Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (20 page)

“She died three years ago, sire, in a house fire. We lost everything; he is all I have left.”

“Your loss is no excuse to take from others,” the paladin replied, but the look in his eyes had softened. “Do you swear to raise this boy properly from this day forward? Swear to me he will not steal again? Will you walk in the light of Meshema Donai and obey His teachings?”

“I do, sire, I swear. He will steal no longer.”

“Very well. There is a Mistress Ileana who runs an inn several streets over called the Three Arrows. Tell her Jorgen sent you. She has four sons all of which have turned out well. You will report to her on how to raise this boy properly and you will perform whatever duties she requires of you,” Jorgen set his gaze on the boy, “both of you.”

He held up his gold medallion. “Remember, you are in my debt for the mercy I’ve shown.” He leaned close to the gaunt man, handing the boy over to him. “Fail me and I will return. I give you my word.”

“Thank you, good sir, thank you,” the man said, bowing as he tugged the boy away in the direction Jorgen had pointed.

With the man and his son out of sight, the crowd began to disperse. As Michael turned to leave, Jorgen’s eyes fell on him. A chill ran down Michael’s spine as he realized the paladin wasn’t staring so intently at him but at something just over his shoulder, shock hanging on the man’s face. A group of people passed between them, and Michael took the opportunity to duck away.

“I think I’ve had enough excitement for now. Let’s get back to the Stag and Lion,” Garen said, turning down an alley.

Michael wanted to see more of the city, but the way the paladin looked at him made him agree.

Halfway to the inn the boys came across a peddler challenging people to a game of three cups. A small but boisterous crowd watched as contestants placed bets on which cup the red ball was under. The peddler moved the cups quickly and deftly, his hands a blur. Neither of them could follow his movements yet Michael knew the right cup. The small crowd roared with laughter as people lost their money trying to outsmart the peddler. After five correct guesses in a row, Michael stepped up in front of the peddler.

A lithe man with thinning gray hair and missing two teeth, he smiled hungrily at Michael. “Well, a fine lad, here! You look confident. Think you can find the ball?”

“Perhaps,” Michael said.

“What are you doing?” Garen whispered over his shoulder, “We are supposed to not attract attention.”

“Relax, it’s just a game,” Michael replied, laying a copper coin on the table.

The peddler looked at it with slight disdain, but he covered the red ball with a cup and began swirling the three cups quickly around the table.

“Around and around they go,” his hands moved in a blur shifting from one cup to another as he moved them in fluid circular motions, “where’s the ball? No one knows,” he finished with a flair of his hands and then rested them on each side of the row of cups.

Michael could not follow his hands, they moved too fast, but he could sense where the ball was. He did not know how, but he could.

“Which cup is the ball under?” the peddler inquired with a sly smile.

“Your hands are fast, sir, but I believe the ball is here,” Michael tapped the leftmost cup then pulled it up to reveal the red ball. The crowd cheered with delight.

“Well done, lad, well done,” the peddler said with a cheery tone. “Care to try again? The bet is double.”

Michael stared at him for a moment debating between playing the man’s game and keeping a low profile. He knew Max would not approve, but something inside him wanted to be a little reckless at the moment. Besides he had not been wrong yet. He placed two coppers alongside his previous winning to the glee of the crowd.

“Around and around they go” the peddler began swirling the cups again. His hands moved faster this time and the pattern more intricate. Michael knew it was impossible to follow the right cup, but somehow he did not need to. He knew where the ball was just as easily as if he could see it. When the peddler finished sliding the cups around, he looked up at Michael.

The crowd cheered again as Michael picked up the center cup revealing the red ball.

The peddler’s eyes narrowed, but he quickly hid his annoyance and passed Michael his winnings. “You’re a lucky lad, indeed. Perhaps you would like to try again? Three is lucky they say.”

“I do feel lucky,” Michael replied with a smirk. Garen rolled his eyes but said nothing as Michael laid ten coppers on the table. The peddler smiled greedily. “Around and around they go” he intoned as he swirled the cups in circles again.

When he stopped, Michael could sense the peddler was a little bit nervous. He wondered if anyone had managed to find the ball three times in a row. The crowd was holding their breath as well. Their cheers carried down the street as Michael revealed the ball again. The peddler sat with his mouth hanging open.

He quickly regained his composure and said, “Your eyes appear to be faster than my hands, lad. Thank you for playing but I’m sure there are others who would like to play.”

The crowd began to boo the peddler. He looked around nervously and sat back down behind his table. Some people started to place bets on Michael while others bet against him.

“A silver heron!” the peddler blurted out, silencing the barrage of boos. “The wager is a silver heron!” He licked his lips nervously. Perhaps he was hoping Michael had nothing more than coppers, but the way he glanced at the coins collecting in favor of Michael said he needed silver to cover the bets.

The crowd hushed as Michael laid a silver coin on the table imprinted with three crowns from Timmaron rather than a heron. The peddler eyed it for a moment then placed a cup over the ball.

“Around and around they go…” The peddler’s hands moved in such intricate patterns, yet Michael knew where the ball lay even when the peddler moved the cup over the edge of the table and let the ball fall into his lap. Michael blinked in surprise. The movement was so fast, the cheat so deft, no one saw it. When the peddler finally stopped swirling the cups, he rested his hands on the two cups he was holding. He eyed Michael for a moment as if he were afraid to take his hands off the cups. His eyes darted from person to person in the crowd then he removed his hands from the cups with a confident smile.

“So how lucky are you, lad? Which cup is the ball under?” A hint of a challenge rang in his voice.

Michael smiled back. “The ball is not under a cup.” He tipped all three cups over. “It’s in your lap.”

The crowd gasped. A few began crying, “Cheat” and calling for the guards.

Roaring in anger, the peddler jumped up, flipped the table aside with a crash. Seven other men surrounded Michael and Garen as the crowd backed away.

The peddler brandished a curved knife. “I don’t know how you saw that, boy, but you won’t be seeing anything else when I cut your eyes out.”

“Hold!” boomed a voice from behind them. Jorgen stepped from the crowd. “How fearsome are these two lads that it takes eight men to attack them? And what is their crime?”

“Stay outta this, friend,” replied the peddler. “No need to get yourself hurt over something that doesn’t concern you.”

“Oh, but it does concern me,” Jorgen said. “To threaten the boys is to threaten me. Now if you have a grievance with them, I suggest you take it up with me.”

“Very well.” The peddler turned on Jorgen, giving Michael a venomous glare that said he was next.

Jorgen eyed the men surrounding him. “Eight to one. Not very good odds.”

The peddler sneered. “Your mistake for getting involved.”

Jorgen grinned mischievously. “I meant for you.”

The peddler paused, unsure what to make of the lone protector. Regaining his confidence he charged Jorgen with a yell followed by his thugs.

The fight was short. Michael stood in awe of Jorgen’s skill. Fists, knees, feet, every part of his body was a weapon. Every move flowed from the next. He stepped to the side as the peddler charged him and slammed a stiff arm into the man’s windpipe, knocking him flat on his back. A strike with his elbow to a thug behind him became a recoiled fist that punched the face of another. He shattered one man’s knee with a kick as he blocked another’s jab. He moved like a cat, quick and agile, but struck with the force of a bull. He drove his elbow into the leg of one attacker as he ducked another man’s knife then drove the same fist into the chin of the knife-wielding thug with such force it lifted the man into the air. Within minutes, eight men lay on the ground battered and beaten.

Jorgen’s eyes meet Michael’s for a moment before Garen pulled him down an alley. Turning the corner onto the next street, Michael caught a glimpse of Jorgen standing there with a knowing look on his face. For some reason, that worried Michael even more.

C
HAPTER
19

And One Makes Five

Michael and Garen did not slow until they were in their room at the Stag and Lion.

“Did you see him fight?” Garen said, leaning against the door.

Michael nodded. “Who was he?”

“The same guy we saw dealing with that kid picking his pocket.”

“I know that. Do you think he really is a paladin?”

“Probably. You’d be crazy to lie about something like that. No wonder you don’t mess with them.”

“Yeah. I’ve never seen anyone move like that.” Michael doubted he could repeat half the moves he saw Jorgen use. Part of him would love to spar with the man, but he knew how it would end. Jorgen was in a whole different class of fighter.

Fighter!
Michael chided himself.
You’re no more than a carpenter with decent sword skills caught up in some crazy, fool adventure.

***

Falon sat in the grand room eating a thick stew of roasted beef tips and potatoes when Michael and Garen came down for dinner. Max had not returned yet.

The serving maid sauntered across the room to their table, leaning over more than necessary, exposing cleavage in Michael’s direction as she set their plates down.

“Will you need anything else, sir?” She looked innocent as a fawn.

Garen turned his head the other way, but Michael caught his grin.

“Um, no, I uh...” Why was Falon glaring at him? He didn’t ask for the woman to flaunt herself. “No, um, no, we’re good for now. I mean we’re good altogether. Now, later, we’re...we’re fine. Really. Uh, thanks.”

She smiled with a mischievous glint in her eye. Michael and Garen watched her saunter back to the kitchen, Falon glaring at them so hard they both turned and looked at her in unison.

“What?” they asked.

“Men,” she growled and stabbed a beef tip harder than necessary.

Michael had his fork halfway to his mouth when he spotted Jorgen at the door talking with Durin.

“It’s him,” whispered Michael.

“Who?” replied Falon, looking around.

“What’s he doing here?” Garen asked, lowering his head. “I doubt he’s here for a drink. He seemed awfully interested in us this afternoon.”

“Who are you talking about?” Falon demanded in the same hushed tone. “And why are we whispering?”

“The blonde headed guy near the entrance talking to Durin,” Garen replied. “We saw him twice today.”

Falon stared intently at the back of the man. When he turned and walked further into the inn, disappearing past the stairs, her face lit up.

“Yeah, the second time he saved us from”—Falon leapt from her chair and headed after the man—“a fight...” Michael trailed off bewildered as she passed Durin in the aisle.

Garen shrugged at his questioning glance and stabbed Falon’s last beef tip.

Durin stopped at their table. “A gentleman has arrived and wishes you to join him in our finest lounge. It’s beyond the stairs, down the hall, last door on your right.”

Durin strode away leaving Michael and Garen looking at each other sharing the same thought: run or comply?

“He did save us today,” Garen said.

“I don’t know, Garen. I mean, yeah, he did save us, but he looked at me like...well,” Michael shifted nervously, “like he saw the Sword over my shoulder.”

“What? That’s impossible. No one can see it unless they know it’s there.”

“I wish Max would get here,” Michael said, looking at the door.

“Well, unless you plan on going out to look for him I suggest we go find out why a paladin wants to talk to us,” Garen said. “Falon is apparently accustomed to meeting them.” He eyed his plate with several beef tips still on it then picked it up. No reason to let good food go to waste.

“Apparently,” Michael said, getting up.

Falon met them at the stairs, very excited. She slapped Michael’s hand as he reached for another tankard of ale from a serving girl walking past.

“Oww! What was that for?”

“I don’t think now is the time to be swilling your gullet.”

“Considering we’ve been summoned by a paladin, I think now is an excellent time.”

She scowled at him until he wilted and allowed her to push him down the hallway.

Jorgen stood by the fire, arms behind his back, staring into the flames. “Ah, we meet again,” he said when they shuffled in. “We have matters to discuss.”

“If it’s about the fight, sir,” Garen said, like he had been caught doing something wrong by a superior office.

“No this isn’t about the fight, although I do expect both of you to be more careful in the future.”

The look he gave them made them both shift on their feet. Michael wondered if this was what it was like to be stared down by officers all day. That alone was good reason to stay out of the military.

“No, I’m here to offer you my services.”

Michael and Garen looked at him shocked. Falon looked at him almost worshipfully like he had made a great proclamation. Before anyone could respond the door opened and Max stepped in. The alarm on his face quickly changed to amazement when he laid eyes on Jorgen.

“The Creator is truly with us,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“Wizard Xan’thorne?” Jorgen said.