Izaryle's Will

by Levi Samuel

  Every bone in his body shook from the booming voice, so close to him. “I was going to kill you. You deserve it for destroying my eye with that darkstone so long ago. But I've had a change of heart. And, to be honest, you amuse me. Besides, dalari don’t have much meat on their bones and my stomach is already full. It's time you paid your debt.” The dragon plucked a familiar, dagger from between his scales, holding it gently with the tips of his talons. He displayed the black dagger responsible for claiming his eye so many years ago. “I really must thank you for delivering this. Though I would have preferred alternative means of securement.” Careful not to cut too deeply, the dragon drug the blade’s tip across the boy's left shoulder, splitting the flesh with ease. Crimson blood spilled from the wound.

  Demetrix screamed in pain. It felt as if his soul was being ripped out.

  “Hush now, it’ll be over in a moment.” Pricking one of his scaled talons, the dragon allowed a single drop of his dark red blood to spill over the open wound. Gently rubbing the two fluids together, he released the boy. He was bound by magic now. And there was no escaping that.

  Demetrix felt a rush of energy flow through him. Whereas, the dagger was robbing him, this new power filled him. Lying on the forest floor he closed his eyes, unsure what was happening.

  The smell of maple rushed to his nostrils. Shooting up, a damp rag fell from his forehead, landing on the thick blanket covering his legs.

  “Easy lad. No need to be alarmed.” A frail old man sat across from the bed, weaving a sweater from a bundle of gray yarn.

  Cautiously searching the cabin, the question spilled forth. “Where am I?” It was cozy, but small. An iron kettle steamed inches away from the fireplace, radiating the sweet scent throughout the hovel. Daylight peered through the single window, illuminating the entire room.

  “Nearest town is Farodun. Three days west. But I’d recommend you regain your strength before making any trips.” The old man worked the needles, refusing to look up. “Got some oats ready if you’re hungry.”

  The boy locked eyes on the kettle, feeling his stomach rumble at the thought of food. “Yes, thank you. How’d I get here?” He twisted, setting his bare feet on the cold wooden floor.

  The old man laid the incomplete sweater over the arm of the chair and grabbed two wooden bowls. Ladling a scoop into each one, he placed them on the table, and poured a couple tankards of milk. “I was on my way home from a trade run when you wandered out of the woods. You were staggering every which way and clearly suffering from dehydration. You collapsed when you reached the road. I couldn’t rightly leave you there, not with bandits on the loose and all. So I loaded you up and brought you here. That was three days ago.” Taking a seat, he slid the milk to the far side of the table, gesturing toward the empty chair. “How old are you, boy? Fourteen, fifteen?”

  Pulling out the chair, the boy took a seat. Staring at the thick mixture of grain and spice, he looked up feeling the realization set on him. “I— I don’t know! Last thing I remember was being lost in the forest. I don’t even know how I got there.” A deep fear overcame him.

  “Not to worry boy. We’ll find your folks. Until then, you’re welcome to stay here. It’s been ages since I last had company. Truth be told, I tend to get a little grouchy in the solitude.” The man chuckled, slurping a spoonful of the soggy oats. “You got a name?”

  Silence filled his memory, struggling to recall the slightest memory. A cascade of tears formed, rolling down his cheeks. He tried hiding the evidence of fear but it wouldn’t be staunched. “I— I don’t remember.”

  Seeing the boy’s obvious fear, the old man stood, placing his hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, son. Fear's nothing to be ashamed of. It’s how you overcome it that defines you. Since you can’t recall your name, we’ll just have to give you one until yours returns to you. Any ideas?”

  The young man gently shook his head.

  “Well then— I’ve always been fond of Kane. You think that’ll suit you for the time being? And you can call me, Mortimus.”

  Sobbing his agreement, the boy took a bite of the food, feeling his taste buds explode with sensation of flavor.

  Sweat poured from his brow in the noonday sun. Kane lifted the wooden handles and guiding the worn plow through the field. The blade at the base sliced through the loose dirt, leaving it churned for seeding. The first time he’d tried using it, he wasn’t able to make a single pass. Now he could cover two complete fields before he had to rest. Of course, it was the mule that did most of the work. But it was a chore nonetheless.

  “Kane, dinner’s ready!”

  Finishing the row he was on, Kane pulled the blade from the dirt, setting the wooden pin to keep it elevated. Removing the harness from the mule, he guided it to the rickety stable and grabbed his white tunic off the edge of the fence. Rinsing his hands and face in the water trough, he shook the excess liquid off and pulled the tunic overhead. Approaching the cabin, he took the rag Mortimus was offering and dried his hands. “The plow's pulling left again. I think I need to sharpen the blade.”

  “You already sharpened it twice this week. Much more and there won’t be enough metal to get us past the harvest.” Mortimus chuckled at the young man's initiative. It was refreshing to see someone who worked as hard as he. More so, that he never asked for reward.

  “Forgive me, I hadn’t thought about that.” Kane gathered his bowl and took a seat, digging in before he fully sat down.

  “Don’t be absurd. There’s no need to ask forgiveness. Without you, I’d still be breaking up the dirt with a shovel. I think three fields in one season is more than enough to cover a new plow should we need.”

  A smile breached his lips with the old man’s praise. He liked him. He was funny and always knew how to lighten the mood. “Hey, Mortimus?”

  “I’ve already told you, I can’t dress as the scarecrow and wait for the neighbors to pass by. They won’t fall for it a third time.” The old man smiled, taking his seat. “What’s up?”

  “I was stacking hay in the loft earlier today. I moved one of the bails and found a hatch that led into a room between the walls. I didn’t go in, but there looked to be a bunch of armor and weapons in there.” Kane stared curiously at the old man.

  “I thought this day might come. I guess I’ll have to leave in the mid of night and find another rundown farm to call home for the next thirty years.” A smile slowly formed, betraying his ruse. “I’m just kiddin’. Eat your dinner. Tomorrow, I’ll show you the remnants of a time long past.”

  The next morning they made their way to the barn and climbed into the loft.

  Mortimus strained against the stiff wooden door. Pulling it open, he climbed down the ladder and disappeared inside the hidden room. Moments later, a soft glow radiated from the hole.

  Kane watched from the top. The old man came into sight, holding a weathered lantern.

  “Come on down. Nothin' but spiders and history down here.”

  “Which one are you?” Kane couldn't help but laugh. It wasn't often he was able to make a joke before his friend.

  “Very funny. Just because I'm fuzzy doesn't make a spider. And as far as history— well just say they don't make things like they used to.”

  The boy climbed down the ladder, lost in the sight of the treasures within. Every wall was covered in racks of weapons, varying design and size. Many of them he couldn’t begin to guess what they were called. A suit of armor stood in the corner, positioned upon a stand. The once polished steel was coated in thick layers of dust from time and neglect. It stood over the room like a watchful protector, ready to strike at the first sign of trouble. The shelf beside it was full of glass vials. Several colored liquids and scrolls were organized and marked by a different colored wax seals. A wooden plaque was mounted to the wall, above the shelf.

  Inspecting it closer, Kane noticed the tarnished gold inlayed into the carved words. In honor of commendable service to the crown, Sir Mortimus, Paladin of Corin, is recognized as Pro
tector of the Realm and granted deed to one thousand acres of uninhabited land within the kingdom of Kaladrum. King Renair Kaldum the Thirteenth.

  Noticing the boy’s interest, Mortimus offered explanation. “It was a long time ago. I grew tired of fighting other men’s battles. When my wife and children were murdered as a way to get back at my king, I retired, letting my reputation die in absence. I haven’t looked upon this armor in over thirty years.”

  Noticing a large sword standing beside the plaque, Kane approached and ran his finger down the etching in the blade. He couldn’t read the letters but somehow knew what it said. “Kane?”

  Mortimus watched the young man lost, in the runes upon the blade. A gentle smile came to his lips. “It seems she’s tired of being cooped up in this room. Pick her up.”

  Kane looked from the sword to the man, wondering how he was going to lift such a heavy weapon. It appeared to weigh more than him. Finding reassurance on his friend's face, he grabbed the handguard and lifted the sword from its stand. To his surprise it weighed little more than a broom, most of the weight being in the handle. How can something so large weigh so little?

  “If you’re interested, I could teach you a thing or two.”

  Kane smiled, unable to contain his excitement. Extending the sword, he tried to hand it to the old man.

  “She’s no longer bound to me. Only the true owner can read the words inscribed upon the blade. She belongs in service to an honorable man. I lost that privilege when I locked her up in this room.”

  The town was much larger than he’d expected. People rushed in all directions, tending to the duties of their various lives. They didn’t pay him any attention and he didn’t feel comfortable approaching them. Kane studied their faces, wondering if any of them were his family prior to meeting Mortimus? Moreover, how would he recognize them even if they were? They’d searched for nearly three years with no success, having visited every town for a week in each direction. Kane shook the thoughts away. If he had family, they either didn’t care about him, or were much further away than he could afford to travel. He passed one of the larger buildings, hearing to the commotion within. Glancing up at the wooden signpost, mounted over the door, he read aloud. “The Inn of the Drunken Monkey.” Smiling, he tied the mule to the hitching post, making sure the supplies were covered and secure. He didn’t have much spending money, but perhaps he could see what pub life was all about. All the best stories seemed to start in them, perhaps this was a chance for his own adventure.

  Stepping through those magical doors, the stench of pipe smoke burned its way into his nostrils. It was nothing he couldn’t tolerate, but it was certainly overpowering.

  Several people occupied the large room. Most of them sat around tables, sharing joy with their companions. Others sat along the bar, resting their rear ends against rickety stools of wood and leather. A handful of attractive women rushed about the room, delivering drink in exchange for coin.

  Carefully making his way through the crowded room to one of the empty tables, Kane took a seat.

  The patrons didn’t seem to care about the mass of people within earshot. They spoke freely, letting their opinions and ramblings of politicians and diplomats fill the room. A select few clung to the topic of current events. It seemed an unknown assassin was at large, bringing his suspected death count to just under sixty.

  His listening was interrupted by one of the pretty women, stepping into his line of sight.

  “What can I get for ya, doll?” She gave a slight bow, exposing her overfilled bosom to the young man.

  “I— um— I’ll try an ale.” Kane blushed, unsure how he should respond to her action.

  “Comin’ right up, sweetie.” She spun around and disappeared through the crowd.

  Kane tried to find the man talking about the murders again, but he seemed to have left during his distraction. Getting comfortable, he listened to the others, awaiting the woman’s return.

  A few moments later, she came back with a wooden mug, filled to the brim with a foamy, bronze liquid. Placing it on the table, she stared down at him, a knowing smile on her face. “That’s two copper, hun.”

  Kane handed her a couple copper pieces and lifted mug, taking a long draw. The sour concoction burned his tongue and threatened to dislodge his lunch. Spitting the disgusting liquid on the floor. “How do people drink that?” He asked, regretting his decision.

  The barmaid laughed aloud, placing the two copper back on the table. “Perhaps you’d better run on home. This place isn’t for the faint of heart.”

  Kane collected his coin and stood from his chair. “My apologies for wasting your time.”

  “Don’t sweat it. When you’re a little older and ready for the true pleasures in life, come back and see me. Maybe you’ll be able to handle a little more then.” She kissed him on the cheek and turned to return to her duties.

  Making his way through the crowd, he stepped out the doors, hoping his water skin still had some liquid in it. He needed to get that taste out of his mouth. The bright sunlight burned spots into his vision. He hadn’t realized how dark the pub actually was until he left. Approaching the cart, he felt anger rise inside him. The spotted fur hide he'd used to cover the supplies was lying roughly on the ground. The cart was near empty, only the most mundane of items remained. Picking the tarp off the ground, he wadded and tossed it in the cart. I was in there for no more than twenty minutes. I hate this place. His head hung low, he untied the mule and started for home, dreading the disappointment Mortimus was going to have in him.

  Night was falling on the last leg of the three-day journey. It seemed to take forever. Not only was he growing hungry from the lack of food, but the knowing failure he had to offer was eating at him. It also didn't help that his mind was playing tricks on him. He passed what appeared the be the same fence post three times now. But that seemed unlikely. The single road didn’t turn back anywhere as far as he knew. And Mortimus made sure he knew the road to take. He wouldn’t have agreed to letting him make it alone otherwise. Yet something clearly wasn’t right. He should have been home that morning. I guess this just proves I wasn't ready for it. “Screw this.” Kane led the mule to the side of the road and tied it to the post. Grabbing some of the feed he’d purchased with his spending money, he poured into a basin and laid it out for the animal. Unpacking his tattered sleeping bag, he rolled it along the small wagon and got comfortable.

  The next morning, he untied the mule and set off for the final stretch, haunted by his dreams. It seemed not even sleep could rid him of the guilt. Every time he closed his eyes, the images crept into his mind. The vague memories crept to the forefront.

  He remembered being a man, dressed in black, tracking through the woods. Following the trail, he came to a small shack. Supplies littered the floor, some used, others sorted and awaiting transport. The man inside was asleep, unaware of his presence. He carefully restrained him, ensuring he didn’t wake. Taking joy in his actions, he splashed water in the man’s face, ready to execute his malicious plan. One by one, Kane watched a dark form of himself remove the man’s fingers and toes, listening to his scream in pain, begging him to stop. But he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to. This man was going to pay for his wrongdoings. Even when the man begged for death, he refused. Not because he didn't want to, but because I wasn't finished.

  Kane pulled himself from the memory of the dream. He didn’t want to witness what happened next. A whiff of smoke hung in the air, forcing the final details upon him.

  The man cried out in pain, his bloody nubs tied off, keeping him from bleeding out. He was little more than a torso and head, still alive, but ready for death. He stared down at the helpless man, smiling his delight in his torment. Lifting the blood covered lamp from the table, he smashed it on the floor, watching the flame spread across the floor. It climbed the bed post, singeing the man’s hair. The smell of burning flesh and lingering screams echoed in his mind as he walked from the burning shack. Fear and remorse billow insi
de him. How could such thoughts fill his mind, even in dream? Sure, he wanted justice, but torture and murder were an extreme leap for simple thievery. Even without Mortimus' tutelage, he knew that was wrong.

  Suddenly, he realized the scent of smoke wasn’t just from his dream. It was hanging in the air, like a layer of fog around him. Kane froze, searching the sky. There wasn’t much in this area other than fields and the farm. The farm! A thick cloud of gray billowed over the hill. His heart sank, knowing where it was coming from. Abandoning the cart, he broke into a sprint. Reaching the top of the hill, he looked down at the flames ravaging the small cabin. The house was nearly gone, collapsed in on itself. The flame was quickly spreading. It'd already burned half of one field and was starting the spread to another. He ran as fast as his feet could carry him, as close as the heat would allow.

  “Mortimus, where are you?” A low moan caught his attention amidst the roar of the fire. Searching near the barn, he found his friend beaten and bloodied. He laid on his back, half buried by grass and ash. “Mortimus, what happened?” Kane felt the tears swell in his eyes. Pulling his friend close, he noticed the blood-stained shirt. He had several deep gouges across his stomach and chest. The realization hit him. It wouldn’t be long before his only friend would leave him forever.

  Mortimus reached up, weakly running his fingers over the boy’s cheek. His lower jaw quivered. Lifting a trembling finger, he pointed to the barn. A deep sigh escaped him and he fell limp.

  Chapter IX

  Forging Bonds

  Wind slapped against the sails, clapping the loose edges together. Birds chirped, collected along the top of the masts, looking down at the crew below. The ship glided gently across the sea, propelled slowly by the mild gusts.

  "Land ho!" The watch yelled from the crow's nest, his sight glass extended to peer through the low hanging clouds.