The Agent by Brock E. Deskins Page A

traveling as he was from his constant verbal sparring with Garran. It seemed that no matter the topic of conversation, Garran felt an incessant need to argue until everyone conceded that they were somehow at fault. He was sure the agent would argue a reprieve at his own execution just to be contrary.
    “Why do I have to carry the bearskin?” Adam asked.
    “Because it’s heavy and you’re weak. We need to build up your strength and teach you how to fight.”
    “I am a monk. I have taken vows against violence.”
    “There you go with this vows nonsense again,” Garran griped. “You need to forget that crap if you want to rescue your sister and take back the throne.”
    “My vows are who I am. To renounce them is to renounce God and my very identity.”
    “Not renouncing them and doing whatever you have to do to win is to renounce your survival and your sister’s virginity. Okay, we’re probably too late for that last one, but we can make good on the first one if you do what I say.”
    “You are such an ass.”
    “True, but I’m an ass who has never lost a fight.”
    “You have never lost a fight?”
    “Technically, no. A fight isn’t over until you’re dead or you quit. I’m still alive, and I never quit no matter how many times I have to retreat and regroup.”
    Adam did not respond. Despite Garran’s crude and abrasive personality, he could not help but find a measure of respect for him in that last statement. If they were going to have any hope of saving Evelyn, his was that kind of determination they would need.
    ***
    Monastic life was rather sedentary with only the occasional chores to break up the long periods of study. Adam struggled to keep up with Garran’s grueling pace, but his feet were sore and his legs ached and began to cramp. Only his pride and desire to keep the agent from mocking him more than he already did urged him onward without complaint. The constant exertion also prevented the bitterly chill air from setting into his flesh.
    Garran whittled a piece of wood to pass the time as they walked. Adam marched behind him, casting occasional glances his way. The Agent’s carving had him curious, but he refused to ask him what he was doing since any discussion inexorably devolved into something revolting. As they plodded onward, Adam’s curiosity finally won out over his reservations.
    “What are you making?”
    “A canoe. I feel bad about the bear and thought it might cheer you up.” Garran made a final score in the wood and tossed it to Adam. “Enjoy. Try not to get a sliver.”
    Adam caught the carving and turned it over a few times as he examined it before hurling it into the trees with a curse. “That was not a canoe!”
    “Sure it was; it just wasn’t a boat. I’m surprised you even recognized it, although I’m not shocked to see you are also frightened of those too.”
    “I am not afraid of anything; I’m just a grown man who does not appreciate crude and childish behavior.”
    “You also don’t seem to appreciate it when someone gives you a gift. Doesn’t seem like a very priestly thing to do to toss it away.”
    “It was not a gift; it was an insult to decency.”
    Garran gazed up the road. “You were a prince, a priest, and now an art critic. You are very indecisive.” He stopped abruptly, held up a hand, and cocked his head. “Horses.”
    Garran looked up and down the stretch of road, but it offered no escape. The ground dropped away in a sheer escarpment to their left, and the land to the right soared up at least fifty feet in a barren, rocky slope that continued for half a mile behind them and an unknown distance in the direction of the approaching riders.
    Garran checked his reaping blades hanging from the leather loops on his belt. “This could get ugly. If they recognize either of us, press yourself against the rock and stay out of the way.”
    Adam swiveled his head around in hopes of finding a path of escape. “Can you really fight them all?”
    Garran