The Lone Apprentice

By I K Spencer

Isaencarl’s secret King’s Guard has been protecting the realm for eons. Guardsmen are cherished and revered throughout the realm, more so by many than even the beloved king and royal family. Chosen as young boys for their outstanding intelligence and sensitivity, only the purest of heart can make it through the rigorous training and selection process, a program that emphasizes mental and moral excellence as much as combat and intelligence training. Guardsman are above reproach and practically worshiped throughout Isaencarl so Anthen has been dreaming of his impending graduation from the academy since a small boy, yet that dream turns to a nightmare as the soon-to-be apprentice learns the perilous duty and extreme sacrifice that have fallen to him alone. With no one else left to trust in the elite covert brotherhood, it falls to the mere apprentice to risk his very soul on a quest of many leagues to stop a powerful sorcerer and gathering darkness that threaten to obliterate the entire realm and beyond.

• Language: English
• Publisher: I K Spencer
• Release date: Feb 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311496218

I K Spencer

I. K. Spencer lives in New Hampshire with his wife and family pets. He is currently working on several projects, including the next book in the Guardsman series. When I. K. is not writing, he works as a software engineer.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Garrick was drunk. Not that anyone else in the crowded bar would notice; the stocky warrior hadn't staggered or slurred his speech and the stoic face bore no signs of the sleepiness or rowdiness apparent in many of the other patrons. In fact, he walked, talked and outwardly behaved the same as when he had strolled into Kaslow's only tavern several hours earlier. Garrick knew when he had surpassed his limit because his mind began to play tricks on him and, much to the guardsman's displeasure, the trickery had commenced.

The first sign was that his senses seemed to have become overly responsive, evidenced by the fact that the voice of the whore at the next table seemed too loud all of a sudden and when he lifted his gaze to look over at her, the common room’s brightness made him squint. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn someone had doubled the number of lanterns while he had been staring at his rum, lost in thought.

Shaking his head in a vain attempt to restore his normal sight, the drunken guardsman studied the woman. Her auburn hair was tied into a ponytail in an attempt to give her a youthful appearance. She might have been pretty but the heavy make-up she wore made it impossible to tell. The garish contrast of her powder-white skin, blood-red lips, and painted eyes made him queasy.

The wench roared with laughter at something said by the potential customer next to her. To Garrick's heightened sense of smell, the man was obviously a pig farmer. The laugh drifted into a rasping hack that shook her ample bosom and sent the pig farmer scurrying off with a frown, thankfully out of range of Garrick's overly sensitive nose. However, that left her cheap scent to fill the void and he pushed the rum on the table in front of him away, wishing for some tea to help sober him more quickly.

He looked at the woman again. She sipped the drink abandoned by the farmer and surveyed the crowded bar for her next mark. She appeared to be in her thirties, like him in the twilight of her profession. He guessed she was probably pretty under the painted face and a bit plump, just the way he liked them. He hurriedly forced the tempting thoughts from his mind to stop the notion before it took hold; he never took whores in the town he used as a home base. As a member of the elite King's Guard, he needed to keep a low profile and such trollops liked to both pry and gossip.

Garrick felt a sudden twinge of sadness for the woman and a heartbeat later silently cursed himself for drinking too much, recognizing another symptom of his insobriety—a heightened sense of awareness and concern for the world around him. The awareness always included introspection, which he religiously avoided, it being decidedly unhealthy in his line of work. He’d collected too many nightmares over the years and they were better left undisturbed. Now, because of the rum, he would be awake all night with an endless stream of thoughts and emotions running through his mind, refusing to let him sleep.

He scowled, wondering why he couldn't get drunk like other men and merely fight or pass out, especially the former since he was certainly physically suited to a good drunken brawl. He might be short for a guardsman but he gave stockiness a new meaning. He was built like an ox, carrying over two hundred and fifty well-distributed pounds on his big-boned frame. His arms and legs were still as thick as tree trunks even though the warrior had somehow survived to reach his fiftieth birthday, evidenced by a thickening middle and the gray beard covering his chins. His wide face, free of many wrinkles, and a full head of gray-blond hair usually made him appear younger but the guardsman doubted it was true after so much rum.

Garrick's steel-gray eyes drifted back toward the whore and found her looking at him. A suggestive smile came to her lips and he gave the implied proposal some thought. He didn't fight when drunk but he often engaged such women as a diversion to the wakeful nights that resulted and he reconsidered his rule for a moment as he smiled back at her.

He had lived in the small house in Kaslow for over two years now in relative anonymity. The location of the cottage was perfect, tucked away from the street behind some stables. He essentially had no neighbors and no one had tried to get to know him. He hadn't even needed to use his cover story of being a sword maker, much less show anyone in town his bundle of samples. He was away or stayed inside during the day and he rarely ventured into this tavern, thus he had succeeded in remaining nameless while living in Kaslow for over two years.

He sighed. No, he couldn’t take the risk. Smiling apologetically, he gestured that he had no money, a lie but the quickest way to be rid of her. The whore shrugged indifferently, guzzled the rest of the drink, and skipped off to the other side of the smoke-filled room. Now left with only his thoughts, which was definitely not a good idea, the guardsman signaled the barkeep and ordered tea, eager to hasten the end of his drink-induced musing.

While sipping his tea, Garrick surveyed the boisterous crowd. The province was mostly farmland and on Saturday or festival nights the small village of Kaslow overflowed with farm lads looking for drink, women, and perhaps a brawl. On these busy nights he could come out without being scrutinized too closely. The tavern itself was simple enough. An unbroken line of shoulder-to-shoulder men screened his view of the rough, wooden bar that ran the length of the wall opposite the entrance. A well-banked fire in the simple stone fireplace on one adjacent wall kept pace against the chilly nights common to northern Isaencarl in early spring. Solid, hand-hewn tables and chairs filled the interior of the common room, sitting on a packed dirt floor. Garrick sat with his back against the wall opposite the fireplace at the farthest table from the exit, which offered the best view of both crowd and door.

He wondered why he took such precautions, although now practically instinctive after his decades of experience with the Guard, the King’s clandestine network of agents on the lookout for threats, foreign or internal. This unimportant farming province, located several leagues northwest of the great city of Carael and its royal palace, was strategically insignificant. Though a border province, its only border was the Barren Sea to the north and that posed little threat to Isaencarl. The foul sea and wastelands that surrounded it made it a quiet and peaceful neighbor. The critical provinces were those that ran Isaencarl's eastern border with Dolonar. Dolonar had always been a threat; he knew that better than most as a survivor of two wars against the Dolonarians. Guardsmen in those territories were vitally important.

Garrick accepted years ago that he’d been put out to pasture and that this was to be his final role—spying on simple farm folk. He had been among the upper echelon of guardsmen during the last war but had fallen out of favor in the dozen years since. He had steadily lost touch with the top ranks and had drawn assignments of decreasing importance since the current leader, referred to as The First by the rank and file, came to power. Kaslow was the end of the line.

He gulped the tepid tea and tried to conjure up an image of the guardsman leader Orneson, an unusually small man for a guardsman, Garrick remembered. His empty monthly reports went to Orneson in exchange for gold for his field expenses. The First never had a word for him, good or bad, just the coins. Never, in two years, had there been even one special request from his commander. He felt a sudden surge of anger at the puny administrator but then, as was often the case when he drank too much, his brooding turned inward. The bitterness, he knew, was just a front. In reality he had worked himself to this position and he knew from experience that life could be far worse. He didn't mind the peace and easy work—traveling the quiet countryside and visiting all the taverns on the king's gold. All he had to do was to listen and report and he realized that after many years of much more arduous duties, perhaps he could handle nothing more now, near the end. Actually, only a handful of guardsmen his age remained in the field and he supposed his longevity could be considered an honor. Older guardsmen typically held administrative posts or taught at the training academy, passing on their valuable knowledge. He had avoided both and deep down he knew why—he was old and tired and no longer wanted or felt up to new challenges.

Interrupting his rum-induced musings, Garrick gazed down and found his tea mug empty. Looking around, he found the common room nearly empty as well. Only a couple of small groups of younger men remained, no doubt trying to get the most out of their one night in town. A few revelers with less endurance had passed out, slumped over tables and leaning against walls, but otherwise the tavern was empty.

I was beginning to think you were dead, called the barman, giving the guardsman an inquisitive look.

A bit too much rum is all, Garrick replied coldly, ending the conversation that might have started.

Before the barkeep could reply, the woozy guardsman grabbed his cloak and stood, despite protests from his still-sleeping legs. He put some coins on the table and quickly shuffled out of the tavern, chiding himself again for drinking too much and risking his cover. Outside, he took deep breaths of the cold air to clear his head, exhaling plumes of white steam. To the east, the slightly lighter shade to the sky told him that dawn was not far off and he began walking quickly down the muddy road. He wanted to get off the streets before being seen by too many early risers. The shops along the road were dark and quiet but wouldn’t remain so much longer. He thought about a bit of breakfast and a good long nap, when he sobered up enough to sleep. About a quarter mile down the street from the tavern he took a right on a connecting street and abruptly found a wagon barring the way.

Oh, kind sir, thank goodness you came along, said a deep voice from the shadows.

Garrick did not acknowledge the speaker and started to walk around the wain, intent on getting off the street.

Please, sir, the man queried as he hurried around the other way and blocked Garrick's path.

Please, sir, the man began again. I am stuck fast and could use a bit of help. I see you are in a hurry. This will take but a minute? There was an odd quality to the man's voice—a sing-song cadence that felt soothing to the guardsman's ears.

His path barred, Garrick looked up at the man for the first time. The wagon master was a large man, much taller than Garrick and just as solidly built. He wore a broad-brimmed hat pulled down in front and the light from the lantern he carried cast strange shadows, making his face difficult to read.

What is it? snapped Garrick, an intentional edge of annoyance and urgency in his tone.

The wain, sir. She's stuck in the mud and I've got to get this load to Carael, the wagon master answered quickly, his voice plaintive yet odd somehow. If you could but work the team, sir, I'll push. It will be a while before anyone else will come along. Could you please help me out, sir? I can’t push and hold the reins both.

Let's have a look, Garrick replied crisply and took the lantern from the wagon master's hand, eager to be on his way.

The weary guardsman held the lantern aloft, seeing immediately that the rear corner on the far side of the wain sat well below the other three corners. He lowered the light and hurried around to the other side. He glanced to the east and noted with some consternation that the lamp would soon not be needed. The sided wagon was heaped with barrels, stacked pyramid-style and lashed down with two cross ropes. Small, telltale mounds of white powder here and there suggested the barrels contained flour but Garrick did not ask, not wishing to prolong the interruption.

He held the lantern out and peered at the lowered wheel, which had come to rest in a hole and was covered about a quarter the way up in the cold, stiffened mud. The muddy hole didn’t seem deep enough to stop the wagon so he crouched and held the lantern underneath. His eyes scanned the length of the axle and came to rest on the right bearing, where he quickly identified the problem. Some debris had wedged itself in the bearing and that, combined with the heavy load, made the small hole insurmountable, even for the massive pair of workhorses adding to the street debris at the moment. He straightened up and handed the lantern back to the wagon master.

She's caught up because of crud in the axle bearing. Clean that out and you should be set. Garrick turned to take his leave.

Please, sir. Thank you. Could you please wait until I check to make sure I have the proper tools? The wagoneer didn't give Garrick a chance to answer but turned quickly and ran to the back of the wain, ostensibly to check for tools.

The man continued to talk in spurts as he rummaged around the back of the wagon, Thank you. It must be my lucky day, you coming along. I would have never guessed ... Here you are ... No ... There's the one I want ... Sir, which of these do you think would do the proper job of it?

It took a moment for Garrick to realize the wagoneer was addressing him. He looked up and saw the sizable man holding up two heavy chisels, one smaller than the other. He shot the man a venomous look but stooped to inspect the axle again, figuring that getting angry would only prolong the interruption.

Garrick heard a scraping sound as he peered at the muddy axle in the dim light, then a thunderous crash as the wagon side gave way, the rent panel smashing against his shoulder. A heartbeat later the heavy barrels began to tumble down on him. The first struck him on the back and sent him crashing against the wheel, which probably saved his life. Had he been standing upright the full brunt of the load would have bowled him over. The rest of the barrels rained down, landing on him, the road, and one another. When the ten-stone containers stopped moving, he was pinned against the wheel under a hill of barrels. A cloud of flour surrounded the wain, leaving a coating atop the muddy street reminiscent of dirty, week-old snow.

He was dazed but still conscious. His legs hurt but he could move them slightly and he did not think he’d broken any bones. The wave of barrels had wedged him against the wagon wheel in a sitting position with his arms up, holding the nearest cask away from his face. As his head cleared, anger took the place of shock and he yelled for the wagoneer. The wagon master's first response was a curse, then Garrick heard him approaching.

Thank the gods you are alive, sir. I thought you were a goner. I'm coming. Do not move or you might upset the pile.

The trapped guardsman was having difficulty breathing with the full weight of a barrel sitting on his chest. Ignoring the wagoneer's warning, he twisted a little to the right and was able to slide it off. His arms ached as he lowered them but the breaths came much more easily. The wagoneer, still apologizing profusely, was working his way toward Garrick, tossing and pushing the heavy containers aside as though they weighed nothing at all.

Garrick frowned, suddenly uneasy for the first time since encountering the peculiar wagoneer. He couldn’t put his finger on anything specific but something was not right. Most of his life had been spent observing others and something felt amiss, not so much a conscious thought but rather a gnawing in his belly and tensing of his muscles. Responding to the anxious feeling, he swiveled his head around to look at the approaching figure. The wagon master stood just a few feet away, a barrel raised high above his head. The large man hurled the heavy cask and Garrick barely raised his arms in time to partially ward off the blow. The barrel hit the guardsman with a thud and knocked his upper body sideways to the ground, twisting him painfully. An instant later the wagoneer loomed above him, roaring with rage as he tried to stomp Garrick’s head into the ground. Though dazed, Garrick instinctively caught the foot and twisted the man into the pile, dislodging some of the barrels and partially freeing his pinned legs in the process. The assailant quickly recovered and the guardsman pulled a barrel above his head just in time to block another from crushing his skull. A heartbeat later Garrick took a vicious kick to the mouth, twisting to the side with the force of the blow. Pulling his dagger from inside his tunic, Garrick slashed wildly and caught the man just above the knee, leaving the knife lodged there. The wagoneer buckled, choking off a scream. Garrick pulled his legs clear of the pile but could not stand before the attacker pulled the blade from his leg and dove on top of the guardsman. Garrick grabbed the man's wrist and they each struggled to control the blade, locked in a deadly battle of strength and will.

In the gathering light, their faces mere inches apart, Garrick saw the wagoneer clearly for the first time and was astonished by the intensity of the man's rage. The stranger clearly hated him for some reason, though he would swear he had never seen the man before. The attacker tried to jerk the knife free but he held tight. The stranger possessed considerable strength but Garrick's might was renowned and he began to overpower the assassin. He did not want to kill the man; he wanted answers. He tried to talk to the stranger, his words coming out in gasps.

Why ... are you ... doing this?

The wagoneer gave no indication he even heard the question.

Who ... are you? Garrick tried again.

No answer except a moan as the man again tried without success to wrench the weapon free.

How have I wronged you? Garrick pleaded.

The wagoneer tried desperately to plunge the knife into Garrick's heaving chest but his massive strength proved too much. All at once, the man's face clouded, the rage seemingly draining from him like water from an overturned bucket. His mouth formed a few silent words the guardsman was unable to decipher and Garrick realized an instant too late what was about to happen. The wagoneer suddenly stopped pushing and drew the blade back toward his own chest. Before the guardsman could react, their combined strength drove the blade hilt-deep. The man’s body immediately went slack but his eyes remained focused. Garrick rolled away and clambered to his feet, gasping for breath. He pushed the man onto his back and saw from the position of the dagger that the wound was likely fatal.

Why? Garrick asked, leaning close to the dying stranger.

The man only stared in reply, then an instant later seemed oblivious to his presence. It was strange; the guardsman no longer felt the man's fury, so intense just seconds earlier before turning the blade on himself. Garrick shook the stranger to get his attention and asked his identity again but the dying man only stared vacantly up at the gray sky and less than a minute later, drew his last breath.

Forcing his gaze away from the dead man, Garrick tried to calm his pounding heart and gather his thoughts. Daybreak had arrived—a cold, gray day that threatened rain or maybe snow. The ground nearby was littered with full or broken barrels and flour. The white powder coated everything, including the two men. His gaze drifted back to the wagoneer and he studied the man's slack visage, the flour giving his skin a briefly premature pallor of death. During the attack the wagon master had seemed so incensed with him yet he did not know the man. He searched his memory but the face remained completely unfamiliar. It puzzled him, though, how the man’s anger seemed to melt away once he lay dying.

Garrick struggled to his feet, his stout legs stiff with pain. He walked awkwardly over to the wagon and gingerly bent down to inspect the side that had given way. Two holes had been cut into the edge of the board facing the back and he found two identical holes in the other end. Looking at the corner post, he saw matching holes then, on the ground, he saw the key to the mechanism. A small piece of wood had been fitted with two dowels. The dowels were spaced to match the holes on the corner post and siding board and he could see that the dowels were meant to be inserted in through both sets of holes to hold the wagon side panel in place. More importantly, pulling on the wooden handle would easily remove the dowels. He found a matching mechanism on the front corner post and pulled it out. He heard the same distinctive sliding sound that came an instant before the crash; the sound that may have warned him and saved his life.

His musing abruptly ended as his gaze wandered back to the prone figure. He was essentially a stranger in this town and at his feet lay a dead man with Garrick’s dagger in his chest. In less than a half-hour this street would be busy. He could be discovered at any moment and had to do something, quickly. He must clean up the mess and get the body out of sight; there would be time to think later. He hurried over to the body and removed his dagger, wiping it clean on the man's coat. With considerable effort, he heaved the heavy body over his shoulder and began to move down the street as quickly as he could. He staggered the fifty yards to the stable, then at least he was off the street. He leaned against the building a few moments to catch his breath before hurrying up the alley to his small cottage behind the stable. Once inside, he discarded the body and grabbed a shovel, broom, and some empty sacks. He was breathing heavily as he ran back down the alleyway to the street, long out of practice with such heavy labor. He peered around the corner of the stable at the wain. Fortunately, the street was still empty but he knew he did not have much time.

Working as fast as he could without being slipshod, Garrick attempted to erase all signs of the life and death struggle. First, he swept away the drops of blood and floury footprints that made it clear in which direction he had taken the body. Moving next to where the dead man had lain, he shoveled the blood-soaked dirt and flour into the sacks. He then swept away the other signs of a struggle and redistributed some barrels and flour to cover the swept areas. While he worked, he forced his focus to the task at hand and did not think about what had happened. All the while though, he continually glanced up and down the street, watching for activity. After what seemed like an agonizingly long time, he finished and left the scene by walking down the street in the opposite direction, crossing, then doubling back. Instead of going back down the alley to his cottage, he ducked inside the stable and closed the door, leaving it slightly ajar. Darkness and the rich smells of stabled animals engulfed him. He ducked into the first stall on the left, which was thankfully empty. From this vantage point he could see the wagon through the gap in the door. He took long slow breaths to slow his pounding heart and for the first time, felt reasonably safe from immediate danger.

He watched the wain and waited. The pair of workhorses stood passively in their harness, no doubt enjoying the unexpected break. The street was still quiet; the cleanup had taken barely a quarter hour. In the quiet darkness of the stable though, with nothing to occupy his mind, the shock of the attack returned. His hands began to shake violently and he reached out and grabbed the rail in front of him to steady them. He might be a warrior but it had been a long time since he had killed another man. He could not erase the man's face from his thoughts—the face contorted with hate for him. He shook his head, hoping to push away the disturbing image. Recalling his training, he diverted his mind to consider the facts and make a mental list of the details of the incident. He first considered the wagoneer. The man had been large, about a head taller than the thickset warrior, easily over six feet tall. Garrick remembered a pair of dark, intelligent eyes and a dark, curly head of hair framing the malevolent face.

His thoughts were interrupted as the light through the crack in the doorway dimmed momentarily, signaling the arrival of the first passer-by to the scene. A few moments later the back of a young man filled his field of vision. The young laborer, from the look of his clothes, moved slowly away from Garrick and towards the wagon. He suddenly stopped about midway between Garrick and the wagon and stared at the scene in obvious alarm. He edged slowly closer, then Garrick heard him call out tentatively. He called out a second time and after a pause, walked to the far side of the wain and looked inside. There the man stood for a few moments, alternately wiping his nose on his sleeve and looking up and down the street.

Garrick smiled, recognizing a look of moral indecision on the man's face. Apparently resolving the issue, the man hurried to the nearest barrel and quickly half-dragged, half-rolled it down the street. The guardsman breathed a sigh of relief, the first test of the cleanup a success. Had the commoner suspected violence it is unlikely he would have dared pilfer the flour.

He sat in the stable stall for another half-hour until he was completely satisfied that the true nature of the incident remained undetected. By that time a constable had arrived to settle a dispute between a pair of shopkeepers claiming ownership of the abandoned wagon and team. By then several of the undamaged barrels had been filched and the rest had been stacked out of the way of the increasing traffic.

Another reason for the guardsman to observe the aftermath was to look for an accomplice. He eyed each newcomer closely but saw no one suspicious enough to suggest that the wagoneer had not been working alone. He waited until a boy had finished cleaning up the broken barrels and spilt flour without rousing an alarm, then ducked out the back of the stable and into his cottage. The dead man lay exactly as Garrick had left him, on his back just inside the door. The rough floorboards underneath his upper body were stained black from the dark blood of the fatal wound. He removed the dead man's hat and studied the stranger’s face, the pallor of death no longer prematurely caused by flour. The man’s hair was curly and black and cut short, too short for a commoner he now noted. The assailant’s skin had been dark and the features—large nose, deep-set eyes, and high cheekbones—suggested a southern origin.

He went over to the shelf above the unlit, stone fireplace and took down quill, ink and a piece of parchment. He then proceeded to sketch a reasonable facsimile of the assassin's face. He set the drawing down to dry and went back to the corpse. One by one, he removed and searched each article of the man's clothing, which showed little wear. In the end, he had a pile of clothes, a small knife, a few gold coins, and a corpse with no distinguishing marks.

Next, he closed his eyes and replayed the scene in his head several times, attempting to glean any additional information available. When finished, he shook his head and sat heavily in the nearest chair. There were plenty of questions but precious few answers. He felt certain that the man was not a real wagoneer; the smooth, callous-free hands put that question to rest. The man also had apparently hated him but he could not come up with a reason. Of course, the killer might have reviled him for some personal reason unknown to him, such as a relative of an enemy. Another possibility was that the man somehow knew his true profession and had a reason to hate guardsmen in general. The more he thought about it though, the man's strange behavior before dying made him think a personal motive less likely. If the assassin's hatred had been contrived, then that meant the man must have been ordered to kill him and, moreover, others would follow once whoever sent the wagoneer learned of his failure.

Garrick lit a lamp to brighten the small, dark cottage. He went over to the lone cupboard that served as a pantry and took out a cloth-wrapped loaf of bread. He slumped back into the chair, staring at the dead figure on his floor and absently munching the hard, stale bread. After dark he could go to a nearby creek, high from the melting snow, and dispose of the body, but what after that? He did not know where to begin. In truth, he had no place to begin. Would he just have to wait for the next attempt and watch his backside? He grimaced at the thought but at least he would finally have something to put in his next report to Orneson.

After another check of the scene to insure that all was normal, he returned to the cottage and lay down on the small bed to get some rest. His right hand remained on his dagger as he rested; the assassin had known his movements and likely knew where he lodged as well. He was exhausted and sore from the attack and, although he didn't think he could, the worried guardsman fell asleep almost immediately. When he stirred, the shadows on the wall above him signaled the approach of dusk. He awoke with a start, half expecting the large form on his floor to have disappeared. He hadn't meant to sleep the entire day away and cursed himself. His head protested as he sat up, the amount of rum more to blame than the attempt on his life.

From the small bed, Garrick absently studied the man again, though he knew he had thoroughly gone over everything at least three times. He frowned when his eyes fell on the man's right forearm. His aching head and lame muscles instantly forgotten, he rose quickly and hurriedly lit a lamp before bending down for a closer look at the man's arm. On the outside of the forearm there was a slight discoloration. Either he had missed the faint mark or it had become more visible from changes inside the decaying body. Either way, its location troubled him. He crawled quickly to his cloak on the table a few feet away and pulled out a small vial.

For the first time since during the attack, he was truly scared. He poured a small amount of green powder from the vial into his shaking palm and approached the corpse, a feeling of dread spreading over him. He hesitantly reached for the stiffening arm and then suddenly, as though the dead limb might escape, lunged for the forearm and began vigorously rubbing the powder into the discoloration on the dead man’s stiffening flesh. He stopped rubbing after a few seconds but held his hand clamped over the area, his broad face shiny with sweat and his chest pounding. After a long pause he slowly moved the trembling hand away and gasped with shock as he gazed down at the familiar crown-and-sword tattoo on the man's forearm. The man had been a guardsman! A fellow guardsman had been sent to kill him! That made no sense and he felt the onset of panic. What could he have possibly done that would warrant sending one of his brethren to eliminate him?

This new twist was a far greater shock to Garrick than the fact that someone wanted him dead. His stomach twisted in knots, he slumped to the floor in despair, burying his broad face in his trembling hands. The Guard was his life and only family and more importantly, guardsmen did not kill on order! For this brother to have accepted such grievous duty, he must have been convinced beyond all doubt of the necessity, for the good of the king and Isaencarl, for Garrick to die. Garrick also knew that it would take both the guardsman leader, Orneson, and King Jamen to convince a guardsman to kill one of his own.

The commissioned execution of a guardsman had never occurred so far as Garrick knew but even that was more likely than the alternative—a rogue guardsman. The selection process and the training were designed to remove that possibility and the system’s record had remained perfect for centuries. Guardsmen were cherished and revered throughout the realm, more so by many than even the beloved king and royal family. Though rare, there had been a few occasions in its long history when the Guard had actually opposed a mad or cruel monarch. Through the ages, guardsmen had been protectors of the people and crown alike. The final reason a rogue guardsman made little sense was motive. He knew he’d never met this guardsman before so it seemed unlikely that the stranger could bear a personal reason to kill him.

Garrick forced his hands apart and stared numbly at the crown on the dead guardsman's forearm that symbolized his sworn oath to King Jamen. Could the monarch, a friend from childhood, have ordered his execution? It was true they had lost touch since that time but he could not imagine the benevolent ruler capable of such a heartless act.

Fourteen-year-old Prince Jamen had befriended Garrick during his years at the guardsman training academy. With the academy not too far from the royal palace in Carael, young men from the royal family traditionally would experience some aspects of guardsman training and Garrick, slightly older than the prince, had helped the future king learn to wield the ball and chain, his specialty then. The prince’s tall, lean build was all wrong for the weapon but he could not be dissuaded. Garrick recalled that he had slipped and laughed at one particularly ridiculous attempt, then covered his mouth in fright when he remembered he tutored no mere junior cadet. The young prince had searched Garrick's face and, after finding no malice intended, had broken into laughter as well. Jamen eventually gave up the ball and chain to become an expert swordsman but the prince and Garrick became friends and remained so until Garrick left the academy. Since then, their respective duties made it impossible for them to see each other except on rare occasions but Garrick still held warm feelings for his king; the man, it appeared, who now wanted him dead.

Garrick rose to his feet, knowing what he must do. He had to see the king, somehow, to clear up this horrible mistake. He would see his old friend and straighten out this disastrous predicament. If Jamen still wanted him dead then so be it; he would not resist. He still reeled from the shock of the day’s events but felt a measure of relief from having solved part of the mystery. Also, with men as formidable as fellow guardsmen hunting him, he needed to get moving, which would hopefully keep him too busy to consider his dismal prospects. Though the wagoneer had been alone, or there would have been more visitors by now, he guessed the man must be overdue to report to someone by now. Thus, it was imperative for him to flee the area as quickly as possible.

It did not take him long to get ready; that came with the profession. Even after more than thirty years in the field, he possessed only what items he could carry on his back and a single horse. Within a few minutes, all his worldly possessions—clothing, traveling food, weapons, and bedroll—were packed on his mount. He took a last lingering look around the cottage, his home for the past two years. He couldn't help but think it might be his last glimpse of the place. He then picked up the covered corpse, throwing the heavy burden over his shoulder with a grunt.

A short time later, as full darkness descended on the small farm town, Garrick rode out of the alley by the stable and out of the village, for the last time.

Chapter 2

From the cliff's edge, Garrick watched the moonlight dance on the lake's surface, well over a hundred feet below. Tall pines surrounded him and the ground was a soft carpet of rust-colored pine needles. He loved this place and felt immediately more at peace in the comforting surroundings. He had happened upon the tranquil spot not long after coming to Kaslow and he came here whenever he got the chance. Somewhere in the back of his mind was an idea that he would someday build a cabin here and spend his last years fishing and enjoying this view.

He stared across the lake to the peak on the far side, a black hulk against the night sky. On sunny days he would sit contentedly for hours and gaze at its sheer cliffs and listen to the wind in the fragrant pines high overhead. That same wind, frigid in late March, broke through his reverie and brought him back to reality with a shiver.

He had ridden hard to get here, too hard he knew. He had covered the twenty miles from Kaslow in little more than two hours. A heavily laden horse ridden fast in the night was a suspicious sight and he knew better. He had lost control and he knew as much but had not dwelt upon the mistake. With all that had happened to him, he needed the comfort of this special place and he hadn't tormented himself about breaking the rules that were usually second nature for him after so many years.

The guardsman sighed and regretfully pulled his gaze away from the dark lake. His mount stood passively where he had slid from the saddle the moment they arrived, however long ago that had been. Grimacing, he walked over to the horse and began untying the large bundle secured across its broad back. It was time to take care of his other business here. He heaved the stiffened corpse over his shoulder, picked up his lantern, and turned to the right, walking along the cliff's edge. After about a hundred yards the terrain began to fall away sharply but his feet, accustomed to the twisting path and roots, had no difficulty with the steep grade. After descending the hill he emerged from the forest to the rocky shoreline.

Out in the open, the cold wind buffeted him and his lantern showed the waves, whipped up by the gusts, crashing on the shore. He followed the shoreline for a while until he came to the place where a stream fed the pristine lake. He turned and followed the waterway for a short distance, up a short rise to a small moss-covered clearing next to a quiet pool.

He smiled in spite of the circumstances. He remembered camping near the pool and feasting every meal on the creek’s seemingly endless supply of large brook trout, which he rolled in corn meal and fried to a golden color in his skillet. He had eaten many tasty fish in his travels, but the best were the fried brook trout he had pulled from this stream.

He gently laid the body of his fellow guardsman on the soft moss, dry and withered this time of year. He put down the lantern, took a small ax from his belt, and dropped to his knees. He raised the ax over his head and began to dig. Over and over again he swung the tool, hacking away clumps of earth. After loosening the packed soil, he put the ax down and scooped the clumps to the side with his big hands. He continued hacking and shoveling for some time, eventually disappearing inside a sizable hole.

Garrick's thoughts were not on his immediate task and his mind wandered back to the problem at hand. With more time to think, his guilt over killing a brother had lessened during the ride. Why hadn't the young guardsman attempted to arrest him? The guardsmen he knew would not execute an alleged traitor without at least some form of inquest. Also, why was the attempted assassination made to look like an accident and why did they send only one man? He might be well past his prime but not so far so as to warrant a single executioner.

He scooped a final armload of mud from the bottom of the hole and clambered up and out. He went over to the body and loosened the cloth from around the man's head. He reached for the lamp and held it above the man's face for a final look. He needed one more look at something else as well. He drew his dagger and cut the man's right forearm free of the wrapping.

The guardsman felt suddenly tense again, almost frantic, desperately hoping what he saw there earlier had been some sort of a mirage or perhaps a sorcerer's trick, anything to relieve his guilt. He held his breath as he moved the lantern near the exposed forearm but the glimmer of hope was quickly extinguished as he saw the unmistakable tattoo. There had been no mistake. Sighing, he cursed his foolishness for thinking otherwise and rolled the body over to the grave. He dropped the feet in first and laid the head down slowly as far as his arms would reach, then let go. He shivered as the head fell with a splash into the pool of icy water forming in the bottom of the makeshift grave.

He rose and stood at the end of the grave with his head down as if praying. His hands alternately clenched into fists and relaxed. After a considerable pause he spoke while looking down into the grave. I do not know if you were an honorable man or not. If you truly were acting on orders from above, I am sorry. Had you identified yourself and tried to arrest me, I would not have resisted. He raised his head and looked around the small clearing, still a pleasant spot even before the spring growth that would soon add color and warmth. This is good land, a good place to rest. That is one reason I brought you here. If your cause is righteous, you are worthy of such a fine resting-place. I must admit, though, that I have selfish reasons for burying you here. I guess that perchance if you rest here, with no final verdict between us, maybe I'll get to see this place again, even if it's just to show them where your bones are buried before my head rolls. Well, either friend or foe, rest in peace.

He tentatively pushed some dirt from the pile into the grave, hearing the clumps splash in the puddle below. The sound chilled him and he hurried to finish, shoving large piles into the hole with his entire upper body. In minutes the hole was filled and with the leftover soil, he formed a mound above the grave. He rested a moment but his task was not finished. From the shores of the stream he collected several large stones to cover and mark the grave.

After the last stone was placed Garrick picked up the lantern and brought it with him back to the edge of the stream. Breathing heavily from the strenuous task, he stooped and dipped his hands into the cold water to rinse away the dirt caked on his fingers. He rubbed his hands together vigorously beneath the surface until he could not stand the cold any longer. As the water settled, he studied his reflection. A tired, old man stared back at him. In that face he saw self-doubt and fear along with the expected exhaustion. With a growl he punched his fists into the reflection and splashed the frigid water up into his face. Sputtering from the shock of the freezing liquid, he climbed angrily to his feet.

There. That's for all your sniveling you old craven, he muttered aloud. I may be an old drunk but I'll ride straight into Dolonarian hell without a weapon before I start thinking like a cowering bootlicker.

He snatched up the lantern and stomped back down towards the lake. Moments later he emerged on the shoreline, pulling his cloak tight against the icy wind. He was about halfway up the shore when the moonlight suddenly flickered. His head instinctively jerked up at the passing shadow but he saw nothing. He quickly ducked into some bushes, blew out the lantern, and drew his dagger. He forced his breathing to slow so that he could hear better but could discern nothing beyond the wind in the trees.

The shadow that had passed overhead was too large for a bird, he knew, even a large one. A low cloud, perhaps, but he suspected something less innocent. The wary guardsman stayed behind the bushes for several minutes, scanning the heavens and straining to hear something out of the ordinary, but he saw and heard nothing. The full moon dominated the cloudless sky and he could hear only the wind above the steady rhythm of the waves.

Blaming his overactive imagination, Garrick continued up the shore, though with considerably more caution this time. He continued to watch and listen, breathing a sigh of relief when he at last reached tree cover on the path leading back up to the cliff top. The remainder of his hike proved uneventful and minutes later he was busy unloading gear from the back of his horse.

After pulling the saddle and bridle, he led the dark brown stallion, Lance, a short distance to a clearing in the tall pines. At the center, beside a patch of last season's withered grass, sat a rocky pool of water. Lance knew what to do, having been there several times before. While the horse put its head down to drink, its master dipped a pot in the spring-fed pool and took a long pull. The icy liquid burned his throat but the taste made up for it. He thought again, for the countless time, that he would like to pass his last few years here someday after turning in his sword. Now though, he realized that his retirement might be very short-lived. Forcing away the disturbing thought, he refilled the pot and walked back to where all his worldly possessions were piled on the ground. Lance glanced after his retreating master, then dropped his head to graze on the brown winter grass beside the spring.

Standing alone in the dark, he debated building a fire for tea to warm his stomach. The deliberation ended quickly; he was dead tired and not too keen on drawing any attention to his camp, especially after the strange incident on the shore. He settled for the spring water and a cold supper of traveling fare—dried meat and stale, crumbly biscuits.

While enduring the tasteless meal, the weary guardsman took stock of his situation. It might take him only a couple of days to reach Carael but how would he possibly get to see King Jamen alone? The royal quarters within the palace were thick with sentries and also a few of his guardsman brothers formed the king's personal guard unit, charged with protecting the royal family day and night. Approaching Jamen would be nearly impossible so he would need to think of something else, such as sending the king a private message somehow.

Tired to the bone, he decided it would be best to take up the problem again after some rest. He forced down the last piece of stale biscuit and followed it with a few more swallows of the icy spring water. He then rose to his feet with a grunt and trudged back by the spring for one final check on Lance before bedding down. After checking on the horse, he fixed his bed by the light of the moon, his eyes now fully adjusted to the darkness. He raked the soft pine needles into a pile and spread his bedroll over them. He crawled inside and pulled a fur over as well; it was already nearly freezing and felt like snow. He slowly surveyed the perimeter one last time, then scanned the trees before closing his eyes, his hand grasping the handle of the short broadsword lying beside his head.

He slept fitfully. On several occasions he sat up quickly with his sword drawn, certain he had heard a howling noise above the wind. Once he fully awakened though, he heard only the rush of wind in the tall trees overhead. Finally, toward dawn, he did fall sound asleep and a bright sun had cleared the horizon by the time he rose. A wintry breeze greeted him as he climbed from the warm bed and he quickly pulled on his cloak. After rolling up his bedroll, he proceeded through the woods to the spring. Lance seemed genuinely glad to see him, which was rare, for although the highly trained animal quickly obeyed any command from its master, it habitually ignored him otherwise.

The guardsman stroked the horse's muzzle and murmured reassurances. Spooked were you Lance m’lad? You're not the only one thankful for the light of day. He stooped and ripped up a handful of dried grass to feed the horse. Eat up. We have another long ride today.

After a visit to the spring to drink his fill and wash the sleep from his face with a few icy splashes, he left Lance to his breakfast and went to see about his own. He went to his pack and pulled out a small bundle, handling the small, folded rag as though it contained a great treasure. He put it down and folded back the cloth, revealing a few small items—three tiny, curved pieces of metal, a block of polished wood with a well-worn groove around the center, and a loop of thin twine. He gazed at the ordinary-looking items as though they were riches and indeed, the special twine and hand-made fishhooks had cost enough to qualify as such.

He selected the smallest hook and tied it to the twine with a secure knot. He then went over to a particularly thick stand of small evergreens. On hands and knees, the stocky guardsman disappeared into the brush momentarily and returned with an armful of dry wood, kindling, and tinder from his private, hidden cache. Before long, he stood warming himself by a roaring campfire. Tempted by the penetrating heat of the blaze, he lingered there for a time, then scooped up his fishing gear and strode away in the direction of the lake.

On the shore the sun's rays could not overcome the chilly lake breeze, which further mussed his uncombed, thick mane. He paused for a moment to enjoy the view, though the waves on the lake were quite large for this early in the morning. In the summer calm, the lake surface would be as smooth as glass when he came down to bathe or fish this time of day. Today the dark blue water in the middle of the lake was a churning, frothing mass of waves. The lighter, gray-blue water closer to the shore was calmer though, and perhaps he could catch something for his breakfast.

Garrick's gaze rose to the peak on the opposite shore, close to a mile away. The water and ice-speckled cliffs facing him sparkled in the bright sunshine and made the huge gash in the earth appear fresh; as though some knife from the gods had just hacked the mountain in two and scraped away the half near him. The gentler side slopes were quilted with green patches of evergreens, gray patches of bare trees, and white patches of exposed snow. The vivid blue of the clear sky helped soften the textures of the mountain. He sighed with appreciation. This awesome sight had never disappointed him and today was no different.

Finding a familiar rock, he sat down and took out his hook and line. He pulled a sack of dried meat from his coat and selected a long, stringy piece, which he tied around the hook. He tied the other end around his left wrist and looped the twine into large coils. Holding the coils loosely with his left hand, he began to swing the meat-laden hook in gentle circles over his head with his right. He let out some line and the size of the arc grew. After a few more circles, he let go at the precise moment and the hook and line sailed out over the lake. The baited hook landed with a small splash and after waiting a few seconds, he began to slowly pull the line back in. He fished with methodical, well-rehearsed movements. From the distance, he appeared to be performing a slow, rhythmic dance, surprisingly graceful considering his bulk. He reached with alternating hands and with each slow pull, his hand made several jerky movements intended to make the hook dance along the bottom to attract the fish. Before each pull, he paused with the line between thumb and forefinger, anticipating the subtle tug of a nibble or the sharp snag of a strike. With each tug on the line he paused, waiting without excitement for further action. After just a few moments the pause would end, although the ensuing pulls would be slower and more tentative. When the hook finally emerged from the water the entire process began again.

The stoic guardsman's calm movements and look of concentration masked the inner torment he was experiencing. A feeling of dread had been growing inside him since waking. Something had gone terribly wrong and he felt a strong sense of foreboding that he would be sacrificed as a result. Thus, the lure to escape that fate and remain at his secret hideaway nearly overpowered him. It would take all his will to pack up and leave after the breakfast he had no business taking time for.

A strike suddenly and thankfully pulled his attention away from the inner battle. With quick reflexes for a man his age, he jerked the line taut and began to pull it in with steady movements that kept tension on the hooked fish, a good-sized catch from the fight it offered. About twenty feet out, he saw a light object flitting around beneath the wavy surface. After a few more pulls the shape took the form of a sizable perch and at the sight of the darting fish his grim face warmed a bit. Although perch was not his favorite, at least there would be fresh fish for breakfast. He pulled the squirming fish, about a foot and a half in length, from the water and pulled the precious hook from its gaping mouth.

After fighting off the urge to try for another, he made quick work of cleaning and halving the fish with his dagger and returned to his campsite among the tall trees. His fire had burned down to red coals and he used a stick to push half the embers to the center of a triangle of rocks. He filled his pot with fresh water and set it atop the rocks. The fish halves were speared to a stick resting on two taller rocks over the remaining coals. Ten minutes later he sat by the fire, savoring his breakfast of fresh fish and strong tea made from the clear spring water. He sat with his back to the lake breeze and cupped the mug between his large hands, enjoying the heat emanating from the liquid. He ate the fish quickly, taking large bites of the flaky meat from the skewer and spitting out tiny bones.

All too soon Garrick’s plate and mug were empty. He sat frozen, staring at the bottom of the empty cup. He knew he should be on his way but he did not seem to have the will to stand. He sensed only betrayal and death awaiting him and it was nearly too much to bear but after a few heartbeats the weathered face abruptly broke into a weak smile as he glimpsed the truth through the haze of fear. He had faced desperate situations in the past, including numerous battles, and knew the grip of panic well. Sometimes it was bad and sometimes not so bad. He hadn’t known terror this bad in many years but fortunately he wasn’t so old that he didn’t remember the remedy—just do something, anything actually. The what didn’t matter; activity itself seemed to be the key, he had learned. Get your hands busy with some task and after a while, the fog seemed to clear. It had always worked.

Remembering the invaluable lesson, he climbed to his feet with a sigh and began to pack up his gear. Minutes later Lance stood by, packed and waiting patiently for his master. Garrick paused to light his pipe, then kicked dirt over the remaining embers of the dying fire. Without looking back, he climbed into his saddle and rode down the path that led back to the road, and beyond.

Chapter 3

As Garrick left the lake, his pace slowed considerably compared to the frantic ride to the hideaway of the night before. No doubt a dead body would make most riders hasten but he knew it was more a case of shock than the proximity of a corpse that caused his rashness and the morning sun had returned his composure, at least temporarily. Also it being Sunday, the roads were filled with leisurely travelers so a galloping horse would stick out like a sore thumb. He did not resemble a typical Sunday traveler out for a day trip, but the intermittent groups he happened upon did offer him some cover. More important, the slower pace gave him time to accept the situation and think more clearly. He knew he was lucky not to have made a serious mistake the day before,

Reviews for The Lone Apprentice

[aegrett-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed this novel. It's fast-paced and unpredictable and has great, believable characters. I especially liked Kyreial. To me it's the best kind of fantasy novel - the world may be a fantasy but the characters seem very real.

[Letitia Sivowicz · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Nice read! Started fast and kept me into it throughout. I like that the plot didn't get overly complex with too many characters. I also enjoyed the combination of the fantasy world with realistic characters that behave like real people would, along with the down-to-earth writing style.

[FairestReader · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The protagonist is an apprentice in a secret military group put in a very difficult situation and it made him a very interesting and likeable character from the start. It builds suspense slowly but realistically and even though it does build suspense slowly, it did not at all make it a slow read.

[WildDavis · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Enjoyed this book. Something different.

[Dirk · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is one of the better fantasy novels I've read in a while. It's never slow or formulaic and has interesting and realistic characters. I especially liked Cidrl.

[Winnela_Holt · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The crux of this story is a young apprentice with special abilities in an elite warrior group taking on one of its most powerful members, gone rogue and out to take over the world. I give it A's all around - unique premise, plot, suspense, character development, and climax.

[BalindaKent · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The earlier reviewers have said it all - suspenseful, unpredictable, and a terrific cast of characters.

[Werner_Co · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed the book a lot. It's easy to read and hard to put down, both from the plot and building suspense but also for the characters and imagery of that fantasy world. I'll definitely read the sequel.

[Soladad_G · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

"The Lone Apprentice" is about an apprentice in an elite paramilitary force who has to be used to stop a powerful sorcerer. The plot started off with a bang and remained suspenseful and the book was easy to read. Toward the end I rationed it because I didn't want it to end.

[Regeena_F · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

It's like the other reviewers say. The plot, suspense and characters are all good. My only complaint is that there were often words I didn't understand and had to look up so that made it a slower read for me.

[Lolita_Rand · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Starts with action and keeps you interested throughout. It has it all: a suspenseful plot, fast pace, likable characters, and imagination.

[IreneCoco · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Any quest fantasy lover will appreciate this entertaining tale.

[KendallZZ · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A well-written, original fantasy. It has a suspenseful, fast-paced plot with likable characters in an imaginative fantasy setting. I look forward to the sequel.

[HenriettaArne · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

An excellent read! I don't read many books in this genre so I don't think you have to be a fantasy "regular" to enjoy this one. It's just a very good story...a suspenseful plot, intriguing characters, and a fast pace.

[ricknori · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Good plot premise and well executed. I like the "007" feel to the elite King's Guards. I also appreciated that I didn't have to invest several chapters before it got interesting, though it did drag a tad for me after the big start for a few chapters until the hero and villain connect.

[MaandyHast · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed the book a lot but it's hard to classify. It is definitely a quest-style fantasy and is true to that but there's a lot more going on. There's a coming of age angle with the protagonist and an interesting contrast in the two main female characters. I'd recommend it to anyone who likes fantasy that isn't too complex.in terms of the magical/mystical aspects. There are nonhuman beings and sorcery but those elements don't dominate the plot in a similar fashion to GOT.

[WaylandGo · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A good, tight plot with interesting characters that never gets boring. I also like the writing style - direct and the right amount of detail.

[JaesperMo · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

If you enjoy quest fantasies you will like this book. It grabs you from the start and keeps you interested from start to finish. Great writing, a unique premise, and interesting characters. It was hard to put down and I look forward to the sequel.

[LeeenaBeauty · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Loved it!! Starts with a bang and keeps you interested throughout. I like the combination of the fantasy world with lifelike characters that behave like real people would. I also like that the plot didn't go all over the place with a zillion characters. That made it more suspenseful. I like that it has a strong female character in Teya. Hopefully she's in the sequel.

[crystophar · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

If you like classic quest fantasies this is a must read. It has it all... a compelling plot, fast pace, suspense, believable characters, and a wonderful journey through a magical world. And I love that this has real ending, unlike many series fantasy novels.

[Aegrett · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed this novel. It's fast-paced and unpredictable and has great, believable characters. I especially liked Garrick. There is great imagery and imagination but the characters seem very real.