Bastial Steel

by Narro, B. T.

  “How far is the town Lysha took the Takarys to?” Cleve asked.

  “About a day’s ride northeast. You don’t think she’ll follow us there, do you?”

  Cleve was so distracted by this incessant child, he’d momentarily forgotten to check his weapon. Looking at it now, he felt his heart shatter. Chunks of Bastial steel had been chipped out of it, leaving the blade grotesquely uneven and even dull in some places along one edge.

  Jek noticed him looking. Putting his hand on Cleve’s shoulder, he said, “It was worth it.”

  Cleve let out a breath, nodding to show he agreed.

  “But it still won’t make me feel any better about ruining it,” he said.

  “You probably shouldn’t let Danvell Takary see how his gift turned out,” Jek advised. “He might think of it as an act of disrespect.”

  Again, Cleve nodded.

  He was so frustrated he wanted to throw the weapon off the hill, but it was a childish thought. The disfigured weapon was still more useful than a sword of regular steel, at least on one of its sides.

  Nulya let out a sputter of air, her lips flapping loudly.

  “Let’s go,” Jek calmly stated. “I want to learn what’s written on this paper of Azaylee’s.”

  Jek was right. As hard as it was for Cleve to turn his back on the desperate girl still running toward them, it was time to leave.

  Chapter 29

  By the time the sun was setting, they’d reached the city of Gajiri—where Lysha had taken Raymess and Vala. Guards belonging to Zav’s kingdom protected the entrance.

  They informed Cleve and Jek that Lysha already had left. One of them even had a note from her:

  My handsome young men,

  We got all the support we needed from the people in this town. Prince Raymess has made a full recovery, so I am taking him and Queen Vala back to the palace. I’ll tell the Takarys that you should be close behind. Don’t come into Goldram too far in the north. There have been battles around the southern edges of Waywen.

  I’m coming in around Lake Mercy. I recommend doing the same. Let’s celebrate when you get back.

  Liquor. Lots of it.

  “You know where Lake Mercy is?” Cleve asked, shortly after they thanked the guards and entered in hopes of purchasing some food.

  “Yes. I’ve crossed from Zav to Goldram through there before, when I took Prince Harwin.” Jek’s eyes went unfocused as he said the boy’s name. “I can’t believe how close he came to being murdered. It would’ve been my fault for bringing him there.”

  “Those spies would’ve come up with some plan to kill him at another time,” Cleve said. “And who knows who would’ve been there to save him…probably no one. I’m glad it occurred when it did. You were part of making that happen.”

  “You tease,” Jek replied with a smile. “Or you’re the most modest person I’ve ever met.”

  Cleve supposed he was modest, for he certainly wasn’t joking, and he’d heard something along those lines before. “Just don’t call me a hero,” he muttered. There was something about the word that made him cringe.

  Then he realized what it was. Looking at the hills ahead, poking out from behind the city…the many miles left to travel, he felt insignificant.

  Cleve had done nothing for the war in Ovira. He’d almost killed Rek, and that was it. Before he ever could be a hero, he needed to go home and fight for Kyrro. He was nothing until then.

  It seemed as if Gajiri had been ravaged by a recent battle. Old fires had left their mark on the roofs and walls of many houses. People had uneasy stares for Cleve and Jek—strangers on horses. Many hobbled on a wounded leg or nursed a bandaged arm.

  Before asking what happened, Cleve and Jek decided it would be wise to ask for food.

  A saleswoman with a cart of fruits, dried meats, and bread wanted to see their money first, eyeing Cleve’s sheathed sword for a long while before speaking.

  Eating right there, Jek asked the woman, “Who attacked this village?”

  “Presoren bastards,” she spat out. “They were our allies ten years ago, many of their kin still living here until recently. A lot of us even have some Presoren in our blood.” The way her eyes tightened made it clear she was speaking for herself, her self-disdain palpable. “Used to be a wonderful thing when I was young—when people mixed together knowing their true enemy was the desmarls. Now a group of Elves are the only ones with enough honor to fight those monsters while the rest of us fight each other.”

  Cleve studied Jek’s face to see if this was news to the mage. His head was tilted, his blue eyes squinted skeptically.

  “What is this you speak of?” Jek asked.

  “You’re from Goldram, right?” the saleswoman assumed, leaning forward as if ready to reveal a secret.

  Jek didn’t reply, not before studying her expression to see if the wrong answer might be dangerous.

  But the saleswoman continued without waiting, seemingly content that her assumption was correct. “News must not have reached there yet. Everyone’s heard about it in southern Zav.” She leaned back with a smug grin, saying no more.

  “Heard about what?” Jek asked.

  “Why don’t you ask the Elves yourself? You’re the only people who can reach them, being in Goldram.”

  Cleve thought of the note in Jek’s pocket, wondering if it might have to do with this rumor. But then he reminded himself that that’s all this was, some rumor. In fact, it had nothing to do with Kyrro.

  Still…he had to admit to himself that he was interested.

  The woman seemed to enjoy knowing something they didn’t, so Cleve didn’t want to waste his time playing her game any longer.

  “Thank you for the food,” Cleve told her, putting his hand on Jek’s back. “Let’s go.”

  The mage was reluctant at first, his body turning while his head remained on the saleswoman. But with a little added force, he joined Cleve in stride.

  Soon they were back to riding, their horses just as eager to get back as they were, it seemed. Nulya’s rhythmic hooves didn’t slow, even when they came to shallow streams.

  They rode until night came, and then they continued by the light from Jek’s wand.

  When the mage grew weary of keeping up the white glow, they finally stopped to rest.

  While sleeping, Jek had light burst from his body, waking Cleve.

  “It even happens when you don’t use any SE during the day?” Cleve asked.

  “Yes, because I can’t stop my body from absorbing too much of it.” Jek wiped the blood from the fresh wound across his chest.

  Cleve despised the idea that Jek’s only cure was waiting somewhere in Ovira, making Cleve responsible for bringing it back. Jek didn’t deserve these nightly terrors, but Cleve couldn’t bring himself to promise to return.

  “There must be something in Greenedge that absorbs SE,” Cleve said.

  “I’m thinking the same thing, but no one I’ve talked to knows of anything. There’s no reason anyone else might find use in a plant or animal that absorbs SE. So it’s unlikely someone has the answer for me.” Jek took his eyes off his wound to look up at Cleve. “How confident are you that your chemist friend would know of such a thing?”

  Cleve started to yawn. He let it come out slow and long to give himself time to think of how he should answer.

  He was confident Steffen would know of such a plant or animal, but only because the young chemist seemed to find interest in everything. His mind was filled with what Cleve would call useless information.

  But what was the point behind giving Jek this false hope? It felt better not to. There was a chance Cleve would never see him again, even if Steffen had the answer.

  Maybe Steffen would want to visit Greenedge.

  Cleve tried to imagine what Steffen was doing during the war in Ovira. He’d never asked Terren what chemists’ roles were.

  The thought was dumb, he realized right away. Chemists had medical training as well as skill in potion creation and
usage. They were responsible for injured soldiers during war, of course.

  His yawn finished. An answer still hadn’t come.

  “I’m not sure,” Cleve decided to say, lying down and shutting his eyes in hopes Jek wouldn’t continue the conversation.

  I’ll do everything I can, Cleve wanted to say. When the war ends, I’ll come back if I’m able to.

  Cleve didn’t see any reason to say it aloud, though. As long as it was true, that’s all that mattered. If Cleve never came back, yet he gave Jek the hope he would, it only would make things worse.

  Days later, when they crossed around Lake Mercy, Cleve finally got the sense his adventure was coming to an end. The reality that he would be going home to Kyrro soon started to sink in.

  He’d never taken the time to think about all the fighting ahead of him until then.

  Just his experiences in Karri Forest and at the village in southern Zav had resulted in enough death for a lifetime. But it was really only the beginning—a daunting realization.

  He’d had dreams of riding into battle on Nulya’s back, wielding his red-orange Bastial steel sword, killing Krepps on either side of him. But he knew battle was far more complicated than that.

  It always is.

  And his sword was chipped now, so dull in some places it wouldn’t even cut the skin of a Human, let alone a lizard-like Krepp.

  Cleve sighed at the thought of it.

  He and Jek had stopped for a quick meal, Jek looking up at the sound of Cleve’s loud exhale.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Cleve shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

  Frustration twisted the corner of Jek’s mouth. He swallowed his food, then spoke. “I don’t know why you think people aren’t interested in what you have to say. It’s not true, you know?”

  “I’m not worried about boring you,” Cleve answered. “I just don’t see the reason my thoughts need to be shared when there’s nothing you can do to help.”

  “Haven’t you learned anything from Jessend? Just letting it out is helpful, even if I have no wisdom of my own to share on the topic.” As if channeling the diminutive princess, Jek folded his arms in a proud fashion. “Now what’s bothering you?”

  Cleve let out another sigh, knowing it was easier to just tell the mage. “I’ve spent all this time in Greenedge, meanwhile my friends and family are fighting in Kyrro. I finally feel confident I’ll return, but what difference will it really make…and what if I’m too late?” He picked up his sword, twisting it to catch the sunlight. “I’m not sure I’ll even want to use this weapon anymore with one side being useless. And Nulya could be killed the first moment I take her into battle. I have no training in battle-riding.”

  Cleve let down his sword, beginning to feel that he was rambling…whining, even. “I’m just coming to realize that it’s silly to be so eager to return. I’m just one man—a man who’s wasted so much time on another continent, only to return to be part of an army that already has thousands of men just like me.”

  He really felt it now…sniveling like a child. That was all he was going to say.

  Jek looked as if he had no reply, taking a swig from his water pouch and glancing out over the land of Goldram to the east.

  “You can’t honestly believe your time here was wasted.” It wasn’t even a question, not the way Jek’s judgmental tone carried his words. “Think about all you’ve done for us…what could’ve happened if you’d never come. Think about who you were stepping off that ship and who you are now.”

  The two men’s eyes met, and Cleve tilted his head to show skepticism.

  “If you still believe it was a waste, you’re either lying to me or lying to yourself,” Jek said.

  An itch came to Cleve’s forehead. He looked away as he scratched it.

  “You’re right,” he admitted. “But how could you even know how I’ve changed?”

  Jek shrugged. “We all change, especially around our age. It was a pretty safe assumption.”

  Cleve couldn’t believe he’d had to cross the Starving Ocean just to find himself—his inner strength that Reela had discovered during their first conversation. He always assumed it would be her who brought it out of him. But it was a tiny princess, he said to himself.

  Suddenly, he felt as if he hadn’t done enough for the Takary family. Jessend had saved him from imprisonment in Kyrro, helped him heal old wounds he thought would just continue to fester, and even given him a means to return home with kingly gifts.

  So what if his sword was chipped and dull on one side. He could get used to that. And having the only horse in Ovira would be a major advantage in times of war. Then there was Rek—Rek! How could he forget? Rek had a horse as well and should be returning with him.

  I hope he’s back at the palace by the time we return. Cleve couldn’t even guess what had happened with him and the Elves.

  Cleve’s eagerness was bubbling up from his stomach once again, making it hard to sit still. He finished the rest of his meal quickly, hopping on Nulya’s back and waiting for Jek. The mage rushed to stuff his mouth, standing and wiping his hands together. He mumbled something, his full mouth preventing any hope of Cleve being able to understand his words.

  With that, they were off.

  Chapter 30

  A few days later, the walls surrounding The Nest crept into view between low hills, and a tingling sensation washed over Cleve’s body. The evening sun bounced off the city, giving it a golden glow so bright Cleve couldn’t look directly at it.

  “Is this why it’s called Goldram?” Jek wondered aloud. “I’ve never seen the land look like this before. Perhaps I’ve just never had the time to pay attention.”

  It made Cleve wonder something himself. “The continent is called Greenedge—is that because of the green Sartious Energy of the desmarls that have taken over the edges?”

  “Yes,” Jek answered. “This continent used to go by a different name until the northern and southern edges were covered by their SE mist. ‘Greenedge’ was just a nickname at first, from what I’ve heard. I don’t even know the original name, I doubt many do anymore.”

  They kept their horses at a trot, both unwilling to risk injury to their mounts when they would be at the palace by sunset at a slower pace anyway. It also gave them time to speak, for it was painfully obvious this might be the last time they had the chance.

  “Are there any competitions that award titles to the victors?” Cleve asked, thinking of Redfield.

  “Competitions?” Jek questioned. “Do you mean like shotmarl?”

  “I suppose,” Cleve said, “if titles are awarded in that.”

  “Only nobles have titles, and you’re asking the wrong person if you want to know what each of them means. Royalty has titles as well, prince, queen, like that. But the men who are part of the winning shotmarl team don’t receive a title. Their honor comes mostly in praise, salary from their king to play in the next season, and of course fame. Did you know they’re required to go fight the desmarls for a week, and Jessend’s first betrothed died doing so?”

  “I know,” Cleve said. “I was more curious about the titles, specifically. There are a few traditions in Kyrro—competitions that result in titles for the victors. Though, with war going on, I doubt any will happen this year.”

  Winning the Redfield competition at the Academy and earning the champion title was always Cleve’s dream before he was a student. But ever since his first day at the Academy, when he met Reela and his other roommates, that dream was lost in a sea of trouble.

  He wondered why it suddenly had come back to him now. Could he be that calm about the war in Ovira to be thinking of earning himself a title?

  It’s strange how easy it is to remember old desires. But how rare is it for them to come back just as strong as they were when they were lost?

  Cleve actually had an “adept” title granted to him from winning the weapons demonstration. Cleve The Adept. He’d never really liked the sound of it, even now as he said i
t in his head.

  But to Cleve, the champion title was immeasurably better, and it lasted forever as well. The adept title was gone after a year—when the next weapons demonstration took place, it would transfer to the winner. Luckily for Cleve, he’d won each year he’d competed since the age of fourteen.

  But to have a title that could be gone in an instant seemed worthless to him. He’d never entered the weapons demonstration competition for the sake of the title anyway.

  He almost laughed at how much his mind had wandered during the brief pause in his conversation with Jek. There was something about titles that he could get lost in, as if the moment he started thinking about them he drifted out to sea without realizing where he was going. Next thing he knew, he didn’t know which direction he’d come from.

  “Cleve the Superficial,” Jek said in a teasing cadence. “That’s what I should call you…caring about silly titles.” He let out a laugh. “I never would’ve figured you would.”

  “Everyone has a guilty pleasure.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then what’s mine?” Jek asked, genuinely curious.

  “You’re overconfident and take pleasure in getting out of tricky situations, so you push boundaries until you’ve meddled your way into something you shouldn’t have.”

  Cleve thought it might’ve been humorous to tease Jek about his rash decision-making. But the moment he finished speaking, it felt as if he’d been too accurate for it to be taken as a joke. He really did mean everything he’d said…which was a mistake.

  Before he thought to apologize, Jek retorted with a smile, “Says the man who attacked his own castle with an army of rats.”

  “So you’ve heard about that.”

  “Jessend loves to share.”

  Cleve felt his heart jumping in his chest. Did she tell others of their private conversations about loss…about deep sorrow…about true weakness? He couldn’t stand the thought of someone knowing how weak he’d been—how weak he could be in any given moment when the sting of death came back to his thoughts, wrapping around his body like chains, squeezing all the strength out of him.