In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) Read online

  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 griffin 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.

  “You filthy liar—we’ve stolen none of your coin!” Sindar shouted as his hand dropped to the hilt of his giant sword.

  Lionel put his hand on Sindar’s to steady him and stepped forward. The alehouse was tense, and Magi felt a tiny bead of sweat begin to build near the top of his back. He had never faced the proposition of a real fight like this. He had dueled and trained, of course, and there had been some minor skirmishes— the occasional fight at school with other kids driven to prove themselves against Magi or due to some other petty, adolescent-boy squabble. He never gave a second thought to these minor battles. His Master had taught him well, and he was easily the best student in Marik’s school. He was, in fact, pretty well known in the entire village of Brigg for his magical exploits. But this was different. Three guards stood before him now, hands on sword hilts, openly accusing him and his group of thievery. With a pinch of gritty marble held between his thumb and forefinger on his left hand, he began twisting his ring on that same hand with his right, ready to cast his spell. He eyed Lionel closely, looking for a sign, shifting his eyes around the inn. Everyone looked tense.

  Except Helmut. He looked amused and stayed in his seat.

  Lionel took a slow step toward the guards, in front of Sindar. “Theft, you say? What proof do you have of our robbery? We have taken nothing from this good merchant. Had we been hungry this morning, his fish looked very fresh. Perhaps we might have bought some,” Lionel said, his pleasant smile never leaving his face.

  “He LIES! He and his friends are filled with lies. Told Manny they were going to the Great Library. What business does a group such as them have in our Library? Search him!” screeched the merchant.

  The soldiers drew their swords, and immediately so did Sindar. Magi took a quick glance at Kyle, who was tensing and had raised his hand a bit, ready to scatter his dust and cast his spell. Magi looked back at Lionel, who hadn’t made a move yet to defend himself. Swords drawn, the soldiers approached Lionel. It was then that Manny spied the coppers on the table. “There! You see! I notch all my coppers so as to keep the thieves from taking me poor days’ wages. Yet still they steal from old Manny. Manny the fish merchant always does an honest business, yet still they steal from him. I demand justice from Lord Corovant!”

  An accomplished liar, this peddler, Magi thought as he examined Manny more closely. He seemed to see him for the first time. His thin hair was grey and stringy. He looked as if he was trying to grow a beard, but couldn’t, since only scraggly patches of hair sprouted from his chin and cheeks. He looked to be about sixty years old. Magi guessed he was closer to forty, and had simply lived hard and poor. If it was possible to feel sorry for a man who had just falsely accused him and his friends of theft, that’s how Magi felt.

  He glanced at the coppers Lionel had put onto the table to pay for their food and drink. They were notched in an unusual way—the same as the coppers he had seen Manny playing with earlier that morning. Manny’s a clever fellow, planting them on us.

  “Soldiers
, there is no need for your swords here,” Helmut said. “I bought fish from this peddler a few days ago when we landed in port, and the coppers you see on the table are mine. Search them if you like, but I can assure you that these coppers here were not stolen.”

  Manny the peddler looked at Helmut, who smiled back at him. Manny looked at the four of them, the soldiers, back to the four, and finally back to Helmut. “Perhaps…you’re right.” He gritted his teeth one last time, and then relaxed. “Manny is just a simple fish merchant. Perhaps…Manny was mistaken. Beg your pardon.” He left without looking back.

  The soldiers eyed Sindar, Lionel, and Helmut suspiciously still, but eventually sheathed their swords. “Keep out of trouble. Lord Corovant does not suffer thievery.” They turned to leave, with their purple capes snapping behind them as they whipped around to exit.

  Helmut drained the last of his mug of ale. “Now then,” he began, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “I’m going to need another pint of ale from your lady before we discuss the library.”

  Lionel just flashed him a smile and ordered another round. Magi caught Kyle’s eye, and they both relaxed slightly as their hands disappeared under their cloaks, carefully sprinkling marble dust back into a hidden pouch.

  “Bah! Corovant dandies. I’d a had them strung up by their pretty little sashes if they came any closer.” Sindar said, barely whispering. Magi just smiled and shook his head. Sure you would have, big guy.

  CHAPTER 2: OF THIEVES AND ASSASSINS

  Veronica

  Veronica Edgewild took her seat in the dimly lit room. Fragrant smoke curled up from a small bowl of smoldering incense in the corner, filling the air with a spicy scent. She was underneath a small livery shop in the port city of Shoal, or “the Middle Finger” as some sailors liked to crudely put it. The shop sold all manner of shirts, pants, dresses, hats, boots, cloaks, capes, and gloves. All of it was made by a pair of sisters, Miranda and Belinda, who were well into their fifties or sixties to look at them. Of course, only local officials or a handful of merchants bought their finery. Their top seller was simple bolts of cloth; virtually everyone in Shoal made their own clothing. The sisters were able to stay open in part because they repaired and tailored old, torn clothes that could be passed down a generation, trading for a few coppers here or there.

  The other reason the shop existed was as a front for the Assassin’s Guild, located in their cellar.

  A handful of heating lamps provided a bit of light for the meeting room in which Veronica was seated. Adjacent to it were a series of underground rooms, creating a footprint far larger than the shop above. The Assassin’s Guild was never stumbled upon by chance. It was possible to search the entire continent of Elvidor and never find it. Typically, someone had to take an interest in you. Veronica recalled how someone had taken an interest in her…

  ***

  Years ago, when Veronica was in her mid-teens, she watched as a man brutally killed her parents. Not over a dispute. They killed her parents for seed. She was the only child of a wheat farmer in the village of Fostler growing up, and they grew wheat to sell to bakers and millers and other families. But there wasn’t enough for the entire village. A man came to grow his own wheat, and didn’t have any coins. Her father tried to barter for something else, but he just took out a dagger and began cutting everyone up. Veronica was terrified, and ran. The last thing she saw was her mother’s throat being opened. For wheat seed.

  Three years in the village orphanage hardened her. Food was scarce, but she didn’t need much anyhow. She was tall and thin, with a strength born from a childhood spent farming. When she turned eighteen, she left, unsure of everything in her life but committed to one thing. It took her a day to win a knife in a dice game at a local tavern off a man too drunk to pay close attention. Learning to cheat at dice was one of the skills she had acquired in the orphanage.

  She had seen her father sharpen his tools with stone before. Veronica went back to her old house; it was overrun with squatters who had moved in when her family had been killed. Too many for an eighteen-year-old with a dull knife to try and evict. She moved on.

  Her home for the next few weeks became the forest, which forced her to learn some basic survival skills. She found a good stone along a riverbed to sharpen her knife, and she found that her skills at squirrel and pigeon hunting had not diminished over the past three years. Her father didn’t own any goats or sheep; if they were to have meat, he would hunt for it, and usually it was birds and squirrels. An occasional deer. Veronica learned well how to strip off the fur and butcher even tiny game.

  A month of living off berries, fish, roots, bark, grass, squirrels, pigeons, and a handful of rabbits, Veronica had steeled herself. Her grey orphanage tunic and pants were still tight and too small for her six-foot frame. They were drawn across her body like skin, and were covered in dirt and stained with the blood of small animals. Looking at her face in a brook, she saw the pale skin that came from her mother and the coal-black hair that came from her father. It was too long and unmanageable. Impractical. So she cut it short with her knife, which she religiously sharpened every night now. She took another look at herself, with doe-brown eyes. Uneven cut, but short and clean.

  She waited until after dinner. Perhaps he liked to drink. Leaving the woods, she made her way back into the village of Fostler. There were some people out, mostly the homeless like her, who chose to beg on the outskirts of the village. Smoke rose from most homes, not because it was particularly cold yet, but because they were cooking fires. Town mages kept glow balls lit to provide some lighting along main streets. It was humid tonight, having just rained. Instead of washing the stench of refuse away, all the rain seemed to do was amplify it. The current road she was following was particularly bad, with several people starving and sick along the side of the road, too far gone to beg. She pulled her tunic up over her nose and picked up the pace.

  The man lived on the other side of the village; she had recognized him three years ago. She could see a small crop of summer wheat growing, with four serfs guarding each side of the small golden rectangle, carrying long knives. Not swords or hunting knives; farming blades for work in the fields. That wheat field might as well have been gold, for food was the most valuable commodity in all of Fostler. Smart – we should have guarded our crop as well. My father didn’t own slaves, but if he had, things might have been different. I bet he’s feeding them in exchange for their work in the field.

  As the sun sank behind the grey clouds, Veronica saw one of the most spectacular sunsets. Orange and pink light seemed to shine up and highlight patches of dark grey. It was gorgeous and eerie at the same time. Fitting for this night.

  She was pretty sure this would be the last sunset of her life, so she allowed herself the simple pleasure of watching it. After about ten minutes, she set her jaw to the task at hand. His house was simple—four walls, but they were stone. The man was wealthy enough to keep four slaves, a horse, and she saw three sheep in a nearby pen. A lot wealthier than I remembered. Apparently our wheat seed has been good to you.

  She went over to the sheep pen and rubbed some mud on her face; her pale skin seemed to reflect even the dimmest of light, now that night had fallen. She crept to the wooden door and listened. Veronica heard at least three distinct voices inside, two men and a woman. They had finished eating, and one of the men was complaining about something.

  Hidden behind a water barrel, she took a large stone and hurled it at the head of the closest sheep. The rock hit the sheep in the eye, making it bleat loudly. The other two chimed in, and they all started running around the pen, causing a ruckus to a chorus of “Baaa!”

  “Go see what the commotion is, boy.” Veronica heard the older man shout at the younger.

  The door opened. Out came a young man, probably a few years younger than Veronica, no taller than she was, though he was pudgy. It was unusual to see someone carry a little extra weight when the entire village was starving. Veronica clenched her teeth
.

  As the boy passed the barrel to get to the sheep pen, Veronica slowly rose, came up behind him, and before she could talk herself out of this, she killed her first person. She dropped her arms over the boy’s head and slid the edge of her blade quickly across his neck, hoping for a silent kill.

  It was not to be. She missed the voicebox, and he was able to garble a half-scream as the blood poured out of his severed artery. He fell to his knees, turning around to see who had done this, clutching his hands to his neck in a pointless attempt to stop the bleeding. He yelled as loud as he could again as he stared up into Veronica’s muddy face, collapsing on his side.

  Veronica fought back the panic and returned to her spot behind the barrel. This time the woman came out. Probably his mother. This would have to be much quicker. Once she saw her son bleeding, the screaming would bring the slaves and probably half the village as well. One last deep breath and she lept up from her hiding space as soon as the woman was out of view of the door to their house. Covered in mud with a jagged, uneven hairline, Veronica must have looked terrifying. The woman was startled and got off a quick scream before Veronica shoved her blade into the woman’s neck in a surprisingly fluid motion. This time the vocal cords were severed and the scream abruptly stopped. Veronica tripped the staggering woman easily, jumped on her chest, and drove the knife into the other side of her neck while the woman clutched her throat. She found the key artery, and once she saw the blood spurting, she got up and returned to her hiding spot, hoping the serfs in the field were too far away to hear. Two down.

  “What is going on here? What are you screaming about now, woman?” bellowed the man as he strode out of his house. He was much heavier than he was the day he came to murder her parents, but his face was the same. Finer clothing, too – Veronica could see in the moonlight that he was wearing a white tunic. Nobody in the village wore white. It was simply too hard to keep clean when everyone’s principle occupation was working or begging to keep yourself fed. Wealthy indeed.