Zarak's Tale

By Scott Rennie

Zarak had made up his mind.

With a sense of haste, he packed his favourite belongings into the haversack he used for hunting. Anything that could not fit into that would have to be left behind. Within minutes, he was climbing out of the window of his bedroom, over the fence of their back yard, and through the streets of Axewood towards the Shriven Oak, where the young Lord Fimuth had been.

He thought guiltily of his mother, but it was easier this way. She would not understand how he could not stay around Axewood, waiting for his time to become just another Palace Guard for the old Count, spending his days at the Palace, his nights at home or at the inn, or in the forest with others of his kind. The guards he practised with said he showed promise with his weapons skills, but he had little concentration, and soon tired of all their criticisms and suggestions.

No. He was destined for greater things. And when he returned, many years from then, it would be his tales that inspired the youths of the village. His adventures that made them wish to be like him. It would be him that they begged to take with him on his next great adventure.

As he drew near to the inn, he saw a group of people riding from the yard, and realised it was Fimuth's party. On a grey riding horse, Fimuth was to the rear of the group. At the front, the Olven magician Zarn Varnt, another from this area, seemed to be urging them onwards. On a pony, alongside Fimuth, rode the diminutive gnome, Thoggin of Hardby, and to their fore, the ranger Lancer.

Zarak ran towards them at his fastest, desperate that they should not leave without him.

"Fimuth! Fimuth! Wait up! Wait for me!"

Fimuth halted his horse, and the others slowed down, waiting a hundred yards ahead. Zarak ran over to him, gasping for breath.

"Fimuth," he panted. "Take me with you. I cannot stay here, to a..."

Fimuth held up his hand to silence the youth. He smiled.

"Patience, Zarak the Hasty. I cannot take you where I go."

Fimuth shook his head, and Zarak's heart dropped.

"You would not survive in the Pomarj, my young friend. We go to battle the Slave Lords, and I would not have your blood on my conscience."

Fimuth started to ride off, and Zarak stood despondent in the street. While his entire world collapsed, everyday life in Axewood just went on, and on. Fimuth stopped and turned his horse back, flicking something through the air to him.

Instinctively, Zarak caught the Grafsmerkke, a platinum coin. He stared down at it.

"Go to Niole Dra, young Zarak. To the Keisling, and ask to speak with the mage Gastanykk. If you are still with him when I return, we will talk some more."

A broad, beaming grin returned to Zarak's face as the party rode off, and he turned to the Shriven Oak inn, to arrange transport to the capital.

"I am telling you, Zarak, you are killing yourself."

Zarak was in no mood for appreciating Eawartt Wakes' fine judgement of his situation, as he hefted sacks of corn from the barge to the quayside.

"You could always give me a hand!" he pointed out to his recumbent friend.

Wakes tipped his dandy hat to allow him more shade from the hot Keoish sun, and shook his head in a patronising way. Of all the people on the Weyrkling docks, only Wakes and a few tramps and beggars were not busy, as they unloaded the ships that plied the Sheldomar to provide for the capital's needs.

"Couldn't, my friend," he said, rising to his feet and walking over to Zarak. "Against my principles to work for my living."

Wakes seemed almost proud of his inactivity, but Zarak knew he would not go short of money. He had met the rake when he stayed at the Painted Man inn, and naive as he was at that time he had failed to realise it was used as a safehouse for the Weyrkling guild. Wakes was never done trying to recruit Zarak to the Weyrkling's ranks.

"Look," he said, putting his arm around the half-elf, leading him away from the water. "Over a year you've been here, and how much have things changed? All day you sweat at the docks, earning money. And then by night, you take your money to that 'quack' of a mage, Gastanykk, or your self-styled 'swordmaster' Haynder. And what have you to show for it?"

Zarak paused for thought at Wakes' comments. It was true - a year's slavery and what had he achieved. Still Gastanykk had taught him naught but the simplest cantrips. And despite Haynder's obvious pleasure at his skill, he still insisted on teaching him nothing more than the simplest drills, refusing to even allow him to try the live blade training along with the other students.

"Learn se basics furst, Sarak," he would say, mispronouncing his name in a way that set his teeth on edge. "You are not like sose ussers - do not be so quick to die like sem too!"

Zarak looked Wakes straight in the eye, and the rogue smiled at him.

"I knew it!" Wakes said, in obvious delight. He pulled Zarak along the dock, away from his work and towards the Painted Man.

"And as it happens, I have just the turn for you!"

Zarak sat in his room at the boarding house, staring at the leather tome. He had been staring at it for almost an hour now, as though afraid to open it. As he went to turn the pages there was a knock at the door.

Hiding it beneath the bedsheets, he opened the door. It was Wakes.

"I have a job for you!" he declared as he breezed into the tiny room.

Closing the door, Zarak shook his head, a smile on his face.

"I don’t need the money any more!" he declared, pulling back the bedsheets to reveal the book.

Wakes stared.

"Is that...?"

Zarak nodded, a wide grin stretching from ear to ear.

"You mean he...?"

Zarak nodded again, and Wakes also smiled, slapping him across the back.

"Congratulations my friend - a real magician at last! But I truly need your help - Dervyn is ill, the pox or something no doubt, and I need a turn done tonight. Can you help?"

Zarak paused, and before he could decline, Wakes started talking again.

"An easy turn, just a small matter of some documents to be retrieved from a house - no danger, not to a man of your skill!"

Zarak nodded. He never could say no to the charming Wakes anyhow.

"Grand," Wakes said. "Now, our mark lives in a townhouse on MullerRad..."

Zarak had trouble sleeping that night, as he often had after one of Wakes' turns. This one had gone smoothly, no problems at all, and the added comfort of his new spellcasting abilities had made him all the more confident.

It was early morning now, and he lay thinking of the two years he had been in the capital. Gastanykk had worked him hard, and Haynder too! Not to mention Wakes' frequent tasks for the Weyrkling, which earned him the money he needed. But here he was, a trained swordsman, magician and a practised thief. But still there was something missing.

He thought back to what Fimuth had said at the Shriven Oak.

Suddenly, Zarak snapped out of the half-dazed daydream, and sat up as he heard someone step on the creaky floorboard fifth from the top of the stairs. Someone was trying to sneak up on him, his attic room being the only one up there.

The stair creaked again and again - there were more of them. Zarak glanced under his door, and saw the shadows fall under it from the window outside. Without waiting for them to break down his door, Zarak cleared his mind and, closing his eyes began to recite the words of the Sleep spell as Gastanykk had taught him.

From outside there were several thumps, one sounding as though he was falling down several stairs. Zarak had heard at least four men fall.

Grabbing his backpack, ever packed and ready for the off, he stuffed in his spellbook, and unlatched the shuttered window.

"He's awake!" a harsh voice shouted from downstairs. "Four down!"

Several heavily booted feet were now clumping up the stairs. He stuck his head out the window, and saw two men in the yard below. City guardsmen!

"Out the back!" one of them shouted.

Pulling the straps tight, he reached up to the guttering above, which he had reinforced for this eventuality some months ago. Something rattled the wall beside him as he pulled himself up, probably a sling bullet.

He heard the door to his room crash in as he gained a footing on the roof, and with a few deft strides, was over the peak to the other side and sliding down the drainpipe to the street below.

With a quick glance either side he ran down the alley opposite, and into the bustle of the early morning.

From beneath the bridge, Zarak heard the two City Guardsmen shuffle off towards the Keisling. A minute later, a thief's feet were walking smoothly along the wooded bridge. Zarak walked out, and went up onto the bridge to meet Wakes.

He opened his mouth to question him as to why he was being hunted for a guild-sanctioned turn, but Wakes spoke first.

"Where did you do the turn?"

His tone was sombre, as though a lot were at stake. Zarak pondered as though it were a trick question.

"The townhouse on the corner of MullerRad, as you..."

He stopped as Wakes sunk his head into his hands.

"MullerStrasse, Zarak. MullerRad is the turn I am doing myself, next week, and has not been sanctioned yet."

Zarak felt the blood drain from him. An unsanctioned turn was like a death penalty.

"The letters you stole were not love letters, but secret letters between Alderman Betts and the Tarskling guild. He demanded they be returned and we give you up."

As though the thought of treachery had only just occurred to him, Zarak began to scan the nearby streets, but saw nothing.

"I would not do that to you, my friend," Wakes said reassuringly. "But you must leave. And I would not be in too much of a hurry to return."

Without looking back, as Wakes walked off, Zarak hefted his pack, and took to the Caisteallweg which led south to Gradsul.