Apprentice Bound (chapter 3.5 and beyond)
an excerpt

The rats were quiet. Too quiet. Crimon peered into the old leather satchel of rats as he jostled it about, shaking them up and bouncing them around, simply to see how they would react. Normally, they would writhe around, screeching thier little rat cries, unhappy to be tumbled around in the shit encrusted leather sack. It pleased Crimon to disturb them. They deserved it, the filthy rats. And what did it matter to him. They were nothing but fuel for his spells. Little sacks of prime. He didn't care if they suffered some small inconvenience of being tossed about. But today, the rats made little chittering noises, righted themselves, and snuggled amonst themselves. They were acting very docile, and Crimon thought that strange. The storm, with its deafening thunderclaps, should at least have them in a frenzy, clambering over each other trying to scratch their way up the smooth waxy lining of the sack. And his continued shaking of the satchel would normally have made them very angry. But they were not behaving right. Crimon worried at a boil on his neck, rubbing the resulting ooze between his fingers until it was a tiny ball, and then absently flicked the remains away, after a few attempts. He was uneasy in this place. He couldn't quite figure it out, but the air had a heavy feel to it, even though at this altitude he was light-headed. It was as if he was at once being smothered and the air he gasped wasn't doing the trick. Best if he just got this blasted search over with and left this blasted fucking town.
Crimon didn't like it that Galbrath, in his blasted fucking wisdom, made him travel all this way up into the fucking mountains to search for clues, when Blaylock was already up here. Crimon had to admit that it did make some sense. Blaylok was weak, and had balked during their last mission. Puking. Shit, it was like the idiot had never seen a dead man before. That one was not to be trusted, apprentice bond or no. He was probably out at the funeral, crying his eyes out 'cause of his guilt over what they'd done to the bastard Captain. "Too fucking bad, pretty boy," Crimon muttered under his breath. "You took the vow same as me, and now you're as deep in this shit as I am. Best learn to fucking like it."
Crimon shut and clasped his rat sack, and vigorously shook it for spite. "That's right, ya little bastards," he whispered. "You fucking like it? You like that?" His eyes were drawn as tight as his cruel smile, and he felt malice rush through him.
He slapped the satchel as it dropped to his side, and continued his search the tidy room for anything that might prove useful to his master. Until now, there wasn't anything that Crimon thought Galbrath would find of interest. Only the usual things one might find in a dainty lass's bedroom. There was a bed, with a good feather tick that smelled of perfume. Crimon disliked perfume because it made him sneeze. Beside the bed was a table with a mirror for primping and various primping tools. Crimon examined his face in the mirror for a long time, coaxing pimple after pimple to gush forth its guts. He very much liked to squeeze and worry at his blemishes, and it was rare that he had the luxury of a mirror with which to aid him. Puss exploded onto the mirror in tiny goblets. Crimon cursed and made a mental note to find something to clean off the mirror when he was done. Didn't want to warn the little missy that some pimple popping intruder had misused her fine silver mirror. And that thing was a beaut, for certain. Very expensive. Must have cost a pretty pence to have it shipped all the way up here to this remote town, well off the road through the pass from Titan Keep to Brightbridge. The mirror had filigree on its oaken frame as well as flower that Crimon thought were roses etched around the borders of its face. Crimon watched a tiny rivulet of bloody puss slowly streak its way down the mirror. He chuckled. What would yon lass think of her fine mirror with my gore splattered all over it, he thought. Sure that she'd right vomit up her lunch. That I'd pay for. He imagined her coming home, weary after her father's funeral, all sad and weepy. She'd come upstairs to freshen up and to wipe all the cryin' away, and there would be his dried blood and puss. He let out another laugh, then spewed a few more bits of his foulness upon the mirror as he evacuated the contents of one last boil.
Crimon next turned his attention to the wardrobe, which was also a fancy oak affair, taller than his five and a half feet, with carvings of roses upon its doors. He went to open the doors of the wardrobe and jumped as thunder shook the house. It seemed to Crimon that the thunder clap originated directly outside the house, and it rolled on and on into the distance until all that was left was the thrumming of the heavy rain on the rooftop. Crimon cursed his nervousness and returned to the wardrobe. Inside he found a plethora of dresses and gowns, mostly practical and common. Two elegant dresses located at the far right side of the wardrobe caught his eye immediately. One was a deep blue velvet gown with golden thread and trimmings, the other a fluffy green affair that seemed quite small for the size of woman he was told Jessila to be. This dress looked more like a city girl's party dress, with ruffles and lace of varying hues of green. All the other garb inside were drab browns, grays, deep blues, maroons and black. There were a few breeches hanging on pegs in the back, and the floor was covered with neatly arrayed shoes and calf-high boots. A practical girl, Crimon thought, disappointed that the lass had no better taste. Galbrath hadn't exactly promised, but when this was all done, Crimon expected that the girl would be given to him. He had suggested it on several occasions, and Galbrath had not exactly said that it was out of the question. Crimon would definitely get some decent outfits to ravish off of her, once she was his.
Finding nothing more in the wardrobe, and Crimon had even checked for pouches and the contents of any pockets that he found. None had proffered up anything but common objects and lint. Disappointed Crimon moved to the foot-chest located by the bed. Within he discovered two pair of high riding boots, traveling clothes, several leather pouches and a rucksack. Within the pouches and rucksack were common traveling gear: rope, a tinder box, a small tin plate with utensils made of wrought iron, and the like.
Crimon glanced around the small bedroom once more, searching for anything he may have missed on the first go round. "What have we here?" he muttered as he discovered a small wooden box sitting atop the table near the still puss spewed mirror. He realized that he overlooked the dark cherry-wood box, which was inlaid with glistening ivory in an intricate geometric pattern. His smile broadened after he opened the box which was about two hands wide by one deep. The glint of silver, gold and jewels was a welcome sight to his greedy eyes. Rings, necklaces, pendants, and earrings glinted despite the diffuse light coming through the curtained windows. Crimon picked through the lot, which was about the only thing in the room which was not organized in a neat array, and lifted out a large, gold ring. It was obviously a man's ring, and bore a signet - in reverse, for use with a wax seal. The seal was nothing that Crimon recognized. It did not bear the anticipated lightning stroke which was the heraldic crest of the Stormbiter line. It was complex and intricate, and Crimon held it closer in an attempt to make out whose crest it depicted. But between its intricately small design, and the fact that it was in reverse, not to mention that Crimon was not heraldic expert, he was unable to determine just whose house the ring was from.
There had been a lull in the storm, for just then Crimon was certain he had heard a door closing somewhere below him. He set the ring on the bed, having moved to the window to examine the ring in better light, not that there was much of it left. Between the storm clouds and the darkening lateness of the day, the small bedroom had become quite dim. He quickly moved to the box and quietly shut it, placing it back into its position on the table. As he moved, however, a floorboard creaked underfoot, with a noticeably loud groan. Crimon wondered if the girl had returned from the funeral. It seemed to him that even if the funeral were over by now, it would still have taken the mourning party at least an hour to get back to Wealdon from the funeral site. That is what Blaylok had said, anyway. Of course, who can trust that inept apprentice. He couldn't find his way around a simple spell with all the fresh prime in the world.
Crimon's heart was pounding in anticipation. He would have to make a break for it. Galbrath's instructions were specific: find something to be used against the girl, something she treasures. That way Master Galbrath would have even more leverage against her, to coerce her or use against her, if she proved difficult. Crimon knew she would prove difficult. She was, after all, the daughter of Corbys Stormbiter, Captain of the Pillars of Titana. Her father was strong willed and obstinate. Galbrath nearly had to tap into his own prime that night that they infiltrated the encampment. Tapping one's own prime was a tricksy thing. One small slip and you can seriously, and permanently, injure - or even kill - yourself. Galbrath had gathered the finest gems, which were renown for their capacity to hold the largest amounts of prime, only surpassed by living beings. Galbrath's sapphires held an enormous amount of prime, and yet they just barely sufficed to power the spell used to overcome the captain's will. So if the lass's will was anything like her father's, anything that the master could use to persuade her, outside of the realm of using magic, would be of great value. And Crimon cringed each time his master used one those pretty gems to power his spells. Such a value, turned to dust in an instant. Thats why he preferred rats. They were plentiful, bred like - well, like rats - and worked almost as well as some of his master's less valuable gems. Living prime couldn't be beat, in Crimon's opinion.
Crimon flipped the latch on his satchel and pulled out a rat. He anticipated the painful bites the rats a hand thrust into his bag normally rendered. When drawing prime, gloves proved a barrier to the flow of magic, and would usually be consumed in the transfer of energy nonetheless, so Crimon became used to the annoyance of finger pricks his rats proffered. But today, thank prime, the rodents were placid, and no pricks and jabs accompanied the drawing forth of a rat. Tapping into his inner prime, he began the incantation for the silent barrier he was so fond of using. Whoever was downstairs would hear him walking across the floors, and opening the window for his escape. He did not look forward to climbing the side of the house in the downpour, but it certainly would not be the first time he was caught second-story, with no way out but to shimmy down a drain pipe, chimney, or any other gutter or handhold. The flow of prime rushed up his arm and into his chest as the rat gave a feeble squeak, then collapsed into a filmy dust in his hand. As he focused the prime and began to utter the incantation, he now had a fleeting understanding as to why his rats were so lethargic, and what that blanketing sensation he had felt while in Wealdon was. Wealdon was a pall zone, a place where magic was dampened or did not function at all. Once his spell was begun, Crimon had no choice but to complete it, such was the nature of magic. And if the pall sucked the rat's prime from his grasp, he had no choice but to replace it with his own prime, his own bodily essence. He thanked the stars that the quieting spell was a fairly elementary one, and would not kill him. But he grimaced as he poured forth his own precious energy, the magic in his flesh.
Crimon coughed up a portion of bloody phlegm and spat it on the floor. He sensed that his spell was weakened by the pall, yet was still in place. It wouldn't last long, and he had to act quickly. Unfortunately, his spell blocked all sounds from entering or exiting the area, so he had no idea if the person or persons in the house below him were moving up the stairs to confront him. He quickly snatched up the ring from the bed, and noticed that his hand was bloody where he had held the rat. That was a bad sign, he thought, even as he moved to the window. A blast of icy rain hit his face as he slid the glass-pained window up, and a dizzying wave of weariness momentarily blotted out his vision. Little motes of light remained in his sight as he steadied himself on the window pane and searched for the best way to climb down the side of the house. Luckily there was no one outside, no witnesses to identify him as the person who had broken into the Stormbiter house, and left his blood, bile and puss all over the room.
He spotted a gutter about three feet below the window sill, which if he climbed down to he could hang off and drop safely to the ground. As he backed out of the window, another wave of fatigue washed over him and he slipped and fell. He panicked, and grabbed for any purchase. Crimon found himself clinging to the heavy woolen curtain, having caught himself at the last moment. Ping, ping, ping. The small tin rings holding the curtain to the rod popped one by one as the door to the bedroom opened, and as the rings failed, Crimon was lowered outside the window, where he could now only hear the rain which was pelting him and stinging his face. Crimon's head was outside the room, even if his hands were still partially inside, grasping the failing curtain. His spell was set at the perimeter of the room, of which he was now outside, so he could not hear whatever the armored man who had opened the bedroom door was obviously shouting. But Crimon saw the deadly sword that the man held, and the aggressive and angry expression on the man, who was searching for what or who had disturbed the contents of the room. Who could this guardsman be? Crimon wondered. There was no one in the town when he had passed through. They were all out at the funeral. Was this man a thief, going from house to house burgling anything of value? And did this thief happen to come across this house at the same time Crimon was performing his ill intentioned duties? There was no time to stop and ponder. The armed man had seen the open window and was hastily approaching Crimon. Just then, the last few curtain rings gave up their hold, no longer able to bear Crimon's weight. He fell roughly to the ground. His cat-burglar experience kicked in, and Crimon rolled with the impact. Were it not for the thick blanket of waterlogged pine needles, Crimon felt sure he would have broken his leg. As it was, he felt the impact all the way up his leg and into his right hip. His bounding tumble left Crimon crouching on his feet, looking up at the bedroom window. The guard, or soldier, he now believed the man to be, was full in the window, and had clearly seen Crimon.
"Shit," Crimon swore, as he contemplated his next move. He wanted to blast the fool with a deadly impact spell, but he knew that with this area being pall, he was likely to kill himself rather than his enemy. So if magic was out of the equation, he had no recourse but to make a break for it. The man in the window would never be able to climb or jump down without serious injury. Not in that chain mail. And by the time he had tramped down the stairs, Crimon would be able to scramble away and find a hiding place. The rain would cover any tracks he would leave, but it would be impossible to continue searching in town now that his presence was known.
Crimon was already bolting away as the soldier ducked back into the bedroom. The pain in Crimon's leg and hip was excruciating, but he forced himself on. He was determined not to get caught. He could not count on Blaylok to rescue him, even if he survived an encounter with an armed and armored man. And from the look of him, that soldier knew his business. Crimon slid down a steep embankment away from the town and the road, putting a large expanse of trees and earth between himself and his adversary. If the man decided to give chase, Crimon wanted to put as many barriers between himself and his pursuer as he could.