Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1)

by Mark Shane

  “Morning to you gentlemen,” Max said, much more chipper than he felt.

  “Morning? It’s still night as far as I’m concerned,” growled Dirk, one of the Lancaster boys.

  The stout captain shot Dirk a stern look. “It is rather early, Master Thorn, even for you,” he said stepping in front of the gate.

  “Sickness does not care about time, Captain Laramon.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps it can wait a couple of hours till daybreak?”

  “I’m afraid not. This young lady came a great distance to ask for my help, and I cannot delay any longer. I would have been gone sooner, but the soldiers who arrived yesterday needed me.”

  The captain grimaced; only Belfor still breathed. He glanced at Falon and back at Max. “We do thank you, Master Thorn. If only they had reached here sooner, perhaps...”

  “Time is everything to the sick, Captain.” Falon nudged him. “Speaking of time, we really must be off.”

  “The night is no time to start a travel, Master Thorn. There may still be more rabid wolves about.”

  “I thank you for your concern and, fortunately, we will not be leaving town till daybreak; however, I must gather supplies from my house and make preparations.”

  The captain gave him a weighing look then stepped aside with a salute. “The Creator be with you and keep you, Master Thorn.”

  “The Creator be with you and keep you, Captain Laramon.”

  He looked up to the gatehouse roof. “Young Benjamin, please take care of yourself. I won’t be gone more than a month, but I fear much can happen for some in a month.”

  The other three soldiers chuckled. A month, bah! He would probably never return, but a story was needed for why he was leaving and who better to spread it than soldiers.

  “We will take extra good care of him, Master Thorn,” Jason said, slapping Benjamin on the back.

  “The Creator favors you, young Benjamin,” Max said as he walked through the gate, “even if it is in a peculiar way.”

  The guards broke out into full laughter. Max looked back over his shoulder. Benjamin was smiling at him. He returned it in kind and wondered when he would hear laughter again.

  ***

  The sun broke the horizon, its golden rays chasing away the pre-dawn gray, as Michael stepped out of the garrison.

  The Sword was strapped to his back, but no one could see it. “A spell of illusion” Max had called it. Garen could see it, but only because he knew it was there. Max said a spell of illusion could only work on those who did not know the truth, and as long as he did not draw the Sword or alert someone to its presence then no one would be the wiser. Michael was not so sure. Then again, someone would have commented about him joining the army if they saw him carrying a sword. And carrying this sword openly would get him in a lot of trouble.

  He took a long look at the town lying before him, wondering if he would ever see it again. Several people had placed orders with him recently. Ivan needed a new chair, and the Jenkins family needed a larger table not to mention the many repair jobs he had intended to get to in the next few days. He hoped they would understand. Bertram was a decent carpenter, but he lacked a certain expressiveness.

  “You going to stand there till Feastday?” Garen said, reining in his dappled grey horse next to Michael.

  Michael shot his friend a sidelong glance then nicked his brown roan to a walk. “Come on, I need to get home.”

  The events of the past night played vividly in his mind when the cabin came into view. Stepping on the porch, he grimaced at the pile of black dust in his doorway. Three arrows lay in that pile of blackness, shafts blackened where broadheads should be, and part of his axe blade had eroded away.

  The stout oak front door lay cracked and splintered on the floor. The top hinge had been ripped out of the doorjamb. Bent and twisted, the bottom hinge managed to remain attached to the door frame by a single nail.

  Garen whistled when he viewed the wreckage in the front room. Michael proceeded to the bedroom to get his larger backpack. Stuffing clothes into it, he began thinking of where his father may have hidden the rest of his journals. Based on the number of entries in the one he had, he thought there were perhaps three more. He looked through his wardrobe, raping on the back for hollow spots, but it was solid. His search of the desk proved no better.

  “What’re you looking for?” Garen asked as Michael started inspecting the bookshelf.

  “My father’s journals,” Michael replied, pulling out books and thumbing through them quickly before dropping them to the floor.

  “You have it.”

  “I have the last one.” Michael tossed another book aside. “I think he left more.”

  “Oh.” Garen looked around nervously. It was daytime, but he half expected something else to spring through the door. “Do we really have to find them now?”

  Michael paused to give him a sardonic glance. Garen held up his hands in defense and began looking around the room for more books. “So how come you didn’t know about them before?”

  “Dad hid them.” Michael finished thumbing through the last book.

  “Why?” Garen asked, looking in the cupboard.

  “Somehow, he knew something like last night might happen.”

  “How’d he know?”

  “I’m not sure, he just did. And I believe he left me important messages in those journals.” Michael rapped on the back of the bookshelf looking for hollow areas. Like the wardrobe, it was solid. He sat down on the fireplace. “Favorite hiding place that gave me such a scare” he quoted.

  “What was that?” Garen asked.

  “The last entry my father wrote was a cryptic message about where the journals are hidden. Here see for yourself.” He opened the journal to the last message.

  “What about that time when we climbed the chimney?” Garen mused.

  “I doubt he would have hidden them up there. Not without me noticing him up there for no reason.”

  “No, I mean what about a loose stone in the hearth,” Garen replied.

  A quick inspection of the hearth proved fruitless. Michael blew out the air in his lungs, exasperated. He and Garen had gotten into plenty of mischief, so no particular incident stuck out in his mind. Then his eyes fell on the corner of the chest through the bedroom doorway the same time Garen mentioned it. He had locked himself in it once when playing hide and seek. It had been a good hiding place until he tried to open the door and realized it was locked. Banging on the lid in a panic, his father had come to his rescue.

  The contrasting colors of dark walnut and light, blonde maple made the chest solid and beautiful. Rectangle in shape with rounded corners accentuated by an intricate crest of a lion’s head chiseled on the lid made it one of his father’s greatest creations. Michael laid his fingers over the crest realizing it was the same as the pommel of the Sword.

  He took everything out of the trunk and inspected it from top to bottom. The walls were too narrow to provide any concealment, and the lid held no secrets either. Rapping on the bottom did no good since the trunk stood on legs and the bottom would, of course, sound hollow.

  Michael sat down next to the trunk, stumped. Surely this was what his father had been alluding to. He surveyed the outside of the trunk, noting the engravings, looking at each place where the different woods met, trying to see if there was any reason other than creative for it. He tried to place himself in his father’s shoes, imagining him building it. The chest was almost as old as he was. His father built it shortly after returning home with him. A “celebration chest” he called it; a celebration of new life, Michael’s in Whitewater’s Forge and his own exchange of traveling and adventure for one of family and community. The merging of the two distinctly different woods symbolized this concept.

  “The narrow light will show you the way,” Michael quoted, fingering the wood patterns of the chest. It was an old religious proverb, and his father had been fond of incorporating religious teachings into his work. On the back of the chest
were twelve thin ribs of maple inset in the walnut and evenly spaced except for the bottom one which was a finger’s width farther apart. Placing one hand under the chest and the other on the inside bottom of the trunk, Michael’s heart jumped. His hands were not touching the same piece of wood; there was space between his hands. Turning the chest over he worked the rib of maple till it slid out and then removed the bottom, revealing a hidden compartment. The inside floor of the chest was a false bottom.

  Inside the compartment were six books, three pouches, and a thick leather belt. Michael quickly perused the books and found four were journals, and each had the same cryptic message on the last page. His father had been a meticulous man indeed. The dark red leather bound book contained a foreign language, and the other, bound in dark green leather, was a book of maps.

  The three pouches were distinctly different. One, of black felt, held twelve fine jewels and the second was a simple traveler’s purse made of sturdy wool, but the gold and silver coins inside were not so simple.

  “Michael, I know your father traveled far, but I have never seen some of these markings,” Garen said holding up one of the gold coins for inspection. “Where’d he get them?”

  “I don’t know,” Michael replied. “These jewels are beyond anything I’ve ever seen, not that I’m an expert.”

  “Talk about saving up for a foul day,” Garen said, grinning.

  Michael deposited the gems back in the pouch and cinched it closed. “I think he was doing that since Max put me in his care.”

  Opening the leather pouch Michael whistled. “Look at these shurikens.”

  “I don’t think we have time for a game of stars, Michael,” Garen said.

  “Stars” was a simple game Michael’s father picked up in a far-off, exotic land. It used three small triangular pieces of metal called shurikens, thrown at a board with markings of varying value.

  “These were not created for a game,” Michael replied, handing one to his friend.

  Garen let out a whistle as he examined it. “Sharp edges, sharp points, weighted better than the ones we use for the game. These are weapons.”

  Michael threw one into the wall. A precise throw with a precise weapon, making no sound in flight and only a faint thud on impact. “Exactly.”

  “They’re a little lighter than what I’m used to and a little thinner,” Garen noted holding two, then three together to compare the thickness to the standard game pieces. With a flick of the wrist, he sent all three flying. They separated a little in flight and firmly bit into the wall.

  Garen looked at Michael whose mouth hung open. Sometimes, when they began to tire of a game, but were not quite ready to put the shurikens away, they would throw more at a time. Two had flown decently together, but three always gave poor results. These three flew with the accuracy of one.

  “I’m beginning to think your dad did not teach you how to throw shurikens for fun,” Garen said.

  “Agreed.” Michael inspected the belt closely. Made from two layers of leather, it had slits between them to hide five shurikens, and the inner layer was notched to easily remove them.

  “But why did your father hide all of this?”

  “I don’t know,” Michael replied. He inserted five shurikens in the belt and put it on. It felt good, like a connection to his father. He stuffed the other shurikens, journals, and pouches in his pack. “Perhaps he was waiting till he thought I was ready to know the truth.”

  Or until Max did.

  “Come on, let’s go, I have questions for Max and, for once, I’m gonna get some answers.”

  Garen picked up Michael’s bow and grimaced at the blackened teeth marks in the wood. “You’ll need a new bow.”

  Michael frowned. It had been a fine bow. Garen grabbed the quiver of arrows on the floor, at least they were still good, and walked out the door.

  Michael stopped on the porch, staring at the place where the nightstalkers had appeared in the night.

  “What is it?” Garen asked.

  “There were four of them,” Michael replied. “I’m sure of it. But only three attacked. What happened to the other one?”

  “Maybe it was the one Max killed on the way into town.”

  Michael fingered one of the shurikens in his belt absently. “Maybe.”

  Something did not add up. A fourth nightstalker would have finished him off. Why would it hold back and wait? He swung into his saddle. No mysteries were going to be solved standing on his porch. His porch, his home. He took one last look at his cabin then set off eastward at a canter. He had one last set of goodbyes to say.

  ***

  Shadows hung heavy under the trees, the sun slowly creeping upward from the horizon. The wolf noticed neither the rising sun nor the two boys at the cabin. He lay twitching in his sleep, reliving the nightmare again.

  In his mind, he saw the last of the four perverted ones holding back for some reason. A rush of fear and adrenaline swept through his body. Like a wraith, he darted out, clipping the black beast’s hamstring before it knew he was there. Despite a damaged leg, the perverted one chased him into the forest. Halfway to the river the beast caught him. Spinning around he met the beast’s charge with a bone-jarring jolt, two massive bodies of fur and teeth grappling, snarling, biting.

  His teeth sank into the perverted beast’s neck. Putrid and vile, its blood burned his mouth but he refused to release. Pulling back with every muscle in his body, he ripped a large chunk of its throat out. The beast staggered, vile blood spewing, but it refused to die so easily. Darting in, dodging the beast’s weak attempt at defense, he tore at the damaged throat again. The beast fell but managed to get back up. The wolf slammed into the perverted one, clamping down on the throat as he came up on top of the black abomination. His mouth felt on fire, mind reeling from the pain, but he refused to release till it lay on the ground twitching in death’s throes.

  He managed three steps toward the river before falling. He may have killed one of the perverted, but his body could only fight the poison of its vile blood for so long. He would not survive unless he reached the cleansing waters of the river.

  Something shook the ground near him.

  The wolf raised his head slightly. When did it become so heavy? Through eyelids barely open, he glimpsed the red dragon reaching down with a clawed hand.

  “Fine mess you got yourself into,” the dragon chided.

  The wolf felt himself being lifted, carried in a powerful grip, then blackness.

  Water! Cold, life-giving water soaked him as he lay in the river’s shallows. He lapped laboriously, mouth aching with each movement, but the pain subsided somewhat as the water washed the vile blood from his mouth. Looking up from the river, he glimpsed red eyes a moment before his throat was ripped out.

  He jerked awake, jumping to his feet, looking around. The dream. The bloody dream. He shook off the last vestiges of sleep, and the nightmare, as his eyes focused on the cabin, two horses stood nearby now, nipping at the grass, and someone moved inside.

  Everything had happened just as he dreamt it except the last glimpse of red eyes. Thank Yesula, the Creator. His mouth still burned from sores left by the nightstalker’s blood.

  “Bad dream?” a familiar voice, deep and resonating, asked.

  The wolf cut his eyes at the red dragon who bit down on a black-tailed deer, bones snapping in the massive jaws.

  “You change your mind about helping?”

  The dragon snorted and swallowed a huge chunk of venison. “Hardly. Lucky for you I decided to keep an eye on you, though. What did you gain from last night besides misery?”

  “We are bound to serve as protectors. That boy is our hope. Better my misery, than his death.”

  “Ah yes, the honor-bound code; a carrot of restitution hung in front of good creatures.” The dragon ripped off another large bite of meat.

  “Better to die serving than live life jaded,” the wolf shot back.

  The dragon pointed a claw at a freshly killed rabbit. �
�Eat. Can’t follow the humans if you don’t regain your strength.”

  Ignoring the snide comment, the wolf laid back down. His mouth hurt too much to eat. The two youth stepped out of the house and mounted their horses. They made a stop at the gravestones, where the pup kneeled, placing a hand on each, and bowed his head. The wolf watched them till they rode down the backside of a hill, disappearing from view.

  He closed his eyes. Another day, just one, and he would be ready to follow. No doubt the pup would find himself in some snare without guidance. Duty was never easy. Blackness took him again, and the nightmare was not far away.

  CHAPTER 8

  Dark Plans

  The sun sparkled off the myriad of colors in the stained glass windows of the Cathedral of Light. Each window a sermon on some virtue or depicted a great triumph of past Keepers. Aleister Cain hated those windows almost as much as he hated the statues surrounding him.

  The Courtyard of Heroes, filled with life-size statues of the former Keepers, was the final testament to Shaladon’s protectors. Each statue stood on a four-foot granite plinth, the Keeper’s name engraved in the polished rock. All except one: Tobias Ashguard.

  Once struggles for power sprung up no one gave much thought to creating a statue for Tobias. When the time was right, he would destroy every statue looking down on him, the cursed windows in the cathedral too, but he considered the absence of Tobias’ likeness a pleasant victory for the time being. What rested in the place of the final Keeper’s statue was a different matter.