Javen: Legacy of the Seers

Javen: Legacy of the Seers

By R. Barrett

Copyright © 2017 Dea Barrs

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For information, write rbarrett.javen@gmail.com.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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Cover Art by Richard Barrs

Dedication

To Richard, for your constant support, guidance, and encouragement. There is no one with whom I'd rather spend my life.

To Richard Andrew, whose hard work, creativity, and editing are an inspiration to me. With only twenty-four hours in a day, you devoted most of your off-hours to helping me with all aspects of this book. I am deeply grateful and humbled.

Books by R. Barrett

The Javen Legacy:

Javen: Legacy of the Seers

Javen: Legacy of the Curse

Chapters 1 - 3 of Javen: Legacy of the Curse are included at the end of this book.

CHAPTER 1

A Harpy, a Hag, and a Brat

In and out, her orders had been explicit -- get the info, and get out of town. Well, she was in.

She pressed herself into the still, warm body. As kisses went, she'd had worse. She gripped him hard, kneading his muscled back. Her audience, two barmaids with their drunk escorts, snickered and then made their way from the alley. She understood the snickers.

A tottering, humped-back old crone in the intimate embrace of a young, viral stud; it wasn't the stuff of fantasies. The body began to slip and the old woman stepped away as the stud's corpse crumpled to the ground beside a water barrel. Except for a bloodstain spreading across his chest, he looked much like any drunk. She arranged a bottle at his fingertips, completing the sleeping-it-off appearance. The look was finished by rearranging his tunic to conceal the blood stain. She cast a glance over her artistry, replaced the blade in the handle of her cane and wrenched the cane from the mud.

A kill’s success was all about diversion, she recited silently. Her stumble had been perfect, the dagger unnoticed until too late and the kiss inspired. As for the corpse, it wouldn’t be discovered until flies began to congregate.

Shoulders hunched and leaning heavily, she exited the alley into Beto’s swarming streets. Her bum leg was a nuisance, but it was inseparable from her black attire. Besides, it was an excuse for her questions. And there were plenty of people to ask, but she needed to be more cautious; too many dead bodies led to inquiries. In her defense, though, how could she prepare for such a clown? She didn’t look back to where body was hidden. Lesson two: never return.

Yer beyond help, she murmured under her breath, repeating the dead guy’s answer to her question.

As she passed the mercantile and its long waiting line, she spied a lone woman sitting on a stoop beside the rail. Her mouth was grim-set, but she had a busybody look.

With a well-placed groan, the old woman eased herself down on the other side and rubbed her bum leg. Know a healer, round here? The old woman asked the same question the joker had responded to -- and died for.

The other woman’s grim mouth pursed and she examined the old woman’s black attire, clearly understanding its meaning. The old woman realized her mistake. This one wouldn’t be fooled. The old woman scooted closer as though to hear.

Never knowed a witch-wife ta need a healer, the woman said. What’s the game?

A knife slid silently between her ribs and she slumped against the rail. The old woman didn’t check for a pulse. She hadn’t missed the vital spot. Returning the blade to her cane, she levered herself up, and back into the street.

The leg was really acting up. If she didn’t get information soon, she’d be crawling. At least the rain had let up. She waded through the muddy road as a group of rowdy teenagers careened across, nearly bumping her off her feet. She waved her cane meaningfully as they laughed. The noon bell rang and her leg almost buckled. This trip had taken too long, and her return trip would add another hour. Her leg throbbed as another cluster of citizens blocked her way.

She had the mercantile to thank for the swamp of inhumanity. It was their yearly reopening. In Beto, that amounted to a high-holiday. Every citizen was either in the street or trying to get into the packed mercantile’s stall. But she really shouldn’t complain; the circus atmosphere hid the bodies.

Other than her leg…and not discovering any information yet…and the dead bodies…and the crowds…her plan wasn’t going too badly. Few could fault her. Well, perhaps Varus would. Though on the subject of abilities, his mental ones didn’t exist. In other words, she wouldn’t ask his opinion. And of course, Feral would fault her. His penchant for perfection would demand it. It was the very reason she’d never tell him.

She could hear him already – know your battleground. He’d say, her mistake was not knowing the scene, the possible problems, and the escape routes. He’d probably add that her lack of preparation had led to poor judgment when choosing her informers. Thus, she’d placed herself needlessly in danger’s way and been buffeted about by half the town in their mania. Nope, he’d never hear of this from her.

Then she spotted her. An old woman – older than her – smacking her gums and jabbering to every passerby. That woman would talk. She would know everything. And she wouldn’t look too closely at who she told.

Several long minutes later, and loaded down with more drivel than she knew existed about ailments, the old woman made her way back the way she’d come. She sighed on nearing the inn. A band of ruffians was spread across her path, rating each passerby. Her dagger was useless. Pressing herself to the inn’s wall, she squeezed through. In the end, she used her cane as a prod when a couple toughs got in her way, ranking her below zero. Her thin lips smirked as she passed, enjoying the howls of the two rowdies with badly bruised knee-balls.

She slowly shambled past the cobbler, the bakery, the livery, and the forge to the end of the small, inhospitable town. If anyone had cared to watch, they might have wondered at her destination. There wasn’t much to the west of Beto. But no one cared.

Partway down the road, the woman turned onto a faint path, following it until she reached a fork, just out of sight from the town. Putting her fingers to her lips, she whistled. A company of soldiers appeared from the trees, surrounding her.

Their leader stepped forward and grabbed her cane, Three vechin’ hours! Three lousy vechin’ hours we been waitin’, you crone!

The woman spun away, surprisingly agile. The men stepped back as the wrinkles melted from her face, and the smooth pale skin of a woman in her thirties took their place. Her limbs and back straightened. Her stringy gray hair lengthened, curled upon itself and changed color, becoming bouncy.

The woman ran her fingers through her long strawberry blonde curls. I’m a body-forger, Varus! Not a conjurer or informer. I forge into kills that are weaker and slower than myself, cause strength don’t transfer! If it were otherwise, believe me, I would’ve ‘forged’ into that buff, strapping meat-cleaver I bumped off last year, and pummeled you to death three days ago. As it is, I’ve been stepped on, shoved, and mocked, in getting you what you want. So, you’d best change yer tone or I’ll conjure myself elsewhere!

Varus turned and barked, Back to your posts! NOW! As the men disappeared, Varus grabbed her arm and dragged her down the dirt lane. By gad, Zulie, so ya gotta few bumps and bruises. What of it? Don’t you ever…

She jerked her arm from his hold and slapped him. Step softly, oaf! And it’s, ‘Lady’ Zulie.

Varus’s hands balled and his eyes flashed. He wanted to knock her flat, but he needed the information she had and. Then there was Lord Feral to consider. He barked, Get on with it.

Lord Feral was right, she said. There’s a Seer in the area. Story is, she’s a healer, but I’m sure she’s a Seer. Said she’s got amazing healin’ powers. She’s raisin’ a boy too. So, that’ll give you two for the price of one if you can keep from mucking up. She’s old and the boy’s barely in his teens. I’m thinkin’ you might be outmanned.

He flushed and raised his fist to her face.

Zulie didn’t flinch. He was a dull blade, but not dumb enough to try to take her…again. He was big, sure, but predictable. And a salted slug moved faster. Not to mention, she cheated. I mean, why exert when a little juju weed could sap the strength of the biggest brute. And that was her chief advantage. She was eons smarter – an ancient mind compared to a larval brain.

She watched uncertainty flicker in Varus’s eyes. She saw it, read it: the risk of looking a fool in front of his men. When hate and frustration took uncertainty’s place, she knew she’d won. One day he’d jump her, but not today. She waited for him to process the information, run-down the odds and come to the same conclusion.

Dim though Varus was, he didn’t miss Zulie’s contempt. He saw red, but his fist fell limp. Blasted harpy needed a beating. He huffed and growled for her to finish it. She rattled off the healer’s direction. When he’d given her the agreed upon fee, he watched with relief as she returned the way she’d come. She mumbled something about having unfinished