Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (25 page)

Michael briefly explained what they had experienced, leaving out the part about the wolf.

“Where’s this cave?” Jorgen asked darkly.

They retraced their way back to the cave, a nondescript grassy mound protruding from the earth with overhanging vines aiding its concealment. Michael shivered. No one would have found them.

Jorgen inspected the cave with Michael while Garen and Falon remained outside, neither willing to reenter. Michael could not blame them. The Creator knew he would not be in the cave if not for Jorgen.

“What tore her throat out?”

“I don’t know,” Michael lied. “One moment I was wrestling with a nightstalker and the next I found myself in this cave. She was lying there, blood pouring out.”

Jorgen gave him a suspicious look. “That’s it, nothing else?”

Michael ran his fingers through his hair. “That’s it, nothing else.”

“You’ll be sure to tell me if you remember anything else, Michael, won’t you?” It was not a request.

“What more do you want, Jorgen?”

“I want to understand why a wolf would rip the throat out of a Strega to save you?”

“A what?”

“A Strega, Michael. A witch that uses dreams or nightmares to keep you trapped in your mind while she slowly feeds off your life force. Just about the time she started on you she got her throat ripped out. Now, do you have anything to add?”

Michael’s mind reeled, beginning to grasp what had happened to him. The horror of his fight with the nightstalker raw in his mind. What did she use on Garen and Falon?

“I saw a wolf leaving the cave. It looked at me for a moment like it knew me. Seems like it was part of the dream now.”

“She’s missing her throat, that’s real.”

“I’ve seen the wolf before,” Michael confessed. “The day Falon came to town. I was visiting my parent’s graves. It stood out like it wanted me to see it. Then the nightstalkers attacked me that night.”

Jorgen looked at him for a long moment.

Michael felt like he stood on some paladin scales of justice. Was it wrong the wolf aided him?

“You have strange allies, Michael Ashguard. Strange allies indeed.”

“So, where’s Max?” Michael asked as they walked out of the cave.

“I don’t know, but I suspect he’s in a world of danger.”

“You mean there’s more of these witches?”

“Witches?” Garen jumped. “Who said anything about witches?”

“The woman in there is a—”

“Head south,” Jorgen interrupted. “And don’t stop till you’re out of this cursed forest.”

“But what about Max?” Michael replied.

“I’ll worry about Max. You get out of these woods.”

“I’m going with you,” Michael insisted. “You can’t do it alone.”

“How do you think you could help me, hmm? The Sword will do you little good if your mind is captured.”

“I know what we’re up against now,” Michael replied stubbornly.

Jorgen cut the air with his hand, “You have no idea what you’re up against!”

Jorgen closed his eyes, breathing deeply. When he opened them, his voice was calm but his gaze was ice. “I’ve been hunting this kind of evil most of my life. They’re masters of illusion and the only defense is truth; truth of who you are and what you’re meant to be. You can’t just know the truth; it must be part of you. Do you know the mechanics of carpentry or is it a part of you? Something you don’t think about, you just do. You know the wood and how to shape it. So it must be with the truth I speak of. If Max has been trapped, do you think you will fare any better? This is what I do. If you go with me, if I have the slightest suspicion you have followed me, then you will be giving them the upper hand and my chances of rescuing Max will be close to none. Now give me your word that you will head south.”

Michael knew he was right. He hated it, but Jorgen was right. He nodded his head, “We will.”

“Good. Now let me see your book of maps.”

Jorgen leafed through the pages. “Go south and get out of these woods, but stay out of Elowe. There’s a civil war brewing there, best you not be around if things get nasty. Looks like there’s a pass through the Chelean Mountains. Once you’re in Alarus, hold up in Lockhart.” He pointed at a dot on the page. “It looks like the first town you’ll reach once you clear the mountains. It’s on the border of Valan though, so be on your guard. Get rooms at an inn, stay out of sight and wait for us there. Don’t go venturing off. Last thing we need is you getting kidnapped by some local and sold to those zealots in Valan just so they can hang you. If we haven’t joined you in a week, then we won’t be coming at all. Understood?”

Falon and Garen quickly nodded. Jorgen’s steely gaze held Michael till he reluctantly agreed as well.

“Use your heads, stay low and don’t attract any attention.”

C
HAPTER
24

Valiant Efforts

Jorgen squatted down at the edge of the bowl-shaped clearing, scanning for any sign of danger. A few pillars, riddled with cracks and holes, stood as the final testament of a structure long since reclaimed by the forest. Grass carpeted the circular clearing and leaves heavily speckled the emerald canvas with shades of red, orange and yellow. Stone steps leading up the east side of the bowl added their own grey, earthen color. His eyes fell on the smooth, black disc lying at the center of the bowl. Everything was just as it had been in his dream.

Most people believed the Paladins power lay in their ability to nullify magic, but they were mistaken. A day of searching had proven fruitless, but a night on his knees in fervent prayer had garnered the guidance he needed. With the moon setting, Jorgen had bolted upright from his slumber, the vision of the bowl-shaped clearing and its pillars fresh in his mind. Meshema Donai favored him, his faith had been rewarded.

Wielding Fire, shaping Air, even healing the near dead paled in comparison to the power of Faith. Through opening oneself fully to the Great Lord, all things became possible. The Paladins merely sought to find their role in the Great Plan and follow it faithfully. Such a simple concept yet oddly difficult for so many to understand, much less follow. The trappings of this temporary world held such appeal that most people could not see the blessings awaiting them in a life of service.

The time for introspection was over. Cautiously, he crept out of the trees, feeling exposed in the open space. Leaves skidded across the disc’s glossy smooth surface as he approached. A closer inspection revealed the black disc was a platform, protruding from the ground a hand high.

Pulling his family crest medallion out of a pocket, he ran a finger over the fist gripping a lightning bolt. As with most Paladins, Jorgen’s ability to nullify magic could sometimes be a disadvantage. Crafting medallions to emanate magic proved to be one of their more vital tools.

He stepped on the disc, drawing his half-moon battle axe, and knelt on one knee. Regulating his breathing, he closed his eyes and pictured a single candle representing his nullifying ability. A cool breeze brushed his skin, but he barely noticed as he envisioned his hand placing a bowl over the candle, diminishing the flame to the point of extinguishing it. With a whispered prayer, he touched the medallion to the glossy surface and vanished.

***

Max stood before a lone window, its frame curving to a point near the ceiling. The morning sun flooded through in beams of red and orange light.

Slightly bewildered, he looked around at the shelves of books lining the walls. He recognized his study at the wizard’s keep in Dalarhan, but he wasn’t quite sure how he got there. He had the oddest feeling he should be somewhere else, but he could not say where. Shaking off the feeling, he looked back down at the people going about their business in the courtyard. Quickly his thoughts returned to the rather peculiar events in Keen.

Apparently, if the reports could be believed, a band of pirates managed to rescue their captain from the watchtower prison. An impossible feat considering the prison was an impenetrable fortress on a small island in the middle of Cannon Bay. Even more alarming, he had received word the ruler of Keen, Andrus the Bold, had been murdered. Were the two related? The timing was suspicious, but why would pirates bother murdering a king?

A rap at the door brought him out of his thoughts.

“A’lan,” he said, embracing his friend. “How are you?

“Tired,” A’lan said. “The world is a large place.”

“And how goes your expedition?”

A’lan laid a leather bound book on the table. “Ever heard of the country Timmaron?”

Max nodded. “A little.”

A mischievous grin slid across A’lan’s face. “Have I got maps to show you.”

“And a few stories no doubt.”

A’lan held up his hands like a kid explaining the obvious. “Isn’t that the point?”

Though Max would never admit it, he often thought A’lan’s quests sounded far more exciting than his own. Life had taken them down very different paths since their childhood in Jacstope. The day Max left for the Wizard’s Keep, A’lan set off on “an expedition to map the world” as he put it. If anyone could complete such a task, A’lan could.

Max often claimed A’lan’s magical gift was his mind. A notion A’lan blew off as nonsense. Resourceful, imaginative, and able to devise a solution to any problem, A’lan was one of the smartest people Max had ever known.

A’lan managed to pay him a visit every three or four years. Strange how those years could erode just how much Max missed his friend. Close, trusted friends could be as rare for wizards as strong control of three Elements. Then again, Max did have a gift for rarities.

They settled in around the stout oak desk as Max moved books and piles of papers to make room for tea. He hoped A’lan might have some ideas on the events in Keen since he had traveled from that direction.

The sun crept well past its zenith and their lunch lay cold, barely touched, when Max felt a shock ripple through his mind like someone plucking a string. The Keeper felt alarmed.

The link he shared with the Eye allowed him to know when it was being wielded. Since the Keeper was also linked to the Eye, Max could glean his emotions; though indistinct, like looking through blurred glass, yet enough to know the Keeper’s general state of emotion.

Tobias’ alarm felt faint, a hundred simple reasons could be the cause, so he continued listening to A’lan talk about his travels far into Ma’ Shal Dar. Timmaron had recently fought a war with their western neighbor, the Sarlons. Despite the war, Timmaron remained neutral to magic while Valan, their neighbor to the east, was so hostile the gift of magic was a death sentence. An “abomination” they called it. How could a country be so far off the truth?

Another jolt shot through his mind. This one left him seeing spots as he grabbed his head. He stood up, disoriented, trying to determine where Tobias was. Just as he gathered the general direction a vision exploded in his mind; the colors vivid, the emotions raw. A battle raged in the Heart of the Al’ Shar Dan forest.

Max raced out of his study, A’lan two steps behind. Halfway down a corridor he stopped so abruptly A’lan almost ran into him. Some strange shield emanated from the Eye. He closed his eyes trying to determine what Tobias was doing, but there was such a jumble of emotions and magic raging through the Keeper and the Eye. Max dashed into a library.

“Eli!” he called, craning his neck, looking between the gaps in the books on the shelves. “Eli!”

“Pipe down!” Replied a somewhat muffled voice. “No need for all the shouting. I can hear you.”

“Eli, Tobias is in danger.”

Eli stepped into the aisle. “Are you sure?” He was well aware of all the false alarms Tobias had set off over the years.

Max cocked his head down and glared at Eli. “What kind of question is that? Of course, I’m sure. Where’s Jerrod?”

“I suspect he’s in the grand hall. Supper’s about to start and that boy’s never late for a meal.”

“Rally your men. Get to the Heart as fast as you can.”

Max dashed out of Eli’s study, running down several more corridors, then threw open the doors to a large hall half filled with people. His entrance drew attention from many. The First Wizard did not throw open doors. Regaining his composure, he scanned the hall spying Jerrod Millhorn, a youth with a thin and splotchy beard. Short but muscular, the lad looked more like a blacksmith’s apprentice than a wizard’s. Max forced himself to walk as he approached Jerrod, nodding to anyone who acknowledged him and thankful no one beseeched him with tedious details or requests for once.

“Jarrod, I need a word with you.”

Jerrod’s two companions glanced at each other nervously. Each commented on different chores they needed to tend to and quickly walked away before Jerrod could respond.

Max led Jerrod to a side room. “I need to teleport to the Heart of the Al’ Shar Dan forest,” he stated, closing the door, quieting the throng of the main hall.

“Al’ Shar Dan Forest! That will take me three jumps.”

“How long?” Max asked.

Jarrod raked his fingers through his shaggy brown hair calculating an answer. “Four hours.”

Max growled. “Jerrod, I need to get there now.”

Jerrod’s brown eyes darted back and forth, thinking. He snapped his fingers with a glint in his eye. “Landon can teleport us to Mistenthar. Benson is there now. He can take us to Kirvin. I can make the final jump to the Heart. I can’t speed up the jumps, but I can at least save you the time needed for us to rest after each one. We can have you there in an hour.”

It was the best Max could hope for, but he feared it would be too late. He could feel it in his bones. “It’ll have to do.”

***

Max picked his way carefully through the battlefield, stepping around arrow ridden bodies and charred black forms. Severed heads, with their eerie, glazed over eyes stared at him accusingly. No matter where he looked there was no reprieve from the gruesome scene. Thankfully the sun was only a sliver on the horizon; darkness would be a welcomed guest.