by Mike
Waiting, he watched as they crept closer and closer.
A soft violet glow emanated from his waist.
He looked down in surprise to see Wren sheathed there.
The wolves decided the glow meant they needed to act immediately and the one in front bolted for him. The other wolf, he could only assume, was moving in concert from behind. Its huge form entered the glow emanating from Wren. Fur, a mixture of brown and gray, bristled upon its skin. Red eyes intent on its prey glowed above the slavering jaws which dripped eagerly in hunger and the hunt. Quint had only seen these creatures stuffed and on display. As frightening an image as those had been, it paled in comparison to what was charging him at this moment.
Desperately, he drew Wren from its sheath and instinct or an urging from the blade had him dropping to his knees and spinning Wren in a broad arc behind him. As he spun, he saw the wolf behind was quite a bit closer than the one in front, and had launched itself at him — mouth agape, claws extended. If he had still been vertical, the wolf’s jaws would have clamped down upon the back of his neck, a natural attack most predators use to bring their prey down quick. Jaws snapping the prey’s neck, paralyzing them, and the pursuit was over.
Too bad for the wolf, those jaws met nothing but air. Wren on the other hand met the wolf’s abdomen and sliced through it as if it was paper. A yelp escaped into the silence of the night and Quint rolled out of the way of the falling wolf.
As quick as he could, he stood and tried to bring the sword around to protect himself, but the other wolf slammed into his body, knocking him to the ground. The wolf’s momentum forced him to land clear of Quint. The speed the wolf was on him again was staggering. Managing to get an arm up, he intercepted the wolf as it went for his throat. Teeth tore into the muscles and flesh of his left arm, as the wolf thrashed its head back and forth, shredding his arm to pieces. Pain unlike anything he had ever known flared like fire spreading from his forearm throughout his body.
Barely able to think, his other arm moved on its own as he brought Wren up to bash the wolf’s face with the hilt as hard as he could. The wolf howled, letting go long enough for Quint to scramble out of its reach and to his feet. Wren thrust out before him to ward the wolf off.
The wolf shook its head, clearing it from the blow it had received. Its red eyes watching him warily.
Blood poured in little rivers from his torn left arm. The pain made it difficult to focus on what was happening, but he knew, to lose focus now, would be his death.
Quint watched the wolf, and the wolf watched him. Quint wondered if the wolf was smart enough to know, if he waited, his prey would most likely pass out from the loss of blood, and then the wolf could eat him at its leisure.
“Allow me to fix that,” Wren’s voice intruded into Quint’s thoughts. He had forgotten the weapon was there instead of his old weapon.
Quint gasped as a warm sensation pulsed through his left arm. Magically, the wounds on his arm closed and the pain receded.
The wolf cocked his head as canines are known to do when they see something peculiar. Quint steadied himself and lifted Wren up straight towards the wolf in preparation for a new assault.
Lowering its head, the wolf slunk to its companion who lay unmoving on the forest floor where Quint had cut it. The creature stood between Quint and its companion. Quint understood what the wolf was saying... somehow. The wolf no longer felt he was worth trying to kill, but he would not let Quint do any more harm to his companion. He wasn’t sure there was anything more he needed to do. The other wolf was not moving as far as he could see, not breathing.
Accepting the wolf’s truce, he backed away deliberately. Continuing to back away until he could no longer see the wolf, he continued a little longer to make sure. By the light of Wren’s glow, Quint ran — a mad dash of ducking and jumping through the forest, narrowly missing roots and branches as they materialized out of the darkness. It was close to midnight with the moon near its zenith before Quint felt safe enough to find a place to camp.
Once again, he removed his travel sack and took off his sheath. Pulling Wren from its scabbard, he held the blade in front of him.
“Very well. It seems I am, indeed, stuck with you. This will take time for me to grow accustomed to, but I won’t try to get rid of you again.” He paused with a grimace. “It seems I can’t, even if I tried.”
“No, you can’t. Understand, I did not choose this aspect of my nature. It was forged into me.” Wren paused. “You are welcome, by the way.”
Quint stared down at the blade. The idea of telling a sword thank you almost made him laugh out loud, but he was afraid if he did start to laugh, he might not stop. He felt as if his sanity was leaving him. Being chased for a murder he did not commit, attacked by wolves and being chastised about his manners by a talking sword. The world was going insane… or he was.
“Thank you, Wren. Without you I would have surely died.” A question occurred to him. “What else can you do, Wren?”
“You mean besides heal? Strangely, I can’t remember. I had been abandoned and isolated for so long, I don’t remember what I can or can’t do.” The sword told him.
“How did you know how to heal me?”
“I didn’t. Not really. It felt like something I should be able to do when I became aware you were hurt. I don’t even know if I will be able to do it again, or when, or how much I can heal.” Wren went silent, and Quint got the image the blade was searching its thoughts for more answers. The moment passed.
“I guess it’s something we will have to discover on our own.”
“Well, that is something I would rather not have to learn about,” Quint said. “All I want to do is make it to Covenhome to speak to the Witch of Time, so she can help prove my innocence. I do not wish to ever run into anymore situations in which you will need to heal me.
“I know nothing of these names or places, but I will do my best to see you there. Staying out of those situations though, is for you to accomplish. All I can do is help you survive them.
“You are tired, Quint. Sleep. I will keep watch.”
“You can do that?”
“Let’s find out, shall we?”
“Wren…”
“I’m kidding Quint. Of course, I can. Sleep.”
Eying the sword skeptically, it made no further comment. He couldn’t really argue with the blade. Walking or running most of the day and most of the night, fighting two wolves and almost bleeding to death… he was exhausted. Laying down beneath an old Douglas fir he bunched up his travel sack to make a pillow and fell fast asleep the moment he closed his eyes.
*
Seven months had passed since that night and Wren had been his companion ever since. As infuriating as the sword could be, it had been his only companion as he fled from town to town. Always one step ahead of Johns, but only ever one step, it appeared. Sitting in the room of Selsen’s home, he hoped his ruse of fleeing the town would throw Johns off his pursuit.
By following Johns instead of the Captain chasing him, Quint hoped the man would deviate from this direction when he could no longer find any evidence of Quint traveling that way. He hoped the man would never figure out he led now, instead of pursued. It was a gamble, but he was tired of being chased all the time. This would give him some breathing room.
To ensure Johns had plenty of time to distance himself from here, he would leave in a few days, then continue to Covenhome to find answers and hopefully his freedom.
Chapter Three
Johns continued to stare at the Mage in disbelief. He had heard of magic weapons of the past, but never had he heard of intelligent swords. If this information had come from anyone else but this man before him, he would have discounted it as myth or make believe. But, if this man, this Blood Mage, was telling him — it must be true.
“You will continue to track Quint,” the Mage continued as if the matter of the sword’s believability was settled. Johns guessed it was. “At
some point in your pursuit, you will lose all trace of him. You will dismiss your party and send them back home. Tell them whatever you need to but send them away none the less.”
Johns meant to argue, but one glance of those blood red eyes, and he was silenced.
“From there you will travel to Stormland. Do not fear you will miss him, he will arrive after you get there. In eighteen days, Quint will come from the west on his way into the city of Stormland, where you will be waiting for him.” The Mage stared intently at Johns, disquieting him greatly. That, and the fact this man was telling him where he would be and where his prey would be as if he had already seen it play out.
“When you face him, you must take the blade from him. Do not wield the sword though, as it would put you at risk. Just disarm him. Then, you must break the sword,” the Mage paused to bring Johns full attention to what he would say next. “This is the important part. You must break the sword, and he must see you break the sword. You cannot kill him until he witnesses you breaking the sword. In this, you must not fail,” the Mage’s voice held a dangerous edge to it as he finished his instructions which left no doubt what would happen if he did not do as he was instructed to do.
Something struck Johns. “I thought this weapon was like all other magical swords and couldn’t be broken?”
The Mage smiled, a grimy, blood-caked smile, and reached to his side and grabbed one of the vials lying upon the floor and handed it to him.
“When you have the sword, pour this liquid on the blade. This will make part of the blade brittle. When that is done, the slightest hit upon the blade will break it.”
Taking the vial, Johns examined it. The vial was dirty, and the stopper was coated in dried blood. The liquid inside swirled of its own accord. Never stopping, always moving, a cloudy whirlpool, trapped, looking for release. He put the vial away and turned back to the Mage.
“And after he sees me break the blade, I can kill him?”
“Of course. The Minister’s daughter killer must be punished, correct?” The Mage’s tone left Johns with no doubt the man knew exactly what had happened to the Minister’s daughter.
He stood to leave. As Johns approached the door, a question occurred to him and he turned back slightly.
“Why are you helping me?”
The Mage turned from him and the knife was again in his hand as he sliced a small strip of flesh from the boy, who groaned quietly, and slipped it in his mouth. As he chewed it, he peered back at Johns.
“We all have a part to play, Captain,” he said between bites.
*
Johns had indeed lost him outside of Dorvin, as the Mage had said. The trail had mysteriously gone cold. They had traveled to the next town and did a thorough search of the town and an interrogation of its citizens, but in the end, they were forced to conclude, despite all evidence to the contrary of Quint coming this way, he hadn’t.
He dismissed his party with instructions to return home and inform the Minister he would continue the search on his own. That it was pointless to run around with a dozen or so men who could be made more useful in the capitol than this wild goose chase.
Reluctantly the men agreed and left at first light.
Shortly thereafter, Johns was on his way to Stormland at great haste. He had seven days to get there and prepare for Quint’s arrival.
*
Quint and Wren spent a few days in Dorvin, lying low. On the third day, they became aware of Johns’ search party returning to town. To their surprise, they left the next day, heading back west. Quint waited out one more day to make sure this wasn’t a ruse played by Johns, but when the men didn’t return, Quint felt it was time to move on. Maybe, just maybe they had finally eluded their pursuers once and for all.
Several hours before daybreak on the fifth day, he rode out of Dorvin.
“Do you believe we have lost them for good?”
“It would seem so,” replied Quint as his horse cantered along the West Traders Road.
“If you had checked like I told you to, we could be certain all of them returned and left. I do not believe Johns would give up this easily”
Quint groaned. Not wishing to argue this point again, he stayed silent. It had been too enormous of a risk to ask questions about the search party. If they had returned, they would have found out immediately he was still there, and the hunt would have been back on. Yes, there was a risk some of the party may lay ahead, but that had always been the risk of waiting in Dorvin till they had moved on. He would continue to be as inconspicuous as he always had been, he would take nothing for granted.
“You are probably right, Wren,” the sword continued, mimicking Quint’s voice. “I don’t know what I would do without your wise counsel.”
“Probably be dead several times over,” reverting to his own voice, Wren answered himself.
“Truly, Wren, I would be stupid to not listen to any advice you would offer,” Quint’s voice again.
“I would ask you to take your conversation elsewhere, Wren, but since you are stuck in my head that would be difficult,” he told his blade, “so instead, why don’t you shut up.”
Surprisingly, Wren stayed quiet for a while as they traveled the West Trading Road. As being one of the major east/west thoroughfares it was wide and well maintained. Easily four wagons could move down the road abreast and still there would be room for single riders to make their way between.
This early in the morning there was plenty of traffic. Wagons carrying crops were being brought in from the area farms for sale. Several caravans were making their way east towards Arghast, the next major town east of Dorvin. It would be a while before he would see any major transports coming this way from Arghast since it was more than a day’s travel east.
The plan was to move through Arghast as swiftly as possible. He had no intention of staying there. Traveling this day for as long as he could, it would put him only a few hours outside of Arghast. He would wake early and move as far east as he could the next day. If he did the same the next day, he could easily make it to the outskirts of Stormland the following day. If he held true to that pace, it would see him arrive at the city early, and he may be able to book passage over to the Isle of Sleet the same day.
Quint’s mind began to wander as they traveled the wide West Traders Road. His thoughts, inevitably, led him to Elutia, and the night he found her dead. They were supposed to have met for evening supper, but she never showed.
*
Sitting at their favorite table at The Leaning Duck, Quint had been waiting for over an hour before he truly began to worry. It wasn’t unusual for Elutia to be late. As the Minister’s daughter, and one of the Canton’s Senators, she was almost always busy.
It wasn’t even out of place for her to not arrive at all. What was out of place was for her to have let him wait without word. If she was going to have been a little late, she would have shown up with her usual beautiful smile and apologies, and the dinner would have begun. If she would be a lot late, but still be able to make it, she would have sent word by messenger for him to order and eat and she would be along shortly, knowing full well he would not order food until she arrived, regardless of how hungry he was. If she would not make it at all, she would have sent a messenger, along with a carriage to ferry him back to the Ministry. She had done none of these things.
Quickly, he had made his way back to the Ministry. Every step he took closer to it, the more dread crept up inside of him. It was a coldness covering his body, like being slowly dipped into the icy gGrey river during winter, stealing all warmth from his body, making him shiver despite the warm spring air.
As he entered the Ministry, he interrogated those he passed if they had seen Elutia. Each one admitted they had not seen the Senator for quite a while. The dread crept further.
Arriving at her rooms in the eastern wing, he paused before her door — afraid now of what he would find. Knocking lightly, he called out her name. There was no answ
er. His hand went to the handle and again he paused. It felt an eternity before he finally pushed open the door.
Her outer rooms were quiet and poorly lit. A writing desk sat near the middle of the far wall, a tall cushioned seat sat pushed under, indicating the desk had not been used recently, if at all today.
Several lamps lined the wall, but only two still held enough oil in them to give off illumination. A bad sign, since it meant Elutia had not bothered to either fill them herself or call anyone to do it for her. Two doors flanked the desk of this room. One he knew went to her sitting room, the other, the bedroom. The door to her sitting room was open, revealing darkness, the light from the lamps timidly permeating the doorway. The door to Elutia’s bedroom was closed, and it was this one he approached.
Something was wrong, he knew. Hesitation was no longer acceptable. What if she was hurt, and needed help and time was of the essence? Rushing to her room, he threw open the door.
The room was expansive as one might expect for the daughter of the Minister. A large square rug, made from the softest material, a gift from the Governor of Midhark, covered most of the floor. Elutia loved it, since it stole the deep chill which would creep up from the tiles on the floor of her room. Elutia’s bed rested against the east wall, four posted with sheer, pearly white drapes hanging from the frame. The far wall was entirely made of windows. A glass door allowed the occupant to step out onto the balcony which ran the length of her rooms and overlooked the gardens of the Ministry.
They had spent many an evening upon the balcony, talking late into the night, drinking wine and planning for the future. A future he feared now would never be, for he had noticed something near the far side of the bed. Elutia’s light brown hair lay splayed upon the floor.