Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (6 page)

He would have to tread lightly with her.

Too many questions and too few answers. He needed more time to prepare. Besides, he was linked to the most vital barriers in the Keep. If Aleister broke through any of them, he would know about it. That would be the signal it was time to return. It was simply too soon to act. Falon would not understand, but then she did not know the whole of it. And he had no intention of telling her.

“I am terribly sorry for what you’ve been through, my dear, and the sacrifice you’ve made coming here, but I cannot go with you.”

“What? How dare you refuse?” she shrieked, her face contorted in anger. “We’re talking about your people. Haven’t you been listening? Thomas sent me to get you. He had a vision that told him you’re our only hope. Your people are being oppressed, murdered when Aleister needs another volunteer! So you’re going to continue hiding like a coward and do nothing?”

Her words stung. He wished she had slapped him instead. His failures were great and they had threatened to overwhelm him, but his current plan would atone for them. She would see. They all would. When the time was right.

“I am no coward.” She tried to say something, but he spoke over her. “And I didn’t desert Shaladon. I will return, and when I do Aleister will pay dearly. However, the time is not at hand. There are matters—”

“The time is not at hand?” she shrieked, clenching her fists. “I don’t care about timing. I need your help now! I will not take—,” vigorous knocking on the door interrupted her tirade.

Max strode past her, glaring at her as he did, and opened the door. A young lad stood there red-faced and out of breath, barely able to speak as he gulped for air.

“Master Thorn...please come quickly. There has...there’s four men at the garrison...hurt.”

“Hurt? What happened?”

“I do not know, sir. Four soldiers rode into the garrison. One was laid over his saddle. The leader fell from his horse the moment they took his reigns. They were all bloody.” He gulped for air again. “General Baldwin sent me to get you. He said to run, or he’d have my hide and yours.”

“Well, I better get my things then.” He grabbed his bag and growled when he checked the contents. He had rushed out of Brea’s shop without replenishing his supplies. Quickly he plucked several vials from the shelves, muttering about being in a rush, then picked up two canisters – debating between the two before stuffing both in his bag – and grabbed a poultice off the table.

He eyed Falon for a moment. Best to keep her close. The last thing he needed was her doing something stupid like mentioning who he really was to the locals to force his hand.

“Coming Falon?” he said as he headed for the door.

***

Lush, green grass swayed like waves as the cool wind swept down the mountains. High above he soared, broad red wings extended fully, taking advantage of the currents. A wonderful day to fly though the eagle below him did not appreciate his presence. He circled watching the young man sitting on a small patch of low-cut grass. He noticed a dark shape at the edge of the copse of trees in the middle of the field. A smile raised the corners of his mouth. He was pretty sure he knew what that was. He took one more look at the lone figure sitting on the grass then let a strong gust push him upward and banked with the current as it raced away from the mountains. It was truly a fine day to fly.

***

Michael did not notice the gust whipping at his blonde hair. Lost in thought, staring at the two grave markers in front of him, he noticed little else. Simple, stone markers, inscriptions chiseled by his own hands. A’lan Trommel. Azel Trommel. Tears welled up in his eyes as he read the words below their names.
“Father.” “Mother.”

His father passed through the veil two years ago. With the love of her life gone, his mother withered away a year later. It stung, that fact, but he understood. He tried to at least. Death was not an easy thing for Michael to deal with. Felt like he had been dealing with it all his life though he could not say why.

A’lan had been a strong man with an adventurous spirit. He had traveled all over the Ma Shal Dar, maybe even beyond. After Michael was born, he settled down and became a carpenter. Michael loved spending days with him in the shop learning the craft.

Wiping the tears away, Michael stood and surveyed the field. It seemed so peaceful, how the grass swayed in the wind as the sun lazily set on the horizon. His eyes passed by the copse, an island of trees in an ocean of grass, and then he spied the eagle soaring overhead and another farther toward the horizon. He had seen a handful of eagles in his life, and they always left him in awe. He squinted at the one farther off not certain it was an eagle. Foolish thoughts of dragons danced in his head.

His eyes fell on the copse of trees again. Standing at the edge of the trees stood a wolf staring at him with golden eyes. Its gray-black coat blended well with the darkening shadows of the copse. A few feet further back and it would have been invisible in the late afternoon shadows. Michael got the feeling it wanted to be seen. It was bloody unnerving. The wolf’s eyes seemed to bore into him, weighing him. A hundred paces suddenly felt like a short distance.

Michael reached down for his bow but when he looked up a chill shot through his spine. The wolf was gone. He searched the area carefully, looking for grass parting, but there was none.

He did not fear wolves like many people. Some considered them savage, always looking for an easy meal, of sheep or man. Others went further to say they were creations of the Soulless One. Michael was not one for superstition or given to tales meant to scare children, and some adults, into obedience. He went by what he saw, and wolves had earned his respect. The kind of respect one would have for fire. But the way this wolf had looked at him, like it knew him, and how it had vanished in the span of a breath was disturbing.

Michael felt exposed. Something in the air felt wrong. Taking one last look at the gravestones, he made a promise to visit again soon and hurried toward his home in the distance.

C
HAPTER
3

House Calls

Max and Falon followed the boy but often times trailed behind. His movements were erratic, disappearing around the next corner when he ran ahead only to reappear, making sure they were still following. Long shadows filled the town square where merchants and shopkeepers alike made their final sales of the day as the sun dipped behind the rooftops.

Max stopped at one house where a lady was setting sweet cakes and bread on her windowsill to cool. Falon stood baffled, watching the boy run ahead while Max complimented the lady on her baking. Why did the man dally? Was it not clear by the boy’s behavior how badly the wounded men needed him?

The lady glanced at Falon then smiled knowingly at Max. Despite the smile Max returned in kind to the lady, his face was painted with annoyance just as it had been with Benjamin, the innkeeper. She wondered what that was all about, but more importantly she wanted to know why Max thought now was a good time to be asking for honey cakes! She was about to ask as much when Max moved his hand over the cakes and that familiar sensation of magic prickling her skin. It was faint like a ripple caused by a small stone thrown into water. She must have missed it when he had done the same to the cup of tea he had given her.

She hated what she was. She longed to possess a fraction of the power she felt emanating from Max. In the back of her mind, a voice mocked her. Y
ou are cursed, despised, hated. You will never be one of them.
The thought lingered like a bee sting till they reached the garrison.

***

Impenetrable, gray, stone walls rising thirty feet and topped with crenelated parapets, the massive square structure overshadowed the town. Each corner was capped by a large circular tower with ballista mounted on its flat roof and two more towers along the wall bordering the river. Smaller, twin towers stood sentry over the gateway leading into town and another pair for the gateway leading across the river to Maridon. Massive, full of rapids and lined with steep cliffs, the Whitewater River formed the border between Timmaron and Maridon. The garrisons at Whitewater’s Forge, Glokstein, and Blackstone protected the only three places along the border where an army could cross.

Stren met them as they passed under the portcullis of the arched entry and rushed them to the infirmary. As Max entered the room, he felt magic, strange and faint, like week-old tracks, but there nonetheless. He looked at Falon; her eyes said she felt it too.
She is powerful.
The magic seemed to emanate from the four men lying unconscious on cots.

He greeted General Baldwin and the garrison doctor who gave Max a stiff nod as he pulled a sheet over the face of one of the men. Max understood the man’s annoyance, but military doctors were trained to patch up battle wounds, a far different matter than dealing with the illnesses Max was often called to deal with. Besides, there were three men in dire need. Not the time for the man’s ego to interfere.

“What happened?” he asked, bending down to inspect one of the soldiers.

“Not sure, to tell you the truth,” General Baldwin replied. “When they arrived, that one,” Baldwin pointed toward the dead man, “was draped over his saddle, unconscious.” Their sergeant, Belfor, mumbled about wolves. How or why wolves could do this, I don’t know.”

“What makes you say that? Wolves have attacked armed men before,” Max replied, eyes never leaving his patient and his frown growing deeper as he examined the man’s wounds.

“Yes, when rabid or starving in the dead of winter, but have wolves ever attacked three squads?” Max looked over his shoulder at Baldwin. “Twenty-four men left Tallijor, these four are all that arrived. Twenty-four armed soldiers reduced to this by wolves?”

“And the severity of their injuries is alarming,” the doctor added, wrapping a soldier’s arm with bandages. “They must have been massive animals.”

The deep claw marks and puncture wounds were bad, but the fetid taint of magic accompanying the wounds raised the hair on Max’s neck. The man burned with fever, hot to the touch. The next soldier, the one the doctor was tending to, was no better. His wounds were not as severe, yet his skin burned as badly and the taint was still strong.

Max moved to Belfor, examining him quickly, finding his wounds were superficial and his fever minor. His armor was family owned and much better quality than the other men’s standard military issue. Wealthy families maintained their own armor for protection and craftsmanship as much as for status. That luxury spared Belfor.

Max pulled a vial from his pouch and waved it under Belfor’s nose, causing him to gasp for clean air and bolt upright. His eyes went wide with fear, searching the room for danger.

“Relax, son, you’re at the garrison in Whitewater’s Forge,” Max said, pushing the man to lie back down. Touching Belfor’s temple, Max released a flow of Spirit into him. He seldom used magic with others present, but he needed the man lucid, and only Falon could tell what he had done. To the others, it seemed he simply calmed the man with a skilled touch. Even Belfor, too groggy at the time, would not be able to connect what he felt to magic. As Belfor’s eyes focused and the fear faded, Max began to feed him a magic-laced honey cake to fend off the fever and mend his wounds.

“Now tell me, son, what happened?”

Belfor swallowed the first bite hungrily and spoke. “We were attacked by wolves, but...they weren’t...normal. They had eyes that...that...they glowed blood red.”

Max grabbed him by the shoulders. “Were they black?”

Belfor did not answer; his eyes were distant, seeing something in his mind’s eye. Fear gripped him.

Max spoke sternly like an officer speaking to a subordinate, “Sergeant! Tell me, were they black as night?”

Belfor nodded his head. “They laughed,” he licked his lips nervously, “as they attacked. I’ve never heard anything like it. It was maddening.”

Max leapt to his feet, instructing the doctor to wake the other two men and feed them each a honey cake. The doctor seemed affronted by such a ridiculous course of action. The magic laced in the cakes would not cure the poison coursing through their veins, but it was all he could do for them under the circumstances. Their will to live would play a large part in their survival.

“Every bite,” he emphasized before dashing out the door. His final command to treat their wounds with the poultice in his bag echoed over his shoulder as he ran down the hall.

Baldwin caught up to him in the stables and grabbed his arm. “Max, in the name of the Creator, what is going on?”

Max looked to the purpling sky. Dark was upon them. “I need a horse. And your help.”

“Why?” Baldwin’s tone made it clear nothing was happening till he got an explanation.

“They’re after him. Those wolves, they’re after Michael.”

C
HAPTER
4

Nightmares Come Alive

The fire crackling in the hearth chased away the evening’s chill. Michael fell into his favorite chair, yawning. Between sparring with Garen and carpentry, he was exhausted. He had not realized how tired until he sat down to eat. Now he just stared at the kettle of stew over the fire, trying to decide if he was hungry enough to eat or too tired to try. The aroma decided for him, and he served up a large bowl.

His mind wandered to the wolf, trying to reason it out. He was finishing the bowl of stew when a sound caught his ear. It sounded like laughter. Michael did not live far from town, but people did not stroll by his house at night either. Muscles protesting every movement, he walked to the window. He saw nothing as he looked out into the front yard. Masked behind clouds, the full moon cast only muted light. He could barely make out his three-rail fence. Turning back to his soft chair and warm fire, he decided it must have been the wind. Halfway to his seat he heard the sound again, this time more clearly. It was laughter, eerie and haunting. He returned to the window and strained to see beyond the darkness. Perhaps Max was paying him a visit or Garen with another pretty girl hanging from each arm. He opened his door for a better look.