by J. T. Wright
He kept a hold on those two hairs like they could still stop him from plunging the fifty feet to the ground. It was a day for foolishness, apparently. He gripped the hair he had found so disgusting earlier like they were holy talismans that could raise the dead. Raise him, that is. The Endurance Attribute had made him stronger, but slamming into the earth from fifty feet in the air was asking for a lot.
He closed his eyes. There was a proper way to fall. You were supposed to roll, spreading out the force of your impact. He didn’t think that technique applied in this situation. This hadn’t been a trip or a simple tumble. He wondered if he would make a hole when he landed. Tersa would probably be disappointed if he just splattered without leaving a decent imprint.
He heard a crash but oddly, felt nothing. He must be badly hurt if he didn’t feel anything at all. He shouldn’t try to move. He remembered that from one of Sergeant Cullen’s lectures. Stay still, if possible, you will only hurt yourself more by attempting to force shattered bones to move. Stay still and wait for the Healer.
Orion thought they were doomed. He didn’t mind dying while fighting Orcs. It was the dream of young Al’rashian warriors to die valiantly in battle with their racial enemies, and Orion wasn’t old enough to have grown out of that absurdity. He just wished his death and Trent’s could have meant something more.
On the other hand, Orion was okay with Tersa suffering a pointless death. She had known what she was supposed to do, but she had cast aside her spear to attack Orcs with her mace, without hesitating. She didn’t even give the Troll a second glance, running right past it shouting her ridiculous war cry. Teasing an immobile enemy wasn’t enough for the girl, she had to be hitting things.
Really, it was his own fault. This hadn’t been a smart plan, to begin with. Seeing the injured state of the Troll, Orion had allowed himself to be talked into attacking. The beast was nearly on its last legs. If they had acted before it had a chance to recover, there was a chance.
Hill Trolls have a high Constitution. This makes them difficult to hurt and causes most people to avoid them. High Constitution and bad smell, two very good reasons not to get involved with Hill Trolls. But it’s a fact that no matter how high your Constitution, once you’ve been cut, the second cut is easier.
Someone had done most of the work already. The Troll was weakened, burned and bleeding and ripe for slaughter. Even so, Orion hadn’t expected his Fire Spirits to be quite so effective. He’d been edging closer and closer, watching Trent climb the beast. He thought his Spirits would do a great deal of damage but that he would still need to deliver the final blow, once Trent was safely on the ground.
He wasn’t quite within striking distance when the explosion occurred. The whole battlefield came to a halt at the sound of the blast. Even Trial beasts like the Orcs couldn’t ignore an explosion that could vaporize a Hill Troll’s head. There was nothing left. No spray of blood, no pieces of skull, no chunks of fat or skin. One moment the Troll was straining against its icy bonds, and the next, it was slumped over at the waist, headless and clearly dead. The huge club in its hands dropped with a crash, and then its massive body disappeared, reclaimed by the Trial.
Both allies and enemies could only wonder what, by the gods, had happened. If the force of the explosion hadn’t pushed Trent up in the air and back, buying Orion a few precious seconds to act, there would have been no hope for the boy. Even though Orion was able to release the Ice Spirits and send Spirits of Air to cradle the falling boy, the Al'rashian didn’t think there was any chance Trent had survived. Force great enough to vaporize a portion of a Hill Troll would be enough to liquefy Trent’s organs.
Trent’s body floated gently down to the ground. It landed at the Spirit Summoner’s feet, and Orion thought that the brave lad looked composed in death. He probably hadn’t seen it coming, and that was for the best.
When Trent suddenly sat up, Orion’s shrill scream echoed across the silent field of battle. He almost crushed Trent’s skull with his staff before he grasped that the boy was breathing, cautiously moving his limbs to check for damage. Not a ghost, not the Undead. Trent had survived!
Orion’s scream did have one unintended side effect. A certain redheaded Brute had stopped her assault when the explosion had caused her to nearly soil herself. Hearing the Al’rashian’s shout reminded her that there were Orcs standing all around her, Orcs that had been frustratingly resistant to her attempts at bashing them.
Those Orcs now stood still, looking bewildered. They were practically begging her to hit them. With a scream of her own, Tersa brought her mace down upon the head of a nearby Orc Archer and, for the first time that day, drew blood. She had time to shout, “You guys goin’ to come help or what?” and then the courtyard and battlements of the ruined fortress descended into chaos once again. If Tersa had anything else to say about her teammates’ lack of action, it was obscured by the enraged bellows of Orcs.
Orion didn’t think Trent should stand up, but the boy was on his feet before he could be stopped. He seemed uninjured, but Orion cast a few Healing spells on him, just in case. The Al’rashian thought it would be best to withdraw at this point. He knew Trent would want to help his friends, but they could do that by pulling a few Orcs away as they ran.
That would be an ideal plan. Draw a manageable number of warriors away, deal with them, and come back for more. It wasn’t to be, though. Without a word, Trent unsheathed his knives and took off at a run to help Tersa.
Orion sighed. He stored away his staff, a fine weapon, but Trent’s Al’rashian sword was belted at his waist now; he had borrowed it for the Troll. Orion drew the sword and quickly caught up to him. Once again, he found himself directing curses at Tersa. Trent had a decent head on his shoulders. With a little training, he’d be a fine Warrior and capable leader. First, though, they needed to nip in the bud his tendency to follow that impulsive redhead into impossible situations.
Sorrow and Strife felt good in Trent’s hands, but he found himself missing his sword. Since he had picked up the Swordsman Class, he found an affinity with the weapon that he never felt before. He knew he was still clumsy, still learning the trade, but that had been true of any weapon he wielded, at first. He still only had the most basic control over these knives, the weapons he’d used the most.
Channeling Spark into his blades for a little extra damage, Trent quickly approached an Orc that was attempting to brain Tersa. Trent lashed out with Strife, scoring a hit on the Orc’s lower back in an area uncovered by armor. He intended to injure the beast just enough to cause it to falter, using that opportunity to slip past the Orc and fight at Tersa’s side.
But Trent’s mouth went dry when Strife didn’t leave so much as a scratch on the Orc’s back. He gritted his teeth as its tusked face turned to snarl at him, and a sword swing was directed at his head. He activated Dodge and Dash, but even with increased speed and reflexes, he could see no way to avoid the death that was coming for him.
Trent didn’t know how he had survived his fall. He accepted the fact that he was alive and unhurt and moved to help keep Tersa that way without a second thought. He’d been confident that this fight would go the way all fights in the Trial had gone. He and Tersa would struggle but ultimately defeat the Orcs. Afterward, they would finally be reunited with their group of friends.
What he hadn’t considered was that these Orcs were not a challenge meant for the young Survivalist and his brutish companion. These green-skinned monstrosities were the Trial’s test for men like Corporal Francis. They were opponents for Skilled Guardsmen, men old in their trade and familiar with their weapons. The Undead that Trent had faced had nothing in common with this threat.
For the second time in minutes, Trent stared at death, and for the second time, Orion stepped in to save him. In Orion’s hands, Trent’s sword found a life that Trent had never been able to provide for it. The blade hammered the Orc’s sword aside, and with a step and a slash, Orion sent the beast back to the Trial.
T
he palms of Trent’s hands were slick with sweat, and it was fortunate that there was no need for him to fight. He would have dropped his knives if he tried to wield them. It wasn’t just the slickness of his grip that made him unsteady. For the first time since learning the Technique, Trent saw Ocean Meets the Shore being employed by a master, and it was as beautiful as it was brutal.
Orion never paused, and with each step, an Orc dropped. His blade rose and fell unceasingly, each attack a block and each block capable of slaying. There were no gaps in his defense, no hesitation to his strikes. Each movement bled into the next, and he was always moving.
Trent could recognize the forms the man used. The Technique had been burned into his mind by the Skill Stone, there was no way he could forget even the most minute part of Ocean Meets the Shore. He knew the Technique, but what Trent’s mind knew, Orion’s body understood.
Orion had been a Warrior long before he became a Spirit Summoner. His exile had stripped him of Levels and Skills, even two Advanced Classes, but there were some things that could never be taken from him. A lifetime of training in Al’rashian sword techniques was just one example.
Orion hoped Trent was watching closely. He hadn’t had the time to formally instruct the boy in swordsmanship. When the Trial ended, the two would be separated, and it might be a long while before Orion could properly demonstrate Ocean Meets the Shore for the young Survivalist. Today, Orion would present a masterwork that the lad could carry with him until the time when they were reunited.
And they would be reunited. One day Orion and his adopted brother would fight side by side again. Trent would practice on his own, inspired by what he witnessed today, and when they met again, Orion would help him grow. They would grow together, as brothers should.
His feet moved as if he were striding along a beach and not stepping over broken stones and bodies. The rhythm of his blade was like waves crashing against the sand and how the water erodes the shore, Orcs were swept away by his relentless current.
“Hey, quit stealing my kills, Jerk!” Tersa’s face was red from effort, and she was drenched in sweat. She still managed to be indignant as the last of the Orc Archers fell. She hadn’t killed any of them yet, but she was wearing them down. A few more hits and they’d fall before her. That was probably why Orion was able to take them down so fast. She’d already done all the heavy lifting!
Orion lips spread into a satisfied grin. Tersa probably wouldn’t learn, but that was alright. Orion would teach Trent, and when the boy was strong enough, it wouldn’t matter if this obstinate sister of theirs kept stepping into shit. They’d pull her out!
At that image, Orion’s smile hardened and then twisted into a glare that sent the Orc Warrior he was attacking stepping back in panic. Maybe Orion would try harder, and Tersa would learn. She’d better damn well learn! If she got herself or Trent killed, well Orion would have words for her then. He’d beat her so hard she’d learn why no one swore by Bloody Flaming Piss!
Trent let out a long breath. Orion’s tempo had increased. He floated across the battlefield, his movements more urgent now. He looked angry. Trent knew the man hated Orcs, but, even from a distance, Trent could hear a growl coming from Orion that rivaled the Orcs’ screeching in intensity.
Tersa chased after the Al’rashian, shouting at him to leave her a few Orcs. Orion paid her no mind. Trent didn’t think she was serious anyway. There were still plenty of Orcs left to play with. She just had to walk in any direction where Orion wasn’t.
Trent kept his eyes on Orion, trying to soak up the intricacies of Ocean Meets the Shore but, occasionally, his gaze flickered towards the wall, where Corporal Francis and Kirstin still held the stairwells. With Far Sight activated, Trent could see that they were all still alive, though most of the senior Guardsmen looked tired and injured. They had managed to push the Orcs back somewhat. The Trolls’ death had revitalized their defense.
A part of Trent urged him to fight his way to the wall and join that defense, but he knew it was pointless. Nothing he could do would be any help. He was starting to doubt the instincts that pushed him to Kirstin’s side. Those thoughts were caused by his contract, and even though he was stronger in his master’s presence, he believed he could learn more apart from her.
In the end, it didn’t matter. Trent couldn’t push his way through the Orc forces, and the way things were going, he didn’t need to try. There were still a lot of Trial beasts standing, but the battle was clearly looking like a victory for the defenders.
Trent kept his attention on Orion, trying to soak up what he could from the man’s demonstration. He was so wrapped up in what he saw, he forgot his surroundings. He forgot that there were plenty of Orcs who were looking for easier opponents than the Guardsmen and the Al’rashian.
One such Orc rushed at Trent. If its movement hadn’t caught his eye, he would have been done for immediately. Trent jerked to the side, narrowly avoiding a sword stroke. His feet shifted, Sorrow and Strife, which he’d been holding at his sides, came up defensively.
The Orc was surprised that it missed with its first strike. The small masked figure was faster than the warrior would have believed, but not too fast to kill. The Orc sneered as it adjusted the grip on its broadsword and regarded Trent contemptuously.
Trent swallowed nervously. It was only one Orc, but this Trial beast stood head and shoulders taller than he did. It was larger than the Orc Trent had failed to cut earlier. The broadsword in the Orc’s hands gleamed with a red light as the warrior swung it tauntingly.
The red light of the sword gave Trent an idea. Heart of the Inferno had an active Ability that he had never used. That Ability would increase his Strength by 10 Points and enshroud him in flames. He had never used it because it only lasted thirty seconds and completely drained his Stamina. If he couldn’t kill the Orc in that timeframe, he wouldn’t be in any condition to resist.
But he was barely able to resist as it was, so Trent activated the Ability. Red and white flames covered his body, and, even from a distance, the Orc could feel an uncomfortable heat. Trent laughed as increased strength flowed through him. He could do this.
His laughter died as the Orc gave a casual swing of its broadsword, the blade of which was nearly four feet long. That swing, delivered lazily with hardly any force, sheered through Sorrow and Strife, leaving Trent holding the bladeless hilts of his soul-bound weapons. He couldn’t do this.
He prepared to run. He would head towards Orion. Orion would help him. The broadsword was coming up! Trent blinked; he never saw the blade descend.
Chapter 38
“At least three hundred, a mixture of just about everything we’ve seen so far, and a couple of new beasts thrown in for fun,” Alistern said. “Looks like Wraiths and a pack of Devilkin, led by a Dread Knight, are the biggest threats. That might be too much, even for you, Cullen.”
The odds were bad. It had taken them a month to reach the ruins of the castle that stood in the distance. If that Dread Knight was the final Guardian, then it didn’t look like they’d be clearing this Trial by defeating its boss, after all. Three hundred minions were too much to ask of two men. They’d never get close to the Guardian.
Cullen stood with the butt of his axe grounded in the dirt. He was looking at the same sight as Alistern and chewing on a hunk of dried meat. The look on his face said he wasn’t happy with the current situation. He spat out the last mouthful of meat and swore.
“Blood and piss! All this way, and this is all the Trial has to offer! The Knight is only Level 90!”
Apparently, looks could be deceiving. Cullen did not share Alistern’s view of the forces arranged against them at all. Apparently, the look on his face was disappointment. He was disappointed that the Dread Knight was only Level 90? How high was Cullen’s Level? The man had to be putting on an act.
“Three hundred, Cullen!” Alistern snapped. Cullen was crazy, but even he couldn’t be that crazy.
“Yeah, and I suppose you want half too,” Cullen
said disgustedly. “How far are you from Level 50? We should probably get you there before we tackle this lot, or you might get banged up.”
Alistern sighed, relieved. There was the way out! They’d spend another month leveling up in this Trial and clear it according to the time limit.
“I think I’ve got enough XP now; I just haven’t decided which way to go.”
Cullen frowned. “Why not? You’ve had plenty of time to think about it.”
“Sure, and if we were safe in Al’drossford, I'd level up my Assassin Class no problem.” Alistern rolled his eyes. “Here, there’s the possibility of getting an Advanced Class at Level 25 Assassin. That would set me back to Level 26. I'd get the Advanced Class bonuses but lose out on the Level 50 ones. I can’t decide which is the better choice.”
“Advanced Class,” Cullen snorted. “Always Advanced Class, boy! Hitting 50 without one is the stupidest thing you can do. People think too much about Level 50. Longer life, tougher skin, but without the power of an Advanced Class, you’re still not much to talk about.”
Alistern snorted back at the Sergeant, but he knew the older man was right. Besides, his dropping in Level would give Cullen the excuse he needed not to confront the overwhelming force in the distance. With only a little trepidation, Alistern funneled the necessary Experience into his Assassin Class. Soon he’d either break the Level 50 barrier or…
Cullen was drinking from his water skin and considering taking out his pipe when he saw Alistern’s face twist, the Sergeant frowned. Whatever the younger man had chosen, the anguished look that appeared on his face was not the reaction Cullen expected to see. Alistern stared in disbelief at his Status. It had to be wrong. There was always a choice. Where was his choice?
In most circumstances, when leveling a Class, the Awakened would either simply proceed to a higher Level or be offered a chance to Specialize or Advance. Sometimes the only option was to Specialize or Advance or refuse to level up. Alistern had heard rumors of a rare situation where an Adventurer had received a Class change that they hadn’t expected or wanted, but he had always dismissed those tales. He figured they were excuses people offered after they made a stupid choice.