Journeyman Warsmith

by Chris Hollaway

  “You’re stalling…” Carlo mused, “And I won’t have it. Choose your conditions; first blood, or forfeit?”

  Kevon glanced at Waine for a moment before turning back to face Carlo. “I doubt anyone here could make you forfeit.”

  “First blood it is.” The Blademaster gestured to the sand-filled arena pit. “After you.”

  “Who’ll lay odds on the Seeker?” Waine asked cheerfully in the hush following the combatants’ exchange.

  The tense silence that had gripped the room dissolved as the common area quickly began to sound like a market square on a busy day. Waine pulled out his coin pouch and began betting with anyone that gave halfway decent odds. Several minutes later small piles of coin lay on most of the tables, and Waine tipped his empty pouch over and shook it.

  The Seeker shot Waine a concerned look, but the Adept just smiled and raised his mug. “Please win?” he pleaded loudly, getting several laughs.

  Kevon strolled over to the sword rack and picked up a wooden blade, swinging it experimentally. He exchanged it for another that had a slightly longer handle. He tried a two-handed grip, took a few swings, and then switched back to using one hand. Satisfied, he kicked off his boots, stripped off socks and tunic, and hopped lightly down into the recessed sand pit.

  He smiled and tromped around the arena, shuffling to knock off the skin of sand that had adhered to his sweaty feet. He turned to face the center of the square, and raised his sword in a salute to Carlo.

  “Are you sure you don’t need to use the privy?” the Blademaster asked condescendingly. “Another mug of ale, perhaps?”

  “We’ll have time for that after,” Kevon replied, readying the runes in his mind. “One way or another, this will be over quickly.”

  Carlo smiled and raised his own sword. The Blademaster stepped forward into position and began advancing on Kevon. The older man seemed to be turned further left than Kevon remembered from previous sparring bouts, and when Kevon caught a glimpse of Carlo’s healed arm, the fist was still clenching and unclenching.

  Feeling no need to press an advantage that was almost certainly a trick, Kevon ignored the ruse, and stood his ground, prepared as well as he knew how. He stepped out and crouched into a fairly straightforward two-handed stance that was far too open for a normal fight. He hoped it would encourage Carlo to take an easy shot that could be used to unbalance the Blademaster and allow Kevon to secure a quick win.

  Kevon blocked the older man’s first two strikes without the use of his magic. Even though he was prepared to deal with them, Kevon was still surprised by the two lightning-fast follow-up strikes that were something he’d never seen Carlo do before. He pulsed magic into the formed runes, and focused on his motion, the Movement spell sped his practice sword beyond what he could manage with even his forge-tempered muscles.

  Carlo danced nimbly back, nodded, and pressed the attack again. Kevon’s swordplay mentor leaned hard into his next series of attacks, trying to knock his opponent’s sword away, or just wide enough to open an easy follow-up that would end the match.

  The Mage could have parried the strikes one-handed with the same amount of effort and resistance, but it looked better with two hands against a visibly superior combatant. He stepped over the low sweeping kick that Carlo used to try and unbalance him, and while the Blademaster was extended awkwardly from the attack, Kevon shoved hard on his opponent’s sword where it was locked with his own.

  The Blademaster planted his left foot at an odd angle, almost backwards from the spin the extra shove had given his already rotating body. He swiftly twisted his right foot and slid it out to stabilize his stance.

  The shuffling footwork almost distracted Kevon from the sword that had used the momentum from the shove to spin around the Blademaster and redirect unerringly toward Kevon’s head.

  With a pulse of magic, Kevon brought his blade up and Carlo’s sword deflected high. Kevon still had to lean back to prevent the tip of Carlo’s weapon from smacking into him, and that was when the older man acted.

  The fist that Carlo had been clenching lashed out faster than Kevon thought possible, the older Warrior lunging in and extending into the punch to reach his leaning target.

  Kevon dropped backwards to the sandy floor, arching his back to roll and absorb some of the impact, but thrust his foot upward to catch Carlo in the gut. Pulsing more energy into the runes, he gently ‘helped’ the Blademaster’s forward motion by lifting him, and amplifying his unchecked momentum. A quick upward shove of the foot, and Carlo went flying over Kevon to land on his back at the far end of the arena, almost ten feet away.

  He rolled back up to his feet, and turned to see Carlo recovering his. The Seeker moved slowly toward the Blademaster, who had taken a more defensive posture, and stood unusually still.

  He must be hurting if he’s not moving, not wanting to give away any specific weakness, Kevon thought to himself. I just want this to be over with.

  Focusing more on his sword than he had been doing the last few weeks, Kevon closed to within striking distance and fed a stream of magic into the runes. He began with a downward chop, and halfway through the motion, shifted left to slam his sword directly into Carlo’s, with more than enough force to knock the Blademaster’s sword and the arm grasping it a full ninety degrees.

  The Blademaster launched another lightning-fast left-handed punch, but Kevon had already stepped left and reversed his wooden sword to graze Carlo’s forward-thrust shoulder just below the collarbone, thwacking into the extended left arm of his opponent mostly on accident.

  The Seeker’s meager magical resources gave out and the runes sputtered to darkness in his mind.

  Carlo roared, whipping his sword up, turning with force borrowed from the attack Kevon had just landed. Without his magic supporting his movements, Kevon could not respond quickly enough against Carlo’s superior reflexes and years of training. The Blademaster’s wooden sword moved faster than thought, colliding with the side of Kevon’s face, causing his head to whip to the side violently.

  The exhausted Mage stumbled and fell awkwardly onto splayed knees, dropping his weapon to catch himself before he pitched forward. He was unsure if the crowd had stopped yelling, or if they had merely been drowned out by the ringing and pounding in his ears. He closed his eyes tightly as the salty blood-taste registered, and his tongue touched the split at the left corner of his mouth. He spat, opened his eyes, and shakily clambered to his feet without picking up the sword.

  As he looked up, the first thing Kevon noticed was Carlo’s weapon lying in the sand, not far from his own. The Blademaster stood facing the crowd, which had indeed fallen silent. Kevon gasped as Carlo turned to face him. He winced at the pain the movement and sharp intake of air caused, and tried not to wobble as Carlo nodded to him and gestured to the stripe of abraded skin on his right collarbone. Kevon put his hand to his bleeding lip and showed it to the Blademaster and the crowd. “Tie?” he asked timidly.

  The Commander grinned and clasped Kevon’s extended arm to a mixture of cheers and relieved laughter. “We’ll discuss this plan of yours later,” the Blademaster said, releasing Kevon’s arm and clapping him on the shoulder. “It may not take much more convincing.”

  Novices scrambled to put swords away and hand the combatants their footgear and other garments. Kevon sat in a chair to pull his boots on, and spotted Waine glaring in his direction as the Adept recovered his own coins to refill his money pouch.

  “At least you didn’t lose,” Kevon offered as he returned to his seat by Waine. “I’d say that’s something.”

  “It certainly is something,” Carlo agreed, standing nearby, straightening his uniform. “But how about something else? Come see me tomorrow morning. I have some things to take care of in the office before lunch, things that may interest you. Bring the boy if you can.”

  Kevon and Waine each shook Carlo’s hand before the Blademaster stood completely straight and cleared his throat. The half-dozen men who’d accompanied Ca
rlo into the Guild scrambled to flank the hallway as their commander strode briskly away.

  The Adept sighed loudly. “Not bad for our first day back, I guess…” he began. “You almost win a fight, I almost win a fortune, and we’re signed up for the patrol that will take us back to the tower.”

  “Hey, you,” an older Adept called from a table over. “Waine!”

  “You already got your money back,” Waine answered, not bothering to look at the speaker. “What more do you…”

  The man and the rest of the Warriors sitting at his table all stood at once, and moved to surround Waine. “You need to come with us,” the man growled, “And you,” the man jabbed a calloused finger in Kevon’s direction. “You need to stay right where you are, if you know what’s good for your friend.”

  Runes danced in Kevon’s head, ready for use at a moment’s notice. Kevon struggled to remain calm; if he used magic here visibly, they were both as good as dead.

  Waine stood slowly and allowed himself to be herded across the room and out the front of the building, no one present said a single word.

  As Kevon started to stand, a soft touch at his neck gently pressed him back into his seat.

  “They’re not going to hurt him,” a barmaid said, moving to where Kevon could see her. “I heard them talking. Before you offered the tie, they had lost. They agreed Waine deserved something.”

  “Any idea what?”

  She shook her head and smiled. “Is there anything I can get you?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll wait for Waine for a while, but I need to go see a friend later. Something to eat in about an hour or so?”

  The serving maid nodded and disappeared into the kitchen, grabbing empty plates and mugs as she wove through the crowded room. The glance she shot him over her shoulder before he lost sight of her only made him think about Marelle.

  The low conversation resumed around Kevon, and individual Warriors came over to introduce themselves and offer their congratulations. When asked if he would like to test for Adept, Kevon politely refused, commenting that he needed to be prepared for the coming mission, not nursing wounds caused by pride.

  The hour passed swiftly. Kevon ate the meal the serving maid brought, and waited a little longer. Waine still had not returned. Kevon said his goodbyes and made his way out into the early evening crowds, and headed for Bertus’ inn.

  The Seeker’s young friend was just finishing up his own supper in the inn’s common room. Bertus motioned to Kevon as soon as he spotted the Warrior at the entrance to the room, and Kevon walked over to sit down and join him.

  He noticed immediately that the young man would not look him in the eye. “Bertus, what’s wrong?” he asked, concern lining his voice.

  “I’m sorry, Anton,” Bertus said, voice cracking as he turned tear-filled eyes to look at Kevon.

  The Journeyman Smith leaned forward to grasp Bertus’ shoulder. “What’s happened?” he whispered, trying not to upset the boy further.

  “Do you remember Liah?” Bertus asked, sniffing, pointing to a familiar-looking serving girl.

  “I…” Kevon began, trying to remember where he’d seen her.

  “She worked with me at the Maiden.”

  “Yes, of course,” Kevon answered quickly, remembering the morning that Bertus had bought her freedom from the indentured servitude Kevon had unwittingly freed him from. He peered closely at Liah, then turned back to his friend. “She seems fine…”

  “She is…” Bertus nodded slowly. “She’s been here for three seasons, and is doing well. It’s the news from Eastport that…” Bertus choked on the words and wiped his runny nose on his sleeve.

  “News from Eastport?” Kevon sat back, scratching his head. “What could… What news?”

  “Before Liah left,” Bertus began, “She heard that Rhulcan and Marelle…”

  Kevon’s heart leapt at the mention of her name, but the sight of tears flowing freely down Bertus’ face clenched a knot in the pit of his stomach. “What about them?” Kevon asked, his voice wavering.

  “Liah heard they were killed… by bandits… just days after she was freed. Days after we left.”

  Kevon twisted at his armbands shakily. He was glad he wore them, the Fire symbol in his mind pulsed hungrily, but the red hue that permeated the symbol spiked and ebbed with the pounding of his heart and the blurring of his vision.

  “That’s all she knows,” Bertus continued, “After Carlo and I returned to Eastport, those who were able fled westward, some to Kron, others turning south for the Inner Cities.”

  Conflicting thoughts and emotions cascaded over Kevon. The joy and wonder of knowing Marelle for even so short a time was immeasurable. Alternative scenarios crowded his mind, vying for attention. If I’d never left Laston… he thought grimly, She’d have finished her planned route with Carlo, and would still be alive. Kevon clenched his teeth and shut his eyes hard against the tears that fought to the surface. If I had convinced her… even asked her… to go away with me…

  He opened his eyes, sniffed once, and refocused his anger. Holten is the reason I left the North Valley, the reason I went to Eastport. The traitorous scum is the reason I wouldn’t consider staying with Marelle, not until he was dead. He’ll pay for her life with his own.

  Not only had his former Master sent him to be killed, he’d done something awful to a Myrnar princess, and was now partly responsible for the death of the only woman Kevon had ever loved.

  Holten was not the only one responsible. Kevon stood and walked over to where Liah was cleaning a nearby table. He spoke quietly to her for a minute, and passed some coins into her hand. Liah nodded, removed her apron, and hurried out of the inn.

  The Seeker returned to the table and sat down across from a puzzled-looking Bertus. “She’s going back to Eastport, finding out who killed Rhulcan and Marelle. She’ll leave word about how to reach her at the Maiden.”

  The boy frowned, but Kevon spoke again quickly.

  “The orcs have been dealt with in the east. She’ll be safer there than here, with the darkness spreading to the west.”

  “You’re sure?” Bertus asked, still not convinced.

  “If the greater danger lay east, would Carlo be here, heading west?” Kevon asked, and saw the boy’s eyes light up. Pushing aside his own grief and rage, Kevon answered Bertus’ questions about Carlo and told him briefly of the fight.

  “Well, sure,” Bertus scoffed, “Because you cheated.”

  The Seeker glared at the young man for an instant before glancing around the room to make sure no one had heard. “I did what I had to,” he said quietly.

  Bertus rolled his eyes.

  “Regardless,” Kevon continued, “Be up and ready early in the morning. We have to meet Carlo at the palace.”

  Chapter 4

  Kevon strode purposefully down the nearly empty morning streets alongside Waine, grinning. He jostled his companion in the ribs with his elbow, and whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Waine, have I mentioned…”

  “Yes, how nice my new tunic is,” Waine growled back, throwing an elbow in response. “About a dozen times.”

  “And how,” Kevon continued, “it…”

  “The mushroom.” Waine interrupted. “Half a dozen, at least.”

  The Seeker chuckled to himself as the two Warriors turned in to the front of the inn where Bertus was staying. They found their young friend finishing up breakfast in the common room.

  “I’m almost ready,” Bertus told them as they entered the room to stand by his table. “The cook promised me a bowl of Bloodhead soup, though.”

  Kevon stifled a laugh, and Waine crossed his arms, further enhancing the similarity of his appearance to the mushroom that was considered a frontier delicacy. He knew that the Adept’s tunic was two shades darker than the fungus they were comparing it to, and by no means did it have the waxy sheen the mushrooms were famous for. Nevertheless, the combination of the red top and brown trousers was too striking
to ignore.

  The youth wolfed down the last few bites of his morning meal, sprinkled a few coppers on the table, and stood to leave.

  Halfway to the palace, Waine lengthened his stride and pulled a few steps ahead of his companions. “Mirsa!” he called cheerfully, stopping to draw her attention.

  Using the cover his friend had provided, Kevon averted his face, and jabbed Bertus in the side with his elbow. Half a step later, Kevon was in full Novice Warrior swagger, his younger friend scrambling to keep up.

  A hundred yards or so later, Kevon slowed, and Bertus caught up, winded.

  “Friend of yours?” he asked Kevon, wheezing.

  “Hardly,” Kevon answered tersely. “She was from the tower.”

  “Oh…” Bertus’ soft response melted into the early morning street murmurs.

  The two continued slowly on until Waine rejoined them just short of the palace gates.

  “We may have a problem,” the Adept said calmly as he stepped in alongside his friends.

  The Seeker turned to stare blankly at Waine.

  “All right, all right.” Waine conceded. “We have a very serious problem. With great dimples?” he offered.

  The hair on the back of Kevon’s neck stood on end, and he stopped, then shuffled over to the side of the street, out of the flow of the increasing foot traffic. “How bad is it?”

  The three huddled together for a few minutes while Waine told the others what he’d learned. Mirsa was now an advisor to the royal family, and had been assigned to this next military patrol to gain a magical perspective on this threat that loomed to the west.

  “That’s about like having an orc for a nursemaid,” Bertus spat, and his companions smiled despite the gravity of the situation.

  “There’s a good chance she already knows what the problem is,” Kevon sighed. “There’s an even greater chance she’ll recognize me from the tower, and that cannot happen.”