Warden (6 page)

Chapter 7

Roughly an hour later, an exhausted Errol wandered back into the campsite he and Bander had abandoned when the Blemmye attacked. After separating from the older Warden, Errol had led the monster away from his companion, occasionally dousing his light and moving almost blindly through the darkness whenever his pursuer got too close.

At the time, the luminescence from the wand had been both a blessing and a curse. Errol had needed it to move safely through the gloom of night, but at the same time it was what allowed the Blemmye to track him. In the end, the idea that occurred to him was so simple that he was almost furious with himself for not thinking of it sooner.

In short, he had simply stopped running, concentrated for a second, and then fired a spark from his wand while putting out his light at the same time. As he hoped, the Blemmye – thinking it to be his prey – had continued following the spark, which moved fast enough not to be caught but slow enough to give the monster hope of catching it.

Now, looking about the camp, he noticed that everything was gone. His sleeping bag, the rest of his gear (Bander’s as well) – it had all disappeared.

Errol checked the ground and noticed fresh tracks. He smiled to himself; he knew where his belongings were. He began following the tracks out of camp.

*****

Errol caught up to Bander on the road back to the Warden Station a little over an hour later. The older man was sitting astride his horse, meandering along at a slow pace while the light of his wand illuminated the area around him. Errol’s horse followed, its reins tied to Bander’s saddle.

“About time you showed up,” Bander said congenially.

Errol smiled. “Sorry. I got a little sidetracked.” He untied his horse from Bander’s, climbed up into the saddle, and then proceeded to tell how he’d sent the Blemmye on a wild-goose chase.

“Well, we limped along at a slow tempo,” Bander said when Errol finished. “Just in case you decided you wanted to join us.”

Errol nodded. “I appreciate that. Thanks also for packing up my stuff.”

“Thank
you
for the diversion.”

Of course, it had been Bander’s tracks – and the horses’ – that Errol had spotted upon his return to the camp. After Errol led the Blemmye away, the veteran Warden had seemingly doublebacked to camp and packed everything up. When questioned, Bander essentially confirmed what Errol had surmised.

“Hope you don’t mind that I basically started heading back,” Bander said. “I don’t think I’m going to sleep any more tonight. At least not outside.”

Although he didn’t verbally state it, Errol was of the same mind himself. “One question, though,” he said. “How’d you get the horses back?”

“Oh that,” Bander said, almost absentmindedly. “My horse is under a geas, and the spell compels it to always return to me. I was still in the process of packing up when it sauntered back into camp. Your horse was following its lead.”

“A geas, huh? That’s actually a pretty good idea.”

“Well, it was something born of necessity. Work this job long enough and, much like tonight, you’ll have a fair number of terrified horses run out on you. It’s not the horses’ fault, though. These are monsters we’re facing, after all. Still, after a while, it started feeling like I was spending more time on foot than in the saddle, so I decided to do something about it.”

“So if it’s under a geas, why did your horse run off in the first place?”

“The spell isn’t intended to override the animal’s natural inclinations, so when something frightens my horse, it flees. The spell just makes it come back to me after it calms down.”

“I guess that explains why it was long gone when the Blemmye attacked.”

“Yes,” Bander agreed. “Speaking of the Blemmye, we need to talk about what happened with the wards.”

Errol nodded and then steeled himself, certain that Bander was about to blame him for the failure of their protective barrier. It could very well cost him the older man’s endorsement of his desire to be a Warden.

“It was my fault,” Bander continued, somewhat to Errol’s surprise. “I thought you were overdoing it with the strength of your wards, so I had you change them on half the camp in an effort to show you that you didn’t need to exert that much power.”

Errol nodded in understanding. It was a common misconception that a Warden’s magic came from his wand, but in truth, it came from his life force. The wand itself was just a tool that a Warden would use to focus his power, similar to the way a farmer might use a plow rather than turning over the earth by hand.

Also much like a farmer who spends all day in his fields, expending too much of his life force into magic such as wards could exhaust a Warden. Thus, in this instance, Bander had wanted Errol to realize that he didn’t need to tire himself powering such strong protective barriers.

“Needless to say, my plan backfired,” the older man noted.

“It’s alright,” Errol said, impressed with Bander’s willingness to take responsibility for his actions. “We both got away unscathed.”

“But it’s not alright,” Bander said in anger that was clearly directed at himself. “We were in your domain, your jurisdiction. You’re more familiar with what’s required, and I should have acknowledged that rather than trying to display my superior knowledge. Instead, my arrogance almost got us killed.”

Errol shrugged. “It’s the Badlands. Just breathing is enough to get you killed there. Arrogance isn’t even worth noting.”

Bander merely grunted in acknowledgment of this. The rest of their journey back to the Warden Station was made in silence.

Chapter 8

It was still dark when Errol and Bander arrived back at the Warden Station. That meant they might be able to squeeze in a little bit of sleep before morning. In Errol’s case, he felt as though he’d need it because of a comment Bander had made just as they returned.

“You’ll have a weapons assessment today,” Bander had said. “With Prap.”

Which was just what Errol needed after squaring off against two monsters within the past twenty-four hours. Rather than comment, though, he had simply nodded to show he understood.

After taking care of their horses, Errol and Bander practically staggered back to the Station House. In an effort to be a good host, Errol proposed that the older Warden sleep in his bedroom. It was an offer that was gratefully accepted.

The Station House actually had three bedrooms. In addition to Errol’s, there was his brother Tom’s room and a guest bedroom. Prior to leaving with Bander the evening before, he had offered the use of those two rooms, respectively, to Till and Prap. In short, after relinquishing his own room to Bander, Errol really had no place left to lay his own head, save one.

As quietly as possible, he crept into the storage room. He had no idea if Berry was awake – didn’t even have a clue as to whether the little man even slept – but tried to make as little noise as possible as he laid out his sleeping bag and crawled inside. He was asleep within moments.

*****

Errol woke with the dawn the following morning. Despite getting a less-than-optimal amount of sleep, he was determined not to vary his daily routine, which normally consisted of exercise, followed by weapons training, and then breakfast. The only difference today was that his weapons proficiency would be judged by Prap.

Thus it was that, after finishing his exercises – an invigorating jog around the Warden Station and a set of calisthenics – Errol sought Prap out. He found him, along with Bander and Till, at the dining table, finishing his morning meal. As was typical, breakfast had actually been delivered with the evening meal the day before and had consisted of fried potatoes, biscuits, and bacon.

Initially, his three visitors had been willing to wait and have breakfast with their host. However, after Errol explained his routine (and that he wouldn’t be partaking of breakfast for a while), they had – at Errol’s insistence – gone ahead and begun eating.

Prap was in the process of licking his fingers when Errol announced that he was ready.

“Alright,” Prap said, wiping his fingers on his uniform. “Let’s get some weapons and head outside.”

Like many Wardens, Errol’s family had collected a veritable arsenal over the years. Growing up, Errol had trained with everything from blades to bows to blowguns, and he now felt comfortable with almost any weapon.

However, as it would be Prap who judged his proficiency, it was the burly Warden who got to select the weapons that would be used. After studying everything Errol had available, he chose the longsword, the longbow, and throwing knives.

Errol smiled to himself, fairly pleased at Prap’s selection of weapons as he led the other man out of the Station House. Just about every type of ranged weapon was in his wheelhouse, as were almost all knives. The only item that he might not fare exceptionally well with, on this occasion, was the longsword, but he was certain that any deficiency there would be more than offset by his expertise with the other two weapons.

All of this flitted through Errol’s mind as they walked across the Station grounds. Their destination was a large tree near the Station’s corral that held the archery target that Errol often used for practice.

It took only minutes for Errol to demonstrate his mastery of the bow; he struck the target dead center every time. He was getting ready to demonstrate the same expertise with the throwing knives when, just as he drew his left hand back by his ear in preparation for release, Prap gripped his wrist.

“No,” Prap said, looking into the boughs of the tree that held the archery board. “Not the target. There.” He pointed.

Errol looked in the direction that Prap was indicating. In the branches of the tree, above the archery target, he saw a small bird – a robin – chirping softly.

“What?” Errol asked, unsure of what Prap was trying to say.

“The bird,” Prap answered in a slightly mischievous voice. “That’s your target.”

“What?” Errol asked, somewhat taken aback. “Why?”

“Because it’s making too much noise,” Prap said irritably. “Because I’m hungry and want to eat it. Because I said so.”

Clarity dawned unexpectedly on Errol, and with it came an innate understanding of the man who stood next to him. Prap wasn’t just a bad Warden; he was, at least in some ways, a bad
person
. He had some sort of sadistic streak in him, which Errol sincerely hoped was limited to animals. It was suddenly clear why Prap was assigned to work with someone else – someone like Bander, who could keep an eye on him and keep him in line.

“No,” Errol replied firmly. He’d been trained in the use of all kinds of weapons, but he didn’t employ his skills in the casual taking of life, even that of animals. He frowned at the very thought of it.

Prap made a sound of disgust, and Errol knew with plain certainty what the man was about to do.

Faster than Errol would have given him credit for, Prap whipped out his own knife and flung it at the bird. At the same time, acting on impulse rather than conscious thought, Errol yanked out his Wendigo dagger and threw it as swiftly as he could.

In terms of trajectory, Errol’s intention was for his blade to intercept Prap’s, thereby spoiling the latter’s aim. However, as he had released his dagger a fraction of a second after his companion, his expectation was that he would fail. Thus, it came as a great surprise to Errol (and presumably Prap as well) when the clang of metal-on-metal rang out as the dagger – somehow exuding greater speed than Errol’s throw warranted – bumped Prap’s knife. The two blades ricocheted away from each other before passing within a hairsbreadth of the robin on either side of the bird. The robin took off in terror, chirping hysterically. The knife and dagger, their momentum drained by leaves and branches, fell harmlessly out of the tree a second later.

Errol gave Prap a harsh look, then went to fetch the blades. When he returned, he fiercely shoved the hilt of Prap’s knife into the man’s hand without saying a word, and then – resuming his test – angrily hurled the throwing knives into the center of the target.

“Well,” Prap said, after Errol had retrieved his weapons from the target, “considering your skill with the bow and knives, you certainly won’t have any trouble if you have to put a bolt or a knife in an enemy’s back like some coward.”

Errol, still upset about the situation with the robin, felt anger boiling up in him like molten lava. Earlier, he had really been willing to give Prap the benefit of the doubt, but the man insisted on being insulting (not to mention cruel, if you consider the bird he tried to skewer).

“Now,” Prap continued, drawing his sword, “let’s see how you do when you actually have to face your opponent one-on-one.”

Errol said nothing; he simply armed himself with the longsword, and the fighting commenced.

It became evident almost immediately that Errol was outclassed. Although it could be argued that he held his own, he found himself on the defensive almost immediately, just like his battle with the bladebeak.

Despite his size, Prap was strong and fast, his weapon moving so swiftly it was almost a blur. Moreover, he wielded his sword with the grace and expertise of a master, making every strike, block, and parry work to his advantage.

Finally, the man had incredible stamina; Errol had thought, after dealing with a ferocious onslaught from his opponent, that Prap would soon tire. That was far from the case, and – again just like with the bladebeak – Errol was the first of the two to begin to feel fatigued.

In brief, Prap was, as Bander had indicated, a tremendous fighter. Therefore, it really came as no surprise when, shortly into the fight, Prap disarmed him with a powerful blow that knocked the sword from Errol’s hand.

Prap pointed his sword at Errol, holding the tip of it just an inch from Errol’s throat.

“I hope you learned a lesson here, son,” Prap said in a voice that sounded as though he’d like to run Errol through. “Maybe you should leave the job of Warden to someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Prap lowered his sword and turned away with a smug look on his face. Seething in anger, Errol pulled out his Wendigo dagger and his throwing knife, holding them in his right and left hand, respectively. Faster than Errol would have thought possible, Prap whirled around and into swordfighting position at the sound of the blades leaving their sheaths, apparently expecting an attack.

“Shall we try it again?” Errol asked, dropping into a fighting stance. “My way?”

Prap smiled. “I’m more than happy to extend the lesson, youngster.”

Once again, Errol and Prap engaged each other. Frankly speaking, with nothing now to really counter the tremendous reach of Prap’s sword, Errol knew that he was at even more of a disadvantage than before. However, his temper had gotten the better of him, and he was now committed to seeing this encounter through.

Lacking the benefit of a sword, Errol relied on a tactic of evasion. He mostly ducked and sidestepped Prap’s attempted strikes rather than engage him. It required yielding ground and staying on the defensive, but – unburdened by the weight of the longsword (which had never been a weapon he favored) – Errol found that his speed was more than sufficient and he wasn’t getting as winded. The same, however, could not be said of Prap.

Their first engagement, during which time the bulky Warden had seemed tireless, had probably lasted no more than a minute. Now, after essentially chasing Errol non-stop for twice that amount of time, Prap seemed to be losing a step; he was breathing heavily, and wasn’t holding his sword up quite as high as before. Furthermore, his strokes were noticeably slower. Finally, fury at having to chase after his opponent seemed to have unbalanced Prap both physically and in terms of his technique.

Errol, noting all this, decided to take his chance. He waited until Prap took another two-handed, horizontal swing at him (which Errol leaned back to avoid) and then rushed in. Prap, seeing what the younger man was attempting, tried to halt the momentum of his swing and bring the sword back. He was too slow; Errol, parrying the almost glacial swordstroke with his dagger, was already inside Prap’s guard. Errol held his throwing knife an inch from his opponent’s nose.

They stood there for a moment, eyeing each other. Prap, practically out of breath, seemed startled at having lost this round, while Errol fought to keep the corners of his mouth from curling up into a grin. Satisfied that he had proven himself, Errol lowered his knife and took a step back. He turned around, preparing to gather up all the weapons he’d brought over and carry them back to the Station House.

Unexpectedly, there was a roar behind Errol, a primitive sound of unpenned wrath and rage. He spun around to find Prap with a crazed look in his eye, bringing his sword down in Errol’s direction in a powerful, two-handed overhead stroke.

Errol didn’t think; he just reacted. Later, he would realize that the stroke hadn’t been meant to harm him. It had been intended to come close – Prap’s method of frightening him under the guise of teaching him not to turn his back on an opponent – but not touch him at all.