Intellect

  Intellect

  A Prelude to the Shards story

  https://www.amazon.com/Prelude-Shards-Coven-Anthology-ebook/dp/B07DTKY6ZJ/

  Michael Timmins

  Chapter One

  The fall should have killed him. By bending his knees, and tucking his body into a roll, he managed to keep himself from breaking his legs and quite possibly ending his life. Quint didn’t allow his surprise to slow him though. Getting his legs under him, he jumped up and ran for the stables behind the Best Run Inn. The inn sat on the West Trading Road, which ran the length of Dorvin, a modest town east of Kael deep on the borderlands of Born.

  It was a few hours after the middle bell, and the town blended into the night except for patches of light from the street lamps which created flying insect-ridden pools of illumination flanking the road. Little of their glow reached the corner of the stables however. With difficulty, Quint navigated to the rear of the inn and around to the stables.

  The smell of horse dung nearly overwhelmed him, its pungent odor hitting him like a wall as he rounded the corner into the stable’s main door. As he had guessed, a lone guardsman from Captain Murl’s unit was keeping watch for him, but Quint was ready. Without slowing, he closed the distance to the guard. The man was turning his way when Quint clouted him with the hilt of his sword, dropping him where he stood.

  “You should have killed him.”

  “I know,” Quint told his companion, “but I’m not a murderer.”

  Sheathing his sword, he mounted his horse. The stable boy had been told to leave his horse saddled. He learned long ago, always to be ready to run. Taking a moment, he took stock of himself. Tall and lean. He had carried more weight at one time, but the constant running had worn him down, and he was no longer the man he had once been. Still muscular, but much of the definition had faded from the lack of being able to properly care of himself. Seldom was he able to eat well or sleep well. Seemingly, he had been running for years, though it was closer to nine months.

  Brushing back his black, tangled hair hanging in front of his eyes, he checked to make sure his leather hauberk was properly cinched, and his sword belt was tight. A sound from the front of the inn caused him to glance up. His green eyes, which sat deep below a pronounced forehead, shown in the lamplight as he tried to make out any movement indicating they had realized he had eluded them again.

  Seconds passed, and the sound didn’t come again, so he dismissed it and went back to making sure he was ready to leave. As near as he could tell, since his possessions were few, he had everything.

  When he was sure he had everything, he brought his horse around and exited the stables at a slow trot. Not wanting to draw attention to himself by making more noise than was necessary, he rode unhurriedly, but when the shouts went up from inside and out of the Inn, he kicked his horse into a gallop, not bothering to peek back to see if there would be pursuit there would be.

  This would not be the first time he would escape Captain Murl, and he certainly hoped it wouldn’t be the last. He had become skilled at evading the man, but he knew eventually his luck would run out.

  Giving his horse the reins, he let him run at full speed down West Trading Road heading east. It was the direction he had been heading when he arrived, and he hoped with this knowledge, Captain Murl would continue his pursuit the same way. Quint’s true destination was the city of Stormland, where he hoped to gain passage to the Isle of Sleet on the Sea of Vint. Once there he would seek an audience with the Witch of Time. It was said the Witch of Time could follow your life’s timeline and read your past, as well as possible futures. He wasn’t sure if he believed the latter, but it didn’t matter anyway. What he was concerned with, was his past. If she could see his past, she could prove he was innocent, and he could stop running.

  The Witches of Covenhome were the only ones allowed to use magic. Though, it hadn’t always been the case. There used to be other magics besides Witch’s magic or Aspect magic as it was truly called. There was Essence magic, and Blood magic. Those had long since been eradicated. Sure, there were rumors of those who still carried the forbidden magics, but they were either charlatans or if they did, it wouldn’t be long before they were hunted down by the Shen — the magic hunters. Essence magic and Blood magic were considered dangerous, and so those who did have the talent were also considered dangerous and were treated as such.

  The one thing he did know, Covenhome was the place where he would find the Witch of Time. As one of the Coven, she would either be there or would be arriving there eventually. As the arbiters and ultimate law of the Eastern Cantons of Rowens, their seat of power resided in Covenhome, though they traveled throughout the Cantons to address various issues.

  The Coven had come to power over three hundred years ago and was the most commanding force in the realm. With the eradication of other forms of magic, few could stand up to them. There was little reason to do so, however. The Witches were benign in their rulership, allowing the local lords, be it King, Queen, Minister or Congress to rule their respective Cantons.

  The Coven legion, the only standing army allowed, owed their allegiance to the Witches, and were stationed throughout the Cantons. They assisted the leaders of each Canton to maintain peace, both within their own lands, and between the others. As such, it had led to the longest peace the realm had seen in a thousand years.

  The Witches themselves rarely concerned themselves with the day to day of ruling; instead they addressed matters concerning their sphere of influence of magic. What it entailed he didn’t know, all of it was beyond Quint’s knowledge or concern.

  His main concern was getting to Covenhome, and to do so, he needed to avoid being arrested. With that in mind, Quint turned his horse down a side street before he reached the edge of town and brought his horse into the yard of a small two-story home resting on the corner of the West Trading Road and this unnamed side street he found himself on. The owner of the home was also the proprietor of a general store near the center of town.

  *

  When Quint first arrived in town he crossed to the East gate to find what he was looking for. A house just off the main road, near the eastern gate. After several inquiries, he learned the owner of the home’s name and where he could be located. The fact he was a businessman would unfortunately make what he needed cost more than he would have liked, but that couldn’t be helped. Luckily, he didn’t hurt for coin due to his family’s inheritance.

  Entering the man’s shop, he wandered aimlessly around, stopping occasionally in front of this or that display, his eyes never focusing on any of the merchandise. Instead he casually watched the clientele, waiting for a moment when the shop was near empty.

  When, at last, there was only one or two customers in the store, Quint decided to approach the owner, whom, he had somewhere along the way, lost sight of. As he glanced around to locate him, he was shocked to find him standing just to his right.

  The shopkeeper was a robust man of middling height. His rather bulbous nose, like a red ball stuck to his face, was marred by deep blue veins crawling all over its surface. Big bushy red eyebrows covered quite a lot of his forehead, like Bornian caterpillars, and were the only indication of his hair color, since his pate was bald. The color of his eyebrows and his bright blue eyes marked him as a northerner. Quint wondered why he was here, since northerners were seldom seen this far south, let alone owning a business. There was little doubt he was the owner. His money belt hung low under his expansive belly, along with a short wooden cudgel, a wicked looking stick with a bulbous knot at the top. A mace he used to deal with the occasional lifters. Running a finger down its handle, he eyed Quint.

  “Can I be helping you sir?” The man spoke in the northerner dialect.

  Taking a moment to scan th
e room, Quint made sure there was no one in earshot.

  “I am hoping. You are Selsen? The owner of this establishment?”

  “That be me,” the man responded reservedly, unsure of where this was going.

  “Are you also the owner of the home near the end of the West Trading Road as it leaves the east side of town?”

  “That would be me, as well.” Again, reservedly, less sure of the conversation.

  Looking around again, Quint was relieved it was still clear.

  “I have a proposition for you. I may have need of a stable and a room tonight.”

  “I be suggesting you find yourself an Inn,” Selsen replied, undoubtedly aware this suggestion wasn’t going to go far.

  Quint smiled wanly.

  “I already did, but for reasons I would rather not go into, it may become impossible for me to continue to stay there tonight, and I may need a less public place to stay. It so happens your home is ideally located for what I find myself needing.”

  Selsen eyed him, narrowing his eyes, the caterpillars climbing down further to take a closer look. But Quint could tell the idea of making some money here was fast eroding the man’s caution.

  “Well, it be sounding a little bit like something that might bring me trouble.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “I may not have to make use of the room, but I am prepared to pay you in advance regardless of whether I stay or not.” Quint cocked his head to one side and lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Though, I hope with that in mind, you won’t charge me too much. I am, as I said, already paying for a room at an Inn.”

  The man’s lips drooped in a frown. It didn’t appear authentic.

  “It be five gold.”

  Quint’s mouth dropped. He had suspected this would cost him, just not this dearly. For five gold, he could almost certainly buy a quarter of the products in the man’s store. Could rent a room at the best Inn in town for two weeks. Evidently, this man understood Quint’s need and planned to exploit it as best as he could.

  The need to tread carefully here meant he couldn’t outright refuse the cost. Affording the price was one thing. His money was not endless though, and he would care not to waste it uselessly. Five gold was a lot, but he didn’t want to risk insulting the man. Push the man in the wrong direction, and he could quickly become someone who would make themselves available to Captain Murl.

  “Three gold, for the use of your home and stable, and for that price…” Quint leaned in close to Selsen. “The complete loss of your memory for anything involving me,” he whispered.

  Selsen nodded swiftly at the price, which made Quint flinch inwardly, knowing now he could have offered much less. Quint shrugged, knowing what was done, was done.

  “I be leaving the back door unlatched for you, and there be the old cook’s room at the last door on the left of the hallway that be just inside the door,” Selsen told him quietly.

  Slipping the man the gold, Quint left and made his way to the Best Run Inn.

  “You overpaid.”

  “And you always have a knack for pointing out the obvious,” he replied to his companion. Even though he knew he didn’t need to, he said the words aloud. Thinking the words would have sufficed, but it was difficult for him to remember to do so. This, of course, had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion. People either think you are talking to yourself like a crazy person or talking to them… like a crazy person.

  “Just trying to helpful,” his companion responded.

  “No, you were trying to be a pain. Being helpful would have been telling me before I offered the three gold. It’s not as though you didn’t know what I was going to offer,” Quint retorted.

  Quint walked in silence, his companion unusually quiet.

  *

  The inn on the east side of town was a modest three-story building. When he had entered, the common room was full of varying people from all over Born, and a few from other locales. There were a couple of northerners, their red hair stood in contrast to most of the black-haired folk from the central lands. There was even a pale blonde man from the far west.

  It was difficult to make it to the bar, and found himself jostled, receiving many a sour look as he pushed his way through the throng of people. The atmosphere within the inn was stale and heavy. A fog of smoke from tabac and the hearth made everything seem faint and obscured. Eventually he found a stool which had been vacated. After several attempts to gain the barkeep’s attention, he finally got some indication the man saw him, though it was another few minutes before he made is way down to Quint.

  The man nodded at him as he approached, leaning slightly in to be able to hear anything Quint might say.

  “What can I get you?” The man behind the bar asked. He cleaned out a wooden mug with a dirty rag, placing it at the bar in front of him. Quint eyed the man. The barkeep was the tallest man he had ever seen. Well over seven feet tall, and easily 300 pounds. Noticeably, the man had Havin blood, the giant folk from the plains far to the south. His rusty brown eyes confirmed it, along with the feather fetishes braided in the man’s greasy black hair. Not a true blood though, since they were closer to nine feet.

  “Ale, and a room please.”

  The man took his turn eyeing Quint over, as if deciding whether to tell him about the room.

  “Ale I’ve got, the room is another thing. I’ve only got one left, and it’s on the third floor facing the back alley.”

  Quint sighed. He did not want a room up so high. The special mention of the back alley by the barkeep was understandable. The back alley was where most of the refuse got tossed, not to mention other questionable things, which meant for an aromatic night stay. But, it was already getting late, and the gods knew he had stayed in worse places.

  “I’ll take it.” Quint motioned for the man to fill his cup.

  The man nodded and poured him an ale into the wooden goblet he had placed down earlier.

  With little bartering, they agreed upon a price for the ale and the room. Quint also decided upon a meal, which he ate quietly at the bar.

  Finishing his meal, he made his way up to his room. Two hours later he was jumping out of his room’s window and running for his life.

  *

  Captain Murl Johns stood staring out of the third story window, his quarry had once again eluded him. Standing stiffed backed, with his leather riding gloves in one hand, draped over the other, he listened to his sergeant’s report; Quint Linksill had once again escaped.

  In the almost nine months he had been trying to capture Quint, he had aged much. The toll of the constant chase had worn him down. Once he had been slightly heavyset, with a face, full and cherub like. He had been, what many would qualify as ‘fleshy’.

  That all changed after he volunteered for the task of chasing this man. Now, he had shed the extra pounds, his face had lost its fullness and appeared slack, like dripped wax on the side of a candle. He was a tall man, with short cut blonde hair, dark brown, almost black eyes, hiding under folds of skin from a once full forehead. He was not a good-looking man not now, at least. In the past, he was thought of as pleasant looking by the ladies of the court; though never by the lady he wished the most. They would all look away from him now, if they saw him the shallow trolls.

  He wouldn’t be returning to court yet though, it appeared. The chase to catch Quint would continue, until he caught him as he volunteered to do. Though, if the Minister of Lorowill knew why he volunteered, he would not have only refused the request, but would have hung him as well.

  All the more reason he needed to take care of Quint once and for all. And yet, the man continued to elude him. But, things had changed now. Now, he believed, he had deduced where the man was heading. Even though Quint appeared to be running away haphazardly, his path always took him further east.

  Johns had believed the man must be heading to Covenhome, to plead his case before the Witches. He hadn’t been sure. A
t least, not until found the Blood Mage in the last village they had passed. A quiet shiver coursed through his body at the memory. It had been an evil thing, a necessary evil though, for the information he gained was invaluable.

  *

  The night was dark, one even the moon had decided to avoid making a show in. Dark clouds obscured it so completely, not even the slightest silver illuminated the night. After missing Quint by several hours, it had been pointless to continue the chase through the night and the company decided to shelter in this unnamed village for the night.

  A rumor of a Blood Mage living just outside the village caught his ear as he surmised it was meant to.

  The village was frightened of the Mage. They must have assumed, by putting Johns on the scent of the law breaker, the Captain would eliminate the Mage. By making it appear like a rumor, it avoided the risk of any reprisal by the Mage if Johns didn’t succeed.

  But, Johns had a different idea. He needed to confirm what he thought about Quint’s destination. He needed information, information only this Mage could hopefully provide.

  Deciding to go alone, he left instructions on what to do in case he didn’t return. There was no reason to risk his entire company to this man, and if he died doing this, there would be no reason to continue to chase Quint. They would understand soon enough after he was gone.

  The dirt path, if it could be called one, wound its way deeper into the forest which surrounded the village. Stretched before him like a dark brown snake, he tentatively traveled the path. It was clear to him, by the guttering light of the torch he carried, this path was seldom used. It looked little more than a wide game trail.

  Perhaps it was Johns’ unease, but he couldn’t help but feel the forest closing in around him as he moved further along, flanking him like an army of tall sentinels bent on his annihilation. The dark of the night was oppressive in its nature, made darker by the thick canopy above him.