The Journeyman for Zdrell

by David K Bennett

  The Journeyman For Zdrell

  By

  David K. Bennett

  Copyright © 2019 by David K. Bennett

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Published by Ergoface Imprints

  Simi Valley, CA 93063

  www.zdrell.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and inci-dents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Journeyman For Zdrell, The / David K. Bennett – 1st ed.

  ISBN: 978-1-949704-04-4, 978-1-949704-03-7

  Higher detail maps can be found at

  http://www.zdrell.com/maps.html

  Dedication

  For my wife and children, the source of all true magic in my life.

  Prologue

  Grimor, Castle of the Grand Ruler

  Jelnick, the ruler of the continent of Grimor, and soon to be ruler of the world, needed a new charzen.

  He spoke to the middle-aged man standing before him. “You do realize the gravity of your decision?” he asked. “Once you agree, there is no going back. There is also a small, but not insignificant, chance you may not survive the transformation.”

  “Your various ministers have made this very clear, Grand Ruler. I understand the risks, and the pain of transformation, but I am ready. I will do whatever it takes, suffer the process, so I can become one of your loyal charzen.”

  Brave words, Jelnick thought. All he sees is that my charzen serve as governors, and live as supermen, for a very long time. He doubted any would volunteer if they knew the depths of pain and suffering they endured in the process of transformation. This one looked like he was sincere, and his advisors assured him he had the right background and temperament. He would likely survive the transformation process, and then Jelnick would have filled out his corps of charzen.

  Up to this point, his charzen had primarily been used to forestall and put down the inevitable rebellions that broke out when he used a significant number of a community’s children for sacrifices for the demons, as well as governing outlying provinces. Now, his charzen would lead the way in his conquest of Skryla. He relished the sheer quantity of carnage these tamed supermen of his would cause to mundane human troops. Even more, he ached to see the surprised looks on those foolish wizards when their magic was largely ineffectual against one of these killing machines.

  All these thoughts swirled through his mind as he silently stared at this latest candidate. His silence tested the man’s patience. Jelnick could just see it in the other’s eyes, but otherwise the man stood impassive, awaiting his judgement.

  “Very well, I accept your pledge. Sign the final documents as you leave and report back here in the morning next Klex. You must be free from all possessions, relations, and obligations by then. A charzen has no family, no kin, only the empire of Grimor. You are dismissed.”

  The man bowed his head, clicked his heels, and backed rapidly out of the audience chamber, keeping his head down.

  The tedium of the entire affair left Jelnick feeling irritated. He knew how to lift his mood. “Get a pain table in here,” he called. “I have things to discuss with Karf, and the demon won’t appreciate it if I don’t have a sacrifice for him.”

  His underlings instantly set about getting things ready for a summoning. “Who have you got for me to work on?” he said, putting on the smock that would protect his clothes from the splatter of bodily fluids.

  “I think I have just what you need, my Lord,” his current majordomo said. “A seven-year-old boy, untouched by the knife, and a fresh orphan as well. His parents objected when his older brother and sister were taken. The guards killed them both, right in front of the three children. The older two have already proven very lively sacrifices, so this one should be as good or better.”

  “That sounds about right,” Jelnick said as he began to lay out his favorite knives. “Karf is fond of a mix of emotional pain to go with the raw physical torture. Well done. Remind me to heckle the boy about how he’s disappointing his dead parents at some point, if I forget. Sometimes I just get too involved and lose the chance to go for a subtler note,” he smiled wistfully.

  “Very good, my Lord. Here he is now.”

  Two attendants carried the writhing, wailing boy into the room. His face was scrunched up and puffy. Red from long crying. His blond hair lay matted and stringy from sweat, but aside from a few small bruises and scratches, the boy’s naked pale skin was blemish free. This sight alone brought a smile to Jelnick as he contemplated this blank canvas on which he could practice his art. That the boy’s face and whiney attitude grated on him only made the pain he was about to inflict all the more delicious. Karf was going to like this one, and so was he.

  Chapter 1

  Ardalan, city of Luront

  Dusk was deepening the shadows when Eril pushed open the door to The Badger’s Den. He had tried to find another tavern, The Piper’s Trill, as it came highly recommended by the caravan guards he’d been sparring with since he left Salaways a fortnight earlier. But the unfamiliar alleys and cross streets of Luront had turned him in circles.

  After hours of wrong turns and confusing directions, he was tired and hungry enough that he did not care what the tavern was called. The dim chamber was cloudy with pipe smoke and crowded with patrons intent on food and drink.

  Eril took a seat at a small table along the wall, and as he rested his wearied legs he took in the patrons around him a little, the first thing he noticed was a distinct lack of women. This puzzled him, as he’d seen many as he walked the streets outside. The only women here were serving girls and a few world-weary older women. Still, the food the other guests were eating looked better than the fair the caravan served, and he was hungry.

  The harried serving girl who approached his table only gave him an impatient moment to choose his drink and pick between the three available meals.

  Hungry and glad of hot food, he had eaten most of his dinner before he started taking in the people around him in any detail. This tavern catered to a rough clientele. The most obvious sign of this was the roped off ring on the far side of the main floor. Eril had never seen one before but recognized it as a dueling ring from descriptions he had heard.

  Dueling rings allowed a tavern owner to contain squabbles between patrons, so as to spare the bystanders and furniture. Eril had heard how most of these “duels” were sorry affairs where two drunken men threw punches at one another until one or both fell down or were knocked unconscious. Dueling with weapons was less common, and the weapons were usually blunted to lessen the likelihood of a duel turning deadly.

  Eril was just finishing his meal when two men armed with staves entered the ring. They did not look to be drunk. The first clash of wood drew all the eyes in the room. Eril was impressed with the duelists’ speed and technique as they traded blows and parries, the longer they fought the more the patrons howled encouragement. The larger of the men had a number of supporters cheering him on, even though he appeared to be losing ground to his opponent. Eril could see a lot of money changing hands, as men scrambled to place their bets.

  Finally, the larger of the men swung at an apparent opening in the other’s guard, only to find his mistake as the man swiftly blocked his staff rebounding into a riposte that struck him squarely in the side of his head. The bigger man hit the ground heavily and lay still, his followers howling their displeasure.

  Eril
was pondering the spectacle and mopping his plate when a comment in the loud discussion at the next table that made him prick up his ears.

  “Did you see how Fragar was beaten by that pug from Salaways?” the first man growled. The mention of Salaways caught Eril’s attention.

  “Yeah, Fragar won’t be boasting too much tomorrow.”

  “Nah, that’s not what I meant. That scut from Salaways cheated. He tried to act all humble about his skills before the bout, said he didn’t know much. I bet he was on the king’s guard or some such.”

  “Yeah, those Salaways scuts think they’re too good for the likes of us, and they don’t even have a proper king.”

  A third man spoke up. “No, they got sumthin worse, they got a wizard. No man should be ruled over by a wizard, ain’t natural. We got us a right proper king, Prince Harold, not like that old coot Silurian.”

  The serving girl, young and chestnut-haired, chose that moment to ask if they needed more drinks. The loudest, who had spoken first, wrapped an arm about her waist and dragged her close, “I do want another ale, but later I’ll be wantin’ a bit more,” he slid his hand down in an attempt to grab her buttock. She knocked his hand away, “That’s not the kind of service I’m providing here, Russ, and best you remember it!” She stalked off, glaring.

  “See,” Russ leaned back in his chair, “That Dana girl is from Salaways. She thinks she’s too good for the likes of us in Luront. Just like all those Salaways friggers.”

  Eril could feel his temper rising. He tried to ignore them. The men continued on, loudly, playing to the general agreement of most of the patrons.

  “Yeah, that frigger, Silurian is older than the hills. I heard tell he eats the hearts of his apprentices to stay young, or lets the demons do it for him. An he keeps all the secrets for his kingdom alone. Curse wizards, and curse that godless Silurian the most.” Those about him murmured their agreement.

  Eril’s anger simmered. He had heard tales of this sort about Master Silurian in the market when he was a slave, but now he knew the truth, and these men were insulting his master and his home. He seethed quietly, knowing that he was in a foreign land, but hating to hear his homeland maligned.

  The serving girl, Dana, returned with drinks and as she placed them down yelped as one of the men goosed her, crowing, “That’s what you deserve for being a stuck up Salaways bitch!”

  Eril leapt up. “Take that back!”

  The men looked up at him, puzzled, but annoyed.

  “Take what back, pup?” the loud man growled.

  “Take back what you said about her, Salaways, and Master Silurian. You are all just jealous that you can’t live there!”

  Another man stood and looked Eril over. “Those are fighting words, pup, and if you apologize real nice to me and my friends, right now, I might let you leave with your sorry hide intact.” The tavern grew quiet. This man looked much like the caravan guards he’d been sparring with of late, large, muscular, and ready for a fight.

  Silent patrons stared at Eril, curious as to what he would do. He should have stayed quiet, but it was too late now, he was not going to let a woman from his land, his master, or Salaways be slighted.

  “I’m surprised that an uneducated galute like you even knows the word ‘intact’, if the last bout didn’t convince you that Salaways turns out better fighters than your sorry lot, then I might just have to teach you myself.”

  Eril held a faint hope that seeing him serious and confident might discourage the man.

  He was glad Master Silurian could not witness his stupidity. One thing was certain, whatever happened, he could not use magic to get out of this mess. In fact, losing a bout might be the best plan, but Eril doubted his pride would let him do that, even if it was the best course.

  The man eyed Eril coldly. “Teach me something, will you, pup? If you were my own, I’d take you over my knee and give you a lesson. But since you think you’re a man, I’ll teach you the price for being a man who won’t hold his tongue.

  “You wear steel, boy,” he said, pointing to the sword hanging from Eril’s waist. “We’ll go over to yon ring, and see who teaches who about how to use it. And don’t think of backing down now. You’ll fight me in the ring or in the alleyway as you leave. Makes no difference to me.”

  Everyone was looking at Eril now; there was no way he could back down. He asked, “blunted weapons?”

  “Nay, boy. You’ve a sharp enough tongue, we’ll use sharp steel. But I’ll only fight till I’ve properly blooded you. I don’t want to have to pay to haul your body out.”

  This last comment was met by a general murmuring that made Eril feel he did not really mean it. Eril felt very alone as he walked towards the ring. He tried to tell himself this was no different from the many practice sessions he had with the guards, but he could not get himself to believe it. The guard captain, Carthic, had been teaching him and said he was already a match for most brigands, but now uncertainty gripped him. He stepped over the rope and his opponent joined him.

  Eril drew his sword and held its hilt out to the man.

  “What’s this? Giving me your sword won’t get you out of this, pup.”

  Eril steadied his voice. “No, I’m giving you a chance to inspect my blade before we begin. Isn’t that customary here?” he asked innocently.

  The man scowled, worry beginning to show in his eyes, “Oh, I suppose it’s ‘customary’ for the gentry. Let me see that blade.”

  He examined the blade and scowled again. “Good blade,” he grunted. “Not one of those cursed Salaways ones, just good steel,” he said and handed the blade back to Eril.

  Eril had only purchased it the day before, here in Luront. He had wanted a solid blade with no hint of his magic to give him away.

  Eril held out his hand. The man hesitated and then handed his weapon over to him. Eril noted that the sword was of significantly better quality than he would have expected from the man’s clothing and language. Now he really wondered if he had gotten in over his head. He nodded as he handed the sword back.

  The tavern keeper was at the ringside, acting as a sort of referee. “This is a bout to first blood. When I call hold, you both stop, agreed?”

  They both nodded, and assumed their defenses.

  “Begin!”

  They circled, slowly at first. The man tried several quick feints to draw Eril off his guard. Eril ignored these and waited for the real attack. He did not have to wait long. Seeming to catch his foot on the floor, the man exploded right at him, cold steel lancing for his side, blades chimed as Eril parried and circled, but saw no easy opening to counterattack. The man tried two more, similar, attacks. Eril parried both and with the last riposte, bringing a slash down on the man's shoulder, which he narrowly parried.

  The man backed away and switched his sword to his left hand. “Enough playing, pup, now I mark you.”

  The man came in stronger and with much more skill, Eril was only just able to fend off his flurry of attacks. He knew that if he stayed on the defensive he would lose, so after blocking he followed back, pressing his opponent. The man was caught off guard and Eril’s blade tore the edge of his sleeve but missed skin.

  The man growled and launched a furious series of attacks designed to wear Eril down. They did tire him, but they were even more tiring for his opponent. The man’s technique began to grow wilder. Erils opponent knew he had to take him quickly, and redoubled his efforts. One of Eril’ parries faltered and the man’s blade punched a small hole in the left side of his shirt, narrowly missing him.

  The tavern keeper called for a halt as he inspected the holes in both men’s shirts. When he found no blood, they resumed.

  The man now pressed Eril mercilessly. Eril could see the murder in his eyes, he wanted more than just a little blood.

  Eril saw an opening in his opponent's guard and raked his blade across, opening a small gash in the man’s left bicep. He had first blood.

  The tavern keeper called for a halt and declared Er
il the winner, as the crowd murmured and bets were collected.

  Eril’s opponent was incensed. He screamed that Eril had cheated. His companions held him back, but he broke free just when Eril had his back turned to him as he stepped over the rope of the ring.

  He heard the man coming and whirled to bring up his blade, but even as he did, he knew he’d be too late, reflexively, he reached out with his zdrell and pushed the man’s blade aside. Full tilt the swordsman plunged towards him, as Eril turned bringing his blade up, only to transfix the man upon it; the tip of the sword piercing through him and out of his back. The man’s eyes opened wide as for a moment he stared at the blade in his chest, then the spark of life went out of them and he slumped to the floor.

  Eril pulled his sword from the limp body, shocked at the blood coating its length. The tavern keeper was at his elbow whispering.

  “Everyone saw what happened here, young fellow, but best you leave quickly. You’ll have no trouble with the constables, but the man you just killed has many friends. I’d advise you to get out of town as fast as possible and in the future watch your tongue more carefully.”

  He pushed Eril towards a side entrance, the serving girl, Dana, was at the door motioning him out. “You didn’t have to do that, but thank you,” she said and kissed him lightly on the cheek, then quickly closed the door behind him.

  Eril was still in shock, but he wiped his blade on the grass to remove most of the blood, then moved quickly up the streets heading out of town. His mind went over and over the sequence of events trying to understand how defending a woman and the honor of his master and home country had ended up with him risking death and with the lifeblood of another man on his sword.

  He hurried back into camp and went straight to his tent without talking to anyone. He undressed and lay down and tried to sleep, but when he closed his eyes, he saw the man’s stricken face, as he realized he was dead. He shivered, although the night was warm. It was near dawn before he finally found sleep.