Well, this story was much longer than 10,000 words. It just sort of happened that way, so I decided just to post the first part of it for the actual challenge, and I will post the second part later this month. I really had a blast writing this one though, and hope you all like Owain Cadwallader as much as I did.
The Old Wardens
By Hazel B. West
Author’s Note
This story kind of popped into my head as soon as I started thinking of
something for this challenge. It’s kind of a mixture of Ranger’s Apprentice,
Percy Jackson and Grimm. It might
possibly be made into a novel later, in fact, it’s most likely it will, so I
hope it doesn’t come across as being too rushed or cliff-hangery at the end.
Also, on another note, I have not personally been to Portland…yet, so I
apologize for any inaccuracies that occur in this story. I definitely plan on
visiting before I turn this story into a novel.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part One
My name is Owen Cadwallader and I’m about 90 percent sure I
wasn’t supposed to be born in this century.
It might
sound odd to say something like that, but I was pretty sure it was the case.
And it wasn’t just my love of old tomes above people, there were things about
me, things I kept hidden, that let me know despite trying to tell myself
differently that I was just…different.
For
example, I had an uncanny ability to learn dead languages. Forget Latin, I’m
talking about ancient Welsh and Scandinavian dialects, and I was reading
Beowulf in the original old English back in fifth grade. There was also the
fact that I seemed to be able to pick up any weapon and it felt right. Yeah,
okay, I didn’t have an arsenal or anything, but I did have a couple favorite
items I had picked up at an antique shop that adorned my walls. I blamed it on
my ancestry, which is Welsh, but still, call me crazy, but I felt something
else might have been going on there.
Because of
this, as one would imagine, life was hard for me living in 21st Century
Portland. I had just celebrated my eighteenth birthday a week before things
started happening. It began with a phone call—well, in a roundabout way. I got
a call from a bookshop one morning telling me that a book I had been looking
for was in, and I decided I was going to pick it up after school that day. My
mom gave me my lunch as usual, and I was off walking to school. I walked as much
as possible, I hated the bus; the cool morning air cleared my head and gave me
some much needed solitude before the press of classes started.
Not that I
had much more than solitude at school either. I didn’t really have friends,
much preferring the company of books at lunch than people. It wasn’t like I
hadn’t tried, it’s just trying to contain the amount of weird I had in my head
around other people was too exhausting, and when I slipped up and spouted some
arcane fact about British folklore, people gave me odd looks and eventually
learned to avoid me. So yeah, friends didn’t work out too well, despite how my
mom always seemed to try to pair me up with daughters of her friends, even
forced me on a date once, but I had messed it up because apparently girls
aren’t interested in Scandinavian epics and sword songs. I personally found
them to be romantic.
So, it was
just me and my books trudging through my last year of high school and still
wondering what I was going to do when I graduated in three months. Probably
take my Grand Tour of the British Isles. Portland was my home, and I was fond
of it, but I felt smothered there, and I wanted to find a place I felt I
belonged.
School
dragged, as usual, hammering out math problems that never came easy, and
finishing history work that was bland at best because they focused on all the
wrong subjects. I couldn’t wait to get out and ran almost as soon as the bell
rang, grabbing my coat and looping my tattered scarf around my neck as I hurried
for the door.
I made a
quick stop at the coffee shop on the corner and then headed downtown to where
the used bookshop was that was holding my order. I hadn’t been to this one yet,
but it held promise. I hoped to maybe find a couple other books I was looking
for there as well.
As
promised, the shop, when I found it, was small, but packed with books, sporting
an old fashioned, hanging sign that read: USED
AND RARE BOOKS. I opened the door to the soft tinkling of a bell, and
inhaled deeply the sent of old paper and leather bindings.
No one was
at the desk when I came in, but I was content to wait. I looked around for a
few minutes, but when no one appeared, my curiosity overcame me and I began to
explore the maze of shelves so packed that stacks of books littered the floor
as well. It was my kind of place; this was where I felt most at home.
I found the
mythology section easily enough, for it was quite large as opposed to what was
typically to be found in bookstores. Looking up, I saw an old book of Arthurian
legends that instantly caught my eye. There was a shelf ladder resting there
and I couldn’t resist climbing it to fetch the book. I eased it off the shelf
and blew the dust from it, ready for a peek.
“Can I help
you?”
I startled
so violently, I had to drop the book to grab onto the ladder, and once I
steadied myself, I shoved my shaggy hair from my eyes and looked down to see a
man standing there, the volume held in his outstretched arms, an unamused look
on his face.
“I’m
sorry,” I apologized, hurriedly climbing down the ladder. “I just wanted to
look at it.”
“I prefer
customers to stay off the ladder for that reason,” the man said before looking
down and considering the book. “However, I must say you have good taste. It’s
lucky you did not damage it, this book is almost two hundred years old.”
“I know,” I
told him, unable to help myself. “Or, I suspected from the binding.”
The man set
a pair of piercing eyes on me, and it felt as if he were looking straight into
my soul, making me uncomfortable. I studied him for the first time. He was
middle-aged, probably in his early forties, and had dark brown hair that was a
bit longer than mine, curling at the back of his neck and around his ears. A
slightly ginger beard accompanied grey eyes that had the look of a warrior in
them. Someone who missed nothing. I wondered vaguely what those eyes were
seeing when they looked at me.
The man
considered a moment more. “And how do you know so much about old books, lad?”
He had some
kind of accent, I noticed them. Soft, but distinctly British, and I guessed
Welsh, because it reminded me of my grandfather.
I shrugged.
“I’ve always loved old books,” I told him truthfully enough. “My grandfather
taught me. I have his collection.”
“Ah,” the
man said, seeming to let down whatever guard he had set but not completely, I
saw, with fascination. “Are you the Mr. Cadwallader I called earlier?”
I smiled
and nodded. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Hm,” he
said, and I wasn’t sure, but I thought it seemed more of a confirmation than
disappointment. Maybe a bit of scrutiny. “Well, come then, your book it at the
front desk.”
He set the
Arthurian volume on a stack of books and I followed him dutifully, wanting to
look at the other one, but deciding it was probably best not to press the
matter at that moment, since I had almost dropped it on his head.
The man
stepped behind the desk and bent to retrieve my book. As he bent over, his long
coat flared to the side and I almost thought I saw a metallic flash that looked
very much like the hilt of a dagger. But I was prone to fantasize about that
sort of thing. In any case, I was soon enough looking at the tome set in front
of me.
“The Poems
of Ossian, 1820s edition,” he told me as he set it on the desk. “That will be
fifty-five dollars—I don’t take credit.”
I fished my
wallet out of my pocket and handed him the money. He took my book and wrapped
it in paper before handing it to me. I thanked him and tucked it under my arm.
“I’ll
likely be back,” I told him. “Do you have a card?”
The man
handed me one and I looked at it seeing the phone number and, likely his name:
Rhys Hywel.
“Mr.
Hywel?”
“That’s
me,” he grunted.
“Nice to
meet you, thanks again,” I said and smiled before I left the shop.
I started
on my long walk home, my boots splashing through a puddle from last night’s
rain. I was excited to have my new book, but for some reason, I just couldn’t
stop thinking there was something strange, different, about the man at the bookshop,
this Rhys Hywel—I had been right about him being Welsh then. Maybe it was a
kindred, ancestral spirit I felt between us; he seemed like an outcast of
normal society as well, but…ah, forget it. As my mother loves to say, I think
too much about things that don’t even matter.
She had
always said the same thing about my grandfather, Gareth Cadwallader. He was the
reason I loved what I did. When I was a kid, I used to sit with him for hours
and he would tell me such fantastical stories about history, and especially
folklore. Stories about King Arthur, Beowulf, Na Fianna, and everything in
between. I knew more about how to defeat a dragon or cockatrice than I did
about biology, and always worked all the traditional folklore into actual
history to the point my teachers gave up on me. I don’t know if I loved it so
much because of my grandfather, or if I would have loved it anyway. All I know,
is that I could never get enough, and since he died when I was twelve, it’s
been my constant companion; something to keep me sane, even if I was now alone
in my enjoyment of it.
I scaled
the steps to our front door and went inside, wiping my boots on the mat.
“You’re
back late,” my sister, Catherine, said from the kitchen, pouring cereal into a
bowl.
“Went to
pick up something from a bookshop,” I told her.
She
snorted. “Whatever. I don’t need to know your geeky habits.” She went to the
living room and plopped down on the couch in front of the TV. I sighed and
crossed to the stairs, going up to the third floor where my room was.
It was the
attic room, secluded and a bit cramped, but it was mine, and I loved it. My bed
was under the round window at the far wall, and to the right was my desk, above
which was mounted a sword, and a long axe as well as several daggers and a
shield I had collected over the years. The other wall was all books. A jumble
of mismatched shelves and piles and pretty much wherever books would fit, they
went. I slid my messenger bag off my shoulder and threw it onto my bed, before
I took my new book out of it and went to the desk to open it. It was in
surprisingly good condition and I was glad to see that I wouldn’t have to do
any repairs on it. All the books in Mr. Hywel’s shop had seemed to be very well
kept. I decided I would likely be going back there soon when I had more time to
look around. Despite the fact that he seemed a rather odd and unsociable
fellow. Of course, most people would say the same about me.
But first,
I decided to get homework out of the way, otherwise, I would never finish it. I
groaned as I stood and tossed off my jacket and scarf, grabbing my bag and
going back downstairs to find a snack while I worked. I reminded myself that it
was only a few more months and then I would be free. It just seemed an eternity
away from right then, when all I wanted to do was pursue my own studies.
I made myself a cheese sandwich and sat at the
kitchen table, spreading my books out and scribbling quickly through the
literature work, which at least was simple, seeing as I was one of the few
students who had read Shakespeare quite a bit, and hadn’t even had to look back
at Hamlet to answer the questions.
The history was likewise easy, although I knew Mrs. Hammond wasn’t going to
like my answers even if they were, technically, correct. I didn’t even want to
think of the grade I would get on my essay.
I was
working on my math problems when I heard something from the living room where
my sister was watching TV, likely one of those intolerable reality shows, but
this sounded like a news report and I glanced up to see the screen, listening
to the reporter’s voice.
“Police say this is the second body to be
found killed in such a manner. Whether it’s random attacks or assassination,
they are unable to confirm at this juncture.”
“Ugh, just what I need; more
reasons for Mom to freak out about me going into town,” Catherine groaned and
switched the channel.
“Wait,” I
called, getting up and heading into the room to stand behind the couch. “Turn
it back.”
“Why?” she
asked lazily. “Someone just got killed. Although I know you like all that
morbid stuff.”
But she did
switch it back and I watched with a frown as the reporter continued the story,
realizing the killing had happened here in Portland.
“Police have not shared complete details about
these strange deaths yet, but it is considered to be a mob killing, due to the
unusual weapons used.”
Unfortunately, that seemed to be
all they would say, and it turned to the weather report. I didn’t know why this
story interested me so much, it had just caught my attention; anything weird
did. Instead of returning to my schoolwork, I hurried back upstairs to my
computer and searched for more information on the story. I found a report from
a few days ago, likely the first of these strange killings. Scrolling through
the regular rigmarole, I was finally able to see the cause of death.
“Cause of death is still to be determined
whether it was actually a stabbing or a shooting, due to the strange spikes
found in the victim’s chest.”
I read on,
and discovered more information in other articles, finding out the spikes
seemed to be organic, and also likely poisoned, as both bodies came back from toxicology
reports with a currently undetermined type of toxin in their blood. This really
was strange. I instantly thought maybe they might be half right about the mob
thing. It sounded like a sort of ritual killing, and reminded me of the South
American’s using darts with frog poison on them. Although why something like
that would suddenly turn up in Portland, was anyone’s guess. I decided I was
going to do some research on this. I didn’t know why, just that the idea wasn’t
going to let me go anytime soon, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I
had figured out what was causing this. It would give me something to occupy
myself with anyway.
I heard the
front door close and knew my mom was back from work. It was just her and my
sister and I, since my dad had left just after Catherine was born. Mom blamed
my anti-social nature and strange interests on not having a father figure, but
the truth was I hardly remembered him and didn’t think about it all that much. I
didn’t even use his last name. Besides, I knew it wasn’t some stupid teen
rebellion thing, and it wasn’t like I was doing anything dangerous or bad
anyway. It wasn’t my fault I couldn’t make friends, I just never seemed to be
able to find the right people.
I closed my
laptop and went back downstairs seeing my mother unloading groceries onto the
table, sighing at me before I even got in the room.
“Owen, you
didn’t finish your work, at least get it off the table so I can get dinner
ready.”
“Sorry,” I
told her as I cleared my things away. I helped her put stuff in the cupboards,
then left to finish my work before dinner. It was a normal affair with
Catherine talking about all her friends and everything she did (or didn’t do)
in school that day and I not adding much. I might have hated school, but at
least I tried. Of course, I didn’t have the distractions my sister did either.
I excused myself early and went off to read my new book.
I pushed aside
my papers that I had been practicing writing runes on. I was determined to get
good at reading not only English in runes but ancient Scandinavian as well,
then I could work on translating a couple of the old books that my grandfather
had, some of the few I hadn’t been able to read yet.
While I was
clearing my desk, the card I had gotten from the bookstore fluttered to the
floor and I bent to pick it up, seeing it had landed on the reverse side. There
was a small mark in the middle of it, and I squinted to make it out, seeing
that it looked vaguely familiar and not knowing why. I finally shook my head,
and decided it was probably because I had seen it at the store or something.
Besides, I had other things to think about at the moment.
I read for
a while, then decided to try and get some sleep. I wasn’t very good at
sleeping, more used to keeping odd hours which kind of came with the nature of
being a scholar. Coffee was my constant companion on most mornings, and I
wasn’t even ashamed to admit that I fell asleep in history class most of the
time and still ended up able to get all the questions right to my teacher’s constant
chagrin.
Something
woke me in the middle of the night. I realized I had fallen asleep with my book
across my chest, on top of the blankets. I was cold, the attic room having
little to no heating, and it was only nearly spring and freezing for the most
part. I thought at first that was what had woken me, but heard the echo of
something in my head, wondering if it had just been a dream sound.
Then I
heard it again, a strange cry that I could not identify. I crouched on the bed
and looked out the small window, unable to see anything in the darkness, no
streetlights illuminating the ground below. I waited several seconds, but heard
nothing else, and relaxed, figuring it was probably an animal of some sort,
likely a cat. They made the most horrifying noises sometimes. Probably the
culprit for the banshee legends.
I rubbed my
face with my hand, feeling not so tired now as I had been. I stood up and went
to my desk to pick up a book that I was fixing and my box of tools. Apart from
being a professor in folklore and mythology, my grandfather had been a
bookbinder, and that was another trade I had learned from him. A more
profitable one too, as I did it as a sort of side business. For the most part,
it paid for my book-buying habits if I was able to get enough work. This book
was mine though, one from my grandfather’s collection. A bestiary from the 16th
century. It was beautifully illuminated and I had remembered it fondly from
when I was a boy, but it was very old and needed a lot of care and maintenance.
I was currently repairing some of the pages, painstakingly sewing them back
together before I would clamp the book and glue the binding before reattaching
it to the cover which also needed repairing.
The section
I was working on that night caught my eye, even though I had seen it a hundred
times. It was about the manticore, a Persian/European creature of legend that
was said to have the body of a lion but a face with very humanlike features. It
was also a man-eater and carried poisonous barbs on its tail that it could
shoot at people. I remember it was one of the few things that had scared me as
a child. Not so much for the nature of the beast, but because of its human
face. I had to admit even now, the picture was kind of creepy.
I worked
for a while until my eyes started to burn, but I had finished the leaflets and
was able to place the document into my book clamp for gluing tomorrow. I gently
picked up the old cover to set aside as I stood up, but something on the cover
caught my eye. I brought it under my lamp, frowning, as I took a closer look at
the small symbol that had been embossed on the back cover of the leather
binding; just barely recognizable after all these years, but there nonetheless.
It was a
round shield, with a crossed sword and scroll over top of it. Just like the one
that had been on the card I got from the bookshop.
Just to
make sure, I took the card from my desk again and looked at it, comparing the
symbol to the one I had just found. They were indeed identical. I sat down with
a frown.
“Okay, that
is a bit odd,” I had to say out loud. I had a feeling I was going to be going
back to that bookshop the next day with a few questions for Mr. Hywel.
***
The next morning started normally enough. I drug myself from
bed, packed for school, and hurried to eat my toast before I had to leave with
my coffee and a quick hug to my mom. I usually walked, since it wasn’t far to
the high school from my house, but that morning I had a strange feeling about
doing so. It was like I was being watched, and I had no idea why I was being so
paranoid all of a sudden and hoped I was rational enough not to freak out over
the strange killings that had been happening.
I looked
around but couldn’t see anyone anyway, so I didn’t worry overmuch, or at least
forced myself not to. The hair on the back of my neck had other ideas.
Either way,
I was actually glad to get to school that morning, if only to have the normal
amount of people ignoring me, and made it to class earlier than I normally
would have.
School was
normal too, and afterward, I decided I was going to run back to the bookstore
to ask about the symbol. Even if there was actually nothing really strange
about it, I wanted to know where it came from and what it meant out of normal
curiosity.
However,
when I left the school, I again had that strange feeling between my shoulder
blades that someone was watching me. This was getting creepy, and I
surreptitiously yanked the collar of my jacket up around my neck and hunched my
shoulders as I walked, trying to look as determined and unwelcoming as
possible. I was beginning to have some doubts about going to the bookstore as
it was in a sort of unpopulated part of town, but decided there was no reason
to worry, and steeled myself, keeping to my destination.
Unfortunately,
when I got there, I saw a CLOSED sign on the door. Huffing in frustration and
disappointment, I started back for home. I had lots of homework to get done
anyway.
I didn’t
get that far though. I was about five blocks from my house, passing a park,
when I heard shouting behind me and turned curiously and a little hurriedly, to
see a group of people gathering, sounding frightened and a little frantic.
Against my better judgment, I hurried over to them, wondering if I could help.
“What’s
going on, is everyone okay?” I asked.
“Stay back,
son,” a man told me, putting an arm out. “You don’t want to see this.”
Of course,
that made me want to do just that, and I ducked around the man only to stop and
stare in horror at the object of interest.
A man lay
on his face among some bushes, having been unearthed by a maintenance worker
who was currently emptying his stomach a few yards away. I knew instantly the
man was dead, and what’s more, could clearly see what had killed him. Three
long, thin projectiles that looked a bit like porcupine spines but… now buried
between his shoulder blades. I didn’t know how to react to what I was seeing,
just standing there, staring until someone grabbed me and pulled me back. I
vaguely heard police sirens coming and then saw the cops pull up and force everyone
back, including me, as they set up a perimeter tape.
I stumbled,
shaking my head as I returned to my senses. I didn’t really know what bothered
me so much about the scene. Sure, I hadn’t really seen a dead person before,
but there was something else, something unnatural about the death. Those spines
that killed him just seemed too odd.
I shook my head again; maybe my mom was right, maybe I thought too much about
the arcane and supernatural and needed to stick to more normal things.
Something
distracted me from the scene in front of me where the police were checking out
the body and forcing people farther away. Out of the corner of my eye, I had caught
sight of a figure across the park dressed in a long, drab coat, and appearing
to watch the proceedings. I don’t know what possessed me, because for all I
knew—and to make it worse, I think this is
actually where my thoughts were headed—he could have been the one who murdered
the man, but I was off across the park, following him. Thinking back on it, I had
no idea what had turned my head about this particular rash of killings, but I
had unknowingly become obsessed with them.
In any
case, I did probably the most stupid thing I had ever done in my life, and
followed the man out of the park and around a corner of a nearby building that
looked more or less unoccupied. And then I lost him.
All I found
when I turned the corner I thought I had seen him go down was an old car, a 60s
Chrysler, parked on the curb. I sighed, shaking my head. What had I been
thinking? What did I expect to find anyway, a murderer, an assassin? If I had,
what would I do then? Sure, I knew the mechanics of fighting, but it wasn’t
like I had actually practiced in real combat before. I turned to leave.
I didn’t
even get all the way around before I was grabbed by my jacket, my right arm
wrenched up behind my back, and my face planted against the hood of the parked
car. I gasped in pain and surprise and struggled in the iron grip, my school
books in my bag digging into my stomach.
“What do
you think you’re doing, boy?” came the voice behind me; low, oddly calm, and slightly
accented.
I tried to
wrench my head around to see him. “Let me go!”
Unexpectedly,
he did, and I swung around, kicking out at my attacker’s knee while swinging a right
hook into his face. Both attacks failed, however, as I found myself with my
back slammed against the side of the building, the air driven from my lungs.
When my eyesight finally cleared though, I saw who my attacker was.
“You?!” I
croaked, shocked.
Rhys Hywel
stood in front of me, a bland look on his face. “That’s quite an educated
guess,” he said sarcastically, loosening his grip on me, but tightening it
again as I began to struggle. “I wouldn’t try that again. You might have some
natural skill, but I assure you, I am far better. Not that it’s any fault of
yours, of course. You have hardly been properly trained.”
I stared
slack jawed at him, not knowing what to say. Who was this Hywel fellow anyway?
And, more importantly, why was he hanging around the site of a murder?
“Let me
go,” I finally managed to say again, glaring pointedly at the hands gripping my
jacket.
“Not if
you’re just going to run away,” Hywel said resignedly. “I want to talk to you,
Owain.”
“Well, I
don’t!” I said indignantly, renewing my struggles to no avail. “For all I know
you could have killed that man!”
He chuckled
at this. “I assure you that is not the case. And if you would use that brain of
yours, you would be able to rationalize that out as well.”
“Well, it
looks pretty suspicious, you have to admit,” I growled, finally giving up my
struggles, but still ready for anything.
He sighed.
“If you must know, I was following you.
I didn’t intend for you to see me. You’re not completely dense, I will give you
that.”
Fear and a
bit of revulsion washed over me and I struggled again, but found my kick
blocked with a well-placed shin.
“Stop doing
that!” Hywel commanded in exasperation. “No, I’m not a murderer or pervert, or
stalker, or anything else of the sort, Mr. Cadwallader. I am trying to protect
you, and I need you to cooperate with me so that it will make the job easier.”
“Protect
me?” I choked out. “What do I need protecting from apart from you?”
He groaned
low in his throat, rolling his eyes and released me with one hand to fish under
the collar of his shirt. “Fine, I suppose I’ll just have to get to it then. Do
you recognize this symbol?”
He revealed
a medallion that held the same symbol that I had found on his card and the book
the night before. I stared in surprise and he finally loosened his grip and let
me go fully, seeming to decide I wasn’t going to run now. Against my better
judgment, I didn’t.
“I knew
your grandfather,” he confirmed. “And I need you to trust me, because there are
many things that need to be explained to you, and explained quickly if you’re
to survive the next few days without potentially deadly mishap, so I suggest
you come with me and we’ll get down to business.”
“And why
should I do that?” I demanded. “Sure, you say you knew my grandfather, but does
that mean I can trust you? And what do you mean my ‘potentially deadly’? Where
are we going?”
“To the
bookstore, there’s something I need to show you,” he said, pulling out a set of
keys and unlocking the car door. “Get in.”
Making an
even rasher decision than the one I had earlier, I took my chances and climbed
into the passenger seat.
***
He didn’t speak for a few long minutes as he drove slowly
down the street, and all that time, I clutched my bag in my lap, thinking how
stupid I had been to get into a car with a man who had been following me just
because he said he knew my grandfather and was trying to protect me. Yeah,
‘stranger danger’ had been drilled into my head really well as a kid,
obviously.
“I see you
don’t trust me,” Hywel said after a while, startling me slightly. “That’s good.
Your instincts seem to be sharp at least.”
“What does
that even mean?” I demanded, finally deciding I couldn’t stay silent any
longer. “And how did you know my grandfather? Are you going to explain anything
to me or are you just going to stay all cryptic and kidnapper on me? I don’t
even know why I agreed to this at all.”
A small
smile flitted over his lips, pure amusement. “At least you’re not stupid. I’m afraid it would be easier to
show you what I’m going to when we get there, but as for how I knew your
grandfather, he was my teacher, you could say. My mentor.”
“You mean
you were in his class at the collage?” I asked. I had met several of my
grandfather’s students over the years, but none of them had been
this…eccentric.
Another
amused smile. “Not exactly.”
“Then what exactly?” I asked, exasperated.
He huffed
through his nose. “You ask all too many questions, Master Owain. Please refrain
until I can better explain by showing.”
I opened my
mouth to protest, then decided it probably wasn’t going to do any good and just
clamped it shut. We were almost to the bookstore again, and I was just deciding
whether I should run as soon as I got out of the car, or not. As it pulled to a
stop, I made another rash decision on my part to at least hear him out, hoping
vainly that I would have some way out if this ended up going sideways.
“Follow
me,” he said, as he unlocked the door to the shop, and closed it behind me,
leaving the closed sign on the door. I half thought of turning it around, in
the vague hope that someone would come along, but he was already disappearing
through the shelves of books and heading to the back of the store. I followed
cautiously, holding my bag in a position that I could swing it at his head if I
needed to. Textbooks gave more than one kind of headache.
Finally, we
came to a door and it opened into a small back room that looked to be mostly
storage. I hung back, thinking this was a perfect place to get beaten over the
head and tied up, but Hywel didn’t even turn back toward me yet. He went to a
bookshelf on the back wall and took a large tome out, reaching behind it to
touch the back panel of the shelf. A click was heard and the bookshelf swung
out to reveal another doorway. Okay, that was rather cool.
“Come, Mr.
Cadwallader,” Hywel told me, motioning me forward.
I
hesitated, thoughts of what could be down there—a dungeon, a serial killer’s
lair—but it didn’t smell like blood and decay, just old books, and well, I was
already this far, I guess it couldn’t get much worse than this.
I took a
deep breath and stepped forward behind him as he descended a set of stairs and
flipped a light switch at the bottom. I couldn’t help the awe that I felt at
seeing what this room was. And thankfully, it was certainly not a dungeon.
More
bookshelves lined one wall, while another held jars and glass cases that seemed
to hold scientific specimens and such, another wall was adorned with an armoire
and sported several swords hanging on the wall beside it. The last wall,
displayed the sword and scroll crest that seemed to be popping up everywhere
recently, and in the middle of the room was a long table with chairs and lamps
that looked like it had been stolen from the public library.
“What…is
this place?” I asked, half shocked that it was so different from my dark
imaginings.
“This,
Owain Cadwallader, is your ancestry, your bloodline,” Hywel said, gesturing
around. “You are an Old Warden.”
“What is
that?” I asked cautiously.
“It’s what
I am, and what your grandfather was,” Hywel told me, being helpful as usual.
“And what
exactly is an ‘old warden’? Is it some secret society like the Freemasons?”
He laughed
dryly. “No. The Freemasons don’t have any real significance, just a fancy
gentleman’s club. The Old Wardens or yr
Hen Wardeniaid in Welsh, are an ancient group of warrior scholars, whose
job it is to be knowledgeable in what the world classes as folklore and
mythology. They started soon after the death of Arthur, and have survived until
this day.”
“But what
do they do?” I asked. “It doesn’t seem to have any real use, does it?”
Hywel
looked at me judgingly. “Does it not? It is a Warden’s job to protect the
people in their charge from things the general populace do not always believe
in, but are, in fact, very real, and very much a threat. Or help them
understand the ones that aren’t. Either way, though our place in actual society
is not what it used to be, our jobs are almost more important in this jaded,
cynical age we live in when people refuse to believe in things science claims
to be fantasy, when in actuality the creatures we study are just species that
have been forgotten by time. Ones that are so rare there are only handfuls left.”
“But I
don’t understand,” I said, frowning. “What do you protect people from?”
“From
things that no one believes exists. Things like what is killing people here in
this city now.”
“And what
is that?” I asked angrily, wishing he would just get to the point. And he
complained that I asked too many questions like it was all my fault.
He folded his
arms across his chest. “Very well, if you don’t want me to ease into this, I’ll
tell you straight. Those people were killed by a manticore.”
That
stopped me. I stared at him, judging to see if he was joking or if I had
misheard, and finally I started laughing, but he never joined in. “Are you
bloody serious?” I demanded. “A manticore?”
“I am very
serious, Master Owain, and so should you be.”
“So what
you’re saying is that these wardens hunt mythical creatures?”
“That is
what I have been trying to tell you. But they’re not as ‘mythical’ as people
like to believe.”
“Okay,” I
said slowly, deicing this guy was just plain nuts. “Even if that were true,
manticores are a Persian creature, they shouldn’t be seen outside of the Middle
East and they prefer wooded areas, and while I could understand one being found
in the woods, or out near Mount Hood, why would it want to be smack in the
middle of Portland? Plus, they are carnivores, and none of the victims were…eaten.”
Hywel
seemed strangely pleased with my questions. “That is good, Owain, you do know
your lore, your grandfather taught you well. And to answer all your questions,
I don’t know. And that’s what I’ve been trying to find out.”
I sank down
into one of the chairs, running a hand through my already messy hair. “Okay, so
are you serious? Why would you be serious about this?”
“I am very
serious about this.”
“And you
say I’m a warden. How is that
possible? I never even heard of them until now.”
“Yes, that
is regrettable,” Hywel said, sounding genuinely sad about it. “Had your
grandfather lived, he would have taught you something about it to prepare you.
Most Wardens are brought up with some knowledge of the life, but I think it’s
because of your mother that he didn’t.”
“Does she
know?” I asked suddenly.
“No, and
it’s probably best to keep it that way. It is rare that women share the
bloodline and your grandfather never thought it fit to teach her. She was not
cut out for it, so he took me as an apprentice instead as I will take you.”
“Woah, hold
on, I don’t even believe this,” I told him firmly. “I just thought my
grandfather was a professor, I didn’t think he actually hunted stuff like
manticores. I didn’t even think he believed this stuff existed. I thought he
just told me those stories to amuse me as a kid.”
“Well, now
you know. He told you those stories to prepare you in the only way he could and
at least it seemed to have paid off. Come look at this, it might change your
mind.”
I reluctantly
stood, and went to the wall with all the glass cases and bottles. My breath
caught in my throat as I saw the things in there, stuff that on first glace
looked to be nothing more than a naturalist’s collection, but upon closer
examination was far too strange to be what anyone could call normal.
There were
jars with strange creatures or worse, creature parts, bottled inside, and other
bits and pieces. I gazed, horrified into a case that held a long spike,
reminiscent of the ones that I had seen in the corpse of the murdered man less
than an hour ago. It was labeled Manticore
spine. I swallowed hard. But even more mind-blowing was what I saw in the
next case, a long, black claw that could have been from a dinosaur, but looked
oh so much more lethal. This was marked impossibly as Dragon claw. Yeah, I really didn’t know what to say about that.
“This is
all real?” I gulped out.
“It is,”
Hywel said.
I went back
to the table and sat down, completely shaken. “Okay, so I guess my life just
completely turned around. And I’m going to hunt these things too?”
“It would
be a good idea to learn,” Hywel said. “I know it’s a lot to take in all at
once, and I am sorry I didn’t find you before. I was out of state until the
last few months, but when I heard it was your eighteenth birthday, I came back
to track you down. It is customary to present a Warden with their sword and a
mentor in their eighteenth year. Your grandfather would have done it for you
had he lived.”
“Okay, so
I’m part of an ancient scholar warrior bloodline—that’s pretty epic, I guess.
But why are the wardens here? It
sounds more like a British or European thing.”
“It started
as such, obviously, before the New World was populated by our ancestors. In the
ancient days through the dark ages it was a very lucrative profession with all
the monsters and dragons running around. But as the creatures began to dwindle
the Wardens became fewer, until only about a hundred bloodlines stuck around,
you and I are part of some of the first ones. As people came from Europe they
brought many things with them, even creatures whether on accident or on purpose,
until some Wardens traveled to the New World to take up their professions here.
It used to be that there was a Warden in every large city, but now it’s lucky
if there’s one in every state. There’s not as much call for our expertise
anymore. But sometimes things happen and we are needed still.”
“The
manticore,” I said quietly, shuddering slightly at the thought of looking at
the picture in the bestiary the night before.
“Indeed,”
Hywel confirmed. “I thought it would be a prime opportunity for you to start
your work as a Warden. Also, beasts seem to have an uncanny attraction to us.
Something in our blood, our makeup, makes us seem like a predator to them and
causes them to fight back. I was afraid that if I left you in the dark, you
might do something foolish and get yourself killed by the manticore. I couldn’t
watch you all the time.”
I mulled
this over, unable to really process any of it. There was all too much too soon.
I put my head down in my hands and must have stayed like that for a long time
because the next thing I knew, Hywel was putting a steaming cup of tea beside
me.
“Drink it,
it will help.”
I sipped
warily, but found it strong and not disagreeable. It did refresh me, and I was
able to start rationalizing again. At least as far as I could rationalize in
this very strange situation.
“You do
have a choice, Owain,” he told me after a while. “But know that if you do
choose not to join the Wardens, the life still might find you and it might end
badly for your not being prepared.”
I was still
silent, my hands wrapped around the mug of tea, the warmth doing little to stay
my nerves. Finally, I took a deep sigh and looked up. “If I do agree to do
this, to be a…warden, then what does that entail?”
“Lots of
research work—more so than hunting, fight training, and sticking around me
probably more than you want to. You also have to learn to be ready night and
day for any occurrence. Sometimes family and friends have to be put aside for
the greater good of helping the many. It is not an easy life, but if you want
to apply yourself, then I have a feeling you will make a very fine Warden.”
I took a
deep draft of the tea, and set it down on the table with a thunk, looking up to meet Hywel’s eyes. “Okay then, when do we
start?”
Copyright© 2015 by Hazel B. West
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