Ascent of the Unwanted (The Chronicle of Unfortunate Heroes Book 1) (14 page)

Erik could not think of anything to say to his Herdmaster that would not be construed as insubordinate. The one day that it seemed that Rovan was going to cut him a little slack the man goes back to his old form when Erik stopped paying attention to his surroundings. Erik always seemed to find the one thing that would change Rovan’s outlook from bad to miserable.

The time Ghost took to get back passed slowly. Ghost came trotting carefully over the rise and navigated himself around impeding trees and boulders. Each of Ghost’s steps were cautious as holes could hamper his movement. On the outside Erik calmly surveyed Ghost’s performance, but inside he anxiously wanted to get this testing completed. Ghost seemed to sense this and quickened his pace a bit. When the horse reached the open arena he came running up to his brother. “That was wonderful, boy,” Erik said while stroking Ghost’s neck.

“Let’s stop this touching moment of self-congratulation and finish this,” Rovan said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Two leagues, south-southwest.”

As Rovan rattled off the direction Erik proceeded to instruct Ghost on what direction he needed to go and gave Ghost the distance. The horse really did not need the distance, not with the method that he and Lawt had worked out. It was a habit carried over when the horse could still see. Ghost walked out of the arena again and meandered through the trees. Before Ghost left Erik’s sight he had signaled him three times.

“I must say it is impressive that you managed to train the horse how to cross country like that,” Rovan said. The man was trying to be hospitable again. Erik tried to pay more attention to what was happening so as not to evoke the ire of his Herdmaster again.

Four.

Five.

“It wasn’t all that difficult,” Erik said with a little smile, “Ghost is really an intelligent horse. He uses his other senses very well. The toughest part was keeping him moving in a straight line. We spent months getting him into the habit of continuously lining up the facing of his front and back hooves, as long as he does that he should be able to keep himself seven…I mean even.”

Rovan’s eyes widened with that and a knowing smile crept across his face.

Damn it! That pulse came at the same time Erik was forming the words in his mouth.

“You wouldn’t happen to be keeping a pace count would you?” Rovan asked.

“No.”

“You know as the Herdmaster I can’t let there be a doubt in my mind that someone is cheating and unqualified to be Roh’Darharim. I have almost unlimited authority and power to banish such doubts, especially in the middle of testing.”

Erik knew Rovan could do anything short of endangering the life of a trainee. The threat had shaken him to the point that he was not sure if Ghost had sent him another signal. He would just add one to his count. One miscounted pace should not put Ghost far off the mark.

“You need to push on the earth until I figure out how to correct this,” Rovan yelled while simultaneously hitting Erik in the stomach.

Erik buckled over and gasped for air. He gathered his will and went prone, beginning the rhythmic count off his performed push-ups. Another ping, how many was that now, thirteen? Fourteen? Better to assume thirteen this time. After twenty or thirty repetitions Erik began to get a pace going with Ghost’s pings. Five push-ups for Erik came around the same time as Ghost’s pacing alert but Erik was beginning to get tired. What was it that Olarin had said at the beginning of class so long ago? A Roh’Darharim could draw strength from his brother. Twenty, twenty-one.

Erik probed into Ghost’s mind. He could feel Ghost’s mind separated into the sensory and coordinating functions. The strength would be in the latter portion. Erik concentrated, feeling the energy pulsing in the muscles of the young horse. Erik tried to pull some of it into his body. It was like pulling against a taught rope. The more he pulled on it the more it resisted. The struggle with the horse was beginning to fatigue him more than the push-ups.

Thirty-Seven. The pace of his push-ups had been lost with Ghost’s signals long ago but he knew how many signals Ghost had sent him. They were halfway there. He was now struggling to push himself off the ground. If he could not get the energy from the horse maybe the horse could take some of this fatigue. He imagined all the fatigue he was feeling in his arms draining into the horse. There was backlash and Erik gasped at the shock. His muscles burned as the energy flowed into him. The fatigue began to be drawn from his arms and pulled into Ghost through a suction, being replaced by the unbridled energy of his brother.

Rovan stood with either foot on Erik’s hands and pain shot through him. This was going to be too much. There was no way Erik was going to be able to continue to push, ignore the pain and keep Ghost’s pace count. “Got a second wind?” Rovan asked.

“Not going to let you beat me,” Erik gasped between push-ups.

Rovan began rocking back and forth on Erik’s hands. “Do you really think I am that petty?”

“You…don’t hinder…anyone else.” Erik grunted.

“Keep pushing and let me teach you a few things. I am doing a job, simply weaning out anyone who can’t handle the physical and mental demands of the training of being Roh’Darharim,” Rovan said adding a small grinding twist with his boots at the end of each rock. “If I could have I would have thrown Geoff out of training after the first week but we are so few in number they would not let me. Had I, he would still be alive today aiding us in other ways. Make it easier for you and me. Give up.We both know Ghost is not going to find the second point by himself.”

The realization came to Erik that he had indeed lost Ghost’s pace count. Rovan was right, Ghost would not find the spot by himself. It would be another half year before Rovan would allow him to retest. By that time his classmates would be a full year ahead of him.

“Think about Ghost,” Rovan continued. “Are you doing your brother any favors? A blind horse asked to do everything the fully capable mounts are doing. You’re dooming your brother to a short life. I was against allowing you to continue in the first place, but again the council thought only of our numbers.”

Erik was struggling again, the energy he had taken from Ghost had drained away. Was he doing the right thing? Did he have a right to do this to Ghost? Erik’s arms began to tremble. The reason he was here began to pale compared to what he faced. Erik could be here for years trying to get Ghost capable of passing this test. His commitment with the Cavalier’s cemented with Ghost, why did he have to be a Roh’Darharim? He could become a hostler or farm hand and accomplish a goal from earlier in his life. He had gotten out of the stigma set on him in Armeston as a bastard.

Ghost would be taken care of, and the life of a draft horse was not a bad one. His arms trembled and his breaths came in short sporadic gasps. Erik tried not to think about the agonizing weight grinding the palms of his hands into the ground. The tops of his hands were bleeding where Rovan’s boots had begun to tear the skin. It would be easier on all accounts to just give up. The day was nice. Erik was sure that the Roh’Darharim would give him rest. Perhaps he would just sit out in the sun under a tree.

Erik’s arms were no longer trembling. A brand blazed across his vision, a circle with lines radiating from it above a crude tree. The image burned red and painful from his memory. That was the one thing he had, the one clue that would lead him to his eventual goal. He would track the brand, but in order to do that he needed to get out of here as quickly as possible. Fleeing was not an option. The only option was success.

Then there was Lawt. He had given him his word not to give up. Lawt would understand but the thought of telling him he would no longer be training was nauseating.

“How many times are you going to buck against me?” Rovan asked Erik, sensing the change in demeanor.

“As long as it takes to be Roh’Darharim,” Erik said through gritted teeth.

“I don’t think so,” Rovan said with a grim face. “You see, I have enough evidence to convince myself that you have been cheating during the last portion of this test by giving your mount a pace count. The honor of a Roh’Darharim must be unquestionable. The fact that your precious Ghost has not found the second point after I distracted your mind is enough to warrant a board of inquiry. I doubt that…”

A horn blast rang through the arena. The stern, reprimanding look on Rovan’s face melted into a look of shock. “Congratulations, Erik. You begin mounted training tomorrow.” The bald man placed a calloused hand on Erik’s shoulder. A broad smile spread across his face as he shook his head in dismay. Then he turned and walked away.

The full comprehension of what Rovan had said had not registered in Erik until he was out of sight. Mounted training starting tomorrow! Ghost had done it. How? He did not really care how. He looked down at his bleeding hands. He had been so close to giving up, giving up on himself, on Ghost. Erik strengthened his resolve. He would succeed, regardless the obstacle.

Ghost came trotting out of the forest towards the arena. To the end of his days he would wonder if Ghost had indeed found the point or if the horse had stopped to rest long enough for the spotter to blow the horn.

“Come on boy, let’s get you some oats. You definitely deserve it,” Erik said turning towards the massive stables.

The feeling of exhilaration raced through Erik from Ghost. The horse knew he had passed, that much was obvious, but one thing lingered in Erik’s mind. Was it fair to Ghost that Erik keep pushing him? Was he condemning Ghost?

He had lost his mother through no real fault of his own, and the pain of that wound was still raw after years of suffering. What would the pain be like with Ghost if he lost his brother because of his actions? A cold wind came blowing off the mountain chilling Erik to the bone.             

Waiting outside the brothel tired Oswald. He had seen the girl go in yesterday but she never came out. He could not believe that the possessor of the stone was a whore, but who was he to say what the stone’s exact nature was. The possessors usually climbed to higher stations.  Oswald was the lone exception that he knew.

He fidgeted on his barrel again. The splinters were digging into his calloused posterior. He must have been sitting on this wood for a long time to make his rear sore. A man who spent his entire life on his ass got used to sitting on anything.

He looked down at the shriveled nubs that passed as legs. Being bitter was an endeavor which had grown tiring. He was an old man, and having a pair of working legs would not have made him any better looking or any taller. A proportional pair of legs would allow him to reach the towering height of four feet.

Scratching at his salt and pepper beard he peered at the small green stone in his hand. The emerald had a white gash that ran through the front facet. He could not recall when he came to possess it. He had always had it. The gypsies that raised him said it was in the basket they found him in. Odd they never claimed it as their own. They were a strange people. A strange and magnificent people.

The green stone glowed only for him. That was not entirely true, anyone could see the glow if they knew the proper incantations. Oswald was sure he was the only one who could see it on this street, it was his spell after all. The stone pulsed with a frail green light in his small, thick hand. The blue light in the brothel pulsed again in answer. The woman was still there.

He had been looking for answers about his stone for the past forty years. Looking was maybe too strong a word. A better description would be he had taken an extended tour of the many taverns of Tredale and waited for the stones to show themselves. Oswald was not afraid to admit he may have interpreted a sign wrong but everything pointed to one thing. Over the past millennia the stones had been separated, now all the stones were in Tredale. They had been for the past fifty years. The prophecies had the stones separated until… Oswald was used to looking at the glass as half empty. With a cold realization, Oswald’s came to the only inevitable conclusion. The glass was not half empty. It was completely bare.

Oswald should not have been able to get this close to another holder unless all the kingdoms were about to meet their end. He should have found some reason to skip Padin Tier. Instead he made excuses to come here. Quite a shame really, the wines of the west valleys of Tredale were famous for their robust flavor.

His own curiosity had gotten the better of him. When he saw the beacon charm on his stone activate, common sense told him to head a different way. His search for answers had been going on for so long he just had to see what was causing the charm to activate.

Oswald smiled remembering Master Renshaw. He had made him put the charm on the stone. He hated that man, or
had
hated him. The old man always demanded perfection. Oswald did not know at the time why he needed to cast the stupid beacon charm in the first place but learning a new spell was preferable than pulling splinters out from under bloody fingernails. Master Renshaw had more insight than Oswald had given him credit; either that or the prophecies had manipulated that old codger as well. He gave Renshaw the credit this time. He needed to give his old mentor the benefit of the doubt occasionally.

A commotion in the brothel brought him back to reality. There was yelling over there. With a start he realized the blue glow was moving down the street, and it was moving fast. Oswald gave a shrill whistle.

A heap of trash moved at the back of the alley. A large beast of brown and red fur came barreling down the small lane, its shoulders coming to an average man’s naval. Oswald did not mind that his friend liked to rummage and sleep in refuse, he just hated the smell. He had not let Sampson play in the trash pile when they first decided to stake out the whorehouse and Sampson’s whining had been getting unbearable. Oswald let the dog go just so he could keep his nerves.

The dog licked Oswald vigorously, nearly knocking him off the barrel as he propped up his front paws. Chunks of trash and droplets of rancid juice coated Oswald with the sickly sweet stench of rot.

“Stop that, you stupid dog! You’re getting trash all over!” He did not mind the affection but boundaries had to be set. The order startled Sampson and the dog gave a little whimper. He meant well, he was just excited.

“Well you deserve it. Look at me.” Oswald held his arms away from his body to give Sampson a good look. A rotten lump of tomato fell off his sleeve. “I hope you’re satisfied. It’s hard enough to get people to respect me as it is.”

Oswald looked back down at the stone. It was still glowing. The little man looked down the street to locate the blue glow. He could still see it easily. It was further away but it seemed the fates would not let his curiosity go unpunished. He could find that blue glow with his eyes closed after giving it a two day head start.

Speaking of curiosity, what had started all the commotion? Oswald looked Sampson over. “Come here, boy.”

The dog moved over to Oswald’s side. Oswald reached into his patch worn cloak and pulled out his riggings. This was always tedious work but years of moving about without legs had giving him strong arms, and with care and patience anything could be done. Sampson stood next to his master while Oswald buckled and tightened each leather strap in place. Before long a web of leather covered the dog and a rudimentary saddle took form. Oswald grabbed hold of a strap with one arm and swung himself onto his companions back. Still, the dog did not move. Oswald began working the straps again, this time on himself. The odd buckle or strap that had hung loose now secured him.

“Good boy, Sampson. Let’s go”

Oswald gave Sampson signals where to go, subtle pressure of his legs on the dog’s side told the dog exactly where. His legs were not completely useless, just mostly useless. The dog began walking at a modest pace toward the brothel. Like the emerald Sampson had always been there. Maybe not that long but it seemed that way.

As soon as they left the alley the stares started. They still hurt. After all these decades he still hated it. Oswald had come to terms with himself about what his deformity meant but the stares always cut him. One lady he made eye contact with had a look of such revulsion on her face that Oswald hoped it was Sampson’s smell that made her react that way but the wind was wrong. The worst were the people that intentionally did not look at him, as if he did not exist. Their pathetic attempt to be polite only made them even crueler.

Oswald urged Sampson across the street. The dog’s pace quickened and soon the two of them were in the brothel, away from the street, and into the smaller crowd in the brothel. He could handle small groups easier, especially ones that were preoccupied.

Everyone in the building huddled together looking at the same thing. Two men lay unconscious on the floor but no one looked their way. One of the men lay crumpled on the floor underneath a body sized crater in the wall. The other lay on top of a splintered pile of wood that used to be a table. The blood on the floor and walls did not come from them. It belonged to whoever was in the middle of the crowd. He urged Sampson through the throng. With his dog’s height Oswald came up to most of these people’s shoulders. The dog pushed and muscled his way through the crowd until Oswald could see what had caused the commotion.

A stout bald man lay on the floor, his eyes looking at the ceiling. The man’s throat was cut and his forearm was bent unnaturally across his chest. Blood no longer spurted out of the man’s neck but the large pool of blood underneath the man continued to expand. The man was killed a few minutes ago. The chatter around him accused a small girl of this crime.

He needed to see the truth for himself. He began to chant, a slow rhythm beginning to form with the beat of the syllables meticulously uttered from his lips. His arms moved from position to position quickly but Oswald made sure he had formed the symbol exactly as he was taught. The people around him stared at him now for a different reason, and some began to back away. He did not care. They probably thought he was having a seizure. It may be the only time these people would see a true wielder of sorcery and they would not even be able to see the outcome of the spell. As it progressed the mob began to move. They moved in unnatural but fluid motions. People began to back away from the crowd in an erratic manner. The words they uttered were of no known language and the emphasis placed on the syllables was awkward to hear.

Oswald closed his eyes. This transformation was only apparent to him. To everyone in the crowd time flowed as normal but he was tracing the timeline backwards. He could watch everything that happened in this area if he followed the line far enough back. He did not like to watch the timeline spell in reverse, it caused motion sickness. The spell tended to speed up or slow down depending on what the spell caster concentrated on.

Oswald let the last quarter hour pass before he opened his eyes. A large bald man with the round face stood in front of him with a striking woman in front of him, tears rolling down her cheeks. Around the woman a nimbus of blue light glowed. This was the argument that started the entire mess. Oswald let the play begin.

“She’s dying, Rollo!” the woman cried. “They won’t come unless they are guaranteed payment upfront.”

“The woman is fine. She’ll be as good as new by next week.” Rollo said his voice holding a small trace of disdain.

“What is the problem?” The woman protested. “She has been here for years. Surely, you know she won’t say anything. You’ll be insuring her service for even more years.”

“The woman is past her prime. It will take years to recoup the losses.” With that Rollo started to turn. The glowing woman grabbed Rollo by the arm, keeping his attention. Rollo raised his arms as if to strike then looked around the room noticing all the patrons.

“Then take it from me.” The woman looked Rollo in the eyes and stood as tall as she could. Rollo shook his arm free and towered over her, trying to intimidate her with his size. The woman did not budge. Her eyes stared straight into Rollo’s.

“It does not work like that. Now stop bothering me and get back to work, whore.”

“You’re right!” the woman accused. “You would just pocket everything!”

“So what if I did!” Rollo retorted, his face red. “I paid good money for all of you. I intend to get everything that’s coming to me. When it costs more to feed you and house you than what you earn for me that’s when I tell you your account gets paid.”

The woman grabbed Rollo’s arm again. One of the tavern’s strong arms walked up behind her and grabbed her on the shoulder. The instant the large man touched her she spun, grabbing the man’s arm and whirled behind him, pinning his arm behind his back. The man moved forward trying to use his strength to wrestle himself free, the woman pushed the man with all her might adding to his own force. He went head first into the wall with a crash. By the time the tough had reached the floor another strong arm was moving in on her.

This one was swinging. He saw the way the she had handled the previous man. He intended to beat her into submission. The woman weaved and dodged around the man’s massive blows. Even though Oswald already knew the result of the fight he still winced when one of the blows clipped the woman glancing off her cheek. The woman staggered and the man pressed his attack. He grinned, pulling his fist back for a nose breaking swing. As the swing came down the woman swerved, moving herself inside the swing. Her back now facing her opponent’s chest, she grabbed the arm, bent her knees, and tossed. The man sailed. He came down hard his back hitting the corner of a table. When his legs caught up, the table and its supports buckled. Oswald hoped the cracking sound was from the table giving way and not a broken bone. By the way his leg was laying the table did not take the worst of the damage from the collision.

The woman turned on Rollo. The man’s face had paled considerably since the recent argument.

“Here!” the man cried as he tossed a small pouch at the woman.

“I don’t think so, Rollo. Today I am going to give you everything you have coming to you.” The woman walked slowly toward the fat man. By this time the patron’s had formed a circle watching the entertainment.

“Stay back!” Rollo screamed. The fat man reached into his boot and pulled out a small dagger. He pointed it tentatively at the woman.

That was all she needed. The woman was fast. With Rollo’s small jab, she grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it. There was an audible pop and the man’s hand went limp. Rollo screamed, clutching his hand to his chest while the knife fell to the ground. In one fluid motion she swept down, picked up the dagger, and carried her swing around slicing Rollo’s throat open. Blood sprayed and the man reached with his good hand to his throat, trying to stop the flow of his life essence. With a gurgle Rollo collapsed to the ground. The woman pushed her way through the crowd and was gone.

That was enough. Oswald let the spell die. Everyone in the brothel who had not left when he started casting gaped at him. It was a better reaction than he was used to.

“Get out of my way,” Oswald urged Sampson through the crowd not caring about who he knocked over.

Everyone backed as close to a wall as they could. Oswald took his time letting Sampson walk slowly toward the door. He knew the local law enforcement was coming. He did not want to get caught up in their tomfoolery but he could not help himself. He turned back around to the brothel patrons and began wiggling his fingers menacingly in the air. “Behuligheaubid!”