Watcher's Test

by Sean Oswald

  As his magical strength came to an end, his Opportunist skill had already ended and his mana had been drained, ending his Arcane Blade skill, leaving him fatigued and still surrounded. He bled from numerous wounds and was sitting at only a little bit over two-thirds health. The only thing keeping him from taking more damage now was that the remaining goblins around him were having trouble reaching him due to the over thirty-five goblins that he had slain during his buffed frenzy. Radick was brave but not suicidal, so he was already looking for a way out while trying to parry or deflect the spear thrusts that were coming at him. As his view swept over the battlefield, he saw that most of the goblins were down and the remaining ones were fighting in clusters of two or three surrounded by greater numbers of his soldiers. He also saw the mage, who had put up the ice wall, send a wave of spinning ice blades into the backs of some of the goblins facing him, and there it was, the opening that he needed. He rushed forward, doing a forward roll over the bodies of the fallen goblins. Such a jump and roll were not too much for even his non-buffed strength, but not as easy as it might seem with two razor-sharp blades in hand. That is, if one didn’t wish to cut themselves. As he rose from the roll, he came up outside of the goblins that had been encircling him and began shouting out orders as he scanned the battlefield again. Soon there were no goblins standing, but he had to fight the temptation to allow himself or his men to rest, instead refocusing them back into a semi-circle to guard the gap in the wall. Fortunately, it appeared that this wave of the attack had ended and so he was able to start detailing men to clean up duties.

  Even as soldiers on the border were bleeding and dying for the security of the kingdom, Max was searching through the capital for the last of his squad. He hadn’t rushed too much and had already missed the steward’s deadline for departure, but once he had found Hasert, the squad’s battlemage, a wizard by class, he had learned that the mage was in the middle of some experiment that was time-sensitive and was refusing to leave until second sundown today at the earliest, which effectively meant that they wouldn’t be leaving until the next morning. He had already found the rest of the squad other than their spy/scout. She was a quiet, unassuming woman that most men readily overlooked, which made her even better at her job. She wasn’t incredibly powerful in combat but was very good at getting information or finding out what the enemy was up to, some of the perks of her rare class, Infiltrator. She was just another example of why his squad was the best of the Purple and Gold. Given enough time, Max would have all of them up to tier three and they would be a real force to reckon with. As of now, only Hasert and he were tier three, but of the remaining members were tier two and the rest were high tier one. He was trying to shepherd his squad and make sure that they consistently increased in power while at the same time trying to keep the king from splitting the squad up. It became harder and harder to level up as he had found out all too well. Once you were tier three, you no longer get XP from fighting tier-one monsters and only fifty percent XP from tier two monsters. Albia was no longer a frontier nation; well, other than for the western border, and there were very few tier-three monsters to fight. In fact, in the entire six years since he had made it up north, he had only gained one level, most of his levels having been gained in the fight to escape from the south.

  Most of the squad had been easy to find, either in their usual drinking or training spots. None of his squad was married, he insisted on that, but he also insisted that they not be the sort to lose themselves in their cups or one of those warriors who was too well-known around the shadier parts of town. It wasn’t so much that Max judged about another man or woman’s, for that matter, vices, more that he didn’t want any entanglements. Leyna, their spy was living up to her occupation and had been very hard to find. She wasn’t due to report back for two more days still, and he honestly worried about whether he would be able to find her before the two days were up. Max was still confident that between himself and Hasert that they could make up the lost time, but it would be expensive in terms of mana and spell ingredients. Hasert had a spell which could summon flying horses for all of the squad, but the reagents for the magic cost a full gold per flying horse that was summoned. Adding his own class skill to the speed of flying horsing and his squad could travel twice as fast as any other squad. Heck, over rough terrain, maybe even three times as fast. It just would be tiring, tedious, and worst of all, expensive.

  With that in mind, Max walked out of the last of the dress shops that Leyna was known to frequent. He always thought it was funny that the deadly serious spy was so partial to pink and frilly outfits. As he stepped out the door, looking both ways, not so much because of any traffic in the streets but because he was frustrated and unsure where to go next, he suddenly sensed a bit of movement to his right coming from the alleyway between the dress shop and whatever the business on the other side was. Years of combat experience both as a soldier and before that looking over his shoulder all the time had conditioned Max to be prepared and prepared he was. Pulling his longsword from its sheath in a smooth practiced motion, he turned toward the alleyway, only to catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye right in the doorway he had just exited. Activating one of his two trademark class skills, he was suddenly surrounded in a crimson aura of fiery energy as he seamlessly swung what appeared to be a slashing blow toward the alleyway but ended up after a quick pivot on the balls of his feet to be a thrusting strike at the doorway.

  “Whoa, Captain, I was just trying to see how long I could follow you for.” Leyna’s voice trembled as the smirk that had adorned her face an instant before was wiped off by the point of steel a mere inch from her throat.

  “You should know by now not to try to sneak up on me.” Max immediately withdrew the sword as he spoke in exasperated tones.

  “You can’t blame a girl for trying,” was Leyna’s quick response offered with a shrug.

  “No, I suppose not, but I can blame you for playing games when you must've known I was trying to find you for duty. At least if you were truly following me for longer than the last two minutes you should have known it was important.” Max sometimes forgot how young some of the squad members were. In combat, they were all business and always followed orders, but if in their estimation the situation was not so serious, they were prone to taking liberties. Creative thinking was good, but so was following orders.

  “Well, never mind, I’ve found you now and leave is repealed. You are to report to the barracks immediately. We are leaving in the morning and our leaving will be very public.” Max had wiped the smile that threatened to appear on his face and was all business now.

  Picking up on his vibe, Leyna had snapped to attention and given a salute to make a fresh academy grad proud. As soon as the salute was returned though, she spun on her heels and headed in the direction of the barracks. Max couldn’t be sure, but he thought she said something under her breath about having followed him for the last five hours. It was probably best that he didn’t know for sure.

  A few blocks away in the palace, the king was going through his daily war briefing in a room which had formerly been one of the smaller ballrooms in the palace, for when the event was more intimate. It was certainly large enough for the war room, with maps hung up on briefing boards or spread out over the large central table. As large as the room was, King Harold couldn’t help but wish for more breathing room. The assembled nobles and military officers all had too many opinions about how the border war or as many of them insisted on calling it, the goblin skirmish, should be prosecuted and many of them used those opinions as springboards to comment upon the running of the kingdom as a whole. The king knew that the war was much more serious than many of the nobles seemed to believe it was but also didn’t accept the given assessments rendered by some of the military officers, who would have him believe that he needed to send the majority of the royal army to deal with the incursions, preferably yesterday.

  Lifting his head up from the map he had been trying to study before
yet another argument broke out, the Albian monarch surveyed the room and noted it was again Duke Heinrich Tarstadt and his contingent arguing with the representatives of the other two duchies about the number of troops that were sending, or rather not sending to the border. The ducal representative from Holstein was citing the hundred new troops his liege lord had just sent and going on about how Duke Holstein cared about the border conflict so much that he had even sent his own son, Bors, to lead the new troops. In response, an overweight and red-faced Tarstadt was yelling back that if Holstein cared so much, he would be here in this counsel room rather than sending a quote “boy-man” to represent him. The young baron representing Holstein either didn’t take umbrage at the insult to his experience or decided it was not prudent to try to shout down a duke, perhaps both from the look of forced calm on his face.

  The truth, though, was that even Tarstadt had not committed more than seventy percent of his active military to the border because he feared attacks by his fellow dukes or even some of his vassal barons trying to claim more land if he didn’t maintain a strong enough presence and he had only committed that much because at some emotional level he still held out hope that his granddaughter was alive despite having been kidnapped two years ago. King Harold was well aware of this fact, and while he didn’t expect any outright conflict or power grabs from any of the nobles, he did realize that both Oppenheim and especially Holstein were trying to position themselves to most profit from the border war. They were likely marshaling their strengths not only in men-at-arms but more importantly, in their position in various markets. He knew that they both shared his opinion that eventually with or without help, Duke Tarstadt and his barons would be able to end the goblin threat, at least until a new generation of the dreadful creatures were spawned in whatever dark pits they were forced back to. He was about to raise his voice to put an end to the current bickering when he saw his steward stick his head into the doorway to his right as if to see if the king was available.

  Leaping at this opportunity to step away, King Borstein said in the loud, commanding voice that a king has to cultivate, “Gentleman, my steward has advised me that I am needed for another matter. You know, heavy is the head that wears the crown. I expect you all to sit down and listen to General Murherst as he reports to you about current troop deployments along the border.” He chuckled to himself because if there was any officer who could force the attention of the assembled nobles and military officers, it was Murherst, the high commander of the Albian army, but either way, he didn’t care as he quickly stood up and exited stage right.

  Once he was out in the hallway, Eleazor offered a bow of his head, which was perfunctorily acknowledged by King Borstein, who said, “Do you have any good news for me?”

  “My lord, it is nothing that you needed to pull yourself out of the war room for,” Eleazor began, but knowing well that his king always looked for any excuse to leave the war room meetings, he didn’t even wait to be told to continue before expanding, “but since you are available Your Majesty, I have a mixed bag of news. I am certain that I found the right squad to send to check on the logging villages. You are I am sure familiar with Captain Maxwell Smart, the southerner who commands one of the Purple and Gold squads.” A slight pause followed to allow the king to confirm his acknowledgment. “Well, I met with him personally and explained the importance of the mission, the need to initially be discreet but above all the need for speed.”

  “Yes, Maxwell is a good man, and not a political bone in his body. If that is the good news, then what is the bad news.”

  “Well, I had ordered him to leave by first sunrise this morning, but my sources indicate that they have not left yet and likely won’t leave before tomorrow at the earliest. At first, I was very upset, as the man has a reputation for efficiency, but upon further investigation, I have it on good authority that his squad has the means to travel much faster than any of the other squads, and so we can expect them to be to the Seinna within a week from when they leave. Any other squad likely would have taken two weeks if they had to travel without requisitioning replacement horses from royal stable waypoints along the way, which would have of course clued everyone in the kingdom with eyes into where they were headed.”

  King Borstein, held his hand up to his bearded chin for a moment, before saying, “Yes, a week, that is good, I can work with that. Have them go to the easternmost village, Eris’ Rise, I believe it is called first. That village is the one closest to Duke Holstein’s castle and should logically have the best sense of what support Edwin is or is not providing.”

  “As you wish, Your Majesty,” Eleazor said with a bow and then left upon receiving a quick motion of his king’s hand in clear dismissal. As he turned to walk down the hallway, he noticed that King Harold didn’t head back into the war room.

  Naaranbatar, First of the Ironclaw Orc clan, sat cross-legged on a raised platform crafted from burnished planks of dragon’s blood wood. These planks had been in the clan for over two hundred years and were hauled along wherever the First went. The chilling wind whipped around him, which is very common this far up Mt. Terriyan even in the late summer. When formed like this into a platform placed upon the ground, it was where the First of the clan heard testimony and passed judgment upon the elite of the clan. It was a ritual matter and all the forms must be followed. The First was a massive specimen of an orc, a full seven feet tall, broad across the shoulders with bulging muscles. His leather harness had been removed and instead, he was draped in the pelt of an ironclaw bear, the namesake of the clan. With his chest bared, the golden tattoos showing with golden ink in intricate patterns of tightly swirled runes. Standing behind him to his right was Khunbish, his Second, with a heavy war ax aimed downward between his hands, its head resting upon the platform. While to his left in silk robes was Jalaqai, his Third. Cradled in her arms was a tail feather from a phoenix. They represented the two possible decisions that could be rendered by Naaran. If the accused was found guilty, punishment was immediate, but likewise, if they were found innocent, they were given the phoenix feather as a symbol of new birth from the ashes of the accusations. In uneven circled ranks around the judgment platform broken up by the rocky ground were all four hundred of the orc warriors who had come on this raid, along with the smiths, and even the serving women. All orcs were first and foremost warriors, but in the clan, each had their role to play, and some had skills too valuable to allow them to be front line fighters.

  In the case before the First was the question of Na-nak Tun, priest of the dark orcish god, Bal Zar. As the accused, he stood there naked but for a loincloth. Across his chest were splayed similar if less dense and detailed golden runes and marking his rank in the priesthood of Bal Zar was signified by a silver ring that encircled his left tusk. He had assumed a kneeling position to indicate submission to the findings of the Taraan’lak, which was the orcish term for this type of hearing as opposed to the Runat’lak, which would have been a trial by blood. The Taraan’lak was a trial of wisdom, and its outcome rested solely upon the decision of the First. While he had assumed the ritual position, Na-nak’s back was straight, his head held high and his eyes staring at the Naraan with a glare of contempt. All orcs of the clan were led by the First, and the warriors of the clan made sure that all submitted to the customs of the clan, but the priesthood was notorious for deeming the tenets of Bal Zar and the rulings of the church elders above those of the clan leaders.

  With the sounding of a small gong, the proceedings commenced and an elderly orc who while no longer able to fight found continued purpose and value to the clan as a lorekeeper. He held up a parchment and read from it in a voice not diminished by age. “Know all that attend, Na-nak, son of Na-nak’ka and priest of the 3rd circle to the glorious god Bal Zar stands accused of deceit and treachery against the people and traditions of the Ironclaw clan by word and deed.” The reader paused for effect, allowing his words to echo amongst the assembled orcs of Clan Ironclaw. Whispers demonstrating how powerf
ul the pause was as the orcs mumbled softly to those closest to them. It had been more than a century since any orc was accused of, let alone found guilty of treason and in that instance, the offender and his entire family had been wiped out root and branch.

  Continuing with the reading of the charges, “He has been accused of disclosing clan secrets to those outside of the clan and profiting from such actions. This is in opposition to the traditions and laws of the Ironclaw Orcs and more specifically, the express command of Naraanbatar, First of the Clan. Specifically, all the clan has been told that only the First may disclose any information to Seimion, our guest. Custom dictates that those enjoying guest rights with the clan are entitled to access to food, shelter, and protection, but by no means are they allowed to have the secrets of our tattoos.”