Magic Astray (The Llandra Saga)

by Gregory Mahan

  The sight of the crossbow might have alarmed Randall in the not-too-distant past, but after all he had been through, he found the sight of the young man more amusing than anything else.

  “And why would you want to do a thing like that?” Randall asked the stranger, though he was already certain of the answer.

  “It’s like this, you see,” the teen answered. “With the king dead, there’s no one to pay for the garrison at Geldorn. None of them lot are willing to patrol the roads without pay, so I keep this here part of the road free from bandits. Seeing how I’m providing a valuable service and all, it’s only fair that I see a little coin for my efforts. The log in the road makes sure that folks stop long enough for me to collect the toll. Travelers pay their five ringets, and I move the log so they can be on their way with their merchandise.”

  “I have no merchandise, and I have no cart,” Randall answered with a grin. “What’s to keep me from just going around or stepping over the log? I really don’t need to pay you to move it for me.”

  “Everyone pays the toll,” the young man stated flatly, reaching down and putting one hand on the crossbow dangling from his belt. He scowled menacingly, but Randall took note of the stiffness in the young man’s movements, as well as the way his breath had quickened. The boy was clearly nervous—he hadn’t been at this sort of thing for very long.

  “I don’t think so,” Randall replied, looking the other squarely in the eye. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to continue on my way. You can shoot me in the back if you want to. I won’t lie—killing a man whose back is turned is easy. What’s hard is living with it afterwards. I hope that’s a burden your soul never has to bear.”

  The young man continued to meet Randall’s gaze for only a moment before dropping his eyes and slouching his shoulders. Randall had guessed correctly—the boy was no killer. “Go on, then. Hurry up before I change my mind,” the aspiring highwayman grumped, trying to save a little face.

  “C’mon Berry! Let’s go,” Randall called to his friend. Berry had stood motionless next to the log throughout the entire exchange, crouched in an aggressive, low stance. Randall wouldn’t have given two ringets for the value of the highwayman’s life had he decided to take violent action.

  At his friend’s call, Berry chittered merrily and scampered toward the two young men. The stranger flinched backward at the donnan’s sudden movement; he obviously hadn’t noticed the little imp before. His eyes grew wide, darting back and forth between the pair of travelers as he backed away.

  “Oh! That’s....that’s a... You’re..you’re...” he stammered. His eyes never left the donnan as Berry clambered up Randall’s leg and onto his shoulder.

  “Randall Miller,” Randall stated, amused at the boy’s reaction. “Nice to meet you.”

  The young man stood frozen, staring at the two adventurers until Randall cleared his throat. “Ahem. My mother always taught me that it’s polite to give your own name when introductions are being made.”

  The young man flinched again, and began babbling quickly. “Right...uh, I’m Eamon—from Waverly. You’re really Randall Miller! You’re like the greatest Mage on Tallia!” The young man continued, not noticing Randall’s wince at the last comment. “You’ve single-handedly killed like a dozen Mages. If it weren’t for you, the Mage rebellion would have ended before it ever even got started, and King Priess would still be on the throne.”

  Randall eyed the young man warily. He was only a little surprised that the Eamon had heard of him. Randall had been at the capital when the fighting had broken out, but he wasn’t the central figure that this young man seemed to think him to be. Eamon’s face held a mixture of fear and excitement, though excitement seemed to be winning the battle for dominance.

  “Well, it didn’t exactly happen like that, you know,” Randall demurred, looking the other over with a critical eye. “What are you doing out here robbing good folk anyway? Shouldn’t you be at home, tending your fields?”

  The young highwayman’s chest deflated at the last comment; Randall had evidently guessed correctly that he was probably some farmer’s son. Eamon looked down and scuffed his feet in the dirt before quietly answering.

  “Pa died a couple of years ago of the whooping cough,” he said. “I’m not so good with the farm, and things have been pretty bad since King Priess’ death. It was either this, or starvation.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear about your pa,” Randall said, feeling a little guilty for his earlier judgmental attitude. “What about your mother?” Randall asked, “What does she think of all this, then?”

  “She died when I was just a baby,” Eamon replied, still looking down. “My whole life, it’s just been me and Pa. And now, it’s just me.”

  “That’s rough,” Randall said. “I’m sorry I came down on you so hard. Still, I can’t say as I approve of thievery. There’s got to be something else you can do to make ends meet.”

  “Like what?” Eamon snapped. “It’s not like there are any jobs around here these days. People are scared, and they’re not spending any money that they don’t have to. Even in the best of times, it’s not easy to make a living if you’ve never been ‘prenticed. Now, it’s all but impossible.”

  Randall knew the truth in Eamon’s words. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that he found himself desperate to earn an apprenticeship to make his own fortune. Suddenly he was struck by a flash of inspiration.

  “Well, if you have nothing keeping you here, why don’t you come with me? I’m heading to Shaderest forest to trade with the elves and then on to Varna on the Lake and maybe Ninove. We can make a little money and see a bit of the world. It’s bound to be better than what you’re doing now, and you’ll earn honest pay.”

  Eamon’s eyes grew wide as Randall outlined his plan. “Really? You’d take me with you? To see elves? That’s amazing!”

  “Sure, why not?” Randall chuckled. “Berry and I could use the company. Which reminds me: Eamon, this is Berry,” Randall said as he nodded his head sideways toward the imp on his shoulder. “Berry is a friend.”

  “Uh...hi,” Eamon stammered, involuntarily shuffling back a half a step.

  Berry leaned forward on Randall’s shoulder, with the tip of his tongue poking out from between his lips, as if the donnan were tasting the air.

  “He connects,” Berry chittered, sitting back on Randall’s shoulder with a satisfied air. “It is well.”

  “He’s kind of cute, isn’t he?” Eamon asked, not realizing that anything out of the ordinary had happened at all.

  “Yeah, he is at that. He talks a lot, but I don’t understand him half the time,” Randall said with a grin, shaking his head.

  “You mean you can talk to him?” Eamon asked, incredulous.

  “Sure can, some of the time at least. But even when I think I know what he’s saying, I still don’t always get what he means. Luckily, he understands me a whole lot more than I do him,” Randall answered with another grin.

  “Show me!” Eamon ordered excitedly. “I wanna see him do something!”

  “Berry’s a friend, not a pet,” Randall chided. “He doesn’t do tricks. Now c’mon, let’s get this log off the road. We’ve got a long way to go before reaching Shaderest.”

  Chapter 2

  Eamon kept a respectful distance as they traveled toward Paranol. He had begun the journey with enthusiasm, but now that they were on the road, he hung back several paces, keeping his distance. Must be having second thoughts, Randall mused as he looked back over his shoulder to see the troubled and somewhat puzzled expression on the young man’s face. Well, whatever’s on his mind, he’ll spit it out sooner or later.

  Randall and Berry were content to travel in silence. At one time, Randall might have been excited to have someone on the road that he could talk with. He couldn’t really hold a conversation with Berry; he didn’t know nearly enough of the donnan’s language to keep up any kind of decent conversation. Not that the sprite seemed to be interes
ted in the same kinds of things that Randall wanted to talk about, anyway. But the years of living off the land had made their mark on Randall, and he had grown to love the peace and serenity that came from keeping one’s own counsel without feeling the need to fill the silence with needless chatter.

  After another hour’s travel, Eamon finally broke the silence. “Hey! Aren’t we going to take a break, or did you plan on trying to walk all the way to Shaderest forest in one day? My feet are killing me,” he wheezed, out of breath.

  Randall stopped, puzzled for a moment. His feet were fine. Eamon seemed fit enough, so why did he sound so exhausted? Then the realization hit him: Erliand’s healing talisman! He carried it constantly under his tunic, and had grown so used to its effects that he had completely forgotten that most people couldn’t travel from sun-up until sun-down, only taking short breaks for meals.

  “Sure,” Randall said as he moved off the road. “Now’s as good a time as any to break for dinner, I suppose.”

  “You’re not tired?” Eamon panted. There were patches of sweat soaking through the armpits of his tunic, and he sounded slightly out of breath.

  “Not really,” Randall replied. “I can pretty much walk all day. You’re going to have to speak up and tell me when you’re getting tired, because if you’re going to make this entire journey hanging back like some kind of scared puppy, I’m not going to notice when you’ve over-exerted yourself.”

  Eamon nodded and followed Randall off the path, sitting down heavily in the grass and lying back, his arms spread wide and his chest expanding as he took in deep lungs full of breath.

  “Berry, why don’t you find us something good to put in the stew while our friend here catches his breath,” Randall said.

  Berry chittered excitedly and scrambled down from his customary spot on Randall’s shoulder. Randall had grown to trust the imp’s judgment when it came to ingredients. He didn’t always know the different plants and tubers that the donnan brought back, but they almost always made a welcome addition to the stew pot. Well, almost always, anyway.

  “Hey, Berry,” he called out, causing the donnan to stop in his tracks and look over his shoulder. “No bugs this time.”

  Berry chittered and stuck out his tongue before scampering off to look for food. Randall busied himself with making camp and starting a fire as Eamon watched from his resting place. It seemed clear to Randall that the boy still had something on his mind, but hadn’t yet gotten up the courage to speak about it.

  After a few moments of watching in silence, Eamon cleared his throat and sat up. “I have a question.”

  Randall suppressed a grin—he knew Eamon would break eventually. He remembered his first trip from Geldorn, newly apprenticed to Erliand and buzzing with questions but too afraid to speak. Erliand had kept his peace, waiting until he could no longer take the silence. Forcing him to make the first move had helped Randall drop his guard and bridge the distance that was between them at the beginning.

  “So, ask, then,” Randall said.

  “Why didn’t you kill me back there when I threatened you with my crossbow?” Eamon asked, toying with the grass and not making eye contact.

  Randall sighed. “Because I didn’t think you’d really shoot me in the back. What would be the point of killing you? Have you ever killed anyone?” He waited for Eamon to shake his head negatively before continuing. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told you then. It’s easy to kill someone. What’s hard is living with it afterwards. I’ve had to kill, yes. Had to. And even though it was in self-defense, those men that I killed were still men. They had families. They were someone’s son, or brother, or husband, or father. I wished to hell I hadn’t had to do it. You think it’s fun? You think I enjoyed it?”

  Eamon looked up at the rising anger in Randall’s voice before looking away again. “I guess not,” he mumbled.

  “Well, I didn’t.” Randall spat.

  But it was a lie—some part of him did enjoy killing those men. That was what truly fueled his anger and guilt. Not that he had taken lives, but that part of him had reveled in the power over life and death that his magic had given him. And he hated himself for it.

  Randall brooded a few minutes longer in silence while he continued to make camp, annoyed with himself. He had probably just destroyed whatever rapport that he had hoped to build with Eamon. After a moment, he spoke up.

  “Look, Eamon, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I don’t know what kind of stories you’ve heard about me, or what you’ve heard about the fighting that went on in Ninove, but you have to understand that those are just stories. They probably aren’t even close to what really happened. I was just a kid when all that happened—I bet you’re older than I am.”

  “I really didn’t think about it like that,” Eamon said with a conciliatory tone in his voice. “I’m sorry. I guess with all the stories I heard, I expected something different.”

  “It’s not your fault. I guess I’m just a little touchy about it,” Randall conceded. “Look, Berry’s coming back. Let’s see what he’s brought for the stew.”

  Berry skipped up to Randall, burdened with an armload of leafy matter. Randall took the offerings, and examined it carefully. “What is this, Berry? Some kind of grass?”

  “I’m not eating grass,” Eamon declared from where he sat.

  While Berry’s mouth always seemed to be turned up in a perpetual grin, Randall was learning to read the subtle cues of expression in the rest of his facial features. He was sure that he saw annoyance in the glance Berry shot toward the newcomer before he began chittering excitedly, too fast for Randall to follow. He was able to make out the word “good” several times, though, and he held up his hand in surrender.

  “I get it, Berry. It’s good,” he laughed as he sniffed the grass tentatively. “Hm. It smells a little like lemon. Well, I suppose it won’t hurt to add it to the pot,” he decided before looking back over at Eamon. “And if you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it.”

  Randall tossed the grass along with some dried rabbit, turnips and wild carrots that he fished out of his travel sack. The meal would be a simple one, more soup than stew. With Eamon tagging along, they would need to hunt for fresh game more often in order to keep themselves well fed.

  For all the time Randall and Berry had spent together, the donnan had not learned patience at mealtime. As the stew began to cook and the camp filled with a savoy-sweet lemony odor, the little imp began pacing back and forth, chittering excitedly and occasionally shaking his tiny fist at the stew pot.

  Eamon watched Berry’s antics with growing fascination, a grin creeping onto his face. After observing for a few moments, he called over to Randall. “So, what exactly is he, anyway?”

  “Well, he’s some kind of fae, of course. I’m told he’s called a donnan,” Randall said with a shrug. “Don’t ask me what that means. I have no idea. All the Mages I’ve spoken to about it seem frightened of him.”

  “Doesn’t look that frightening to me,” Eamon snorted as he watched Berry scold the cook pot.

  “Me either. My momma said that he’s also called the Harbinger, on account of whenever a donnan shows up, bad things are supposed to happen.”

  Eamon took on a thoughtful look, before replying. “Well, I guess I can see her point. King Priess was killed after it showed up, and it threw the whole country into chaos.” Randall’s mother had made a similar argument when he had told her about the imp.

  “But that wasn’t Berry’s fault!” Randal protested. “It was…it was mine,” he concluded, his chest deflating. “I’m the one who convinced Mages to fight back against the king’s secret police. The Rooks were killing us—even children! They’d have killed me if I hadn’t run. Berry had nothing to do with it.”

  “Well, couldn’t you have just not practiced magic?” Eamon asked. “It seems to me that would have been much easier than starting a rebellion.”

  “Could you stop having brown hair?” Randall snapped back. “Being a Mage isn
’t something you do. It’s something you are. You’re born with the Talent; they would have eventually found me and killed me regardless. I’m just glad Master Erliand had been there to teach me how to defend myself first.”

  “Master Erliand? I haven’t heard of him. Who’s he?” Eamon asked, leaning back and propping himself up on one elbow.

  “He’s the Mage I was apprenticed to. The Rooks killed him. Let’s get dinner, and I’ll fill you in on all the details. It’s a long story.”

  Randall pulled the cook pot off the fire, and both he and Eamon shared a laugh at Berry as he unsuccessfully tried to have his portion before the pot had cooled. The donnan squatted down in the grass and stalked the cook pot, as if he thought that he could snatch a mouthful of soup before the heat drove him away, if only he were sneaky enough. After stalking the pot for a few moments, he would pounce onto the lip of the pot, only to leap off again with a chittering yelp, scolding the pot for thwarting him.

  “You think he’d have learned by now,” Randall chuckled. “He does that every time.”

  Once the soup had cooled, Randall dished out portions for everyone. He only had two bowls, so he and Barry ate out of the same dish. Eamon had to admit that the citrus-like grass was an interesting and tasty addition to the soup.

  Over the course of the meal, Randall outlined his entire adventure, from running into Master Erliand at the job fair to the fight with Aiden, the head of King Priess’ secret police. He left out the fact that he had completely burned out his magical ability in that final battle. Eamon looked up to him, due in large degree to his reputation as a Mage, and part of him felt ashamed at admitting that he no longer had the ability to draw power from Llandra.

  “So, you see, Berry really had nothing to do with what happened. I really didn’t have much to do with it either. We mostly just had the bad misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Randall concluded.

  “I guess so,” Eamon said, but he didn’t seem entirely convinced. “That’s not the way the stories tell it at all, though!”