by Dan Gillis
Zyr expelled a pent up breath in relief. Just when the task had seemed hopeless, the energy filament of which he had struggled to ensnare had ceased its senseless thrashing and remained oddly still. He still maintained a firm grasp upon the first band that had burst from the Root. Zyr seized upon the opportunity to hastily construct a noose about the subdued stream of power, while the other quivered within his grasp. He took the moment to consider his choice of action.
The Weave of the Making.
The technique would guide both threads and theoretically give him the ability to manipulate the flows. The key was to not harness the threads, but to guide them. It was an untried and forbidden form but clearly the only option available to preserve the land and the lives of his friends. The course was clear, yet a fear anchored deep within his heart and refused to depart. What consequences would come from this day?
After some brief moments, the calm subsided and the noosed wild energy struggled to break free. Zyr hauled hard upon the energy entrapment, carefully guiding it to him. The timing was absolutely critical. At the pinnacle moment, with his grip held fast, he twisted the first thread in a circular fashion. The second noosed band slid around the first in a natural movement. With gentle but firm nudges of Alacritor power, the threads were taking shape. Soon they flowed seamlessly in a tight circular form around him. The threads were caught in a contained movement but there was no form or order.
It was amidst the swirling mass that Zyr began the movements that would form the rift. His power became an extension of his whole body. At first, moving his hands and arms, he carefully threaded the two stands together in an elaborate weaving. He was turning and twisting in complex forms and positions. The water in the pond swirled at his feet in the pattern of the weave, with his position at the centre. Toiling endlessly, the monk moved his body in a strange and intricate dance. Sweat glistened from his half naked body, trickling down and thrown from his limbs as they swirled about in vigour. Carefully tracing the steps learned from tomes of forbidden lore, he recalled with clarity the Weave of the Making. The tapestry slowly formed, the threads slipping into place.
A strange shape it was, tightened at the base and topmost portion, while the centre bulged outward on all sides. After countless moments of time, Zyr carefully sealed off the ends of the strands of power to fuse the endings within the rift. One last movement of his hand in the air - holding it aloft as if signalling the end of a great war. A call for peace.
The energy slowly slid upward and away from him and his Alacritor shield. It lingered last of all upon his fingers until it seemed as if to balance upon the very tips. Looking above him, Zyr could perceive the rift in all its magnificence. His face glowed and pulsed in harmony with the brightness which hovered overhead. His whole body shimmered like the dances of the sun under the waves of the sea.
Very slowly and with perfect control the monk lowered his arm to his side and bowed his head. All things ceased to roll and heave in compliance to the Master of the weave. The air around him hummed with the power of the new-formed rift.
All was calm.
“You observe how Initiate Kel’s body contorted downward from the energy surge? That is because the power of the Root seeks always to return to the source from whence it came. The power is not ours to claim. All that we draw from Mother Aerluin will return to Her in time. Thus, the cycle continues Ad Infinitum, drawing from the well and returning it in kind. How foolish to think that we could claim possession and mastery of such a power! At best we are meager beggars, content to feast upon mere crumbs of Her true unfathomable might.”
Tam - Categor: Master of Diplomatics, Energy and Obfuscation
Interdiscipline Combat Training
Rest
“HOW IS FIRAH?” the monk asked. Shien had not seen his approach following his emergence from the forest. Yet Shien did not start at his arrival, for it had not been sudden. He could feel the monk approach many moments before. The young man had removed himself and Firah away from the Halls and far from the pool, which beamed like a beacon in his mind. Those were two places in the Aeredia he cared not to visit again in his lifetime. There were technically three on his list, counting the wretched badlands on the northern marches of Tamers Reach, but he would rather be there than the former two.
“She is resting, and, not being the physician that you are, I have simply tried to keep her comfortable until you arrived.” He nodded toward the girl. She lay silently upon her side, her long ebony hair spilling across the grass. The monk nodded and smiled softly. He moved toward the young man, sitting down heavily in the shaded area Shien had selected. His chest was heaving, and the sweat which covered his torso gleamed in the rising sun.
“I think she will be fine for now. I cannot, or rather I should not, do anything more for the moment. I am quite spent, my friend.” Zyr clasped his hand upon Shien’s shoulder and bowed his head wearily. Shien took the familiar gesture and words into his heart. Friend … that was the first he had heard such an expression from the man, from any man. Was it the experiences that they had passed through together that caused it? It puzzled him, for he had always counted himself lucky to be without true friends. It had always been simpler that way. Then there was the matter Tey’ur had brought to bear. He thought it over in his mind for a brief moment, and then hesitantly raised his own arm to clasp the shoulder of the fatigued monk.
“Rest, Zyr. I will take watch.”
Zyr raised his vision to the young man who was smiling slightly. The monk nodded in agreement and rested his body upon the sweet smelling moss under the shade of a towering oak. His eyes closed softly and his features settled. Soon, Shien sat alone amid the slumber of his companions.
Standing quietly, he leaned against a near tree. In the back of his mind, the power of the rift hummed like the Swiftwing sipping nectar from the lotus flower. From the open view he could survey the land as it stretched before him. Tamers’ mountainous teeth stood prominently along the horizon as a guard against the east desolation. Strange rock formations jutted out from the landscape in a variety of stone and colour. He saw the newly formed wood, all the varieties of foliage so distinct from all other things around it. Within it at its heart was the rift, the engine of the strange splendour before him. He felt very much like the uniqueness of the land before him. He had changed too.
He turned toward the sparkling white spires of the Order of the Open Hand which jutted from the forest canopy some ways off. The young man had spent only some brief hours within the structure, yet had come to respect the danger and wisdom contained within. His mind drifted to the tomes tucked away in his pack and wondered what mysteries they contained. Perhaps there would be nothing he could decipher, for he was no Ashori.
Yet, Shien felt the seeds of change swirling deep within his frame in no physical way he could describe. He felt that his very thoughts were expanding outward and seeking freedom from his mortal frame. He felt that he could stretch out with his mind and touch upon every living thing. It was a most peculiar sensation and the young man was unsure of what to think of it.
In this moment of perusing the expanse, his augmented mind took note of a most peculiar scene. Some small space away from the rift he detected two beings. One dark primal mind settled upon that of a man who was full of sorrow. He noticed them because their life energy was slowly fading. From his current distance it was impossible to determine their identity. Gradually there was nothing for his altered senses to grasp upon and they were completely beyond his sight. Both were dead, if he understood what his mind had detected. He had no desire to investigate further. All such desires had been quite satiated and would be for some time if he had any sense.
With his mind full of thoughts he briefly looked back to the others as they lay still upon the earth. It seemed all their strange paths were converging. Closing his eyes for a moment and turning back, the young man emptied his mind and silently watched the sun glide into the sky and breathed in the welcome breeze from the west - the wind of
change.
“Try not to concern yourself with the mundane things. When your thinking is focused upon matters of significance, your walls will hold longer against the unseen enemy. When you are rebuilding the fortress of the mind each day, consider what is real, tangible and attainable. Let that thought be the foundation you build upon. Push aside any lesser thoughts, save those for sleep.”
Greil - Cerephor: Master of Arcane Lore, Mind and Void
Mind Warding and Defense Training
Changing of the Guard
THE MEN MOVED like frothing waves on an ocean of grey. Tohm quietly studied the scene in the basin below him. The valley flowed with numerous troops which carefully advanced toward the lone white hall upon the far ridge. Their cloaks and armour were stained to varied tones of grey, and they marched in tight lines methodically and skillfully into position. It was dawn and this day would bring much blood. Tohm shook his head at the thought of the many lives that would be lost in a short while. Already the Grey Watch had slain a dozen scouts to avoid detection.
Tohm looked across the valley to the high ridge and regarded the formidable structure upon it. Alone it stood as a pinnacle in the early morning light, its walls white washed to gleaming brilliance. The White Guard flag blew gently in the morning breeze, defying the might of the assembled host below. A straight and narrow path was carved from the bedrock which rose upward along the sheer face of the cliff wall. The path merged into the flat top of the rocky prominence where the citadel stood resolutely. The siege would be difficult and long. Several catapults and a hefty battering ram were being hauled slowly by beasts of burden up the valley’s long incline toward the base of the cliff wall.
Some early morning skirmishes along the top of the ridge had made short work of the hastily assembled White Guard resistance. The besieged defenders simply had not enough time to mount an effective counter. The Grey Watch had pressed the advantage they had gained from the White Guard’s initial lack of awareness, indecision and hesitation. Surrendering the valley approach and pathway to the citadel was a costly but inevitable end. There were no fixed positions to take cover behind from the relentless enemy barrage that fell upon them. Long range trebuchets still hammered upon the ridge top, which deterred any attempt to fortify outside the walls. With the Guard now withdrawn within the safety of the Citadel walls, Tohm surveyed the walkways and ramparts. The men-at-arms, the lifeblood of the fortress, hastened to secure each corner of the perimeter.
It was difficult for Tohm, who was not acquainted with engines of war, to measure the exact destruction that the Grey Watch could muster. Yet it was certain that many on either side would not walk away from this valley. Movement shifted below him and he noted the approach of the old warrior. Slowly, he turned to meet his new ally and companion.
“The encampment has pulled up stakes, and all are prepared. They will not rest another hour here in the shadow of the Citadel.” Tey’ur ran a hand through his long grey hair and crouched down next to Tohm, looking out over the mass of troops below. “This force was well constructed … patiently and gradually. I had no certain knowledge of this growing threat, only whispers and rumours. But then the Grey Watch always work silently in the shadows. It seems we have always disputed over south Mehnin, but never to this end. Lord Kurel is committing everything. All that went on before will surely end this day.”
Tey’ur closed his eyes and rubbed his grizzled unshaven face wearily. “I am sorry, my friend. That place which we seek will not be attainable while this army stands, most certainly if they win the day. Your fate, Tohm, seems tied to what passes here today. Even still, if She has guided us here, what could Mother possibly have us do against this force?” he mused and let out a long breath.
“That’s not for us to know. All we do is push the grindstone; Mother moves the wheel,” Tohm muttered quietly.
Tey’ur nodded and took the whole enemy in. The White Hall, while formidable in defence, would fall eventually to the sustained might of the siege engines. He wondered what possible strategy Corbin could have concocted in the face of such an enemy. The man was shrewd but no master tactician. Predictably, he seemed to have chosen the foolish practice of holing up within the walls without much consideration of a foray. Many White Guard had perished in the transition between their two styles of strategy. Seasoned veterans had simply assumed Tey’ur’s usual tactic of deployment into the valley was to be adopted. The sudden call to withdraw created confusion and prevented any hope of settling into the carefully prepared defensive positions along the valley floor. That was something Corbin did not perceive about the Citadel’s location. Tey’ur had never spoken much about the subtleties of the land formations in terms of conflict on a grand scale. Such art was to be understood intuitively or not at all. Not a trait shared by the new Lord of the White Guard.
The Master of War chuckled softly. Then again, there was no way to study or prepare for times like these, only staying alive and learning from the blackest moments. Great battles were like that, rivers of blood, and the desecration of good earth. Now, the upstart Corbin would have his turn, his table set by the enemy. Soon he would feast upon war and death until he would cry out in despair from the gorging. Tey’ur chuckled again.
Tohm glanced toward the large warrior and raised an eyebrow at the sounds of mirth.
“Just a pleasant thought,” Tey’ur replied, “perhaps the last I will have for a while. There is grisly business to be done.”
He stood slowly and made his way over to Calista. She dipped her head knowingly. It was time to prepare. He rubbed her nose and stared into the deepness in her eyes. “You think you are ready for this, do you?” he asked whimsically. Calista stretched her neck about and nuzzled the pack that held his plate mail armour. “I have learned not to argue with you …” he said patting her side, while moving to the leather bags.
He withdrew the white helm from the saddle bag and stared at the etchings of the White Guard. Despite his feelings toward Corbin, he owed many of them this favour, even if it came to the end. He withdrew some of the other pieces until he came to the battered vambrace. Though it was battle worn, the image of the circular weave caught his eye. The intertwining threads bound about themselves in a display of unity, strength and unending honour. It was the etchings of his ancient house, long passed into memory and song. The armour was all that remained of his connection to the past, the great house of H’vail, H’vail of the Symian Third Circle.
If he were ever to lose the vambrace, the token was also etched into his very skin just above the left breast. It was part of the birthing rights for all the Symian people, and the weave was that of H’vail. For all Tey’ur knew, he was the last of that ancient line.
His love of war and the sword had prevented him from engaging in more social pursuits. Now, in his winter years, there was scarcely a woman who could find anything attractive or desirable in the old veteran. Thus his selfish pursuits had spelled the end of his noble house and the Symian people. He had resigned himself to this fate years ago. It was possible that there were other descendants of the survivors of the dispersal, but there would remain little of the culture in their memory. Truly, with every campaign Tey’ur had undertaken, the whole Symian civilization rode with him. Perhaps into darkness, or to live in memory another day.
Tey’ur remembered all the stories and war history. It was from this memory that an ancient battle plan suddenly crafted itself in his mind. Furrowing his brow, he knelt down and quickly drew a diagram of the Citadel and the surrounding area in the dirt.
“What’s wrong?” Tohm asked as he approached the crouched warrior.
Tey’ur was studying the rough diagram with great intent. He did not look away, but spoke as he examined the lines in the soil.
“There may be a way for us to access the Citadel, help their chances. The chained-cache … yes it will be tricky, potentially fatal. However, if it works …” The grizzled man tapped his chin thoughtfully and a small smile drew across his lips. “Let me prepa
re. I will tell you what we must do as I get into my armour. Now, help me with this breastplate.”
* * *
Lord Kurel glanced casually across the advancing sections of his army. All the many years in planning, stockpiling and the secrets! How careful they had been to come to this moment. When he learned that a large hunting party had moved from the White Halls, he knew his moment had come. Strange news had returned from their scouts. The Guard flew under a new banner now, that of Corbin of Fenel. That was curious news, although it did not impact greatly upon his war plan. He knew of few men who could match the cunning and strategy of Tey’ur. As a result, he had gone to great lengths to remove every hitch, every obstacle, so that even the famed warrior could not withstand them. He had great respect for Tey’ur and was saddened that he would not meet him on the field of battle. Yet there was little time for such indulgences. South Mehnin would finally fall to the Grey Watch. There was much to do before the whole province could be theirs and the White Guard was a stepping stone to supplanting the Blade of Ahtol. Sending the Wilder under his employ to assist Ahtol’s movements was all part of the ruse, a feint of trust.
Another nagging concern stirred in the back of his mind. He had anticipated the return of the Wilder before the siege. Their talents were invaluable and served so many uses in the field of war. Still, he took comfort in the vast lines of spears before him. As their armour glistened in the morning beams, his mouth settled into a complacent grin. All was prepared. There was little the Guard could do to repel them.
The great teams of beasts which hauled the war machines droned on in irritation. The elevation was proving a challenge, but it wasn’t anything they had not prepared for. The beasts would wind up to the base of the ridge where the trebuchets would remain for long range fire. The catapults and ram would ascend the path to specific points upon the flat top and then together all their might would be set to rain down hellfire upon the hapless Guard, holed within their walls. The attrition level would be moderate if his calculations were correct. Still that was acceptable considering the prize. A small thin smile crossed his lips. The Guard returning late from the hunt would give the defenders little time to prepare.