by J. T. Wright
Ranar’s strength had once been a symbol of Al’rashia. The people had viewed him with pride and took comfort in his presence. That comfort had been stolen when the Horde had appeared, and Ranar was unable to confront it. The World and the Keeper did not allow one man’s overwhelming strength to solve the problems of an entire people. Ranar’s purpose was to train and guide, not to carry. If he had joined the defense against the Horde, he could have crushed it, but the World would have sent another Trial tailored for the ancient Al’rashian. He might have beaten that too, but his people still would have been destroyed by it.
The invaders that swept his people aside still controlled the territory they had conquered. Many times, Ranar had been tempted to leave his tower and confront the Undead, Infernal, and Fallen Awakened Races that roamed the ash of his homeland. He stopped himself each time. He could not know if the World would send a Tribulation to him or if she would send it upon all the Kin still living.
So, he stayed his hand. He maintained his vigil. He trained and meditated and waited for the day his people would rise again. He didn’t listen to the whispers that taunted him, saying that day would never come. He held Al’rashia in his heart, and he waited.
Seeing a field of white before him instead of the familiar grey walls of the Tower of Dusk, Ranar tensed imperceptibly but did not panic. His hands lay on the hilts of his weapons because that was where they always lay, not because he felt threatened. He recognized that he was in a Trial. He hadn’t been in one in centuries, but the feeling that accompanied these divine testing places wasn’t something you forgot. He turned slowly. The question was not where, but why, possibly how.
Ranar froze as he caught sight of the answer. Sitting on a throne, which should not exist (Ranar had seen the remains of that throne in ruined Windshire Stronghold), Darak Fairdor’s blood-soaked form was equally as still as Ranar's. The king waited for the judgment and condemnation he deserved, and had he been capable of tears, he would have wept, when Ranar’s head bowed and the elder Al’rashian sunk to a knee.
Ranar knelt, one hand on his sword hilt, the other pressed to the floor. His head was lowered in respect but also to hide his own tears, which flowed freely. His King, his poor lost King, why was he here? The lad Ranar had trained had held a Level of 150 when he led the Wraiths in their last charge. He had fallen, and Ranar counted it a victory. Some of the people had survived, escaped, and the Dread Knight scum whose Level had been no less than 200 tasted true death at the hands of his student. That was all Ranar could ask for. Darak had been a true king and warrior of Al’rashia. Why was he bound to a Trial?
“You never knelt to me in life, Teacher Wygon.” Darak’s voice was thick with emotion he could not express. “Will you not stand with me now? I have missed you, old friend.”
Tears streamed from Ranar’s eyes as he replied, “The Tower of Dusk still stands, my King, and I still stand vigil, but before you I can only kneel. I'm proud of you, boy.”
“I also stand vigil,” Darak said, his words explaining his existence to Ranar. The king had condemned himself to life as a Keeper in order to see a day that might never come. “But our wait is nearly over.”
Ranar’s head rose. He stood and crossed the distance to the throne, where he knelt again. One hand reached out to touch the hand of his king. He almost suspected this was a dream. He expected his hand to pass through Darak’s fingers. When he clasped cold but solid flesh, he knew it was real.
His eyes were glued to Darak’s as he asked, “What happened?”
Darak grinned like a boy showing off a treasured rock or captured frog to a trusted mentor. “A Spirit Summoner challenged my Trial. In this place he found a Spirit Orb and a brother. A brother with Violet eyes. They are in need of a guide.”
Ranar could hardly breathe at the news, but he managed to force out a single word. “Where?”
Chapter 1
The grasslands around the Burning Lake were a low-level area. None of the greater Beasts of the World would approach that seemingly placid body of water. Lacking a true lord, the Level 10 Horned Hare currently nibbling at the sweet grasses considered itself a king.
There were none in the area that could threaten this tyrant. He ate what he pleased, slept where he would and indiscriminately killed any whose presence offended him. He had no fear. The grass he currently enjoyed lay near charred and disturbed terrain, but he was not bothered. The sight near where he had chosen to feast had obviously seen battle a month or so ago. Some sections were burned, and others were churned. The scars of battle were so apparent, even a simple Beast like the Horned Hare could recognize them.
He didn’t care. His arrogance was plain for all to see. He was king, and he had no equal, not for dozens of miles. Safe and well-fed, the Hare curled up on the ground underneath the open sky. What need had he to hide like the common members of his warren?
When a wagon suddenly appeared on the empty hillside, the Hare was startled. When the wagon was joined by a small herd of saddled horses, he was annoyed. The seventeen people that popped out of nowhere were the final straw. This king would show the invaders what it meant to trespass on his territory.
He sat upright on his hind legs, forepaws batting at the air. His white horn, which he often polished on bushes and the bodies of his enemies, shone brightly in the afternoon sunlight. He sniffed the air, evaluating his foes and prepared to charge.
Even simple Beasts can put aside arrogance. Even kings can recognize emperors. Numbers didn’t faze the Hare. No, it was the scent of blood and carnage that gave him pause. A closer examination of the group that had appeared told the Hare that, perhaps, these invaders could be forgiven. All of them felt strong, stronger than the Hare, stronger than any that the herbivore had ever encountered.
And that figure in the center, the one fully encased in metal, holding an axe that was taller and wider than two Horned Hares put together, that was an opponent not to be trifled with. The axman radiated death. The Horned Hare batted the air a few more times to demonstrate its own might, and then quickly scurried for its warren. It ran not from fear. No, it was only that the sun was too bright for a decent nap. It would be better to sleep piled against its does, deep, deep, underground.
Sergeant Cullen inhaled slowly as he stored his axe, Peacemaker, away. The air was sweet outside of the Trial. The healthy smells of grass and herbs, carried on the wind, drifted to his nose. Wildflowers could be seen peeking out of the tall grass as the ocean of plants swayed. In the distance, a large body of water beckoned weary travelers to rest on its banks, but of course, none would. The waters were named the Burning Lake for a reason.
Sergeant Cullen removed his helm. He lifted his face, allowing the sun to wash away the darkness of the Undead lands that he had traversed for a month. Most would have smiled to be in such a peaceful location on such a beautiful late summer’s day.
Most were not Sergeant Cullen. He tried smiling, but it was the slightest of frowns that creased his face. The air in the Trial had been moist and hot, the earth had been dead, and not once had Cullen seen a living plant grace the soil of the Land of the Undying Lord. In the entire Trial, there had been nothing a reasonable person would call pleasant.
Already, Cullen missed it. The Sergeant was happy with his life in Al’drossford. Brotherhood had brought him to this backwater territory. Brotherhood and duty kept him in the city. He did enjoy molding recruits and warriors, and his life held purpose. But sometimes…
Sometimes the settled life in Al’drossford wore at him. The Land of the Undying Lord had reminded Cullen that the World held adventure, more adventure than anyone in the kingdom of Al’verren would believe. Cullen, and Duke Lewis, Lady Vanessa and Taylor Craw had met and journeyed together far from this little kingdom. With the rest of their companions, they had explored what the World held, and occasionally, Cullen missed that wider world. But Trials would always be there to challenge; the Land of the Undying Lord would hardly be his last. For now, duty demanded his attention.
He straightened up and looked around. Counting himself, seventeen people stood gathered around the wagon. Cullen had mixed feelings about what he saw. First, there should have been eighteen people. All his Guardsmen and recruits were present. That meant either the runt, Trent, or one of Kirstin’s party had fallen to the Trial.
Cullen almost swore out loud when he couldn’t find Trent’s bland face. He had had high hopes for the boy; high hopes and plans. He also bore more than a bit of affection for the ordinary looking runt, not that he would admit it. Trent had promise, and Cullen hated to see that promise cut short by a Trial.
When a second glance drew a figure to his attention, a figure that didn’t belong, Cullen almost lost his composure. Was that young man, that young Al’rashian by the looks of him, Trent? Trials could change a person, Cullen was proof of that, but in all his years, the Sergeant had never seen a transformation such as this in anyone.
Standing tall and straight, Trent’s curious eyes darted about. Curious purple eyes, the likes of which Cullen had never seen before. The boy’s dull brown hair had changed as well. Now it shone dark black or deep blue, depending on how the light hit it. Gone were the familiar garments crafted by Master Taylor, or mostly gone. The ragged remains of trousers and boots were still there, but the boy had traded out his leather jacket for scale mail and vambraces. The cowl that was perpetually gathered about the boy’s shoulders was still intact. It was this item that convinced Cullen that the boy with sharp Al’rashian features was Trent. The cowl was soul-bound, and Trent hadn’t been without it since he had acquired it.
Relief flashed across Cullen’s face and then a frown set in. The runt was holding an ornate chest of silver and gold in his arms. The chest looked like one you might find in a Trial, but that wasn’t what drew Cullen’s ire. The boy was completely unarmed. Except for a belt knife, there was no weapon to be seen, and yet, Trent looked completely at ease.
The boy would soon learn better. His first act upon exiting the Trial should have been to arm himself. Cullen didn’t allow any of his trainees to go about without any means of protection. The World was a dangerous place. Trent should know that, considering what he must have seen over the last month. Teaching the boy would have to wait, though.
Other matters were more important. If Trent was alive, that meant one of the Adventurers wasn’t. Kirstin, a girl he had known her whole life, would be upset. She hadn’t lost a friend to the Trials before.
Corporal Francis was getting the men moving. Cullen approved of that and stayed back, letting Frank take the lead. Cullen scanned all present with his Identification Skill. The Recruits would have been shocked to discover he had this Skill and more shocked to learn it wasn’t the standard type, but an advanced version known as Mentoring Eyes.
If Cullen had a Skill that allowed him to see every aspect of their Statuses, why did he always insist that they display them during inspections? The answer was simple; Cullen liked to see the Recruits squirming as he tore into them for slacking off during their training. He wanted the Recruits to show him their faults. He believed it motivated them to do better, and maybe it did. That it was entertaining was just a side benefit.
But there were times, like today, when a formal inspection was impractical. Once again, Cullen experienced mixed feelings as he examined his men. All of them had grown in the Trial. In the case of the Senior Guardsmen, it was a healthy, natural growth. Their Skills had improved, and they’d picked up new ones. Levels had risen across the board, and Cullen was glad to see that, too. These men had been handpicked by him and were important members of the Guard. Their strength was Al’drossford’s strength.
It was the Recruits that had Cullen biting the insides of his cheeks. They had been sheltered in the Trial, and it showed. Levels were higher, but their Skills were lagging. It would take considerable work to whip them into shape. Technically, reaching Level 10, as these Recruits had, meant they should be promoted to Junior Guardsmen, but Cullen would be damned before he allowed these Recruits to progress.
Junior Guardsmen weren’t greatly superior to Recruits, but it was an important step. Recruits who hadn’t already Specialized would be pushed towards doing so. Having trained the important Basic Skills to the expected Level, Junior Guardsmen would have the opportunity to learn new ones, from Skill Stones provided by the Keep. Mastering these new Skills marked the next step in their careers.
That step would have to wait for these Recruits. Their Basic Skills were sorely lacking. Cullen was pleased to see some of them had already Specialized, though. Higher Attributes meant maybe their future training would be smoother.
Trent had also picked up a new Class and Specialization, Swordsman. Cullen heartily approved. Warrior Classes suited the lad, suited everyone in Cullen’s opinion. The runt’s Rogue Class, Survivalist, had stumped the Sergeant. He knew how to train Rogues, but he’d never heard of Survivalists before. Cullen rubbed his hands together and considered how he would polish the boy’s shiny new Swordsman Class.
His glee lasted five seconds. A dark cloud settled on his shoulders as he noted an unwelcome development. Tersa ran up to Trent and slapped the boy on the shoulder, babbling happily about some nonsense. Cullen saw her Status, saw her new Brute Specialization, and noticed that her Enraging Aura had reached Level 12. That Aura wasn’t activated now, but Cullen was enraged, nonetheless.
Tersa joyfully shared a bit of news with Trent, completely unaware of the storm that was stomping towards her.
**********
Cullen wasn’t the only one who was disappointed at the Trial’s end. Trent also shared some of the Sergeant’s misgivings. The Land of the Undying Lord hadn’t bothered him much. He discovered that the longer he was in the Trial, the more he’d grown accustomed to it. In comparison, the green hill with its pleasant smells and calm breeze felt alien to the boy.
Darak Fairdor had also opened Trent’s eyes to some disturbing possibilities about his place in the World. Before he could get the answers he craved, Trent had been shoved out of the Trial. He hadn’t even opened the chest that contained his reward. He was sure he’d been cheated, though he loathed to believe that Darak was capable of such an act.
Trent had felt an immediate connection with the once King who was now a Keeper. He trusted Darak, but he couldn’t say why. Darak had now been added to the short-list of people the Al’rashian youth truly trusted, a list which also included the names of Tersa, Orion, and Cullen. He was disturbed by the fact that the person who controlled his fate, Kirstin, didn’t make the cut.
There were others Trent had met whom the boy respected. Corporal Francis, Captain Michael, Lieutenant Ranchell, and Master Taylor were all people he looked up to. It was only that he didn’t know them well. He had no sense for them yet. It was the same with Kirstin.
He had positive experiences with the noblewoman, as many good times as bad, all things considered. He just wasn’t quite ready to trust her. Not after that first day. Not after her abandonment and his forced run. Maybe his feelings would change. He was only a couple of months old; change was inevitable.
Darak, he trusted. He hoped he would meet the Keeper again someday. That seemed unlikely, however, given the nature of Instant Trials. At least he had his reward. Darak hadn’t cheated him out of that. The chest in his arms was heavy. It wasn’t large though he had to hold it with both hands. He was excited to find out what the box contained. Was the box itself part of his reward, or would it disappear when he opened it?
Before he could set it down and open it, the precious container was almost knocked out of his hands. Tersa, running up and greeting him with her customary slap on the shoulder, earned herself an exasperated look. How was she so strong?
Tersa either didn’t notice or chose to ignore Trent’s expression. She had news! Big news! Potentially life-altering news, and she had to share it, or she’d burst.
“Trent! Guess what! No, don’t guess, you’ll never guess! It’s too… too…” Tersa was visibly tremblin
g with excitement. Her happiness managed to dispel Trent’s annoyance. He waited for his friend to continue.
Tersa had been almost shouting when she began, but now her voice dropped to a whisper, or what she considered a whisper. Everyone within fifty feet, which meant everyone present, could still hear her, despite her exaggeratedly hushed tone. Lacking anything else to distract them, they all listened in.
“I got a new Class Slot!” Tersa squealed and jumped. She nearly spun in a circle and forgot to even attempt a whisper. “A second Class! Do you know what that means? I didn’t even know that was possible! Did you know? Of course, you didn’t, stupid thing to ask, you don’t know anything.”
“Recruit Tersa!” The barked words that came from behind her stiffened Tersa’s back like someone had shoved a board down her chainmail. After a month of traveling with Trent and Orion, the redhead had become lax when it came to military discipline. All those lessons she had set aside came rushing back to her when Sergeant Cullen approached.
She whirled, already at attention. Cullen stood inches away, his face as red as Tersa’s hair. His nostrils flared with barely contained anger.
“S-s-Sergeant?” Tersa stammered. “Beautiful day, isn’t it? And hey! I survived, bet ya didn’t… um and I…”
Trent winced sympathetically. He didn’t know how Tersa did it. She always managed the wrong tone. Trent knew that the proper response to Sergeant Cullen’s shout was vigilant silence. Tersa, having known and trained under Cullen for much longer than Trent, should have been aware of this, as well.
“Recruit Tersa!” Cullen was in no mood for the girl’s nonsense. “You have exactly ten seconds to explain to me why it appears that you’ve picked up a Specialization like Brute and have over-leveled Enraging Aura. It had better be a damned good explanation too. Preferably, it should be one that starts with how you plan to fix the… the… the abomination that you’ve made of yourself. Start talking now!”