Journeyman Warsmith

by Chris Hollaway

  To Kevon’s surprise, the food was exquisite quality renderings of simple tavern fare. No servants approached to serve them or pour wine. The Prince himself picked up a bowl heaped with large flaky biscuits, took two, and passed them on.

  “My advisor told me,” he began, “That she and her companions would appreciate something far more simple, personal, than I had planned.” He chuckled. “Many in the court are very displeased, but we are here to honor you, not them.”

  “Your Highness,” Carlo rumbled, a hint of gruffness in his voice. “We did only what we were able, as have so many before us.”

  Alacrit smiled, nodded, and ate in silence for a short time.

  “You four intrigue me,” he said at length. “Great deeds, greater humility. It seems the only proper reward for such loyalty and service… Is more difficult service.”

  Carlo grunted in amusement.

  “It won’t do to keep such talent and skill here, where the perils number fewest,” the monarch continued. “I would like to grant you, Commander, the title of Knight Protector, and send you to train my other officers in the arts of strategy and tactics, as well as the blade. You, sir Warsmith,” he said, eyes resting on Kevon, “Have a great talent with weaponry for one so young, I’m told.”

  “I’ve bested my betters, on occasion,” Kevon admitted. “I manage to find enough strength to win.”

  The Prince laughed. “That is exactly what people look for in their heroes. Do you realize the people have named you so already? ‘Heroes of the Western Vale’, they are saying. You four are exactly what the Realm has been needing.”

  Kevon stopped in mid bite, the gravy smothered morsel of bread suddenly losing its appeal. The last thing he needed was to lose the advantage of anonymity.

  “I would like to make you a Warsmith Comman…”

  “Begging your pardon,” Kevon interrupted, “If you intend to use me in the same capacity as Carlo, I think it would be best if I did not have a contingent to look after.”

  Prince Alacrit bit his lip, looking equal parts irritated and amused. “And you, Sir Bertus?”

  “I wouldn’t mind being a Knight,” Bertus admitted, “Though I don’t think I’ve earned it yet. Besides, someone needs to watch out for the ‘Warsmith Commander’.”

  “I suppose that settles it,” the Prince continued. “Carlo will begin selecting and training a special tactics unit within the week. He’ll leave for the Southern Frontier by the end of the Season. We have greatest need of military advantage there. Mirsa shall remain here, in the palace, as I have great need of experienced advisors, rather than those who have never left the city walls. And the two of you…”

  “I have business in Eastport, your Highness,” Kevon said, pushing his plate away and standing. “If it pleases you, I would like to begin my duties there.”

  “Nothing pleases me more than skill, coupled with loyalty. Please, each of you, see me before you depart.”

  The ruler of Kærtis stood and took his leave of the companions, guards that Kevon had not noticed during the meal rising to escort Alacrit out of the room.

  “Hadn’t seen them…” Kevon muttered under his breath.

  “Almost choked on my biscuit when I spotted them,” Carlo rumbled in agreement. “I may have to enlist one or two of them in my training squad.”

  Mirsa started to rise, and Bertus and Carlo swiftly stood. “I understand you have preparations to make,” she said, her voice slipping into an affected, haughty tone that was not too different than when Kevon had first met her. “But please, make time to see me before you leave, as well.” she finished in her normal voice. She turned to leave, and two of the ceremonial guard that had escorted the men in separated to follow her back into the residential quarters.

  “This should make things much easier,” Kevon growled. “Extra attention from nearly everyone. I’m going to the Guildhall. They should be least impressed with our new status.”

  Chapter 22

  Kevon found it hard to measure how less impressed his fellow Warriors were through the pounding headache he awoke to. He remembered that both he and Bertus had tested for advancement, and the beginning of the resulting celebration. He could only assume that the palace staff had brought him back safely; though the room did not look familiar, he could see his belongings from his barracks stacked neatly about.

  Poking his head out the door to try to get his bearings, he spotted a page stationed nearby.

  “Excuse me…” he called softly. “Do you know…”

  “I’ll alert Mirsa Magus,” the page said, bowing and disappearing into a hallway.

  The Warsmith sighed and closed the door. He finished making himself presentable, and waited the few minutes until he heard a knock on his door.

  “What does she want with…” Kevon stopped short as he opened the door and saw Mirsa standing there instead of one of the servants.

  “I suppose she wants a proper goodbye,” the Master Wizard said, pressing a palm to Kevon’s chest, pushing him back inside the room, steering the scabbarded sword on his left hip away from her. “She’s going to have to stay here, while the other ‘heroes’ are off adventuring.”

  “I was planning on seeing you before we left,” Kevon mumbled as Mirsa closed the door behind her. “There’s no way I would…”

  “I’m aware of the things that you would not do, sadly.” she whispered, putting a finger to his lips. “Let’s discuss what you are willing to do.”

  “Mirsa, I…” Kevon stammered. “You know what I’ve been through, I can’t….”

  The Wizard shrieked in frustration, storming across the room to flounce onto Kevon’s bed. “The scheming and intrigues here at court used to amuse me, before I knew the truths you’ve all shown me. Now I see they’ve always been petty, trivial plays at the shadow of power. There are forces far from here that care nothing for these silly games, but have plans of their own in motion that could destroy us all. I need to be out there fighting them.”

  Kevon pushed aside the urges that surfaced against his will. “I cannot go against Alacrit’s orders,” he said, sitting beside her. “I would like to have you with me.” Kevon sighed. “But maybe the Realm needs you here.”

  The Warsmith stood, kissed the Wizard atop her head, and strode quickly away, seeking an audience with the Prince.

  * * *

  Minutes later, Kevon knelt before the monarch of Kærtis.

  “Enough,” Alacrit chuckled, helping Kevon to his feet. “Heroes of the Realm are afforded the luxury of more casual courtesy.”

  “Thank you, my Prince,” Kevon responded, looking Alacrit in the eye.

  “Ready to depart so soon?” Prince Alacrit asked. “Is there anything I can provide that might help you on your way? A new suit of chain mail from the royal armory? A better sword?”

  “Thank you, no,” Kevon answered. “My weapons are more than suitable, and I wouldn’t know how to move in armor. My horses are healthy, and one of the best cooks in the Realm is accompanying me. There is little that could improve my situation.”

  “Are you certain you won’t take an attachment of Guardsmen?” Alacrit asked again. “It wouldn’t do to have anything befall a Hero of the Realm…”

  “The only companions I would accept without hesitation would be Carlo and Mirsa, Your Majesty.” Kevon replied. “But for a few fallen comrades, they alone have my complete trust.”

  Alacrit nodded. “I understand your loyalty, but you must understand my position. We must pray that no danger befalls us that is dire enough to require all of your services again. It is to that end that I send you to strengthen our weaknesses throughout the Realm. You are all, however, welcome to visit at any time.”

  Even though the Monarch was disbanding his group of friends, Kevon could not help but admire the conviction he heard in the young Prince’s voice, saw in his eyes. “Thank you, milord,” he mumbled, inclining his head slightly.

  “Since you want for nothing,” Alacrit chided, “Perhaps I can m
eet your needs, should they arise.” He drew forth from his tunic a thin scroll case, tastefully inlaid with semiprecious stones. “Should you require anything on your journey, use this to procure it, in my name.”

  Kevon thought back to the last time he’d been sent on a quest by someone he admired and respected. I’ll check the scroll later, he thought, accepting the ornate vessel with a smile.

  “I will take no more of your time,” Alacrit announced. “Depart at your leisure, with my blessing.”

  “Thank you.” Kevon bowed, and hastened from the audience chamber.

  * * *

  “Ready?” Bertus asked as Kevon passed by his open door.

  “I’ve already spoken with Prince Alacrit, if that’s what you mean,” Kevon answered, eyeing the young man’s dress uniform.

  “No, so have I,” Bertus retorted, pulling a scroll case partway out of his tunic. “Our last night in the only town they know us as heroes?”

  The Warsmith could feel his head pounding again, echoing the questionable choices of the night before. “I think I’ll finish getting things together and relax for the rest of the evening. I’d like to be able to ride in the morning.”

  “I see.” Bertus grinned, straightening his collar and moving toward the door. “Plenty of entertainment under this roof, as well. I’ll have your things from the Guild sent over.”

  “Thank you,” Kevon replied, turning to his own room.

  He had his belongings unpacked, sorted, and was beginning to repack them when the chest from the Guild arrived. The two palace guards bearing it waited outside for Kevon to unload it before carrying it away again. As he had grown accustomed, Kevon sorted his gear into Warrior and Mage piles, and packed them accordingly. Anyone discovering his magical equipment while he traveled as a Warrior would believe that it was all spoils of combat. Now that Bertus was a Guildsman, excess gear could be hauled on the packhorse and attributed to him, should Kevon need to appear as a Mage.

  With the magical implements tucked into his newest set of saddlebags, and the rest packed away in the two remaining sets, all hung over the bedpost, Kevon breathed a sigh of relief. A solid night’s rest, and they would be on their way to Eastport, and Justice.

  Chapter 23

  Kevon struggled within the dream, knowing the images that flashed before him were unreal, but unable to awaken. Shadowy figures chased him across a barren landscape, and he fled in terror. He knew that he should stand and fight, either steel or magic should be more than a match for the faceless enemies that pursued him. His dream-self would not listen, and gibbered hysterically as it ran. He crossed bridges over canals, and came to a closed gate. Pounding, screaming, his dream-self pleaded for entrance. The pursuing shadows drew closer, slowing to savor the fear.

  The gate creaked open, and Kevon threw himself into the enveloping darkness within. He pulled the gate closed behind, and helped drop the bar to secure it. Turning to thank his rescuer, he gasped at the cowled figure that reached out for him, a single emerald spark gleaming from beneath the hood. He felt a Fire rune form, and braced for the spell, flinging out his arm to shield his face.

  Dream gave way to reality, but the nightmare had merely changed forms. The Fire rune still burned brightly in Kevon’s mind, fueled by a figure standing silhouetted in the doorway to his room. Kevon’s shielding arm flared with pain, enveloped in a burst of flames. The magical fire reached the iron ring on his finger, and faltered.

  Kevon’s surprise and anger latched onto the already formed rune, and fed on the heat still in the air. A bolt of Fire lanced out and struck the surprised assailant before Kevon could restrain himself. Shifting focus, he formed a Movement rune, and shoved the screaming Mage from behind, into his waiting grasp. Ignoring the pain, he drew his sword from its resting place and pressed the tip to the Mage’s chest.

  ‘Blasphemer!” the hooded Mage screamed.

  Kevon pressed the sword more firmly, and the screaming stopped.

  “You!” the attacker hissed, as Kevon felt a twinge of recognition. The mage was one of Tarska Magus’s acolytes from the gathering at Gurlin’s tower. “No matter,” he laughed. “You’ll not survive the night.”

  Before Kevon could react, the Mage grasped the sword blade with both hands, his convulsion pulling the tip into his flesh to scrape against bone before he collapsed, dead.

  Shadows in the hallway stretched and danced. Kevon swore and pried his blade from the fallen Mage’s hands. Lights grew brighter, and Kevon rushed the door, sword at the ready.

  A black-robed figure whirled into the room, staff ablaze, followed by two guards. Glancing at the still form crumpled on the ground, she quelled the flaming staff. “With me!” Mirsa commanded. “There may be others!”

  The Warsmith followed the Master Mage, her reignited staff blazing ahead of them. He fought the urge to sheath his sword so that he could feel the magic that she was tracking.

  Mirsa led the brisk march through the residential quarters toward the Great Hall, pausing only briefly at intersections to concentrate. When they reached the Hall, Mirsa navigated around the overturned tables and chairs to the entrance of the south wing, where the Royals kept residence. “Be ready,” she cautioned, plunging ahead without pause.

  A few quick twists and turns, and Kevon burst out into a small meeting hall, sidling into place beside Mirsa.

  “No…” she whispered, audible only to Kevon above the fracas before them.

  Tarska Magus and two other hooded Magi had Prince Alacrit, two of his Court Wizards, and a single injured Royal Guard backed into a corner. “All your victories are hollow!” he shrieked, his aged voice quavering. “The Masters will not be hindered by your feeble attacks!”

  “Really?” Kevon asked, drawing his sword from the spasming acolyte he’d sheathed it in. “What would hinder them?”

  “Ahh, the ‘Hero’”, Tarska sneered, turning to face Kevon. “And the Heretic,” he added, glancing past the Warrior to Mirsa.

  “In my experience,” Kevon whipped his blade in a flourish, spattering Tarska with flecks of his student’s blood. “People who use that word often don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  The flicker of motion from the tip of the Wizard’s staff was all the warning Kevon had, but it was enough. He reversed the grip on his sword hilt, and swung it into a figure-eight that wrapped him an a blurring shield of steel.

  The first blast of flame seared Kevon’s hand before contacting the iron in the hilt. The Warrior grimaced, not expecting to escape unscathed, but still trying nevertheless. He shifted his pattern, lurching the center of the flashing barrier to and fro, trying to stay ahead of Tarska’s attacks.

  The Wizard changed tactics, weaving Wind and Fire in short bursts that terminated before they reached Kevon’s blade, but carried the scorching heat to their target regardless. Tarska Magus retreated as Kevon advanced, evenly, with measured steps, always two sword-lengths away.

  Kevon slowed for a moment to wipe the sweat from his eyes. The Wizard’s attacks had heated the medium sized room to nearly that of the frontier smithy that Kevon had abandoned almost a season ago. Uncomfortable, but not unbearable.

  That instant was enough for Tarska to land another searing blast to Kevon’s sword hand. Swearing, the Warsmith shifted hands, his left clumsier, and inherently more unpredictable than his right as he focused his entire being on maintaining the speed of the blade.

  “What?!” Tarska cried, stumbling into his remaining acolyte. The younger Mage was squaring off against Mirsa, who had edged around to get a clear view and prevent the Journeyman from flanking Kevon. “Fool!” the Master Mage shoved his remaining assistant forward toward the left edge of Kevon’s blade barrier, still between himself and Mirsa, but close enough to concern the Warrior.

  The reeling Mage managed to deflect a blast of Fire magic from Mirsa before an almost intentional slice from Kevon’s sword dropped him to the floor, convulsing.

  The shallow slice from the desperately whirling blade was
enough to kill the Mage, and wrest the weapon from the unpracticed grip of its wielder. The sword clattered off to the side toward Alacrit and his surviving retainers.

  “Now!” the Monarch commanded, and the guard stepped aside to allow the Court Wizards to work their Art. Alacrit’s Magi unleashed blasts of fire, no doubt drawing from the latent heat in the room.

  As Kevon expected, at the last moment, Tarska Magus deflected the magic toward him. Or rather where he had been. Kevon leapt and rolled, swatting at the oncoming flames with his burnt hand, and the ring upon it. The maneuver that squelched the flaming blast threw him off balance, and he knew he was going to end up short of his goal, the fallen blade. Drawing focus from the momentum he already had, Kevon pulsed the trickle of magic he’d wrenched from his surroundings into a Movement spell, speeding and extending his roll to his weapon.

  He leapt to his feet and whirled to face the Wizard, trying not to show his weakness, but slowed considerably by the pain. He held his sword at the ready, not close enough to his foe now for the tactics of a moment ago to make sense. Alacrit’s guards rushed forward, their blades and armor closing in front of him, providing a much needed pause in the frantic battle.

  The guard, learning from Kevon’s tactics, now advanced toward the lone Magi instead of letting himself be pushed into a corner. He leaned into the attacks against the oncoming spells, laughing now, protected by far more iron and steel than Kevon could bring to bear.

  “Stop!” the embattled Wizard cried, blasting a fiery bolt that landed at Mirsa’s feet, then spread to encircle her. “Or your Hero dies.”

  Kevon could not imagine Mirsa allowing herself to be threatened in such a manner, and readied himself for her response. The guard looked back to the Prince for direction, but Kevon drew his sword back, wide eyed, and crouched as though he was going to place the weapon on the ground.

  The temperature in the room dropped from the stifling haze it had been, to that of a crisp fall morning. The flames surrounding Mirsa dwindled to nothing as her hair shone like strands of glowing embers, and flames blossomed from her outstretched hands.