The Order of the White Feather:
The sword of Dalamar
By
Edward J. Coburn
Smashwords Edition
EdwardJCoburn.com
Help me produce my audio book, come to my website
Copyright 2011 by Edward J. Coburn. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
Table Of Contents
Chapter 1 ..... Attack
Trees. Trees and the heady scent of road dust. For the better part of a day there had been nothing but. Within the coach, delicately crafted of fine, highly-prized ebony, Anjur arranged and rearranged the surplus of satin cushions that were supposed to be allowing her some measure of comfort. They were doing no such thing. She hated traveling in the coach. She had absolutely no desire to put up with this crude contraption not fit for a peasant. That was her father’s miserable idea. She squinted at the sunlight filtering through the overhead canopy of foliage. She glowered at her mother sitting quietly opposite her in the coach. To Anjur’s disgust, Francial seemed to be enjoying the monotonous scenery. “Mother,” she spat, “how can you stand it? This is taking forever. I’m simply bored to tears.”
“Love, we’ve still a good journey ahead of us. If you’re bored, why not play with your new puzzle, or draw me a picture?”
Anjur rolled her vivid green eyes, “I can’t draw while we’re bouncing along in this awful thing.” She made a dramatic gesture around her and wrinkled her nose in distaste. “And as for this puzzle,” she reached across the length of the coach and produced a plump velvet pouch, bound tightly at the top with a leather drawstring, “What do you think I am, a child?” She loosened the knot on the bag and upended it. The rainbow of brightly colored tiles spilled to the floor.
Francial just sighed, thinking better of mentioning that at the age of thirteen her daughter was hardly an adult. She did have to admit, however, that Anjur had outgrown many of the simple pleasures of childhood, which undoubtedly added to her boredom with everyday things.
“She is simply too quick for her own good, and ours...” she recalled her husband’s words as she fumbled in the tight confines of the coach to pick the puzzle pieces. As she thought of her daughter’s short-lived childhood, Francial welcomed the memories of her daughter when she was so much easier to please...
“Mother! Mother, are you listening to me?”
Francial, shaken from her reverie, looked at her daughter. “Yes, dear,” she sighed heavily.
“I asked you how much further to Habberdac!”
“Anjur, you know we won’t reach the city until early tomorrow, even if all goes well.”
Anjur heaved a sigh of her own then, growing ever more annoyed with her mother’s complacency. “This is ridiculous! I do think Father’s gone completely mad! Does he really think I enjoy being bundled off at his every whim?”
“Anjur, I don’t think...”
“That’s the problem, Mother, you don’t think. You never think.”
“Sweets,” Francial began, overlooking Anjur’s sarcasm. “Perhaps you should relax for a time. A nap might make the hours pass faster.”
Anjur huffed in response as she reluctantly accepted her mother’s suggestion. To her surprise, the satin felt pleasantly soft beneath her head and the jostling of the coach seemed to lessen as she closed her eyes...
“At last,” Francial thought as she watched Anjur’s breathing soften into the peaceful rhythm preceding sleep. She had put up with Anjur’s quick temper for as long as she could remember. But lately it had grown all the more mean-spirited and had become increasingly more difficult to accept. If she hadn’t had Mardel to help her, she might not have been able to hold up. Mardel had been nursemaid and then governess to Anjur from almost the moment Anjur was born. She wished Mardel could join them in the coach and perhaps Anjur might act a bit more civilized. But that was just not possible. First there really wasn’t room for a third person in the coach as Anjur took up one full side with her pillows, blankets, and what-not, and second, because it just wasn’t done. Servants simply didn't ride with their patrons no matter how much they had become a part of the family. Instead, Mardel either road in the open wagon with the few servants that it could carry or she walked alongside with the others that it couldn’t. The right to ride rather than walk rotated among the servants based on a timetable that they had all agreed to long ago. In that Francial knew she was lucky. Her servants had a good rapport and always seemed to cooperate easily. She knew of many households where that wasn’t true. It was also fortunate that her servants were able to travel well together as trips far from the estate were common. Norlamac, her husband, was a trader who traveled here to buy and there to sell. Though he had a shop in Lorcast, where they lived, and another in Boridan, a half days ride from Lorcast, he worked in them only a few days each month. The rest of the time he was on the road doing what he truly enjoyed and where his business acumen proved especially profitable. His philosophy was profoundly simple; “Anyone can run a shop but it takes a special expertise to know what to pay for goods so that you don’t pay more than they’re worth nor pay less than is fair so that the other party won’t be reluctant to do business with you again and to know what to sell those goods for so you make a fair profit without gouging your customers such that they will take their business elsewhere the next time.” He lived by this philosophy, which dictated he be on the road much of the time and he often took Anjur and Francial with him. When he did, many of the household servants went along also. In such times, the single wagon that Norlamac would ordinarily travel with became a caravan of three; a wagon for the goods, another for the servants, and the coach for Anjur and Francial. In either case Norlamac always brought along a cadre of at least ten guards to protect against the hazards of the road. This time, because the goods he was transporting were especially valuable, the protective cadre numbered 25.
“Ah, love,” Francial thought, studying the oblivious girl, “You’re more like your ‘mad’ father than you would ever admit.”
It was true. It had been Norlamac’s courageous superiority, and, yes she had to admit, arrogance, that had first brought them together. Francial smiled at the memory.
Anjur’s singular beauty, at least, had mostly been Francial’s doing. Even though the set of her eyes and angled jaw had been Norlamac’s, Anjur wore her mother’s delicate complexion, and waist-length wealth of pure golden locks. Her eyes were the only things that didn’t seem to fit. The playfulness of that otherworldly green, where had that come from?
* * *
Dark... The festering damp of the earth so close... The poignant stillness of the air... Uncomfortable silence in his ranks as they waited, never moving, not a stray blink. It’s coming... Impatient hearts thudding within as they hungrily await the coming battle... The sounds become louder, more audible. The thudding boots of the cadre. The creaking of the coach wheel. Ever closer. Still they wait... Closer yet… The most opportune moment is not yet, so they wait in silence, motionless. Closer... So close... “Now!”
* * *
Anjur jolted awake, the eerie images from the dream still in her mind. “No!” she screamed, pressing her hands to her temples as if her head was about to explode. Francial nervously grabbed Anjur’s shoulders. “Mother!” the trembling girl cried, flinging herself into her mother’s arms.
Francial suddenly found herself with the weight of her child, as tall as she, in her arms. She stumbled, and tried to stabilize herself with some handhold. She didn’t find one in and the two tumbled to the coach floor.
“What’s going on back there?” Norlamac called from where he sat atop the coach with the driver.
Francial watched Anjur pull herself onto her seat a startled look on her face. Francial joined her, forgetting Norlamac’s question the moment that Anjur’s eyes met hers. Were those tears?
“Anjur... what…?” Francial said.
“Francial! Anjur? What the Oracle is going on?”
Anjur was tossed forward once again as the coach lurched to a halt. She didn’t understand what had just occurred, but she did know one thing… “Father…” she poked her head out the window just as Norlamac dismounted the coach. She stared straight ahead at their path and said, “We can’t pass through that canyon.”
“What is it Anjur? You aren’t giving your mother trouble again are you?” There was accusation in his tone, but his warm eyes held no malice.
“We can’t… If we go on… They’re waiting for us in there,” she nodded towards the mouth of the dark canyon ahead. “Father, please.” She didn’t know how nor why she had just witnessed what she had, but she instinctively knew that it was much more than a simple nightmare and also that they would be in imminent danger if they continued on their current path. She was certain that an enemy lay in wait. She even knew the face of that enemy. The small, pale, calculating, and cruel face. The face she would not forget. The face she could not forget.
The desperation in her voice took Norlamac buy surprise. “What is it Anjur? Who is waiting for us?” He forced a smile trying to calm her and deduce what was happening.
Anjur stepped out of the coach, hands clenched, her face a mask of fear. “I don’t… know… But Father, they’re out there, hiding, waiting for us...”
“Who’s waiting? Where? And how the Oracle do you know?” he asked and then followed her intense gaze as she slowly scanned the depths of the canyon. Of course… Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Where better than the darkness of the canyon walls to observe your quarry without being seen! In the name of the Oracle, this was just what those little forest rebels had been waiting for. They’d been following the trade routes for months, just so they’d know precisely when and where to...
“Dearest, what is it? Do you see something?”
“Yes Francial, something I should have seen months ago. I don’t know how, but our lovely daughter has brought my attention to a treachery I had completely overlooked. I think the forest imps that we have observed following us for months mean to attack us in the canyon.” Norlamac gently stroked Anjur’s her silken locks and bade her to return to the coach where Francial still held the door open. “Don’t you worry now; I’ll take care of it. And,” he added under his breath, “I’ll see to it that those rat-eaters get what they deserve...”
Francial hadn’t even had the chance to put one foot on solid ground before she found herself being herded back inside the coach with Anjur close on her heels. It might have eased her nerves somewhat if she had any hint at all of what was going on, but as it was, she was forced to sit in wonder with scarcely a view of anything but the warriors in front of the coach. This was the standard formation used wherever there was a hint of danger. Four of the guards in front of the carriage, four more on each side, and another four to the rear. The others Norlamac would take with him to scout out the danger.
Anjur hid, wrapped in blankets, as she peered out at the pattern of men. Francial couldn’t even guess what was going with Anjur. She didn’t know what to say so, instead, she folded her hands in her lap and simply watched and waited for…what?
Francial was also afraid for her husband. With scarce a word to either of them upon understanding the meaning behind what Anjur was saying, he had gone to seek out a hidden party of rebels, on the off chance they might actually lie in wait. He left only after first installing the dense, protective wall of cadre around the coach. It always seemed that once Norlamac seized on an idea, nothing or no one could break his grip. Most of his obsessions were harmless enough such as when he had to own the best fighting dogs, have the fastest horses, build the finest castle, but this… This was…dangerous…Besides, Norlamc was a businessman, not a fighter.
“Sire, what drives ye to conclude that an enemy lies in wait in the canyon?” Zameal was First Warrior of Norlamac’s guards, and by rights, he could question his patron’s intentions. Besides, Zameal had been with Norlamac for many years and they had been fast friends for all but a few of those.
“What?” The noble regarded his First Warrior over his shoulder, his vision straying temporarily from the canyon ahead.
“I just wonder what makes ye think anyone is out there that might pose a threat.”
“It was something Anjur said that made me immediately realize the potential danger. And I never said I was certain that anyone is out there. I simply said that I thought we should go check it out, just in case, since it’s such a perfect place for an ambush.” He picked his pace and the shorter warrior and the guards that followed them had to almost jog to keep up.
Zameal cleared his throat, and tried another route of protest. He knew his patron wasn’t a coward, but he also knew he wasn’t as adept with a sword as even the greenest apprentice guard and felt an obligation to try to keep him safe, even if Norlamac seemed to wish otherwise. “I would agree that the canyon would be ideal for an attack but I and the others are more than is needed to determine if there is any possible danger. Besides, what about yer ladies…”
That caught the trader’s attention. He stopped short and whirled about to meet Zameal’s eyes directly, “What about them?”
Zameal sputtered in the shadow of the noble, his confidence suddenly abandoning him. By the Oracle, how this man could be intimidating! “Well, Sire… I… was only thinking that it might be unwise leaving them?”
“Zameal,” Norlamac sighed, “Over half my guards have circled the caravan, reluctantly, mind you, armed and prepared for anything.”
“Anything, Sire?”
Norlamac considered. What was Zameal thinking? “And you have a better suggestion?”
“It isn’t that, Sire. I just think ye would feel them safer if ye were with them.”
Ah! So that was his ploy. Norlamac smiled, silently applauding the warrior’s loyalty, “So,” he teased, “You think your noble should wait with the ladies for fear of danger? Should I also find myself a skirt and take up embroidery.”
Zameal’s eyes widened, hurt by the sarcasm rampant in the accusation. “Sire, come now. All I meant was that there is simply no need for ye to endanger yerself,” he straightened his shoulders, pulling himself to his full, unimpressive height. “If there are bandits out there, these men,” he indicated the eight men following them, “can handle them. What have ye hired us for, if not to mind yer safety?”
Norlamac slowed his pace a bit, reflecting upon his warrior’s words. He knew they were wise. He also knew he really wasn’t much of a fighter. He recalled his pitiful and painful showing the time when a street thug grabbed Francial’s bag. He did little except get himself beaten soundly and loose his money pouch as well as Francial’s bag. With that memory his attitude altered abruptly. His eyes narrowed, once again trying to penetrate the darkness of the canyon. He spoke softly to Zameal, “Of course you are right, my friend, and I trust you completely. Take my men… your men, and survey every cranny of this confounded place. If you find anything, I trust you will handle yourself bravely, as always. I’ll wait with the coach and,” he added with a wink, “with my ladies.”
“Thank you, Sire.” Norlamac’s response was only a slight nod, and Zameal watched as his employer moved through the trailing line of fighters back to the coach. He thanked Norlamac, under his breath, for the minimal argument he had raised. He was a good employer and a good friend though he could be a bit lofty at times. But then, why shouldn’t he be? The noble had a full head of trader’s wits about him, a wife and daughter of beauty beyond reason, to say little of the bounty of gold and property to his name. It shouldn’t bother Norlamac so much that he is no warrior. After all, one can’t have everything...
* * *
In the shadows of the canyon Portial and his crew waited. As he watched the procession of guards, he wondered why the caravan had stopped. They had been following Norlamac’s caravans for several months and this was the first time such a tactic had been used. He knew it would do little good to attack these few guards. If he did, the element of surprise that was one of the most important aspects of his plan would be gone. He would stand little to no chance of success against the caravan in the open as it was and the caravan would certainly not venture into the canyon once it was known he and his band were there.
How could they have known? Or did they know? Maybe this was just some new tactic Zameal had devised. Portial knew that Zameal was a good tactician. Almost as good as he was. Perhaps Zameal had decided to check out canyons such as this before risking the caravan. Or, perhaps this was a particularly rich cargo. Or perhaps one of his men had moved and attracted the attention of one of the guards. If anyone had and he was able to determine who it was, he would cut off his thumbs and feed them to him. He looked around as well as he could without moving his head but couldn’t see anything or anyone. No. It couldn’t be that. His men were too well trained to make such an error. But why then…?
* * *
Zameal’s gaze was never stationary as he approached the entrance to the canyon but he had still not seen any trace of an enemy. Still, Norlamac seemed to be adamant about the need to at least check out the canyon and perhaps he was right. This canyon certainly was an ideal place for an ambush. He glanced up and down the steep walls covered with brush that an enemy could conceal himself in and small caves and outcroppings that one could easily hide in and under.
“All right, men,” he said in a voice that echoed up and down the canyon, “Spread out and be alert.” He felt no need to be quiet. If someone was in wait, keeping quiet would be of no value for them as the enemy would have already observed them as they approached the canyon.
* * *
Portial didn’t like this at all. It was obvious that all chance of surprise was gone and it was only a matter of time before one of the guards stumbled upon one of his hidden men. He really had no choice. He had to attack now, before they were discovered. Without a further thought, he yelled, as loudly as he could, “Now!”
The shout was followed by the sound of arrows streaking though the sky, and the sour hiss of metal as the little band of soldiers hastily unsheathed their blades.
“Bloody demons!” Zameal screamed. “Ambush!” More arrows then and a dull thud as at least one archer hit his mark.
For a moment Zameal was aware of the battle cries and the rattle of armor as their unseen attackers seemed to materialize out of the very hillside. Then, his world narrowed before him as a long, pallid face pierced the darkness. The warrior gasped as his smaller enemy unsheathed an arrow and fitted it to his bow, then withdrew almost entirely, back into the darkness as he realized he’d been spotted.
In a few calculated steps, the distance between himself and his attacker was gone and with one swift stroke, the archer’s weapon was on the ground in pieces. “No more of that now, dwarf!” he growled.
The little man, his face rife with panic, stumbled backward over himself, as Zameal paused just a moment to gloat over the swiftness of his attack and victory. As he did so, his victim shrank back into the shadowy veil along the canyon’s wall, and was gone.
Zameal paused just long enough to hurl a few of his favorite oaths at his invisible assailant and at himself for letting him get away, before returning to his comrades. With a practiced glance, Zameal knew two of his men lay dead while several others still battled, wounded though they were. Although there were many more of the enemy than of the guards, the guards were nearly twice the size of the attacking imps and the battle quickly seemed to turn. The other archers had apparently fled just as his had. Either that or they ran out of ammunition as there were no more arrows splitting the air. And the remains of the war party wasn’t but a dozen or so desperate rebels clad in dull gray armor and armed with what seemed to be nothing more than a short spear tipped with a sharp iron rod.
Zameal leapt into the center of combat, dispersing the enemy, and made a sure slice with his long sword, catching a rebel just below the ribs. He cursed as his vision blurred with the blood of his enemy, and he quickly wiped it from his eyes. Only then was he aware that another was upon him, this time striking from behind. He spun on his heel to see, too late, the glint of metal as a thin shaft leapt through the air, and, with a hot flash of pain, embedded itself in his shoulder. Ah, by the dust of dragon’s, how he’d underestimated that little spear. He felt a sickening warmth drench his side, and, gasping for a breath through the suffocating pain, he felt himself stumble, and fall. The world danced before him, the sweet scent of blood making him dizzy, the last of his energy spent to regain his stance. But soon enough, despite his struggle, the light failed his eyes, and the First Warrior slipped into darkness.
* * *
Anjur kept her vigil through the surrounding shield of guards, even as the clash of metal and the fierce battle cries rained down on them, muffled though they were because of their distance from the canyon. Her mother began to weep with terror and her father curled a comforting arm around her.
“There now Dear,” he whispered as he kissed her lightly on the side of the head, “Nothing to worry about. The devils won’t attack all the way back here.”
They sat for a time, huddled together, trying as best they could to comfort each other. Soon, the din of battle seemed to fade and then die out completely. They waited in silence for a while before Anjur tentatively stuck her head out of the window.
“Can you…” Francial started to say.
“Mother,” Anjur cried, “They come.”
And indeed, they were on their way back to the coach. Though the battle was short, it was obvious that it had also been vicious. Many of the solders coming back were spattered with blood, some of it their own, but most of it of their enemies and one of the guards was being carried on a litter improvised from, as near as Anjur could tell, two spears and a few tunics. Francial forced herself out of Norlamac’s grasp, looked out of the window, and paled. Norlamac immediately jumped out of the coach on the other side.
“Mother, I don’t see Zameal. They’re carrying someone. Is it Zameal? Are they carrying Zameal, Mother? Mother?” It was no use, her mother had seen all she was going to for now. She had withdrawn from the window.
The guards broke ranks and spilled out towards their comrades. Norlamac pushed his way through the men and also headed for the victors. Anjur slipped unnoticed from the coach and followed her father.
As she approached the man that was being carried, her heart was hammering so hard that she thought it might burst from her chest. “Zameal,” she thought, “It just couldn’t be Zameal.” Of all the guards her father had hired over the years, Zameal was the only one she had gotten to know well. Probably because he wasn’t only First Warrior, but also a friend of her father. He had sat at many family meals as a guest rather than a servant and he and her father had many a spirited conversation about trade when Norlamac led the discussion and the battles he had fought when Zameal led them along with the tales about women they had conquered when they thought Anjur and Francial were long gone to bed. Anjur heard the latter by sitting at the top of the stairs, around the corner so she couldn’t be seen from below. The life and spirit of the house seemed to grow whenever Zameal was there. He had even been allowed to hold and play with her when she was a baby and join her, Mardel, and her parents in the games they played infrequently. She had come to think of Zameal as a member of the family and the thought of him lying in that litter almost brought her to tears before she could get close enough to discover whether it was him or not.
She started and even yelped a bit as a hard hand suddenly clasped her arm and she heard a voice she knew well say, “And just where do ye think ye are going, Little Lady?”
“Zameal!” She squealed as she whirled and hugged the warrior who was slightly shorter than herself. And despite the arm that was bound in a shoddy sling he hugged her back. “I thought that was…” she choked out.
“Did I not tell ye once that I intend to die in bed of old age,” And he smiled at her.
She looked at him closely. His arm was in a sling and he had an ugly bruise on his forehead but otherwise he seemed all right. Certainly he wasn’t dead. But who then? She had the strangest feeling she knew who was being carried. She knew when she looked at the body on the litter she would see the face she had seen earlier. That cold, calculating, cruel face.
She hugged Zameal again, almost as an afterthought, and pulled herself free, or almost free. “I’ve got to see…” She began but Zameal didn’t completely let her go.
“My apologies, Lady, but you should wait...”
“Wait? But I want to see; I need to see…”. She had to see who had been killed. She had to see if it was the face she knew… The face she had seen before.
“Anjur, no…” Zameal tried to hold on but she broke free. In a few steps she was to the litter borne by the warriors. Her father reached out to stop her but it was too late. There, before her was that strange, pallid face. All the color was washed away by death but it was the face she’d seen before. Dead. This man, or rather imp, was dead. But his was the face she had seen in her vision. Somehow, some way she knew it would be. She was dazed. She was dizzy. She turned away from the body, took two steps, and everything faded into darkness.
Chapter 2 ..... The Meeting
“Stop! Thief!” the shopkeeper screamed after the running boy. He started after the boy, but gave up quickly. The shopkeeper was fat and could scarce walk ten paces without being short of breath. He quickly realized he had no chance of catching the boy just as he hadn’t many times in the past. Besides, the boy had already disappeared down the crowded street. “Faltz,” he swore loudly and turned back to the shop.
“Hey Inuit,” hollered a man leaning against the building next to the shop, “I see the boy got the best of you again.”
“Aww, eat dragon dust,” Inuit, the shopkeeper, yelled back.
The man poked his companion and both laughed heartily.
Inuit waddled back into his shop swearing under his breath. “That miserable street rat,” he said mostly to himself. “‘Tis high time someone did something about him. At least,” and he smiled slightly in spite of his sour mood, “he only took some of that worthless Pawc.” Then, loudly, “Tordin, git yer lazy half-breed butt out here!”
“What’d yer want now, ye fat wallow-rat?” Tordin gritted his teeth and hurled his own favored epithet for his boss from the back room. He knew calling Inuit a “fat wallow-rat” was appropriate retribution as Inuit hated it as much as he himself hated the term half-breed. He had learned after working for Inuit only a short time not to take any abuse from him. Tordin was a good worker and Inuit needed him. Besides, Inuit had such a bad temperament that few others would work for him.
Even though Tordin despised the term half-breed, it was accurate. He was a Half-Imp. His mother was an Elf and his father an Imp. His lustrous, pale green fur covered all but his hands and his handsome face with its pale, flawless complexion and soft angles. His sparkling blue eyes simply added the finishing touch.
Even though he didn’t appreciate Inuit’s method of summoning him, Tordin did, considering Inuit’s disposition, think it best in this instance to come out of the back room as instructed. Though, he had to admit, Inuit’s current mood wasn’t unlike his mood on any other day.
“I want ye to go report that little rat-bastard to the Provident” Inuit demanded as soon as Tordin emerged.
“I don’t think...”
“I don’t pay ye to think, Imp brain. Just do as I say and report him.”
“Yes, Sir, yer grace,” Tordin responded with a small bow of mock submission.
“By the Oracle’s breath,” Inuit shouted, turning to face Tordin. “if ye don’t...”
“All right,” Tordin said holding up his hands as if trying to ward off a blow from the much larger man. He knew Inuit would never attempt to strike him as, even though Tordin was a foot shorter than Inuit, his strength and reflexes would easily let him best Inuit should the need ever arise. He also knew Inuit was well aware of this. “I’ll report him. But I doubt if the Provident’ll care one way or t’other.”
“He better do something or the next time the tribute gatherers come ‘round...”
“I’ll be sure to tell him how yer feel,” Tordin said with a smile.
“Just get yer miserable hide outta here,” Inuit said with a grunt as he began to straighten one of the counters.
Without another word Tordin left. As he walked toward the Provident’s office he thought again about Alberon, the boy who had stolen the Pawc. He had to smile. Alberon had been stealing bits of food from Inuit for quite some time without Inuit being able to catch him. Good thing too, for if Inuit had caught him, Alberon would have immediately been turned over to the Provident for punishment. Tordin didn’t know what that punishment would be, but he was sure it wouldn’t be pleasant. He had witnessed several instances when thieves had their hands or feet chopped off in a public ceremony. He always felt that this was more to show the power of the Provident than to exact punishment, but that fact was of little use to those receiving the judgment. Though he doubted the Provident would be that ruthless with a boy such as Alberon, the type of punishment would probably depend on the mood the Provident was in when Alberon was brought before him for sentencing. Tordin didn’t know Alberon that well, having spoken to him just a few times, but what he did know he liked and he wouldn’t enjoy seeing Alberon punished for just trying to stay alive.
Such thoughts quickly made Tordin decide to ignore Inuit’s orders about informing the Provident. He would, instead, try to find Alberon and warn him of the possible hazards of stealing more food from Inuit. He would even be willing to pass some food to Alberon if he would promise not to steal anymore. After all, Inuit’s one saving grace as a merchant was his insistence on his food being fresh and he always disposed of any that wasn’t. Since it was Tordin’s job to get rid of any food that was no longer sellable, it should be easy enough for Tordin to save out some of it. Inuit had given him precise instructions about how the dated food was to be feed to the pigs that were kept out back. It wasn’t just thrown away as Inuit didn’t want any possibility that anyone might end up with it and then have no incentive to buy fresh food from his shop. Besides, the pigs had to be feed and this was an easy way to come up with food for them. But since the pigs generally devoured the food as quickly as it was tossed into their pen, Inuit would be none the wiser should Tordin set aside some of the better bits. Tordin smiled as he thought about the tirade Inuit would have should he ever find out what Tordin had in mind or ever caught him at it.
Though Tordin had no idea where Alberon had run off to, he felt if he just wandered around for a few minutes he should be able to locate the boy. After all, he had seen him several times in what he felt were probably some of the boys favorite hiding places. Yes, he would find and convince Alberon to stop stealing from Inuit. It should be easy enough. After all, Alberon had always seemed to him to be quite smart and should be able to grasp the realities of the situation.
He was pleased with himself and whistled a bit as he began his search.
*….*….*
Alberon stopped running as he ducked around the corner of a large building. He wasn’t even breathing hard. When you lived on the streets of a village like Taberdon, you were either fleet afoot, you starved, or, worse yet, you were captured and sold as a slave. Thus far, he had been lucky. He had been on his own for a long time and the few times he had been caught, he had been able to escape before being turned in. He had even been captured and sold once when he and his uncle, who he had been staying with, were attacked and the Elves killed his uncle. But that was before he came to Taberdon.
Here, he was one of only a handful of children on the streets. They always seemed to be caught and turned over to the Provident where they were used as servants or sold as slaves. Over time, he had made friends with a couple of the older children, but they had, one-by-one, disappeared. Currently he knew of only three others living on the streets, but he hadn’t been able to be with them long enough to get to know them. He hoped he would soon be able to. Life on the street was more bearable if shared with others in similar circumstances. But, even as difficult as his life was, he had to admit he rather enjoyed it. It was, after all, a continual series of adventures and he could come and go as he pleased with no one to answer to.
He leaned against the wall of the building and slid to the ground, taking a bite of the pilfered fruit as he did so. He ate slowly, savoring each flavorful bite, trying not to dribble too much juice down his chin. The Pawc had that slightly bitter-sweet taste common to such fruit when it wasn’t quite ripe. But, hungry as he was, the sweet was appreciated and the bitter ignored.
He took a moment to look around. He was in familiar territory having hidden in this same alley several times before. The building he leaned against was an inn with a rather unsavory reputation though, he had to admit, he had heard more than a few unkind words about most of the inns in Taberdon. The building across the alley was a business and residence owned by a musician who gave lessons to the children of the upperclass. That was one of the reasons Alberon liked to stop in this particular alley. He loved music. Even the badly played music of those taking lessons. He didn’t know how to play any instrument and didn’t feel he sang any too well, but he did love listening. At the moment, however, all was quiet.
The lack of music did, however, allow his attention to be drawn by a soft sound from the other side of the alley. He smiled as a small mouse raised itself up on its hind legs and sniffed the air. “Ho friend,” he said softly so he wouldn’t scare the mouse. “Join me in a bit of breakfast?” The mouse, by way of answer, skittered up his leg and nipped at the proffered fruit.
Alberon had always had a strange affinity with animals. They never appeared to fear him nor acted hostile in any way. It seemed, at times, that he could almost communicate with them. He got vague impressions of their feelings, their fears, their needs and some would actually come to him when he beckoned them with his thoughts. Originally he had thought his skill was common place, that everyone had a similar empathy. But he had soon come to realize such wasn’t the case. The few times he had expressed himself about the feelings and impressions he received, the people always looked at him strangely. The last time it had even been hinted that if he could talk to animals he must be some kind of Wizard. Fortunately he was able to talk his way out of that predicament, and was careful not to make such comments again.
The most prominent example of this kinship was his relationship with Bantara, the white panther he had befriended. Bantara lived in the forest just east of Taberdon and Alberon visited her as often as he could, with seldom more than a few days between, at least until winter set in.
Alberon found Bantara, or, to be more precise, Bantara found Alberon about a year earlier when Alberon had been climbing a large tree to get at some of the last fruit of the season still clinging high in the top. As he reached a bit too far, the branch he was on gave way and he plummeted about a hundred feet, slamming into several branches on his way down. As he crashed to the ground at the base of the tree, he lost consciousness. In his injury-caused delirium, he mentally called out for help and when, after many hours, he groggily awoke, Bantara was holding vigil beside him. When he stirred, the cat roused and looked directly at him. Alberon was more than startled but, considering his condition, there was no possibility of flight. So, instead, he reached out with his mind and, sensing only calm compassion from the cat, he spoke softly. “Hello, girl. How did you get ... here?”
In response Bantara crawled a bit closer and he reached out tentatively and patted her head. She seemed to enjoy the attention and nuzzled his arm. A slight sound off to their left caused Bantara to jerk her head and perk up her ears. In an instant she was up, silently stalking whatever prey had roused her. Alberon watched her as best he could, but as it was difficult for him to move either his body or his head, she soon passed from his field of vision. Shortly she was back, dropping a freshly killed rabbit beside him where he could easily reach it.
“Thank you girl,” he said and thought calming thoughts that he hoped she would be able to interpret since he knew his words were more for his benefit than hers. He looked at the rabbit and sighed deeply. He hated eating any type of meat, especially raw meat, having had the experience a time or two, but he also knew he was badly injured and if he didn’t get some nutrition, he would probably die. Thus, with an effort he pulled the rabbit onto his lap. When he tried to raise his other arm to pull back the hide to expose the meat beneath, he winced in pain. Apparently he had landed on his arm when he fell out of the tree and it was, at present, next to useless. He felt the arm with his other, but couldn’t find any broken bones. He must have just stunned it and, he hoped, it would be back to normal soon. Without the use of his other arm, he had no choice. He raised the carcass to his mouth, bit into the hide, and pulled with his good arm. It wasn’t easy, but, with effort, he was able to pull the hide back far enough to expose a goodly portion of the meat beneath. He forced himself to eat, desperately willing himself not to regurgitate the meal in disgust. He ate only a few bites before he had to stop and rest. Shortly he roused himself again and had a few more. After several such episodes, he felt he had enough and tossed the remainder to the panther who eagerly tore into it.
He smiled at the beast and grimaced as he shifted position, trying to get a bit more comfortable as he figured to be here for a time. Fortunately it was still late enough in the fall that the days weren’t overly hot but the nights hadn’t become overly cool. He determined he should be all right for at least a few days.
“So,” he said, and the beast raised its eyes to him. They were a startling pink and betrayed a warmth that Alberon found almost as startling. “Just where did ye come from I wonder?” He had visited this section of the forest many times but couldn’t recall ever seeing a panther of any kind, much less a white one. He didn’t even think panthers were indigenous to this area of the country. That didn’t mean, of course, that one couldn’t have roamed here in search of better hunting grounds or to flee some peril. “Well, wherever it was, I’m sure glad ye came.” He smiled as he watched the cat finish its meal. Suddenly he was overwhelmingly tired and drifted off almost immediately.
When he awoke, he couldn’t see the cat. He scanned the immediate area as best he could, but didn’t catch sight of his new friend. He reached out with his mind and sensed that she was nearby. Shortly she trotted into view and lay beside him gently dropping her head in his lap.
“Thank you,” Alberon said as he scratched her behind the ears, “for not abandoning me.” He smiled. “You know, I think I shall call you Bantara. It means ‘White Warrior.’ Is that all right with you girl?”
As if she understood, she nuzzled his arm.
Alberon stayed in his spot beneath the tree for several days before he felt he could get up and move around. All this time Bantara kept him fed and was his constant companion, leaving only long enough to hunt. Alberon surmised she was protecting him from whatever other predators might be found in this area of the forest. He appreciated the company, but the protection was probably unnecessary as he had never run across any animal that he couldn’t soothe by simply thinking calming thoughts.
After a couple of weeks Alberon found himself mobile enough to return to Taberdon. He was reluctant to leave Bantara behind, but knew he couldn’t take the large cat with him. She would throw the village into a panic should she suddenly appear on the streets. Thus, he tried to convey his thanks to her and the fact that he would return another day. He couldn’t be sure, of course, but he felt she understood and, as he walked away, she turned and bounded off into the depths of the forest.
He worried as he walked away that he might never see her again, but the next time he came to the forest, he mentally reached out and she was suddenly and silently beside him, just as if she were expecting him.
They had great times together. They hunted together, though Bantara generally made the kill; they frolicked in the fallen leaves; they wrestled in the rain. When the snows fell, Alberon’s visits grew less often, but he still managed to made the trek out to see her at least once a month. He simply waited for a reasonably warm day.
* * *
Yes, there it was again. The sensation that had drawn him to this village. He had experienced this mental attraction several times before but never this strong. “The power is strong in this one,” he thought to himself. He squinted slightly against the bright sun, but what he could see wasn’t nearly as important as what he could sense. He stopped for a moment. His target was moving. When he was outside the village, such movements weren’t noticeable as his range of sense was narrow, but the nearer he got to his quarry, the wider his range became and the more difficult it became to find the precise location.
Left...then right...then down a narrow street. He followed as if someone was tugging on a mental rope. Closer...Stronger...Closer still...His senses were almost tingling now. Soon he knew...Soon.
* * *
Alberon shared the rest of his meal with the mouse, and when they finished he gave the pit to the mouse who scurried off to an unseen hideout. He sighed deeply taking in the many odors that drifted on the air. He could distinguish the sweetness of the pile of hay he sat next to, the harshness of the sewer rising from the covered opening father down in the alley, and the aroma of freshly-baked bread emanating from the bakery across the street. He loved freshly-baked bread though he had to think hard to recall the last time he partook of such a treat.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scooped up a handful of dirt which he rubbed on his hands to dry the juice and take away the stickiness, and wiped them on his tattered shirt. It made little difference since the shirt was already much dirtier than his hands could ever be. He absently ran his hand through his blond, almost white, hair and stretched. He was slim, though finely muscled for his age, both being a consequence of his difficult life. Startling emerald eyes sparkled from his thin, just short of gaunt, face.
* * *
Closer yet. Now he knew he was near...Very near...The power...So strong. Around one more corner and...Yes!
“Ho! Boy!” he said.
Startled, Alberon turned to see a man standing at the edge of the building across the alley. His immediate instinct was to flee, but he paused long enough to take a good look. The man wasn’t one of the Provident’s guards, and not the shopkeeper from who he had just escaped. He didn’t wear the clothes of a commoner, but not those of the elite either. He had a soft, kindly face and, even from this distance, Alberon could see the piercing green eyes that seemed to reach out and beckon for his attention. The man’s broad smile made Alberon relax a bit and, though he could see no urgent need for escape, he rose slowly, without taking his eyes from the stranger, prepared for anything. He didn’t speak.
“Ho,” the man said again.
“Sire?” Alberon answered tentatively.
“How would you like to earn a meal for a bit of honest work?” The smile was broad and friendly.
“Sire?”
“You do eat, don’t you?” The smile didn’t dim.
“D’ye poke at me Sire?”
“No, boy, I’m not making fun of you. I just need some help with a small task and I thought you looked like you could use a good meal.”
“What am I to do?” Alberon took a short step back.
“I’m a stranger to this village and need someone to tend my horse while I take care of the business that brought me here.”
“I know little of horses, Sire.”
“Doesn’t matter. I can easily show you what to do. My business won’t take long and when I return, you can partake with me.”
Alberon was still unsure of the man. Seldom had a stranger offered to do anything for him and when they did, there had generally been a catch. “Why me, Sire? Are there not stable hands for such?”
“There are,” the man still smiled, lending a softness to his face. “But they’re all occupied with other tasks and I need someone to tend my horse now so it’ll be ready when I return. But, if you don’t want the job, I should have no trouble finding someone else nearby that would be eager enough to accept my generosity.” He turned as if to leave.
“Hold, Sire,” Alberon took a few steps toward the man but left enough distance between them to allow room for escape should the man become threatening. “I’ll do it.”
“Good,” the man beamed, and reached out his hand in welcome. “Then come along.”
Alberon hesitated slightly, then, with a slight shrug, he walked past the man into the street, ignoring the proffered hand. The man turned and followed him.
They walked the short way to the stables in silence. The man led the way into the stables and over to a horse that was tied to a post. “There now, Shandra,” the man patted the horse on the nose, “This young man is going to take care of you while I’m gone.” The horse nuzzled the man’s shoulder. “What is your name lad?” he turned back to the boy.
“Alberon, Sire.”
“Well Alberon, my name is Mondrian and this,” he rubbed the horses nose, “is Shandra.”
“‘Tis a fine animal, Sire,” Alberon said as he approached the horse. He had never ridden a horse, having lived most of his life on the streets, and the only one he had ever taken care of at all was a work horse that had pulled his Uncle’s wagon, but he had seen enough of them to know that this was indeed an uncommon steed. She had massive hind quarters that Alberon imagined allowed her to outdistance all but the fastest and her glossy ebony coat made the four point star on her nose stand out. She tossed her regal head with a nervous air as Alberon approached and he could sense her anxiety. He thought calming thoughts and, after a few moments, reached out to stroke the horses nose as he had seen the man do. The horse not only didn’t pull away, she even nuzzled Alberon’s shoulder a bit.
“Ah, I knew you’d get along,” Mondrian said, visibly pleased. Then he reached down beside the horse and pulled a large rag out of a bag that was laying there. “The first thing you need to do is wipe her down with this cloth.”
“Yes Sire,” Alberon took the rag from the man.
“Then you can get some grain out of that bin over there,” Mondrian pointed to a large bin by the far wall, “put it in the small bag laying there,” he indicated where he had picked up the rag, “and hold it so Shandra can eat.”
Alberon nodded.
“That’s it. Now you just wait until I return. Think you can handle those two tasks?”
“I’ll do my best Sire,” Alberon began to wipe down the horse.
“I’m sure. I’ll take my leave now, but I’ll be back shortly. Take good care of Shandra for me.” He patted the horse lovingly on the neck as he turned to leave the stable.
“I will Sire,” Alberon said without turning around.
Alberon wondered about his good fortune. A meal for these small tasks was quite good payment. He couldn’t be sure, of course, if the man, Mondrian, would actually live up to his bargain. People didn’t always do as they promised. But somehow Alberon instinctively trusted him. He knew Mondrian would be back and he would receive his payment.
Alberon rubbed down every bit of the horse with the rag before he felt satisfied. He put the rag down and picked up the small bag to put the grain in. As he walked to the grain bin, he suddenly felt strange. His skin tingled. He had a sensation of danger...of something heavy...of some impending disaster...
For some reason, he looked up. At that instant a board that was stacked in the loft above the stable fell. It plummeted directly towards his head. Instinctively he reached out to push it away. But it never reached his hands or arms. It seemed to move away of its own volition. One moment he was in imminent peril and the next the board was resting harmlessly several feet away.
“Marvelous!”
Alberon whirled around to see Mondrian standing in the doorway.
“Marvelous,” Mondrian said again as he walked over to Alberon.
“Wha...What happened?” Alberon stammered.
“Sit down. You look a bit shaken.”
“I’m right enough Sire. But I don’t understand what happened.”
“Come, let’s both sit and I’ll explain it to you.” He led Alberon to a stall piled high with hay and seated himself, leaning back in the hay.
Alberon sat as far away from Mondrian as he could while still sitting in the stall, and turned so he could look at Mondrian. He said nothing.
This was the tricky part. The first contact. Mondrian was never quite sure of the best approach to use. He recalled once, many years ago, when he almost lost one of his students before he could become a student because he was too abrupt with his introduction. He didn’t loose him only because it wasn’t really possible to loose one. The students simply couldn’t survive on their own, without the proper training, once they knew the truth. But, if his approach was wrong, gaining acceptance by the student could become more difficult and the process might take much longer. So, his job at the moment was to win Alberon over while imparting the truth.
He took a deep breath and began. “First,” he said, “I must apologize for the trick I just played on you.” He waited for Alberon to respond.
“Trick? What trick Sire?”
“The board...I caused the board to fall.”
“Ye Sire? How could ye make a board fall from the loft when ye was by the door.” Alberon rubbed his forehead absently, massaging the wound he didn’t receive, and involuntarily glanced at the loft. “And even if ‘twas true, why’d ye wish to harm me? I done nothing to ye.” He peered at the man, wondering if he was merely poking fun at him or was seriously deluded.
“Yes, I did drop the board at you.” He looked truly sincere. He had even stopped smiling. “How, we will leave for another time.” He paused just a moment and then continued, “Do you understand how you avoided the board?”
“I guess...” Alberon considered for a moment, “I pushed it away with my arm.”
“You aren’t sure?”
He shrugged. “I don’t remember doing it, but I musta. The board was falling towards my head...and then...” he shrugged again, “It weren’t. I musta pushed it away.” Alberon looked dubious.
“Oh, you pushed it away all right,” that smile was back, “But you didn’t push it with your arms.” Mondrian deliberated for a bit, trying to frame just the right words, decided he couldn’t find them, then continued on a different tack, “Tell me, Alberon, have you ever heard of the Order of the White Feather?”
“The Wizards?” Alberon virtually whispered. He had, of course, heard of the Order of the White Feather. Everyone had heard of them, but no one knew much about them. All Alberon had ever heard was rumor and innuendo. Anyone you might ask about them would have a different story to tell than anybody else, if you could even get them to talk of the Wizards at all. Most people were afraid to speak of them openly for fear that some terrible retribution might befall them if they inadvertently spoke ill. Mostly, though, he had thought they were just a myth. What little he had heard of them had seemed so fantastic as to be unbelievable and most of the feats that had been attributed to them were just to incredible to be true.
“Yes, the Wizards.” the man said, “I know this may be hard for you to believe and maybe even harder for you to accept, but I’m a member of the Order.”
“Ye Sir,” Alberon was taken aback. “But ye look...”
“Normal?” Mondrian finished his thought. Alberon nodded. “Wizards don’t look any different than any other human. What is different is inside, not outside.” Whereupon he pulled up his sleeve to reveal a small mark on the inner part of his upper arm in the shape of a feather...a white feather.
Alberon immediately bowed his head and muttered, “Master...” He still wasn’t necessarily convinced, as having a birthmark didn’t actually prove anything, but, in this case, he decided that an error on the side of caution was much better than the reverse.
Mondrian frowned upon hearing the term “Master,” but his tone was gentle, “No, I think not, Alberon. Arise.”
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-28 show above.)