by J. K. Barber
He woke the next day to sore muscles that screamed in protest, as he roused himself to begin running the trail again. Working the stiffness out of his aching legs as he ran, the woodsman eventually regained his normal speed which, unfortunately, paled in comparison to his rate of travel the previous day. Luckily, Binford’s Bluff had only been half a day off when he finally had succumbed to his body’s need for sleep.
When Jared stumbled into the sheriff’s office in the Bluff, the lawman acted with some concern, thinking him perhaps wounded somehow. Waiving him off and quickly explaining his need to examine the Scholar’s home once again, Jared was relieved to hear that the house had been undisturbed. The old man had no known kin, and so no one had stepped forward to lay claim to the man’s belongings. Securing the constable’s promise that one of his deputies would guard the house, Jared limped his way to the inn and purchased a room for the night and a hot bath to be drawn immediately.
The young housekeeper, who Jared suspected was one of the daughters of the portly innkeeper, dipped a wooden bucket into the steaming cauldron of water that hung in the fireplace and poured the contents into the large metal tub, brought to Jared’s room. Jared ushered the girl out quickly, but gently, placing a silver royal in her hand. After bolting the door, the woodsman pulled a small packet of herbs from his discarded belt pouches, where they lay on the bed, and emptied the contents into the water. Jared stripped and slowly lowered his aching body into the hot, but soothing water. He rested his head back against the raised edge of the tub and let his arms slip down into the water, luxuriating as the steaming water and herbs went to work on the soreness of his muscles.
Now that his body had been tended to, Jared let his mind relax and go over again, for what seemed the one hundredth time in the past week, all the details that he recalled of the murders. Jared’s brows drew together as he tried to puzzle out what it all meant, but try as he might, no matter from which angle he examined the facts and conjectures, he could make no sense of it. Finally, his mental state mirrored his exhausted physical state. Jared rose from the cooling water and quickly toweled himself off before slipping into bed. It was still light outside, but Jared’s need for rest could not be ignored. Smiling pleasantly in response to the feel of a soft bed and softer pillow, Jared drifted off to sleep. He rested in a deep slumber, an occasional scowl that appeared on his face and a random twitching of his feet the only movements in the still room.
Wiping a tear away in annoyance, Sasha continued up the long spiral stair around the great crystal of the Sorcerer School. Ever since the night before, she had felt ill like her strength had been stolen from her along with her sister. Other than her tired reflection passing on its smooth surface, she could see the stairwell on the other side of the clear, perfectly symmetrical crystal. She swore it had eyes that watched her every movement. Sasha’s stomach cramped uneasily. The young warrior nervously clenched Katya’s staff that she held tightly in her left hand.
She was on the way to meet with the Administrator of the Sorcerer School, a man to be feared and greatly respected. Very few people in Snowhaven had actually met the man; even Katya, a prized student, had never seen his face. Branden and Sasha followed Master Pieter up the winding stairs for what seemed like hours, passing dozens of doors. The two Ironwrights were careful not to step on the Master Sorcerer’s blue velvet robe, as it trailed a few steps behind him. Sasha became bored and took to staring at the intricate, gold-embroidered runes that trimmed Pieter’s mantle, wondering what they meant.
Finally, they reached the top chamber of the tower, where the Administrator resided and conducted business. Master Pieter knocked on the great wooden door three times. The wrought-iron gargoyle handle turned, its open mouth seeming to laugh silently as it rotated upside down, and a young boy of about eleven winters in dark purple, velvet robes answered the door. His corresponding mantle was embroidered in a heavier gold than Pieter’s.
Master Pieter bowed respectfully. Sasha was instantly confused.
“Administrator Tomas, I present to you Sasha, student of the Fighter School and twin to Katya. This is her father Branden, a brave warrior and our local smith in town.”
Administrator Tomas shook Sasha’s hand, his grip strong as steel. Sasha stared into blue-purple eyes that were like the night sky. His gaze was intoxicating, his innocent eyes touching upon her mind and soul like a whisper echoing up through a mountain pass. She shivered. His eyes narrowed a bit and sudden confusion passed briefly across his face.
“Sasha!” Mistress Mala’s voice broke Sasha’s trance. “Are you going to stare at the Administrator all day or come over here and give me a hug?” The Administrator released her hand with a welcoming smile, any trace of confusion gone. Sasha moved across the room to the great fireplace, where Mistress Mala stood warming herself. The women hugged, while the Administrator quickly shook Branden’s hand and waved the two men into the room after the young warrior.
After embracing the older woman, Sasha looked awkwardly around the room; she felt silly for barging into the room and didn’t know if she should sit or stand. An intricately carved desk faced the fireplace and the four chairs in front of it. Jasmine incense burned in a brass censer hung from a roof beam in one of the corners on a long brass chain. The firelight and soft candlelight from the candelabra on the desk illuminated shelves that lined the walls and were filled with hundreds of multi-colored books and scrolls. Everything was neat and in its place. Master Pieter closed the door behind them and followed the other two to where the ladies stood by the fire. The Administrator motioned for his guests to sit.
“I am not one to dwell too long on pleasantries, my friends,” Administrator Tomas spoke in a child’s voice, as he paced in front of the fire. “Our town repelled the northern attack, but we suffered heavy casualties. Thirty-four of my students are now dead and one, whom you all know well, has been kidnapped. The enemy force was well equipped and led with precision. Who could possibly get ice orcs and men to fight side by side?” Administrator Tomas shook his blond locks, his face a mask of bewilderment. “How many were lost, Mistress Mala, from the Fighter School?”
“Fifty-one, Administrator,” Mistress Mala’s said, her eyes saddened. “That is over half our students. Such a waste of talent... of life...,” her voice was suddenly husky and choked up. Sasha placed a hand over Mistress Mala’s in comfort, lending strength. Tomas nodded glumly.
“I will send a messenger to the King and Queen asking for aid. In all my years here, I have never had to send for help, but we don’t have the manpower to survive another attack like that.” Tomas’ thoughts turned inward for a moment, and he stroked his bare chin. “What perplexes me is why Katya was kidnapped and not killed. Tell me quickly, Sasha, what transpired last night with your sister.” The Administrator sat on a small plush ottoman of black velvet next to the young swordswoman, his back straight as he folded his robes neatly about him with small pale hands.
Sasha cleared her voice, hoping to hold back her tears and stick to the facts. She laid Katya’s staff before the Administrator’s feet. Then turning to stare into the fire, she began her tale.
“Master Pieter had just repelled an ice orc from the northeast tower balcony, where Mistress Mala, Master Pieter, Katya, and I had been stationed for the battle. After the orc fell backwards over the rail, I turned to see if my sister was safe. The orc never got close to her, Sir, but as I have been trained in my battle pair, I keep an eye on my sorcerer.”
The Administrator nodded, and Sasha continued her story.
“Well, when I turned around, I first saw Katya’s staff on the ground. As I raised my gaze, I saw a man in loose fitting black clothing holding a dagger to her throat and pulling her backwards into the stairwell. He was not a large man, quite thin actually. I dared not approach fearing that he would spill her blood. The dagger was made of dark metal with a skull on the pommel and had a straight blade. The man’s face was pale and extremely emaciated, his bones jutting out under sallow skin.
He looked my way and then they both just disappeared into the darkness of the stairwell. I ran into the shadows but nothing was there. I stood there on the stair for a few moments in my confusion. Suddenly, I felt my sister grasping for me. I could not see her or touch her, but I somehow knew I could reach out and clasp her hand in mine. I reached out and grasped air, but I knew she was there.” Sasha’s voice faltered. “We were… connected. I don’t know how else to explain it.” Tomas motioned for her to continue. “I held her for a few moments. She was afraid and her hand was ice cold. After a short time she was simply gone, like she had been plucked away by an unseen force.” Sasha bowed her head in shame. “Then, Mistress Mala called me back to the fight.”
Mistress Mala put a firm hand on Sasha’s shoulder. Mala had always been like a second mother to Sasha, and the gesture was welcomed. Her touch had always warm even in the coldest of days.
“You did what you could, Sasha. No other warrior from the fighter school could have reached out like that to another,” said Mala.
Administrator Tomas nodded in agreement and turned his attention to Mistress Mala. “Aye, what Sasha did in an attempt to save her sister is some magic beyond my knowledge.” Mistress Mala and Master Pieter stared shocked by this admission.
For the first time Branden spoke, “Aren’t the warrior and sorcerer bound together in a magical way?”
Master Pieter was the one to answer, “No, it is not a magical bond but more an emotional one. When a bound sorcerer and warrior fight together, it is a kind of attunement. After fighting alongside someone long enough, you begin to anticipate her every move. That is why the pairs are so effective in addition to the warriors just protecting the sorcerers while we are vulnerable in mid-spell.”
They all sat in quiet reflection for a time staring into the fire.
“Administrator, another odd thing is that I think Katya is to the south,” Sasha said in almost a whisper.
The young man looked up at Sasha, that same confusion from before now plain upon his face.
“What makes you think that? If you know something that we do not...” Tomas started.
“No, no,” she interjected, “I told you all I know, but I feel my gut telling me to go south. I am sure she is there somehow, and alive.”
The Administrator got up and began silently pacing again. It was not long before he fixed Sasha with those unsettling bluish-purple eyes.
“Then you must go to her.” Branden visibly bristled but did not question The Administrator’s directive. “Take this with you,” the young boy said, lifting Katya’s staff and handing it to Sasha, “She will need it. Perhaps the two of you will bring some reason to this odd turn of events.” The Administrator dismissed Sasha to pack. She stood, bowed respectfully, and as she closed the door behind her she heard the oddly young Master say, “Now we must prepare for another attack. Mala you will position your remaining students and teachers...”
Chapter 7
Jared stood in the doorway of the murdered scholar’s home and let the scene sink in. The house was tiny with one small common area where the old man had taken all his meals and pursued whatever obscure bits of knowledge that he had gathered. There was a small bedroom with barely enough room for a weathered cot, and a kitchen with a basin full of dirty wooden plates and mugs. The entire house looked as though it had not been cleaned once in the five years that the scholar, an eccentric grey bearded hermit by the name of Gregor, had lived there.
Not much had been known about Gregor. He had kept almost entirely to himself, visiting the merchants in town only once a month to pick up needed supplies. The rare visitor to his door was turned away, pleasantly but firmly, by the excuse that he “had work to take care of.” What this work was, no one knew, and unless Jared could puzzle together what had happened, no one would.
The hunting dog that had been lent to the woodsman, a good natured mastiff by the name of Jugger, nudged Jared’s hip. Jared unconsciously put his hand on the dog’s large head and scratched behind his ear. He could tell that the animal was used to hunting around for his quarry’s scent and then chasing it down. This waiting was not sitting well with the hunting dog. The big canine began to whimper, having already sat patiently at Jared’s side for almost a quarter of an hour now.
“I know boy,” Jared said, his own voice touched with a sliver of impatience, as he patted the dog on its shoulder. “But you’re just going to have to bear with me here for a couple more minutes until I give this place a good looking over.” Jugger’s tail thumped the wooden floor a few times, as he wagged it in response to the woodsman’s words. Then, he lied down, resting his massive head on his large front paws.
Jared knew how the mastiff felt. He knew there was something here he was missing. He had a scent, but it didn’t lead anywhere. There was some connection between what was here in this place and what had happened in Mica, but he didn’t know what it was. He paced the room again, inhaling deeply through his nose, letting the scents of the room wash over his enhanced sense of smell. Jugger also raised his head sniffing the air, trying to puzzle out what it was that Jared was searching for, but lowered his snout again to his outstretched paws. There was nothing about the room that smelt out of place, so Jared let his connection to the mastiff fade and the odors of the room returned to their normal intensity, at least to the bounty hunter’s nose.
Jared thought back to the scholar’s book, filled with its indecipherable script. The old man had thought enough of what he was writing to encode it in his own almost illegible shorthand. But why? What was it about the dead man’s subject of study that made it important enough to be hidden behind a wall of his own personal cipher? Jared wandered to the large oak desk in the room and sat down, placing his hands on the polished surface. He pushed back some of the books and parchments that covered the desktop and lowered his head, placing his forehead directly onto the desk. The desk slid slightly forward in response to the pressure. He let out a large sigh of frustration staring blankly at the wooden floor beneath.
Jared stood, his eyes widening. He picked up the comfortable but worn chair from its place on the rug and set it aside. He pushed the desk further, revealing a long scratch mark on the wooden floor that trailed the desk’s right leg, a scratch mark that was not made by Jared’s moving of the desk. This desk had been moved before, many times before, causing small but noticeable grooves in the planks beneath. Jared then pushed the desk even further, completely relocating it against the worn sofa that sat near the small fireplace. As he did, Jared noticed two things. First, the front legs of the desk did not scrape the floor, nor did the left leg closest to him. Jared saw that bits of cloth had been pasted to the bottoms of the desk legs allowing them to slide over the floor, leaving it unscathed. However, there was no cloth on the back right leg, it having apparently come off at some time, and the scholar had either been too busy or too lazy to fix it. Looking around the old man’s cluttered house Jared guessed it was probably the latter.
Jared pulled the dagger from his boot and began tapping the pommel gently against the floor boards, watching the edges of the planks of wood as he hit each one. Jugger rose from his place by the door and began sniffing around the desk, watching Jared as the woodsman laid flat on his stomach on the rug, where the chair had, until recently, sat. Eventually, he came to a floor board that moved when struck. Jared reversed his dagger and pried up the loose plank, revealing a small slender wooden box in the space beneath. Jared removed it from its hiding place and set it atop the relocated desk. Finding the box locked, Jared slid his dagger beneath the lid and levered it open, ruining the ornate lock with the faint sound of tearing wood and bending metal.
Jared stared at the object inside for several moments before closing the lid again. He took a piece of leather cording from one of the scrolls on the desk and tied it around the box and broken lock, fastening it closed again. He patted the mastiff on the side of its massive chest, and the dog looked up at the hunter. “Looks like we found something boy. I’m no
t sure exactly what it means, but it’s definitely the connection I was looking for.” Jugger just wagged his tail happily, catching Jared’s rise in spirits, and let his long tongue loll out the side of his mouth. Jared closed up the scholar’s house and headed back to the inn.
The common room of the Dancing Griffon was crowded, more crowded than Jared had seen it in the two days he had spent in the Bluff. It looked like the first caravans of the Trades Guild had begun to filter out of the northern mountains, laden with furs and skins from the foothills of the World’s Edge Mountains. Jared winced at the thought of all the animals that had died to provide the wagons with their wares, but he also knew the hunters of the area. Nothing of the animals who had died had gone to waste. These were not nobleman hunters who killed animals for sport, nor were they trappers who used cruel metal devices that tortured the animals before they died. They were hunters in the true sense of the word. They ate what they killed and gave thanks to the animals’ spirits and to the Great Mother afterwards. These furs were only the excess of what they needed and traded to the merchants of the Trades Guild for items the northerners were unable to obtain on their own.
Jared rubbed Jugger’s head as the animal began to growl, catching the woodsman’s unease. Jared called out to the portly man behind the counter as he walked in. The innkeeper, a personable fellow by the name of Carl, looked up from his conversation with one of the wagon drivers, raising a meaty hand indicating he would be with Jared in a moment. Unable to find a seat by the fire, Jared was forced to choose one of the tables near the back wall, the mastiff following him loyally the whole way. Jared sat down, pulled the dog’s head into his lap and began scratching the canine under his chin. Of everyone he had met here in Binford’s Bluff, Jared would miss Jugger the most. Since he had borrowed the dog from the Sheriff’s other deputy, a thickly built young man barely out of his teens by the name of Bill, who was back from planting on his family’s farm, the mastiff had been almost inseparable from Jared’s side. The dog even slept by the door to Jared’s room at night.