Eye of the Moonrat (The Bowl of Souls: Book One)

by Cooley, Trevor H.

  “No use?” Ma’am gripped her staff until her knuckles were white. “What nonsense is this?”

  “I said there’s no use!” Justan growled. “I try and I try but nothing . . .” he trailed off at Ma’am’s disapproving glare. Suddenly, it was more than he could stand.

  “Listen to me! I know how to shoot. I have studied every book the school has on the subject. Every time I stand in front of the target I calculate the correct trajectory. I factor in the strength of my pull along with the wind resistance. Every factor is accounted for. Every shot that I let go should hit the mark. It should! It’s unexplainable, yet I have never given up. I shoot arrow after arrow until my fingers bleed and I still don’t get any better!”

  The anger faded from Ma’am’s eyes, replaced by something Justan could not identify. A moment passed before she spoke. “Keep shooting,” she stated, and walked away.

  Twenty minutes later, she returned with a strange person at her side.

  There were several different humanoid races in the lands. Humans, dwarves, elves and gnomes were the most common. Justan had seen members of each race come through the city of Reneul at one time or another, but the individual that accompanied Ma’am was unlike any he had ever seen.

  He was slight of frame and had pointed ears like an elf. However unlike other elves, his hair was short and stubbly while his skin was dark and leathery and hung loose on his frame. Despite the cold chill of winter, the elf was barefoot and wore only a loincloth. A small pack was slung over one skinny shoulder, while a bow and quiver was slung over the other.

  The strange elf conferred with Ma'am in an odd language filled with clicks and whistles. His eyes then settled on Justan. The elf walked up at Justan and sized him up, poking him several times to get him to move this way or that. Justan did as directed, but looked at Ma'am questioningly.

  The elf made a few clicking noises and Ma’am nodded at Justan to keep shooting. Something about the elf prompted him to try his best. He concentrated as hard as he ever had, but it didn’t help.

  The elf watched Justan fire a few arrows before stopping him. He lifted Justan’s arm and felt his muscles, then ran one hand across Justan’s chest until it lay over his heart. A few seconds passed, then he leaned in and pressed his ear against Justan’s chest. After a moment, the elf snorted. He blew a long stream of angry sounding clicks and whistles Ma'am's way, and stormed off into the trees.

  Ma’am shouted something after the disappearing elf. She looked at Justan in exasperation. “What do you give me to work with, Boy?”

  “Who was that?” Justan asked. Ma'am threw him a stern look and Justan re-worded his question. “I’m not asking his name. I'm just curious. What kind of elf is he? I have never seen anyone like him.”

  She looked at Justan thoughtfully, as if trying to decide whether or not to tell him.

  “He is an ancient; one of the first-born. He is one deserving of the utmost respect,” she said. “He says that you have a good body and soul for the arrow.”

  “Really?” A smile crept up the corners of his lips.

  Ma'am shook her head before he got too excited. “He also said that though your heart knows what to do, you have learned to shoot completely wrong. Your mind is at war with your soul and that you are too stubborn to learn the correct way.”

  The smile faded, replaced by a frown. “How could he possibly know anything about me?”

  Ma’am sighed.

  “Just keep practicing,” she said, and Justan did. But there was still no improvement.

  Chapter Four

  Eventually the air grew warmer. The snow melted. Green leaves sprouted on the trees and the smells of spring filled the air. But more than just the seasons were changing.

  More often than not Justan was wide-awake before Ma'am banged on his door. The morning runs went from exhausting to invigorating. He even began looking forward to them. By the time summer began, he was running ten laps.

  As Justan's skills increased, so did Ma'am's signs of approval. Every once in a while she would actually say, “Good”, or on a rare occasion, flash a smile. Justan lived for these moments. He found himself trying to please her. He worked even harder than before, something he would never have thought possible.

  He had often wondered why he hadn’t improved while training on his own. As his training with Ma’am progressed, he started to realize that all those years, he had set limits for himself without knowing it. His inner frustration had cut him short. By taking away his freedom, Ma’am wasn't trying to crush his spirit. She was pushing him beyond his own preconceived notions of his limitations.

  Two weeks before the first day of tests, horrible news rocked the Kingdom of Dremaldria. King John Muldroomon had died in his sleep. A month long time of mourning was declared. The council was forced to push testing week back two weeks. To Justan’s relief, he had extra time to prepare.

  That morning Ma’am showed up at Justan's room with a strange package wrapped in coarse brown paper. It was long and thin, tied with a golden string.

  “What is this for?” Justan asked.

  Ma’am smiled as she handed the package to him. “It is your birthday, Justan, son of Faldon the Fierce.”

  “My birthday?” Justan laughed. “You're right. Wow, I never would have remembered if you hadn't told me.” The fact that she knew about it made him wonder how often she spoke to his father. Then it hit him.

  “Whoa, wait a minute. . . You just said my name! What did I do?” His mind whirled. “Is this because of my birthday?” The smile remained on her face, something which he found oddly unnerving. She was his stern taskmaster, the iron woman, firm and unyielding. Yet here she was, smiling at him. She looked . . . well, beautiful.

  “You have earned that right, Justan. You have shown marked improvement and I am pleased. So is the council. Everyone is pleased by your progress.”

  Justan would normally be annoyed by the interference of the council and his father, but at this moment it couldn’t touch him. For once in his life, he felt proud.

  “So, Ma’am,” he said, lightness in his heart. “What am I to call you now?”

  A bit of the familiar sternness re-entered her eyes.

  “You will continue to address me as you have been. The small amount of respect you have earned will not lessen your duties. I fully expect you to continue to improve.” Justan wasn’t fazed by the rebuke. He broke into a grin that she couldn’t help but return. Ma'am shook her head. “Enough of this babble. Open your gift so that we can get back to your training.”

  Justan sat down on his bed and untied the golden string. He pulled the paper apart to find a magnificent bow. It was light and well balanced. Intricate shallow carvings curved along its length. His eyes widened. This bow was made of the same gray material as Ma’am’s staff.

  “What, why . . .?” he sputtered. “Ma’am, it’s beautiful. Where did this come from?”

  “This bow was made by Yntri Yni. The weapon master of my kingdom.”

  Justan again wondered where she found the time to arrange everything when she was with him training all day. “Wait, was he the elf that visited us on the archery range?”

  “Yes. He was passing through on the way back from his yearly pilgrimage and he owed me a favor.” Ma'am leaned forward, her eyes blazing and intense. “This is a Jharro bow, made from the wood of the sacred trees of Yntri Yni’s people.”

  Justan tightened his grip on the weapon. It felt warm to the touch.

  Ma’am continued, “Every Jharro weapon bonds to the mind of its master. It will respond to your life force, become an extension of you.”

  Justan sat for a moment in silence, focusing on the feel of the weapon in his hand. It felt good. He handed the bow back to her. “I am not ready. When it comes to marksmanship, any extension of me couldn't hit a mist bronto.”

  “With this you would. Yntri Yni told me that it would fix your problem. However, you would not be allowed to use it in the tests, as it is a magical weapon.”
/>
  Justan thought for a moment. “I am sorry, Ma’am. I cannot accept this gift now. This is an item of great value. My inadequacy would cheapen it. Besides, how can I ever learn to shoot properly if I depend on the powers of a magical weapon? No, it is best that I wait until I can do it justice.”

  Justan saw approval in Ma’am’s eyes.

  “Spoken wisely. If you wait until you become stronger, it will be an even more powerful weapon in your hand.” She wrapped the bow back into the brown paper, then gave him a pointed look. “I wasn’t going to let you have it now anyway. This is to be an incentive to you. Strive to be worthy of it. I will hold it until you are ready.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am. I will,” Justan said, feeling a little foolish. Of course she wouldn’t let any part of his training be easy.

  She walked to the door. “Come, Justan. You are running twelve laps today. Quickly now or I will start calling you 'Boy' again.”

  Justan grinned and sped out of the door. He had never been so excited about the run.

  The summer faded quickly. On the day the tests would have normally started, Justan woke and was ready to go before Ma’am arrived. Just as he was about to leave, Justan was surprised by a knock on his door. Ma’am never knocked.

  He opened to door to see a short balding man wearing a courier’s smock.

  “Good morning,” the man yawned. “You Justan, son of Faldon the Fierce?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was instructed to give this to you by a very rude young lady that has no respect for proper business hours.” He held out a sealed letter.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. It’s her way.” Justan took the letter and started to open it. The courier left his hand out expectantly. “Oh, right.” Justan rummaged in his pouch and gave the man what he supposed was a fair tip for delivering the letter.

  The man sighed as he looked down at the coins Justan had deposited in his hand. “Typical. Good day sir.”

  Justan read the letter. Ma’am said he had the morning to himself. She didn’t say where she was going; just that she had something to attend to.

  Justan frowned. What was she up to? It would probably result in some painful new form of training. He wondered what he should do with his morning of freedom.

  For a moment he fantasized about going back to sleep, but only for a moment. He didn’t have time to rest. He only had a few precious days left before the tests began. Besides, if Ma’am saw that he hadn’t done anything productive, whatever she was planning would be a lot worse.

  Grumbling, he started his run. He ran eight laps and headed to the archery range. It was the area of his training that most weighed on his mind. He wanted to be worthy of Ma’am’s gift.

  Arriving at the range, he thought back to what Mad Jon had taught in archery class. Everyone said he was a great teacher, but Justan couldn’t take his lessons seriously. The man was full of ridiculous sayings like, “Clear your mind of everything but a single flame. Imagine that your target is that flame . . .” and so on. The other trainees always looked so ridiculous standing there slack-jawed, sometimes with their eyes closed, sometimes humming, trying to conjure up a campfire in their mind.

  Justan had never bothered with it. Archery was like any other form of combat, all it took was practice. Shoot the bow enough, learn to factor in all the variables, and the arrow would strike true.

  Justan stopped at that thought. He chuckled at himself. Who was he kidding? All the slack-jawed trainees in those classes still had better results than him.

  He sat back and thought for a moment. What could it hurt to try? He looked around to make sure no one was watching him. There were only a couple other trainees at the range. Most people were still eating breakfast and archery classes wouldn’t start for another couple of hours.

  He fit an arrow to the string and looked at the target. He tried to imagine this “flame” that his teacher had talked about, but he couldn’t focus. He almost laughed aloud. It was too silly of a notion. He couldn’t see a flame. All he saw was a target.

  But there was something else. One day he had tried to explain to Mad Jon how his calculations should work. Mad Jon had told him, “Your problem is that you aren’t shooting at the target. You shoot at everything else but the target. You can’t shoot the wind. You can’t shoot trajectories. Forget those things for now. They become instinct later. Just shoot the target!”

  Mad John’s statement had seemed simple minded at the time, but Justan shrugged and brought the bow up. He sighted the target and let loose without thinking. The arrow sailed true, but landed right in front of the target. He shook his head and tried it again. Clearing his mind of frustration, Justan pulled the string back to his ear, sighted the target and let everything else blur. He released. The arrow struck the edge of the target. Justan’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

  Maybe that was just a fluke. Perhaps not. The strange old elf had told Ma’am that his heart was warring with his mind. What if Mad Jon had been right? What if the problem was that he focused too much on his calculations?

  He sighted the target again and drew back the bow. He emptied his mind of calculations and doubts and focused only on the center of the target. It felt so foreign, but he was determined. He let his arms aim on instinct alone. He released the arrow and held his breath as it soared. It struck just shy of the middle of the target. A shout escaped his lips.

  Ma’am showed up at the archery range after midday meal. “Justan, I have been looking for you all around the training grounds. It is a good thing you leave such obvious tracks.”

  “Ma’am, look at this! I’m starting to see what Mad Jon was trying to say,” Justan interrupted. He let loose an arrow that missed the target by a foot.

  “Wait! Let me calm down.” He took a deep breath, pulled back on the string and let another arrow fly. This one stuck into the top of the target. “See, I can do it now!”

  He shot two more. One struck the center. Justan giggled and went to collect his arrows.

  “It took you long enough!” Ma’am shouted after him. It was as if she had expected this result. “Now put the bow away and follow me. Let us see if you have suddenly learned to swing a sword.” As she turned and walked toward the practice field, Ma'am couldn’t conceal her smile.

  Justan grimaced and put the equipment away. What horrific training session had she been putting together all morning? As it turned out, she had something new in mind this day.

  The practice arena was set up much like the larger arena in the city, but without the towering bleachers. The large round area was fenced in and consisted of weapons closets and three large rings where in the combatants could fight.

  When Justan arrived, still bubbling over his new discoveries in archery, he found Ma’am standing there with an unfamiliar man.

  The man was an imposing figure, as tall as Justan, but very muscular. His face looked as though carved from marble with a strong jaw and a cleft chin. He was dressed for travel with trail worn boots and a long well used cloak on his back. The hilts of two swords protruded from his hips.

  The man gestured with one hand as he spoke to Ma’am and Justan gasped. There was a rune on the back of the man’s right hand. A warrior rune.

  This man was a named warrior.

  The man glided over to Justan and reached out his hand, “I am Hilt. Pleased to meet you, Son of Faldon.”

  Justan clasped his hand. It gave him chills. He imagined he could feel the power restrained in this man.

  “I am honored, Sir Hilt,” Justan replied. And indeed he was.

  Very few named warriors existed. This was a man who had reached the pinnacle of fighting prowess. To become named, a warrior must be completely at peace with himself and fully cognizant of his own ability. Justan had grown up near the premier battle school in the known human lands, and this was the first such warrior he had met in person.

  “Please, just call me Hilt,” the man said with an easy smile on his face.

  Justan wanted to say more. H
e wanted to ask the man a thousand questions, but he found it difficult to get his lips to move.

  “The Bowl of Souls,” he blurted.

  “Yes?” Hilt chuckled. “What about it?”

  Justan’s face turned red. “I-I’m . . . It’s just that I can’t believe I’m standing in front of someone who has been there. Been named I mean.”

  When a warrior felt that he had achieved perfection, he traveled to the Mage School in the southern part of Dremaldria, where the Bowl of Souls was kept. It was said that the Bowl of Souls had the power to read a warrior’s heart. All he had to do was dip his weapon into the waters of the bowl and if he was found worthy, a rune would appear on his right hand and he would be given his true name. If a warrior was not found worthy, nothing would happen. He would never be given a second chance.