Thomas
By
Michael G. Manning
Cover by Amalia Chitulescu
Editing by Grace Bryan Butler
© 2017 by Michael G. Manning
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-943481-07-1
For more information about the Mageborn series check out the author’s Facebook page:
https://www.facebook.com/MagebornAuthor
or visit the website:
http://www.magebornbooks.com/
Chapter 1
Sarah
Shrouded in the mists of his childhood, Thomas' earliest memories were of the cold. The cold, and a near endless hunger; the sort that made him feel as though his innards were devouring him from within. He could hardly remember being warm, much less full. He was alone, a street waif, without parent or guardian, and no recollection of ever having been anything but...
The day he came across a kitten, wet and mewing in an alley, was different. It would be the first day he remembered well, for it was the first day that anything important happened to him. Lost and hungry, the kitten seemed much like himself, and despite the fact that he had nothing to offer, he felt drawn to it. Moving quietly toward the small cat, he made soft reassuring noises, until at last he was able to pick it up.
The poor thing was shivering, much as he was, so he held it close against him, to share what little warmth his thin cold frame had to offer. Consequently, he didn’t notice the figure approaching him. Another person having seen him there, a small boy clutching a wet kitten, would have been moved by the tragedy of it. The person who did find him however, was not prone to such frail emotions.
The young man watching him approached slowly, to avoid alerting his target. His name was Flin, and he was a bully of the worst sort; older, stronger; the son of a merchant, and one look revealed that he hadn't missed any meals. Yet for some reason he was filled with anger, and his free time was generally occupied with finding ways to torment street urchins, or anyone weaker and less fortunate. Maybe he did it from boredom, though not even he knew what drove him to his actions.
Thomas had avoided him many times in the past, nimbly escaping him whenever he came around, but those were better days, when he wasn't so cold, so hungry, and burdened with a kitten. A short run was all he managed before Flin got a solid grip on his arm and spun him about. The kitten went tumbling away, dropping from Thomas’ numbed hands. “Wait Flin, don't hurt it!” he cried without thinking.
“You worried about this bit of rags? I figured you'd be more worried about what I'm gonna do to you,” said his tormentor. A wicked grin lit the youth’s face, showing a cracked tooth. “That's ok; I'll put him out of his misery for ya.” Raising his booted foot, he made ready to crush the small animal.
“No!” without thinking Thomas dove down, and shoved the kitten aside. Flin's boot came down hard upon his arm instead, and having trapped it there, Flin began to slowly bear down. “Stop, wait...,” Thomas' words faltered. Pain shot up his arm, with a pop and a sickening grinding sensation, he felt the bones in his wrist snap, almost causing him to lose consciousness. A moment later, vision blurred by tears, he saw Flin kneeling, leaning in toward him. A flash caught his attention, the glint from a knife. Returning to his senses, he realized Flin was cutting off his shirt and coat.
“I thought about beating the crap out of a little piss pants like you, but then I figured it would just get my clothes dirty, so maybe I'll just get rid of this shirt for you and see how long it takes you to freeze to death out here...” He stopped talking for a moment, staring at the odd design on Thomas' chest. “What the hell? I knew you was a dirty little bastard, but looks like you're deformed as well as smelly. What is that, a curse mark?” Flin paused for a moment, obviously deep in thought. “Yep it would definitely be a public service to go ahead and put an end to a malformed little shit like you.”
The look in his eye as he brought the knife up again left no doubt in Thomas' mind, this was it, the end. It all seemed so useless, but for a moment his first thought was that at least he wouldn't be hungry anymore. Time slowed down a bit, and a small movement caught his eye, the kitten scurrying off. At least the cat got away, he thought to himself, and then he heard her voice.
“It’s not a birthmark.” Her voice was smooth, without a quaver or any sign of fear. She was obviously young, dressed in rags; she looked just a few years older than Thomas. Her face was smooth, but smudged with dirt, not that anyone would notice after seeing her hair, shining red gold, it wreathed her face, spilling out recklessly in all directions. It was everywhere, sticking up from her head, out to the sides, and falling well past her shoulders.
Flin became still for a moment, and then he straightened up and turned to the girl, unsure of himself for some reason.
“It’s not a birthmark,” she repeated clearly, “but a burn, and not just on his body, but upon his very soul. A curse? Perhaps—but rather a curse of destiny, marking him for my service. Count yourself lucky you were not chosen, although I would not take one as weak of mind and body as you.” There was a glint of what might be pure madness in her eyes, which now that he noticed them, were the clearest blue Thomas had ever seen.
“You know what? I don't have time for this.” Flin stood up and began to walk carefully away. “Little piss pants, I'm gonna leave you to this crazy bitch.” Spitting on the ground, he took his eyes away from her and walked briskly away, something akin to fear showing in the set of his shoulders. Thomas couldn't imagine what would make him act that way, although the newcomer was certainly bold.
Thomas looked back at the girl, wondering for a moment how her hair managed to be so many places at once; then he tried to get up. Forgetting his arm, he tried to lift himself with it, and the pain, forgotten for a moment, came howling back at him, ushering him into cold darkness as he passed out.
When he awoke later, after what seemed days, he found himself in a strange place. Lying on a pile of cotton rags and old burlap sacks, he was warm. Looking over, Thomas realized there was a small fire, illuminating what appeared to be an odd collection of old wooden fruit crates. Sitting up, he felt much better than he had in days, warm at least; that was when his stomach began to loudly remind him he hadn't eaten for some time.
“I figured you'd be hungry, here.” There she was, sitting close by, holding a loaf of fresh bread. Without thinking Thomas took it and began to devour it. His stomach hurt at the first bite, having been empty for so long, but he couldn't stop, at least not until he had eaten three quarters of the loaf. Finally, he got control of himself, remembering his beggarly manners.
“Thank you, I'm sorry I ate more than my share. Here, you take the rest.” Shy for a reason he couldn't name, he looked at the older girl from under his matted hair, offering her the remainder of the loaf.
Her laughter came to his ears like small silver bells, tinkling without cause or care. She laughed unabashedly at him, but then her face became serious. “I'm not hungry, that was all for you, but I won't dishonor your gift.” Taking the loaf from him, she took one small bite. He saw a pearly flash of teeth as she nipped the loaf delicately, then she handed it back, “There, you eat the rest. You need it.”
Further encouragement was unnecessary, he quickly ate the remainder; staring at her from the corner of his eye, wondering at her generosity. It was about this time that he realized he was resting his weight on his broken arm, and indeed, had been using it since he awoke. “My wrist! What?”
“Oh, it was fine. I looked you over after you passed out, didn't seem to be more than a mild bruise,” she answered in a matter-of-fact manner.
“But it was broken! How? How long have I been asleep? Did you do something to my arm?” his confusion spilled out, but her look stilled his questions.
&n
bsp; “No, it’s fine, but if you like we can break it now. Would that be better?” her face was lit with a mischievous smile. He would learn with time that she had a rather odd sense of humor, for that was the beginning of the best year of his life. Her name was Sarah, and she lived in a back alley between the docks and the trade district.
Her collection of fruit crates came to seem like a castle to him, a place of security. She wouldn't let him live there, valuing her own privacy, but whenever it was too cold, or he was in need, she would let him stay for a day or two here and there. The rest of the time he was allowed to visit, often for hours at a stretch, although the price seemed to be participation in her odd games, or listening to her fanciful stories. Not that he minded, for the first time in his short life, he got to be a child, rather than just a street orphan.
Thomas was about ten years of age at this time, but she appeared a bit older, probably around thirteen, not that she ever told him. The games she liked seemed more suited to children younger than both of them, but he played them gladly anyway.
“Are you ready Thomas?” she said loudly one day, using her high court voice, an essential part of their latest game.
“Yes, milady,” he replied, trying his best to imitate a nobleman's cultured tones.
“No, no, no, it’s not 'milady' until after you've sworn the oath!”
“Oh, right. Yes, Your Majesty!”
“Your Grace will do, I am not a queen after all,” her act was marred by a slight smirk as she said this.
“Yes, Your Grace,” he answered soberly.
“Do you swear to serve me all your life, with all your strength, all your mind, body and soul? To protect the...”
“I swear on my life,” he interrupted, having thought she was done.
“Let me finish!” Sighing, she continued, “To protect the weak, show mercy to the helpless, giving aid to the downtrodden, and undertaking any task I might give to you.”
“I so swear.”
“On your soul,” she corrected.
“Why on my soul? I said on my life earlier, what's the difference?” Sometimes her games had odd rules.
“Because I am taking your service, not just in this life, but in the life hereafter, and any to come from thence forward,” she answered imperiously.
“That doesn't make much sense; I mean I don't even know what's going to happen when I die and nobody really...”
“Are you going to swear or not?” for a moment her eyes blazed and Thomas felt unsure, an unusual thing, since normally he never felt more at ease than when he was playing with Sarah.
That's right, this is Sarah. The thought came to him with a sudden realization, even if it weren't a game, he had never cared about anyone more. A resolve built within him, and he answered her in his normal voice, without a hint of mockery. “I swear, all the above, on my soul, for this life and the next, and any to come after that, I will never forsake you, nor forget my duty.” Looking up into her eyes, the sun flared behind her, illuminating her hair like a fiery wreath. He saw a triumphant look on her face as she gazed down upon him. She may not be a queen, but she certainly looks like one to me.
“It is right that those who offer to us unbroken fidelity should be protected by our aid. And since you, a faithful one of ours, have seen fit to swear trust and fidelity to us in our hand, therefore we decree and command that you shall ever be sheltered by us and given succor in time of need.”
“Where did you learn that?” Thomas questioned.
“Wot? Did ya think I din't know me letters?” she answered in a playful accent.
“You're impossible!” he blustered, turning red as the moment passed.
“Just remember, Tommy, you're still just a small boy, therefore I only expect you to care for kittens and small animals at this point. But I will expect much more of you in the future!” she told him, her tone serious once more.
He could never really tell when she was serious or when she was joking around, but he figured he could manage kittens.
Chapter 2
Whitmire
A year passed, as the happy days of youth often do, so quickly that Thomas hardly noticed it. This was the first good year Thomas could remember, so it caught him quite by surprise when winter began nearing again. The day was cold, as winter was returning with a vengeance. As so often happened, Thomas sought Sarah in what he thought of as her castle. Her haven among the fruit crates.
As usual, she had managed to find plenty of food. It was fresh fruit today. He often wondered how she got so much, but she never revealed her secrets. Looking at her now, he studied her smudged face. There was something almost ethereal about Sarah, her face was vaguely dirty but her skin always had a glow about it. Her hair, wild and unkempt, still managed to shine brilliantly, even though he couldn't imagine how she would have managed to wash it. For that matter, she always smelled good too.
Today she looked sad.
“I figured you'd show up today,” she said, “but you can't stay.”
“That's ok, but it is really cold out.” Thomas was rather disappointed, for a moment caught up wondering where he’d find a warm enough spot for the night. It wasn’t the first time she had turned him away, but never when the weather was cruel as it was now. Secretly he had always suspected she turned him away merely to keep him self-reliant.
“I have to go Thomas.” The words brought him back to the present and something in her tone worried him.
“Where are you going?”
“I can't stay a girl forever. I have things I have to do.”
“Well of course we're growing up, but you don't have to act so serious about it,” even as he said it, Thomas knew he was misunderstanding her. “If you just tell me what's going on, maybe I can help.”
Sarah smiled, “You'll help more than you realize, but that's for another day.”
“But...”
“Don't worry; I've planned ahead for you.” Sometimes she seemed to really believe she was some sort of feudal liege. It was endearing and yet still made him wonder if she was a few cards shy of a full deck. But he put his doubts aside, since he could tell she was serious, and for some reason it sparked an angry feeling within him.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I have a friend. A man named Whitmire. He'll be at the Crown Tavern tonight. He'll give you a place to stay,” her voice had a sadness to it.
“Is that where you've been getting your food!?” Thomas was angry, but uncertain. He'd often wondered how she found food so often, now her statements made him rethink everything.
“Of course not! Now shut up and listen to me. This is important, Thomas. You need to remember what I tell you. Remember it well,” her voice had taken on that tone she used when they were playing their high court games. Yet something about it made him stop.
“Go in, you'll find him at the bar. Tell him that you're a friend of mine. He may not believe you at first, but if you show him your birthmark, he will know what to do.”
“You expect me to go into a bar, and tell a complete stranger that a crazy girl named Sarah sent me, and then pull off my shirt and show him my birthmark? And then he's gonna suddenly decide to take me in? Have you gone crazy?” Thomas couldn't hide his derision now, but behind it was a deeper desperation. He could tell he was losing the only person who had ever cared about him.
“Yes, tell him that you know me. Show him your mark, and he'll understand. And one other thing...” she added.
“Yes, milady?” His voice was wooden, and he used a formal tone normally reserved for their games, but in this case, he knew she would feel his anger and pain. This was no game.
“Tell him that even if he has forgotten me, I have not forgotten him.”
“What the hell does that mean?” He was near shouting now. Standing up, he could feel his face turning red. But then she was there—wrapping her arms around him. The smell of cedar and sandalwood enveloped him, carried by her wild hair. He could feel her tears on his shoulder. For a moment,
he forgot everything until her voice continued.
“Don't forget, Thomas. Remember this year.”
She wouldn't listen after that, wouldn't argue, wouldn't discuss. She calmly sent him on his way. Her attitude was firm and before he knew it, Thomas was walking down the cold alleyway, hardly daring to look back.
He would always remember that day sadly, for it was the last time he saw her. In the days and months that followed, he would return on occasion, looking for her, but her castle was gone. In its place, he found only a moldering rubbish pile. No sign of her remained, and no one recalled the wild strawberry blonde who held court in alleyways and sent her servant on errands to rescue birds and kittens.
***
That night he found his way to the Crown Tavern. The cold was biting, so he didn’t pause long before entering, despite the fact that he’d never entered a tavern before. Inside a roaring blaze kept the patrons warm, and the air held a collection of smells, from spilt beer to old straw, to the smell of people themselves. It felt good to him, yet he knew from past experiences in shops, once the adults noticed him, he’d be back out on the street in short order. No one wanted a ratty vagrant child around.
He’d already made a plan to find Whitmire, one that would hopefully get him to Whitmire quickly and avoid the problem of being tossed out before he could find him. Taking a deep breath, he strode up to the bar, “Excuse me sir.” He addressed the bartender. “I’ve been sent with a message for a Mister Whitmire, is he here tonight?”
The barkeep’s eyes swept him from head to toe, his visage displaying clearly what he thought of beggars in his establishment. He stared for a moment, his hesitation making Thomas wonder if his idea was as clever as he had at first thought. “Father Whitmire is over there in the corner, but he’s nigh well pickled this evening, so I doubt he’ll hear you. Mind you though, if I catch you rifling pockets in here, I’ll have your ears off!” He pointed to the far corner, where a man slumped in a wooden chair.
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