Table Of ContentMagician: Apprentice - Raymond E. Feist
Part One of a Two Part Story
1 - Storm
T
he storm had broken.
Pug danced along the edge of the rocks, his feet finding scant purchase as he
made his way among the tide pools. His dark eyes darted about as he peered into
each pool under the cliff face, seeking the spiny creatures driven into the
shallows by the recently passed storm. His boyish muscles bunched under his
light shirt as he shifted the sack of sandcrawlers, rockclaws, and crabs plucked
from this water garden.
The afternoon sun sent sparkles through the sea spray swirling around him, as
the west wind blew his sunstreaked brown hair about. Pug set his sack down,
checked to make sure it was securely tied, then squatted on a clear patch of sand.
The sack was not quite full, but Pug relished the extra hour or so that he could
relax. Megar the cook wouldn't trouble him about the time as long as the sack
was almost full. Resting with his back against a large rock, Pug was soon dozing
in the sun's warmth.
A cool wet spray woke him hours later. He opened his eyes with a start,
knowing he had stayed much too long. Westward, over the sea, dark
thunderheads were forming above the black outline of the Six Sisters, the small
islands on the horizon. The roiling, surging clouds, with rain trailing below like
some sooty veil, heralded another of the sudden storms common to this part of
the coast in early summer. To the south, the high bluffs of Sailor's Grief reared
up against the sky, as waves crashed against the base of that rocky pinnacle.
Whitecaps started to form behind the breakers, a sure sign the storm would
quickly strike. Pug knew he was in danger, for the storms of summer could
drown anyone on the beaches, or if severe enough, on the low ground beyond.
He picked up his sack and started north, toward the castle. As he moved
among the pools, he felt the coolness in the wind turn to a deeper, wetter cold.
The day began to be broken by a patchwork of shadows as the first clouds
passed before the sun, bright colors fading to shades of grey. Out to sea,
lightning flashed against the blackness of the clouds, and the distant boom of
thunder rode over the noise of the waves.
Pug picked up speed when he came to the first stretch of open beach. The
storm was coming in faster than he would have thought possible, driving the
rising tide before it. By the time he reached the second stretch of tide pools,
there was barely ten feet of dry sand between water's edge and cliffs.
Pug hurried as fast as was safe across the rocks, twice nearly catching his
foot. As he reached the next expanse of sand, he mistimed his jump from the last
rock and landed poorly. He fell to the sand, grasping his ankle. As if waiting for
the mishap, the tide surged forward, covering him for a moment. He reached out
blindly and felt his sack carried away. Frantically grabbing at it, Pug lunged
forward, only to have his ankle fail. He went under, gulping water. He raised his
head, sputtering and coughing. He started to stand when a second wave, higher
than the last, hit him in the chest, knocking him backward. Pug had grown up
playing in the waves and was an experienced swimmer, but the pain of his ankle
and the battering of the waves were bringing him to the edge of panic. He fought
it off and came up for air as the wave receded. He half swam, half scrambled
toward the cliff face, knowing the water would be only inches deep there.
Pug reached the cliffs and leaned against them, keeping as much weight off
the injured ankle as possible. He inched along the rock wall, while each wave
brought the water higher. When Pug finally reached a place where he could
make his way upward, water was swirling at his waist. He had to use all his
strength to pull himself up to the path. He lay panting a moment, then started to
crawl up the pathway, unwilling to trust his balky ankle on this rocky footing.
The first drops of rain began to fall as he scrambled along, bruising knees and
shins on the rocks, until he reached the grassy top of the bluffs. Pug fell forward
exhausted, panting from the exertion of the climb. The scattered drops grew into
a light but steady rain.
When he had caught his breath, Pug sat up and examined the swollen ankle. It
was tender to, the touch, but he was reassured when he could move it: it was not
broken. He would have to limp the entire way back, but with the threat of
drowning on the beach behind him, he felt relatively buoyant.
Pug would be a drenched, chilled wretch when he reached the town. He
would have to find a lodging there, for the gates of the castle would be closed for
the night, and with his tender ankle he would not attempt to climb the wall
behind the stables. Besides, should he wait and slip into the keep the next day,
only Megar would have words for him, but if he was caught coming over the
wall, Swordmaster Fannon or Horsemaster Algon would surely have a lot worse
in store for him than words.
While he rested, the rain took on an insistent quality and the sky darkened as
the late-afternoon sun was completely engulfed in storm clouds. His momentary
relief was replaced with anger at himself for losing the sack of sandcrawlers. His
displeasure doubled when he considered his folly at falling asleep. Had he
remained awake, he would have made the return trip unhurriedly, would not
have sprained his ankle, and would have had time to explore the streambed
above the bluffs for the smooth stones he prized so dearly for slinging. Now
there would be no stones, and it would be at least another week before he could
return. If Megar didn't send another boy instead, which was likely now that he
was returning empty-handed.
Pug's attention shifted to the discomfort of sitting in the rain, and he decided
it was time to move on. He stood and tested his ankle. It protested such
treatment, but he could get along on it. He limped over the grass to where he had
left his belongings and picked up his rucksack, staff, and sling. He swore an oath
he had heard soldiers at the keep use when he found the rucksack ripped apart
and his bread and cheese missing. Raccoons, or possibly sand lizards, he
thought. He tossed the now useless sack aside and wondered at his misfortune.
Taking a deep breath, he leaned on his staff as he started across the low
rolling hills that divided the bluffs from the road. Stands of small trees were
scattered over the landscape, and Pug regretted there wasn't more substantial
shelter nearby, for there was none upon the bluffs. He would be no wetter for
trudging to town than for staying under a tree.
The wind picked up, and Pug felt the first cold bite against his wet back. He
shivered and hurried his pace as well as he could. The small trees started to bend
before the wind, and Pug felt as if a great hand were pushing at his back.
Reaching the road, he turned north. He heard the eerie sound of the great forest
off to the east, the wind whistling through the branches of the ancient oaks,
adding to its already foreboding aspect. The dark glades of the forest were
probably no more perilous than the King's road, but remembered tales of outlaws
and other, less human, malefactors stirred the hairs on the boy's neck.
Cutting across the King's road, Pug gained a little shelter in the gully that ran
alongside it. The wind intensified and rain stung his eyes, bringing tears to
already wet cheeks. A gust caught him, and he stumbled off balance for a
moment. Water was gathering in the roadside gully, and he had to step carefully
to keep from losing his footing in unexpectedly deep puddles.
For nearly an hour he made his way through the ever growing storm. The
road turned northwest, bringing him almost full face into the howling wind. Pug
leaned into the wind, his shirt whipping out behind him. He swallowed hard, to
force down the choking panic rising within him. He knew he was in danger now,
for the storm was gaining in fury far beyond normal for this time of year. Great
ragged bolts of lightning lit the dark landscape, briefly outlining the trees and
road in harsh, brilliant white and opaque black. The dazzling afterimages, black
and white reversed, stayed with him for a moment each time, confusing his
senses. Enormous thunder peals sounding overhead felt like physical blows.
Now his fear of the storm outweighed his fear of imagined brigands and goblins.
He decided to walk among the trees near the road; the wind would be lessened
somewhat by the boles of the oaks.
As Pug closed upon the forest, a crashing sound brought him to a halt. In the
gloom of the storm he could barely make out the form of a black forest boar as it
burst out of the undergrowth. The pig tumbled from the brush, lost its footing,
then scrambled to its feet a few yards away. Pug could see it clearly as it stood
there regarding him, swinging its head from side to side. Two large tusks seemed
to glow, in the dim light as they dripped rainwater. Fear made its eyes wide, and
it pawed at the ground. The forest pigs were bad-tempered at best, but normally
avoided humans. This one was panic-stricken by the storm, and Pug knew if it
charged he could be badly gored, even killed.
Standing stock-still, Pug made ready to swing his staff, but hoped the pig
would return to the woods. The boar's head raised, testing the boy's smell on the
wind. Its pink eyes seemed to glow as it trembled with indecision. A sound made
it turn toward the trees for a moment, then it dropped its head and charged.
Pug swung his staff, bringing it down in a glancing blow to the side of the
pig's head, turning it. The pig slid sideways in the muddy footing, hitting Pug in
the legs. He went down as the pig slipped past. Lying on the ground, Pug saw the
boar skitter about as it turned to charge again. Suddenly the pig was upon him,
and Pug had no time to stand. He thrust the staff before him in a vain attempt to
turn the animal again. The boar dodged the staff and Pug tried to roll away, but a
weight fell across his body. Pug covered his face with his hands, keeping his
arms close to his chest, expecting to be gored.
After a moment he realized the pig was still. Uncovering his face, he
discovered the pig lying across his lower legs, a black-feathered, cloth-yard
arrow protruding from its side. Pug looked toward the forest. A man garbed in
brown leather was standing near the edge of the trees, quickly wrapping a
yeoman's longbow with an oilcloth cover. Once the valuable weapon was
protected from further abuse by the weather, the man crossed to stand over the
boy and beast.
He was cloaked and hooded, his face hidden. He knelt next to Pug and
shouted over the sound of the wind, “Are you 'right, boy?” as he lifted the dead
boar easily from Pug's legs. “Bones broken?”
“I don't think so,” Pug yelled back, taking account of himself. His right side
smarted, and his legs felt equally bruised. With his ankle still tender, he was
feeling ill-used today, but nothing seemed broken or permanently damaged.
Large, meaty hands lifted him to his feet. “Here,” the man commanded,
handing him his staff and the bow. Pug took them while the stranger quickly
gutted the boar with a large hunter's knife. He completed his work and turned to
Pug. “Come with me, boy. You had best lodge with my master and me. It's not
far, but we'd best hurry. This storm'll get worse afore it's over. Can you walk?”
Taking an unsteady step, Pug nodded. Without a word the man shouldered the
pig and took his bow. “Come,” he said, as he turned toward the forest. He set off
at a brisk pace, which Pug had to scramble to match.
The forest cut the fury of the storm so little that conversation was impossible.
A lightning flash lit the scene for a moment, and Pug caught a glimpse of the
man's face. Pug tried to remember if he had seen the stranger before. He had the
look common to the hunters and foresters that lived in the forest of Crydee:
large-shouldered, tall, and solidly built. He had dark hair and beard and the raw,
weather-beaten appearance of one who spends most of his time outdoors.
For a few fanciful moments the boy wondered if he might be some member
of an outlaw band, hiding in the heart of the forest. He gave up the notion, for no
outlaw would trouble himself with an obviously penniless keep boy.
Remembering the man had mentioned having a master, Pug suspected he was
a franklin, one who lived on the estate of a landholder. He would be in the
holder's service, but not bound to him as a bondsman. The franklins were
freeborn, giving a share of crop or herd in exchange for the use of land. He must
be freeborn. No bondsman would be allowed to carry a longbow, for they were
much too valuable-and dangerous. Still, Pug couldn't remember any
landholdings in the forest. It was a mystery to the boy, but the toll of the day's
abuses was quickly driving away any curiosity.
AFTER WHAT SEEMED to be hours, the man walked into a thicket of trees.
Pug nearly lost him in the darkness, for the sun had set some time before, taking
with it what faint light the storm had allowed. He followed the man more from
the sound of his footfalls and an awareness of his presence than from sight. Pug
sensed he was on a path through the trees, for his footsteps met no resisting
brush or detritus. From where they had been moments before, the path would be
difficult to find in the daylight, impossible at night, unless it was already known.
Soon they entered a clearing, in the midst of which sat a small stone cottage.
Light shone through a single window, and smoke rose from the chimney. They
crossed the clearing, and Pug wondered at the storm's relative mildness in this
one spot in the forest.
Once before the door, the man stood to one side and said, “You go in, boy. I
must dress the pig.”
Nodding dumbly, Pug pushed open the wooden door and stepped in.
“Close that door, boy! You'll give me a chill and cause me my death.”
Pug jumped to obey, slamming the door harder than he intended.
He turned, taking in the scene before him. The interior of the cottage was a
small single room. Against one wall was the fireplace, with a good-size hearth
before it. A bright, cheery fire burned, casting a warm glow. Next to the fireplace
a table sat, behind which a heavyset, yellow-robed figure rested on a bench. His
grey hair and beard nearly covered his entire head, except for a pair of vivid blue
eyes that twinkled in the firelight. A long pipe emerged from the beard,
producing heroic clouds of pale smoke.
Pug knew the man. “Master Kulgan . . . .,” he began, for the man was the
Duke's magician and adviser, a familiar face around the castle keep.
Kulgan leveled a gaze at Pug, then said in a deep voice, given to rich rolling
sounds and powerful tones, “So you know me, then?”
“Yes, sir. From the castle.”
“What is your name, boy from the keep?”
“Pug, Master Kulgan.”
“Now I remember you.” The magician absently waved his hand. “Do not call
me 'Master,' Pug -- though I am rightly called a master of my arts,” he said with
a merry crinkling around his eyes. “I am higherborn than you, it is true, but not
by much. Come, there is a blanket hanging by the fire, and you are drenched.
Hang your clothes to dry, then sit there.” He pointed to a bench opposite him.
Pug did as he was bid, keeping an eye on the magician the entire time. He
was a member of the Duke's court, but still a magician, an object of suspicion,
generally held in low esteem by the common folk. If a farmer had a cow calve a
monster, or blight strike the crops, villagers were apt to ascribe it to the work of
some magician lurking in nearby shadows. In times not too far past they would
have stoned Kulgan from Crydee as like as not. His position with the Duke
earned him the tolerance of the townsfolk now, but old fears died slowly.
After his garments were hung, Pug sat down. He started when he saw a pair
of red eyes regarding him from just beyond the magician's table. A scaled head
rose up above the tabletop and studied the boy.
Kulgan laughed at the boy's discomfort. “Come, boy. Fantus will not eat
you.” He dropped his hand to the head of the creature, who sat next to him on his
bench, and rubbed above its eye ridges. It closed its eyes and gave forth a soft
crooning sound, not unlike the purring of a cat.
Pug shut his mouth, which had popped open with surprise, then asked, “Is he
truly a dragon, sit?”
The magician laughed, a rich, goodnatured sound. “Betimes he thinks he is,
boy. Fantus is a firedrake, cousin to the dragon, though of smaller stature.” The
creature opened one eye and fastened it on the magician. “But of equal heart,”
Kulgan quickly added, and the drake closed his eye again. Kulgan spoke softly,
in conspiratorial tones. “He is very clever, so mind what you say to him. He is a
creature of finely fashioned sensibilities.”
Pug nodded that he would. “Can he breathe fire?” he asked, eyes wide with
wonder. To any boy of thirteen, even a cousin to a dragon was worthy of awe.
“When the mood suits him, he can belch out a flame or two, though he seems
rarely in the mood. I think it is due to the rich diet I supply him with, boy. He has
not had to hunt for years, so he is something out of practice in the ways of
drakes. In truth, I spoil him shamelessly.”
Pug found the notion somehow reassuring. If the magician cared enough to
spoil this creature, no matter how outlandish, then he seemed somehow more
human, less mysterious. Pug studied Fantus, admiring how the fire brought
golden highlights to his emerald scales. About the size of a small hound, the
drake possessed a long, sinuous neck atop which rested an alligatorlike head. His
wings were folded across his back, and two clawed feet extended before him,
aimlessly pawing the air, while Kulgan scratched behind bony eye ridges. His
long tail swung back and forth, inches above the floor.
The door opened and the big bowman entered, holding a dressed and spitted
loin of pork before him. Without a word he crossed to the fireplace and set the
meat to cook. Fantus raised his head, using his long neck to good advantage to
peek over the table. With a flick of his forked tongue, the drake jumped down
and, in stately fashion, ambled over to the hearth. He selected a warm spot
before the fire and curled up to doze away the wait before dinner.
The franklin unfastened his cloak and hung it on a peg by the door. “Storm
