The Ogre Apprentice (43 page)

The raptoid’s emotions were confused. He was feeling fear and sorrow in a way he hadn’t felt before. Justan knew that feeling. Deathclaw was already mourning his friend.

Poor Hilt
, Gwyrtha said, listening in.

Justan tried to reassure Deathclaw.
He’s not dead yet. Surely there is something the elves can do. Their magic can heal most anything
,

The words felt hollow in his mind. Could the elves really heal a wound like that? Even if they could, they couldn’t reattach a hand. He tried to imagine how a warrior like Hilt would be able to handle life with one hand. The thought made him sick to his stomach. What Hilt needed was a wizard.

There is something else
, Deathclaw said.
Hilt cut a piece of his enemy free. The fool nightbeast left it behind
.

A piece that had turned to stone
? Deathclaw seemed excited by this, but Justan couldn’t understand why.

Yes, but there is a scent left behind in the stone
, Deathclaw said.
It is faint, but once I knew what to look for I also smelled it on a tree nearby
.

Are you telling me you have a way to track him
? Justan said.

Yes
! Deathclaw replied.
I have already followed it a short ways. He changes his sent often, taking on odors of things nearby. But always this trace odor remains
.

Good! Hold on to that scent, but do not track him down on your own
! Justan said.

Deathclaw glowered.
Why? This Vahn will not be able to defeat me
.

He defeated Hilt
! Justan reminded him.
Wait until I return and we will hunt him down together. You, Gwyrtha, and I
.

Yes. We will track him
, Gwyrtha agreed.

The scent may fade by then
, Deathclaw said and Justan knew that he planned to do it alone anyway.

Listen. Please. Okay, if it has to be done now, go to Xedrion. Tell him what you have found. Let him get together a group of men to go with you
.

I will think on it
, Deathclaw replied.

Promise me
! Justan demanded.

The raptoid hissed.
Very well
.

Justan dropped the connection and looked up at the Prophet. “You heard?”

John nodded, his brow twisted with concern.

“I have to go back,” Justan said. He stood up and walked to Gwyrtha’s side.

“How will that help?” John asked. “Can you heal Sir Hilt?”

“No,” Justan admitted. “But I can’t let Deathclaw go after Vahn alone.”

“He won’t be alone,” John assured him.

“So I should sit back and wait here safe with you while others are in danger?” Justan shook his head. “This is my fight!”

“Is it now?” John asked. “Did you start it?”

“No. At least I don’t think so. I don’t even know who sent him. But he is after me. That makes him my responsibility.” Justan jumped into Gwyrtha’s saddle.

The Prophet placed his hand on Justan’s leg. “Do you trust me?”

Justan gritted his teeth. Oh, how those words sounded like a trap. “Yes.”

“Then hear me,” John said. “The most effective place for you to be is where I’m going.”

Justan’s hands tightened on Gwyrtha’s mane. He wanted to ignore the Prophet’s words. He wanted to charge back to the grove and find that nightbeast and blast it to pieces.

You should listen to John, boy
, said the dusty voice of Artemus, speaking up for the first time in hours.
He knows best
.

Justan let out a roar of impotent rage. “I’m tired of feeling useless!”

“Useless?” said the Prophet. “You?”

“Yes!” he said. “I have all these powers and abilities, but I rarely get to use them. Why? Because I know that fighting alone puts my bonded at risk. Deathclaw won’t let me forget it. Any time I want to do anything the least bit reckless, he complains until I back down.”

“I see,” John said, removing his hand from Justan’s leg. “This is about more than the nightbeast.”

“He’s just part of it,” Justan replied. “Even before that, my bonded were over protective.”

That’s because we love you
, Gwyrtha said.

Justan ignored her. “Vahn being after me has just made it worse. Not only has Deathclaw been watching my every step, I’ve had others do it too. I’m a named warrior! I have powerful weapons and I have worked diligently to improve my skills. But what good are those skills? I have spent the last four weeks like a bird in a cage, surrounded by people trying to protect me.” His voice shook. “Then today, all I could do was watch them die.”

The moment Justan finished his tirade, he felt foolish once again. The feelings were real, but now that he had said them out loud, they seemed incredibly self-centered. He waited for the Prophet to reprimand him, but he didn’t get the response he expected.

“You have the burden of leadership,” John said. He snapped his fingers and Steff padded over to him. The rogue horse crouched while he climbed onto her furry back. “It’s a tale as old as the concept of having kings. When a warrior is exceptional enough, those around him put him into power. His life is given value. It is now his responsibility to lead those weaker than him and inevitably watch them die in his name. It’s an uncomfortable feeling for someone who knows they could fight just as well or better on their own. How do you think your father feels when danger comes and he has to stay back and send other men to fight it?”

Steff began trotting away. She hopped over the stream and Justan urged Gwyrtha to follow.

“Well . . . that’s different,” Justan said. “That’s his job. I’m sure father misses being on the front lines, sometimes. But it is his responsibility to oversee the battlefield. He knows that. He embraces it.”

The Prophet nodded. “That’s right. He understands the importance of his position. He knows that the way he can best serve his men is by finding the best tactical advantage for them to use. His men are looking to him for that help and he knows that if he were to go out there on the front lines and be killed, his whole army could fall apart.”

Justan frowned. “This isn’t quite the same thing as what I’m going through, tactically speaking. And the academy doesn’t usually function as an army-.”

“Don’t skip past the validity of my point,” John said, chuckling. “The burden of leadership is part of what it means to be a bonding wizard. Yes, you are formidable in your own right. That is a good thing. Your bonded need you to be able to fight with and for them. However, you have to look at the big picture. Your greatest power isn’t your skill. It isn’t the weapons you wield and it most definitely isn’t your name. Your greatest power is your ability to lead them.”

The Prophet paused for a moment to allow Justan to absorb that information. “Think on it. You are a bonding wizard because the Creator himself chose you. He saw these qualities inside of you. Not only did he see your tactical mind, he saw your open heart and your willingness to let others in.”

Justan winced at that last part.

It’s true
! Gwyrtha said.

“That wasn’t the case when I was chosen,” Justan replied. “Before I bonded to Gwyrtha, I let no one in. I was self-centered and stubborn.”

“Nonsense! You were merely a teenager,” John said. “Why, you are still young. How old are you now?”

“I’ll be twenty one at the end of summer,” Justan said.

“Amazing. Think of where you are at that age! Dual-named and bonded to four powerful people,” the Prophet said. “It’s no wonder the people around you give your life value.”

Justan didn’t know how to respond to that logic.

“Understand, Edge, I don’t point this out to stroke your ego. I doubt you need that. But you should know your place in things,” John said. He looked up as he rode and closed his eyes. “Now be quiet for a while and think on what I said. I need to concentrate.”

Steff picked up speed and Gwyrtha followed suit. Soon, they were rushing through darkening skies. The land gradually sloped downwards and Justan could see a wide basin spreading out to the east of them, containing a multitude of streams and rivers. The whole area was shrouded in mist and highlighted by the pink light of the setting sun. Somewhere out there were the troll swamps, the ancestral lands of the Roo people.

But Justan didn’t spend too much time thinking about the scenery. He was brooding inwardly about what John had said regarding his purpose. He couldn’t refute the man’s insight. After all, he was the Prophet. Still, it hadn’t been what he wanted to hear.

Growing up, all Justan had wanted was to be a great warrior. He idolized powerful men who could single-handedly overcome great obstacles. Men like Sir Hilt.

Justan’s father was a man who, in his youth, was that exact ideal. Roaming the countryside, adventuring, defeating monsters and villains and building a reputation. Faldon had left that life behind when he had joined the academy. Now that Justan thought about it, that was when he had become a leader. No longer did he fight solo battles. He had become part of a team.

Currently Faldon trained special groups; small teams of highly trained fighters that, with a strong leader, could accomplish tasks that a large army or an individual warrior could not. Justan smiled in understanding. Those groups were much like his own.

We are better
, Gwyrtha corrected.

They continued into the night, branching off onto roads seldom used. A bright moon had risen early, casting a soft blue glow over the lush wilderness. The throbbing rhythm of frogs and cicadas filled the air. Once the road became little more than an overgrown trail, John pulled Steff to a stop.

The Prophet slid down from the rogue horse’s back. “Steff and Gwyrtha will have to stay here. You and I will continue on foot.”

But why
? Gwyrtha complained to Justan.
I want to go with you
.

Evidently Steff had similar complaints because John rolled his eyes. “This will give the two of you time to play together. Won’t that be fun? It has been years.”

The two rogue horses looked at each other and Steff got down close to the ground, squaring her shoulders.
Okay
! Gwyrtha said and darted to the side, avoiding the cat-like beast’s pounce.

“This way,” the Prophet said and led Justan into the trees. 

“So we’re near our destination?” Justan asked, using the moonlight to pick his way through the undergrowth. This was good. If they were done quickly, he could head back with Gwyrtha and hopefully get to the grove before Deathclaw tracked Vahn down.

“Close,” John said. “Do you hear that sound?”

“Insects,” Justan replied.

“Beyond that,” John replied.

Justan paused a moment and listened closer, calling upon the enhancement to his senses that his bond with Deathclaw gave him. “Rushing water. A waterfall?”

“That is our destination,” John said. “I’m taking you to meet a man that very few humans have ever met.”

“A hermit?” Justan asked.

John laughed. “That is a valid description. His name is Matthew and he is one of the prophets.”

“One of the prophets?” Justan asked, stumbling in the darkness. As far as he was aware, there were only two; John and the Dark Prophet. “Please tell me you are going to elaborate.”

“You will need to know in order to understand the coming events.” He started to climb over a fallen log, but stopped and turned to face Justan. “The things I am about to tell you are not common knowledge. They used to be, but truths are often lost to time. This particular truth is there for people who search hard enough to find it, but most of the histories are incomplete.”

“Are you saying you want me to keep this secret?” Justan asked.

“I just want you to understand the importance of what I am about to tell you,” John replied. The moonlight gave his skin an otherworldly glow and as he continued, Justan could almost see the weight of the ages on the man. “When the Creator first called the prophets, the races were much smaller in number and wilder. They were constantly at war with one another and it was evident that, without guidance, some of them would not survive. The Creator decided that these people needed shepherds.

“There were four of us chosen by my master. I was given the responsibility to shepherd the race of man, with the secondary responsibility of caring for the sacred items and places in the land. Because man was the most populous and diverse race to deal with, he also gave me help in the form of the bonding wizards.

“David was given the task of shepherding the goblinoid races. They were less numerous than mankind, but aggressive and he was chosen because he was the one of us who was the most charismatic and best at diffusing anger.”

“Wait,” Justan interrupted. “Then David is the Dark Prophet?”

“He didn’t start out that way. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the Prophet said. “Matthew was the third of us chosen and his job was perhaps the most complicated. He was given responsibility over the blood magic races and the demon races. They were much smaller in number at the time, but very powerful and had the greatest potential to either grow numerous and conquer the world or die out altogether.”

“That’s a big job,” Justan observed. “Eight races for one man.”

The Prophet chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, Mathew was a very smart man and had fantastic organizational skills. I remember he came prepared that day. He had an elaborate plan for helping those races work together to form a full, well rounded society. It was a fantastic plan, by the way. I wish he had stuck to it.”

“What about the fourth prophet? What races were left?” Justan was trying to figure it out. Trolls? Giants and ogres maybe? It seemed like an unlikely pairing.

“The fourth? Well . . .” John looked uncomfortable. “She isn’t important for you to know about. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned her in the first place.”

He cleared his throat. “So the three of us went out into the known lands to fulfill our tasks. It went quite well, at first. David had the goblinoids talking. Matthew had his races working together. I was the one having the most difficulty, but this tale isn’t about me.

“The first century was a booming one for everyone. Then David started to struggle. He had found a way for the goblinoids to work together. It wasn’t perhaps the kindest solution, but they were a rough people. The problem he had was that they worked together a little too well. They took pride in who they were and sneered at the other races. They wanted to fight. They wanted to conquer. He struggled to keep them under control and they began fighting with the other races. His solution was understandable at the time, but it proved to be his ruin.”

“He became their god,” Justan realized.

“They called him the Barldag,” John said. “Which in their tongue meant, ‘Black God’. And his methods were so ruthless and terrible that the rest of the world came to know him as the Dark Prophet. The tale of his descent into that role is a long one and not what I wanted to talk about. Tonight, the discussion is about Matthew.

“Matthew held strong to his plan for a good while longer than David. The eight races were thriving under his plan. The one thing that was a constant source of frustration for them was that their races were simply incompatible.”

“Incompatible,” Justan said. “You mean they didn’t like each other.”

“No. That wasn’t the problem. They liked each other a great deal. The issue was that they were physically incompatible with each other. Unlike humans, who could have reproduced with all of the different races . . .” He frowned. “Well, except with perhaps dragons and bandhams. Just . . . the logistics of that are problematic. Anyway, the demon races and the blood magic races began to intermix anyway, pairing off, but unable to procreate outside of their individual races.

“This caused a lot of pain and divisiveness between their peoples. Their populations began to decline. Matthew, being a logically minded man, found the entire situation incredibly hard to deal with. For awhile, he outlawed interspecies pairings. This caused a revolt.”

“People will love who they love,” Justan said, thinking of Lenny and Bettie.

“Indeed,” the Prophet said. “He was forced to abandon that solution. Instead, he used his powers to increase the fertility of all his races. The result was that the females who married within their race were always pregnant. This stabilized the population issue, but caused its own problems as the regular couples and the interspecies couples resented each other.

“In the end, his solution was drastic. Matthew, tired of dealing with the emotional issues of the races in his charge, abandoned his plan altogether. He created a new plan, one which would keep all of the races under control and one which he could monitor far more easily. He split the races into six different kingdoms.”

“What about the dragons and bandhams?” Justan asked.

“I forgot to mention that,” John said. “Though their races were important and their magic crucial for balance, they were for the most part unintelligent and violent towards each other. He had sent them off into otherwise uninhabited parts of the land and had already been supervising their populations from a distance for years.”

“Oh.” Justan said. That actually made sense. He had been trying to figure out how they had fit into the equation.

The Prophet rubbed his chin. “Let’s see, where was I? Right, Matthew had split the races under his charge. At that point, he had a lot of backers among the leadership of the races. There was some clamoring and griping, but that faded after he gave all the mixed couples their own city.

“This didn’t stop all of his problems, however. People came to him with grievances daily and he began delegating more and more authority to the leaders of the different kingdoms, until one day, he abandoned his daily duties altogether and left, content to monitor them from afar. Eventually enmity between the races under his charge grew. Their societal structure broke down and the races split. The blood magic races and demon races began an ongoing cycle of hatred.”

John turned and looked in the direction of the waterfall. “This worked fine for Matthew. He was able to stop seeing them as people and start looking at them as numbers. He still does it today. For thousands of years, he has been sitting back and using his powers to monitor them from afar.”

“How does he do that?” Justan asks.

“He keeps a balance by controlling their fertility. He watches, using promptings from the master to make sure that no one race becomes too warlike. If they do so or if they try to use their powers to conquer, he decreases the fertility of their women. In extreme circumstances, he increases the fertility of their enemies and sends out a couple spies to encourage some fighting to get the offending race to heel.”

Justan grimaced. “I understand the tactical reasons behind such a system, but treating entire races like that . . . seems awfully cold.”

“It isn’t the way I would have done it,” John agreed. “So, most of the world has forgotten about Matthew. Even the races he has responsibility over have forgotten his name. They know him only as, The Stranger. As far as they are concerned, his purposes are cloaked in mystery.”

Justan rubbed his neck. Did he really want to meet this man? What purpose was this supposed to serve? “There is something about this that bothers me, John.”

The Prophet smiled. “I am not surprised. Go ahead. What is it?

“Your master, the Creator. Everything I know about him . . . he seems like a god of goodness,” Justan said hesitantly.

“He is,” John said.

“Then why does he let this go on?” Justan asked. “If the others are his servants like you are, then why does he allow the Dark Prophet and this man, the Stranger, to do the things they do?”

John sighed. “When the Creator gave us these responsibilities, he told us to shepherd the races. We were given freedom to do this in whatever way we thought best. Well every shepherd has different techniques. My master is patient and for the most part lets us work these things out. He doesn’t step in unless he senses that there is no other way. The Dark Prophet abandoned his responsibilities and he was punished. As for Matthew . . . Well, that is part of the reason we are here tonight.”

*          *          *

“Now stay in there until they’re gone,” Matthew said, closing and latching the basement door. He wished he’d had more warning that his visitors were coming, but then promptings had been slow to come lately. His servants didn’t like being locked away.

“Will you not need our help?” the first one asked.

“Not until they’re gone,” he replied.

“But I wasn’t done, master man!” the other servant complained. “I’m still huungry!”

He slammed his fist against the door. “Keep quiet! Just . . . play cards or something. I’ll let you know when you can come out.”

“Ooh! Cards!” He could hear the two of them climb down the steps.

Matthew, known by the blood magic races and the demons as the Stranger, walked back into his parlor. He pulled the stew pot out of the coals and stacked the servants’ bowls on the mantle. Then he threw a couple logs in and stoked the fire.

Malaroo was a hot country, but living in a cave dug into the side of a hill and behind a waterfall made his home cool all year round. Matthew enjoyed the cool except for in the evenings. Then a fire was always welcome.

He looked around the parlor, making sure it was presentable. Of course it was. Matthew was an orderly man, everything in its place. From the inside, you would never know that this was a cave. The floors and walls were all solid wood, hand polished. The ceiling had been carved into a mosaic design and painted so that it looked more like tilework than rock. He also had a small table, a comfortable couch and a lounge chair.

The Stranger moved his chair so that it faced the couch and sat down, pulling out his pipe. He was fond of this place. It had been his home for several centuries now and he could think of no reasons to move. He had everything he needed. Besides his cozy parlor, he had a lavish bedroom, an extensive library, a fully stocked kitchen, and a basement larder filled with enough food and wine that he could live there for a year without ever having to leave home.

He lit his pipe and waited for the knock that would come. This was a strange evening. He didn’t often have visitors. Not many knew where he was. Yet he was positive that he was going to have two separate visitations before the night was out.

The knock came moments later. He cleared his throat. “Come in, but leave your boots inside the door!”

The knob on the door twisted and the door opened. In walked his old friend John and a young man Matthew wasn’t familiar with. He was a strapping lad, tall and muscular. Powerful. This man was a champion and well armed, obviously one of John’s bonding wizards. Snakelike ropes of spirit magic leapt from the man’s chest, flicking around the room as if looking for something. That was going to be annoying. Matthew flexed his power and the man’s magic fled back into his chest.

“Matthew!” John said, stepping into the room and extending his hand.

“Boots!” the Stranger reminded, pointing with his pipe. He waited for them to take off their boots and set them by the door before motioning them in. He clasped John’s hand. He could feel the master’s approval radiating from the man. It was grating. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t stand up to greet you. I have had quite a tiresome day.”

“Of course,” John said, smiling kindly. He always smiled kindly, that one. To make it worse, it was hard to hate him for it because he was genuine. John walked over to the hearth. “My, this smells good. Is it your old stew recipe?”

“It’s a constant work in progress, you know that,” Matthew replied.

John lifted the lid. “My, but that is a lot of stew for one man.”

“I like leftovers,” Matthew said.

“Did you know we were coming?” asked the young man, looking at the two bowls stacked on the mantle.

Matthew repressed a wince, wishing he had taken the time to place the bowls in the kitchen. He hadn’t meant to seem this welcoming. “Of course I knew, young uh . . .” He motioned at the man. “Show me your rune.”

The young man held out the palm of his left hand and the back of his right hand. Matthew almost dropped his pipe. A twice-named. He read the runes. “Sir Edge, is it?”