by K M McGuire
Vec paused, pressing his hands against his mouth. No one spoke, and Yael stared vacantly at her bowl. “My point in telling this story isn’t about it being true, it’s what lies behind it that interests me. Trying to take from where you shouldn’t will never lead to success. It only leaves you in a pile of rubble.”
“I’m still not sure why you brought this up,” Yael said crossly.
Vec sighed. “There is nothing mystical to telling this story.” Vec breathed, looking at her. “Yet, it is meant to invoke thought about action. I find it interesting how the mind convinces my hand to move. In one perspective, it is by the arcane that it’s possible. Perhaps that’s true, but I have seen Syphon work, objects appearing from nothing, things forced into motion, but all of that came with a cost! Why is it that if the mind is arcane which makes us move, it makes us alive? Why does it not cost me as it would to summon flames? Moving from here to there, it costs only a subconscious thought to move. The fact that I can read, or hear these stories meant to teach—shared only by words—it can change how we see! If the mind is arcane, what kind of mystical power is that, which takes no tool or ward, but actually thrives within us?”
His pupils were wavering in tides of desperation he struggled to hold back. Voden could see Vec felt the world bearing down, jamming inside his mind. He struggled to maintain himself. He squeezed his fist a second and pressed on. “My real question is what is truly worth the cost? What is the cost of us? Are we worth more than the world, better than it? Is the world worth destroying for our own supremacy?” He exhaled heavily, shaking his head, and then…he composed himself. His turmoil faded a bit, and he gripped himself mentally before continuing. “I never really liked Syphon. I know you call it AD. I always considered it a weakness. It may be that I’m a bit jealous of those who can use it. I don’t know, I thought it was worth something to share. Maybe we stole the arcane from Those Beyond. I guess if they really are there, using Syphon seems like it’s mocking them.”
“Why is your heart so heavy over this?” Razar spoke, shaking his head, eyes void of emotion. “You seem imprisoned by your own mind and cannot make any fair conclusions! You look far beyond yourself to see flaws, as if you know! Yet, you cannot see how one arm is pulled away from your own flesh! Perhaps you have seen wrong all this time. How would you know? I see AD a bit differently than you, and I imagine so does Yael. At least, in our differences, we know what we believe! Why would you question everyone else’s actions when you can’t grip your own?”
Vec looked at him, unable to pull his glassy eyes from Razar’s face. There, the moment told the truth of Vec, revealing himself for the first time. His eyes bred a spark of something.
Perhaps it was born out of desperation, but it was, nonetheless, what one would expect from Andar as he said, “A prisoner always looks to escape their cell. They never want to return if they know freedom is truly on the other side. If we knew what freedom was, I wouldn’t think we would want to leave any without it. I want to know what it is to be free of all the miserable things that beset me and this world.”
The next few weeks became a torrent of swinging swords and volleys of arrows, melding the days into what Voden consider a single stretch of time. He wasn’t thrilled with the constant training, it shrunk the amount of time he had to spend with Yael, which was now limited to only playing the occasional card game or wandering around the city together on quiet walks, talking about whatever they possibly could. But even with this setback, Razar was a good teacher. He was hard on the pair of them for sure, but it had paid off for Voden, honing his skills to be adept with a sword and all but a deadeye with the bow.
Though Andar had been progressing all too well with his swordsmanship, Voden had found he could slip in the occasional surprise, throwing Andar off enough for him to smile during their sparring matches. Andar would then dispel any doubts as to who was better by snapping his sword round, summoning a severe welt on Voden’s body. Voden never won, but he could at least smirk at disrupting Andar’s meticulous dance. At least Razar seemed to enjoy it. In the end, Voden found little passion in sparring. He enjoyed the range far more than the ring. In that way, it hurt him much less, though in terms of quick wittedness, it may have been more difficult. Razar created rounds Voden needed to complete, firing at different ranges in a set amount of time, but Voden soon became less surprised.
It caused Razar to become exceedingly creative. He had managed to set up an insane rigging system of pulleys attached to ropes he controlled, which caused mannequins to swing and move around for him to shoot. It was the hardest challenge, until Voden started finding tricks to lead his target. Razar then became even more inventive, managing to have mannequins snap up from the ground. It forced Voden to shoot as quickly as they rose. Razar had made it more difficult by launching small bags of sand from behind the mannequins, and sometimes, from the mannequins themselves. Voden never had much time to figure out how they worked, and Razar never gave him an answer.
“Pay attention, Voden!” Razar yelled, as one of the bags smacked him square in the chest. Voden doubled over, struggling to stay unperturbed, but the dense burlap projectile felt like it had dented his sternum. Voden heard the pulleys screech, unable to look up at Razar, still wheezing as he held his chest.
“Let’s do this again!” He quickly composed himself before more of the vile bags pelted his breastbone through his heart.
The swordsman training was not much better. The footwork practice was slowed to a pace that made Voden’s mind melt to the fringe of insanity, though he knew it was meant to solidify their technique. Voden would barely have his toe out of place, shifting in an attempt to hide his mistakes, but Razar would catch sight of the error and make him start over. It was grueling. Voden wanted to go back to the range; at least he didn’t need to move so slow. They started practicing with real blades. Andar used the one spiraled around his arm. It moved comfortably with him, swirling in an unbelievably fluid motion, and Voden wasn’t quite sure what moved who.
Razar then decided that Andar was ready for a challenge. Voden shared a lack of interest the better Andar became, mainly because he was unable to keep up with his growing skills. It started one day, when one of the sardonic onlookers started heckling Andar’s slow, methodic routine, and when Razar had enough, he called them into the ring. Andar made sure they had little to jest about, parting with several reminders of the cost of opening one’s mouth. After that, Andar’s skill drew small crowds, people who were curious about the young fighter challenged by trained Radicles. The Radicles thought they had some semblance of a chance.
This went on for a few weeks. On the final week, Andar entered the ring as usual, and as always, a crowd gathered, eager to watch his fight. Voden watched as Andar stretched, knowing he would not have a calm practice. Voden felt something was off, though. There were more people surrounding the ring than usual, and he was overly curious as to why there was such a heavy crowd. His question was answered when a burly Tastin stomped into the ring. His skin was like a dark mustard, painted under the thin carpet of hair on his chest. He had a face carved from several hard-fought battles. He was large, perhaps not the biggest Tastin Voden had seen, but he had a presence that pervaded the crowd as a reverently feared man.
Razar entered the ring, handing each of them a sparring sword. He tilted his head towards Andar, as if his eyes could ask the question he wanted to, and they turned apologetic, though he spoke no consolation. Andar said nothing and took his sparring sword, his face determined and set. Razar retreated to the edge of the fence and called for the fight to begin.
The monstrous Tastin cocked his almond head, smirking maliciously at Andar. He flashed his teeth at him. His ruby tongue uncaged from his face, as if tasting the air for Andar’s blood. The Tastin’s ample neck twitched, and the pulse seemed to ripple down to his hands as he tightened his grip. Voden thought he heard the woodgrain groan from the pressure. It was almost amusing to see the sword belittled, as if the Tastin was holding a fl
ower…almost. The crowd grew rowdy, hollering incoherently at the combatants. Andar’s eyes darted about, as though scrying a plan from the crowd. He was alone with a beast.
The Tastin started to circle, biding his time like a hungry wolf. His curled lips were closer to a snarl, and he took full advantage of controlling the fight, scorning Andar for weakness, waiting for him to break. The crowd called for him to strike, to break Andar, shouting horrible names and quips in the process. Andar took tentative steps, as if the ground would crack like ice. His gaze never wavered from the Tastin. The first part of the battle would be mental, a gauging of the soul, reading the waving muscles below the skin before striking. Voden watched his friend draw a deep breath, calming his nerves as he spun his sword, preparing for what was to come.
The Tastin tarried no more. The ground seemed to repel the beastly Tastin, and he cleared the short distance faster than Andar had anticipated. He swiped diagonally downward, aiming for Andar’s side. Andar rolled forward, diving beneath the blade, hands shaking from the abrupt change of atmosphere, now fully aware of how fast this creature could move. As he rolled forward, the great Tastin predicted Andar’s move, sliding the sword from his left hand to his right. He snatched Andar by the shirt, lifting him up and crookedly grinning, displaying his wretched, white teeth. Andar turned anemic, and the Tastin reveled in his fear. Voden saw a foreboding realization shiver across Andar’s body when his writhing could not set him free. Voden felt he knew the Tastin’s intentions. He turned to Razar for support. His face was void, and he gave no hint of stopping the fight.
The Tastin jammed the sword into the earth with such force, the blade resonated like a lute string. The crowd cheered with ravenous vigor, screaming what Voden assumed was the Tastin’s name, muddied among the potpourri of chants circulating the ring. Andar writhed in the grip of the behemoth, eyes wide, praying for weakness. The Tastin moved deliberately slow, enjoying the reeking fear that all but streamed from Andar. The Tastin curled his free hand into a fist, cracking the knuckles as he tightened the ball. A roar bellowed from the crowd, loud enough for the Beyond to take notice. A dull thud battered against Andar’s face, knocking him out of the Tastin’s hand and landing him in a heap. The Tastin turned to the crowd, and with a mighty cry, he began soaking in their spouting exaltations.
“Should have stayed home, boy,” the Tastin flouted, watching Andar shakily pull himself to his feet. He spit globs of blood into the dirt. “Damned child, thinking you can play at a man’s game! Don’t worry. I enjoy burying those I break!” The Tastin marched over to Andar, paying no mind to his sparring sword still imbedded in the soil, ready to knock teeth from Andar’s jaw. Andar flashed the sword up towards the descending fist, just in time to guard the attack.
Now, Voden could see it. Andar’s eyes always told his truth. His fear had left him, mixed somewhere with the dust-covered globs of blood. The Tastin scrunched his brow with fury and pain, pulling his arm back again to swing, but Andar spun his body and swung his sword over his head, punishing the side of the Tastin’s face. The Tastin’s eyes dilated, cataracted with abashment just before filling with bloodlust. He swung his fist, and Andar parried, bashing the Tastin’s knuckles with his wooden sword, slapping his yellow skin to a burning rust color. The Tastin roared in anger, perhaps with a mixture of pain, and began swinging more viciously, but Andar refused him reprisal. Andar weaved and dodged, sparking the Tastin into a deeper fury, which boiled into foam at his mouth. His eyes sparkled with the hope of landing his knuckles into Andar’s soft tissue, even if that meant breaking things open to get to it.
Andar stole quick opportunities where the Tastin left his side vulnerable, turning his ribs first to red, and beating the color further to scream with purple. The Tastin finally broke his advance and moved back to his sparring sword, stroking his tender ribs, fighting the urge to grimace every time his chest rose from his weary breaths. He disrupted the sword from its earthen sheath and rushed Andar again. This time, Andar braced himself as he sidestepped and angled his blade up and against his opponent’s weapon. The Tastin’s blade drove against Andar’s counter, and it looked as if it shook him through to the bone.
Voden saw the pain Andar held back, unwilling to allow his composure to break. The Tastin raised his weapon again, swinging for Andar’s legs. Andar slid back, the sword just missing his shins, and with expert timing, he slammed his foot against the Tastin’s blade, pressing it into the dirt. The Tastin’s nose flared in confusion, but Andar’s foot was firm, and he was ready to bring his own blade down on the Tastin’s head.
The Tastin ducked and slid to the left. Andar seemed to anticipate this and pulled his sword back as a feint, bringing his back leg off the sword, swinging his foot against the Tastin’s ear. The crowd groaned, watching the Tastin stumble back and stagger, holding his head. Andar was on him before he could manage to recuperate, maintaining his momentum, ready to strike again.
Andar was too eager for his own good. The Tastin flailed a surprising swing that caught against Andar’s jaw. Voden felt his heart drop as Andar slumped to the ground, holding his face and collapsing in the dirt. The Tastin stood with a stagger as a trickle of blood dripped from his ear. He snorted defiantly his contempt. He marched to the edge of the ring, where the crowd parted, revealing a smaller, almost wimpy looking Tastin shimmying his way to the front. The mighty Tastin reached out of the ring and revealed a bastard sword that he unsheathed from the squire. Voden could see the rage seething in the Tastin’s face. He wondered what Razar was going to do, but despite what Voden feared, Razar hardly moved a muscle. He must have known the Tastin’s intentions were to harm, if not kill, Andar.
Andar pulled himself to his knees, but the Tastin was unwilling to allow him a chance. Andar rolled away from the striking Tastin, unable to snatch the sparring sword. The heavy blade shattered the wooden stick, planting itself into the soil where Andar lay recovering. He had not moved far enough away, however, and learned just how hard the Tastin could kick. It caught him firmly in the gut, arching Andar’s spine to an almost grotesque shape. Voden winced at Andar’s involuntary grunt, where he again, crumpled to the ground, gripped his stomach, and gasped. The Tastin smiled and yanked his sword from its furrow, lifting it over his head, tapping the blade against his shoulder with thoughts of Andar’s impending doom. With a violent roar, he swung the blade for Andar’s final repose.
The sound was so abruptly different than Voden had imagined. In fact, no one expected to hear the ring of blade against blade. Andar held up his right arm, where the polygons had shifted to the top of his forearm, forming an odd, faceted silver carapace that flared out around his arm, the edges cascaded over and ebbed with a faint blue hue that colored Andar’s face, holding the Tastin’s attack at bay. Razar’s smile tweaked at his cheeks. Consternation strapped the Tastin’s face as Andar forced the bastard sword away. Andar rose, the polygons clinking and shifting down his arm, connecting the pieces of a pulsing blade, lined with etchings of cerulean that purred with light. The pommel lit with what looked like a sapphire, oscillating the light down the hilt and disappearing out the tip of the sword, exemplifying how sharp the blade truly was. Andar held his stomach, and the two squared off again, accounting for the change of circumstance.
“I would give up,” the Tastin growled, his eyes wishing to summon a curse on Andar. “It would be better for your health if you do!”
Andar shook his head. “I hold no fear of you! Neither do I hold any of death. If I am to die, it will be like every day that I lived, confident that I did all I could!”
The Tastin erupted with uncontrollable peals of laughter, “You must wear your heart on your sleeve, boy! But don’t worry, the more you show it off, the easier it is to cut it out!”
He charged, holding his blade to the side, and swung it at Andar’s shoulder, but Andar lifted his sword in an irritated fashion, parrying the attack. A slight pause, and Andar went for the attack, sliding his foot back, but the Tastin changed his blade�
��s direction, aiming now for Andar’s stomach. Andar tilted his blade down, blocking the strike, and slid himself back enough to ready his advance. Andar swiped his blade up, pulling the Tastin’s sword and thick arms skyward, opening his midsection for an attack. Andar’s blade disengaged, and he swiped across the Tastin’s chest. The Tastin moaned. Andar’s blade cleaved across his skin, the white flesh beneath now filled with cherry red beads of blood, weeping through his fingers.
The Tastin had managed to avoid the worst of the attack, skirting what could have been fatal, but he would soon be unable to keep his pace if he could not end things presently. The Tastin was distracted by the strike, but Andar was now in full momentum. The Tastin took a defensive swipe. Andar spun around, pulling his body closer together, ducking down to his knees as the Tastin’s blade slid over his hair. The sword sundered through the air, and the hilt met the Tastin’s other hand. He angled the blade back for another attempt. Andar dodged the next blow, maneuvering next to the Tastin. The Tastin brought the blade up, aiming to pierce Andar’s midsection, but Andar met the blade with his own, parrying the Tastin’s sword down. He now had a foot behind the Tastin, while he held the swords locked to the ground. Andar shifted his blade, pommel now perpendicular to the Tastin. Their eyes locked a moment in the close quarters, heat flickering across the Tastin’s pupils, urging Andar to break. Andar remained poised, his demeanor unreadable.
He slid his blade along the Tastin’s steel, ascending along its edge with a choir of sizzles. He drove the pommel of the sword hard against the Tastin’s face, cracking him just under the eye socket, and a grumbling crunch bloomed from the hit. In the same motion, Andar swiped his foot, kicking the legs out from under the Tastin. The Tastin thudded against dirt, birthing a cloud of dust around his misery-soaked head. Andar was already on top of him before the dust had time to rise. His boot pressed the circulation out of the Tastin’s hand, fingers unclenching the sword, and he placed the eager blue tip of his sword on the Tastin’s adam’s apple. The man’s eye already swelled, and Voden thought his eye socket might be broken. The Tastin flashed his good eye, staring at the half-blood hovering over him.