The Wheelwright's Apprentice (35 page)

Baron Edgurd thought to fill the silence. “We’re only here to observe. Today’s events will affect the whole region.” He was visibly nervous compared to Art, who seemed to be oozing authority and control.

The door opened and the guard corporal came through. Eyes followed him as he reported to the guard captain, who had been waiting inside. Once he had heard what the corporal had to say, the Captain almost ran over to the Queen and said. “Your Majesty, there are nearly twenty Galland adepts outside, asking for an audience.”

“Is the Count one of them?”

“No ma’am, they said he wasn’t.”

“Let two of them in. I want to know where he is.” She let out a sigh. “Everyone here wants to know!”

55

Arch and Beech were the two Galland adepts who entered. Once they had paid their respects to Queen Faria, Art conjured chairs for them beside him. It was the Queen’s privilege to ask the question everyone wanted answered. “Where is the Count?”

“We have no idea,” Arch replied. “He told us to find you.”

“That was all?”

Beech answered that one. “If he wasn’t here, and he doesn’t seem to be, we were to wait.”

The silence lengthened, and the level of tension was rising fast, when the unconscious adept began to stir in his chair.

While attention was focused on him, Beech whispered to Art, “What’s been going on?”

“Two different people tried me out. He was one of them.” He lowered his voice as much as he could. “The other was Faria. She doesn’t know I know.”

Two or three minutes passed while Queen Faria assured herself that her adept was unharmed, if shaken. He spoke. “Milord Art, I am Yeroman, and I’m interested to know why I still live. My attack was, I admit, meant to kill.”

Art thought for a few seconds and then answered, “I don’t look at the I stillworld the same way you do. You might have guessed that already. I could say that your death would have invited all your colleagues to attack me. It wasn’t that. I already said that I’m strong enough to withstand them all. Strong enough not to have to kill. Adepts such as you are the most valuable resource a country has. There is no end to the good they can do over their long lives. Trained as a healer, for instance, you could save thousands of lives and make more thousands live much better lives. Why would I want to kill anyone who could do that?” For a moment his expression became much more serious. “I have killed four adepts, and I will kill if I must, but I don’t like it.”

Art impressed everyone. His stance shouted, “I am the strongest here. I dare you to call my bluff.” Thing was, it didn’t look like a bluff at all. The Jeereans didn’t know what to think of him, which was obviously what he wanted. Ellary felt a thrill as she saw her man begin to dominate the room, an emotion tempered by her worry that he mightn’t live through the day.

There was a small commotion at the entrance, after which the guard captain came over to Art and said, loudly, for others to hear, “Your groom wants to come in and talk to you.”

Art frowned, then after a moment, started laughing hard, and had to force himself to recover. Queen Faria was peeved. “Please share the joke, Art. We all want to know.”

He stood up and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I think my father has at last decided to reveal himself. I believe he wanted to be the last player to arrive, and has worn a disguise until now. Do you want to see if I’m right?” When no one said anything he nodded to the Captain. “Bring him in.”

The groom was still clutching a sodden hat when he entered. During his slow walk towards them, he first shucked his heavy overcoat, dried what he had to, and slowly transformed from lackey to Lord. As Art had predicted, the Count had arrived.

A few muted whispers were all that could be heard. Nobody wanted to be the first to speak. They were all waiting on the Count. Not until he reached his accustomed spot between and slightly ahead of Arch and Beech, did he say anything. “Greetings, Queen Faria. Well met my friends. It is truly a privilege to see so many of you here to witness the joining of Jeerea with Galland.”

Queen Faria stood, and in a voice augmented by her Will, said, “How kind of you to come all this way to swear fealty to me and mine.” Her bearing had been transformed. She was now strong, charismatic and confident. “Or did you perhaps come to propose marriage?”

The Count broke up into a laugh which was both amused and chilling at the same time. “I have been married since I was a teenager, and am not free to pursue you. Of course I am flattered that you think me a worthy prospect.” He laughed again; however, the amusement wasn’t there any more.

Faria’s demeanour was all that you would expect from an adept who had ruled for over a hundred years. She knew all about holding an audience, and more importantly, never showing any weakness. “That’s a shame. I thought you brought your adepts to be witnesses at our wedding.”

The Count wasn’t interested in her light banter, and shouted, “Enough! You know I’m here to kill you or take your oath.” He cackled. “I would prefer to kill you. It’s so much more entertaining.” He turned and waved his hands. “Let the rest of my friends in.” The doorway collapsed and the rest of the Galland adepts eased their way quietly inside. He spun back towards the Queen. “What’s it to be rest of then? Oath or death.”

Her reply was an explosion that shredded a block of wood that appeared in front of his face, a hole that appeared beneath him, and a spout of water from the millstream that was aimed to fill his mouth and nostrils. That was the intention, but he had flitted. He had chosen the same patterned spot that Art had used earlier. “So it’s to be death.”

* * *

A few miles away, King Daron’s carriage was making slow progress. The rain had made the roadway, such as it was, into a very muddy track. The ambassador had gone to sit by the driver not only to keep him dry and let him see where he was going, but also to smooth the road ahead as well as he could. Inside the carriage, Damon was worried. “We need to be there now. What if it all finishes before we get there?”

The King was a lot more relaxed. “They will have been slowed down as well.”

Iria pointed out the obvious flaw in his thinking. “We are in a carriage. Horses slow down but they don’t get stuck in the mud! We all should do what we can to help.” The carriage lurched, prompting Iria to gasp and Damon to steady Red. “If we all pool our Wills, we should be able to do something really useful.”

“Any suggestions?” Evorin was offering his help but obviously didn’t have any ideas.

“The thing,” Damon suggested, “is to ask ourselves what Art would do.”

Iria giggled. “That’s easy. He would tell your Majesty to get on top of the carriage along with Earl Damon. He would instruct the ambassador to extend the rain free zone as far forward as he could, and get one of you to continuously dry the road ahead while the other one hardened it.”

They all looked at her. Damon remarked, “He wasn’t a bad influence after all, was he?”

“We had better do as Art suggested, hadn’t we?” King Daron said in an amused but urgent tone.

Once they had rearranged themselves, their progress became a lot easier.

* * *

Everyone in the saw mill instinctively backed away from the two combatants. All the soldiers were quick to leave regardless of the horrible weather outside. They knew how dangerous it was about to become, and had no way of defending themselves against the Willed. Ellary was the only one left inside without the Will. She knew Art would protect her.

The Count boomed out his voice. “My friends will not interfere unless your adepts try anything. They have already raised a barrier to stop anyone from flitting away until we’ve finished. I want it to be a fair fight.” He twisted his face slowly into a gargoyle. “It’s so much more rewarding to kill someone on your own!”

Her reply was a volley of needle sharp icicles, taken and frozen from the millstream and aimed at his back. She flitted and appeared by the waterwheel. He flitted and appeared at a spot near the entrance. Some of the icicles bounced off a barrier near Art. Damoten whispered to Art, “There must be so many barriers up in here that anything could bounce off anywhere.”

Art shifted his chair around slightly. “I need to watch this closely. My hope is that he wants to play with her for a bit and use up some energy. It’s a pity that we can’t see a lot of what they’re doing.”

“I know. You have to a bit anguess most of the time. Look, I think your father is playing.” A spare circular saw blade was spinning through the air. It wasn’t homing in on Faria, but was floating around the room, a distraction for something else, but what? Faria wasn’t waiting to find out. She flitted again, this time to a spot behind the Count. The blade zoomed straight at her, and this time she had to fend it off, sending it back to the Count. “She’s troubled, but I don’t know why. Did you notice that fleeting expression?”

“Yes, I did,” was Art’s reply. “I believe he got close enough to stop her flitting, and when she tried to, she couldn’t. Looks like he’s getting impatient already.” Faria was running towards the farthest wall, and then flitted. “That’s interesting. She was twenty five feet or so away when she failed to flit and fifty feet away when she succeeded. All these little bits of information are useful.”

The Count wasn’t moving. Neither was Faria. Ellary, who had been holding tightly onto Art’s arm, asked, “What’s happening now?”

Art whispered back, “It could be almost anything. There are all sorts of things we can’t see. Cutting off air, interfering with the inside of the body, and there are many attacks that can get neutralized or deflected before we even know they have been tried. Wait and see.”

The stand-off continued for a while. It was probably not as long as it seemed. The tension made time seem to move at a different speed. At least until there was a flurry of action which brought everyone’s focus back into sharp relief. Faria vanished, and the Count almost immediately afterwards. A cloud of sawdust billowed over a quarter of the room as one of them tried to locate the other, without any luck. The saw blade started moving again. It wasn’t clear who was moving it, but it did show where the duelists were, or more properly, where they weren’t. Another saw blade swung into view and started quartering a different portion of the room, ripping straight through the waterwheel. Art could almost feel shields being strengthened against the saw blades. Abruptly they both reappeared near what was left of the waterwheel.

They were facing each other no more than ten feet apart. The Count was grandstanding. “I’ve got you now.” There was no verbal reply, simply a tightening around the Queen’s eyes. What she was trying, and failing to do, was unclear. Her legs, which were set apart, slowly inched together.

Art leaned over to Ellary again. “It’s over, even if she hasn’t realized it yet. Once her legs are together, he’ll continue to crush them and the rest of her.” He leaned over and kissed her long and deep. When he drew away, he said, “Thanks, I needed that encouragement.” He then stood up and walked over to the antagonists, while many of those in the room were wondering what he was doing. Some knew.

By now Faria looked like she was in a bit of distress. The expression on the Count’s face said it all. He was not just smiling, but grinning in a more than mad fashion. Although the saw blade was still floating around and Faria wasn’t giving up, he knew he had won. The spectators could almost see the blood lust emanating out of him. They were tensing themselves for the coup de grace.

All except Art, who stopped almost between them and again made the offer he had set out earlier. “This is your last chance, Faria. You have lost and will be dead in minutes, if not sooner. Swear to me now and I will make sure you live.” When there was no reply except a look of arrogance, he added, “The longer you defy him, the more energy he will use and the easier it will be for me. Don’t say you thought your figheptt was going to be anything more than a sideshow today.” He stepped back several paces and waited.

Faria said nothing. This may not have been due to her wish to continue her struggle. Art guessed that his father had made a point of muting any thing she might have said. He was focused on the kill and wasn’t going to let his prey escape. Inch by inch, after her legs had been forced together, other parts of her body were compressed.

Rather than watch the bloody and merciless end, Art went back to Ellary and held her close, recharging himself. “I will act as soon as she is dead.” He then turned to Beech and Arch, still seated where he had left them. “You know what I have to do?” he asked them. They gave solemn nods. “The others will stop anyone flitting away?”

“Yes, “ Beech replied. “He knew you would be able to work it out, and he knew you would have the confidence to face him.” There was a loud crack coming from the combatants. It was the wooden floor underneath Faria. She was being compressed the same way as Draman had been and some of the floorboards had been caught in the constricting bubble.

Arch commented, “It’ll be about another five minutes. Then it’s your turn.” Predictably, Ellary started crying. She dreaded what was coming next.

56

Art waited a minute or two while the Count continued his slow but merciless destruction of Queen Faria. Even though his madness was propelling his actions, it was clear that decades if not centuries of antipathy compelled him to make the process as drawn out and painful as possible. When he heard the first loud crack as one of her major bones snapped, Art came to a decision. He whispered to the Baron and Milord Damoten, “I’m going to step in now. Please look after Ellary.” He faced her and pulled her to him. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. It’s better if this is settled quickly.” She didn’t let him go easily. Standing, he told Arch and Beech, “If Faria lives, keep her from interfering.”

Art moved confidently, and acted before the Count knew he was intervening. He Willed the whole section of floor that the Count was standing on to separate and throw him towards a wall. Indirect action against an adept tended to work very well. The Count flitted to another point he had remembered, but the need to change his focus to Art was enough to free Queen Faria from her shrinking prison.

“What’s the matter, boy?” his father boomed out. “Squeamish at the sight of a little blood? You shouldn’t have got me angry by depriving me of my pleasure. That’ll only make me stronger.” One of the loose saw blades picked itself up and started floating around, seemingly with intent. Art ignored it as it was only a distraction.

“I don’t like seeing adepts killed. It’s too much of a waste. You’re different. Your time is up.” A large and growing sphere of water, taken from the mill stream, started forming. It was spinning slowly, gathering size as it did. Whoever was responsible was making another attempt at confusion.

Art had not wasted his time only watching the fight between the Queen and his father; he had been marshaling all the different experiences he had to call on as motivators for strengthening his Will. During the ride over he had gone through them, and had been surprised at how many he had accumulated, and how compelling many of them were. The list was longer than he had imagined, and so many of the memories were clear,to him. vital and usable. Regardless of the tricks and stratagems he might be able to dream up for a fight, these were the true weapons that would make the difference.

Barring the massacre in Dane’s Hamlet that had awakened his abilities, almost all of them had been given to him, directly or indirectly, at his father’s behest. His father had become a ruling adept, if he read the hints and clues correctly, when he had been hardly older than Art was now. Had his father, Art wondered, contrived to have him undergo the same sort of experiences that had helped strengthen his father in his youth? Was it that the trials he had been set were designed to mirror those his father had undergone? Did the clear sharpness of these defining and molding events have a greater effect if they came at such a young and impressionable point in one’s life? He hoped he would live long enough to find the answers.

His attention swung back to the moment. Faria was unconscious on the floor, but still alive. There was a barely perceptible movement coming from her chest. It seemed loyalty in Jeerea was a very fickle thing as none of her adepts had made any sort of move to help her.

He took several steps towards his father. “I’m not going to flit away and I’m not going to turn myself invisible. I don’t need to. All the adepts here are going to see that I am a worthy successor and strong enough to hold not just Galland together, but the whole region.” The Count was suddenly blown back twenty feet or so. Art had moved the air from behind him to in front of him. It was another indirect move. Adepts were well defended against attacks on themselves, but not their surroundings. The idea was simply to put his father off balance as a big part of any fight among adepts was in the mind. Some would say it was all in the mind.

The Count kept his balance and called back, “Little tricks won’t get you anywhere. You took away my fun, so I’m going to have fun with you.” The floor beneath Art vanished and he decided to let himself fall. It might be a good idea to let his father think he had the upper hand. He dug himself further under, using his Will, and tunneled his way about fifty feet towards the spot where the Galland adepts had congregated. It was his turn to make an entrance. He exploded up through the ground, splattering gobbets of earth and wood all around.

“Another parlour trick? Trying to impress your girl?” The Count had the saw blade streak for Art’s head from behind. Only to have it diverted to the back of his own head as it was about to strike.

“Your tricks won’t work on me either!” The Count was getting angry now. Although Art knew the anger would strengthen his Will, he also knew that it would affect his judgment. Art strode purposefully towards his father. It was time to try out the compressing trick that his opponent had used on Faria. For motivation he chose his months spent learning under his father’s weapons master. It had been a truly painful and exhausting time, a time he couldn’t even muster the energy to eat, all at his father’s command. The sphere he conjured started as a wall in front of him and curved towards and around the Count. At least that was what should have happened. The Count had the same idea and both met somewhere between them. It was another of those times when a lot was happening but none of the observers could see anything. A few of the older adepts could see minute movements of lips and little crinkles around the eyes as telltale signs that something big was going on, but no one could say what.

Art had a choice: he could raise his pressure and try to push his sphere over his father’s, or he could drop it and try a different approach. He didn’t have to think long. Ife th he dropped his sphere, his father’s would be all over him. He added his revulsion at the raiders who had destroyed his village and pushed harder. The spheres seemed to move towards the Count, though, since neither of them could see, only feel, it was a bit subjective. Moments later, Art felt his father pushing back. It was as if a raging bull was battering away at his barriers. He redoubled his efforts, recalling as many painful and emotional experiences as he could. The pressure eased off slightly, and then came again even stronger. Try as he might, he felt his father’s sphere begin to enclose him. What could he do? What other strengths did he have to throw at his father? The sphere tightened over him as he wracked his brain for ideas.

The carriage containing King Daron of Waygand, Red, who was oblivious to the world, and the others, reached the saw mill at last. Since the Jeerean soldiers could see from the way the rain sheeted away from them that they had to be adepts, they were quickly guided to the doorway. The soldiers didn’t want anything to do with any adept until events inside had sorted themselves out. Evorin and Earl Damon were again sharing the duty of carrying Red. Upon entering, nobody noticed them. All eyes were riveted on the combatants, as Art was now noticably having a hard time. He and everyone around him had known that the Count, in his deranged state was always going to do his utmost to win. He had banked everything on making Art strong enough regardless. The scene that met King Daron and his friends was not encouraging.

Earl Damon and Evorin pushed forward to get a better view, and when they did, they saw Ellary, Milord Damoten and Baron Edgurd and the vacant chair between them. With a mutual nod of their heads, they agreed to put Red down there, and made their way over. Still nobody had noticed them, all attention being on the duelists. Their route was well away from the contest, but when they crossed the Count’s line of sight, he wavered. Seeing his love in such a place must have been the first genuine shock he had had in generations. His control faltered, and Art, who had by now been bent over almost double, straightened up and dumped the almost forgotten spinning sphere of water all over his father’s head. The tension in the room broke and heads turned to see what had happened.

“Clever boy to have friends with such good timing,” the Count observed, in his best stage voice. “You still have no chance. I’ll try something a bit more entertaining now the audience is bigger.”

There was little time for any introductions. Red was placed carefully in the chair while they merely nodded at those they knew. The battle had already been rejoined, and this time the two saw blades were floating around, spinning furiously. They rushed around between the two of them at head height, describing figures of eight. After a bit the spectators could see that every time they swung around, they came just a bit closer to their heads.

Art had a tact
ic. Every time a blade came near him, he added another clear memory for more motivation. He even added the small ones he had forgotten about earlier, like his embarrassment at the jottin seller’s cart, and the time when the bloated corpse’s fluids hit him in the face. Then he added his pain when he first rode a horse. The more motivators he used, the harder it became as he had to keep them all at the forefront of his mind. It seemed to be working. In the last few turns, the blades had stopped coming any closer to him. Trouble was they weren’t getting any closer to the Count either. It was an impasse which he had to break somehow, and fast. He wracked his brain because he needed to find another, strong motivational memory. Like a revelation, it came to him. If he needed to find another usefuol fl experience, all he had to do was create one. At last, fully confident, he called out to the Count, “Goodbye, Father, and thanks for everything!” Immediately afterwards, the blades sliced through the Count’s head, one vertically and the other horizontally. His torso fell slowly to the floor while every eye followed it.

Every eye except Art’s. He was already striding towards Ellary whom he swept into his arms. Hugging her closely and wiping her tears away, he did glance at Red who was now stirring. Seeing her beginning to wake was confirmation enough for him that the the Count was finally dead. Choking back her tears, Ellary at last managed to ask, “What happened, it looked like you had reached a stalemate, how did you break it?”

Art cradled her head in his hands, kissed her, then drew back and caught her eyes. “I needed another strong memory, so I invented one. It was of you and my daughter being torn limb from limb by my father after I had lost. I couldn’t allow that to happen, now, could I?”