Logan Marsh: A Thrilling Fantasy Novel (Action Adventure,Mystery, Y/A Book 1) (2 page)

A magical sight it was on that morning when the first rays of light peeked between the two mountains set in front of Achtisanor’s cottage window. Little drops of dew covered the grass and the chirping of the morning bugs starting their early duty sounded across the red and yellow flower beds, moving so softly to the passing breezes.

Achtisanor splashed water from the metal basin on his face, focusing his sight on the image staring at him from the small iron mirror mounted on the window hinge. His long braids and small goatee started to show some grey. His eyes were tired, set deep in his weathered face. His finger hesitantly probed his diamond-shaped scar on his left cheek, in fear of the memory its pain will conjure in his mind.

Achtisanor lowered his gaze, approached the closet door and tried to open it. The door shrilled painfully, like it had never been opened before. Achtisanor pushed with all his might, set his shoulder and pushed harder, hearing with satisfaction the grinding of the opening door. The room-sized cabinet contained his silver armour and sword.

“I forgot how heavy it is,” he said to himself when he buckled the many parts of the glimmering armour, tying the sword to his belt. He tried to remember the last time he carried the heavy plates on his body, the last time the sword entered his scabbard.

He lifted his pack and tied his bow and quiver to it, opened a small box that rested under his bed and took out a small golden medallion. He looked upon it with grief.

“Carinian,” he whispered softly. He blinked his eyes.

He inserted the medallion into his pack pocket, lifted his black hood, and after a last check that the old lock was not broken, he left his cottage. Achtisanor walked slowly to his roan, which at this moment was busily grazing, whipping his red tail. “We are going on a slightly different journey, Rood,” he turned to his horse and rested the saddle on his back. Rood lifted his head and whinnied in agreement, his eyes glittering in excitement.

On his way to the big city, Achtisanor tried to remember it. Many years had passed since he last saw it. He imagined the white royal palace, the busy and shaded avenues, picturesque and colourful streets of his youth. He spent many years in hermit-like solitude and did not talk to any human being, except with his roan or a wandering moose. The excitement sent electric tingles all through his body, in preparation for a long-awaited reunion with his friend.

That same morning, a single envelope rested in the cubbyhole of Mage Choop Krunch, which was reserved for him in the Sorcerer Academy. It was a brown and slightly crumpled envelope, showing no seal or sign.

His head was a little dizzy from his eighty-fourth birthday party. The previous night he drank heavily, revelling in the fact that he had managed to rise to such a lofty position for such a young Lutin. The position of a tutor in the Sorcerer Academy was an honoured and respected position indeed.

A little smile curled his lips as he remembered the little prank of Highmage Scroo. The venerable highmage asked to see him immediately and led him, frown-faced, through the corridors of the academy to his room. Once the door opened, the academy tutor cheered joyfully, lifted him on their shoulders, and danced to the music performed by a magically-conjured band.

Twenty years had passed since Krunch started teaching in the academy, and almost from the beginning he liked Highmage Scroo, the academy headmaster, even though he was more mysterious than people thought was proper. The highmage never took off his grey robes and hood. Long strips of cloth covered his face, showing only his eyes. “A dragon burned his face,” someone started a rumour among the tutors, and he overheard some of them nickname him “hellfire”. Nevertheless, the highmage won their heart with his charm, noble bearing, and awe-inspiring personality. Even though Krunch was just a lowly tutor for potion making, the highmage was interested in his adventuring days, when he was a young member in the royal-sanctioned adventuring team: Tigertief. Krunch was also respected by his own peers and was summoned by the highmage to consult him on many important issues.

Krunch looked at the figure staring at him from the small iron closet. His smile melted slowly from his face when he started pondering on the last twenty years. Potion making was becoming a routine, and lately the spellcraft studies have become boring. “What is the use of learning new spells? When will I be able to cast them?” He asked himself over and over.

“Eighty-Four,” he muttered to himself, felling his gloom casting a shadow over him. He sat on the small stool and stared blindly. When he turned his head, he noticed the yellowish envelope that rested on the table:

For: Mage Choop Krunch – to him and no other

I bear greeting to my little friend.

Something unexpected has fallen to my hand.

If you are not currently busy, of course,

I ask to promptly jump right on your horse

And attend a meeting if you can,

It was so requested by the old man.

I would have liked to add some more words and banter

But I have no more details on that sudden encounter.

Broncolina, the morning of the festival, the “three dimensions” bar

If I remember correctly, it’s not that far

Memorize your every trick

Your taller friend,

De-Stik

“It can’t be,” smiled Krunch, “my bard friend.”

He re-read the letter and tried to find some hidden meaning between the lines: “What does it mean ‘requested by the old man’? He can’t mean that… It is not possible… I’ve tried all these years… and what the heck is so important right now?”

Krunch stood and paced around his cell, his thoughts wandering all over the place, his excitement building up. A few seconds later, he sprang out from his room and ran to the headmaster’s study.

“Highmage Scroo!” he called, “Highmage Scroo!”

He opened the door without waiting for permission. Highmage Scroo stood beside his window, releasing a black raven to the sky.

“I am sorry for the interruption, sir,” Krunch said. “But…”

“Come in, dear boy, sit down,” the highmage smiled and gestured.

“I’m sorry, but my mind is in such turmoil,” Krunch said, “I must consult with you.”

Krunch handed the letter to Highmage Scroo.

“Well, well,” a hesitant smile crept on Scroo’s features. “It seems like the dead can be resurrected.”

“Highmage Scroo, the writer of the letter is my friend Franc…” said Krunch.

“De-Stik,” interrupted Scroo, “I see, ‘something unexpected’, he says, ‘to the request of the old man’…”

“I think he means…” said Krunch.

“Achtisanor,” Scroo interrupted him again, “if I am not mistaken.”

“Yes,” Krunch said excitedly.

“Well?” asked Scroo.

“Highmage Scroo…” said Krunch.

“You are going to meet them,” finished Scroo emphatically.

“Yes, I have to,” the Lutin said, “I don’t know what it’s about and how long I should be absent from my tutoring duties…”

“I will arrange a temporary replacement for you,” said Scroo.

“Really?” beamed Krunch.

“The morning of the festival,” Scroo said and pointed at the letter. “Do you think that it has something to do with the contest?”

“I find it hard to believe,” Krunch said. “No, it is impossible,” he waved his hand dismissively.

“Four of the academy students left this morning to participate in the contest,” Scroo said. “If this letter would have arrived yesterday, I would have appointed you to accompany them. I can summon my carriage…”

“I can manage by myself, sir,” said Krunch. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” asked the highmage. “Go to your room and start packing.”

“Yes, sir,” Krunch smiled and turned to the door. “Thanks, Scroo. Thanks for everything.”

“One more thing, Krunch,” warned the highmage. “Be careful on the road. The rumours say that Goblins prowl on lonely travellers.”

“A long time has passed since I last passed through these gates,” pondered Achtisanor, riding slowly through the city’s north gate. He pulled his hood over his head to cover his face, leaped from his horse and led him to a trough. “A long time has also passed since we rode like that, Rood.” He felt a sharp pain in his back and buttocks.

“You! Traveller!” a harsh and nasal voice sounded from behind. “Move this beast so our horses can drink.”

Achtisanor turned back. A tall and broad man stood in front him, wearing steel armour and armed with a double-bladed axe. He wore a helmet that covered his entire face, except for his red eyes and long nose, which protruded proudly from his face. Three armed men stood behind him, their thick arms wrapped in leather strips.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said Achtisanor. “This trough is large enough to accommodate four horses.”

“Then something is wrong with your eyesight, old man,” the wearer of the helmet approached him. His shifty eyes narrowed.

“I’m sorry,” said Achtisanor and backed away. “The sun must have blinded me,” he pulled his horse and turned his back on the group. “I will wait for my turn, if it pleases my lord.”

One of the bullies leaped forward and positioned his leg in front of Achtisanor, and tackled him to the ground.

“How dare you turn your back to Van-Sniff, traveller,” shouted the man, looming above Achtisanor.

“Van-Sniff?” Achtisanor rose stoically, turned, and looked at him.

“Van-Sniff!” the longnosed man beamed with pride. “Kenneth Van-Sniff! For your insolence, I require a compensation of twenty gold pieces!”

For a slight moment, Achtisanor hesitated, and then approached the four men in sure, but careful, steps, his horse trailing him. He stopped right before Van-Sniff’s pointing nose.

“So, this is your vocation, Master De-Sniff?” talking straight to his nose. “A common bandit?”

The four companions drew their sword at once.

“It seems that our beggar friend needs a lesson in civility,” proclaimed Van-Sniff.

Achtisanor pulled back his hood, drew his sword in one fluid motion, and crouched in a defensive position. His horse paced nervously.

“Ho!” the four companions breathed.

“The diamond scar,” laughed Van-Sniff derisively. “It seems that the forgotten legend has returned to the big city!”

“There is no honour in fighting over insults,” Achtisanor tried to calm the man, “let us sheath our weapons and go our separate ways.”

A crowd of gawkers gathered around. “Do I hear the tremble of fear in the old man’s voice?” mocked Van-Sniff.

“If that is what you think,” said Achtisanor carefully, “I do not think any of us want to lose our head at the festival eve.” He sheathed his sword, hoping that the gathering crowd will deter the bullies.

“You are correct,” Van-Sniff lowered his axe and motioned his companions to do the same with their swords, “depends whose head is on the block,” and suddenly he swung the axe towards Achtisanor’s head. The traveller crouched at the last possible moment, feeling the
whoosh
of the axe passing above his head, as he kicked Van-Sniff’s right knee with all his strength.

A murmur passed through the crowd as Van-Sniff fell to the ground, screaming in pain. His three companions stood with drawn swords, facing Achtisanor.

“Stop at once, in the name of the king!” a voice thundered, causing the crowd to disperse.

The three bullies hurried to hide their swords. Achtisanor stood, wiping the dirt from his cloak. Five loaded crossbows pointed to this chest.

“He tried to rob us!” screamed Van-Sniff when he could stand up straight, “the bastard attacked me from behind!”

“Arrest him!” called the commander, and he advanced toward Van-Sniff, helping him with his cloak, “you have my sincerest apology, Master Van-Sniff.”

“No need to apologize, my good man,” smiled Van-Sniff, “you’ve arrived just in time to arrest this villain.”

“You,” the commander of the city patrol force looked toward stunned Achtisanor, “Are you trying to cause mayhem and chaos on the eve of the festival?”

“I was…” started Achtisanor.

“Shut up, old man,” snapped the commander, “you will have plenty of time to explain your deeds in the brig.”

Achtisanor stood frozen and speechless. The guards tied his hands.

“Take him away!” ordered the commander.

“I could not believe when they said you were here,” Achtisanor woke up to a hoarse voice from behind the bars, “I thought I will never see or hear from you again.”

Achtisanor recognized the voice, even if it was hoarser than remembered. He stood from the cold concrete floor, rubbed his eyes, and tried to discern the silhouette of the person that blocked his only source of light in the tiny room. “Alystus?”

“Claude!” the man said excitedly and hugged Achtisanor. Achtisanor clapped on his back. The black man wore his knight uniform. His curly hair was braided and a purple knight’s band was tied to his right arm.

“My gods, look at you,” Achtisanor studied Alystus from head to toe.

“There is no greater and pleasant surprise than this,” Alystus gripped Achtisanor’s arm in respect.

“I shouldn’t have returned,” Achtisanor said sadly after a small pause. “It seems that whenever I come here, trouble chases me with a vengeance.”

“Where have you disappeared to?” asked Alystus, “I was sure that something horrible has happened to you.”

“I couldn’t stay,” snapped Achtisanor and sat on the floor, tucked his legs beneath him and leaned against the wall. Alystus sat beside him, “I couldn’t keep living with this torture.”

“But you yourself had taught us to ignore the pain, no matter what, and just keep going,” objected Alystus, “you can’t even begin to comprehend how much we worried when you, our Paragon, the symbol of the knighthood, have disappeared.”

“There is one pain that shadows all other pains, Alystus,” Achtisanor said, “and none can stand bravely when it attacks. He disarmed me before I even drew my sword. Be happy, Alystus, that you do not know this pain,” he lowered his eyes. “This is my last lesson for you.”

A sombre silence fell in the small cell.

“Not long after you’d left, I was appointed to investigate Carinian’s death,” said Alystus. “We couldn’t find even a small clue. Just like when you investigated the murder of Marsh.”

Achtisanor paled and he felt a small tear trying to release itself from the corner of his eye. The memories swept him like a massive wave.

Claude Achtisanor was born to a rich family from North-Eastern Nature, though at that time, his name was Claude Gornshield. When he was eight, his father travelled south with his family in a wagon to the capital city of Broncolina, to tend his business. When the wagon entered the forest, the wagon was beset by a party of soldjas, which murdered his parents and stole their treasure. Little Claude survived by hiding under the overturned wagon and the soldjas didn’t notice him. Later that day, Patrick Marsh, or Patrickiomaris, as the elves called him, found an unconscious and wounded child.

Patrick’s family adopted Claude and he was raised alongside Kiril, who was two years older than him. Melan, Patrick’s wife, was like a mother to him; and the elves have given him a name: Claudiomaris.

When Claude was fourteen, sixteen-year-old Kiril went to study at the Elven Academy, the oldest university in the world, for twenty-year tenure. In the academy, the elves learn how to hone their senses, the ways of the nature, elven lore and woods craftsmanship. After several years, each student chooses what skills he wants to master.

Since Humans are not permitted inside the grounds of the academy, Patrick decided that Claude should accompany him during his travels as a squire. Most of the things that Claude learned were from his adoptive father. He accompanied him during his journeys for the elven throne to distant and foreign lands beyond the Uruklip Mountains and south to the Zooloo Chasm. Claude even fought alongside him during the Beyorn battle when Klaxes’, the dark dragon, forces were stopped from reaching the kingdom’s shores.

Patrick Marsh was the commander of the infantry platoon and was the first to penetrate through the Ashon’s forces and attack the dark dragon itself that attacked him from above. He managed to evade the dragon’s claws and hit him on his head when he breathed fire him on, ending the battle with one stroke: the breath was turned from Marsh to Sernin Krouzar, the dragon’s right hand, causing him to burn before Hubris and his other minions. The dragon’s left ear was cut off during the fight and he was known as Darkear from that day forward.

Every time Claude remembered Patrick, his adoptive father, his pleasant thoughts were interrupted by the last memory of his. That was the moment he decided to become a knight. To avenge. It was during a dark notime noon – the infamous day when the sun does not shine and people do not leave their houses because dark and unnatural things lurk outside. That day Claude was called to the place where Patrick’s body was tied to a tree, bloody mud spattered around him, and Melan, his wife, wept horribly.

Almost a year afterwards, Melan gave birth to Logan; but Claude was not around at the time. Six months after Patrick Marsh’s murder, Claude met his two friends, De-Stik and Krunch, when the three of them rescued a hungry beggar from a group of drunkards. The three defeated the thugs, gave him back his cane and the few coins that were stolen from him. That same day, they founded Tigertief.

For seven years, Tigertief was known all over the kingdom as the saviour of the poor and the hopeless. At that time, Claude was given the name ‘Achtisanor’ because of his prowess with his fire-gleaming sword, Achtis.

Finally, the king Domrownick asked Achtisanor to stand at his right hand and lead the king’s guard. Achtisanor accepted the position, but only if they would allow him to continue investigating Patrick Mash’s murder and that Tigertief would not be disbanded, but its members would lead the guard.

Five years Tigertief served the kingdom. They were sent to dangerous missions and horrible places. Achtisanor has trained the younger royal knights. And then calamity struck: Princess Carinian, King Domrownick’s daughter, and Achtisanor’s paramour, was murdered.

That disaster also happened during a notime night. From the initial investigation, it was deduced that Carinian stole into her beloved bedroom to leave a love letter. When she opened the door to Achtisanor’s room, an arrow was shot through the window and pierced her heart. The next day, Achtisanor returned to the royal abode from his nightly missions – and his heart was shattered as fine crystal. A heart-wrenching scream was heard that morning in the palace. His beautiful paramour was lying in a pool of blood on the floor, a black feathered arrow lodged in her tender body. In her hand was a blood-stained letter, and to it was attached a golden medallion.

Achtisanor blamed himself for the death of the princess. “The arrow was meant for me,” he repeated again and again. He decided to resign his commission, and would not adhere to the protests. He could not live with the guilt and the pain. He left behind his sword, Achtis, at the royal abode, and left. So Tigertief was disbanded and the royal family lost one of its heroes.

De-Stik, one of Achtisanor’s friends, chose the life of a wandering troubadour. Krunch had received a summons from the Committee for Magic Higher Learning, offering him a position in Sorcerer’s Academy, an offer he could not refuse.

“I am sorry,” Alystus’s voice jolted Achtisanor awake. “I did not mean to remind you of the pain.”

“It’s okay,” Achtisanor sighed. “I closed this door long ago,” he wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“Come on, let’s go!” Alystus stood. “Gather your things and go to the city, this is the morning of the festival.”

Achtisanor was surprised. “And what about Rood,” he remembered suddenly.

“He is in good hands,” said Alystus, “I ordered to bring him to the royal stables. I am sure he feels just fine.”

Achtisanor smiled and stood next to his old student: he gathered his equipment from the guards’ room and exited to the city. The myriad of colours washed his eyes; the plethora of smells elated his soul and his heart thumped excitedly when he thought of meeting his old friends.

If truth be told, Broncolina had not seen such an extravagant morning for a dozen years. Creatures from all over the kingdom had arrived to celebrate the "adventurers' group tournament" festival.