Warden (7 page)

Errol, however, knew none of this at the time; he only saw what he perceived to be a sincere and deadly attack. Instinctively, he raised his Wendigo dagger up and outward in order to block the swordstroke. At the same time, he began to cock his other hand back, a preamble to throwing the knife he still held.

Errol felt the impact as sword and dagger connected. The sound of the two weapons striking was like a gong, ringing out and echoing around the two fighters. Something thunked into the ground a few feet away from them, but Errol didn’t dare look away for a second.

The business end of Prap’s sword crossed Errol’s line of sight as it continued its downward trajectory, but it was nowhere near close enough to do him harm. Errol barely paid attention to it. Instead, he was watching Prap, who had gone bug-eyed and appeared to almost be in shock. It was that look on his face – and that look alone – that had kept Errol from putting his throwing knife into the man.

“My…my…my sword,” Prap mumbled, looking at the weapon in his hands.

Errol risked a glance down, and saw what had startled Prap so badly.

The last six inches of Prap’s sword was gone.

Chapter 9

They found the end of Prap’s sword sticking in the ground a yard or two away from where they had fought. Apparently Errol’s dagger had sheared through the longer blade at the point where they had made contact.

After realizing that Prap hadn’t really been trying to harm him, Errol felt a little badly for the man (but not
too
badly). From his own experience, Errol knew how easy it was to get attached to something like weapons – especially if you depended on them for your life, like Wardens did. Ergo, in an overt effort to smooth things over, Errol offered Prap his pick of swords from the Magnus arsenal as a replacement.

When they got back to the Station House, Bander was standing on the porch.

“So, how did he do?” Bander asked.

For an answer, Prap flung the two pieces of his sword at Bander’s feet and then stomped inside.

The veteran Warden stared at the pieces in surprise for a moment before commenting. “I’m going to assume that’s a ‘pass’,” he said.

Errol shrugged, then went inside and put away the weapons he had tested with. Frankly speaking, he didn’t really care what kind of assessment that he received from Prap, because he was convinced that no one in their right mind would take the portly man seriously.

Next, he went to have breakfast. Thankfully, his guests had left more than an adequate amount for him, so he ate his fill and then washed it down with water that Bander had been kind enough to haul from the well earlier. It wasn’t until after he’d eaten that he realized that he hadn’t seen Till since he’d come back with Prap.

Bander, relaxing quietly on the porch bench, responded with, “He’s communing,” when Errol approached him and asked after the scribe.

Errol frowned slightly, reflecting on what that meant. Most people communicated over distances using birds – ravens, crows, and such. It was the method by which Errol himself generally communicated with the people in his ward. (It was also the manner in which he had received word about his current guests in advance of their arrival.)

“Communing,” however, was a method by which scribes and some other select individuals were able to slip into a trance-like state and then speak with each other over vast distances. It was more direct than using birds, but the effort could be exhausting. Therefore, it was not typically used for casual conversation. The obvious conclusion, then, was that Till was speaking to someone about something important.

“Any idea what it’s about?” Errol asked.

“Who knows?” Bander responded. “But I did hear him mumble something about a book.”

Errol kept his face neutral, but his mind was racing. It was possible that Till had been referring to Errol’s log, but much more likely that he was talking about something mentioned
in
the log: a powerful book of magic that Errol had come into possession of after the death of Jarruse, the evil magician who had made Errol’s Wendigo weapons.

Jarruse had committed all kinds of atrocities in order to come into possession of the Book, which he’d believed would make him the most powerful sorcerer in the world. Although it had been in Errol’s hand for months now, he hadn’t deigned to try any of the spells in it. In fact, unsure of who he could trust and knowing that men would kill for it, he had hidden the Book under the floorboards of the pantry almost immediately after bringing it to the Warden Station and had rarely thought about it since. Apparently, he’d so thoroughly put it out of his mind that he’d forgotten mentioning it in his daily log.

Errol was suddenly nervous, and felt the need to occupy himself with something.

“Unless you guys have something more for me,” he said, “I’m going to check the ravens and make my rounds.”

“I’d say you’re free to check the birds, but if there’s nothing pressing, you should probably skip your rounds today,” Bander told him. “Who knows what Till will want or need after he finishes his communion?”

Errol nodded, not liking this turn of events but not really having a choice.

Chapter 10

Till didn’t come out of his trance until late in the afternoon, just shortly after one of the boys from the Pierce farm brought over the daily meal. Unfortunately, when Errol had checked the ravens earlier in the day, there had been nothing of note nor any matters requiring his presence. That being the case, he had remained at the Warden Station all day. To avoid being idle (and spending too much time dwelling on what his future held), he devoted time to some of the things he had been neglecting of late: mending fences, fixing broken hinges on doors, etc.

He was taking a short breather and getting a drink of water from the well when Bander came up and mentioned that the scribe was asking for him. Errol sighed, took a final drink, and then accompanied Bander back to the Station House.

Till, looking a little haggard after spending most of the day semi-conscious, wasted no time and began speaking almost as soon as Errol crossed the threshold.

“Where’s the Book?” the scribe asked, not bothering with any perfunctory greeting.

“What book?” Errol asked, feigning ignorance. Eyebrows raised, he looked from Till to Bander and Prap (who were standing nearby) when the scribe didn’t answer immediately.

“The sorcerer’s Book of magic,” Till said after a few seconds. “The one mentioned in your log."

“Oh,” Errol intoned, scratching his temple. “Why?”

“I’ve been instructed to bring it back with us. My superiors want to see it.”

Alarm bells went off in Errol’s head. This was exactly what he was afraid would happen: men in power wanting the Book.

“That’s going to be a little tricky,” Errol said. “I’m afraid I lost it.”

A look of incredulity came across Till’s face. “What do you mean you lost it?!”

“I came in one day and it was just gone,” Errol lied.

“Gone? How could that happen?”

“Well, it wasn’t anything that I ever used or even referred to on a regular basis, so I wasn’t keeping tabs on it. One day it was there, the next it wasn’t.”

A look of fury came over Till’s face, which turned so red that it looked as though someone had slapped him. Errol glanced at the other two men present. Prap appeared completely disinterested, as though his mind were somewhere else, while Bander looked as if he didn’t entirely believe everything Errol was saying.

Till still looked like he was on the verge of exploding. Then he simply let out a deep breath and closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them, he looked almost calm again.

“If you think it’ll help,” Errol said, “I’ll be happy to look for it.”

“No,” Till replied, shaking his head in the negative. “I’ve already gone all through this place looking for any hint of magical power or residue and couldn’t find any – at least not from books. It’s not here.”

Now it was Errol’s turn to be incredulous, and he fought hard to keep his face serene. He hadn’t considered the fact that someone might be able to feel the Book’s magic, like a bloodhound locking in on a scent. Apparently the Book really was missing!

Errol was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he missed what the scribe said next. He only noted that a response was expected when Till extended a hand towards Errol like he was expecting something.

“Excuse me?” Errol said, realizing that he had missed some part of the conversation.

“Your dagger. The Wendigo dagger,” Till said. “It needs to come with us as well.”

“No,” Errol said flatly, his hand going protectively to the dagger’s hilt. “It stays with me. If you take it to the city, I’ll never see it again.”

An odd look came over Till’s face, then – to Errol’s surprise – the bald man laughed. Errol looked over to find Bander and Prap chuckling as well.

“Don’t you understand?” the scribe said after a few moments, a grin still on his face. “You’re coming to the city with us, too.”

Chapter 11

Errol was stunned. For most of his life, he had dreamed of moving to one of the cities – places far from the Badlands, where you didn’t have to worry about getting gobbled up by some monstrosity every time you set foot outside your door. And now, he apparently wasn’t just going to
a
city but
the
city: Apolos, the largest of them, where the Wardens were headquartered.

These days, of course, he was completely conflicted about such a move. He felt an obligation to stay and be Warden of Stanchion (at least until Tom’s return, if not longer), and his relationship with Gale complicated things further. He was pretty certain that, if he went with his guests, this would be no more than a short trip to the city, at most. Still, it was coming at a time when the notion of visiting a city at all was something he’d practically abandoned.

“Why?” Errol asked. “Why do I need to come?”

“The Senior Wardens want to see you,” Till answered. “And some of my superiors among the scribes may want to as well.”

Errol shook his head, not feeling that the answer was adequate. “Again, why?”

“As far as the Wardens go, it’s so they can properly assess you,” Bander interjected.

“Assess me?” Errol was confused. “Why do they need to assess me? That’s what you’ve been doing!”

Bander looked away, unable to meet Errol’s eye or answer his question.

“Oh, jeez!” Errol exclaimed as the answer dawned on him. “You knew! You knew the whole time that you’ve been here that ultimately they wanted me to go to Apolos! Your entire examination of me has been nothing but a farce!”

“You’ve got to understand,” Bander said. “People are talking about you.”

Errol was slightly taken aback. “People? What people? What are you talking about?”

“We keep getting stories, reports of a young Warden with a magical dagger,” Bander said.

“So what?” Errol said. “Magic is common among Wardens. You’ve even got a spell on your horse.”

“But not every Warden has allegedly faced and defeated a Wendigo, not to mention making weapons from its bones,” Till chimed in.

“Or made a pact with a revenant,” Prap said in obvious disbelief. “Or killed a basilisk–”

“But all that’s true,” Errol insisted, although he didn’t know how word of his exploits had gotten out. “I even wrote about it in my log.”

Till snorted. “Wardens write lots of things in their logs, and are often prone to exaggeration. Earlier this year, one of your fellows insisted he had killed a dragon. When we went to examine it, however, it turned out to be nothing more than a lizard. A rather large lizard, possibly even dangerous, but a lizard nonetheless.”

Errol was silent for a moment. “You think I’m lying,” he said quietly.

“Not necessarily,” Till replied. “Your dagger is definitely magical – I can feel its power, and Prap told me what it did to his sword – but is it really made from the bones of a Wendigo? And then there’s the rest of it – basilisks, lamias, homunculi…”

Errol felt himself getting angry. He turned to Bander. “Get the broken piece of Prap’s sword and meet me out front,” he said, and then headed for the storeroom without waiting for a reply.

His three visitors were waiting for him outside the Station House when he returned a few minutes later holding an odd-looking gourd.

“You’ve got the sword-piece?” Errol asked Bander. In response, the older man held up the lopped-off end of Prap’s sword. “Lay it on the ground there.”

Bander tossed the piece of steel into the dirt. Errol stepped over to it, still carefully holding the gourd, which sloshed around some liquid inside. His visitors started to close in, but he warned them back. Then, ever so carefully, he pulled what appeared to be a stopper out of the top of the gourd. Holding it out away from his body, just above the broken sword tip, he began to slowly tilt the gourd.

Eventually, a single drop of liquid formed at the lip of the container, welling in size before dropping down onto the piece of sword. The reaction was immediate. There was a vile hissing sound as the metal began to froth where the liquid had made contact, bubbling up like boiling water. At the same time, a suspicious-looking yellow gas began issuing forth from the sword tip.

After pouring out the drop of liquid, Errol had immediately placed the stopper back in the gourd. Then he screamed at Till, who was upwind of the yellow gas that was forming, to move. The scribe complied, and a moment later Errol and his visitors were all standing downwind of the gas, watching the strange interaction of the gourd’s contents and the piece of sword.

After a few minutes, the hissing and bubbling stopped, and the yellow gas ceased to form. At Errol’s insistence that it was safe to do so, Till, Prap, and Bander stepped forward for a closer look. Errol didn’t bother, as he knew what they would discover: the liquid had eaten through the metal.

Bander turned to Errol with a look of shock on his face, his eyes darting down to the gourd in Errol’s hand and then back to the younger man’s face. “What in the name of heaven was that?”

Errol nodded towards Till. “Ask him. He read my log. He knows.”

Till seemed to reflect for a moment before commenting.

“Basilisk blood,” the scribe said, almost as if he didn’t believe it himself.

Errol turned without a word and went back inside the Station House.