The Mark Of Iisilée

by T P Sheehan

  The High Priest’s lips moved—he was whispering another spell. His body displaced to the left as Magnus’s had, but it did so three, four, five times. Each time the priest moved to a random location no more than a foot away from his last position until he was directly in front of Magnus. The Priest’s lance was drawn, ignited and at Magnus’s throat. The High Priest held his position. Magnus could not counter without the priest taking his head clean off. All the priests at the perimeter now had their lances ignited and Brue was inches from closing his jaws over the High Priest’s head.

  The High Priest extinguished his lance and took three steps back. Magnus replayed the scenario over in his head in slow motion, trying to comprehend what just happened. First the attack, then the priest’s reaction time and Brue—how did Brue counter attack so quickly? A sinking feeling overcame Magnus. I am useless against this High Priest.

  “Again.” It was Eamon, pushing through the training field’s guard.

  “Steyne?” the High Priest said, recognising him.

  Eamon rolled his eyes but ignored the question. “Again. You must spar again. Go!”

  “But, Eamon—” Magnus started.

  “No ‘buts’,” Eamon interrupted. “Again! And again, and again, and again… GO!”

  The High Priest reignited his lance. Magnus sighed and yanked his sword from its scabbard. The next exchange was void of spells. It was lance against sword. Magnus maintained a defensive position. Taking Simeon’s previous advice, he tried looking for patterns in the priest’s technique. The priest separated Magnus from his sword within five strikes of the lance.

  “Again,” Eamon called.

  The sparring continued. The High Priest’s attack seemed to follow no pattern, but Magnus began to notice the smallest things. The priest would shift his grip ever so slightly, once in a while, for no apparent reason. He would over extend his arm when thrusting above shoulder height, rounding out with a seemingly unnecessary backhanded move after his overextension. He would also click his head to the right after such a manoeuvre.

  “Again.”

  The High Priest’s technique was flawless. Magnus dismissed his irregularities as style rather than weaknesses. But then it dawned on him. There was no ‘style’ to the Irucantî—not when it came to their fighting technique, anyway. They were all about efficiency and perfection. And where efficiency and perfection lack, a weakness can be seen.

  “Again.”

  Magnus felt lightened by the realisation—The High Priest has an ailment. Magnus ran through the things he was noticing. The grip change, the overextension, the neck click. As the day wore on, these things became more apparent. The priest began cracking his knuckles then twirling his lance between moves to delay the next. Magnus had him figured—He has a neck injury so he overextends to avoid jarring his neck, a weak left shoulder, and he has gout in his fingers. They were simple weaknesses and Magnus doubted they could be taken advantage of in battle, for the priest was so deadly he would dispense with his enemies before they had made such observations. Then again, it was all a learning process. Magnus decided the next time he encountered a similar weakness he would exploit it immediately.

  “Again.”

  It was time to go on the attack. Again, the priest came at Magnus first, working his way through a series of manoeuvres Magnus could not predict, before finally overextending and twirling his lance. Magnus seized the opportunity, thrusting his sword directly at the priest’s chest armour. However, his sword never reached its target. The priest reacted with lightning reflexes, swinging one end of his lance directly to Magnus’s exposed neck, while deflecting his sword with a spiked vambrace. His move was performed with absolute precision. It was then Magnus realised—he had looked for weaknesses and fallen for a trick. It was the very thing Simeon warned him not to do.

  Simeon stepped forward to speak but Magnus held a hand to him. “I know, I know.”

  “Again,” Eamon shouted for the millionth time.

  Patterns… look for patterns…

  “Two over, three under, four over, five.” It was Brue. “That is the pattern. He is a creature of habit.”

  Magnus glanced at the big dragon to his left. The High Priest came at him again. From the first blow Magnus counted his moves. One, two, three, shift of feet, spins lance overhead, four, five, six, seven, squats, lance sweep to feet, eight, nine, thrust to head, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen…

  “Again.”

  Magnus recounted. The pattern changed. What is Brue saying?

  “Add a single count from the start, two after the over, three after the under and so forth,” said Brue.

  “Again.”

  Brue seemed to be suggesting the pattern was evolving by following a mathematical system of progression. It was entirely unrecognisable without the math.

  “When does the cycle repeat?” Magnus was careful to direct his question to Brue alone.

  “It does not repeat. It is always progressing. Learn its rate of progression and plan your attack for the next cycle.”

  “That’s enough,” Simeon insisted. “We shall break and return later.”

  “No,” Magnus insisted. “Keep going.”

  “Very well. Again!”

  For three more bouts Magnus fought, observed and counted the High Priest’s moves. It was finally evident. The pattern was not in the moves, but how the moves progressed. Nothing was random. Nothing was left to chance, for that was simply not in the Irucantî’s nature.

  “Again.”

  A fourth cycle came about and Magnus had done the math. He would strike when the priest swept for his feet, which would be precisely five moves after a backhanded thrust of his lance to Magnus’s head. The head thrust came, then—

  One move, two, three, four moves…

  The low sweeping lance came and Magnus changed sword arms. He buried his left fist into the ground and his vambrace took the impact of the lance. His right arm thrust his sword to the High Priest’s neck making contact at the throat.

  The High Priest froze. The white tipped point of the fleu-steel sword had broken the priest’s skin and a trickle of blood ran down his chest armour. His eyes stared hard at Magnus who rose to his feet and lowered his sword. He stepped closer to the High Priest so he could speak to him in confidence.

  “Will you teach me?” Magnus said. The priest seemed unsure Magnus was serious. “Will you show me how you fight?”

  “Will you swear fealty to the order?” The priest sheathed his lance and waited for Magnus’s reply.

  Magnus recalled Catanya’s warning—‘Just don’t go swearing fealty to them.’ He promised her he would not. Magnus shook his head. “No. But I will swear fealty to our dragons.”

  Magnus could see the High Priest was thinking things over. Magnus had him—he knew he did. The priest could not deny Magnus’s offer to swear allegiance to the fire dragons. If he did, it would suggest he placed his own interests above the dragons.

  “Very well. I will teach you.”

  “What did he say?” Catanya stood with her arms crossed.

  “He will teach me,” Magnus said.

  Catanya paced around her small room, behind Magnus and back in front of him again. “You best him just now. Are you sure you need him to train you?”

  “I best him once in the day and only because Brue told me how to analyse his moves. There is a lot I need to know, Catanya.” Magnus could see she was ill at ease with the idea, which only served to fuel his own self-doubts. However, it was what Balgur wanted.

  Catanya stopped pacing and looked at Magnus. Her radiant brown eyes pierced through him. She brushed her fingers through her black hair and began to chew on her upper lip. He shared her discomfort, for it was not right. Magnus knew it was not right and not fair to have Catanya wait any longer to return to the Uydferlands to find Hannah.

  “You know what—it can wait,” Magnus conceded.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We should go. We should not wait any longer. We
need to find Hannah.”

  “I need to find Hannah. You need to stay here.”

  “I don’t want to leave your side, Catanya. Never again.”

  “That’s exactly how I feel and you know it, but it had to happen at some stage, Magnus. And it will only be for a few days.”

  Magnus was shaking his head, trying to find a better way. “I can’t watch you fly away again.” He knew the words sounded weak, but he said them anyway.

  “Austagia will travel with me and Rubea has agreed to take us there.”

  “Austagia and Rubea? Are you serious?”

  “I know. I see the irony.” Catanya raised an eyebrow. A thin smile came to her face. “It’s different this time. They aren’t forcing me to go. In fact, it was I who persuaded them. Austagia benefits from the trip too. He needs to assess the situation in the Uydferlands and when we return, we will know what we need to do. And Hannah… she’ll be safer here than anywhere else.”

  “When you put it that way, it sounds like a good plan. But Catanya, I can just as well go with you and resume my training when we return.”

  “With time so precious, every day spent training could make all the difference.” Catanya sat on her bed. “I think you are right about your training, Magnus. These days will prove invaluable.”

  Magnus considered things further—“How will you avoid Quag scouts?”

  “Austagia has a workaround. We will travel toward the Traas River then over Froughton Forest, approaching the Uydferlands from the north. We’ll return the same way in three days.”

  “Can Rubea carry all three of you?” Magnus knew he was needlessly looking for things to worry about.

  Catanya stood again, came to Magnus and embraced him. “We’ll be fine, Magnus. There’s nothing to worry about. You just keep safe, Electus.”

  They both smiled.

  “I’m glad Brue has my back. Who would have thought?”

  “Nobody would have thought it. The dragon you feared most when we got here seems to have become your biggest supporter!” Catanya’s face softened. “That’s what’s wonderful about you. You saw that side in Brue and brought him back.”

  “You brought me back.”

  They continued their embrace. Magnus wanted it to last forever, knowing he would be parted from her for the first time since leaving Ba’rrat. A few days… It’s only for a few days. There was a knock at the open door. Magnus and Catanya were slow to pull away from one another. It was Trax.

  “Ah! Sorry to interrupt. Supper is ready!”

  “Thank you. There’s something we need to do first,” Catanya said.

  After supper, there was a small gathering on the common at the foot of the temple stairs. Eamon, Jael, Simeon, Färgd, Brue and Liné were there to bid Austagia and Rubea good travels. Several other priests were waiting to also wish them well.

  Magnus and Catanya were a short distance away, catching their last moments alone together. Catanya ran her fingers through his short hair. She had given Magnus his first haircut in close to a year and trimmed his beard short and neat. Magnus felt renewed because of it—as though he had shed the festering remnants of Ba’rrat from his body.

  “You look more handsome than ever.” Catanya was grinning, her white teeth shining in the moonlight. She was dressed in her Ferustir armour with a black priest’s robe modified and shaped as a short dress. The dress raised more than a few eyebrows in the Romghold and Magnus was certain it was looked upon as desecration of the priestly attire. He was also certain it was the effect Catanya was after. She still wore her black boots although the burgundy lace of her right one had snapped and was retied with an additional black lace at the top. Over her dress was her sheathed lance and finally, she had her bow and quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder.

  Magnus reflected on the travels they shared over the past weeks. In retrospect and mishaps aside, their time together had been wonderful. He held Catanya’s hands.

  “Travel safe and come right back with Hannah.”

  “I will. Train well and learn all you need to from the priests.”

  “I will.”

  Magnus held Catanya’s face in his palms and stared into her eyes. So far we have come… So much has changed. He would have liked to witness Catanya and Hannah reuniting and seeing Hannah’s smile for the first time.

  “I cannot wait for us to return home together, when all this is over,” Catanya said.

  They walked to the common where they joined the others. They bid their farewells, Austagia taking the time to talk with Magnus. “Are you feeling well, Magnus?” It was the first time Austagia had addressed him in a casual manner. Magnus was glad he did.

  “I am well and all the more so with you travelling together.”

  “See you in a few days.”

  Catanya and Austagia climbed into Rubea’s saddle and fastened their legs into stirrups. Rubea walked to the training field. Simeon, meanwhile, was buckling into Braug’s saddle, as it was decided they should run a clandestine patrol above the southern border of Froughton Forest to ensure wyverns were not scouting any further north.

  Rubea and Braug took flight. Rubea banking northward toward the Traas River and Braug banked to the southwest over Froughton Forest. Magnus watched on until both dragons had flown beyond sight, then felt a hand on his back. It was Eamon.

  “Magnus,” Eamon said.

  No more needed to be said between them. Magnus turned to his old friend, feeling blessed to have him there—in the Romghold of all places. But then, Eamon always was there when he needed him. Marsala believed it to be fate. Magnus was still sceptical of the certainty of fate, but if it meant Eamon would be by his side for years to come, he decided he was happy to go along with it. For now…

  SOUTHERN PLAINS

  Torchlights flickered across the still waters of the Plains Lake. Laughter filled the pine-scented evening and stars flecked the sky above the ancient trees of the southern border of Froughton Forest. Bonstaph breathed a sigh of bitter relief.

  We made it…

  The refugees successfully crossed the Southern Plains and arrived at the blue lake earlier that day. Of the three hundred ninety five travellers, over half were going to make their way westward to the Fire Realm. The remainder would take the Outer Rim through Froughton Forest to homes further afield, or follow the Red River to homes north of the Traas River, such as Kreeluck and the woodlands at the base of the Clouded Mountains. All were happy to make camp at the Plains Lake and rest for a couple of nights. It was only Sarah who did not make it.

  Bonstaph knew full well Sarah was determined to find Lucas. There was nothing he could do to prevent it short of tie her up. Even if he could bring himself to restrain Sarah, he knew she would find a way of escaping. Nothing’s slipperier than a gypsy… He hoped she would find her way free of the Caves of Cuvee. Her final words, though—‘Where I go there is no coming back,’ suggested this was never her intention.

  Camp had been established, fires burned bright and the Plains Lake was rich with trout to feed hungry mouths. Bonstaph was seeing children play for the first time in too long. It seemed to be a utopian end to an arduous journey. Bonstaph, however, was ill at ease. Something was not right. Passage around the Corville Mountains was incident free. Not a single patrolling wyvern all across the Southern Plains. In the eyes of the former Knight Commander, this wreaked of warning more than luck. Accordingly, Bonstaph instructed the Perimetral guard to maintain a protective wall south of the camp. They were to have their eyes focused on the Corville Mountains at all times.

  “Every second man is to be relieved every two hours,” Bonstaph instructed Walt.

  “Are we still in danger this far north?” Walt asked.

  “This is how the Battle of Fire started.” Bonstaph looked over the line of guards standing in the peaceful grass plains. “As calm before a storm.”

  “They came from the Corville Mountains?”

  “They bled from the Corville Mountains.” Bonstaph blanched at the dark mem
ory. “Thousands of Quag warriors. The mountain wyverns were not a part of it in those days. Our dragons and the Irucantî made up for a lack of numbers. There were a few surprises from the other realms, as I recall.” Bonstaph shook his head. “Sorry. It’s a bad time for dark memories. Perhaps I am over cautious, Walt. But old habits die hard.”

  “I understand,” Walt smiled.

  Bonstaph looked at Walt. The young man had never faulted and never doubted Bonstaph in their weeks together. “Walt. Are you excited to be going home?”

  Walt examined Bonstaph with a frown, then glanced across the lake and smiled. “I am. My mother is in Nuyan. She’ll be glad to know I’m safe. If Kriser is still there, I will resume my training as a healer. That will be good.”

  To Bonstaph, Walt did not look so sure. “Is there a special lady waiting for you?”

  Walt scanned Bonstaph’s face again then lifted his eyebrows. “Not likely. Someday I may meet the right person.”

  “There’s a special someone out there waiting for you, I’m sure.”

  “I’m regarded as… peculiar… back in Nuyan. Maybe there’s another peculiar someone wandering about Allumbreve and we shall meet someday.”

  Bonstaph laughed. “That may not be necessary, Walt. They say opposites attract!”

  “I’m not sure that applies in my case.” Walt smiled awkwardly and Bonstaph looked at him, unsure what he meant.

  The sound of gentle thunder began to peel through looming clouds to the south. “Hopefully that blows over. It could put a dampener on celebrations, don’t you think?” Walt said in a light-hearted manner, changing the subject.

  Bonstaph was not listening. He walked away from the light and noise of the camp into the deep grasses of the plains. In the dark silence he peered at the clouds. They were shifting eastward, yet the thunder rolled steadily closer, shaking the earth beneath his feet. He whistled loudly to the nearest of the fifty guards. They relayed the message down the east and westward lines of the Perimetral. Dread washed over Bonstaph and he felt his blood run cold. He glanced to the east. The first morning rays over the distant Romgnian Mountains bloomed red against the inky sky. “A warning come too late,” he lamented.