Taragon Stein: The Search For The Soul Crystal

by Jason L Crocker

  Jaramel blinked twice as he looked quickly to Baram then back to me with the items in question.

  “It’s just that I’m sure you’ve noticed the attention your receiving of late, and I’d think it best if we kept a low profile of ourselves.” I looked to Baram for any support, he might want to give, but he just looked back with a blank, unreadable expression upon his face.

  “It’s just that these fair people are not used to having a wizard at their doors and, well, I’m concerned they might be afraid of what they don’t understand.”

  I looked for Baram’s support once more, but he was now staring directly at Jaramel.

  “What about a blindfold?” said Baram helpfully, “ we could say to people that he has been blinded?”

  Jaramels silence and unwavering stare revealed this not to be a valid option for the young mage.

  The apprentice seemed to think carefully on the matter before replying.

  “Unfortunately Mr Stein changing my appearance would be as easy for me to do, as it would for you.” I detected the icy voice of Luka’s somewhere in the response he gave.

  “You see, only the greatest of magic users can alter their appearance, or others if they so choose, and I’m afraid my level of study is far from reaching the magic’s necessary to do this thing you ask.” Jaramel again looked to each of us before returning back to his book.

  Magic users! I thought to myself, always doing wondrous things for themselves whenever they wanted, but as soon as you ask for one little thing and it’s always “It can’t be done.” Just like the time when I was drunk and asked one of them to turn sand into gold dust, I mean, how hard could it have been?

  “A pity,” I replied.

  I could feel Jaramel’s gaze upon me as I crossed the room to return to my bed.

  A little later and the emptiness in our stomachs told us it was time to eat. After Baram’s inspection of the lock had turned out to be satisfactory, we began removing our weapons to leave in the room. Generally, it was a rule whenever you stayed at an inn, or even a city for that matter, never to carry around a large arsenal of weapons. Daggers, small swords and bows were generally acceptable, but even these were being frowned upon now in some establishments. I think it had something to do with the amount of people being run through with eighteen inches of cold steel that had something to do with it. I was generally quite thankful for this as I had enough trouble staying alive whenever I was out in the wild, let alone worrying about my safety whenever I stayed in cities and towns as well! But I did keep with me Baram’s new gift of the crossbow, as it was small enough to be discreet, yet deadly enough to make a difference should anything arise.

  We headed downstairs and passed the bar into the tavern section of the inn.

  The alehouse was just beginning to fill with a variety of people as the coming of night signalled another day’s end. We headed for a table against the far wall passing a couple of scruffy looking guards in the process. They were laughing loudly at some jest or other and bore official looking insignias upon their clothing. Probably some kind of local law enforcers I thought. I also took note of the few unwelcoming looks directed towards our party as we had made our way to our table but chose to ignore them nevertheless.

  Once seated, we ordered our food from a pleasing serving girl who stirred thoughts of Tambia within my loins. Jaramel sat against the wall. I noticed that his hood was pulled up over his head more than usual as he tried to conceal himself from those around him. Baram seated himself next to him, while I sat opposite.

  “What’s next Taragon?” asked Baram.

  “Next? Next we eat, and have a couple of ales,” I replied.

  The serving girl returned shortly bringing with her meals of broth and bread and three mugs of ale. With the meals in front of us Baram and I reached for the ale, and Jaramel reached for his just to hold the tankard whilst looking suspiciously into the dark liquid brew.

  Baram quenched his thirst, then wiped the back of his free hand across his beard before looking to Jaramel.

  “Something wrong lad?” he asked. “You got a dirty cup?”

  Jaramel looked up from his ale.

  “No…. it’s just, I’ve never tasted ale before.”

  “What!” said Baram in stunned disbelief. “Never?” He asked astounded.

  Jaramel shook his head.

  “No never. Well, master Luka and I sometimes enjoy a glass of red wine together when the occasion permits. But master Luka has always said that ale dulls the mind and ruins the body.”

  “Bah! Nonsense and myth,” said Baram with frustration. “You only have to look at me to see such words as foolery. Well, I’ve been drinking ale since I could walk, and it’s never done me no wrong.”

  I decided to correct Baram at this point.

  “Well, there was that time in the fishing village of Lunt if you remember, when you fell into all those nets and hooks by the…”

  “Yes, yes,” interrupted Baram bitterly, “but that was only because some fool had left them lying about like that, and no fault of my own,” he Insisted.

  “Anyway as I was saying,” Baram first cast a wary eye in my direction before proceeding, “how do you know if you’re not going to like something if you’ve never going to try it?”

  Jaramel gazed at Baram for brief seconds from the confines of his hood. He then stared into the liquid of his brew as if a snake would suddenly appear from within its depths. Once satisfied that nothing untoward was going to happen, he raised the mug to his lips and drank deeply.

  Fits of coughing quickly followed... Jaramel slammed the ale mug back onto the table just as Baram slapped the young magic user on the back in a joyous gesture. The force of the blow must have done something to help the apprentice somewhat as he jerked forward and immediately stopped his coughing.

  “It’s …good,” replied Jaramel.

  “Told you so,” assured Baram.

  The food was hot, nourishing, and decent enough. It was accompanied by the musical melody of a singing bard who had started playing an instrument to the tune of his voice to the delight of the tavern’s patrons. As bards go, this one was really quite good, and for a time the atmosphere was relaxed and merry. So much so that I almost had to remind myself of what we were doing here, as thoughts of the Soul Crystal were far from my mind, leaving me free to enjoy the moment at hand.

  But like all joyous moments, they never seem to last long…

  “Taragon,” said Baram sharply, “trouble approaching to your left,” he whispered.

  Leaning back in my chair, I rested my back against the wall, and in one casual movement turned my body to better my view.

  Trouble was indeed approaching in the form of three large rough looking men who were currently pushing their way through the crowd of people purposefully towards us. I had not noticed them before now. The one in the centre appeared to be the leader and was larger than the others. In size, he was almost as big as Baram was! He was bald and tattooed with blue markings that covered most of his head. He wore brown leather trousers and a brown jacket that was undone about his chest to reveal the well-developed torso that lay underneath. In his hands, he carried a crude looking club, and his face was full of intent. The man to his left was smaller in stature, but only just. He had a wild, unkempt look about him and looked as if he had not seen a bath for many a month! Dressed in ragged black clothing, with wild long black hair, he looked like someone who would rob you just for the joy of it. The third of the three was also the smallest of the three and looked relatively normal, that was if it was not for the insane grin upon his face and the small hand axe he carried with purpose. I silently damned myself for leaving my sword in the room.

  “Get ready,” I whispered.

  Ignoring the men’s approach, I casually picked up my ale mug which was now empty and pretended to drink its contents. As I did this my other hand beneath the table, which was unseen from view, sought out the holding straps to my crossbow in slow and precise movements.


  The three reached the table and stood at its end. Baram had followed my lead and was slowly drinking his ale as if nothing was amiss. I saw his eyes quickly dart to the men and back again.

  “So what do you think to the music Baram?” I asked casually.

  Baram raised his eyebrows and looked slightly surprised.

  “Oh yes. Not bad really, but he could do with being a bit louder, though.”

  I sensed a move from the men. The patterned bald one who I had taken for the leader slammed his club onto the table with some force.

  It was then when I pretended to notice them for the first time as I turned to look. The man was even more ominous looking from this distance and bore a large scar that ran down his tattooed face.

  “I don’t like the way your friend looks,” said the man in a slow menacing tone whilst pointing his club threateningly towards Jaramel.

  I turned to Jaramel. In his relaxed state, he had let his hood slip slightly from his face to reveal more of his features. Strands of wispy brown hair were now clearly visible overhanging his forehead, his pale looking face only made his red eyes more noticeable as they glared brightly in the men’s direction.

  I turned back to the scarred thug.

  “Oh him? I wouldn’t let that bother you, my friend, he was born like that, a strange occurrence to be sure, but you get used to it after a SPELL.” I put more emphasis on the word as I spoke it, in the hope that Jaramel would understand my intentions.

  The bald man shook his head and banged his club upon the table once again. His companions looked eager and were ready to make a move, as I hoped mine would be.

  “It does bother me,” grated the man, “he’s putting me off my ale, and I get very upset when I don’t get my ale!” He sneered as he lifted the club from the table.

  I noticed that the bard had stopped playing and the attention of the tavern had turned towards us.

  “Well, let me buy you another then friend, and we shall call it a day?” I had now bought myself enough time to position my crossbow under the table and aim it hopefully somewhere in the region of the bald man’s groin.

  “I don’t want an ale friend. I want his head!” With that, the bald man let out a cry and raise his club high above his head. This time I did not think that it was intended for the table. I fired my crossbow from its hidden position, not seeing where the bolt struck but hearing the desired effect, the bald warrior yelled in pain and staggered backwards. Several things then happened at once. The stricken man’s companions made their moves. The scruffy man in black had drawn a vicious looking dagger from behind his back, and the man with the axe had been in the process of an overhead swing, that was before he had the full force of the table at which we had dined was rammed in his face from the courtesy of Baram. The huge weaponsmith then effectively kept the axe man at bay by proceeding to charge forwards with the table like some giant shield-wielding maniac! As the tavern’s patrons dived for cover from Baram’s charge I stood and turned to face the black clothed ruffian. The man had effectively dodged Baram’s stampede with a side step and now came at me with his dagger held level to my heart. With no time to aim and fire another volley from my crossbow, I concentrated all my efforts on avoiding his blade. He thrust it forwards hoping for a lucky strike, I sprang backwards in what little room I had and nearly stumbled upon an unseen chair in the process. But my quick move had made the man underestimate his attack by about a foot’s length; the blade now ended up directly in front of me. It was time to counter-attack. With the purpose of keeping his knife at bay and almost without thinking, my left arm thrust itself forwards as fast as it could and grabbed hold of the man’s wrist. The man cursed and brought his free hand up to strike my face. Still keeping my vice-like grip upon the hand that held the blade, I rolled my head backwards and just caught the end of his blow as it glanced painfully off my chin. Suddenly remembering the crossbow I still held, I brought the weapon up to bear with my right. The man saw me do this and countered with the same manoeuvre I had made, he quickly grabbed the arm that held my crossbow with his free hand. We now stood locked in our deadly embrace, struggling with all our strength to the cheers and shouts of the people about us as we fought. It was then that I suddenly remembered Jaramel, and wondered why this assailant had not had a lightening bolt through the chest by now, or something just as spectacular?

  The troublemaker tried to force his weight to my left in an effort to make me unbalanced. But I held my ground and pushed him back with the intent of ramming his head onto the nearest object. The knife-wielding ruffian was unprepared for this and fell backwards pulling me to the ground along with him. We both landed with a thud. I fell on top of him and winded him in the process, he groaned under my weight, but still he held firm my arm, as I held his. I had a slight advantage now of being on top of him, and I willed myself to bring my crossbow level to his chest. The man was smaller than I but slightly broader, and his strength held. I had to try something fast as I could feel my own wavering. The longhaired rogue must have sensed it too, because as his knife inched its way nearer my throat and a vicious grin spread across his face. With a focused effort of strength, I pushed his arms down aided by my weight and brought my head down to bear as hard as I could aiming for his vulnerable nose. Blood exploded over his face as my forehead hit home with a sickening thud. In the very next instant, I felt the hand that held my crossbow go limp probably from the pain he now felt upon his face. I think it was done more out of reaction than anything, but it would be the last thing he would ever do, with my crossbow pointed at his chest I released the bolt.

  The man collapsed as the eight-inch piece of steel pierced his heart, and with a last violent shudder, he was dead. The entire fight was over in a matter of minutes. Grabbing the dead man’s blade, I rose quickly to my feet and turned for fear of further unseen attacks. What I then saw surprised me greatly.

  Jaramel was standing with his back against the wall with one hand extended outwards towards the large tattooed warrior who stood before him. My instant reaction was to go to his aid, but for some reason, I did not. Then I realised that the scar-faced warrior was not moving! He was standing just a couple of paces from Jaramel with his club raised high above his head ready for a downwards strike but remained as still as stone. I saw my crossbow bolt protruding from his upper left thigh and the blood that still trickled from the wound. It was then I realised Jaramel was holding the man at bay by force of his will, but for how long could he do this? I was about to go to his aid when Jaramel raised his other hand level with his first; he then lowered both his palms to a flat position. The bald man instantly burst into an eruption of flames. A gasp went up from the watching crowd; some people ran, while others yelled and screamed, and there were even those that cheered as the bald man burned! Even I took an involuntary step backwards as I watched in horror at the burning warrior with daunting realisation that he could feel all the flames licking about him, yet was unable to break free from the unseen restraints. Stunned by the magic and power that I was witnessing and the dreadfulness of its effect, I felt compelled go and slit the throat of this unfortunate soul, but Jaramel suddenly fell to his knees. With his invisible grip released the burning man regained control. A piercing scream sounded in the tavern the likes of which I have not heard nor wish to hear again. With a sudden realisation of movement, the man cast me a look of sheer horror before running through the crowd whilst wearing a cloak of flame. How he made it out the door alive, I will never know.

  I moved to Jaramel’s side. The young mage was on his hands and knees and visibly shaking. I did not know if it was from the exertion of the spells, or of the experience of the situation he had just been in.

  I offered him my hand which he took and used it to pull himself up on shaking legs. He looked me in the eyes, and I saw the tears that were formed in the fires of his own.

  “I…did not mean to...” he stammered, “I didn’t know what to do…He was upon me in seconds…I…I saw him and…”Jaramel looked a
t his hands as if they were covered with blood, his head hung low as he looked to the ground.

  “You did what you had to Jaramel.” I offered in support.

  I placed my hand upon the young magic user's shoulder.

  “You haven’t hurt anyone like that before have you?”

  The mage shook his head.

  Even though it had sickened me to witness such a sight myself, I still felt a little responsible somehow and offered what words I could in condolence.

  “Do not let it worry you so. It was either him or you. You did what needed to be done and have no shame to feel for that.” Jaramel lowered his head.

  “I use my blade and bolts, Baram his battleaxe, and you your magic. We need not say any more on this matter.” A slow nod from Jaramel showed his agreement.

  I shook his shoulder gently once more in comfort and turned to look for Baram.

  He stood only a few paces away and had been listening to my every word. He then gave a nod of acknowledgement, or was it respect as I greeted him?

  “He put up quite a fight that one,” said Baram motioning back across the tavern with his thumb.

  “Dead?” I asked.

  Baram nodded. “Broken neck,” he replied.

  I nodded a response.

  The crowd had now recovered from their initial shock as angry mutterings could now be heard circulating around the room. Baram backed away to my side as some of the men began to rise from their seats. One even unsheathed a sword, and we both moved to stand in front of Jaramel, this was not looking favourable!

  I took a couple of steps forward.

  “So this is how Galma has changed,” I addressed the crowd in a loud voice.

  “I am Taragon Stein, and I was raised not more than five miles from here in the village of Fretham. In my youth, I have always remembered Galma to be a peaceful town full of generous, helpful people. Indeed I have always spoken highly of Galma to any of those on the road that I may meet and have always kept a warm place in my heart for its remembrance.”

  I turned to study their faces, and it appeared that they were actually listening to my words. Well, at least they were not advancing anymore.