Stealing Sorcery (34 page)

Jonan blinked. “Did I lose my invisibility at some point?”

“I can see you just fine, Master Kestrian. And your arm appears to need some attention.” With her initial surprise vanquished, Nakane knelt at Jonan’s side. “Miss Vorianna, if you’d be kind enough to provide us with cover?”

Rialla nodded. “Got it. Maer, step a little closer, would you?”

The house guard nodded, raising his shield. “Right, thank you miss.”

The icy wall shifted and extended, wrapping around to make a half-circular barrier that met with the main wall of the manor. Aside from the sky, there were no further avenues for the attackers to reach them as long as the wall held.

The air, however, was freezing – and Jonan’s arm was feeling number by the minute.

“I’m not much of a healer, but I’ll see what I can do.” Rialla leaned down, grabbing his arm and sniffing at the wound. “You’re poisoned. Stay calm.”

Kind of wish she hadn’t told me that.

“I do not believe it is the same poison that killed my brother, however. Maer, your sword please?”

“Okay,” Jonan began to pull his arm back, “I think we can slow down on the ‘ministrations’ if they mean amputating my arm.”

“The bolt, Master Kestrian. I need to cut the bolt.”

“Oh.”

Jonan gave a shuddering sigh. “That’s, uh, a relief.”

Something impacted against the ice, sending tiny splinters flying, but it was nowhere near sufficient to breach the wall. Rialla grimaced, shivering in place, her forehead covered with sweat.

Maer handed Nakane his sword, and she motioned for him to hold Jonan’s arm in place. Jonan felt his eyes fluttering uncontrollably as Nakane began to saw at the shaft of the bolt, snapping it off a few moments later.

He was barely aware as she cut off the fletching from the opposite side. Pulling the remains of the bolt out should have been the most painful part, but the numbness had spread far enough that he only felt a vague tugging sensation.

“He’s fading. We need to get him help.”

The voice sounded like it was probably Rialla’s, but he couldn’t quite be certain. His eyes were shut tightly now.

He heard the walls cracking around them as his consciousness faded away.

Taelien stood amidst a field of corpses. Most lay haphazardly among the city streets, the limbs that were still attached spread askew, looking like battered dolls cast aside by a giant.

More disturbing, however, were the corpses that still stood. Bloody wounds marred their bodies, and though some amongst them might have been mistaken for still living men and women, others had injuries that no human could survive. One woman was riddled with so many arrows that they seemed to form a suit of armor around her, and a man smiled as he snapped off the hilt of one of the three swords embedded in his torso.

Though outnumbered by the fallen, there were dozens among these walking slain, and they were not idle. They carried blades and maces, spears and staves, and cut viciously into the bodies of the fallen. He felt the urge to move, but his body remained paralyzed, though he could not discern if it was the unnerving sight that robbed him of his agency or some external force. It did not matter in the end.

All at once, the animated corpses turned to face him. He saw then that their eyes were colorless, but their expressions were filled with hate. As one, they advanced, their steps in menacing union.

The Sae’kes burned brightly in his right hand, though he did not recall drawing it. Six of the seven runes illuminated the metal, producing an audible hum. Only the rune of Aendaryn, the god of blades, remained unlit and silent. It was difficult to maintain his grip – the hilt was slick with blood. It was, he realized, not his own.

Gritting his teeth, Taelien shook off the phantasmal weight on his limbs, surging into action.

He ran. Cobblestones cracked beneath his footsteps, the familiar streets of Velthryn seeming to decay more with each passing moment. As he fled, his foot brushed a fallen sign from a long-abandoned store, the letters too faint to read.

There was no way to fight so many, or so he told himself. The victims were long dead – he had already failed to save them. He looked over his shoulder to try to catch a glimpse of the identities of the corpses following him. He still had difficulty discerning the features of individuals, but the tabards of the Paladins of Tae’os were unmistakable.

He had failed to save everyone, hadn’t he?

He heard a scream – a familiar scream. It came from a street to the right, and he twisted in his steps to head toward it. Perhaps there was still a final chance at redemption – a way to make his death have some scant fragment of meaning.

He ran as fast as he could, his steps carrying him into darkness. The sound of the scream still echoed faintly in his ears, and a chill ran across his skin. He ran on and on until the city streets vanished around him, leaving only blackness, illuminated by the azure runes on his blade.

A figure in nondescript brown robes stepped out of the darkness. His hood obscured nearly his entire head, save for a hint of a fleshless jawbone. He carried the corpse of another man slung over his shoulder. The hooded man threw the body down, and Taelien heard the cracking of bones as it landed.

Even in death, the body maintained its grip on the Sae’kes it was carrying. Taelien did not need to see the face to recognize his own corpse.

He looked up to the hooded man, taking a defensive stance.

“You’re here early,” the hooded man spoke. “And very persistent. I just finished with the last one. You can take a moment to pay your respects.”

Taelien approached the corpse that appeared to be his own and knelt down. He wore no paladin’s garb – just a simple tunic and pants, ripped in several locations to expose torn flesh and shattered bones.

That, however, was not why he was kneeling.

His throat was tight, but nevertheless, he found the strength to speak. “I will endeavor to give you a greater challenge.”

Taelien snatched the second Sae’kes out of his corpse’s hand, willing the runes to ignite as he prepared to strike.

The second sword crumbled to dust in his hand.

The swordsman rose to his feet, noting only then that the blue light from his own weapon was slowly fading. One by one, the runes were burning out, and with each passing moment the darkness encroached closer.

“You were saying?” The cloaked figure sounded amused, snapping his fingers. A halo of icicles appeared behind the cloaked figure, floating in a circular pattern behind him.

Taelien charged, swinging his blade to deflect the first spears of ice, but there were too many. He felt the first impact on his left shoulder, and then another hit the right side of his chest, just below the ribs. A third hit him in the center of the chest – and after that, he felt nothing at all. He fell to his knees, but even as he fell, he hurled his sword – the last rune fading as it sunk into the figure’s robes.

He heard an echo of laughter as his vision faded to nothing.

***

“Wake up,” a voice whispered in his ear. “It’s over.”

Taelien’s eyes blinked open. He was tightly gripping the Sae’kes beneath his covers, and he realized that he had slipped the weapon several inches out of its scabbard, exposing the top rune.

He always locked the scabbard in place around the blade using sorcery before he went to sleep. He had never unlocked the weapon in his sleep before.

Asphodel was staring at him, one hand on his right arm – the same arm that held his weapon’s hilt. She was standing on the ladder that led from her bunk to his, her eyes not on the sword, but staring straight at his own.

“Mff,” he groaned, pushing the Sae’kes back into the scabbard.
How long did I have that thing drawn? Gods, my head is killing me. That thing could have been drawing essence out of me for hours, if I pulled it while I was asleep.

“Better.” She smiled. “What did you see?”

Taelien relaxed his grip on the weapon, raising his hand to rub his aching right temple. The first hits of the dawnfire’s light were barely illuminating the room, and aside from a disturbingly perky Asphodel, everyone in the room still appeared to be sleeping. It was too reshing early to be awake.

“I…,” he shut his eyes, remembering the last few moments of his dream. “A man in robes and a hood. I was fighting him.”

Asphodel frowned. “Go on.”

He rolled over onto his side, staring her straight in the eyes. “Did you make me have that dream? Was that some kind of dream sorcery spell?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“But you knew I had a dream – otherwise you wouldn’t be up here.”

“Yes.”

Not much of a talker, this one.

“Was I moving around so much that I woke you – or does this have something to do with how your friends are always calling you an oracle?” His head was still swimming, but he wasn’t happy with the idea of someone reading his thoughts.

Asphodel released his arm, blinking. “The latter. We’re going to be interrupted. Remember your dream.”

Lieutenant Torrent flung open the door from his own chamber, slamming it into the barracks wall. Several startled paladin candidates sat up instantly, many reaching for weapons of their own.

“Rise and shine, kids! It’s testing day, and you’re going to – Applicant Asphodel, are you already in uniform?”

Asphodel saluted the lieutenant. “Yes, sir.”

There was a pregnant pause. “Fine, then. You can start cleaning the barracks while the others get dressed and packed.”

“Yes, sir.” She said again.

Taelien gave her a quizzical glance, to which Asphodel replied with a wink.

Well,
Taelien considered, his head still throbbing
, that’s one way to start a day.

***

“Platoon 2, head to the arena. Except you, Applicant Salaris.” Lieutenant Torrent had an uncharacteristic hint of frustration in his tone, but his expression remained neutral.

The remainder of the platoon filed out of the room while Taelien stood at attention, nervously tensing the muscles in his hands. Landen and Velas shot him sympathetic glances as they filed out of the chamber.

When the last of the other candidates had left, the lieutenant waved a hand silently and moved into his own chamber at the back of the barracks. Taelien realized that although they had been in training for weeks now, this was his first time stepping into the lieutenant’s room.

The chamber’s accommodations were barely better than those of the cadets. It held a simple bed with neatly-folded grey sheets on the left side, a small table with a single chair on the right. A long spear with a wooden shaft and an iron tip stood in the back right corner, within reach of the chair. A three-drawer dresser sat next to the bed.

Torrent sat in his chair, tensing his jaw, and opened a drawer within the desk. He reached inside, retrieving a thin strip of crimson fabric. “I’m issuing you a red flag for your performance in the last test.”

Taelien flinched at the words. “But, I –”

“I didn’t give you permission to speak.”

The swordsman frowned, but shifted his stance back to attention.

Torrent set the crimson cloth on the table and closed the drawer. “When these tests were first created, there were no strips of red fabric, no warnings – none of that nonsense. No second chances. If it were up to me, we’d cut anyone we weren’t sure about. We don’t need paladins that ‘might’ be good enough. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know why you’re being issued a red flag?”

“No, sir.”

“For that reason alone, I should probably be giving you the black. But there are parties that are interested in your performance, so I’m going to let you continue to entertain them. For now. You can take your red ribbon and go.”

Taelien lifted the rope from the table, turning it over in his hand. “Sir, may I ask a question?”
Torrent put a hand to his head. “Ask.”

“Why am I being issued a red flag?”

The lieutenant sighed. “Because you failed the last test.”

“I had seven pins.”

“Yes, and if you had stopped there, you would have passed. Passed fabulously, in fact.”

“Sir?”

Torrent stood up, turning away. “Did you see Susan Crimson’s uniform?”

Taelien nodded. The young woman’s uniform was bristling with sigils at the end of the day – she must have had more than thirty of them. He had some guesses at how she had managed it, but no confirmation. “Yes, sir.”

“She was given the highest score possible. You were given the lowest we could give you without failing you outright. The difference wasn’t the number of sigils you gave yourselves – it was how you handled distributing sigils to others.”

Taelien tilted his head quizzically while Torrent turned to face him.

“You have a problem, Taelien. A consistent problem. You always want to solve everyone else’s problems for them.”

Taelien began to open his mouth to protest, but Torrent waved a warning hand and he silenced himself.

“You’re a powerful young man, Taelien. Powerful enough that you forget to consider the capabilities of your allies. At best, you think of them as tools to enhance your own egocentric maneuvers, like how you handled Sytira’s test. At worst, you try to do everything by yourself - like you just did with the last test.”

That’s – wait –

“Lateral thinking is something we encourage, Taelien. If you had made a bunch of sigils for yourself, we would have applauded that. Do you know how Susan got those seals? She recruited most of her platoon and broke into the uniform room where we keep the sigils for full paladins. She stole the whole supply. And what did she do with them? She gave them to the people who came with her. The people who contributed.”

“You, on the other hand, gave everyone enough to ensure they would pass the test – effectively invalidating the purpose of the test. Do you understand why that’s a problem?”

“You only want a limited number of people to pass the tests, Sir.”

“Not precisely. We only want the people who are ready to pass, Salaris. Bringing someone who lacks the sufficient capabilities in any of the disciplines we are testing is a potential risk.”

Taelien nodded firmly once – that he could understand.
But that particular test seemed more arbitrary than most. I mean, Landen even said people were gambling for sigils.

“If everyone was equally clever and capable, I’d be more than pleased to let a large group pass the examinations. We have to be harsh with each step, however, because seven tests aren’t exactly a lot of time to read someone. Training a squire for years is a much more reliable way of ensuring that the resulting paladin is sufficiently trained in all aspects, including an understanding of our values.”

“If I may, Sir, the colonel did approve of my use of the fabricated sigils in the test.”

“Yeah, it was clever to use your one question with Wyndam to make sure your pins would count. It would have been wiser, however, to be clear with her about your intentions – if you indeed planned from the outset to supply all of our cadets. Was that always the plan?”

“If I had sufficient time. I believe I understand where this is going, Sir, and if I may –”