The Lone Apprentice Read online

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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