Authors: V. Lakshman
Duncan just looked at him, blinking.
Was he serious?
His eyes searched Val’s face, but there was no doubt behind the man’s amber eyes. He then looked at Mikal, who looked away. Was that shame he saw flit across the king-murderer’s face. Duncan felt no pity for him. Finally, his gaze came to rest on Sonya.
To her, he said, “What about our son? Would you have let Val do this to him?”
Valarius stepped in between the two and answered, “How do you think Arek came to be?”
Duncan turned, shock hitting him like a lightning bolt. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice breaking with desperation, hoping Valarius had not done what he’d just witnessed to his own baby, that Sonya had not allowed it.
“Arek was our first and greatest creation. Born of your and Sonya’s blood, consecrated by my blood and Oath, he’s as much my son as yours, and will serve his purpose in this war… as will you.”
Duncan surged forward, his control gone behind white-hot fury at all that had been taken from him. He grabbed and pulled, brought short by the vines until he’d spent what little reserves he had, and sagged back down to hang by his tortured wrists.
Valarius came and knelt in front of him, grabbing him by the hair and raising his head until their eyes met. “You will be reborn and take your place beside my brother and the rest who betrayed me. You will serve me as we destroy Lilyth, and finally bring order and peace to Edyn.”
The highlord gestured and the wooden poles grew, becoming vaguely humanoid shaped trees. Each had Duncan entwined by an arm and as they straightened, Duncan’s feet left the ground.
“Take him back to his cell,” Valarius said, “and strip the flesh from his bones, but keep him alive.”
The two creatures bowed, then walked off with Duncan suspended painfully in between them. He could not see Sonya, and wondered now if coming to Arcadia had been such a good idea after all.
* * * * *
Lilyth walked the garden, enjoying the sun as it flooded the area with its warm orange-yellow light. The health of the land surrounded her, a vitality that permeated every blade of grass and leaf within sight. The thought brought about a sudden wave of sadness, for she knew this world would soon be consumed, ashes laid upon the altar of sacrifice to stop Sovereign. She took a breath, banishing such ill thoughts. Today would be the beginning of the end. Victory and life for her people, if all unfolded the way she hoped. She closed her eyes and steadied herself against self-doubt. Today, she would have to play her hand perfectly and that required clarity and confidence.
Booted feet tromping to some internal rhythm of a soldier’s march neared. It was a cadence born from a lifetime—and now more, Lilyth thought with a smile—of service. Without turning, she said, “Deft.”
The undead magehunter stopped, her silence the equivalent of a salute.
“What do you want?” the demon-queen inquired, inspecting a white blossom tinged in purple.
“Baalor reports he’s ready,” was the curt reply.
Lilyth turned to face her and said, “He’s on schedule. We must—” Her eyes widened in shock and she looked up at the afternoon sky, searching. The lens had just fixed its own position, which meant it had already found its way into Avalyon.
Deft did not address her queen’s unfinished reply, but merely asked, “Your orders?”
Lilyth walked past the soldier, her mind whirling. She’d known today would likely be Baalor’s entry into Dawnlight but she’d not dreamt the archmage could have gained access to Avalyon so quickly. Tracking the lens had not been of any immediate concern until Baalor was ready. More importantly, the next phase of action had to be synchronized carefully.
She focused her thoughts, seeking the lens through eddies and currents of the Way. Her gaze was pulled up to the peaceful blue sky. There! Her eyes narrowed at a pinprick of light, sparkling like a diamond to her enhanced vision.
Lilyth looked at Alion Deft and smiled. “Duncan has succeeded and Avalyon is revealed. Prepare the Furies. When Baalor signals, we must launch our assault on Avalyon
and
reinforce Baalor at Dawnlight. You’ll burn Valarius out of the sky.”
Alion’s half eaten face smiled to reveal her bone-white grin. “What of the red mage?” The question was delivered with a hungry anticipation Lilyth seldom heard from the undead warrior, “You promised him to me.”
She nodded, waving her hand in dismissal, “Kill them all. I know my own.”
You must find strength within yourself.
Outside influences will distract, bend, push, and pull you to their own needs.
In this be not the bamboo but the oak,
the roots of what you are must run deep.
-
Kensei Tsao, The Lens of Blades
H
aji-mai!”
Arek moved quickly to his left, the brown color of his loose fitting canvas uniform soaking in the warmth of the afternoon sun. His bare feet barely made a sound as he circled his opponent, who had for her part, not yet moved. Master Kisan’s eyes tracked him as she slowly pivoted in place. At some point he knew he should attack, but she was as famous for her countering ability as Arek was not.
He kept circling, knowing she would have to move her rear foot to keep him in view, or twist herself all the way around and reverse her stance. The change would mean losing him visually for a moment, and that would be his opening.
When she reversed her stance to bring her other hand up, he attacked. His body arrowed in, leading with a kick then two strikes in rapid succession. His opponent blocked the kick and moved in close to jam his punches. At that moment Arek had the distinct impression she’d known all along what he’d intended.
Then her ridge hand strike came out in a slow and easy to block counter. He unconsciously matched the master’s pace, slowing to her own. A sudden blinding strike left his vision swimming and he felt the ground hit his cheek. When had he fallen?
“Hold.”
His master’s voice sounded tired. When Arek opened his eyes, he was prostrate on the ground. The ache in his forehead and neck told him he’d been felled by a wrist or knuckle strike to the back of his skull, though with Master Kisan it could easily have been a hook kick. He shook away the stars, causing him to wince as his headache got worse, then sat up, angry at himself.
“What are you waiting for?” Master Silbane asked. “These are basic combat lessons. There’s no magic to these techniques. If there were, I would teach them to you and save myself years of frustration.”
“Yes, Master,” he intoned automatically. No magic moves? Of course there were, or what could his master mean? He’d seen all the adepts do more than any normal person. He didn’t say anything though. He just got up and shook himself off. Then he took his stance and faced Master Kisan again.
She smirked, a glint in her eye that told Arek she was laughing at him. Anger boiled up at that and he attacked, jumping in with a snap kick and then a combination of punches and kicks, forcing the master to follow a rhythm of alternating up and down strikes. On the third strike however he switched it and threw a second punch. For a moment, he could see he might have caught her unaware. It was the merest hesitation but Arek slowed his second punch just a bit so as not to embarrass the master or cause himself more trouble if she decided to retaliate.
His magnanimity was rewarded by a quick slip under his counter and a tight right hook that caught him in the point of his chin. When he awoke, he was on his back with Master Silbane looking down at him. “What happened?” he asked, not remembering the last few moments clearly.
“It has occurred to me that I could dress you in towels and clean the ring at the same time as teaching you,” replied his master, without smiling.
“Yes, Master.” He propped himself up, watching with annoyance at the open smile on Master Kisan’s face, looking at him from the side of the ring. When she saw him rise she raised the towel she’d been using to wipe her hands clean and dangled it, then threw it to the side. The taunt was obvious and an irrational anger made Arek want to smash her teeth in. Then she moved lightly into her place in the ring and resumed her stance, never uttering a word, her face devoid of sweat or emotion.
He looked back at his master, who said, “
She
is the master and
you
are the student. Bring the fight to her. If you win, it is her fault.”
Instead of answering “Yes, Master’” again, Arek rose and bowed, then retook his stance. He moved forward, watching the same smirk flit across Kisan’s face. It wasn’t nice or noble, and ignited in him a fury that could only be expressed through action. He charged in, but instead of a headlong attack, he faded to his own right at the very last moment. His opponent read him and raised herself up, just enough that his roundhouse kick got in under her elbow, slamming into her ribs.
He followed that with an axe kick, aiming directly for her shoulder but she pushed herself up and caught it early, grabbing his upraised leg and him by the waist and throwing him over her hip. For a moment, he was upside down and knew his shoulder would likely dislocate on impact. As the moment of danger caused time to slow, thoughts raced through his head and his training took over.
He knew the counter, to do exactly what his brain told him not to do—hold on. He grabbed her lapels tightly, tucked his chin ,and rolled his shoulders in. As he went over her hip and his weight shifted into a fall, his grip pulled Master Kisan down with him like a teetering top. Her instinct for self-preservation kicked in and she held him up. Not a lot, but enough to turn a bone-crushing fall into more of an unceremonious dumping of his body like a sack of potatoes.
Still Arek was not done. He’d survived the fall and now rotated, still holding onto her lapels. With Master Kisan bent over him he had the leverage and used his momentum to throw her into a full body slam. He heard the breath whoosh out of her and immediately pulled off a glove, exposing the bare skin of his hand. He knew what one touch would do, and it seemed from her widened eyes, so did she.
“Do you yei—?” he started to say, his body straddling her and his finger inches from her forehead.
He felt the short punch that slammed into his ribs but not the scissor-hold she twisted into, her legs trapping his ungloved hand outstretched high above his head, her thighs closing like a vise around his arm and throat. They squeezed until his head felt like it had grown two sizes. All Arek would remember of that day was her smirk and being inches from Master Kisan’s cold and deadly eyes, before he fell a third and final time to her embrace.
* * * * *
“What do you think?” Silbane asked as Arek’s unconscious form was carried to the infirmary.
Kisan’s skill and careful application of force had resulted in no permanent damage to his apprentice, one of the many reasons he used her to fight the boy. Arek’s ability to negate magic was a hurdle for most, but at his level of training it was expected he would fight with near lethal force. Only Kisan could bring the skill necessary to meet that level of a challenge and still deal with his special power. Arek’s bruises were part of everyday life here on the Isle, something no student complained about. In fact, Silbane struggled to remember a day when he
hadn’t
ached during his own training.
“He talks too much, thinks too little, and matches his power against me instead of using overwhelming force.” She looked at Silbane, her eyes clear and resolute, “He’s too kind, and that will be his undoing.” Her assessment was matter-of-fact and final.
Silbane looked at her with one raised eyebrow, then said, “Yet he caught you.”
“I don’t question his skill, but his control,” Kisan explained. “He’s too easy to goad, quick to anger, and yet worries about giving insult. In short, he cares too much what others think.”
“Coming from someone who cares too little,” Silbane replied dryly.
Kisan shrugged, “We are what we were made to be. You be the poet. I have always been content as the blade. At least Themun has taught me to love my purpose.”
Silbane ignored that jibe, knowing Kisan had issues with his martial philosophy. Themun had taken over her training many years ago, but he still thought of her as his student. Still, his heart could not help but go out to his former pupil and in an effort to value her skill and experience, he asked, “What do you suggest we do next for his training?”
Kisan watched the space where the apprentice had disappeared before looking back at Silbane. To him, she seemed to genuinely consider what was best for his student, and though her attitude lacked empathy, he liked that trait about her. It was the only part of himself he saw in her now since Themun had taken over.
“He needs to lose something dear to him. Loss will teach him the ephemeral nature of life.” She grabbed the towel she had discarded earlier for show and carefully folded it into a neat geometric pattern.
“Now who’s being the poet?” asked Silbane with a smile.
Kisan sighed, then said, “The boy needs toughening, that’s certain.” Her eyes narrowed, looking at the small white score on the ground Arek had lined up behind at the start of their fight. She looked at Silbane carefully before saying, “From now on my students will give no quarter. That goes especially for Piter.”
“Piter?” the elder master asked. “They’re getting to that age where competition may breed anger.”
“You can’t avoid the negative in everything. The shadows also define the light.” Silbane’s expression must have told her he didn’t feel so convinced, so Kisan continued, “Arek can still accept losing to us. It’s not the same with his peers. A little good-natured ribbing from his classmates is just what he needs to push him. He’ll eventually tire of it, and maybe then he’ll start fighting at the level of his training.”
“You risk making them enemies,” he said simply.
Kisan rolled her eyes at that and said, “Stop being so melodramatic. Children fight, it’s normal and you can’t protect them forever.” She eyed him a bit longer then said, “But I’ll temper it. We all benefit from harder instruction.”
Silbane could feel her attitude change. She moved closer and laid a hand on his arm. “And you know how I love that,” she said coyly. She slid a little closer and smiled, her eyes glinting now with mischief instead of anger.
“Unless you’re offering something uncomplicated, stop,” muttered the master as he looked at the towel she’d folded. His love for her was not hidden, but it had grown through the years to more of a friendship than any amorous need. They’d been together then and again, but it never stuck. How could it for people who lived hundreds of years? Plus, Kisan had a way of switching moods so quickly Silbane found it a bit unsettling.
He smiled wryly and said, “Let’s focus on training our students. Everything else is a distraction.”
She arched an eyebrow and with a small smile she teased, “Now who’s being the blade?”