Arcane (The Arinthian Line Book 1)

by Sever Bronny

  As he returned to cleaning, his eye fell upon the short sword and scabbard hanging on the wall. He reached for it under the pretense that it needed dusting. As his hand grasped the hilt, he remembered sparring with Sir Westwood. He could almost hear the thump of wooden swords crossing. He had always dreamed of owning a real blade; Sir Westwood had not let him touch his sword, not even to polish it.

  Augum gingerly pulled Mrs. Stone’s sword out of its scabbard, noting the fine balance. The steel blade was silvery-blue and looked extremely sharp. The crossguard was a tapered steel bar seamlessly joined to the blade, the grip tightly wrapped with links of chain.

  He made a practice swing. The sword hissed as it sliced the air. Inspired, he sheathed the blade and attached it to his belt, where it hung awkwardly. He then marched to the end of the room, ready to face an imaginary opponent.

  “Sir, you have offended my lady! I challenge you to a duel. Draw your sword, if you dare …”

  He then ceremoniously drew Mrs. Stone’s sword and circled his pretend adversary.

  “Defend yourself, Sir!” Augum made a wild slash, nearly slicing the settee, before dodging an imaginary blow. He parried a strike aimed at his head and countered with a swing that accidentally sliced through a fat candle. As a testament to the sword’s sharpness, the candle remained standing.

  “And now … It. Must. End—!” He plunged a final thrust. Suddenly the tip of the blade burst with a blue electric bolt that connected with the far wall, exploding a head-sized hole in the rock above the pantry. Electric fingers of lightning crept up his arm before disappearing with a sizzling crackle.

  He dropped the sword and stared dumbstruck at the hole. It smoked and sizzled, filling the room with an acrid smell.

  That is it. She is going to kill him, and if not, there goes his apprenticeship.

  Unless …

  He hurriedly sheathed the sword and hung it back on the wall. Knowing he needed to do something about the smell, he opened the door to let the air circulate. The snowfall was even thicker now, pushing its way inside with the wind.

  The place cooled fast. Judging the smell gone, he closed the door and put more logs on the fire, glad Mrs. Stone was going to be a while.

  He glanced at the gaping hole, breath fogging. A myriad of excuses came to mind; something in the hearth exploded, ricocheting off the wall; a brigand he fought off heroically; a comet—

  The door suddenly swung open, blowing a fresh plume of snow inside. A hunched Mrs. Stone trundled in, carrying a wicker basket. She stamped her feet and closed the door, muttering about her old bones. She hung her winter robe and set the basket on the table, glancing idly about.

  Augum, whose heart thundered in his chest, stood by the fire trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible.

  “I expected you would have fini—” She stopped to sniff the air. “Merciful spirits, what is that smell!”

  “I … I …”

  She reared like a cobra. “In the name of all that is proper, why is there a hole in the wall?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Stone, I … I played with the sword.”

  She only glared; he felt smaller than a dung beetle.

  “It seems you have a hard time following instructions. That sword is extremely sharp; you could have cut your own head off and not even have known it.”

  Augum gave the candle a sidelong glance.

  “It is not a toy, Augum. Look at me. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Stone.”

  “Humph.” She turned her back on him and began to unpack the basket.

  He swallowed. Was that all? Was he getting away with only a reprimand?

  “Perhaps you have too much time on your hands. Well I assure you, that we can remedy. Make yourself useful and gather four armfuls of wood for the fire. You will find a coat, saw and gloves in the hall cupboard. There is a hidden door to a storage room outside the entrance.”

  Augum hurried to the cupboard where he found the items described. He left quietly, grateful to escape harsher punishment.

  Outside, fat snowflakes swirled, curtaining off the sun and making it appear later than it was. The cold was intense; his breath steamed, hands numbing almost immediately.

  The wind bullied him on the long descent, threatening to send him tumbling. He wondered what news she had brought back and what town she had visited. Above all, he wondered how she had made the journey so quickly …

  He finally reached the forest. Spotting a felled branch, he set to sawing it into manageable portions. The task complete, he bundled the wood in his arms and started back up the mountain.

  The blizzard-like wind fought him every step of the way, blinding him and making breathing difficult. He stumbled many times, realizing this was no easy punishment after all. At last, he scrambled over the lip of the cave and searched for the hidden door, finding a camouflaged iron handle embedded into the cave wall. He pulled it and a portion of the rock swung open, revealing a spacious storage cavity filled with cords of wood. He added his wood to the pile and trekked back down for another armful, wondering how she could possibly have brought up all that wood herself.

  Augum repeated this process three more times, descending further and further in search of wood. With each trip, the sky darkened and the blizzard thickened. By the time he gathered the last armful, he was shivering and wished he had a lantern.

  Suddenly he became aware of just how dark and bare the forest was. He froze, peering past the trunks. “It’s just a forest, keep going …” he mumbled, and slowly began to walk again. With every step, however, shadows morphed into demons and branches shifted into snakes. His breath increased along with his pace; he forgot how cold and tired he was, all he wanted to do was get back.

  At last, he spotted the mouth of the cave, scurried to the entrance, and peered back down the slope. A curtain of white obscured everything.

  Fear creates enemies, Sir Westwood used to say. Fear creates enemies …

  Augum deposited the wood in the storage room and slunk through the oaken door, glad to be done with the task.

  Mrs. Stone sat in the rocking chair by the fire covered with a blanket, a mug of steaming tea beside her and a large tome in her hands titled Occulus: A Legacy of Mystery.

  “Finished, have we?” she asked without looking up.

  “Yes, Mrs. Stone. May I join you by the fire?”

  “You may.”

  He returned the coat, saw and gloves to the closet and pulled up a chair. The fire was a tremendous pleasure and he relaxed, enjoying the peace the moment afforded.

  “Mrs. Stone—?”

  “Mmm—?”

  “What about the second test?”

  Mrs. Stone glanced at the hole above the pantry. “There shant be need,” and resumed reading.

  A tingle passed through him. Did she mean he had failed?

  Mrs. Stone turned a page. “Tomorrow you will undertake your final test, the most important one. If you pass, you shall be my apprentice.”

  Augum breathed a sigh of relief; he still had a chance.

  “And if I don’t pass?”

  She quietly closed her book, folding her hands over it. “I suppose there are plenty of other distractions in life. No sense in worrying though, just act your conscience and all will be fine.”

  He nodded, frowning. His thoughts drifted to her short trip today. “Mrs. Stone, is there any news from town?”

  She placed the book aside. “Read for yourself,” and handed him today’s Blackhaven Herald.

  Must have gotten it from a travelling herald, he thought. Then he wondered if this was her way of seeing if he could read. Just in case it was, he decided to read the parchment aloud.

  “‘… with pride we report the Academy of Arcane Arts has fully bent its will to the Legion’s needs. Training of a new cabal of warlocks will begin immediately. Let it be hereby known that it is mandatory for all youths thirteen and older to report to the nearest Legion constabulary to determine if they have the skill
to train at the academy.’”

  He looked up. “They’re forcing us?”

  “That appears to be the case.”

  His eyes returned to the parchment. “What’s the Academy of Arcane Arts?” The name sounded vaguely familiar.

  The rocker creaked to a halt. “My word, you mean you know nothing of the most respected arcane institution in all of Sithesia?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  Mrs. Stone resumed rocking. “Sir Westwood was probably right to keep you ignorant. It seems certain knowledge could get one into trouble these days, especially in the villages.” She sighed. “The Academy of Arcane Arts is an ancient school for warlocks, one all Solian warlocks aspire to attend. Perhaps if the Legion falls, you will have the opportunity.”

  “What happens to those that don’t report to a Legion constabulary?”

  She gave him a grave look that needed no explanation.

  He grabbed a poker and stirred the coals, thinking about what she had said. “So what do they want?”

  “They want what all conquering men want—power, glory, worship …” She ceased rocking again. “Finish reading the parchment, Augum.”

  He returned to the scrawled page. “‘And let these names serve as warning for others thinking of taking up arms against the might of the Legion. The following have been put to death for the crime of treason:’” With a sinking feeling, he skipped down the list until he saw a familiar name.

  “‘Tobias Westwood’ …” They had not even included his knightly title. He read on tonelessly. “‘Further, the following are to be commended on heroic actions taken on behalf of the Cause in the fierce battle of Willowbrook:’” another list of names, among them, “‘Commander Vion Rames’ …”

  Mrs. Stone’s voice was quiet. “It troubles me greatly that my former apprentice was the commander responsible for burning your village.”

  He could barely say the words. “It wasn’t a battle, it was a slaughter …”

  She reached out a wrinkled hand and gently patted him on the arm. “I am sorry, child.”

  “Excuse me—” He shot out of the chair, hurried to his room and lunged into bed. He imagined Sir Westwood bleeding in the dirt, shadows dancing around his still form, willows burning in the background.

  He lay in bed the rest of the evening, clenching his pillow, thoughts in turmoil. When sleep came at last, it did little to numb the stabbing pain in his heart.

  Companions

  Augum woke to a gentle shaking. “Breakfast is ready. Come, you have a big day ahead.” Mrs. Stone shuffled off, leaving him to dress in his burgundy robe.

  Breakfast was a quiet affair. The food would have tasted much better had it not been for the previous day’s news. Mrs. Stone cast him a rare, sympathetic smile. Augum did not return it, dully pushing his eggs around the plate.

  If she had only trained Vion better, Sir Westwood would still be alive and Willowbrook would not have burnt down!

  He jabbed an already tormented potato.

  After breakfast, Mrs. Stone retrieved a bulging rucksack and placed it on a chair.

  “I packed a few things for your last test.”

  He took the rucksack and glumly pawed through the contents. There was a bedroll, blanket, flint, steel, and a lantern. A tightly rolled canvas tent lay strapped to the outside.

  “You will also be taking enough provisions to last you three days, though I expect you back tomorrow.” She unfolded a wrinkled map, pointing at a spot about a day’s walk north of the mountain. “Hangman’s Rock is your destination. You are to leave this package on top.” She placed a tightly wrapped and heavy parcel on the table. “You are not to open it.”

  He just stared at it. Sir Westwood was dead. There was no point in anything.

  “I know it is difficult, but you must find the strength to move on, Augum. In order for you to learn what I have to teach you, you will need strong character and a stronger mind. Use this as an opportunity to build on both.”

  He thought of Sir Westwood standing in the crimson sun, a straw of wheat in his mouth. Would the man have been proud of him? Would he have understood and given his blessing to this new path?

  “If you leave now, you should reach the rock by nightfall,” Mrs. Stone said.

  He glanced at the map, noticing the mountain was named Mt. Barrow. His eyes wandered east to a drooping willow neatly inscribed Willowbrook. He ran a finger over the word, picturing the grizzled knight nodding his head as Augum practiced with the sword.

  Yes, Sir Westwood would have been proud of him …

  “I’ll do my best, Mrs. Stone.”

  “I expect nothing less.”

  She began packing the provisions while he studied the map, deciding he would follow the tree line bordering the Tallows all the way to Hangman’s Rock. He put on a fur-lined woolen coat, a pair of hide mitts and boots, and strapped on the rucksack, made much heavier by the parcel. He stopped at the door to look back at Mrs. Stone. She leaned on her staff, embroidered robe glittering, looking like a doting grandmother watching her grandson walk off to war.

  “I will pass your test, Mrs. Stone, and return tomorrow evening.”

  * * *

  Augum shivered in the wind and drew his hood. A crisp layer of ankle-deep snow blanketed everything in sight. Clouds stretched along the horizon, casting a pall over the beginning of his journey.

  He descended the mountain and began following the boundary between the forest and the Tallows, keeping a respectful distance from the trees. He skimmed his hand over the chest-high grass rising above the snow, wishing he could fly like a bird. Occasionally, he would glance back at Mt. Barrow, its peak obscured by clouds, wondering how he had survived that fateful night.

  It was past midday when he stopped for a bite to eat. He dug himself a little hole in the snow and hunkered down. Just as he finished lunch, a tiny chirping began nearby. Curious, he prowled toward the sound, finding a small bird nestled amongst the hardy yellow grass, its feathers ruffled.

  “Now what happened to you?” He scooped the little bird up in his mitts. One of its wings appeared not to work. “You’ll freeze out here in the cold, little fellow; I’ll have to take you with me.” He let it nibble on some sunflower seeds before nestling it in his rucksack. Then he set off again, the bird occasionally sounding a quiet chirp.

  “I’m sure you’ll love the cave. I just hope Mrs. Stone won’t mind having another mouth to feed.”

  It was a tough slog, and he eventually gave up trying to keep his feet above the snow. After a few more hours of plodding, he spotted a black speck far ahead. Was that Hangman’s Rock already?

  Then the speck moved.

  Augum ducked and watched. After a while, he was able to make out that it was an approaching group of men on horseback. He glanced at the towering line of trees, the light barely penetrating the first phalanx of trunks.

  “Here we go, feathered friend.” The bird chirped as he crawled to the forest to hide behind a massive pine, trying to ignore the creaking darkness.

  Soon he was able to count them—twelve black-armored knights in single file armed with swords, axes, war hammers and spears. The lead rider carried a large black banner that waved in the wind. Augum’s flesh prickled when he saw the emblem.

  The burning sword of the Legion.

  The knights had massive physiques and rough faces. Their breath escaped in powerful bursts of steam. Two riders at the back of the column were different though. One of these men wore a red robe, hood loosely draped over his head, obscuring his face. The other wore a sparkling black robe, heavily embroidered with what looked like silver tree branches, hood also drawn.

  Augum cursed himself for not taking the trouble to hide his tracks. He could almost hear Sir Westwood say, “Did I not teach you better?”

  He calmed down a little as the column trotted forward. The riders seemed to be absorbed in the journey, not paying much attention to what was on the ground. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when the b
lack-robed rider, the very last one in the column, yelled “HALT—!”

  Augum’s stomach lurched.

  The Black Robe pointed in Augum’s direction. “Tracks, you fools—”

  Augum ducked just in time as heads turned his way.

  Think, think—!

  Yet his mind went completely blank. He stared at the woods listening to the sound of a horse approach. A small chirp escaped his rucksack as a scene unfolded in his brain …

  He was in a snow-covered forest on a hunting lesson with Sir Westwood, the pair wearing long rabbit-skin coats. It was the middle of winter and there was fresh snowfall underfoot.

  “When you hunt, you must respect your prey,” Sir Westwood whispered as they stalked a deer. “Your real enemy is your mind. Master your mind and you master your adversary.”

  Augum slunk around a large tree, spotting the deer no more than forty paces away. He raised his bow with trembling hands.

  Sir Westwood crouched behind him. “Concentrate. Let loose when your breath has left your body. Be as still as the snow.”

  Augum tried hard to still his nerves. The deer looked right at him, but in its place, he saw Meli, standing on wobbly legs, eyes watery.

  The arrow slipped away. It impaled into a tree just behind the deer, which bolted immediately.

  Augum expelled a long breath. “It … it just stared at me.”

  Sir Westwood spat on the ground. “It is not the deer that froze, Augum …”

  A horse’s snort brought Augum back to the present moment. A muscled steed had stopped beside him, black robe dangling by his head. He noticed the embroidered branches were not those of a tree at all, but of lightning. Moreover, just like Mrs. Stone’s robe, they appeared to flicker and flash.

  He looked up at the rider. A pallid face stared back, framed by long night-black hair that fell down the man’s chest—but it was the eyes that drew Augum’s attention, crackling with miniature lightning.

  “Why, it is just a boy!” The rider said back to his comrades. “What are you doing out in the middle of nowhere, boy? You an escaped prisoner? An insurgent?”