by Damien Lake
For now he must report to the village. One last glance at the man assured Colbey he was settling down for the long wait of the hunter. With that, he hurried along the branches of the Euvea Road, which no outlanders ever walked.
* * * * *
Marik watched the wagon line trundle eastward along the Southern Road from atop a hill beside the town of Tattersfield. He could see for quite a distance from his vantage point. The Rovasii was a distant smudge far to the south. Caravan guards rode at the fore of the procession, not yet spread across its length. Bandits who would dare attack an assemblage so large would never do so this near population. Ten wagons with a dozen guards and nearly as many drivers would keep the caravan safe from any but the most organized raid. Also, with the highwayguards constantly riding the roads, the chances they would run into outlaws were very small. Despite that, Marik imagined the life a caravan guardsman led must be a far cry from his own.
He led the caravan into a large inn yard at the heart of the city. After adjusting his sword scabbard and shifting his armor, he and the other guards slid down from their saddles. They gave their reins to an assembly of eager stable boys. A dirty, humble man in a stained apron appeared from the kitchen door, greeting them with, “Good evening to you, men. Putting in for the night, are you?”
“Pate! You better have a good table and better food ready for us. It’s been a long ride!”
“Is that you, Marik Railson? Why, it has been a time! You haven’t been around since you ran the Black Hand Gang out of the fourteenth district. We thought you’d headed for distant lands to seek adventure and fortune.”
“Not until I finish up some business around here first.” The remaining wagons lined up by the yard’s outer wall. Guards and drivers gathered near the kitchen door. Boys lingered near the stable doors to hear what Marik, Bane of the Black Hand Gang, would say next.
“Ellise,” Pate called to a serving girl. “Clear out the corner table and fetch a round of clean tankards.”
“None of that watered down piss you call ale, Pate! I’m not in the mood. Not after that group of cutthroats at the crossroads.”
“Oh my, did you run into trouble, good sir?”
“Nothing a few skewered bandits didn’t resolve.” He patted the large blade hanging at his side. The stable boys’ eyes widened while they whispered and stared at the mighty men.
“Yes, I imagine such fools would not be much cause for concern to one of your ability, Marik. And you’re right, of course. Ellise! Tell Miriam to tap one of the back barrels! And roll out the best mead as well for Marik and his men! They deserve only our finest!”
Ellise’s eyes widened at the name. “Is it Marik?”
“Yes, it’s Marik! Now you move on girl!” Turning back, he added, “Before I forget, sir, a passing traveler left news with me for you. It’s about your good father.”
“Really now? Well, as I’ve said before Pate, if you’re good for nothing else in the world, it’s collecting news and gossip! Come in and tell me about it!”
He slapped the pot-bellied man’s back. Pate bowed obsequiously. As they stepped inside the innkeeper fawned over him for the privilege of taking his cloak.
“It’s Marik,” whispered the cooks.
“Marik!” echoed the servants.
“Marik!”
“Marik! Gods damn it, boy! You’re supposed to be down at the mill helping Allen!”
Marik jumped. His foot caught on a tree root, twisting his ankle and tumbling him to the ground. And, naturally, once he had momentum, he continued to roll into the patch of rash ivy he had carefully avoided earlier.
He groaned in pain.
Master Pate glared at him from the pathway on the hill. Pate’s irritation stirred memories, reminding Marik that he was indeed supposed to be at the mill collecting good woodcuts with Pate’s son, Allen. In the excitement of watching the caravan prepare to leave, he had completely forgotten about it.
“Oh…that’s right! I’m on my way.” He crawled out of the rash ivy and started to stand. The pain in his ankle nearly sent him back in. It must have shown, but Pate’s expression lost none of its edge.
“Never you mind that now, boy. You get yourself washed up before the ivy sets in your skin. I’ll go down to the mill and help Allen bring the good cuts to the shop since you can’t be bothered to do it yourself!”
“I can do it, sir…I just forgot. I’ll run down right now.” He could not afford to have Pate throw him out. It would end his apprenticeship, which would cause him little grief, except it would create too many troubles at the same time. Pate spent most of his days being annoyed with him so Marik felt uncertain exactly how angry the man was this time.
“You can’t even stand. How do you plan to run?”
“I can stand,” Marik insisted. He stood straighter. His ankle buckled momentarily which he tried his best to hide.
“Go get yourself washed.”
“Yes, sir.” Marik stepped for the road. He refused to limp.
“And if my shop gets covered in rash ivy, I’ll take it out of your hide! Don’t you think I won’t!”
“Yes, sir,” he repeated while Pate followed the path toward the river beyond the hill. When Pate left his sight, Marik paused to glance at the distant caravan. It had moved far off, disappearing through the hills.
In trepidation of what Pate would have in store for him later, he wished more than ever that he was riding alongside them.
* * * * *
Marik felt depressed. His itching skin did little to improve his mood. He picked at his meal in Puarri’s Tavern. The owner was generous enough to spot a friend’s son the price of a meal from time to time. Tonight, Marik did not want to go home yet, so he took advantage of Puarri’s kindness.
Being the son of a sword-for-hire guaranteed he would never be worth more than refuse in the townsfolk’s eyes. The king could come in person to decorate him for exemplary service to the crown, and the people of Tattersfield would assume he had stolen credit for another man’s deeds. That he was a sixteen-year-old apprentice with no knowledge in his craft only added fuel to that fire.
Pate disliked him. He had not desired an apprentice, a fledgling who would usurp the time he devoted to training his own son. The woodcrafter especially did not want a mercenary’s get who understood nothing involved with woodworking. Good, kind, gentle Master Pate had only accepted Marik as a favor to Lilly, Marik’s mother, and because the charitable act garnered him prestige from the other townsfolk. With Rail missing these last five years, Lilly had received a small amount of sympathy from Tattersfield as a widowed mother.
This never bothered Marik before. He knew that obstacles like Pate could be overcome. And they had never received any confirmations of Rail’s death. Rail Drakkson was not the sort of man to die in obscurity without being discovered. Deep inside, hidden within the crevasses of his heart, he would only accept that Rail was dead when he personally gazed upon his father’s corpse. Somewhere out in the world, Rail still used his considerable mercenary skill to forge his way.
But why had he left his son and wife to fend for themselves for five long years? Marik’s pride in his father did little to dull that question’s bitter edge, a question which occurred with increasing frequency every day those old dusty boots failed to beat a path to their doorway.
A trio of travelers entered and called to Puarri for food, breaking Marik from thoughts that occurred almost daily now. He could tell these men were fresh from the road by the questions they asked Puarri when he brought them ale. They planned to move on with the dawn and were interested only in road conditions beyond Tattersfield. The three were discussing the caravan that had passed them earlier when several townsmen arrived. Their raucous laughter drowned the travelers’ speech.
His interest persisted since they bore the look of fighters. Not only their gear suggested this, but their very manner seemed hardened. On the right, nearest the hearth, sat a man tall and thin. A scar ran from his left ear down his nec
k, disappearing under his tunic. Locks of dark hair veiled small eyes. Marik thought the man should be scowling or suspicious, yet he spoke the most with Puarri in a cheerfully boisterous demeanor usually reserved for tale spinners practicing their craft at the Summerdawn Festival.
The man on the left was the one who bore the sullen manner. Though of similar height to the first man, his face was wider, scar-free and his dark hair cut back to clear his vision. His nose had obviously been broken before. Across the table, the first man turned from Puarri to toss something at him while making an unheard comment. While he tucked the object into his belt pouch, the sullen man’s expression soured.
When Puarri left them, the first turned his exuberance on his sullen companion, receiving only short, curt utterances in reply. Marik wished he could hear what they said.
The third man had yet to say anything as far as Marik could tell. Shorter than his friends by a head, he stretched wider than either. He should have looked fat except his hard arms and broad shoulders bespoke solid muscle. A brown mustache failed to distract from three long parallel scars on his left cheek, running from eye to chin. Seated comfortably in the chair between his friends, he looked amused by their banter.
The men were interesting enough, but their gear spoke volumes. Their cloaks gaped open to reveal well worn chainmail shirts, cared for after being put to hard use. They wore heavy leather boots and Marik saw similar leather gloves tucked into their belts.
Puarri refused to allow blades larger than a dagger in his establishment, so Marik could not see what weapons they favored. He might see them by the door on his way out, though. Since few locals carried weapons in the town proper, they would likely be the only ones resting on Puarri’s table. No other strangers were at Puarri’s tonight.
A serving boy brought the travelers their meal. With no chance of hearing further news, Marik decided to leave. He waved to Puarri as he walked by before pausing a moment near the door. On the small table were three weapons; two swords of unremarkable nature and a large axe. Unlike the axes carried by the woodsman around town, it was large, shiny, crescent shaped. A sharp spike atop the shaft allowed the owner to thrust without being limited to slashing attacks.
Fascinating. He had heard of weapons like this but never seen one.
Its broad silver surface recalled many a battle history to Marik, most learned in Puarri’s from minstrels performing the ancient lays in exchange for lodging. The sensation of being watched made him glance back at the travelers. While the first two were still involved with each other, the shorter man in the middle had paused in his eating to watch him. Marik locked gazes with the stranger. A feeling of being caught at mischief struck him, of being guilty without knowing why. He averted eyes and quickly left the tavern.
Evening breezes blew across his face. Marik realized he had spent over a candlemark of time in Puarri’s without thinking about Pate or his apprenticeship, as he’d intended to do. Most of the time had been consumed with the unanswerable questions presented by his father’s long absence and the frustrations resulting from it. Tattersfield had offered little scorn for a young boy being raised alone by his mother. At sixteen though, the people had started seeing more of the father in the young man apprenticed to a profession that held little interest for him. His lack of enthusiasm for woodworking was a significant enough trait to condemn him as the bad seed of a bad seed.
Marik’s time with his father had been limited, yet he remembered clearly that the few whispers and suspicious glances had vanished completely during the periods when Rail had been in town. Such was the benefit of being a blood-crazed, maniacal, ruthless killer of men, women and children.
He grumbled at his wandering mind while he walked the town roads to the small home he shared with his mother. When he approached, Macie, their neighbor, rose from where she had been sitting on their woodpile.
“Here you are! I sent my boy looking for you over a full mark ago,” she informed him hotly.
He rarely spoke with her, and he certainly had never found her waiting for him at his home before. From inside his cottage he heard the sounds of several people moving about. Marik’s stomach roiled in ominous premonition.
* * * * *
Colbey returned to report the trapper, only to find his immediate overseer, Kell, out dealing with a separate problem. When he encountered Council Member Farr on his way to the council chambers, the elder bid him to follow and report inside. Councilors Dellor and Orlan were already present when Farr took his seat.
The scout’s distaste of the trapper who had invaded his section of the forest was obvious to the three councilmen, as well as Colbey’s opinion that the man should receive no further warnings. Worried an irreparable incident might occur if Colbey returned, Farr decreed that any full Guardians who were free at the moment would handle the problem. Insulted, Colbey insisted himself perfectly capable of dealing with the trapper, that he could handle his responsibilities in his section of the groves.
Farr’s decision was set in stone, yet the young scout refused to accept it. Colbey managed to keep his voice quiet, yet the anger threading every word was plain. Left with no choice, Farr dismissed him from duties for the next two days.
Orlan sighed after Colbey stormed out of the chamber, the young man barely refraining from stamping his feet on the broad wooden floor. The elder sat at the wide council table, where he was as out of proportion as a child clothed in his father’s garments. He rubbed his temples before addressing the other two council members.
“This brings up an issue I had planned to address later, but I suppose putting it off won’t help any.”
“Which issue? This intruder, or young Colbey’s arrogance toward everything?” snapped Dellor, the oldest member of the council. He had held his position far longer than any of the other eight elders.
“Colbey, of course. Repeat visitors from outside the forest is nothing new, no matter what Colbey might think.”
“He’s become something of a problem,” admitted Farr. Elder Farr acted as chief overseer of both the scouts and the Guardians. Their actions were dictated by him. “His training as a fully fledged Guardian is close to complete. You both know his reputation.”
“He’s made a reputation as a highly talented scout,” replied Orlan. “At the same time, he has also made a reputation as a headstrong, volatile young man. This is what I wished to address.”
Dellor nodded. “Farr? I’d like to hear what you think.”
“He is talented,” Farr agreed with his own sigh. “There’s no argument about that. He’s taken to his training like a bird to the air and his progress is simply stunning. But as good as he is, his attitude is causing problems.”
“Kell brought a few instances to my attention,” revealed Orlan.
“Everyone thinks they know more than whoever is in charge. That’s nothing new either. Ask any of the active Guardians about their duties and they’ll tell you everything the overseers do wrong, and how they could do it better. Mostly they’re expelling their irritations, but Colbey comes much closer to crossing the line.”
“Kell told me Colbey has had several harsh arguments over procedure with him, many times before the other trainees, scout and Guardian alike.”
Dellor growled, “It is not the place of any Guardian, especially a trainee, to show disrespect toward his overseer!”
Farr responded, “I don’t know if it is disrespect so much as Colbey’s belief that nothing is beyond his abilities.” He turned to Orlan. “He’s as close to being a dissident as we can allow, but he is not trying to be a dissident, if that makes sense to you.”
“It does. Kell’s main concern was the respect the youngest trainees have come to hold for Colbey. It’s almost hero worship. If they pick up his views and attitudes, it will cause a lot of unnecessary trouble for the Guardians.”
“Which is why we need to curb his ego,” agreed Farr. “He is far too skilled to dismiss.”
Dellor asked, “Do you think he will settle down
? Can his arrogance be whittled away or will any efforts to do so only make matters worse?”
Farr frowned in thought. “We need to try, at least. Colbey is exceptionally talented. He can perform all the Higher Skills we’ve taught him so far with hardly any effort at all. He’d be a tremendous asset to the Guardians. Especially now, when we are so low in force.”
Dellor grimaced at the mention of this. “I see. But he must put a halter on that temper and soften his attitude. Myself, I did not care for that little display a moment ago!”
“He should calm down before resuming his duties. The implication that he was unfit to handle the problem was what angered him most, I believe,” commented Orlan. “His temper blinds him to the world. If he can learn patience, he’ll overcome his greatest obstacle—himself.”
Dellor asked, “Do you have a proposition to accomplish that? Headstrong youths are never easy to tame. Tell me, what will dampen his raging arrogance and hotheaded temper?”
“A major part of his problem is his belief in the foolishness, ignorance and stupidity of anyone from outside the forest. His only exposure to them are the hunters and explorers who wander into our territories.”
Farr snapped, “That’s the only exposure nearly everyone in the village has ever had!”
“True,” replied Orlan. “But I think exposure to life outside can help broaden his views. And with that broadening, he should become more receptive to the nuances of procedural needs.”
Farr frowned. “You want to send him out to the fringe towns? For what purpose? Reconnaissance has already been completed for the year.”
“I wouldn’t trust a report from so biased a source anyway,” said Dellor. “What do you have in mind, Orlan?”
“A harmless, but useful duty. If he feels he is being sent on a makeshift task to get him out of the way, his anger will only deepen. We have our reports on all known magical activities and mages anywhere near the borderlands of the forest. We haven’t done a serious survey of non-magical forces for a dozen years.”
