The Birr Elixir: A Fantasy Tale of Heroes, Princes, and an Apprentice's Magic Potion (The Legend of the Gamesmen Book 1) Read online

  The Birr Elixir

  Book 1 of The Legend of the Gamesmen

  Jo Sparkes

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  Copyright © 2013 Jo Sparkes

  All rights reserved. See notice last page.

  ISBN 978-0-9853318-1-8

  Prologue

  GREAT CONSTELLATION take you – FIND HIM!”

  Beneath the yellow flowers, brambles sliced his hands. Climbing the rocky slope was tearing the flesh from his fingers. Tryst ignored the blood and pain, his eye on the shadow above him.

  If it was a cave …

  “We must bring proof – or there will be no gold.”

  Somewhere, behind him, Jason was trying to cover their tracks. Unless Jason – no. Jason wouldn't betray him.

  Tryst ducked below the brush, wincing as thorns caught his hair, his clothes. His shoulder. Reaching the cave would only work if they never saw him enter.

  If it was a cave …

  Seven days earlier, he'd surveyed the east view from the council room.

  Green hills, thick oak, blue sky. And wildflowers. All bunched up together, as if the mountain behind had pushed it all out of its way. It lacked the discipline of the palace gardens, but there was something Tryst liked about the sheer wildness of the view.

  At one time, the King's council room had been open all around. The room was at the top of the palace, and should have commanded a superb view of Missea, the King's City. The seat and pride of the Skullan people. But over the thousand years since the first war, the arched openings had been sealed one by one, until only the east view remained. And the King's first minister urged that sealed as well. To protect King Bactor.

  The door burst open and Tryst slipped behind the arch pillar, for all the world as if he were twelve instead of nineteen.

  “Move the Devon garrison to Gold Harbor. It's the stepping stone to the city, and far too vulnerable.” Even if the rasping voice hadn't revealed him, Tryst would have known Charis, the First Minister, by his words. Charis always wanted to prepare for battle – or to launch one.

  “Too provocative, my friend,” King Bactor's voice was strong, inspiring confidence. A true King's voice. “If we must do that – and I'm not convinced we must – let it be after the Comet Final.”

  And now Tryst felt like a foolish twelve-year-old playing hide and seek in his father's Council room.

  “If they attack this year, they will fill the city during the Final. That's what I would do. We'd never count the troops until it was far too late.”

  “Do you think the Trumen are as clever as my First Minister?”

  Tryst stepped out. His father saw him, but Charis had his back turned. The two stood on either side of the giant council table – a table surely meant, Tryst suddenly thought, for more than one adviser.

  “I will defend my people.” Bactor joined his son at the window, smiling warmly. “I will fight a war, if the stars steer it so, but I will not provoke one.”

  “The Chronicles –” Charis realized Tryst was in the room.

  “Minister Charis.” Tryst nodded.

  “My Prince.” Charis hid his annoyance well, but Tryst knew the First Minister didn't like to push the King in front of others. His father believed it was out of respect, but Tryst thought Charis preferred to keep his influence from being widely known.

  None the less, it was widely known.

  “We shall speak later, Majesty,” Charis bowed again. “The Prince's epourney begins tomorrow, does it not? You will wish some time together.”

  Tryst waited until the First Minister was gone before grimacing.

  “Minister Charis is a wise adviser. You would do well to appreciate him.”

  “Is war so close? Should I not remain?”

  “According to Charis, war is always close. No, my son. The epourney is key to becoming a man, and a future King must first be a man.”

  “But I can help you. Everything I need to know I can learn right here in Missea -”

  King Bactor burst out laughing. Tryst suddenly felt twelve again.

  “You wish to rule the Skullan people without ever setting foot outside Missea? Without talking to them in their villages, standing beside them on their ships? You wish to decide the fates of Trumen without ever seeing who they are, how they live?

  “Ignorance, my son. A blessing in a woman, a fault in a man. And a fatal flaw in a King.”

  All of Tryst's carefully marshaled arguments faded. Like it or not, he was going on the epourney.

  The horses stood in the east courtyard. From here they would be relatively unseen as they departed. Though the mountains seemed impenetrable, there was a path that lead through them and beyond to the rest of the world. His father would say to the rest of the kingdom, but there were in truth whole continents unaware of the King's claim.

  The path was long and difficult, which was why the castle was safe with the mountains guarding its eastern side. An army would march a long, dangerous trek, some of it single file, to use that access. They could carry nothing but what would fit on a horse, and find themselves very tired and thirsty before arriving. And they would be spotted hours before they reached safe cover.

  Most visitors, of course, approached the other way, into the famous Gold Harbor. In the thousand years that Missea had stood, no one had ever successfully attacked the port. Only three had dared try.

  Tryst had grown up with this lesson among the many. Not until today, however, did he come to appreciate it.

  An epourney is undertaken with a best friend/companion, and a prince's epourney with no less than three. Baldar, Mauric, Jason, and five of the elite personal guard. He could have taken more – many more – but if he must do this journey, he preferred to travel light.

  Jason had burst out laughing when he said that.

  “What better way to see your kingdom than from behind a wall of armed men? How else can the citizens warm to you?”

  Jason and Mauric were Tryst's best friends. He had eight prince-companions, but these two were good fellows, not afraid to make a joke or tell him he was wrong.

  And today Mauric was late as usual. Jason calmed his spirited gray mount as a stable hand soothed Tryst's pretty white steed.

  “Finally!” Tryst heard the oaken doors creak – but only Kellan emerged. Kellan was least of the prince-companions. A good political family, but in truth he shared not a common thought or opinion with the others. And he was a good ten years older.

  “My Prince,” Kellan bowed. “Mauric is taken ill this morning, and begs that I go in his stead. So that you may start your epourney at the appointed time.”

  “I don't think...”

  “Kellan!” Baldar strode over to shake Kellan's hand. “Now we'll have some fun! My Prince, you must hear Kellan's newest trick. He's perfected a Minister Charis imitation.”

  They both waited expectantly, eyes sparkling with laughter. With confidence.

  After the briefest hesitation, Tryst nodded.

  It was only later he realized Kellan had mounted the dappled gelding. The horse he always rode. Mauric's black had not been brought to the courtyard.

  Double Click on Map to Enlarge.

  1.

  IT WAS A VERY dirty shop.

  Marra had long since given up trying to keep it clean. The dust of San Cris was the stuff of legend – and not in a good way. It had to be cleared out of your nostrils at the end of the day, or sleep was impossible.
It clung to your hair, which was a reason so many women wore it short. Men wore their hair long, seemingly not to care that the sand actually lightened the shade. Most females preferred being clean.

  Marra's dark red hair was long, and she spent a lot of time brushing the sand out. Some thought she was vain, and perhaps she was about the one thing that proclaimed she wasn't born in San Cris. But long hair was strength, the strength of warriors. And for Marra, it made her feel safer.

  She wanted to feel safer.

  At least it was a beautiful day, with that intense blue sky the desert had in the early morning, before the sun bleached the air white. And it was a comet day. If she hadn't already known there was a comet match this afternoon, the bustling street outside would have told her so.

  She listened to the crowd noises now as she scraped the tiny leaves off the crys bark. And managed to scrape her thumb. Quickly she yanked away from the bowl, before the blood could ruin the herb.

  And as she stood there sucking her thumb, in walked Drail, Leader of the 'Hand of Victory'. They must be playing today.

  She snatched the injured finger from her mouth, covering it with her other hand.

  Drail strode to the counter, getting bigger with each step. “Do you have an energy potion?” His eyes scanned the shelves behind her. And she blushed at the lack of wares.

  There were herb jars, of course, but few mixtures. Marra was supposed to be an apprentice, learning the power of herbs, the alchemy of powders and potions to heal and enhance. But Mistress Britta had died five weeks ago – just a year into her studies. And Snark, the Mistress's brother, had proved ignorant in the art.

  “I'm sorry. Only a health tonic – to strengthen the digestion.”

  Drail's eyes roamed the shelves slowly, as if expecting to find some great elixir hidden amongst the cactus needles and crys bark. Marra wished there was something there to satisfy him, but she knew there was not.

  “How long to make one?”

  She stared back, unable to think of a reply.

  “Please.” He clasped both her hands with one of his, and she stared at the sheer size of his fist. There were rumors that Drail wasn't Trumen at all, but Skullan. Few really believed that, of course, for no Skullan would pretend to be other than Skullan. Besides, Drail had hair. Thick, brown hair tied in a long tail down his muscled back. Skullan had hairless bodies, and were much bigger than Trumen.

  Drail was certainly big. And persuasive. “Please,” he said, smiling at her. He leaned close enough she saw the brown flecks in his gold eyes. “Do you know what today is?”

  “All of San Cris knows, sir. Comet day.”

  He shook his head. “All the comet days together would not equal this day. A Skullan team has entered the game.”

  Marra stared. “No Skullan would play a Trumen.”

  He shook his head. “Actually, there were at least six known games where Trumen faced Skullan. All six losses.”

  Marra had never heard such a thing. But she realized if anyone would know, it would be Drail. His whole family was legendary gamesmen.

  “What's your name?” His eyes were sparkling – with excitement, she realized. No fear at all.

  “Marra.”

  “Marra, seven is my lucky number.”

  Her own gaze dropped away from the sheer power of his. And alighted on the tome behind the counter.

  It was Britta's Book, the mistress's handwritten collection of potions, balms, and notes. Snark wasn’t even supposed to know about it, but she’d plucked it out to check proportions on a recipe and hadn’t returned it to the hiding place. Besides, Snark never ventured back here.

  Marra now lifted the book onto the mesquite counter. It fell open as it always did at Britta's leaf-mark. On the BIRR ELIXIR.

  “Yes!” Drail said, pointing at it.

  “Birr?”

  “Exactly! With that we will win!”

  Marra had always assumed Birr was some sort of herb. Drail must know otherwise. Scanning the recipe, she saw only herbs she had. Except for something called Myrrcleft.

  “Thank you, little Marra.”

  Her protest melted under his warm smile.

  When she read it again, she realized that this Myrrcleft was probably the active ingredient. She could use basil. Basil had great mixing powers and could often be substituted, but if this was some sort of energy potion that may not be enough.

  Then she remembered the Trevor seed. Mistress Britta had a two-fist sack filled with a tiny grain-like thing she called Trevor seed. Britta had said it 'boosted' things, made a potion more so of whatever it was to be.

  Marra ran back to fetch one tiny seed. She crushed it with the mallet, releasing a sweet oily puff, and hastily dropped it into the elixir. Then she heated it as indicated, but not quite to boiling. Trevor seed lost potency in boiling, she remembered.

  She poured the steaming liquid into a glass flask. Glass was expensive, but Britta had marked it must be so.

  Hands grabbed her shoulders – she whirled to see Snark behind her. Something in his eyes made her stomach plummet.

  “Special order,” she nodded at the flask. “I have to take this to the field.”

  “Later,” Snark stared at her blouse. He had been doing that lately, and it made her skin crawl.

  “Drail said before the game – or no payment. It's for the Hand of Victory.”

  Snark's fingers slid over her shoulders. “I'll take it. You wait here.”

  “He said I must bring it myself.” That was her second lie, and she winced inwardly. She'd never lied in her life until Snark became her boss.

  But the lie worked.

  “I bet he did,” Snark grinned evilly. “Go, then. But don't be long. He's got game in an hour.”

  Marra raced out into the sunshine.

  Travelers often referred to San Cris as outlying, which to Marra's mind meant small. It was one of the Sandy towns, out on the Flats of Beard. San Cris's population was less than two hundred Trumen total. And today it seemed twice as many were crowding the street, laughing and eating baked cactus treats. It was a comet day, and San Cris was the host.

  For an instant Marra paused, weighing going back for her shoes against the possibility Snark would change his mind. To be barefoot marked one as poor indeed, but then that was pretty much what she was. So she defiantly tossed her long braid back over her shoulder, and hurried on.

  She weaved her way through the crowd, then was suddenly snatched up off her feet as if she were a comet ball herself.

  “Cute little Trumen,” a booming voice said. Marra found herself face to face with a giant of a man, his head bald and the hollows surrounding his eyes painted dark green. His skin was pale – with patches of burning pink sunburn on his nose. And he had a spider tattooed on his cheek.

  He had to be Skullan.

  She'd never been so close to one before. By the Desert Crane, she'd only seen three of them in her whole life. Skullan were said to despise the desert almost as much as they despised Trumen.

  “What a nice little prize,” the Skullan leered. “You may warm my mouth now, and warm my lap later.”

  He pulled her closer. Marra instinctively braced both her feet against his chest. “You defy me, girl?” he asked softly. And she saw Bender, the old shopkeeper from down the street, lower his head and scurry past.

  No one, she realized, was going to do anything to help her against a Skullan.

  Her feet thrust out again before her brain could stop them. One foot skidded down his massive chest, scraping his nether region. He doubled over; Marra dropped to the dust.

  Startled at his reaction, she hesitated but a second before seizing her good fortune. She scrambled to her feet and took off as his companion laughed.

  She didn't slow down until a rock in her heel demanded attention.

  The comet field was a huge circle of combed sand, with four perimeter posts set on the four compass points. Today those posts were decorated with streaming cloths of color tied to each. Marra passe
d the first post, with a dark green cloth the same shade as the Skullan eye paint, and quickly moved on to the red cloth, where Drail and three other Trumen warmed up. They were swinging powerful arms, kicking imaginary balls. When Drail saw Marra, he tapped a friend’s shoulder before striding toward her.

  She stared up at him. He had seemed so large in the shop, before she'd faced a Skullan. Drail had looked like a warrior in a tale come to life, but somehow seemed more human now that she'd witnessed the mass of a Skullan up close. She wanted to ask if he realized just how big they were. If he truly understood how difficult a game would be against such giants.

  He must be the bravest man on the continent.

  “Do you have it?” he asked with his easy smile. For all the world as if he'd forgive her if she didn't. Wordlessly she plucked the flask from her pocket, and only just realized how easily it might have broken in her scuffle. But it hadn't.

  Drail removed the cork stopper, and glanced at her. “How much do I drink?” Most potions were intended to drink the whole amount at once. This one, she remembered, had been marked by the circle with the cross in the center.

  “A quarter of it only.”

  “Perfect.” Drail pulled a good drink from the flask, closing his eyes, savoring the feeling. After a moment he nodded. Marra hoped that meant it was actually working.

  He then handed it to a teammate, a man even taller and with wild hair. When that one turned, she spied a lonely blonde curl dangling over his temple. Almost cute – if everything else hadn't been sinew and muscle.

  “Manten. Drink a third, and pass it on,” Drail told him. To Marra he tossed four coppers. “We offer you the post seat. You'll have a great view to watch your elixir at work.”

  She stared at the coins in her palm. “Too much, sir. It's only a copper.”

  “Four men. Four coppers.” Drail gestured grandly toward the post, and she found herself moving before thinking. Behind him, his men donned comet leather, chest-jackets with a crudely drawn hand and a red “V”. The sign of Drail's team – the 'Hand of Victory'.