short-story – The Upgrade Blog

Isubane’s Echo, Chapter 2: Elder Soul

Image by Gemini

The first person to approach him was Sergeant Lucan Malick, the garrison quartermaster. The polished soldier clasped wrists with the victorious young warrior.

“Nice work, Cat. Now you can wander off and stop beating on us lesser folk.” The familiar greeting and jovial demeanor immediately helped the boy relax. Malick was one of the few people familiar enough with him to use a shortened version of his name. It helped distinguish him from the colonel, who would never accept such a moniker.

“Uh, thanks”

“No idea what to do now, right?” It was like the young soldier picked the thoughts from his head. “Just take it one day at a time. Come by the armory before you leave, I might have some gear for you.”

Cat just nodded dumbly as the Sergeant moved on and another soldier came up to congratulate him. They all knew he wanted to leave the garrison; he had made no secret of his anger and perceived captivity. Many probably wanted him gone so he would stop taking it out on them.

The mercenaries had mixed emotions. Garreth’s huge hand swallowed the boy’s arm. “I guess we’ll need to look for new work now.” The huge axe warrior grinned ruefully. “About time I suppose, I don’t think you learned much from us in the past year.”

Cat appreciated the camaraderie of the massive mountain man. Axe skills were not a common staple of Mecran soldiers, but the sheer intimidation factor of a six-and-a-half foot beast of a man wielding a two-handed, long-handled, double-bladed battle axe, could not be understated. Garreth was not a legend like the immortal Dross of the fabled Orenei empire, who stood against armies with his mythic axe Snarla. Yet, Garreth had taught him much of axe wielding and the various forms of lithos in a one-versus-many combat scenario.

Only about forty individuals came up to him out of nearly a thousand in the courtyard and training grounds area, but the awkwardness seemed to go on for an eternity. After nearly an hour of more speaking than the boy had done in over a year, he was finally able to fill a plate from the makeshift breakfast banquet and go to his room. The walk to the main keep was relatively short, and Cat managed to force a nod and a smile to those who still called out to him. He was so out of sorts that he almost kept walking past the keep to the armory. Stopping mid stride he pivoted left, spilling some water and almost dropping his plate. The bluff stone building was by far the tallest in Ironwatch village. At five stories, it dominated the landscape under the tree canopy. Small patches of sunlight were trickling through the dense upper foliage and the dispersing fog to highlight patches of dark green moss and lichens carpeting the stone. Ironwatch was not as growth-covered as many settlements in the kingdom of Mecre, but the blessing of the Watcher could be seen in the proliferation of the shorter, thicker plants that thrived in the moist, shaded environment.

Catwright entered the dimly lit building and nearly sprinted up the stairs to his room. With the door closed, he sat down, closed his eyes, and found his center through practiced breathing. Thus settled he was able to address his ravenous hunger. He reflected on how his thoughts scattered and his mind seemed to cloud over and slow down when faced with the attention of too many people. This was a weakness he was unsure how to address. The plate of thick sausages and scrambled eggs quickly disappeared as he struggled with the issue. He imagined he was like a fox surrounded by barking dogs, but he couldn’t attack the dogs, and they likewise wouldn’t attack him. Could he just endure? Would he build up a tolerance with more exposure? What would they think if he just walked off when it became too uncomfortable? Unable to come up with an acceptable solution, the boy resolved to stay away from crowds and try to keep his head down in the future.

With one issue addressed if not solved, the young fighter turned his thoughts to more pressing concerns. Where would he go? What would he do, now that more options were open? He wanted to connect more with the friends he had made during the summer training camps hosted at Ironwatch keep. Every year, aspiring young soldiers would come to train with the garrison in the art of campaign warfare. They learned logistics, survival, tactics and combat in all its forms. For eight weeks, they would camp in the deep woods and play war games against other teams of soldiers and children. Cat reflected that it was the only time to which he ever really looked forward. Oh, there were festivals and celebrations throughout the year, but they mostly consisted of slightly better food in greater quantities, and adults drinking and dancing late into the night. The boy appreciated the music, since it was rare, but the other activities strained his limited social skills.

He had not spent much time with the few other children in the village. They went to a single school while he had personal tutors and traveled fairly often for specialized training. He had always been larger and stronger than other kids his age, and this seemed to intimidate them. This was in addition to his elevated status as son of the garrison commander, and grandchild of a legend.

While he thought, he turned his actions toward packing. He did not have a lot to take with him other than clothing. Almost everything he cared about was martial in nature. He had a set of throwing knives from master Helachan at the Obsidian Order. The old rogue apparently gave them out to all of his top students. Garreth had given him a nice hand axe for his last name day. It was well balanced for throwing and high enough quality to take an enchantment. There was also a masterwork hand crossbow a merchant in Mecre had given him upon learning who his father was. It was better than anything in the garrison, compact and could autoload five quarrels with its enchanted cocking mechanism. While he clipped the weapon to the outside of his pack, his eyes fell upon a small notebook on the side table. It was dark, textured leather, small enough to fit in a large pocket and enchanted to have thousands of pages. It had been a gift from his mother years ago. How old had he been? Eight or nine perhaps? Maybe now he could visit… no, he wouldn’t know how to even begin to look for her. He stuffed the book into his pack and gave the room a final scan. With a shug he hoisted the pack to his back and turned away from his old room.

The quartermaster was busy but soldiers made way for the young Isubane, many looking askance at the unusual smile upon the boy’s normally grim visage. Sergeant Malick greeted him with his usual enthusiasm. “All packed and ready for your journey Cat?”

“Yes, I just need a camp kit and some rations.”

“How are you going to carry everything?”

Cat shook the pack on his back “I’ll manage.”

“Can you take a horse?”

The boy wrinkled his nose. He had never really liked horses, they just seemed like extra work. “I’m not sure. A horse would probably just slow me down” He was not being arrogant, he knew he could outpace a horse during a day’s travel, though he wasn’t sure he could keep the pace with a full kit and his belongings. Maybe he should ask for a horse.

Malick’s jaw dropped for a second as if thinking of a response, but he recovered well. “Yes, well knowing you, that’s likely true, what about a pack horse?”

Cat thought for a moment and smiled ruefully. “I’ll need to find out what ‘conditions’ the old man has for me. He’ll probably want me to take a full cluster wherever I go.” The idea of having 4 facets or a full cluster of sixty soldiers shadowing his every move almost made him laugh with the absurdity of it.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Malick laughed, “except for the expense, even the colonel would have a tough time explaining such excess.” The quartermaster handed Cat a large canvas sack. “Maybe you can get your dad to let you have a storage ring, eh?”

Even Cat laughed at this. The camping kit was a forty pound drawstring sack containing a small canvas tent, a bedroll, cooking utensils, and other small tools for tasks like digging and lighting a fire. A magical storage item of some kind would indeed be useful, however, his father only had two storage rings for the whole company and they were far too valuable to give to his aimlessly wandering son. “I’ll figure something out.” Cat took the sack with one hand and easily lifted it off the counter and slung it over a shoulder. He knew that it would be fairly uncomfortable to walk a long distance with all the gear, but he had done it before. He could fit all of the camping kit into his pack and strap the bedroll and tent to the outside if he needed to.

“Armor?” Malick asked.

“No, I’m not planning to head into a war zone right away, the leathers and the sword I used this morning are good enough.” Cat patted the blade belted to his hip.

“No! Let me have that blade.I have something better!” Malick said excitedly. He went to the back and returned with a sword. The scabbard was plain, if new, but the sword was obviously something special. Cat took the weapon reverently. “Some of the men and I got some coins together and hired the best blacksmith, Master Vearn! Then we pitched in and bought the materials for the enchantments, and some of the garrison mages were able to do the runes and the spells. We know how you don’t like to sharpen and maintain your blades, probably because you go through them so fast.This one should be able to take a bit more punishment”

It was a master-crafted blade. Cat examined the expertly wrapped grip and the three tiny sapphires on the hilt. He pulled the blade free and the lightly glowing rune work shone just above the guard. He recognized the runes for sharpness, durability and resistance. The sharpness rune would save him hours with a whetstone, durability should keep the sword from bending with his enhanced strength, and resistance should prevent rust and weathering damage. Cat was speechless. “This is amazing,” his voice was distant and thoughtful, “you have my sincere thanks.” he finished with conviction, nodding to himself solemnly. “I just don’t know why, or how I can repay…”

“You have helped us improve as much, or more than, we helped you. Watcher’s eyes, Cat, I’ve never seen someone master fighting as fast as you, and then you teach even when you’re not trying. In the last half year I’ve improved more than in the last decade. Others have too. You may be a bit ruthless, but all of us who trained with you will have a better chance of survival if we get into a real scrap.” Malick gave the boy a level look. “And it’s not just the blade skills. Being healed by a priest of Neador has made us stronger. Remember when Renly kicked your leg out, and you got so mad you nearly cut both his legs off? He runs faster than any of us now, and you should see him jump!” The sergeant laughed, then sobered once more. “If anything, we know the world you’re walking into better than you do, and if we can improve your odds with a little gift, it’s the least we can do. Now, is there anything else I can get for you?”

“I uh…thank you.” Cat replied simply. “Just some short bolts for my mini.” He patted the dark wooden hand crossbow clipped to his pack.

“Ah, now there’s a fine weapon, probably worth more than your new sword even without that fancy loading enchantment.” Malick’s eyebrows drew down for a moment. “I don’t even know what kind of wood that is.” He shook his head slightly as if clearing cobwebs and produced a clutch of twenty, eight-inch, tightly packed bolts. “Sorry, that’s all we have. Denton is the only other with a one-hander, so we don’t order too many at a time.”

“This should be plenty for now. Thank you again.” Cat tried to exit the armory after that but kept getting caught up in more conversations. He really wanted to ignore them and find some space, but he knew they had spent hard- earned coins on him, and most of them he would never see again. Some old soldiers like Major Klendan, clasping his wrist in obvious pride, he had known his whole life. They were like terrible uncles who enforced strict military discipline, but now suddenly had a case of nostalgia and kind words. Cat didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe they didn’t like the old colonel and enjoyed seeing him taken down a peg. All of this affection had been hiding behind gruff facades for years and now it felt like he didn’t know any of them. He had to escape and find some silence where he could think in peace.

It took nearly another hour to extricate himself. Walking quickly, he took a turn through the gardens and toward the back of the keep. He found a hollow between the roots of a large oak tree which grew tall and strong despite being in the shade of the giant elderwoods. Cat settled into a meditative position, reflecting that druids really could grow anything anywhere. Anywhere. Where was he going to go? The idea of wandering the road just to see where it took him had great appeal. He could just get lost for a couple of years, come back and do his obligatory military service, and then go out and do it again. The idea seemed like a lonely option. As much as he enjoyed his solitude, he didn’t want to be completely isolated. Another consideration was comfort. He was accustomed to sleeping outdoors and eating rations, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed that life. He definitely appreciated the value of a warm bed and good food.

The town of Breckan’s Hold crossed his mind because it was relatively close, and he knew his friend Seleger lived there. He wasn’t really sure where most of the summer students came from, but he knew some were as far away as Mecre or Jeryl. Both larger cities interested him, but Breckan’s Hold was also on the way to Osenvale, where there was apparently a tournament happening in a few weeks. It would be an exciting place to see and experience some new things. If he could enter the tournament he could also see how his skills measured against some of the best in the area, something his young pride demanded. His decision made, Cat continued meditating for another hour seeking that elusive inner peace that would carry him through the meeting with his father and hearing the dreaded ‘conditions.’

It was with wary apprehension that Cat entered the mess hall a few minutes later. He saw his father at a long table at the far end.There was space around and across from him but the company officers were close by. The colonel was known for being open with his plans and decisions, but Cat had hoped for a bit more privacy. With a sigh, he sat down across from his father. The colonel had removed his armor and changed into a fresh set of loose shirt and trousers colored dark green and brown for silent forest ambush-style engagements. They were definitely the most comfortable of the standard military uniforms. The sapphires glittered unnaturally on the drab collar. The colonel paused in the act of consuming a shredded pork dish with a side of beans.

“You gonna have some food?”

“Not yet. I don’t like to eat while I talk.” Cat was not being insolent, he really did prefer to focus on eating and enjoying his food.

“Fair enough.”

Cat let his father finish chewing. “Conditions?”

“Have you decided where you’re going yet?”

“Breckan’s Hold, then on to Osenvale.”

There was a small pause, and a strained expression came over his father’s features. “What are you going to do with your life, Son?”

The question took him aback, he blinked, paused for a moment, and then responded with the rehearsed line he had memorized years ago, including all the sardonic inflection he could muster. “I will be a great warrior and leader of men in the finest of Mecre’s armies, as you have instructed, Father.”

His father sighed. “I mean what do you want to do, boy.” The creased face could never be called soft, but the hardness relaxed just a bit, and again Cat was caught off guard.

“I don’t know of anything else.” Cat’s voice had lost its humor.

There was a long pause and the old man sighed again. “I fear that I have done a disservice to you by giving your education so narrow a focus. A good leader must have a wide range of experience and the imagination to handle unpredictable situations.” The old man ran a hand over his face, and Cat saw the exhaustion etched there.

Beldere walked up and sat beside the colonel. What was he doing here? Cat noticed that Garreth and Gemma had sat down to his left. Gemma was a petite woman in her mid twenties. She was attractive in a dangerous sort of way, but she talked like an old soldier which seemed wrong somehow. The pause in conversation had lingered more than a few seconds, which she apparently deemed enough time to jump in. “Heard you say Osenvale, Cat, some of us are heading that way now our contracts are completed. We’ll ride along with you if you like. Should be lots of new experiences for you in a city like that.” She winked at the old man as if at some private joke.

Catwright senior was not amused and answered before his son could respond. “Travel together if you like, but I had better not hear of anyone taking advantage of his naivete.” He looked pointedly at Gemma. Garreth guffawed and the swordmistress gave the axeman a withering look. “He will also be travelling with a facet of soldiers and our young priest.” He nodded at Beldere.

Cat lost his temper at this point. He didn’t care about the reference to his lack of worldliness, but why did Beldere have to go? “What? Why? How is this ‘giving me what I want’? This is an armed escort including the one person here who can keep me on a leash!” There was a hush in the mess hall and curious heads turned his way, not that half the soldiers hadn’t been listening in already. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice, but having Beldere along was intolerable. Garreth was trying to hold in a laugh until Gemma helped by punching him in the kidney. Cat felt his face start to heat up and ruthlessly suppressed it. He would be angry, not embarrassed. He sought to empty his mind of the drama around him, his rage would be on his terms, cold and in control. He tried to bore a hole into his father’s face with his stare.

His father took a long calming breath. “Do you remember why you were raised here, in a secure military fort, in an elderwood grove, with your own personal priest?” Beldere bristled slightly at this comment but he did not speak.

Cat had a ready answer for this as well from the myths and stories he had heard countless times as a child. “Because you believe there are some deranged beast gods who have a personal grudge against me because my grandfather helped kill aspects of them and I supposedly have the same soul as him.”

He had to accord some respect to his father for diligently practicing the druidic breathing exercises and maintaining his calm. “I agree that this is a difficult story to believe and I have had my share of trouble with it myself.” The colonel took a deep, almost shuddering breath. “We have caught dozens of spies within this compound over the years, all of them were focused on you.” He didn’t have to mention how they were caught; another terrifying power of the priesthood was their ability to detect ill intentions and compel honesty. “I have even had offers to purchase you on several occasions.” Cat had heard this as well, and though he had trouble believing such offers were real, it made his hackles rise in anger. The idea that a person could be for sale at any price just seemed the pinnacle of evil. “I was offered fifty thousand gold recently by a merchant who frequents the lands of the Ssythe.” There were several gasps around the table at this, and the colonel looked around at everyone as if challenging someone to take up the bounty. “That’s enough to buy this entire village several times over. You will be hunted. You have very little knowledge of how to handle yourself in a populated area, so I need to know you have people you can trust around you.” The old man paused again as if collecting his thoughts.“The priest believes he is chosen by Neador to watch over you.”

“Because of a dream he had as a child! He probably ate some bad herbs.” Cat shook his head in bewilderment. It had been an automatic response to an old argument. His head was spinning. Fifty thousand gold? The Ssythe? Beldere let the comment pass, glancing at the old man.

“I have not seen any reason to doubt his faith.” He raised his voice. “Has anyone here seen anything except dedication from this young man?” There were no comments as Catwright the elder nodded at the priest. “Even the druids and older priests have confirmed that fate has a special place for you.” Now he stared back at his son and took another breath. Weary resignation crossed his features briefly, replaced by resolve in the next moment. “I have seen men train for decades and not achieve the skills you have in the last two years. This alone lends credence to the explanations of the priesthood.”

“Elder soul.” Beldere whispered.

His father glanced over in frustration. “We know that Mecre Everborn retains memories from past lives. The idea that you may have similar abilities seemed implausible until this morning.”

“You can’t just accept that I might be talented?” Cat was frustrated as well, but somewhat more understanding of his father’s situation.

Garreth’s deep voice cut in. “I have only met two other people who mastered all the elemental dances. One was half-fey and over a hundred years old, the other was druid-born and had all of the best instructors money could buy, and it still took her over two decades.”

“Then why don’t I have any real memories? Like Mecre.” Cat was almost whining. He balled his hands into a fist and focused on not crying.

A calming aura washed over the hall and Beldere spoke softly “An elder soul does not present so powerfully at first. It is believed that the more they are reincarnated, the more they remember. You experience echoes of your grandfather—his skills, his mannerisms, perhaps more as you get older. Mecre has memories from tens of thousands of years ago; he appears to have this knowledge from the womb. He is also not limited to being born into a direct descendant. The druids believe that elder souls are a working of the planet spirit, Primythera herself, and the older they are, the more direct control she has to call them when needed. You may be an old soul by our standards, but compared to the Everborn or the life of a planet, you are still a fledgeling spirit.”

Cat had more questions, but Beldere’s aura had brought him back to his purpose. He locked gazes with his father once more. “Any other conditions?”

“Just one.” The colonel unfolded a crisp, clean piece of parchment and handed it to his son. It was obviously magical in nature, as the wrinkles had already disappeared. A flowing script seemed to leap from the page as Catwright the younger read the letter.

‘Greetings Catwright Isubane III,

If you are reading this missive then you have decided to venture out on your own prior to your eighteenth name day. Congratulations and good luck on your endeavors. I ask only that you seek to continue your martial and leadership training and return for your obligated military service. The Empire of Mecre needs your skills to combat the encroaching darkness. As a ward of Mecre you will have access to funds for food and lodging anywhere you travel within the Empire. You may also call upon soldiers or local law enforcement entities for the direct safety of yourself or any friends or family you designate as in need.

If your adventures take you outside of the empire, or you perceive that the threats to yourself and your family are overstated, you may postpone your military service indefinitely to pursue your goals. Know that you or your descendants will be welcome to return at any time and entitled to the full inheritance of the Isubane line. Please accept this badge as a symbol of my authority and a token of my regards.

Safe Travels,

Mecre Andromenus Everborn’

His father slid over a small stylized brooch a little smaller than a man’s palm. The black and silver metal was wrought into the shield and sword symbol of Mecre’s personal guard. The boy’s mind was reeling again. Why did King Mecre refer to his land as an empire? He could call upon Mecran soldiers for aid? Descendants? Mecre Everborn’s authority? Cat reached out toward the badge, and the item disappeared when he touched it. Everyone at the table started. Beldere smiled in triumph.

“Where did it go?” Cat had never seen anything disappear like that except…”

“The kingsguard medallion is soulbound. Just picture it in your mind, and it will appear.” Beldere seemed to have found a new level of peace.

Cat had seen this done but never tried it. He concentrated on his open hand and the emblem appeared in his palm. Everyone else except Beldere started again and Cat noticed something else. The brooch was a storage device! He closed his eyes and stared into what appeared to be a vault with ethereal grey borders. On what passed for a floor sat several sacks of gold coins. Hundreds of coins, perhaps a thousand. He was elated and in a slight state of shock when something else occurred to him.

“I’ve never met Mecre Everborn,” he paused, thinking, “and I think I would remember someone performing a soul binding, unless I was very young.” Silence filled the mess hall now.

“It did not have to be bound again,” Beldere’s whisper echoed off the rafters “It belonged to your grandfather.”

Isubane’s Echo, Chapter 1: Reunion

Image by Gemini

The boy traced the length of the sword’s blade with his eyes, inspecting its cruel perfection. The metal was superbly clean and sharp; he had spent an hour before sunrise honing it, something he did not normally bother with. Today was a special day. The double edged sword was one such as a knight would use, something much too heavy for a normal boy of his age, but then he was not really a normal boy. He held the sword at a lazy angle with its tip buried in the dirt; he knew it would anger his father. Catwright Isubane the third was not above using psychology to gain an advantage, in fact it was instinctual after so many years of training. Yet he knew his battle hardened father would not be visibly ruffled by such childishness. If anything the old man would just seethe behind his mask. It was better than nothing.

The short trampled grass of the practice field was unmoved by the gentle autumn wind, and the chill in the morning air was just enough to make his breath visible. He remembered that his father had always been calm and collected even when angry. There had been a time when he would do anything to please the old man, to avoid the coldness and severe look that accompanied a father’s disappointment. Now he craved to see something far beyond that empty disdain. He wished to see pain. Though the boy of sixteen years had learned much since they had last met, the lessons of 2 years past were still fresh in his mind. It had been a month short of winter, chilly but not cold. The tops of the great elderwood trees were still shrouded in fog. The sound of hundreds of footsteps marching through the mists like muffled thunder brought to mind that fateful encounter with simmering clarity.

Catwright saw red on the edge of his vision and sought a breathing exercise to control his temper. He had screamed at his father, sick of the restrictions and constant training while his friends were off on adventures to real cities attending festivals and experiencing the amusements that were not included in his childhood. His father, Colonel Catwright Isubane the second, had calmly replied that if the boy could best him in a duel, then Catwright the younger could do whatever he pleased. In a rage the boy had charged him, arrogant in his defiance. His father had disarmed and beaten him soundly. Thus a lesson in the folly of losing one’s head before a battle. Then the old man had laughed, and the soldiers around him had joined in. The humiliated boy could not even respond, the agony of a shattered jaw second to his broken pride. He did not cry out, he had been beaten down enough times that coping with mere physical pain was reflexive. The laughter hurt worse.

“Well men it appears the boy still has much to learn, ensure he continues his education.” And with a nod at the Priest of Neador, the old man went on campaign to the borderlands for two years. Catwright the younger did not know his father would be gone for so long. He was determined to flee, to escape the soldiers and make his own way. He did not realize that the young priest of Neador, a boy not much older than himself, would become his leash, a jailer more far more cruel than his instructors.

The lesson had its desired effect, however, Catwright had thrown himself into his training with a will. He had dismantled the keep’s soldiers, acquiring skills at a rate thought to be impossible for humans. The knowledge that he or anyone he cut apart would just be healed in moments drove him to new levels of violence. In a few months many of the soldiers refused to train with him. A few months later he had bested all of the mercenaries in a one on one fight. He started demanding multiple enemies, training with shorter weapons, and forgoing armor. Then he asked the mages to try and disable him with spells, and within a few more months even they couldn’t slow him down significantly. There was always someone there who could overcome anything he did, however, Beldere. The priest could slow him, hold him, put him to sleep and know where he was no matter where he went or what time it was. It was more effective than a collar around his neck chaining him to the keep. A chain was breakable, he had never broken Beldere.

A company of soldiers marched through the mists into the stone courtyard. The 30 foot walls of Ironwatch Keep were still shrouded in the fog of predawn, creating the illusion of the courtyard being indoors. Composed of mostly light infantry in studded leather, the soldiers did not bear the constant chinking sound of chainmail like the garrison soldiers or the officers. One standard bearer bore the flag of Mecre, a pair of shrouded eyes inside a thick wreath of green, representing the watcher in the wood, on a field of silver. The other held a giant multifaceted dark blue sapphire on a pearlescent white background. The soldiers were tired from weeks of marching but excited to finally be home. They were not unexpected since advanced scouts had arrived two days prior with word. Friends and family were already awake and rushing out to greet the men and women of Mecre’s Sapphire Company with cheers and home cooked food. Sergeants dismissed their charges one squad at a time with minimal formality. Cooks and helpers set up mess tables and chairs right in the courtyard as grooms came to take care of the few horses.

A boy and a young man stood in the practice area taking particular notice of the tall, lean officer wearing chain mail on a proud Akarian destrier addressing the troops. The boy was actually quite a bit larger than the young man by his side, a life of physical training had given Catwright the younger a more muscular build than the slim, slightly older acolyte.

“I’m surprised you are out here.” Beldere, the priest, said quietly “Will you go to greet him?”

“No, he will come to me.” Catwright’s voice was calm but cold.

“Ah, I see.” The priest eyed the sword. “You intend to offer another duel then? You think to win your freedom?” The priest was not mocking but melancholy, as if already seeing an unfortunate outcome others couldn’t fathom.

“I will not lose this time.” Was the terse and somewhat sullen response.

“You wear your disrespect like a cloak, anger permeates the air around you. You will only make him angry as well.”

“Good.” Catwright started moving through his warm-up kata, going through each of the elemental sword forms, loosening his arms and legs. He no longer misplaced his steps or needed to pause to retain his balance or rest his limbs. He could perform the entire 20 minute routine flawlessly without stopping. Two minutes into the routine some of the soldiers were staring. The first of the five forms, aether, was mesmerizing to watch, full of spins, flips and acrobatics most professional soldiers would never master. The exercise calmed his mind and focused his will. Ten minutes into the routine he had attracted a small audience of soldiers and their families gathered around the practice area. He had moved from the calm and controlled postures of lithos into the explosive forms of ignasol. Some of his trainers had appeared as well, they knew what was coming. The old soldiers and mercenaries showed a range of emotions from stoic to excited. Pride stood out among the expressions of those who had schooled him since he could hold a weapon. His own ego tried to intrude upon his thoughts. How many people his age could boast of over a decade of dedicated training? His discipline proved the greater of the two, however, as he concentrated on the perfection of movement, his body one with the spinning heavy steel sword.

His father had spared no expense with his son’s development. It was evident by the boy’s twelfth birthday that ordinary soldiers would not suffice, and so the best available of those who would agree to move to the remote garrison had been hired. He could see Garreth of Weltstone, Gemma Reedly, Markus Blueblade and even Denton Blackfoot the spell-sword in the crowd. They all had unique styles and could have handled him in a fight relatively easily two years past. Today, all four of them at once would have trouble besting him. As the rippling forms of aquavae entertained the crowd, his father finally took notice. The old Colonel trotted over behind the spectators, looking too tired and stiff to dismount.

The martial movement of animyra, the fifth elemental form, required a preternatural grace and control for any normal human. The world seemed to slow down for the young warrior as he let himself fall completely into the complex flows of the spirit dance. Spinning and leaping so that his feet barely seemed to touch the ground, his awareness seemed to spread out around him feeling the mood of the crowd. Everything from joy to jealousy washed over him in a wave that almost distracted him, for he had never performed this full routine for such a large audience. He felt a slight parting of the veils as one of his instructors, a magic specialist, cast some kind of analysis spell. He felt the mana of Velamdolc spread over the area, unnoticed by all but a few. He knew from experience that the spell was harmless, but still did not appreciate the intrusion into his focus. Again, his will was more than a match for unforeseen intrusions as he embraced the higher mana coursing through his limbs and channeled it into his blade. He did not yet have the ability to manifest a true spell casting but as he brought the blade down one last time and relaxed his will the air around him was pushed outward stirring up dust in a wide area. Some of the women and children at the edge of the circle actually staggered backwards in surprise.

His father dismounted with a grimace of pain and strode forward. His demeanor was stoic yet intrigued. “Young Beldere, a refresh if you please.” And like a good dog the priest responded instantly and laid a hand upon the armored warrior. Immediately his back straightened while his eyes cleared and became more alert. A fit career warrior in his fifties, the grace came back into his step with the divine magic, making him appear more like a predator. The severe look that a child had learned to fear and despise hadn’t changed. There were a few more wrinkles around the cold grey eyes, and he looked the boy over as if searching for a fault he struggled to find.

Catwright the younger had planted the tip of his sword back in the dirt after his display and his father focused upon that insult. “Still haven’t learned to properly care for your weapons boy? Where else have you slacked while I’ve been away?”

“I think you’ll find the blade sharp enough father.” the boy replied casually. The old man had just watched him perform a routine that none of his soldiers could complete, and yet could not come up with a single word of praise. Had his father ever truly complimented him on anything? Was this a tactic to put him off his guard? A variety of emotions warred for dominance on the outskirts of his thoughts, but he focused on the task before him. Whatever happened he would no longer be afraid. What little respect he had for his father’s authority had dissolved with his absence and long months of training. His father’s eyes widened slightly in surprise at the boy’s nonchalance but the judgement never left.

“Well let’s get this done with then, shall we?” The old man pulled his slim saber from the scabbard on his left hip and began a simple series of arm rotations with the weapon to loosen his muscles.

The boy did not move as his father went through the basic forms all soldiers learned in their first weeks of training. He noted the sword was slightly curved and abnormally bright. It probably had a sharpness and durability enchantment upon it. His eyes caught the blue glint of sapphires on the colonel’s collar denoting the company commander’s rank. They were also likely enchanted with communication and observation magic at the very least. The chain mail was a standard set of light and fine rings over a leather shirt. It was inexpensive, relatively easy to maintain and repair, and practical. Gloves covered his hands, hiding any rings he might be wearing, likely only a couple of spatial storage devices for company supplies. Finally the old man finished the routine and retrieved his helmet from a clip on his horse’s saddle. The helmet was also a simple and practical piece of gear, with nose and ear protection, and no visible runes or gemstones. It was probably not enchanted. The boy had to give his father some credit for spending well upon his soldiers and his son while not purchasing extravagant equipment for himself.

“Are you too good for a helmet?” the elder challenged, seeing that Catwright the third was not making a move toward additional armor.

“Yes” He had never liked wearing helmets. He knew they were useful in certain situations but he was going for mobility and with his now longer reach, it was unlikely his practical father would try for a head strike. Catwright junior wore only a simple leather shirt and breeches. He had become used to having at least a buckler and gauntlets when fighting multiple opponents, but he did not want anything slowing his arms today. His father’s speed had surprised him last time, it would not help the old man today.

If the father had been unnerved by his son’s casual confidence and short replies, he did not show it. A look of resignation crossed his face momentarily followed up by the authoritarian mask. “So be it. Begin.” Without further ceremony the two combatants bowed slightly to each other. The old soldier presented his saber forward in a defensive stance with his left leg back, while the boy strode brazenly forward, his weapon in an aggressive two-handed grip.

The duel was a disappointment. Catwright the third advanced cautiously, testing his father’s defenses, not willing to underestimate his opponent again. However after his second basic sequence, he switched to a one handed grip and increased his pace wondering if the soldier was baiting him with fake fatigue or some other ploy. The blocks were weak and slow. The old man almost dropped his sword blocking an obvious feint. In his third round of combinations the boy left several openings pass by without taking advantage as his father was improbably slow getting his saber back into position. His father went on the attack as expected and his son blocked the feeble blows without even needing to adopt a standard defense. Had he improved so much that his father was no longer a challenge? At this point it was obvious that the soldier was not pretending. Was he injured? Did he have some age related ailment? Should he have been given time to rest properly before being presented a challenge? All of these thoughts went through the son’s mind as he riposted his father’s flagging attack and sent him staggering back. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ the boy decided, ‘I need to finish what I started’.

With a flurry of motion the boy stepped in and battered his father’s saber aside and scored a deep slash to the right shoulder, slicing through the chain and flesh to the bone. As the saber dropped from nerveless fingers, the next swipe took the colonel in the side of the helmet before the weapon even touched the ground. The boy had slowed the strike and shortened his swing to reduce the power but the metal buckled inward with a crunch and the old soldier collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. It was all over in less than a minute. For a cold moment he wondered if he had accidentally killed his father, but then Beldere was there and there was a sharp spasm from the colonel as the priest repaired the fractured bone of the skull and healed the bloody shoulder wound. Catwright wondered if anything short of decapitation could prevent the priest from saving a life if he was nearby. How many times had the young warrior been saved from a mortal wound in the last few years by the young acolyte of Neador? How much less brutal would his training have been without the healer standing by?

His father was up and about within a minute, cradling his arm. The phantom pain could sometimes linger for hours despite a healer’s best efforts. He turned to his son, eyes masking the pain of his bruised pride as much as the other injuries. “We’ll talk at the noon meal. Don’t look at me like that, you’ll get what you want, but there will be conditions!” With that the soldier stalked off leaving the boy speechless and wondering what exactly it was that he wanted.