers the lights are twin emeralds resting on the edge of a writing desk. As he watches, one of the emeralds teeters and falls from its place. Kevon panics, knowing he should reach out to try and catch it. He still cannot move at all.

  The gem falls slowly, facets winking at him as it spins. The emerald drops onto the hard cobblestone of the street below, shattering into a fine powder and wisping away like mage-smoke.

  Despair and anger throb through Kevon’s mind. A metallic zing and he holds before him a sword he does not recognize. A hand reaches out, a woman’s hand, fine boned, perfect alabaster skin. She grasps the blade, grips it tightly, trembling as blood seeps between fingers that should never know a moment’s pain, to drip out of sight. Kevon’s shame is so great that he cannot bear to look past the hand to its owner.

  Kevon’s sadness manifests itself as a blue veil over his vision. The sword and grasping hand crumble into dust that swirls out of sight. Kevon’s stomach lurches; he is rushing toward something, propelled by a strong breeze at his back.

  Just as he catches a glimpse of a tall island cliff crowned by immense trees connected by a lattice of spider web-like bridges, a wave of green crashes over everything. The world is green and skewed by constantly shifting distortion. Kevon feels the pressure and knows he is under water, deeper than Men belong. The cave he seeks comes into view. As he steps near the cave mouth, the waters drain away, the shape of the entrance twists as grass and trees spring up from the hardening earth. He takes a step and the world tilts at an impossible angle. In the blink of an eye, the cave mouth is the cauldron of a volcano, the far side out of sight through the haze and soot. Kevon struggles to regain his balance, and falls backward. He closes his eyes, waiting for the inevitable impact.

  He feels nothing. He opens his eyes to nothing. He waits.

  The silence is broken by a soft moan. Other voices join in, growing ever louder, shrieking, screaming, and pleading. When Kevon feels he can stand no more, the voices fade as they began, not nearly fast enough. He is left in silence again.

  He feels a rustling at his back. Then comes the soft whisper, dripping with hatred.

  “Die, Mage.”

  Pain, white-hot, lances through his lower right side.

  * * *

  Kevon startled awake, reaching for the pain still driving into his back. Breathing heavily, heart racing, he grimaced and tossed the sharp rock he had rolled onto across the road into a bush. Muttering softly, he curled back up tighter, and went back to sleep.

  Chapter 6

  Morning brought another clearing of the skies, and a fresh wind blowing through the pass.

  Kevon woke sprawled backwards against some rocks that would not normally be his first choice for bedding. The mare was further down along the pass, grazing away at a patch of grass near a rain-filled wagon rut.

  Kevon sat up, and noticed the used fire ring a few feet away from him. A stack of wood was piled against the other side of the tree his leg still rested against.

  With no one else around, Kevon decided this was just a convenient stopping place, rather than a campsite that was currently in use. He tossed a few branches into the ring and ignited them with his Art.

  After spreading various articles out to dry, Kevon ate a quick meal of meat and cheese, and then began to double-check his belongings.

  His spare cloak had stayed almost completely dry, so he changed into it, transferring all of his pocketed supplies.

  With a contented stomach, a nice fire, and a dry cloak, Kevon found himself without anything more to do until the rest of his gear dried out. Unwilling to handle the sword at the moment, he unpacked the book he was returning to Master Gurlin.

  The cover was leather, careworn but well maintained. The inside was another matter.

  Used to Master Holten’s even, flowing script, Kevon found it difficult to read even two sentences in the cramped, uneven hand that was apparently Gurlin’s. The margins of the book, instead of containing the occasional note for clarification, were instead filled almost completely with more of Gurlin’s writing. This scrawling was even less coherent than the main body of text. Crude sketches crowded by random comments threatened to overflow into the paragraphs that were much saner by comparison.

  Kevon closed the book. It would probably make more sense if he started from the beginning, but he did not want to try right then.

  The time he had spent reading had been long enough to warm Kevon’s body and spirit. The mare, satisfied for now, wandered back over to see what Kevon was doing as he put out the fire.

  Kevon gathered up his belongings, now mostly dry, taking care to handle the sword with a fold of his bedroll as he rolled it up. He saddled and loaded the mare and continued on up the pass.

  Just a few minutes from camp, Kevon rode over the top of the pass and reined his mount to a stop to take in the view. The mountains to his left continued on fairly straight to the south, curving slightly eastward before turning gently back to the west. The range on his right cut sharply westward before turning to the south before Kevon lost sight of it on the horizon.

  And in front of him, the city of Kron lay amidst the quilted pattern of fields that stretched out as far as the eye could see.

  The road veered to the right, curving down along the side of the mountain, doubling back whenever the landscape flattened. Ruts and weeds were more pronounced and unkempt on this side of the pass, from the warmer, rainier climate.

  By the time Kevon was halfway down, the midday heat began to affect him. The breeze blowing up the side of the mountain was not enough to keep Kevon from sweating. He removed his cloak, folded it and wedged it between his saddle and bedroll. The more rapid pace of descent tired the mare, so Kevon rested at every other switchback, allowing her to drink from the stream that bounded the far right of the slope.

  Near the bottom, the road began to widen. It rose above the landscape, and seemed more like aged, baked clay than a simple dirt track.

  Well before the light began to fail,
Kevon approached the first building he’d seen outside the North Valley, an inn near the crossroads before the fields began. As Kevon rode close, a young boy came out of the nearby stables.

  “Staying the night?” he called out as he approached Kevon.

  “Ah, yes, I think I will.” Kevon decided aloud. He dismounted, loosed his bedroll and saddlebags, donned his cloak, and went inside as the stable boy led the mare away.

  “Welcome to the Dancing Sheep!” cried a plump little man, bursting from the inn’s kitchen into the common area to greet Kevon.

  “Hello.” Kevon sat his bedroll and saddlebags on a nearby chair, and tried to maintain a composure befitting his rank.

  Kevon noted an older man with an icy gaze at a table in the corner, with his back to the wall. Their eyes met. The man gave what passed for a friendly nod, and turned his attention back to his mug.

  The innkeeper eyed Kevon’s gear. “You’ll need a room then?” He ran an appraising eye over Kevon. “And a hot meal, I expect?”

  “Yes.” Kevon began.

  “Three silver for dinner, breakfast, and the room.” the innkeeper interrupted. “In advance.”

  Kevon’s jaw dropped. He’d seen a silver piece… once. “Three?” he asked, dumbfounded.

  The innkeeper grimaced. “All right. Two. But you’ll be getting no ale with dinner.”

  Kevon’s mind raced. He had the two healing potions he was planning on bartering, but who would believe that was what the flasks contained? He did not look the part of a Journeyman Mage without his robes. The only things of value he had were his horse and the pearl.

  Flustered and embarrassed, he fumbled into his pocket and drew the pouch with the pearl out, and dumped it into his palm.