Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (3 page)

Together they fed their magic into the Eye.

Magdalene’s lungs felt on fire, screaming for oxygen, but she had none to give. When she thought she had given every ounce of magic within her, the Eye found more in the farthest reaches of her being. The air within the shield felt alive with power. For one last, brief moment, she was aware of everything at once; her beloved Tobias, her precious son, the shield giving way to their enemy. “Let him grow into the man I love in his Father,” she whispered to the Creator. Blackness enveloped her.

Tobias lost himself in the torrent of the Eye’s magic. His mind felt like it would explode as the Eye drew every ounce of power out of him. His skin felt like it was turning to ash. He was certain it was peeling away red and burned. Magic flooded through him like a raging river threatening to sweep him away. He had never felt so connected to the Eye. He prayed his son would find a love as special as his mother.

In that final moment he had an epiphany, a realization, of what the Eye truly was. His eyes shot open, surprised. In that instant, before he died, he saw the Eye glowing blue.

The Heart erupted in a blinding flash of light. The Fist was decimated, but it had taken most of the mercenaries with it. The men raging against the shield were not as lucky as their fallen comrades. The Eye released its fury, a bluish-white ring of fire streaking across the Heart of the forest. The unearthly flames sought them out, consuming them all. Some rolled on the ground, but snow did nothing to extinguish the Eye’s wrath.

***

The trees at the fringes of the Heart were now splintered kindling. Treylan grimaced at the jagged and torn tree trunks. The crunching sound of snow was the only sound as his horse walked into the field of carnage. He had expected to watch a grand battle, “epic” the stories might say. He never imagined his brother would decimate the entire army. Cutthroats as they were, ten thousand men was no small force. All the better, though. Loose tongues were always a danger, not to mention the coin saved. He would command all of Shaladon soon so what did a minor force of paid thugs matter? His personal guard of a hundred followed behind him, a mixture of awe and fear showing on their faces. A few tried to ignore the destruction and charred remains littering the ground as they made their way to the lone red carriage.

Treylan looked at the carriage with contempt. Thin curls of smoke wisped skyward from its singed frame. The door swayed with a gust of wind, revealing the baby lying on the floor. Next to one another on the ground, Tobias and Magdalene looked like they were sleeping. He hated them more for the peaceful look on their faces.

Dismounting, he searched the Heart for any sign of life and found none. No movement, no moaning of the wounded. Ten thousand men!

The baby giggled behind him. It sounded like mockery. Enraged, Treylan grabbed the Sword. Without the gift of magic within him, it was simply a blade. Seemed only fitting to kill the son of Tobias with his almighty sword. With a yell, he brought the Sword down on the child.

The Heart erupted again in a blinding flash of white-hot light destroying every man in Treylan’s guard, leaving no trace they ever existed.

***

As the sun set behind the forest trees, quiet fell on the Heart. A lone figure, shrouded in shadows, viewed the open expanse. He had no desire to get close to the Eye. From the cover of the trees, he looked for any sign of movement. He saw none. A muscle in his jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth, anger seething. Treylan was supposed to retrieve the Sword so they could hide it. With the Keeper dead and the Eye lost, Shaladon would look to someone they could identify with, someone who reminded them of their beloved king. Who better than the king’s own brother? Manipulating the people from the shadows would be simple as they sought hope and security, clamoring to make sense of their great loss. Once he had Treylan on the throne, he could quietly make changes.

The Wizard’s Order would, of course, stand in the way, but there were divisions within their ranks and some already moved when he pulled their strings. A few accidents—starting with a particularly nasty one for Maximillian—and the problem could easily be remedied. A few short years and no one would be left to stop him from ripping open the well of magic Dalarhan stood on. Treylan had been rash, though, and one foolish act too many now left his plan in tatters.

No matter. He always prepared for setbacks. Shaladon would fall. And when he tore open the veil to Theran Gull, releasing the Soulless One, he would be rewarded far beyond any other. Still, his anger boiled as he looked at the Heart one last time.

“Fool,” he spat as he turned his horse. “Now I have to change my plans.” His black cloak flowed as he rode southeast, leaving the carnage behind.

***

In the red carriage, a shadowy box in dusk’s twilight, a tiny hand lay on the hilt of the Sword, and the Eye glowed purple.

C
HAPTER
1

Paths and Propositions

Michael stood motionless, concealed by vines and brush, his blue eyes searching the small clearing. Golden rays of afternoon sunlight shone intermittently through the thick foliage of the forest. Glittering dust particles dancing against a backdrop of greens and browns made the rays come alive. Crickets did not chirp, birds did not sing, the forest was silent. The only sound was the muted roar of the rapids the Whitewater River was named for.

The bushes to his right moved ever so slightly. A sly grin slid across Michael’s face. His stalker was in for a surprise. Lithely, Michael lunged, bringing his sword down. Another blade flashed from the bushes, deflecting Michael’s strike, but the force of the blow pulled the swordsman off balance. Michael tried to gain the upper hand, but his opponent broke free and retaliated. Michael parried, rolling with his adversary’s momentum as it carried them past one another. Quick to turn in fluid grace and face off, each man held his sword in both hands above his head, blade parallel to the ground in a guarding fashion. Michael looked into Garen Baldwin’s eyes gauging his next move. A dangerous swordsman under any circumstance, the look in his eyes said he had a new trick up his sleeve.

Michael deflected a series of quick strikes intended to disarm him, to the chagrin of his adversary. His mischievous grin reappeared and he mimicked the series of strikes.

Garen’s face contorted into a mixture of shock and strain as he struggled to deflect each one. His deft footwork prevented the final strike from disarming him. He shook his gauntleted hand, though, eyes never leaving Michael’s. Apparently one blow had landed after all.

Garen hesitated, reassessing matters after having his own trick turned against him. Michael took a swipe at Garen’s ribs. Garen responded with a parry and moved in close throwing an elbow at Michael’s jaw.

Every form flowed into another, every offense met by its equal defense. Strength matched by speed, experience by instinct, a dance of attack and deflection.

Michael stepped into Garen’s attack, raising his sword to intercept a strike and slid his blade along Garen’s, binding them at the cross guards. Face to face, noses almost touching, Michael recognized the hint of doubt in Garen’s eyes, sensed the momentary hesitation. Michael threw Garen back, intentionally remaining open, enticing him to use the same attack again. Garen took the bait and Michael shifted to the left, receiving the blow. Garen’s momentum carried him a step past Michael. A well placed foot in Garen’s path and an elbow to the back of the head sent him sprawling face first into the dirt. Garen rolled over and found the tip of Michael’s sword at his throat. His look of surprise gave way to a smile then laughter.

“Well done, Michael! Well done.”

“Well done?” Michael replied. “That’s all you can say? Well done?”

Michael held out a hand to help his friend up, but Garen waved the hand off, content to lie on the ground, chest heaving.

Michael leaned against a large oak, heart pounding. “You had a hard time keeping up.”

The day was cool, summer’s heat given way to autumn’s first chill, yet his shirt was drenched with sweat and muscles ached from their sparring.

“Hard time? I wouldn’t say that. You been practicing?” Garen asked between deep breaths.

Son of the garrison commander, Garen Baldwin never missed an opportunity to spar. The adrenaline, the excitement, the unpredictable nature of sparring was an elixir to him. He claimed a well-made sword in his hand made him feel complete.

“Only with you, my friend. You’ve had me sparring every day this week.” Michael smiled wryly. “Did you think I wouldn’t figure out your newest bag of tricks?”

“Yeah, but not so soon.” Garen climbed to his feet. “The way you turned Separating the Willows on me—”

“Is that what you named that attempt to disarm me?”

“Yeah,” Garen replied, a little less confident.

“Not a bad name I suppose, but anyone with quick wrists could stop it. Your rhythm is put off by—”

“No one at the garrison has.”

“Well, I’m not from the garrison, now am I?” Michael clamped his mouth shut regretting his words.

“No,” Garen paused, raking his fingers through his brown hair, “but you should be.”

Michael gritted his teeth. Bad enough the topic came up regularly but this time he had set himself up. He pointed his practice sword at Garen. “You want to go another round or do we stop this nonsense about me being a soldier?”

“It isn’t nonsense, Michael. I can beat every man at the garrison except Stren and my dad. And you beat me almost half the time.”

Michael shot him a knowing look.

Garen raised his hands in resignation, “Okay, more than half the time. Such skill belongs in the military. You have the gift, Michael.”

“The gift,” Michael snorted. “Garen, we’ve been sparring since we were old enough to whack each other with sticks. My abilities got better as yours did. That’s all.” He was tired of having to defend his desire to stay out of the military. Garen might be his best friend, but sometimes his head was thicker than an oak tree.

Garen missed the hint or refused to catch it. He held up his fingers counting each point. “You can sense doubt and hesitation better than anyone I know. You only need to see sword forms once to do them perfectly. You’re quick to learn a person’s strengths and weaknesses, and, if that’s not enough, you know exactly how and when to use it all against him. That only comes with years of experience, if ever, but you do it naturally.”

Michael sighed. “You see that tree over there?”

“Yeah,” Garen replied uncertainly. “What does that have to do with—”

“What do you see?”

Garen shrugged, “An oak tree.”

“Actually, it’s a white oak,” Michael corrected. “I see a chest with a family crest chiseled into the lid and a matching table, simple in design, but with finely turned legs to give it an elegant touch, and four matching chairs to complete the set.”

“Busy tree,” Garen quipped. “What the blazes does furniture have to do with sparring?”

Michael gritted his teeth.
Hickory! His head is as dense as hickory!
“When we face off I try to look ahead, to predict where you’re going in the dance. Sometimes I play along. Sometimes I try to make you play into my hands like I did today. With each form, I envision the outcome just as I envision that tree. There’s no special gift involved, Garen, just me using a carpenter’s eye in a different way.”

Garen eyed Michael suspiciously for a moment then burst into laughter. “That’s absurd! You’re telling me you can predict what I’m gonna do?”

Michael shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes! How can you possibly predict swordplay?”

“I know you. I know your tactics, how you favor certain forms and tale-tale signs that give away what you’re about to do. I use that knowledge to my advantage.”

Garen grunted derisively. “A sword fight’s unpredictable. It’s action and reaction, skill and reflexes. You have no idea what’s coming before...” Garen’s voice trailed off, lost in thought.

“That is exactly what I’m talking about!” Garen blurted out. “Dad tried explaining the same concept to me months ago. Sounded crazy back then, but now—well, it still sounds crazy—but Michael, you and my dad share the same talent! You absolutely belong in the military.”

Michael growled. “Garen, I’m a carpenter! That’s all I care to be! I build houses, I build furniture, things people need. That’s what makes me whole. That’s what makes me content. I have no desire to run off and fight battles for a king I’ll never meet.” He pointed at Garen. “You want to gallivant across the country in search of glory be my guest.” He thumbed at his chest. “I’m not interested!”

Michael realized he was close to shouting and clapped his mouth shut, slightly embarrassed. Garen’s smirk did not help either. “Besides,” he added, regaining his composure, “a hammer feels better in my hand than a sword.”

Garen’s face lit up. “You’ve never held a Master’s blade. I have. Dad let me hold Hothfyre.”

It meant ‘Heaven’s fire’ in the old, ceremonial language. A long, single-edged blade slightly curved with a chiseled tip. It was a product of Crafting, metal melded with magic. Close to indestructible, Hothfyre could penetrate the strongest armor with ease, yet never lose its edge. Ironically, the most famous attribute was the blade’s red hue.

In the last century, less than fifty such swords had been made in Timmaron and each crafted specifically to enhance the traits of the wielder. A man with brute strength became stronger, agile wrists quicker, a tactician more cunning. The skill, leadership, and valor required to earn a master’s blade was the substance of legends.

Jensen Baldwin, Garen’s father, became one such legend for his role in the Sarlon War. After the war, the king promoted him to general, but, to everyone's surprise, he insisted on taking charge of the southern border garrisons—Whitewater’s Forge, Glokstein, and Blackstone. Other generals scoffed at the idea, and the king was reluctant. Baldwin cared little what other men thought and whatever reasons he laid out to the king proved sufficient. Under his command, the garrisons became the posts soldiers requested most frequently despite being far removed from the citadel in Tallijor. Once a place soldiers were sent to for career ending infractions, the southern border garrisons were now the premier training grounds.