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

by Mark Shane

  Garen stumbled into the room breathing heavily. “What the…” He eyed the dead body on the floor, the color rushing from his face. “What happened?”

  “Michael was attacked,” Falon replied, a little more emotionless than Michael would have expected.

  “Garen, I’m glad you’re here,” Max said. “Wake Serin. We need to dispose of the body.”

  Garen looked at the corpse again, then Michael, before managing a weak “Yes, sir” and disappearing down the hall.

  “I suppose he’s never killed anyone either,” Falon said, dryly.

  “Of course not,” Michael retorted.

  For an instant, he saw a glint of regret in her eyes and then she raised those walls she worked so hard to keep up. He wondered what she had been through to make here so jaded.

  Max started to inspect Michael for cuts again.

  “I’m fine,” Michael replied, trying to fend off Max’s prying. He only wanted to be alone at the moment.

  “The door was locked, how did he get in?”

  “I didn’t lock the door. Garen was still up when I came to bed.”

  Michael searched his thoughts of when he first woke. What had woken him? Had it been a real voice or something the attacker had done to gain entry? He could still hear the thundering command from his dream.

  “When I woke he was standing against the wardrobe. Who was he? Why did he try to kill me?”

  Max eyed the wardrobe, then the dead body.

  “Who was he, Max?”

  “A shadowman.”

  Michael’s eyes opened wide. Shadowmen were assassins for the Soulless One. Worse than mere dark servants, they were men transformed somehow into something worse. Stories said they could slide from shadow to shadow and even if they were seen they appeared so nondescript they would not be remembered. That’s what nagged at him; how the image of the man jumped from knife-wielding assassin to unassuming man. It was like a spell of illusion kept failing and resetting.

  “Who sent him? How did he know I was here?” Michael asked.

  “Honestly, I have no idea. Perhaps he was in the grand hall when we arrived, and we piqued his interest. I have heard some shadowmen can see through spells of illusion. Maybe he saw the Sword and decided to act. No way to know for certain. Doesn’t matter, he failed. Your sword training paid off.”

  As far as Michael was concerned, he never wanted to draw the Sword again. Growing up sparring with Garen, he had never thought he would actually have to kill someone. The idea had crossed his mind in typical male bravado style where he’d save someone under dire circumstances; but, shadowman or not, the reality felt far from noble. A swordsman that would never have to kill. What a foolish thought.

  I’m a carpenter. He corrected himself. Just a carpenter.

  CHAPTER 14

  Running from the Night

  The first rays of morning light set the Bithshar mountain range ablaze in a myriad of orange, purple, and pink hues as Max led the somber company out of Anista. The attempt on Michael’s life left them shaken. Their belief about safety within the walls of a city had been shattered.

  Their race for each town proved to be all the challenge Max said it would be. The pace was hard on horse and rider. They rode at a fast trot, taking only two short breaks to rest the horses. At midday, Max would touch each horse on the neck, and after he removed his hand the horse lurched forward, frisky to run. Regardless, at each town Max traded their horses for fresh ones. Enhancing their stamina did nothing for their need to recuperate.

  Even with their impressive pace, they breathed a sigh of relief when the next town appeared over the summit of yet another hill or broke through the cover of yet another patch of forest while the sun set low on the horizon. Exhausted, the company collapsed in whatever bed their coin could buy.

  Max attempted to teach Michael how to draw on his power, but the wizard’s ability to do so was limited. They shared an ability to manipulate Fire, that much Max knew, but the visualizations and mental hooks Max used to draw on his power did not help Michael. Each magichae viewed their powers in a personal way. A musician would see her abilities like she saw music in her head and a farmer might relate the manner he touched his powers to the way he cultivated the land.

  At the Wizard’s Keep, every pupil was paired with someone who had similar abilities and background. An Elemental gifted in Fire could train another with the same gift, but the Order found it worked best when both teacher and student had a similar point of reference. Max tried to use carpentry as a reference with little success. It was one thing to know the mechanics of carpentry, but a far different matter to know the nuances and feel required to shape wood into something magnificent. He found himself gritting his teeth. It was like trying to teach a blind man to paint.

  Max did not even have an idea of the extent of Michael’s gift. There were some general practices all potential students went through to get an idea of their abilities, but Michael failed even those rudimentary exercises. After the second night, Max suspected Michael’s mind was blocking his ability to touch his power. Either he refused to accept what he was or simply could not believe it.

  Mental blocks were nothing new at the Wizard’s Keep, but breaking through them proved tedious and time-consuming. There was no time for the gentle prodding developed to help students overcome such barriers. Like a swordsmith forging metal, Max pushed Michael to find his magic till he reached a breaking point. Then Max would step back and discuss Shaladon, the various classes of magichae, and the history of the Keepers. Despite pushing Michael to find his gift and trying to give him a human connection to his lineage, Max was failing miserably at forging the young Keeper into the weapon they so desperately needed.

  ***

  The diversities of magic left Michael’s head spinning. Besides Elementals there were Healers, Seers, Teleporters and even a class who could strip other magichae of their powers.

  “Now, within each class, powers can vary,” Max stated in that professorial tone he took when he lectured. “Some teleporters, for example, can take a group of people forty or fifty miles—”

  “Hold on,” Garen interrupted. “You mean there are people who can actually travel fifty miles in the blink of an eye?”

  “Not quite. A fifty-mile jump usually takes around twenty minutes. Shorter jumps would take less time. Depends on the teleporter’s strength, distance to travel, size of the gateway needed, and then you have to account for the time the teleporter needs to rest if multiple jumps are required.”

  Garen looked at Max askance. “Do they actually jump?”

  Max shook his head, grinning. “No.”

  Most intriguing to Michael were the Crafters, magichae highly skilled at imbuing objects with magic. Six of the twelve magichae who created the Eye were Crafters and three others forged the Sword.

  Over the centuries, guilds and societies formed. Some were made up of magichae with similar abilities or for a common purpose while others formed out of political views. These magichae orders coexisted, but politics were always present, and some groups displayed outright hostility toward each other. Michael found the political structures ridiculously complex and had little interest in their pettiness.

  Often Max touched on Michael’s parents, his true parents. Never directly, but always in the context of discussing the history of the Keepers. Michael knew the wizard was trying to give him an attachment to Shaladon. Part of him wanted to feel a connection, but deep in his mind, overshadowing any new feelings he might wish to have, rested the realization that every mile they traveled took him further from the life he had known and loved. A searing thought, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

  To make matters worse, each night as they entered a town, Max placed Michael between himself and Garen having Falon take the lead. The arrangement infuriated Michael. He had no tolerance for being treated like a lamb needing a shepherd. By the fourth night, he had had enough.

  “Am I inept?” he asked, cornering Max after supper.


  “What do you mean?”

  “Every night you put me between Garen and yourself like I need protection from the townsfolk.”

  “You very well may, Michael.”

  “How? By whom?” Michael said.

  Max glared at Michael and exhaled. “There are so many things you don’t know.”

  “Well, start explaining,” Michael said, “because I’m tired of being treated like a fragile egg.”

  “Striplings,” Max said curtly.

  Michael vaguely remembered mention of them. “What about them?” he snapped, not interested in yet another lesson.

  “There may be striplings in any town. Have you not listened to anything I’ve told you? The most dangerous adversary to a magichae is not another magichae; it’s a stripling.

  “Their only ability is to strip other magichae of their powers. One touch to bare skin and,” Max snapped his fingers, “your powers are gone. Some striplings can only strip your powers temporarily; others can take them permanently.” Max looked off distantly, “Many good magichae lost their powers before they even knew there was danger.”

  “What happens to them?” Michael asked.

  “Depression, madness; most end up taking their lives.

  “Striplings are shunned, considered vile by many people. No doubt some have earned the reputation, but I disagree with the general assessment. They must play some role in the Creator’s plan. Their power is neither inherently evil nor inherently good. As with us all, it’s a matter of how they choose to use their gift. Still, their power is an enigma. No one knows how it works or where the powers they strip go. Some of the Sisters of Delmar have devoted their lives to defending and studying striplings, but I don’t think they have learned much more than what’s commonly known.

  “Regardless of skill or desire, striplings can’t suppress their power completely. Most have little or no control; forced to live in seclusion from their own kind for fear of stripping someone accidentally. Others have great control, able to wield their power with precision, yet even the most skilled will lose control under the right circumstances.”

  Max seemed to be alluding to something, but the meaning was lost on Michael, and the wizard did not elaborate.

  “Striplings have another talent, extremely rare outside their kind. Using magic causes ripples in the fabric of the world other magichae can detect, but striplings have the ability to detect magichae when they’re not using their powers. It’s a coveted weapon to those turned assassin.”

  “Assassin!” Michael exclaimed, the danger of his situation sinking in.

  “Shunned, feared, ostracized simply for what they are; many striplings grow bitter. They become assassins for hire tracking down and destroying other magichae.”

  Max’s tone grew angry. “They’re coveted weapons to kings, queens, and powerful people who have the money and a reason to eliminate magichae. Valan employs many striplings.”

  Michael found the idea abhorrent. He bristled at the idea of stealing a magichae’s power. Regardless of their difficulties in life, such behavior was inexcusable.

  “The most important thing to remember,” Max continued, “is a stripling must touch bare skin. So keep your arms covered and wear gloves. If one strikes, you will not see it coming.”

  It was a little too much for Michael. He had never needed to look over his shoulder, and now every person he met could be out to strip him of powers he could not command. Even a simple handshake seemed dangerous. He was beginning to think the world had truly gone mad.

  The days passed with blinding speed, wearing the company down. Adding insult to injury, the nightstalkers caught up to them each night. Every morning they would hear about someone in the night watch hearing the most awful howls followed by a sighting of black beasts with glowing red eyes. The reports generated fear and rumors.

  Michael grew certain the world had gone mad. Beasts pulled from a nightmare taunted them, intentionally making their presence known to break them down. The company became increasingly edgy, snapping at one another over the smallest thing. It seemed like the poison coursing through the nightstalkers veins was seeping into their resolve.

  Day turned to night and back to day, and everything Max employed to throw the nightstalkers off failed. Exhausted, fearful and on the brink, the reality of a confrontation stretched the company to the breaking point, but Max had one last trick up his sleeve.

  CHAPTER 15

  Last Ditch Effort

  The run from Lankston to Jurastock was not the longest they had endured, but it was the hardest. The terrain grew hilly making the ride more difficult as the horses worked to crest each hill then charging down only to climb yet another. Grass and lush, tall trees were replaced by scrub brush and short, gnarled trees with little shade to offer. When the border city of Jurastock came into view exhaustion subdued their exuberance.

  Jurastock lay on the Ferais side of the Aryn River. Wide and meandering with steep sides of limestone, the Aryn made a firm border between Timmaron and Ferais. From the Timmaron bank, a stone bridge wide enough for five horsemen to ride abreast traversed the river abruptly ending short of the Ferais bank and the thick wood planks of the Jurastock drawbridge filled the gap.

  Jurastock controlled much of the trade from Timmaron to Ferais and beyond. It’s thick, crenulated walls stood three stories tall on the edge of the river bank with square towers at the corners. The gate was set into a massive tower itself, housing the gears to the drawbridge, with guards looking down from its flat top. When the drawbridge was closed, there was no crossing the Aryn River for fifty miles north or south.

  Their horse’s hooves thudded rhythmically on the stout wood of the bridge as the red-orange sun kissed the horizon. Horses and riders heads hung low and weary.

  Making their way through streets thinning of people with the onset of evening, they stopped at a three-story inn. “Lucky Copper” proclaimed the sign swinging gently over the door. At the moment, Max would take all the luck he could get. After settling in, he gave specific instructions for the others to stay put then ducked out through the kitchen.

  Skulking through the shadows, he navigated the streets crisscrossing his intended path several times then stopping to see if he was being followed. Standing in the deep shadows at the mouth of an alley, he waited a few minutes longer, looking for anyone in the street, before stepping up to the house he wanted. He rapped on the door, feeling exposed.

  “Who is it!” replied a gruff voice from behind the door.

  “No one of importance.”

  “Then why do ya speak like someone who is?” snapped the voice.

  “Please, good fellow, I only wish to chat.” Max grew irritated standing in the open street.

  “Chattin’s for fools.”

  “In the foolish lie our hopes,” Max replied.

  The door opened a crack and the man behind the door glared at Max. “You would start quoting that mindless drivel ya old coot.”

  Max looked up and down the street nervously, “You left me no choice. Now let me in before I draw attention you old fool.”

  Eli opened the door enough for Max to step in and almost closed it on his cloak. The house was cast in shadows, a fire crackling in the hearth the only source of light.

  “Don’t think it ain’t great seein’ ya an’ all, Max, but unlike you I like stayin’ hidden.”

  “Sorry, old friend, I understand your fear, but I need a favor and you’re the only—”

  “I risked my neck for ya sixteen years ago for no bloody apparent reason.” The whistle of a tea kettle over the fire caught Eli’s attention. “I ain’t interested in doin’ it again,” he said over his shoulder, fetching the kettle.

  Eli was more temperamental than Max expected. Before the fall of Shaladon, he had been a fierce ally though he did have a flair for dramatics. The civil war after the fall had taken a grave toll on him. Guilds sided with different houses, wizards turned on wizards, and the Keep was torn apart like the country. Eli had he
lped create the fake sword and saved Max from a few accidents, but he fled when his favorite pupil attacked him. In the ensuing fight, Eli was forced to kill the student he had loved like a son. Max had visited him a few times over the years but Eli was a different man, broken and reclusive. Max felt a great loss.

  “Eli, you seem perplexed. More so than normal.”

  “Bloody right I’m perplexed. Things are going on! You don’t know half of it. Dragon sightings, Paladins amassing in Teslar like they know something and just yesterday two warlocks came through payin’ a visit to the local council. Asking questions.” Eli poured hot water into mugs a little too forcefully, sloshing water in the process. He grumbled and reached for a rag.

  “Warlocks. You sure?” Max asked, taking a seat in one of the two chairs near the fire, thankful for the goose feathered padding after a long day’s ride.

  Eli held up a palm-sized red stone, flat and oval. Max recognized the soul stone. It detected the resonance of a person’s soul. With the right skill, the stone could be tuned to a specific person, if you knew them, or to a more general trait such as the evil taint put off by those who served the Soulless One. Max knew of only three that survived the Warlock Wars.

  “Of course I’m sure! That’s why I wasn’t there when the council answered their questions. I ducked out of the hall before they gained entrance. My bloody luck warlocks would show up on one of the few days I had to serve.”

  Eli handed Max a mug then sat in his own chair. “No one else recognized them as such. They were posing as Paladins.” Eli took a sip of his tea.

  Max caught the pause Eli tried to hide behind his tea. “What?”

  Eli glanced at him annoyed. “Sterling was one of them.”

  Max seethed inside. Sterling had been a classmate and then a counterpart in the Wizard Order but forever an adversary. Conniving and ruthless, Sterling had always manipulated people from behind the scenes using them to carry out his schemes. He had left the Keep when Max was selected First Wizard.