Image by Gemini
The morning dawned cool and overcast, with a light drizzle. Even so, and despite the early hour, Cat had drawn a small audience—about forty men and women of all ages gathered to watch his elemental forms. He grumbled internally about all the eyes on him, wondering how they’d even known to show up, but figured it was good focus training since they were mostly quiet. An unusually high number of young noblewomen were there, whispering amongst themselves and drawing titters from their coterie. Cat strongly suspected Seleger was behind it.
Seleger and Chatwick thankfully came to the rescue as he finished, resulting in not having to awkwardly force himself through the crowd and socialize. Seleger handled everything for him.
“Excuse us, everyone, we must be going! Sorry, important meeting to attend. Make way! Good morning!” The onlookers parted to let them through, and Cat heard some of the comments: “How’d he do that backflip?” “Is Aether always first? I thought Lithos was first!” “What was that last form? It seemed to combine everything and go beyond.” “I’ve never seen that—has anyone seen that?” Cat would have thought that seeing the elemental forms in a big city would be a lot more common. He had put together the animyra forms on his own through reading and extrapolating from what his instructors could show him, yet he had never met anyone who could actually do the full set of movements all together. He hoped he would find someone who could verify his movements were correct.
“Is this how my mornings will be now? Do I have you to thank?”
“I’m sure this is just the beginning of your fame and notoriety, my dear friend,” Seleger evaded without missing a step. “Imagine if you chose to shave your faint stubble every morning, wear stylish clothes, or gods forbid, bathe more than twice a week!” Chatwick let out a full laugh he’d been trying to suppress. It was ironic since the boy’s habits of cleanliness had been far worse than Catwright’s before meeting Seleger. “Yes, my dear ward, take note! Proper hygiene and dress are paramount to achieving a life worth living. Otherwise, we are doomed to die elderly, alone, and unbedded.”
Cat was spared having to think of a response by arriving at their destination. They entered a relatively cozy meeting room occupied by four facet leaders, including Sergeant Lovine. Cat and Seleger had discussed the night before how they might squeeze out a bit more freedom from their plethora of sitters, and Cat had suggested a classic Ventus trap. Cadmus Ventus, a famous general from the War of the Dead, had become known for baiting traps with a relatively weak-looking force or other tasty target, then maneuvering his forces to surround the victims who fell for the ruse. The problem, of course, was that the bait needed to be either a sacrifice or extremely powerful because they were in a poor position when the fighting started.
Seleger sold the plan to the dubious soldiers with his customary zeal: “And so, if we could have a perimeter of, say, five hundred yards…” There was a great deal of back and forth, but they had already tacitly agreed to blend in and have a perimeter that was out of sight.
“Two hundred yards!” One of the Sergeants was adamant that they needed to be close enough for their facet mage to have life sense on the party.
“Oh come now,” Seleger countered, “we’ll have a priest of Neador with us who can contact all of you if needed!” He didn’t mention that they had no intention of telling Beldere the plan, or any more than necessary. They just didn’t want soldiers hovering over everything they did. Eventually, they settled on a three-hundred-yard perimeter, with the soldiers in plain clothes, magically stored shields and crossbows, and four close coordinators within fifty yards. With the logistics settled, they met up with Beldere for a quick breakfast and headed off to the festival grounds soon after.
The boys, including Chatwick, all signed up for the youth competition, but after seeing the other contestants practicing and the overall lack of real skill, Cat and Seleger decided to sign up for the adult single combat competition as well. There was a knight-level competition Cat was looking forward to seeing, and after some thought, he went to ask if he could join that list too. It turned out that one needed to be a certified knight or sponsored directly by a priest.
“Absolutely not!” was Beldere’s predictable reply. “I’ll not condone you fighting so far above your ability. One small mistake and you could be crushed to paste or beheaded, and there would be nothing I could do!” The priest’s eyes were watery and his voice almost broke.
“Why not?” The refusal, though expected, irked away any sympathy he might have had. Cat wasn’t sure if he was more disappointed that Beldere had so little faith in him or that the priest couldn’t heal him from a beheading.
“I just told you why not! I don’t want you to get killed…”
“No, I mean why can’t you heal a decapitation, I mean, if you’re right there already.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Beldere sighed and shook his head. “Only the greatest healers in history could heal death, and even they could not do it every time.”
“Aren’t you one of the greatest healers?” Cat teased.
Beldere just gave him a disgusted look. “The high priestess of this city, High Weaver Aerwyn, could shatter a building with a word or heal an entire quad within seconds, but even she cannot bring back the dead.” Cat wanted to ask how he knew that but decided to drop the subject since it was causing such obvious distress for the pious young man.
“You don’t have to worry, Cat!” Seleger cut in loudly. “All you have to do is win the adult competition and you’ll be granted an honorary knighthood from the Duke himself!” Seleger was trying to make a joke, but Cat perked up and smiled. Seleger saw the look. “That’s going to be a lot of running back and forth, Cat. Some of those bouts are scheduled at the same time.” Seleger thought for a moment. “That could be over forty rounds in two days.” But Cat was not deterred in the slightest.
They spent the rest of the morning signing up for the various competitions, which involved waiting in lines, answering questions, a magical verification of age and identity, and of course, a basic test of competence. The verifications, combined with the various testing, attracted some interesting characters. Several old former soldiers wanted to shake his hand, claiming they had known or at least been acquainted with his grandfather. One old fellow in particular seemed exceptionally emotional. The sharp-eyed man wore the grizzled visage of someone in their eighth decade, but he spoke as if seeing something play out before him in a scrying pool, reflecting a past as clear as yesterday’s sunrise.
“I helped recruit and train him, as part of Onyx Company, back when they mostly just did garrison duty around Mecre City. One of the best natural swordsmen I ever saw. I was there at the Battle of Mecre, when he dropped out of the castle like a falling star. Armor so bright it hurt to look at. He flew across the front lines, rallying the soldiers. I watched him die, pierced by all them teeth, this long” he held out his hands a little over a foot apart “in that monster’s jaws. The poison pumped into him so much…” the man’s voice started to break “…it leaked out…” he sobbed. “But his sword was lodged into that thing’s brain, tip sticking up out the top of its head like some unicorn lizard.” He barked a strained laugh. “And he kept wriggling the blade around, trying to do more damage, until he stopped.” He looked at his enraptured audience now, obvious pride in his bright gray eyes. “He took that bastard with him!”
Beldere looked absolutely horrified, on the verge of tears himself. Chatwick’s mouth hung open, eyes round, looking from the old man to Catwright and back. Seleger gave Cat a wary, sidelong look as if expecting him to do something crazy. Cat just sighed and reached out a hand and put it awkwardly on the old man’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said simply. He had heard this all before from veterans, minstrels, and historians. Everyone had a slightly different version, but this man’s tale was pretty consistent with most of the stories Cat had heard. The old soldier just wanted some acknowledgment, some catharsis, which Cat felt duty-bound to help provide for some reason.
“Wait, wait,” Chatwick exclaimed. “All of that stuff really happened?” Everyone, including Beldere, just looked at the young squire incredulously. Cat chuckled.
“Thousands of Mecrans perished that day!” Beldere seemed scandalized.
“Did they stop teaching history in Breckan’s Hold? I may have to speak to someone about that,” Seleger began.
“I never really paid much attention,” Chatwick admitted sheepishly. “I just heard the stories, at festivals and such.”
Having told his story, the old man moved on, but word must have spread because Catwright was accosted several more times during the day by men and women of that generation who had been there and seen the battle. By the time they reached the sign-up tents for the adult lists, after stopping for some lunch and to browse the markets, the judges and trainers greeted them respectfully by name and expedited their entry process. Cat had expected some snide comments about children signing up for the grown-up games, but it seemed he and Seleger were both being taken seriously.
Too many conversations and about sixty gold pieces each in entry fees later, it was late afternoon and time to meet with Beornen’s Barbarians. The walk to the mercenaries’ encampment was a bit over a mile, and Cat looked around for some of their shadows. He had spotted a couple of their close-in escorts during the day, but overall, they had done a great job of staying inconspicuous.
Leaving the main fairground, they found a less-traveled thoroughfare toward their destination. Though still crowded, the path at least offered some breathing room, sparing them the constant need to avoid collisions. Here, the noise level dropped a notch, allowing Cat to clearly make out the conversation between Chatwick and Beldere a few steps behind.
“If he’s like his grandpa, why can’t he fly around and glow like the sun, like in the stories?”
“In the actual battle,” Beldere was using his lecture voice, “Captain Catwright wore the Armor of Areleas, an artifact from the Age of Power which granted a variety of abilities, including flight…”
Cat tuned out the rest of the conversation as his hackles rose. The crowd thinned out suddenly, and about twenty feet ahead of them stood several mercenaries in black painted half-plate armor. The Obsidian Tears, Cat thought with resignation. Is this really happening? They stood relaxed, holding their helmets as if they had just come to parley.
In a clear, confident voice that carried over the crowd, the leader delivered what Cat felt was the most cliché kidnapping demand imaginable. “Just come quietly and no one needs to get hurt.” He was a tallish man, in his early thirties, just over six feet, with penetrating blue eyes and the kind of charisma Cat supposed women might be impress.ed with.
Several people in the crowd watched, curious. Beldere and Chatwick stopped and looked up, confused. Seleger bellowed into the strange new silence with a voice that created a shock like lightning. Many onlookers, including some of the mercenaries, stumbled back and clutched their ears.
“Hark! Citizens of Mecre and the great city of Osenvale! Here we have scoundrels in our peaceful streets attempting to abscond with our sacred nobility. They would take us captive even as we are ordained and accompanied by a priest of Neador, in the light of day, at the request of an evil slaver’s guild!” Cat had never been so appreciative of Seleger’s singular ability to create a distraction and gain the attention they needed at the same time. Part of Cat still believed they could come to a peaceful resolution until he spotted the dark-haired mercenary to the left of the leader and their barely moving lips and twitching fingers.
The mercenary leader looked annoyed by Seleger’s interruption and tried to speak again, but Seleger just boomed right over him. “To arms! Citizens of Mecre! As a Lord of this land, in the name of my father Dain Sulwood and the Everborn King Mecre, I declare this guild to be criminals under Mecran law!”
Oh shit! Cat thought. No more negotiation. Cat made a quick gesture with his right hand: mage! Seleger just glanced his way and gave a curt nod in response.
Cat felt the veils opening: Bellicorum, Aether, and Somnivel. The mage wove them together with obvious skill and released with a power built up through the duration of Seleger’s speech. Several things happened at once. As the spell crashed down, Cat knew what to expect. He bit down hard, aiming for his cheek, but ended up biting through his tongue. The spell was strong; he felt it swim through his head like a dense fog, but the pain and the timing had been enough for him to come through awake and still able to move. It had been centered behind him, on Beldere. Smart. Beldere, Chatwick, and a few dozen Mecrans collapsed like puppets with their strings cut.
Cat was already moving. Before the sleep spell fully manifested, his hand axe was already in his hand. Before the sleeping crowd hit the ground, the axe punched through the breastplate and into the chest of the mage. He didn’t even have any barrier spells up! What an idiot! The mage was still alive, but out of the fight with a hole in his lung. Cat didn’t want to kill anyone; he was still going for non-lethal blows. The axe could have very easily found the spellcaster’s head.
Cat and Seleger sprinted forward. Instincts and years of training helped them pick out dozens of other mercenaries surrounding them, many with bows. There was only one choice: close the distance or become a pincushion. The leader glanced in shock to see his fallen comrade and reached for the battle-axe at his side. Cat’s hand crossbow appeared, and he released a shot that hit the leader’s exposed hand. Jerking his hand away in disbelief, the man had time only for one horrified gasp before Cat was on him. Cat felt the bowstrings go back and frowned with consternation. Were they going to shoot their own people?
Cat put a dagger into the man’s armpit, trying not to hit anything vital. He was aware of the aether shifting as the arrows released. Using the dagger like a lever, he turned the larger man, positioning that bulky black armor between himself and most of the arrows. The poor man’s body jerked and bucked as the arrows hit; some of the tips went clean through the armor, one emerging an inch from Cat’s neck. He noted the glossy black, obviously enchanted, tear-shaped arrowhead and couldn’t help a little appreciation. That’s why they’re called the Obsidian Tears.
They had killed their own leader. The man was having his last spasms as Cat summoned his armor and sword. I really need to invest in a shield. He glanced over to see that Seleger was still alright, having employed a similar tactic. His friend was already fully armored and dropped the mercenary he was holding to summon an enormous tower shield. Gods be damned, if I get shot, he’s never going to let me live it down! The Tears were rushing in from all directions, having given up on the ranged approach. Seleger gave Cat a bloody grin, and then the veils started to open all around them. Uh oh.
Of course, Spikey and several others had noticed when Beldere and Chatwick had gone down, and the whole city probably took notice when Seleger raised his voice. Cat was surprised it had only been a few seconds since the sleep spell landed. He started counting the seconds as he and Seleger fended off the mercenaries. The Tears were angry and disorganized; they had not expected things to go so poorly so quickly. Cat took down four in the first five seconds with crippling, non-lethal wounds—at least he hoped so. They were tripping over their own fallen trying to get to him, doing more damage than he was. Cat was calm and relaxed. In the back of his mind somewhere, he understood that these people were no longer just trying to capture him; they wanted him dead. Yet he was focused with the composure of thousands of hours of training.
“How long did they have before the soldiers showed up? Thirty seconds? A minute?” Cat’s mind raced, understanding what was about to happen, his focus almost wavering. These were Mecran soldiers, defending Mecrans on Mecran soil. There would be no negotiating when they arrived. Seleger must have realized the same thing as he shouted at the enemy: “Put down your weapons! You cannot win this!” The volume caused several to hesitate, but it must have seemed pathetic coming from two cornered sixteen-year-olds surrounded by hundreds of warriors.
Five seconds: mass haste, battlefield awareness. Cat knew the spells being cast, the speed at which doom approached, the precision with which justice would be doled out. Ten seconds: harden skin, enhanced perception. Cat felt himself speed up and become more aware as battlefield awareness allowed the casters to pick them out from the enemy and add them to the quad enhancements. Fifteen seconds: precision shot, rapid reload, explosive shot. Cat took a couple of shallow hits, denting his armor, not even touching his hardened skin. He saw movement on elevated positions, on rooftops and in windows, not soldiers or mercenaries. One thing many foreigners did not know about Mecre was that every Mecran did some time in the military, and every Mecran could use a crossbow. Cat noted dozens of citizens pulling out crossbows and taking aim. Twenty seconds: company barrier, penetrating shot, acid shot. Mecran soldiers worked together as a unit, linking spells and combining mana pools, moving in perfect coordination. The mercenaries by contrast, fought independently, just a mob now that their original plan was foiled. Barriers came up around Catwright and Seleger, and Cat knew it was already over. A sadness tried to invade his focus, but he stomped it down, his practiced mental defenses slamming into place like a bulwark for his sanity. He didn’t ask for this. Twenty-five seconds: mass paralysis shot, multiply shot. Cat and Seleger moved back to back and tried to remain relatively still as the doomed Obsidian Tears hammered on the glowing elemental barriers. Thirty seconds: There was a rumbling sound as dozens of lithos-enhanced tower shields hit the ground, and Cat envisioned over a hundred crossbows lifted toward the enemy. Some of the Tears turned to face the new threat; others finally understood and tried to run away.
A moment of surreal silence hung in the air just before the bolts were launched, multiplied by a factor of ten, expanding and thrumming like a giant swarm of bees in a raging storm of death. A thousand missiles unerringly penetrated their targets, exploding in a spray of acid, blood, and viscera. The paralysis was overkill because there was nothing left standing to paralyze. These volleys were meant to bring down huge magically regenerating Grulken warriors.
As Cat’s hearing returned, he heard the screaming first. Apparently, not all of the Tears were dead; in fact, quite a few on the outskirts had survived. Those who had failed to flee threw down their weapons, shock and despair in their eyes. Beldere was awake, running around trying to save whoever he could. Hundreds had already passed beyond the veils. The human part of Catwright clawed at the walls of the bastion in his mind, claiming this was his fault. If he had kept a close guard, no one would have attacked. No one would have died. He had set up and executed a perfect Ventus trap without really wanting to. He had not taken the threat seriously, and this blood was on his hands.
The cold, trained soldier and tactician kept the analytical side in control. This was not the time for useless emotions clouding his thoughts. He floated as an observer above the carnage, taking it in and deconstructing the events before someone inevitably intruded. There were those who would call this a victory, but Cat was not an idiot; he understood war, and this was undisputedly war. His enemy, this mysterious ‘Unseen’ who could manipulate and control from afar, whose minions could execute complex plans up close, had won a great victory here today. It did not care about humanity. A sacrifice of potential enemies to forward one’s goals was no loss; it was masterful.
Chatwick wandered toward him, eyes wide in shock at the gore. As a pig farmer he had probably already seen his share, but not like this. The boy was covered in it but otherwise unharmed, somehow the quad had protected friendlies from the acid, but not the blood. Cat and Seleger were relatively clean since the Mercenaries hadn’t managed to break the shields before the bolts struck them down. Chatwick lifted a blade from the ground. It was a mid-length, double-edged saber, a deep blue in color that seemed to drink in the light while subtle patterns shifted on its surface. An air and water mana enchantment, Cat thought, with some embedded ice spells. The sword was probably worth thousands of gold; it was unblemished, while the piles of torn flesh around it were unrecognizable as human.
“This sure is a nice blade,” Chatwick said wistfully. “I hope someday I can have one like this.” He spoke as if in a dream. Cat recognized some of the signs of ‘deferred trauma,’ as Beldere would call it. Cat was fighting a new emotion now: Anger. All of this, for what? So that some creature could take him as a plaything, as some component in a ritual? Other thoughts skittered through the gaps. Beldere, Chatwick, and Seleger all could have died if this mercenary group had used different, more ruthless tactics. He also realized this would not end here; he would still be hunted as long as this beast existed. The anger was consuming the guilt and sorrow like fire would dry leaves. He forced himself to take a deep, calming breath before the seething rage overcame him. It didn’t work. Something was building inside him, heating his skin. It felt like he would explode outward with the pressure. What’s happening? It almost felt like when he was gathering mana during his morning katas, except more. Letting out his breath, he focused on releasing the energy. There was a whooshing impact on the street around him like a ten-thousand-pound mattress had been dropped from the sky. A strange orange aura, like a sunset on the wind, raced outward, causing those close by to stagger or fall over; even people a hundred feet away flinched when it touched them. More than a few people were staring at him in wonder. Cat suddenly felt much more relaxed for some reason.
Cat felt around in his mouth with his tongue, testing, and found it mostly healed. “Keep it,” he said, just a little slurred.
“Huh?”
“Keep the sword,” Catwright repeated. “In fact, let’s take all their stuff. They don’t need it anymore.” Cat had become much more proficient with his talisman’s storage space. Reaching out with his mind, he sought to create tendrils of awareness connecting to all the metal, wood, and cloth within a forty-foot radius, then with a thought, it all vanished. Seleger gave him an incredulous look, obviously still in shock as well, as demonstrated by his distinct lack of bluster. Cat just started walking around in a wide circle, repeating his looting trick, idly wondering just how much he could hold.
Sergeant Lovine approached him minutes later. He was pale, but his voice was composed and all business. “The area is secure, my Lord.” My Lord, when had the Sergeant started calling him that? “We captured a hundred and forty-six survivors and estimate a little more than fifty escaped, and at least three hundred members of the company were not present during the attack.”
Cat just nodded. “How many dead?”
The Sergeant grimaced as he inspected the charnel covering the street. “We estimate a bit over three hundred, my Lord.”
“Was this all necessary?” Cat wondered aloud.
“I believe so, sir. There were casters in their back lines enhancing their fighters who were preparing nets and ropes. They would have had you eventually, sir.” That was not what Cat had meant at all, but he let it go.
“What now?” It was Seleger, having finally recovered his voice. Cat realized that this whole battle and aftermath had only taken a few minutes. Mecran efficiency. His mind was still trying to pull him in twenty directions, and he was slowly sorting the jumbled chaos locked safely behind his mental barriers. The soldier in him had somewhere to be.
“Well, we still have a meeting with Beornen’s Barbarians.” And he started walking, his dumbstruck friends falling in behind, Chatwick with a fancy new sword he was trying to fit into the old scabbard, Beldere still sobbing at the meaningless loss of life, Seleger with his best stoic expression, silent for once. Most of the Quad followed closely behind, keeping the crowds at bay, while two swifts stayed behind to organize and conduct clean-up. No one noticed the silent watching figures vanishing into the twilight shadows.
The Upgrade Blog 