The Blackguard (Book 2) (4 page)

Two female middlins came hurrying over as Henrick hopped down, hugging him warmly and offering cheerful greetings. Henrick was half-dragged into the alehouse, leaving Alador by the wagon with his mouth hanging open. He became irritated that his father would leave him so, then belatedly remembered that he was nothing more than an apprentice. It would be his duty to see the wagon safely parked and the korpen stabled. He asked a nearby villager where Henrick’s wagon could be placed for the night, and, once he received his curt instructions, set about his tasks.

O
nly when he’d parked the wagon, stabled and fed the korpen, and seen to laying out their bedrolls beneath the wagon bed did Alador go into the alehouse. Night was falling by the time he ducked into the smoky, bustling building. Just like in Smallbrook, Henrick was surrounded by adults and elders. Their laughter and genuine joy at Henrick’s arrival drew Alador’s attention, and he went about finding a seat in the corner so he could closely watch his father. He could see no sign of spell-casting, nor did he see any use of items, yet the villagers seemed very comfortable in Henrick’s company.

Alador knew that not all enchanters were this well-received; they often set up their wagon on the edge of town and anyone who needed an enchantment would come to them. And now that Alador thought about it, Henrick had not always been so well received, that change had only come about four or five years ago, when people had begun to treat him as more of an honored guest. It was a puzzle Alador couldn’t solve. The only solution he could think of was how liberally Henric
k let the liquor flow about him,

Normally, a Daezun apprentice would see his master’s cup filled or a plate of food delivered, but that was not necessary tonight as Henrick’s cup was kept full and his plate of food had arrived just as Alador had entered. He made his way to the bar and met the large scowling keeper at the side. “I would like some ale and a plate of simple fare, sir,” Alador ordered casually, not really looking to the alehouse keeper. His eyes were still
on Henrick. It came as a shock, then, when Alador was grabbed by the shirt front and jerked across the counter.

“We don’t serve no dirty half-breeds in Oldmeadow.” The large man’s face was inches from Alador’s own surprised eyes for a few moments before he tossed Alador back like he
was no larger than a small one.

Alador hit the ground hard, knocking over a chair. He sat there stunned with shock. He’d been seen as different in Smallbrook, but he’d never been treated with such bold rudeness. He started to get up, but Henrick’s hand pressed down on his shoulder and his boot pinned Alador’s thigh in place.

“Now, Now Derent!  Surely you are not denying my apprentice some food to take back to our wagon?” Henrick’s manner was jovial as he smiled at the keeper. “I mean, I am sure my slips are good enough to cover his meager needs. Why, the lad cannot drink but a pint before he snores the night away. Perhaps if you gave him a true measure of your mead, I could get some sleep tonight, for it would put him soundly under.” Henrick stepped across Alador, leaving him on the floor. “Have a heart for me at the very least?” he slipped a full medure across the bar, his other hand was held to his chest.

There was a bit of nervous laughter about them, and Alador still sat stunned on the floor. The keeper slowly relaxed, glancing at Henrick and then the medure. “So he’s yours, Henrick? Surely you could pick a more striking lad or a homely woman for your needs?”  His eyes roved over Alador like he was some stray woman.

Alador shifted uncomfortably at the outright laughter of those about him as he realized that the keeper was implying that the two of them were mating. He felt his anger bubble up as his own father played into their laughter.

Henrick leaned across the bar to this Derent and murmured, “Not many take to traveling with an enchanter; beggars can’t be choosers, now can they? Besides, the boy has a sweet way about him.” Henrick winked at Derent, and when the keeper turned laughing outright to fetch a mug of apple mead, Henrick looked back with a glance so threatening that Alador said nothing as he made his way to his feet.

When a plate of food was laid on the bar along with a mug of mead, Henrick picked them up and handed them to Alador. “Go keep my robes warm, boy. When I am ready, I will seek you out.” 

Alador took the food and mug, his jaw clenched with anger he could barely contain. He stood glaring for a long moment at Henrick then glanced over to where Derent was pouring out another measure of mead from the large keg. Alador stared at it, imagining the keg overflowing. Henrick followed his gaze, then looked back at his son in warning, but Alador was already channeling his anger. The bung popped out with the pressure he created soaking the keeper with spewing apple mead. In the pleasing melody of Derent’s curses and nearby patrons’ shouts for the keeper to plug the keg up, Alador turned and left with his meal. He smiled slightly with satisfaction as he slipped out of the alehouse.

It was a good hour later before Henrick joined him at the wagon. Alador was working on fletching an arrow when his father appeared out of the darkness and sat down beside him, his face unreadable in the flickering lantern light. “I am not sure whether I should congratulate you or beat you senseless,” Henrick growled.

“You could have exposed yourself in a manner that I was not prepared to explain, especially since casual use of magic is not well received in Daezun villages and you well
and truly know this.” He had apparently decided on the middle ground and taken a tone of scolding.

Alador looked at him. “I would apologize, but the dung heap had it coming.”  He looked back down at his feathers and decided that he’d done enough for the night. He carefully wrapped them back up to slide into his fletching supplies.

“Be that as it may, Alador, you cannot go casting magic at everything that makes you angry.” Henrick sighed with exasperation.

“You let him think that I was…that we were...how could you do that?” The reason for Alador’s anger came spilling out. He glared at Henrick with indignation.

“I do not care what some low-minded, village alehouse keeper thinks. I do care about keeping my skin in one piece and the reputation I have intact. Besides, what do you care what he thinks?” Henrick glanced over in mild amusement. He plucked a blade of grass from beside him and began to chew on it absently.

“I don’t know! I just...” Alador growled in frustration. It had a feral edge to it, and he did not miss Henrick’s quick glance of interest. “I don’t like the idea of people thinking I’m not normal.”  He stilled his hands to look at his father.

Henrick chuckled. “You are a half-breed and a mage. You are not normal by most Daezun standards, Alador.” 

“But you scold me for using it. What’s the point of having magic if I can’t use it?” Alador asked, still packing up. “Besides, it’s not like it was obvious. I didn’t do anything that couldn’t have happened naturally.”

Henrick half chortled before he forced a more serious manner. “I will admit it was a bit amusing; I will also admit that I had a moment of pride as clearly you can improvise with how to use your power, which is good. However, Alador, magic is a tool that requires energy, and you only have so much to use. Careless use of magic may leave you personally drained when you have a need of it, and it pulls from the environment around you, remember. Magic ages you if you are forced to pull it when you are not rested and fed. Most importantly, it is disrespectful to the gods that grant it to you.”

Alador looked at his father in surprise. “I didn’t think you believed in the gods.” He could never remember his father talking about them.

“I keep my beliefs close to my heart. I do believe in the gods. I believe in the tales of the creation of dragons. I believe that magic is limited and that if it is not managed better, mortals will lose their access to it. I believe that when the last dragon falls, magic will die soon after.”  Henrick stared off into the darkness. His tone had taken an edge of melancholy.

Alador was quiet for a time, digesting this new side to his father. “Why do you not stand up to the council about what the Lerdenians are doing in the bloodmines?” he asked softly.

“I am one man, Alador. I am patient, and I prefer to move behind the scenes. My hope is that the dragons will put a stop to it, but they do not seem to recognize their trapped kin as true dragons.” Henrick spoke as if he were in deep grief.

Alador stared at his father. Henrick’s face was unreadable, but there had clearly been emotion in that statement. “Is there a way to make them understand?”

Henrick pulled off his boots before he answered Alador. “If there is, I haven’t seen it yet.  One or two probably do see, but to take the bloodmines would be to declare war, in a manner of speaking. The dragons are already hunted. I doubt they want a war,” Henrick pointed out as he rolled under the wagon and into his bedroll.

Alador threw his bag in the back of the wagon and picked up the lantern, then crawled in from the other side, deep in thought. It seemed to him that, whether dragons liked it or not, they were at war already. As he moved to turn out the light, his father spoke one last time.

“Alador,” he began.

“Yes father?” Alador looked over his shoulder, his hand pausing on the light.

“You ever pull a stunt like that again, and I will personally teach you the meaning of pain.” Henrick’s statement was casual in its delivery, yet it held an edge of seriousness.

Alador couldn’t help but
smile as he answered, “Understood.” He turned out the light and lay thinking about these new revelations long after his father’s snores interrupted the peaceful melodies of the night.

Chapter Three

Alador’s sleep was restless, his mind was filled with the lessons he’d learned about magic. His heart longed for Mesiande and his family. He wanted the safety of the village. He couldn’t find sleep at first, but after a while, the repetitive sounds of the night birds and insects slowly lulled him from his thoughts. The sounds blended and merged and soon became the sound of waves, pulling Alador deep into a dream.
 

Renamaum was perched on a cliff overlooking the sea. It was windy as he stared out at the endless waves. The normally-placid waters were as agitated today as the dragon’s heart; their depths were grey and murky instead of sapphire, and they were crested with foam that was speckled brown from the stirred-up ocean floor. The sea birds sailed on the wind without the need for flapping, and a mortal ship bobbed far out in the distance, trying to stay upright on the angry waters.

He had felt his father’s arrival before he heard him: his sire was one of the eldest dragons of Vesta. His presence could be sensed from a long distance.

“A fine day for floating on the sky.” His father’s booming tones carried enough to agitate the birds below them, and his large frame made the rocks tremble as he landed.

Renamaum looked at his father, his anger seething. He could not hide his outrage as he glared at his sire. “Better one for fighting,” Renamaum snarled.

The large male lumbered closer to his son. “You are like a scavenger, so hungry for blood that you do not care if it is your own tail you bite.” His sire shook his head sadly. “Why should I send my son to die for mortals that would feast upon his blood?”

“Not all mortals believe in such things. Some still honor the past and the way,” Renamaum reminded his father. His tail swished behind him in agitation, clearing the ground and vegetation. Pebbles flew left and right with each sweep.

”
And those mortals are losing their battles. Soon all that will remain are those that break the pact and seek only their own glory.” Renamaum’s sire looked out at the water.

“Go to Rheagos!” Renamaum beseeched his father, his tone pleading.

“Rheagos rarely involves himself in mortal affairs.” His father eyed Renamaum. “Why do you care so much if these mortals destroy themselves or not?”

“I care because I see in them the hope of Vesta. Our minds are not one of creation, but they create such magnificent things. They live such short lives and so live them desperately as if they might miss a single moment. They find wonder where many see the natural way of things.” Renamaum spoke with passion. There had to
be a way. “Please, Sire, go to Rheagos. He does not have to become involved. Just give those that fight for the old ways and the pact something that will equal the battlefield.”

His father stared at him in silence for a long while. The crashing waves below them seemed to match the rhythm of Renamaum’s beating heart while he waited knowing th
at this was a time of decision.

“I will go on one condition,” his father finally announced. “I do not promise success, but I will see our golden cousin if you agree.”

“Anything!” Renamaum turned to face his father fully, his heart racing with hope.

“You do not enter the fight.”  His father’s voice was firm, but quiet, and he did not look at Renamaum.

His father’s words cut deeply, and Renamaum began to argue. But all things had a cost, even magic, and he knew that. If staying on the fringes and not joining the fight would give the ones called Daezun an edge, then he would agree. “As you desire,” Renamaum finally conceded, dropping his head in dejection.

“I know you hold your word and in this I am most pleased to call you son. I will seek this gift and do so avidly, for the healing of my own fledgling’s heart.” The large blue dragon launched himself into the sky.

Renamaum stood in the wind, watching the waves roll in. The ocean, like his own heart, was relentless in its purpose. He knew deep down that the only way to save magic was to save the mortals that fought to possess it. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew it as surely as he could see the school of fish skimming the waves below. Deciding he was hungry, Renamaum dove off the cliff, his body angling to hit the water at its deepest point.
 

A
lador woke to the sounds of morning village activity: the chopping of wood, the giddy voices of middlin women, the sounds of the roosters declaring the day. He smiled groggily, glad that his nightmare was finally over, only to groan as he realized he was really under the wagon and not in his bed in Smallbrook. His smile quickly turned into a frown, and his mind went over the dream he’d had last night. As usual, it was like he’d been seeing through the eyes of the dragon. He had felt Renamaum’s anger at being denied the ability to fight. He had sensed his hunger when he had seen the fish. Alador sighed softly. These dreams were never really of much use, as far as he could tell, but they were definitely becoming more vivid.

He shifted slightly in his bedroll and got a second reminder he was not in his own bed when a rock dug into his spine. He rolled over to see Henrick staring at him. Alador blinked a couple more times to make sure he wasn’t imagining things, but no, there was the face of his handsome father. Henrick’s lavender eyes bore into Alador as if seeing through him. “What? I haven’t been awake long enough to cause more trouble!” Alador whispered with concern at the strange way his father was staring at him. It was disconcerting.

Henrick searched his face for a moment before answering. “Yes, a proper apprentice would have been up and had me some warm tea and a meal by now,” he answered.

Alador groaned realizing his father was right. He should have woken before Henrick if they were going to continue their ruse. He peered out from under the wagon, but it was still very early. “I’ll get the fire going and set to heating some water,” Alador offered quickly. He moved to roll out from under the wagon, but Henrick stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. His father looked at him for a long moment with an expression of concern.

“Wait. I think there is something...” Henrick trailed off and shook his head. “No, it had best wait till we are on our way.”  He frowned and let go of Alador.

Alador gave him a puzzled glance, but rolled out from under the wagon and pulled his boots on. He made sure Henrick’s were in reach and then set about doing all the things a proper apprentice would be doing; stoking the small fire back to life, putting water on to heat, and laying out some cheese and fruit for their breakfast. Someone had left a bag of apples at the edge of their small encampment. They were early and a little green, but they would make a nice contrast to the cheese.

While Henrick pulled on his boots, Alador set about the village to find one of the women willing to part with some bread for a trading token. He still had a few left from his night when the traders had visited. By the time he returned, Henrick was digging into the cheese and took the offered bread gratefully. Alador made them both tea and sat back to wait. It wouldn’t do for him to take from his “master’s” plate, and they were already getting plenty of strange looks as villagers wandered about on their morning tasks. Aside from the fields of apple trees that surrounded the village, Oldmeadow really did seem so much like home.

For a time, Alador spent the morning watching as Henrick saw to the few enhancements the villagers brought to him. It was all simple fare: one villager offered a slip to see his bow given an enchantment of accuracy, while another came asking for something to keep the ground pests from her garden.

One by one, Henrick saw to each of these. The last request, however, came from the head of the circle of elders. Alador watched the exchange with interest. It was getting warmer and the biting insects were out in force; he batted at them absently, but didn’t let them distract him from watching. The elder had seemed hesitant to approach Henrick, whose amused posture gave Alador a clue that his father was well aware of that fact.

“Greetings Enchanter Henrick, and may the dragons ever avoid your steps,” the man called formally.
 

‘
Greetings Elder Caneth; I assure you that dragons stay far from my path,” Henrick called back with a lopsided grin.

The elder smiled. “I’m sure they do. I’ve come, actually, on business of dragons.”  Caneth moved to stand in front of Henrick.

Henrick lost his lazy posture, becoming a bit tense as he eyed the elder. “Unusual business to see an enchanter for. A matter of dragons, you say?” He eyed the other man with closer scrutiny, clasping his hands behind his back.

“These are unusual times, wouldn’t you agree, Henrick?” Caneth glanced at Alador and back to Henrick.

Not one to be baited, Henrick didn’t look at his son. “They are indeed. What can I do for you on this matter of dragons?” He smiled with his usual disarming grin.

Caneth took a breath before answering. “I wish for you to ward the orchards against dragons,” he requested formally.

Henrick was quiet for a long time. Shielding his eyes from the rising sun, he peered at the orchards that surrounded the village, then looked back at Caneth. “I fear that I cannot do that,” he answered with an unusual edge to his voice. “Why ask for such? You have never been concerned before.”

“Cannot, or will not?” Caneth murmured stroking his beard with a frown. “We have heard of a dragon attack on Smallbrook. We cannot afford to lose the trees. This crop is how the village maintains itself with slips for goods through the winter. It must be protected.”

“I understand your concern, but what you ask is beyond my skills. I am afraid that I cannot do this. Such a powerful ward would be quite beyond my ability to cast,” the mage restated. “But I am rather sure that you will find your crops are safe from fire and acids,” he offered in consolation. He dropped his arms again, further relaxing.

“Smallbrook was not safe,” Caneth pointed out, clearly disappointed that the enchanter was refusing him.

“True enough. But you have a small advantage over Smallbrook.” Henrick grinned slightly, but Alador could see that the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“I fail to see our advantage. If anything, a fire would be more devastating.” Caneth was obviously growing upset.

“A truth, yes, however, dragons are rather fond of apples,” Henrick offered, his voice softening to ease the mood of the elder. “I do not see them burning such a delicacy. Devouring it perhaps, but never destroying it. Why not try this as your ward: up on the top of the hill, plant some trees. Keep them watered and fresh as you can and leave the apples there for the dragons. I am sure that soon word would spread to protect Oldmeadow, for here you honor dragons.”

Caneth eyed Henrick for a long moment. “Are you sure this would work?” he asked, the tone of his voice colored by doubt.

Henrick shrugged. “There is little in life that is certain, Elder Caneth. Each must do their best in the moment and hope it was enough. However, I am certain that such a gesture will not go unmissed.” Henrick relaxed slightly. “Not to mention it would cost you little for the effort, and you would not be giving slips for a very expensive enchantment.” Henrick smiled with more genuine mirth.

Caneth nodded. “I will see it done. Paying for an enchantment didn’t sit well with the council, so this plan should make many a good deal happier. I only pray the dragons are patient enough for the trees to grow large enough to bear fruit.”

Henrick nodded. “That is the thing about dragon; they are often willing to wait a great deal of time for the smallest of pleasures. Unlike our own races, time is rather on their side.”

Alador watched as the two men shook hands and Caneth had moved off before he approached his father. “How do you know so much about dragons?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Henrick answered, putting away the items he had withdrawn to assist him in his tasks. They’d only earned a meager amount from enchanting, but then, Henrick didn’t
seem too concerned with slips.

“Try me,” Alador stated firmly, standing with his arms crossed and watching his father. Surely nothing his
father could say would be any stranger than the events he’d already faced since digging up the stone.

Henrick looked at him for a moment, then grinned. “I made friends with one,” he offered.

Alador stared at the mage in disbelief, blinking a few times as the words worked through his head. “I was serious. I mean, what dragon would make friends with a Lerdenian? Do they even talk?”  His curiosity overcame his disbelief.

“I told you that you would not believe me. And, just so you know, they can talk in the common tongue if they choose.” Henrick put his things in the wagon. “Best go fetch the korpen. It is time we were on our way.”

Alador sighed and turned to fetch the korpen. The village was now well into its daily routines, and few bothered to take note of him. He fetched some wormy apples that had fallen from the orchards and used those to entice the korpen to the wagon. The korpen were content in their pen, though, and didn’t want to leave. It took Alador a great deal of coaxing to get them moving, and he had to bribe them all the way to the wagon. Even then, Henrick still had to help him get them in the traces.

The entire time, Alador wondered if his father had been serious. It was unheard of for a Lerdenian to “make friends” with a dragon. In the Great War, the dragons that had been willing to fight had done so on the side of the Daezun. Surely, he’d been joking. Yet Alador had to admit that his father often spoke with great authority on the subject, and he spoke as if he knew them well. How else could he know them well unless he’d been telling the truth? Alador shook his head. No, it must have been just another of his father’s jokes.