Double Life - Book 1 of the Vaiya Series (40 page)

Hurrying after him, as the man took heavy
strides, Jimmy nearly bumped into some of the other soldiers, who
just laughed at him mockingly, making insulting jokes about
northerners.

Apologizing to them the best he could and
ignoring their ridicule, he soon reached the armory in the far back
of the building--it contained every type and size of armor
imaginable: iron cuirasses, bracers, greaves, metal gauntlets,
black silver sallets, leather cuisses, plate mail gorgets, dark
metal sabatons, and shiny steel-like vambraces. It put the armory
in his house to shame.

Jimmy’s walnut-colored eyes sparkled with
delight; excitement billowed up inside of him. He forgot all about
the cruel-hearted soldiers and with good reason. Not to be
melodramatic, but this was a dream come true for him. His heart
leapt within him. Without saying a word, he hurried towards the
chain-mail cuirasses, nearly tripping.

Gavar folded his arms across his chest,
amused, while watching this spectacle. “Do you know how everything
fits?”

“Yes, Commander.” Jimmy’s face lit up,
glancing back at him. “I was born for this.”

His eyebrows lowered in confusion. “Do you
know what size you’re looking for?”

Here Jimmy had to shake his head. “Nah. I
don’t.”

“Then you’ll need assistance.” He turned
around and shouted to the armory master nearby. “Seivan, help this
man find a fitting size.”

Taking his odd-looking writing utensil from
his manuscript and twisting his long red-skinned neck around, the
older white-haired man slowly arose from his chair and trudged
towards him.

Then with startling speed for his age, Seivan
ran and snatched a chain-mail cuirass off one of the shelves,
before hurrying back to Jimmy, holding it out to him like a
present, saying, “Here, put this on,” before he quickly went back
to get another piece of armor.

After a little while, Jimmy, now fully
dressed for battle with only his arms unprotected, heard the
barrack’s master’s voice, which broke him out of his reverie of
being in the third Lord of the Ring’s movie fighting against a host
of orcs.

“Jimmy, it’s time to begin training.”

“Yes, Commander,” he uttered joyfully, the
warrior spirit within him eager to be trained, as he stared
somewhat anxiously at his large sack of money near Seivan’s desk
that the man had said he’d guard until Jimmy was done with his
training for the day. Though it wasn’t his money, he somehow felt
that it belonged to him and definitely didn’t want to lose it.
Fortunately, Seivan seemed sharp enough not to let anyone steal it;
he’d more than likely not let it out of his sight.

As Jimmy turned to leave, Gavar’s voice took
on a serious tone. “Before you go and train under Lord Malthus,
though,” he cautioned, “I need to tell you something.” He paused,
Jimmy’s attention now fully focused on him. “You’ll be training
with a lot of fierce older men who have no high regards towards
northerners. It’s best if you impress them at the start.”

Jimmy accepted his advice with only a slight
frown. “I understand,” he muttered distractedly, too elated to give
much thought to the other soldiers anymore; he felt like a champion
in the medieval ages preparing for battle. He couldn’t wait to
practice--to become like a warrior, like a knight. This place was
ages better than the sword fighting league he’d joined two weeks
ago, and if he had his way, he’d enjoy every minute of it.

Waiting for more advice from Gavar, he saw
the commander motion for him to follow him and knew that he was on
his own now.

As Jimmy followed behind him, only slightly
nervous, he passed an older teenager who took one look at him and
just laughed:

“You northerners are weaker than our women,”
he taunted him, reminding Jimmy all too keenly of one of the jeers
of his classmates. “Go back to your canvas and start painting the
coming war.”

Jimmy’s eyes widened in anguish, not
expecting such harsh words, as Gavar just glared at the man,
causing him to scurry away fast with most of his pompousness
knocked out of him. Yet, he did have the courage left to throw out
one last deriding scowl at Jimmy.

But, ignoring it the best he could, Jimmy
just continued walking until the commander stopped and pointed to a
room on his immediate left with his chin.

“Lord Malthus awaits you, Jimmy.” Though his
voice had lost some of its joy, probably the result of the man’s
critical comments, it still carried some liveliness to it--enough
to give Jimmy the confidence to face this Malthus person and his
fellow trainees, who from the aggressive shouting he could hear
through the door, sounded all too eager to shed some blood.
Hopefully, they wouldn’t spill any of his today.

Breathing deeply and opening up the door, as
Gavar left his side and headed back towards the entrance of the
building, Jimmy stepped inside, immediately receiving dark frowns
and cruel looks from the twenty-six men in the room, one of which
had only moments before been engaged in locking swords with a
heavily-armored man who was likely Lord Malthus.

Fear pounding in his heart, Jimmy, knowing
that first impressions were everything, resisted all their
intimidation techniques and merely stared at them with an
indifferent look. Even though he felt inferior to these ruthless
powerfully built men, he hoped that he at least had as much
proficiency with the sword. Though it was a slim hope, it was his
only hope, and he held onto it with all his might.

After two hours of training and only
receiving a cut on his forearm from the blunt side of Malthus’s
sword, Jimmy was exhausted, though content, the feeling a person
gets after a hard, yet successful day of work.

Removing all of his armor, piece by piece, he
took a quick bath in a nearby river that Lord Malthus had
recommended, before drying off on some course rug-like material
that Malthus had given him.

After changing back into his old clothes, he
trudged wearily to the barracks, carrying his lightweight armor and
sword that felt surprisingly heavy now. As he entered the barracks,
Jimmy immediately met up with Commander Gavar.

Surprisingly glad to see him, Jimmy greeted
him with enthusiasm. The man seemed almost like a fatherly figure
compared to the rest of the men he’d just dealt with. “That was
exhausting, Commander. My arms won’t even move,” said Jimmy,
resting his back against the wall nearest the door, his muscles
aching like a rock climber’s, as his mind replayed the frequent
jeers and taunts thrown out at him by his fellow trainees when he’d
first entered the training arena. Their jibes were even crueler
than Wally Sherman’s or Jack Lane’s without any of the ingenuity of
the former or originality of the later.

Fortunately, though, as the day progressed
and the men watched with growing amazement his expertise at the
sword, their insults grew scarcer, and by the end of the two hours,
some of the younger men were even praising him for his agility,
techniques, and quick maneuvers. It took the utmost effort to
resist the pride that sought to engulf him; he was younger than
most of them by many years and yet he was better than half of them.
As sore as he was and despite all the scathing comments, he’d
literally enjoyed every moment of his training and only wished for
it to continue.

As he gazed wearily at Gavar, who seemed to
sympathize with his stiffness and fatigued limbs, the man spoke up,
respect in his tone, “Well, you deserve a rest, Jimmy.” Gavar
patted him on the back. “You’re clearly no amateur from what Lord
Malthus told me. Who trained you?”

Pausing for a second, hoping to not sound too
arrogant, he muttered, “I trained myself.”

The commander’s eyes widened. “That’s unheard
of,” he said brashly. “Who really trained you?”

It took some time to remember the name of his
sword-fighting instructor, the instructor who’d been training him
for only two weeks and hadn’t taught him a thing that he didn’t
already know beside a simple sword technique, which seemed like
something a child should know. “Ryan Turner,” he eventually blurted
out, shuffling the pile of armor in his hands, holding tightly onto
his sword with his left hand so it wouldn’t slip out.

Gavar grinned knowingly. “Another odd name,
but at least you’re being honest now.” Head held high, he then
drifted off into a meditative silence, which lasted for several
moments, before he spoke again. “Training is done for the day,
Jimmy. Come back on Zadin’s day at the eighth hour.”

“Zadin’s day?”

“The day after tomorrow,” he replied,
laughing at Jimmy’s ignorance. “Tomorrow’s the king’s birthday, so
of course, no practice--only celebration.” After thinking for a
second, he added, “So, where are you spending the night?”

“What are my options, Commander?”

“Either the barracks or an inn.”

Thinking about how uncomfortable sleeping in
the barracks sounded and how much more enchanting an inn sounded,
he quickly responded, “I’ll spend the night at an inn.”

“Then you’d better hurry; sunset’s coming and
the cheapest beds are already taken.” Sensing Jimmy’s hesitation,
he continued, “There’s a good inn down Copperstone’s Creek named
the Apple Orchard. Just follow the road into town and the big cedar
wood building will draw your eyes to it.”

Excitement flooded his face at the thought of
spending a night at a medieval inn. “Thanks for the advice,
Commander.”

But he wasn’t done yet. His tone turned dark
and serious. “And, Jimmy, I must caution you; the roads are
dangerous at night, so keep an eye out for suspicious men. If
you’re robbed, don’t argue--let them have what they want.”

Jimmy nodded his head solemnly, hoping he was
just trying to frighten him. “I’ll do that. Thanks, sir.”

“Blessings to you, Jimmy; may the warrior
spirit of Adin enslave your soul.”

Startled by the man’s words, his mouth
twitched before he replied with a simple, “Good night,
Commander.”

Yet his words weren’t accepted well. The
commander frowned and made an ‘x’ with his arms as if he’d said
something entirely childish; though he wasn’t angry, he gave Jimmy
an irritated look as if to warn him to never say it again.

But too tired to be embarrassed, Jimmy bowed
to him twice, nearly touching his chin to the pile of armor in his
hand, and then hurried to the front of the weapons room. With what
little energy he had left, he put his sword back on the shelf,
sprinted lightly into the armory, and asked Seivan to help him put
the armor back.

Once Seivan had scrupulously put each piece
back in its rightful place, Jimmy thanked him, cheering up
considerably as he saw his large money sack was still there
untouched, and then headed back to the weapons room, the sack held
firmly in his right hand.

Gazing at all the sinister-looking scimitars,
swords, axes, and bows hung on metal hooks or sword hangers, he
eventually broke himself out of his daydream, as he realized he
ought to be going. Slowly, painfully, he tore himself away from the
rarities that any weapon collector would “pay over the river to
acquire”, a phrase Lord Malthus had often used and that Jimmy found
rather funny, before heading to the front door.

That was unbelievably cool!
Jimmy
opened up the door and stepped outside, enthusiasm radiating from
his tired face, the mistakes of the day leaving his mind. Bypassing
two soldiers throwing daggers at an oak tree from twenty paces away
and laughing at each other in merriment, he returned to the dusty
road and started jogging down it, heading for the Apple Orchard. A
peaceful look on his face, a skip in his steps, he started
whistling a Celtic tune. It was one of his dreams to stay in a
medieval inn; now he was actually going to one.

Head tilted downwards, a common posture for
him, as he observed the path in front of him, he failed to notice a
signpost that hung from a maple tree right where the road branched
off into two directions. The signpost read, Sarette Village - 5
miles West. Copperstone’s Creek - 2 miles Northwest. In all his
excitement, he accidentally took the path that led down to Sarette
Village. It was a mistake.

Standing on the beach, Ian impatiently
watched the small waves lap up against the seashells, two of which
he’d collected, a vivid reddish purple conch shell and a golden
cream-colored clamshell, both sides still attached, shimmering
beautifully. But he wasn’t interested in shells right now; he just
wanted to be back at Shadowcrest Manor.

Heaving a deep sigh of despair, the suspense
gnawing into him, Ian fought against the fear that sought to engulf
him, as he stared up at the darkening purple sky, images of the
rough band of woodsmen tormenting his dispirited mind. Was he ever
going back home? Or was he stuck here this time? What if they came
back and tried to kill him again?

Considering this thought with dread, he
suddenly heard the noise of footprints coming up from behind him
and immediately panicked. Spinning around, his thoughts were proven
true, as six red-clothed men with short swords and daggers appeared
before him. He barely had time to gasp before one of them threw a
weighted net over him, ensnaring him, causing him to fall into a
crouching position. Gazing in horror at his captors, he watched as
one of them, a tall, well-built man, with multi-colored feathers in
his black velvet hat, a jeweled bandana over his forehead, and a
waistcoat and breeches cut from the same dark red cloth, approached
him with a greedy sneer on his face.

“What business have you here?” the dark
skinned man asked, as he motioned for his comrades to stay where
they were.

“I was just admiring the sunset,” said Ian in
the man’s language, one very different from the language the forest
men used as this one was more lilting and smooth.