The Hidden Illusionist

by Deck Davis

  “I hope you understand the power you have now,” she said. She looked at the boy, and her stony expression cracked, and Dantis saw the expression she’d been holding back; it was pity. Not just when she looked at the boy, but when she looked at Dantis, too.

  She drained him. Whatever she’d down to the boy, it had turned him into a mummified corpse. This was all too much to take. To think, he’d been looking for ways to outwit her. It was impossible. There was no way he could deal with this monster.

  He raced along his roots, rushing as far as he could. Then the pain and sickness hit him anew. He stopped.

  “You can’t go far from your soul forge yet, young grubseed,” said a voice. “Hooo-ya, you can’t.”

  He swiveled on his roots. Zaemira was gone now; vanished. Instead, the voice belonged to someone else.

  Dantis couldn’t believe what he saw. “Holy hell,” he said, his voice shaking.

  Chapter Ten

  Ethan

  “What do you think of the boy? Is he suitable?”

  “Too early to tell. He has a strong will.”

  “Strong will worry me. He is due to begin training, is he not?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Have an instructor grind it out of him. The lieutenant…what’s his name?”

  “Reck.”

  “Have Reck work on him. With some discipline, he might make a worthy candidate.”

  ~

  “Up and out, piss-ants, you know the drill! Not dressed? Tuck your cock between your legs and get your arse of out this dorm.”

  The Swordmaster, Reck Moorley, was standing in the doorway of the dorm. He had a fire-red beard, and an eyepatch covered his right eye. Ethan had heard whispers that the patch was fake, and that he wore it for effect. Reck dressed in silver metal armor no matter the weather, meaning that bangs and clangs accompanied him everywhere he went.

  He reminded Ethan of a teach he’d had at school, when he bothered attending lessons. Mr. Garick, a kindly, bearded old man who’s taken an interest in Ethan and tried to give him extra tutelage when he saw that he struggled academically. Ethan had said no, but he didn’t give a damn about school. Who knew, though, maybe Reck would take the same interest in him. Maybe he could mentor him in swordplay; now that, Ethan wouldn’t say no to.

  Reck’s looming presence and barking voice inspired a flurry of activity in the recruits. They knew what it meant; they had a minute to get ready to leave the dorm. If they weren’t dressed, he’d make them work their drills in their pants no matter how cold the weather.

  He’d caught Ethan unaware the first time. He’d watched the other recruits elbow each other and laugh at him as he shivered, half-naked, in the training yard. By day four, he was wise to it. While the sleepier recruits shoved on their clothes when they heard Reck pound up the stairs, Ethan was sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed and ready to go.

  Five minutes later they lined the training yard in the eastern grounds of the guild. Ethan eyed the woods at the edge of the yard, and the mountain pathway close by. Even looking at him brought back the pain and nausea from his escape attempt.

  Across the yard, where the stony ground met with the mountain, there was a cavern cut into the hilly face. It was a cave that went deep in the mountain, and Ethan had been sent to work there for a day by Bander, who despite smiling when he’d punched the recruit, explained that he still had to punish him for it.

  Ethan had spent eight hours in there, smashing a pickaxe against the cave walls to find glowing green crystals. Inside the crystals was a luminous liquid, but neither Ethan, nor the other recruits on punishment duty, had any clue what it was. All they knew was that they had to collect enough of it to fill a mine cart by the end of the day.

  Thanks god that was over. He was much more at home here, in the training yard. Rain splattered on the stone, and the wind lashed against them. A flimsy shirt wasn’t enough to protect Ethan from the chill spreading against his skin. I’ll warm up soon enough. Once we get the swords out.

  He couldn’t say the same for Dullzewn, who was four laps into the dozen Reck gave him as punishment for not dressing in time.

  His nocturnal tunneling took its toll on the teen, and it was rare he stirred before Reck boomed out his morning greetings. He puffed his way around the yard, cheeks reddening, rain dripping onto his sopping hair, soaking his curls until they looked like worms breaching a muddy surface.

  “Holy hells,” said one recruit, a small teen with six fingers and a pronounced forehead, like a rock sticking from his skull. “It’s fuggin freezing here.”

  “Quit whining,” said Ethan. He’d seen worse weather than this. Hell, he’d slept on the streets in worse weather than this.

  The six-fingered teen glared at him, giving a look that said, let’s see who’s whining when Reck gets the swords out.

  The recruits congregated in groups as they waited for the Swordmaster to begin their lesson. It was like a prison yard; the recruits formed natural societal divides.

  This is no heroes’ guild. Want to get through it? Join a gang.

  There were different levels of recruits, he’d discovered. First there were the rich kids, the third and fourth children of rich families, sent to the guild to learn discipline. Sometimes, these families sent their children to the guild in lieu of payment for jobs the guild had completed for them.

  Then, there were the teens from normal backgrounds. Ones who wouldn’t normally have been able to afford the education the guild offered, but who won scholarships by proving their potential.

  Next came the most looked-down upon recruits; the criminals like Ethan, who were here because of Bander’s passion for rehabilitation. Both the rich kids and the poor kids were united in one thing; a loathing for thieves. They didn’t want to be associated with them, didn’t want to share the guild with street rats. Why should scum like Ethan take a guild place that would otherwise have gone to the child of a normal, decent family? Ethan could smell their contempt for him.

  Gotta prove myself. It’s the only way.

  It wasn’t just a desire to climb the social ranks of the guild that made him want to show his worth. Rumor had it the best recruits, the most talented and most trusted, earned day passes into Wolfpine town. If he could earn a day pass, he could leave the mountain without trouble, and then, he’d tell them to shove their day pass up their arse and make a run for it.

  Heroes have honor, and guilds have a structure. Where there’s honor and structure, there are rules I can learn. Once I do that…I’ll trick them into giving me my freedom.

  Standing separate from the others in the yard, Ethan realized he’d made a mistake already; even the criminal recruits wouldn’t speak to him. Their place in the guild was the loneliest, but by trying to escape nights earlier, Ethan had made himself a pariah even from them. He was a trouble-maker, and they didn’t want to get in deep shit by association. Truth be told, Ethan was lucky Bander hadn’t kicked him out of the guild and sold him to a slave mine.

  Dullzewn stumbled halfway into his sixth lap of the yard. He hit the ground, scratching his hands on the stone. Rain hit his face, running down his blue tribal marks. The richer recruits laughed.

  “Get up,” said Reck. “Don’t make me pull you. I have a tendency to get rough.”

  He didn’t stir. He wheezed, taking deep breaths.

  This kid is soft as shit. Ethan walked over to him.

  “Leave him, boy,” said Reck.

  He didn’t listen. He grabbed the Dullzewn’s hand and pulled him up. “On your feet,” he said.

  Once he was on his feet, Dullzewn shrugged him off.

  So much for making friends.

  Another recruit, a bulk, squat southerner named Gelden, pointed at Dullzewn and laughed. “Can’t even run his laps, let alone fight.”

  “That’s enough,” said Reck.

  “Bet the pissant can’t even hold a dagger.”

  “Do you think this is a joke, laddie?” said Reck.

  “No,
but he is!”

  Reck marched over to Gelden. He grabbed his arm with both hands and then, with one twist, broke it. The crack of his bones silenced the training yard. Some recruits turned pale, and Ethan legs weakened.

  So much for a kindly mentor. Bring back Mr. Garick. I’ll sit through a hundred maths lessons rather than spend time with Reck.

  Gelden was on the floor, his face drained of blood, his arm mangled. Reck stepped over him. The scariest thing about it all was that Reck’s face hadn’t changed; he didn’t seem angry. He’d snapped the boy’s arm as naturally as snapping a twig.

  “I lost twelve recruits on a dungeon raid once,” said Reck. “And it was because I let the bastards screw around in the training yard, when I should have been drilling them. Never again, you hear me? Please make this the only lesson of this kind I have to teach.”

  Nobody spoke now. The only noises were the rain pattering on the stone, and Gelden whimpering to himself as two recruits dragged him away from the yard.

  “For the newer recruits,” he’d said, “You can call me Lieutenant Reck Moorley. That’s the rank I had in the emperor’s army. And if it wasn’t for this,” he said, holding up his arm and showing where his forearm bone had broken and not healed properly, “You’d be calling me General Moorley. Except you wouldn’t, because I wouldn’t be here training you piss ants.”

  Ethan noticed something on the Reck’s uninjured forearm the others had probably missed; a small series of black lines, with a cross in them. It was a thief branding, a practice the emperor outlawed decades ago.

  Reck had noticed Ethan looking. “I made mistakes before I joined the army,” he said, staring at him. “Never let yourself think a mistake is irredeemable.”

  From the first day of his yard training, Ethan realized Reck took immense pride in his work. His prized possession, which he loved showing them, was an octagon-shaped blue gem.

  “Know where I got this?” he said.

  A richer recruited groaned. “You tell us every time, lieutenant.”

  “And I’ll tell you again, until the message lands in your thick skull. Money sure doesn’t buy intelligence, does it? You may not have noticed, but we have a new boy here, don’t we? Shut your face, before I make you lap the yard so much your arse forgets where your head is.”

  “What? That doesn’t make any-”

  “Fifty laps, Peters! Now! Move those chicken legs.”

  The recruit, knowing he’d pushed it too far, started his laps. Reck faced the rest of them, eyeing Ethan in particular.

  “Duken Landow gave me this gem. I take it you’ve heard of him? Before he became a famous duelist and bedded every maiden not wearing a chastity belt, he trained here, in this yard. Being a hero didn’t work out for him, but still…look where he ended up.”

  Everyone with a passing interest in sword play had heard of Duken Landow. Duken died fighting in a tournament in the east. He’d been battling an inferior opponent, when the wind swept dust into his eyes, and his opponent lodged a buckler in his stomach. It went to show, you could train all your life, and fate would kick you in the nuts.

  Reck held up the gem. “This is a promise,” he said. “The next recruit to be half as good as Duken, to show everything a hero should, to use his blade with grace, will get it. I ain’t ever seen a boy like that since, and I doubt any of you fresh-faced arseholes have got it in you.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk,” said Dullzewn.

  “Twelve laps, my prince of muck,” said Reck.

  Dullzewn was standing defiant. “Make it twenty.”

  “Thirty, you little fiend-arsed weasel. Now!”

  Despite his punishment, a smile crept on Reck’s face. He appreciates balls, Ethan thought. He wants people to fall in line…but not too much.

  Today, on the forth morning of Ethan’s stay in the guild, he buzzed with excitement. Reck promised them they’d be using swords today, and Ethan ached to show what he could do. The other recruits would never expect it; that a street rat, someone who grew without fancy a sword master paid for by a rich father, would be so good with a blade.

  “It’s time to see what you’re made of,” said Reck. “And some of you look like you’re made of shit. Dullzewn, you’re up.”

  Dullzewn groaned, his face still flushed after his punishment laps. He didn’t look strong enough to lift a sword, let alone duel with one. “Me first? Really?”

  “Yup. Come on, Dullzewn,” said Reck.

  Dullzewn walked into the centre of the yard. He crossed his arms, trying to pretend none of this bothered him, but Ethan noticed how tightly his gripped his shirt.

  “I just want to make it clear,” said Dullzewn, “that archery is my thing, not swords. Give me a bow and arrow, and I’ll shoot a gold coin off your head.”

  Reck went over to the side of the yard and took two short swords from a weapons rack. Their wooden handles were covered in cracks. He gave one to Dullzewn, and the second to another boy.

  Dullzewn turned his sword so the blade pointed downwards, then balanced it on the tip of his index finger. He turned as he did it, as if he expected people to be impressed. He received nothing but glares, especially from his opponent.

  Ethan knew this boy’s name. He was Tuskan Gilliarne, a rakish boy who towered over most of the other recruits. Judging from his clothes, he was no pauper or criminal. No, his studded armor, dyed in a crimson hue, and his hardly-dirtied boots marked him out as the fourth son of some rich noble family, the kind who bragged they were “related to the emperor by way of third cousins, don’t you know.”

  The jewel of his ensemble were his gloves; enchanted chainmail that shone silver, tougher than hide yet supple as a glove. “More money than sense, those bastards,” one of the poorer recruits had whispered. “Wonder how pretty they’ll look when I stick them up his arse.” They all laughed at this.

  Laughter was one of their few weapons against the rich boys. The fine-armored youths were destined to become hero officers, the poorer ones would run grunt jobs. Laughter evened their levels.

  Right now, Dullzewn and Tuskan’s levels weren’t even approaching even. Not a fair fight by any means. Dullzewn’s gonna be flat on his arse before he swings his sword.

  Dullzewn eyed his opponent. “What’s with the armor? Shouldn’t we all fight with the same stuff?”

  “Is that what happens in life, lad?” said Reck. “Your enemies strip down to make it fair?”

  “We’re here to train, not to die.”

  “Aye, trying to train the bitching from your belly. The blades are coated in novkill, in case you forgot. It’ll stop you killing each other, stop you cutting skin.” Then, he added with a grin, “But you’ll still feel the blows. No use taking away all the fun, is there? Now quit bitching and start fighting!”

  Dullzewn and Tuskan faced off, edging in circles around each other. Tuskan wore a huge grin, and he rounded his smaller opponent like a wolf circling a cat.

  Keep your distance and let him strike, thought Ethan. His armor isn’t an advantage; it’s his weakness. He’ll tire before you.

  The rich recruits called out to their friend. “Beat the hell out of him, Tusky!”

  “Make him eat mud!”

  Dullzewn obviously didn’t share Ethan’s eye for weakness. With a grunt, he parried forward, throwing all his energy into the blow.

  Tuskan sidestepped so quickly that he became a blur, the edges of his arms and legs fraying like mist. It happened in a split-second, so quickly that Ethan wondered if he’d imagined it. Nobody else seemed to have noticed, but something wasn’t right here.

  Tuskan punched Dullzewn to the ground, then stood over him, the tip of his blade pointed at his throat.

  “Too easy,” he said. “Anyone else?”

  “What the hell was that?” asked Ethan.

  Tuskan shrugged. “What?”

  “The way you moved, it looked…”

  “Looked like what?” said Reck, interrupting him. “Like he’s twice as quick as Du
llzewn? That comes with training. Let that be a lesson - power isn’t everything.”

  Ethan grabbed Dullzewn’s sword. The fingers of his right hand ached from where the guard had broken them in the auction room. He’d expected the guild to use magical healing on him. Instead, they’d had Yuren, the guild medic, set them in a splint.

  “You’re not gonna magic something up and fix them?” Ethan had said.

  Yuren, a bald man with dropping eyelids, shook his head. “Unless you’re staring at death’s pale arse, we don’t use magic.”