Nestling

by Lupine King

  “Hurry up and call the match”, he said.

  “RAAAH!!” Tirenael screeched. His staff, a noble artefact, slapped itself back into his hand so he could draw on its power. His essence blew to immense proportions, growing darker and viler. And yet Valerian merely looked at him as if unconcerned. No one had any sense of what was happening anymore much less the reason for Valerian’s confidence. And then the screaming began.

  Tirenael’s aura diminished instantly as steam and smoke began to rise from his body. He fell back to the floor, his staff rolling out of his grip whilst he crumpled. The screams coming from him were inhuman. They were loud, sharp and so filled with pain that the watcher could not help but shudder a little. All they saw next was Valerian take a few steps towards his opponent his right hand covered in a bright white light. As he did so, Tirenael’s screams lessened in volume making it obvious that he was the one behind it.

  Voice hoarse from screaming, Tirenael could barely speak. He forced himself to though. “What did you do to me?”

  Valerian ignored him.

  “When I get up I will…” he ground out. Immediately, the white light on Valerian’s hand flared up and Tirenael was left squirming on the floor again. It was less intense this time as opposed to the last. No longer was he blanking out from the overwhelming pain. This time he could practically taste its nuances. Soon, he could take it no longer and begun to beg.

  “Argh! It burns. It burns! Make it stop! Please make it stop!” he begged.

  “You were defeated. On the floor, suffering the effects of an unknown spell and yet, you attempted to threaten me. Clearly, you did not know your place”, Valerian said to him. “Tell me Brimstone, do you know it now?”

  The look his adversary shot him was so dark others would think it a curse but Valerian did not shy away. Tirenael quickly looked away frightened. Valerian smiled. He was glad. His plan had worked out. Before coming to this arena he had developed no less than five different ways to defeat his opponent and in the end, he used two. The second was more of an insurance really.

  The fight with Aaron Veldt taught Valerian a crucial lesson. He had believed the entire purpose of the Zebre was for young cultivators to showcase their skills. While it was not wrong he had taken a near-disastrous approach. He had held back. He avoided finishing blows. Did not strike with intent to kill or maim for fear of the rules. He had focused more on showing off his variety of skills and his planning whilst the others had focused on winning. That was why he chose to outmanoeuvre his opponents instead of simply firing heart seeking bolts into their chests.

  At least until he met Aaron Veldt. The boy had come into the battle with a noble weapon he could not control. One that had been chosen specifically to target his weaknesses. He displayed little skill in their battle, relying on brute power and attribute superiority to win. That was not the surprising part. The surprise was that everyone had let him. No one had thought it wrong. That was how Valerian knew he followed the wrong approach. With the exception of that braggart Kalian and his cousin, who had never even had to try, every other opponent had been fighting to win.

  Even his cousin had nearly killed him when he got serious. Aaron had nearly permanently disfigured him. Tirenael had tortured his opponents. He himself had inadvertently ruined Aaron’s life and future career in return. No one had truly been bothered by that. His detractors had tried to get him disqualified not because he had gone against the rules by maiming and nearly killing another contestant but because he won. Valerian had never felt so stupid.

  The aim of the Zebre was not to wow the crowd or prove his skills. It was to win. One could take down his or her opponents however they wished. It did not really matter what they did so long as they seized victory. The rules were more guidelines than anything else. So Valerian revised his strategy. When he came into the arena today, he had not bothered to fight his opponent in a display of skill but to take him out. He was not fighting. He was hunting. After explaining himself to his family, he had spent the preceding days researching and studying his opponent, juxtaposing their strengths and personalities till he found several weaknesses.

  Tirenael was a devil who loved to torture his opponents so he could feed on their negative emotions. There was no way he would ever finish a fight quickly. The best chance of success lay in him defeating him before he grew bored, got serious or felt threatened enough to use his noble artefact. Secondly, Tirenael had the arcane vessel and physique of a devil. It gave him many strengths but also gave him many weaknesses. Good thing was, Valerian already possessed a fitting weapon. [Eliminating the Darkness]. It was an array commonly used to enchant weapons with light energy so that they became effective tools against dark attributed foes. It was the first thing Valerian focused on when the fight started. Only, he made sure to keep it small and concealable until it was ready for use.

  Once that happened, he had two choices. Enlarge the array so that he could send weapons through it, temporarily turning them into anti-dark weapons or somehow transfer the array onto his opponent’s person. He chose the latter. An array that turned anything it was on into an anti-dark weapon and he placed it on the body of someone who had a devil’s arcane vessel. The moment Tirenael began channelling his powers, it activated turning his own energy against him. The only reason Valerian stepped in was because he was afraid that Tirenael was going to kill himself otherwise.

  He turned to the referee again and this time the man did not hesitate.

  “Winner: Valerian of the Steelborn!”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Perspectives

  In one of DaleGuard’s many packed taverns

  “DON’T YOU PEOPLE SEE?” one man was yelling.

  He was drunk. Incredibly so. So drunk that he had trouble standing straight. Still, he tried to make his point. Fortunately for him, he was one of those who got only more impassioned and loud rather than slurry and passive when he became inebriated. Not so fortunate for the other patrons, however, who had to hear him.

  “This is how they control us. These Yignsi… these outsiders. They slip into our land and take over and now they impose their deity on us. These Steelborns! If we don’t do something now we’ll never be able to stop them. They are strong but if we all fight them together we can…” he was cut off when a tankard slammed into his face.

  “OH SHUT UP!” came an accompanying yell. There was laughter and cheering from the majority of the tavern’s occupants. It appeared that they had finally grown tired of the loud drunk. The poor man had been sent backwards from the blow, blood spewing from his broken nose. Luckily, his friends were able to steady him to prevent him from falling as he was certainly seeing stars.

  “Outsiders this! Outsiders that! You people never have any proper complaint against the Steelborns. So what if they are outsiders. My grandmother came from the southern hills are you going to hold that against me too. Pathetic!” He spat. Many in the tavern nodded at this, showing that they agreed with him.

  “You don’t understand”, spoke one of the bleeding drunk’s companions. He appeared to be far less inebriated than his counterpart. “This is different. They are trying to control us. It doesn’t matter where you turn they are there. They’ve got their grubby fingers in everything and now they want us to worship their deity as well knowing that it would give them more power. How long before they enslave us or worse? We have to cut them off here before the time comes and we can’t anymore.’

  At his words, a large mercenary near the back started laughing. The man was at least two and a half metres tall and built like a bull. He wore simple leathers and sat on his own beside his small band, unable to sit at the table with them due to his size. Thankfully, he had been given a seat big enough as well as a small table to himself where his drinks and food were. He stared past all the other tavern occupants, his eyes unerringly finding the other man’s.

  Keeping his overly large arm around the waist of one of the tavern wenches, he began to speak “That’s your problem? The fact that the S
teelborns rule us? I’m not sure what you know about ruling houses but I reckon that’s part of their duties. I don’t reckon the king gave them the land and peerage for them to make nice armour for themselves!”

  The other patrons burst into loud laughter as well when it became clear what he was implying. The ruling house was supposed to control all affairs in its territory. Getting angry because they did that was just futile and stupid.

  “As for slavery, hah! Have you got cobwebs between your ears boy? They are the ruling House of Cragsveil! All the land is theirs and all of the people theirs to command. Only a more powerful power like a count, duke or the King himself can go against their wishes in their land. Why would they need slaves when they can already command any of us to do whatever they want?

  “If your problem is the fact they are the ones ruling us then take the matter up with the King. He appointed them. Or better yet challenge the Viscount. I’d love to see how long it would take for him to behead the lot of you. But if you are just going to stand here and spit out nonsense then take your foolish posse and get out here. Your stupidity is going to make our ale taste sour. Well …at least more sour than Trais’ brew normally is!”

  Everyone burst into laughter again. Trais the tavern keep shot the mercenary an obscene gesture but that just made his patrons laugh even more. As for the Steelborn disparaging gentlemen, they merely stood there, realising that they were not being taken seriously. Many had their faces flushed an angry red and nearly all of them had their fists clenched at their sides. This was not the first time this had happened. It did not matter where they went. Be it on the streets or in the taverns, nobody was willing to entertain them and their views. Especially at a time when favourable sentiments towards the Steelborns was at such a high due to the events of the Zebre.

  In midst of this tide of laughter, another voice was heard. “I for one am glad that the Steelborns are our rulers.” The speaker this time was a well-known trader and people spun to face him and hear what he had to say.

  “The Steelborns are the strongest”, he stated. “They are the best we’ll get. I’d rather they be in charge than any of the other lords. We should not forget that the last time war touched these lands, they all scurried off like roaches when the lamp is lit. It is only because of the Steelborns that there’s still a Cragsveil. Those damned Wherries still fear us precisely because the Steelborns are our rulers.

  “They run a tight shift but it’s a good, fair and efficient one. Whenever I recall my grandfather’s stories of the old days I thank the stars that I live in this time and not in his. I cannot even imagine that Cragsveil was once what they say it was. With constant incursions, bandits and daemon raids not to mention the squabbles between the various lords. I don’t even what to think of this land being that lawless.

  “No matter what you say about the Steelborns, they keep everyone in line. The lords know not to do anything foolish. All the old, famous bandit groups are gone. I am forty now and I have never experienced a Wherry invasion. That was something completely unheard off two hundred years ago. The daemons skirt our lands but they never intrude. Those that do die. More importantly, the Steelborns ensure that everyone does his or her duty. I’ve looked at some of the figures. You wouldn’t believe just how much that contributes to the peace and prosperity we enjoy.

  “I bet none of you can even imagine an official not doing his or her job or one that would require a bribe before doing anything. I trade a lot and I can tell you truthfully that it while it might not happen in Cragsveil but it certainly happens nearly everywhere else. The only difference between Cragsveil and those places is that the Steelborns won’t tolerate it and they can enforce those laws so no one dares. That’s why I want them to remain. They can and will continue to do the job. They are strong enough to do so and they are best we can have.”

  The occupants of the taverns sat there murmuring as they deliberated on the trader’s words. They had some merit. No other power or faction could control Cragsveil as effectively as the Steelborns and none of them had the power to sit at the top of the region. The confusion alone that would arise if the Steelborns were absent would be disastrous.

  Along one of the side streets in one of DaleGuard’s residential districts

  A bunch of boys were gathered together. Each was about seven or eight years old. They were gearing up to play one of the games Valerian never got to play at that age. Cultivators! Unfortunately, there was currently an argument ongoing that prevented the game from starting.

  “I want to be a Steelborn!” the tallest lad said.

  “No, I want to be a Steelborn”, the neatest proclaimed making sure his voice was louder than the one before him.

  “Wait, I want to be a Steelborn too”, the third and shortest one mentioned.

  “We can’t all be Steelborn”, the first was wise enough to point out.

  “Then, I should be the Steelborn. I started this game so I should be the Steelborn”, the second quickly piped in.

  “I… well then I’m John Hammerfist”, said the first relenting.

  “Why is everyone wanting to be Steelborn?” the fourth and dirtiest asked in a puzzled tone.

  “Because, because the Steelborns are the strongest!” The second boy explained.

  “Except for maybe Hammerfist”, the first boy stated.

  “Ha! Hammerfist can’t beat a Steelborn. No one can beat a Steelborn.

  “Yeah, says who?” the first quickly objected.

  “Ask anyone. Everyone knows it. I heard that at the Zebre that one of them even made a devil cry”, the second said proudly.

  “Wow!” “Wicked!” the other two Steelborn enthusiasts exclaimed simultaneously.

  “I know”, the second said in response. “When I grow up I’m going to get a job with the Steelborns!” he announced.

  “Well, my father says the Steelborn are all rotten. That they aren’t even from Crasgveil and we shouldn't have to listen to ‘em”

  “Your father is the rotten one!” the ‘game starter’ yelled angrily.

  “You take that back!” the fourth yelled back.

  “I won’t!” the other said stubbornly. “Everyone knows the Steelborn are good. They are always the good guys.”

  “Yeah! My father says they go and fight daemons all the time” said the first in support of the second. “They’ve got to be the good guys?” he reasoned.

  “But my father says…” the fourth tried to say.

  “Pooey! Your father is just jealous”, the second accused.

  “Is not!” the fourth retorted.

  “Is too!” the second shot back.

  “Is not” the fourth repeated.

  “Is…”

  Thankfully, before they could truly get going a timely distraction came.

  “Guys! Guys! Stop. Come see! Charles is walking with a girl. They are holding hands!” came the voice of the shortest in the group, the third boy.

  “Where?” asked two voices.

  “Which girl?” asked the second boy.

  “Quick! Come see!” their friend called.

  Scrambling in their haste they rushed towards the curb to catch their friend holding hands with a very pleased looking girl. The baker’s daughter from his street. Swiftly, they began planning how they would confront him about the matter and tease him. The quarrel from before was already gone from their minds.

  In a secret meeting room

  Dorian Veldt stood next to the entrance personally welcoming everyone in. Today’s turnout was the greatest this century. Everyone had come. They even had new members. He just wished this enthusiasm had come sooner. ‘Still’, he thought to himself as he scanned the packed room. ‘This should be enough to crush those dratted Steelborns.’

  Taking his place at the head of the table, he began, “My brethren we….

  Conversely, in a secret room in the Steelborn clan compound

  Roland Steelborn sat cross-legged in front of a raised dais. Two strange looking elders at his sid
es. His eyes were open but unfocused. His thoughts were racing at breakneck speeds as he exchanged information with the being in front of him updating it on the progress they had made. The numbers that had already signed up. The move to send effigies for shrines to some of the remote towns and villages. The movements of their enemies as well as the donations and sacrifices already coming in.

  The Zebre had been an even greater success than they had planned it to be. He felt the presence in his mind pause, halting at an image. His great-grandson. Roland felt pride shoot up his chest as well as sorrow. It pained him that he had never been a part of the boy’s life before now and that his relationship with Valan had degraded to the point it was now. Back in the infirmary, he stood there, on the sidelines, painfully aware that he did not fit in. He had no role to play among them. None but the role of the clan patriarch who sought the clan’s wellbeing. So he played that.

  He sat there waiting as the presence in his head carefully went through all the information on Valerian as well as the various assessments made of him by the elders who had come into contact with him. Then, the presence withdrew from his mind. It took Roland a few moments to regain his senses and recover from the sudden vacuum in his mind. He and the spirit due their roles shared the greatest connection amongst the Steelborns. It had reached a point where they no longer even spoke in each other’s presence. Rather they performed mind melds so they could simply connect and exchange what they had to. That was why it surprised him when the spirit spoke.

  “The Boy! Bring me the boy!”

  “Valerian?” he inquired to make sure.

  “Yes! Bring him to me!”