Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (38 page)

“Your namesake is important,” Tearock chastised him.

“And a mouthful,” Dalan replied with a wide grin.

Tearock suffered his other son a look which made the grin quickly disappear. His grin returned just as fast when Tearock’s head turned elsewhere.

Michael stared dumbfounded at the brothers then at Max and back at them again.

“What is it, Michael?” Max asked.

“Their names,” he managed to say, still unsure.

“What about them?” Max asked.

“They mean ‘lightning’ and ‘sound after the lightning’.”

“Is that important?” Tearock asked.

“
Prophecy
,” Michael muttered in the Seran’tu language, almost to himself.

Tearock looked between Michael and Max waiting for more explanation.

“One of the prophecies about the Keeper of the Eye alludes to him commanding thunder and lightning in the final battle while another states thunder and lightning will guard him,” Max explained.

“That settles it then,” Tearock said. He turned to his sons and spoke in his native tongue. He explained who Michael was and how he had come to be in their midst. When he finished both his sons saluted him and barked an affirmative, “Yes, sir.”

“What just happened?” Falon asked.

“Dalan and Dalan dela Darela will go with you,” Tearock proclaimed. “We have our own prophecies. One states we will see Yesula’s Champion. He will walk among us though he is not of us. We stand ready to serve. We stand ready to crush the Soulless One.”

Michael held up his hands. “Tearock, truly you honor me, but such a commitment is not necessary.”

Dalan and Darela shared a look then Dalan stepped forward and placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “We shall be your shield, you shall be our sword,” Dalan said then walked past Michael.

Darela stepped forward, placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder and repeated the proclamation in his native tongue. Darela nodded his approval before walking after his brother.

“Umm...thank you?” Michael said, looking at Garen.

Garen shrugged.

Darela turned and called after him. “Hey, swordman! You going to eat with us? Let’s go. We’re hungry.”

“Hope your sword isn’t as slow as your stomach,” Dalan added.

The company spent an extra day in Basra. Michael asked Dalan and Darela to train him and Garen in their fighting style. Darela smiled widely and pulled out several pairs of arm length wood sticks called kasmata, which translated to ‘ironwood’. Michael and Garen shared a smirk, but their smirks quickly disappeared as they sparred. The twins struck as fast as their namesake, sticks a blur of movement. Michael and Garen quickly had welts all over their bodies and rarely landed a hit on the twins. Dalan was quick to disarm them while Darela intentionally prolonged the fight. “To give them more time to learn,” he claimed with a smile on his face.

The next morning the company jumped to Serat Gar a few miles inside the forest. The Seran’tu called it a sentinel city, ready to defend against any who might trespass from the Rang Shalan.

Tearock made sure they had the best horses Serat Gar had to offer as well as supplies. Securing a promise from Michael to return, he bid them farewell and stepped into the portal with Calar and Namish.

Michael and Garen spent the morning sparring with Dalan and Darela and Falon joined in after lunch. She held her own for a few minutes before Dalan disarmed her.

“It comes quickly with practice,” Michael said encouragingly.

Falon gave him a fierce glare then squared off with Darela. She deflected his first series of strikes, matching his rhythm perfectly. As he brought his arm down in an overhead strike, she blocked the attack and stepped into his body. Circling her arm around his, she pinned his bicep under her armpit. Swinging her legs into the air, she wrapped them around his neck and used her weight to bring him crashing to the ground. In a blur of quick movements, she disarmed him and stepped back wary, kasmata at the ready.

“Woah ho!” Jorgen cheered and Dalan fell on the ground laughing.

Darela bowed to her respectfully then kicked his brother who was almost in tears from laughing.

With fire in her eyes, she turned on Michael. “Was that quick enough?”

Michael stood there with his mouth hanging open. “How...how did you do that?”

“Quite simple,” Falon replied, walking away, “comes quickly with training.”

Jorgen laughed harder and slapped Michael on the shoulder.

Michael watched her walk to the archer’s range and start shooting arrows at a steady pace. She was full of surprises. What else did he not know about her?

“Your turn Jorgen,” Garen said, offering him the kasmata.

Jorgen grinned, a glint in his eye, as he took the ironwood sticks. Jorgen’s hand to hand combat style meshed well with the kasmata, drawing praise from Dalan and Darela. When he pointed at Michael and Garen, challenging them both at the same time, the twins started taking bets like bookies with the small crowd of warriors that had gathered. Michael and Garen got in some good strikes but when the bout ended they were bruised and disarmed.

Dalan stepped past Michael, collecting his winnings from fellow Seran’tu.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Michael quipped.

“You fight well, son of A’lan, but not that well,” Dalan said, dropping a stack of gold coins into Darela’s open hand.

They practiced until sunset, each of them picking up the basics. Jorgen added his own spin by teaching them more of his own hand to hand techniques. Michael and Garen absorbed it all. Their strikes became quick and decisive while maintaining a constant defense. It was clear, though, that a lifetime could be spent mastering the kasmata.

Michael and Garen were sore the next day, but they refused to let it show. After a quick breakfast of flatbread, spicy boar, vegetables, and peppers served with sauces—always with sauces—they were eager to set out.

Emerging from the forest, the world seemed to open up in a sea of rolling hills with the Shalan Mountains bordering to the West. The open space was a stark contrast to the massive trees of the forest. Michael felt exposed. Funny how a place feared by the world now felt far safer than his home.

His horse frisked, wanting to run, but Michael kept a firm grip on the reigns as he patted the roan’s neck. Looking back at the tall trees of the Nistmara forest, he pondered their journey. Behind them lay a breakneck run from Whitewater’s Forge, harrowing battles with nightmarish beasts, a dragon, and magic hating zealots. Ahead of him lay the Rang Shalan and a warlock bent on destroying the world. Could an adventure truly be more insane?

Michael wished again they could teleport all the way to Dalarhan, but Namish had shuddered when he suggested it back at Serat Gar. Calar had explained it was far too dangerous. Teleporting could be imprecise when the guide did not know the destination. The way Calar said “imprecise” made Michael cringe.

“This is where I must leave you,” Jorgen said.

“What?” Michael replied, shaken from his thoughts. “Why?”

“I must return to Stallingar and rally the Paladins in your name.”

“No, I need you.” Michael looked at the others. How could he succeed without Jorgen?

“I feel Meshema Donai beckoning me to return home. If you fall, the Paladins must rally at Dalarhan and stop this madman.”

Blunt and straightforward, a soldier’s strategic analysis of the situation. Jorgen simply stated the stark reality, but his words stabbed at Michael. That voice of doubt lurking in the back of his mind needled at him.

Jorgen clasped wrists with Garen. “You will make a fine leader someday, but greatness doesn’t come from simply leading; it comes from guiding. And inspiring.”

“My lady,” he said, giving Falon a slight bow from his saddle, “always a pleasure to see you. Meshema Donai made you as He wanted you. Seek Him and He will show you how to use even what you despise for his purposes.”

“Master Xan’thorne, it has been an honor seeing you again. I am indebted to you for saving my sorry hide.”

Max laughed. “You saved mine first, Jorgen.”

“Perhaps then you will allow me to say one thing that someone of my stature should not to someone of yours. The burden you carry is not your fault. It was not your failure. Meshema Donai knows the hearts of man and He finds you far more worthy than you find yourself.”

Jorgen nodded to Dalan and Darela, which they returned. Respect between warriors.

“Walk with me a bit?” he said to Michael.

Michael guided his mare, falling in step with Caballus.

Jorgen’s face tightening slightly as he studied Michael. “I may not possess the gift of prophecy, but I believe in you.”

His steely eyes took on an intense appearance Michael could not turn away from.

“You were not created to fail, Michael, but doubt will kill you. There is no room for doubt in serving Meshema Donai. You are far more than you believe.” Jorgen extended his arm out and Michael clasped it wrist to wrist. “Embrace Meshema Donai’s plan; embrace the man He created you to be. You are His champion and your path is just and right. Surrender to Him. Then you will be able to wield the Eye with holy conviction.” Jorgen leaned in close to Michael. “Against such a weapon no evil can stand.”

Michael nodded and watched Jorgen crest the nearest hill and disappear down the backside. How could he possibly live up to the man’s belief?

C
HAPTER
42

Moving Up the Ranks

Captain Jackson was not pleased. Six weeks of being on the march had done nothing to squelch his annoyance. True he was finally in command of a full company but he was being sent to the southern border. Nothing of interest was on the southern border.

For the hundredth time, he mulled over who had actually issued the order to send him away. In Dalarhan, he had moved up quickly in rank and became the youngest captain in the history of the King’s Guard. The hard work was paying off, he was meeting influential people. His ascent to military glory was assured until he had been given this command.

Looking back on his quick rise, he traced the steps, saw where he had made mistakes, and saw where he had let impatience get the better of him. Any other captain may have been grateful to command a company of troops anywhere, but he saw through the commission. He had risen too fast and someone considered him a threat—and rightly so. He had been too openly ambitious and now the wrong person was aware of him. Now he was scraping muck off his fine black boots and growling over the snow falling on him.

He spotted two men talking with each other beside their tent and his mood turned from sour to acid. There was no need for two magichae to escort his company. They never usurped his command, but they did not take orders from him either. The matter galled him to no end. He was not some wet-behind-the-ears cadet who needed a pair of wet-nurses to make sure he did not get himself hurt.

Around him, three hundred men worked to cross the Alsek River. The bridge was sturdy but not wide. The wheelbase of the first catapult was almost as wide as the bridge, often scraping the stone walls, causing the engineers to have conniption fits. Why six catapults were needed at a minor fort on a border where nothing happened was beyond him. Perhaps they were sent along simply to make his journey all the longer. He would reason out who had sent the order down.

It was an hour past dawn and half the company was across the river. The engineers were almost across the bridge with the first catapult. Not bad for a morning. He had friends in Dalarhan. When he reported to Fort Kilenstad a full two days ahead of schedule, it would be noticed.

A disturbance in the ranks across the river caught his attention. Twelve riders galloped eastward up the slope for some reason.

“Jennings!” A man broke from his discussion with another and saluted Captain Jackson. “Find out what is going on across the river.”

Jennings looked across the river then back at Captain Jackson. “Sir, the catapult is taking up the whole bridge.”

“I have no need of excuses, Jennings. I have need to know why a squad of my men are charging up that slope for no apparent reason.”

Jennings saluted and marched toward the bridge. Other soldiers stepped aside when they saw the glower on his face.

Jennings had to climb up on the stone railing of the bridge to get past the catapult. Walking a slippery stone railing over a frigid river frothed with rapids added to his agitation.

Jennings returned to report a band of criminals were on the run and a squad was giving chase. Apparently the band had crested the hill and turned east when they spotted the company. Their behavior warranted investigation so Sergeant Anders sent a squad after them.

Captain Jackson gritted his teeth. Anders was a good soldier but too independent for his liking. Jackson swung into his saddle and galloped up to the bridge before the engineers could get the second catapult in place.

“Get this bloody thing out of my way!” he bellowed at the engineers moving the first catapult across the bridge.

Five minutes later he reigned in beside Sergeant Anders.

“Report, Sergeant.”

“Ah, yes sir. There appears to be a band of criminals—”

“Yes, I know that much, Sergeant. Are they in custody and what is their business?”

“I don’t know the answer to either, sir. The squad has not returned.”

“No matter. Remain here and see the catapults cross the river without incident. Marshall, Telvor, Gillispie! Follow me.”

Twelve men galloped away leaving Anders gritting his teeth.

Jackson and his men reigned in on a hilltop overlooking the ruins of a castle. The original squad of men sat on their horses watching the castle along with other soldiers he did not recognize.

“Who’s in charge?” Jackson asked.

“I am,” replied two men who had been conversing. Both men gave one another a surprised look.

Jackson ignored the man lacking the Twelfth Company insignia. “Report, Corporal,” he snapped.

The leader of the squad glanced at the stranger then spoke as he saluted. “A band of outlaws has been cornered in those ruins, sir.”