Warden (4 page)

The bladebeak released its grip on his hand, and Errol used the opportunity to untie the younger bird, which stood amazingly still until he had removed the strip of shirt from its legs. Then it dashed over to its parent, rubbing itself lovingly against the larger bird’s legs.

The adult bird continued looking at Errol, gazing at him in a way that made him nervous, as if assessing him. Errol was pretty certain it was preparing to strike; he had battled it earlier – come close to killing it, in fact – and had badly frightened its child. On top of that, it was a predatory animal; killing other living things was in its nature.

When the adult bladebeak moved its head, Errol was positive that it was the killing blow, probably coming to take his head off. Instead, the bird’s head dipped under its wing, where it seemed to shuttle its beak back and forth as if looking for something. After a few moments, the head withdrew, holding in its beak a brilliant indigo feather – a color that Errol had not noticed amongst its plumage.

The bird extended its head towards Errol, dipping its beak down until it was about level with Errol’s stomach. It appeared to be offering the indigo feather to him. Slowly, he turned up his right palm and extended his hand until it was just below the bird’s bill.

Unexpectedly, the bird made a jerking motion with its head, and the next second Errol inhaled sharply as he felt a stinging pain in his hand. The quill of the feather, as sharp as a needle, had pierced his palm. As a result, the feather itself was sticking straight up from the center of his hand.

The adult bladebeak gave him one final glance, and then warbled again before moving off into the depths of the forest with its offspring following close behind. Errol gingerly pulled the feather out of his palm, simultaneously watching the birds walk away.

A short time later, having retraced his steps, he found himself back in the clearing. On the ground where he had left the adult bladebeak, he found the remains of his bola. Apparently, while he was rescuing its offspring from the pit, the bird had recovered, somehow gotten the piece of bark off its beak, and then used its bill to saw through the bola’s cord. Then, of course, it had come after him.

Marveling at how he had survived this latest encounter, Errol spent a few minutes searching the nearby underbrush until he located his sword, and then headed home.

Chapter 4

They were waiting for him when he got back to the Station House later that afternoon – two Wardens (recognized as such by the telltale black uniforms they wore, like Errol himself) and a scribe whose head had been shaved bald. The
“
guests” Errol had mentioned to Berry earlier.

This was a moment Errol had been dreading ever since his brother Tom had disappeared. Although he had, by almost every measure, been providing stellar service as Warden of Stanchion, he did not officially have the position. In fact, even the title of
“
acting Warden” was something that he had bestowed upon himself. Truth be told, Errol had no authority whatsoever to perform the duties he had taken on, or to even be staying at the Station House.

That said, it was fairly common for someone in Errol’s position to inherit the title of Warden. His brother had been the previous Warden (and in Errol’s opinion, still was), as had their father before him. Thus, the fact that Errol had assumed the duties of the position was not without precedent. Still, much as a prince might inherit the title of
“
king” from his father but lack the ability to rule, someone who came into the title of Warden might not have the necessary skill set. That being the case, these men were here to test Errol.

What was probably more surprising than anything else, however, was the fact that Errol actually wanted to pass this examination. There was a time in the not-too-distant past when the thought of being Warden was abhorrent to him. Now, however, he wanted it more than almost anything – not so much because he wanted to be Warden, but more so because of what it said about his brother. Basically, the way Errol saw it, any failure on his part was a reflection on Tom, and his brother had always been a first-class Warden. There was no way Errol was going to allow his name and reputation to be smeared or besmirched. Not if he could help it.

In addition, becoming Warden was the only way to firmly preserve the position for Tom. Stanchion needed a Warden, and if one were appointed during Tom’s absence, then that person would have superior claim on the title. In other words, Tom wouldn’t be able to become Warden again if another person was put into the position during his absence. However, if Errol himself became Warden, he could simply resign in favor of Tom whenever his brother returned. At least, that was the plan.

As he approached the Station House, Errol sized up the men waiting for him. One of them he recognized: a big, grizzled Warden named Bander who had been a contemporary of his father. With nut-brown skin and dark hair that was just beginning to gray, Bander was one of the most famous Wardens alive. He was revered by (and practically legendary among) most Wardens. More than that, he was also a decent human being; by way of example, he had made a special trip to Stanchion to pay his respects after the death of Errol’s father.

The other Warden was not anyone that Errol recognized. Almost as tall as Bander but far more rotund, he went by the name of Prap. Callous in manner and slovenly in appearance, Errol immediately got a bad vibe from him.

The third man, the scribe (whom Errol recognized as such by his robes), was called Till. While he did not trigger the same level of negative response in Errol that Prap had, he would soon learn that Till had a no-nonsense demeanor and was practical to the point of being insufferable.

“
Good evening,” Bander said congenially when Errol got within earshot.

“
Evening, Bander,” Errol replied.
“
I’ve been expecting you.”

Bander acknowledged this with a nod, then introduced his companions. Errol couldn’t help but notice that they were all eyeing his clothes. He was still wearing the shirt that had been clawed by the bladebeak (and subsequently ripped by Errol himself), which – despite being dark in color – was now visibly bloodstained.

“Rough day,
Warden
?” Prap asked, emphasizing the last word in a way that suggested Errol was unworthy of the designation.

“
Regular
day,” Errol replied, trying to remain civil despite being irritated by the man’s tone.

Frowning, Prap opened his mouth, clearly intending to say something less than genteel, but Bander cut him off.

“
I hope you don’t mind,” he said,
“
but we took the liberty of watering our horses and stabling them in your barn.”

“Not at all,” Errol replied. “Please, come in.”

*****

Although they’d actually had the right to enter once they arrived at the Station House, Errol’s visitors hadn’t done so. Their waiting until he returned so that he could invite them in – something Bander had probably insisted on – was a sign of respect for him as Warden.

Once inside, Errol went to the pantry where, as expected, he found his evening meal. This was one of the few perks of the job: the people of the various wards cooked and provided the meals for the Wardens, with the duties typically being rotated among the residents on a regular basis. In Stanchion, if no one was around to receive it (as had been the case this particular day), the meal would be left in the Station House pantry.

Word had gotten around that Errol would be having company. As a result, the meals he’d received over the past few days had been prepared with additional servings in mind, and he’d found himself eating extra helpings in order to avoid wasting food. Even then, there had been a lot of leftovers, but – as Berry had taken on the duties of cleaning up after meals – Errol had no idea what became of them.

On this occasion, the meal had turned out to be a large pot of stew and two loaves of bread. Errol encouraged his visitors to eat while he first took care of his horse and then cleaned and dressed his wounds, and they were happy to oblige.

It was roughly a half-hour later that Errol rejoined his guests. Although thorough, he had raced through the process of getting his horse watered and bedded down. He had also gone through the treating of his wounds at a marathon pace. Fortunately, the damage to his stomach was mostly superficial. However, the bladebeak’s talons had done a more vicious job on his back and left painful wounds in their wake; there was no permanent damage, but he would definitely carry scars from his encounter with the bird.

After cleaning the wounds, he carefully treated them with a salve that would not only aid the healing process, but also minimize any stiffness or pain. Then he applied a dressing and bandage before putting on a fresh shirt. Satisfied that he was now presentable, he went to check up on his callers.

When Errol rejoined his guests in the kitchen, they were already eating dinner. One of them had taken the initiative and warmed up the stew using the Station House’s wooden stove. Errol ladled some stew into a bowl for himself and sat down to join them.

“
Good stew,” Bander said after a few spoonfuls.

Errol, his mouth full of food, merely nodded without making comment.

“
Could be better,” Prap said, sopping up the remnants in his own bowl with some bread.
“
The cook could have put in a little more meat. Also, they didn’t have to skimp on the spices – makes it taste kind of plain.”

Errol felt himself getting angry. There were some Wardens who essentially abused the privilege of free food, demanding elaborate meals on a daily basis from their constituents. Prap was apparently one of those, obsessed with the need to maximize the benefits and perks of his position.

And if that weren’t reason enough to dislike him, the man’s table manners were atrocious. He wolfed down the stew like a pig at a trough, showing a complete disregard for the way some of it dribbled down his chin and onto his clothes. Errol wasn’t about to let someone like this freely insult the residents of his ward.

“
If the food’s not to your satisfaction,” Errol said defensively,
“
don’t eat it. To be frank, however, you don’t look very particular in terms of diet.”

Bander and Till chuckled slightly at this. Prap slammed his palm on the table in anger, simultaneously rising to his feet with a growl. Errol smiled to himself; apparently Prap was somewhat sensitive about his weight – or, more likely, to the idea of being a laughingstock.

Bander, seated next to Prap, grabbed his confederate by the shirt sleeve.
“
Easy,” he said.
“
We’re guests here.” He then turn to Errol.

“
Our apologies,” Bander said.
“
After being on the road for six months, eating rations most of the time, a hot, home-cooked meal is a pleasant treat. I think that what my colleague was trying to convey – and was doing so poorly – was a desire for more of the stew in general. Isn’t that correct, Prap?”

Prap glanced at Bander, who gave him a stern look.
“
Yes,” he said.
“
I’m sorry if my enthusiasm for the meal was taken out of context. No offense was meant.”

“
None taken,” Errol replied, marveling at the tactful way Bander had defused the situation.

They ate the rest of their meal in silence.

Chapter 5

Errol was the first to finish eating dinner. This was actually by design rather than happenstance. He still had not made his log entries for the day, and he wanted to do so immediately. Thus, while his guests were filling their bowls with second (and in Prap’s case, third) helpings of stew, Errol retreated to the Warden’s office, where he retrieved his log. He then began recording the day’s events, which primarily consisted of his encounter with the bladebeak.

He was almost done when Till entered the office unannounced. In one hand, the scribe held writing implements; in the other was a thick tome.

“
I’m almost finished,” Errol said, barely glancing up.

“
Take your time,” the scribe said.
“
Just remember, the sooner you finish, the sooner I can start. And the sooner I start, the sooner I finish.
”

And the sooner you finish
, Errol thought,
the sooner you think you can get out of this backwater burg and back to civilized life in the fancy city.

In the back of his mind, Errol realized that he was probably judging Till a little too harshly. Until recently, Errol himself had dreamed of escaping from Stanchion and moving to one of the cities. For a moment, he reflected on how thoughts of leaving his ward seldom occurred to him now.

Also, he could understand why Till might be anxious to wrap things up. Stanchion was the last stop on what had been a six-month road trip for the scribe.

In essence, although the Wardens recorded their daily activities in a log as well as in reference manuals, the information was of limited value (or even useless) if not shared. Therefore, every six months, each Warden was visited by a scribe, who copied the last half-year of entries into a book he carried. That information would then go back to the repository at Wellkeep – the headquarters of the Wardens and the residence of the High Warden himself – where it would then be transcribed into another book as part of the permanent archives. In this way, no knowledge that the Wardens gained of any of the creatures in the Badlands would be lost.

To protect the scribes on their lengthy journeys through areas so close to the Badlands, a Warden was usually assigned to accompany them. In this instance, it was Bander. More unusual was the fact that a second Warden had also come along. But that was something Errol could quiz Bander on later.

“
All done,” Errol announced, standing up and moving away from his desk. With barely a grunt of acknowledgment, Till sat down in the seat Errol had vacated. He opened up the book he carried to a blank page, flipped Errol’s log back to an earlier entry (presumably about six months before), and began writing.

Errol watched for a moment as Till began copying Errol’s log entries into his own book, the bald man’s hand flying across the page. Errol knew from his experience with past scribes that, despite having six months of information to duplicate, the scribe would probably be finished in just a few hours. This was not just because Till wrote with exceptional speed, but also because he copied the information in some indecipherable form of shorthand known only to the learned men of his Order.

After a few seconds,
Errol left the scribe alone to do his work. Proper log entries was an almost negligible part of a Warden’s job. His real test would come from the other Wardens.

Errol returned to the kitchen, where he found Bander and Prap just finishing their meal.

“
That was excellent,” Bander said, patting his stomach in satisfaction.
“
Please tell the good people of Stanchion that they have my highest regard for their culinary skills.”

Errol smiled.
“
Will do. It’ll mean a lot to them coming from an esteemed Warden such as yourself.”

Bander waved off the praise with a gesture. He stood up, and then made a great show of stretching and yawning.

“
Well,” he said,
“
we’ve been in the saddle all day. Unless you’re in a rush, I’m fine with waiting until tomorrow morning to get started.”

“If it’s
all the same to you,” Errol responded,
“
I’d just as well begin now.”

Bander blatantly stared at Errol for a moment.
“
Prap,” he said, glancing at his companion,
“
go ahead and wash all this.” He gestured towards the dirty dishes and utensils from the meal.
“
I need to speak to our host.”

Prap seethed in anger, clearly furious at being given such a menial task to do. However, Bander ignored him.

“
Errol,” he said,
“
let’s you and I have a word outside, please.”

With that, the big man walked over to the door and stepped outside. Errol followed him, almost meekly, feeling a lot like he used to in the past when he was on the verge of getting a stern lecture from his brother.

Once they were on the porch, Bander asked Errol to make sure the Station House door was closed. Obviously, whatever he wanted to say to Errol was intended to remain private.

“
Look,” Bander said sincerely.
“
There’s no need to start this tonight. You don’t have to prove anything by doing this now.”

Errol licked his lips nervously before speaking.
“
The rules say–
”

Bander raised a hand, cutting him off.
“
I know what the rules say. You’re being judged for fitness to serve as Warden. We’re supposed to start testing you as soon as practical. However, there is leeway built into the system, such as allowing us to take various external factors into consideration before testing you.”

Errol was suddenly curious.
“
What kind of factors?
”

“
For one thing, we’ve been riding since dawn to get here. It wouldn’t surprise anybody if I were too tired to kick this thing off tonight. On top of that, you obviously had a long day, showing up bloody and practically sliced to ribbons.”

“
Just a small run-in with a bladebeak. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Bander raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“
Hey,” Errol said.
“
I appreciate the concern, but I can’t afford to have it looking like you went easy on me. I don’t want it to appear like you did me any favors.”

Bander seem to reflect on this for a moment, and then nodded.
“
Headstrong and stubborn,” he said.
“
I’ll say this much: you’re definitely a Magnus.”

Errol smiled at that.

“
All right,” Bander continued.
“
Grab your gear and we’ll get underway.”

A short time later, Errol and Bander, sitting astride their horses, left the relative safety of the Station House and headed towards the Badlands.

*****

There was still a small amount of daylight when Errol and Bander started out. The elder Warden used the opportunity to get up to speed on how things were going in the region by quizzing Errol, who needed little prompting in order to willingly share his adventures (and in some instances, misadventures).

Half an hour later, Errol had enlightened the older man with respect to everything that had been happening in Stanchion of late, including the day’s episode with the bladebeak. (He also illuminated things, literally, by creating a light from his wand as darkness fell.) The only thing Errol neglected to mention was the fact that Berry was staying at the Station House.

In return, Bander regaled Errol with stories of his own adventures, particularly those on the road with Till and Prap for the past six months.

“
All in all,” Bander said in summation,
“
despite encountering a few monsters like fever-fiends, it’s been a fairly quiet trip. That said, there’s probably not much we couldn’t have handled with two Wardens.”

That brought up another subject that Errol hesitated to inquire about for a moment, but then decided that asking was the only way to get an answer.

“
So, what’s the story on Prap?” Errol asked, not certain how his question would be taken.

Bander gave Errol an appraising glance.
“
What makes you think there’s a story?”

Errol shrugged, and then was quiet for a moment as he tried to figure out the best way to put his question.
“
I guess he just doesn’t strike me as being a typical Warden. He’s…” He trailed off, struggling to find a diplomatic way to say something less than pleasant about a fellow Warden – something he had no trouble with when Prap was present, as the rotund Warden seemed to possess an innate ability to make Errol angry.

Bander laughed unexpectedly, finding mirth in Errol’s discomfort as the younger man made an effort to be tactful.

“
I know,” Bander said, still smiling.
“
Prap is, shall we say, not quite as polished as we normally like Wardens to be.”

“
The truth of the matter,” Bander continued, getting serious,
“
is that Prap can most likely be considered a recruiting error.

“
You’re probably too young to remember, but a few years ago the Wardens suffered grievous losses in terms of personnel. We were losing good men left and right – it was almost as if those damn monsters from the Badlands were orchestrating a coordinated strike against us.

“
As you know by now, it takes a special kind of person to be a Warden. They are exceedingly rare and incredibly hard to find. However, our casualties were running so high back then that a decision was made to recruit what would normally have been less-than-desirable candidates in order to fill the ranks.”

“
And Prap was one of those,” Errol guessed.

“
Yes, although to be frank we were practically taking anyone with a pulse. In retrospect, however, that recruiting effort was a mistake, a failure on a number of levels.”

“
Why was that?”

“
We didn’t pay enough attention to the quality of people we were getting; we had a high number of volunteers, but it turns out that mere interest in being a Warden really wasn’t enough. Take Prap, for instance. A Warden is supposed to inspire trust and confidence; are you getting any of that from him?”

As Errol shook his head in the negative, Bander continued.
“Exactly. He thinks he’s special just because he wears the uniform, and the result is that he leaves a bad impression on people more often than not.
On top of that, he’s got no instincts. Being a Warden is not just trusting your eyes and ears, but also your gut. You feel when danger’s near, when something is out of sorts. That’s a trait that Prap lacks.”

“
But, as you said, he wears the uniform of a Warden,” Errol said.
“
Therefore, he must have some value.”

Bander sighed.
“
As I mentioned, we lowered our standards at the time, so basically it was easier to meet the qualifications of being a Warden. Even with that, Prap barely squeaked by. His saving grace is essentially the fact that he’s an excellent fighter.”