Visions of a Hidden

by Matthew Wolf

  “Why tell the healer?” Rydel asked.

  “Don’t know,” Hadrian said with a shrug. “You’re the clever one. But… if I had to make an educated guess,” Hadrian smirked his usual wild grin. “I think the healers will be needed if you catch my drift.”

  “We’re going to fight the Terma?” Dryan asked breathlessly.

  Rydel felt a surge of excitement. Terma. They were the most powerful and elite of elven warriors, aside from the mysterious, clandestine rank of the Hidden. He tampered down his nervous energy and corrected Dryan, “Spar, Dryan. Not fight. The Terma are elves like us. We don’t fight our kind.”

  Dryan laughed coldly. “We don’t fight anything except wooden dummies and haystacks. Truly the most intimidating of opponents.”

  “Frankly, I’m glad,” Hadrian said. “You are both of the same intelligence. I wouldn’t trust you with a smarter opponent.”

  “At least I’m quick enough to dodge their attacks. If Master gave us money, I’d put all my wager on the wooden dummy over you.”

  “Safe bet,” Hadrian admitted.

  Dryan smirked in victory, the vines under his eyes crinkling.

  “Unless…” Hadrian posed, “by wooden dummy, you’re referring to yourself. Then I’d definitely win.”

  Suddenly, faster than Rydel’s eyes could catch, a glob of gooey gruel shot through the air and hit Hadrian in the eye. Hadrian growled, wiping it from his face and swiped a big arm towards Dryan who nimbly, and easily dodged the attack and countered with a flying spoon. This Hadrian caught and rose from his chair with an eager grin and a battle-stance, dual-wielding his spoons as if they were the legendary blades Masamunde and Morrowil, Ronin’s blades. Dryan leaped from his chair onto the table with practiced ease and grabbed the wooden bowl, ready to defend himself, dropping into another low expert fighting stance.

  Hadrian rolled his heavy shoulders. “I was going to save my energy for the Terma, but I suppose I can warm up on you.”

  Dryan snorted. “I’ll show the Terma what we really can do. Like the gruel, you can have my scraps if there’s anything left.”

  With gruel on Hadrian’s face and the deadly serious expression on Dryan’s while wielding a wooden bowl that dripped porridge, they both looked ridiculous. Rydel couldn’t help smiling when he heard a barely audible creak at the hut’s entrance.

  “Master,” Rydel warned. He was too slow as the door banged open.

  Master Trinaden stood in the doorway, looming as ever. A bundle dangled in one hand, with his other hand resting on the glowing green blade as usual. Those frozen eyes took in the scene quickly. Rydel sat at the table, book in hand. Hadrian and Dryan stood posed in battle stances like statues until Dryan dropped his shield and the wooden bowl clattered to the table, splattering porridge onto Master Trinaden’s black jacket. Dryan flushed red with fear. Hadrian snuck the spoons behind his back. “Master,” they all said in unison, bowing their heads.

  Rydel waited for the elf to cast his judgment and send them running or some other arduous task. Instead, Master Trinaden ignored the porridge on his jacket. He cast a raised brow at the scene, then tossed the bundle on the table. “Wear these.”

  Grabbing the jute sack, Rydel extracted three cloth strips. Masks, he realized. Rydel passed one to Dryan and another to Hadrian. “Does this mean, are we… Hidden?” Dryan asked with a hungry gleam in his eyes.

  “Not yet,” Master Trinidan said. “You are only true Hidden once you get the sword and the cloak that I bestow upon you, and not a moment before that. Right now, you are hidden-in-training, my pupils, and nothing more.”

  “Then why the masks?” Hadrian asked. “I’m all for fashion accessories, but is this really necessary?”

  Trinaden grunted. “It is. Your identities must not be known. From today on, you will wear these at all times. Even amongst each other.”

  “From what are we hiding?” Rydel asked. “What do we have to fear?”

  “To be a Hidden means to be a knife in the dark, nameless and quiet, nothing more, nothing less. You must be an enigma. An impossibility—nonmortal in the eyes of your enemies, and a shadow in the eyes of your allies. Only working behind the scenes can you hope to accomplish the grand tasks that will change the world.

  “Furthermore, today we will head to Eldas proper, the Great Kingdom. Today you will put your skills to the test. The masks will hide your identity.”

  “We’re going to Eldas?” Rydel asked. Eldas. Mother. Hope and a confluence of emotions he’d pushed down for years now surged forth. He would see his mother.

  Master Trinaden nodded.

  “Then it’s true, we’re going to fight the Terma, Master?” Dryan asked eagerly, leaping lightly from the table.

  “To train,” Master corrected.

  “Master, why must we hide among our own people? I don’t like it,” Rydel said, realizing he was shaking with irritation.

  “Especially from your own people.” Master Trinaden fixed him with a level stare.

  “But, they are our people. We fight for them. There are no enemies inside our borders, why—“

  “No more questions. I have told you why. Live with it or leave. You are not worthy yet of a deeper answer.”

  “If we can’t—“

  “I said, enough!” his words were a gusting wind, sucking the air and life from the room.

  Rydel’s excitement at going to train with the Terma warred with sorrow. Never to see the light of day. To hide. A knife in the dark. What else did I think becoming a Hidden meant? He realized he’d been holding out some deep, buried hope that he’d be able to see his mother again.

  “Master, can we at least talk to them?” Rydel asked bitterly.

  “I will not bind your tongue so long as you do not disclose your training or anything about your true identity.”

  “So pretty much nothing then,” Dryan said. “Great.”

  Master Trinaden gave him a sharp look, but he seemed to overlook some of Dryan’s flippant comments of late. Instead, he looked at the dark-haired, blue-eyed boy with a sense of regret in his eyes. “Will we have a problem, Dryan?”

  Dryan flushed and bowed his head. “No, Master.”

  “Good. Gather your things then meet me outside.”

  Outside, Master waited, a strange lumpy bundle on his back. Rydel thought he knew what the oblong shaped package was, or at least what was in it, yet he was afraid to get his hopes up. He sensed the same from his brothers.

  They traveled in silence, wearing their new masks. It felt strange, hiding. The cloth mask fit snuggly, hiding all but his eyes. Rydel looked over at his brothers and saw only their different colored gazes. They wore their traditional hidden-in-training gray-green clothes that blended with the forest about them.

  “These feel weird,” Dryan said, rubbing at the mask. “Ugh, they itch too. Why do I have to hide my face? I mean, you Hadrian it makes perfect sense. That ugly mug of yours definitely deserves a mask. I figure Master was just being kind letting it go and not telling you all this time. My face, however, should be showcased to the world.”

  Hadrian grunted. “The real question is: can we also put a muzzle on you? I think it’d complete the ensemble and really save us some headaches, right, Rydel?” Hadrian nudged Rydel in the ribs.

  Rydel was distracted though. Usually, their banter made him smile, and he occasionally joined in. As they slowed, the vast city of Eldas opened up before them. Lights glowed like fireflies in the trees above. He realized his heart was pounding. Memories of his childhood, of leaving, returned in a rush, and he shoved them down.

  “Enough,” Master Trinaden said. “We’re here.”

  Master led them to an enormous glen. The trees were giants here—ancient watchers that reached for the sky above. Rydel felt them hum with life, sentient beings telling of the generations of elves that had come before. High above,
Rydel spotted hints of the famed city of Eldas. Resplendent structures made of purple heartwood were suspended in the weighty boughs, seamlessly constructed into the trees. Walkways crisscrossed overhead and muted lights continued to pulse alluringly, giving it all an enchanted feel. The pounding in his heart grew along with a strange pull. A longing. Eldas… This was his home. Home of the elves. His mother. He was so close, and yet he was supposed to remain silent, a mystery. How could he? Rydel thought he’d forget. He’d been told to forget. Unfortunately, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. No matter what Master said, if he found a chance, he’d find her.

  Rydel’s warrior’s eyes took in the little details before him. The green grass of the glen was close-cropped, worn down to near dirt by countless feet. Then the green magic of the elves would make it grow again tomorrow, only to be shorn down anew.

  On the grounds, elves clashed in a dazzling display. Terma he knew, the most elite warriors of the Great Kingdom of Leaf. The Terma spared in a dozen little rings. In the center of each ring, two combatants with dulled metal training swords collided. Each one looked more like a dancer, twisting, turning, ducking swift strikes and returning the strokes effortlessly. Agile and powerful blows made the glen ring with the sound of clashing and occasional laughter and chatter.

  They stopped at the far edge of the glade.

  “This looks like fun,” Hadrian said. “May we, Master?”

  Trinaden raised an eyebrow. “You’ll want these I suspect.” Pulling the big bundle off his shoulder, he loosened a few strings, rolling it out onto the ground. Lying there were three swords in leather sheaths. “Their edges are as sharp as a drekkar’s claws. Swords are weapons, not toys.” They each waited, giddy with anticipation. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  Though there were three, they shoved and pushed one another to get at the long-awaited prize. Rydel was slower. It wasn’t the leafblade, but it was something. Taking a sword each, they pawed their newfound treasure. Trinaden inclined his head and they ran off towards the waiting Terma when Rydel felt iron-like fingers grip his arm, holding him back. “Master?”

  “Rydel,” Trinaden said, his eyes hard and mysterious. “Remember, you are not like them. Mingle, learn, but do not get too close. You risk them if you do. You are a blade too sharp to hold. Remember that. Do not make the same mistake I did.”

  I did…? Again, the dark haunting look flashed across Trinaden’s normally steely expression. Rydel nodded, confused, and Trinaden waved him off and he joined up with his brothers.

  As they neared, a big elf greeted them.

  “Greetings,” he said with an elegant bow and a charming smile. Their leader, Rydel knew immediately judging by his confident stance and smooth, deep voice of practiced authority. Aside from Master, he was perhaps the biggest elf Rydel had ever seen, easily as big as Hadrian, maybe bigger. Green plated armor fit his huge frame snuggly, bulging at his chest and arms. On his wrists, two golden bracers were clasped, signifying his rank. “I’m Aladar, the Commander of the Terma. High Commander Elinar told me you’d be coming. We’re glad to have you.”

  Before they could respond Aladar shouted, “Elisaria, Cylar!”

  A hawk-nosed elf with dark eyes and blonde-almost-white hair approached wearing bronze bracers. Third-in-command, Rydel knew. The haughty imperious stare rankled Rydel as the man eyed them up and down like mangy dogs carrying something contagious. Aladar clapped the slender elf on the shoulder. “This is my third in command, Cylar.”

  The elf only snorted.

  Aladar growled, “Respect, Cylar.” Cylar only curled his lip. Then Aladar turned just as a loud cheer went out from a nearby ring. A female elf broke from the ring to a round of clapping and jubilations, clearly the victor. “Ah, perfect timing. This is Elisaria.” Rydel noticed the silver bracers on her wrists. “My second in command and granddaughter to the High Commander himself. Elisaria these are our new friends—”

  Aladar paused waiting for Rydel and his brothers to fill the gap with their names.

  Pulling a cloth that had been tucked inside the folds of her armor, Elisaria wiped her face and filled the awkward silence, “They can’t tell you their names, Aladar—weren’t you listening to grandfather? They’re not allowed to tell us, are you?”

  “Why’s that?” Cylar asked contemptuously.

  “Because they’re different. They’re Hidden.”

  Whispers rushed among all those who were near enough to hear, and even nearby fighters stopped their clashes and turned their keen, pointed ears to the conversation.

  “Ah, we’re not supposed to know that, are we?” Elisaria asked. “But we’d have to be pretty foolish not to have heard the stories,” She looked directly at Rydel and despite all his training, he felt sweat break out slightly at his temples.

  Rydel wasn’t sure he liked the way she looked at him and it seemed only him. Her eyes pierced him and seemed to ask: who are you?

  “Well, the lady has the right idea and good questions,” Hadrian broke in smoothly. “But truthfully, we are not Hidden. Not yet at least.”

  “No—you’re not quite like him, are you?” Elisaria said, looking at Master Trinaden who watched from afar with his muscular arms crossed before his body. Like them, he wore a black mask that covered all but his eyes. Looking at him now it was difficult to even catch his frame as the grand hando cloak made the tree he leaned on look a part of him. “He has death in his eyes. You…” she looked Hadrian and Dryan up and down who stood cockily, “you’re just boys.”

  Dryan snapped back, “Brave words coming from a girl. Why don’t you back that up?”

  Elisaria raised a brow. “You think you could take me?”

  “Take you?” Dryan asked, with a hint of a lecherous sneer that raised the hair on Rydel’s neck and made his fist tremble. He was ready to smack his brother, but Dryan changed his tone and replied, “Any one of us could do that with our arms bound. The question is, how sound is your pride? Can it withstand being defeated in front of your pathetic peers?”

  “My pride?” Elisaria said. “It can withstand a boy champing at the bit to prove himself. A boy who looks like a toddler beside his peers.”

  The expertly placed taunt, as Rydel expected, found its mark like an arrow hitting the broadside of a barn. Dryan snapped. With a cry, Dryan unsheathed his blade in a whirlwind and crossed the distance between him and Elisaria in a flash. Cylar’s blade cleared its sheath as well, though he was too slow. Rydel, however, was quickest. He’d sensed this coming and pulled his dagger free as well as his training sword. Normally, he wasn’t as fast as his brother, but need propelled him. Both blades crashed down, and he held the two—Cylar and Dryan in a locked parry. Only then did he glare at Dryan, “Brother,” he warned. “This is not our code.” Strength is life, weakness death, was the first of the Hidden’s three codes. But a quick second and equally tantamount code was: fight only when necessary.

  Dryan’s gaze was all fire and brimstone behind his black mask. Then he shook himself, and his breathing slowed and he pulled back, sheathing his blade.

  Cylar scowled. Looking at the elf, Rydel thought the third-in-command looked like Dryan’s inverse cousin. Where Dryan’s hair was raven-black, Cylar’s was almost white, and where Dryan had white-blue eyes, Cylar’s were hateful obsidian stones. Even their words carried the same bile-filled contempt. “That’s right. Keep your rabid hound in line,” Cylar said with a sneer, but he didn’t sheath his blade. “Attack Elisaria again and I’ll put him down like the mangy dog he is.”

  Rydel didn’t want to tell the elf he’d spared both Elisaria and Cylar’s own life. He’d parried Dryan’s blade a good second before Cylar’s—the Terma’s parry would never have arrived. But he kept his tongue, seeing wisdom in not fanning the already rising flames.

  Elisaria sighed, side-stepping Cylar to stand on her own. “For the hundredth time, I don’t need your unrequested gallantry, C
ylar. I can handle myself.” The way she said it, Rydel didn’t doubt it for a second.

  A deep booming laugh from Aladar, the huge elf, shook the woods and diffused the mounting tension. Raising his hands Aladar smiled a broad, charming smile, “Please please, no need to bandy words when we can bandy swords. After all, we’re all brothers and sisters beneath the eyes of the Great Spirit. If we’re done squabbling, shall we begin our training?”

  “I still don’t get it. If we don’t allow the guard to train with us, why should we allow them?” Cylar asked.

  Aladar shrugged. “Why not? I’ve never known you to turn down a challenge, brother.”

  “Please,” Rydel interjected. “Allow us a match to prove ourselves. We won’t disappoint.” His felt his brothers amusement behind him, though he kept his own features neutral. They might not have been enemies, and he sensed their threats as harmless boasts; all the same, Rydel was eager, almost impatient to prove himself, and they didn’t need to know anything until their blades met.

  “Fine,” Elisaria said. “Choose your opponent.” She gave Rydel a hard stare as if readying herself.

  Then Rydel swiveled, directing the point of his blade to Aladar. “I challenge you.” Rydel felt the heat of Elisaria’s eyes, glaring at him and judging him.

  “Please, brother, allow me,” Hadrian said, stepping forth. “This one is more my size after all.”

  Dipping his head, Rydel acquiesced.

  The two squared off. Hadrian, who was a giant, almost looked small, or at least average, next to the commander of the Terma. Aladar grinned easily and withdrew a massive sword looked more suitable for fighting giants than elves. “Are you certain you wish to fight me first, brother? You might want to work your way up, no offense intended.”

  “No offense taken,” Hadrian said coolly, then launched himself forward.

  Their swords clashed, sparks flying. It sent a ring and a reverberation through all those watching. Again the titans clashed, muscles straining. Surprise rippled through the Terma and all in attendance.