Jonis, Rowan Erlking [first e reader txt] 📗

wanted me to live. She had thought I had something of the man she really loved in me. I am sorry she was wrong.”

“Jonis, look out!” Lt. Gillway shouted.

Lt. Pratch grimaced, standing between Jonis and the magister. Jonis looked down. The knife stuck into his superior’s side, oozing blood down the back of his shirt. He grasped it to pull it out.

“Why did you get in the way?” The magister shouted at him, automatically distressed.

Cpl. Higges drew his sword, pointing it at the old man.

Corporals Wigg and Pegsley helped Lt. Pratch walk to the side to rest, tending to the wound immediately.

Lt. Gillway drew his own sword, pointing it at the magister. “You will pay for that.”

The magister dropped to the ground, whimpering. “Please, I am an old man.”

“Don’t kill him,” Jonis said, glancing once at Lt. Pratch. “I remember now why my father didn’t end him then.”

“You were only four,” Cpl. Higges didn’t lower his sword. “How can you remember that?”

Jerking the sword out of the ground, Jonis said. “I just can. It is the Cordril way.” He crossed over to see if Lt. Pratch was not mortally wounded. The man was moaning, but the other men had taken good care of the wound. Jonis rounded on the magister and stuck the sword in the ground again, pushing with all his weight to dig it in deep. Wiping his brow, Jonis picked up his own stumpy military blade from off the ground and then tossed it over his shoulder.

“My second one, busted.”

“Why, Jonis?” Lt. Gillway called back to him, still ready to kill this man for attempted murder. “Why did your father spare him back then? And why do you want us to spare this creep now?”

Stopping, Jonis took a breath. “That man there is an old acquaintance of my father’s. They worked together when they were young.”

“That man is nearly a hundred,” Cpl. Higges exclaimed. “Your father can’t be that old.”

“Older,” Jonis replied, raising his eyebrows. “My father was nearly a hundred and two when he died. He was lucky to have me at all.”

Everyone stared at him, even the magister. That man closed his eyes.

“So, the report was true,” the magister murmured. He opened his eyes and glared at Jonis. “You are just like him when he was young. I saw that when you entered the square. I had thought the villagers of Pringsley were mistaken, sullying the name of an old friend. So I decided to hunt down that fraud and his spawn, even to my own death.”

“And when you met him last? Didn’t you know then that he was your friend?” Jonis asked, waiting to hear what he already knew from his father’s memory.

The magister spat on the ground. “He didn’t look like Talib Macoy. But he sure talked like him. Seeing you now with nearly his face, I am disgusted that he fell so low. His infamy must die with you. The name Macoy must not continue to be sullied.”

“Jonis is not sullying the name of Macoy,” Lt. Gillway said, lowering his sword point. “In fact, Private Jonis Macoy is famous among the military for saving countless people from demon infestations. If anything, your friend is being honored.”

Cpl. Higges did not lower his sword. The others still glared at the magister, helping Lt. Pratch sit up.

“But a bounty is on his head and his father’s head. That will never change,” the magister shouted back with an ancient ache.

Jonis walked toward him. “It has already changed. My father died two years ago. That bounty is now unclaimable. As for me, it is Brein Amon law that you cannot assault a solider. You, unfortunately, tried that.”

The old man went white. He looked over at Lt. Pratch who was glaring at him.

“Let’s make a truce,” Jonis said, extending a hand to him. “I promise to let you go free, if you never try to claim that bounty again. Agreed?”

It took a moment for the magister to decide. He clasped Jonis’s gloved hand in his. “Agreed.”

“What about me? I got stabbed defending you!” Lt. Pratch barked with a groan.

Jonis stood up, crossing over to him quickly. “That, I can take care of with a sealing spell. Hold on.”

Jonis covered up the bandaging the corporals had made with a red paper spell. It held tight, letting nothing break loose. “This should hold until I take it off. Not even a knife can cut it open again.”

Lt. Pratch stood up, only feeling the ache now. It was better than any stitching medical science could offer. Everyone rose to his feet, satisfied with the end result—except for maybe the village patriarch. He watched Jonis with a critical eye, keeping his distance.

“What about the demon worms? You said the job wasn’t done,” the patriarch said with peevish bite.

“We’ll set up the fires and burn the graveyard,” Lt. Gillway replied with an assuring nod.

“Fine!” the patriarch snapped. He pointed right at Jonis. “Just keep that demon away from my people. I don’t want him spreading his seed around.”

Jonis halted when he heard that but just shook his head and continued on his way to gather firewood. The old magister watched. He stood subdued as if he had nothing to live on now. He pulled his sword from the ground and sheathed it.

Everyone went about his task except for the wounded lieutenant. He was set to rest in a nearby eatery, still very sore from the stab.

By the time the fires blazed up with fire wards protecting the village from damage, Jonis and the other soldiers were urged to leave as quickly as possible. Actually, they were escorted out.

Just as they were passing the gates, Jonis looked at the scattered black stones on the road from ancient demon ward that had been destroyed by wear and time. He turned and said, to the patriarch, “If I were you, I’d set a magister to fix your demon wards. You should make some of those stones flush with the roads. That’s what we did in Ladis.”

“Mind your own business, demon,” the patriarch growled.

“That is his business,” the old magister replied, walking with his sword like a cane as he followed them to the gates.

He lifted the weapon gently and handed it to Jonis. “This should replace the one I had broken. I am sorry, young Macoy. I should have known better that the son of Talib was a kind spirit. I am even sorrier, though, that your father fell from grace and resorted to deception to gain a son.”

The patriarch huffed, stomping away.

The other soldiers watched as the old man placed the weapon into Jonis’s hands.

“It isn’t as good as your father’s blade. He hacked mine in half once with it when we were young, and I had to get mine reforged. You can see the break mark.” The old man passed through the gates and turned down the road, heading in another direction.

“Where are you going?” Jonis followed after him, remembering well now the friendship his father had with this man. It had been precious to his father, and the memories tugged at his heart. “The world is not safe out there.”

The magister’s eyes smiled, crinkling at the corners such deep crevices that Jonis was reminded of his dying father.  “I am old. I think I will go home. It is about time I retired anyway.”

Jonis watched the man walk off into the woods, knowing it would be the last he would ever see of him.

“Come on, demon boy,” Cpl. Higges said waving him over. “We have another village to visit before sunset.”

“Hurry up, Private,” Lt. Pratch shouted, painfully stumping with the others down the road.

Turning, Jonis followed them, clutching the sword in his arms not too different from the night his father had died. Hopefully this time no one would take it from him.

 

Chapter Sixteen: Hunting the Dead

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Poorly chosen spells and poorly managed spells

are mostly the cause for magic problems.”

 

 

                                                                                  

 

“I hope these people appreciate what we’ve just done for them,” Cpl. Higges said, dropping into his own bed at the hotel where they had been given free board. He had already torn off his boots and socks and tossed them on the floor. “I have blisters on my blisters.” He wrung his hands, feeling the calluses and frowning.

Jonis groaned, sitting down on his bed and, reaching over his neck to rub between his shoulder blades. Every last bit of his body hurt. All the bending and lifting made his already sore muscles from walking everywhere and sleeping on the ground extra tender. Of course, he had been the most comfortable out of all of the soldiers with camping out on the ground as he had done it most of his childhood. 

Cpl. Pegsley whined in the back of his throat, glancing at the door. “When is Lt. Gillway going to get back with our orders?”

“Shut up,” Cpl. Higges said, closing his eyes. “He will get here when he gets here.”

“Take a rest, will you?” Lt. Pratch called from his stretched out position on his bed, closing his eyes and wishing he could stay in bed forever. He rolled over, wrapping his blanket tighter around himself.

“Yeah,” Cpl. Wigg said, lying on his back with his arms behind his head. “We don’t know the next time we’ll have a bed to sleep in.”

They had walked from one village to another along the southern border for over a month and a half hunting parasitic demon worms. Their last stop had been the city of Wendora where the city magistrates had requested before they left that Jonis set demon circles at their gates like he had done in the city of Ladis so no more parasites could enter their city. That took over a week to complete. Wendora had more entrances than Ladis. Their walls were honeycombed with arches and fancy carved openings.

But Cpl. Pegsley stood up and started to pace. “Don’t say that. We’re done hunting worms, aren’t we? We’ll be going back to Ladis soon. I just want to hear it.”

Jonis sighed, flopping back against his bed. Cpl. Higges looked over at him.

“So do I,” Cpl. Wigg murmured.

“But sit down. You’re making me nervous.” Lt. Pratch pulled his blankets even tighter around himself, closing his eyes.

He was making Jonis nervous also, though he didn’t say it. Jonis stared up at the ceiling, thinking about what would happen when they returned to Ladis. First off, the patriarch of the city would get anxious having a demon around. Cap. Powal would probably be under some pressure to keep him busy.

Or perhaps he would be transferred to another post where they were having their own demon problems. He was the military magister after all, trained and needed to help their country clear out infestations. But listening to the conversation in the room, Jonis sighed. If he were transferred, he would no longer be working with these men. That meant he would have to start all over again to make people comfortable near him. Then, of course, there was Lt. Merkham Gillway. He had always been nicer than the rest, digging up new food that Jonis had not eaten before in his ancient three-thousand-year memory.

He and Lt. Gillway had become close friends despite the lieutenant’s initial fear when they had first met during the