The Lone Apprentice

by I K Spencer

  "Here here," seconded Kaleg and both he and Orneson clapped politely.

  Before Anthen could reply, Jamen, still gripping his hand, pulled him forward and hugged the new guardsman with his free hand.

  "Remember the oath, Anthen," the king whispered so only the cadet could hear. "Honorable guardsmen have never been needed more."

  The plea in the great man's voice cut through Anthen's apathy, at least for the moment. He again pledged his life to the king but this time the oath was more convincing. Jamen announced his departure soon after and in moments, Anthen's graduation was over.

  Orneson awaited his newest soldier in Kaleg's anteroom and motioned for him to follow. As they walked down the hallway, the guardsman leader explained their destination, though Anthen could have guessed their purpose; he was a guardsman but could not prove it until he had the mark. He followed the guardsman chief along the corridor to an unmarked door. Orneson gestured for him to enter, then departed without a further word.

  "Welcome to the Guard," Anthen whispered to himself as he watched the strange man retreat.

  He opened the door to reveal a small, dimly lit room. Inside, sat a lone man with a long silver beard, puffing on a large pipe. The old man rose with obvious difficulty and closed the door behind Anthen without a word of greeting. The elder was small and badly stooped, walking with the aid of an elaborately carved cane. Anthen wondered if he had been a guardsman. The man waved him to a chair and told him to roll up his right sleeve. The old man strapped his forearm face down to the arm of the chair, scrubbed the area with soap and water, then set to work.

  The elder worked methodically on Anthen’s forearm. The man made no attempt to converse with him and he did not think it was his place to ask questions so the artist worked in silence, only pausing from his work to relight the foul-smelling pipe from time to time. He worked with both hands, jabbing Anthen with a tiny awl in one hand, then pressing the mark with a small vial in the other hand. He gave Anthen a clean rag and nodded whenever he wanted the blood wiped away from the growing wound. The jabs hurt but he got used to the pain quickly, almost hypnotized by the fluid motion of the old artisan. Each row of pinpricks was about two inches long. Every few marks the man would change vials. Anthen assumed they were different colors but there was no indication on the vial or his arm.

  After a while, Anthen noticed with growing curiosity that the man did not seem to look at his arm all the time, yet the marks were perfectly positioned. After watching the man for a few more minutes Anthen realized why—the man was blind! He almost cried out with the shocking epiphany but caught himself at the last moment. He soon saw the sense in it though; guardsmen were warriors not artisans and it would be too risky for someone outside the Guard to see the face of every graduating cadet.

  After nearly two hours, the old man halted and rose stiffly. The stooped elder freed Anthen’s arm and tossed him a fresh rag, instructing the graduate not to show his arm or attempt to expose the tattoo until the bruise was fully healed. He then turned and shuffled out another door. Anthen was uncertain whether to leave or not. He sat until the blood flow ceased, then departed the same way he had entered.

  Anthen felt no different as he walked from the dark room even though he now bore the guardsman mark. He had looked forward to this event from the moment he had learned that the secret tattoo existed but now, after having his dream shattered, it was just a painful wound, another sacrifice he must make.

  He went to the stables to check his mount and tack. He whistled as he approached and Rorc softly nickered in reply. He and the big bay had trained together for the last three years, starting as soon as the colt had been weaned. Rorc was trained to be a guardsman's horse and Anthen learned the process at the same time so he could handle the training of his future mounts. Rorc pushed Anthen with its nose and the guardsman fed the horse carrots and greeted it affectionately, thankful that at least he wasn’t leaving this good friend behind in the morning.

  "Rorc, my friend, your soft days of leisure are at an end. I trust there will be a few broken-hearted mares, eh? Well you and I must go out into the world tomorrow and do our duty."

  Anthen talked softly to the horse as he cleaned the stall. The chestnut stallion kept up its part of the dialog, answering its master's remarks with a snort or a playful nudge. After sweeping the stall bare and spreading fresh straw, he refilled the feed and water pails and then said goodnight to Rorc with a pat. He then cleaned and inspected his saddle gear and bridle, insuring everything was ready for their long trek across the realm.

  He left the stable and journeyed to a nearby tavern for the final event of the day—a small gathering of peers and masters to celebrate his graduation. It was dark already and he pulled his cloak close against the freshening breeze. He was not looking forward to the party, in no mood for any kind of socializing. He had said his good-byes and his mind was already far away from this place. He felt odd and disconnected, no longer a cadet but not yet an apprentice. Such feelings were common for graduates but far worse for Anthen, given the disturbing circumstances associated with his impending apprenticeship.

  In a few minutes the former cadet stood outside the noisy establishment. He forced a smile and walked through the tavern into the private, back room that had been reserved for the private party. It was a small group; only a few of his peers could be told. Dunsten was there and a few others a year or two behind him. Rampas and some of his other teachers from the last few years were also present. The small party gathered at a long table heaped with food and pitchers of ale.

  Anthen felt removed from the proceedings, as though he were watching himself in a dream. He smiled politely and laughed when others laughed but felt no merriment. Those around him tried to refill his mug continually but it was already full more often than not. After the meal came speeches. Kaleg gave his customary praise for the graduating cadet and emphasized the honor and tradition associated with the Guard. Other elders at the academy took their turns at the podium and gave their usual speeches. Finally, Anthen was called on to speak. He gave the expected remarks for a departing cadet, commending and thanking his teachers and expressing gratitude for the opportunity to be a guardsman.

  After Anthen's speech, the formal portion of the evening ended and Kaleg and the other elders departed, leaving the younger masters and the cadets to tell tales and drink. Anthen sipped his ale and half-listened to the stories, only giving his full attention if the account concerned the realm’s eastern regions or Dolonar. His mind was occupied with endless questions about Cidrl and the perils he would face but, of course, there were no answers. As if sensing Anthen's mood, the party was subdued and ended with a final toast well before midnight, much earlier than was typical. He bade the gathering farewell and took his leave, grateful to be alone with his thoughts again.

  Far from tired, Anthen took a long walk in the cold, clear night air and it was nearly midnight when he entered his room for the last time. He kindled a small fire and then undressed, carefully packing away his good suit. He placed the commission papers in the small pack he carried slung over a shoulder. Everything was ready for his departure and he slipped beneath the cold bedclothes and stared at the blaze.

  Soon, though, the busy day taking its toll, the troubled newest guardsman dropped into a restless slumber. In his dreams a faceless ghoul pursued Anthen through dark wastelands. In the nightmare he was in rags and without a weapon. He felt as though he were dying of thirst and ran through the wastes in utter terror, knowing he was completely powerless against the stalker. He also had no doubt the tormentor, though faceless and nameless, was none other than his next master.

  Well before dawn he awoke with a start and shook his head to clear the horrible images from his head. He felt unrested and was disgusted for submitting to childish nightmares. He angrily tossed the damp bed linens aside and threw himself vigorously into his morning exercise routine.

  Hours later, Anthen sat atop Rorc on a rise at the eastern edge of the academy, bre
akfasting on bread and cheese and looking back as the first rays of the sun illuminated the grounds. He felt better. The rigorous exercise followed up with a wash and hot coffee had restored him. After that he had packed up and left quickly, pausing for a last look around his room. It was still dark when he had stopped at the silent kitchen to pick up his parcel of staples and traveling food and just starting to get light as he had ridden from the stable.

  He finished the bread and brushed the crumbs away but lingered to take in a little more of the beautiful view, trying to preserve it in his memory. He could not help but wonder if he would ever return to this place, feeling a stab of resentment that the austere institution was the only home he could remember.

  With a heavy sigh, the newest member of the Guard turned east and rode from the hilltop without looking back.

  Chapter 8

  Anthen rode into the city of Verilia at midday following three full days on the road. He entered the western gate of the walled city without a second look from the inattentive guards. Once inside the city walls, the traffic grew much more congested. Verilia, a former capital named after the warrior-king Verin, was an ancient city and the cobblestone roads were narrower than Anthen had ever seen. The streets were very noisy and many smells, only some pleasant, assaulted him.

  Street vendors called to him to check out their goods and whores beckoned him to do the same. Verilia was the only city in the vast eastern half of the realm and drew throngs of visitors looking for all manner of trade. He carefully threaded his way between the street urchins who crowded around him to offer a variety of services or just beg for alms. It was easy to see from his stature, impressive horse and gear that he was not the typical traveler who came through their midst.

  As he moved slowly east the congestion eased as he passed to newer and more attractive parts of the city. He eventually came to the inn Garrick had suggested, where he gratefully dismounted, still not entirely used to a full day's ride. He led Rorc to the stable across the street and saw to his horse's comfort, then carried his gear across to the inn.

  The travel during the initial leg to Verilia had been relatively easy, giving both horse and rider some time to adjust to the long hours on the road. The flat, well-traveled road had passed through town after town, with plenty of inns and roadhouses to choose from. He’d found a comfortable bed each night and Rorc had enjoyed a sheltered stable. The journey had been outwardly uneventful except for a cold rain and a bit of wet snow one day. Inner turmoil, however, was the guardsman's constant companion. The faceless Cidrl had occupied his thoughts and dominated his nightmares.

  Upon passing from the far reaches of Carael to the small towns beyond, Anthen had also quickly realized that he was very conspicuous to the common folk and he had taken some steps to alleviate the problem. His features and figure would not allow him to be mistaken for a peasant but at least he could disguise the fact that he was an elite warrior. To this end, he now carried his crossbow in a plain sack and had let the gleam of fresh polish fade from his boots and gear. He also had already learned to speak as little as possible, his educated manner of speech an immediate giveaway to mostly everyone he encountered, the vast majority of whom could neither read nor write.

  Anthen secured a room overlooking the street and called for hot water. After washing away the grime from a full day's ride, he fought off the instinctive urge to polish his boots and instead went downstairs for his supper. The inn's fare was common but plentiful—a thick stew with some type of gristly meat, potatoes, bread, jam and ale. On the trail he did not stop for a midday meal so he ate ravenously, not bantering with the friendly serving maid to dissuade her attempts to make conversation.

  Afterward, he decided to walk off the heavy meal. He stepped out of the inn and looked left and right. He decided to go left, as it was the direction he would head in the morning. It was a clear and chilly night and he could see quite a few stars. The streets were empty save for a few hardy souls who had braved the cold. He checked out the shop windows as he walked along, hoping the frosty air would dispel the sleepiness he felt from the full meal and the warm saloon. The shops in the area, all closed, seem to cater to upper class ladies. There were several dress shops, salons, and hat shops.

  Anthen had traveled only a couple of blocks when he sensed trouble. The road ahead was empty, at least as much as could be seen by the dim street lamps. He looked back and saw no one within a block of him. He was approaching a corner so he moved cautiously forward and looked up and down the cross street. To the south a few blocks away, he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be some sort of altercation. Two figures seemed to be dragging a third but the forms disappeared quickly as they moved from under a street lamp and were lost in the blackness beyond.

  Suspicious, Anthen moved quickly to follow but did not run, not sure if he had misconstrued the situation. He listened as he hurried along and heard low voices, then what sounded like a woman or child's cry, quickly stifled. He quickened his pace and was only a block away when he saw the figures emerge again from the darkness at the next street lamp. He could now clearly see two men propelling a woman along, one trying to keep a hand clamped over her mouth.

  He crossed to the opposite side of the street and ran to sneak ahead of the trio. From the smell, he surmised that they were nearing some stockyards. In the distance he could see some campfires and suspected that to be their destination. Trained to know better than to let the two foes reach more comrades, he raced past them unnoticed, then crossed the street again to their side before the next lamp. Walking normally, he started back toward the thugs. As the two sides converged, the two men spotted Anthen and halted abruptly. Anthen feigned surprise and did the same.

  "Oh!" exclaimed Anthen. "What a fright! Sir, how you startled me!" he continued in a haughty tone, acting ignorant to the obvious.

  One of the men stepped forward and leered at Anthen. He was dressed in little more than rags but was large and appeared quite strong. He was dark with black whiskers and a flat, pig-like nose. His grin displayed a few missing teeth. Anthen could see the second man holding the woman around the waist with a hand clamped over her mouth. He was nearly as big as the first and wore a filthy cap pulled down tight over his head. The well-dressed woman, her face hidden by a veil, looked frail and he appeared to hold her without much effort.

  "What treachery is afoot? Sir, by what right do you beset this lady?" Anthen asked using the words of a highborn, hoping to lull the robbers into thinking him another easy prey.

  "Well, well, who do we 'ave 'ere?" taunted the man in front in a low menacing voice. "Look Ob. Little Lord 'ere seems to 'ave lost 'is way." Both men brandished knives; the man holding the woman released her waist and raised his blade to her throat. "Never you mind, little Lord. She lost 'er way too. Just never you mind."

  The knife at the woman's throat concerned Anthen. He needed to put the attackers more at ease.

  "Sir, you are right as rain. I am lost and impertinent toward a man such as yourself, with troubles of his own. I would happily donate a couple of crowns for your trouble and beseech your forgiveness, sir!"

  Anthen kept up the fawning chatter until he saw the desired effect—the knife lowering from the woman's throat. She moaned at the apparent loss of the potential rescuer.

  "Well, well. Now that's right nice ain't it Ob? Why don't you just 'and over your purse and I can fetch out the right proper amount eh?" The man held out his hand and sneered at Anthen while dropping the knife hand to his side.

  Hand trembling, Anthen slowly reached into his cloak, then stretched out and dropped a small bag into the man's hand. Barely had the bag touched his palm before Anthen darted past him and struck a blow that knocked the blade from Ob’s grasp. Before the surprised thug could react, a second blow knocked his hand from the woman's mouth and a third sent him sprawling to the ground. Anthen thrust the woman behind him and turned to face the leader, who growled and rushed him in a rage. In a flurry of quick moves, the guardsman sidestepped the
rushing brute, knocked his purse free and delivered a blow that put the stunned leader to the ground as well. He then reached down, scooped up his purse and warned the woman not to scream before she could utter a single cry, not wishing to attract the attention of potential comrades of the attackers.

  "Madam, are you hurt?" Anthen glanced quickly in her direction, then back toward the two men, who were on their feet again.

  "Sir, I am bruised to be sure, but—"

  "I'll slit you a new 'ole for that!" rasped the leader, interrupting her reply. "Circle round 'im Ob," he commanded.

  The leader circled to Anthen's right while Ob circled to the guardsman's left. Anthen reached around and guided the woman, now clinging fearfully to his back, and they both backed up a few paces to a wall to keep the assailants from getting behind them. He reached inside his cloak with his right hand and could see the fear rise in Ob's eyes as he drew a short gleaming sword.

  "Madam, I should relieve them of their heads if they have caused you any harm," Anthen offered the woman without taking his eyes from the two adversaries.

  "Nay, good sir. I would but be relieved from their offensive sight," she responded in a surprisingly calm voice.

  As expected, the enraged leader attacked first and Anthen backhanded the man across the forehead using the flat side of the blade. The mugger crumpled to the ground with a grunt. Anthen turned to face Ob, who was backing away. Fearing the man might summon reinforcements, the guardsman rushed forward and clubbed Ob unconscious with the butt of his sword. After pausing a moment to make sure neither man stirred, he sheathed his sword and returned to the take the woman's arm.

  "Madam, we must now flee for they may have comrades at hand. Did they get your purse?" He saw her face more clearly now and noted she was younger than he previously thought.

  "Nay, kind sir. I think the brutes wanted first to carry me away from any passing gentry." She looked at the two prone men, then looked up at him, her eyes wide with astonishment. "Sir, are they dead?"