The Land of the Undying Lord

by J. T. Wright

  Michael stood there and watched, stewing in rage for another fifteen minutes before his sister arrived. It didn’t help his fury that when Kirstin did show up, she was walking!

  Chapter 4

  Kirstin was in a foul mood as she strode leisurely through the outer ward with Lyra at her side. Her father had been in his study, but he had been in a meeting and wouldn’t be available for some time.

  That didn’t particularly bother her. The meeting with the Duke was a formality, a courtesy, really. It could wait. There were other preparations to be made in the meantime. She was on her way to take care of those preparations when a Guardsman stopped her and said her brother needed her at the main gate. She dismissed the Guardsman with a promise to be there soon and felt a touch of annoyance. She had things to do and didn’t care to be whistled for like a dog.

  When the second Guardsman showed up mere minutes later, telling her Michael demanded her presence at the west side of the outer ward, immediately, she was rather more than annoyed. Demanded! The Guardsman had tried to ignore her dismissal and hurry her along as well. She had been inches away from drawing her sword when Lyra stepped forward to mediate. The Guardsman had been convinced to leave after Lyra promised that they would comply with Michael’s request. Kirstin was sure she had seen a disgusted sneer on his face as he left.

  Now Kirstin was ready to see Michael. He had better have a good explanation for calling for her like she was one of his recruits or some raw squire. She had been tempted to take a roundabout way to the outer ward, but Lyra convinced her that a direct route would be best. Damned if she would hurry, though.

  Following a direct path, it took her ten minutes to catch sight of her brother’s uniformed figure standing like a statue amongst the flower beds of the ward. She frowned. He looked tense, staring at the ground, and unaware of her approach. Kirstin had never seen him look so unsettled before. Perhaps she should have hurried a touch; something appeared to be wrong.

  When she was within distance to hail him comfortably without yelling, she did so. “Michael, I suppose...No, you’d better have good cause to send your men with orders for me. One of them even looked like he was ready to lay hands on me! Since when do you issue orders to...” Her voice caught in her throat as she got a good look at Michael’s face.

  She was closer to him than she was to any of her other family members, besides her parents, and she had never seen him this angry before. In fact, she had never seen him angry at her, ever. She came to an abrupt stop in the face of that anger.

  “Good cause!” Michael said sharply. She didn’t see him move, but suddenly he was in front of her, his face inches from hers. “I need no cause! I am Captain of the Guard and you are an Adventurer. You will answer to me because that is the authority granted to me in this Keep!”

  Kirstin flinched, and her hand moved, unconsciously, towards the hilt of her sword in reaction to the threat Michael presented, but she stopped it quickly enough. She was suddenly reminded that her older brother was not only over twenty levels higher than her but a better swordsman as well. He could be five levels less than her and she wouldn’t give much for her chances in a fight. People called her a promising talent, but Michael they called gifted.

  “What...What is this about?” Kirstin stammered.

  Michael grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her forward. “This is what this is about!” He said, pointing.

  The boy had collapsed out of sight behind a hedge and was feebly trying to crawl forward. It seemed his arms would no longer support him. Kirstin paled, her nose wrinkling at the sight of his tiny, filthy frame wriggling on the stone pathway.

  “For the love of Terah, what happened to him?” She exclaimed.

  “I believe you ordered him to run. Order him to stop. Now!” Michael demanded through gritted teeth.

  Kirstin’s last words to the boy flashed through her mind, and she grimaced. “Train, I ordered him to train, not to run, not to...”

  “Order him to stop, now!” Michael shouted. Only the thought that hitting her would delay Kirstin from stopping the boy kept him from slapping her.

  “You...you there, boy, stop! Now!” Kirstin tried to step away from her brother, but he kept a firm hold on her arm.

  A few feet away, the boy, who had finally made it to his hands and knees, collapsed limply. He lay still, and for a moment Michael was sure he had died, but soon, the slight movement of breathing reassured the Captain.

  Michael stood silently for a moment before he turned to Lyra, who was standing a short distance away, shocked, both by Michael’s behavior and the boy’s condition. “Well, woman, aren’t you trained as a healer? Heal him!”

  At Michael’s barked command, Lyra scurried forward to kneel beside the boy. She chanted under her breath as she cast Healing and Cleansing on the boy. With his immediate wounds taken care of, she cast a diagnostic Spell to search for any other problems. Besides being severely dehydrated and weak from hunger, the boy showed no other ill effects from his ordeal.

  “He just needs water, food, and rest,” Lyra reported. She reached out and rolled the boy onto his back. She was surprised to find clear brown eyes looking at her. She had thought the boy was unconscious. “He’s awake!” she said, unnecessarily. “He should be fine with a bit of care.”

  “Fine. He should be fine!” Michael repeated disgustedly. He released the hold he had on Kirstin’s arm and stepped forward to scoop the boy up into his arms.

  “You will come with me!” he ordered Kirstin.

  He didn’t wait for her acknowledgment but merely set off. She followed closely at his heels.

  “Tell me where he came from and why you felt he should end in this state,” Michael spoke without looking back.

  Kirstin quickly told the tale of how a Summons crystal had appeared as a reward for defeating the floor guardian, how the boy had been what was summoned, and why she was so angry that she banished him from her presence with the order to train.

  “He’s so useless, too weak to even walk up a hill,” she complained bitterly. “I didn’t want to hurt him, I just couldn’t stand to look at him.”

  Michael shook his head and kept walking. He needed to get the boy to the barracks. Lyra was a decent healer, but the boy needed specialized care. The Guard Medics knew how to treat dehydration.

  “What’s his name?” He asked at last.

  “Name? He doesn’t have a name. Unless his name is Unnamed.” Kirstin couldn’t understand why her brother was so angry. It’s not as if the boy was a real person. He was a Summons, an item, for all intents and purposes. And he wasn’t even Michael’s item. It wasn’t like she broke his toy.

  “You’re such a fool,” Michael huffed. “A Summoner names his Summons! His name is what you say it is.”

  “Then he should be named for what he is!” Kirstin huffed back. “Usel....”

  Michael cut her off. “Let no careless word come out of that foolish mouth! Your carelessness has done enough harm.”

  Kirstin’s mouth snapped shut, and she thought for a moment before she grinned, sardonically, behind Michael’s back, “His name is Trent.”

  The boy’s eyes had closed while he was being carried, but, at this declaration, his body jolted, and his eye opened wide, “Trent, my name is Trent!” For the first time in his short existence, Trent laughed. If it was a bitter, sad laugh, only Michael noticed.

  **********

  At the barracks, Michael turned Trent over to the medics. Experienced hands quickly started to treat the boy, and Michael felt a knot between his shoulders loosen. Within minutes, they had him stabilized and informed Michael that all he needed was rest and food. They left, promising to send a servant with a meal.

  “You will turn Trent over to my care,” he told his sister after the medics had gone.

  Kirstin was taken back. “Why? What use is he to you?”

  Michael sighed. “Does it matter? You don’t want to see him, and I don’t want a unique Summons dying on the parade grounds.”<
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  “Fine!” Kirstin snorted, she turned to where Trent lay, unmoving, but awake, in a sickbed. “Follow any orders my brother gives you as if they were from me.”

  Trent nodded weakly, and Kirstin looked back to Michael. “Satisfied? If there’s nothing else, I have things to do.”

  Michael shook his head and muttered, “Go.”

  Trent watched his master stalk out of the room and quietly said under his breath, “Thirty-nine.”

  “What’s that, Trent?” Michael said, sitting down on an adjacent bed.

  “Es’trent.” Trent replied with an oddly melodic word, unwilling or perhaps unable to repeat the number he had spoken. Michael cocked his head, curiously, at the foreign phrase, and Trent explained. “My name is Trent, but I’m sure, in her heart, my master means for it to be pronounced Es’trent.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Es’trent is Elvish,” Trent said, “it means roughly ‘that which has no use.’ My master has quite the sense of humor.” Again, a sad and bitter laugh escaped from him.

  Michael leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, a fascinated expression on his face. “You speak Elvish?”

  “Yes, apparently,” Trent replied. “I didn’t know I did, until she named me. Is that normal?”

  “I think we’ll find there isn’t much about you that is normal,” Michael answered. “A human Summons? What can be normal about something that has never happened before? As for your name...” Michael paused to consider his words. “It’s a fine enough name in the common tongue and, in a way, it is a type of revenge. My sister loves Elven poetry but can never find anyone who can recite it properly. If she knew you spoke Elvish, she’d probably never let you out of her sight.”

  He pursed his lips and continued, “From the fact that you aren’t jumping up to go tell her, I’m guessing your Loyalty Rating has fallen below fifty. If you can, try not to hold her actions against her. She’s not a cruel person, just shortsighted sometimes.”

  “You know about the Loyalty rating?” Trent asked, sitting up in his bed. “Do you know a lot about Summons?”

  “Not a lot, but more than my sister does. She’s never been one for studying,” Michael said with a laugh. “You probably have a lot of questions about many things. I’ll answer what questions I can, and maybe together we can learn more about Summons.”

  “Tomorrow!” Michael added, seeing the flood of queries that were about to bubble from the boy. “Tonight, you should eat, bathe, and sleep while I arrange a few things. I would like to see your Status, before I make too many plans.”

  Trent nodded, quickly displaying his Status:

  Name: Trent

  Age: 12

  Race: Human

  Level: 0

  Class: None

  Profession: None

  Health: 50

  Stamina: 50

  Mana: 50

  Strength: 4

  Agility: 5

  Dexterity: 5

  Constitution: 5

  Intelligence: 5

  Wisdom: 3

  Free Skill Points: 0

  Skills: None

  Abilities: none

  Spells: none

  After his torturous training, Trent was eager to see if he’d become better. He bit his lip with a disgruntled frown when he saw only his Strength Attribute had changed and only by one.

  “Running should have increased my Strength, Agility, and Constitution. Why did only my strength go up?” he asked.

  Michael smiled sympathetically. “Running is a good way to train all those stats at lower levels, but what you were doing... it wasn’t the most efficient way to train, is all.” What he didn’t say was that Trent was lucky not to see a decrease in his Attributes due to his trauma, which was a real risk from poor training at lower levels.

  “That’s enough for tonight,” Michael said before Trent could ask any more, “I hear the servants coming with food. You should eat and rest tonight, everything else can wait until tomorrow.”

  Chapter 5

  “Why does my status say 12 years next to age? Shouldn’t it say one day?” Trent asked the second Michael walked through the door the next day.

  The boy was standing next to his bed with the appearance of having been up for hours, waiting patiently. He was dressed in a long, loose, sleep shirt. The servants, who had brought dinner the night before, had also brought the shirt and bathing supplies and removed the stained, torn clothing Trent was summoned in.

  Michael was glad to see the Summons, clean and healthy-looking, and he laughed. “That was one of the questions I had for you, actually. There’s never been a talking Summons before, much less a human one. There are two theories on the matter, however. The first is that Summons are born on another plane and live there until they are brought to this one. The second is that the number represents physical condition rather than age. You have the appearance of a twelve-year-old, so your status says twelve.”

  The two fell silent as Trent digested this information. He had no memory of living in another place. His first ever recollection was staring up into the eyes of his master. His first and only impulse was to serve and obey.

  With his question answered, Trent addressed a more urgent problem the morning had brought. The messages had informed him his loyalty had fallen to 38 in the night. He still couldn’t disobey an order, but it occurred to him that he might want to. An impulse that would have been entirely alien less than fourteen hours ago.

  “What should I do today?” Trent looked Michael in the eye and spoke earnestly. Disobedience might be on the horizon, but a large part of him still desired to be useful, to get stronger for his master’s sake.

  “That is the question,” Michael replied. He moved forward and took a seat on the edge of an empty bed. Trent turned to remain facing the Captain. “We should have you tested. We won’t know what class or profession you can take until you reach your first Level, but we can make some plans once we know where your talents lie, and how many profession and class slots you have.”

  “Seven,” Trent said abruptly.

  Michael blinked. “Seven? Seven slots? How are they divided?”

  Seven slots were remarkable no matter how it was broken down. Michael’s three Class slots and two profession slots made him a genius. If he had seven slots altogether, he’d be the Heir instead of his brother, Aaron.

  “Both,” Trent said slowly. “Seven profession slots, and seven class slots. Is that bad? Is that why my master finds me so weak?”

  “Seven Combat Classes and Seven Professions... bad.... no, not bad.” Michael said, just as slowly.

  Bad? Weak? These were not words that should be in Trent’s vocabulary. Seven slots split between class and profession would have given Trent an enviable status in any kingdom. Fourteen total slots were outrageous, and complicated.

  Michael’s plans for the day were still vague. First, to see Trent fed and dressed, then off to the scribes for an evaluation. At the moment when he thought Trent had seven slots, he had upgraded any scribe to the Head of Scribes. But fourteen!? Kingdoms would go to war for such an asset. Properly trained, Trent had no conceivable limits. Any path would see him at a high leve,l and all high-leveled individuals had value. Could a mere servant, even a department head, be trusted with Trent’s evaluation? No, there was only one person with a high enough Level in the Scribe Profession who could be depended on. Trent would have to meet with the Duke.

  Michael looked at the boy. Trent stood waiting for more information with a concerned look on his face, and a curious tilt to his head. The young Captain of the Guard rubbed a hand across his lips. Was there anything harder to explain than what most picked up in bits and pieces throughout their life? But Michael tried.

  He tried to explain that most commoners only had one slot when they Awakened their status and reached Level 1. Most spent their first five levels as Commoners, whether it was a Combat Class or Profession. Their first five levels were spent trying to pick up appropria
te Skills so that they could specialize at Level 5. The lucky ones were able to choose a profession like blacksmith or farmer, or a class like Rogue or warrior at Level 1. Some who spent five levels at commoner and learned Skills that they had no affinity for would never see Level 15.

  Nobles had it better. They were usually born with a mix of two and one. The Class, Noble, was always one of their options, and it was a standard start. Michael and his sister were exceptions here. They had never seen the benefit of leveling the Noble Class, when only heirs would be able to truly bring out its potential.

  Michael had chosen Warrior and Mage, and once those two were leveled enough, he picked up Spellsword for his Combat Classes. He complimented them with Team Leader and Scholar as Professions. His high affinity with all of these had led to his rapid rise. Kirstin had so far only chosen one Class, Warrior. She had Specialized as a Duelist and dreamed of Bladedancer. With the support of a noble family, this might even be possible.

  Royalty had the most advantages, which was why they were royalty. They normally had four Combat Classes and three Professions, though it was sometimes the other way around. The only reason you ever saw Royalty under the Level of thirty was because of the law that only the Heir could train the Royalty Class. Because of this, many younger sons and daughters left a slot open, just in case an unfortunate accident occurred to the Heir. This often held them back, but dreamers would always dream, and occasionally plot and scheme.

  “So no, seven slots isn’t bad,” Michael finished his explanation awkwardly. “But it should be kept secret. We’ll need to tell my father, no one else.”