Arcane (The Arinthian Line Book 1) (2 page)

The soldier did not break stride; a viciously large ball and chain flail whistled through the air, smashing into Dap’s chest. Dap fell back with a sickening gurgle. The towering soldier placed an iron boot against Dap’s hulking loaf of a body and yanked his weapon free.

Augum scrambled away as the spiked ball whistled by his ear, lodging into a fencepost with a smack. He ran around the corner of the house only to see a score of black-armored knights riding straight at him. He raced across to the other homes, listening as screams and shouts of attack filled the air. The invaders were swarming through the village now. This was it; he had to either find Sir Westwood or flee.

The group of knights galloped past, giving him one last opportunity to escape to the Tallows. He swallowed hard and took another look.

There were too many, it was no use.

“I’m so sorry, Sir,” he mumbled before making a run for it, not stopping until he was well outside the outer fence. There, hiding in the grass, Augum watched Willowbrook burn.

The Storm

Augum headed westward when the soldiers began combing the fields with torches. He glanced back only once, and that was to engrave the image of the towering inferno into his mind. An occasional scream still punctured the night.

He walked on and on, eyes glazed, hands limp. The stars sparkled clearer than a still pond; he scarcely gave them any attention. Eventually, numb from exhaustion, he curled up among the tall grass, holding his legs close.

He barely slept.

Augum trudged that vast plain for three days and nights without food or water, having forgotten the sack of provisions Sir Westwood had thoughtfully prepared for him. He wore through his leather turnshoes, pushing his wiry frame to endure. Each night was cooler than the one before, as if winter itself hounded him along with those black-armored soldiers.

On the eve of the third day, black clouds raced overhead as a coarse wind pushed on his back, making waves in the ocean of waist-high grass. Lips cracked, mouth dry as parchment, he felt as if the sole purpose of his existence was to keep placing one foot before the other.

His thoughts drifted idly. Sometimes he pictured Sir Westwood alive and well. At other times, he envisioned him slumped over in a pool of his own blood, like fat Dap.

His heart panged. The old knight had been a strict but fair man, very different from the foster family Augum had previously lived with, the Pendersons.

The Pendersons … even thinking about them made his teeth clench. He glanced down at his cracked hands, remembering how blistered and bloody they would get as he toiled in their field. The longer he stared, the more he remembered, until a dirt farm and young corn stalks appeared before him. He looked up to find Meli, that old wretched mule, standing before him on wobbly legs. She was his only companion, occasionally sharing Mr. Penderson’s lashing. He winced, recalling how that same whip would flash across his back, splitting open the skin like an overripe tomato.

Suddenly someone shoved him to the dirt.

“Hey Gutter—why you always falling down?” Garth Penderson asked.

Augum placed a hand between his eyes and the hot summer sun. “I need to get to pickin’ cause—”

Garth burped loudly before Augum could explain how Mrs. Penderson would not let him eat until Meli’s packs were full of corn. Garth’s brother, Buck, and his sister, Wyza, cackled in support. All three shared the same muscular physique, flaming Penderson hair and identical ponytail. Garth was older than Augum by three years, Buck by two, and Wyza by one.

“Then why is you sitting there like some lazy dog?”

Augum stumbled to his feet. Meli glanced at him with tired red eyes. She was probably thirstier than he was. He needed to get to the well—

A blinding pain splashed across his face. His eyes immediately began to water from the slap.

Garth dusted off his hands. “You best answer when I talk, Gutter.”

Buck’s ruddy cheeks puffed out with a grin. “Dumber than a cow.”

Wyza kicked the old mule. “Dumber than this here ass!”

Augum moved between Meli and the brats. “You leave Meli alone!”

Garth pushed him back down into the dirt with a lazy hand, a wicked smile playing across his lips. “Don’t cry now, we is not going to do nothin’ to this useless old mule.” Suddenly he reared back and clobbered Meli with his fist. The animal fell to the ground, braying, as corn spilled into the dirt.

The brats roared with laughter as Augum dropped to help Meli. He tenderly smoothed her mangy hair before trying to help her stand, but she was too weak and kicked feebly at the air.

Mrs. Penderson’s screeching voice floated over from the farmhouse. “Wyza? Buck? Garth? What you doing over there with that stupid boy!”

Garth rolled his eyes. “Nothing, Ma!”

“I need that corn picked, you hear?”

“Yes, Ma!”

“Tell that gutterborn trash to hustle up!”

Garth squatted down before Augum. His chin dropped as his neck bulged. A moment later, he belched a burp of rotten onion into Augum’s face. Wyza and Buck laughed.

“You heard her, Gutter,” Garth said, ignoring his siblings. “Get going, we needs you pickin’.” His pig eyes swiveled to the spilled corn. “And by the looks of it, you ain’t going to be eating for a while.”

Augum’s vision blurred. Suddenly the brats were gone and it was raining. Beside him, Mr. Penderson jerked at a leek, dropping it into one of Meli’s pouches, muttering to himself all the while.

Augum somehow knew what was about to happen. The dread ate at his stomach. He reached out to her, wanting to tell her everything would be all right, that he would protect her—yet just before his hand touched her hide, Meli collapsed, leeks tumbling to the mud.

He scrambled to pick it them up. “Mr. Penderson, I’ll clean it right away, no need to get angry—”

“Don’t be talking back to me, boy!”

The punch was harder than usual, doubling Augum over. With it came the stench of strong wine from the man’s breath. Mr. Penderson loosened the whip hanging from his belt and wacked the animal across the snout. Meli only made a quiet whine.

“No, Mr. Penderson, please—!” but even when Augum lunged across the animal to protect her with his own body, Mr. Penderson did not stop, lashing boy and mule alike.

“You’re killing her! Stop, Mr. Penderson, stop—!” Augum kept shouting between his own cries of pain.

Mr. Penderson did eventually stop, but only because he had winded himself. “You deserve each other,” he spat, and weaved back to the house.

Augum lay with Meli, shoulders heaving. Her flank had long ceased rising.

Now there was nothing holding him there.

“I’m leaving, Meli,” he whispered, lovingly stroking her neck. “Just like we’ve always said. I’m sorry you can’t come with me.” He gently closed her eyes, rose, and turned toward the Gamber, never looking back.

He had followed that winding river south until stumbling upon the village of Willowbrook, where an old knight by the name of Sir Tobias Westwood found him lying hungry and bloody by its banks. He took Augum in, fed and clothed him, and made him his squire.

Before long, life grew routine. Augum’s hands browned from oiling and polishing Sir Westwood’s armor. His tunic was constantly soaked from scrubbing the knight’s stallion, the planks, the iron pots, the trestle table and benches. At night, he ached from the day’s riding, straw prickling at his scalp. Splinters stung his hands from training with a wooden sword. He smelled like roast chicken, turkey, rabbit, boar or venison after learning how to cook. He sunburned tending to Sir Westwood’s garden, chickens, geese and pigs. The wounds on his back slowly healed, leaving permanent ridged scars he would sometimes trace with a finger, scars that never stopped itching.

Sometimes Sir Westwood took him hunting, and Augum’s elbow would be raw from constantly catching the sinew bowstring. The old knight made Augum taste bitter and sweet plants, pointing out which ones were edible; taught him how to locate north using tree moss; tired him out lecturing about chivalry, heraldry, and the basic etiquette required of a noble in court.

But Sir Westwood had been most particular about the written word, proclaiming that a knight who could not read or write was at the mercy of those who could. Thus, Augum often stayed up late, quill in hand, fingers stained with ink, copying dusty tomes.
Castle Stewardship
,
Arithmetic of the Treasury
,
On Horsemanship
,
The Joust
, and the like. Some had sunk in, most had not.

Sir Westwood also taught him how to speak properly. “Am not” instead of “Ain’t.” “We are not” instead of “We isn’t.” The Penderson drawl was patiently but methodically corrected at every turn. It was how the highborn city folk spoke. Sir Westwood was liberal when it came to more modern youthful contractions, however, as long as they were from the city.

Remembering those happy times with Sir Westwood warmed Augum’s heart and made it easy to forget where he really was.

He stopped and glanced about. The tall yellow grass of the Tallows lashed at his hands as if possessed by the spirit of Mr. Penderson. The wind had increased during his reminiscence and he had not even noticed. Cold rain pelted his face, stinging his eyes. The clouds overhead were as dark as a Penderson heart.

Suddenly the grass flattened as a strong gust knocked him to the ground. His woolen coat shot over his head, choking and dragging him like a sail attached to his neck. He fumbled with the collar, only to discover he was too weak to undo it.

He gurgled what he thought was his last breath when there was an abrupt tearing sound. The coat ripped away, exposing his face to a torrent of icy needle rain. Gasping, he curled up into a ball, already shivering from the cold seeping through his clothes.

A mule hee-hawed. When he looked up, the Penderson brats had him surrounded, ponytails flapping in the wind, cruel grins on their ruddy faces.

“You is damn stupid, Gutter.” Garth’s wide fist reared back as Augum feebly rolled away, only to find Mr. Penderson standing before him, a giant bottle of wine in one hand, whip in the other.

The farmer took a long swig and wiped his mouth with an oily sleeve. “You done wrong, boy.” The whip uncoiled like a viper.

“I ain’t done nothin’ …” Augum pulled on the grass, scrambling to get away, only to stumble across Dap’s bloody body. A black-armored soldier stood just behind, wielding a spiked ball and chain flail, face obscured by a pot helm.

“No …” Augum tried to move back, but a great stallion blocked his path. It snorted and reared up, exposing a rotten ribcage, and bony thorns where there should have been hooves. The Penderson brats closed in from his left. Their father, whip snaking, from Augum’s right. Behind Augum came the whistle of a flail. He raised his hands in defense and screamed, until exhaustion overcame all sense and he collapsed, succumbing to nightmares as turbulent as the rain.

It was pitch-dark when awareness returned. The grass whipped his numb face as the storm raged about him. His soaked tunic snagged on the dirt as the enemy dragged him along the ground.

“Please, sir, just leave me alone …”

The wind moaned as Augum felt his body suddenly lighten. Had the soldier thrown him? His stomach lurched from the weightless sensation, yet the anticipated crash back to the ground did not come.

Lightning burst across the clouds, fanning out like a great spider web, making visible something Augum struggled to make sense of—yellow grass far below him. The ensuing crack of thunder rattled his innards and amplified the nausea.

It’s only a nightmare, he thought frantically, it’s only a nightmare … yet every subsequent flash confirmed the unbelievable—that he was indeed flying.

Then, amidst the spearing flashes, he glimpsed an enormous mass of jagged rock, the top of which disappeared in cloud. The wind increased to a shriek as he hurtled towards the behemoth, slowly losing consciousness from tumbling end over end. With the tunnel of darkness closing in, Augum felt a final searing light illuminate his entire being. A warm glow settled over his heart, and as it faded away, so, too, did he.

Mrs. Stone

Augum startled awake, forehead beaded with sweat. Feeling soft linen sheets beneath him, he sighed in relief, thinking what a vivid nightmare that had all been. He should probably get up and feed the horse …

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, yet when his vision adjusted to the dim light, nothing looked familiar. He lay on an old bed in a cave-like room, dressed in a patched nightgown. Opposite was a heavy door with an iron handle. Beside it, a battered chest of drawers. Shelves stuffed with books and scrolls towered along the walls. Candles flickered from hollows in between. The scent of earth mingled with the smell of old books.

He searched his mind, trying to piece together where he was and what had happened. Like a moth, his eyes kept returning to the candles.

Fire …

Gods, no … Willowbrook burning, the journey across the Tallows, the storm—it had all been real! Maybe the Unnameables took him and he was in some kind of afterlife.
He pinched himself and felt pain; inspected for signs of trauma—no cuts, no bruises.

Augum went still. “Hello—?”

Other than his thundering heart, there was only silence. He nervously chewed on a finger, an old habit neither the Pendersons nor Sir Westwood had broken.

“Hello? Anybody there—?” A candle sputtered as if troubled by his voice.

Shuffling came from the other side of the door. He tensed as the handle turned with a squeak. A hunched woman in a sparkling white robe entered. One hand clutched a withered candle, the other a wooden staff capped with a crystal orb. Long silver hair fell around a face creased with a hundred years of time.

She stood examining him with bright blue eyes, grunted, and approached. Her robe shimmered with embroidered silver lions, birds, a castle, and lightning—
did the bolts just flash
?

Augum shrank away as she took a seat beside him on the straw-filled mattress.

“Well now, my child, I see you have awakened. How do you feel?” her voice sounded like wheezing bellows.