Steel And Flame (Book 1) Read Free Page A

had
momentum, he continued to roll into the patch of rash ivy he had carefully
avoided earlier.
    He groaned in pain.
    Master Pate glared at him from the pathway on the
hill.  Pate’s irritation stirred memories, reminding Marik that he was indeed
supposed to be at the mill collecting good woodcuts with Pate’s son, Allen.  In
the excitement of watching the caravan prepare to leave, he had completely
forgotten about it.
    “Oh…that’s right!  I’m on my way.”  He crawled out of
the rash ivy and started to stand.  The pain in his ankle nearly sent him back
in.  It must have shown, but Pate’s expression lost none of its edge.
    “Never you mind that now, boy.  You get yourself
washed up before the ivy sets in your skin.  I’ll go down to the mill
and help Allen bring the good cuts to the shop since you can’t be bothered to
do it yourself!”
    “I can do it, sir…I just forgot.  I’ll run down right
now.”  He could not afford to have Pate throw him out.  It would end his
apprenticeship, which would cause him little grief, except it would create too
many troubles at the same time.  Pate spent most of his days being annoyed with
him so Marik felt uncertain exactly how angry the man was this time.
    “You can’t even stand.  How do you plan to run?”
    “I can stand,” Marik insisted.  He stood straighter. 
His ankle buckled momentarily which he tried his best to hide.
    “Go get yourself washed.”
    “Yes, sir.”  Marik stepped for the road.  He refused
to limp.
    “And if my shop gets covered in rash ivy, I’ll take it
out of your hide!  Don’t you think I won’t!”
    “Yes, sir,” he repeated while Pate followed the path
toward the river beyond the hill.  When Pate left his sight, Marik paused to
glance at the distant caravan.  It had moved far off, disappearing through the
hills.
    In trepidation of what Pate would have in store for
him later, he wished more than ever that he was riding alongside them.
     
    *        *        *        *        *
     
    Marik felt depressed.  His itching skin did little to
improve his mood.  He picked at his meal in Puarri’s Tavern.  The owner was
generous enough to spot a friend’s son the price of a meal from time to time. 
Tonight, Marik did not want to go home yet, so he took advantage of Puarri’s
kindness.
    Being the son of a sword-for-hire guaranteed he would
never be worth more than refuse in the townsfolk’s eyes.  The king could come
in person to decorate him for exemplary service to the crown, and the people of
Tattersfield would assume he had stolen credit for another man’s deeds.  That
he was a sixteen-year-old apprentice with no knowledge in his craft only added
fuel to that fire.
    Pate disliked him.  He had not desired an apprentice,
a fledgling who would usurp the time he devoted to training his own son.  The
woodcrafter especially did not want a mercenary’s get who understood nothing
involved with woodworking.  Good, kind, gentle Master Pate had only accepted
Marik as a favor to Lilly, Marik’s mother, and because the charitable act
garnered him prestige from the other townsfolk.  With Rail missing these last
five years, Lilly had received a small amount of sympathy from Tattersfield as
a widowed mother.
    This never bothered Marik before.  He knew that
obstacles like Pate could be overcome.  And they had never received any
confirmations of Rail’s death.  Rail Drakkson was not the sort of man to die in
obscurity without being discovered.  Deep inside, hidden within the crevasses
of his heart, he would only accept that Rail was dead when he personally gazed
upon his father’s corpse.  Somewhere out in the world, Rail still used his
considerable mercenary skill to forge his way.
    But why had he left his son and wife to fend for
themselves for five long years?  Marik’s pride in his father did little to dull
that question’s bitter edge, a question which occurred with