Apprentice Swordceror

by Chris Hollaway

  “So they outnumbered the soldiers in the capital?” Kevon asked.

  Marelle shook her head. “Their best estimates were that forces at that point were even. The Kærtesian army had the advantage of surprise and experience, but lacked position. As much as it galled them, the commanders set up for a siege. They detached several regiments to deal with incoming reinforcements, and guided by some of the Magi, they ambushed every unit that came close before they could mass into anything resembling a threat.”

  Marelle paused to take a drink of ale from the mug she had brought outside. “That went on for a few weeks. Then the Magi at the siege lines grew impatient. They caused the city’s water supplies to dry up. They also made all of the vermin from the surrounding countryside invade the food stores and eat as much as they could before dying. Within two days, the gates opened and the battle was joined.”

  Marelle stopped talking for a minute, and Kevon watched her stare into her mug, unsure what to say.

  “It wasn’t much of a battle, at first. Our forces had improved their positions and were rotated, fresh, well fed. Their hungry, green troops barely managed to reach the battle lines with their first charge; most who didn’t fall to our arrows fell back in fear.”

  Marelle’s eyes took on a glazed look as she recounted the battle. Unconsciously, Kevon placed his hand over hers, a gesture of comfort. She flinched slightly and looked at him.

  “Are you all right?” Kevon asked. “I don’t need to hear the end now if you want to stop.”

  Marelle smiled gently and shook her head. “I’m fine. It’s just that my uncle was a sub-commander in that battle, one of the survivors. I’ve heard it a lot.” She squeezed the fingertips that Kevon had curled under her hand, and slipped free to hold her mug with both hands.

  “As the defenders fell back, several figures were seen standing on the battlements of the city, arms outstretched to the sky, instead of crouching for cover,” she continued.

  “Magi,” Kevon breathed softly.

  “Yes,” nodded Marelle. “By the time our archers spotted them and took aim, the rocks were already falling. From a cloudless sky, boulders the size of a man’s head tumbled into the ranks. The first volley of arrows took one of the Magi, but within moments several hundred Kærtesian soldiers were dead.”

  Marelle paused again to drink. “The Magi within our army responded swiftly, filling the air with lightning that struck down most of the men on the battlements, destroying trees and buildings inside and outside of the walls as well. After a minute, only one of the enemy Magi was left upon the walls.” She paused again. “Kevon?”

  “Yes, Marelle?” Kevon asked, peering at her.

  Marelle’s gaze drifted down to where Kevon’s hand still rested on her leg where her hand had been.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Kevon softly, quickly removing the hand and beginning to turn a rather bright shade of red. He laced his fingers and placed them firmly in his lap. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” his voice trailed off, unable to put his embarrassment into words.

  “It’s all right.” Marelle sighed and tried to remember where she was in her story. “One Mage was left on the walls. He was waving his arms wildly and shouting something at the top of his lungs. My uncle, at the back of the formation, could hear something that he thought he should understand, but couldn’t. The Mage finished his flailing and thrust both arms into the air with a final shout. The sky above him began to grow a bright red, and tore apart. My uncle saw a blazing orb through the tear in the sky, like a sun gone mad. He felt the heat for a moment before a shadow passed in front of the rift. And then,” she stopped.

  “And then…?” Kevon asked. “What?”

  “Well, this is the part that people remember differently. My uncle said that the people who tell other endings are scared of the truth, scared to the point of forgetting. He said that happened in battle sometimes. But what he claimed happened…” Marelle hesitated again. Kevon could not tell if it was fear or shame holding her tongue.

  “Do you believe what he told you?” asked Kevon, looking Marelle squarely in the eye.

  “Yes, of course.” She answered.

  “Then, I’ll believe it too,” decided Kevon. “You can tell me.”

  “The thing that blocked the light…” Marelle continued, “Was a dragon.”

  Kevon nodded, expecting her to continue. An awkward moment passed, and Kevon realized he had not shown the proper amount of surprise that a normal youth from a backwater town would have. He’d read of Magi from long ago being able to open doorways to other places where strange creatures, including dragons, lived. From the displays of magical prowess that Marelle had described, the gateway with the dragon had not been too shocking.

  Kevon forced his eyes to widen in feigned disbelief. “You mean a real dragon?”

  Marelle nodded vigorously. “The dragon flew through the opening and there was a loud thunderclap. The tear in the sky disappeared and the Mage collapsed on the battlements. The beast saw the Kærtesian army first, and breathed a swath of flame through the thickest bunching of soldiers.” She paused to take another drink. “There was no standing against it. The survivors broke and ran, to the last man.”

  “But your uncle made it back all right.” Kevon said. “That was a stroke of good luck.”

  “Yes, luck was with them.” Marelle explained. “The dragon wheeled about and saw the besieged city. It must have decided it was a better target. My uncle’s luck was a mixed blessing.”

  “How’s that?” Kevon asked. “He lived to tell the tale, and you’ve heard it more than a few times by the sound of it.”

  “Yes, he did. And I have. But…” Marelle’s voice faltered slightly before she continued. “My uncle’s horse carried him about half a mile before it died of its wounds. One of his cavalrymen picked him up and returned him safely to the waiting ships. One of the Magi…”

  Kevon noticed the edge in her voice and the way her eyes narrowed at that.

  “Gave him something to ease his pain and begin healing. But…” Marelle’s eyes began tearing up in earnest. “He never saw again, and he never walked again. He was at the end of the dragon’s burst of flames through the Kærtesian army. The last thing he saw was that monster killing hundreds of men he’d known for years.”

  “I’m sorry.” Kevon’s fingers twitched slightly as he fought the impulse to reach out a hand.

  “The reason I know that story so well,” Marelle explained, sniffing back a tear, “is that my uncle told it to me at least twice a day while I was caring for him. He was no use to the army; he couldn’t see or move enough to even feed himself. He died half a season after he returned home to stay with us.”

  Kevon sat awhile and thought. He glanced from time to time at Marelle. She was two years younger than he, but the twists and trials life had presented her made her act far older than her seventeen years. Had she grown up in Laston, he could easily picture her running crazily through the high weeds in the meadow outside of town, raven hair trailing, laughing at some girlish nonsense. But she had not. She’d grown up hearing about what went on across the Realm, across the world, even. It had come to her doorstep. Kevon had read quite a bit in the last year, but his studies were disconnected. Lacking experience with what he’d learned, his knowledge had little bearing on much of anything.

  “So that’s what people in places like Laston are running from.” Kevon said flatly. “I’m not so sure I blame them anymore.”

  Marelle sat, still snuffling over her mug. “I’d rather know,” she whispered, turning to look at Kevon.

  Kevon had seen men throw injured goats or calves over their shoulders and pack them like sacks of flour. He’d heard the clanging of the blacksmith’s hammer for hours on end. He’d witnessed strength, to be sure. But this wisp of a girl, a full head shorter than he and scarcely more than half his weight, showed a different kind of strength. Through the sadness of remembered tragedy that was plainly evident in her eyes, Kevon could see a flame of
defiance, one that dared the world to do what it would – Marelle would not fold.

  A thought struck Kevon. If there was one girl in the world who did not need protecting, he was sure Marelle was it. But now, protecting her was at the forefront of his mind.

  Kevon sighed inwardly. He was in no position to protect anyone. He was next to useless. The mightiest Art he wielded was best suited for a stage show, and though he currently possessed a sword, he knew nothing about using it.

  “Kevon?” Marelle asked.

  “Mmm?” Kevon grunted. He realized that he had been staring through Marelle while lamenting his inadequacies.

  “Oh. Sorry. It’s… late.” He explained, looking away.

  “I suppose it is.” Marelle sighed, disappointment tingeing her voice. “Early day tomorrow, and the last night in an inn for about a week.”

  Kevon rose and offered Marelle his hand.

  “Thank you, but I’m going to sit a while longer.” Marelle responded, clasping the offered hand for a moment. “Good night.”

  Kevon thought frantically for an excuse to sit back down, but nothing came to mind. “Good night, Marelle.” He smiled and went inside the inn to his room.

  Night was half over before Kevon’s mind let him fall asleep.

  Chapter 8

  The roads outside of the Kron region were not as well maintained as those on the inside, but were still serviceable. Rhulcan told Kevon that crews came down them during lulls in the crop cycles to make sure that trade routes were not compromised.

  The party left earlier than usual in the morning. Since travel would no longer be from inn to inn, time on the road mattered more. Carlo ranged ahead surveying the path more than he had been, but other than that showed no undue concern. Kevon refrained from riding with him and stayed by the wagon at all times.

  At the midday pause for lunch, Marelle seemed less talkative than usual. She did ask Kevon a few questions about Laston, but for the most part ate in silence.

  An hour after they would have been ready to stop the days before, Carlo returned from a scouting pass and told the others that there was a suitable campsite just ahead. Shortly they arrived at a wide, flat area that lay just off the road.

  Kevon helped Rhulcan unharness and picket the horses a short distance from the wagon. Marelle gathered fallen limbs and dried grasses and piled them near a well-used fire pit. Carlo unpacked a crossbow and a short case of bolts from a trunk in the wagon and rode off in the direction they had been traveling. Rhulcan handed Kevon a fire-bow and began unpacking a large bundle of heavy canvas and several long wooden poles.

  Kevon went to the fire pit, fussed about with putting the branches just so and layering grasses in preparation for lighting. He went through the motions, but as soon as the others were occupied with the canvas structure they were trying to erect, Kevon released a small flow of power into the Fire rune he’d been visualizing. The grass caught quickly and Kevon hovered over it like a brooding hen until it was burning steadily.

  With that task completed, Kevon wandered over and helped Rhulcan and Marelle finish putting up the ‘tent’.

  Kevon hauled a trunk inside the tent and Marelle carried in the rest of the bags. By the time everything was situated to her satisfaction, Carlo had returned with two quail and a rather large jackrabbit slung over his saddle.

  Dinner was more like what Kevon was used to at home; cold bread and cheese, fresh game, and watered down wine. Conversation was light; descriptions of the road ahead, what to expect of the countryside this time of year.

  After everyone had finished eating and the talk died down, Rhulcan and Marelle retired to the tent, and Kevon went back to the spot he had chosen under the wagon. He unrolled his bedroll, tensed, and gripped the hilt of the sword so that he could move it underneath his other belongings.

  “Vagabond!” Carlo’s cry mixed with the metallic zing as his blade sang free of its sheath.

  Kevon turned, looking for the danger, expecting an intruder in camp, but Carlo was advancing on him! Kevon dropped the sword and stood up.

  Rhulcan and Marelle spilled from the tent, Rhulcan brandishing a longknife and Marelle fumbling with a small but sharp looking dagger.

  Carlo’s blade whipped around and Kevon jumped back, crashing into the side of the wagon. The Warrior thrust forward to rest the tip of his blade near the base of Kevon’s throat. Marelle screamed.

  “What are you doing?” gasped Kevon, eyes fixed on the sword that was beginning to pierce his flesh.

  “I’ll ask the questions!” snarled the mercenary. “Rhulcan, get that sword!”

  The trader skirted around to the side of the wagon, ducked down and grabbed the sword, keeping his longknife between himself and Kevon the whole time.

  Marelle stood, blank-faced. The dagger she held dropped to the ground with a soft thump.

  “Is that why you never told us what that bauble was payment for?” Rhulcan snapped. “Who sent you?”

  “Nobody! I swear!” cried Kevon.

  Carlo pressed his sword-tip harder against Kevon’s breastbone and turned to look at the sword Rhulcan had retrieved as the Merchant backed around to his side. “That’s quite the blade for a know-nothing North Valley bumpkin,” he grunted.

  “It’s… not… mine…” Kevon wheezed, taking shallow breaths to spare himself the full pressure of Carlo’s sword.

  “So you’re just a thief, not an assassin.” Marelle snapped bitterly. “It’s all the same to me.” She shook her foot clear of the draw-strap of Carlo’s crossbow and fitted a quarrel into the firing groove.

  Marelle staggered slightly as she hoisted the weapon up to butt up against her shoulder and sight down it.

  Carlo glanced over his shoulder and saw the bow wobbling unsteadily in Marelle’s grasp as she reached for the trigger. He yelped and whirled to clear the line of fire.

  Twang!

  Marelle’s aim was surer than Carlo had thought possible in her distressed state. The bolt whizzed past the mercenary and hammered into Kevon’s arm.

  Kevon shrieked in pain.

  Marelle dropped the weapon and slumped to the ground, sobbing.

  Kevon looked at the bolt that was sticking out of the fleshy part of his left arm, a hand’s-breadth above his elbow. He tried to move his arm, but the tip of the bolt was imbedded in the wagon behind him. The pain rolled over him, turning his world a sickly shade of red. Kevon felt the blood trickling down the inside of his tunic sleeve. He watched, trembling as Carlo advanced, weapon at the ready.

  A jerk against the stuck bolt proved to be too much for Kevon as the pain washed over him anew.

  Darkness took him.

  Chapter 9

  Kevon woke to a throbbing pain in his arm. His tunic sleeve had been torn off and tied around his arm to staunch the bleeding. He was across the campsite from where he had been, and propped up sitting against a tree.

  “Father!” Marelle shouted. “He’s awake!”

  Kevon stared at the trader’s daughter down the sights of a reloaded crossbow.

  “Don’t try anything…” she warned, her eyes flashing in the firelight.

  Rhulcan came from the direction of the wagon, carrying Kevon’s saddlebags with him, Carlo close on his heels.

  “Marelle,” Rhulcan began, “Put the weapon away.”

  “But Father!” she protested. “He’s…”

  “Innocent.” Rhulcan interrupted. “Naïve. Decent.” The Merchant looked down at Kevon with an unusual warmth in his eyes. “And in more trouble than he knows.”

  Kevon tilted his head questioningly and was rewarded with a twinge from his injured arm. “What do you mean?” he asked, wincing.

  “Can you read?” Rhulcan asked him, extending the letter of invitation Master Holten had given him to take to Master Gurlin. The seal was broken.

  Kevon accepted the letter with his good hand and fumbled awkwardly with it, trying to open it without moving his left arm. As soon as he opened it enough, he started reading softly alo
ud.

  Brother Gurlin,

  Here is the book I borrowed those long years ago. The bearer of this letter, Kevon, undoubtedly carries with him more coin than I owe you. Unfortunately, I do not believe he can be bent to our cause. Dismiss him, kill him, or do otherwise as it suits you. It matters not.

  Until we meet again,

  -Holten

  Kevon’s arm throbbed more painfully as his heart began to pound harder. Betrayed, by his own Master. Tears began filling his eyes and he threw the parchment into the fire.

  “I’m sorry, boy.” Rhulcan offered. “Who was he?”

  “A Wizard.” Kevon sniffed. “One I thought I could trust.” The reality of the situation was slowly filtering into Kevon’s pain-wracked mind. “Rhulcan, can you hand me one of those flasks I have in my saddlebags?” Kevon asked.

  Rhulcan retrieved one of the potions from a bag and handed it to Kevon with a look of mild disapproval. “This is no time for spirits, lad.”

  Kevon shook his head after he pulled the stopper out of the flask with his teeth. “Healing potion…” he explained.

  Rhulcan started to protest as Kevon tipped the flask and began drinking.

  “You trust the wizard’s brew?” the Merchant asked, concern lining his voice.

  Kevon paused his drinking of the lukewarm concoction long enough to nod and respond. “He wanted me to get where I was going.”

  The warmth of the potion beginning its work was starting to spread throughout Kevon’s body already. Before he finished, his left arm was tingling and starting to go numb. Kevon knew that if he treated his arm gently for the next few days, he would have only a small scar to show for the injury. If he drank the other potion, he would most likely be fully healed with no scarring in about two days.

  “So what will you do now?” asked Marelle, finally deciding to lay the crossbow aside. “Your journey, your task, is a deathtrap.”