The Land of the Undying Lord

by J. T. Wright

  The mare bumped against his shoulder, and he reached to scratch her neck in greeting. He had wanted to name her. He thought he should name her, but it wasn’t something he could do. Their relationship hadn't suffered because of it. As long as he had apples, the mare was happy.

  Maybe Apple would be a fitting name for her? From the look the mare was giving him, while she appreciated the attention, she didn’t think much of his empty hands. He knelt and dug into his herb bag to look for a suitable offering.

  There wasn't much that his equine friend would be interested in, but he took out a handful of Feathered Mint Grass. Pale yellow with a slightly sweet taste, the feathered mint was a hit. The mare munched one stalk after another as he held them out. It wasn’t a rare herb, but most Herbalists and Alchemists would find this use of it wasteful. The horse was a common animal, after all. However, the grateful whickering of the mare convinced Trent that this was a perfect use for the grass.

  As he contentedly fed the horse, Trent was unaware that a less pleased friend had come to stand behind him. His first indication that she was there, was an angry, “humph!” followed by a fist to the back of his shoulder that knocked him into the fence’s rail.

  Tersa’s cheeks flushed. She had meant to tap Trent on the shoulder, just to get his attention. She certainly hadn’t meant to hit him that hard, even if he deserved it! First, he had gone missing for nearly two days, and when he finally got back, instead of checking in with her, he goes and plays with a horse. Maybe she should hit him again.

  She held herself back when Trent turned to face her. If she had been hit like that when she wasn’t expecting it, she’d be furious! Trent just had a bewildered look, like a puppy that was kicked unexpectedly, for no reason. A tall puppy! Hadn't he been shorter than her yesterday? They were nearly the same height now! He was almost taller. What had he been up to? Hitting him again might be the right thing to do, after all.

  “Hey, Tersa,” Trent said, recovering from her slug. She seemed angry. Maybe she thought he was wasting the feathered mint on his horse. The grass was kind of sweet. Should he offer her some?

  “Hey me no heys, jerk,” she blustered. She put on her best Sergeant's scowl. It wasn't very good. She was off to a bad start. Hey me no heys? That was not a Sergeant's line. Maybe she should call him runt? “Where ya been?”

  Trent wanted to explain his experience in the Burning Lake, but there wasn't a lot he could say. He found a Trial, it hurt a lot, and he got a Class; that's about it. He showed her his new equipment and was a little hurt when she didn’t get excited for him. He must be telling her wrong. Guardsmen expected you to embellish your stories, but he didn’t have the words to describe, much less add to, what he had experienced.

  “That’s crap!” she huffed as he finished. “Small folk like us don’t just find Trials. Sergeant probably just had you digging holes! Whatever, the wash bucket’s over by the latrine area, you should use it. You stink!”

  Trent scratched his head as she stomped off. He turned back to the mare and shrugged. The mare was sniffing him for more treats. Animals were easy to please.

  Chapter 16

  The next morning after the usual exercise and drills, Trent found himself seated at the campfire. All the recruits had gathered there for breakfast. They were seated on wood rounds and oddly quiet. The glowering look that Tersa had on her face probably had something to do with it. Mostly, she kept it on Trent, but anyone who started to talk soon found it directed at them.

  Trent sighed. He really didn’t know what she was so worked up about. She'd been his partner during drills, and Trent discovered that, while he no longer took damage from bumps, being bounced off the ground repeatedly still wasn’t fun. He might have an Advanced Class now, but Tersa's Skills and personal Level were still higher than his. He never stood a chance.

  He stared at the fire and flinched when it popped unexpectedly. Tersa grinned evilly at that, thinking her stare was finally getting to him. Trent frowned at the flames. He’d lost his fear of the Fire Spirit quickly enough, but he still had some scars from the Trial.

  That bothered him. He conquered his fear! He was beyond it! He held his right hand out like he was warming it. Then, without thinking, he plunged it into the fire. Gasps and shrieks emitted from the recruits. Tersa's eyes widened and her jaw dropped. Had Trent lost his mind?

  Trent hadn't been thinking rationally when he thrust his hand out; he hadn’t been thinking at all. He couldn’t say why he did it. Leftover madness from the Trial perhaps. He would not be afraid, and it didn’t look like he had any reason to be.

  The stammered shouts and screams from the recruits brought Cullen running over. The pointing and yelling brought his attention to Trent, who was sitting with a wide grin, holding his hand in the fire. There was a noticeable lack of screaming from the boy and no smell of burning flesh!

  “Fire resistance?” Cullen questioned.

  Trent nodded his head, still grinning idiotically. He feared the fire, but it had no power over him. It was warm, comfortable, and soothing.

  Cullen slapped the back of his head, and Trent snapped out of his stupor. He pulled his hand back and looked up at the Sergeant. Trent didn’t think he’d deserved that. From the expression on the Sergeant’s red, angry face, he obviously disagreed.

  “Resistances are not absolute, you stupid boy!” Cullen shouted. “Get it out of your head that you can just walk into fire whenever you want. But what really, really pisses me off is that I don’t think you even realized you were resistant to fire. I'm not sure what you were thinking, but you will never do that again!”

  It was a while before Cullen calmed down. Trent spent the time until he did practicing Dash and Crawl. Trent wasn’t sure that Crawl was a real Skill, but Cullen made sure he did his best trying to learn it.

  Cullen disappeared after “fixing" Trent, leaving the Summons with Corporal Francis.

  “Don't think I’ve ever seen the Sergeant that angry before,” Francis told him. “That was real anger, too. He must like you."

  Trent was too busy gulping water to reply right away. Once he finished, he said, “Isn’t the Sergeant always angry?”

  “Nah, he’s one of the calmest men I’ve ever known. All that shouting is an act he puts on to keep from getting bored. A game he plays with you all.”

  That didn’t make much sense to Trent, and he said so. “If he's calm all the time, then wouldn’t making him yell for real mean he doesn't like me?”

  “You scared him, kiddo, something you’ve got a talent for.” Francis shook his head. “He got mad cause he likes you. With people he doesn't like he gets really quiet. Then he kills them, mostly.”

  At first, Trent thought the Corporal was joking. When he didn’t grin, Trent realized he was serious. Francis was always grinning unless there was work to be done. Trent looked in the direction of the Burning Lake, the direction Cullen had headed in. He couldn’t say he liked the way the Sergeant showed his affection, and he hoped he wouldn’t demonstrate his feelings too often, but…

  “Enough of all this, we have work to do.” The Corporal spit and his customary grin split his face. “You still haven’t learned Basic Shield Skill. Today you will or get squashed. Up to you.”

  **********

  Trent stood a mile from the camp, waiting. His buckler had been taken away, and the Corporal replaced it with a large round shield. This one couldn't be strapped on. He had to slide his hand through a loop and grip a bar to carry it. The Corporal said it was a small shield. It seemed big to Trent. And heavy! Made of wood and leather bound in iron, the shield made Trent wonder if he'd really gotten any stronger.

  Trent was left waiting for about fifteen minutes. When the Corporal came back, he was dragging something that was obviously not a Horned Hare, by the foot. The creature looked like a man dressed in ragged uncured hides. Its arms were a little too long for a human, and its dirty fingernails much sharper looking. Its grey hued skin was thick and rough, and long greasy hair covered
its scalp. The nose was too broad, its mouth too wide; there were obvious differences between the creature and a human. Still, the similarities made Trent uneasy.

  “This is a Grak.” The Corporal let go of the creature’s foot as he drew near. He tossed a heavy tree branch he was carrying in his free hand down, next to the Grak. “One of my favorite training partners for new recruits. It doesn't quite look like a beast, but it is, and as you don't have an appropriate Skill to examine it, you'll have to take my word for it.

  “Lots of newbies hesitate with Graks, because they look human-ish, use weapons, and wear hides. Do you know why they're one of my favorites?” The Corporal grinned when Trent shook his head. “Because they look humanlike. Worlds a dangerous place and sometimes, most times, the danger is from the thinking races. It’s something all Guards and Adventurers have to learn.

  “For this morning’s exercise, you may only use that shield. You will not draw a weapon until you’ve learned the Basic Shield Skill. Once you do, you are free to kill the beast. If you can.”

  Trent had plenty of questions at this point. For example, what if he couldn’t learn Basic Shield, and was the Corporal aware that he never killed anything before? Before he could open his mouth to ask, Corporal Francis did whatever it was he did that made monsters wake up and then walked away. Trent set his feet. He hurriedly pulled up his cowl and tugged his mask into position before he lifted his shield.

  The Grak woke up. It took a series of short, sharp breaths, and jerked its head around. Its eyes first fell on the tree branch, its club, and then on Trent. Its nostrils widened as it jumped to its feet and snatched up its weapon.

  Shrieking in rage and swinging its club menacingly through the air, it hissed at Trent and gnashed its yellowed teeth. It skipped forward a few steps, shaking its club in warning. Trent thought, maybe if he stood still, it would just go away.

  The creature attacked. Its long arms and weapon gave it tremendous reach. One more step, and it was within striking range. It wasn’t particularly fast, so Trent was easily able to catch the blow on his shield. At that moment, he remembered Cullen saying that while a blow could be intercepted directly, a wise man dodged. A smart man shed the blow. He kept his feet moving and did not accept a strike that he could redirect.

  Trent was not a smart man, but he was learning. He learned that a shield blocked a weapon but didn’t necessarily block the energy behind that weapon. That energy, that force, stung his arm, and he felt the force travel into his body. Skin unbroken, yet damage was still taken.

  With another shriek, the Grak struck again, a heavy overhand blow. Trent shuffled to the side. As the club fell by him, he pushed it away, hoping to drive the Grak off balance. No such luck. The beast drew back to hit again.

  This time Trent stepped toward it, hitting its arms with the rim of his shield. The club went up farther than his opponent intended, and it was knocked off balance. He stepped forward again, bashing at its chest. A shield could be as much of a weapon as a sword was after all.

  The Grak scratched at him, trying to reach around his shield for his face and neck. Trent batted its hands away with wood and leather but was forced back a step. The Grak hissed and snapped at him furiously, stepping back to get distance for its overly long club. Trent followed it, trying to keep it pressured.

  This continued for half an hour. Trent wondered what kept the Grak going. His own Stamina, despite its recent increase, was falling. He didn’t have time to check his Status. He could roughly estimate, based on his Stamina pool, that he could keep going for maybe another fifteen or twenty minutes. Surely the Grak had to have worked through its rage by now. Why didn’t it just leave? He hadn’t hurt the thing; there was no need for it to be so fixated on him.

  When the notification came that he had learned Shield Skill, he was elated. Corporal Francis was nowhere in sight, but Trent yelled out his achievement anyway. A congratulations floated back to him from a distance. Although Corporal Francis did not appear, he had said Trent was free to kill the beast when he learned Basic Shield.

  A new Skill did not mean the fight was not over. Trent jumped backward, creating distance between him and the beast to provide himself with some breathing room. Up till now, he had attempted to stay close, to deny the Grak freedom to swing its long club. Immediately, he realized that moving back now was the wrong move. Fortunately, the beast was surprised by the change in pace and paused.

  Trent’s hand scrambled for the axe on his right side. The axe, named Strife, hung from a loop made of thick leather and was held in place by a strap with a button of bone. He had never practiced drawing the weapon, but Strife seemed eager for use and came to his hand without a struggle.

  He had no training with the hand axes. He didn’t know what made him draw it instead of his sword. The axe did more damage, it was true, but that was offset by his lack of familiarity with it. Yet the axe was steady in his hand. It felt right.

  The Grak shrieked in rage again at the sight of his weapon. Spittle flew from its mouth. Trent had plenty of experience with the beast’s foul-smelling liquid. It had sprayed him often enough as it snapped and snarled, soaking his shield and face in its slobber.

  There was enough distance between them that Trent was in no danger of being hit this time. If asked, he would say his arm moving up and down, his hand releasing Strife, and his sending the weapon flying, had nothing to do with a desire to ward off the spit! He would never admit that, even to himself. Even if it was true.

  He watched numbly as the axe tumbled end over end. It didn’t have a long distance to travel, but time slowed down for Trent. Slowed down and gave him plenty of opportunities to imagine the lecture that would follow his dropping his weapon again. Two fights, two drops. Not the kind of record the Sergeant and the Corporal liked.

  His hand started moving, eventually, reaching for his hilt sword. As he found it, the axe reached its destination, the Grak’s face. Was it a fluke that the axe hit blade first? Was this a natural talent? Whatever it was, the blade hit and stuck, lodging itself deep into the beast’s forehead. The momentum of the blow carried the Grak backward to the ground where it lay unmoving. Dead.

  Small blades now Level 2

  You have learned the Skill, Throwing, Level 1

  The Corporal appeared next to Trent as if he’d always been there. He whistled low and said, “That was a lot faster than I thought it would be, kiddo. Like I said, most hesitate. Good throw.”

  “Corporal, are axes small blades?” Trent asked blandly.

  Frank reached down and pulled the weapon free, examining it while he answered. “Hand axe? Sure, Small Blade Skill covers a lot, basically anything small with a blade. This is a good weapon.”

  He handed Strife to Trent, who took it without comment. He looked at the blade of his weapon. It was clean, he didn’t even need to wipe it off. He bent down and scrubbed it against the grass anyway before he put it back on his belt.

  Weapon away, Trent couldn’t help but look at his first kill. It was uglier in death. Eyes open, long tongue hanging out, the Grak was not a creature one would sympathize with, but a part of Trent did. He didn’t let himself say it was an accident; this was his fault. It was the outcome that had to occur. Right?

  “How did one strike do that?” he asked eventually. Constitution and Health pools made a single strike kill very unlikely. The axe should have cut the Grak, a little. Stunned it just a bit. Killing it instantly? No way! The beast’s natural defenses should have prevented the blade from sinking in so far.

  Frank shrugged. “Any number of reasons. Low Stamina from a drawn-out fight lessens resistance to damage. It was only a Level 2; it might not have had high Con to begin with. And never underestimate the right weapon, in the right place, at the right time.”

  Frank didn't let him dwell on this for long. He handed Trent a long, sharp knife, “Work to be done kiddo.”

  Trent looked at the knife, looked at the Grak, looked at the Corporal. “What work? It’s already dead.”<
br />
  Frank grinned. “Lots of valuable stuff on a Grak. You'll never get the Harvesting Skill if I do it.”

  Trent’s face screwed up in confusion, then cleared with realization. He pictured the knife cutting, and he ran a few feet away to reacquaint himself with his breakfast in relative privacy. As Trent gagged and retched, Frank chuckled, relieved. The kid had really let him down with the quick kill, but he more than made up for it now. Newbies always hesitated.

  **********

  They had lunch after Trent finished dressing his first kill. He didn’t have much of an appetite, but he managed to choke down an apple. Then it was back to work.

  He traded in the round shield for his Duelists buckler. He fought again and again with a hand axe, short sword, and knife. Twice he fought unarmed, though he needed to use a knife to finish those Graks. He still lacked the strength for empty-handed kills.

  He fought Graks and Horned Hares, and once a Striped Carrion Fox. That last had leaped on him when he was skinning a Hare. Frank had found that hilarious, which is why he let the fox sneak up on Trent in the first place.

  He dressed all his kills. He did pick up the Harvesting Skill, and he never hesitated once. By dinner that night, his mood and appetite were back to normal.

  He sat with the recruits at their fire, cheerfully burning a portion of meat from a hare he killed himself. He listened to their stories about the day with only one ear because most of his thoughts were turned inward.

  It had been a strange day. The Corporal had expected him to fail in some way. Francis had been relieved when he’d thrown up, but Trent realized that it wasn’t the killing that had bothered him, it was the thought of cutting into a creature that looked so human, with human-looking hands. It felt wrong.

  But he adapted. Was it because of his Class? Survivalists were supposed to be adaptable. Maybe it was that aggressive feeling he could feel deep inside that shielded him. Or was it because he was a Summons? His status said human, but was that what he really was?