The Azure Wizard (6 page)

A glum sigh was about to escape his lips, but he swallowed it down when he noticed a familiar figure seated alone at a small, square table placed beside the hearth, which was providing just a little warmth and a soft glow with a pile of smoldering embers. It was the woman who had been performing at The House of Chronicles just as he had entered. She wasn’t wearing her burgundy dress from the day before but instead she wore a pair of black form-fitting trousers, a white linen shirt with a low-cut collar, a dark red wool vest that she left open, and matching dark brown hide bracers and boots. Ethan recognized her only from her long pale blond tresses that she had laid across her shoulder and down the right side of her chest. Her hair, almost a shade of white, was far lighter than her healthy-looking, darkly tanned skin. On the floor, leaning against the leg of her chair, were a worn leather satchel and a scabbard that contained a curved short sword. The dim light of the embers reflected off of a ruby embedded in the pommel of the beautiful weapon.

Ethan wondered for a second if she would even remember him, and if she did would she be kind enough to let him eat at her table. He swallowed down his anxieties and shrugged. “Might as well give it a try,” he said to himself.

The storyteller moved through the crowds keeping his mead and plate above the heads of the patrons that he passed. As he neared her, the minstrel’s gaze angled upward and met Ethan’s intent yellow eyes. He was stunned when her vibrant crimson eyes settled on him, enveloped him. He was stunned so much in fact that he stumbled a bit, and a drop of his berry mead sloshed over the rim of his mug. The liquid splashed onto the gleaming oily forehead of a long-haired large man, perhaps thirty summers old, as he chuckled at a crude joke from one of his three companions sitting at the table with him.

Ethan hadn’t noticed his error, and as he continued towards the table of the minstrel the man’s laughing died and he slowly stood behind the small storyteller. “Hey, boy,” a deep raspy voice barked from behind Ethan.

Ethan turned around slowly as he replied, “Yes sir. What seems to –”

Interrupting him was a fierce heavy fist that swung mightily into the left side of his jaw. Ethan’s world turned a blinding white and his ears buzzed like a million honey bees stirred angrily from their hive. He vaguely sensed that he was tumbling to the ground, but he didn’t register the landing in the least. As the buzzing waned and the white hue that clouded his sight began to disperse into spots, he realized that he was indeed on the floor of the taproom amidst shouts and laughter. He raised his gaze to the tall, very muscular man with a slightly receding hairline and a shoulder length brown ponytail. Ethan’s attacker wore a sleeveless, stained, cotton shirt with its front untied from the neck to the top of his six-pack. He popped the knuckles of his right hand just by clenching his fist, and he grinned cockily down at the disorientated Ethan.

“Watch where you spill your drink, you little worm, or next time you won’t wake up!”

Though he was easily as tall as most Vharians, Ethan knew instantly his attacker was of Greenwellian blood due to his rich accent and green eyes. The large bouncer was even slightly smaller than the man, and he stood off to the side waiting for the fight to resolve itself. Ethan tried to stammer an apology, but he was instantly wrapped in aching pain from his jaw He tasted warm blood in his mouth. The man leaned over peering down into Ethan’s battered face, and he sneered, “Well, are you going to apologize or aren’t you?”

Before Ethan could attempt to groan out an answer a silky feminine voice with a very exotic lyrical accent answered the man. “You apologize, oaf.”

Her voice was soft and quiet but it belied such fierceness, intensity, and commanding that the large brawler was taken aback and he stammered for a reply. This only enraged him further and he stood completely erect, his head nearing the wooden planks of the ceiling. He was mimicked by his three seated companions, all men of similar build and disposition, and they also stood up crossing their arms and thus making their already imposing muscles bulge further. Ethan took this as his opportunity to get out of the way of these men and he rolled feebly to the side beneath a table. He then confirmed his suspicions on the identity of the female speaker when he saw his defender was no less than the minstrel he was intending to sit with.

“You Wendlithian trollop, mind your own business or you can join that one on the floor,” spoke the brawler in a voice that failed to match her unbridled dangerous tone, “or you can join me in my bed. I’ve never knocked boots with a Wendlithian.”

She said nothing but sauntered forward with very deliberate agile footsteps that made her lithe, tall form seem to flow like some sort of animated smoke towards the aggressors. Never once did she take her eyes from those of her opponent. When he released the slightest bit of tension in his corded muscles that could have been thought to be the start of an attack, the woman leapt into action with the speed of the jaws of a bear-trap. She came forward so fast that she was a blur to Ethan’s sluggish vision, and a powerful sidekick thumped deep into the man’s stomach. All of his breath, and not a small amount of spittle, exploded from his gaping maw as he clenched his eyes shut in pain. The brawler simply teetered to the side and he promptly fell over, his hard skull bouncing off of the floor with an audible thump that Ethan felt through the floorboards.

She quickly kicked him across his face when he made the slightest movement and the man then laid still. “Which of you wishes to lie down beside your friend here?” she asked the other three as they did their best to appear brave and unaffected by the mysterious Wendlithian woman’s unnerving and formidable skill at laying tough guys violently to the sticky floor.

They exchanged glances with one another and the fearsome woman, and they finally silently decided that the risk was far too great. They crept forward cautiously as one would sneak towards a sleeping bear, worked together to lift their ringleader, and, as a group, they hurried him and themselves from the The Border’s Bed. The patrons of the inn that had crowded around the scuffle let out applause and bursts of laughter as the woman turned on her heel to face Ethan where he cowered beneath the table. She extended her hand and spoke in her thick southern accent, “Get out from under there, storyteller.”

Ethan nodded in reply, not wanting to speak due to his throbbing jaw that he already felt swelling, and he extended his own hand letting her help him to his feet. The whole spectacle loosed a wave of chuckles and mockeries from the gathered crowd that strengthened Ethan’s anxieties. “Be silent,” the minstrel said in a tense voice just above a whisper. She spoke so softly that at first Ethan thought that she was speaking to him, but then he noticed that she was looking dangerously into the crowd beneath low eyelids. It was the look of a feral cat before it entered a fight.

One way or another, the inebriated patrons heard the order, or perhaps they had just felt her taut wrath waiting to be unleashed. They thus backed nervously away to their tables, conversations, and drinks. Following her statement she released a withering scowl at the dispersing patrons, and together she and Ethan made their way back to her isolated hearthside table. He sat down across from her as she slid smoothly and quietly into her seat with her back to the wall, scarlet eyes absorbing everything they saw into a quick cunning mind that so very obviously lay behind. Finally her eyes settled on Ethan as he massaged the side of his jaw.

“I remember you from Lumberwall, The House of Chronicles,” was all she said in her thick Wendlithian accent.

Ethan nodded slowly and managed to mutter, “Yes, I saw you there as well, milady.”

The title seemed to amuse her for her flawless face broke into a thin-lipped smile as she snorted and picked up her beverage. The minstrel sipped at her own wooden goblet of some type of dark indigo wine, probably blueberry, and after a contented sigh her penetrating gaze once more settled on the storyteller, “Hungry?” she asked.

Ethan nodded again, maybe just a bit too hurriedly, and in reply she placed her half-eaten bowl of chicken and vegetable soup across the wooden table in front of him along with her spoon. He lifted the spoon with nervously shuddering fingers and he plunged it into the bowl. Ethan lifted out a spoonful of soup and raised it to his lips, but before he took the bite he gazed back at the woman. She simply smiled and sat motionless as she watched him. After a moment he wrapped his lips around the spoon and chewed the food. His sore jaw protested the action, sending screaming pains throughout his head, but at the same time the warmth of the food soothed the ache. The taste was also quite exceptional as it was lightly seasoned with sea salt and peppered. Spices were so rare in the villages of Vhar that he had only tasted them maybe a few times. Ethan decided that the prospect of a tasty dinner far outweighed the temporary pain of his jaw, and thus he continued to eat.

In but a few moments the bowl was empty save for the spoon, and Ethan sat back in his chair with a sigh, his eyes shut as he savored his half-full belly and somewhat healed jaw. Not a word had passed between the two performers the entire time that Ethan was eating, but now that he was finished he thought it prudent to initiate some conversation with this singer that had stood up for him against a group of drunken toughs, and made sure he had something to eat to boot. After opening his eyes and staring into her tanned face decorated with those vibrant surreal red eyes, though, the only thing he could say was, “How did you come to possess red eyes?”

After asking he winced at such a stupid question when there could have been much more practical and less intrusive things to say, but before he could mentally berate himself too much she answered, “I could ask the same of you and your yellowed eyes.”

Ethan’s boyish face, youthful despite his short red beard and moustache, revealed its confusion at her statement and he replied as much, “What do you mean, milady? My grandfather and father possessed amber-colored eyes, and I have been told that all in our line have possessed them since the Ancient Age. It just runs in our blood I suppose.”

“I have traveled the length and breadth of the land of the Three Baronies from my homeland in Wendlith to the verge of the Ice Wilds, and thus I can inform you that I have never seen yellow eyes such as yours in person, though I do know how they have come to be. Pure-blooded Wendlithians have eyes of fiery orange, whereas Greenwellians have eyes of blue or green, and Vharians, as you well know, have eyes of brown. Yellow eyes, though, are not well-known among most of our land’s inhabitants, storyteller. Tell me, do you know the story behind your own eyes?”

Ethan’s only reply was, “Do you?”

The woman smirked and let out a yawn before she answered, “It is said that when the land that would become the Three Baronies was created certain bloodlines of men were bestowed the power to conjure Wizardcraft powers, a gift long since lost into the age of myth. Even at the end of the Ancient Age there were still some individuals capable of casting Wizardcraft powers, but eventually the gift simply died out completely. Those very few bloodlines that have managed to survive until our time, a millennium now into the First Age, have a sign of their long-lost gift, uniquely-colored eyes. Vharians whose line possessed Wizardcraft in the time long passed were thought to have yellow or amber eyes such as yours while Greenwellians whom were similarly-gifted were thought to possess turquoise-hued eyes.”

Ethan listened to her explanation, and with a shrug at its conclusion he took it with a grain of salt. He knew better than to believe in Wizardcraft powers and the Wizards who were said to cast them. Of course, he knew many stories and legends of heroes during the Ancient Age who used Wizardcraft, but he was taught, and he knew, that they were just some flavorful exaggerations that accumulated on the old tales with each additional generation of the telling. He cleverly replied, “That is all well and good, milady, but it seems to me that you have avoided my original question. What of your eyes?”

She grinned like a little girl caught with her hand in a honey jar and replied, “Wendlithian lines whom were said to originate with Wizards are said to possess scarlet eyes.”

Ethan nodded and smiled back. “My name is Ethan.”

“Call me Scarlet, Ethan.”

“Well, Scarlet, you are a marvelous singer, and as I have found out tonight you are also a brilliant fighter. I’m pleased to be in your company.”

“And you, Ethan, are a very talented storyteller, a boon to the ancient traditions of the Barony of Vhar, but as I have seen tonight you are a miserable fighter.”

He chuckled at Scarlet’s good-natured jest, and finally lowered his satchel to the floor beside his chair. He enjoyed being in the company of the minstrel. She was very gorgeous of course and, well, he was a young man of passions and desires, but she was also obviously very knowledgeable about myths and history. Ethan replied to her jest with a question, “What are you doing this far north, so far from your homeland?”

“I am infected with wanderlust, Ethan. Are you not as well? As I encounter new people and cultures and adventure my collection of songs and skills continue to grow, as do I. Truth be told I have not been back to the Barony of Wendlith in many years.”

Ethan answered with a nod of understanding, but before he could say anything in response Scarlet continued, “And what of you, Ethan? Why are you, alone and poorly-equipped, traveling from your homeland? You are a trained storyteller, are you not? Are you aware that your talents will not be as appreciated outside of Vhar?”

“I have left my village in the Barony of Vhar because any bonds that had once connected me to those mountains have perished. And yes, I am well-aware that the art of storytelling, cherished as it is in my rural homeland, will be but a performance scheme to earn me a few coins at best in this barony. At worst I will become just some novelty act mocking the real traditions of the far north. That, Scarlet, is why I vowed to myself not to use my storytelling for profit or pleasure once I crossed the border into Greenwell.”