Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (15 page)

Necessary or not, Max felt the sting of regret. Had they not played the ruse so well he would have been there when those logs broke free in the Beral Forest. A’lan had invited him. Far away from eyes and ears, just the three of them, they could tell Michael everything and begin his training. But he thought the timing wasn’t right. How wrong he was. A dozen ways he could have saved his friend from being crushed danced in his head. How many times would other people pay the price for his mistakes?

Perhaps Michael would share the journal in time without prying. Such a treasure might prove useful. And it would be like having one more conversation with his dear friend.

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13

From the Shadows

“Move!”

Michael stirred from deep sleep to a groggy state of semi-consciousness. Sharp as thunder, the voice in his dream echoed in his mind. It seemed so real, a voice commanding and urgent, booming through the clouds of sleep accompanied by the vision of him rolling and grabbing the Sword. He was faintly pondering what the dream meant when—

“Move!”

This time the image in his mind showed a man in his room, pressed against the wardrobe, dagger in hand, poised to strike. Michael rolled away from the assailant as the dagger plunged into the mattress where his chest had been. His fingertips grazed the hilt of the Sword, hanging from the bedpost, but he failed to grasp it as he rolled out of bed.

Michael saw the outlined figure of his assailant as his eyes adjusted to the pale moonlight peeking in from between the clouds. A skinny fellow, short and scrawny. He reminded Michael of a mouse.

Unarmed, Michael took a step back towards the window hoping to bring his attacker into the light. At least the moon cooperated. Emerging from behind the clouds, its light pushed the shadows farther back in the room.

The assailant seemed to grow bold now that he was exposed. He lunged with surprising speed. Michael stepped from the blade’s path as it slashed the air where his face had been. Michael jabbed at the man’s exposed ribs, but the assassin recoiled quickly and avoided a solid hit.

Michael’s mind felt cloudy. One moment the man was brandishing a knife and the next he appeared meek and nondescript. Michael fought within himself over the two images. Despite the man’s knife, Michael struggled with what to do.

Michael jumped back from a slash to the midsection and then side-stepped as the man lunged, tripping the man as he passed. Michael pulled the Sword from its scabbard as the man regained his feet. The assassin paused, glaring at the Sword. Michael struggled with his decision; such a meek man with a simple dagger. The voice broke through the cloud of indecision.

“You have no choice, Keeper.”

The assassin sprang through the air quick as lightning. Michael ducked the man’s knife and barely felt the pull on his wrist as the Sword sliced through the man’s belly. He did not realize he had brought the Sword up until he saw the assassin slumped on the floor, blood pooling around him. The man’s eyes never left Michael’s as his body twitched in the throes of death.

Michael changed his mind about the man; he had not been bold in his attack. The only word he could think of was rabid.

Michael jumped when someone pounded on his door. The commotion must have woken everyone. He reached for the bolt and threw open the door. Max stood there, fist raised to pound on the door again.

“What in the Creator’s name is going on?” he exclaimed. Then his eyes fell on the assassin.

Michael said nothing as Max brushed past him to inspect the body. He stared blankly at Falon standing in the doorway. His stomach felt like it had dropped off a cliff, his body numb all over. He thought he was going to throw up as the adrenaline of the fight drained away. He fell back against the wall and slid to the floor.

Michael faintly heard Max ask him a question. He kept playing the fight over in his mind. Something about it nagged at his consciousness, but he could not place what it was.

“Michael!” Max shot his name across the room, pulling him from his thoughts. “Did he cut you?”

Michael looked at him blankly. “No,” he replied weakly.

Max moved to inspect Michael for cuts, worry covering his face, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Michael whispered.

“Michael?” Concern replaced worry.

“I…I never killed anyone before. It’s never even crossed my mind.”

“You had no choice,” Max stated.

Michael looked up at Max sharply, the blank look replaced with an intensity that caught Max by surprise. “What did you say?”

“You had no choice. His dagger, it’s laced with poison. He did not have to stab you. One slice, even a shallow nick, and you would be dead. If you had used a thrusting attack, he might have still cut you, and you would be lying on the floor as well. Your choice was the only one you had.”

Garen stumbled into the room breathing heavily. “What the…” He eyed the dead body on the floor, the color rushing from his face. “What happened?”

“Michael was attacked,” Falon replied, a little more emotionless than Michael would have expected.

“Garen, I’m glad you’re here,” Max said. “Wake Serin. We need to dispose of the body.”

Garen looked at the corpse again, then Michael, before managing a weak “Yes, sir” and disappearing down the hall.

“I suppose he’s never killed anyone either,” Falon said, dryly.

“Of course not,” Michael retorted.

For an instant, he saw a glint of regret in her eyes and then she raised those walls she worked so hard to keep up. He wondered what she had been through to make here so jaded.

Max started to inspect Michael for cuts again.

“I’m fine,” Michael replied, trying to fend off Max’s prying. He only wanted to be alone at the moment.

“The door was locked, how did he get in?”

“I didn’t lock the door. Garen was still up when I came to bed.”

Michael searched his thoughts of when he first woke. What had woken him? Had it been a real voice or something the attacker had done to gain entry? He could still hear the thundering command from his dream.

“When I woke he was standing against the wardrobe. Who was he? Why did he try to kill me?”

Max eyed the wardrobe, then the dead body.

“Who was he, Max?”

“A shadowman.”

Michael’s eyes opened wide. Shadowmen were assassins for the Soulless One. Worse than mere dark servants, they were men transformed somehow into something worse. Stories said they could slide from shadow to shadow and even if they were seen they appeared so nondescript they would not be remembered. That’s what nagged at him; how the image of the man jumped from knife-wielding assassin to unassuming man. It was like a spell of illusion kept failing and resetting.

“Who sent him? How did he know I was here?” Michael asked.

“Honestly, I have no idea. Perhaps he was in the grand hall when we arrived, and we piqued his interest. I have heard some shadowmen can see through spells of illusion. Maybe he saw the Sword and decided to act. No way to know for certain. Doesn’t matter, he failed. Your sword training paid off.”

As far as Michael was concerned, he never wanted to draw the Sword again. Growing up sparring with Garen, he had never thought he would actually have to kill someone. The idea had crossed his mind in typical male bravado style where he’d save someone under dire circumstances; but, shadowman or not, the reality felt far from noble. A swordsman that would never have to kill. What a foolish thought.

I’m a carpenter.
He corrected himself.
Just a carpenter.

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14

Running from the Night

The first rays of morning light set the Bithshar mountain range ablaze in a myriad of orange, purple, and pink hues as Max led the somber company out of Anista. The attempt on Michael’s life left them shaken. Their belief about safety within the walls of a city had been shattered.

Their race for each town proved to be all the challenge Max said it would be. The pace was hard on horse and rider. They rode at a fast trot, taking only two short breaks to rest the horses. At midday, Max would touch each horse on the neck, and after he removed his hand the horse lurched forward, frisky to run. Regardless, at each town Max traded their horses for fresh ones. Enhancing their stamina did nothing for their need to recuperate.

Even with their impressive pace, they breathed a sigh of relief when the next town appeared over the summit of yet another hill or broke through the cover of yet another patch of forest while the sun set low on the horizon. Exhausted, the company collapsed in whatever bed their coin could buy.

Max attempted to teach Michael how to draw on his power, but the wizard’s ability to do so was limited. They shared an ability to manipulate Fire, that much Max knew, but the visualizations and mental hooks Max used to draw on his power did not help Michael. Each magichae viewed their powers in a personal way. A musician would see her abilities like she saw music in her head and a farmer might relate the manner he touched his powers to the way he cultivated the land.

At the Wizard’s Keep, every pupil was paired with someone who had similar abilities and background. An Elemental gifted in Fire could train another with the same gift, but the Order found it worked best when both teacher and student had a similar point of reference. Max tried to use carpentry as a reference with little success. It was one thing to know the mechanics of carpentry, but a far different matter to know the nuances and feel required to shape wood into something magnificent. He found himself gritting his teeth. It was like trying to teach a blind man to paint.

Max did not even have an idea of the extent of Michael’s gift. There were some general practices all potential students went through to get an idea of their abilities, but Michael failed even those rudimentary exercises. After the second night, Max suspected Michael’s mind was blocking his ability to touch his power. Either he refused to accept what he was or simply could not believe it.

Mental blocks were nothing new at the Wizard’s Keep, but breaking through them proved tedious and time-consuming. There was no time for the gentle prodding developed to help students overcome such barriers. Like a swordsmith forging metal, Max pushed Michael to find his magic till he reached a breaking point. Then Max would step back and discuss Shaladon, the various classes of magichae, and the history of the Keepers. Despite pushing Michael to find his gift and trying to give him a human connection to his lineage, Max was failing miserably at forging the young Keeper into the weapon they so desperately needed.

***

The diversities of magic left Michael’s head spinning. Besides Elementals there were Healers, Seers, Teleporters and even a class who could strip other magichae of their powers.

“Now, within each class, powers can vary,” Max stated in that professorial tone he took when he lectured. “Some teleporters, for example, can take a group of people forty or fifty miles—”

“Hold on,” Garen interrupted. “You mean there are people who can actually travel fifty miles in the blink of an eye?”

“Not quite. A fifty-mile jump usually takes around twenty minutes. Shorter jumps would take less time. Depends on the teleporter’s strength, distance to travel, size of the gateway needed, and then you have to account for the time the teleporter needs to rest if multiple jumps are required.”

Garen looked at Max askance. “Do they actually jump?”

Max shook his head, grinning. “No.”

Most intriguing to Michael were the Crafters, magichae highly skilled at imbuing objects with magic. Six of the twelve magichae who created the Eye were Crafters and three others forged the Sword.

Over the centuries, guilds and societies formed. Some were made up of magichae with similar abilities or for a common purpose while others formed out of political views. These magichae orders coexisted, but politics were always present, and some groups displayed outright hostility toward each other. Michael found the political structures ridiculously complex and had little interest in their pettiness.

Often Max touched on Michael’s parents, his true parents. Never directly, but always in the context of discussing the history of the Keepers. Michael knew the wizard was trying to give him an attachment to Shaladon. Part of him wanted to feel a connection, but deep in his mind, overshadowing any new feelings he might wish to have, rested the realization that every mile they traveled took him further from the life he had known and loved. A searing thought, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

To make matters worse, each night as they entered a town, Max placed Michael between himself and Garen having Falon take the lead. The arrangement infuriated Michael. He had no tolerance for being treated like a lamb needing a shepherd. By the fourth night, he had had enough.

“Am I inept?” he asked, cornering Max after supper.

“What do you mean?”

“Every night you put me between Garen and yourself like I need protection from the townsfolk.”

“You very well may, Michael.”

“How? By whom?” Michael said.

Max glared at Michael and exhaled. “There are so many things you don’t know.”

“Well, start explaining,” Michael said, “because I’m tired of being treated like a fragile egg.”

“Striplings,” Max said curtly.

Michael vaguely remembered mention of them. “What about them?” he snapped, not interested in yet another lesson.

“There may be striplings in any town. Have you not listened to anything I’ve told you? The most dangerous adversary to a magichae is not another magichae; it’s a stripling.

“Their only ability is to strip other magichae of their powers. One touch to bare skin and,” Max snapped his fingers, “your powers are gone. Some striplings can only strip your powers temporarily; others can take them permanently.” Max looked off distantly, “Many good magichae lost their powers before they even knew there was danger.”