In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) Read online

  “Boys, take a good, long look,” Sindar said. “This here is a real city. It’s dangerous—from now on, we stick together at all times. I don’t need Marik cursing me ’cause a couple of his students wandered into a mess they couldn’t get clear of. I can deal with steel handshakes and cutpurses, but I don’t need no Mage throwing spice at me. You boys stay close.” Sindar stared at them as he narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow. “You, too, Ranger.”

  “Oh, what would I ever do without your protection, you big, strong man!” Lionel mocked in a high voice. “Yes, you lummox—we’ll both keep an eye open for trouble and see that we get what we came for. Marik gave us both these charges to be his eyes and ears, remember? And last time I checked, our little spellweavers came in handy.” Lionel turned to face one of the two grand statues marking the entrance to Gaust off the main road.

  Magi gazed at the statues as well. “What are these? They’re enormous.” The statue on his left was of a man holding a net in one hand, a spear in the other. It looked to be marble or granite and was at least twenty feet tall. The statue on the right was a beautiful, smiling mermaid who seemed to be eternally staring at the fisherman across the road. Looking closely, Magi could tell that the statues hadn’t been cleaned for awhile. They were yellowing, and in places were chipped.

  “Aye. Been here for ages. I’m sure a scribe somewhere could tell you who built ’em, but they’ve been here welcoming visitors forever, as far as I know. Story goes that the city was built to harvest the treasures of the Sea, and that pretty mermaid over there watches him to see he don’t take too much out, know what I mean?” Sindar walked across the road and patted the mermaid’s tail appreciatively. “The way I see it, women are the bane of men, mermaids the bane of sea folk.”

  Magi thought about Kari, Kyle’s sister. She’s not the bane of anyone—

  Lionel’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Yes, that’s basically it. But on to more important matters. The scroll that your Master asked you to find—did he tell you where to look in the city?”

  “It’s called the Scroll of Tralatus. He said to start with the Great Library. He stressed that it was very important that we bring it to him.” Magi caught Kyle staring at the Mermaid’s bosom while Lionel was speaking. He smiled and turned to face his three companions. “That’s all I know about it.”

  “Hmmph. And what do we do when we find it? Is it for sale? Does he expect us to become thieves?” Sindar asked everyone, but he was looking at Lionel.

  “We will not be stealing it. Marik would never abide that. We shall buy it, copy it, or memorize it.” Magi said.

  “Or borrow it,” Lionel offered. “Doesn’t matter at the moment…we’ll plot that course when we find the ship, as they say here. First, let’s find this Library.” He started walking briskly, passing underneath the statues and headed into the city proper.

  As Magi hurried after him, his attention was distracted (as was so often the case) by the ring he had had since he was a child – a gift from his father that he wore on his right middle finger. He twisted it, feeling the slight moisture around his finger underneath the pure silver. Mounted atop the silver band was a small onyx square that housed a diamond-shaped emerald. It is an unusual combination, for sure.

  “Quit playing with your ring and teach me that freezing spell,” Kyle said with a smile as he caught up to Magi, clapping his hand against his back as they both entered the largest city either of the young men had ever seen.

  Xaro

  Unlike the Staircase—the supernatural test that defines a True Mage—the Warrior’s Test was very informal. There were false clerics, amateur thieves, clumsy assassins, and unskilled Warriors that did their best to scratch out a living in Tenebrae. There were, however, no false mages—you either were a True Mage or you weren’t, and your eyes gave you away.

  Except in Xaro’s case—but it had taken him many years to create a spell that would disguise his nature. In the end, it wasn’t even his own skill and magic that allowed him to recreate his brown eyes. No. It was a prayer to his God, Kuth-Cergor, that gave him the knowledge of how to do it. It was one of his final lessons while he studied in the lost Tower of Dariez, where the ancient True Clerics were said to have amassed their knowledge and wisdom. All it had cost him was a life of servitude—a small price to pay. He considered it an honor to serve a true deity in a world awash in false worship, and looked forward to ushering in a new Kingdom as the Right-Hand of Kuth-Cergor.

  So when he heard Bertram speak of the “test,” he bit his tongue. “The Warrior’s Test, eh? You think a slash to the back of the knees of one ogre qualifies you to be a Warrior? Your arrogance is truly unbridled.” He spat on the ground. Xaro just waited, patient. The ogre was still screaming.

  “Still, you have some talent. Decent with a sword. Strong enough in hand-to-hand, I’ve seen that in your training against the other fighters. But you haven’t yet shown me enough on horseback, and I’ve not seen you throw a spear worth a crap. To be a Warrior, I need to see more than a brute with a sword. You must show skill with multiple weapons, multiple tactics. You’re not ready.”

  Xaro was growing tired of this training, day after day. He had spent two years in the fighting pits, and had defeated every combatant that had been thrown against him, including the ogre, who was still howling in pain and cursing Xaro while he listened to his Master-at-Arms. Both sounds tested his patience. “Very well. You say I am arrogant—I do not deny it. But I am also your best fighter—you cannot deny that. So let me issue this challenge. You say I lack skill on horseback and skill with a spear—fine. Give me one spear and my choice of horse, and I will fight your griffin from the saddle with one spear only. We shall fight in the main pit, though your griffin can fly wherever he likes, of course. But you will see what I can do on horseback, and it gives you another chance to rid the world of a future ‘mercenary’, as you see it. If I defeat your creature, you will allow me to take this “Warrior’s Test,” whatever it may hold. I am ready and you know it. If I lose, then we shall have nothing further to discuss, of course. Do you accept my challenge…Master?” he added.

  Bertram was seething. All fighters came to his pits to train, full of vinegar and drunk on their own immortality. He was used to arrogance; that was nothing new. What bothered him was that Xaro was right. Nobody could match his skill. He won everything. Excelled at everything. After arriving two years ago, it took him less than a month to begin swordplay against the best students…using his off-hand. Bertram knew every warrior was not destined to be a noble Knight; he didn’t expect morality from men training in the art of war. But what he did expect—what he demanded—was respect. Respect for the Guild. For the position. For Bertram’s knowledge and title. And he received that respect from all, sometimes from the start, sometimes after a humbling. Xaro had never been humbled, though. And he respected no one but himself, near as Bertram could tell. Oh, he tolerated his fellow trainees. They worshipped him like a God it seemed, the way he held court in the barracks and the drinking halls. Always the center of attention. Yet day after day he rose and proceeded to embarrass his fellow students, and still they gravitated toward him, breaking bread and sharing stories.

  Xaro was a dangerous man, and it was increasingly obvious that he was developing a cult following.

  The Master-At-Arms trusted him less than a thief in rags, and asked Thorax regularly to take this man from his midst. He had hoped the ogre would be the answer to that prayer. Bertram ground his teeth as his ogre howled in pain.

  “I accept. But I will choose your spear, and I will choose your horse. Standard issue, both. Survive, and I will do you one better than allow you to take your Test. This shall be your Test. Defeat the griffin, and I shall brand you a True Warrior myself. The battle shall be held tomorrow. Are we agreed?” Bertram narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms across his chest.

  Xaro smiled. “Agreed.”

  He flicked his wrist and a hidden dagger flew into the back of the ogre’s hand,
which was holding a wicked, curved throwing blade he must have had stored inside his wide belt. The ogre screamed as Xaro’s knife bit deep, and stared at the dark blood streaming from his hand. The ogre dropped his throwing blade and looked up at Xaro, narrowing its red eyes and boring them into him.

  “You called for healers—where are they?” Xaro asked. “Please silence your pet, or my next throw will silence him for you.”

  Magi

  “Look at the size of that place,” Kyle commented. Having grown up in Fostler, another relatively small village like Brigg, both he and Magi were awed at the immensity of the buildings in the city of Gaust.

  “Aye, someone important lives here. Maybe Lord Corovant.” Sindar, too, seemed impressed. “He is the lord of this city.”

  “FISH! Buy two fresh!” a peddler shouted from the side of the street. The whole place smelled of waste, fish, sweat, and salt. “A copper apiece or two for three!” as he rubbed two notched, beat-up coppers together beside a row of hanging fish, still dripping.

  “Good sir, where might we find the library in this great city?” Magi asked.

  “Library, eh? What does a group such as you want with books? Manny the fish merchant will give a fish away if the big one can even read.” The merchant cackled with laughter that stopped as suddenly as he started. “Manny thinks you’re not from around here, no —not from here at all.”

  Sindar grabbed Magi’s robe and yanked him away from the merchant. “Our business is our business. Sorry to have troubled ye.” He glared at Magi as they shuffled away down the street. Behind them, the voice of the merchant was fading, “Manny’s fish is best! No trouble for the outsiders!”

  A block later, both Sindar and Lionel rounded on him. “I thought Marik said you were one of his smart kids. How dimwitted can you be?” Lionel said. “Act like you belong in the city, and let Sindar or I gather information. Do you want every cutpurse in the city targeting us? This isn’t Brigg, where a scandal to Phillip is a dispute over the price of horseshoes. People get killed for horseshoes in the city. We don’t need the attention.”

  “I’m sorry. It was just an innocent request for directions.” Magi was floored by both the tongue-lashing and his naiveté.

  “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 griffin 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.