The Sons of Animus Letum

by Andrew Whittle

  Haren’s throat closed a little, and as she turned her eyes down and away from Raine, she knew that she couldn’t be mad at him – he was simply being honest.

  “This awareness is why you are here,” Raeman said to Raine. “You have trained our Torches and sparred with them in the Damns. We have asked you here because we would like you to rate our warriors.”

  “In what context?” Raine asked.

  Raeman sat back with a confused expression: he had not expected that any further context would be necessary.

  “Skills should suffice,” he said finally.

  “In that case,” Raine said, “Usis is our strongest. Odin is not far behind. And Tyrik is clearly third. There is a substantial gap between Tyrik and the monk that I would consider fourth.”

  The Justice totem was pleased by the analysis. Raeman had found and recruited Tyrik from a village not far from the Throne’s Eye, and to know that Tyrik’s skills were in a class with Usis and Odin allowed the elder monk a bit of pride.

  Igallik was still considering what Raine had said. “If I may, Raine,” he said. “In what other context would you measure a warrior?”

  “There is skill,” Raine replied, “and there is will. A warrior must have both, but the will must always be greater than the skill. If you want to measure a warrior, do not survey him when he is winning a fight, do it when he is losing. Measure them when their survival is on the line.”

  “And have you measured this?” Igallik asked.

  “The occasion has not presented itself fully,” Raine said. “But in glimpses I have seen that Usis and Odin have great will – almost equal.”

  “And Tyrik?” Raeman asked.

  “He fades under this light,” Raine said. “But he is still near the top of the pack.”

  Igallik swept his hand through his long gray beard, and after a moment of thought, he looked back to Raine.

  “You say the occasion has not presented itself fully,” he said. “What if we were to devise a way to present it completely? A test as it were.”

  Raine’s reply was immediate.

  “Without the imminent threat of death, it would be very difficult to measure our Torches. A proper test is almost impossible.”

  Igallik nodded, respecting Raine’s assessment. After the head monk appeared to calculate the Order’s options, he turned to Wylak.

  “Is Raine right?” he asked. “Are we without a test?”

  “I was beginning to wonder why I was here,” the herbalist said.

  “And?”

  Wylak smiled. “Raine’s insight has given me an idea.”

  “We need more than ideas,” Raeman asserted.

  The herbalist smiled confidently. “Fortunately I have ideas and herbs. If you give me three days, I will show you who the heir should be.”

  Igallik looked pleased with the herbalist. “Very well, Wylak. Shall we reconvene here in three days?”

  “In three,” Wylak agreed. “But not here. We will meet in the Damns.”

  10

  Just as the herbalist had requested, Haren, Raine, and the Order reconvened at the Damns three days later. The Damns were a log pen built in the southeast corner of the monastery courtyard. Its perimeter was twenty feet high, and aside from the routine sounds of war coming from within, it was an unimpressive structure. As the hot sun hung over the early morning and Wylak’s guests arrived at the Damns, they noted an unusual silence coming from behind the wall.

  Just before they pushed the gate open, Wylak slid out to greet them.

  As the herbalist looked over the group, he was noticeably fatigued, but there was also a mischievous glint in his eye. “Here for the show, are we?” he asked. “Today’s spectacle will –”

  Raeman cut him off. “We do not need a show, Wylak. Do you have a test or not?”

  “That I do,” Wylak replied, unaffected by Raeman’s impatience. “In fact, today’s show is the test.”

  As a collective, the confused faces of the Order solicited an explanation.

  “Follow me to the Perch,” Wylak said. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  The Perch was an area built into the top of the Damns that gave an elevated view of the entire training ground.

  As Wylak walked in front of the group, he began to explain, articulating his words with the paintbrush-like strokes of his right hand. “Three days ago,” he recalled, “when Raine was explaining will, I was struck by something he said. I have altered his original quotation to my taste, but basically he said that a warrior is defined when he is losing a fight, not winning.”

  “We all heard him,” Raeman said.

  “But did we all think?” Wylak replied. “Did we all wonder if there is a way to simulate a losing fight – if there is a way, without hurting our Torches, to push them to the brink of themselves?”

  As Wylak ascended the final few steps to The Perch, he made a grand sweeping gesture towards this inside of the Damns. “I thought over this question,” he said, “and then I solved it.”

  The inside of the Damns had two sectors. The first sector was a simple rectangle with a floor of clay and an arsenal of weaponry – it was the area where the Torches fought. The second and bigger sector was called the Mount: it was a long narrowing pathway of rock that ascended towards a fifty foot pinnacle. The Torch monks would often compete in a game to see who could claim the Mount’s summit and hold it for the longest.

  For the purpose of Wylak’s test, there were thirty monks – including Galian, Odin, Usis, and Tyrik – at the start of the Mount. At its end, there was a golden flag perched on the pinnacle of the rock mountain.

  After gazing once more over the Damns, a proud Wylak turned back to the monks behind him. “My brothers,” he said. “I give you the show.”

  “Is it a race?” Igallik asked.

  “Yes,” Wylak replied. “But not quite against each other. This race is against themselves.”

  The head monk broke a smile – there was a small thrill tied to his curiosity.

  “How so, Wylak?” he asked.

  “Over the last three days,” the herbalist explained, “I have developed a very special tonic. I call it Quicksand. Its effect is quite extraordinary. When taken, it will counteract any physical or mental exertion with a depressing agent. That is to say, the more someone acts, the more it sedates them. It creates a losing fight. Or in this case, a losing race.”

  Nile’s eyes closed for a moment of calculation. After reaching his conclusion, the Logic totem applauded Wylak with a pat on the shoulder. “Genius,” he said. “Truly genius.”

  Raeman was confused. He peered over the Damns, and then looked back to Wylak, trying unsuccessfully to understand the herbalist’s feat.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “How is it applied?”

  Wylak smiled, and then nodded to the Logic totem. “Would you care to explain?”

  “My pleasure,” Nile said. “What Wylak has given us is a completely tangible way to measure willpower. There are thirty young monks at the start of the Mount, and assuming that our herbalist has administered Quicksand to each of them, when they participate in the race for the golden flag, each will be in a fight against his own will. The more they exert themselves, the more they will fall into sedation.” Nile removed his glasses and polished them for a moment. As he placed them back on, there was a small smile growing on his face. “What we will be left with is a line of bodies,” he explained. “Quite simply, the monk who is closest to the flag has exerted the most willpower. He will be our heir.”

  “And,” Wylak added, “for future reference, there will be a clear line of who is second, third, and fourth.”

  Igallik offered a congratulatory nod to the herbalist. “Well done, Wylak. Better than could be expected.”

  The Mercy totem agreed. “Quite clever,” Palis said. “Though, if I may ask, how have you motivated the racers?”

  “Quite simply,” Wylak replied. “They have been told that whoever claims the golden flag will earn one
day in the Ichor.”

  The Ichor was the small room in the Throne’s Eye library that housed The Book of the Eterna.

  Upon hearing of the prize, Raeman’s eyes burned onto Wylak. “You have overstepped your bounds,” he said sternly. “No one but the Order is allowed in the Ichor.”

  Igallik was not as panicked. “There have been exceptions, Raeman. I believe this can be one.”

  “I had to motivate them,” Wylak argued. “Simply put, a day in the Ichor is a chance every monk would fight for. And,” the herbalist added, “for the record, I don’t expect anyone to claim the flag. I have given each racer a substantial amount of Quicksand.”

  “So there may be no winner?” Raeman said.

  “We will undoubtedly determine what we need.” Wylak said. “But for the racers, yes, it is probable that no one wins.”

  Even against Wylak’s prediction, a glint of promise sparked in Haren’s eye. She turned from the group, considering the race as if she had inside information. When she finally turned back, there was hope in her eyes. “I must thank you, Wylak,” she said. “I don’t think you realize the degree to which you have motivated Galian. I believe he will make a very good show of this.”

  Raeman scoffed. “Please, Haren. Galian will be lucky if he comes in second last.”

  Haren shifted her head, and after weighing the odds, she met Raeman’s eyes dead-on. “Care to make it interesting?” she asked.

  “Ridiculous,” Raeman dismissed. “You are in no position to make a wager.”

  The head monk – who had also endorsed Galian as the heir – saw it differently.

  “I believe her position in the wager has been established,” he said. “She is the challenger. It is your position that needs clarification.”

  “Igallik,” Raeman argued, “this is beneath us. It is ludicrous. Galian has no chance.”

  “Then there is no harm in making the bet,” Haren said.

  Raeman scoffed again, and after a moment of deliberation, he offered Haren a very confident smile. “What are your terms, my dear?”

  Haren was quick with her reply. “You may pick a racer as well, and whoever’s pick ends up closest to the flag wins.”

  “And the prize?” Raeman asked.

  “If Galian is closer, I too will be given a day in the Ichor.”

  “Very well,” Raeman agreed. “I am picking Tyrik, and if he is closer, you my lady will be going on a walk. A long walk. You will pack your provisions and go at once to live among the women at the sisterhood.”

  “Raeman!” Igallik snapped. “Now you are overstepping your bounds.”

  The Justice totem waved off the head monk, and with a pompous grin, he offered Haren a final exit. “I will give you one last chance to back out,” he said. “Consider it a charity.”

  “She will not make the bet,” the head monk asserted.

  “I appreciate your help, Igallik,” Haren said. “But I will take the bet.”

  Before Igallik could intervene, Haren’s hand extended to Raeman, and the two finalized their bet with a quick handshake.

  As Igallik shot a deadly look at Raeman, Wylak clapped his hands excitedly.

  “This will be a show,” he grinned. “Allow me to get the ball rolling.”

  After a quick turn, Wylak held up his right hand and grabbed the attention of the racers.

  “Brothers!” he yelled, “You have all been briefed on etiquette. No harm is to be inflicted on any other racer. Let me you remind you that a day in the Ichor is on the line. For the Ichor, let us see your best!”

  As the racers nodded and began to take their starting marks, the tall, slender Usis arrived at the center. The hulking orange-haired Tyrik was at his left, and the much smaller and younger Odin was at his right. Odin’s body and features had begun to announce his coming adolesence, and as he stood among the racers, he was a picture of young strength. As his thick blonde hair blew across his lightning blue eyes, Odin dropped into his starting pose, stretching back and flexing his muscles with an air of godhood. The three were flanked by many other Torch monks, and at the back of the group, Galian stood by himself. The blonde Galian wore a brown robe and was easily the shortest of the group. As he hung at the back, he paced a little, his disproportionate body leaning to the left. His body, like Odin’s, had been affected by the onset of adolescence, but unlike his brother, Galian was growing lanky. His left side hung lower than his right, and his limbs were skinny and connected by bulbous joints.

  With a small wrench of nerves pulsing through the racers, Tyrik dug his toes into the earth.

  “Keep out of my way,” the hulk said to Usis. “I don’t care much for etiquette.”

  “Why would you?” Usis replied. “Rules are for men, not pigs.”

  As Tyrik’s hands hardened to fists, Wylak called out from The Perch.

  “Get ready!” the herbalist yelled.

  Usis dug his toes into the earth.

  “Go!”

  As the mass of racers sprang forward, Tyrik swung his arm against Usis, and after his elbow careened into Usis’s collarbone, Tyrik launched himself into the lead position. With a wince, Usis launched back at Tyrik, and with elbows and dekes, the two began to jockey towards the flag. As Odin kept just behind their pace, the monks on the Perch were shocked to see that Quicksand was already beginning to take effect. Like a wave, the mass of monks began to slow. Usis and Tyrik were first, and then, like wind blowing over a field, Quicksand spread throughout the racers. Some began to lull, keeling over and crawling forward, while others dropped to their stomachs, surrendering to the tonic that was sedating them.

  Within twenty seconds, ninety percent of the field had dropped.

  “I did not expect it to take effect so soon,” Palis said.

  Wylak offered a sheepish smile. “Neither did I.”

  Tyrik and Usis had continued to creep forward, and with their postures beginning to sink, they reached the halfway point to the flag. Odin was five steps behind, and as he lunged and leapt in pursuit, the toll of Quicksand began to overtake all three. Tyrik tried once more to push off Usis, but as he tried to throw his weight, he knocked himself off balance, and with a solid thud and a sprawl of rocks, Tyrik’s large frame fell unconscious against the hill. Odin managed a clumsy jump overtop of Tyrik, and with only Usis ahead of him, he began a desperate scramble up the Mount.

  As Raeman surveyed the race, he was pleased with Tyrik’s performance. Every monk near Tyrik – except Usis and Odin – had fallen to Quicksand.

  “Third isn’t bad,” Raeman announced.

  With a pompous grin, the Justice totem turned to Haren. “Your horse has some ground to make up,” he said.

  “Galian works at his own pace,” Haren calmly replied.

  The confidence in Haren’s words turned the monks’ attention to Galian. The quiet monk was still upright, and with his strange steps, he was slowly advancing on Tyrik. Because Galian’s spine curved left, his entire body was forced to adapt. There were many different ways in which Galian’s deformity showed, but the most prominent was his walk. The quiet monk took a fairly typical step with his right foot, but his left foot always appeared to stumble as it caught up. It almost looked like he was bobbing down a river current.

  As Usis and Odin became even more affected by Quicksand, Galian continued to bob along.

  After a few furious strides, Odin had caught Usis, but as each of them stood only ten feet below the Mount’s summit, Quicksand began to overwhelm them. Usis’s balance began to waver drastically, and as he tried to scale further up, his limbs became limp like the flag ten feet above him. Desperately, he swung himself at the next plateau, but his trajectory was far off, and with a crack, his body jolted against the stone and he fell unconscious against the Mount.

  After watching Usis’s fall, Odin altered his own trajectory, and as he laboured against his hunched posture, he too launched himself at the next plateau. His revision of Usis’s attempt proved vital. Odin’s body just barely carried over t
he rock, and as his weight shifted onto the next level, he skidded against the stone and fell unconscious amid a small cloud of dust.

  With only one monk still active, the attention of the Perch panned back to the quiet Galian.

  With his bobbing steps, Galian passed the largest mass of unconscious monks, and moved officially into fourth place.

  Because of Galian’s natural posture, it was difficult to detect the effect of Quicksand. And as Galian’s almost toddler-like climb began to close in on Tyrik, Raeman cried foul.

  “There is no way he took Quicksand,” he protested.

  “I assure you,” Wylak said, “each racer was administered the same dose.”

  The Justice totem turned emphatically to the herbalist. “What game is this, Wylak? Why hasn’t he slowed?”

  Wylak gave a wry smile. “I don’t think you want the answer, Raeman.”

  Raeman seemed to suddenly recognize the weakness in his voice. With a small scowl, he sunk into silence.

  However, as Galian approached within steps of Tyrik, Haren made sure to twist the blade.

  “And…” she said, drawing out the ruling, “Galian passes Tyrik. A day in the Ichor will be very nice, gentleman. My thanks to you, Raeman.”

  As Raeman dismissed Haren with a flippant wave, the only question left was how much further could Galian climb?

  As the monks on the Perch watched Galian’s slow and steady ascent, Wylak moved quietly next to Igallik and hushed his voice so that only the head monk could hear.

  “Just so we are clear,” he whispered, “what Galian is doing is beyond human.”

  Igallik’s gaze remained fixed on the quiet monk. “How far beyond?” he whispered back.

  Wylak patted the head monk’s shoulder. “Godly.”

  As a smile formed on Igallik’s face, the head monk bowed his head, believing somehow that his words would reach a fallen king.

  “We will guide him,” he whispered.

  As Galian climbed slowly up the Mount, it was like watching a toddler on stairs. Nevertheless, the quiet monk had caught Usis, and stood only five feet back from the plateau where Odin had crashed.

  As the Perch watched, Raeman felt it necessary to point out Galian’s shortcoming.