Raymond E. Feist - Riftwar Saga 1a - Magician Apprentice

Magician: Apprentice -

Raymond E. Feist

Part One of a Two Part Story

1 - Storm

The storm hadbroken.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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?”

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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.”

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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.

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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, good-natured 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.

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The franklin unfastened his cloak and hung it on a peg by the door. “Storm will pass afore dawn, I'm

thinking.” He returned to the fire and prepared a basting of wine and herbs for the pig. Pug was startled

to see a large scar that ran down the left side of the man's face, showing red and angry in the firelight.

Kulgan waved his pipe in the franklin's direction. “Knowing my tight-lipped man here, you'll not have

made his proper acquaintance. Meecham, this boy is Pug, from the keep at Castle Crydee.” Meecham

gave a brief nod, then returned to tending the roasting loin.

Pug nodded back, though a bit late for Meecham to notice. “I never thought to thank you for saving

me from the boar.”

Meecham replied, “There's no need for thanks, boy. Had I not startled the beast, it's unlikely it would

have charged you.” He left the hearth and crossed over to another part of the room, took some brown

dough from a clothcovered bucket, and started kneading.

“Well, sir,” said Pug to Kulgan, “it was his arrow that killed the pig. It was indeed fortunate that he

was following the animal.”

Kulgan laughed. “ The poor creature, who is our most welcome guest for dinner, happened to be as

much a victim of circumstance as yourself.”

Pug looked perplexed. “I don't follow, sit.”

Kulgan stood and took down an object from the topmost shelf on his bookcase and placed it on the

table before the boy. It was wrapped in a cover of dark blue velvet, so Pug knew at once it must be a

prize of great value for such an expensive material to be used for covering. Kulgan removed the velvet,

revealing an orb of crystal that gleamed in the firelight. Pug gave an ah of pleasure at the beauty of it, for it

was without apparent flaw and splendid in its simplicity of form.

Kulgan pointed to the sphere of glass. “This device was fashioned as a gift by Althafain of Carse, a

most puissant artificer of magic, who thought me worthy of such a present, as I have done him a favor or

two in the past but that is of little matter. Having just this day returned from the company of Master

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Althafain, I was testing his token. Look deep into the orb, Pug.”

Pug fixed his eyes on the ball and tried to follow the flicker of firelight that seemed to play deep within

its structure. The reflections of the room, multiplied a hundredfold, merged and danced as his eyes tried

to fasten upon each aspect within the orb. They flowed and blended, then grew cloudy and obscure. A

soft white glow at the center of the ball replaced the red of firelight, and Pug felt his gaze become trapped

by its pleasing warmth. Like the warmth of the kitchen at the keep, he thought absently.

Suddenly the milky white within the ball vanished, and Pug could see an image of the kitchen before

his eyes. Fat Alfan the cook was making pastries, licking the sweet crumbs from his fingers. This brought

the wrath of Megar, the head cook, down upon his head, for Megar considered it a disgusting habit. Pug

laughed at the scene, one he had witnessed before many times, and it vanished. Suddenly he felt tired.

Kulgan wrapped the orb in the cloth and put it away. “You did well, boy,” he said thoughtfully. He

stood watching the boy for a moment, as if considering something, then sat down. “I would not have

suspected you of being able to fashion such a clear image in one try, but you seem to be more than you

first appear to be.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind, Pug.” He paused for a moment, then said, “I was using that toy for the first time, judging

how far I could send my sight,, when I spied you making for the road. From your limp and bruised

condition, I judged that you would never reach the town, so I sent Meecham to fetch you.”

Pug looked embarrassed by the unusual attention, color rising to his checks. He said, with a

thirteen-year old's high estimation of his own ability, “You needn't have done that, sir. I would have

reached the town in due time.”

Kulgan smiled. “Perhaps, but then again, perhaps not. The storm is unseasonably severe and perilous

for traveling.”

Pug listened to the soft tattoo of rain on the roof of the cottage. The storm seemed to have slackened,

and Pug doubted the magician's words. As if reading the boy's thought, Kulgan said, “Doubt me not,

Pug. This glade is protected by more than the great boles. Should you pass beyond the circle of oaks that

marks the edge of my holding, you would feel the storm's fury. Meecham, how do you gauge this wind?”

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Meecham put down the bread dough he was kneading and thought for a moment. “Near as bad as

the storm that beached six ships three years back.” He paused for a moment, as if reconsidering the

estimate, then nodded his endorsement. “Yes, nearly as bad, though it won't blow so long.”

Pug thought back three years to the storm that had blown a Quegan trading fleet bound for Crydee

onto the rocks of Sailor's Grief. At its height, the guards on the castle walls were forced to stay in the

towers, lest they be blown down. If this storm was that severe, then Kulgan's magic was impressive, for

outside the cottage it sounded no worse than a spring rain.

Kulgan sat back on the bench, occupied with trying to light his extinguished pipe. As he produced a

large cloud of sweet white smoke, Pug's attention wandered to a case of books standing behind the

magician. His lips moved silently as he tried to discern what was written on the bindings, but could not.

Kulgan lifted an eyebrow and said, “So you can read, aye?”

Pug started, alarmed that he might have offended the magician by intruding on his domain. Kulgan,

sensing his embarrassment, said, “It is all right, boy. It is no crime to know letters.”

Pug felt his discomfort diminish. “I can read a little, sir. Megar the cook has shown me how to read

the tallies on the stores laid away for the kitchen in the cellars. I know some numbers, as well.”

“Numbers, too,” the magician exclaimed goodnaturedly. “Well, you are something of a rare bird.” He

reached behind himself and pulled out one volume, bound in red-brown leather, from the shelf. He

opened it, squinting at one page, then another, and at last found a page that seemed to meet his

requirements. He turned the open book around and lay it upon the table before Pug. Kulgan pointed to a

page illuminated by a magnificent design of snakes, flowers, and twining vines in a colorful design around

a large letter in the upper left corner. “Read this, boy.”

Pug had never seen anything remotely like it. His lessons had been on plain parchment with letters

fashioned in Megar's blunt script, using a charcoal stick- He sat, fascinated by the details of the work,

then realized the magician was staring at him. Regaining his wits, he began to read.

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Raymond E. Feist - Riftwar Saga 1a - Magician Apprentice

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