Steel And Flame (Book 1) (2 page)

Ellise’s eyes widened at the name.  “Is it Marik?”

“Yes, it’s Marik!  Now you move on girl!”  Turning
back, he added, “Before I forget, sir, a passing traveler left news with me for
you.  It’s about your good father.”

“Really now?  Well, as I’ve said before Pate, if
you’re good for nothing else in the world, it’s collecting news and gossip! 
Come in and tell me about it!”

He slapped the pot-bellied man’s back.  Pate bowed
obsequiously.  As they stepped inside the innkeeper fawned over him for the
privilege of taking his cloak.

“It’s Marik,” whispered the cooks.

“Marik!” echoed the servants.

“Marik!”

“Marik!  Gods damn it, boy!  You’re supposed to be
down at the mill helping Allen!”

Marik jumped.  His foot caught on a tree root,
twisting his ankle and tumbling him to the ground.  And, naturally, once he had
momentum, he continued to roll into the patch of rash ivy he had carefully
avoided earlier.

He groaned in pain.

Master Pate glared at him from the pathway on the
hill.  Pate’s irritation stirred memories, reminding Marik that he was indeed
supposed to be at the mill collecting good woodcuts with Pate’s son, Allen.  In
the excitement of watching the caravan prepare to leave, he had completely
forgotten about it.

“Oh…that’s right!  I’m on my way.”  He crawled out of
the rash ivy and started to stand.  The pain in his ankle nearly sent him back
in.  It must have shown, but Pate’s expression lost none of its edge.

“Never you mind that now, boy.  You get yourself
washed up before the ivy sets in your skin. 
I’ll
go down to the mill
and help Allen bring the good cuts to the shop since you can’t be bothered to
do it yourself!”

“I can do it, sir…I just forgot.  I’ll run down right
now.”  He could not afford to have Pate throw him out.  It would end his
apprenticeship, which would cause him little grief, except it would create too
many troubles at the same time.  Pate spent most of his days being annoyed with
him so Marik felt uncertain exactly how angry the man was this time.

“You can’t even stand.  How do you plan to run?”

“I can stand,” Marik insisted.  He stood straighter. 
His ankle buckled momentarily which he tried his best to hide.

“Go get yourself washed.”

“Yes, sir.”  Marik stepped for the road.  He refused
to limp.

“And if my shop gets covered in rash ivy, I’ll take it
out of your hide!  Don’t you think I won’t!”

“Yes, sir,” he repeated while Pate followed the path
toward the river beyond the hill.  When Pate left his sight, Marik paused to
glance at the distant caravan.  It had moved far off, disappearing through the
hills.

In trepidation of what Pate would have in store for
him later, he wished more than ever that he was riding alongside them.

*        *        *        *        *

Marik felt depressed.  His itching skin did little to
improve his mood.  He picked at his meal in Puarri’s Tavern.  The owner was
generous enough to spot a friend’s son the price of a meal from time to time. 
Tonight, Marik did not want to go home yet, so he took advantage of Puarri’s
kindness.

Being the son of a sword-for-hire guaranteed he would
never be worth more than refuse in the townsfolk’s eyes.  The king could come
in person to decorate him for exemplary service to the crown, and the people of
Tattersfield would assume he had stolen credit for another man’s deeds.  That
he was a sixteen-year-old apprentice with no knowledge in his craft only added
fuel to that fire.

Pate disliked him.  He had not desired an apprentice,
a fledgling who would usurp the time he devoted to training his own son.  The
woodcrafter especially did not want a mercenary’s get who understood nothing
involved with woodworking.  Good, kind, gentle Master Pate had only accepted
Marik as a favor to Lilly, Marik’s mother, and because the charitable act
garnered him prestige from the other townsfolk.  With Rail missing these last
five years, Lilly had received a small amount of sympathy from Tattersfield as
a widowed mother.

This never bothered Marik before.  He knew that
obstacles like Pate could be overcome.  And they had never received any
confirmations of Rail’s death.  Rail Drakkson was not the sort of man to die in
obscurity without being discovered.  Deep inside, hidden within the crevasses
of his heart, he would only accept that Rail was dead when he personally gazed
upon his father’s corpse.  Somewhere out in the world, Rail still used his
considerable mercenary skill to forge his way.

But why had he left his son and wife to fend for
themselves for five long years?  Marik’s pride in his father did little to dull
that question’s bitter edge, a question which occurred with increasing
frequency every day those old dusty boots failed to beat a path to their
doorway.

A trio of travelers entered and called to Puarri for
food, breaking Marik from thoughts that occurred almost daily now.  He could
tell these men were fresh from the road by the questions they asked Puarri when
he brought them ale.  They planned to move on with the dawn and were interested
only in road conditions beyond Tattersfield.  The three were discussing the
caravan that had passed them earlier when several townsmen arrived.  Their
raucous laughter drowned the travelers’ speech.

His interest persisted since they bore the look of
fighters.  Not only their gear suggested this, but their very manner seemed
hardened.  On the right, nearest the hearth, sat a man tall and thin.  A scar
ran from his left ear down his neck, disappearing under his tunic.  Locks of
dark hair veiled small eyes.  Marik thought the man should be scowling or
suspicious, yet he spoke the most with Puarri in a cheerfully boisterous
demeanor usually reserved for tale spinners practicing their craft at the
Summerdawn Festival.

The man on the left was the one who bore the sullen
manner.  Though of similar height to the first man, his face was wider,
scar-free and his dark hair cut back to clear his vision.  His nose had
obviously been broken before.  Across the table, the first man turned from
Puarri to toss something at him while making an unheard comment.  While he
tucked the object into his belt pouch, the sullen man’s expression soured.

When Puarri left them, the first turned his exuberance
on his sullen companion, receiving only short, curt utterances in reply.  Marik
wished he could hear what they said.

The third man had yet to say anything as far as Marik
could tell.  Shorter than his friends by a head, he stretched wider than
either.  He should have looked fat except his hard arms and broad shoulders
bespoke solid muscle.  A brown mustache failed to distract from three long
parallel scars on his left cheek, running from eye to chin.  Seated comfortably
in the chair between his friends, he looked amused by their banter.

The men were interesting enough, but their gear spoke
volumes.  Their cloaks gaped open to reveal well worn chainmail shirts, cared
for after being put to hard use.  They wore heavy leather boots and Marik saw
similar leather gloves tucked into their belts.

Puarri refused to allow blades larger than a dagger in
his establishment, so Marik could not see what weapons they favored.  He might
see them by the door on his way out, though.  Since few locals carried weapons
in the town proper, they would likely be the only ones resting on Puarri’s
table.  No other strangers were at Puarri’s tonight.

A serving boy brought the travelers their meal.  With
no chance of hearing further news, Marik decided to leave.  He waved to Puarri
as he walked by before pausing a moment near the door.  On the small table were
three weapons; two swords of unremarkable nature and a large axe.  Unlike the
axes carried by the woodsman around town, it was large, shiny, crescent 
shaped.  A sharp spike atop the shaft allowed the owner to thrust without being
limited to slashing attacks.

Fascinating.  He had heard of weapons like this but
never seen one.

Its broad silver surface recalled many a battle
history to Marik, most learned in Puarri’s from minstrels performing the
ancient lays in exchange for lodging.  The sensation of being watched made him
glance back at the travelers.  While the first two were still involved with
each other, the shorter man in the middle had paused in his eating to watch
him.  Marik locked gazes with the stranger.  A feeling of being caught at
mischief struck him, of being guilty without knowing why.  He averted eyes and
quickly left the tavern.

Evening breezes blew across his face.  Marik realized
he had spent over a candlemark of time in Puarri’s without thinking about Pate
or his apprenticeship, as he’d intended to do.  Most of the time had been
consumed with the unanswerable questions presented by his father’s long absence
and the frustrations resulting from it.  Tattersfield had offered little scorn
for a young boy being raised alone by his mother.  At sixteen though, the
people had started seeing more of the father in the young man apprenticed to a
profession that held little interest for him.  His lack of enthusiasm for
woodworking was a significant enough trait to condemn him as the bad seed of a
bad seed.

Marik’s time with his father had been limited, yet he
remembered clearly that the few whispers and suspicious glances had vanished
completely during the periods when Rail had been in town.  Such was the benefit
of being a blood-crazed, maniacal, ruthless killer of men, women and children.

He grumbled at his wandering mind while he walked the
town roads to the small home he shared with his mother.  When he approached,
Macie, their neighbor, rose from where she had been sitting on their woodpile.

“Here you are!  I sent my boy looking for you over a
full mark ago,” she informed him hotly.

He rarely spoke with her, and he certainly had never
found her waiting for him at his home before.  From inside his cottage he heard
the sounds of several people moving about.  Marik’s stomach roiled in ominous
premonition.

*        *        *        *        *

Colbey returned to report the trapper, only to find
his immediate overseer, Kell, out dealing with a separate problem.  When he
encountered Council Member Farr on his way to the council chambers, the elder
bid him to follow and report inside.  Councilors Dellor and Orlan were already
present when Farr took his seat.

The scout’s distaste of the trapper who had invaded his
section of the forest was obvious to the three councilmen, as well as Colbey’s
opinion that the man should receive no further warnings.  Worried an
irreparable incident might occur if Colbey returned, Farr decreed that any full
Guardians who were free at the moment would handle the problem.  Insulted,
Colbey insisted himself perfectly capable of dealing with the trapper, that he
could handle
his
responsibilities in
his
section of the groves.

Farr’s decision was set in stone, yet the young scout
refused to accept it.  Colbey managed to keep his voice quiet, yet the anger
threading every word was plain.  Left with no choice, Farr dismissed him from
duties for the next two days.

Orlan sighed after Colbey stormed out of the chamber,
the young man barely refraining from stamping his feet on the broad wooden
floor.  The elder sat at the wide council table, where he was as out of
proportion as a child clothed in his father’s garments.  He rubbed his temples
before addressing the other two council members.

“This brings up an issue I had planned to address
later, but I suppose putting it off won’t help any.”

“Which issue?  This intruder, or young Colbey’s
arrogance toward everything?” snapped Dellor, the oldest member of the
council.  He had held his position far longer than any of the other eight
elders.

“Colbey, of course.  Repeat visitors from outside the
forest is nothing new, no matter what Colbey might think.”

“He’s become something of a problem,” admitted Farr. 
Elder Farr acted as chief overseer of both the scouts and the Guardians.  Their
actions were dictated by him.  “His training as a fully fledged Guardian is
close to complete.  You both know his reputation.”

“He’s made a reputation as a highly talented scout,”
replied Orlan.  “At the same time, he has also made a reputation as a
headstrong, volatile young man.  This is what I wished to address.”

Dellor nodded.  “Farr?  I’d like to hear what you
think.”

“He is talented,” Farr agreed with his own sigh. 
“There’s no argument about that.  He’s taken to his training like a bird to the
air and his progress is simply stunning.  But as good as he is, his attitude is
causing problems.”

“Kell brought a few instances to my attention,”
revealed Orlan.

“Everyone thinks they know more than whoever is in
charge.  That’s nothing new either.  Ask any of the active Guardians about
their duties and they’ll tell you everything the overseers do wrong, and how
they could do it better.  Mostly they’re expelling their irritations, but
Colbey comes much closer to crossing the line.”