In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) (3 page)

“Lad, there be no
innocent requests.
  Marik wants ye hardened up a bit—I see why now.  Get yer feet moving and like the Ranger says—keep yer trap
shut.
”  Sindar let his gaze linger as Magi stared at his enormous head with its jet black eyes and jet black hair and beard.  He nodded, but didn’t drop his gaze.

“Not to get us off topic, but how do you propose we find the library if we don’t ask?”  Kyle put voice to the obvious
question.

“We never said anything about not asking.  It’s a matter of who we ask, when we ask, where we ask, and how we ask
,”  Lionel said with a grin.  “C’mon.  There are a few things you need to know about sailors.  They sometimes read on long voyages, and they’re almost always from someplace else.”

“Aye, and they pull a cork!”  Sindar said with a laugh
as the four headed for an alehouse.

~Bertram~

Bertram, alone in his armory, kneeled and offered this silent prayer to Thorax, his iron god, “Forgive me for the deceit, but this man must never be allowed to prosper.  Grant your strength to the claws of this griff
in and remove your strength from the shaft of this spear!”  With that, he drove a short—but somewhat thick—nail into the center of the spear shaft.  It was flush with the wood, and there were no discernable cracks in the shaft, but Bertram knew he had weakened the spear.  He ran a polishing cloth over the shaft, but didn’t bother to sharpen the blade.

He then walked to the stables and asked the boy who worked there, Vincent, which horse had been run hard the previous day.  “’Tis
Archer
, the jet black mare over there.  Your knights-in-training were jousting targets with her half the afternoon, after the ogre battle, Master.”  Vincent was a sheepish boy for which Bertram had no use.  If he wasn’t the bastard son of Lord Kensington, the overseer of Kekero and benefactor of the famed fighting pits, Bertram would have hired a far stronger hand to be a stable boy. 
At least look a man in the eye when you address him, boy.  Pathetic.

“Saddle
Archer
up.  Xaro will ride her soon against the Griffin.”  He turned to leave.

“Master?  There are far fresher horses for Xaro, and faster stallions as well.  Surely he will need a better mount?” 
Vincent but had his head down when he spoke, addressing the straw floor.

Bertram spun around and grabbed Vincent by the throat, picking his head up to look directly at his dull brown eyes.  “Boy, I said he shall ride
Archer. 
The next time you see fit to question my orders, you better have the stones to look me in the eyes when you do it.  Saddle the damn mare.  Are we clear?”

Vincent did his best to nod, too terrified to speak.  Bertram pushed him down into the dirty straw and left.  Another warrior studying under Bertram overheard the conversation from two stalls over.  He was brushing his mount down after an early morning ride.  The man was enormous for a human, roughly six and half feet tall.  He had dark brown hair that fell to his collar and dark brown stubble
along his jaw, but his eyes were ice blue.  He walked over to where Vincent was shaking in the straw.

“My name is Strongiron.”  He extended his hand and helped him up.  “Let me help you with
Archer.
”

~Magi~

The sassy wench who worked at
The Lazy Pour
flung a hunk of bread across the bar at Sindar as he banged his mug against their table, asking for food.  Magi’s reflexes instinctively flashed, and his left hand shot in front of the warrior’s large head to catch the bread.  Sindar howled with laughter and slapped the young mage on the back.  Hard.  Kyle gave his roommate an approving nod, having spent many a rainy afternoon in their common room throwing magical balls across the room at one another to pass the time and improve their dexterity.

“Your
young friend is quick, big man.  Ask politely next time, and maybe he won’t have to keep your hairy face clean,” she said with flirty eyes.  Magi couldn’t tell whether she was looking at Sindar or him.

“My lady
—” Lionel began in his drollest, most sarcastic voice.

“
Lady!”
some man guffawed at the nearby bench.  He shut up when the barkeep flashed him a look.

“My lady,” Lionel began again.  “Be so kind and find it in your heart to bring my companions and
me some proper food from this wonderful inn of yours.  And an ale for my friend here, to keep his tongue in check.”  The Ranger gave a sly look to the man at the bench next to him.  Lionel put a couple notched coppers onto the table.

“
Helmut, you could learn to speak to a lady, listening to this good man here.  I’ll be glad to bring you some potatoes and our stew—none better in Gaust.”  She spun around and sauntered to the cooking fires in the back of the alehouse.

“Aye, I could learn to speak, but she could learn a trick or two from me, she could.”  Helmut was a thin man, but not overly so
, and looked wiry-strong.  His full beard was mostly brown, but streaked with grey.  There was a twinkle in his eye. 
He is younger than he looks.

“No doubt, no doubt.  Name is Lionel.  Have an ale with us
, if you please.   Helmut, she calls you?”  Lionel made easy conversation.

“It is.  Helmut Bowhistle.  First mate on the
Modest Mermaid. 
Be leaving in two days.  You folks not from here, either.”  It was a statement, not a question.  The
lady
brought the food and beer back to the men.  She never even looked at Helmut.

The door to the inn came open and three men burst through the door, each with a violet sash across their polished breastplate.
  Compared to the drab garb most folk were wearing and the dented armor that passed for protective covering on typical fighters, these three men almost gleamed.  Torchlight reflected off their shiny helms, which perfectly matched their armor.  Short purple cloaks matching their sashes hung behind them, yet they served no purpose beyond decoration, as far as Magi could tell.  Each had an exquisite looking long sword at his hip, with an ostentatious-looking gold pommel, with a series of loops.  As the three approached and the initial glare off their breastplates faded, Magi could make out an insignia behind the sash of purple.  He saw a crest of a large scale, with a trident on one side and a war hammer on the other.  Behind the obvious soldiers was the fish merchant, who pointed at Magi and the others.

“There they are!  The four of them robbed
Manny—a day’s profit from me fishing!  Lord Corovant will take their hands off, he will!  Take them!” he screamed.

~Xaro~

Xaro
wore only standard-issue leather armor.  He could put a shield around himself if he needed, having several component pouches concealed on his person, but he hoped he wouldn’t need to.  In his right hand he held the standard-issue spear that Bertram had given him.  A griffin was hardly a match for a True Mage, but single combat with a warrior? 
Well, it shouldn’t be that difficult for a True Warrior either,
he reasoned.  He frankly relished the challenge, fingering the dull blade as he walked, leading
Archer
.

The sun had crested the horizon, and the sky was one uninterrupted dome of azure blue.  Summer was peaking, but had not yet given way to the cooling storms of fall.  Kekero was a dry climate to begin with; the summer months were almost insufferable.  There was no breeze, just the morning haze of the unimpeded rays blistering the cracked earth in the pits.  Grass fought for moisture, poking up from the ground in haphazard spots.  During the evenings, the pits smelled of cooking fires and roasting meat as hardy laughter and tall tales rang out from the common tents and barracks.  During the heat of day, however, the pits smelled of sweat, dried blood,
and outdoor waste trenches steaming in the sun, and the only sounds one heard for miles was steel on steel, and pain.

Xaro looked around.  Though weary of the lack of competition, he would truly miss this place.  He swung himself into the saddle.  “Ready, little lady?”  He whispered into the mare’s ear, patting her neck gently.

The main pit was large, and was often the site for battle games to entertain the soldiers that manned the stronghold.  Today, however, it served as the coliseum for one of Bertram’s students who sought the rank of True Warrior, the distinction forever branded on his arm.

An enormous griff
in pranced at one end of the pit.  With the body of a lion and the head and wings of an eagle, one would think that was fearsome enough.  But it was the griffin’s intelligence that made it an apex foe.  Perhaps a mythical dragon would be more treacherous, but one had a better chance of encountering God than a live dragon.  Griffins, however, though rare—were very real.  The Master-At-Arms counted
Shazor
the griffin more than a “pet”—he considered him a soldier, a colleague, and a friend. 
Shazor
flapped its enormous wings, stirring up a modest dust devil.  It was the closest thing to a breeze the onlookers had felt in days.

“The rules are simple.  When one of you yields or dies, the battle is concluded.  None may help
Shazor
, who is armed only with talon, claw, and beak—and none may help Xaro, who is mounted and armed only with a spear.  Let the battle begin!”  Bertram’s voice reached a crescendo, and the students and some of the men from the stronghold let out a cheer.

Shazor
took flight immediately.  He knew the human would not throw the spear, giving up his only weapon.  He heard Bertram explain the rules, and thought this would be pitifully boring.  He hoped the human tasted good.  Flying past and behind him,
Shazor
began to dart toward his back, hoping to sink his front feet, which ended in eagle talons, into the puny human’s shoulders to rip him off the horse from behind.

Xaro waited, holding
Archer
steady.  At the last moment, he swung the horse around while slashing out with his spear.  The point bit into
Shazor
’s right front leg, but the force of the blow caused the shaft to shatter.  The dull blade cut the griffin’s leg, who howled in pain, but it was hardly a crippling wound.  In Xaro’s right hand was the broken shaft.  The blade lay several feet away, dull grey metal on the ground.

“Yah!” Xaro screamed as he dug his heels into
Archer. 
He wanted to be on the move before
Shazor
came back around.  But the griffin was more agile and faster through the air than he was on horseback.  Enraged at the spear wound,
Shazor
flew at Xaro from the side.

Again, Xaro waited for the right time.  Tempted to use his magic, he resisted.  Not yet.  As the
griffin came in for a second attack, Xaro grabbed the non-wounded leg closest to him and swung himself over a flapping wing and onto
Shazor’s
back.  He drove the sharp end of his broken spear shaft into the back of the griffin’s neck before the creature could turn and attack him with its beak.  The force of Xaro’s thrust punched through the eagle head, but not before
Shazor
screamed in agony.  The creature fell out of the air and crashed to the ground, with Xaro deftly rolling off and popping back on to his feet next to the fallen spearhead.  He picked it up.  Then he walked over to the dying griffin, and before Bertram could yell, “YIELD!” he had stepped on the head and snapped what remained of its neck, silencing the screams.

Bertram was running into the pit, hatred in his eyes.  Of course Xaro recognized the look.  “Your beast is finished.  I am a True Warrior.”  The crowd cheered at the spectacle of it all, amazed once again by
his skill.

The Master-At-Arms looked at Xaro and said, “I will never brand you a True Warrior.  You are a menace to this world.  May Thorax take your soul!” He drew his sword and launched himself at Xaro.

The True Mage simply threw the spearhead at Bertram, finding the one exposed area in his neck and burying the dull point deep in his throat.  The Master-At-Arms died a gurgling death, pitching forward onto the dirt at Xaro’s feet.

“I
am
a True Warrior!” Xaro yelled to the crowd.  He ripped his tunic, revealing his right arm.  “I
demand
Lord Kensington give me the mark!”

The students, and even some of the guards, began chanting Xaro’s name.  Lord Kensington, who
had watched the whole affair, descended the steps from his high place and prepared to greet the man he was about the brand a True Warrior.

Strongiron
also watched the events unfold, arms crossed, as his classmate basked in a wave of adulation.

~Magi~

Magi stared around the
Lazy Pour. 
It had gotten eerily quiet after Manny screamed.  Several patrons close to the door eased out, dropping a few copper pieces onto their tables.  The sound of the coppers rattling on the wooden tables set everyone’s teeth on edge for a few moments.  Folks nearby seemed to be shrinking back from the scene as the soldiers approached, staring over their mugs.  Magi saw a handful of eyes shifting nervously from him and his group to the guards in those ridiculous short purple capes. He looked over at Kyle quickly.  Instinctively, they both had a pinch of crushed, white marble between their thumb and forefinger.  He flashed him an almost imperceptible smile. 
He’s thinking Shield spell, too.