Double Life - Book 1 of the Vaiya Series

by Vaiya Books

  Apologizing to them the best he could and ignoring their ridicule, he soon reached the armory in the far back of the building--it contained every type and size of armor imaginable: iron cuirasses, bracers, greaves, metal gauntlets, black silver sallets, leather cuisses, plate mail gorgets, dark metal sabatons, and shiny steel-like vambraces. It put the armory in his house to shame.

  Jimmy’s walnut-colored eyes sparkled with delight; excitement billowed up inside of him. He forgot all about the cruel-hearted soldiers and with good reason. Not to be melodramatic, but this was a dream come true for him. His heart leapt within him. Without saying a word, he hurried towards the chain-mail cuirasses, nearly tripping.

  Gavar folded his arms across his chest, amused, while watching this spectacle. “Do you know how everything fits?”

  “Yes, Commander.” Jimmy’s face lit up, glancing back at him. “I was born for this.”

  His eyebrows lowered in confusion. “Do you know what size you’re looking for?”

  Here Jimmy had to shake his head. “Nah. I don’t.”

  “Then you’ll need assistance.” He turned around and shouted to the armory master nearby. “Seivan, help this man find a fitting size.”

  Taking his odd-looking writing utensil from his manuscript and twisting his long red-skinned neck around, the older white-haired man slowly arose from his chair and trudged towards him.

  Then with startling speed for his age, Seivan ran and snatched a chain-mail cuirass off one of the shelves, before hurrying back to Jimmy, holding it out to him like a present, saying, “Here, put this on,” before he quickly went back to get another piece of armor.

  After a little while, Jimmy, now fully dressed for battle with only his arms unprotected, heard the barrack’s master’s voice, which broke him out of his reverie of being in the third Lord of the Ring’s movie fighting against a host of orcs.

  “Jimmy, it’s time to begin training.”

  “Yes, Commander,” he uttered joyfully, the warrior spirit within him eager to be trained, as he stared somewhat anxiously at his large sack of money near Seivan’s desk that the man had said he’d guard until Jimmy was done with his training for the day. Though it wasn’t his money, he somehow felt that it belonged to him and definitely didn’t want to lose it. Fortunately, Seivan seemed sharp enough not to let anyone steal it; he’d more than likely not let it out of his sight.

  As Jimmy turned to leave, Gavar’s voice took on a serious tone. “Before you go and train under Lord Malthus, though,” he cautioned, “I need to tell you something.” He paused, Jimmy’s attention now fully focused on him. “You’ll be training with a lot of fierce older men who have no high regards towards northerners. It’s best if you impress them at the start.”

  Jimmy accepted his advice with only a slight frown. “I understand,” he muttered distractedly, too elated to give much thought to the other soldiers anymore; he felt like a champion in the medieval ages preparing for battle. He couldn’t wait to practice--to become like a warrior, like a knight. This place was ages better than the sword fighting league he’d joined two weeks ago, and if he had his way, he’d enjoy every minute of it.

  Waiting for more advice from Gavar, he saw the commander motion for him to follow him and knew that he was on his own now.

  As Jimmy followed behind him, only slightly nervous, he passed an older teenager who took one look at him and just laughed:

  “You northerners are weaker than our women,” he taunted him, reminding Jimmy all too keenly of one of the jeers of his classmates. “Go back to your canvas and start painting the coming war.”

  Jimmy’s eyes widened in anguish, not expecting such harsh words, as Gavar just glared at the man, causing him to scurry away fast with most of his pompousness knocked out of him. Yet, he did have the courage left to throw out one last deriding scowl at Jimmy.

  But, ignoring it the best he could, Jimmy just continued walking until the commander stopped and pointed to a room on his immediate left with his chin.

  “Lord Malthus awaits you, Jimmy.” Though his voice had lost some of its joy, probably the result of the man’s critical comments, it still carried some liveliness to it--enough to give Jimmy the confidence to face this Malthus person and his fellow trainees, who from the aggressive shouting he could hear through the door, sounded all too eager to shed some blood. Hopefully, they wouldn’t spill any of his today.

  Breathing deeply and opening up the door, as Gavar left his side and headed back towards the entrance of the building, Jimmy stepped inside, immediately receiving dark frowns and cruel looks from the twenty-six men in the room, one of which had only moments before been engaged in locking swords with a heavily-armored man who was likely Lord Malthus.

  Fear pounding in his heart, Jimmy, knowing that first impressions were everything, resisted all their intimidation techniques and merely stared at them with an indifferent look. Even though he felt inferior to these ruthless powerfully built men, he hoped that he at least had as much proficiency with the sword. Though it was a slim hope, it was his only hope, and he held onto it with all his might.

  After two hours of training and only receiving a cut on his forearm from the blunt side of Malthus’s sword, Jimmy was exhausted, though content, the feeling a person gets after a hard, yet successful day of work.

  Removing all of his armor, piece by piece, he took a quick bath in a nearby river that Lord Malthus had recommended, before drying off on some course rug-like material that Malthus had given him.

  After changing back into his old clothes, he trudged wearily to the barracks, carrying his lightweight armor and sword that felt surprisingly heavy now. As he entered the barracks, Jimmy immediately met up with Commander Gavar.

  Surprisingly glad to see him, Jimmy greeted him with enthusiasm. The man seemed almost like a fatherly figure compared to the rest of the men he’d just dealt with. “That was exhausting, Commander. My arms won’t even move,” said Jimmy, resting his back against the wall nearest the door, his muscles aching like a rock climber’s, as his mind replayed the frequent jeers and taunts thrown out at him by his fellow trainees when he’d first entered the training arena. Their jibes were even crueler than Wally Sherman’s or Jack Lane’s without any of the ingenuity of the former or originality of the later.

  Fortunately, though, as the day progressed and the men watched with growing amazement his expertise at the sword, their insults grew scarcer, and by the end of the two hours, some of the younger men were even praising him for his agility, techniques, and quick maneuvers. It took the utmost effort to resist the pride that sought to engulf him; he was younger than most of them by many years and yet he was better than half of them. As sore as he was and despite all the scathing comments, he’d literally enjoyed every moment of his training and only wished for it to continue.

  As he gazed wearily at Gavar, who seemed to sympathize with his stiffness and fatigued limbs, the man spoke up, respect in his tone, “Well, you deserve a rest, Jimmy.” Gavar patted him on the back. “You’re clearly no amateur from what Lord Malthus told me. Who trained you?”

  Pausing for a second, hoping to not sound too arrogant, he muttered, “I trained myself.”

  The commander’s eyes widened. “That’s unheard of,” he said brashly. “Who really trained you?”

  It took some time to remember the name of his sword-fighting instructor, the instructor who’d been training him for only two weeks and hadn’t taught him a thing that he didn’t already know beside a simple sword technique, which seemed like something a child should know. “Ryan Turner,” he eventually blurted out, shuffling the pile of armor in his hands, holding tightly onto his sword with his left hand so it wouldn’t slip out.

  Gavar grinned knowingly. “Another odd name, but at least you’re being honest now.” Head held high, he then drifted off into a meditative silence, which lasted for several moments, before he spoke again. “Training is done for the day, Jimmy. Come back on Zadin’s day at the eighth hour.”

/>   “Zadin’s day?”

  “The day after tomorrow,” he replied, laughing at Jimmy’s ignorance. “Tomorrow’s the king’s birthday, so of course, no practice--only celebration.” After thinking for a second, he added, “So, where are you spending the night?”

  “What are my options, Commander?”

  “Either the barracks or an inn.”

  Thinking about how uncomfortable sleeping in the barracks sounded and how much more enchanting an inn sounded, he quickly responded, “I’ll spend the night at an inn.”

  “Then you’d better hurry; sunset’s coming and the cheapest beds are already taken.” Sensing Jimmy’s hesitation, he continued, “There’s a good inn down Copperstone’s Creek named the Apple Orchard. Just follow the road into town and the big cedar wood building will draw your eyes to it.”

  Excitement flooded his face at the thought of spending a night at a medieval inn. “Thanks for the advice, Commander.”

  But he wasn’t done yet. His tone turned dark and serious. “And, Jimmy, I must caution you; the roads are dangerous at night, so keep an eye out for suspicious men. If you’re robbed, don’t argue--let them have what they want.”

  Jimmy nodded his head solemnly, hoping he was just trying to frighten him. “I’ll do that. Thanks, sir.”

  “Blessings to you, Jimmy; may the warrior spirit of Adin enslave your soul.”

  Startled by the man’s words, his mouth twitched before he replied with a simple, “Good night, Commander.”

  Yet his words weren’t accepted well. The commander frowned and made an ‘x’ with his arms as if he’d said something entirely childish; though he wasn’t angry, he gave Jimmy an irritated look as if to warn him to never say it again.

  But too tired to be embarrassed, Jimmy bowed to him twice, nearly touching his chin to the pile of armor in his hand, and then hurried to the front of the weapons room. With what little energy he had left, he put his sword back on the shelf, sprinted lightly into the armory, and asked Seivan to help him put the armor back.

  Once Seivan had scrupulously put each piece back in its rightful place, Jimmy thanked him, cheering up considerably as he saw his large money sack was still there untouched, and then headed back to the weapons room, the sack held firmly in his right hand.

  Gazing at all the sinister-looking scimitars, swords, axes, and bows hung on metal hooks or sword hangers, he eventually broke himself out of his daydream, as he realized he ought to be going. Slowly, painfully, he tore himself away from the rarities that any weapon collector would “pay over the river to acquire”, a phrase Lord Malthus had often used and that Jimmy found rather funny, before heading to the front door.

  That was unbelievably cool! Jimmy opened up the door and stepped outside, enthusiasm radiating from his tired face, the mistakes of the day leaving his mind. Bypassing two soldiers throwing daggers at an oak tree from twenty paces away and laughing at each other in merriment, he returned to the dusty road and started jogging down it, heading for the Apple Orchard. A peaceful look on his face, a skip in his steps, he started whistling a Celtic tune. It was one of his dreams to stay in a medieval inn; now he was actually going to one.

  Head tilted downwards, a common posture for him, as he observed the path in front of him, he failed to notice a signpost that hung from a maple tree right where the road branched off into two directions. The signpost read, Sarette Village - 5 miles West. Copperstone’s Creek - 2 miles Northwest. In all his excitement, he accidentally took the path that led down to Sarette Village. It was a mistake.

  Chapter 21

  Standing on the beach, Ian impatiently watched the small waves lap up against the seashells, two of which he’d collected, a vivid reddish purple conch shell and a golden cream-colored clamshell, both sides still attached, shimmering beautifully. But he wasn’t interested in shells right now; he just wanted to be back at Shadowcrest Manor.

  Heaving a deep sigh of despair, the suspense gnawing into him, Ian fought against the fear that sought to engulf him, as he stared up at the darkening purple sky, images of the rough band of woodsmen tormenting his dispirited mind. Was he ever going back home? Or was he stuck here this time? What if they came back and tried to kill him again?

  Considering this thought with dread, he suddenly heard the noise of footprints coming up from behind him and immediately panicked. Spinning around, his thoughts were proven true, as six red-clothed men with short swords and daggers appeared before him. He barely had time to gasp before one of them threw a weighted net over him, ensnaring him, causing him to fall into a crouching position. Gazing in horror at his captors, he watched as one of them, a tall, well-built man, with multi-colored feathers in his black velvet hat, a jeweled bandana over his forehead, and a waistcoat and breeches cut from the same dark red cloth, approached him with a greedy sneer on his face.

  “What business have you here?” the dark skinned man asked, as he motioned for his comrades to stay where they were.

  “I was just admiring the sunset,” said Ian in the man’s language, one very different from the language the forest men used as this one was more lilting and smooth.

  But the men only found his words amusing and broke out into hearty laughter.

  After several moments, in which they quieted down somewhat, the apparent leader, staring at Ian, interrupted their raucous clamor, “Do you know where you are, boy?”

  “On a beach of some sort,” replied Ian hesitantly, as he keenly noted that these men resembled pirates, just the sort of men that Azadar would lock up in a heartbeat. Scanning the waters, Ian noticed an obvious pirate ship anchored there. How could he be so deaf as to not hear it coming?

  Seeming to find amusing in the situation, the leader smiled more forcefully as he answered his own question. “This is our cove. Only pirates are allowed here.”

  Ian’s mind raced as he remembered the name of the nation with pirates. “So you’re from Verandur then?”

  “Aye, you’re a quick one,” said the captain mockingly, as his men flew into another laughing fit.

  Looking at the captain pointedly, becoming rather annoyed with his sarcasm, Ian spoke with sincerity, “Let me go and I’ll leave your area immediately. I wasn’t aware I was trespassing.”

  None of them seemed to gain his seriousness. “We can’t do that, lad; that’s against our code.”

  “Then what do you want with me?” shouted Ian.

  “We are in need of more rowers,” said the captain, who paused for a while but then decided to share more. “Three of our men were recently imprisoned by an elf lord and his followers and won’t likely ever be rejoining us.”

  Thinking quickly, wanting to get on the captain’s good side, Ian murmured, “Does this elf lord go by the name of Azadar?”

  “Yes, he does,” replied the captain, not able to hide his amazement at Ian’s knowledge. “And you know this because …?”

  Maybe some more small talk would warm the captain up to him. “Because I was recently captured by him myself,” began Ian. “He was going to haul me to the dungeon but--”

  “You escaped?” asked the captain, as his eyes sized up Ian again, gaining more respect for him by the minute.

  “Yes, that was the easy part,” replied Ian, smirking. “It just came so naturally to someone as talented as I am.” He paused, and then, although he knew he’d hate himself for saying this, he proceeded further. “Your crew needs me; I can rescue your companions.”

  Now the captain started laughing again, and so did his crew. When he calmed down enough to speak, his words were those of a jester. “You? You can’t even get out of our net.”

  Feeling that he’d lost the battle, watching the pirates all scoff and jeer at him, Ian suddenly hit upon a brilliant idea. He wasted no time in vocalizing it, his tone now cocky and scornful. “I was unaware that pirates had no need of a Chardin.”

  This stopped them all in their tracks. Not a laugh was heard; all their faces grew serious. “Now’s not the time for jokes,” cautioned
the captain. “Everyone knows that Chardins would never venture so far away from the academy.” Now his countenance darkened with anger. “Don’t lie to me. I’m not so stupid as to believe the words of a Sarithian.”

  “And what makes you think that’s my homeland?” asked Ian, liking the irony of the situation, and the fact that he knew the truth while they didn’t.

  They all examined him closer now, and none of them seemed to come to any conclusions.

  Knowing his next words could prove to be either useless or fatal, Ian spoke with some hesitance, “If you don’t believe me, then test my claim. Surely you have something in your ship that could prove whether I’m a Chardin or not.”

  The captain looked stunned for an instant before turning aside and whispering to his men. Once they’d agreed upon something, the captain spoke, “We do have a jar of Tajai Fire which is said to have been made by the Verandel wizards long ago. If anything were magical, it would be this. Repel it, and you’ll gain wholehearted acceptance into the Jewel Raiders. Fail, and you’ll be as dead as a cooked crab.”

  Now why did he have to open his mouth? “On second thought, forget this idea,” muttered Ian, as fear shone in his eyes just imagining himself being doused in magical fire and burnt alive. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “Oh, it’s too late to turn the ship around now,” said the captain with an evil grin. “Your fate is with the desert now.” He turned to one of his men. “Row the skiff back to the Emerald Envy and ask the boatswain for the Tajai Fire.” No further words were needed. The chosen pirate hurried off to one of the six small boats beside the water and began rowing towards the pirate ship.

  Apparently, in the process of proving whether Ian were a liar or not, the pirates had no need of him and conferred among themselves, too quietly for him to hear what was being said.

  While they were distracted, Ian nervously tried to think of anything that could free him from this net--nothing clicked. Even if he had a knife, the sound of sawing through the net would alert the pirates. No, as much as he hated it, he had no choice but to remain still and fervently hope that his magical immunity hadn’t worn off, and that, as he had resisted all the Elayan’s spells, he would resist this as well. If not, he was as good as dead.