“Stan and I stayed concealed in the bushes, too afraid to move or breathe. We waited and waited for them to leave, and worried we would have to hide there for the entire night. The circle started chanting different things but kept repeating one line over and over. I counted it to keep track of time. After they said it about a hundred times, we backed away, hiding in the shadows, and started crawling out of there really slowly so as not to make a single sound. We didn’t follow our trail back. Instead we took the longest possible route back around to Gadrale Keep so that if they were headed for the city, we wouldn’t run into them.
“By the time we got back, the whole campus was in chaos, sending search parties of trackers, mages, and troops to try to find the thieves’ trail. When Master Clemens found us, he was furious.”
“You told him all of this, and he still didn’t believe you?” Vincent asked in shock.
“We didn’t get that far with it before he started yelling at us. We only got to tell him that we were spying on someone”-Craig’s eyes found the floor-“because of the time that we stood you up before that, without good reason, I guess I can kind of understand why.” His eyes frantically looked back up at Vincent. “But this time it wasn’t for something stupid! If Jeanette is still somewhere here on campus, she must be found and taken into custody! She’s a monster!”
“I don’t think we have to worry about her any longer,” Vincent said uneasily.
“Of course we do! She’s a sick person! She must stand trial for her crimes!”
“I guess no one bothered to tell you, did they?”
“Tell me what?”
Vincent dimmed his eyes and shook his head. “Forget it,” he voiced slowly and without enthusiasm.
“No. Tell me what? I want to know.”
Vincent sighed. “She’s dead.”
“Oh,” Craig replied, looking shocked and then depressed afterward.
“I killed her,” he added.
Craig straightened and held Vincent’s gaze. “I regret only that I ever had feelings for her in the first place. She got exactly what she deserved.” He may have said the words, but to Vincent, he didn’t look entirely relieved at this news.
“So I’ve been told,” Vincent muttered to himself. He started to feel lost, like he had run into another dead-end. He searched his mind for where and what he would look for next. There was nothing except the vague description of a man, nothing substantial. He had to learn whatever he could. “What else were you able to tell about the people you saw?”
“Not much. I think they were some kind of cult.”
That much was obvious, but Vincent didn’t say so. “Did they have any other prisoners?” He asked, hoping for a clue about Harold.
Craig seemed to think about it. “No.”
He kept grasping at any shred he might find. “What about the words they were chanting, do you remember any of them? Do you know what they were saying?”
Craig looked really confused as he thought back, trying to remember. “I don’t know the language they were using. It all sounded like gibberish to me.”
“Just give me anything,” Vincent insisted, “anything at all. Even if you remember the words but don’t understand them.”
“I didn’t pay attention to most of it. Most of the words in the refrain were more slurred, but there was one word that never was, one word that stood out time and time again.”
“What was that word?” Vincent asked anxiously.
Craig fumbled with it, trying to pronounce it right. “…ar…no…kar…‘kargoth,’ I think. ‘kargoth.’”
“What is ‘kargoth?’ A name? A thing?”
“I don’t know, but it was important enough for them to say it over and over again.”
Vincent considered other sources of information. “Do you think Stan might remember anything else, something you don’t? When might I be able to talk with him?”
“Master Clemens has us alternating the vault constantly. When one of us is on shift, the only chance we get to eat or take a break is if the other relieves us for a few minutes. I’m due for a lunch break in a little while; you might be able to talk to him then.”
Vincent realized he hadn’t eaten anything himself since early that morning, and it had to be well past noon by now. “I’m feeling quite hungry myself. If I were to go there right now, would he be down here around the time I got back?”
“Probably,” Craig said. “I’m still not so sure I understand your interest in all of this though. I don’t mean to demean you in any way, but what can you really do about it? Why do you care so much?”
Vincent countered with a question of his own. “Why did you follow that girl instead of relieving me?” Craig said nothing and so Vincent answered for him. “Because of all those things you’ve been getting lectured about. And because defending the academy sometimes requires us not to show a blind eye to potential threats. You also forget that I was almost killed over it.”
“Does this mean you believe us?”
“It means that I’m willing to look into it and give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Maybe you could tell some of these things to Master Clemens. He’ll listen to you, maybe he’ll…”
Vincent held up a hand as he cut him off. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he warned sternly. “Until any of this information actually proves to be reliable, Master Clemens isn’t likely to cut your punishment short. You even said yourself that he would increase the duration if he found out you were spreading your ‘lies.’” Vincent left out how he wasn’t entirely sure yet that it wasn’t a farce either.
Craig didn’t look dismayed at all. “Actually, I was going to suggest that if you brought these things to his attention, he might involve the council and then they could mobilize more people to seek out the cultists.”
“No offense,” Vincent started, “but I doubt they would mobilize the entire academy on your word alone. Or mine for that matter. We need tangible evidence, something to follow. Telling the masters that a dark cult killed children and harvested their life’s essence for a spell accomplishes nothing. They already know which spell was used and that its use can only imply wrongdoing. We need something that lets us know how and where to find those who committed these atrocities. Until we have that, we have nothing.”
“Perhaps one day, I could take you to where their fire was,” Craig suggested.
“I’m sure they’re all gone by now. And the ashes of a fire don’t prove anything; the council will not be convinced.”
Craig nodded, his mood sank even more. His eyes met Vincent’s. “But how do we find more? Clemens isn’t excusing us for any of our classes. Our instructors know what is going on, but we still have to just catch up whenever we can. That doesn’t leave me or Stan time to do anything.”
“I’ll try to find out what I can for the time being. It will only be a week before you’re able to start helping me. Just hang tight.” Vincent started backing up down the hall. “I’m going to go eat now so I can be back in time to talk with Stan.” He turned and started to leave.
“Oh, and Vincent?” Craig called out to him. Vincent stopped and turned around. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “For coming, and for listening.” Vincent nodded and then walked out.
When he reached the dining hall, it was packed. A few people cast curious glances his way and gossiped to each other in whispers. Vincent did his best to ignore it and got in line. Lunch was a simple bowl of meat and vegetable stew, and Vincent began to wolf it down as soon as it was cool enough. He kept thinking about what he had learned, but was eager still to speak with Stan in the hopes that he might learn more.
Soon after he was finished with his meal, Vincent went back downstairs to the outside of The Crafters’ Vault, passing Craig on the way with a slight nod. Craig only winked during that brief encounter, saying nothing out of fear that it might draw further attention to himself or that he was on speaking terms with Vincent. Vincent later found Stan guarding the same hallway to th
e vault and spoke with him.
Unlike Craig, Stan wore red pyromancy robes, no glasses, and had dirt blond hair and blue eyes. His conversation with him was far more expedient because Craig had already told Stan about the discussion they had had just prior to it. Stan told Vincent much the same story and was able to remember little else. One thing that Stan did provide Vincent with, was a little more certainty of what he had heard. When two people contrive to lie and make up a story, the story that each one tells rarely matches up completely with the other. Theirs did. Perfectly. What was more, both were able to remember what the man they saw leaving the campus looked like and that one word: kargoth.
Tired from having been awake since well before morning, and enduring so much anxiety, Vincent set about returning to his quarters on the fourth floor to rest and plan his next move. There was still time left in the day, and he couldn’t afford to waste any of it. He was certain that those he opposed would not be wasting any of theirs.
Vincent put his hand to the gold colored pad on the wall near his door, feeling the engraved flower with its leafy petals all coming out from the center. It was cold and solid under his hand, and he could feel the bumps on the surface. As per his touch, there was a click and then he pulled the door open. Once inside, he closed the door and put his hand to the identical pad on the other side. There was another click, and the door was now locked.
Vincent’s room was small and for the most part utilitarian. The room had one bed and an open chest at the foot of it where he stored some of his clothes and a few other belongings. Vincent had few possessions, and so the chest had plenty of space left in it. A light orb that was smaller than his fist was attached directly to the right wall, and always kept the room lit with a dim glow even when he was sleeping. There was a way to increase its intensity, but Vincent had never mastered it, and so did not bother with it right now. He took off his cloak, set it atop the open chest, and pulled his sword’s baldric over his head, leaning it against the bed next to his side as he sat down to think. He held up the right side of his face with one hand, keeping his elbow resting on his knee. His other hand rested atop his other knee.
A prolonged search of the city or the surrounding countryside and forest was out of the question. There wasn’t enough time left in the day to try and scan the forest, and a trek there would probably prove equally as futile as all his others. He could walk the streets of the city forever without seeing even once the man that Stan and Craig described to him. And that search would only have meaning if he hadn’t died during the raid or if they were even telling the truth. At the moment, their information was all Vincent had, and it wasn’t much. He thought back to the word they both remembered and tried to think of where it might take him.
He eventually concluded that the best possible way to make use of the word provided would be to research it in one of Gadrale’s libraries. But which one? There were two inside the keep and at least three others in buildings out on the campus. He found himself getting frustrated at the difficulties. Looking up a word like that could take a very long time, and he wasn’t even sure which language it was in. Vincent was a fluent speaker of Elvish since there were many Elves at Gadrale and it afforded one the chance to learn, though he had never studied the written language. Kargoth didn’t seem like an Elvish word to him; it was too coarse, too rough, more like a Dwarven word, or else a primitive word in one of the ancient dialects of men.
He reminded himself of his time constraint. While he was debating in his mind where to look for the translation of a single word in their chant, the dark cult was probably plotting its next move. He absolutely hated the disadvantage that put him at. They had already stolen something from the vault, and now they were far ahead of the game simply because they were so hard to trace. What he needed to do had to go faster. Try as he might, the only way he could think of to make that happen was to take Arrendis’ advice, and seek to involve others in his clandestine intervention.
If Stan and Craig were telling the truth, then he already had two allies. Unfortunately, he couldn’t be sure of that, and Master Clemens had seen to it that they would both be far too occupied with guarding the vault to be of any help to him, at least for the rest of the week. After that week was over, his own time would become more limited again when he would be forced to resume guard duty himself.
Vincent had many minor friends and acquaintances who at least treated him fairly and held no open prejudice toward him. These ranged from those who liked him and got along well with him to those who merely tolerated his presence or kept any dislike of him to themselves. The rest either didn’t have contact with him and didn’t know him or were his direct adversaries.
With Arrendis unable to spare himself for fear it would look suspicious, and Stan and Craig keeping constant guard, Vincent had very few people he could rely upon. Those that he thought he could, would have to be convinced without them potentially revealing his activities. The only person besides Arrendis he now felt safest about trying to involve in his search was his cousin Karl, yet his own cousin had before expressed displeasure when Vincent had suggested the idea of pursuing it, and warned him not to. He still didn’t know that this whole time Vincent had been doing it anyway.
Instead of trying to speak with him outright, Vincent thought it might be wiser if he arranged to have a private meeting with Karl. Karl might not be the only one he could count on though. There was one person he knew for sure whose endless energy, enthusiasm, and ambition would never let him get away without taking up the challenge of seeking out and battling hostiles. That person was Rick, the boisterous red-mustached pyromancer. It was a calculated risk, but if he was going to take a chance with Karl, then he thought he might as well take the same chance with Rick.
Vincent immediately formulated a plan in his mind to visit them right after they got out of their classes and arrange a meeting later that night. In the meantime, he set about finding something useful to do. The thing that came first to his mind was to get in some more sword practice. It was what he did most before the bloodbath in the vault’s hall the other night, and now he had more reason than ever to try to be the best wielder of a blade that he could possibly be.
Though he feared another encounter, and absolutely detested the prospect of killing again, he had to be ready when the time came. Toward that end, he put his sword back on but left his cloak behind as he went out of his quarters and ventured to the stone courtyard that lay between the fortified wall and the keep. He had taken a left after exiting the keep’s main doors instead of a right, and had gone to a wide space near a corner of the wall where he knew that there wouldn’t be very much foot traffic.
He practiced every stroke and every form that he knew, and built up a sweat from the exertion. When he was done, he climbed the wall’s stairs to the ramparts surrounding the keep. He first asked an army officer’s permission if he could borrow a few of his men for training. As usual, the officer agreed; he and any others leading men on different parts of the wall were already used to having Vincent come to them with this request. Since there were more than enough soldiers manning the wall, Vincent never had to train with the same men each time unless he felt like helping give them extra practice to maintain their own skills.
Wizards saw Vincent as not really one of them, but the disposition of the soldiers manning the keep was somewhat different. Since they recognized that he was not quite an ordinary man like they, he could never quite fit in, yet it was also noticeable even to him that they did respect his prowess. Far from being considered one of their brothers in arms, Vincent caught whispered rumors passed around behind his back that he was a demon with the blade and that his incredible skill was the result of “black magic tainting his sword.” They seemed to think that this was the source of his fighting talent and not years of harsh practice without its aid. Vincent had long ago given up on trying to convince anyone otherwise; he didn’t see the point. Those he had tried with had never believed him, and fame was never something he real
ly wanted. It was not important to him that they know how good he was: There was only good and then there was dead; impressing others was the most inconsequential aspect of training. Today, like on other days, he proceeded without paying heed to any such attention he received.
Vincent asked for volunteers and selected four that had swords and shields. He then instructed them to stand around him in a circle. As a speed and endurance drill, he had each of them meet one of his swings in sequence while he tried to move as fast as he could to build up a rhythm.
The pattern was forward, rear, left, right. Vincent would make an overhead swing, and the man in front would block. Each of the others had to block a diagonal swing or a horizontal slash, which he alternated the direction of during every round. It was safe since each man knew what he was supposed to block and when. Since there were four, each man was also guaranteed enough time to keep up for his next turn.
Soon the clanking from the sword clashes became so rapid that it transformed into one undulating and unending sound. Vincent swung furiously, bringing forth all the speed he could and then kept trying to go beyond it. He thought only of where to move his feet and where to bring the blade; he was oblivious to all else. The shock from the impacts kept traveling through his sword and into his arms, adding their own peculiar ache to his muscles.
Storm of Prophecy: Book 1, Dark Awakening Page 11