by B. T. Narro
His instructor, Penny, would be upset at Basen for missing training, but his time was better spent figuring out Fatholl’s plan. He agreed with Annah that there must be something he could use involving the Elves who’d recently arrived from Greenedge. They’d chosen to follow a Takary to war instead of joining Fatholl. There was likely to be strife between the two groups.
A crowd at the center of the enormous field of grass caught his attention. Hoping to find Cleve there, Basen headed toward it. Krepps were clustered on one side of a circle. The humans completing the circle stood farther apart, not pushing to get a spot at the front like the creatures opposite them.
That made it easy for Basen to slip through to the inner rows of the circle, where he not only found Cleve but saw that the large warrior was in the middle of a bout against Rickik, the leader of the Krepps and possibly the biggest of them all. He was a full head taller than Cleve, with arms so massive that Basen doubted Cleve could cut cleanly through them with his bastial steel sword, even if the weapon was made from the sharpest and lightest material in the world.
Fortunately, Basen didn’t have to worry about irreparable damage to any of the Krepps he’d worked so hard to bring here, for Cleve and the other warriors were armed with dull training swords of wood. Fortunately for Cleve, so were Rickik and his Krepps.
But neither Cleve nor Rickik wore a protective tunic of boiled leather. Basen had trained with other swordsmen for years and knew there was only one reason someone would forego a tunic. Pride. It was better to train with one and get used to its weight. Although, Basen doubted there was a tunic at the Academy large enough to contain Rickik’s chest.
The Krepp fought quickly for his size, swiping his massive sword at Cleve in an endless barrage of attacks. But Cleve was more agile. He seemed to slow time with his ability to duck and dart out of the way.
Eventually he leaned back to avoid the tip of Rickik’s wooden sword, then stepped into the Krepp with a thrust of his own. Rickik let go of his weapon to deflect Cleve’s attack with his arm, but all the Krepp did was guide the tip into his shoulder instead of his chest. Had it been Cleve’s bastial steel sword, it might’ve gone straight to bone.
“Point!” nearly half the crowd of humans called out, some applauding.
Basen was pleasantly surprised to see the Krepps behaving rather than starting an uproar as Rickik scowled and spat on the grass.
It took two points to win a duel here at the Academy, and Rickik looked as if he wanted to hurt Cleve for the embarrassment the human had caused him. His lizard eyes, yellow and full of fury, had widened to nearly a complete circle. The two holes in the center of his face that made up his nose flared with each quick breath. He exchanged his two-handed sword for a smaller one from one of his Krepps. It was still about the size of Cleve’s two-handed sword, but Rickik held it with just one hand and weaved it through the air seamlessly in a show of dexterity.
He muttered something in Kreppen to Cleve. A few of the warriors behind Basen asked what Rickik had said.
“I think he said, ‘Humans are weak but quick. Take away their speed and they lose,’ ” someone answered.
Basen was thankful at least someone knew a smattering of Kreppen. All the Krepps seemed to know at least some common tongue, and a few of them were fluent enough to converse with humans, if they chose to. During their trip back to the Academy, however, the Krepps mostly had kept to themselves, and Basen figured they did the same here. They just wanted to fight and get help to build their own city. Rickik was the only one who wanted more—the bastial steel sword out of Tauwin’s dead hands.
Basen hoped the Krepp wouldn’t settle for anything less. He did seem to be eyeing the hilt of Cleve’s bastial steel sword.
I can understand Cleve worrying about leaving his sword where it might get stolen, but to fight with a training weapon while his bastial steel sword is strapped to his belt seems absurd.
The circle broke as the name “Warrior Sneary” fell off everyone’s lips in a hushed warning. Basen hid behind other students so the approaching instructor wouldn’t send him to the mages’ training grounds.
Sneary came through and confronted Cleve. “What’s happening here?”
“Just a duel.”
Sneary took his time regarding Rickik and the Krepps behind him. The instructor seemed to be checking to make sure each had a wooden training sword, his head tilting down toward their waist. Then he turned to the human side of the now messy circle.
He folded his arms and asked Cleve, “Where’s your dueling tunic?”
Cleve lifted his hand and a boiled leather tunic spun out from the crowd. He snatched it out of the air and put it on.
Sneary moved back and gestured for them to continue.
Most of the warriors clapped as they reformed the circle. The Krepps hissed and smiled as they seemed to understand Sneary was a leader of the humans and had allowed this to go on.
Rickik gestured with his claws for Cleve to come at him, and Cleve gladly took on the challenge by running and leaping high enough to fill Rickik’s eyes with shock.
“God’s mercy,” Basen muttered as Cleve soared toward Rickik with his knees bent and his sword overhead. It couldn’t be pure strength and agility alone that allowed Cleve to reach such heights or give him the stamina to finish three laps around this enormous field before anyone else. Cleve had to be doing something else to gain that kind of advantage.
Rickik spun to avoid Cleve and slashed at his back, yet Cleve rolled, giving himself the distance he needed to run and leap again. But he stopped short this time. Rickik was hurrying backward until he realized Cleve was no longer coming for him. The Krepp bared his teeth, obviously embarrassed to be caught moving away from the fight. He charged Cleve.
Basen could only hope this was what Cleve had wanted. Cleve turned his body to assume a stance with his weapon out in front, a tactic usually reserved for one-handed swords. Fortunately, Cleve appeared strong enough to wield his weapon this way as he stepped toward Rickik and kicked with his back foot in an attack that even caught Basen by surprise.
Rickik doubled over, closing his elbows over his injured stomach. Cleve followed with a slash down onto Rickik’s shoulder for the victory. It wasn’t a hard blow, for Cleve had no reason to injure the leader of the Krepps. In fact, it was probably dangerous to hurt or embarrass any of them, as it might spark another duel, but with real swords.
Basen applauded with the others. For such an honorable man, Cleve certainly seemed to have a lot of tricks. The Krepps refused to look at Rickik as he rejoined them. Many rushed forward to challenge Cleve, which started an argument among them in their throaty language.
“Cleve,” Basen said, “I need to speak with you.”
“What?” Cleve seemed reluctant to leave the center of the circle, turning toward Basen but looking back at the Krepps.
“It’s important.”
“Winner stays.” Cleve refused to move.
“Then you might be here all morning, and I don’t have time for that. Just give me a few moments. It’s about Fatholl.”
Finally, Cleve seemed to remember there was more to life than dueling. He approached Basen. “What is it?”
Before Basen could speak, the Krepps had chosen who would fight Cleve next and a large female had her sword pointed at him.
“Now me, human.” She was about Cleve’s height and looked just as strong and capable. Unlike the other Krepps, she wore a protective tunic. None of the Krepps said a word as they waited for Cleve to accept the challenge. This female had clearly earned respect the same way Sanya had during her brief time at the Academy.
Cleve looked at Basen imploringly. Basen was thankful when Peter stepped out from the crowd and stood tall and strong.
“I will fight,” he said.
Given he was about the same size as Cleve, the female Krepp seemed to take no dishonor in accepting the change. Basen watched her stride confidently toward Peter as Basen got down to business with Cleve.
“I need to know what you learned about the Elves during your time in Greenedge.”
Cleve raised an eyebrow. “What do you need to know about them?”
“I’m trying to figure out why there’s a second group of Elves here fighting with Ulric and not with Fatholl.”
Peter locked swords with the female Krepp. She grinned at him while he struggled to overpower her. Peter grunted as he pushed, sending her back a step. But she appeared to be ready, already drawing back her sword to swipe at Peter’s head. He dodged the blow, just barely.
“Why does it matter?” Cleve asked.
“I’m going to see Fatholl soon. Maybe he wants something more from those Elves than whatever he wants from me.”
Cleve’s brow furrowed, his gaze never leaving the bout. “I don’t understand.”
He’s not listening.
Now that the Krepp had earned Peter’s respect, they were circling each other. It seemed the best chance to get an answer out of Cleve, so Basen got straight to the point.
“Have you heard anything about an Elf named Yeso or a group of Elves going against Fatholl?”
“The Elves cast Fatholl out for practicing psyche. They don’t allow it.”
“Which Elves don’t? Obviously not the ones who attacked us last night.”
Sneary stepped into the circle and ordered, “Stop. It’s time for battle training to begin.” He put up his hands when everyone griped. “But we’re starting the day with two on two combat,” he continued. “Get on your dueling tunics!”
The warriors’ groans changed to a quick round of celebration as they laughed and clapped. As the Krepps realized what was about to happen, they joined in.
CHAPTER FIVE
All these men were Basen’s size or larger, their collective cheering deep yet harmonious with each other. These are the Group One warriors, he realized. The Academy’s best swordsmen, possibly the best of our entire army. The thought made Basen realized that everyone left to stand against Tauwin was within the school’s walls.
Basen wondered whether he would’ve been placed among these warriors if he’d tested as one instead of a mage on that fateful recruitment day. Probably not. He’d been the best swordsmen his age in Tenred, but after watching Cleve and Peter, Basen understood the warriors here were in a different class.
He noticed Nebre standing at the far end of the Krepps, almost within the human side of the circle. Without his human clothing, he was no longer easily recognizable until he opened his mouth. His white teeth gave him away as he seemed to be translating Sneary’s message to the other Krepps.
Suddenly the creatures made fists and hissed with wicked grins, a clear sign of excitement. However, a few argued with Nebre, who continued to point toward the pile of thick leather tunics.
Basen was thankful when Sneary selected two men other than Cleve for the first fight. Rickik chose two Krepps to face the men.
“Cleve, which Elves don’t allow psyche?” Basen asked as the chaotic bout began.
“All Elves in Greenedge. For centuries, they’ve lived in a territory called Meritar and have exiled anyone caught using or teaching psyche. Fatholl rebelled because he wanted to use psyche to…” His voice trailed off as the fight drew his attention.
The two warriors announced what their opponents were doing, as if wanting to turn the practice battle into a show. But it was much more than that, Basen soon realized, as one of the men called out “rotating” and came around the Krepp, who turned his bare back toward the warrior’s partner. The other warrior took advantage with a stab that drew a screech from the creature.
“Point!” Sneary said. But the Krepp who hadn’t taken the hit continued to chase after the man he’d been targeting.
“Stop,” Sneary ordered as the human quickly backed away from him. “The point has been claimed. Nebre, tell him!”
Nebre translated, but Rickik interrupted his son to complain to Sneary. “My Krepp no lose, only other Krepp. He fight two humans. No stop.”
“When any of your Krepps are struck, the fight is over,” Sneary explained.
“Why?” Rickik spat on the grass. “Coward humans, coward rules.”
“At the Academy, we discourage our warriors from claiming victory if they let their allies die. The point of the exercise is to learn to fight together, not to sacrifice each other. Do you understand?”
With his scaly forehead crinkled in confusion, Rickik turned to Nebre, who translated. Before he could finish, Sneary told Nebre, “And explain to Rickik that just because his Krepps are standing near each other while fighting doesn’t mean they’re fighting together.”
While Sneary continued the lesson for Rickik, Basen resumed his prodding. “Cleve, what did Fatholl do with psyche that got him exiled?”
“Greenedge had a dismal future. In a few words, Fatholl made the continent safe again. He wanted the Elves’ help but had to force the humans to help him instead.” Cleve finally looked at Basen. “He murdered. He killed kings and displaced thousands of men, women, and children. He’ll do anything if he believes it will help the world in the end.”
“The world, or just the Elves?”
Cleve thought about that for a while. The Krepp who’d been stabbed in the back put on a tunic before the next fight. Many of the Krepps watching did the same. It won’t be long before all of them realize there is no pride in unnecessary injury.
The fight for the second point was much like the first, ending with the same Krepp taking the blunt wooden sword to his back. He screeched and then stomped toward his ally Krepp in an obvious display of anger, but the other Krepps were quick to intervene.
“Fatholl will do what he thinks is right,” Cleve finally answered. “He’ll use you in the same way we’re using these Krepps.”
“He’ll think he’s using me,” Basen corrected. “But I might be able to use him instead.”
Cleve looked worried. “How do you expect to do that?”
Basen didn’t want to admit he was still figuring that out. “Did he mention anything about another group of Elves having been exiled from Meritar?”
“I don’t know anything about another group of Elves.” Cleve returned his attention to the duel. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”
“You have already.”
Basen lost Cleve again as the next fight began, but it didn’t matter anymore. Basen left Warrior’s Field with a smirk because Cleve had given him the answer he’d hoped to hear. If Fatholl had done so much to change Greenedge yet never mentioned anything to Cleve of another group of Elves, there was a good reason they’d remained apart.
They might not know they’re on the same continent now.
The library was Basen’s next destination. He felt a pang of guilt for not telling Penny why he would be absent, but sometimes it was better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.
He hadn’t been to the library since Nick had given him a tour on his first day at the Academy. Although impressed by its size and the number of books, he figured he’d never have time to indulge himself. He’d just discovered portals, not that he’d known it yet. He’d expected to spend every spare moment training.
It was a good thing he had. Being the only one who could make a portal, besides Sanya, it was his responsibility to keep one open long enough for hundreds of Academy forces to go through in case Terren ordered it.
To Basen’s surprise, the library was busy this morning. However, he soon realized none of these people were students but citizens brought here from Oakshen and the capital. These were the brave ones who hadn’t left, at least not yet. Stanmar would return to recruit more of them, but the destruction of his catapult certainly would hurt his chances of scaring more people into defecting.
Tauwin’s army was not invincible. The sooner everyone in Kyrro learned that, the better the Academy’s chances. There were students who’d left last night, and Basen had seen many more considering it from the way they’d moved closer to the wall as Stanmar left. Given anothe
r opportunity to leave, many would take it.
The people at the library appeared to be organizing books, not reading them. As Basen looked around the vast hall, he figured he was the only student here, everyone else occupied in battle training. There was no one at the door to greet him, stop him, or even notice him for that matter. He spent a while looking for the librarian.
Finally, one of the women taking books out of a basket and arranging them on a long shelf looked over and stopped.
“Who sent you?”
Sent me?
“Jack Rose,” he replied. The master chemist was the only teacher Basen knew who might send someone to the library to fetch a book about Elves and Takarys in Greenedge. “He’s looking for more information about Ulric Takary and Yeso the Elf.”
“That man…” She shook both her head at Basen as she approached. “He may be brilliant when it comes to potions, but his sharp mind doesn’t do him much good keeping track of all the happenings of the day. He came last night, half asleep, and took the book. If he lost it—I don’t care if he’s the head chemist around here—I’ll…ergh.” Her hands fisted. “It’s the only copy we have! Tell him he has until the end of the day to get it back to me. No pages bent! And tell him to never let it out of his sight and stop forgetting he has it! The dolt.”
“I’ll certainly tell him all those things.” Sorry Jack, didn’t mean to get you in trouble.
Basen walked out of the library, put his hands on his hips, and sighed. The morning was passing quickly, and he had no idea where Jack would be at this time. He was right to assume the chemist would send him for such a book, but it had nearly cost him his chance of finding out where the book was now. He considered himself lucky that Jack was the kind of man who might borrow a book and then forget, otherwise the librarian would’ve known Basen was lying.
The masters of each class, like Jack, didn’t spend their days instructing, except maybe the master warrior, though Basen had no idea who that was. Perhaps there wasn’t one. Being a master was a silly concept anyway, no matter the class. Although Abith was undoubtedly the closest of anyone Basen had met to being considered a master. Basen feared for Terren’s safety. During the years Basen had spent under Abith’s tutelage, he’d never figured out what to expect from his teacher, and Abith most certainly had a plan to become headmaster.