by Mark Shane
The peddler brandished a curved knife. “I don’t know how you saw that, boy, but you won’t be seeing anything else when I cut your eyes out.”
“Hold!” boomed a voice from behind them. Jorgen stepped from the crowd. “How fearsome are these two lads that it takes eight men to attack them? And what is their crime?”
“Stay outta this, friend,” replied the peddler. “No need to get yourself hurt over something that doesn’t concern you.”
“Oh, but it does concern me,” Jorgen said. “To threaten the boys is to threaten me. Now if you have a grievance with them, I suggest you take it up with me.”
“Very well.” The peddler turned on Jorgen, giving Michael a venomous glare that said he was next.
Jorgen eyed the men surrounding him. “Eight to one. Not very good odds.”
The peddler sneered. “Your mistake for getting involved.”
Jorgen grinned mischievously. “I meant for you.”
The peddler paused, unsure what to make of the lone protector. Regaining his confidence he charged Jorgen with a yell followed by his thugs.
The fight was short. Michael stood in awe of Jorgen’s skill. Fists, knees, feet, every part of his body was a weapon. Every move flowed from the next. He stepped to the side as the peddler charged him and slammed a stiff arm into the man’s windpipe, knocking him flat on his back. A strike with his elbow to a thug behind him became a recoiled fist that punched the face of another. He shattered one man’s knee with a kick as he blocked another’s jab. He moved like a cat, quick and agile, but struck with the force of a bull. He drove his elbow into the leg of one attacker as he ducked another man’s knife then drove the same fist into the chin of the knife-wielding thug with such force it lifted the man into the air. Within minutes, eight men lay on the ground battered and beaten.
Jorgen’s eyes meet Michael’s for a moment before Garen pulled him down an alley. Turning the corner onto the next street, Michael caught a glimpse of Jorgen standing there with a knowing look on his face. For some reason, that worried Michael even more.
CHAPTER 19
And One Makes Five
Michael and Garen did not slow until they were in their room at the Stag and Lion.
“Did you see him fight?” Garen said, leaning against the door.
Michael nodded. “Who was he?”
“The same guy we saw dealing with that kid picking his pocket.”
“I know that. Do you think he really is a paladin?”
“Probably. You’d be crazy to lie about something like that. No wonder you don’t mess with them.”
“Yeah. I’ve never seen anyone move like that.” Michael doubted he could repeat half the moves he saw Jorgen use. Part of him would love to spar with the man, but he knew how it would end. Jorgen was in a whole different class of fighter.
Fighter! Michael chided himself. You’re no more than a carpenter with decent sword skills caught up in some crazy, fool adventure.
***
Falon sat in the grand room eating a thick stew of roasted beef tips and potatoes when Michael and Garen came down for dinner. Max had not returned yet.
The serving maid sauntered across the room to their table, leaning over more than necessary, exposing cleavage in Michael’s direction as she set their plates down.
“Will you need anything else, sir?” She looked innocent as a fawn.
Garen turned his head the other way, but Michael caught his grin.
“Um, no, I uh...” Why was Falon glaring at him? He didn’t ask for the woman to flaunt herself. “No, um, no, we’re good for now. I mean we’re good altogether. Now, later, we’re...we’re fine. Really. Uh, thanks.”
She smiled with a mischievous glint in her eye. Michael and Garen watched her saunter back to the kitchen, Falon glaring at them so hard they both turned and looked at her in unison.
“What?” they asked.
“Men,” she growled and stabbed a beef tip harder than necessary.
Michael had his fork halfway to his mouth when he spotted Jorgen at the door talking with Durin.
“It’s him,” whispered Michael.
“Who?” replied Falon, looking around.
“What’s he doing here?” Garen asked, lowering his head. “I doubt he’s here for a drink. He seemed awfully interested in us this afternoon.”
“Who are you talking about?” Falon demanded in the same hushed tone. “And why are we whispering?”
“The blonde headed guy near the entrance talking to Durin,” Garen replied. “We saw him twice today.”
Falon stared intently at the back of the man. When he turned and walked further into the inn, disappearing past the stairs, her face lit up.
“Yeah, the second time he saved us from”—Falon leapt from her chair and headed after the man—“a fight...” Michael trailed off bewildered as she passed Durin in the aisle.
Garen shrugged at his questioning glance and stabbed Falon’s last beef tip.
Durin stopped at their table. “A gentleman has arrived and wishes you to join him in our finest lounge. It’s beyond the stairs, down the hall, last door on your right.”
Durin strode away leaving Michael and Garen looking at each other sharing the same thought: run or comply?
“He did save us today,” Garen said.
“I don’t know, Garen. I mean, yeah, he did save us, but he looked at me like...well,” Michael shifted nervously, “like he saw the Sword over my shoulder.”
“What? That’s impossible. No one can see it unless they know it’s there.”
“I wish Max would get here,” Michael said, looking at the door.
“Well, unless you plan on going out to look for him I suggest we go find out why a paladin wants to talk to us,” Garen said. “Falon is apparently accustomed to meeting them.” He eyed his plate with several beef tips still on it then picked it up. No reason to let good food go to waste.
“Apparently,” Michael said, getting up.
Falon met them at the stairs, very excited. She slapped Michael’s hand as he reached for another tankard of ale from a serving girl walking past.
“Oww! What was that for?”
“I don’t think now is the time to be swilling your gullet.”
“Considering we’ve been summoned by a paladin, I think now is an excellent time.”
She scowled at him until he wilted and allowed her to push him down the hallway.
Jorgen stood by the fire, arms behind his back, staring into the flames. “Ah, we meet again,” he said when they shuffled in. “We have matters to discuss.”
“If it’s about the fight, sir,” Garen said, like he had been caught doing something wrong by a superior office.
“No this isn’t about the fight, although I do expect both of you to be more careful in the future.”
The look he gave them made them both shift on their feet. Michael wondered if this was what it was like to be stared down by officers all day. That alone was good reason to stay out of the military.
“No, I’m here to offer you my services.”
Michael and Garen looked at him shocked. Falon looked at him almost worshipfully like he had made a great proclamation. Before anyone could respond the door opened and Max stepped in. The alarm on his face quickly changed to amazement when he laid eyes on Jorgen.
“The Creator is truly with us,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
“Wizard Xan’thorne?” Jorgen said.
Max nodded, a big smile appearing on his face.
Jorgen saluted thumping his fist to his chest. “It’s been a very long time, sir.”
“Yes, Jorgen, it has been far too long. I must say I’m surprised to see you. How is it the Creator led you to us?”
“I’m here to offer my services to the Keeper of the Eye,” he replied, motioning to Michael whose mouth fell open.
“How did you...I mean...what makes you think I’m this keeper you speak of?” Micheal stammered.
Jorgen grinned. “I saw t
he Sword strapped to your back.”
“How?” Garen and Michael asked at the same time.
“He’s a paladin,” Falon replied as if the answer should be obvious.
“Yeah, so, but how could you see the Sword?” Michael said.
Jorgen laughed and slapped Michael on the shoulder. “I’m a servantag. I could see past the spell of illusion. Unlike most paladins, though, I grew up around the Eye. I knew it was the true Eye when you left the fight today.”
“What fight?” Max eyed them both.
“It was nothing,” Michael said.
“A minor incident,” Garen said.
“Not even an incident, really,” Michael added.
Max’s eyes narrowed. “Apparently I have tales to hear from more than one person.”
“I’m a tad bit famished,” he said to Falon. “Can you fetch Durin and request he bring us some of that delicious stew I smelled? And bread too, my dear,” he added as she reached the door.
When she returned a minute later, they had seated themselves for what looked to be a long story.
“So tell me, Jorgen, how did you come to be in our presence?” Max asked as she took a seat next to Jorgen, looking at him adoringly.
“That story, I believe, starts with this lady here,” he replied, looking at Falon. She looked down at the floor embarrassed.
“Really?” Max said. “You’ve met Falon before?”
Jorgen nodded. “Master Larlan sent me to Paraneese to wait for a sign. I asked him what to look for and he said it would be obvious.”
“How is Master Larlan?” Max asked.
“He’s well, sir. I’m honored you remember him.”
“Hard to forget such a man. But you were telling us a story. I won’t interrupt again.”
“Yes, I had been in Paraneese for three days when Falon came through with four goons right behind her. I gave her a chance to get away while I discussed redemption with the poor souls chasing her.”
“I thought you were dead,” she said weakly.
“It will take much more than four poorly trained thugs to kill me,” Jorgen replied. “Besides, I know where I will die, and Paraneese is not it.”
Michael and Garen shared an uneasy look. Who knows where they are going to die?
“One of them wounded me though, cheap shot really, but nothing a skilled healer couldn’t take care of. Another scar now. I spent a week recovering, waiting for the sign when it struck me the sign had already come and gone. I followed after Falon but lost her trail.”
Jorgen looked at her. “You’re a tad too good at covering your tracks.” Her cheeks colored at his praise. “I passed your description to the magistrate in key cities including Staffshire and Rhalmadia. Figured you would return the same way you came. If you entered any major city in Gheradia or Capstan, I would know about it within a few days. All that was left to do was wait, so I reported to the paladin fortress in Teslar and waited.”
The way he said the word “waited” made it plain he had spent little time idle.
“I happen to be running an errand to Rhalmadia for Master Belvinade. Been here a few days when these two managed to cross my path.”
Max glanced at them with a knowing look far too practiced for Michael’s taste. How many young wizards had found themselves at the receiving end of that look?
“They witnessed an incident where a young boy picked my pocket. Once the boy had been dealt with, I noticed Michael. Don’t see many blonde haired people in Rhalmadia. More importantly I noticed the Lion’s Head pommel over his shoulder. He and Garen ducked away into the crowd before I could speak with them. I caught up to them as they were about to take on eight unhappy men.”
Max glared at them.
“We weren’t doing anything,” Garen said defensively. Max raised his eyebrow in response.
“Really, Max,” Michael said, “we played this peddler’s cup game, and he got mad because I guessed where the ball was even when he cheated and dropped it in his lap.”
“Well, of course, you could tell where the ball was,” Max growled. “You can control Earth, and you were wearing the Sword.” Max’s tone sharpened at Michael’s blank stare. “Have you not been listening to anything I’ve told you? Concentrating on the ball connected you with the earthly elements that it was made of. You could sense it apart from everything else. Without the Sword, I suspect you could have been able to tell which cup the ball lay under, but with it you were so aware of the ball it was probably like the cups were not even there.”
Max grunted when Michael nodded. “I told you not to draw attention,” he said, pointing a finger at them.
Michael hung his head; Garen shrugged his shoulders in apology.
“In their defense,” Jorgen said, “the peddler did try to cheat them, and it was clear he and his henchmen had a racket going. I would say they had it coming.”
“Now that we know how Jorgen got here, I have a question,” Garen stated. “Who are you?”
“And how do you know Max so well. And the Sword,” Michael added, happy to steer the conversation away from his adventure.
Jorgen smiled warmly, a stark difference from what they had seen before. “Forgive me. I haven’t introduced myself properly. I am Jorgen Von Luz of the Paladin Order. I have known Max my whole life, but it feels like a lifetime since I saw him last. Growing up in Dalarhan, you can’t help being very familiar with the Eye and Sword of Kings. When I turned fourteen, my dad took me to the Wizard’s Keep for testing, and they discovered I was a nullifier. A rather powerful one at that. It was decided I would go to Stallingar and become a paladin. Best decision ever made for me,” he said, looking at Max.
“Not that you felt so at the time,” Max replied.
“Aye,” Jorgen said.
The name ‘Von Luz’ struck a chord in Michael’s mind. “Your father,” he said in thought, searching his memory for the name. Then his eyes shot up, “he was commander of the Lion’s Fist. He was there, in the Heart, when...” Michael wished he knew when to shut his mouth.
The light in Jorgen’s eyes faded, the corners of his mouth dropped. “Yes, he was.” Jorgen placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder, looking into his eyes. “I am truly sorry for your loss, Michael. We will honor them with our success.”
“Now, for the true reason our paths have crossed.” Jorgen bowed on one knee. “Michael Ashguard, son of Tobias, Lion of Shaladon, Keeper of the Eye, as a paladin, I pledge myself to protect you and guide you. May the Creator favor you and make your steps sure.”
Michael stood there stunned, no idea how to respond. It all seemed ridiculous. No one should be bowing to him. He didn’t feel like a king; he didn’t feel important. The whole scene aggravated him. Royalty and greatness, people bowing and scraping, he had no interest in such nonsense. He looked at Max for some idea of what to do, but the wizard merely stood there looking like he had heard the greatest news.
“Oh, um, well,”—so much for being eloquent, Michael thought—“thank you Jorgen…oh, of the Paladin Order. I, um, I’m honored to have you join us. Thank you.” He expected Jorgen to rise, but he remained on one knee, head down. “Um, thank you for saving us from those thugs today. With you in our company, we’re sure to prevail.”
Michael gritted his teeth. That sounded utterly stupid. He looked from Garen to Max pleadingly in hopes they would tell him what to say to get this huge man to stand up. Jorgen could snap him in half, yet he was bowing and pledging his services. He noticed Falon moving her hand at her side in an upward movement and mouthing the word, “rise”.
“Oh! Um, yeah. Now, rise, Jorgen of the Paladin Order and join our company.” Michael felt like a pompous idiot.
With these words, Jorgen stood up quick as a cat and saluted, slapping fist to chest. “The honor is mine, Sire.”
Michael swore he would never get used to people behaving like he was something greater than them. Pure lunacy.
A knock at the door saved Michael from any more awkwardness. A serving maid
entered with a tray of steaming bowls of stew and a basket of bread. Michael had not finished his meal in the common room and Garen never passed on food, so they were happy to have another bowl with Max and Jorgen. Falon only nibbled on a slice of bread.
“That boy who stole your medallion,” Michael began, not sure how to phrase his question, “would you have really taken his hand?”
“Of course,” Jorgen replied before taking a bite of bread.
“By what right?” Michael demanded. “I know paladins are given a wide berth but he was only a kid. From my understanding mercy is more important to the Creator than justice.”
“Who deserves mercy more, the criminal or those he preys upon?” Jorgen casually dipped a chunk of bread in his stew.
“That makes no sense! Is mercy not one of the tenants of the Creator?”
“As is justice. Justice is the tool that provides mercy. The criminal makes the choice to prey upon others. Choices have consequences. Good and bad. To give justice to the criminal is to give mercy to those he preys upon. Through justice, the criminal might also receive mercy if he learns from the consequences of his actions. That will not happen if we shirk our duty to justice because it isn’t easy. If we fail to uphold justice, then we fail to uphold mercy. Lawlessness will set in and where lawlessness reigns the Soulless One is certain to be.”
“He was just a boy.”
“Which is why I was lenient. He has potential, but his father lacks the ability to guide him. Now both have a chance to become more than they are.”
“You’re a hard man.”
“Perhaps, but had I not intervened he would most likely have lost his hand in the near future.”
Michael gave him a questioning look.
“The laws here are specific; stealing is punishable by the loss of a hand for the first offense. The guardsmen wouldn’t have found the boy a surrogate mother. Besides, Mistress Ileana was in need of a hired hand, but she didn’t have money for one. Now she has two, and the boy and his father have a roof over their heads and the chance to start over.”