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

by Mark Shane

  Michael scowled at Garen.

  “What?” Garen said defensively.

  Michael rolled over on his back accepting the fact he would get no more sleep. “Everywhere you go, you get the girls.”

  “Me! At Summer’s Festival you had three girls fighting over you for dances. Don’t be making comments about me.”

  Michael hit him with a pillow in response.

  “So what’s the plan for today?” Garen asked.

  Michael pulled on his pants. “Don’t know. Let’s find out.”

  Garen had it wrong; it had been all he could do to keep up with those three girls. Women were so particular. It seemed impossible to know what to say without sounding the fool. Sometimes he wished he had Garen’s confidence. Still, Grace Finley had seemed pleased with him, so he must have done something right.

  They made it to the meeting room as Alisa was carrying the breakfast tray out. She gave them a wry look as they grabbed rolls, fruit, and sausages.

  “Feeling refreshed, boys?” Max asked not looking up from a map unfurled on the table.

  Michael grunted an acknowledgement as he sank into the sofa with a mouthful of hot roll.

  “Good, because today’s the last day you’ll have time to relax for a good while.” Max gave them a stern look. “Enjoy it.”

  Swallowing his bite hard, Michael looked at Garen then Falon. Garen shrugged his shoulders. Falon paid him no attention, absorbed in a book.

  “So where do we go from here?” he asked, wondering why Max was prickly as a badger pulled from its home.

  “Well, that’s the tricky part,” Max replied, tracing something on the map with his finger.

  “What’s tricky about it?” Michael asked.

  Max continued musing over the map. “Tricky,” he finally answered, “in that we must travel by day and reach shelter by nightfall. For the next ten days, it’s a hard ride from one walled town to the next. Whatever ground we cover during the day the nightstalkers will simply make up at night.”

  “Why don’t we just set a trap or hunt them down during the day?” Garen asked.

  “They’re smart,” Max growled. “The bloody beast would know we were coming long before we got close. Going into any lair they occupy would be suicide. And they’d see most any trap we set for them. Even if we were lucky, a trap might catch one or two, but then I’d have to use magic to kill the rest, which is exactly what they want.”

  “I don’t understand,” Garen said, mouth full of bread, “they want us to use magic to kill them?”

  “When magic is used, nearby magichae can feel it and determine where it came from. The greater the magic, the more detectable.

  “During the Warlock War, nightstalkers were used to hunt magichae, forcing them to use their power. Fending off a pack of nightstalkers left all but the most powerful magichae exhausted. Then a team of warlocks swept in for the kill. A vicious but effective tactic.”

  “Even if we did manage to kill the entire pack it would be like setting a signal fire ablaze in the dead of night. And what will we do if there are any warlocks following them? Not the best plan when you are trying to stay hidden.”

  “Ah,” Garen said and fell silent.

  “So what happens in ten days?” Michael asked.

  Max began scanning the map again, tracing a path with his finger. “In ten days we reach Jurastock on the border of Ferais, and we’ll run out of towns a day’s travel apart. There’s an abandoned wizard’s stronghold in the Black Woods—”

  “The Black Woods!” Michael and Garen exclaimed.

  “Are you crazy?” Michael said.

  Few places were associated with death and gloom more than the Black Woods. If half the stories told about the Black Woods were true, they might stand a better chance facing the nightstalkers.

  Max continued, slightly perturbed by their outburst. “There’s a portal in that stronghold which can take us to Rhalmadia. Considering the rough terrain, the portal will take twenty days off our trip. And it’s our best hope of losing the nightstalkers.”

  “What about the wraiths in the Black Woods?” Michael asked.

  “As long as we’re able to get through the portal before sunset I think we’ll be ok.”

  “You think?” Michael said.

  “Life’s a gamble sometimes, Michael. All we can do is make the best choice with what we have.”

  “If you’re planning on dodging wraiths, what’s the big fuss over ten days of hard travel?” Garen asked.

  “The stronghold is more than a day’s travel from Jurastock and I’m not crazy enough to go into the Black Woods at night. If we can’t find a way to stall the nightstalkers before we reach the Black Woods, we’ll be forced to face them after all.”

  “Ah,” Garen said. “That would be bad.”

  ***

  Max turned back to the map leaving the boys to think about the dangers the next ten days held.

  “Bad” was an understatement. When he was a student, Max read everything he could find on nightstalkers, daydreaming of taking on a full pack single handed. Such daydreams were easy when none had been unleashed on the world in three hundred years. Now that he had seen them up close, he no longer held such delusions. He doubted they could fend off an entire pack unless Michael’s powers emerged again. Ten days were not sufficient to even get him to the point of wielding his power much less killing those beasts with it.

  The only alternative was the Barren Lands in Valan, a vast area void of magic. He suspected the nightstalkers would go around, perhaps buying them a day or two, but he preferred facing the nightstalkers than going into that cursed country.

  Life was such a gamble at times. The best Max could do was plan, fight and trust the Creator’s plan accommodated their survival. Plenty of men had claimed to know the Creator’s plan only to find themselves at the wrong end of a sword. The creation did not dictate to the Creator how life should be.

  CHAPTER 12

  Treasures Found

  As evening set in, Michael walked into the private dining room. No one was there. He eyed Max’s unfurled map lying on the table and a sly smile crept on his face as he pulled his father’s book of maps out.

  Max walked into the meeting room to find Michael comparing his map to an open book lying on top of it.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, eyeing the book curiously.

  “Comparing your map to the ones in my book,” Michael replied without looking up. “Your map’s accurate, but it lacks details.”

  Max crossed his arms. “Really? Can I see your book?”

  Michael slid the book over, grinning. Rarely did he possess knowledge Max did not. He could not help but savor the moment.

  “Where did you get this?” Max asked like a man having a prized possession returned to him.

  “I found it hidden in the big walnut chest Dad built, along with some other things.”

  “What other things?” Max asked, excitement in his voice.

  Michael presented the three pouches and the book written in a foreign language.

  Max gave an approving grunt and smiled as he inspected the jewels and coins. “A’lan always did prepare for a stormy day. Did you find anything else?”

  “No,” Michael lied. The journals were his. He had no desire to share them. Max looked at Michael and Garen for a moment then returned to perusing the book of maps.

  Michael glanced at Garen. Garen merely shrugged.

  “Careful,” Garen said as Falon pulled the shurikens from their pouch, “they’re sharp.”

  She gave him an annoyed look.

  “Here,” Garen said, “I’ll show you how to—”

  The shuriken flashed from her hand pinning the Crown, the highest mark on the top portion of the dartboard.

  “Beginner’s luck,” Garen cried.

  She quickly threw three more, in a perfect North-South-East-West pattern, and finished with a throwing knife from her sleeve in the bull’s-eye. Garen and Michael stood with their mouths hanging
open.

  “She’s my partner,” Garen stated.

  “You need all the help you can get,” Michael shot back.

  “Sarguin sur sasatear,” Max read aloud from the foreign language book. The others looked at him as if he were speaking gibberish. He cleared his throat and spoke another phrase. “Dashar de escar dala mod.”

  Garen and Michael looked at each other, surprised. “Ast cirgue fust shiratin,” they replied in unison.

  Max looked at them bewildered. “How did you know—”

  “Dad taught us,” Michael said, taking the book from Max and leafing through the pages. “He called it a secret language. Said good friends should have a language of their own. We thought he made it up.”

  Excitement grew as Michael thumbed through the pages. In his haste to leave his cabin, he had only spared the book a quick glance and dismissed it. Now it was a great treasure. A’lan had taught them many expressions and greetings, but they were by no means fluent based on the depth of the book. He felt a flush of adrenaline as his eyes stopped on the phrase he searched for.

  Talar seras notear.

  They were the last words his father uttered as he lay dying. He had never understood what they meant. His voice dropped to a whisper as he read the translation. “Friends beyond the grave.”

  Max held up the book of maps. “I saw this book several times. A’lan was always fascinated with maps. He spent hours getting the details just right. I often wondered where it ended up. I even scanned your bookshelf once looking for it. I think its detail could rival any within the archives at Dalarhan. Might even rewrite a few of them,” he added, turning the book sideways to view a particular map which spanned two pages.

  “Why did he hide all this from me?” Michael asked.

  “We shared a dangerous secret hiding you away, Michael. I hid the Eye and he tucked away tools he felt would aid you when the time came. We agreed I would decide when that time had arrived. Till then we groomed you.”

  “Groomed me?”

  “Michael, your entire life A’lan and I have prepared you to be the Keeper, to reclaim your throne. Your friendship with Garen was born out of your need to learn the sword. It was an excellent way to ensure you grew up with the best training without raising any suspicion.”

  Michael looked at Garen. “So my friendship with Garen was contrived too?”

  “What? No, of course not,” Max replied with a wave of his hand. “Your friendship was your own making. We simply encouraged you in the right direction. The only aspect we did not dare train you in was magic for fear of attracting attention. Over the past year, I considered starting several times. Now I wish I had. Wishes do not improve our situation, though.”

  Max looked at him gravely. “If we are forced to confront those nightstalkers you may be our only hope, Michael. I realize it’s a great deal to ask, but we only have ten days for you to learn to wield your powers.”

  Alisa entered the room carrying a tray of food, steam and aromas wafting from it. She smiled at Garen when she caught him staring.

  “Mmmm, smells amazing,” Garen said. “Thank you, Alisa. I’m famished.”

  Michael rolled his eyes, and Falon slapped him on the arm with a warning glare.

  Michael barely touched any of his food. Irked at Garen for flirting and angry at Max for asking the impossible. He wanted to be angry with his father too for never telling him who he was, but he could not find it in him. He settled on simply being angry at life’s circumstance. He possessed the most powerful weapon created, but nothing more than an extravagant blade without magic.

  How could Max expect so much of him? How could he possibly learn magic in ten days? There must be another way.

  His slice of ham held no taste. He swallowed it down and left the room claiming he was exhausted. Truth be told, he simply could not bear to be in the same room any longer. He was set for failure, and there was nothing he could do about it. He could not stay in the room, glancing at his friend’s faces, imagining the looks of disappointment they would hold when he failed them.

  Collapsing on his bed, he forced his mind to stop thinking along those lines, pondering the translation of his father’s last words instead. There was comfort in those words as if his father reached out to him. Why did he say them in a foreign language? Did they carry more meaning in the other language? As sleep overtook him, Michael hoped he would meet someone fluent in A’lan’s secret language.

  ***

  Max sat at the table leafing through A’lan’s book of maps; partly reminiscing, partly looking for another option to his plan. Everyone else had retired, except for Garen he suspected. The boy had followed Alisa out, empty food tray in hand, offering to help her clean up. No doubt they were in a dark corner somewhere stealing kisses, the cleaning long finished. He turned another page in the book to a map of Alarus admiring the impressive detail. He noticed a small pass near the border of the Great Forest he’d never seen on any other map. A’lan was such an amazing man.

  He wished Michael had been forthcoming about A’lan’s journal, but he understood. Such a book could be a very personal thing, and Michael had no idea the history and friendship he and A’lan shared since boyhood. A sad thing, that, albeit a necessary part of their ruse. It was not safe for anyone to know A’lan the traveler and Max the healer knew each other before Max’s arrival at Whitewater’s Forge.

  Necessary or not, Max felt the sting of regret. Had they not played the ruse so well he would have been there when those logs broke free in the Beral Forest. A’lan had invited him. Far away from eyes and ears, just the three of them, they could tell Michael everything and begin his training. But he thought the timing wasn’t right. How wrong he was. A dozen ways he could have saved his friend from being crushed danced in his head. How many times would other people pay the price for his mistakes?

  Perhaps Michael would share the journal in time without prying. Such a treasure might prove useful. And it would be like having one more conversation with his dear friend.

  CHAPTER 13

  From the Shadows

  “Move!”

  Michael stirred from deep sleep to a groggy state of semi-consciousness. Sharp as thunder, the voice in his dream echoed in his mind. It seemed so real, a voice commanding and urgent, booming through the clouds of sleep accompanied by the vision of him rolling and grabbing the Sword. He was faintly pondering what the dream meant when—

  “Move!”

  This time the image in his mind showed a man in his room, pressed against the wardrobe, dagger in hand, poised to strike. Michael rolled away from the assailant as the dagger plunged into the mattress where his chest had been. His fingertips grazed the hilt of the Sword, hanging from the bedpost, but he failed to grasp it as he rolled out of bed.

  Michael saw the outlined figure of his assailant as his eyes adjusted to the pale moonlight peeking in from between the clouds. A skinny fellow, short and scrawny. He reminded Michael of a mouse.

  Unarmed, Michael took a step back towards the window hoping to bring his attacker into the light. At least the moon cooperated. Emerging from behind the clouds, its light pushed the shadows farther back in the room.

  The assailant seemed to grow bold now that he was exposed. He lunged with surprising speed. Michael stepped from the blade’s path as it slashed the air where his face had been. Michael jabbed at the man’s exposed ribs, but the assassin recoiled quickly and avoided a solid hit.

  Michael’s mind felt cloudy. One moment the man was brandishing a knife and the next he appeared meek and nondescript. Michael fought within himself over the two images. Despite the man’s knife, Michael struggled with what to do.

  Michael jumped back from a slash to the midsection and then side-stepped as the man lunged, tripping the man as he passed. Michael pulled the Sword from its scabbard as the man regained his feet. The assassin paused, glaring at the Sword. Michael struggled with his decision; such a meek man with a simple dagger. The voice broke through the cloud of indecision.
<
br />   “You have no choice, Keeper.”

  The assassin sprang through the air quick as lightning. Michael ducked the man’s knife and barely felt the pull on his wrist as the Sword sliced through the man’s belly. He did not realize he had brought the Sword up until he saw the assassin slumped on the floor, blood pooling around him. The man’s eyes never left Michael’s as his body twitched in the throes of death.

  Michael changed his mind about the man; he had not been bold in his attack. The only word he could think of was rabid.

  Michael jumped when someone pounded on his door. The commotion must have woken everyone. He reached for the bolt and threw open the door. Max stood there, fist raised to pound on the door again.

  “What in the Creator’s name is going on?” he exclaimed. Then his eyes fell on the assassin.

  Michael said nothing as Max brushed past him to inspect the body. He stared blankly at Falon standing in the doorway. His stomach felt like it had dropped off a cliff, his body numb all over. He thought he was going to throw up as the adrenaline of the fight drained away. He fell back against the wall and slid to the floor.

  Michael faintly heard Max ask him a question. He kept playing the fight over in his mind. Something about it nagged at his consciousness, but he could not place what it was.

  “Michael!” Max shot his name across the room, pulling him from his thoughts. “Did he cut you?”

  Michael looked at him blankly. “No,” he replied weakly.

  Max moved to inspect Michael for cuts, worry covering his face, “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Michael whispered.

  “Michael?” Concern replaced worry.

  “I…I never killed anyone before. It’s never even crossed my mind.”

  “You had no choice,” Max stated.

  Michael looked up at Max sharply, the blank look replaced with an intensity that caught Max by surprise. “What did you say?”

  “You had no choice. His dagger, it’s laced with poison. He did not have to stab you. One slice, even a shallow nick, and you would be dead. If you had used a thrusting attack, he might have still cut you, and you would be lying on the floor as well. Your choice was the only one you had.”