Ricky TooHigh's Arc

Chapter 2 of 9

By dawn the staff still smoked white in Hunter's hand. Ricky sat by the hearth wrapped in his cloak, teaching his grandson the small words that kept the wood cool. Hunter listened without moving. He had not slept. The bench beside him held his sword, his shield, and the red and black helm he had not put back on since the staff first steadied under his palm. The door opened before the innkeeper had swept the ash. A tall man stepped in from the cold. He wore black plate under a crimson cape. A long sword rode his hip, and a red wooden staff hung from his left hand. His ears came to soft points under dark hair. He looked at the smoke curling from Hunter's staff the way a starving man looks at bread. "So the rumor walks," he said. "A smoking staff that answers a new hand. I came a long way to see it." Ricky pushed up on his elbow. His burned palm shook against the stone. "He's not ready for you." "Then he shouldn't be holding it." The stranger set his own red staff against a table. He drew the long sword an inch, then let it drop back. "One pass. If he keeps his feet, I leave. If he doesn't, I take the staff off the floor." Hunter stood. The polished knight's armor he had traded into last winter caught the firelight, gold trim along the plates. He was a head shorter than the crimson mage. He set the smoking staff across his shield arm and drew his sword. "Grandfather. Stay down." "Boy—" "Stay down." The crimson mage moved first. His blade came in a low red arc that hummed. Hunter caught it on the shield. The impact drove him back two steps. He did not fall. The staff on his arm flared white, then held. He shoved off the shield and cut once at the mage's knee. The mage stepped clear, easy as breathing. They circled. The mage feinted high and cut low. Hunter took the second strike on the shield again. A plate cracked at the rim. He grunted. The staff on his arm went from white smoke to a thin thread of gray. Ricky saw the gray and understood. The staff was reading the fight. It was deciding. "Yield the pass," Ricky called. "He kept his feet. You said one." The crimson mage lowered his sword. He looked at the gray smoke, then at Hunter's face inside the open helm. Something in him settled and sharpened at once. "He kept them," the mage said. "Barely." He sheathed the sword. He picked up his red staff. "I'll be on the road when he's ready. Tell the old man to teach faster." He walked out. The door banged. Hunter lowered the shield. The cracked rim hung loose. The staff on his arm smoked white again, but slower than before. "He'll come back," Hunter said. "Yes," Ricky said. "And I have less time than I thought."