Apprentice

by Nicholas Hale

Yet when faced with the reality of war, he had seen things differently. Not that he couldn't kill. Azrael certainly had the stomach for war. But it was the absence of everything he had heard in the bardic tales that unsettled him. There was no honor in fighting a weaker opponent. The Deckan Plains were merely a strategic outpost for the Aegean Empire to attack the northern kingdoms. To that end, they were butchering defenseless tribesmen.

  Azrael had been brought up several times before his commanders for refusing to follow orders. Just when he would have been tried for treason, right before the last straw, he had saved the general's life when they had been ambushed by one of the tribes that had decided to fight back. Of the two hundred-odd men who were with Albinus that day, only ten survived and made it back to the camp. Albinus too had been wounded, but the gravest wound was taken by Azrael in saving him. Brilliant strategist though he might have been, Azrael had observed that Albinus was an exceedingly bad swordsman. Either that or his age had gotten the best of him. Later that day, in the safety of the camp and in the confines of the generals tent, Albinus had spoken to him. The guards had been sent out.

  *

  "Captain. You have my gratitude."

  "None required, General. I was only doing my duty."

  "Savages. The way they fell onto us."

  "Pardon me, General. But if I may speak a little freely..."

  Albinus nodded.

  "How is it any different from what we are doing?" Azrael asked. The general's lips had pursed tightly. His expression stone faced. A few moments later the face relaxed.

  "You do realize the importance of the Deckan plains?" he asked.

  "Yes, General. They will allow us to establish a post to head northwards. I just don't see why we need to wage war against the tribesmen."

  "Do you think they will let us freely cross their lands? We have tried reasoning with them. Surely you know what their King Jurtha said when we asked them to aid us in the northern campaign?"

  Azrael knew the story. He had heard it back in Aegis before he was sent to join the campaign. But he had also heard several other things. That the barbarian tribes of the Deckan plains were monsters in human clothing. That they feasted on human remains and used necromancy to animate corpses. Yet, Azrael had only seen animal herders and farmers. Very few of them even wanted to fight. Their first instinct upon seeing the Aegeans was to run away. Azrael recalled swinging his sword the first time. His heart shattered when he saw fear in the eyes of his opponent. A young man, maybe a few years younger than Azrael himself. This wasn't a battle. This was a slaughter. Azrael knew the stories of Jurtha's defiance were probably as made up as the stories of the tribes practicing necromancy. He decided to play along.

  "Jurtha is one king. He represents but a fraction of the plainspeople. The tribe Captain Urrik's men slaughtered the other day—they had no warriors among them. They were cow herders. They had no idea who Jurtha was. I urge you, General, let me speak with them. Jurtha knows of our strength by now. I have heard he might even be willing to negotiate. Think of all the lives we can save. On both sides."

  General Albinus's only response was to stare in disbelief at Azrael.

  "You have saved my life, Captain. It is the only reason I do not have you tried and hanged for treason. It was only on the strength of your father's name that you have been allowed such...freedom. Word had reached me much earlier of you having disobeyed orders. You refused to march last week when you were ordered to take two of the villages. Not long after you had released the prisoners your men had taken—"

  "By Aegean law, the captain does have the right to—"

  "Do not lecture me about the law!" yelled Albinus.

  Azrael had expected no less. Azrael was within rights to release the prisoners. It was only if the prisoners had been turned over to his commanding officer or if a higher ranked officer was present during the time the prisoners were taken that Azrael required his permission. On that mission, Azrael was the highest-ranking officer and had exercised his own judgment in letting some tribesmen go free. A minor loophole. He had earned the ire of nearly all his commanding officers. And his own men. Azrael had never seen slavery in action, but he knew that was where the prisoners they were taking were disappearing to. He heard rumors all over the camp.

  The soldiers, too, received a portion of the money made by the officers. The soldiers under Azrael's command were the most disgruntled lot, having not acquired much by means of wealth or spoils while their counterparts were fattening their purses. The other day, Colonel Sylr, a rough mannered woman with a violent temperament, who outranked him, had taken command over his mission and led his troops to destroy one of the more peaceful villages that had already submitted to the invaders. She made sure Azrael was there to watch.

  A grim smile made its way onto Azrael's face as he recollected that she was among those who died at the ambush they had just escaped. Fellow Aegean or not, Azrael was glad she was dead.

  "What are you smiling for?" asked General Albinus, who had poured himself a drink. Azrael knew he would not be offered a glass.

  "Apologies, General," he said, bowing his head.

  "How did Aegis ever shit you out?" asked Albinus with some noted exasperation.

  Indeed, thought Azrael.

  He knew his behavior was not common in the military. Most nobles were hardened to the point of indifference to the plight of the lower classes. Azrael, however, was a second son. While most second sons spent their time in business or watching tournaments, Azrael never had the stomach for such things. He had been prone to visions from a very young age and had been a disappointment to his father. Being left alone to himself, he spent most of his youth in the company of actors and bards from the theater. The wine helped dull his visions and helped him stay sane.

  And then he discovered the Amaryl leaf.

  It was banned in the isles, but Azrael knew where to get hold of it. After nearly dying, the family physician had told him of the ills of the leaf. Azrael had found it hard to let go, but the physician had given him several herbs that would let him stay away from the leaf and get rid of his addiction slowly. He had suggested Azrael take up some activity to occupy his time.

  Unlikely as it was, Azrael had chosen swordsmanship. His father, thrilled at the fact that Azrael had finally chosen something martial, had procured the services of the best instructors for him.

  Azrael found that the sword occupied his mind and kept the visions away. He found he had the vigor and the concentration required to stand for hours at length and practice. He graduated many levels and many tutors. Soon he found a place in the arena and the tournaments. There, he had surpassed all expectations, and excelled.

  They had compared Azrael to the fourth son of Emperor Thyurin, Elben. His father had been thrilled to no end at the comparison. There were rumors that the prince wanted to spar with him, but it didn't come to pass and the prince had set off on his own campaign to the other islands. His tutors had recommended that Azrael be sent to the academy. Azrael's father was reluctant. Azrael was a valuable back-up heir in case his brother, Uriel, met an early end. Still, he was coaxed into it by other noblemen who convinced him of the glory of the battlefield. And of course, the benefits it would bring for the family business.

  Azrael had never thought it possible, but he was finally getting a chance to live the plays that he had seen at the theatre and the songs he had heard sung by the minstrels. The academy was situated far away from his home, and having had a slightly different upbringing, Azrael did not fit in with his peers at the academy. He was only good with the sword and excelled at his studies but there was always something lacking in him. The demeanor that came with a nobleman's son. That air of superiority. None of those were present in him. He cared nothing for the jabs his peers took at each other's ancestry nor for their wealth. As a result, he grew more alienated and lonely.

  He found solace in a troupe that performed a small way off from the academy. He had even fallen in love with one of the actresses. Ezr
ea. How he had missed her. He was closer to the troupe than he ever was to his own family. He used to sneak out nearly every night to meet them. His peers used to sneak out as well, but for whoring or drinking. For Azrael, it was always a trip to Ezrea's bed and the world of the theatre at night. All of them had accepted him. Contrary to what many noblemen thought, they did not try and ingratiate themselves when they learned Azrael was Lord Llothran's son. Azrael had earned their trust through Ezrea. She had been honest from the start that there could be nothing between the two of them. Azrael knew that harsh reality as well, but he was content for the companionship. It didn't take long for him to see those of a station below him as his equals.

  "I guess not all of us are made for war, General," said Azrael. He hoped Albinus would recognize the words for what they were.

  "Sending you back home because you do not wish to carry out orders is out of the question!" retorted General Albinus, beginning to show signs of frustration. He had spoken very plainly.

  Azrael had had enough. He had just saved this man's life and this was the best- and only- chance he would get.

  "General. You have nothing to gain by keeping me here."

  Albinus rubbed his forehead, straining to think.

  "How I wish it wasn't you that saved my life," he said.

  Azrael remained silent. He held his breath as General Albinus appeared lost in thought. This was good. If he was thinking, that meant he was at least considering the request.

  "Very well. You appear to have a wound in your side," said Albinus.

  The wound wasn't fatal. It had seemed to be. Azrael remembered seeing a lot of blood, but it stopped hurting after the physician at the camp had looked at it. Apparently, once the arrowhead was extracted, it was relatively easy to heal. There was lesser chance of festering from a stone arrowhead. Azrael nodded at Albinus's observation.

  Albinus continued with a formal tone, "I will have the necessary papers drawn up to send you home. You are hereby relieved from duty in this campaign due to medical reasons. You will not be brought back even for the northern colonization when it begins. Do you realize what this means?" asked Albinus.

  "I am done for in the military," said Azrael.

  Azrael wanted nothing to do with it anyway.

  "Such a pity. I haven't seen anyone as good with a blade since Prince Elben himself. The instructors assured me you had one of the best minds for strategy and war they had ever seen. If I could only tell them how wrong they were. You're a shame to the isles."

  Azrael stood silently with his head bowed down.

  "You may leave now. Pack your belongings. You will leave as soon as the sun rises."

  Azrael stood still, not moving. Albinus had been about to busy himself with some papers, but he noticed Azrael still standing.

  "Is there anything else you want to say?" he asked.

  "Well, General, I did save your life after all, so I was wondering if I might get a recommendation. A simple letter stating my worth will suffice. I would not be in the military and the word of General Albinus hold much weight in—"

  A jar of wine had come hurtling at him. Azrael ducked to avoid it. It was soon followed by a book.

  "Get out!"

  His last request had been a stretch indeed. Regardless, along with his discharge papers he had found a letter of recommendation bearing General Albinus's personal seal. Azrael had only asked for it to have something to show when he came back home. To not be a complete disappointment to his father's name. His father had been thoroughly overjoyed and had put his own contacts to use, along with the recommendation.

  Word had already reached some people in Aegis about Azrael's supposed disgrace, but the written letter seemed to have changed everything. With it, his father was able to procure for him the post of overseer at the mines of Bren. There were six others who were vying for the post, yet Albinus's endorsement and his father's lobbying had clinched it for him.

  *

  And here he was. Waiting outside Governor Rennar's door. His second time in Ryga, and he was sure it would be as bad if not worse than his first visit.

  It had been nearly two hours now. This wasn't normal. If Rennar wished to prove his superiority, an hour would have sufficed. Rennar surely had no wish to antagonize him. After all, they would need to work together in the coming months. Azrael spoke to the guard by the door.

  "Any idea whom the governor is meeting?"

  "Emissaries, milord," said the soldier. "From Eora. There were about a dozen of them who arrived just this morning. They've been inside since before you came."

  "Eoran emissaries? Here?"

  Surprising. They weren't exactly enemies but there was no love lost between the two nations. Aegis had only begun its rise as an empire thirty-one years ago, whereas Eora had been the richest nation in the known lands for as long as anyone could remember. Truly an empire, they viewed the isles as upstarts and uncultured boors. The only thing Eora had ever done for Aegis was to turn their head when Aegis had invaded Ryga. Right now, the Eorans were embroiled in the war with the arch-demon Namoth. The rumors were everywhere—they weren't doing too well. Could that be why they were here?

  "Not just Eorans, milord," said the soldier. There was controlled excitement in his voice. "They have a Zalearr with them! He's in there right now speaking with the governor. He's about this tall," he said, holding his hand just short of his spear shaft. Eight feet.

  Interesting. Azrael had only seen pictures of them in books. Primitive tribes that had shunned civilization, but were incredible warriors. They were endemic only to the northernmost lands. The tundra. There was talk about them joining forces with the Army of Light to battle Namoth. Azrael wasn't sure if those were rumors.

  "They're staying here?" asked Azrael.

  "Yes, milord. I heard talk at the kitchens that they would be staying for two more days before heading out."

  To the isles, no doubt. It did make him feel good that all this waiting wasn't for a show of power. Rennar had a genuine reason.

  "How many of them in there?" he asked.

  "There are four, milord, including the Zalearr. The rest, I've heard, are in the guest rooms."

  Azrael nodded. He remained lost in thought for a few moments when he heard the door open. Out came a small retinue.

  True to the guard's words, there had been four people inside. Two men, one of them dressed more ornately than anyone Azrael had seen at the most lavish banquet in the isles, the royal family included. His robes were embroidered with gold and studded with numerous gems. Still, it was the workmanship that set the clothes apart. Azrael had a keen eye and he could note the flawlessness in it. The other man too would have been considered very well dressed, if not for the presence of this one. Talking with them was another man whose robes bore a crest that Azrael recognized on sight. Rennar. He appeared to be in very good spirits.

  Following the men was a woman. Azrael was used to the beauty of the islanders. This was one place Eora could not compete with Aegis. They simply did not have the build or complexion of the islanders, but grace? Certainly. Her walk marked her for a woman of very high noble birth. Quite attractive, Azrael decided after getting a good look at her.

  His eyes instantly turned away from the woman when he saw an eight-foot figure stoop down and exit the doorway. Tall and slim with long, silvery-white hair. The skin was almost as pale as the hair. In stark contrast, his armor was dark leather. The face was devoid of expression.

  A Zalearr. Strapped to his back was a great sword the tip of which almost touched the ground. A war-blade. Only the largest of humans could use such a blade. And even then, the blade was far too heavy for precise strikes. The Zalearr's sword had no scabbard. One that long would be dangerous to carry unsheathed.

  Azrael wondered how the Zalearr drew his weapon. Odd. It appeared far too long to be drawn over the shoulder—a full stretch of even the Zalearr's long arms would not be able to pull it all the way out of its holding strap. Azrael tried to gauge the length of h
is arms.

  He had no doubt the Zalearr would be incredibly effective once the weapon was drawn, though. The two steps the creature took in getting out of the governors office were enough to give Azrael an idea of it's reach and speed. He tried to visualize the Zalearr in combat.

  He was still staring at the Zalearr when he realized that the Zalearr was also staring back at him. Very intently.

  Chapter 10

  The men and the woman continued to talk with Rennar. A little more animatedly now. The meeting was over and from the looks of it, something had been gained by both parties involved. This was just friendly banter, Azrael realized. An illusion to give a sense of informality and friendship between the participants when, underneath, it was all the same thing- business. Azrael had seen it done thousands of times back home at his father's table.

  The procession had departed now. Rennar went back into the chamber, not noticing Azrael. The Zalearr was still staring at him.

  "You can see the governor now," said the guard. He, too, appeared to be getting a good look at the Zalearr. A rare sight indeed, but setting aside his curiosity, Azrael wished the Zalearr would follow the rest of his party.

  Azrael slowly moved to the doorway when he noticed the Zalearr smile. If it could be called that. Close enough to see the pale face, he noticed how much it looked like the skin of a dead person, but with certain moon-lit glow about it.

  "I only need twist my sword and it comes out of the strap. I need not pull it out the all the way as you do your great swords."

  Azrael was shocked. He knew a little bit about the Zalearr as a race, but he was sure he would remember something as significant as them being able to read minds.

  "If that is what you are wondering, take a look," said the Zalearr and turned around. Fair enough—the crisscross of straps that held the blade in place had cuts to let the blade slide out through them at a twist.

  "I wasn't wondering about your sword," lied Azrael.

  "I see," said the Zalearr.

  The Zalearr was blocking the doorway and there was no way he could pass without asking him to move. Azrael could hear the labored breathing of the Zalearr. For some reason it appeared to have difficulty drawing breath. With a final breath, the Zalearr raised his head high and spoke.