by Will Wight
Lindon looked at the loops indicating the madra flow, and at the characters floating over it. “Would you mind teaching me, then?”
She rapped her knuckles against the stone. “I could tell you without reading them. Cycle your madra to the palms of your hands and keep it there. Let it build and build like you've stopped up a river, and when it's just about to burst, push it out.” She shrugged. “My Striker technique starts the same way, except through a sword. And mine has three more steps.”
Lindon looked at his hands, gathering madra into his palms while trying to focus on maintaining his breathing and cycling according to the diagram all at the same time.
Yerin grabbed him by the arm. “Maybe take a step or two back, if you don’t mind. I'm not looking to roast today.”
Lindon bowed in apology, moving ten steps to the right and contemplating the broad, blackened expanse of hardened dirt that was the Striker Trial. He was itching to see what they'd have to face in the Trial itself, but one step at a time; he wouldn't even be able to start without the ability to execute a Striker technique.
He steadied his breath, focusing first on the madra diagram, making sure that his madra was flowing through the right channels. Then, once he had his madra moving in the right direction, he ignored it.
In the last few months, he'd gotten something of a sense for the nature of Blackflame madra. He could move by feel, without relying on convoluted patterns, gathering power in his palms and letting it pool there. He had done something similar with the soldier earlier, pouring raw power into the projection and letting it explode.
He held both hands out toward the empty space. Nothing visible changed, but he could feel the madra building and building, the pressure growing, until his hands felt like they would dissolve from the inside.
In that moment, he gathered the force of his spirit and shoved.
When Lindon had first learned the Burning Cloak, the technique had started thin, weak, and inefficient. He had worked for months to increase its potency, to use its power effectively. He had expected something similar with the Striker technique: this first attempt might produce nothing more than a tiny tongue of flame, but he would build it up to a roaring dragon's breath.
So when the madra burst out of him in a furious, flaming storm of black and red, scorching the air in an explosion that sent him tumbling backwards ten feet and coming to rest in a tangle of limbs, he was...surprised.
Yerin waited for him to stumble to his feet and press his hand to his skull, checking for bruising, before she nodded sagely. “Yeah, that's how it happens.”
The dirt was blasted away in a starburst pattern where Lindon had been standing. It wasn't deep—the soil here was packed tight, and had been charred over and over for years—but it stood out. The aura seethed in his Copper sight, the black and red powers boiling, but they slowly calmed.
“It didn't get very far,” Lindon noted, steadying himself against the cliff wall. That explosion had singed his hands, even though it came from his own madra—it must have ignited the air. His Bloodforged Iron body was already drawing power to the injury, sapping his core further. That one technique had taken more out of him than five minutes with the Burning Cloak.
“River doesn't get too far without banks,” Yerin said. “Out of control, it's just a flood. Spills everywhere. You want it to go where you want it to go, you have to guide it.”
She tapped the stone again. “There’s a pointer here. Push it outside your body, but keep it under control.” She held her hands a few inches apart as though cupping an invisible ball, and swirls of sharp silver energy began collecting in the air between them. They whirled and slashed in bright flashes, as though she’d contained a dozen blades of light.
“Pack it together,” she continued. The silver light bunched up into a ball the size of his thumb, but she kept pouring more madra into it. “Then, when you can’t keep it dammed up anymore…” A wild, spiraling blaze of silver light whirled between her hands. “…let it go.”
The ball flew out of her hands, a silver fist-sized spiral of sword madra. It spun erratically in the air, going no more than a yard or two before it slammed into the ground.
The technique exploded.
A thousand sword slashes detonated in all different directions, slicing the air, carving hundreds of crisscrossing grooves in the earth. Some of them looked deeper than the length of his hand.
The storm of sword energy faded, leaving Lindon stunned. “Have you used that technique before?”
She shrugged. “Pulled that out of thin air. Not really a winner for me; it only goes a step or two, see, and I could do it faster with my sword. Sword madra likes to move, not to be bunched up like that. Should be stable enough for fire madra, though.”
It hadn’t looked anything like the diagram: she’d fired a twisting ball, not a stream of energy that struck in a line. But different aspects of madra should be expected to work differently, and this technique had been developed for Blackflame.
Lindon was expectant as he held his hands about six inches apart. Even if he ended up with an explosive fireball instead of a dragon’s breath, that was a more devastating weapon than he had now.
Cycling his madra according to the Striker technique’s pattern, he gathered power in his palms. Then, focusing on the space between his hands, he let the power flow out.
The air between his hands blew apart.
This time it wasn’t enough to knock him away, but he did stumble back a few steps, his hands scorched. The front of his outer robe had started to unravel, and his belt was singed.
“You’ve got to keep hold of it,” Yerin said.
“That’s what I’m trying to—” he said, before his second attempt exploded.
After three more failed attempts, Lindon eyed the far side of the Striker Trial grounds. They were mostly identical to the Enforcer grounds, with one notable exception: there was no crystal ball on the pedestal next to the tablet, and no pedestal on the other side. Obviously he wasn't supposed to carry anything across.
Judging by the nature of the Trial, he had to assume he was intended to launch a technique all the way over there. But if he wanted to extend his Striker range from a few inches to over a hundred yards, then he had to hope his talent as a Striker exceeded his talent as an Enforcer.
“I can practice tonight,” Lindon said, putting his hand on the pedestal. “Let’s get started.”
Yerin rubbed a thumb along one of the fresh scars on her jaw. “Looks like you're trying to fly before you grow wings, if you ask my opinion.”
Lindon was already gathering madra into his hand. One hand, this time. “We have to see how far we have yet to fly, don't we?”
“Truth.” She drew her sword eagerly—he'd known he wouldn't have to do much to convince her. “Light this fire,” she said.
It took him a few more seconds to push the madra through his palms, and this time his madra was recognizable as fire. It spilled all over the pedestal, doing no damage whatsoever to the smoky crystal or the stone, and only knocked Lindon's arm back instead of his entire body.
The technique didn't stretch any further, but progress was progress.
As soon as his madra entered the crystal, circles came to life all over the Trial grounds. The ground rumbled, and a field of hazy gray light sprang up in the center of the field.
There was some good news: at least he didn’t have to hold the technique this time, as he had for the Enforcer Trial.
The scripts continued working, making more changes, but Yerin reached down and hefted a rock twice the size of her fist. With a casual flip of the wrist, she hurled it half the length of the grounds, into the gray wall.
The rock sizzled and disappeared.
“As you’d expect, they won't let you just walk through.” She flicked her sword, and a rippling wave of silver-tinged light sliced through the air. It passed through the gray field intact; Lindon could sense its energy streak past the aura barrier.
So madra passed
through, but not solid objects. Fascinating.
Shadows gathered past the gray wall, visible as though through dirty glass, but Lindon jogged up to the transparent wall itself. “Is this a technique, do you think, or some kind of script?”
Yerin had followed him, though she watched the shadowy figures gathering on the other side rather than the wall. “Could be either one, I'd say. Gathers up destruction aura into one place, leaves madra alone.”
Lindon opened his Copper sight, and sure enough, the entire wall was a hazy mass of black, twisting lines that carried the meaning of destruction, dissolution. They meant 'the end.'
He focused back on the physical world, looking for the edges of the wall, sending out his spiritual sense to probe for the script that had projected it. “Blackflame has a destruction aspect. I wonder if I could—”
Yerin shoved him aside as something heavy passed through the air where his head had just been.
He caught a glimpse of the weapon as he fell to the dirt: a heavy stone spear.
More spears flew out of the gray wall, flicking out in rapid succession, each aimed at Yerin. She moved quicker than Lindon could follow without the Burning Cloak active, ducking one spear, knocking a second off course with her Goldsign, and sidestepping the third.
The spears flew back to the end of the grounds, clattering to the ground just before the entrance arch.
The instant Lindon started backing away from the wall, a spear struck like a lightning bolt, flying straight at him.
The Burning Cloak ignited, and he shattered the spearhead with his fist.
Chunks of stone started dissolving as soon as the spear broke—Forged madra, then. Just like the soldiers.
That was a relief. Real stone would have been much more difficult to deal with than a Forger technique.
He waited a breath for another spear, but none came. Then he took a step back.
Two spears flew at him, one on top of the other.
Even in the Burning Cloak, he couldn't keep up, smashing one aside but taking a grazing cut to the inside of his arm from the second. And the Cloak would fall any second; he didn't have the madra to maintain it, not after botching all those attempts at the Striker technique.
He froze in place, trying to conserve madra and movement, and no more spears followed those two.
A steady stream of spears flew out at Yerin, who slowly retreated.
“Stop moving!” Lindon called, and Yerin froze after snatching two spears out of the air.
The remaining spears clattered to the ground, blood flowed down Lindon’s arm to drip from his fingertips, and Yerin stood panting with a spear in each hand.
The wall remained still.
Cautiously, Lindon let the Burning Cloak drop. The blazing black-and-red energy around his body faded.
Though it was difficult to see through the cloudy wall of gray aura, he could make out a few shapes: three irregular balls of shadow, each floating in midair, clustered in a rough triangle with about twenty feet between them. The balls were only the size of his head—at least, as far as he could tell—but they bobbed and flowed like liquid.
While moving his body as little as possible, Lindon raised his voice. “I see three dark spots. Do you think they could be the source of the spears?”
“Targets, I'd say,” Yerin responded.
“Could be both.”
Very slowly, Yerin hefted one of her spears. “Let's test it.”
In one smooth motion, she hurled the spear.
Another spear shot out at her, but she ducked and let it pass over her head. At first Lindon thought the weapon she'd thrown would dissolve into the gray wall, but then he remembered it was Forged madra: the destruction aura would just ignore it.
But it was also a moving object.
Another spear launched from the other side, striking Yerin's spear with a sound like a tree splintering. They clattered to the ground, slowly breaking apart.
“That's a neat little trick,” Yerin said, still crouching with her one remaining spear.
Lindon thought he had the measure of it now. The wall was to keep them from closing the distance, to force them to use Striker techniques, and the spears were to keep pressure on them. They needed to knock the three targets down without attracting the attention of the spears, so they needed to be fast without much movement.
He could see the path laid out for him: he'd have to throw fire quickly and precisely, while still defending himself from the spears. It would take months of rigorous practice to train his reactions, not to mention building up his spirit. But Eithan had only allotted him six weeks for this Trial.
He needed a shortcut.
Lindon wanted to go back to the cave and start working, but he was stuck frozen in the center of the Trial grounds. He hated to ask, but with his madra as weak as it was, he could only think of one way out. “Forgiveness, but...do you think you could cover me as I run?”
“If I can't, worst thing that could happen is a spear through the back.”
She said it like a joke, but he was already picturing a spear thick as his wrist impaling him through the ribs. Even his Bloodforged Iron body couldn't keep up with that.
He stayed still. “I'm sure that a spear to the back is nothing to you, but even with my Iron body, I’m not sure if I want to—”
“Start running, Lindon.”
Chapter 16
After a week, Lindon could almost form a ball of Blackflame between his hands. It would explode immediately, so he’d taken to practicing bare-chested; otherwise, he would have burned away his outer robe on the second day.
Their attempts on the Striker Trial had been less than successful, as they had quickly realized that Yerin couldn’t destroy the targets. The black blobs floating behind the hazy wall of aura would just re-form if they were cut.
To destroy the targets, they needed Blackflame.
Lindon condensed another blob of dark fire, casting his palms in a deep crimson radiance. His mind and spirit were drawn to a point, utterly focused on his task, as beads of sweat rolled down his face.
The ball of burning madra between his palms swelled, growing until it was almost the size of a fist—a little more, and he could consider the first stage of the technique passed.
When he sent one more pulse of madra into the ball, it exploded.
He flipped onto his back, slamming his skull against the hard-packed earth and staring up into the blue strip of sky he could see through the opening to his canyon. His breaths came heavily as he tried to find his cycling rhythm, pulling his madra together for another attempt.
A red-tinged shadow loomed over him, and blazing red circles on fields of darkness swiveled to meet his eyes.
“Orthos,” Lindon panted, gingerly climbing to his feet so that he could bow. “It has been too long.”
The giant turtle grumbled something that might have been agreement. “I am not pleased,” he declared, snapping up a small boulder.
Lindon hurriedly pulled his sacred artist’s robe back up; he’d pushed it down to the waist, which was not a polite way to meet a guest. “Pardon, honored Orthos. I was not expecting a visitor.”
He had sensed Orthos’ presence growing closer, but the turtle had gotten close to the canyon many times over the last few months. He’d never entered. Besides, Lindon’s attention was devoted entirely to his half-formed Striker technique.
“With so much attention on your training,” Orthos said, “you should be making progress.” The last word was packed with such spite and rage that Orthos’ eyes went from red to the bright orange of an open flame. Lindon felt the radiance of the anger in his spirit, and he took a step back, instinctively cycling his madra for a fight.
Orthos snapped his head to one side, bottling up the anger again, mastering himself. “You see?” he said at last. “The pure madra I took from you is not enough to balance the corrosion any longer. I need to pour more power into you, and you are not ready. I am displeased.”
Orthos’ spirit
was in better shape than when Lindon had first sensed it; the painful, burning heat was better contained, and now it moved in regular cycles instead of a wild mass of flames.
But it still felt like a volcano on the verge of erupting. “If you need some scales, I’ve Forged a few more,” Lindon said. He’d left his pack a few feet away, and he dug through it for a handful of blue-and-white translucent coins. He tossed them to Orthos, and they dissolved into pale blue streams in midair that sank into the turtle’s body.
If they made a difference, Lindon couldn’t see it.
“That will not be enough,” Orthos rumbled. “If it were, the Arelius family would have healed me already. They can afford more than a few low-grade scales.”
“I’m sure they would. They have great respect for you.”
Orthos snorted, blowing out a few inches of dark flames. “As they should. They serve me in return for my protection.”
Lindon hadn’t seen Orthos providing any protection; it seemed more like the Arelius family was protecting him. “Is that how you were injured?”
“Any dragon would defend what belongs to them,” he said dismissively. “Even if they died for it.” Orthos’ spirit was usually alight with arrogance, but he didn’t seem especially proud now, like he was talking about a usual chore.
“What threat required you to act personally?”
“A rogue Blackflame,” he said, as though it were obvious.
Eithan had said the Blackflames fell fifty years ago, but it hadn’t been so long since Orthos was driven mad by his own power. Were there still other Blackflames out there, struggling with their spirits as Orthos did with his?
If there were, would they see Lindon as a threat, or a potential recruit? Either possibility shook him.
Orthos dug a stone out of the dirt and popped it into his mouth. “This is a waste of time. Show me your ignorance, and I will instruct you.”