by M. M. Whan
Eferath began his cast, tracing the runes of his chosen spell in the air before him, chanting softly, compelling the magical energies to do his bidding. He tried his best to remain calm. This was it. Corbin had struck three targets to his one. There were three targets remaining but they were so spaced out that it was impossible Eferath could get lucky and hit two targets at once. The young man stretched his arm straight in front of him as if using it to aim. As his spell neared completion, Eferath had a flashback of all of the ridicule he had received since coming to the academy. All of the jeers, the teasing, being treated like an outsider, and finally: his and Corbin’s confrontation at the mess hall flickered through his mind like pages in a book. A small, dense ball of fire no bigger than his fist swirled to life before the palm of his hand. The young man used the pain and the anger the memories had conjured up in him and focused it into his spell. A split second later, Eferath fired. A sharp pop! sounded the moment the tiny ball of fire took off.
Unlike normal fireballs, Eferath’s spell flew in a straight path toward his target. A thick white plume of smoke trailed as it screeched toward the centre of the pond with incredible speed mere feet above the water. When the fireball reached the centre of the quarry, Eferath closed his hand into a fist and the fireball detonated.
At first it was nothing more than a flash, then an enormous ball of fire erupted from the centre of the quarry. The concussion wave was visible as it contacted the water, a concussion wave that was rapidly approaching.
A deafening bang! split the air a moment later and all bystanders flew to the ground. When everyone scrambled to their feet, and even the masters regained their composure, everyone scrambled to look out into the quarry.
Not a single target was still standing.
“We have a winner!” The range master declared in a loud booming voice. Despite the fact that Eferath was the first person to have ever destroyed so many targets with a single spell in the history of the academy; despite the fact that he had beaten Corbin fair and square; and despite the fact that he had done so with a spell powerful enough to give the master’s pause, only two members of the crowd cheered. Eferath didn’t mind. The expression on Corbin’s face was reward enough.
Eferath’s victory at the quarry did nothing to improve his standing with his peers. If anything, it made it worse. As Eferath’s popularity with his instructors increased, his popularity decreased with his peers dramatically. Ever since Eferath and Corbin’s confrontation nothing ever progressed to physical levels. To work out his ever-mounting frustrations, Eferath spent every moment in the training gym. Aside from Edward and Denara, his longsword became his closest friend.
Unlike many of the trainees attending the academy, Eferath considered and respected sword fighting as the art form that it was, not a quick and easy way to glory and riches. Though his instructors were very, very good, Eferath found that it was not long before he began to alter proven effective strikes and counters to match his impressive skill.
An instructor that Eferath had never met was working out in the gym at the same time as Eferath, and quickly came over to watch the young man at play.
Eferath brought his longsword around in impressive and cunning cuts and slashes. The instructor blew a silent whistle at the grace in the young fighter’s every movement. Every cut, every feint, every strike was perfectly measured, and equally perfect in their execution. Suddenly, Eferath burst into a flurry of moves so fast they were blurred, but even though he was moving with incredible speed, he maintained perfect balance. His movements were like those of a dancer, so fluid and graceful, but the instructor held no illusions that this young man, a boy by most measure, was a very deadly entity with a blade. Skill was a natural thing from a frontier city – after all, most of their children were reared in hostile environments. But this boy was something different. He lacked the ferocity, the aggression, and the arrogance that often accompanied such fighting skills, but if that were a detriment to his fighting style, he certainly did not see it.
Just like his father…
While Eferath was fully concentrated on his training, the instructor crept up from behind the young fighter, sword drawn with expert stealth. Heel to toe, heel to toe, the instructor stalked closer, perfectly balancing his weight to keep from making even the slightest noise.
The instructor had seen the boy in action, and could not deny how good he was, but how were his reflexes? As soon as he was close enough, he lunged forward, aiming his blade for the centre of Eferath’s back.
The strike never got close to hitting. Not only was Eferath aware of the instructor’s approach, but he began moving before the attack even started. He twirled around, swinging his sword in an underhanded left-to-right swing that swatted the incoming sword harmlessly wide. Eferath followed up by inverting his grip on his sword so the edge ran down along his forearm, and swung forward bringing the edge up against his instructor’s neck.
“Outstanding, Eferath!” The man congratulated as he took a step back. “Truly you are the most skilled swordsman I have ever seen.” Eferath smiled and saluted with his sword.
“I still have much to learn.” He admitted modestly as he turned his blade over in his hand before returning it to its sheath.
“We all do,” the instructor replied. “Some of the greatest swordsmen to have ever lived spent their entire lives learning as much as they possibly could, and yet, when their bones were brittle and they were no longer able to hold a weapon, they still had not learned everything there was to know.” Eferath grinned at his instructor’s logic, then folded his arms in front of him casually. Eferath liked a fellow sword-enthusiast.
“What brings you here?” Eferath asked.
“I was finishing my own training session when I heard you in here.” The instructor said as he looked away. Eferath noted the subtle shift in his instructor’s hand as a casual move altered the man’s grip on his sword. The sword was resting on its tip, but with how the man held his blade, it stood to reason that it was for convenience when it needed to be used again. Figuring it was another test, Eferath made no move to acknowledge that he saw the gesture.
“Tell me, instructor, did you notice any flaws in my routine?” He asked sincerely.
“Please, call me Dorien, Dorien Fallherder.” When Eferath looked at him, his expression full of fear knowing that he had addressed the head of the academy in such a familiar manner, Dorien laughed. “Relax. We are off duty, any other time it would be unacceptable.” He explained, and the young man nodded.
“And no,” he continued. “There were no flaws that I saw, except…” He trailed off.
Eferath prompted him to continue. “Except…”
His answer came a split second later as Dorien jerked his sword up and brought it around in a whistling horizontal cut. Eferath, always on his guard, pulled his own sword up from the resting position in path to block Dorien’s attack. Again, and again, Dorien came on in a flurry of blows that were almost always nearly too fast for him to dodge or parry. Dorien brought his sword down hard in an overhand chop, but Eferath sidestepped, and turned to his right. The blade whistled past him, but Dorien did not follow through. Instead, the cunning instructor used his built-up momentum to launch into a horizontal swing. Eferath was slightly faster, though, and managed to pull his hips out of the way just in time to narrowly miss being cut in half. Before Dorien could recover from the miss, Eferath brought his blade swirling down and around Dorien’s, metal on metal screeching horrifically before Eferath was in position to pry his opponent’s blade free. Dorien’s sword clanged to the floor and skidded several feet with the tip of Eferath’s sword resting on his chest. Dorien suddenly grabbed the flat of Eferath’s blade with both hands and wrenched it free, flipping the hilt in his hand before launching a wicked horizontal slash. He had to duck at the last moment to avoid getting his head taken off.
So close was the strike that Eferath felt it pass through his hair.
Alarm bells started
going off in his head at the near miss. For a simple sparring match, everything started to feel very real. Those near misses could have killed him easily, and they only missed because of Eferath’s skill. As he was ducking, Eferath punched both of his fists out, connecting solidly with Dorien’s groin. The instructor gave out a great oof! as he fell back. Dorien dropped Eferath’s sword as he back-stepped and the young man scooped it up. Eferath charged forward. He had to win this fight and do it fast.
Dorien dove suddenly toward and to the right of Eferath, rolling to his feet and scooping his blade up as he went. Eferath was on him in a flash. Metal on metal cried out as their blades met and sprang apart. Dodging, weaving, turning, ducking, and spinning the pair moved, swords whirring in a deadly blur.
Dorien growled and attacked fiercely, striking again and again, aiming for any and every opening in the young man’s defenses. A ringing parry met every attempt, and sometimes Eferath would rap Dorien’s blade twice for good measure. The academy commander worked his sword in a dizzying attack sequence that left Eferath reeling, back stepping out of reach. Dorien, noticing that he had his opponent at a disadvantage, pressed the attack. Eferath continued to retreat, swatting each attack away, but as he took another step back, he accidentally stepped on his discarded sheath and slipped. The slip proved beneficial for him as the upset to his balance brought him just out of reach of Dorien’s horizontal slash. The sword opened up a deep gash on Eferath’s cheek, and the young man looked up at the man.
“What’re you about?” He demanded through gulping breaths. There was definitely something very wrong with this seemingly harmless sparring session. Each of his instructor’s attacks were measured, designed to do the most damage, or to strike a killing blow. Dorien was not a spectacular swordsmen, Eferath thought to himself. Definitely not on the level his father was, and the young man seriously doubted Dorien had the skill to prevent his attacks from landing a killing blow.
They circled each other Eferath trying to take a measure of his opponent. Suddenly, Dorien’s expression changed like the difference between night and day, and he lowered his weapon and smiled widely.
“Congratulations, Eferath, you passed the test.” Eferath stared at him incredulously, not bothering to hide the suspicion in his expression.
“You could have killed me!” Eferath shouted angrily, but if that fact bothered his instructor, he certainly did not show it. Instead, Dorien merely laughed.
“A test is not a test unless it has real consequences. It had to seem real or else there was no point in doing it.” He replied casually as if Eferath’s opinion did not matter. “Many of life’s lessons are learned through dangerous situations. Should you encounter a mountain orc, for example, would you expect he go easy on you just because you are smaller than he? I didn’t think so.” He added quickly as soon as he noticed Eferath’s unconvinced expression. It would have been a life altering experience had he not gotten out of the way on that last attack. But before he could say anything in response, Dorien gave a curt salute, about-faced, then walked away.
Eferath spent a long while going over in his mind what had transpired. Regardless of what Dorien said, their duel certainly was no test. It was all too real, and the cut on his cheek was proof that he had come very close to death. But why? As far as he knew, no one at the academy had any desire to end his life, especially not any of the instructors.
Except…
Chapter 6
“DAMMIT!” DORIEN ROARED ANGRILY as he swept his arm across his desk, clearing it of everything within reach of his arm. Bottles smashed and wooden figurines and statuettes were destroyed. The instructor’s tirade had been going on in much the same manner for several minutes – ever since he returned to his personal quarters after his encounter with Eferath, in fact. The source of his anger was his failure, his failure in his designs to kill the son of Eralon, and that his failure had undoubtedly raised Eferath’s suspicions. Such suspicions a man in his position could ill afford. Still, he was certain that the young man was not as skilled with his mind as he was with his sword, and his naiveté would keep him from asking too many questions.
Dorien began pacing in his quarters. He ran his fingers through his long brown hair in frustration. He stripped his armour, then slipped into his expensive bed wear; long, thick fleece pantaloons with a similar long-sleeved tunic. Rather than clean up his hissy-fit induced mess, he decided that sleep would be the best thing for him, now. But as he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his mind wandered back nearly twenty years. Back to when he was a captain in the academy, and he and his greatest rival, captain Eralon, were vying for a rare, and coveted position as general of the Elite Crystal Guard
Eralon was, by all measure, the best choice for the job. He had unparalleled skills with the sword, as well as a sharp intellect that kept his battle strategies always one step ahead of everyone else. Such was the norm, and Dorien was always stuck behind, struggling for every crumb of distinction and respect that he received. Unlike Eralon, Dorien was not possessed of natural abilities with weapons, nor was he able to think of brilliant strategies at the drop of a hat. The worst of it all was the fact that Dorien was the Prince, and brother to the King. And so, with thoughts of recompense swimming through his mind, Dorien drifted off into deep sleep.
He dreamed that he was walking in a long, dark hallway. He was walking away from the brigade commandant’s office, away from the bad news that he had not received the position of general. Dorien balled his fists in anger; he had lost the promotion to Eralon. He screamed in fury, though no sound came out. He tried to punch the nearest wall, but there was nothing there. It took him several moments to realize that he was no longer in the hallway. Instead he was standing in Eralon’s private quarters, and he could hear someone walking toward the room.
Dorien huddled at the side of the door, but before he knew what he was doing, or even what was going on, his sword suddenly appeared in his hand without him consciously drawing it. The door swung open, and Eralon stepped through, face buried in parchments. The newly appointed general was completely oblivious to his surroundings, and Dorien found himself grinning wickedly. Suddenly it was all so clear to him. All he had to do was drive his sword into Eralon’s back, and there would no longer be anyone in his way. He would be stepping out of the general’s shadow and into greatness the likes of which he had never known. He took a step forward, but the sharp intake of breath from anticipation startled his would-be victim, and Eralon turned around just when Dorien stabbed forward. The general acted purely on instinct, with movements too fast to be believable he spun around and grabbed onto Dorien’s weapon, pulling on it hard to bring his attacker off balance. Dorien gave a yelp of surprise before Eralon’s brilliant move left him lying flat on his back in the space of a heartbeat. To add insult to injury, Eralon held the tip of Dorien’s own blade to his neck.
“Because of our history in the military together, I shall not kill you like the treacherous dog you are. The next time you wish to challenge me, do not hide in the corner. Next time, I will end your miserable life.” Eralon looked down upon him with open contempt. “Such an untimely, and undoubtedly gruesome death would not look well for the both of us so soon after my promotion.” He declared coldly before taking the sword tip away from Dorien’s neck.
Dorien rose to his feet, albeit very slowly glaring angrily up at his intended target with pure hatred. He opened as mouth as if to say something less than complimentary, but again, nothing came out.
Once again, his surroundings changed, and Dorien was getting ushered out of Eralon’s room in a hurry, and was suddenly taking the quickest route outside.
Through a window.
Darkness filled his dreams as soon as he hit the ground, and Dorien awoke with a start, breathing heavily. His hands groped all over his body by instinct to check for injuries. When he realized that it was nothing more than a dream, he lay back down and blew a great sigh.
Ever since Dorien was appoint
ed the rank of general after Eralon retired, he spent much of his free time looking over progress reports and skill evaluations to identify any threats to his position in the academy. Of course, such a replacement would take several years, but Dorien was more of a pragmatic thinker than a strategic one. From a young age Dorien was always the outsider of the family and never received any recognition for his deeds. When he was younger, he and his brother were always in competition, and his brother, the now king of Escoran was the favored one. Normally, such favoritism meant little in royal families, especially since the elder boy was the next in line for the throne.
Though Dorien was older, the ultimate slap in the face for him was when his father chose Terryn to succeed him. And just when Dorien thought he would make a name for himself, it was Eralon, and not he that was promoted to general of the most skilled and prestigious fighting force in the realms.
Dorien was determined to take what was owed to him. But if the other instructors at the academy found out that Eferath was the son of general Eralon, the young boy would be rapidly promoted. Not that Eferath needed the help in distinguishing himself as worthy of greater responsibility.
With a sigh, Dorien rose from his bed and donned his uniform. He peered out of his window at the dawn peeking out beside the mountain, and he yawned. Exhaustion was not uncommon for him. All he could think about of late was how to escalate himself above the others. Of course, he was the academy’s head instructor, and since he held the rank of general, also its commander. But it was not enough for him! He needed more power, and being the commander of a training academy was not prestigious enough for what he believed he deserved. Age, of course, was a lingering factor, a factor that was impossible to alter positively. And though he could do nothing to keep himself from aging, he could, however, keep anyone from potentially replacing him.