Scions of Nexus Page 3

  Truth was he’d spent many hours, when he wasn’t working around the small farm, practicing his skills. He knew he was hopeless with a sword or axe and of middling skill with a bow, so he’d focused on the latter.

  Elyas stepped forward and took the bow from Taren’s hand. “Not bad, Cousin. Watch, and I’ll show you how it’s done.” He grinned at Taren, who stepped away. Elyas nocked an arrow and drew the string back to his cheek with ease.

  Elyas took after his father—his large frame was already thick with muscle. Taren thought he’d surpass Wyat in the next year or so. As the two of them had aged, the younger man seemed to take on more of his father’s strength as he grew into his prime, and Wyat diminished slightly more each year, an observation that saddened Taren a bit.

  The dark hues had retired from Wyat’s hair years earlier, leaving it an iron gray that matched his beard. His broad back had developed a slight bend in it at some point, one which increased with each winter. He’d been a mighty warrior in his youth—of that, Taren would have had no doubt even if he hadn’t grown up with his head full of the wondrous tales his uncle liked to spin of his adventuring days. He’d witnessed Wyat’s skill battling a wyvern just a year past. His uncle was a solid, comforting presence, both untroubled with the small matters of the world that might give a young lad concern and sturdy like the old oak tree growing behind the cottage. The man was imperturbable and slow to anger—after all, he’d fought demons in the Abyss and stood before a host of fiends at the gates of Nexus. Taren couldn’t imagine much in the natural world that could shake his resolve after such impressive deeds.

  Elyas’s arrow thunked a finger width to the left of center, beating Taren’s shot by an inch. He stifled the urge to sigh. Archery was actually his older cousin’s weakness. With sword or axe, Elyas was truly impressive.

  “You beat me again, Elyas.” Taren smiled wanly.

  He would never outmatch Elyas in martial skills, especially with his slender build and scholarly interests. However, with his nimble fingers, he was decent with a dagger—a skill rubbed off on him from his mother, according to Wyat.

  Taren had been disappointed to learn he wasn’t truly related to either of them. Wyat had been a close friend to his mother, Neratiri, who was the ruler of the Nexus of the Planes and bound to remain in the wondrous city at the crux of all the worlds in the multiverse. He’d never met her though he yearned to one day go on a grand adventure that would take him to Nexus. He’d never known his father, either—he’d died before Taren had even been born. Wyat had raised Taren like his own son, which was fine with him. He loved his uncle like a father, and Elyas was practically a brother, as far as he was concerned. Wyat and his wife Shenai hadn’t been blessed with any other children.

  “Want to toss some daggers?” Taren asked. One appeared from its sheath and into his hand with impressive speed, or so he thought.

  Elyas frowned. “Nay, I reckon I better work on my sword forms some more. I’ll be joining the army soon. You up for some sparring?”

  Taren shook his head. His wrists still ached from their lopsided battle the prior day. “I’d rather go check on the snares. I’ll see if your ma can use my help while you two train.”

  “Suit yourself. Don’t forget we’re meeting Vonn and Erwan to go to town this eve. Father?” Elyas had accepted the fact that Taren would never be a warrior.

  Wyat sized up his son for a moment. “Aye. I think the old man can still teach you a thing or two.”

  Taren might have been no fighter, but what he was good at, he hadn’t yet discovered. A mage, I wish. Both his mother and father had been able to wield magic although they weren’t like the traditional mages occasionally found across Easilon, instead both reputed to be of great magical power. According to Wyat, Easilon was a magic-poor plane. Most of the native mages were of middling power at best when compared to those of other planes, and the populace was more superstitious and fearful of magic than many on other worlds, at least in Wyat’s opinion.

  Taren wandered away with a smile on his face as the clashing of the men’s training swords rang out. He certainly wouldn’t forget their trip into town that eve. He meant to stop by Gradnik’s store and see if he’d acquired any new books on his trip to the city of Carran.

  The scent of baking bread wafted from the open window of the kitchen, and Taren angled his path over to the house. The notes of a song carried from the open window as Aunt Shenai sang softly in the kitchen.

  “Can I help out, Aunt Shenai?”

  He looked in the window, and his aunt returned his smile. She looked well today, with color in her cheeks. Over the past winter, she had taken quite ill, and they feared she might not recover. Wyat sat by her side for days, fussing over her while Taren and Elyas tended the animals and saw to the farm’s daily chores. She’d recovered, fortunately, though she was yet too thin and plagued by dizzy spells at times, needing much rest. Shenai was a quiet and kindly woman with a big heart, and Taren loved her as much as he did his uncle. Both had always treated him like a son in their home. Elyas had suspended his plans to enter the army at the start of winter when she had taken ill, and he was currently planning to enlist in the summer.

  “I’m fine, Taren. Will you be going out to the woods?”

  “Yes, I was about to go check the snares.”

  “Oh, could you keep your eyes open for any fresh berries? I’d like to bake a pie if you find some.”

  “Of course. A pie sounds wonderful.”

  He waved and headed for the woods, fingering the edges of the slim book in his pocket. He’d read it twice already, but he wanted to read it again. It was a recounting of the Battle of Nexus, which his mother and uncle had both fought in. He loved hearing about Nexus, with its myriad portals leading to all corners of the multiverse, the exotic people and creatures that lived and passed through there, and of course, the heroic acts of valor during the costly battle. Most of all, though, Taren liked hearing of the magic.

  I wish I had inherited either of their magic talent, just a glimmer of it. The only talent he had inherited was the ability to summon the second sight, as he thought of it. He could sense the auras of living things and of earth magic flowing through the world. The ability was certainly useful, yet he couldn’t actually do anything with that talent other than observing the world around him.

  He reached the woods, fully intent on checking the snares, but he paused to sit at his favorite spot by the stream, a flat gray boulder on the shore of a shallow pool. The spring day was fine and warm, and he took his boots off and dipped his feet in the cool water. Birds conversed in the woods around him, and the stream burbled peacefully. Before he knew it, the Battle of Nexus was filling his head, and hours passed.

  ***

  Tree branches whipped past Taren as he ran. He leaped over a large tangle of roots, brushing past a hedge of thistles and racing along the small game trail.

  He was late. The afternoon had slipped by, and before he knew it, the day was nearly gone. Aunt Shenai wouldn’t have any fresh berries in time for a pie, and the dinner table might not have any meat on it. Also, Elyas would be irritated that they would be late meeting Vonn and Erwan. The last part Taren wasn’t too concerned with, for those two were Elyas’s friends—Taren got along with them well enough, but they were simple lads of an age with Elyas. The three were mostly interested in making boasts and crude jests, drinking ale, and trying to get under the skirts of the local girls. Not that Taren wasn’t interested in a drink on occasion or catching a pretty girl’s eye, but he liked to think he was born for greater things than the life a small town like Swanford offered.

  He reached the last snare and was relieved to find it had nabbed a sizable hare. The others had been empty, but he’d been lucky enough to spear a good-sized trout from the deepest part of the pond where they sometimes grouped. He had only the one, but along with the rabbit, they’d make a good dinner—if he got back in time. He already had a kerchief full of fresh berries though he would return too lat
e for Shenai to bake a pie for dinner.

  Taren freed the hare, secretly relieved to find it dead already. He disliked finding them still struggling and having to put them out of their misery though he knew that was the more humane solution. He gripped it by the velvety ears and raced back toward the farmhouse.

  Elyas regarded him with a scowl when he burst in the door. He was already dressed up in his best tunic and breeches, and he’d even washed the dirt off his boots.

  “Fall asleep with your nose in a book again?” he asked scornfully.

  Taren shrugged, ignoring his cousin and his own defensiveness at Elyas’s tone. He brought his catch to the kitchen. “Sorry, Aunt, I lost track of the time.” He set the kerchief full of berries on the counter then held up the trout and hare.

  “If you get those cleaned quickly, we can have some fresh meat for dinner.” Wyat entered the kitchen with a bunch of carrots and a few turnips. “Elyas will give you a hand.”

  Elyas’s eyes narrowed as he flushed. He opened his mouth to protest, but his hunger must have been greater than his annoyance. Instead, he just shook his head and took an apron from a peg to tie it over his tunic. “Let’s go, bookworm. You get the trout—I’m not going to be stinking like fish guts this eve. I’ll be paying Bretta a visit.”

  “Paying her, eh? So that’s the secret to getting under a maid’s skirts?”

  Elyas’s face turned even redder, and Taren gave his cousin an impudent grin as they went to prepare the game.

  ***

  “You think they’ve already left? We’re gonna be too late, thanks to you.”

  Taren took his cousin’s gripes in stride, for they were well deserved. He had been as excited as Elyas about going into town, although for different reasons. As they jogged toward the meeting point just past a narrow neck of the forest, he focused on his second sight. Wonder if I can do this without tripping and falling on my face.

  The darkening countryside faded as he concentrated, replaced by a glowing vision of greens and ambers filling his vision as if he’d brushed a thick layer of dust off of a vibrant oil painting. The fertile land around—grassy and studded with trees and bushes—bloomed with a pale, hearty green. A nearby ley line wending through the countryside was a vibrant emerald hue. A pair of deer off in the distance were glows of amber. He concentrated, extending his senses outward, and the terrain rolled past as if he were sliding an enormous map toward himself. There, past the green blob of the trees ahead were three amber shapes—two men and a mule.

  Taren glanced over at his cousin, pleased with himself. “They’re still waiting, Elyas. I doubt they’d have the initiative to go anywhere on their own unless you told them to.”

  Elyas looked relieved, trusting Taren’s second sight. “Make fun of them all you want, but they’re better company than you in town. You with your head stuck in those books and other nonsense.” He snorted. To Elyas, anything not involving manly talents such as fighting, drinking, gambling, and whoring, was of little interest.

  “Ironshanks! ’Bout damned time.” Vonn hawked and spat a thick gob of mucus into the grass.

  Ironshanks was the nickname Elyas had earned after becoming the wrestling champion during a local wedding celebration to which all the nearby farmsteads had been invited. With ease he had defeated all the young men who cared to test him. One of the farmers, drunk on ale, had dubbed him Ironshanks, and it had stuck, a badge of honor for a young man and his friends who idolized him.

  Taren thought the nickname was silly, but he didn’t tease his cousin about it, letting him take pride in the title since he’d earned it fair and square.

  Vonn’s brother, Erwan, sat up from where he’d been lying in the back of the mule cart. “Gods, what took you so bloody long?” The two were from a neighboring farm, both of an age with Elyas, two or three summers older than Taren.

  Elyas smacked Taren hard on the back, sending him stumbling forward a couple steps. “My cousin had better things to do, like fall asleep with his nose in a book again.”

  Vonn and Erwan snickered at that.

  “You’ll never find yerself a maid through the pages of a book, Taren,” Erwan observed sagely. “What do you like reading about? Knights going on heroic quests to gain the hand of a princess and all that?”

  “A bit of everything.” That wasn’t entirely true—a book on philosophy he’d borrowed from his friend Gradnik a few months back had put him to sleep on numerous occasions until he’d finally given up on it. Taren climbed into the back of the cart. “Elyas forgot to mention I was busy catching a nice, fat trout to fill his belly.”

  Elyas climbed up beside Vonn in the front of the wagon. The latter flicked the reins, and the mule began plodding forward.

  “That little minnow couldn’t fill my belly—just made me hungrier,” Elyas said. “But I’ve worked up a hunger for something else now.” He mimed an hourglass shape in the air.

  The country louts laughed as if Elyas had made some fine jest. Taren rolled his eyes and kept out of the conversation.

  They rolled into the town of Swanford about twenty minutes later. By that time, night had fallen in earnest, and the main street was lit by lanterns hung at intervals atop poles.

  “Meet up with you later.” Taren hopped off the back of the cart and ran across the street to Gradnik’s shop without pausing to listen to their jibes or admonishments.

  Gradnik’s store was a ramshackle building along the main street with a sign that simply read, Antiquities. To Taren, it was a treasure trove. Books, maps, jewelry, sketches and paintings, and odds and ends from all over Easilon filled Gradnik’s shelves. The proprietor was a retired adventurer who’d set up shop in the sleepy town of Swanford. He often drew travelers from all over south and central Ketania, even from the larger cities as far away as Carran, to browse his wares.

  Taren’s heart fell when he saw the windows were dark. He turned the door handle and shoved on the sturdy oaken door, but it didn’t budge. It was locked.

  “What happened, I wonder?”

  Gradnik had said he would be back by the spring equinox, and that was a week past. Taren peered through the dusty windows but couldn’t see anything within the dark store. He sighed, crestfallen. What do I do now? I don’t want to sit around and wait for Elyas and the others.

  He turned away and walked in the general direction of the Melted Candle, the local tavern and the other young men’s favorite destination. The fact that Elyas was sweet on one of the barmaids there necessitated a visit from him on every possible occasion.

  “Taren!”

  He turned and saw Gradnik hobbling along the street behind him. The old man leaned on a staff as he walked—more heavily than Taren remembered. His face had a grin, though. He wore a floppy, purple hat tilted rakishly to the side of his bald head, and his eyes twinkled in the lantern light.

  “I was afraid you hadn’t made it back yet.” Taren walked over to meet the old man, who embraced him affectionately.

  “Nay, lad. I’ve been back a few days, but I was negotiating the price of some Nebaran carpets from a merchant over at the trading post. Whoreson thought he’d raise the price thirty percent on me after what we’d agreed on.” He shook his head, cheeks flushed as he recounted the episode. “Seems to think that rumors of war call for him to try to swindle me out of our deal.”

  “War?”

  “Aye, there’s talk of the Nebarans mustering their troops at the border and probing the might of Helmsfield Keep.”

  “A war with Nebara? That makes no sense… There’s been peace for generations.”

  “Aye, but they say the emperor has been overcome with some madness in his old age and wishes to make war. I say that’s a load of horse shite. The emperor was never a fool… unless he’s gone senile. Even were that the case, his councillors would likely counsel to maintain peace. Unless…” Gradnik looked around conspiratorially and lowered his voice. “Unless the old goat died, and there’s a power struggle going on. ’Tis said he’s got dozens o
f potential heirs. Mayhap one of them seized the throne and could be out to prove himself by starting a war. Why ever they’d want to do that, only the gods would know.”

  Taren pondered that for a moment. This was the first he’d heard anything of a possible war. After a moment, he reined his thoughts in to the matter at hand. “But you managed to talk that merchant back down?”

  “Damn right, I did. Haven’t traveled the realms for half a century by not knowing how to haggle and deal with cheats and swindlers.” He cast a mischievous grin at Taren and drew a long, slender object a few inches from his pocket. “Reckon it didn’t hurt that I had this wand and told him I’d turn him into a slug if he didn’t agree to our set price.”

  Taren grinned, picturing the incensed old man threatening the merchant. He reached for the wand before Gradnik could stick it back in his pocket. “May I?”

  “Aye, sure. Wand does nothing of the sort, but keep that between us. It conjures pyrotechnics—mostly harmless but heaps of fun to watch. I was planning on using it for a special show at the Midsummer Festival.” He handed it over to Taren.

  The wand was a bit less than a foot in length and a smoothly lacquered cherry red, with orange and yellow sparkles spiraling around its length. Bright yellow glyphs were inscribed around the tip.

  “Certainly looks impressive.” Taren waved it around, imagining being able to launch a devastating fireball from it as a powerful wizard would.

  “Aye, that it does. That merchant certainly thought so.” Gradnik grinned at him. “Ah, there he is, finally.”

  A heavyset man with a surly expression appeared, leading a donkey-drawn cart laden with rolls of carpets.

  “Come, come. Around the back.” Gradnik waved to the porter as Taren followed him around to the back door. The shopkeeper jiggled an old key in the lock for a moment before it caught then opened with a clunk. He pushed the door open and, once inside, lit an oil lamp.

  “You can lay them out right here on the floor.” Gradnik shoved aside a crate filled with bolts of cloth and gestured to an open space inside the door.