The Guardian’S Way

By Hal Portner

Like his father and all his fathers before him, Garth, the Lord High Wizard of Massina, Protector of the Realm and Defender of the Citadel, has sworn to defend the people and lands in his care. Like his father and all his fathers before him, Garths wizardry works well and true. Other than the occasional harassment by barbarian raiders, his citizens live a peaceful and safe existence under his care, but that peace is about to be tested.

When word quickly spreads of a horrific monster that threatens every village in the realm, Garth takes action. He enlists and trains a troop of elite warriors, Guardians aided by spirit allies, to hunt down and destroy the monster. Evolyn, devoted daughter to the wizards blacksmith, is one of the warriors chosen for this new battle. What begins as a straightforward mission thrusts the noble Evolyn and her Guardian cohorts into encounters with a magical sword, fratricide, covert alliances, prejudice, jealousy, betrayal, love, and confrontation with their own internal monsters.

Is this monster more that it seems? Is the magic of Garths fathers worthy enough to protect his people from this new menace?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Feb 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781480814288

Hal Portner

Hal Portner is an educator and former member of a state department of education. He is the author of ten nonfiction books; The Guardian’s Way is his first novel. He has four daughters and two grandchildren and lives in western Massachusetts with his lovely and talented wife, Mary.

Book preview

Prologue

T he Lord High Wizard is dead … long live the Lord High Wizard!

The Citizens’ rhythmic chant echoed from the Citadel’s turreted walls and careened among its marble-columned buildings as though it was searching for an object on which to cling. Indeed it was on such a mission; to reach the ears and coax into view the old ruler’s successor.

The shouts of the crowd in the courtyard grew louder. Upraised eyes focused on the balcony jutting just beneath the battlements topping the Wizard’s Aerie. Ignoring the press of bodies around them, two men stood glaring at each other, faces red with anger. Stop shoving, you slimy snake, shouted the shorter of the two. His booted foot kicked out striking the other’s shin. You will pay dearly for that, you insignificant runt, hissed the other, and swung his ham-like fist. The target of the blow ducked, stumbled, and upended the full-bodied Citizen behind him. Hey, the burly man shouted. He picked himself up and landed a balled-up fist atop the stumbler’s head. The commotion swirled outward—spinning like the arms of a voracious whirlpool—until curses and cries enveloped half the courtyard.

High above in the Aerie, Garth paced the sanctuary’s slate floor. It was in this sacred space that Garth’s father, Zard, had paced while deciding how and where to wield his power. Now it will be my feet etching the blue stone—my decisions that will determine what will best serve the Citizens of the Citadel and bring glory and power to Massina.

Bright morning sunlight streamed through the Aerie’s tall, narrow windows painting vertical stripes on the walls. Garth raised a long-fingered hand and slowly drew it, palm forward, across the tapestry of alternating light and stone. The vertical columns danced as they followed the wizard’s weaving fingers. He drew his palms together and interlocked his fingers. The columns shimmered and twined in and among each other forming a pulsing braid. Garth smiled, reversed his hand’s direction, and the braid unraveled into its original pattern. Like my father and all his fathers before him, my wizardry works well and true. Like my father and all his fathers before him, I can use it as I will … and I will use it well. The people of Massina will love me. They will walk proudly through the Citadel’s gates and along its terraced courtyard. They will smile and dance as they tend their flocks and harvest their crops.

The screech cut sharply up from the cacophony below.

Watch where you’re going, you stupid lout!

Watch your step, pig. If you were not so fat, there would be room for the rest of us.

Garth slammed a fist forcefully on the sturdy table top. The sunlit bands on the wall scattered.

My people debase themselves and each other with such behavior. They waste their energy by feeding it to their base emotions. They must bury such feelings. I will use my powers to make it so.

He resumed pacing, this time with a determined stride.

Z’benzard would have wasted his powers on inconsequential matters. Just because my brother was older than me, he was not wiser.

Garth and Z’benzard. Memories of the two of them together in the far forest flashed through his mind. Z’benzard’s unsheathed blade leaned against a boulder. The sword’s golden hilt gleamed in the midday sun; its pointed tip nosed between short blades of grass as if hoping to unearth a suitable foe to while away the time until sheathed at the hip of the heir to the old wizard’s sovereignty. Garth kicked at his brother’s blue tunic neatly laid out alongside the boulder. Z’benzard had carefully placed it there along with the rest of his clothes before diving into the cool water. He watched Z’benzard, waist-deep in the rivulet, splash its sparkling coolness over his face and shoulders. Then he reached …

It is time, My Lord.

The valet’s words pulled Garth from his reverie. Yes, yes, Rennet. I am ready.

The servant placed an oaken footstool alongside Garth. In spite of his short bowed legs, he nimbly hopped up. Rennet raised his arms, and with a flourish, positioned the long crimson cape of office across the broad shoulders of his new Lord. Garth drew together and secured the collar. His fingers lingered for a moment, and caressed the clasp’s silver entwined dragons. The Drage, the sigil of the Lord High Wizard; it is now mine!

Rennet produced a soft-bristled brush from his pantaloons and flicked a speck or two from the back of the cloak. A slight tug straightened an unruly fold. You are ready, My Lord. He stepped from the footstool and moved it aside.

Garth, Lord High Wizard, Protector of the Realm, opened the casement and stepped through the floor-to-ceiling arch onto the balcony. Below, angry shouts mixed with whorls of kicked up clay, thickening the heavy spring air with clouds of anger and dust. The wizard watched and waited, until, from the middle of the melee, came one voice, then another.

Look, up there on the balcony.

It’s him.

It’s young Garth. May the Great Spirit bless him.

Long live the new Lord High Wizard!

Fingers pointed, faces raised, and the maelstrom of snarling curses and straining bodies metamorphosed into waves of cheering cadences and craning necks.

Arms outstretched, Garth acknowledging the accolades rising from below. They smile—united in their enthusiasm. They express their joy. They forget their anger, their base feelings … for the time being. This is how it should be all the time. This is how it will be all the time. This is how they will honor my name … for all time.

Garth spread out his arms. The atmosphere shimmered, danced, and following the wizard’s weaving fingers, twined in and among the Citizens.

From this day forward, I banish to the far reaches of the realm the base feelings all Citizens of Massina hold against their fellow Citizens. They shall bury their readiness to express anger against their fellow Citizens. They shall suppress any and all urges to act with violence against their fellow Citizens.

The Lord High Wizard, Protector of the Realm, faced his palms outward and swept them across the multitude below. You and your children, born and yet to be born, will speak highly of me above all other men and venerate me as you do the Spirits. You and your children, born and yet to be born, will praise my benevolence. You will look to me to shield and protect you from those not blessed to be Citizens of my Realm. In return, I gift you, Citizens of Massina, wherever you be throughout my realm, with tranquility and serenity, with feelings only of good will toward your fellow Citizens.

Below, in the courtyard, the short fat man and his taller, thinner neighbor, turned toward each other, linked arms, and made their way together through the quietly milling crowd.

One

E volyn shooed the last chicken into the coop just as the spring downpour began. She held the basket of eggs close to her breast and ran across the grass to the shelter of the smithy roof’s overhanging eaves. The sudden cloudburst had soaked through Evolyn’s homespun tunic but did little to dampen her spirits. After all, warm oatmeal and savory sausage still nestled comfortably in her stomach, and the image of her father sitting across from her at the breakfast table still glowed in her memory.

The raindrops complained when they hit the smithy’s roof. They continued their protests as they gathered and streamed over the edge. Evolyn shook off the raindrops and their objections, softened her ears, and focused on the silence between the sounds. The silence strengthened and nudged playfully against the splatter of the raindrops. She settled into the rhythmic pulsing between silence and sound. It began in her feet and rose up through her stomach.

Clang!

As if it had physically seized her by the ears, the sharp ring of metal on metal wrenched Evolyn out of herself and drew her through the open doorway and into the embrace of the smithy. Her father set down his hammer and swiped a sinewy forearm along his forehead, adding yet another layer of charcoal to the deep furrows in his sweat-covered brow. There is a towel over there. He flicked his head toward a wall. You are soaked. Dry yourself off and give me a hand here.

Evolyn set down the basket of eggs and pulled two towels from their pegs. She smiled, handed one to her father, and rubbed the other briskly through her red hair. He wiped his face, returned her smile, and set down the towel on a bench next to where Evolyn had placed hers. Hand me the hammer. Evolyn watched with pride and admiration as the muscles tightened along her father’s forearm. The blacksmith struck the glowing metal a ringing blow, sending showers of sparks bouncing harmlessly off of his leather apron.

The sound of approaching hooves interrupted the next blow. Together, father and daughter went to the doorway and watched the rider rein in his horse. He sat his mount well—back straight, hands relaxed, firm control. This was no local farmer or woodsman.

Are you Joris, the village blacksmith? asked the horseman.

Yes, I am the blacksmith, Joris.

The stranger looked up into the brightening sky. The rain had stopped. He dismounted and, with a flourish, flung aside the closely woven gray cape that covered his bright-blue tunic. He reached into a saddlebag and withdrew a neatly tied parchment scroll and a large leather pouch. Evolyn’s eyes took in his lithe physique and the slight swagger in his gait as he strode smartly past them at their invitation into the smithy. Joris acknowledged the beardless young man’s curt bow with an unhurried nod of his grizzle-topped head.

The stranger handed the scroll and pouch to Evolyn’s father. To Joris, master blacksmith, from Garth, Lord High Wizard of Massina, Protector of the Realm, and Defender of the Citadel.

Evolyn’s father loosened the leather thong around the pouch and looked inside. His eyes widened.

I suggest you read the scroll, sir.

The blacksmith untied the scroll, read it, looked up, and said nothing.

Evolyn tented fingers and brought them to her mouth. She shifted her gaze back and forth between the two men. Her father’s breathing had quickened; the stranger’s deepened slightly. Neither moved.

The courier finally broke the silence. What answer shall I bring back to Lord Garth?

Joris gestured toward the curtained opening toward the rear of the smithy. You must be thirsty and hungry after your long ride. Come and refresh yourself. My daughter, Evolyn, and I would be honored to have one of Lord Garth’s own share our humble table. What is your name?

The tall stranger’s eyes shifted to and held Evolyn’s. I am Arn.

His slight nod acknowledged hers. I would like to take advantage of your hospitality, but I must return to the Citadel. He turned back to the blacksmith. Garth awaits your answer.

Joris glanced briefly at his daughter. Her eyes had not left the young man. Tell the Lord High Wizard that I am humbled by his confidence and will gladly do his bidding.

Arn nodded, turned and stepped briskly toward the doorway. Evolyn started to follow, then suddenly stopped.

That sound … a warning … a danger!

Evolyn seized a pitchfork from its rack and pushed past Arn, almost driving him against the doorpost. She ran toward Arn’s horse, pitchfork raised. The animal reared and screamed. Arn shot through the door, hand on his sword’s hilt and Joris at his heels. Evolyn thrust the pitchfork into the grass. The horse lowered its hooves, whinnied, and nuzzled Evolyn’s shoulder. Arn grasped the fork and pulled it from the ground. From its fanged, triangular head to the segmented rattles on its tail, the snake impaled on the tines was twice as long as the pitchfork’s wooden handle.

Arn stared at Evolyn, That was quick thinking—Evolyn, is it?

Evolyn nodded.

How did you know that the serpent was in that tall grass and about to strike?

Its nature is to strike when threatened. It was in fear of being trampled.

And you knew this—how?

It rattled its warning.

She stroked the horse’s muzzle. Your horse told me, too. Its heart suddenly beat faster.

Arn furrowed his brow, handed the fork and its skewered victim to Joris, and then mounted his horse. Father and daughter waved, waited until horse and rider disappeared into the woods, then went back into the smithy.

What is in the sack, father? Can I see?

Joris lifted a golden object from the pouch. This is the hilt of the sword that was carried by Garth’s older brother, Z’benzard. Since the earliest times, this hilt has topped the blade of the sword carried by the Lord High Wizard. When he feels that he has become too old to rule and is ready to join the Great Spirit, the Lord High Wizard gives the sword to the one he has chosen to be his successor.

Evolyn reached out and touched the hilt. If Z’benzard was given the sword, why isn’t he Lord High Wizard?

Yes, Z’benzard was to be the next Lord High Wizard, but he met with misfortune years ago.

What happened to him?

When they were both young, Garth and Z’benzard went on a mission to the far Eastern regions of Massina. They were sent to investigate rumors that barbarians from Narthland were seen gathering between two villages in the area. Garth and Z’benzard had separated, each headed toward one of the villages. Z’benzard was never seen again. It was supposed that he had been killed by the barbarians, or so the story is told. Garth returned to the Citadel alone.

Joris held out the sword-hilt. This, he said, "will crown the new blade you and I will forge for the Lord High Wizard.

What happened to the old blade?

You remember Gulfrod? He shared a meal with us two moons ago.

Evolyn nodded. Yes, he was a swordsmith from the Citadel.

Well Gulfrod, he told me that he thinks the blade snapped when Lord Garth tested its strength by striking it against a granite rock. Of course, that’s just a guess, not true I’m sure. Lord Garth would know better than to do that. Anyway, this Gulfrod was called in to repair the sword, but it was unfixable. Lord Garth honors us by having chosen me above all the swordsmiths in Massina to forge a new blade.

Her father, Lord Garth’s chosen swordsmith! Even before she could walk, Evolyn knew that the Lord High Wizard was her father’s hero. We must always honor Lord Garth, her father often reminded her.

Evolyn’s father placed the sword-hilt back in its pouch. We will begin tomorrow. You and I will express our devotion to Lord Garth by forging a sword that honors his lost brother’s memory.

Oh, yes, I will help! she said. I will keep the forge fire hot; see to it that the hammers are clean and ready, and…and …

You pamper me like a little mother.

I do not remember my mother.

Her father lowered his head and was silent for a moment. Valaria was beautiful, just like you; red hair, bright green eyes, and a warm smile.

Tell me what happened to her? You never tell me when I ask. I am eighteen years old. Don’t you think it is time I knew?

Joris looked into his daughter’s eyes, and then wrapped a huge arm around her shoulder. I … I was here, working. I should have been with her. He took his arms from around Evolyn and stroked her hair. You were with me—a tiny thing cooing and gurgling in your cradle. He picked up the towel and wiped his face. Your mother was at the edge of the woods, gathering firewood. I should have been with her.

Evolyn took the towel from her father. Go on. What happened?

You have some tasks to finish.

I will tend to them later. Tell me.

Joris sighed and his eyes lowered. She loved you very much. There is nothing more to tell.

Evolyn lightly touched his shoulder.

He looked up at her and kicked at a pile of clothing. These need tending to.

Evolyn nodded. This was not the time to push him further. Perhaps tomorrow. She gathered up her father’s tunics and sorted out the ones that had holes burned in them by sparks and embers from the forge. She folded and put aside the soiled tunics along with a soot-streaked leather apron to be cleaned later, and bundled together the ones in need of repair. I will be back before nightfall, she called over her shoulder. I am taking these to Agnus.

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Agnus, the old woman who mended clothes, lived and worked in a stone cottage near the edge of the village. She took the bundle of clothes from Evolyn and set it down on a stout wooden table, worn smooth by years of use. She then hobbled over to a stone fireplace and removed a soot-blackened iron kettle hanging above the flames. Help yourself to a cup of my fine tea, child, she cackled.

Evolyn took the kettle from the crone. Its wooden handle felt smooth-worn in her hand. Come sit here by me whilst I darn.

Evolyn poured some tea and joined Agnus by the fireplace. The seamstress licked the first and middle fingers of her right hand, twisted the end of a length of thread into a point, deftly fed it through the eye of a silver needle, and took up the piece of clothing she had brought over from the table. She shook her head. Tsk, tsk. Just look at the size of these holes. Does your father think I am a wizard? Garth hisself could not make this cloth whole again.

Evolyn put her hand to her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle a giggle. Don’t be silly, Agnus. Lord Garth has better things to do than mend holes.

Oh, that may well be when it comes to tunics, child, but he is a good seamstress when it comes to mending holes in the fabric of our lives.

You are being silly again, Agnus.

Silly, am I? You are too young to remember the old days—the way things were before Garth became Lord High Wizard.

My father tells me that Lord Garth protects us and we must always honor him. He never tells me about the times before Garth.

Your father was only a babe back when Garth became Massina’s High Wizard. Most everyone still around has no memory of what it was like before Garth’s father, Zard, left us to join his ancestors and the Great Spirit. I am old enough to remember a little of those times, but only a little.

Evolyn sidled closer to the old woman. What were those times like?

Agnus concentrated on pushing her needle through the resistant toughness