by Kevin C Noel
“Say nothing of it, General Zizka. A friend of my late father, is a friend of mine.”
“And your companion was brilliant as well!” Jekuthiel bowed. “I watched you on the battlefield, Lord Kesgaila,” continued Zizka. “You stand a proud reflection of your great father, Volant the First. God rest his soul. Observing you in battle was like watching him at Grunwald twelve years ago.”
From the shuffling sound behind him, Volant could tell his Questioner was stifling his urge to laugh out. Zizka clearly did not know the Volant whom he spoke to and the one he revered at Grunwald were one and the same. But his cluelessness was justified because the Volant he knew all those years ago was an older man with greying hair, while the one he saw that day was much younger and athletic—a change made possible by his Questioning.
Zizka mounted his horse again and invited the two to join him for a meal. “We shall join you momentarily, General,” said Volant and the three horses turned and vanished in the foggy distance. He turned to Jekuthiel, “Why isn’t Azmaveth here?”
“You know him,” said Jekuthiel. “The boy compares fighting human beings to smashing ants beneath his boot. It’s a boring pastime. But I enjoy it. I enjoy the humans’ innate capacity for warfare—for violence.”
Volant observed him as he dipped his finger into more spilled blood and wondered why he often spoke as if he were never a human himself prior to being Questioned. Soon, he found the second Craver in the chest of another soldier. He retrieved it and sheathed both in the twin scabbards that hung in an X on his back.
What was next for these Incardians? Not even they knew.
One of the many advantages of immortality.
“I lost you for a minute,” said Octavius as Garrick opened his eyes and held onto his throbbing head. He looked around and noticed they were no longer in his bedroom, but the library. Garrick panted and circled the room around confusedly as Octavius passed him a cup of red wine. Garrick paused for a moment, half expecting Rumsfeld to appear as he often did to stop him from drinking. When nothing happened, he took the wine and gulped it speedily. It relaxed him almost instantly.
“When I was… human,” he began. “I would have these panic attacks. Moments when I’d lose all control, my heart would race, and I’d find it difficult to breathe. Then I’d pass out and have these strange dreams. It wasn’t always in this order, though. Sometimes I’d have the dream before the panic attack. But whenever I woke up, I’d completely forget what I dreamed about.”
Octavius, with a grin Garrick found inappropriate considering the circumstances, had begun to shake his head. “There is more to you than I could have possibly imagined, Garrick,” he said. “Those weren’t panic attacks. You were simply reliving your past life.”
Garrick who was no longer disoriented had begun to roll his eyes.
“Do you still feel the sting of doubt, Garrick? After everything you’ve seen? You’re no longer mortal, but something more akin to a god. Open your mind!” There was a slight dab of anger in his tone.
Giving up, Garrick nodded. “Go on,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Octavius. “Reincarnation is a rarity. I’ve never met anyone who’s been reincarnated. But this is mostly because people who are reincarnated haven’t the slightest idea of it. Memories of a past life may come in the form of dreams, but they are mostly dismissed as just that—dreams. You see, the human mind cannot handle such a powerful process. You, on the other hand, are no longer a human being. In some ways, you never were and for this reason, your reaction to these memories was more intense. And now, who knows what will happen? You might remember everything about your past life!”
“And how long will that take?” asked Garrick.
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
Garrick felt a sudden craving for a cigarette. As he did his very best to open his mind for the coming conversation, he took a very deep breath and finally asked: “What is the Ambler?”
Octavius retrieved a small black book of maybe a hundred or a hundred and fifty pages and dropped it on Garrick’s lap. There was a name on the cover which Garrick read confusedly. “Gus… Gusoyn?”
Octavius seemed taken aback for a moment as his blue eyes widened, and then he smirked. “That’s the Gusoyn Journal. I’d call it required reading for all Atrumans.”
“You’re giving me homework?” asked Garrick incredulously.
“I am your teacher after all.”
Garrick skimmed through the book as Octavius explained. “With human prophecies, at least these days, there’s always room for doubt. With Atruman prophecies, however, there isn’t any. The Gusoyn Journal contains all prophecies concerning Atrumans and many of them have come to fruition.”
Garrick noted one of the headings, “The Flood that Destroys but Creates,” which chronicled the survival of the nameless Incardian Originator. Others were “Marchosias’ Human-Lupine Progeny,” “The Atruman Romanticization,” “The Return of the Fallen,” and then he finally saw the one he was looking for. “The Incardian Ambler.”
It stated:
When the GREAT STAR shall shine before its time to smite the CHILDREN OF THE FALLEN
And all shall scarper in an ILL-FATED attempt at survival,
Only one shall AMBLE.
With bright EMERALD EYES, he will be the last SON OF SEMYAZA
Fated to DECIDE whether more shall follow,
Or remain ALONE
“I can’t pretend to completely understand this,” he finally said.
“So, you can’t read it?” Octavius asked.
“I can,” said Garrick. “But what does it mean? And why are these words capitalized?”
“Write down exactly what you see,” instructed Octavius.
Garrick raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“I’ll explain later,” he said as he handed him a pencil and paper. “Write it exactly as you see it.” Once Garrick finally wrote down the prophecy, Octavius read it and began to explain. “The capitalized words are the keywords. They make the prophecy more specific. For instance, look here: ‘children of the fallen’ so we know it’s predicting the end of all Atrumans, not just Incardians. ‘Ill-fated’ here points out that no matter what we do, we’re still going to be consumed by this ominous light—the ‘great star,’—then the one who ‘ambles,’ has ‘emerald eyes,’ and is a ‘son of Semyaza,’ which narrows down the type of Atruman, his gender and eye-color.”
“Wait a minute, Octavius. My eyes aren’t emerald green.”
“I’ve seen them green on several occasions. And I’m not talking about a change of color due to lighting conditions. I mean a complete change. They’ve gone from red, to brown, to blue, to green. And what’s interesting is that when they turn green, sometimes they glow!”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s the Knoxian Heightening Spell.”
Garrick jumped like he recalled something important. “You’ve mentioned that before,” he said. “Something about a powerful spell that couldn’t be mastered? Also, are you going to force me to keep asking questions? Ignorance is tiring!”
“The relationship between a Questioner and an Assenter is like that of a parent and child, but also like that of a teacher and student. So long as you’re a Nink—that’s a fledgling Incardian—your job will be to learn everything there is about our world. Once you have, you’re allowed to live on your own. You graduate, so to speak.”
“And how long is that supposed to take?”
“Patience. That’s a discussion for another time.” Garrick resignedly nodded his head and sat back. “The Knoxian Heightening Spell, as the name implies, is a spell which heightens the abilities of its conjurer. The spell was so powerful that anyone who tried to master it died. There are four stages, and each stage is accompanied by a different eye color. When its conjurer reaches the highest stage of the spell, the eyes turn a glowing emerald green. But everyone who tried to use this spell would die after the first or second stage. Only one perso
n was able to get to the final stage and survive. Three guesses who.”
“Volant,” replied Garrick matter-of-factly. “Is there a reason why Volant was so perfect at everything? He’s beginning to bore me.”
Octavius ignored him. “Volant was Questioned while he was in the final stage. Somehow, this made his eyes green by default when he became an Incardian. And Incardians have several eye colors, but green has curiously never been one of them. I don’t understand why, but it made him stand out. It’s what will make you stand out!”
“Are my eyes green now?”
Octavius gave a disappointed sigh. “No,” he finally said. “They’re a sort of orange-yellow-brown. It’s still an odd color for an Incardian. But I know something about the Knoxian Heightening Spell which you seem to have inherited. You were a weak human, so its effects were latent. Yet, I saw you perform amazing feats whenever you were under any stress. You remember when you were chased by the three boys from your school? You jumped an unprecedented distance between two buildings without exerting yourself. On the night of your graduation, you took down a boy three times your size without breaking a sweat. And let’s not forget later that night when your so-called father was scourging you. Your eyes turned crimson—the color of the second stage! I was there, Garrick. I saw the whole thing. There is much about you I do not understand, but I have no doubt you are the Ambler.”
Garrick was able to accept that he was no longer a human being and that all his life he lived in a world he never truly understood. There was another world out there—a world of Atrumans. Despite accepting this, there was still one thing he could not come to terms with.
Garrick was supposedly special.
How could he possibly be special? He was a perfectly ordinary human being—though some would argue with that—and he was sure he’d be an average and inconsequential Incardian. Being the Ambler would put him at the center of the future of an entire race. That, he could not accept. To worsen things, Octavius looked at him with a glint of adoration in his eyes like he’d just witnessed the second coming. This made him nervous and meant Octavius would be hard to dissuade.
Garrick stood up, the black book still in his hand, and circled the library yet again. “Octavius, I don’t know.”
Not wholly surprised to hear doubt in his voice, Octavius poured himself a glass of wine. “Tell me, Garrick,” he said before taking a sip of his drink, “when did you learn how to read Greek?”
Garrick stopped walking and looked down at the back of his Questioner’s head. “I don’t know how to read Greek,” he answered.
“Oh?” said Octavius. “That’s truly interesting.”
“What’s so interesting about me not being able to speak Greek? I might have had a lot of time on my hands, but I’ve never been any good with languages, except…”
Octavius turned to look at him. “Except what?”
Garrick feared the consequences of what he was about to say. Would it only serve to confirm Octavius’ belief? “I can speak Russian and Lithuanian. Well, a Samogitian dialect of Lithuanian, apparently. I found out earlier. But, the entire time I thought I was still speaking English.”
“Fantastic!” exclaimed Octavius who was now on his feet. “I have never witnessed a genuine case of xenoglossy!” Noticing Garrick’s testy expression, Octavius did not wait to be asked another question. “The gift of tongues, Garrick. You can speak languages you’ve never learned. It’s one of the rarest gifts ever. The book you just read is written in Greek!”
Garrick looked down at the book but still saw English. “What’s the source of this gift?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“I thought you knew everything.”
“I most certainly do not.”
A thought breezed past Garrick’s mind. Suddenly, a gateway of possibilities opened up before him and for the first time since his unforeseen conversion, he saw the bright side of it all. He saw all he could accomplish with this new power. He saw death.
A venomous grin formed on his face.
“Octavius? What are the limits of the Ambler’s power?” he asked.
The question wasn’t strange to Octavius. After all, it was his thirst for vengeance that influenced his decision to accept the Question. Even though he found this desire a hindrance to Garrick’s destiny, he felt he had to feed it long enough for him to reach his fullest potential and accept what he was to become.”
Octavius stood up. “Let’s find out together.”
14
Despite the amount of time he’d spent in the Manor, Garrick realized he hadn’t explored all its rooms. It wasn’t because of a lack of interest, but he didn’t want to overstep. This was why he was so awestricken at the sight of the war room.
It was a spacious room with a hard-wooden floor. Its walls were adorned by different mounted swords, spears, clubs, maces, shields and other weapons from cultures Garrick had never seen before. He felt like he’d walked into a museum of medieval warfare and there wasn’t a single firearm in sight.
“Occasionally,” began Octavius, “I train in here.”
“Alone?” Garrick asked as he eyed each weapon intently.
“Once in a while I have a sparring partner.”
Garrick turned to him when he remembered someone. “Ingrid?”
“Did she make an impression?”
“I watched her kill an Incardian. So yeah, she made an impression. She’s not a woman I’d want to mess with.”
“Well, she incapacitated him,” Octavius corrected. “The only weapons that can kill Incardians are Shimshonite weapons made from a sacred and mysterious metal only they possess. A select few Shimshonites have access to these weapons because of the limited quantity of the metal.” He retrieved a long sword from the wall. “I’ve always been partial to all things Roman. This is a spatha.” He swung the sword with prodigious skill. “Feel free to pick any weapon.”
“What for?”
“I thought you wanted to see what you can do.”
“And what use is a sword to me now?”
Octavius laughed. “Trust me, son. By the time you see what you can do with these weapons you’ll never bother with a gun.”
Garrick considered for a moment and circled the room for an adequate weapon. “I don’t know,” he said when he picked up a spiked mace.
“A morning star. Not a very surprising choice,” said Octavius. “You’re in a hurry to kill your opponent with brute force.”
“But how are we going to do this? We could get hurt.”
“Let me worry about that. Come to me with all you’ve got, and I’ll hold back.”
“Hold back? I could kill you!” he pointed out.
Octavius yawned. “As I said—let me worry about that.”
Garrick did not hesitate as Octavius assumed he would and swung the heavy weapon at him. The first thing the veteran Incardian took note of as he parried and blocked each strike was his immense speed. He wasn’t too fast for him, yet fast by Nink standards. Even Garrick was surprised by his own speed. He wasn’t attacking with any skill—this he was aware of—but his newfound skill gave him a sense of confidence as he wildly swung the weapon.
Unsatisfied, Octavius kicked Garrick in the chest and sent him soaring to the other end of the room. “Pick another!” he commanded as he examined his sword’s tip. Garrick stood up and retrieved a long sword. Octavius shook his head. “I really don’t think the Claymore suits you,” he said.
“Let’s find out!” retorted Garrick as he launched at him with all the power he could muster. Admittedly, the young man had shown better skill with this weapon, but not enough to break Octavius’ defenses or make him take the bout seriously. Before long, Garrick was on the floor again.
“Your choice cannot be random,” said Octavius as he squatted beside the prostrated Garrick. “Find your weapon. Dig deep into those fragmentary memories of Volant’s life. And choose!” Octavius backed up to the other end of the room and folded his arms in antici
pation.
An enraged Garrick circled the room looking through the miscellany of slashers, clubs, flails and pole weapons. Finally, he picked a shield and another sword like the one Octavius wielded.
“Damn it, Garrick!” yelled an enraged Octavius. This time, he did the attacking. Garrick was able to block most of his fierce attacks with the metal shield and attempted to counter with his sword. But his left wrist was cut forcing him to drop the shield in pain. “Volant never needed a shield!” Garrick jumped out of Octavius’ way. He didn’t seem to be holding back anymore. His speed wasn’t enough to shake Octavius who followed his every step attacking wildly. The sparks of impact from their clashing swords blinded and startled Garrick. Octavius took note of this distraction and seized his hand then delivered three bone crunching punches to his face, chest and ribs and watched his anguished Assenter fall to his knees.
Octavius, who was now holding onto both swords, looked down at him with utter disappointment in his eyes. He scoffed and turned his back on him. Meanwhile, Garrick was focused on his wounded wrist. The parted flesh gradually came together and sealed up without leaving a mark.
Noting his Questioner’s dismissive gesture, he considered attacking him from behind. Then his eyes caught a gleam of something on the wall. Surrounded by several other weapons were two identical short swords that resembled Japanese Katanas. Back on his feet, Garrick walked up to them. There was a surreal heat emanating from them the closer he got. Upon closer inspection, he noted their beauty. The craftsmanship was delicate and precise. The blades were almost black, and one had an inlaid engraving of a dragon and the other of a tiger. The dragon one had a green and black cord wrapped around the hilt, while the tiger one was gold and black cord which added to their aesthetic value. He retrieved them and was also impressed by how comfortable and light they felt in his hands. “Octavius!” he called out, completely in awe of his latest choice. “I’m ready.”
Octavius turned and smirked as usual when he saw Garrick’s latest choice. “Good. Now,” he said as he raised his sword in anticipation. “Come at me with everything you’ve got.”