Jonis - Rowan Erlking (web based ebook reader .TXT) 📗

the handle was worn and still dirty. The captain tried to pull it from the scabbard, but the red paper with the spell on it held it shut. He tugged again. It wouldn’t budge. He scratched at the paper to peel it off. Then he tried to cut it with a knife. The paper held as hard as if it were iron.

“What is this?” The captain extended the sword to Mr. Farren. “How come I cannot unsheathe it?”

Mr. Farren took the sword from him then handed it to Jonis’s eager open hands. “It is sealed. If you wish, Jonis can break the seal for you so you can see the sword.”

“Do it,” the captain ordered, looking angrily at Jonis.

Sighing, Jonis used his thumbnail to break the seal. He peeled the paper right off. In fact, the paper flaked thin from his touch, breaking as if old and dry. As he drew the sword from the scabbard, his eyes fell on the dirt that still covered the blade from digging his father’s grave. A pang of remorse swept over him as he handed it over to the soldier as ordered.

The captain gripped the handle, groping the leather underneath his palm again. He hefted the sword in his hands to feel the weight, lifting it up as if to use it right then. “An amazing weapon. A real Bekir battle sword. Probably an original.” He turned it over and peered at the blade. “A little dirty. Demon, don’t you know how to take care of a sword?”

“I hadn’t had time to clean it,” Jonis muttered, looking to the ground. “I was digging my father’s grave with it when the police took me in.”

The captain shot Jonis a disdainful smirk and nodded to the scabbard on the desk. “Well, you had time to sheath it. You don’t deserve such a weapon.”

Right away Jonis hopped forward to reclaim it. He could see the captain was prepared to hook it on his belt for himself.

“That is a family heirloom! Give it back!”

“Jonis, let the captain keep it for a while,” the patriarch said, glancing at the blade himself as if he wanted it also.

“No! It’s mine! It is all I have left of my father!” Jonis reached for the sword, snatching the scabbard from off the desk.

The constable boxed his ears. He grabbed at the scabbard to take it away. “You will do as you are told!”

But Mr. Farren rested his hand on the captain’s shoulder, tugging the sword from the captain’s grasp. Everyone gawked up at him as the elderly man shook his head and handed the sword back to Jonis. “It is his. No one has the right to wield it except for him. I only promised you a look, Captain.”

“Mr. Farren!” The patriarch’s face turned colors. “You are overstepping your bounds!”

Jonis hastily stuffed the sword back into the scabbard, and clutched both to his chest.

Unruffled, Mr. Farren walked to his desk and took out the red paper roll and the ink. He took the writing brush from the pen cup. He handed all to Jonis.

“Is it overstepping my bounds to know whom property belongs to? And to return it?” Mr. Farren asked him

Jonis rolled out the scroll and started to write the words, saying the sealing incantation. He was much quicker this time, attaching the paper to the sword hilt and scabbard so that the seal would hold. It snapped on like an iron strap once more.

The patriarch blustered, his chest puffing up. “It is overstepping your bounds to assume that a demon has rights to property among humans! How dare you take that demon’s side over a captain of our nation’s military!”

Mr. Farren bowed apologetically to the patriarch and the soldier. Yet he merely took the sword from Jonis and locked it back in the cupboard. “Taking sides? My dear, honorable Patriarch, I am not taking sides. I was merely stating facts. In the case of ownership of property, Brein Amon law never stipulated that non-human creatures are not allowed ownership of property. And further, that sword is not military issue. As the captain noticed, it is an ancient relic made for a Cordril by the Bekir smith. It could ruin the captain’s career if he were to return to Danslik with a stolen item, especially a Cordril item. I am merely sparing us all tremendous grief in the future.”

No one could argue with that. It was against military law for soldiers to accept gifts, bribes, or stolen articles. The captain flustered, but bowed. “I see.”

Then the captain sneered down at Jonis. “A mighty sword does not make a soldier out of a man. Can he wield it?”

“I’ve seen him use it,” the constable at last spoke up. “He’s ok, for a boy.”

“But that was before his father died,” the patriarch added, still giving deadly looks to Jonis and his advisor. “Mr. Farren has informed me that since his father’s death, the Cordril’s skills have multiplied exponentially. We are now waiting for his papers from the capital approving his outstanding test scores for graduation. Apparently this boy’s head is filled to the brim.”

“With baking secrets.” The captain snorted, and he turned towards the front door. “I have had my fill. If you want him to be in the Sovereign’s army I suggest you have him enter with the recruits like everyone else. He has to prove his worth before he is accepted. Personally, I think this tadpole isn’t worth the bother.”

The captain huffed again, and let himself out. The other soldiers departed also.

Taking up the rear, the village patriarch and the constable cast deadly looks at Mr. Farren before going.

“I am disappointed in you, Mr. Farren. That boy is a bad influence on you. We could have skipped the preliminaries with the military if you had just given the captain that sword.”

The patriarch turned with pronounced irritation.

“And I told you, it would be better that he remain in the village and become a magister.” Mr. Farren followed him outside. “The world is growing wild out there, sir. If we have a magister to protect our people, demons will not dare enter our village—especially if the magister is a Cordril.”

Spinning back around, the patriarch rose on his feet so that he was taller than his advisor. “I will not be in debt to a Cordril! I will hire a magister if things truly get bad. But that boy is headed for the Brein Amon army, and nothing you can say will change that. It was a mistake letting him live with you!”

“At least you are letting him live,” Mr. Farren murmured under his breath.

He watched from the doorway as the police captain and the patriarch entered the carriage parked on the roadside. Around them, the bustle of the fruit sellers, flower vendors and the milkmaids passed by without even a look except to say ‘hello’ to their town official. They looked upon Mr. Farren with more pity.

With a heavy heart, Mr. Farren closed the door, glancing once at Jonis. He had been standing back along the wall with a gaze that could break his heart even more.

“Sir,” Jonis murmured, following the elderly man with his eyes. “Does he really mean it? Do I not have a choice in this? Will I be going to the army once the papers come back?”

Heaving a long sigh, Mr. Farren waved for Jonis to join him in the front room. There were several rolls still left there. A half-eaten pastry sat on the table. “Even the army might not take you, son. The patriarch is only hoping they will. I’m afraid that getting the people to accept you as you are might be more problematical than I had planned for. I had so hoped they’d let you stay and be a magister. The patriarch had brought the captain over to convince me that the army was all you were fit for. But after this morning’s breakfast, I know that is a ridiculous idea. Those pastries were too sumptuous.”

“I doubt they would let me stay in town as a baker,” Jonis murmured aloud with a shrug of his shoulders.

That deserved a laugh. Mr. Farren only managed a chuckle. He patted Jonis’s head. “Too true. And I am sorry for it.”

 

Chapter Four: From the Magistrate

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“It is best not to entirely trust a Cordril, no matter what.”

 

 

 

 

 

Jonis was glad when the military troop left their village a week later. Called away to another town to contain a disturbance where it was rumored a demon was stalking the townspeople (though it was more likely a serial killer or a gang, as most unidentified demons were), they departed in a proud march so everyone could see the service they were performing for they country. Though everyone had loved watching the soldiers in blue strut around the village square, greeting them as if their village was an important center of their nation, every time Jonis had passed through the village square to go to school the captain had fixed his eyes on him with a loathing glare.

After hearing the news of their departure that afternoon, he returned to Mr. Farren’s from school feeling famished and a little happier. With that feeling, he paused at the kitchen door on his way in to beg for a sandwich. The cook tossed him a dry roll with a thin-lipped frown.

“Eat what you baked, you sneak!” She slammed the door shut and locked it.

Shrugging, Jonis gnawed on the bread. He was hungry for anything, though disappointed that word had leaked to the cook after all. No more sandwiches for him.

Trotting to the study as usual, Jonis set his workbook onto the desk and dropped into the large leather chair. He took a nib pen from the pen cup and lifted the cover to the book. This time his teacher had given him extra math work for mouthing off that their study of algebraic equations was a waste of time for half the class since they would only take over the family shop. His teacher had slapped his face and sent him to stand in the corner for the rest of the hour. Now he had to make up the work and then some.

Dipping his pen tip into the inkwell, he tipped the pen to the edge and dripped of the excess ink. As soon as he set his pen to paper, Jonis rapidly went through the equations. Mr. Farren often said his newfound speed was from his acquired genius, but Jonis did not feel any smarter than the day before his father had given him those memories. Most of the memories settled in his brain now, letting him recall things at his leisure instead of feeling like he was drowning in thoughts. Math floated up when he needed it. History, language, and social science did the same. Facts and information were ready to use, though sometimes Jonis had to dig deep for the more ancient memories. His baking knowledge had now settled into a quiet place in his head where he could refer to it without it waking him up in the night.

At night, his dreams had moved from the Cordril settlement and floated into memories of one fellow who spent his time hunting demons for profit. He mainly killed