by J. T. Wright
Trent scraped his blades together and rolled his shoulders. It was time to end this. Unfortunately, the Wolf had the same idea.
Howling, it forced itself to its feet, the moonlight washed over it, and the Werewolf began to shrink. Muscles convulsed as they folded in on themselves. Grunts of pain and anger burst from the Beast as it turned to face Trent, heedless of the blood that soaked its legs.
Smaller didn’t mean less dangerous, though. The gleam in Trent’s eyes matched the Beast’s in intensity, and resolve could be seen in the set of his shoulders. He rolled his tongue to moisten his mouth which had gone dry, but he didn’t back away.
The Guardian was the size of an average black Werewolf now, but its speed and precision were much greater. Trent’s eyes were hardly able to keep up with the Wolf’s claws. Using instincts that he had learned to trust, his body maneuvered quickly out of reach, claws passing within a fraction of an inch of his torso. Teeth snapped next to his ear. For a time, the Wolf held the advantage, pressing Trent and forcing him back.
The stomp that crushed the Beast’s instep and the hilt strike that thudded against its chest, breaking its momentum and forcing it back, were attacks from Military Fencing. Trent used them in desperation, too overwhelmed to bring a more elegant style to play. The Beast’s grimace as it fell back was a gift to Trent’s eyes.
Smaller, faster, more precise, and apparently, less durable, the creature had traded Constitution for Agility. Trent tested his theory with a follow up strike. The red -75 that appeared caused him to bark in coughing laughter. The Werewolf would not be regaining dominance after that.
At first, Military Fencing continued to influence his swordplay. Elbows and kicks drove the Beast back, and Trent kept close, battering the creature with his body and hilts as much as he cut with the edges of his blades. Trent delivered a head-butt to the end of its snout, causing the Wolf’s eyes to tear. With space and time to adapt, Trent switched back to his original style.
The Wolf learned to dread the appearance of the white flash before it fell. The burning slashes and thrusts sucked the life from it in unmerciful bursts, drawing humanlike screams from its animal muzzle. Trent couldn’t use them often, but when his energy allowed, he struck for 500 to 600 Damage. With his average strikes doing nearly 100, and the Werewolf always caught in its back foot, Trent paid it back for the panic he had felt when he first saw it.
The slash that tore open the Werewolf’s body was overkill. The Beast doubled over Trent’s blade as he stepped to the side and hacked deep into its belly. The green health indicator above its head vanished, and it slipped to the ground. Dead.
Trent’s chest heaved as he stared skyward. His hands were empty, his blades disappearing as the Guardian ceased to exist. He pushed his mask up and stared at the full moon with naked eyes. Her approval shone down on him. He had learned what it meant to be a Shadow Hunter.
Not one who stalked in the dark but one who confronted that which hid there. The Cursed, the Undead, soulless Beasts that haunted the World, Awakened that had lost their reason and conscience. It was part of the answer to a question Trent had had since acquiring the title.
You may now name your created Skill.
A voice carried on the wind reached Trent, urging him to do what his Status had asked of him so long ago. It informed him that it was his right, the first time the unnamed Technique showed up amongst his Skills. Staring at the somber moon, Trent spoke in a rusty voice.
“It’s called, Moonlight Banishes Shadows.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Trent lowered his cowl and wiped sweat from his forehead. The trees that hemmed him in were gone. The moon was sinking behind a mountain, and he expected to feel dawn’s light warm his face, but the sun never came. He stood in a clearing, a valley, surrounded by majestic peaks. This wasn’t the Moonlit Forest! He saw the flickering of a campfire and moved towards it.
His feet found themselves walking on stone. Trent stopped and pulled his cowl up, tugging his mask into place in order to study his surroundings with the aid of Dark Vision. Looking at the walkway under his feet, he observed that not one paving stone matched another in color or size. Up close, it was a random mess. Trent turned and faced the mountains again.
The peak he picked out wasn’t grander than any other. Even with Far Sight, Trent was unable to make out the viewing platform he knew was there. He did not have to climb the mountain to confirm it. It was a fact, ingrained in him, not to be questioned.
If you stood on that platform at dawn and looked down, the sun would illuminate the whole valley. Rays of light would reveal a hundred walkways like the one Trent stood on. Viewed from on high, the walkways would form a pattern, a mural. As the sun traveled across the sky, hitting the stone from different angles, the pictures would change. A day on the peak, a lifetime shown on the valley floor, that was the way it was.
“Whose life?” Trent mumbled to himself. He should know the answer. It was there, caged in his mind, broken into pieces, but those pieces refused to come together.
Trent turned away from the peak and his uncertainty. The campfire in the distance still flickered, beckoning him, and Trent let it draw him forward. He walked through the dark, and when he came within range of the campfire, he paused.
He had thought he was in the Moonlit Forest. Even realizing he wasn’t, Trent still expected to find a white-haired man with wolfish features waiting for him at the end of the path.
What he actually found was a brown-haired Al’rashian, sitting on a log, poking at the fire with a long stick. The man’s face was scarred and weathered. He was dressed in armor made of close-fitting leather covered in dark steel plates. A sword was resting across his thighs, and his free hand laid on it as if he were comforting the blade.
His eyes were like Ranar’s, solid orbs without pupil or white. However, this man's eyes were not the silver of the traveling merchant Trent had met. Trent reached under his mask and rubbed at the corner of his own violet eyes, the same color as the man’s at the fire.
“I know you,” Trent said, stepping closer. “I know this place.”
“I should hope so,” the man smiled warmly and lifted an eyebrow. “Come talk with me.”
“Your name is…" Trent took another step forward. The man’s voice was kind, and Trent felt an unspoken connection with him. That connection shuddered when the man raised his hand from his sword and grimaced. “The Sword Ghost.”
The white scars on the man’s cheeks deepened as he frowned. “Ghost for short. I gave up my name long ago. Leave it to you to remember it.”
“Names are important.” Trent met Ghost's frown with one of his own. “You can’t toss them aside.”
“So you said at the time.” Ghost's face softened into a rueful grin. “I still did, though. All the original Dusk Wraiths did. We thought to honor Al’rashia with our sacrifice. You called us fools.”
Short logs lay in a circle around the fire, and Trent sat on one, across from Ghost. “I know you, but we’ve never met.”
“I've never met Trent Embra,” Ghost clarified, “but you and I are old friends.
“It is strange, being here as your guide.” Ghost stirred the fire with his stick, pushing rounds of firewood closer to the center of the flames. “I never thought there would come a time when you would need me to show you the way.”
Ghost spoke quietly, softly, but steadily, never giving Trent a chance to interrupt with the stream of questions that filled him. “Trent Embra. I would have expected you to come as a Dross. You admired the Embras. Their fire and refusal to compromise was the backbone of the Clans. It was the Dross you favored though, for their foresight and resolve.”
“Who am I?” Trent leaned forward, tossing the question at Ghost like he would a dart.
Ghost merely shook his head. “Trent Embra. You know that. As for who you were, it’s not my place to say.”
Ghost tossed his stick into the fire and looked at Trent’s masked face. “Do you know where we are?”
“I know there’s a creek flowing a mile to the east of here,” Trent replied without thinking, “and an aspen grove three miles west. I know that if you travel to the mountains in the north, you’ll find a mine and valleys full of rare herbs. That’s all. Why I know, the name of this place, those won’t come.”
“I see.” Ghost stroked the blade of his sword. “Or rather I don’t. I'm a guide, not a Keeper. I can’t see through you like they can. Hints of what you might become, of what you’ve been through, hang all about you, and I am supposed to advise you, but I can’t.
“How ridiculous is that anyway?” Ghost slapped his thigh and laughed freely “Me advise you? As if you need it. From what I can see, the best decisions you’ve made were contrary to advice you were given. Walking into a Trial of Perseverance, choosing an Advanced Class at Level 1, fighting a Hill Troll, and chasing a Truce Breaker into the den of a Dire Bear. Insane actions, all of them, made instinctively.
“So no advice,” Ghost continued, “but maybe a little clarity.”
Trent stirred anxiously at that word, clarity. Hearing it, he felt an ache in his chest. Ghost kept speaking despite the way Trent drew back.
“This is a sacred place for Al’rashians.” Ghost set both hands on his sword, squeezing lightly, heedless of the razor-sharp blade. “There shouldn’t be a fire here. It’s only fitting because you've activated the Shadow Hunter title. You should be allowed the warmth when you have the chance.
“People of all races have always gathered around the fire at night. Strange really. Fire is destructive, and the dark can hide you. Always we cling to the former and fear the latter.” Ghost spoke randomly as he gathered his thoughts.
“Civilization they call it. Aldren Dross built the Al’rashian civilization. Long before the Awakening, he gathered the Clans. We were semi-nomadic before Aldren. Hunters and wanderers, we had no great cities or monuments. The Clans hardly admitted they were related to one another.
“It was Elven pride that forced Aldren to bring us together.” Ghost cleared his throat and spat. “Always comes back to Elven pride, though they have cause to be proud. They weren’t the first, but they found greatness and unity while the rest of us were struggling to survive. Aldren learned a great deal from the Elves. He studied architecture at their universities. He learned warfare and leadership under their tutelage. Then he brought it all back and used that knowledge to keep them from nibbling at our borders.
“He was a great man, Aldren Dross,” Ghost whispered. He threw out his arms and gestured at the valley around him. “This place is his memorial. Watch from dawn till dusk, and you'll see his life played out. You'll see him anointed king, and his eyes turn gold. You can watch him fight on the borders and drive back our enemies. You can witness the beginnings of our first cities. Lastly, you'll watch as he is murdered by his own son for the sin of declaring that only the Spirit of Al’rashia could name his successor.”
“What does that have to do with Shadow Hunters?” Trent had to ask as Ghost trailed off.
“Because Aldren knew,” Ghost took up his sword with a flourish and with both hands drove the tip into the soil, “a society may huddle around the fire, but without Warriors walking in the night, it cannot last.
“Shadow Hunters are not holy Warriors like Paladins or Church Knights.” Ghost gripped his pommel until his knuckles turned white. “They are nature’s answer to the cursed and the damned, and there are never enough. Mostly they die young, dirty, with none to mourn their passing.”
“That’s… good to hear.” Trent leaned back from the intensity in Ghost’s eyes and the jumbled mess he spewed. “Something to look forward too.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Ghost chuckled, his fingers slipped from pommel to crossguard and hung there. The fire burned lower, and Ghost’s expression was hidden in darkness. “You have one advantage over other Hunters. You’re a Survivalist.”
Reaching down, Ghost picked up a bundle at his feet. “The history of Survivalists has become as muddled as all legends. Our story started with Endurance, the only requirement of the Class. The ability to endure will see you through most things.”
In the fading light, Trent couldn’t make out what Ghost held, and he was tempted to get up and look, but Ghost’s words held him in place.
“Survivalists began with Sorrow and Strife.” Trent felt a jolt as the names of his knives were mentioned. “They were the first weapons I used when we left the mountains. I was always better with a bow, but I learned. Had to. Elven Rangers put my marksmanship to shame. Since we had to be close to face them, hatchets and knives were good for that.
“Sorrow and Strife were just a beginning. Blood and Ash made us what we were. Men swear by those because they’re an ending. Hopefully, for you, the ending is for someone else. It was good to see you again… Trent Embra. I hope I made you proud. Don’t forget, not all advice is good advice. Sometimes, you know yourself best.”
When the bundle was tossed at him, Trent’s hands were up, checking to make sure his mask was still in place. The night was getting thicker, and Dark Vision was no help against its encroachment. He caught the bundle as the last of the light faded, and his arms sagged under the weight.
Then everything went dark. The Trial had ended.
**********
“Blood and Ash,” Trent groaned. They were good words. On Trent’s lips, they were more a prayer than a curse. An ending sounded perfect at the moment.
Pain was easy to deal with when you saw it coming. Sudden, unexpected pain, not so much. Trent didn’t know how long his personal Trial had lasted. but it was long enough that he forgot his injuries. The wounds he had suffered while fighting in the Forest had sealed after each Beast was defeated. The throbbing that struck him from every angle now let him know that whatever had just happened to him, it hadn’t brought healing along with it.
His legs were burned, the skin on his shins and calves tight when he tried to move them. His arms refused to lift him off the ground. One arm and shoulder cracked, possibly broken, the other numb for unknown reasons, Trent was as helpless as he had been…
5:50
The countdown in his Status said less than a minute had passed. It had certainly seemed like more time had gone by. Trent was smart enough not to argue with his Status. Ten minutes since he had put the Token in place and entered a fresh layer of the Trial. One or two minutes since he had used Heart of the Inferno to eke out a victory against a stronger opponent.
Not enough time for his Stamina to recover, and he noted his Mana was draining instead of recovering as the Self-Repair Charm on his armor sapped it. Had he been able to move his arms, they would have trembled too much to lift him. He waited for his empty reserves to fill, and with a groan, flipped onto his back. His numb left arm flopped, and his right shoulder objected with piercing agony as he rolled over it.
Trent stared at the ceiling and considered his options. His Health potions were gone, the glass vials that once contained the healing liquid crunching beneath him as he shifted. They wouldn’t have done much for the bones of his shoulder anyway, though they might have helped with the numbness. He suspected that was caused by a venom or toxin. An antidote would be better, but a Health restorative could blunt the effects.
Not an option now. What did that leave him with? The Wild Garlic in his Storage was ready to be picked. Getting it to his mouth would be the problem there, and its benefits were minimal on its own. Ghost had said he didn’t need any advice. Trent disagreed.
He wished someone had told him how he could have prevented this situation. Act on his instincts? His instincts wanted him to curl up in a ball and go to sleep.
Not all advice is good advice. Sometimes you know yourself best.
What did that even mean? What advice should he ignore?
The questions prompted Trent to act, and he found himself opening his Status and staring at his Classes. Swordsman and Survivalist, Trent read the words, and his eyes passed over them and concentrated on the
5 open slots for additional Classes.
A voice whispered to him not to do it. You shouldn’t choose a new Class until you've reached a point where you are stuck, either by the amount of XP necessary to level or a requirement you can’t meet.
But why have so many unfilled Class Slots?
Trent channeled 500 XP into an open slot. If he couldn’t move and he was likely to die, what would it hurt to see what was available?
Dozens of choices! Most of them Trent had never heard of. Would Earth Warden bring a healing Skill with it? Charm Specialist probably wouldn’t. Charms were amazing, but the changes they made were small. Maybe Poisoner came with poison resistance that would cleanse the venom from his veins and return control of his left arm.
What he did know was that he had thirteen thousand XP. More than enough to level Swordsman or Survivalist once, or…
Trent thought it and acted. Mage, Archer, Rogue, and Warrior, all Basic Classes, all costing 500 XP, added themselves to his Status. The one Basic Class that might have made a difference in his situation, Healer, wasn’t available. That was odd. He was sure it had been at one time, but he didn’t dwell on it.
16 Free Attribute Points for four levels up, and Trent was done. He leveled each Class once with 4,000 XP. He was able to add one more Level to Mage, Rogue, and Warrior before he was left with 1,000 XP. It was enough for another Class, but his only choices were Specialized. Those brought Skills and also came with restraints.
As a Swordsman, Trent had difficulty learning to use a Spear. A pure Warrior wouldn’t. Trent hadn’t gained any lifesaving Skills with his new Basic Classes. However, he now had a foundation on which anything could be built. As for Skills…
Free Skill Points should be treasured. They should be saved and spent on rare Abilities, Spells, and Skills you can’t get anywhere else.
That was one line of advice Trent threw away without blinking. The list of Skills came up as he concentrated on his Skill Points. Hundreds of lines of text greeted him. Trent shoved down the urge to look for Swordborn, the Ability he had been saving up for and which was still far outside his reach. He had 11 Skill Points and somewhere in this jungle of words was the solution to his problem.