Lochlan

Chapter 1“Lochlan!” “Now what?” the young man grumbled. “Lochlan, I need you. Now!” Mage Roland called from his workroom. “Why does this always happen when I’m busy?” Lochlan said with a sigh of frustration as he put down the whetstone and sheathed his dagger. Not that he wasn’t used to it. It came with what he was: Mage Roland’s son by adoption—the abandoned infant Roland had found many years ago and taken under his wing. As soon as Lochlan was old enough to understand what being a mage entailed, Roland had made him his apprentice. Until recently, it primarily meant doing menial chores to help out in the workroom. It really didn’t bother him because what he learned by watching his father fascinated him. Then, two years previously, Roland had begun teaching him minor healing and protective spells. In what spare time he had between his chores and now his lessons, Lochlan had also taught himself the skills needed to become a thief, an avocation which had come in handy more than once. “You hollered?” Lochlan asked as he strolled into the workroom. Roland smiled wryly. “I did, because you don’t seem to hear me if I use a normal tone of voice. Sit, please.” He gestured to a stool next to the long table lined covered empty and full bottles, mortar and pestles, bowls, and a vast array of containers filled with various herbs, powders, and other materials he used for healing potions and to augment his spellcasting. In the center of one wall there was a fireplace with a caldron hanging from a hook. A window at the far end of the room looked out over the main road, and a door on the last wall, set between shelves filled with books, led to Roland’s bedroom and the small study to one side of it. Lochlan did as he was told, c*****g his head in question. “Lord Anfroy of Folkestone has something I need but he doesn’t know I do. Even if he did, he wouldn’t give it to me willingly.” “Oh, I see. So you’re sending me on a quest to pick it up for you.” Roland nodded. “You’re the only one I trust who has the skills needed to be able to retrieve it.” “In other words, I’m the best thief in the kingdoms.” Lochlan smirked. “At least in this one.” “One of the best I know of, and I am aware of many of them, of course.” Lochlan bowed his head to acknowledge Roland’s words. “What is it and do you have any thoughts on where he keeps it?” “A small flask of Vampyre blood. As to where he keeps it, I leave finding it up to you.” Lochlan sucked in a breath. “How did he manage to obtain it? I mean the blood.” “Rumor has it, and I believe it is true, that he and three of his men were attacked by a Vampyre while out hunting in Glenarif Forest, close to the foot of Ayr Peak. The creature and two of the lord’s men did not survive. However, the lord and the last of his men did and somehow Lord Anfroy was able to drain and seal some of the creature’s blood in the flask he was carrying before it died.” “And, as happens with Vampyres, at its death it turned into ashes,” Lochlan said, getting a nod from Roland. “Why didn’t the blood become ashes as well?” “Because as I said, Lord Anfroy managed to seal the flask before the creature’s death, I suppose.” Lochlan rolled his eyes. “So all this is based on a tale he probably told to enhance his image.” “He has said nothing,” Roland replied. “The story, or rumor if you prefer, came from the other survivor, who died from his wounds the following day.” Lochlan shook his head in disbelief. “You want me to go on a wild goose chase for something that may not exist.” “Yes, because if it does, I may be able to come up with a potion and a spell to go with it that will protect those seeking to destroy the coven of Vampyres that makes its home in the mountains. As you well know, they will hunt and kill anyone they come across in their nocturnal wanderings, and have a particular fondness for young women who fall into their clutches.” Lochlan nodded. “Virginal young women, or so it is told, because they believe their blood will extend a Vampyre’s powers beyond what is normal for the creatures.” “Precisely. Thus my desire to create the potion to protect those who are searching for the coven.” “That would be a good thing,” Lochlan replied dryly. “Presuming someone can find where their home is, which hasn’t happened so far.” “True. The first step, however, is to come up the protection and I believe I can.” Lochlan slid off the stool to stand at his full height, which was somewhat less than one and three-quarters of a meter, well below Roland’s gangly almost two meters. “How soon do you want me to leave?” “Yesterday?” Roland chuckled. “Not really, but as soon as you can prepare yourself for the journey.” “Will I have a horse?” Lochlan’s look said he prayed he would since the distance from Whitehaven to Folkestone was almost sixty-five kilometers on a road that left much to be desired as it was hilly and more dirt than pavement for most of the way. “Since this is a secret mission…” Lochlan sighed. “I thought as much.” “Best to be on the lookout for the werewolves when you travel through the forest,” Roland added. “As if I needed you telling me. All right, let me get ready.” Lochlan ticked off on his fingers, “Clothes, food, my dagger, sword, and tools.” “And for the love of all that’s holy, remember the protection spells I’ve taught you.” Lochlan tapped his forehead. “They are burned into my memory, I promise.” He slipped out of the workroom after saying goodbye, walked down to his small room at the end of the lantern-lit corridor that separated the workroom and Roland’s bedroom from the his room, the guest quarters, and the bathing room. “What clothes to take,” he murmured. Not that he had many choices. Despite his tacit relation to Roland, in reality he was only a step above the mage’s servants. Thus his clothing choices were less than opulent except for two outfits he wore when Roland wanted him present when he was entertaining friends, most of who were either mages as well or members of Whitehaven’s merchant class. Opening the trunk at the foot of his bed, he took out two pairs of black breeches that had seen better days and two simple muslin tunics, one a deep brown, the other black. The belt he was already wearing held two sheathes; one for his short sword, the other for his dagger. With what he was already wearing, brown breeches and a rust tunic, he would be prepared for any eventuality during his travels to Folkestone—with the addition of a black hooded cloak and tall leather boots in place of his normal short, soft ones, although he would bring them with him as well. He considered his crossbow and its bolts and decided they would be more bother than they were worth. They were fine for hunting, but as protection against a surprise attack it would take too long to load the bow and shoot before he was brought down by a werewolf or a highwayman. His extra clothes went into a haversack along with the pouch that held his tools—a grappling hook, lockpicks, oil for squeaky hinges, and the like. When he was packed, with the haversack slung over one shoulder under his cloak, he went to the kitchen. The cook greeted him with a smile, telling him he was much too early for lunch. He explained he needed food to take with him—bread, meat, and cheese, as well as a flask of water. “On another errand for your father?” she asked, giving him a knowing look. “I’m afraid so. In Folkestone.” “Poor you.” She ruffled his long brown hair in a motherly way before gathering what he needed, which she put into a pouch he could hang from his belt next to his other one. “You’re beginning to look like a tramp,” she told him with a grin. “Actually, that’s not a bad thing,” he mused before thanking her. “You take care. We don’t want to lose you to the creatures at play out there.” “Don’t want to be lost,” he agreed. * * * * Lochlan stopped by the workshop long enough to tell Roland he was leaving, thanking him when he gave him a small pouch of coins, “To use at the Glenarif Inn, and whatever one you choose in Folkestone.” Then Lochlan left the house by the back entrance into the courtyard. Beyond it there was a narrow alley. To his right was Roland’s stable. He was tempted to disobey Roland and take one of the pair of horses or the mule that were housed there but didn’t. He knew Roland was correct; riding one of them might call unwanted attention to him. Besides which, he would be better able escape if he was on foot, on the off chance he did run into trouble—which was a definite possibility. He followed the alley between the backs of the houses that lined it until he reached the road that would take him through the city to the eastern gate and the one to Folkestone. As always, when he passed the shops catering to the wealthy of the city, he checked out what was on display in their windows. Nothing tempted him at the moment, a good thing, he decided. He didn’t want to waste any time trying to liberate a silver bowl or candlesticks which he could then sell to a man he knew who dealt in stolen goods. He was certain Roland was aware that he sometimes did that, but as he hadn’t chastised him, Lochlan continued when he was in need of extra money for something he desired. As he neared the gate, the houses became smaller until they were hovels pressed against the towering stone wall that surrounded Whitehaven. He pitied the people who lived in them, well aware that it was possible one of the couples with their myriad of children could have been his parents. A man and woman who couldn’t afford to raise another child so they abandoned me to my fate. If Roland hadn’t found me…He often thanked whoever had been watching over him for allowing that to happen, otherwise it was likely he would have died. My life may not be the best although Roland treats me fairly, but it is far better than what I see here. “Off on an errand for Mage Roland?” The voice of one of the guards at the eastern gate interrupted Lochlan’s dark thoughts. “Yes, sir. He needs some plants that only grow at the edge of Glenarif Forest.” “Be careful, lad.” The guard grinned. “But then I tell you that every time you leave the city and you seem to heed me because here you are, again.” “I do my best,” Lochlan replied. “I’d rather not fall prey to a werewolf if I can help it.” “Or any of the highway men who ride the road looking for victims.” The guard eyed Lochlan. “Not that they’d see much use in accosting you unless they knew who your father was.” “Which is doubtful, given how I’m dressed.” Lochlan ran his hand down his well-worn tunic. “Indeed. Well, good luck with your foraging. Remember to be back before the gates close for the night.” “I shall.” Lochlan saluted the man before hurrying through the arch. Ahead of him lay the road to Folkestone. Small cottages belonging to peasants who farmed the land close to the city dotted it at intervals along each side. Lochlan waved to a couple of the women who stood in doorways, getting waves in reply. Several common folk, each with a cart pulled by a donkey, came toward him or walked ahead of him. A merchant with his entourage cantered by, forcing him to move to the side of the road to let them pass. The sun was almost at its zenith, but it would be a long while before it lowered in the west. By then, Lochlan hoped to have reached the Glenarif Inn, which sat halfway through the forest in a glade at the northern side of the road. If not, he would be forced to find a safe spot to sleep, which were few and far between. The warmth from the sun made him wipe sweat from his forehead and take a drink of water, which was warm by then but sated his thirst. He returned the flask the pouch at his waist and pushed his cloak back off his shoulders as he crested a small rise in the road and saw two people, dressed almost as poorly as he, walking slowly ahead of him toward the forest. A farmer with his cart rode past them towards Whitehaven, and then past Lochlan, giving a wave as he did, which Lochlan returned. After that, there was only the couple ahead of him for as far as he could see on the hilly road. As he neared them, he heard the girl say to the young man who was perhaps a year older than her, “Do we have to go through the forest?” She appeared to be in her late teens and wore a simple calf-length muslin tunic over a cotton shift, with a girdle at the waist. She had a small haversack over one shoulder and a pouch attached to the girdle with a metal clasp. “Do we have a choice?” the young man replied. He glanced over his shoulder and froze, his hand going to the hilt of the battered short sword hanging from the belt at his waist which was worn over a tunic and breeches that were comparable to Lochlan’s. He also had a haversack, although much larger than his companion’s. “I’m no threat to you,” Lochlan called out, holding his hands away from his sides. “Why should I believe that,” the young man replied, turning to face him, doubt showing in his deep green eyes. Lochlan shrugged. “Because I say so?” The girl had turned by then as well. She looked him over and then said, while brushing back her long hair, which was two shades darker than the man’s. “He appears to be no better off than we are, Garratt.” “Which means he’s desperate and might try to rob us of what little we have, Maurenn.” “I certainly would not! I’m not a thief,” Lochlan protested. A lie, of course, but he wasn’t a highwayman who preyed on other travelers which was, he supposed, a fine distinction. He smiled at the girl called Maurenn and made a deep bow. “If you are afraid of the forest, as well you should be, allow me to travel with you. I’m heading to the Glenarif Inn which will be safe enough for the night, and I’m well versed in protecting myself and others if needs be.” “From werewolves?” Garratt snarled. Lochlan shrugged. “They can die just as we can.” “Only if you use a silver weapon on them.” “True.” Lochlan unsheathed his short sword. “The blade is edged with silver and blessed with a spell to keep it razor sharp.” Garratt snorted. “So you’re saying you’re a mage who can do that?” “No, but I’m apprenticed to one who wants to keep me safe in my travels. He’s the one who cast the spell.” Lochlan wasn’t certain why he was explaining all this to Garratt and Maurenn but somehow felt it was important that they know. “What are you called?” Maurenn asked. “Lochlan, at your service,” he replied, bowing again. “Your flashy ways will do you no good with her, she’s betrothed,” Garratt told him with a sneer. “To you? Then I pity her.” Maurenn laughed. “Not to him, he’s my brother. My betrothed is a blacksmith who lives in Folkestone. That’s why we’re going there, so I may meet him for the first time.” “You don’t know him already?” Lochlan asked in surprise. “No. The marriage was arranged by our parents.” Lochlan nodded, refraining on commenting on that, saying instead, “Why don’t we continue this discussion while we walk if we want to reach the inn before it gets dark.” Garratt seemed loath to take him up on his offer to accompany them until Maurenn said, “There is safety in numbers and he is well armed.” “This is true,” her brother replied with obvious reluctance, and he began striding down the road, leaving Lochlan and Maurenn in his wake. They hurried to catch up with him. When they did, Lochlan noticed that Garratt was taller than him, although not by much. Certainly nowhere near as tall as Roland. “What’s your hurry?” Lochlan asked. Garratt gestured toward the sky. “Rain is coming.” He was correct as dark clouds were gathering in the distance over the forest ahead of them. “When it comes, we can take shelter in the trees,” Lochlan replied. “With the werewolves?” Maurenn shuddered. “I guess we hope they don’t like rain anymore than we do.” “You guess?” Garratt said sardonically, shaking his head. “It is the best I can do, not being someone with psychic powers.” “Too bad. They’d probably keep us safer than your fancy sword.” “Garratt, stop,” Maurenn ordered. “He’s done nothing to warrant your anger.” Garratt blew out a sharp breath. “True, I suppose. We had best move faster if we’re going to beat the storm, or look for safe shelter.” “There are a few small houses ahead of us along the road,” Lochlan replied. “They belong to woodcutters, one of whom we can hope will take us in if we ask pleasantly.” He shot a sour look at Garratt. Garratt had the good grace to nod and flash a brief smile as they picked up the pace.