The Apprentices

By Oliver Franklin

Tom Come-Along is the humble son of an innkeeper, whose father died in a tragic accident a few years earlier. One day an old man by the name of Andalarian visits the inn and makes the absurd claim that he is from an ancient Order of Wizards who rule the world. Not only this, but he offers Tom an Apprenticeship. After a combative discussion with the old man, in which he catches his first glimpse of magical power, Tom begins to see the light – and also the world of opportunities that this change of career might afford him. He promptly gives up innkeeping and, leaving his poor, widowed mother, sets off on a journey with the old man. However Andalarian is intent upon gathering seven Apprentices in all, Tom being merely the first of them. Tom is duly invested a short time later and he accepts his charge. The first problem is that there are plenty of Dark persons who like the world just the way it is and do not want it ‘set to right’. The second problem is that most of the surviving dragons are on their side, not Tom’s. And the third problem, which is arguably the most serious, is that the whole world is cursed, no one seems to knows the location of the curse, and the curse itself is reputed to be unbreakable! For these reasons and others, it doesn’t take long before it dawns upon the young man that this calling might take up a good deal more of his life than simply a few days...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oliver Franklin
• Release date: Jan 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005654634

Oliver Franklin

You will read some of it in the books...

Book preview

Book One

The Call

or The Dark-Haired Prince

In which the first of the seven are chosen – Diverse history and adventures – Leading to the conflict with Gwearogg and the search for the members of the Order – Wherein the latter of the seven are found – And the years of training begin.

Chapter 1

The Rabbits

‘The road from Tingewick to Finmere is a very busy highway. Upwards of twice in the hour one is sure to see a horse and cart go by, a traveller or a drover with his geese on the way to market in the nearby town of Wroxton.’ At least, that was the prevailing wisdom. In recent times, however, there had been a marked decline in the volume of traffic passing that way, and those villagers demanding a bypass be built had given up petitioning the mayor several years previously, owing to this decrease in hustle and bustle. Nonetheless the road was still known amongst locals as the ‘Main Road’, the ‘Busy Road’, and the place to meet just about anybody.

This particular morning, in early spring, a particularly interesting somebody was striding gently along the old dirt road, enjoying the scene and surveying the meadows on the southern side of the highway where the land lie was unusually flat. A stream trickled passed the wayside at this place and the walker knew, unlike so many others, that this humble watercourse was actually the river Wick. And that happened to be how the village he had just left behind him had come to be named.

Of all the fellows to have come by in the last two weeks or, at a push, the last three, this chap was by far the most interesting: a sight to behold. Seven dwarves had ridden east on pygmy horses during the last month but no one had witnessed them, being as it was the dead of night at the time. Thus it is fair not to count them. He wore long, greying robes, a strangely pointed hat and a pack over his shoulder. In his right hand he carried a rough staff of wood which was knurled and split in places. Or rather – he carried a staff and this was how it appeared to the unwitting public. And about his waist a leather belt supported not only his breeches but also a long narrow blade – a two-handed sword, of noble heritage.

But the man was too old to be a warrior, and nobody fought wars these days anyhow. They were far too costly in time, money and men’s lives. The only true monarchy in the land, the Royal House of Davrian, had long since expired and government in these parts was exercised by local Elders, Dukes and Mayors. Yet the glistening, long white hair and beard, apparently unkempt for a century, and the lined and furrowed face, though supremely kind, showed evidence of other kinds of battles; battles not seen by layman’s eyes.

As the individual made his way steadily up the mild hill that heralded the village of Finmere, now only half a mile off, the old man slowed, noticing an unusual sight in the grass verge. After a moment’s pause, he moved quickly over to the bank and crouched down beside what appeared to be three damp balls of fur.

Immediately, the sorrow of the scene became obvious to him. He placed his hand into the grass and turned over three, lifeless rabbits: a brown, a grey and one so light it was virtually yellow. A tear appeared in his penetrating eye. He examined each one, finding no signs of damage. They had not, after all, been run over by a speeding wagon, shot by a poacher or ravaged by a hawk. But how did they die and how all at one time? He wondered to himself, fearing that he already knew the answer. Yet the answer, if he did know it, was so desperately bad news for the world, he wished himself to be wrong.

‘Ah… Buttercup,’ the old man sighed. ‘Yes, you were the mother were you not?’

He laid aside the lop-eared brown and picked up the smaller, part Lionhead grey.

‘Camomile,’ he whispered, staring into the sleeping face. ‘You were the father of course. I know you: excellent teeth you had, not at all overgrown.’

Laying the pair together and kneeling in the fresh turf, he gathered the yellow-brown to him, mourning over its youth. It had only been seven months old when it met its fate.

‘Dear Sweet Pea,’ he groaned. ‘Did the Curse take you as well? How could it, you being so young and tender? Has that Darkness grown so strong, it can take a mere kitten like yourself at a thousand leagues distant?’

For a great while, the old man considered the family of rabbits lying in sleepy stillness at his feet. Then, gazing briefly over the hedge into a fallow field beyond, he scooped up the deceased in his arms and marched straight at the hedgerow. Remarkably, it seemed to part around him as he approached it, leaving barely a rub against his robes.

On the far side of the field stood a proud, old beech tree, which had testimony in its skin of at least two centuries: a fitting memorial for such young life.

‘We shall give you a proper interment, even if there are none to mourn you,’ the old man informed his armful of rabbits.

With the tears still fresh upon him, he approached the broad-spread boughs and lay the three creatures under the shadow of the great tree. Then looking upwards into the heavens he muttered some strange words under his breath and smote his stave upon the ground. Immediately a trench opened up, a yard long and half a yard in breadth and as deep again. The earth also piled itself in little heaps around the edge. Thereupon the man placed the rabbits together in the bottom, mother, father and offspring in between, and stood up once more.

‘Farewell,’ he said, not facing downwards but speaking to the green headland on the horizon.

At the same time he struck the ground with his rod again and, suddenly, the earth that was piled up around the trench poured back into to it, burying the creatures. The turf resealed itself over the grave and there remained nothing to show for the whole peculiar affair, save for another grievous memory in the mind of a very ancient being. Maybe the beech tree too, understood what had happened, but it certainly wasn’t saying anything.

Five minutes later the old man was, once more, striding westward along the road towards Finmere. Though now his step had, if anything, a rather more purposeful tread about it. Convinced, more than ever before, this old fellow was on a mission. And he knew for a fact, that his first port of call was the inn, at the very next village. A fine establishment called the Wagon Wheel, it was owned and managed by a certain Mrs Ann Come-Along.

The sun rose higher as the man turned into the village and he saw his destination almost at once. The dusty lane was bordered on each side by modest houses; almost all were thatched, though some of the larger had slate roofs. One or two cottages were laid in stone, but timber-frame dwellings featured more often than not along the street with wattle and daub infill.

Set slightly apart from its nearest neighbours, with a small courtyard to the side and stabling for twelve horses and a paddock to the rear, the inn stood out clearly from the other buildings in Finmere. Being three times the length of its fellows and three floors high, it stood under a heavy thatched roof, which was moss-blackened with age. Four stout, brickwork chimneys poked out through the thatch and smoke was drifting lightly from one of the middle pair.

A wrought iron sign outside the front door announced the name of the place, but that was hardly necessary. For, in addition to the friendly basket hanging below a bracket upon the wall and the inviting shuttered windows, the most striking object to greet any passers-by was the huge wagon wheel fastened to the front of the building with two great, iron nails.

Standing at almost the height of a man, this wheel had to have come from a carriage that had been gargantuan indeed and also splendid. Yet now the white paint had all but faded in the weathering sun and beating rain, and some damp rot had caught hold in the spokes nearest to the ground. Nonetheless the glory still was visible as the old man studied the wheel.

A smooth, copper ring bound the wooden rim together, and a sleeve also of copper covered the hub and bearing. Fine gold tracing had at one time decorated the midst of the four cardinal spokes, but the cunning work had become chipped and damaged over time. However, one of the remaining patches of golden work suggested the form of a lion, possibly wearing a crown.

‘A chariot fit for a king, you could serve,’ the old man observed wryly. Then, looking up at the inn and reminding himself it was a three-storey dwelling, although it was little more prominent than its two-floored fellows, he took note that there would be a short supply of headroom inside, particularly in the upper rooms.

After a further pause for thought, and to glance up and down the street that appeared largely deserted, the old man knocked on the green front door and stepped directly inside, not waiting for an answer.

The young man behind the counter let out a gasp of surprise, and well nigh dropped the goblet he was cleaning, as the white-haired, robed figure slipped into the room. Indeed, he had appeared so suddenly, it was as if there had been no knock at all.

‘Good morning, Master Tom,’ the old man said, beaming from the dark porch, silhouetted by the sharp rays of sunlight.

‘W-Who are you?’ the young man demanded, recovering himself enough to make a challenge. He put down the goblet and moved somewhat uneasily on his feet, eyes flicking quickly around the recesses of the large room. There was nobody else there, as it were too early for the luncheon customers.

The old man smiled and moved into the hall, taking care to wipe his shoes on the mat. He took off his pointed hat and stooped as he stepped down into the ale room and approached the young steward of the inn. This part of the building had a sunken floor but the old man was very tall, and could not stand upright even then. His enquirer stood irresolutely behind the polished wooden counter, looking rather small beside a number of tapped casks.

The stranger strode smartly over to the counter and smiled upon the handsome young face now glaring up at him. There were copper lanterns hanging from the ceiling beams and brass oil lamps set out upon the tables for to provide illumination in the evenings. And then could a merry time be had, when the men from the farm came in for refreshment and song.

‘Who are you, Sir?’ the young man repeated.

‘I am a friend,’ the stranger replied, shaking his robes tidy and holding out his hand.

The young man did not take it. Instead, fingering the money box below the counter, he insisted, ‘I have never met you in my life, Sir.’

The old man withdrew his proffered hand, still smiling, and leant forwards a little.

‘That is not strictly correct, Master Tom,’ he said, warmly. ‘The second time I clapped eyes upon thee, here at the inn, you were one year old and your noble mother was feeding thee in yonder parlour.’ He indicated one of the rooms to the rear of the room. ‘Your dear father was still alive then, of course.’

‘But—,’ Tom began, but the stranger cut him off.

‘Then only last year I came by here on other business and stayed for an hour or two, but the room was much fuller then, with people eating, drinking and making merry. It is no surprise therefore that you did not notice me. Finally then, I make a visit this fine April morning and what do I find, but a veritable young man standing here before me?’

‘What be thy business here in Cherwell Vale?’ Tom demanded, unnerved by meeting someone he knew nothing of who seemed, in contrast, to know a good deal about him.

‘You have not asked me my name, nor offered me a drink. Is this how your good mother desires her customers to be serviced?’

The young man baulked. ‘My mother desires me to guard her house and mind her business, Sir,’ he insisted. ‘And as she be away in the city for the day, I have to be looking out for – ’ He hesistated.

‘For what?’

‘For unsavoury types, Sir.’

‘Excellent! Now, let us repair to a table and hold talk over a nice drink. Do you have this newfangled beverage called – what is it now? Ah, yes, dandelion and burdock?’

Considerably disarmed by the cheeriness of this elderly stranger, the young man gestured him to the nearest oak table and bench and delved under the counter for a small brown bottle. A moment later, he brought it with a glass and placed them before his guest. The old man had rested his staff against the table next to him and it seemed to find its balance point remarkably easily.

Feeling a little more reassured, Tom slipped onto the bench opposite, looking intently at his new customer and, informing him, ‘That’ll be tuppence, Sir.’

The old man poured out his beverage and took a leather money bag from inside his robes. The next second a bright shilling rolled out onto the table, glinting in the sunlight. Tom’s eyes widened.

‘You may keep the difference, my young friend,’ he said, pleasantly.

Tom watched curiously as the stranger drunk the whole bottle, while a heavy brass chronometer ticked away above the dressed stone fireplace. A hearty pile of logs was laid in the grate but, the weather being warmer now, they would scarcely be kindled before next autumn, unless a really wet day came along.

‘If I may, Sir, your name?’ the young man prompted.

His older counterpart replaced the glass on the table and gave a satisfied grunt.

‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘The truth of the matter is, Tom, that people call me by so many names – ‘Wayfarer’, ‘Vagabond’, ‘Silly old fool’. I suppose you could take your pick!’

‘They are not names,’ Tom protested. ‘That is just name call—’

He broke off suddenly, his eye having alighted upon the gilt seams of the man’s leather girdle, and the protruding hilt of a large silver weapon.

He faltered and said, ‘Y-Your your real name? And perhaps you might tell me your trade, seeing that you bear a sword in my mother’s good house!’

The stranger showed no surprise. Instead he unbuckled the scabbard, swung the blade out from under his robe and placed it firmly upon the table top. Then he said, ‘There is a sign outside the door informing one that all swords, cudgels, daggers, bows and other weapons should be handed over to the innkeeper for safe keeping while their owner resides at this establishment. There you go. Take it into your strong room for safe keeping, then, if you wish to.’

Tom, however, was staring transfixed at the sword. He had never seen another one like it. It was magnificent, over a yard long, having a massive, two-handed grip and curious woven gold lettering upon the black leather of the scabbard, which he could not discern. The blade had a mystical air about it. It somehow made his neck tingle and he could not explain it.

‘I-I think I shall just l-leave it there,’ Tom decided, glancing nervously from the sword to its owner and back again.

‘Excellent,’ the old man responded. ‘Now, my name.’ He gazed briefly up to the ceiling and made a furtive smile, then said, ‘The name given me by the Higher Ones is—’

‘The what?’

‘The gods – you might refer to them so – they named me—’

‘Sir, I am not so sure there are many—’

‘Do not interrupt me, Master Tom!’ the old man chided. He looked abruptly rather stern. Tom deferred immediately, feeling ashamed.

‘They named me, Andalarian.’

‘Whoa!’ Tom cried. ‘That is a name and no mistake, Sir.’

‘You have never heard of such a name, Tom?’

‘Not so much as dreamed of it, Sir, and I can dream mighty things as well!’

‘Fair enough,’ the man continued. ‘Now I ought to tell you some of the history of the world. It will help you understand why I came here. Most people know that when the Higher Ones created the world they could not hope to leave people to their own devices to take care of it. That would have been a recipe for disaster. So, to help maintain order and justice, they installed a number of Wizards in the realm of men, the intention being for these gifted souls to use their powers to help govern society and keep evil at bay.’

‘I did not know that, Sir.’

‘That is because you are young, Master Tom. How old are you, in fact?’

‘I have seen thirteen summers, Sir, this would be my fourteenth.’

The old man beamed at him again. This, apparently, was good news.

‘I am glad to find that you are skilled in numbers, Tom, it will greatly help your future education.’

‘My future?’ he repeated, vaguely. ‘My future is to be here, working in the trade of my late father and my mother. And as for my education, I have learned to read and write. I can also do numbers and tallying. We use a good deal of tallying,’ he went on enthusiastically. ‘We need it for the accounting, when we order food, stock, provender and tack. I can do numbers up to a thousand, but after that I get a little bit lost.’

‘A thousand is more than adequate, young Master Tom.’

‘My mother has taught me all manner of things, Sir.’

‘Your dear mother, Tom, is the best I have found for a hundred leagues.’

‘Sir, what was it you were telling me about – about Wizards?’

‘Back to my exposition then,’ the old man concurred. ‘Now, there are many kinds of Wizards conversant among the natural born folk. Different ranks, different vocations and different Orders. However the—’

‘But, Sir, I have never seen one!’ Tom interrupted again.

‘Oh, they are easily found, if one knows where to look,’ the old man replied, issuing a warning frown. Tom promptly fell silent once more. It was plain his interruptions, though borne of enthusiasm, were not especially welcome.

‘However due to some horrible Darkness arising in this age, everything seems to have fallen apart. Now, the ultimate—’

‘Darkness?’

‘Quiet!’

After a pause to drive home the point, the old man continued, ‘Now, then, my own order, the Order of Seven, have the final authority for ensuring the general well-being of the earth. During the last thousand years or so, however, our fellowship has decayed and, indeed, I have not even heard from some of my fellows for a century. I fear something nasty is afoot and I am determined to find out what. Tell me, have you noticed anything odd happening around here lately, Master Tom?’

Startled by this talk of Wizards, thousands of years and nasty things, Tom merely answered, ‘No, Sir, nothing at all.’

‘Really?’ the old man questioned. ‘Perhaps I should prompt your memory somewhat. The name of the highway beyond this village; what is it?’

‘The Busy Road, Sir,’ Tom obliged.

‘Exactly, but how busy is it in truth, Tom?’

‘Not very,’ he conceded. ‘But, in days gone by, folk say it were fair crowded, especially on Saturdays.’

‘Today is Saturday, Tom, but I see no crowd,’ he continued, a sombre note in his voice.

‘People seem to have… gone away, Sir.’

‘And how is your mother’s business, Tom?’

‘Trade is down on last summer, and the summer before that, and the summer before that – ’ He stopped speaking, looking around forlornly at the dozen or so empty tables in the room.

‘There are three farms within sight of Finmere village, Tom; is that right?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ he replied, gazing ruefully at the oaken table top.

‘And have you heard tell of how the harvest went last autumn, and the year before?’

Tom cast his mind back to a time when, on a less empty day, he had encountered his cousins from the nearby Hillsden Farm. Their talk had been somewhat plaintive. He confessed the same to the old man but he seemed to know the answer already.

‘Tom,’ he said, gravely, ‘in the unseen realm, in the very fabric of life, chaos is spreading, Darkness is growing. Wizard friends have not spoken to me for years on end. And in the natural realm people are disappearing, harvests are poor, trade is falling off and even the wildlife is losing its vitality. Why, this very day I came upon three dead rabbits lying beside the highway and one of them was only a babe.’

Tom sprang up from the table, pushing his bench aside. He had gone white.

‘What is wrong, Master Tom?’

‘I keep rabbits, Sir, in the paddock behind the stables. Mother says we should sell the skin for the fur, but I would rather keep them as friends.’

‘Pets, yes, I quite understand, Tom, but your mother has a good business sense, amongst her many other virtues. And do not worry yourself; I knew the three rabbits that perished by name and they were none of yours.’

Tom had been on the verge of tearing out of the back door and sprinting over to the paddock, to count his beloved pets and make sure that they were, nonetheless, all still alive. However one simple phrase the old man had used had prevented him, fixing him instead to where he stood: he knew them by name?

‘Sir, I perceive that thou art a very unusual fellow,’ he ventured, sitting back down again.

‘Not unique, though,’ he answered. ‘Remember what I told you: there are seven in my Order and I am supposed to be the leader. Not much chance of that these days but – we shall see in due course.’

‘Who else is there?’ Tom asked, not really grasping the content of the story, but intrigued by this stupendous sounding information. It certainly beat the newest village gossip about what the wheelwright was doing with the farrier’s daughter. Though it was not as if he really understood that lewd sort of story anyway.

‘I am Andalarian. There is also Castrian, and Aurian, and Ezrian, Urian, Merian and then Zerstorian.’

Tom’s young ears were ringing with excitement. ‘Those names; they sound magical,’ he marvelled.

‘Aha! Now we are getting somewhere,’ Andalarian remarked, his face lighting up like a lamp. ‘Now, Tom, tell me about your late father, what—’

‘He had an accident on the farm belonging to our cousins. It happened when I was just ten, Sir. He drowned in a slurry—’

‘No, no,’ Andalarian interjected gently. ‘I already know that. Tell me, Master Tom, what did your late father wish for you to do as a career?’

‘He did not say that I should take any particular trade, Sir, but my mother and I believe he would have wanted me to provide for her and continue in the family business, innkeeping, Sir.’

‘And so being now of age, that is – thirteen, you have begun your formal apprenticeship. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Tom replied, feeling proud to be a working man at last.

‘So you are serving your apprenticeship in innkeeping?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘I see…’

The old fellow paused for a time and enjoyed some more of his drink, which, Tom had thought he saw him finish earlier, and, gazing thoughtfully around the unassuming furniture of the room, he said at length, ‘Tom, if your father had insisted upon you becoming an innkeeper, or, should your mother now forbid you to follow any other choice of career, then you know as well as I do, you would have to obey them. Agreed?’

‘Of course, Sir, I cannot disobey my parents.’

Looking up at the panelled ceiling overhead, Andalarian smiled again, saying, ‘Not only a handsome face, but handsomer heart who could find? What is this that you have sent me?’

‘Are you talking to the people upstairs, Sir?’ Tom enquired. ‘I should doubt if they can hear you. We have only two rooms let anyway, and they are on the top floor where the rooms are smaller and my mother charges less.’

‘My dear Tom, what would you say to taking on a new apprenticeship: an apprenticeship with me? Fair comment, I never got around to broaching the subject matter with your late, lamented father, but we were acquainted, and I am sure that—’

‘Change – ?’ Tom gasped. ‘Change my apprenticeship? Would my father have wanted me to, Sir?’

‘Having been armed with all the necessary facts, a mere taste of which I have given you, and considering that he was both a caring and adventurous soul, I would hazard a guess at, ‘Yes’. After all, what man of Cherwell Vale but your own father would have attempted to rescue an injured duck from that foul slurry pit?’

‘It was a cat that chased the duck, Sir, I saw it!’ Tom explained.

‘My dear boy that is hardly the point! Your father was so overwhelmed with compassion, that he set about a foolhardy venture to accomplish an almost impossible aim. Funnily enough, though, that is exactly what I am asking you to do, too.’

‘Sir, what are you meaning?’

‘Of course, the greatest irony of all is that, while your dear father perished, the duck clean escaped and lived happily ever after. Not the same in your poor mother’s case mind you… nor yours.’

‘Forgive me, Sir, but I really do not understand what you are asking of me,’ Tom pleaded.

‘Granted. So here it is: Tom, how would you like to come and be my Apprentice?’

‘Apprentice in what, Sir? I know not what thy trade is.’

‘An Apprentice in Magic!’

There may have been some force behind the speaking of this word, or it could have been that Tom got overexcited, but the effect was so powerful that Tom tipped backwards off his bench – as if punched in the chest. He sprawled to the floor, his head spinning, and wondered what it was that had just happened to him. The next instant Andalarian was hauling him to his feet again while muttering strange words in his ear. The dizziness that had arisen within him and the pain from the contact with the flagstones suddenly began to diminish as the old man spoke.

Then, when he had restored Tom to his seat and settled down again opposite him, he made a quite unexpected apology. ‘Forgive me, Master Tom, but I could not contain myself. In my enthusiasm some of the power and glory slipped out and I’m afraid you got a burst of it. I am sorry. Is the pain receding?’

‘Y-Yes, Sir,’ he replied gingerly. Then he added, ‘Why were you enthusiastic? I have not agreed to anything.’ He dropped the use of the word ‘Sir’ in protest, as he rubbed the various hinder parts of his body that were bruised.

The experience of being blasted out of one’s seat by an overenthusiastic old Wizard who, it must be said, had previously given the most outlandish and doom-laden explanation for why his mother’s business was in a rut, was not conducive to one’s continued politeness. In fact Tom very much wanted to invite the old man to leave but, the prospect of hearing about magic held such a fascination for him, he could not bring himself to do it, at least, not just at that moment.

‘Watch this,’ the old man instructed, pointing to the shilling lying on the table between them.

Tom watched the coin obediently as the old fellow reached out and took up his staff. Then, waving it above the coin, he muttered another incomprehensible word and, all of a sudden, the shilling turned into solid gold. Tom gasped out loud and clapped his hand over his mouth. The Wizard smiled and handed him the shining coin.

‘Give it to your mother when she returns home. That should pay for a whole month’s worth of provision at the least,’ he said.

Tom had became wary, however, for numerous quacks, soothsayers and tricksters had come through Finmere village in his experience, usually at around the time of the annual Charter Fair. Was this fellow simply another one of them?

‘How can I trust you?’ he demanded. ‘And, anyway, I cannot just dally off and do magic tricks and leave my poor mother to take care of this whole business on her own.’

‘That is very noble of you, Tom, but there are things a man may be called upon to do that are even more important than caring for his own widowed mother.’

‘No!’ Tom shouted angrily, no pretence at politeness being made by him at all. ‘There is nothing more important. Sir, I think you ought to leave now!’ He glanced angrily towards the front door and back again.

‘I want you to become my Apprentice, subject to your mother’s permission,’ Andalarian repeated.

‘No,’ Tom reiterated, emphatically, rising from his seat and glaring at the old Wizard. ‘I am sorry, Sir, but even if my mother should agree, you cannot make me leave my father’s trade!’

Andalarian made an impatient grunt upon hearing this upstart challenge.

‘Well, Tom, in actual fact I could make you –’ Tom swallowed hard, ‘– but, needless to say, I am not that kind of a Wizard.’

Valiant as ever his father was, Tom then snatched up the long, silver sword from where it lay upon the table and, with lightning reactions, drew it out of the scabbard. He wobbled slightly under the weight of it as he aimed the blade decisively in the old man’s direction. He intended no harm, but merely a warning.

Nonetheless the old man seemed quite unperturbed when Tom next spoke.

‘Forgive me, Sir, but I am charged with the keeping of my mother’s house, and I aim to do it if you know what I mean, Sir!’

‘I understand perfectly well what you mean, Master Tom,’ he replied in a cheery voice. ‘And, if I might say so, you are doing an admirable job. Now, about the sword, I am planning to give it to you sooner or later, so it is good that you are getting used to it… Yet it is a bit too big for you at this precise moment in time.’

Tom froze where he stood, gazing down at the impenetrable and shiny blade, glinting in the sunlight from the many windows of the taproom. The Wizard was giving this to him – actually giving it to him? This made no sense at all.

He faltered once again and, staggering back into his seat, said awkwardly, ‘I am sorry, Sir, but maybe you should explain things to me a little more. For I am somewhat confused.’

‘Certainly,’ Andalarian replied, retrieving his sword from Tom’s jittery grasp and replacing it on the table. ‘However there are two special things about this old sword that I must tell you. I shall explain them more fully at a later date but, suffice to say, it will never wear out or go blunt and it will never bear evil. Have you got that?’

‘I am trying, Sir,’ said Tom, who felt he was swimming vainly against the tide in the face of all this revelation.

The Wizard patted him on the arm and said, ‘You’re a good lad, Tom, I have been keeping a watch over you for some time now.’

The commendation however was lost on him, as the young man glanced around anxiously, having neglected his duties for the best part of an hour by this time. The old clock over the fireplace chimed ten o’clock, and the voices of small children could be heard as they ran past the door of the inn playing games outside in the street.

After some more discussion, Tom commented again, being in a more hopeful state of mind by this time.

‘This is a strange and wonderful offer, Sir, but were my mother to agree to it, how could I simply pack up my life and leave all? Do you have a home yourself, or do you travel? Is that how you come by those names of Wayfarer and Vagabond?’

‘I have no place around here to call my own, Tom. notwithstanding there are many places where I am welcome. Your father’s house was, of course, one of them. Though your mother had always a fair measure of scepticism about the affairs of Wizards and dragons. She was never one for ‘all that careless magic and adventure’.’

‘I should like to meet a dragon, Sir!’ Tom cried, eyes popping out of his head.

‘You might think differently when you see one face-to-face boy,’ Andalarian replied. ‘They really are quite the foulest creatures on earth, usually driven by evil intent, and almost invariably they join the Dark side. We might have to kill a few of them along the way in order to accomplish our mission, and that will not be easy. That being said, there are not very many of them left these days; they have an unfortunate habit of fighting and killing each other you see – stupid beasts!’

Tom was thunderstruck. He could scarcely believe what his ears were telling him. Perhaps this was merely another magic trick the old man was playing on him, to brighten up his day, and to delay the time when he would have to muck out the stables? He could not say he looked forward to the job although he had done it many times before and was quite a dab hand.

‘As I attempted to explain before, Master Tom, our Order is certainly dying out. Some of my fellows might already be deceased for all I know – or worse!’

‘What is worse than dying, Sir?’ Tom asked, amazed.

‘If things go ill with us, Tom, then you shall find out,’ he remarked gravely. ‘Now, I am seeking seven young Apprentices for the purposes of reconstituting the Order with new blood, hearts that are pure, and minds that have not grown corrupt; although the power to invest Wizards is not mine, but given from above. I intend to train up seven Apprentices in the hope that the powers that be will look favourably upon this world and halt the decline. You, if your mother and you should agree, shall be my number one, my right hand man. Ultimately, of course, you would one day need to take over the reigns from – ’

He paused, evidently deciding that it was best not to enunciate the last word of his sentence.

Tom, though, had the strangest feeling that the word ought to have been ‘me’, but said nothing, for fear of being overcome by either pride or derision. Wiping off the sweat from his brow that had accumulated through all the excitement, he shook himself firmly and said, ‘Sir, I think I ought to speak to Mother when she returns home tonight. I cannot presume what she will answer.’

‘Oh, I quite agree,’ the old man remarked. ‘Where is she by the way?’

‘She is gone to Brackthorpe for the day; the town lies fifteen miles west along the high—’

‘I know where Brackthorpe is, Tom. Is she at the market?’

‘Yes, Sir, she has gone to exchange some funny coins we were paid by an outlander who stayed here at the weekend, also we need some more spices for the kitchen and a goose for tomorrow’s luncheon. She is riding Ted but it still takes a whole day for the round trip, and she will probably waste many hours of the day taking tea with her sister, Aunt Gracia. She lives close to the market square.’

‘Who is Ted?’ the old man enquired with interest.

‘Our new pony, Sir. Stoutly built he is, too.’

‘Very good, Master Tom, very good. Just one word: if your mother should choose to spend a few hours of her laborious week enjoying the company of her sister, I should not call the time ‘wasted’, Tom, I should call it ‘well-earned’. Now, then, I ought to be making way for your dear customers pretty soon and letting you get back to work. What time did Ann say she would be home?’

‘Midnight, Sir, or perhaps a little earlier, by the fifth hour of the night.’

‘Are you always out of bed at eleven or twelve in the evening, Tom?’

‘Oh no, Sir, but tonight I will be, to see my mother safely home.’

‘Excellent,’ said the Wizard again, rising from the table and strapping his sword to his girdle. Then he smiled warmly and picked up his staff. Tom, too, got up from the bench upon which, he had been growing rather sore, having been transfixed in one position for so long by the old man’s tale.

Andalarian bowed towards his young steward and they removed themselves to the hall. The Wizard then replaced his pointed hat and turned to face his unwitting counterpart.

‘Now, then, Master Tom, you have a good chat with your mother – not tonight she will be too exhausted. Do it tomorrow morning. I shall return about luncheon and, if you please, I should like to sample your talents for roast goose. After which, I shall hear what dear Ann has to say about my proposal for your change of apprenticeship.’

‘Very good, Sir,’ he replied, unable to hide the majority of his anticipation so that it spilled out into a wide-eyed smile as they parted.

‘One last thing, Tom: there are enemies lurking about this neighbourhood,’ the old man warned him, pausing in the doorway as he took up his cloak. ‘And I have told you too much not to risk you harm this day. Therefore I shall have to put a little charm upon you to help seal your lips for a day or two… Agreed?’

Tom swallowed again and stared up into the infinitely deep and penetrating eyes. There seemed to be a whole world of wisdom behind them, and also great charity. He quivered slightly as the Wizard raised his staff and passed it across his face three times, but did not attempt to resist.

An unexpected spark of sunlight glinted off something embossed upon the top of the stave and, in the moment that it made him blink, Tom’s mind became relaxed. All he was aware of was this genteel, old fellow who seemed to be departing his inn, so he returned a bland smile and helped him out into the bright, mid-morning sunshine.

Three small children were playing skittles against the courtyard wall as the elderly man marched into the lane with a doff of his hat. As soon as they saw Tom emerging from the inn they feared a reprimand, and immediately ceased their game. Tom, however, merely waved at them and they happily continued with their pastime.

Chapter 2

Sunday Luncheon

Thick aromatic smoke hung upon the air in the taproom as one of the three customers was indulging in the pipe leaf. His brown travelling cloak was specked with dirt and dust after a long, hard ride along the highway. The Wagon Wheel served as a useful way station for posts and messengers journeying east and west across the shire, and this gallant chap had only turned in to rest his horse for an hour, upon which, he had smelt Master Tom’s goose roast as the savour spilled out of the open, kitchen window.

It was the second hour of the afternoon and his fellow diners were also rounding off their meals, sharing the same broad table in the middle of the room. They two had boarded overnight, but also found themselves seduced by the smell from the oven and the price of half a shilling.

As the afternoon sun cut a swathe through the cloudy air the young man came through the door from the kitchen and began clearing away the empty plates and goblets. One or two pleasant comments were offered him by the three men sitting around the table, but they were more interested in themselves than Tom.

As he turned back across the room with his arms full of platters and cutlery he looked to the woman behind the counter, she was cleaning the top where she had served the men drinks.

‘There is plenty of the bird left over, Mother, and you have not eaten. When these gentlemen have done, shall I bring you some?’

Mrs Ann Come-Along had profited well from her visit to Brackthorpe market, the biggest fayre in the whole of the valley, but, given the tale told her by her son rather too early that morning, she could not be said to be enjoying the day. Truly she had all the virtues of a very pretty woman indeed, and long brown hair together with kindness of face. However she showed signs of grey before her time and anyone could see that the worry of recent years had lined her features. And no one in the village did not know that tragic tale of how she came to be a widow in the first place at only thirty.

Mrs Come-Along made a noticeable scowl at her son. ‘Sadder the day your goose is not all finished up, and we had to go without,’ she remarked, throwing aside her cloth and examining him as he paused on the way to the scullery.

‘We might have more guests for luncheon tomorrow, Mother,’ Tom suggested hopefully, although he did not honestly believe it. Today was Sunday, after all, the busiest time of the week for the inn.

His mother’s ill feeling melted away as she considered his earnest face, and she smiled at him and said, ‘When these gentlemen have done, you and I shall eat together in the parlour.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ he replied and then started off for the kitchen once more, but he halted after only two more steps and, nervously clutching his stack of dirty plates, glanced anxiously back towards her. She noticed him straight away.

‘What is it, my son?’

‘Suppose… Suppose that old gentlemen does return here today. What will you tell—’

‘I shall tell he where the door is,’ his mother said, sternly. ‘Now, run along and wash those gubbins and then make ready for you and me in the parlour!’

Tom bowed lightly and, saying nothing further, hurried off to do his mother’s bidding.

After a short space he had finished cleaning up in the scullery. So he moved briskly down the passage behind a small communal area adjacent to the taproom on the other side of the hall and began laying up a table in the parlour.

The room was entirely private, having its own door and also an outward facing window that gave a view of the stables and paddock behind the inn. Tom could see his rabbit hutch poking out from around the edge of the rough, stabling wall. He also saw the post mount his gleaming, chestnut horse in the yard and speed away on his errand. The tar-stained joists holding up the room above were uneven, in their own characteristic fashion, but also a little higher set than those of the taproom as the floors were set at different levels.

However this allowed even a tall, old man to stand and talk at once without having to stoop. He had done so on one occasion before, in fact, when a young woman had travailed in labour, and thereafter her new-born infant had cried its first breath.

Tom did not know this of course, but, acting upon a rather presumptuous idea, he gathered his nerve and then, discreetly, he laid out three places around the polished, beech-wood table. He grinned to himself as, for the next thing, he set out three silver goblets, the best in the house. To add the finishing touch he went over to the mantelpiece and carefully picked up a spirit lamp with a cut, crystal base and set it in the midst of the spread. This fine instrument burnt with a flame cleaner than that of oil or tallow.

Whilst standing back to admire his creation, he heard a sharp yell from the direction of the taproom, followed by some raucous chatter. Startled more than he was frightened, Tom turned on his heel and rushed out of the parlour to investigate. His mother’s voice, raised in annoyance, came ringing along the passageway. Somebody was getting short shrift.

‘…dare you go filling my boy’s head with stuff and nonsense?’

‘My dear Ann, Tom could not have told you that much for I put a charm upon his lips.’

‘He told enough to make my mind up!’ Mrs Come-Along retorted, facing the old man who had recently appeared in her hallway. Meanwhile the two house guests were finding the irate exchanges very amusing and watched with great interest from their table, from about which the smoke had largely cleared. As Tom stumbled into the room the argument stopped in mid-flight.

‘Ann, I do not— Tom! How are you, my dear lad? Good to see you. Your mother and I were just talking about—’

‘—About how this gentlemen will not be filling your young head with any more of his Old Wives’ Tales,’ she stormed, emerging from behind the counter and coming swiftly into the middle of the room to stand by Tom’s side.

‘Wizard lore is not just Old Wives’ Tales, my dear Ann, a good many husbands believe them too.’

The old fellow smiled broadly as he removed his hat and cloak and hung them up in the hallway, not at all concerned that Mrs Come-Along did hardly appear to want him in the house. Quite the contrary in fact, as she was glowering at him.

Keeping a protective arm around her only son, she demanded, ‘And who, if you please, invited you to hang up yon clutter? We shall be closing now until the third hour so best be off with you!’

Mrs Come-Along then shot a look of warning at her two paying guests who, acting with one accord, sprang up from their table and made excuses to depart. Tom had seen his mother’s temper prevail in times past even over the most stubborn and formidable opponents, including sundry drunken farmhands and a would-be highwaymen. More than one sorry fool had been sent scampering from the Wagon Wheel after hours having had their ears soundly boxed!

Tom prised himself from his mother’s wing and said, ‘The gentlemen has done us no harm, Mother, perhaps we should hear more fully what he has to tell us? It may be that he has some skill or trade to tell of that would greatly benefit thee?’

Hearing mention of trade and benefit, Mrs Come-Along softened just a touch and said, rudely, ‘Be ye coming in, then? Do it properly, man and join us in the parlour! Tom?’ But her son had already left the taproom and run straight for the kitchen, and so the white-haired, old man followed Mrs Come-Along serenely through to the private room on his own.

Tom heard a mild obscenity from that direction when his mother espied the three places set around the table but, thankfully, it was followed quickly by a snort of laughter.

‘Pre-empted, my dear Ann,’ the old man’s voice came drifting through to the kitchen, where three generous silver platters were being laden with goose, cider and apple sauce, root vegetables and potatoes. These last were a recent import from a foreign land that were rapidly gaining favour in the taste of many.

Nonetheless, five minutes later, a taut silence surrounded Tom, his mother and the old man as they made haste with the heart-warming meal, pausing only to drink water and mead. Not so much as one word of conversation ensued until, finally, Mrs Come-Along swallowed a tender mouthful of sweet herb and asked, ‘Ye never said so, but I think might I recognise thee from some time back?’

Her guest gave a pleasant nod of the head. ‘Yes, indeed,’ he replied. ‘I stopped by here about this time last year upon another business.’

Tom was watching the old man, carefully, and also his staff resting against the mantelpiece. In his sight it was possessed of a strange quality, which somehow held his attention. Meanwhile, the flame burned orange in the lamp on the table and provided a focal point for the meal; though there was still ample daylight flooding into the room through the window.

‘You were searching for a lost book; that is it! I recall one or two customers were making comment about it – Anderson! Anderson was your name, Sir, was it not?’

Mrs Come-Along was beaming triumphantly. Her memory had come to be renowned in the neighbourhood, especially for brawlers and non-payers.

‘Indeed it was,’ the old man obliged, continuing with his roast.

Tom, who had opened his mouth abruptly, intent upon correcting her mistake, caught a glimpse of the old man’s eye and suddenly felt he ought not to speak. Perhaps, he considered after returning to his meal, his mother really would lose her temper if she heard that name?

‘This apprenticeship,’ Mrs Come-Along continued. ‘What be thy trade, Sir? And what trade is there better than the noble service of innkeeping?’

‘I would like Tom to study under me the lore of Government, Insight and Magic,’ the old man explained, giving a startled-looking Tom an inconspicuous wink. His mother dropped her knife and fork at once and made a loud gasp.

‘You’re a sorcerer!’ she bellowed, looking quite as though she might lunge across the table to lay hold of him. However the old man merely smiled again, pleasantly.

‘Well, my dear, if you prefer to use that word – but I am not that kind of a sorcerer. Dear me, no! If otherwise, why would I be offering you the hand of friendship?’

‘You shall have no truck with any son of mine,’ she shouted. ‘I have heard tell of the affairs of wizards and dragons, spells and curses, to all death and adventure. Time was when it were common amongst folk, but not any more and not this day! My boy shall be an innkeeper, not some invoker of devils!’

‘I do not invoke devils,’ the old man explained, reaching over and grasping his staff, possibly because a little charming might soon become necessary, or, perhaps, because a stave of wood might be a useful defence against the enraged Mrs Come-Along.

‘Mother?’ Tom pleaded, turning to her.

‘No!’ she insisted. ‘Son, I shall be dead, gone and resurrected before I see you follow this crazy old fellow on some wild adventure into magic, spells and danger!’

Thereafter there followed ten minutes or so of quiet standoff while the three of them continued with their food. And after a considerable amount of time for reflection, Andalarian looked up and, after another long pause to find a convenient place in which to slip his next suggestion, he addressed Mrs Come-Along directly, saying, ‘Would you allow me to begin at the beginning, my dear Ann? You may not be aware that Jack and I were on speaking terms, both before and after young Tom, here, was born, and—’

‘Father?’ Tom gulped.

‘You…?’ Mrs Come-Along faltered. ‘You and Jack were a-acquainted?’ Her demeanour now changed considerably. A mixture of sorrow and confusion had replaced her anger and she seemed considerably disarmed as she sank back into her chair.

The Wizard rested his staff against the edge of the table top, and Tom noticed the orange flame of the lamp reflecting in the polished gold motif near the top of the stave. It appeared to be an engraving of a fantastical, lion-like creature. Tom had only seen drawings of these beasts in books and was by no means certain that they really existed.

‘Jack may not have told you, dear Ann, that he and I had talked. Nonetheless I suspected from the start that, should your baby turn out to be a boy, there might be an unusual role for him to play in this world. In fact I was here, in this very room, on the happy night in question. Though, naturally, at the time you had quite enough on your mind so as not to notice silly old me. And, subsequently, Jack would have been—’

‘I was born in here?’ Tom interjected, looking around the room, fascinated by these hitherto unknown details and wanting to be sure of what he had just heard and the meaning of it. ‘What was your business here, Sir? Does it concern my birth?’

His mother, however, overruled him. Though she did not rebuke him for interrupting the old man, as she might have done on numerous other occasions. ‘An’ I never knew it either,’ she remarked, ‘but, whate’er dealings ye had with poor Jack Come-Along, plainly I was not supposed to hear tell of it. So best you keep it with you and leave poor Tom to take up the burden from where his father left it.’

‘How did you come to believe I should be unusual, Sir, if you do not mind my asking?’

‘I mind!’ his mother muttered.

‘Insight!’ the Wizard answered with a glittering smile. Once again Tom felt awash with an invisible force, the same that had hit him the day before, but it did not send him sprawling to the ground this time.

‘You had best be careful how you be eyeing my boy.’ His mother bristled, caring little for the old man’s interest. ‘I should say it is high time you were leaving, Sir.’

Now that the meal had finished, Tom realised that, if there were to be any chance at all of exploring this possible change of career, he had to act quickly. He turned to the old man.

‘Sir,’ he entreated, ‘my mother is of good heart and open mind. Why not try her now? Why not tell her all that you told me; although, I admit, a good deal of it seems fair clouded in my memory?’

‘Tell me what?’ Mrs Come-Along demanded, taking heed at once. Tom looked expectantly up at the Wizard who, it appeared, had been losing hope of his new Apprentice.

Andalarian then determined that, as Tom had proposed, it was worth the risk to relay the full and unadulterated truth to Mrs Come-Along. Thus he began his account, making it fuller and franker than the evening before. During the following hour, going way beyond the time when the inn should have reopened, he outlined the same grand and doom-laden story to her that he had told Tom.

When he stopped to sip mead, the time well past the third hour of the afternoon and his account done, Mrs Come-Along ventured, ‘So – you are wanting to take my boy along with you – because he has magical talent – and train him up to help put the world to right?’

The appreciation of this quite terrifying concept left her almost frozen in her chair, unable to move let alone shout at anyone. Tom, too, felt stunned, but for rather different reasons: with him it was not trepidation but rather enthralment.

‘Succinctly put, my dear Ann,’ the old man concurred. ‘Goodness knows the Order needs to be revitalised if not altogether replaced. Have not even you natural folk noticed it: every good thing is going to the pot? All around chaos, pain and death are growing whilst more innocent creatures like Master Tom’s rabbits, for example, are going the way of all flesh.’

Mrs Come-Along recovered herself. ‘This makes no sense; I say thou art mad,’ she argued. ‘Decay and death are common to man. We need know no more than that.’

‘And since when has that been, do you know?’ the old man questioned. ‘Have you never stopped to consider that all around us there are things that are not quite right? Why does anything have to die?’

The Wizard appeared to be speaking of things that were way beyond Tom, although he found all this talk tremendously exciting. It were as though Andalarian seemed to be able to give voice to all the questions he himself wanted to have answered, yet could never find any words with which to express them. And, all of a sudden, he came up with an extraordinarily inspired thought.

‘Mother,’ he declared, boldly, ‘I fear there is much more to this life than we presently see and, if you will permit me to, I should like to learn more of it.’

‘Magic is a Dark art, Son, not for the pure of heart like you.’

‘Mother, magic is just a word for that we do not understand. I should be a fool if I should condemn something without learning the truth of it. Does the law judge any man, before it hear him and know what he doeth?’

Andalarian said nothing at this time; though, for all his glee, he might have been conducting the conversation. Whoever would have known? For all the while his eyes glistened brightly.

‘Even were I minded to let you leave, how then should I manage the inn on my own? Who would tend thy rabbits in the paddock? And what would become of me, not losing my husband only but also my son?’

Tears appeared in his mother’s eyes as Tom put his arm around her and the Wizard plucked a handkerchief from out of nowhere and offered it to her.

‘Your true heart is revealed, my dear lady,’ he said. ‘You are not adamant that your son follow the innkeeping trade, but merely grieve for his safety and your own bereft house. Not a bad trait indeed; nay it is admirable!’

‘Sir, I perceive now that were I to follow you, even with my mother’s blessing, it would surely break her heart. Do you yet ask me still? I admit that I should like to study Wizard lore but, seeing it may come at great cost, I judge better that I stay here instead and serve in my father’s trade.’

‘Unselfishness!’ Andalarian exclaimed. ‘Excellent! Perfect, in fact; continue on this path, young Tom, and we shall make a Wizard of you yet.’

‘But, Sir, my mother – ’ he pleaded, looking mournfully at her as she hunched in her chair beside him, making good use of the old man’s handkerchief.

‘Son, she has not forbidden you in her heart. And that is all I need. Rest assured she will be helped. Now,’ he said, smiling sternly at his unwitting young charge, ‘will you follow me?’

Tom shuddered. He knew he had a fair choice, he was in his right mind and that the Wizard would not force him. And, notwithstanding his concern for his mother’s house, the promised adventure was greatly appealing. He gazed up into the very ancient face of the old man while continuing to comfort his mother and wondered.

‘Sir,’ he said at length. ‘If I come; am I free to leave?