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

by Mark Shane

  He looked around the expanse, seeing the Heart with different eyes. The story of the massacre came into focus; no longer a tale of an ill-fated band of unknown soldiers, but a tragedy of his past. The loss of those who cared for him most. What would his life have been like had he grown up around men of such devotion? All his life he had felt a sense of loss he could not explain. Standing before him now was that loss. Not just the men who had died so he could live, but the family, the life, the love that had been stolen from him. It all crashed in on Michael and he realized who the apparition had been.

  “Dad?” he called out.

  His father appeared again, a woman standing beside him. Her blonde hair and blue eyes struck a chord or remembrance in his mind. She was the woman who had been crying over him in his vision the night he first grasped the Sword.

  Tears streamed down his face. “Mom?”

  She smiled the warmest smile he had ever seen.

  His father saluted him, thumping his fist to his chest. The soldiers followed his lead, filling the air with the thunder of one thousand gauntleted fists slamming against breastplates.

  A gust of wind blew and the apparitions wisped away with the swirling snowflakes, leaving Michael alone.

  He turned his eyes northward. Those men had not been capable of fending off the ambush, but they had fought to their last breath anyway. His parents had given their last vestiges of power to ensure he survived. How could he do less for them?

  He stood, a huge weight lifting from him as he took the first step. With each step his resolution grew, stoking the embers of purpose smoldering within him.

  A voice cried, “Long live the king!”

  He looked back, but no one was there. He nodded to the Heart and broke into a trot. He had business in Dalarhan and he couldn’t get there soon enough for his liking.

  CHAPTER 48

  The Perfect Job

  Garen looked askance at the wooden sign. “The King’s Champion” it proclaimed in gaudy red letters trimmed in gold. The iron rings creaked as the sign swayed with a gust of bone-chilling wind. Garen pulled his wool cloak tighter. Bloody northern winters! What fool would choose to live in such a place?

  Two lanterns above the door gave off a pool of light that touched the adjacent buildings, but not much further. Garen looked down the street. Only a handful of shops kept their lanterns lit, intermittent pools of light casting dim, yellow hues on the snow drifts lining the cobblestone. Black maws every fourth or fifth shop indicated narrow alleyways. Perfect place for a mugging...or worse.

  “You sure about this?” he asked Max, glancing down the dark alley facing the tavern door. Dalan and Darela were back there somewhere, shrouded in shadows.

  “You got a better idea?” Max replied.

  This was their third tavern. The sun had been kissing the horizon when they arrived in town. They had sought out an inn and procured rooms but found no answers to their questions about Jerrod. It couldn’t be that easy.

  The second place they had visited was a seedy tavern near the inn where two thugs accosted them for money. “To guarantee a safe stay in the city” as they had put it. The payment was hefty and Max had handed them his small purse with his crest embroidered on it. The thugs smiled widely and darted for the door, obviously their biggest score for the night.

  Dalan tossed Max the same purse when they left the tavern. “Stupid fools tried to extort us in the alley,” he had said.

  Darela was arranging some barrels against the alley wall a little further back. A limp hand fell from behind the barrels, slapping the pavement. Darela tucked the hand back out of sight and put a crate in place to complete his makeshift hiding place.

  “So where to next?” he had asked like nothing was amiss.

  Garen looked at the swaying sign again, the red and gold letters catching the lantern light. He shook his head. Despite all the troubles, he had no better plan to suggest.

  Max opened the door; light, laughter and the din of conversation spilling into the street. Chandeliers hanging from rough cut support beams lit the room nicely and glass lanterns hanging from wall hooks chased any remaining shadows away. Garen counted three dice games and another table near the large fireplace with five men engrossed in a card game. It was a working man’s tavern, knurled hands and leather lined faces glad for a chance to relax. Not enough coin came through to hire a bard to make it vibrant, only a single lutenist who managed to get most of the notes correct, though he lacked a certain feel for the tunes he strummed out.

  Max led the way to a booth near the door. Garen sat down heavily, thankful to be off his feet. Seven days in the saddle took a toll on anyone, seasoned rider or not. Garen rubbed the table with his thumb then rubbed his first two fingers against his thumb feeling the slight grit between them. Not the dirtiest tavern he had been in, but far from his preference.

  “I didn’t realize asking the whole city where we could find your friend was part of the plan.”

  Max fixed his eyes on Garen, an eagle staring down his prey. It reminded Garen of his father, a pang of homesickness striking at his heart. He regretted his comment but refused to back down. Max’s so-called plan seemed to be ill-conceived at best. How was he supposed to get home on such a vapid plan?

  Max glared at him. “Next time I send someone into hiding I’ll make sure they send word where they are.”

  Garen raised his hands slightly from the table, relenting. ‘No place for tempers when you find yourself in a pit of vipers’ his father often said. “How are we supposed to find one person in this city?”

  “He has been here for sixteen years, that means friends, a craft, customers. Someone will know him. His father was a cobbler so I suspect he took the trade back up. I’ll visit the tanneries in the morning, should not be hard to find him through his supplier. I predict we will be reunited by noon.”

  “What if he’s dead?”

  Max leaned across the table, his stern look adding weight to his words. “Then our task will be far more difficult. Pray the Creator has blessed our plans and Jerrod lives.”

  Garen looked away, seeing Michael blown off that tower in his mind’s eye. “I’m not sure my faith extends that far.”

  “Then your faith is truly small.”

  Before Garen could reply a blonde barmaid stopped at their table, holding two tankards in her fist. Her velvet maroon bodice showed an ample amount of bosom. “Mead, fine gentlemen? We serve the finest in the city.”

  “Ale, please,” Garen replied.

  “Mead will do,” Max replied on top of him.

  Garen cocked his head slightly. “Sure, why not.”

  The barmaid smiled weakly and set the tankards down.

  Max slid her two coppers and a silver mark. Her eyes widened. “Would you happen to know a man named Jerrod? Brown hair, brown eyes, short and muscular, but older, say forty.”

  Her eyes darted between Max and Garen then down to the silver mark on the table.

  “Please. I knew him once, did some of the finest leatherwork I ever saw. I’m traveling through and hoped he could make me another pair of boots.”

  She glanced at the bartender nervously, but he was occupied with patrons. “He was a sweet man, always made sure I smiled.”

  “That would be the Jerrod I know,” Max replied.

  Her eyes lit up, her face relaxing a bit as if Max had won her confidence. “You won’t find him in the morn. A week ago four soldiers walked in, clubbed him silly and carried him out. None of them said a word. I don’t know why. People have been disappearing the past few months. Good people.”

  Max slid a second silver mark next to the first. She smiled and slipped both coins under her bodice.

  “Please, sir, whatever trouble Jerrod got mixed up in, it doesn’t have to be yours. Leave Mistenthar in the morn and don’t look back.” Her voice became a whisper like she was afraid to even speak her thought. “Something evil dwells here now.” She darted away, tending to other tables, never looking back.

 
“So, now what?” Garen said.

  Max nodded to the door. “We rescue Jerrod.”

  Garen knocked back his tankard, the strong flavors of hops and honey hitting his pallet. Not his favorite brew but that was no reason to let the only beverage promised him for the night go to waste. He set the empty tankard down and looked at Max, head swimming from the rush of alcohol. “Bloody fool. I knew you were going to say that.”

  ***

  The gates of Mistenthar castle loomed at the end of the street, a torch lit maw in a stone wall with its raised portcullis of dagger-like teeth. Garen knew it was his anxiety playing with his mind. Still, it felt like a trap waiting to be sprung.

  Standing in the shadows of an alley, he watched the guards pacing their stretch of the ramparts in pairs, disappearing and reappearing as they passed behind crenellations. One pair stood leaning against the wall visiting. Their superior would give them the rough side of his tongue if he bothered to make inspections. Four guards stood on the flat top of the gatehouse. One poor fellow had forgotten his gloves, constantly blowing hot air into his cupped hands and rubbing them together. Six more soldiers were holed up in the gatehouse, taking turns stepping out in the cold to inspect anyone coming through the gates.

  Not much different from Whitewater’s Forge. A thousand leagues away. He ignored the pang of homesickness and joined Max and the twins further back in the alley.

  “So what’s the plan?” Garen asked. “We just going to walk up and ask for Jerrod?”

  Max raised an eyebrow.

  “A good swordsman knows when to keep his blade sheathed,” Dalan said.

  “And his mouth shut,” Darela added.

  Garen glared at them.

  Darela laughed and slapped him on the back. “You learn quickly. You might make a good swordsman yet.”

  “There’s a secret passage underground,” Max said. “Problem is it can only be opened from the inside.”

  “What good is a backdoor we can’t open?”

  “It was meant for escape, not entrance,” Max said, patience waning.

  Garen pushed his frustration down and moderated his voice. “Can you turn us invisible like you did the Sword?”

  “I wish it were that easy,” Max replied as a horse-drawn wagon full of hay lumbered past their alley, the mule’s shoes echoing loudly in the night air as they struck the paving stones. “Shrouding us in a spell of illusion is only good till someone bumps you, or you make a sound or do any number of things that alerts a guard to your presence. Once the guard’s alerted the illusion will be broken.”

  “So we’ll be extra careful,” Garen said.

  “Careful doesn’t hide footprints appearing by themselves in the snow,” Max replied.

  Shouts from down the street ended their conversation. Max and Garen walked to the mouth of the alley and peeked around the corner.

  “I’m tellin ya, Mo,” a sentry on the gatehouse roof was calling down, “nobody’s driving the wagon.”

  Three guards stepped out of the gatehouse.

  “Bloody codger is passed out,” the rooftop sentry continued in his booming voice.

  One guard took hold of the mule’s halter, stopping the wagon. “Mule just did what he knows,” he commented to the sentry looking down at him.

  “Told you, Mo. Smarter beast than his master, I say,” the sentry replied, satisfied with himself.

  The guard named Mo nodded to his companions. Drawing their swords, they stabbed the hay several times. Satisfied nothing ill was hidden underneath the straw, the slimmer of the two guard’s flourished his sword, the blade becoming a blur as he spun it, before slamming it into his scabbard. His partner made a snide comment which caused Mo to roar with laughter. The slimmer guard made a rude hand gesture to both of them and stormed back into the gatehouse.

  Garen’s skin prickled, his hair standing on end, as he watched Mo lead the mule and wagon deeper into the fortress. At least he hadn’t suggested hiding in the back of a wagon out loud. “So, what do you plan to do?” he asked.

  Max watched the soldiers step back into the gatehouse and continued looking at the empty gates.

  The long pause made Garen nervous. The smile that crept on the wizard’s face made him sweat.

  “Garen, my boy, I have the perfect job for you.”

  CHAPTER 49

  The Keep at Mistenthar

  Shifting in his saddle, Garen tried to make the itch between his shoulders go away. Plenty of people were out bustling around, attending to chores as the first rays of sunshine kissed the city, but he felt like all eyes were on him, like they knew he did not belong.

  “Quit fidgeting,” Max said.

  “Easy for you to say,” Garen replied, “you just have to stand there and pretend to be a family servant.”

  “Just be yourself. You’re a soldier after...” Max stopped in his tracks.

  Garen reigned his horse in. “What is it?”

  Max looked intently at the castle gates. “Something’s wrong.”

  A small throng of people already waited in line at the gates where several guards inspected everything from saddlebags to carts laden down with supplies. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.

  “Ha! I’m not the only one jumpy after all,” Garen said.

  “I think there may be a stripling at the gates,” Max replied.

  A rush of nerves swept through Garen, prickling his skin. Supposedly, striplings could only harm magichae, but he had no desire to test that notion.

  “I thought you couldn’t sense striplings.”

  “I can’t,” Max said. “Call it a gut feeling. Something’s wrong at those gates. I should’ve considered it sooner. This would be a key place to have a few.”

  “So we’ll find another plan,” Garen said, happy to scrap Max’s latest insanity.

  “Boots,” Max blurted, looking at Garen’s worn boots.

  “What about ‘em?” Garen replied, looking down, expecting to find a hole he was unaware of.

  In a louder voice Max exclaimed, “Master, you simply must have a new pair of boots. Told you several times I have in the past month and now here you are at a new post with such worn boots.”

  Garen thought Max had lost his mind, till he noticed the two castle guards walking past, golden light reflecting off their polished breastplates.

  Max lowered his voice. “Sorry, my boy, you’re on your own. Stick to the plan.” Turning his horse, he darted away before Garen could object.

  Garen fumed, trying to figure out how he was supposed to pull off Max’s plan without the crazy wizard. Noticing his rank and his mood, the throng of people at the gate parted and let him go ahead of them. A guard held up a hand, halting him just under the portcullis.

  “State your business,” the man droned in a monotone voice, clearly tired of his duties.

  Garen handed the man a letter. “Transfer from Dalarhan.”

  Was his voice authoritative enough? Surely this man could see right through him. Stupid wizard, getting him into this mess.

  The letter was the first part of Max’s harebrained scheme. According to the letter he was a captain reassigned from Dalarhan, complete with Aleister Cain’s signature thanks to a writ of funds he found in Falon’s pack. If the magic thing ever stopped working for Max he could make a living as a forger.

  The guard perused the letter with disinterest until his eyes fell on the signature. “Welcome to Mistenthar,” he said with far more enthusiasm than he had previously. “Honored to have yeh, sir.”

  A small man stepped up next to the guard and pulled the letter from his hand. Mousy, with well-trimmed brown hair, Garen might have dismissed him if the much larger guard hadn’t flinched. Despite his stature, he possessed a hardened, almost feral look to him.

  “Your companion rushed away rather quickly,” the newcomer said, not bothering to look at Garen as he inspected the fake orders.

  Garen looked down at the man with his best impersonation of his father. “A good servant hurries when sent
on errands.”

  “Errands couldn’t wait till he had his master settled in?”

  “I can manage for myself. What I don’t have time for is acquiring a new pair of boots.”

  The man gave Garen’s boot a disdainful glance then went back to inspecting the letter. “Yes, yours have seen many travels. Walk all the way here before taking the saddle?”

  “I hate breaking in new boots. To a fault, perhaps.”

  The man looked at him over the edge of the parchment, those feral eyes inspecting him as intently as they had the letter. “Indeed.”

  A long pause ensued, the mousy man seeming to wait for Garen to somehow give himself away. The guard looked between them nervously.

  “Your orders look to be proper,” the man finally said, folding the letter and handing it back to Garen. “Stable your horse and find the Master of Arms. Your manservant can settle your things when he returns.”

  With his best impersonation of Stren, Garen gave the man a curt nod and pulled the parchment from the man’s hands. Riding on he felt the man’s eyes on him till he turned into the stables. Max had been right. That man was a stripling. Garen would bet his sword on it.

  “Take your horse, sir?” a young stable boy asked as Garen dismounted.

  “Yes,” Garen replied. “Where can I find the Master at Arms?”

  “The armory is next to the great hall, sir.”

  Garen strode through the narrow servant’s hallway leading from the stables. The layout of any fortress was not difficult to learn. Great halls, kitchens, and armories tended to be in logical places, but a private library could be anywhere.

  Through the night, Max had educated him on the layout of the fortress. His instructions had been so good Garen almost felt like he had been in the fortress before. The west wing was devoted to the wizard’s keep so he stuck to the servants hallways, bypassing the great hall and kitchens. He startled a servant when he stepped into the main hallway of the west wing. When asked where the wizard’s library was located, the fellow pointed to a wood door further down the hallway.