by D. B. Penner
“It’s the Brightflame now, Sir,” Ogdin jeered.
“Brightflame indeed…” Nailfram looked to Ogdin with distaste then peered carefully at Will with an inscrutable expression on his unsightly face.
Will sighed, relieved that he had been able to salvage even that much of the assignment before Nailfram caught him. As for Ogdin’s taunts, the lycanthrope’s detestation of Will was of little concern.
“Thanks for the lesson yesterday,” he whispered to Vivyan, who blushed lightly, but said nothing.
Nailfram’s thin fingers grasped a stick of chalk and, with a great deal of scratching, began to write instructions on the board. Reading over the ingredients needed, Will stood and walked to the back of the classroom in order to retrieve a cauldron.
A massive black object whizzed past his face. Stunned, he looked behind him to see who had cast the spell. Vivyan winked at him, holding the large tub. Will wondered how she had already learned and mastered that magic. The entire concept was totally new to him.
Will turned back to the pile of cauldrons and dove to the ground. Another heavy pot was lobbed at his head. Will hit the ground just in time as the flying missile flew over his shoulder.
Angrily, Will turned to see who had thrown the pot that had come so close to knocking his teeth out. Joined by his fellow Scalefire recruits, Ogdin laughed menacingly, gripping the cauldron.
Will got to his feet and lugged his cauldron to his seat. “Were you hit? That was an immature prank,” Vivyan asked. “Apologies for the first one, though; that was mine.”
“Oh, I’m… I’m fine,” he stammered, surprised that she cared.
Nailfram had turned a blind eye to this incident, continuing to lecture about the potion they were about to brew as if nothing had happened. “The Elixir of Illumination is a potion used for many purposes, one of which is to create light when none can be found naturally. The key ingredient is the root of Foxfire. The flower comes from only the most remote areas in the Van Arda, the Elven Realm. I’ll bestow little mercy unto those who would senselessly waste it,” Nailfram added threateningly.
Will started a small fire below his cauldron with a finger and filled the pot with spring water. When the water began to boil, Will added the Foxfire root and a cup of ash. He stirred counterclockwise and let the water simmer for five minutes. A sprinkle of sand, two more dashes of clover…
“Whoa!” Will exclaimed amazedly. The source of his admiration was a burst of light erupting from Vivyan’s perfect solution.
Will added two strips of the last ingredient and waited. A flash of light blinded Will.
He shook his head to clear the last of the tiny black dots dancing in his vision. When they finally flickered and disappeared, Will saw that only he, Vivyan, Ogdin, and a scrawny Soardale student had mixed the potion correctly.
“Good work, those of you who made this potion correctly. No report is required from you. As for everyone else, I want an essay written on why and at which point you decided to discontinue following orders. That behavior will get you killed. Get out,” Nailfram snarled at the end of the class, never making eye contact with Will.
Grumbles and complaints arose from the unsuccessful students as they packed up and prepared to go.
Will slipped a vial from his bag and filled it with the shining potion. He looked around cautiously before carefully pocketing the vial.
“Will,” Vivyan said chidingly as they walked out the door. “You ought to remember your homework, especially in this course. Don’t think Nailfram will take it kindly if you fail to write an entire essay again.”
“Sound advice. Well done on your potion,” Will replied awkwardly in an attempt to move the conversation away from his blunder.
“Gratitude, and compliments to you on yours,” Vivyan murmured shyly.
Will and Vivyan walked together in silence to their history class. When they arrived, an exceptionally short man with a broad nose greeted them at the door. He wore sumptuous brown robes lined with white snow hare fur. His red beard was braided into two long strands, and his rosy cheeks were stretched in a smile.
“How do you do, young ones?” he said in a gravelly, heavily accented rumble. “This would be history class. Since you are the first students here, what would you like to learn about in this first of our classes together?” he asked kindly.
Will looked into the inviting room. The walls were covered in maps and elaborate paintings of beautiful cities. And, as the teacher had mentioned, they were the first students in the class.
“Earlier, Nailfram mentioned the Van Arda,” Vivyan said. “Could we possibly learn about the elves?”
“Elves indeed. Aye, that is a fine subject. I can teach you much about the ‘Fair Folk,’” he smiled. “Mine experience with them has been most interesting.”
Taking a seat, Will began to look at the exotic fortresses and castles in the paintings. Of all the images, Will recognized only one white castle adorned with bright blue standards as Art had spoken of its grandeur on their ride to the Academy. It was the Emperor’s elegant abode in Newne City.
As other recruits meandered in, Art plopped down next to Will. “How was Astronomy?” Will asked.
“Informative, but it was a touch dry. Stalk tried to engage,” Art yawned, “but a man can only sit in a darkened room for so long before feeling drowsy.”
“Welcome, mine name is Baruktaråg,” the history teacher said cheerfully. “And before anyone asks, I am so short because I am a dwarf.” Will looked at the man with renewed curiosity.
A living dwarf, Will thought excitedly. I never thought I should meet one. I should have spotted it earlier. Short, bearded, the accent--characteristics typical of every dwarf in every story I’ve ever heard.
“Today, we will discuss elves. But first, are there questions in need of answers now?” None forthcoming, the dwarf began.
“The Van Gwaith, the people known nowadays as elves, originated from across the Barrett Sea many millennia ago. Only the dwarves, born of the Mountain, the dragons, born of the flame, and the unintelligent beasts, born of the earth, resided in these lands before they landed their sleek, white vessels upon the sandy shores of Gammalgard. That’s right, you humans are not native to this land either, but refugees from a far-off island, unnamed and uncharted. But have patience; we will touch on your story in another lesson.
“The elves landed on the sparsely populated shore, whereupon they immediately settled Mor Forest. Their expanding population compelled bands of elves to be dispatched with purpose of building colonies elsewhere. Some settled in the Odog Dae Valley, which lies at the junction of the White and Rush Rivers just beyond the forest’s boundary. Other elves founded cities and towns within the confines of Mor; many of those settlements’ locations are still unknown to any other than the elves themselves.
“Before long, we dwarves thought the elves’ conquest was a threat to our prosperous nation. We sent messengers to the capitol of Van Arda, the elves’ realm, Taer, where they were greeted with utmost rudeness. Harsh words were exchanged, and when the messengers returned, they delivered distressing word stating that the elves would not stop until all of Gammalgard bowed before them. Preemptively, the dwarf king, Haerdroth, declared war on the elves, thus starting Haerdroth’s War, as it is called by the elves. The war between the two peoples lasted hundreds of years, and, in the process, hundreds thousands of lives were lost forever.” Solemnly, Baruktaråg paused for a moment before continuing.
“Our peoples never wished to cease the bloodshed until the humans arrived two hundred years later. The humans brought such a change upon the land that we were forced back to our senses, and an armistice was struck between the warring nations. Following the signing of the treaty, many years passed without conflict. And the three races resided in harmony until a human tyrant conquered his own people in the worst of ways. He created the Empire and, rekindling old hatreds, allied with the dwarves to begin an ultimate purge of the elves.
“War raged
until the elves, defeated, retreated deep into Mor Forest again, leaving settlements such as those in the Odog Dae Valley to crumble. Content, the Emperor lived out his days in greedy happiness. His son succeeded him and so on, until a great man took the throne of his violent ancestors. Jason the Piper of Glen delivered the race of men from an inevitable civil war. Sending emissaries into Mor Forest, he offered the elves land. Although their number was greatly lessened by lords and knights seeking to protect their small folk, dragons still flew the skies. Ever wise, Jason the Emperor gave the dragons vast territories in the north away from populated areas. And a second Golden Age fell upon the land.
“But I get ahead of mineself,” Baruktaråg chuckled. “It’ll be time to go. Young ones, I will see you tomorrow for the continuation of this tale.”
“Of course, my mother has told me stories of their halls. But a real dwarf, I have never seen a real dwarf before,” Will said excitedly.
“Indeed, farm boy, you have seen nigh on anything this world has to offer,” Art agreed. “I have known of two dwarves,” Art replied yawning. “One who was a passing dignitary who sought refuge in my lord father’s halls and the other who was not really a dwarf at all but a man born stunted. He kept the cats that ratted granaries at a castle I had frequented with my eldest sister.”
“This Baruktaråg seems a worthy instructor; he knows the material well,” Will commented.
“I could not say, Will; I am not one for long tales. Did I fall asleep?” Art asked. Indeed, one side of his face was red from lying on the hard desk. Will chuckled.
It seemed that the lesson was so good that even Daniel Ogdin, walking close behind the pair, couldn’t complain about it. However, he quickly found another subject to ridicule: Art.
“… and the Tableground runt, a beggar at best. What is he still doing here? I was under the impression that this academy was for recruits with talent,” Ogdin jeered to giggles from Hostice and a posse of other Scalefire students.
Will felt no desire to restrain the power that threatened to engulf him. Spinning around, he raged. “Shut your mouth, you arrogant werewolf,” Will shouted, eyes flaring. The creature inside longed to burst out of its imprisonment. It clawed at the inside of Will’s throat and stomach, aching for a fight.
“What’s the matter, Will?” Art asked.
“The werewolf and the hag are making a fool of you,” Will replied, shaking off his restraining hand.
“Listen to your lover, Brightflame. What ever is the matter? You have no control over your anger, that’s what. You’re pathetic,” Ogdin chided. “Yet, you throw such dainty tantrums. Why not explode? Don’t fight your power. I didn’t.”
Making no reply, Will turned and walked stiffly to the Feasting Hall. It was true, he had trouble confining the beast inside him, but he had ignored its impulses to fight and kill this time. Was that not control? It’s not enough, he thought. Will shook his head, clearing it of the violent thoughts floating in it. Conflicted, he flung himself onto an empty space on the bench that lined the Lumberton table.
Doubt surged through Will’s mind. It’s true, what he said. I cannot yet control my anger, he thought. Will feared his power. If I were to hurt someone close to me- He did not want to finish the thought and silently vowed that he would tame the savage animal inside him. I will not explode. I will not become like him.
Art took a seat beside him. “Will, you must know that I’m fine. I give no mind to the hateful air that passes through his lips,” Art said in an attempt at comforting.
“I know but his…” Will started angrily. Control. Searching for the right word to express Ogdin’s disagreeable arrogance and failing, he finished, “He infuriates me.”
“Best not to let flea-bitten strays get to you, my friend,” Art smiled, biting into a juicy chicken leg. “Life is just too good.”
War Games
All of the Lumberton recruits save for Pat made their way to the fields for Combat instruction. As they crossed the lawn, Will, Art, and the two from breakfast, Ben and Gregor, talked about their classes so far.
“Best time of me life,” Ben exclaimed. “Classes are duller than me flap-jowled nan and her knitting stories, but they do work you into form,” he said, flexing his bicep, which hardly budged.
“You’re not even piped yet,” Gregor said. “You want muscular? Observe that shimmering paragon.” He was pointing at a muscled Faction Head marching and clanking in his full suit of gilded plate armor.
“If I wanted to look beefy, I could,” Ben said defensively. “I’ve got a lean muscle look. Ladies don’t crave sheer mass; they want tone.”
“Last time I checked, women did not swoon for puny runts,” Art laughed.
“Like you’re one to talk,” Ben replied hotly. “Any thinner and the farm boy here would mistake you for his scarecrow.”
At this, Ben and Art simultaneously threw down their bags and collided.
“Take it back!”
“You wrestle like a girl!”
“As if you knew what that felt like!”
“Cheeky bastard! I’ll have your tongue!”
Will and Gregor looked at one another and laughed. “Save it for class. You idiots are going to wear yourselves down before we get there,” Will said. When the fighting did not cease, Will and Gregor simply walked away in the direction of class.
“Well met, recruits. You’re a few minutes early. If you wish, practice your archery or spar for a time before the other factions arrive,” Modwyn greeted, smiling at Will, Gregor, and the two brawlers who had called a truce for now. “Or you may just want to let your stomach settle. They serve a heavy meal.”
“Sparring sounds a grand idea,” Ben said, nursing a split lip. He drew a short, steel sword. Art hoisted his axe and went off to fight again with Ben.
As the clashing sounds of metal on metal began, Will looked at Gregor, who said quickly, “Not a chance, my good man. I’m no fool; I’ve seen you fight before.”
“Suit yourself. A contest then,” Will said grinning. Will pulled his bow off his back and drew an arrow from his quiver. He loosed the arrow at a target twenty yards away. It hit the target just outside the bull’s eye.
“Well, Master Brightflame, no champion can be perfect,” Gregor joked.
“It will best yours,” Will shrugged.
Gregor pulled back the string and sent an arrow soaring towards the target. It landed just outside of Will’s. Will laughed.
A slight gust of wind flew past his face. He turned back to see Modwyn grinning smugly. Turning back to look at the target, Will was amazed to see a small throwing knife quivering in the center of the bull’s eye.
“Let’s begin,” Modwyn yelled, turning to address the sparring recruits when those from Soardale and Scalefire approached.
A shrill scream pierced the air. Modwyn looked for the source of the yell. A swarthy recruit was clutching her arm, dark blood gushing copiously from between her grasping fingers. Her sparring partner, panicking and apologizing ineffectively, hovered uselessly with apologetic tears streaming down his boyish face. Modwyn trotted over to the girl, and, placing a hand over the gash, uttered a string of strange words. The fountain of blood ceased immediately, and the girl looked down at her healed arm, astonished.
“It will leave a scar and you will feel faint for several hours,” Modwyn said calmly. “See yourself to the Healer’s Ward.” Turning on her sparring partner, Modwyn ordered, “You boy, escort her and be certain she does not faint walking up the stairs. And quit your blubbering; you wouldn’t have cut her if she had been wearing a chainmail cuirass as she was instructed.”
“Let that be a lesson to you all,” Modwyn said, addressing the recruits crowded around him. “Never think to do battle without armor. On the subject, does anyone know why we wear armor?”
“In order to avoid injury,” Ogdin answered, rolling his dark eyes.
“Good, that is exactly why we wear armor. Now, Master Ogdin, a more difficult query. What are the advant
ages of wearing light armor?” Modwyn asked with a terse edge in his voice.
“I don’t need armor, remember,” Ogdin replied curtly.
“Aye, this I realize, but answer the question.”
“There are no advantages to light armor. Lighter protects less and will break more easily, heavier protects more and will be a sturdier defense.”
“Wrong,” Modwyn glared, “light armor is just that, light. With lightness comes greater agility, which can be the difference between life and death on the battlefield. Today, we will work on our agility,” Modwyn said to the class.
The recruits were run through various drills and exercises. Before long, Will’s breath came in short bursts, and, towards the end of the lesson, he was gasping for air. Half of the class had already heaved, and Will was very close to doing the same.
“Well done, recruits,” Modwyn smiled. Another boy wretched up his food, coughing. “Let’s spar using some of the techniques you learned today. Remember to keep light on your feet. Agility is the key in the game of war,” Modwyn shouted over the students’ heavy breathing. Groans filled the air as the tired students stood and assumed battle stances.
As recruits looked for a partner, a wide berth was left between Will and the other students. Art mouthed a silent “sorry” before moving off to find someone else.
“Will, I wish to face you again,” Modwyn said softly and led Will a short bit away from the other pairs.
Modwyn called for the exhausted students to begin their duels, then turned to Will and motioned for him to start. Will reached into the back of his mind, searching for the power that resided there. He felt the wall restraining his power. As he prepared to breach it, Modwyn lunged.
Will barely had time to dodge the attack. He countered but was blocked. Modwyn’s strikes were quick and fluid, each one flowing into the next, Will struggled to find time to tap into his power. He feinted attempting to buy himself time, and Modwyn fell for the ruse. As Modwyn shifted his weight to dodge the false attack, Will mentally threw himself against the barrier separating his mind and the beast inside. As he realized that he could not use his power, Will’s eyes widened in terror.