Queens (The Wielders of Arantha Book 2)

by Patrick Hodges

  “You'll see,” he said with a cryptic smile.

  Mizar led her on a winding route between several buildings and through narrow alleyways. Again, upon seeing him, people bowed their heads and scuttled out of the way when passing by.

  As they walked, Vaxi thought about Kelia, and how incredible it was that she'd crossed paths with a kind, wise, remarkable man who not only possessed the same Wielding abilities as the Protectress, but was directly related to her. Kelia's grandmother, Areca, was Mizar's mother. But it was far more than their Wielding that they had in common. In the brief time she'd spent with Mizar, she could tell he and Kelia had the same inner strength, the same wisdom, the same compassion. Though his abilities made him unique among the Daradians, he didn't feel superior to them. He and Kelia even had similar features: the same heart-shaped face, and the same deep brown eyes.

  After turning one more corner, he led them down a planked walkway beneath a wooden eave that ran the length of a building lined with nondescript, windowless doorways. When they reached the last door, he abruptly stopped. Vaxi looked at the faded, weather-beaten sign above the door that bore the words “Custom Weapons” right above the word “Engraving”.

  Vaxi brightened. Was he going to get her a new set of arrows?

  Without even knocking, Mizar flung the door open and strode inside, motioning for her to follow.

  Vaxi wasn't sure what she was expecting to see, but her first impression of the shop was underwhelming, to say the least.

  A strong metallic smell threw itself at Vaxi as she took in her surroundings. The last few minutes of the setting sun's light peeked through a couple of small windows cut into the wall right near the ceiling. Several tables ran along the length of every wall, each bearing an assortment of bladed weapons of different lengths, as well as a few bows and arrows in various states of disrepair, haphazardly thrown on top of them in no discernible order. Straight ahead were two more work tables. Behind the one on the right sat a man with unkempt gray hair and whiskers, staring intently at a sword that lay on the table in front of him. Lit by several candles, he appeared to be using a sharp metallic instrument to etch a design into the blade.

  “We're closed,” the man said gruffly, not even looking up from his work. “And if you need something engraved, as you can see, I'm rather busy.” He gestured at the motley assortment of weapons strewn about the room. “Come back in ten days.”

  Mizar turned to Vaxi, putting a finger to his lips. She nodded.

  A mischievous smile playing over his face, Mizar waved his arms ever so slightly. She felt a light breeze penetrate her tunic as every candle in the room simultaneously went out, plunging the room into a state of near darkness.

  “Blag it!” the man said, dropping his tool onto the table with a clatter. Still not looking up, he reached for a small wooden container—an item Mizar would later identify for her as a tinderbox—and pulled out a shard of metal, a stone, and a piece of fabric. Placing the fabric on the table, he then struck the stone against the metal, producing a spark, but the fabric did not ignite.

  Before he could make a second attempt, Mizar waved his hand again and the candles, as if by an invisible torch, relit themselves.

  At this sudden, unexpected occurrence, the old man raised his head to look at his guests for the first time. He stared, dumbfounded, at Mizar, placing both stone and metal back on the table before rising to his feet. Vaxi raised an eyebrow when she noticed how small he was; he barely came up to her chest. He wore a thick leather apron and a sleeved shirt that badly needed laundering. His skin looked as musty as everything else in the room.

  His blue eyes flicked over to her briefly before settling once again on the High Mage, who he clearly hadn't expected to see standing in his workshop today.

  Vaxi felt her body tense, wondering what the man was going to do next.

  Finally, after several moments of staring that seemed to last for an hour, a rumble of laughter, low in volume but rising in intensity, erupted from the man's mouth, and a wide grin spread across his face. An equally wide smile played over Mizar's face as the man stepped out from behind the table.

  “Mizar!” he cried, spreading his arms wide.

  Mizar stepped into the man's embrace, giving him a warm hug. “It's good to see you, old friend. It's been a long time.”

  They disengaged the hug, but the man still grasped Mizar by the shoulders. “Great Arantha, you got old.”

  “That would make you ancient,” Mizar retorted, his grin remaining.

  “No argument here. Passing through town?”

  “Yes.”

  The man turned to face Vaxi. “And who is this charming young lady?”

  Vaxi, much more relaxed than when she had walked through the door, gave a polite smile. Before she could speak, however, Mizar performed the introductions.

  “Vaxi, this is Sevrin, the finest weapon-maker in Darad. Sevrin, meet Vaxi, my cousin.”

  With a congenial smile, Sevrin stepped forward and gave her a courteous bow. “It's a pleasure, young lady, a pleasure,” he said. He studied her face for a moment, and turned back to Mizar. “She's your cousin?”

  Mizar's eyebrows knitted together. “Yes, why?”

  Sevrin smacked him on the shoulder. “I refuse to believe anyone as pretty as this came from your side of the family.”

  Mizar rolled his eyes, and Vaxi chuckled softly, feeling her face redden at the compliment. “I take it you know each other?” she spluttered, trying to hide her embarrassment.

  “For over thirty-five years now,” Mizar said. “We became acquainted during the Vandan uprising.”

  Vaxi nodded. Daradian history wasn't a topic that was taught in the Ixtrayu village. All she knew about that conflict was that there had been one. “You were a soldier?” she asked.

  “Not as such,” Sevrin admitted. “At twenty-three, I was old enough to fight, but my father convinced King Armak that I could better serve Darad by making swords for his soldiers rather than swinging one. My father, as the foremost weapon-smith in the land at the time, had a lot of influence. By the time he passed on, he'd taught me everything he knew.”

  He glanced at Mizar. “After the war ended, it didn't take long for my father to tire of life in Dar, so we moved here, only a day's ride away. And I've been here ever since.”

  “I am grateful for that,” Mizar said, clapping Sevrin on the back. “For Vaxi here has need of some arrows.” He gave Vaxi a wink. “Only the best for my cousin.” She smiled back.

  Sevrin seemed to notice, for the first time, the bow draped over her shoulders. His bushy silver eyebrows notched, and he nodded, holding out his hand. “May I?”

  She was a little hesitant to hand over her only weapon, but reasoned that if Mizar trusted him, she could too. She unslung it from around her and handed it to him.

  He ran his hands over the surface of the wood, his expert eyes scanning it from top to bottom. He then pulled back on the drawstring several times, testing its tension. “Whatever bowyer crafted this did an excellent job,” he said. “This is huxa wood, is it not?”

  “It is,” she replied. “And thank you.”

  His eyes widened. “You made this?”

  She nodded.

  Mizar tensed up at this admission, and she realized that she'd made a mistake. How would a farm girl from Ghaldyn learn about bow-making? She doubted it was a subject Daradians taught their children.

  Thankfully, Mizar came to her rescue. Giving her a 'be silent' gesture with his hand, he said to Sevrin, “A couple years ago, her father took her and her brothers to an archery tournament. All of them became enamored with the sport. From that point on, it became a competition between them. It turns out Vaxi has an innate skill for archery.” He gave her a cautionary glance. “And she's killed more than her fair share of jarveks.”

  Sevrin seemed to accept this explanation. “My compliments to you, lass. Using huxa wood was an excellent choice. Such an exceptional bow deserves some top-notch arrows to go with
it.”

  Vaxi glanced over at the tables laden with weaponry, scanning them for something suitable. What few arrows were there were either weathered, fractured, or had feathers missing.

  “Oh, don't bother looking over there,” Sevrin said. “If I sold you any of these, my reputation as the region's foremost weapon-maker would be forever tarnished. What you see before you is my 'to-do' pile. Follow me.”

  He produced a key from his apron pocket, grabbed a candle off his work table, locked the shop's front door, and unlocked a smaller door at the back of the room. He led Mizar and Vaxi down a narrow hallway, around a corner, through another locked door and down a wooden staircase leading underground. They crossed another room filled with stacks of wood, a few chopping tools, and another table covered with hiltless sword blades. Finally, they reached another door, the widest one yet. Sevrin took out another key, unlocked it, and stepped inside.

  Rather than wait for Sevrin to light all the candles inside this mysterious new room, Mizar simply waved his hand, simultaneously lighting six candles placed on shelves all around the room, startling Sevrin.

  “Sakes!” he cried in alarm as the tapers lit, then he shot Mizar a smile. “Must be nice to be able to do that.”

  “It saves time,” Mizar said, stepping aside so Vaxi could see what this new room held.

  She gasped.

  Sevrin's storage room was unlike anything Vaxi had ever seen. Swords of virtually every length lined a large collection of racks, along with daggers, pikes, clubs, war hammers, and a few others she didn't have names for. It wasn't just the quantity that had taken her breath away; it was the craftsmanship that went into them. Each one looked like it had taken many days—perhaps an entire season—to create, and many of them had beautiful symbols and designs carved into the hilts or the blades. One whole section was a display of bows and quivers full of arrows, again of various sizes.

  Mizar offered to purchase her a spare bow, but she'd graciously declined. Finally, Sevrin had handed her a beautiful leather quiver containing fifteen arrows. She had slung it over her shoulder, reveling in the familiar feel of a quiver against her back. In a practiced movement, she held her bow at the ready. Reaching over her shoulder, she removed the first arrow her fingertips came into contact with. She nocked it against her drawstring and aimed at an invisible target at the far end of the room. Her breath quickened, and she felt a brief rush of adrenaline as the drawstring brushed against the bracer on her forearm. The urge to let loose was overpowering, but only for a moment. Finally, she calmed again, thanking the old weapon-smith for his selection.

  For the first time in days, she had felt whole.

  * * *

  By the time they returned to the King's Rest, night had fallen. It looked like most of the shops were closed, though the streets were still fairly crowded. Some, she presumed, were making their way to their homes in the outer ring, while several brightly-lit establishments lining the street a quarter-mile down the road seemed to be busy. The breeze had increased, but she could still hear the sound of sprightly music being played.

  “Is there a celebration?” she asked Mizar.

  “In a way,” he said, also glancing down the street. “Many in this city, particularly the more well-off merchants, like to celebrate a particularly successful day of business with a few … shall we say, intoxicating beverages?”

  She stared blankly at him. “What does that mean? Some form of potion?”

  “You could call it that,” he chuckled, and for a moment, his posture resembled that of Susarra, dispensing one of her many lectures. “These drinks do indeed cast a spell on them. It robs them of their inhibitions, and sometimes even their common sense. Those that drink to excess tend to regret it the next day.”

  Another blank look.

  “Never mind,” he said, putting his hand on her back and steering her toward the inn door. “A hot meal and a flagon of honey cider awaits us.”

  Chapter Nine

  Elzor ordered that Rahne be allowed a warm bath, a hot meal, and a good night's sleep to recover from the punishment he'd received at Sekker's hands. However, the sun had barely risen when he was dragged from his borrowed bedroll and thrown into an empty space in the middle of a circle of laughing, clapping Elzorath.

  Rahne shook the fuzziness from his head and looked up to see Elzor staring down at him with a cruel smile. “Good morning, Rahne,” he said. Rahne couldn't help but envy Elzor's poise. He carried himself like a man who knew he was in charge, and wouldn't hesitate to remove any obstacle that crossed his path. “I trust you slept well.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” Rahne said, picking himself up. He felt his skin crawl as he found himself under the scrutiny of not only Elzor but Elzaria, General Langon, and at least twenty soldiers, who eyed him as if he were their next meal.

  “Let me tell you what's going to happen,” Elzor said. “It's been many days since my men had the pleasure of sacking Talcris, so before we vacate this benighted country, I think it only fitting they have themselves a little sport.”

  Rahne gulped. He should have left when given the chance.

  “As you may or may not know,” Elzor announced to all within earshot, “every single one of my men is devoutly loyal to me. Through divine providence, my sister has been accorded power greater even than that of the High Mage of Darad himself. We are on a quest that will reshape all of Elystra. History will remember us as the ones who fulfilled this quest, and every one of my men has sworn an oath to obey my commands so we may reach this goal, even if that means their death. Am I right, men?”

  “Yes, My Lord!” came the ringing endorsement.

  Elzor turned his attention back to Rahne. “Will you agree to take this oath, boy?”

  Rahne straightened his back and thrust his chest out. “I will, My Lord.”

  Elzor nodded. “I am pleased to hear that. However, joining my service is not merely a simple matter of swearing loyalty to me. I need to know if you possess any skills that will aid me in my quest.”

  “Skills, My Lord?”

  General Langon lumbered forward. The man's bald head contrasted with his long brown beard, and his body was as thick around as the tree Rahne had been chained to the night before. His face bore so many scars Rahne could barely detect any unblemished skin at all. “Can you fight, boy?” the big man rumbled. “Or are casting nets and hoisting sails the only things you can do?”

  A chorus of laughter erupted from the crowd.

  Rahne felt his bravado dissipating. “I can handle myself, My Lord. I'm strong, and I can fight.”

  “Can you handle a weapon?” Langon asked.

  “Yes, General. I once caught three hundred fish in a day with nothing but a single spear.” This was a vast exaggeration, but he hoped it sounded impressive.

  The men laughed again, but Elzor silenced them with a raise of his hand. He seemed unimpressed, to say the least. “There won't be much in the way of flurchins or barkfish where we're going, so if that's the extent of your expertise, you're wasting my time.”

  “I'm willing to learn, My Lord. Just give me the chance to prove myself.”

  “As you wish.” He turned to Elzaria. “Sister, whom do you think we should use to test our young recruit's mettle?”

  Elzaria, clad in the same curve-hugging black dress she had worn yesterday, stepped forward and looked him up and down. Her eyes didn't appear as dead as the previous day, when she was burning the life out of Sekker. Rahne wondered if he'd misjudged her.

  Done with her inspection of him, she scanned the crowd for a suitable opponent. Identifying one, she pointed at him and yelled, “Kalik!”

  Rahne followed her finger to see a man with short, light-brown hair and a close-cropped beard push his way to the forefront. He wasn't tall; in fact, he was several inches shorter than Rahne, but if his arms were any indication, they were similar in weight. This man, Kalik, was all muscle. And from the look on his face, he was ecstatic to have been chosen.

  The crowd of Elzor
ath had nearly tripled in size over the last few minutes, and they were chanting Kalik's name. Their voices blended and slowly rose to a crescendo until it became deafening.

  Once again, Elzor held up his hands, and the crowd fell silent.

  Great Arantha, to hold such sway over an army, Rahne thought. That is the kind of power few men achieve.

  A surge of strength flowed through Rahne's limbs.

  This is my destiny. My first step on a path that leads me away from Agrus, away from my father's debts, and away from my middling existence. Assuming, of course, I survive the next few minutes.

  “You expect me to fight him?” Rahne asked Elzor, not taking his eyes off Kalik, who had removed the belt holding his sword, dug his heels in like a stamping merych, and assumed a sideways fighting crouch, with his knees bent and his right side pointed at Rahne. Kalik flexed his hands into fists, letting out several deep breaths as he prepared to do battle.

  Elzor laughed. “No, boy, I expect you to get your bones ground into a fine powder.” This elicited a peal of laughter from the assembled men.

  Rahne adopted a crouch of his own that favored his dominant left arm and leg. He, too, clenched his hands into fists, bringing them up to shoulder level. He took a few wary steps to his left, keeping a respectful distance. “I can hardly join your ranks if I'm dead.”

  “Very true,” Elzor said with a sardonic smile. “So here is where you show me what you're made of. If I'm not impressed, I'll have Kalik snap your neck and leave your rotting carcass here for the insects to feast upon. If, however, you show me even a modicum of fighting prowess, I will consider letting you join us.” He turned to Langon. “General, how long do you figure this will last?”

  Langon ran his fingers through his scraggly beard in a rather amusing attempt to look thoughtful. “Against Kalik? I give him thirty seconds.”

  “Elzaria?”

  She, too, pondered Rahne's as-yet-unseen skill level. “He's young and fit. I'll give him ninety seconds.”

  Elzor smiled at Rahne. “My sister seems to like you, boy. She must see something I don't.”