Forge the Path of Sorcery

by NAK Baldron

They both stood with their right arms extended palm up. The chubby boy shifted the club to his left hand and then used his freed right hand to shake theirs.

  "I accept the formal apology of Clan Kaito."

  Shaya grabbed Akio's hand and led him out of the grotto. They weren't running, but they walked faster than they'd ever walked before.

  Damn!

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT AKIO'S FATHER RETURNED HOME, after only being out for twenty-four hours. The storms forced his crew to abandon their fishing.

  "Worst year in living memory." His father told his mother. "At this rate the crew won't be able to cover our sailing fee. We'll have to—"

  "No!" his mother screamed, and there was a sound of glasses spilling. "It's bad enough with the boy tied up in their affairs. If you get involved too, I'll leave. My mother warned me about you, and I was too young and foolish to listen."

  They continued to argue through the night, but Akio laid his head on the bed, folded his pillow in half, and used it to block out their voices. Their problems were their own. He needed to fix his bruised honor with Shaya, or he wouldn't remain First Sworn for much longer.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FOR FOUR DAYS THEY'D RETURNED to a formal relationship. Outside of commands and basic responses demanded by etiquette, Shaya hadn't spoken to him. Akio knew why she was so angry, but he couldn't think of any way to make it up to her. To make matters worse, his new sword wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Takumi apparently had gone easy on Akio the first day, and since then taught Yuki how to counter his thrusts. Akio's killing circle had shrunk in half.

  With a parry and a thrust Yuki crossed Akio's guard and struck his wrist causing him to drop his sword. A fine cloud of sand settled back to the ground.

  "No, no, no," Takumi said, and a light rain began to fall. The storms had been lightening up for nearly a week, but refused to die off entirely. "Yuki excellent thrust, but Akio, you must use your length to your advantage. You must not allow your opponent to slip past your guard like that."

  Akio bowed. "Yes, Master."

  Master Takumi left them to it, rejoining Shaya to continue working on her new forms. Akio tried his best, digging deep to find extra reserves of strength, but it made little difference. After another three rounds—Yuki had won each with ease—they took a break to drink water in the shade of the awning.

  "You nearly had me on that last one."

  "Thank you," Akio said. "But you and I both know that's a lie."

  "Well, we both know . . ."

  "The sword chooses the master, not the other way around," they finished together.

  Yuki looked away, not wanting to acknowledge what Akio said was true. It wasn't for lack of talent, or effort on Akio's part, but rather he hadn't found the right weapon. Takumi didn't allow him free rein to choose his own sword. Instead there was a systematic list in which all students progressed until they found the right weapon. Akio secretly hoped that today would be his last day with the longsword. His forearms burned from the weight of the steel.

  "Akio, come," Takumi called from the opposite side of the courtyard.

  Akio took one final drink before replacing his cup with his sword. He walked with quick strides—running would be considered undignified—hope built in his gut with each step. Maybe?

  "Return your sword to the trunk." Takumi held open the wooden lid. "What should I do with you?"

  Akio stood with his head down, waiting for his master to continue, but Takumi didn't speak. What did he expect him to say? Akio didn't understand why he continued to fail. He trusted it would all click into place once he found the right weapon. But wasn't that for Master Takumi to decide? Wasn't he, after all, the most skilled swordsman in all of Shinzo? Perhaps all of Fencura?

  "Well?"

  "Sorry, Master." Akio looked up. "I try my best, but none of the swords have been the right one for me."

  "The sword does not make the swordsman. The sword is but an extension of the swordsman's arm."

  "Yes, Master."

  "Look inside." Takumi pointed into the trunk. "Which sword do you think would suit you?"

  Akio looked with more intensity than he ever looked at anything before in his life—knowing full well this may be the most important decision he ever made. Failure to please Master Takumi could result in his expulsion from the school, and Shaya was already displeased with him. Would she dismiss him as her First Sworn? If so, then what? Would he be forced to join his father as a fisherman? His mother would rejoice, but his father would be utterly disappointed.

  "Well?"

  Akio realized he'd been standing there for some time. Bending down to grab a sword, he noticed a long thin dagger. Instead of the sword breaker he'd been reaching for, Akio retrieved the dagger. As he presented the dagger to Takumi, it split apart revealing that it was in fact two daggers locked together.

  "This is no sword," Takumi scolded. "These are street daggers. Only thugs and dishonorable men use these."

  Without thinking, Akio had slipped the second dagger into his left hand and was admiring the weight.

  "Yes, Master." Akio locked the daggers back together, and returned them to their spot in the trunk before presenting the sword breaker.

  "Good choice," Takumi said. "I have seen how you like to trap your opponents, and use their momentum against them. This sword is designed for exactly that."

  Takumi walked toward the center of the courtyard, "Come, I will show you how it works. Yuki, attend."

  The light rains stopped, leaving an uncomfortable heat in its place, which baked their backs. While Akio and Yuki dueled with Takumi instructing each on how to optimize their moves.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Pearl Nation, Fencura

  Brandon sat in the back of the Ice Wolf, a pub in the far south of the city where the street dead-ends into the Ice Plains. Dressed down to avoid attention, he kept his back to the brick wall while he sipped his beer. A cheap cask, likely spoiled from the sea passage, it tasted like brackish water. In a place like this, it could be cheap whiskey mixed with ocean water and a splash of coffee for the color.

  Keeping in character—to blend in with the lower classes of this part of the city–Brandon took a large swallow. While his neighbors two tables over scrutinized him. Brandon let out an echoing burp, and they cheered before returning to their conversation. Leaving him alone to fantasize about killing George for being late.

  Thirty minutes late, George sat down, carrying a double-pint glass of the same blackened concoction wrongly called beer. Cultural norms forced Brandon to order a second pint to keep up appearances, and his stomach was protesting the abuse. The stomach pains saved George's few remaining, blackened teeth from being knocked out of their sockets by Brandon. Though he smirked at the thought of doing it.

  George raised his double-pint with two hands, "Cheers." When he placed the steel mug down, half its contents were gone.

  Using a method he'd learned in the university, Brandon projected his voice onto the tabletop, meaning only George could hear him. "Where the fuck have you been! It's half past."

  "Had to top off and complete the crate." George's voice echoed off the wall behind Brandon.

  "Lower your voice, you fool."

  Their neighbors glanced over in their direction before continuing their own chatter. Loud drunks were expected there, but George wasn't drunk. He was wired on dust. His beady eyes and the tiny droplets of sweat were a dead giveaway, given the freezing temperatures outside.

  George did as he was told but puffed up his chest in defiance. "Where's the money?"

  "Safe, but ready for you. Where's the prototype?"

  "Safe."

  The two men stared each other down, waiting to see who'd offer first. The dust George was on gave him the advantage, and Brandon blinked.

  "I can bring the money to the pickup. However, I'll need proof first."

  "What proof?"

  Brandon took another sip of the sour slurry in his mug. "Pictures. Not just
any though."

  "What's that mean?" George's hand aimlessly scratched at a spot on his neck—he'd been at it for days with the way the wound scabbed over.

  "You and your crew have to stand in front of the crate."

  "Fuck that!"

  "Hear me out." Brandon put his palms up, in good faith. "You need the money. I only care about the prototype. I can't risk bringing in others to this deal for obvious reasons. You have a whole crew."

  Brandon took another sip despite a sensation of crabs trying to claw their way out of his gut. "You've got me at a disadvantage. I need visual confirmation of the prototype, with you and your crew touching it. I have it on good authority what the prototype looks like, so I should be able to tell if it's genuine from the photos."

  George scooted his chair back from the table. "You're just trying to play me and get us arrested. There's no money. Fuck this!"

  "Wait!" This time Brandon's voice echoed, but no one seemed to notice or care. He lowered his voice again. "I can also offer proof. I'll give you a photo of me with the money. Besides you know who I am, and I know you. If I'd wanted to bring the authorities in on this, I wouldn't be sitting here. Just as I trust you would have already robbed or killed me if you meant me harm. Make this deal!"

  He offered his right-hand palm up, with his left-hand palm up resting on top of his right elbow. The traditional sign of a blood oath. Five-hundred-years ago, George would have grasped Brandon's left hand and cut the right hand being offered. Instead, George grasped both hands and shook.

  Their neighbors looked on at the gesture. A formal blood oath was rare and meant serious retribution from the gods if broken. Brandon caught one man's eyes, and the group of them made themselves preoccupied with their own drinks.

  "You send first." George broke off the handshake.

  "Deal. Tonight, via encrypted message."

  George took a pencil and a small sheet of paper from his front coat pocket. Scribbled a note and slid it across the table. It was the public access key to his bank account. Brandon nodded.

  George stood up and drained the remainder of his mug. "Tonight?"

  "Yes. Tonight."

  "Fine, I'll get it ready for tomorrow." George let out a loud burp and slammed the mug on the hardwood table.

  Without so much as a goodbye, he staggered out of the pub into the frozen night. No doubt in search of more dust.

  He better live long enough.

  Brandon faked sipping his beer. He couldn't force down any more of the horrible slurry. The men two tables over did their best not to look in his direction. Their eyes wandered around the pub but darted away from his table.

  After waiting a quarter-hour, Brandon placed a small tip under his three-quarters-full mug and left for home. Stopping along his walk to puke up the vile liquid and purge himself. Anything to avoid the painful hangover such a beer would cause.

  * * *

  When Brandon awoke, his head felt tight, and his stomach groaned as if he'd skipped food for a week, but he had one new encrypted message.

  Wooden Antique

  Brandon,

  Take it or leave it. You'll not get my men.

  [embedded image]

  Death before dishonor!

  -George

  The image showed a large metal ball, resting atop stone feet, on a wooden floor, and surrounded by wooden squares, which made up the crate's walls when assembled. Atop the metal ball sat George gesturing his hands in the same blood oath Brandon had offered, and below him stood four men wearing white woolen masks. The same kind Brandon wore when he explored the Ice Plains for new artifacts.

  The message was clear. Brandon could make the trade, but George would never betray his team.

  Perhaps there is honor amongst thieves?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Texas, Earth

  Monday, September 5th

  Before the 7:00 AM start of class Kandice was in her seat within the lecture hall, ready for a history lesson about things she already knew. Their new seating arrangement forced her to sit next to Kim and John, with Brian on the other side of Kim.

  "You missed our presentation," Kim said.

  "Yup." Kandice stared straight ahead, desperate for Dr. Lloyd to start the class.

  "You made it harder on us, and we expect better," Kim continued.

  Kim coughed and Brian and John said, "Yeah."

  They can't stand her nonsense either.

  Dr. Lloyd's TA handed John their group paper: Kim ninety-six, John ninety-four, Brian ninety-four, and Kandice ninty.

  I don't give a fuck anymore.

  Dr. Lloyd walked on stage at precisely 7:15 to start class.

  "Morning everyone," she said. "I'm sure by now you received your grades. Each person in the group received a grade based upon their contribution to the group. If your grade was lower than you wanted, I suggest you put forth more effort.

  "I hope you are all checking Blackboard, because you would have seen that we're covering chapter four today. There will be another group paper due Wednesday morning, before class. This time there will be no presentation. It will cover Chapters four and five.

  "I want each group to pick a state and explain what convinced them to join the union. We have twelve groups, so I left one state out. I uploaded the assignment on Saturday night. If this is the first you're hearing about this, I suggest you and your group communicate more."

  Kandice put her head in her hands and sighed. Dr. Lloyd was an okay lecturer, but the way she ran the course was infuriating. Obviously she didn't want to grade individual papers in a class this large, but group work was pointless. The forced social situation that her grade depended on was stressful to say the least. Kandice didn't understand why she even needed to take US history again.

  "Did anyone else see the Blackboard assignment," Kim whispered.

  "No," John and Brian said.

  "I'll check it as soon as I get back to the dorm," Brian said.

  "Yeah," John said.

  "Kandice?" Kim asked.

  "Sure, that's fine."

  They continued to whisper about the class assignment and make plans for when and where to meet again. Kandice responded with "sure" any time Kim asked her a question, but she wasn't paying attention.

  * * *

  As Kandice walked out of the lecture hall, a text message came in.

  Lance: Hey. Can you meet later today?

  Lance: I got the camera and there are a few things Slava and I found interesting.

  Lance: I don't want to say more until I see you in person.

  Kandice: Yeah. When and where?

  Lance: Here. Can you meet in twenty minutes?

  Kandice: No. I'm in class. I have a break for lunch. I could fit it in then.

  Lance: It will take longer than an hour. Can you meet tonight?

  How am I going to make this work?

  College was officially a burden to her ability to hunt Aether Walkers. Monday was her longest day—technically, she had Mesopotamian history tonight. On top of which, she was fitting in her taekwondo training when she could. With her fourth-degree blackbelt test around the corner, it was vital she maintain focus.

  A quick calculation told Kandice that school had become a luxury. The only reason she enrolled was to keep Jackie off her back. But now that she was moving out . . .

  Kandice: Let me get back to you later.

  Lance: OK.

  * * *

  Kandice walked into the registrar's office. Mrs. William was at the front and recognized her.

  She waved Kandice over. "Hello dear. How can I help?"

  Kandice fortified herself before speaking. "I need to drop all of my courses."

  "Are you sure?" Mrs. William asked. "You still have another two weeks. I'm sure you'll find a rhythm. Or maybe we could only drop your hardest course?"

  "No," Kandice said with a tone that made it clear there was no room for negotiation.

  "I have too much in my life right now, and I need to drop them all." Th
e pressure released from her shoulders. This was the right choice. It felt right; the stress that dissipated confirmed it.

  "Okay, dear," Mrs. William said. "I need your student ID."

  Kandice handed her ID over and waited. Mrs. William kept shaking her head the whole time she unenrolled Kandice. When she finished, she handed her ID back.

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome," Mrs. William said. "Dear, when you decide to re-enroll next semester, send me an email, and I'll help get you started."

  Kandice thanked her again and put the card in her pocket. She had no intention of re-enrolling—college had not lived up to her expectations. It was one mistake she wanted to put behind her as soon as possible. Classes should have been filled with people seeking knowledge, but instead, they were the same vapid people from high school.

  The university would refund most of her tuition, and while the bookstore wouldn't give her a full refund, it was a small price to pay for freedom and peace of mind.

  It wasn't even 9:00 AM, and she was officially a college dropout.

  It feels so good!

  Kandice: Okay, I'm free. Can I come by now?

  In the time it took her to reach her moped in the parking lot he responded.

  Lance: I'll be here.

  * * *

  Kandice sat in her usual spot on the sectional. The cushion was starting to remember her form, and offer up a perfect seat. A new flat screen television sat in the living room—modest for a room of this size, at only thirty-two inches.

  The engraved log Lance buried worked to allow his film to capture the Aether Walkers as they were, rather than in their human form. The footage from the camcorder was running at eight times the normal speed. Lance paused it when they spotted something of note, such as a new Aether Walker. Slava jotted down notes and time stamps.

  I've got to learn how to make that log.

  Kandice finished her second glass of vodka. The watching ordeal was stretching into the third hour. Dissecting surveillance footage sounded more glamorous than the act of it proved to be.