by Unknown
“Falcons capture their prey by diving incredibly fast and true, even through buffeting winds. I applied that pattern to my knife with some spark. It flew straight, but my aim was off. I tried to hit him in the head.”
“Then you have the best bad aim in the world. That was perfect.” Rainier said.
“…and those two guardsmen should beat Magnus back to camp.” Slate smiled.
In short order, two men came running down the mountain path as the sun’s first rays hit the valley that nestled Pillar. Slate took one last look at his hometown and triggered the orb. Colors swirled and an explosion came from deep within the mountain. Rocks and dust spewed from the mine entrance as deep cracks appeared in the stone houses and roofs collapsed. The two guardsmen were thrown to the ground. Magnus, who had been prepared for the blast, ran to the defenseless guardsmen and disposed of them with a rock thrown from the mountain. He knelt by the corpses for a moment and then galloped toward the Crimson camp on his horse.
Rainier kept watch of the Crimson camp in case Magnus sent guardsmen in search of the trio. Slate wasn’t concerned. If Magnus was willing to kill for placement in Bellator, he wouldn’t jeopardize his status under Villifor by admitting defeat at the hands of Slate and Rainier.
The horror of what Slate saw this night finally overwhelmed him and he broke down. “Who would kill everyone in a defenseless town?” Slate asked the early morning air. Sana comforted him with a hug and a gentle kiss upon his cheek. It barely registered to Slate, as his mind raced.
He had only sought a little glory by fighting in the tournament. Everything since had brought him heartache and agony. If the values of the Crimson Guard led to these atrocities, Slate wanted no part of it, but that was no longer an option. Whoever harmed Ibson had also coordinated the attack on Pillar, miles upon miles from Ravinai. Every bit of life he had known before the tournament had been taken away from him. His parents and his friends were gone, even the town itself was destroyed. He was all that was left and he vowed to make sure their deaths weren’t quickly forgotten.
He would go to Ravinai.
He would join the Crimson Guard.
He would find who killed his parents…and make them regret it.
Slate straightened and Sana pulled away, sensing a change within him. He looked down upon his ruined town. He would need to improve his fighting skills in Bellator so that he wasn’t outmatched every time he faced a Crimson Guardsman. He needed to understand how Ispirtu used magic in battle so that he could avoid it or counteract it. Most importantly, he needed the skill of Sicarius to investigate and avenge the deaths of his parents.
Slate reached his staff out until it touched the back of Rainier’s neck, who was watching the Crimson camp. “Stratego medallion, please…I’ll be needing that now.” A startled Rainier looked into the hardened face of Slate and handed over the medallion. “The tournament champion wins the right to choose his guild. There is no one I can trust within the Crimson Guard. Any of the headmasters could have orchestrated the attacks on me, Ibson, or my parents. I’ll need access to all of them, so I will not choose Ispirtu, Sicarius, or Bellator. I will join all three guilds and take lessons from each. I will learn their secrets and put an end to the evil I have witnessed here.”
INTERLUDE
REFLECTION OF REGRET
Red eyes refocused and stared back at him from the mirror. Blink. They’re still there. Slate grabbed a towel and rubbed his face. He tossed the towel at the mirror, hoping to avoid his reflection as he left the wash room.
The naked body of a bar wench sprawled across his bed. What was her name? It didn’t matter, but somehow regret was worse when coupled with forgetfulness. She had served him in the tavern the night before and recognized him…smart girl…without disguising his red eyes and white skin he wasn’t exactly incognito. Girls like her confused Slate. The most feared man in Malethya walks into a bar and girls would do one of two things, run and hide or throw themselves at him. This one had flirted with him all night and the more he ignored her, the harder she tried. By the time he went up to his room to retire for the evening, she followed him up and never left. Now she lay peacefully sleeping and Slate hoped she would stay that way until he left.
He buried the regret in the place he stored every other painful emotion. Last night temporarily relieved the pain of the wrongs he had caused, momentarily replacing the pain in the form of satisfaction with this wench. In return, she could brag to her friends that she had seduced a demi-god, or whatever name she decided to call him. She would exaggerate his physical gifts and prowess, making the story more exciting and Slate infamous for even more reasons. The story would spread and more wenches would follow him up to his room on future nights. That’s the funny thing about being a legend. The stories pile on top of each other, mix together, and change altogether.
A noise from the window caught Slate’s attention. Down on the street, an innkeeper taught his boy basic forms with the sword. That was good…the boy would have need of the sword. Attacks on villages were rampant nowadays, with the aftermath of Pillar all too common.
The young boy deflected a slow overhead blow from his father. For both their sakes, he hoped they practiced diligently before this village met a similar fate. Had they been in Bellator, they would have been forced to learn as quickly as Slate…
CHAPTER NINE
GUILD LIFE
Slate stood at attention with the members of Bellator, waiting for the early amber rays of the autumn sun to reach the courtyard and signal the start of their training. The sun flirted with the dirt of the courtyard, hovering at the bottom of the guild’s ornate pillars and archways that supported the offices and lecture halls overlooking the training ground. The guild was constructed with five such courtyards as centerpieces, each signifying an increased level of skill. Slate had yet to progress from the first courtyard despite several months of training.
The sun’s rays touched the sand of the courtyard and Hedok emerged from the school. Their trainer was a large, grizzled man. He swore constantly at their technique, their family’s stock, and even himself on occasion.
“No bloody weapons today! Your mockery of the sword tires me. You don’t deserve to use one. Find someone your size and prepare to fight…and for fractal’s sake don’t throw any blows that could cause permanent damage!” Hedok limped toward the center of the courtyard, waiting for his trainees to form a circle around the edges. “You let a decrepit old man beat you into position? Maybe I’ll need to bring some throwing knives out here and see how fast you move!”
Slate looked for someone his own size to match up against. He was taller than most of the students and strong by most standards, but did not carry the muscle of the others. Members of Bellator worked out aggressively and most had added weight to their frames quickly since joining the guild. Slate fell behind in training because of his commitments to Ispirtu and Sicarius. The morning training was his only lesson within Bellator. All the other students matched up, leaving Cirata Lorassa scrambling to find any partner other than Slate. She was too slow and hustled over to where Slate stood.
Slate’s skill in hand-to-hand combat dwarfed Cirata’s skills and she knew it. Cirata could have humiliated any number of fighters in the first courtyard with the exception of Jak Warder. She would be looking to impress Hedok with a strong showing in the hopes of joining Magnus in the second courtyard.
“People facing away from the circle…attack!” Hedok bellowed. Slate threw a quick left that Cirata deflected and then brought a roundhouse kick from the right. Cirata dove inside his attack and grabbed his leg just below the knee. She then twisted in the direction of Slate’s motion and drove her shoulder downward on his hamstring. Slate received a face full of sand for his efforts as Cirata twisted his knee and finished him off with an elbow to the kidneys.
Slate picked himself up and scanned the courtyard to see that he had lost quicker than anyone else, a frequent event that frustrated Slate. If he committed his time to Bellator he c
ould have advanced to the second courtyard as Magnus had done.
“Cirata and Jak, you look like your mothers bedded the right soldiers…heck, maybe it was even me!” Hedok laughed at his own joke and bellowed again. “People facing the circle…attack!”
Cirata dove for his left leg, going for a takedown. Slate held off the basic move by planting his right foot to keep his balance. Then Cirata altered her grip to swing her body around and drive into Slate’s right leg. That was definitely not a basic move. He fell on his back, facing skyward. Cirata delivered a finishing blow to his exposed neck with a little more force than was necessary for a training match.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, the continual beatings became educational. Slate began to read Cirata’s motions and even successfully defended one of her attacks when Villifor walked onto a balcony overlooking the courtyard to observe the newest members of Bellator. Magnus stood stoically behind Villifor on the small balcony and passed judgment upon his inferiors.
“The progress exhibited during your training session is unsatisfactory,” Villifor said. “I believe additional motivation will help you reach your potential. Tomorrow we will hold a contest similar to today’s training. The prize, should you be skilled enough to win, is to advance to the second courtyard and receive personal training from me.”
The prospect of advancing to the second courtyard stunned everyone, but the opportunity to train with Villifor was nearly unprecedented. Magnus was the first person to receive training directly from the headmaster in recent memory and his face spiked with envy at the announcement.
“I believe some of you are ready for advancement…” Villifor let his eyes linger upon Jak and Cirata, “…while others have been lax in their training.” He didn’t need to look at Slate for the reference to be understood. “Tomorrow you will defend against two armed opponents of my choosing. Whoever withstands the onslaught for the longest amount of time will be the winner. Hedok will supply weapons. You are dismissed.”
Slate walked gingerly back to the changing room and Jak fell in beside him. He was larger than any fighter Slate had encountered, save Magnus. Thankfully, that’s where the similarities ended. Jak was a popular figure in Bellator. He was personable and quick to offer help in learning proper technique during training sessions. Slate had benefitted from his tutelage numerous times.
“After working so hard, it’s difficult to believe I could advance to the second courtyard as early as tomorrow,” Jak mused. “I wouldn’t mind getting a shot at Magnus again either.” Competition was fierce in Bellator and defeat in battle, even during sparring sessions, was remembered for a long time.
“I hope you beat Cirata, Jak. You deserve to advance.” Slate said, finding that he genuinely meant it.
“Cirata will have to wait in the first courtyard a little longer. I’m not worried about her. You are my toughest competition.”
“Ha! You must have been too busy clobbering your opponent today to notice I spent the majority of the time on my back.”
“These are just basic, regimented drills. Without the constraints of a drill, you’ll showcase your natural ability for the unexpected. If the tournament proved anything, it’s that you are unpredictable.”
“Thanks, Jak… I just hope Villifor chooses someone other than you or Cirata as my opponent tomorrow.” Slate donned Ispirtu robes in preparation for the next part of his day. The other members left to discuss battlefield strategies and learn the lessons of Malethya’s past. “Have fun upstairs and good luck tomorrow.”
“We’re discussing the roles of pikeman and cavalry today. It should be enlightening…” Slate didn’t share Jak’s interest in battlefield strategy. Slate planned to face his parent’s murderer in a more intimate setting than a battlefield. He just needed to figure out who it was.
Slate left the Bellator complex and walked through the streets of Ravinai ignoring the stares of citizens. Members of Ispirtu were unmistakable in their black robes, and citizens treated them with a combination of deference, respect, and fear that ultimately led to avoidance when possible. In the untimely event they needed to interact with him, they would appease his wishes and shower him with praise while trying to extract themselves from the situation. Magic had a strange effect on people who didn’t understand it and most members of the populace had very little knowledge of it. The mystery of magic served to increase the power of Ispirtu and wizards in general, so they felt little need to educate the ignorant masses.
Wrought iron gates allowed a view of towering Ispirtu, a dramatic view even though Slate saw it on a daily basis. He wasn’t impressed by the towering peaks or architectural detail. The Bellator complex was built just as intricately, but it lost its grandeur with familiarity. What made Ispirtu unique were the orbs surrounding the structure. They flew from peak to peak, served as lookouts around the guard towers, and simultaneously put on a visual display for anyone within view. A group of orbs that appeared as a crimson banner bearing the Ispirtu insignia morphed into ivy and covered the stone wall, wrapping around columns and projecting an air of academic excellence. On a different tower, the orbs morphed into a catwalk spanning the courtyard to an open window of a distant tower. These were the reasons Slate had studiously memorized the way to his lessons. If he mistook the orb illusions for reality, it was a long drop.
At the gates, one of the orbs flew down to eye level and circled him. In the security house, a low-ranking member of Ispirtu viewed the orb’s projected image of him and compared it against records on file. Since few members of Ispirtu needed to leave on a regular basis during their training, the security detail recognized Slate and quickly opened the gate upon his arrival.
“Ho, Slate. How was Bellator this morning? Did you show them we know how to fight in Ispirtu too? How many shields did you punch through today?”
That was Tommy. By all accounts Tommy was failing his training within Ispirtu and stood very little chance of actively serving in the guard. Like many in Ispirtu, he signed up for training in the Crimson Guard with intentions of joining a different guild…in Tommy’s case it was Bellator. He was placed in Ispirtu after testing positively for the spark, and now he lived vicariously through Slate’s stories of Bellator.
“Good morning, Tommy. We were one person short in the duels this morning…we could have used you.” Slate clasped Tommy on the shoulder, unwilling to crush his Bellator fantasies that made his days in Ispirtu bearable.
Slate neglected to join the stream of people entering Ispirtu and instead peered inside a first-story window. Inside, a squadron of Disenites attacked a reconstruction of a noble’s estate. Members of Ispirtu took up positions on the roof of the manor and mercilessly rained fireballs upon the attacking soldiers. Orbs worked in concert to project the images of the attacking Disenites, simulating the attack formations of some past battle in the Twice-Broken Wars. The attacking Disenites didn’t cause physical injury, but the simulation recreated the damage of the battlefield as well. The orbs would explode portions of the estate as chronicled during the real battle. The members of Ispirtu cast a tracking spell that signaled the orbs not to detonate if a wizard was within the blast radius. Since Slate didn’t have the spark, he couldn’t be tracked, and these recreated battles were as dangerous as the real thing. He would need to find a different route to his lesson in Magic Defense.
Slate looked up to the second-story window and hiked up his robes to scale the exterior of the building. The nice thing about the intricate stone architecture of Ispirtu was that it was as easy to climb as the foothills of Pillar. Slate reached one hand up to the window and hauled himself over the threshold.
“It looks like we’ll have to start locking the windows again. You never know what will crawl through these days.” The voice of Lattimer Regallo welcomed Slate to Ispirtu.
“I see the infirmary was able to set your jaw, but I think it’s a little out of place…if you ever want it readjusted, let me know.” Lattimer subconsciously touched his reconstructed jaw before tu
rning his attention to the ring of sycophants drawn by the celebrity status of the Regallo name.
Brannon entered the classroom, black and purple robes flowing behind him. “To your seats!” Magic Defense was the only class instructed by Brannon, and Slate made sure he was enrolled. He needed to find more information about the headmaster, but he also needed to understand how to face a wizard in battle.
“Is there such a thing as a counter spell?” Brannon asked the class but silence followed. “Slate!”
“No, headmaster.”
“…and why is that, Mr. Severance?”
“Some spells counteract the effects of other spells, but in a battle, there is no way to know which spell your opponent will cast. It would be a fool’s errand to try to block an opponent’s spell. The best defense, or counter spell, is to attack quicker than your opponent.”
“Excellent. Now the best way to attack quickly is to use a familiar pattern so that you don’t waste time creating a link to your spark. Use a pattern you already know and then pour your spark into it until the spell is cast.” Brannon strode back and forth across the room. “The recreated battle of Loring’s Gulch in the hallway has inspired me to add a practical element to today’s lesson. Everyone line up in two lines.”
The students easily divided with Lattimer’s followers forming one line while Slate and the other leftovers formed the second line. Slate wasn’t amongst friends, but at least he wasn’t amongst enemies.
In the middle of the two opposing lines, Brannon placed two candles. To the first students in each line, he instructed, “On my mark, push the flame from the candle toward your opponent. I will counteract the effects of the fireball before it reaches the loser.”
Live fireballs and Slate couldn’t conjure a hairball…great.