writing – The Upgrade Blog

Isubane’s Echo, Chapter 10: The Unveiling

Image by Gemini

Walking cleared the mind. Cat wished the walk stretched another twenty miles, but he had barely one to sort through his jumbled thoughts before reaching the encampment of Beornen’s Barbarians. His friends remained silent; Beldere simply stared forlornly at the ground, his tears gone. The soldiers’ jokes, an attempt to drain adrenaline and emotional overload, carried to him. The air hung thick with stunted empathy; Cat still smelled the blood, saw the vacant eyes of what were, moments ago, living, breathing fathers, sons, daughters, and mothers. Guilt and sadness wrestled for dominance, drowning the relief of being alive and unscathed, and the hollow pride of victory.

“It’s a good thing old Catwright isn’t trying to cause trouble; I don’t know if the city could handle it if he truly applied himself. Told you all this would be an exciting assignment!” Spikey’s voice, Cat knew, carried intentionally, fishing for an emotion, a reaction. Anything.

Cat turned, bringing the soldiers to a staggering halt. “Yes, Spikey, things are about to get very exciting,” he said, his voice calm but hard. “I wasn’t making a real effort before, but now I feel I have good reason. There will be a great deal of trouble in our future,” he paused dramatically, “if you choose to stay. I have plans that may not align with your job descriptions. I want you to think long and hard about where your true loyalties lie, because the Duke and his druid council might dislike what I do next. If family and loved ones depend on you, you may want to seek a new assignment, because being around me will soon become far more dangerous.” He resumed walking, leaving the now-silent soldiers exchanging trepidatious glances.

“That goes for the three of you as well; this was just the first battle in a war. I wasn’t raised to lose wars.”

“I will stand with you, my lord.” Chatwick’s unusually sober voice declared, his hand on the hilt of his new sword. The stark sincerity of his proclamation made Cat smile.

“Thank you, my friend,” Cat said, “and please, just call me Cat.”

“I’m here, for as long as my mother lets me stay,” Seleger said wryly. Cat was surprised she hadn’t already arrived, tucking her boy into a security box and dragging him back to Breckan’s Hold.

“Let me in,” Beldere urged.

“Yes, you’re right.” Cat sighed. “I’m ready to let you link with me. I think you should link with all of us. I’ve been stubborn and foolish. If we’d been linked, that encounter could have gone very differently. I ignored the advantages of our working together for my selfish pride, and for that, I apologize.” It had been difficult to admit the truth to himself, but speaking the words, finally surrendering, felt good. Cat already sensed the initial probe of Beldere’s awareness, and with a small, mutual effort, the mental barriers formed a small aperture.

I’m here. The touch of Beldere’s mind felt soft and reassuring. Cat had linked with battlemages, battle priests, and druids before, but this felt more personal, warmer, yet at the same time, he focused his will to avoid panicking and pulling away from the intrusion.

Can you see my plans?

Some of them.

I want you to train as well, wear armor, learn to defend yourself.

Very well.

Linking, or “creating thought webs” as some soldiers called them, facilitated instant, efficient communication. It demanded discipline and practice to learn, but it significantly increased any fighting force’s effectiveness.

Heees inmyhead in my head my ohohohohooooooh, I hope we can we can stop to pee soon needtopeeneed to pee… hungry smell sausages oh mmm pork sausage, Watcher’s britches look at… breasts breasts big beautiful bouncing bosomes, so soft so smooth and… The stream of thought cut off abruptly.

Beldere sighed aloud. “It may be some time before Chatwick can join with us fully.” Seleger laughed so hard he nearly fell over.

“I think I see a public latrine up on the left,” Cat said.

Moments later, the humor faded as a palpable tension demanded caution. Rounding the last corner, they saw the Barbarians’ encampment: a newly raised rock berm guarding the front, and three dozen mercenaries armed with projectile weapons behind its defenses.

A towering man stood before them, wearing a gleaming breastplate over well-worn leathers, a variety of weapons strapped all over him. He stood relaxed, yet ready. Beornen’s voice boomed. “Greetings, Lord Isubane and friends, please forgive our wariness. I heard you just destroyed a much larger mercenary company. If you’ve come for trouble, you’ll find us no easy meat.” Cat believed him; he knew from his conversations with Garreth that the Barbarians hired for quality, not numbers. Their leader emanated a power unlike anything the young warrior had experienced. It was an aura of lithos, and something more.

“We’re not looking for trouble. You invited me here.” He wanted to say much more, but it had already been a long day, and Cat felt he’d exhausted his week’s supply of speeches.

The Barbarians in front and the soldiers behind both relaxed. “Come then and enjoy our hospitality; we have drink and more drink, and some food. Killing makes you thirsty.” Cat wished he could say he hadn’t personally killed anyone, but he knew it would sound hollow.

“Gunther and many of his lieutenants were friends of mine,” Beornen began once they were all seated and served a large draught of dark beer. “They weren’t great friends or smart friends, but they were decent people considering their line of work.” The tone felt challenging but not overly harsh. This was a man who understood some of the situation but wanted a better explanation.

Cat would not apologize, nor would he avoid responsibility. “I know greater powers are at work here, yet I didn’t take the threat seriously until today. For selfish reasons, I overprepared for something I didn’t think would happen. My enemy convinced others to do its work, through gold or magic or both, I’m not sure. Either way, it’s gained, and we’ve lost.” Catwright took a long swallow of the smooth, dark drink. Beornen considered him for a long moment.

“What would you have done if you knew for sure they were coming?”

“I would have confronted them immediately.”

Beornen laughed. “Just like that, eh? Well, that might have worked. What will you do now?”

“I have a lot of confronting to do.”

Beornen steered the conversation toward more pleasant matters. They discussed martial training and the logistics of running a mercenary group. Cat listened with great interest, and Beornen happily talked about his barbarians. The mercenary leader was not truly a barbarian, but he had been raised among some of the more civilized tribes of the northern plains. They practiced a martial form called Stoakchau, which complimented the forms of lithos very well. Cat had heard of the fighting style but wasn’t proficient. He had learned dozens of forms from most of the known realms, but his instructors considered the nomadic tribal styles too undeveloped to bother with. Beornen was a master of lithos and had taught what he could to his company, making them an excellent group for fortification defense.

“Garreth wanted me to offer you a job, but I don’t think you’d take it. Also, I’m not sure I want your enemies.”

Catwright smiled. “No, I don’t think you can afford me. I was actually going to offer you a job.”

Beornen laughed along with several of his lieutenants, including Garreth. “A good mercenary company avoids work that gets them killed. I have a feeling I know what you want.”

“There’s this creature called the ‘unseen’ that wants to capture me and use me in some sort of ritual. How much to go and kill it for me?”

Beornen’s smile turned grim. “You should seek out the king of Mecre with that request; that seems a proper quest for the Everborn himself. I’ve heard of this creature, but I know only myth and legend, and that it’s far too dangerous to take lightly. Such figures exist in many cultures: the Ssythe, the Grulken, the Etyrack, and the Liephen, to name a few. My people call these beings ‘Old Ones’; they are great powers among their species, evolved beyond mortals but not quite gods, though they hunger to take that next step. You might compare them to dragons, or elder druids, or the Mecran elemental knights, but not nearly so benevolent. If this thing moves so boldly, it must believe it’s close to ascension. Do not underestimate what it will do to achieve its goals. I’d warn you to proceed with caution, but I see that’s not your way.”

“Where should I start, and who would help?”

“Educate yourself; start with the libraries and scholars of this great city. For the rest, you’ll need subterfuge. The Red Hand is a good group for this; most of their people are in the city. I believe a few members of Echo Company and the Shifting Sands are also in the area, but some of them are almost as vile as the slavers. As for allies, people with grudges are bound to be looking for ways to strike back. Just don’t pour more ale than your cup can hold.”

“I appreciate your suggestions. Garreth speaks highly of you, and I consider him a good judge of character.”

“He speaks well of you also,” Beornen stood abruptly. “He also says you can fight.” Catwright had to smile; he had known it was coming but felt excited nonetheless. Despite all the carnage less than two hours ago, it was barely a warm-up compared to what he was used to.

For the first time in almost two years, Catwright found himself completely outmatched. Beornen wielded an active lithos aura which slowed the younger warrior considerably. The mercenary commander complimented the boy on simply standing under the intense gravity magic. Cat had trained under similar spells’ effects and knew the trick was to shift his stance, focusing on his own lithos movements and mana, to guide the opposing mana around him and negate the crushing effect. Yet Beornen could actively move and alter the aura, unexpectedly shifting it to throw Catwright off at opportune moments. The larger man could also manipulate metal, increasing his axe’s speed or changing its direction without regard for momentum. This effect even extended to Catwright’s weapon and armor to some degree, though it obviously took greater effort. Still Cat almost dropped his sword twice. Beornen casually admitted that with enough time he could weaken normal metal enough that a sword would break and steel plate crack like glass. He heated up the boy’s armor a bit to prove his point, and if not for the leather padding, Cat’s skin would have burned badly. It grew uncomfortable enough that Cat dismissed his armor for a bit to cool off. At one point, Cat tried grappling with the barbarian, managing an effective chokehold, but before he could apply any real pressure, he began to feel nauseous and weak. He struggled to breathe, and his vision darkened. “Stop!” The word, imbued with the power of a divine order, froze Beornen, a look of surprise crossing his face, and Cat immediately felt better. Beldere was angry, the most intense Cat had ever seen him.

Beornen, still locked in place, managed to form words. “I wouldn’t have caused him any permanent harm, priest.”

“You were seconds away from a point of no return,” Beldere’s voice quavered. “I don’t think I could have brought him back from that.”

“I was aware; I only wanted him to loosen his hold a bit.” Beornen moved again, stretching his limbs. “There are metals and minerals inside the body, and when I make contact with the skin, I can manipulate those as well. I simply wanted to show that wrestling someone like me isn’t a good idea.”

“Point taken.” Cat remained lightheaded, and his muscles responded slowly; he had to focus just to stay standing. Beornen still looked at Beldere.

“You are powerful for one so young. I am an empowered disciple of Toram the Harbinger, yet you held me in place, helpless, with but a word. Toram is no fledgling god like your Watcher of the Wood, so your faith must be strong indeed.”

“You’re a priest?” Cat asked, finally able to move his mouth. “Is that how you manipulate your aura?”

“I am a Herald of Toram, though my blessings come in the form of empowerment for myself and the warriors around me. I have a great affinity for what you call lithos, as do many of my people, but the aura is aided by runecraft.” He removed his breastplate by using his aura to flip some quick-release latches and gently lower it to the ground. He then peeled back his leather shirt to reveal two symbols, both a little larger than an inch square, glowing with a sapphire hue, engraved onto his chest.

“Dwalven runes?” Seleger spoke up with interest. “On your skin? I always thought they had to be on metal.”

“The Dwalven craft them onto their armor and weapons because their items are virtually indestructible by our standards. They also know the secrets of crafting and so can carve as many as they like and also repair them properly. Doing the same for mundane arms would be quite expensive.”

“Can’t your runes be ruined by being cut or disfigured, like slave runes?” Cat asked.

“No, this is a much more elaborate binding than a simple slave brand. It’s also soulbound, so as long as I survive, they will regenerate.”

“Wow,” Seleger whistled. “That must have cost…”

“About twenty-five thousand gold each, yes.” He watched the boys’ eyes widen and simply smiled. “Worth every copper? No?” Cat could only nod in agreement. The lithos aura had completely flummoxed him, and he had trained specifically to counter such magic. On a battlefield, very few people would adapt in time to survive a second attempt.Beornen, with his singular, awe-inspiring power, was merely a man – a formidable warrior, yes, but still a man. Yet, this man spoke of ‘Old Ones’ with a deference that chilled Catwright to the bone. What ancient, unimaginable powers did those beings wield, if even Beornen and his company of fierce barbarians felt such dread? Cat needed to learn, to grow stronger, for the true war, he knew with chilling certainty, had only just begun.

Isubane’s Echo, Chapter 9: Thirty Seconds to Silence

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.

Isubane’s Echo, Chapter 7: Echoes of War

Image by Gemini

Gemma

Gemma Reedly had never really thought of herself as a good person. She had a certain code of conduct, a set of very loose principles, but mostly she looked out for herself. If there was one thing she had learned growing up on the streets of Arksellum, it was that caring too much about other people was hazardous to your health. That was why, as soon as she entered the glowing white quartzite walls of Osenvale, she went straight to the information brokers. She figured information about the kid would be worth some coins, and she was correct. She liked the boy well enough, but money was money, and people were going to find out anyway. She told them everything she knew, under a truth compliance spell, of course. She told them she was pretty sure he was somehow the reincarnation of his grandfather, and she told them about the special artifact he had received from Mecre himself. Mostly, the brokers wanted to know about his combat prowess and who his companions were. She felt a pang of guilt telling everything she knew about Beldere, the Sulwoods, and the facet of Mecran soldiers, but she was not overly worried. Someone would have to be a lunatic to go after that crowd in a Mecran city.

“Why are people so interested in this?” she asked. The broker looked at her with surprise, and for a moment, she thought he would try to charge her for the information, which she could tell from his expression, everyone already knew. It wasn’t her fault she’d been living out in the middle of nowhere for the last two years.

“I suppose it’s common knowledge now,” he sighed. “It’s the bounty for his capture. Talk to that broker over there if you want to know more.” He pointed to a greasy-looking hybrid humanoid who looked like a creepy cross between a snake and a human. It was hairless, earless except for holes in the side of its head, with slimy grey skin, slitted eyes and nose, a mouth that was too wide, and arms too long. It stood a little over six feet tall, even though it was stooped. Some evil fecking Ssythe experiment, she guessed.

“Hey! What’s the bounty on Isubane?” she called out. The creature actually flinched at her words but answered in a calm, sibilant voice.

“Ten thousand Mecran gold marks.”

“Who’s paying?” she walked right up to him—at least she assumed it was a him; she didn’t see any obvious lady parts, and the voice was relatively deep. He made her wary for some reason, but she wasn’t going to let him know that.

“The consortium of labor procurement,” he tilted his head, “are you interested in participating?” She ignored the question.

“The slavers’ guild can post bounties like that in Mecre?” She was more than a little taken aback. The idea that the consortium could just pay to kidnap someone in a kingdom where slavery was forbidden was scary. And ten thousand gold? The kid might make for a great gladiator in the coliseum of her home city, but no one would pay that much for a fighter who likely wouldn’t last a month.

“The guild of brokers only asks that the coin amount is valid and available,” the emotionless thing replied. “We are only providing information. The legality of the capture or where and when the target is acquired is the prerogative of the hunter.” Gemma just shook her head and barked a laugh. She tried to calculate the number in her head of what she would need if she were stupid enough to try. It would be more than the bounty was worth. And in Osenvale of all places? There must be over ten thousand soldiers here, not to mention priests and druids and at least a dozen mercenary companies, all mostly loyal to Mecre. Even if they managed to grab him, they’d never get away without some serious veil manipulation.

“Well, best of luck to any idiot who tries a fool’s snatch like that. They’d best bring an army! Sounds like a good way to get planted early.” She was laughing aloud as she walked off. The broker’s unsettling smile followed her out the door.

Gareth

Gareth had heard about the bounty as well, but from a different source. His mercenary company was already aware of the reward and the officers confronted the wayward mercenary about it soon after his return. They weren’t interested in the job; there were too many risks, and the client was one they did not care for. They were also not desperate for coin, like many companies. However, they were curious about the boy and what made him so special. Gareth told the officers what he knew and some of what he suspected, but none of them were well-versed in the arcane or Mecre’s legends and lore, and so had little idea what it meant. They understood that Catwright might be the rebirth of some great hero who had died almost fifty years ago, and accepted it without question. They had certainly encountered stranger cases in their line of work.

“A bounty like that on a kid who’s barely left home,” Beornen of Lacrath shook his great head. The commander of the mercenary company known as Beornen’s Barbarians was a towering man, almost seven feet tall and over three hundred pounds of muscle. He resembled a member of one of the greater magical lithos races, something more than human, and he kept that veil of earth mana open almost constantly, which added to the impression. “What do you personally think of him, Gareth?”

Gareth was finding himself enjoying the attention despite himself. He idolized his commander, even though Beornen was a few years younger; he truly was the stuff of legends. “I like him. He is stubborn beyond all reason, socially awkward, but good-hearted. He is strong-willed and determined to improve in a way I’ve never seen.”

“Sounds like you and I are in agreement then, that we should stay far away from this slaver nonsense.” Beornen sighed, his face thoughtful. “There are shadows at play here we don’t understand, and I have a fear that our stance and your relationship with the boy might create a conflict with some of the other companies. I know you’ve thought about it. What would you have us do?” The commander was far more canny than most gave him credit for and had likely already seen several levels of complications beyond anything Gareth would have considered.

“Recruit him,” Gareth replied without hesitation. “He would be an asset to our company.”

“You mentioned earlier that he could fight; just how good is he?”

“Two years ago, I had skills I could teach him; I could surprise him, but it was still a tough match. Now, he could probably fight a half dozen men like me and emerge victorious.” The commander’s eyes widened at this; Gareth was no weakling. “I mentioned this before, and I’m not sure any of you truly believed me: he has mastered all five of the elemental forms. He does them every morning as a warm-up, and it is an impressive sight.”

Beornen just grunted. No one in his five hundred strong company had mastered all the forms. There was quite a difference, however, between knowing an entertaining dance and using it effectively in combat. “That I would like to see. Do you think he could best me?” The giant grinned and puffed out his chest a bit. Gareth paused and took the question seriously.

“You have certain advantages that he might not be ready for, so I would favor you for the first few matches.” Then Gareth grinned. “But should you beat him, he will haunt you like a spectre until he learns all he can from you.”

Beornen bellowed a laugh at that. “I will consider what you’ve said Gareth. Recruiting may indeed add to our infamy, but I’m not sure I want to fight the other mercenary companies and the slaver’s guild for him.”

Gareth appreciated that the big man always put the good of the company first, and considered all the angles. “Surely you don’t think someone would be reckless enough to try and grab him in Osenvale?”

“I do think someone will try, and I agree it makes no sense, but some of the other companies have already been talking about it. I feel like someone has been goading them to action. We’ve been in this city for a couple of weeks and there’s a lot of unusual movement in the underground. As I said, shadows at play, puppets of the Ssythe and the slavers working together. That alone seems unusual, and the fact that they are operating at all in a Mecran city is even more so.”

“What will the company do?”

“We will watch and wait. Whatever plays out should be entertaining at least and unlikely to involve us directly. Have a care Gerath, it is not unusual for slavers to use someone perceived as a friend of the target, as a means to get close to them.”

Gareth had a lot to think about. Despite the commander’s warnings he would seek out Catwright when he entered the city. If he wasn’t aware of the danger, he needed to be warned. Also, Gareth still felt that one of the best moves for the kid and the company would be to recruit him to their ranks. He also wanted to dig deeper into whatever plots were afoot in the city. Espionage was not his strength, but it seemed like the company had their nose to the ground, so he would start there.

Luarca

Minions swarmed around the hulking abomination like ants in a frenzy, desperate to please the creature. Willing or not, they served, their small minds had no real ability to resist. This is what the Gnarr-Ssythe had been built for; war and conquest, domination of the weaker races by raking claws and crushing teeth. Standing at over seven feet tall, with crocodilian features, hard grey-green scales and at least four arms, what they lacked in intelligence they made up for with raw ferocity. Luarca had wasted little time upon reaching the surface, putting plans into motion. The Ssythe had been breeding for decades on these islands. They had been left alone by the softer races, thought to be defeated. Now the Ssythe would strike, not just for conquest, but for a foothold and access to more power. These changed creatures who worshipped the Lord of the Unseen were still pathetic, but they were improved tools and with time would become even more so.

The help of the Gavanti had been procured much more easily than anticipated. They wanted wealth and slaves for some great excavation project they had in the far north. Wealth was simple, and the Ssythe were very good at providing slaves. The ancient cult had been ecstatically celebrating the return of their god or some such nonsense. Luarca had casually investigated and found some moderate divine magic in their midst, but it was not a familiar signature. It was probably some new rising power grabbing any desperate devotees they could manage. Agavantor, the lord of darkness and magic, had been before Luarca’s time, an ancient enemy of the pesky druid god and supposedly well and truly dead. Hopefully, that was still the case. The legends told of an evil the likes of which even the Crawler in the Deep did not wish to encounter.

Power emanated from the writhing ritual circle in the courtyard of his new aboveground abode. The dwelling was unnecessary; after sleeping for years, it would be decades before rest was needed again. If the goals of the ritual were accomplished, the idea of rest would be obsolete. Having any indoor area for living seemed a waste; none of the elements could cause this form any serious discomfort. There was food aplenty all about. A ravenous hunger had taken over upon reaching the surface, and the titanic horror had gorged itself on human slaves and the slower Ssythe for hours. The feast had revitalized and empowered its atrophied body and refreshed its mental faculties. Now the monstrosity wielded an arcane knowledge of the veils, long forgotten by lesser beings. It modified the older techniques of mana amplification, creating more useful rituals fueled by lesser implements stitched together by mystic weaves. Five humans formed the sides of the pentagonal ritual. Their taut, tied, naked bodies twitched in agony. Their skin was ravaged, and their raw throats were useless after hours of screaming. Yet still they lived. Humans did have a certain resilience, which made them an excellent resource for soul-powered magic.

There were a variety of Ssythe and Gavanti agents in the city called Osenvale, but Luarca preferred to keep the conflict between humans as much as possible. With the aid of the augmented circle of enhancement, plenty of weak-minded individuals could be directly influenced, even from over a thousand miles away. Simply bending its will toward the pentagon showed Luarca hundreds of thousands of glowing souls and soft human minds. The master psion had tried to directly influence the Isubane child, but whether it was the distance or some inherent resistance, the most it had accomplished were some minor nightmares. The boy hadn’t even woken up or reacted to them in any noticeable way.

The ritual also opened up communication to all of the agents within the city, and some of them were strong enough to influence other potential pawns. They were already stirring some of the mercenaries into action. If this plan failed, another group of specialized contractors within the city could accomplish what was needed with minimal fuss. This shadowy syndicate owed favors and a great deal of their livelihood to the Ssythe, whether they were aware of it or not. It might be time to call in some of those favors. And of course, there were contingencies upon contingencies. Luarca had not lived for almost a thousand years by being complacent. Now that his full awareness was bent upon the surface of Primythera, there would be change.

Dain

There were several things most people did not know about the great grey bears of the Lelldarlyn Mountains. It had to do with their magical nature and how they were able to exist in the first place. A normal bear the size of Feingar would be encumbered by its own weight, actually making it slower than its smaller cousins. Yet, the grey bear’s bones were lighter and much stronger than normal bones. Their muscles were also far more powerful in proportion to their mass. Druids and scholars all recognized that such a creature did not evolve naturally, and theories abound as to their origin. Their uncanny intelligence and physical prowess make them a dominant predator on the peninsula of Lendre.

Feingar also had the unique advantage of having a very powerful magical saddle, a gift from Duke Kerold Oboggin of Konig after the unexpectedly brutal Konig River campaign. The fine-looking leather saddle was studded along the outer seams with small sapphires. It magically improved the mount’s speed, reduced their fatigue, and provided sustenance. It was specifically crafted for long-distance rapid travel on a warbear. This was how Dain Sulwood was able to make the normally three to four day trip to Braunwood Town and the castle of Count Eckheart of Vessalia in less than five hours.

The Count was a large man in his late sixties with a head of sparse grey hair and a prodigious paunch. Though he styled himself a military man, with ornamental armor and a jeweled sword, Lord Eckheart had left the military after his mandatory two years for more mercantile pursuits. Rumor was that he was at the battle of the twin gods, when Isulas, Isuna and their army stormed the gates of Mecre City. After seeing many of his friends slaughtered trying to hold the line, he’d lost his taste for violence.

Dain counted some forty nobles occupying the great hall in attendance of the Count and his advisors. There were six Barons, including Baron Galunte of Lockdale, who was Dain’s direct senior in the hierarchy. Looking around at all the various military-style uniforms, Dain reflected on the differences between this government and the feudal societies of old. Mecre’s governors were generally selected on merit by the council of druids in Mecre City, and they conducted themselves much like a military chain of command. There was less formality and ceremony and more practical decisiveness. If a Duke were a general under the king, then a Count might be a Colonel, and the Barons act as Captains and so on. Everyone also knew that they could be fired and replaced without regard to their genealogy.

The social atmosphere was relatively casual as food and drink were served. Pleasantries and platitudes were exchanged in equal measure, there was a friendly and familiar air about the chamber. Many were discussing military matters such as training and equipment, while others made minor trade deals and inquired about friends and relatives. Meetings such as this were very rarely held for economic reasons, however, as Mecre did not have any serious issues in that area. One of the benefits of having a druid council and a druid patron god was an abundance of food. Many farms could produce four or five normal yields a year, and selling the surplus to neighboring realms made an easy profit. No, a gathering such as this meant one thing: war.

In the center of the great hall, a large, exquisitely detailed stone war table depicted the southern half of the peninsula of Lendre, including all the surrounding islands. This was no game, however; this was a map of Mecre’s actual military forces and known enemy armies. In just a few days, the Ssythe armies had spread out from the islands of Memath and Chelan and taken over the entire multi-island nation of Coramar. The small kingdom was sparsely populated and had very little military to speak of, yet it was still hundreds of thousands of people who were now likely slaves or meat for Ssythe bellies. Mecre was organizing a defense of its coastal population since the King believed that would be where the lizardfolk would strike next. He also wanted to organize a counteroffensive to liberate the Cormarians, but most of the druid council was opposed to the idea, citing neutrality and possible threats from the north.

Druids generally would not go to war unless it came to their doorstep, and Mecre the kingdom had thrived under this philosophy for over a thousand years. Mecre the king believed that the time to flex and train their military strength was now, and that war was inevitable; he wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. There were a great many Mecrans who saw their returned everborn king as a warmonger, an omen of doom, and someone to be feared, but there was no doubt that he knew battle. It was said that whenever the king arrived in person to a conflict, the outcome was all but predetermined, no matter the odds. He could not be stopped on the battlefield. The Ssythe, however, had their own undefeated champions.

The group of men and women at this gathering, already burdened by the weight of leadership, had become used to war over the past few decades, but those battles had been mere skirmishes compared to what was coming. Reports had the Ssythe warriors numbering close to a million. It would drain all of Mecre’s garrisons to field a human army a fraction of that size. Thankfully, Mecre was not asking for such a commitment just yet. A defensive war could be waged with far fewer soldiers, especially with the aid of the druids. The council nobles agreed that a levy of twenty percent of their standing troops would be adequate.

There would be no squabbling or politics over who should go or who should stay. All was balanced in the land of druids; it was the way of Neador and had been for over a millennium. As for the soldiers, there would likely be volunteers in excess of twenty percent anyhow, as Mecre was a patriotic kingdom that did not suffer invasion lightly. The meeting was conducted and concluded in the space of one long meal. Within four hours of arriving, Dain was on the way back to Breckan’s Hold with new orders and a grim purpose. He would assign his own portion of the required levy and then leave for Osenvale to assist Duke Jamelyn in negotiating with the mercenaries gathered there. There he would also unite with his wife in the effort to keep his impetuous youngest son from joining the war effort.

Isubane’s Echo, Chapter 5: Whispers of Convergence

Image by Gemini

Luarca

A shape stirred in the darkness, awakened after years of slumber by its spies returning from the north. Milky white eyes opened, seeing everything, even in the absolute blackness of its cavernous home, hundreds of feet underground. It shifted its great bulk, tentacles atop its snake-like head twitching, spreading its awareness outward, seeking its kindred. The little lizards that other races called the Ssythe—it–he, no longer really resembled them. Was it even a “he”? It seemed like centuries since such trivialities had mattered.

The smell of death permeated the stale air. Blood leaked into its gruesome home from bodies ritually sacrificed in its name. Such a pitiful trickle of power compared to the one it sought. Visions swarmed its mind from multiple perspectives at once: the present, the past. Winged thralls danced in the skies and darkened the trees. The elder soul walked free, no longer protected by those dreaded ancients of bark and earth. To have such power there for the taking—the path to true immortality. The lord of the unseen licked its lipless face with a forked tongue in anticipation.

The waiting was finally over. Only a sliver of the twin’s power, but it was there: vengeance, hunger, pain. It remembered when the druids had returned the soul to this realm—hunger, pain, and a baby crying. The machinations of the pawns of Primythera were not hidden from Luarca, the crawler in the deep. A sinuous body contorted, and scales rippled, causing the earth to shake. Eight clawed limbs began pulling the creature toward the surface, passing enormous caves filled with a vast wealth of precious metals. Useless, except as rewards for minions. Yes, wealth—that was how things were accomplished in the human world. Tendrils of a deranged but insidious mind reached out to the faithful and began to issue instructions.

The earth continued to tremble and give way before the forty-foot-long reptilian monstrosity. Those above cried out in ecstasy and terror in equal measure. Siama Luarca, lord of the unseen, crawler of the deep, nightweaver, the elder Ssythe abomination human mythology referred to as the Blood Wretch, slowly made its way into the light once again.

Beldere

“Have you delved the auguries recently my son?” Master Adenide’s elderly face was severe but not unkindly, like a general whose countenance was stained by a life of violence but now held a precious new grandchild.

“Yes” Beldere was fidgeting, having trouble finding the inner peace that normally came so easily. It was more than the nervous regard for a respected elder, it was an apprehension for the difficult questions to come.

“And what have you seen?” The old priest relaxed on a cushioned chair made of polished and lacquered oak. The grotto of whispers was a modestly appointed great hall with four attached cabins in the shade of a small grove of young elderwoods. Everyone in the village was welcome to come in search of healing or wisdom, and the master and two acolytes provided all they could without asking for repayment of any kind. The quality of the crafted furniture, however, was a testament to the villagers’ appreciation.

“Violence.” Beldere started, and then stopped himself not knowing where or how to begin. The one word seemed to be enough, however, as his mentor took a deep breath and seemed to stare inward for a long moment.

“Where do you see yourself?”

“In the middle of everything,” Beldere could not keep the catch from his voice as he relived the visions, “standing atop a pile of bodies, with…him, or dying underneath… feeling the suffocating death crushing my body, my soul.” He was sobbing now, wiping his face on his robe in a most undignified manner, like a child. Taking deep breaths, the young man embraced the fear and despair and then observed it from the outside, clearing his mind temporarily from the burdens of his emotions. “How can someone so isolated have so many enemies?”

“He has something that the powerful want. He doesn’t understand, but you need to. An elder soul is a powerful component in a ritual that can create a divine spark. The soul of Isubane will be even more sought out because of how he died.” The old priest stopped to let the younger man absorb the knowledge and reach the proper conclusions.

“You believe his soul absorbed aspects of Isulas and Isuna as they mingled between the veils.”

“I certainly believe it is possible. Beings approaching ascension would sense that spark as it entered our realm. It’s one of the reasons the gods do not lightly send avatars, as even they have predators seeking a path forward.”

Beldere digested this for a moment. “There is more to it though, it’s not all about him.”

“Good, you do indeed show wisdom beyond your years. Isubane’s plight is but the tip of Mecre’s problems. Dark events encroach upon us. The Grulken attack in numbers greater than ever recorded, and they are organized. The Ssythe are amassing in the southern isles for unknown reasons. The druids on Mecre’s council report more unexplained breaches in the veils, beings that should not be able to come through are somehow doing so. I believe we are coming to that convergence of events which prompted the rebirth of Mecre Everborn. Primythera does not take direct interest unless something cataclysmic is on the horizon.” It had been thirteen hundred years since the planet spirit had summoned the Everborn, and that had been a war that encompassed the known world, where gods rose and fell, entire species were wiped out and the geography of the planet itself was changed.

Why me? I didn’t want this! Was what Beldere felt like saying, but he knew questioning the wisdom of Neador or Primythera was useless. They saw things in a different perspective than mortals. Divine plans might take several lifetimes to come to fruition and a mortal would likely never fully comprehend their part. I am a pawn, a small piece in a much greater plan. I must have faith. The young priest did not have to say anything, he simply sighed in resignation.

“I see you understand my son.” The old man smiled in a tired, and wry manner which radiated empathy. “You have my congratulations, and my sympathy.”

Chatwick

The night before had included one of the best meals and best nights’ sleep of his life. The meal was better than festival fare, with a whole leg of roast goose, potatoes, carrots, and bread. Then, they had given him his own room with a soft, clean bed, thin under-blankets called sheets, a warm odor-free blanket with no holes or stains, and best of all, no younger sister tossing and turning beside him. This morning was a different story. After their sumptuous breakfast of eggs, sausage, and buttered toast, his sister had been sent off to school. Chatwick, however, had been sent off to someone called an assessor, who quizzed him on various subjects, including reading and writing, and pronounced him “adequate.” Then, the assessor proceeded to poke and prod him with a variety of arcane instruments to determine if he had any ailments or injuries. Chatwick had assured the scholarly young man that the nice priest of Neador had healed him of every injury or ailment he had ever had, and even some he hadn’t known about. The scholarly young man had assured Chatwick that all armsmen needed to undergo a yearly evaluation so they could be utilized efficiently and given every opportunity to advance their skills. Chatwick wasn’t sure what that meant, and since his head conjured up visions both ominous and reassuring, he decided to let it go and save it for later thought.

Almost immediately after being pronounced healthy and reasonably educated, he was issued a short sword and a leather jerkin and shown to the practice area, where the big noble boys had apparently already been since before sunrise. Here, he discovered that his new master and his dour friend were relentless in the pursuit of the martial arts. Seleger led him through a series of warm-up exercises that left the thin pig farmer gasping for air. A dozen feet away, Catwright was thrashing the local soldiers one after the other, and they kept coming! As if it was some kind of privilege to get cut open and have their bones broken by a kid half their age. The priest was there as well, healing the wounds as fast as they came, a sad look on his face, as if he’d rather be anywhere else.

Chatwick took his turn sparring as well and discovered it was a lot harder than it looked. They mostly just talked to him about where to place his feet and how to hold the sword. No one really hit him except to batter his clumsily held weapon or slap him lightly with the flat of a blade. They were actually encouraging and nice for the most part, something he had not expected from adults, much less soldiers. Catwright avoided him, as if the newly minted squire was not worth the time of such a peerless warrior. He mostly squared up with Seleger, who patiently instructed and corrected as if he had been doing this his entire life.

“Why aren’t you thrashing me?” Chatwick finally gasped as he bent over, hands on his knees. He was exhausted, and they hadn’t even been at it an hour. He wasn’t lazy or unfit compared to other kids he went to school with, but he couldn’t even lift his arms anymore.

“What do you mean?” Seleger was grinning at him with that winsome, knowing smile that was simultaneously endearing and condescending. “You look pretty roughed up to me.”

“I mean like that,” he pointed to where Catwright had just stepped inside a slow swing and shattered a man’s jaw with the pommel of his sword.

“Oh, you’re not ready for that,” Seleger laughed. “Those men have been doing this for years! They have a soldier’s alchemical conditioning, which makes their bones stronger and helps them heal and recover faster.”

“But you and Cat can’t be much older than me.”

“Well, yes, but again, we’ve been doing this for years, and we have augmentations as well, even more than most of the soldiers.”

“How is Cat so good? He’s even faster than you.” Chatwick stopped for a moment, considering the wisdom of his words. “No, yeah… I mean, he is, isn’t he?”

Seleger was still laughing. “Yes, he has a gift, plus he’s been doing this nonstop since he was old enough to stand.”

“Will I be able to fight like that someday?”

“You are not expected to fight like that, unless you become a knight in your own right. Your task is to stay alive and distract the enemy until I can get there.” Seleger beckoned the younger boy to follow, and they proceeded to a locked cabinet. Producing a key, the older boy unlocked the doors and retrieved a small corked vial of brownish liquid. “We call this liquid vigor,” he said. “We use it for beginning soldiers since it loses its effectiveness after a while. It’s not a true tempering drought, but it will help you recover faster, give you energy, and repair your muscles so you can get back to training again.”

Chatwick took the proffered vial, and though he knew it cost more than a half dozen healthy piglets, he downed it all without hesitation. This was his life now, and if these two older boys were the new standard, he had a lot of catching up to do. Within seconds, energy filled his body, and his aching muscles felt enlarged and strong. Seleger then took him through some basic instruction in a variety of smaller weapons, including knives and daggers, which Chatwick found he had a much better grasp of.

He was thankful at first that combat training was only the first three hours of the day, until he was shown to the other classrooms. He received detailed instruction on the subjects of history, etiquette, tactics, science, and magic. Some of the discussions were actually pretty interesting, but after his sip of vigor started to wear off, he could barely keep his eyes open. The classes were taught by old soldiers or scholars, and in most cases, he was in the class with only two or three other students. Everyone gave him so much attention; it was stifling compared to what he was used to. Unfortunately, he found it impossible to catch a nap. He barely had a chance to relieve himself after mid-meal before he was off to another class. At one point, he walked past a stable where a boy was mucking away happily and actually felt a twinge of jealousy. I need to get my head right!

By dinner time, he had his own pack filled with more books than he had seen in his life, and he was encouraged to study them in his room, which had its own desk and a shelf for said books. He talked to his sister at dinner to find that she had been fitted for three new dresses and only had to attend two classes all day. She’d had a grand time playing with some of the other children around the estate. After dinner, he spread out his bound and printed treasures upon the desk until it was covered. Feeling tired but studious, he opened up some of the other books and spread them upon his bed. where he promptly fell asleep atop them.

Seleger

Something was off with his friend. He acted nice enough and had the same mannerisms and all, but he was more guarded, more withdrawn. Seleger mentioned it to his father that first night after dinner and received a nod in response.

“He seems a lot older,” his father said. “Keep an eye on him. I heard they pushed him hard the last couple of years. That young priest looks like he’s seen his share of trauma as well.” Beldere did seem more withdrawn, now that Seleger thought about it. Well, it makes sense, he was there as well, elbow deep in the blood and guts.

The next morning, Catwright went to the training grounds with a will. It seemed like he had to prove himself to every able-bodied soldier there. Seleger had to practically pull him away for mid-meal, and when Cat wanted to go back right after, Seleger had finally had enough.

“Why do you need to go back? You’ve already beaten down every soldier in the barracks.”

The other boy paused for a long moment and sighed deeply. “What would you like to do?” Now Seleger smiled.

“We’re going to the tavern for a turn at the war table!”

“Don’t you have a war table in the manor?”

“Yes, however, here at our lovely home you will not find ladies of ill repute in their cups. Oh, and the games at Giblin’s place are much more interesting.” Seleger smiled again as Cat shrugged his shoulders in defeat. “Who knows, maybe you can start a fight! All your Sapphire Company and mercenary friends are sure to be there.” Cat showed a smile that was obviously forced, and Seleger tried not to take it personally. He would show his friend a good time if it killed him.

Giblin’s tavern was a relatively isolated two-story building on the southeastern edge of town. When Cat inquired as to why it was so far from the barracks, Seleger replied that old Giblin wanted to be as far from the manor and the grove as he could possibly be, and yet still be in town. Cat shrugged again, as if this made perfect sense. The bottom floor was quite literally overflowing with patrons, some of whom were already sleeping off their first round on the lawn outside. Seleger laughed loudly, “It’s barely an hour past midday, this is going to be great!”

Several people called out to them as they entered. Seleger recognized almost everyone in the building, and the crowd made way for the two boys with loud, jovial greetings and a shrill, joking, “Throw them out, they’re too young!” from Gemma. Tankards were waiting for them at the bar, but it took a bit longer to get spots at the war table. There were several teams waiting for a turn when the two boys approached. Not afraid of a challenge, Seleger charmed the competitors within a few short minutes, and with a few words and promises of free beverages, they were allowed to jump the line and have a game in time for the second round of drinks.

The table was a raised stone platform roughly eight feet long and four feet wide, and upon the surface were what at first appeared to be children’s toys, but were actually detailed miniatures representing groups of soldiers with various capabilities. Each miniature had a combat value, and the players would select a number of miniatures which added up to a certain number, usually four or five hundred, and then face off against one another in a game of strategy. A yardstick was used to measure distance, and small six-sided square dice were used to resolve issues of chance. A game could last hours or be over in minutes, depending on skills, chance, alliances, and levels of inebriation.

So many people wanted to play that they ended up creating four teams of two for the first round, with Catwright and Seleger splitting their force, each controlling half of their pieces independently. The game lasted less than an hour before Olivia and Jarod, the reigning champions, handily won after cornering Seleger’s routed unit in a ravine where he surrendered.

“I thought you were good at this?” Cat goaded.

“I am, well, better than you at least.” Seleger gestured to the board.

“I’m pretty sure everyone allied against me,” Cat stated matter-of-factly. Seleger had to concede the point. Catwright had been set upon by all three opponents before they ever attacked each other. That’s what he got for beating them all bloody.

Not giving up, Seleger towed Catwright along with him to socialize with the fairer sex. In his vast and varied experience, nothing cheered the suffering soul of a melancholy young man like the casual affections of a buxom young maiden. Perhaps the only superior cure was the ravenous attention of the not-so-maidenly sort. Behind the tavern, a partially fenced-in porch area held several wooden tables with chairs, along with a more sturdy set of tables dedicated to games of strength and coordination. Green vines with purple and yellow flowers covered the three walls, inside and out. In this sacred green area open to nature, the town leaf burners could partake of their vice without offending or accidentally sharing their experience with those inside.

Without hesitation, Seleger pulled out two chairs from a table where three women sat, immersed in a tri-color cloud of herbal smoke. He took a seat and beckoned Cat to sit as well. “Selya, Emmy, Bristol,” he gave them his best smile, “I’d like you to meet my friend Catwright.” The girls were young, well, a few years older than him, but pretty and so delightfully different. Selya with long dark hair and wide eyes, Emmy with her more mousy, innocent look, and Bristol with her open, challenging face and large… voice. He did love variety.

Selya’s eyes widened slightly, Emmy smiled shyly, and Bristol pointed and shouted, “Oi! I know you, my papi said he got his jaw broke by some kid from the Ironwoods this morning! That’s him, Catwright Itshisbane!” Seleger wasn’t sure if she mispronounced the name intentionally or if she were already burned, toasted, smoked? The terminology for their particular version of herbal impairment may have escaped him, but Bristol’s comment induced a round of excited chatter. Selya seemed to know every obscure rumor about Cat’s grandfather, and Emmy pouted about how it was such a shame she was already promised to the miller’s son. Catwright’s face was bright red, and it wasn’t from the brew.

All Cat managed during the conversation was a quiet “Um, hello,” and it struck Seleger that the other boy had never been around girls outside of a combat training exercise. Even then, those few women had been at least five years older. All at once, it struck Seleger. His friend was newly freed from a life so structured he almost never made his own decisions other than how to maim someone. Cat had no direction and, worse, no social skills. A bout of sympathy washed over the young lordling as he saw Catwright increase his rate of consumption to alleviate his awkwardness. This was a big problem, and Seleger was just the champion to solve it!

Isubane’s Echo, Chapter 4: Breckan’s Hold

Image by Gemini

“Hah! There’s nothing like two lads trying to impale each other to bring back memories of old times. Don’t you worry Beldere, I’ll get the lad a lance touched by Thera herself!” Spikey had a huge grin on his face, and a sly gleam in his eye, as he picked up a random stick from the side of the road and fed the power of Primythera, the planet spirit, directly into the long dead branch. It grew rapidly, straightening and hardening as several soldiers couldn’t help but trade bawdy jests as to the phallic nature of the druid’s creation. Spikey took it in stride, confiding to his swiftmates in a whisper that carried to everyone: “That’s Sully’s little boy over there. Who wants to see Cat thrown from a saddle? Wagers?”

“You’ll need a horse, Catwright, unless you plan on running at him,” Sergeant Lovine dismounted and handed off the reins. Cat eyed the Sergeant and the Corporals with a sour, resigned expression as they started discussing odds while breaking out snacks and using their packs for chairs. Very few believed he would win the joust, but most thought he would win a sword fight if he wasn’t too incapacitated.

“Catwright Isubane the Third,” the armored horseman bellowed across the distance, “I challenge you to a duel to the dirt; first one knocked down three times loses! Agreed?”

“Agreed!” Cat shouted back as he mounted the much smaller rouncey.

“Take a shield!” Beldere scolded. “You aren’t even wearing any armor. You are putting far too much faith in my ability to put you back together.”

One of the soldiers handed Cat a full-sized tower shield; it must have weighed over thirty pounds. Even holding it sideways, Cat had to angle it down so he could see over the top. Cat started laughing. “You’re always saying I need to have more faith, Bel.”

“Ha!” his challenger called over. “That shield is older than my grandfather!”

“Still not as old as that antique set you’re wearing!” Cat shouted right back.

“Ha ha! Weight advantage to me! We’ll see how smug you are when I put this lance through that pathetic wooden door and your unprotected ribs.” Beldere raised his head at this, then narrowed his eyes and waved a hand. The steel tip on the lance fell off and bounced off the warhorse’s barding once before unceremoniously thumping to the ground. You could practically see the distraught look through the young Sulwood’s visor. “Watcher’s hairy green balls, Bel, you always have to ruin the fun!” The lance came off his shoulder in one fluid motion, and the enormous destrier surged forward.

Cat was just taking his lance from Spikey, somewhat distracted by the graphic metaphors being tossed around, and half of the soldiers rolling on the ground in laughter, when he noticed Seleger coming for him. He spurred forward, using every bit of horsemanship he could muster just to get his frightened mount galloping in the right direction. He was basically riding blind as he maneuvered the 12-foot lance into position around the massive shield, almost dropping the weapon in the process. He flattened the shield slightly to see and had to raise it back up a half-second before impact. He felt and heard the shattering of wood. His freshly made lance flexed in his grip as it hit the lower corner of Seleger’s shield and bent instead of shattering for just a split moment. In the next fraction of a second, he was forced sideways and then backward as his lance snapped, his right shoulder popped out of its socket, and the remainder of his opponent’s lance struck him in his left pectoral. Then there was intense pain and a feeling of weightlessness as he flew backward through the air, and landed in a backward roll which brought him smoothly to his feet.

Cat dropped the remains of the tower shield and reached over to pull his shoulder back into place with an audible crunch. The pain was intense but helped him focus. He didn’t go into shock or pass out as easily now as he did a few years ago. Unfortunately, his right arm would be useless for a while, so he drew his sword left-handed and set his stance as Seleger turned the massive stallion around. Seleger was picking up speed like he intended to just run him down; Cat just set his feet and smiled. At the last moment, the other boy broke off and vaulted from the saddle.

“I could have taken the easy win, but I don’t want you to hurt my horse.”

“I wouldn’t hurt your horse.”

“Yes, you would; you just wouldn’t kill it because you believe all broken bones and stab wounds can be healed.”

“They can.”

“You’re too used to having a personal priest to fix all your problems.” Seleger was goading him, trying to get him angry enough to make a stupid mistake. Cat just smiled.

“Are you going to talk all day, or can we finish this?”

“Did you see how easily I took you out of the saddle?” Seleger boasted, raising his voice for all to hear. Cat refused to mention that Seleger had started charging before he was even seated. “I’m not even right-handed.” Seleger looked pointedly at Cat’s uselessly dangling right arm. “But you are.” Seleger was very good at getting into his opponent’s head, but that wouldn’t work on him. Cat started striding toward the other boy.

Seleger was so busy hurling taunts that he barely got his sword up in time to block Cat’s first swing. Seleger was good at swordplay, and he was fully armored, but Cat was relentless. Seleger tired quickly with all the extra weight, and before long, the armor was ringing with the rapid hits from the faster, more nimble fighter. In less than two minutes, Seleger was disarmed and face-first in the dirt. Farmers and other travelers had gathered in a circle with the whooping soldiers to watch the display. Cat noticed the soldiers already shamelessly exchanging coins while Seleger struggled to a sitting position and removed his battered helmet. The ruddy-faced boy grinned up at Catwright as the victor offered his friend, Seleger Sulwood, a hand up.

“You are still a ruthless bastard” Seleger grunted at Catwright as Beldere healed the shallow wounds and Cat’s dislocated shoulder.

“I seem to remember someone telling me a couple years ago, that I was too soft on the competition”

“Yeah, I meant for you to go harder on them, not me!” Seleger laughed. “It’s good to see you Cat, I haven’t taken a good whooping in a while.

“That armor must be five hundred years old,” Cat said matter-of-factly.

“What? No, this was my grandfather’s armor; the Sulwoods didn’t all have fancy armor like your old grandpa. Whatever happened to that wondrous artifact? I know your father isn’t using it.” The Armor of Areyas, his grandfather’s famous suit of Calmahran enchanted armor. Cat had been disappointed it wasn’t in the amulet King Mecre had given him.

“I’d guess someone high up in the king’s inner circle is using it,” Cat replied thoughtfully. He knew the armor had been pierced through by the teeth of Isulas, the lizard god of vengeance, but it could supposedly regenerate from any harm.

“Well, I’d shave my sack with a spoon for armor like that,” Seleger said wistfully.

“I’m not sure which is harder to believe,” Cat said straight-faced, “all the stories about that armor, or that you actually have hair on your sack.”

“Ha, You should assume everything is true until proven otherwise!” Seleger replied airily. Cat wasn’t sure if the boy was being serious, or just flexing his strange sense of humor. Seleger vaulted back into his saddle with the ease of someone who was definitely not wearing fifty pounds of steel and leather. “You were early, by the way; I meant to meet you further out. Those old soldiers are quicker than I thought.”

“Did Adenide tell you I was coming?”

“That’s High Wild Warden or Master Adenide, Sage of the Six Moons,” Beldere interjected reverently.

Seleger ignored the correction. “Yes. Did you know yours could talk over distances?” Seleger eyed the young priest suspiciously.

“I suspected, I suppose, but at least he hasn’t been in my head yet as far as I can tell.” Cat also glanced at Beldere.

“Speaking to another priest is much easier. You would have to let me in; I’m not strong enough to force a connection.” Cat heard the unspoken ‘yet’ quite clearly.

“Well, I formally welcome you and your small army to the delightful town of Breckan’s Hold. May it not bore you to tears before we head on to Osenvale.”

“We?” Cat inquired.

“Yes, I am coming with you, and perhaps I shall bring my own entourage. We could conquer the city and divide up the spoils and the ladies between us.” Seleger gave Cat a significant look, and Cat just rolled his eyes.

A group of riders approached from the west as the party entered the outskirts of Breckan’s Hold from the east. Cat recognized Seleger’s father, retired Lieutenant Colonel Dain Sulwood, atop a monstrous gray war bear. A half-dozen other riders in the brown and grey livery of house Sulwood accompanied the Lord of Breckan’s Hold, The few horses in Cat’s party danced and shied away from the great bear. Even the shinnocmyr and Garreth’s great boar seemed cautious, while the horses of house Sulwood’s soldiers and Seleger’s own beast, seemed unconcerned.

Dain had served with his father through the ongoing border wars as a quad commander and then second in command of Sapphire Company. Catwright had met the man a few times over the years. He was a solid military man in his early forties, with a touch of gray in his dark hair.

Dain nodded at Catwright and Beldere. “Welcome to Breckan’s Hold. We have a domestic disturbance out at the Bailer farm; Seleger, you will accompany me. Catwright, you can come if you like; it may prove instructional. The rest of you can continue to the Hold if you wish; accommodations have been prepared for all of you, and the tavern has stocked extra brew.” He looked pointedly at the soldiers.

“Aw, why’re you looking at me, Sully?” Spikey drawled with a mock-hurt expression.

“Ain’t gotta tell me twice,” Gemma was first to guide her mount around the crowd and toward the town center.

“Take my horse,” Sergeant Lovine said to Cat, handing him the reins of the recovered rouncey. “It’s unseemly for you to be jogging behind Lord Sulwood’s retinue like some poor beggar.”

With no further objections, Seleger, Catwright, and Beldere followed Dain down a southward-branching road into the more rural farmlands. The soldiers spread out with three in the front and three in the rear. Beldere must have learned the trick of calming their two horses, for suddenly they all stopped fidgeting and trotted closer behind the great bear. Dain called the bear Feingar and talked to it as if it understood him perfectly. Its shoulder was level with the eyes of Seleger’s warhorse, and it could have carried six people easily if needed. The bear ignored the trio and forged ahead with a ground-eating pace that forced the horses to canter to keep up.

“So what’s happening with the Bailer’s?” Seleger asked.

“A merchant came into town about an hour ago saying he heard a girl crying and a man yelling, so I decided to go check it out myself. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard about trouble out this way, but the soldiers I sent a few months ago didn’t find anything amiss. The kids have been sick a lot though, and missing weeks of school.

Catwright smelled the farmstead before he saw the cottage through the trees. The acrid stench of pig feces clogged the air. The bear whuffed in annoyance as they approached the house. A shaggy-haired, obese man sat on the front steps, cradling a bottle of spirits. Beldere dismounted, wide-eyed, before anyone could speak, and walked briskly toward the home. Dain noted the priest’s concern and snapped a question as he slid down Feingar’s flank: “Dernus, what happened here?”

The fat man looked up with bleary eyes, saw the priest stalking toward him, and stood abruptly. “Hey, what’re you about?” The almost three-hundred-pound man flew aside into the mud at a gesture from Beldere, who continued to advance up the short steps. Cat and Seleger vaulted from their mounts, excited to see what had Beldere so worked up.

The inside of the house was a mess, but that was not what captured the party’s attention. At the base of a broken chair, sprawled on a moldy blanket, was a filthy, pale, and sickly-looking little girl dressed in rags. Cat was almost surprised to see her draw breath. She had at least one broken arm, and her bruised face was contorted in pain, even though she appeared to be unconscious.

“Call for Master Adenide…” Dain started.

“There is no need,” Catwright stated soberly. He could feel Beldere gathering his magic. The girl might be dead long before the master got there, but Beldere could heal her. Cat had been in bad shape before, but his wounds were almost always treated immediately. This poor girl must have been suffering for days. She had the look of someone with untreated internal damage.

The girl gasped as the magic of Neador’s faith took hold. She floated several inches above the floor; her bones fused together, her flesh knitted closed, bruises faded, and scars disappeared. Beldere then cleared the blood from her body with the same magic and repaired her torn clothing, revealing a pale, brown-haired girl of nine or ten years. She sobbed softly. The whole miracle took less than a minute.

“You have come far, young priest, from when I last saw you,” Dain said slowly. “I doubt Master Adenide could have been so thorough.”

“I have had considerable practice,” Beldere glanced at Catwright.

“I grant you right of sentence for Dernus Bailer; what would Neador’s judgment be?”

Beldere sighed heavily, the weight of responsibility evident. Cat knew that Neador himself did not judge, but the wisdom of his priests was considered beyond reproach. “What can you tell me of the family?”

“They came from the north a few years ago,” Dain stated, “from the borderlands. A neighboring town had been sacked by Grulken, so they decided it was time to move somewhere better protected, even if it meant paying some taxes. Dernus was always the angry type and likes to drink and gamble.”

“The mother?” Beldere asked.

Dain just shrugged. In Mecre, it was not uncommon for women to separate from the fathers of their children if they had a druidic calling, but in the borderlands, men and women usually stayed together for extra security.

“She was killed in the borderlands,” came a slurred call from the doorway. Dernus stood there swaying. The little girl became stiff and silent, her fear evident. The boys and Dain did not move; they had seen him coming. He was not a fighting man, and they were not intimidated. “When the Grulken sacked Bolgerton, she was there with her sister, and they were all slaughtered.” He spat the words, far more angry than sad.

Dernus suddenly halted mid-sway and became silent, eyes wide. Beldere approached the large man, the priest’s voice as cold as Cat had ever heard it. “Dernus Bailer, you are a damaged man. I cannot heal the wound in your mind, but I can make sure you do not harm others. You will continue to work as a pig farmer, tithing one-tenth of all your earnings to the Sulwood estate. Your children shall become wards of the Sulwoods. If you wish to see them, they must agree to the meeting. No matter how much anger you have, you will never lay a hand upon them or anyone unless it be in self-defense or the defense of Breckan’s Hold.”

“Yes, Priest of Neador, I’ll obey,” Dernus droned in reply. Cat and Seleger looked at each other with dumbfounded expressions. The compulsion was one of the most frightening things Catwright had ever seen. Could Beldere do that to him? Had he already done it? Dernus staggered into an adjoining room, looking tired and confused.

Dain kneeled down in front of the girl, her hollow expression focused. “Bethyn, where is your brother?”

“I…I dunno,” she squeaked.

“He is in the sty,” Beldere said.

Dain wrinkled his nose. “Alive?”

“Sleeping,” the priest confirmed.

The pigsty was a short wooden building not far from the main house. As they approached, the reek was oppressive, even in the crisp autumn air. “Chatwick, are you in there?” Dain shouted into the entrance.

A scrawny boy of perhaps thirteen or fourteen years slid through the muck, scrambling to his feet and almost falling again in his haste. “S..sorry, my lords, I wasn’t sleepin’ or nothin’; I was just checkin’ that all the piglets was still there.” The accent was of the rural borderlands, thicker than his father’s or sister’s. His clothes were covered in pig feces and mud; even the stringy blonde mop on his head was matted with brown on one side. Seleger did not try to hide his wide grin. Cat smiled in spite of himself; even with all he had been through, he could not imagine finding comfort in such a hiding place.

“Your father has forfeited his right of parentage,” Dain said without preamble. “You and your sister shall become wards of the Sulwood house.”

The boy’s face sobered as he considered the words; for a moment, Cat thought he would refuse. Chatwick’s face brightened suddenly. “Ol’ da finally went too far, I reckon. That mean I don’t have to shovel shit no more? Seems like a lucky day for me. What do I do? I can cook, ya know, an’ I’m pretty fierce with a spade!”

Seleger chuckled. “Father, with your permission, I think I’d like to take Chatwick as my squire.”

Dain had a bemused expression. “Or a page, more like; young Chatwick has not been raised as a soldier. I shall grant your request, if Chatwick is willing?”

“A man could do much worse than page to a Sulwood,” Chatwick grinned and tried to stand proud, raising his chin and puffing out his chest. “It would be my honor!” It might have come across better if he weren’t ankle-deep in filth.

After a thorough cleaning, with aid from Beldere, Seleger had his new page coax Bethyn out of the house and onto a horse behind Catwright. Chatwick couldn’t resist running his hands down the flanks of the great bear as he passed. Feingar, for his part, gave a small snort and a look that suggested the boy’s hands were not clean enough for such liberties.

“We do not fondle another’s mount without their permission,” Seleger chided gently. “There are men who would cut you down for such an affront; a different war bear might even take you for a snack.”

“Someday I will ride a great bear like Feingar!” Chatwick spoke prophetically, without the least bit of apology or humility, as he climbed up behind Seleger.

The town of Breckan’s Hold was the same picturesque small gathering of well constructed wooden houses Catwright remembered from two years past. The homes were interspersed by occasional rock walls and ruined stone structures from a fortress that fell hundreds of years ago during the war of the dead. Cat did not remember the name of the fort or the battle, but was sure he had learned about it at some point.

They made their way slowly to the Sulwood manor. Many townspeople waved or called a greeting to Dain and Seleger, for they were adored by the folk. Dain stopped and conversed with many of them, exchanging pleasantries and deftly deflecting or answering inquiries with a precision that left Catwright in awe. The art of conversation and politics was something not well covered in his education thus far.

Although only a couple of hours had passed since they had diverged from the rest of the party on the road, the sun was low in the sky as they entered the sturdy wooden gates of the Sulwood estate. The small courtyard was lush with vegetation, including a variety of colorful flowers Cat was pretty sure would not normally grow this late in the year. Lady Natalia Sulwood greeted them at the entrance in a long forest green gown. An emerald necklace around her neck brought out her sparkling eyes as she beamed at them. Her curly brown hair framed striking features. She was not quite a decade younger than Dain, yet still old enough to have three children, two of whom were already adults. She herself could have easily passed for Dain’s daughter. Such was the way of those who practiced advanced druidcraft, Cat thought, they don’t seem to age the way the rest of us do.

“Greetings husband, Seleger, and oh Catwright it has been too long, you boys are so tall I have to look up at you now.” She hugged all three of them warmly, before turning to the children. “Now who are these little darlings?”

“Chatwick and Bethyn Bailer, Neador has seen fit to grant us two new wards.” he nodded toward Beldere. “I’ll explain the circumstances at dinner my dear.”

“Priest Beldere, you have grown as well, I see maturity and sorrow in your eyes far beyond your years. Pray take whatever succor you desire from this house. A Voice of the Watcher is ever welcome here. We have prepared rooms for you, but I know master Adelade has requested your presence in the Grotto of Whispers and has quarters for you there as well.”

“I thank you for your hospitality, Lady Sulwood. I beg your leave, so that I may be off to the Grotto at once.” Beldere looked uncomfortable and excited at the same time.

“Off you go then dear, best not to keep the Master waiting.”

Beldere made cursory farewells to the others and then virtually ran out the door. Natalia greeted the children warmly and sent them off with a servant for a tour of the grounds and dinner with some of the other children of the manor. Cat and Selger were asked to freshen up before an intimate meal with Lord and Lady Sulwood.

The meal was sumptuous compared to what Cat was used to, but not extravagant by Sulwood standards. They were not true wealthy nobles, but compared to his father or any normal soldiers, they were well off indeed. They spoke at length about local politics, the assumption being that Catwright would be interested since he might someday run a village or town of his own someday. In truth he found it difficult to focus, his mind drifting into imaginary future adventures. The responsibilities that Dain and Natalia embraced with such fervor held little interest for the sixteen year old boy.

Seleger seemed to embrace the conversation well enough, asking about the families he knew or what trade goods they would seek in return for their larger than normal harvest this year.

“What are your plans while in Osenvale, Catwright?” The conversation had become a background murmur until he caught Natalia’s voice speaking his name.

“Uh, I’m sorry…” He fumbled. She repeated her question, more slowly.

“If Selly’s going with you I would know your general plans, where you’ll be staying, and how long.” Her voice was sweet and cordial with a not so subtle hint of demand.

“Well,” Cat started slowly, as Seleger stifled a laugh. “We’re going for the festival, and the tournament.” He paused. “I haven’t really thought too far beyond that. As for where we’re staying, I hadn’t really thought about it. I figured Sergeant Lovine would know a place.”

“I’m sure he would indeed, a hovel with pallets for beds above a brothel no doubt.” Seleger didn’t hold back his laugh this time. The lady’s mischievously stern face swept the room. “Well you needn’t worry, I will arrange a place, for I shall be going with you.”

Isubane’s Echo, Chapter 3: Freedom

Image by Gemini

The silence stretched for long moments after Beldere’s revelation. There were some incredulous murmurs in the background but nothing distinct until the old man, face an inscrutable mask, finally asked. “Any other questions?”

Catwright the younger couldn’t imagine what his father must be thinking. After finally arriving home after two years on campaign, he gets his head bashed in by his son and then finds out a few hours later that his son is basically his father. Cat almost giggled like a little boy at the thought. He was in a good mood suddenly. With the revelation that the Everborn had a personal interest in him, and then receiving a soul-bound artifact enchanted with dimensional magic with a thousand gold pieces in it, his day had become much better. The letter and the gift were possibly more of a treat than watching his father collapse in the dirt this morning.

“There is something I have always wondered about,” Cat had a genuine smile on his face, which most in the mess hall had never seen. “Why did you have to continue the name of Catwright? Where did that come from, and how did it stick for three generations?” There was unrestrained laughter echoing through the chamber now. Even Beldere looked like his last sip of water almost came back out of his nose. Cat was grinning as well, but the truth was, he had always hated the name, and wondered if his descendants had been fixers of carts who lack a proper alphabetic education.

His father grimaced. “It was your mother’s idea. When she brought you here you were about six months old and she had already named you. You can ask her. You’ll find her, or rather she’ll find you, if only to tell you what an idiot you are for leaving the protection of the grove.”

Cat was more than a little surprised the colonel answered the question, though it was not really an answer, only raised more questions And the rebuke at the end was so typically his father that Cat had to stifle a laugh. He knew that his grandfather had been an orphan who had embraced military service before he even came of age, but no one seemed to know much more. His mother would. The thought of his mother made him chuckle. Yes, he would find her, and he would have lots of questions. He reached down casually and touched his pack and kit sitting on the floor behind him, and they disappeared into his brooch. He enjoyed the startled gasps.

“You might want to be a little more careful with that particular secret.” The colonel looked thoughtful.

“Why?” Cat challenged, “It can’t be stolen; it’s soulbound.”

“Of course it can!” The old man looked genuinely surprised and disappointed. “They can just kill you and break the binding.”

It was Cat’s turn to be surprised and a little embarrassed, but his snark had not been stifled quite yet. “I will endeavor to prevent the loss then. I would not want to shame our family with a premature death and loss of a valuable artifact.”

His father just rolled his eyes and stood up. “Eat up boy, I assume you’ll want to put some miles on the road before dark. I’ll make sure the facet is ready to depart within the hour.”

It took Cat less than an hour to eat and walk to the west gate. There had been several interruptions and distractions by well-wishers or those who were just plain curious. He received their words with more tact and civility that he could usually muster because of his lingering good mood. He couldn’t remember the last time a simmering anger had not been lurking in the corner of his mind. His step was lighter for more than one reason. He was also physically unburdened thanks to his new amulet. It was strange to have this kind of freedom. He could call anything from his storage space directly to his hand; he didn’t even have to wear a sword belt. It felt unfair in a way, like he had found a way to cheat so many minor hardships with a single acquisition. It had briefly crossed his mind that this might make him weaker, somehow dependent on indestructible, weightless storage. The smile on his face revealed the truth though. It was worth the negligible cost to his pride for such a tremendous gain any way he looked at it.

Beldere and the soldiers were already assembled at the gate. He knew all of the old warriors of course. Crusty old Sergeant Lovine was at the head of a full facet of three swifts. The swifts were veterans as well, each with 2 heavy infantry, a mage, a dedicated healer, and a senior softie. He knew these softies had all cross trained as well; each one could perform as a sapper, an archer and a scout. The grizzled Corporal Remel, who went by the nickname ‘Spikey’, was also a druid. The squat broad man had an oversized crossbow strapped to his back, a thick grey and black beard with penetrating green eyes. “There’s the boy! If we’re goin to get planted, it might as well be while fighting them lizards!”

Cat knew the man had a grudge against the Ssythe, but didn’t know the details. He thought druids were like Beldere, supposedly peaceful and would preach against harming other sentient beings. Spikey was a soldier, though, so he apparently didn’t ascribe to all the non-violent tenants of the priesthood. “I’m not planning on starting any fights, Spikey.”

“Sure you’re not.” The softie shook his head doubtfully and probably had a knowing smile under his ridiculous beard. “It’s nice to get out of garrison duty just the same.”

Only Beldere and the Sergeant had a horse, but Cat was still surprised by the escort. Most full cluster units did not have more than one or two fully complemented facets because mages and healers were relatively scarce. Most facets would have an extra infantry or bowman to replace a missing mage, and the healer would be a regular soldier with slightly more knowledge as a field medic. Knowing the skills of these men, Cat reckoned he had one of the most effective facets in all of Sapphire company. The mages were actual magi, with access to multiple veils, and the healers were specialists who could truly save lives. This was an escort that most royal houses would envy, and it was all for him. Were they ordered to do this? Did they really think this was a suicide mission?

The mercenaries arrived a few minutes later, each on their own personal steed. There were six of them, all travelling to Osenvale. Garreth rode an enormous warboar, its shoulder as tall as Cat’s head. They were apparently common in the Weltstone area, where the locals were constantly fending off hunters who braved the icy mountains for the valuable tusks. Olivia Peln and her brother Jarod, mages specializing in aquavae and frigorum, the veils of water and cold, both rode giant black foxes called Shinnocmyr. Some people confused them with dire foxes, but these were more intelligent and magical. Cat was wary of them, because he had very little understanding of their capabilities. He knew they were dangerous, but had never fought them because they had no interest in being ‘stabbed for play’ as Olivia had translated. The rest — Gemma, Markus and Denton — all rode horses. Only Gemma’s was memorable because it was a silver-haired Felton mare. Mercenaries earned a lot more coin than regular soldiers and they tended to splurge on the exotic. One might think the soldiers were envious, but they would point out that most mercenaries don’t last a decade, and a large number don’t survive the first year.

Risk and reward. Not for the first time Cat considered if he would enjoy the mercenary life. There were always adventures and excitement awaiting talented warriors for hire. Monsters, forces of nature, and creatures from beyond the veils appeared suddenly, and soldiers weren’t always around or equipped to deal with them. There were a lot of grey areas, however. Mercenaries could be hired to fill out armies on whichever side had the most gold. Any lord or merchant with enough coin could purchase their service to stomp out their competition. Cat wouldn’t feel right marching up to someone’s home and killing guards who were just doing their job. Such things did not occur often in Mecre, but there were plenty of nearby realms that were constantly at war with somebody. In these places, people with power and wealth made the rules. It was in those places that mercenaries earned their fame and fortune. It seemed that the best course, if he were to pursue such a career, would be to acquire his own mercenary company, so that he could decide where they went and who they worked for.

Before the group departed the colonel strode up with a group of officers. The soldiers came to an approximation of casual attention, respecting the unexpected appearance of their seniors, but veteran enough not to be intimidated or overly formal. Yet, it seemed the old man planned for some ceremony. The officers behind him came to stiff attention. Two flag bearers appeared with the Mecran flag and the Ironwatch flag and stood in back of the formation with standards held high. The colonel unfurled a scroll and held in front of himself, reading in a confident and projecting voice:

“All within hearing and sight, behold and bear witness! I, Catwright Isubane the second, do bring to your attention a matter of familial concern. My son, Catwright Isubane the third, from this day forth is no longer a boy to be sheltered, but a man ready to forge his own path. Therefore, by the power vested in me by the King of Mecre, and as a Colonel in the Mecran Army, Commander of Ironwatch garrison and Lord of Ironwatch Grove, I hereby declare Catwright Isubane the third emancipated from my direct authority and guardianship. He is now free to pursue his own destiny, seek his fortune, and make his mark upon the world. Let it not be said that he leaves without my blessing. He carries with him my love, my pride and the pride of those who have instructed him all these long years. May he always remember the honor and values of our house, those of the lands of Mecre, as they and he are watched over by our Grand Gardener, the Watcher in the Wood, Neador lord of the Elderwoods.” His father rolled up the scroll with the practiced ease of an administrator and handed it off to an officer.

“Catwright Isubane the third,” Catwright the second shouted. “Step forward!” Cat was entranced with the show and almost missed his cue; however, he had seen such rituals performed enough times to know his part. He stepped forward and knelt before his father.

“I bestow upon you the freedom of a man. May you wield it wisely and with courage. Go forth and make your own name, but know that you will always have a place within this keep and within my heart.” The old soldier held out a gold signet ring. Cat sometimes forgot that they were technically nobility, as decreed by King Mecre on the day his grandfather had died. The titles and lands were deferred, however, until his father resigned his commission. It was likely a large part of the reason his father kept going. It was hard enough being a Colonel; who would want to be a Baron? “Rise, Catwright, not as my son, but as your own man.” Cat stood and accepted the ring, a plain gold band with an oval bezel. His initials were engraved in reverse with three ‘I’s” underneath indicating the ‘third’ portion of his name. He didn’t know what to say. All this affection, emancipation, a ring made just for him. Cat bit his lip. He would not cry!

“Th..Thank you.” he managed.

A few more words were exchanged and there was some cheering and another round of well wishes. Cat’s mind was in a fog, he barely remembered anything after storing the signet ring and shaking his father’s hand. The old man had escaped with his entourage at some point and the flustered young man couldn’t wait to do the same.

Eventually, they made it through the gate and set a quick pace out of Ironwood village. The weather was crisp and dry, and they continued to make good time through the wide elderwood forest roads. The horses kept a steady trot while the soldiers and Catwright jogged alongside. He thought about offering to store the soldiers’ packs, but he felt like it might be insulting and they seemed to keep up well enough. Most of them had been doing this type of thing since before he was born after all.

The transition to the younger forest was not subtle. The road became a steep and more narrow descent that wound into switchbacks, and the ground vegetation abruptly thickened while relatively smaller and more varied trees grew closer together. As they curved around a particularly scenic outcropping, the deciduous greenery stretching for leagues in every direction, an explosion of birds startled the late afternoon peace. The entire party stopped and stared as thousands of small song birds, and hundreds of larger carrion eaters rose in a wide arc to the west and circled for a full minute with their flocks crossing through one another. The dark cloud of shrieks and screams sullied the sky until suddenly it stopped as the birds scattered in every direction.

“That didn’t seem natural.” a soldier remarked dryly.

“It wasn’t.” Spikey said, shaking his grizzled head.

The old soldier-druid wheezed slightly. “They’re common spies for shamans, druids, priests, and magi. Easy to control and hard to disable. I sensed at least a dozen lookers before I snuffed ‘em.”

“You broke a dozen links from thousands of feet away? That’s impressive.” Denton Blackfoot said, his fine chiseled features disturbed. “I didn’t notice the weaves on the birds or your casting.”

“Aye, Thera don’t like folks dominating her critters, and druids don’t need to part the veils to borrow her power. Besides I only stopped the weaker ones, there are plenty of casters out there who could weave a binding I can’t see.”

“I didn’t see any of them,” Beldere sounded confused.

Spikey looked at the young priest with some sympathy. “That’s why they waited outside the grove, boy; knew you’d be weaker away from the Watcher’s guardians.”

Cat recognized the look Beldere got when he looked inward. The young man had rarely in his life been outside of a grove, and Cat wondered just how weak his leash had become. Too late to run away now, I’m already free. Yet it was good to know the acolyte might not be as omniscient as he seemed back in Ironwatch.

They travelled for another hour and camped in the partial shelter of an old fortification, a small and crumbling ruin from a long forgotten war. Cat set up his tent outside the walls, not entirely comfortable in the somewhat dark and dank surroundings. While others went about making a fire and cooking food, he spared lightly with the soldiers and mercenaries. Someone remarked that he didn’t need to train so relentlessly anymore, and Cat simply shrugged. It was all he really knew. The session was a game of simple first-touch wins; no one wanted to get hurt too badly, not knowing the extent of Beldere’s limited powers. There were healers among the soldiers, but they were magi with access to animyra and other eldritch veils. None of them were priests as far as he knew. Cat doubted they could heal anything like Beldere, even in his weakened state.

The first round was played one-on-one with just swordplay. It was an advantage for him and he did not disappoint, tagging each in just a few seconds after Sergeant Lovine, the judge, saying ‘go’. The next round, he let them prepare with spells and use any tricks; like non-lethal items they had available. The game became much more even. The veterans and mercenaries were giving as good as they got. Denton tagged him two out of three times with his magically enhanced speed and reflexes. Additionally, the enchantment he put on his sword helped him block and attack with unerring precision.

On the third try, Spikey pulled out the stops and caused mist to shroud the training area. Cat didn’t mind that; he had experience fighting blind. He was taken to the ground in an instant, however, with a magic rope and then rapidly immobilized with growing vines. He felt the sword at his throat less than thirty seconds into the match. Cat had enhancements cast upon him by Beldere after that, partially to test the limits of the priest’s abilities and partially to up the challenge. He let everyone cast team spells on each other to see how their stacked abilities stood up against the stunted spells and lesser aura of Neador’s faithful servant. The magic was definitely in the favor of his opponents, but many of them were not used to moving faster or having a homing weapon. It was stifling to work against Beldere’s divine aura, but most of them had experience with the weakness and slowness it conferred. Cat was confounded by the combination of speed and Corporal Banid’s light whip enchantment on the blades of experienced warriors. The blades bent in impossible directions with the seeking spells attached, and the arc of the swings left ribbons of light in the air that still burned when touched. It was almost like turning normal swords into Elydrean mana blades.

As meal time approached, Cat’s rations were forgotten. The mercenaries had magical storage items and were happy to share. The smell of auroch steaks and fresh bread made his mouth water. Markus, the designated cook for the evening, had also prepared a spiced vegetable stir-fry, many of the ingredients for which Spikey and Beldere were able to grow fresh on the spot. The Pelns set out a large blanket and two great silver plates three feet in diameter. At first, Cat thought they were some kind of handleless shields until they placed great slabs of lightly warmed meat, the size of a man’s chest, upon them. The great magic foxes took to the feast with obvious delight.

After the evening meal, second and third swift divided up the watch duties, while first swift, having the night off, brought out a heavy metal flask and began passing it around. Swift leader Medane offered the flask to Catwright with a smile. “Drink up son; you might as well start the celebration now.”

Cat took the flask with some reservations; he had never been allowed alcohol within the garrison. For one, it was scarce, and two, his father had forbidden it, saying it could undermine his development. Cat took a swig, and it took considerable willpower not to spew it back up again. His whole mouth burned, then his nose stung, and his eyes started tearing up; it reminded him of the noxious magical clouds they used during gaseous warfare training. “You need to swallow it, Cat!” Gemma chortled from the other side of the fire. Swallowing caused the burn to continue all the way down his throat, but when it hit his stomach, warmth spread through him. Now he understood the quick sips and the grimace on the soldiers’ faces. He passed on the flask, noting with little surprise that Beldere declined. It was perhaps the most unpleasant drink he had ever tried, but he took another each time the flask came around, interested to see how the tinctures he had taken over the years would affect his tolerance compared to the others. Everyone in this group likely had at least some physical tempering, but his father had spent thousands of gold on Cat’s development, something most soldiers could not afford.

“This particular batch of Ironwatch whiskey has been enchanted with spirit mana by a master brewer,” Medane said casually, causing some of the mercenaries to look up sharply with concern. The old soldiers chuckled at the looks. “It won’t harm you none,” he waved his hand in a vague gesture. “It enhances the more enjoyable effects, like honesty and uh, relaxation, while reducing the less pleasant effects on the morrow.” Cat shrugged and took another sip; he felt his face start to heat up pleasantly. He was definitely relaxing. Muscles he hadn’t known were tight, were releasing their tension. The firelight, the friendly atmosphere, and the warm sensation in his face all seemed to lull him somehow.

“Why is it so hard to manifest mana while fighting?” Cat did not usually like addressing a group of people, but he felt more comfortable in this setting for some reason. His gaze fell on Denton as the most likely to have an answer.

“You’re looking at me, but you are one of the most gifted mana manipulators I’ve ever seen at your age.” Denton smiled wistfully, his dark eyes turned downward, almost sadly.

“Wh…what?” Cat responded, surprised.

“You naturally use lithos in your stance, which is why you’re nearly impossible to knock over. You are constantly switching among the other elements which makes you inhumanly fast and unpredictable. You even manifest animyra to see all around you and heal faster.”

“I don’t control that; it just happens.”

“Yet it is a manifestation of your will upon the veils and the elemental mana around you.”

“What about a physical manifestation like casting a spell?”

“Casting is a whole separate study, but you know that. What I do is mostly casting before a fight to prepare. I can manifest lithos and aether while fighting for strength and speed because I have cast the spells so many times; opening the veils is second nature. Like you, I don’t really need to think about it.”

Cat was still frustrated; he was at a loss to explain what he needed to know. The fog that clouded his mind was not helping. “When you speed up during a fight,” He paused to focus. “You know what is happening, you can feel the veil opening and control it.”

“Well, yes.”

“I don’t feel it happening; I don’t control the veils.”

“You do not have specialized training in that area, but you should still feel the veil opening inside you” The spellsword made a motion like opening tent flaps.

“I feel the world slow down around me when I speed up, and I gain a sort of surety at a certain point, a feeling for what’s coming next. The lithos make me feel rooted to the ground and it seems like I’ve always been able to do that, even when I was really little.” He remembered a nursemaid trying to pick him up when he was about four. He had wanted to play with some small military figurines he had discovered and resisted her. When she couldn’t lift him, she cried for help, not understanding what was happening.

Denton nodded “The precognition is rare, but not unheard of in seasoned warriors. You may be pulling mana from the environment around you; it’s inefficient, but it makes sense since you don’t have a lot of formal mage training, and it explains why you don’t feel the veils.”

“You just keep practicing and focusing on improving, and eventually, the veils will help you out.” Corporal Banid jumped in, scratching his scraggly beard after a sip from the canteen. “It’s easier if you work on one thing until you get what you want. If you’re too ambitious though, it can take years.”

“Manifestation is associated with familiarity,” A cold breeze touched the fire as Olivia twirled her fingers in front of her. Cat could see frost on her fingertips, though she did not seem to be uncomfortable. Her dark eyes became lighter with a slight glow, and her short, cropped blonde hair started lifting upward. “The body does not naturally accept a veil opening within it, but with practice, you create channels, much like blood vessels, and manipulating the weaves becomes easier. Your body becomes closer to the veils. They open more easily and stay open longer, and the power can be addicting.” By the time she finished speaking several soldiers were pulling their cloaks tighter about them and hunching down for warmth. Cat smiled in appreciation, few people could merge beautiful and creepy like Olivia Peln.

“Manifesting is simply using the power of a veil without the need of words, gestures, runes, or a catalyst to prop it open.” Jarod put it.

“What about a focus?” Asked Somera, a stocky woman of middle years who served as first swift’s healer.

Jarod seemed surprised by the question and looked around at Olivia and Denton’s smiling faces as if in fear of being tricked. “Ah, the education of a soldier is much more practical than theoretical I suppose. He nodded respectfully to the older woman, his pale, sharp features embarrassed. “The focus in common manifested spellcraft is you, or more specifically your soul.”

Somera was unperturbed. “So why do I need to use a wand or a staff to cast?” Her thick brows furrowed.

“That is a complex question.” Jarod sat back and stared for a moment at his black serpent-leather boots, likely more expensive than everything the soldier carried. There was a class difference here, not just in wealth, but in education as well. “Not everyone has the same gift with the veils. Some will never access a veil without some expensive assistance. Some just need a little extra help, he gestured to her polished oak staff. And still others just seem to have mana leaking from their pores.” He nodded pointedly at Catwright, and Cat was starting to understand his advantage. “The wooden foci you use are specifically potent for access to Salatosum, the veil of life. A spellsword, he gestured at Denton, might use steel to help access Bellicorum, the realm of conflict. The soul, however, is a conduit for all the known veils, and many we do not understand. Learning what it would take to unlock your potential would take too long to justify for Mecre’s standard two years of service. I studied and practiced for over a year before I could reliably cast my first spell.”

More questions and answers flowed around the fire, the soldiers more bold, and the mercenaries open with what they knew. Cat’s mind drifted off with the possibilities of higher training for career soldiers, or having an army of well-equipped and well-educated warriors.

His dreams were strange and vivid that night. Something stalked him through a dark forest. He was not afraid but for some reason he could not be bothered to turn around and confront whatever it was. He was a passenger in another body; the instinct to run or fight was high, but however he tried, he could not act upon it. He awoke to a camp already in motion. Soldiers were emerging from the ruins, some of them already packed and ready to march. They ate a quick breakfast from the leftovers of the night before and made an early start upon the road.

By early afternoon, they were among the farms which heralded the outskirts of Breckan’s Hold when Cat spotted an armored warrior on a giant black Mecran Destrier galloping towards them. The knight carried a long shaft of wood tipped with steel casually across his shoulder. Cat grinned and glanced at the scowling priest. “Bel, I think I’m going to need a lance.”

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.

Blender and Unreal Engine

A friend of mine was showing me some cool stuff he was doing with Blender and Unreal Engine and it got me motivated to get into the Blender class I bought on Udemy a while back. I made a bookcase and showed it to some friends. Someone mentioned that I could probably make a bookcase more easily using Unreal Engine. Then I thought to myself, hey, I have made a bookcase on Unreal Engine before and the comment got me wondering if it was really true that Unreal was easier than Blender, at least with respect to bookcases..

So why am I making bookcases? This is mainly because I am a nerd who loves to collect books. I should say that I used to collect books but unfortunately, I have found it financially prudent to sell them off a couple times in my life. The first time was when Ebay first came out and I was fascinated with the auction process. I sold a bunch of books and all my old Transformer toys from the 80s. Then I bought a car, not a great car but a functional one. Why? Because I really wanted a car, and I was 22 and didn’t have one yet. The books and toys had just been sitting around at my parents house for years anyway. The second time I sold all my books involved downsizing after a career change and in preparation for a move. I was able to replace most of my old yard sale furniture with new stuff. The third time was just after moving into a new house. I had a lot of books at this point, the moving team was quite surprised at the extra workout. The new house needed about 60k in renovations, so I sold all my books except for a few special ones that were signed specifically for me by the authors. Did the books pay for all the renovations? Well no, but they covered most of it.

So I really love books, however, it became apparent after having a kid and lots of expected and unexpected house guests over the years that rebuilding the book collection in this particular home would not be practical. For this reason one of the early projects I’d like to work on in Unreal Engine is creating a virtual man-cave where I can have all the cool gee-whiz stuff that I can’t afford and don’t have space for in real life. This shall of course include a virtual library.

The bookcases I have built so far in Blender and Unreal Engine are not anything exciting or fancy. I am at the beginning stages of both and I am basically just joining rectangles together. I had an easier time in Unreal because I did not fill the bookcase with books and it is very easy to drag and drop a wood material onto the bookcase to color it. I still haven’t figured out how to color stuff on Blender, mostly because my class hasn’t gone there yet. However, I didn’t see an easy drag and drop option like UE.

During the process I learned that materials on Unreal Engine do not always drop on at the right size for some reason. With a little research I found out that I could open the material blueprint and add a texture coordinate node and attach it to the uv part of the material texture sample. Then you can adjust the u tiling and v tiling to change the relative size of the texture. This technique may be handy for another project I’m thinking about.

The Blender bookcase was a result of me practicing some of the stuff I had learned in the Udemy class. There was a demo where the instructor used a lot of basic shapes combined with scaling and rotation to create a little scene including a house, some trees and even some blocky cars. I followed along for a little while, but I really wanted to try a bookcase and some books. The bookcase was a simple affair of five rectangles for the main structure and a bunch of duplicated rectangles for the shelves. The books were four rectangles which included the spine, front and back cover and the pages joined together. I used scaling along the various axes to make books of different sizes, joined them and filled the shelves. This took a lot longer than expected as getting the books to all line up correctly and then aligning them on the shelves was tougher than I thought. There is probably an easier way to do it, but I didn’t know how to move the camera so I actually moved the bookshelf around a lot so I could see what I was doing. I also couldn’t figure out how to get the books to just snap to the shelves. What I did get, was a lot of practice with the hotkeys for grabbing and moving along the x,y, and z axis and switching the isometric views with the number pad. I am looking forward to making more bookcases with higher level skills.

My goal is to really leverage what I understand about this software in the next few months. It seems like Blender and UE really are like the peanut butter and jelly of game design. Blender is the cool free software that lets you sculpt, model and animate whatever you want. Then you can take these toys to Unreal Engine’s playground and create game rules and interactions around them.