In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1)

by Steve M. Shoemake

  “Well, if you can’t keep your thieves from stealing from you, perhaps that is a sign you train them too well.” Xaro laughed, as he took a seat opposite the shadow he had summoned. “But perhaps I can do my part at helping enlarge your coffers.”

  “That is what we are here to discuss, I believe.” Nathaniel smiled patiently and politely back.

  Probably not the first time you’ve heard that joke, thought Xaro. “Yes indeed. Let me proceed to the point then. I am in need of a Master Thief, and I will offer the Guild a contract for his services.”

  “There are several potential candidates we could consider. What do you have in mind?”

  “I need your best. I want the top of Guild.” Xaro crossed his arms.

  “I see. That will not be an inexpensive contract. Perhaps if you could tell me a little more—”

  “I can’t. Or rather, I won’t. You understand. My contract will be through the Guild of course, for I value your recommendation. But the work shall be between me and the Master Thief we agree upon.”

  “I do understand, of course. But for such a contract, you never know. I may join you myself!” The shadow of the mist smiled greedily at Xaro.

  You will join me eventually regardless. But have some tact, Xaro. He laughed good-naturedly. “I wouldn’t dream of taking you away from the important work you do. Someone must ensure the secrets of your Guild are judiciously passed along.” Xaro stood up. “But come. Let us talk of your best. Who has earned the top spot in your Guild?”

  Nathaniel’s shade seemed to ripple as he paused before answering. After a moment he said, “How long will you need our services?”

  Xaro took a step forward, “Until the job is done and then longer. I am not hiring this person for a job. I am hiring this person…period.” He continued to move toward the image of the Head of the Thief’s Guild. “This person will not steal for anyone else. Ever. Now let me be direct. Do not waste my time with a lesser thief, figuring they may die and therefore I’ll come back to you with another contract. If this thief fails, I will find another thief, of course. But I will find you first, and we will revisit this recommendation in person. Do we understand one another, Nathaniel?”

  The Guild leader took a step back, but the shade remained where Xaro had conjured it, so the effect was that the Mist looked smaller next to Xaro. “We understand each other, Xaro.” There was an awkward pause, which Xaro did not disrupt. Finally, the Mist continued. “I have a recommendation for you.”

  “Go on.”

  The Mist put his hands together, and Xaro noticed how long his fingers were. “For 10,000 in gold, I will release Trevor Blink to your care and assignment. He is a new Master, but unquestionably the most talented in our Guild.”

  “How so?” Xaro asked.

  “Are you familiar with the jewel some call the Purple Sun?”

  “Vaguely. Supposedly an Elvish pendant.”

  “Correct. An Elvish pendant worn by their princess, the Lady Elyn. For his final test, Trevor stole this amulet.”

  “And that makes him top of your Guild? What did he do, club her on the head and take it from her neck?”

  This time the Mist walked forward, smiling, which caused his image to enlarge until Xaro could see every line in his face. “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what he did. In the castle at Thalanthalas.”

  Xaro raised an eyebrow. “Arrange a time for us to talk. You shall have your price if I like him.”

  Tar-Tan

  Tar-Tan was prepared for lookouts, sentries, scouts, or watch towers. It’s what he would have had in place, were he governing the island.

  There were none. Clear water reflected the blackness of the sky as it lazily lapped onto the fine sand of the beaches, carrying all of their boats onto the shore. The islands were not large, and Tar-Tan had fanned his troops out to attack on multiple sides, cutting off any chance for retreat. Given that he would not have to fight his way to the shore, it appears not only would he have the advantage of surrounding these men, but also the element of surprise.

  With a word, he put in place the elements of his plan that he felt would best work if surprise was still on the table. Roughly 150 newly branded True Warriors were deployed on all sides across ten different isles, each unit tasked with a single overarching objective: capture the women and children.

  They saw the first houses within minutes from the beach, and a final signal led to the coordinated attack. Each unit on the other islands was led by a captain who would soon be giving similar signals to their fighters as well.

  There was no bloodthirsty yelling, no battle cries. The villagers didn’t even have locks on their doors. Two would enter, one holding down a man while the other roused the women and children at sword point and began marching them to a guarded area. There were screams, and some fighting, but the men were on their backs and pinned before they knew what was happening, and the women and children were terrified. Once secured, the men were systematically quartered off and the small force went to the next one. Even as the screams picked up and torches began to be lit, most of the farmers were unprepared to face two heavily armed warriors breaking into their home. And those that did resist were hardly a threat.

  It didn’t take long for a teenage male to grab a pick hanging outside to swing at one of the True Warriors marching his siblings and mother to the city center with others. Older girls also fought, and some of the mothers did as well. They began losing arms as the trained warriors lopped off their attackers’ limbs like they were tree branches in the way of a busy road. Wailing ensued, and soon many were crying for cloth and rope to staunch terrible wounds. The whole affair took mere hours, and as the soft light of dawn broke over the islands, the entire population was separated into adult males and everyone else.

  Tar-Tan had the adult males stripped naked and bound in shackles. His intent was less about humiliation, but more so the safety of both his men as well as the captives. It’s hard for a naked man to incite a riot against a well-armed and armored, well-trained force, even with numbers. For the cowards in the group, it’s also hard to commit suicide without a hidden blade as well.

  By mid-morning, the battle for the Uncharted Isles was over, and Tar-Tan had received his reports from the other islands. Within two more days, all told, he had more than 40,000 fighting-age men in shackles now, each one branded with a number. He had not lost a single fighter. His planning and logistics had been executed flawlessly.

  Now comes the fun part. He walked to the center of their village in full armor, holding his massive two-handed sword effortlessly in one of his hamfists. Drawing himself up to his full eight-and-one-half feet in height, he began addressing his prisoners. “Men of the Isles—today you have an important decision to make. As you can see, your lives have changed. What remains to be seen is how you react to this fact.” He looked over at a teenage girl in shock over the loss of her arm, a tourniquet wrapped tightly at the elbow. She had a piece of leather in her mouth, and was biting down to keep from screaming while her mother pressed a cold towel against her face. One of the prisoners yelled “Murderer!”

  Tar-Tan had the man who yelled brought forward. “Quite right. We are murderers. And you will find our methods swift, fair, and direct. Hold out the man’s tongue.” Two soldiers pushed the naked man to his knees and forced his mouth open with mailed fists.

  Tar-Tan himself drew a wicked dagger from his belt and sliced the man’s tongue out. “Be grateful you didn’t piss on one of my troops,” he whispered in the man’s ear as he fell on his side, grabbing his bloody mouth.

  The half-ogre straightened his back and addressed the stunned prisoners. “As I said, our methods are swift, fair, and direct. If you attack us, you will lose the limb that did the attacking. If you speak out against us, you will lose the tongue that did the speaking. You get the idea.” He began to pace in front of the rows of men.

  “You men must make a decision now. War is coming to the mainland, and you should consider yourself drafted. We ar
e taking you, and it will be up to you whether you have a family to return to when the fighting is over. If you follow orders and live, you may very well see your family again. If you follow orders and do well, you may not only come back to a family, but you may come back quite wealthy as well.” He paused. “But if you do not follow orders and resist us, you will not come back to a family. You will come back to ash and worse than ash.”

  A tall prisoner stepped forward. He was powerfully built, and the mid-morning sun shone off the sweat of his dark complexion. He chose his words carefully. “Death to us and our families now would seem a better bargain.”

  Tar-Tan smiled. “What is your name, farmer?”

  He didn’t answer quickly, but finally said, “I am Herodius.”

  “Herodius, you probably speak the thoughts for many of your fellow islanders, believing a noble death would be preferable. And still many others might think that even if their refusal to fight resulted in the death of their families, that you are doing them a favor—death being preferable to living as slaves under an occupied force. You are right…both of those options would be preferable if they were real options. But they are not. Let me be clear and direct. You will be taken away. Your families will be left behind. Word will be sent back should any of you desert or resist. You will not be killed. There are far worse things under my command that can happen to you then death. Furthermore, your families will not be killed. At least not quickly. There are far worse things under my lieutenants’ command back here on the islands that can happen to them then death.” He approached Herodius until he towered over the naked man a mere foot or two away from him. Raising his voice, he said, “So before you wax poetic about death, know that the limits to the horror we can and will inflict upon you and your families is limited only by our creativity…and I am a creative man.” Tar-Tan seldom acknowledged his Ogre heritage.

  Herodius, undeterred, looked up into the beady yellow eyes of the half-ogre. “If you threaten us, how will we fight in your army? If you threaten our families, how will you control us?”

  Tar-Tan narrowed his gaze and curled his lip. This one is a leader, like a stallion that must be broken. “We shall see.” He reached down and grabbed Herodius’s arm, turning it over to see his number. “Captain Grull, take the family of prisoner 1X5Z9 to our new barracks and let us test this man’s theory.”

  Herodius stood eyes wide as several large men grabbed Maria and his five children. “No! Maria!” He stood up and tried to rush forward, but the shackles bit into his ankle. “Stop this! Do not harm them!”

  Maria yelled “Herodius! I love you!”

  “STOP THIS!” Herodius screamed.

  His family disappeared inside a large home that would now become the barracks for the officers Tar-Tan was leaving behind to keep control of the mens’ families. Tar-Tan looked down at Herodius. He spoke quite softly. “Not a peep from the crowd. I think the men will learn to fight for us and do just fine.”

  That was when the screams started from inside the barracks.

  Magi

  “It’s time, Magi.” Marik said. “You too, Kyle. We leave within the hour.”

  It had been a week since Ragor won the Tournament. Some of the outrage had died down as everyone saw Tarsh moving around the village again. That and they were consumed once more with their own daily struggles for food, clothing, adequate shelter, and a sense of hopelessness that marked more days than not. Marik had chosen not to allow Phillip to dictate a whipping to him. One look at Ragor during the day was enough to tell that Marik’s punishment was having an effect. Black bags puffed out underneath each eye from a lack of sleep, and he had begun twitching occasionally for no apparent reason. Skylar would admit, if you found a private moment with him, that the random screams coming from Ragor’s room every night felt like a punishment for the entire barracks. Magi didn’t give it much further thought.

  It was tradition for Marik’s students to visit the Ol’ Shakoor, who lived many leagues away, near the mountains, by himself. Occasionally Marik accompanied his students, but more often than not he hired Rangers to lead them there. The Ol’ Shakoor was a prophet, and it was tradition to have all would-be mages glimpse a portion of their future. Legend said the practice started centuries ago, when the Archmage Quixatalor issued a curse on any mage who would seek the power of their craft without some foresight into what they may do with it. It was said that mages who sought to gain the rank of Mage—a True Mage—would die an untimely death if they chose not to get their prophecies foretold. The cynic in Magi figured it was more likely a cabal between charlatans to weasel gold out of every magic school in Tenebrae. He just found it hard to believe one would die attempting to climb the Staircase without hearing their prophecy.

  Still, tradition was tradition, and Magi was excited. A few days journey with Master Marik and Kyle to have some guy tell you a story about your future self. Pretty cool when you think about it. The prospect of adventure gave him a thrill, although his recent one to Gaust had ended tragically. He finished packing and sat on the edge of his bed, looking over his pack while considering taking one more spellbook for the journey.

  “May I come in, Magi?” Kari asked sweetly as she stood in the doorway. Kyle had left with Tarsh and Nugget to see if they could buy a few last minute items for their trip. Magi looked up. That’s certainly a better tone than our last conversation.

  “Of course. Sure. Yeah, come in.”

  “Thanks.” She sat down in a chair in one corner of the room, facing him. “I wanted to talk with you. What has Master Marik told you about the Ol’ Shakoor?”

  “Not much, Kari. You know students are forbidden to discuss their prophecies with each other, so none of the older kids have said anything to me either. I’ve never met a prophet before, so I’m not quite sure what to think. To be honest, I’m both excited…and a little jaded, truth be told. But Master insists it’s a step in the process for all mages, and that we are fortunate that the Ol’ Shakoor lives relatively close to our school. He says schools across Elvidor send their students to visit him, yet we only need to travel a few days over relatively flat land. So I dunno. Master Marik says we go, so I go. What have you heard?”

  She smiled. “I am going next month. I was hoping I could go with you, but Master preferred that my brother accompany you.”

  “It would have been—” Unbelievable! “—exciting to travel with you and, ah, Marik. But I’m sure Kyle and I will stay out of trouble.”

  “Would you stay out of trouble with me?” She moved a little closer. My word, but she is beautiful. Her eyes were brilliantly green against her thick, rich, dark hair that today smelled faintly of pine. In a village that reeked of sweat and dirt and poverty, her fragrant hair—even though it was scented with the simplest of ingredients—was unmistakable and intoxicating.

  The door flung open as Nugget, Tarsh, and Kyle spilled in. “Magi! Lady Goodwin had some fresh Mikenese melons we could pack for the journey. Oh, hi Sis. Not interrupting, am I?”

  “No, brother, of course not. I just came over to wish Magi and you a safe journey. I’m going next month to visit the Ol’ Shakoor. I was wondering if any of you had heard what it’s like?”

  “Nah, the older kids don’t say a word. Reginald told me two years ago that he cuts you and works with your blood, but I think he was trying to scare me. Kinda worked—I told Marik I can wait,” Nugget said.

  Tarsh shook his head. “Yeah, Sheila told me last year that he tortures you until you break down, and then tells you your future. I don’t buy it. She laughed when my eyes got wide. I’ve asked Marik a dozen times, and he always says the same thing, ‘it’s tradition. You have nothing to fear, but know that once you go through it you will be spellbound to keep the process and the vision to yourself.’ Who knows?”

  Magi looked at Kari, and caught her looking at him. She was smiling, and Magi thought he was beginning to put two-and-two together. She must have known that I had no information to share. Yet still she came over. He g
rinned at her, feeling his face warm up a bit. Or maybe she just felt bad about how our last conversation ended.

  “Well—I suppose we’ll all just have to go through it for ourselves to know what it’s like.” She gave Magi another look that hung in the air between them. We’re still talking about the prophecy, right? “Well, be good, brother. I’ll see you when you get back, Magi.” She smiled at them all, then got up and left.

  “You know, when she’s not in her illusionist robes, she cleans up pretty well, Kyle,” said Tarsh.

  “She’s my sister. Forget about it.” But he was looking at Magi when he spoke.

  Magi

  As Magi and Kyle readied themselves to depart, they asked whether they planned on riding or walking to wherever the Ol’ Shakoor lived, and Marik said they would walk. “It’s only a few days travel, and pretty this time of year. I doubt we’ll encounter much trouble.” Which was fine with each of them—they were both certainly two of Marik’s more athletic students.

  They set a leisurely pace, with Kyle in the lead. It was a warm afternoon, and they passed many villagers going about their business. The whole place was in somewhat of a buzz as they began their journey. Magi’s prowess was well known—he’d been a magical prodigy ever since Marik agreed to raise him. Black-John the smitty walked over to wish the boys good fortune. “Seen many of you kids go visit the mountains with your Master. Take care of yourselves.”

  “Thanks,” said Magi. The large man was always wearing the same hard leather vest, a spider-web of salt stains crystallizing from the daily sweat that poured off him and hardened over night, only to be re-soaked the next day. Magi paused briefly, seeing a fine-looking sword that his friend was about to temper. “That’s a great looking blade, BJ. Who are you making that for?”

  Black-John smiled. “You like it? Actually it’s not for anyone, Magi. Or rather, I guess it’s just for me. Not enough work to keep me busy all the time, mostly just nails and horseshoes, anyhow. But sometimes don’t you ever feel like doing something beautiful just because you can? Ever feel that way?”