The Land of the Undying Lord

by J. T. Wright

  “They do wear it wrong. If they wore it right, they’d know it was too big.”

  Caught up in his own personal nightmare of “walking with a purpose,” while wearing all the things he’d been loaded up with, Trent had missed Cullen opening the door and entering. Presumably, Taylor, had not.

  “I see you’ve got the runt kitted out almost decently. Where are his greaves?” Cullen said after appraising Trent’s outfit.

  “Anymore, and the lad won’t be able to move,” Taylor said, turning to roll his eyes at the Sergeant. “And who are you calling ‘runt’? Why I remember a young slip of a boy.”

  “Enough of that! No one has ever described me as a ‘slip' of anything!” Cullen glared daggers. “That’s the second time today someone tried to use my own words against me. Must be losing my touch.”

  Cullen leaned to glare past Taylor at Trent. “Runt! There’s plenty of training time before dinner, I will meet you at the drill field. I’ll give you a five-minute head start, and if you aren’t there ten minutes ahead of me, you can forget about eating.”

  With a yelp, Trent activated Dash and shot away. Apparently, he could run in his new gear.

  Cullen grinned as the boy vanished. “Well, I haven’t completely lost it!”

  “Bullying young boys, shameful.” Taylor shook his head and then snapped his fingers as if he’d just remembered something, though Cullen knew the man had never had a memory lapse in his life.

  “Since the boy is gone, you’ll have to carry it for him.” Taylor reached back into the chest and pulled out a bow, a short bow made of subdued blackwood. He handed the weapon to Cullen.

  Cullen took the bow with a grunt. It was already strung, which was not the proper way to store an ordinary short bow. Cullen pulled at the string, not really testing the draw, just playing really.

  He raised an eyebrow at Taylor. “I knew you made the jacket for him, but I didn’t think you would provide weapons, definitely not this bow.” His finger tugged the string again. “He won’t be able to draw this, and even if he could, he doesn’t have the Mana pool to support it.”

  “Mana pool? What kind of bow is that?” Lieutenant Nell, standing forgotten to one side, asked curiously.

  “Just a toy, really, Lieutenant, one my own children outgrew long ago. As for the boy being able to use it,” Taylor reached forward and wrapped a knuckle against Cullen’s breastplate, “there’s a solution to that. Make him stronger, Cullen.”

  Cullen snorted and left without another word. Nell hesitated for a second, then bobbed her head at Taylor, and left. Closing the door behind them, Taylor retook his seat on his favorite stool. The long, thin knife appeared back in his hand. It, like the stool, was one of his favorite things. He kept it at his back, not in his sleeve or boot, as the Lieutenant had guessed. He examined the blade for a moment and then began mimicking the movements of sharpening it.

  This blade never needed an edge put back on it. That was why it was one of his favorites. Taylor sharpened while he mused, and long after all his other blades and tools had been sharpened to perfection, he could keep playing with this one. He could run it over a stone for a thousand years and never damage it.

  Most common weapons, like young Awakens, required careful maintenance and proper use. Was Cullen the person who had said that to him or had he said it to Cullen? Must have been Cullen. Taylor would say words like cause and care if it had been his phrase. “Use” was a hard word to apply to the hopeful young men and women they had trained together over the years. Hard but it was accurate.

  This boy, Summons, Trent, would see hard use if Taylor had his guess. Kirstin had picked up the bad habit of seeing Summons as items and weapons from somewhere. Taylor would like to have a quiet word with the person who put that idea in her head. Trent would have it hard, but Cullen, and he, would see that the boy was properly maintained as well.

  They worked well together, the Sergeant and the Tailor. One pounded the young into shape while the other provided the edge. They’d been wild youths themselves once, seeking adventure and finding service.

  Now Taylor trusted Cullen to look after and make something of the young Summons. After the Sergeant was done, Taylor would polish the finished product.

  Thinking of the boy training with his new toys, Taylor chuckled as he absently honed a knife that didn’t need it.

  Chapter 10

  Trent stared at the stupidly heavy, black jacket that wasn’t armor, laying on top of the chest in his room. He woke up early and was already dressed, but he hated the thought of putting on the “not-armor.”

  The night before, Cullen had made him run through his morning exercises while wearing the hateful thing. The benefit had been another Point added to Strength, but that hadn’t made the experience a pleasant one.

  Just when he thought they were finished Cullen had made him pull out his new sword and stand with it held “at the ready.” Five minutes of that, and his arm was shaking. Of course, five minutes wasn’t the end of it. No, he sheathed it, performed some sprints, and repeated. He lost track of the number of times he did this. Sometime right before he was allowed to stop, Dash had Leveled up, but Trent wasn’t able to feel all that excited about the achievement.

  Now, this morning, he had to put the jacket back on. Cullen would be here soon, and he’d expect to find Trent ready. With a sigh, Trent pulled the not-armor on, fastening buckles and buttons as best he could. Sword belt and cap were next, adding to the weight. How high would his Attributes have to rise before this was comfortable?

  A set of saddlebags and a small black bow were picked up next, the bags were slung over his shoulder, the bow held in his left hand. Personally, he thought it would be easier to slip his arm through the bowstring and carry it on his shoulder as well, but Cullen insisted it be “ready.”

  Trent found himself getting frustrated with Cullen’s rules and orders, but he never thought of disobeying. Well, he did briefly consider it once, but before he could find the nerve, Cullen had seen a Recruit holding a spear incorrectly. The Recruit, when notified of his error, had tried to tell the Sergeant that his way of holding the weapon was more comfortable and practical. It wasn’t long after that that Trent realized Cullen knew far more painful ways of correcting a trainee than making him do a few pushups. That Recruit would probably hold his spear properly from now on, and Trent would carry his bow.

  He exited the room with his burdens. Michael and Lieutenant Nell were having breakfast already and going over the day’s schedule. They greeted him and noticed Trent’s disappointed look when he saw there was no plate set for him.

  Michael grinned, “Don’t worry Trent, Cullen will see that you’re fed, something practical and filling that you can eat on the move, I imagine.”

  Nell didn’t find it quite as amusing as her Captain. “He’s still growing; he needs more than that.”

  A knock, a pounding really, interrupted her before she could finish. Michael stood and answered the door, revealing Cullen, uniformed and armored. Trent had never seen Michael or Nell in the mail or breastplate of the guard, but he suspected Cullen slept in full kit, with his helmet as a pillow.

  “It’s for you, Trent,” Michael chuckled, after greeting the Sergeant. He looked down at the boy, who should have looked ridiculous, dressed for war, but somehow the boy, with his ordinary but serious face, managed to pull it off.

  Michael thought this was a little sad. He hadn’t been around Trent long, but the boy felt like a little brother, someone Michael should be teaching games, taking fishing, wrestling, and arguing with. He tried to find words to encourage the boy but couldn’t.

  “Do as the Sergeant says, he’ll keep you safe.” he finally managed, lamely.

  Trent nodded and walked to the Sergeant. Cullen pulled two slices of bread, cold bacon, and cheese from somewhere and handed it to him.

  Trent looked at the sandwich curiously. Where had this come from? The Sergeant ’s pouch?

  “It’s breakfast, Runt! Eat it while w
e walk.” Then, recognizing the true source of Trent’s curiosity, he added gruffly, “Did you think you were the only one with Storage?”

  Then they were off, Cullen led the way with Trent trotting at his heels, munching on the breakfast carefully. The Sergeant set a pace that soon had them at the Northern Gate where a group of Guards, recruits, horses, and a wagon were waiting for them.

  Cullen took Trent’s bags from him. He quickly tied the saddle bags in place, on the back of a small brown mare, then directed Trent to shoulder his bow.

  “You’ll learn to ride with that in your hand, eventually,” Cullen didn’t say so much as order. This was something Trent would learn. “But for now, I suspect you’ll have enough trouble managing your horse with both hands.”

  It was then that Trent realized he would be riding the small mare that was only small when compared to the other mounts present. Trent was a few inches shy of five feet tall, so compared to him, the mare was quite large. Cullen showed him how to mount and even allowed him to use a mounting block “just this once, we’re in a hurry.” Before long, Trent found himself in the saddle, feeling like the ground was far, too far, away, and thinking that the wagon looked like a comfortable and secure way to travel.

  They were moving through the gate much too soon for Trent’s tastes. The four Guards and six recruits formed up around the wagon that another Guard had been assigned to drive. They soon fell into a practiced formation, and they were off, through the gate and into the quiet city streets where the citizens were just beginning to start the day.

  Trent rode behind the wagon, and his second voyage through the city was much like his first. There was no time for admiring the scenery. He was much too busy trying to stay in the saddle. Cullen rode beside him barking instructions.

  “Back straight! Tuck in your knees and elbows and move with the horse! Don’t fight her!”

  They set a slow pace through the streets, less for Trent and more to allow people to move out of their way. By the time they reached the city wall and crossed the bridge leading into the countryside, Trent found himself longing for the lazy exercise of the previous day.

  Riding hurt! Muscles he didn’t know he had ached, and his rear was sure to have bruises on it. The mare occasionally cast reproachful looks at him as if to ask, what he thought he was doing.

  But Trent kept at it without complaining, not that he had any choice in the matter. After a long hour of clenching his teeth in concentration, as he tried to follow the Sergeant’s instructions, he received the welcomed notice that he had learned Riding Level 1.

  Learning Riding didn’t make the act comfortable or soothe sore, strained muscles, but Trent was more confident in the saddle. The mare’s reproachful looks became tolerant ones, and Trent was able to gaze around him a bit. He did keep both hands on the reins, and he occasionally touched the saddle horn as well.

  The land around Al’drossford had been tamed for a long time. Pastures and fields stretched out in all directions. Rambling farmhouses and outbuildings dotted the green and brown. Livestock grazed behind sturdily built fences, and in the distance, farmers could be seen going about their chores.

  What Trent found most curious were the occasional riders that rode the fence lines. While some seemed to be checking for damages, all carried some sort of weapon, and they looked to the distance as much as the ground and fence.

  “Militia,” Cullen told him when he finally asked. The Sergeant had been silent ever since he noticed Trent’s improved Ability. He never commented on it; he’d expected it after the boy’s performance the day before. He merely stopped berating the boy and turned his attention to the other recruits.

  “Militia? Like Guards?” Trent questioned.

  “No, not like Guards!” Cullen sneered and leaned over to spit. “Bah, not to say anything against them, but they’re amateurs.”

  “Oh!” Trent watched one of the Militia riding nearby, less than a hundred feet away. When the man waved, he forgot himself enough to wave back. “What do they do?”

  Two senior Guards brought along to monitor the recruits’ training were riding not far ahead of Trent and the Sergeant. Their ears perked up at Trent’s question.

  Cullen was not known for his patience, but he always answered an honestly asked question, as long as it was about duty or training. The Guards were curious about how the Sergeant would respond.

  “They keep the fields and farms safe from low-level beasts and vermin that are always popping up. It frees up the Duke’s men and Adventurers so they can deal with more serious threats.” The Guards, as they listened, weren’t surprised at Cullen’s answers. It was his mild tone that set them back.

  “Where do they come from?”

  “Younger sons of Farmers for the most part.” A touch of irritation now. “Where the hell else would they come from?”

  “I don’t know,” Trent said, honestly.

  Cullen considered the boy and his origins. “No, guess you wouldn’t.”

  Trent had picked up on the Sergeant’s mood and asked no more questions. He was surprised when Cullen cleared his throat and continued anyway.

  “They say that before Professions and Classes, Farmers used to have big families out of necessity. Needed the extra hands. They keep up the tradition, and extra hands are still useful, but a single Level 30 Farmer can tend his lands and produce enough crops to feed a large village by himself. Those of his kids that can be Farmers will be, others take up other professions or become Adventurers, maybe joining the Guard or military.”

  “The Militia,” Cullen nodded towards a distant horseman, “come from those born with a Class instead of Profession but don’t want to leave home. They learn a few laborer’s Skills as Commoners and train in a weapon. When it’s time for them to specialize, they pick Militia. Which is a damn shame mostly.”

  “Why’s that, Sergeant?” Trent wasn’t about to waste this opportunity.

  “Because they almost never get to Level 15, and an advanced class is beyond them. Militias are useful, some might say necessary, but it’s a life without ambition.”

  Trent didn’t really understand, but he let it go. “You said Farmers had to have big families before Professions and Classes. What does that mean?”

  “There isn’t a thing about that sentence that needs explanation.” The edge was back in Cullen’s voice.

  “There was a time before Classes? What was that like?” Trent plowed ahead, risking the Sergeant’s wrath.

  “You ask that like you think I was there, Runt, how the fuck old do you think I am! I…” Cullen took a breath to lay into the upstart, then paused. “You don’t know, about the past, the world, anything, do you?”

  Trent shook his head. “No, Sergeant.”

  “Well, that’s too damn bad! I’m a Guardsman, not a Scholar. Go ask some robe-wearing prick if you want a history lesson!” The Sergeant spat again and then took out his pipe and lit it. Trent sighed, figuring that was the end of it when….

  You have received a Quest. You will pay attention to Sergeant Cullen’s lecture. You will not interrupt. You will not miss a word. The Reward is 20 Experience Points. Failure of this Quest will result in the opportunity to partake in extreme physical training tasks.

  Trent blinked. He looked at the Sergeant. Cullen stared straight ahead and puffed on his pipe.

  “The Infinite World. Infinite. In this case, it’s just a fancy way of saying messy. Chaotic. Always changing.

  “There are a thousand creation stories, and which one you hear depends on whose temple your standing in. There are many who believe that the World came first, and the World created the gods with the help of her husband. Don’t ask me about her husband; it’s just something I heard, something that gets said.

  “First, there was the World and the gods. The gods created the Races. Every Race will tell you their Race is one of the Elders, and their god created them first, but you’d be a fool to believe them because no one knows for sure. No one even knows if the gods of today w
ere around at the beginning. But that’s not something you say while standing in a temple, you hear me?!

  “What we do know is the gods created, and their creations competed. Who could build the greatest city? Who had the best artists or craftsmen? Which culture had the most to offer, and, of course, which army was biggest or strongest?

  “Eventually, the gods started choosing Champions. Champions competed on an individual level the way the nations did. That’s Champions, not Heroes! A lot of people call them that, but Heroes are determined by their actions, not the fickle decision of some deity! Hero is a title you earn but never seek! And if I catch any one of you even thinking about trying to become a Hero…”

  The squad was riding in fairly close formation in these settled lands, and all ears were turned to the Sergeant ’s story. Several backs straightened hurriedly when they realized Cullen knew they were listening.

  “Where was I? The gods chose Champions, and gave them each a talent or power, what we call Skills and abilities today. One gift per Champion. Invisibility, Strength, Casting of Fire, Moving Earth. Power great enough to make the Champions seem like gods themselves to the ungifted.

  “And the Champions used these powers to fight. They fought monsters and beasts, they fought each other, they led armies. And for several centuries, the World thought this was enough.

  “It was the World, not the gods that changed things. That’s how it always is. Eventually, Champions were chosen and granted a Level along with a Power. A Level that could grow as they completed tasks, quests, set them by the World and the gods. The World’s intentions are unknown, but the gods used this to measure their contest. Whoever had the highest leveled Champion was considered in the lead.

  “This was enough for the gods but not the World. The next great change was the addition of four Classes, Warrior, Archer, Healer, and Rogue. Now the Champions could develop more powers depending on their Class and Level.”

  “Excuse me, Sergeant,” a female voice came from ahead. A young Recruit in the uniform of the Guard, lacking the armor, but carrying a staff in place of a spear, had half-turned in her saddle, “don’t you mean five Classes?”