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

by Cooley, Trevor H.

  Justan turned away. “Why would you even want to be around me? All that happened to you today was my fault.”

  Jhonate grabbed Justan by the arm and spun him around to face her. “Have you learned nothing? Do you still think that everything revolves around you?”

  “Huh? Well, n-no.”

  “Evidently you do, because you act as if I had no choice in my actions.” She glared at him, her eyes simmering. “Understand me now. I did what I wanted to do. You did not make me do anything that I would not have done on my own.”

  “I didn’t mean that! I- I . . .” Justan sighed. “Look, if I hadn’t made Kenn and Benjo angry, then they wouldn’t have taken you. If I had told the council what was going on in the first place then none of this would have happened.” She shook her head at him again, but before she could speak, he continued, “I should not have come after you alone. The council was right. I acted so selfi-”

  Jhonate clamped her hand over his mouth. “No more! Kenn and Benjo made their own decisions. You did what you had to do. As for the rest, you came after me even though you knew you would miss the test. What you did was not selfish. You acted nobly, Justan. Stupidly yes, but nobly.”

  She released his mouth. “The council was right about one thing, though. You need to grow up and concentrate on tomorrow. Come, we are short of time.”

  Justan’s head spun. “Uh, yes Ma’am.”

  Jhonate pressed her index finger against his lips. There was a sudden softness in her eyes he was not expecting. “Do not call me that any longer,” she said. She turned and headed toward the practice field.

  “Yes . . . Jhonate.” The name felt strange coming out of his mouth. He liked it.

  Neither of them saw the man in the white robe enter the council tent behind them.

  The crowd at the arena the next day was the largest ever recorded. The tale of what had happened to Justan the day before during the strategy test had traveled throughout the city. Once an underdog, Justan had been elevated from a person of interest to a star. Everyone was rooting for him, and all knew the stakes. To make four points in the close combat exam was a difficult task for any trainee, especially for Justan who had been stuck in the same situation the year before. The gambling houses were overwhelmed with bets and the guards had their hands full with crowds of people lined up outside, trying to get in.

  Justan sat with the other trainees. Everyone nervously awaited their turn in the packed area. They were all frightened, and for good reason. Each one would be facing an experienced student from the academy with real weapons. Most likely they would lose, and most likely it would be painful. The mages would treat the wounds right away, but even the healing process wasn’t pleasant.

  The mages at the field that day were some of the best. The Mage School in southern Dremaldria had a contract with the Battle Academy. They supplied healers for the academy and in return, the academy sent guards for the Mage School's grounds. They always sent up an extra group of healing specialists for the tests.

  The agreement was absolutely necessary in order to heal the often-serious injuries that would result. The rules specified that no one was to strike a fatal blow, but in reality it was a hard request to make of fighters in the heat of battle. There had been deaths in the past. Justan remembered the last time that a trainee had died in the arena.

  His name was Bennsen Landrey. He had been quite the expert with his unique two-dagger style. In fact, he had been so good that his year as a trainee was considered a formality. Bennsen's opponent was a skilled student named Rudfen Groaz. His weapon of choice was the spiked mace and shield.

  During the final combat section of the test, Bennsen made a fatal error. He ducked down to avoid an attack, perhaps trying to score some blood on Rudfen's leg. Unfortunately, one of the spikes on the Rudfen's mace drove through the back of Bennsen’s skull. His death was instant. There was nothing the mages could do.

  They say that Rudfen had never been quite the same after that. He eventually left the academy and never returned. Bennsen had been the first man Rudfen had ever killed. The rules changed quickly after that. No blows to the head were allowed.

  The worst wound Justan had received was during his first year taking the test. While trying to parry, he had directed his opponent's sword right into his belly. Without the mages he would have most likely died. It was the first time he had known that a healing could hurt so much.

  Despite the possibility of injury and the tension filling the air from the other trainees, Justan wasn’t nervous. He was eager. He looked forward to putting his newly learned skills to the test.

  Justan sat back and waited for his turn at the offensive section of the test. And waited, and waited. Surprisingly, all the other trainees finished, and his name still hadn’t been called. The crowd was restless. Some of them were beginning to boo. Justan realized that the judges had held him until last to draw out suspense for the crowd.

  The final academy student entered the ring. The crowd oohed. He was Qenzic, son of Sabre Vlad. His father was the swordsmanship teacher at the Battle Academy and a member of the council. Qenzic's weapon of choice was the longsword. He was quite well known for his prowess with it. The only armor he wore was a small metal shield on his left arm.

  Justan's name was finally called. Qenzic nodded at him carefully. Justan had earned a very unpredictable reputation this year. None of the academy students had wanted to be the one to fight him.

  When Justan entered the ring, the crowd roared. The two fighters could feel the thousands of eyes focused on them. Both broke into a sweat.

  Justan knew that Qenzic was the superior swordsman. His only advantage was that fighters using two swords were uncommon. It was unlikely that Qenzic had faced someone with that style before.

  The crowd was so loud that the combatants barely heard the horn blow.

  Justan only had a short period of time to make an impression with the judges. He dove at Qenzic, sending his swords out in fluid strokes. The man parried every attack with ease. Any strike that got past his sword was blocked by his shield. It was obvious that Justan wasn't going to win using conventional means, so he improvised.

  Instead of bringing his swords in with complementing strikes, Justan used a technique that Hilt had shown him once. He assailed his opponent in a random pattern, a chaotic blend of slices and thrusts. At Justan’s level of skill, this attack style was too dangerous to use in a real battle. It left too many holes in his defense. But since Qenzic couldn’t fight back, Justan felt it was worth a try.

  At first Qenzic was able to block the moves with ease, but Justan kept on. Time grew short. He had to draw blood soon. Then Qenzic began hesitating. Even though Justan’s attacks were sloppy, the student was having a hard time anticipating the next strike.

  Justan finished his plan with a flourish. Suddenly, out of the chaos, he struck in with a perfectly timed double thrust, extending both of his swords evenly spaced. His opponent was not expecting this standard move after such a bizarre series of attacks.

  Qenzic blocked the right blade with his shield. But Justan’s left blade slipped passed Qenzic’s sword and sliced the underside of his forearm. It wasn’t a very deep cut, but it didn’t need to be. It was first blood.

  The hornsman blew. Justan was given a standing ovation by the crowd. The judges chuckled, having expected something bizarre from Justan.

  Qenzic swore and threw down his shield. He glared at Justan as he allowed the mages to tend to his arm. As Justan walked back towards his seat, he did not see Qenzic’s glare transform into a smile. The Academy student had come up with a plan.

  Justan arrived at his seat and was bombarded by congratulations from the other trainees. At first he was giddy. After all, he had drawn first blood against the son of the swordsmanship teacher at the academy. Then he remembered that he too was the son of someone on the council, the man who had given Qenzic’s father the job, in fact.

  In all actuality he had nothing to gloat about. He had barely won
the match. If this test ended up anything like the close combat test, Qenzic would come out to teach him a lesson during the defensive section. Justan wasn’t looking forward to the experience.

  The defensive section was a rough one for the trainees. The academy students felt like they had something to prove this year. Very few of the trainees were able to hold their own against them, and Justan winced while watching trainee after trainee get brutalized by their academy opponents. His own turn came all too quickly.

  The hornsman blew and Justan walked to the circle. The crowd roared again but this time it didn’t seem to affect him as much. His attention was focused across the ring at his opponent. Qenzic adjusted the small shield on his left arm and smiled at him.

  Justan wondered why the man kept his shield on. Most combatants took their armor off when it was time to be on offense so that it wouldn't slow them down. Justan did not wear any armor. His style demanded freedom of movement. He supposed that he should wear some light bracers, maybe even a fine chain mail if he could one day afford it. Unfortunately it was too late for any of that.

  Qenzic didn’t attack in a rush. Instead, he sauntered over to Justan and casually took a swipe at him. It was such a slow swing that Justan easily blocked it with one of his swords. The man continued at a slow pace. He took measured swings that Justan easily blocked.

  There were some boos from the crowd. The judges looked at each other and shrugged. Justan didn’t like this. The man had something up his sleeve and it wouldn’t be pleasant. The series of slow attacks went on until Justan was sure that time would be up. It happened just as the judges were about to signal the hornsman.

  Qenzic lunged forward. He swung his shield at Justan’s head with such force that Justan had to put both of his swords up to deflect it. Qenzic’s long sword cut in right behind the shield. He could have struck Justan anywhere, but he had a lesson to teach.

  Justan tried to intercept the strike with his right blade. His sword went spinning through the air. The spectators gasped.

  Justan stared vacantly as his sword hit the ground. There was blood on the hilt. He brought his hand up to his face. Three of his fingers were missing. Justan flexed the thumb and forefinger that remained. Something about it struck him as funny. Distantly, he knew that he was in shock.

  The mages arrived quickly and picked his fingers up off the ground. Justan stood stunned as they used complex spells to reattach the severed digits. What bothered him wasn’t that he had lost his fingers, though that was an unpleasant experience that he would never like to repeat. He had been outwitted. That hadn’t happened to him in a long time. Oh, Justan had been beaten, and frequently. But that had always been because of lack of experience or skill on his part. This time his opponent had beaten him with his mind.

  He recognized another one of his faults at that moment. It was arrogance. He had been so sure that he was smarter than Qenzic that he had let his guard down. As the truth struck him, he started laughing. The healers looked at him with concern, not understanding the source of his mirth. Once he had complete movement in his hand again, the mages allowed him to return to his seat.

  Justan once again watched the other trainees as he waited for his turn at the final part of the test. An odd sense of peace settled over him. He saw himself in a new light yet again. It seemed as if he were finding more faults in himself every day. This was quite discouraging, but at the same time, every time he rooted one of them out, he became better. He would learn from this moment. He would not let his guard down like that again.

  He wondered how the judges were grading him so far. It couldn’t be good after that last match. He would have to do everything right this time, or all was lost. He had to win the final match.

  By the time the other trainees finished, the air was electric. The energy in the crowd had been building for hours. When the hornsman finally called Justan and Qenzic out, the sound was deafening. Here was the match that they had all been waiting for.

  Justan and Qenzic stepped out into what would become one of the biggest spectacles in Training School history. Fights broke out outside the arena once people realized that it had started. The guards were hard pressed to keep order.

  When Justan looked into Qenzic's eyes, he could see that Qenzic expected to see a man shaken. Losing digits is not pleasant. Instead, Justan showed him someone composed, someone who looked into his eyes without trepidation. He bowed, giving Qenzic credit for defeating him in their previous battle. Qenzic bowed back and it began.

  Neither of them rushed in. They circled each other, taking measure. A hasty attack was not an advantage in this part of the contest. In this battle there was no time limit. The first fighter to draw blood three times would win.

  Justan twirled his swords back and forth with his wrists, testing the movement in his reattached fingers. The crowd was a constant cacophony that he muted down to a dull roar in his mind. The hair rose on the back of his neck. Somehow he knew that something special was about to happen.

  They came at each other. Steel rang against steel. Qenzic took the offensive. He delved deep into his lifetime of study to mete out intricate strikes that Justan was hard pressed to counter.

  Justan fought as he had never fought before. Though Qenzic was by far the better swordsman, the entire stadium was behind Justan. It was just the boost Justan needed, as if part of him was reaching out and harnessing the energy being given off by the crowd to use for focus and control over his usually rebellious body. His muscles tingled and he pressed on. The crowd went crazy.

  The battle became an unnerving mix of grace and brutality. The standard battle forms that the men had been trained with were soon cast aside. Both men went off instinct. Blurring attack after blurring attack was meted out and parried. It was a whirlwind of movement that seemed as if it might never end. But eventually there was a slip.

  Justan bounced off of a hard parry and twirled around to deal out a swift slice. Qenzic brought his shield up, but it was just a little too low for a proper block. Justan’s sword skipped off the top of the shield to score him across the nose.

  The horn blew, though it could barely be heard over the crowd. The healers rushed in to tend to Qenzic's wound.

  Justan could not believe it. He had drawn first blood. He had actually struck the first blow against an accomplished swordsman. He wasn't able to hide his grin. But the fight wasn't over. The healers were soon finished and the men came at one another again.

  Their energy had not abated one bit. Each spectacular attack was defeated by an even more spectacular block or parry. Thus it went, back and forth, until both had their swords tangled up high. Qenzic lifted his leg and kicked Justan away.

  Justan stumbled backwards. His right foot touched just outside the ring. That was counted as blood drawn. The crowd moaned. The healers came to check for wounds.

  “What’s going on Justan?” Qenzic said. Justan saw a respect in Qenzic’s countenance that hadn’t been there before. “Were you holding back in the first two parts of the test?”

  “I’m just as surprised as you are.” Justan replied with a smile.

  Qenzic looked nervous. They both knew he had gotten lucky with that kick. They were too evenly matched. To make things worse, while he was breathing heavily, Justan hopped from one foot to the other, full of energy.

  The mages stepped back and he started forward. For the first time, it seemed Qenzic wasn’t sure how this was going to end.

  The fight was on, a crazy whirlwind of steel and flesh. Justan fought as he had never before thought possible. He summoned forth strength and control as if he had grabbed it from the very air. The crowd’s excitement buzzed in his veins. He felt that he could do almost anything.

  Justan completed attacks that he had only dreamed of. His swords skipped off of Qenzic’s shield and sword in a blur. Sparks flew. Several times, Justan saw an opening in Qenzic’s defenses, but couldn’t take advantage of it without striking a possibly fatal blow.

  The battle went on and
on for what seemed like hours to the two men, though in reality it was closer to twenty minutes. The quickness of the combat built with the crowd’s voices rising to a crescendo. Justan felt as if he was going to pop with so much energy.

  Then without warning, the energy tapered off. The battle slowed down. The combatants came to realize that the hornsman had been blowing furiously for some time.

  Both men stared at each other in shock. What had just happened? Was one of them bleeding? Actually, they were both covered in blood from several small nicks and cuts that neither had noticed. They didn’t know who had just won, but both of them knew they had just fought the fight of their lives.

  One of the judges raised a hand until silence slowly settled over the crowd. The match was called a draw. There was pandemonium.

  This was a story that would be told for years to come. Everyone at the arena that day would talk about the time that Justan, son of Faldon the Fierce, had battled Qenzic, son of Sabre Vlad, to a draw in one of the most amazing fights ever seen at the Training School exams.