Master of Devils

by Dave Gross

  The most likely cause was that he was not asleep when I cast the spell. Under other circumstances, I would simply have cast the spell earlier or later, but I required the privacy of the arcane library lest a servant or one of my brothers overhear me speaking while entranced by the spell. Communication with anyone outside the temple was among the hundred behaviors forbidden to first-year disciples. One whisper that I was using the magic of the Persimmon Court to violate temple rules could deprive me of my library privilege.

  My window of opportunity was both narrow and immovable, for I dared not linger in the Persimmon Court beyond curfew. Since Master Li granted me access to the Persimmon Court, I sensed intensified resentment not only from the servants and my fellow disciples, but also from the master of combat.

  As my fruitless attempts continued, I prayed for guidance from Desna, Tender of Dreams. In Cheliax, I reserved my public homage for the devil-god Asmodeus, Prince of Law. In private, however, I worshiped the Song of the Spheres before any other deity. Radovan shared my secret veneration, although his informal—and arguably sacrilegious—invocations called upon her as Lady Luck. In that aspect, she appeared to favor the hellspawn rogue above her other worshipers. I would not entertain any notion of his death as a cause for my spell’s failure because Radovan had escaped from more seemingly impossible catastrophes than anyone I had ever known.

  In his succinct vernacular, Desna smiled on him.

  One chilly autumn night, perhaps more for Radovan’s sake than mine, the Tender of Dreams rewarded my efforts to contact him. Just as I had done so often on previous nights, I intoned the arcane syllables and performed the mystic gestures. The magic lulled me into a trance.

  My mind lifted away from my body and traveled to the dream realm, searching the chaotic void briefly before speeding toward my intended goal. Intuition and a nebulous sense of familiar territory assured me that I had at last contacted Radovan’s dreaming mind. While I expected a fantastic interpretation of the seraglios of Qadira or perhaps the squalor of a Trick Alley brothel, what I found instead was a series of battlegrounds.

  Bodies of men and women lay knee-deep in a tumble of different landscapes. I stepped over the splintered timbers of a ruined waterwheel, climbed the rugged slope of a quarry pit, and struggled through the corpse-cluttered alleys of a town. Everywhere I went lay murdered heroes, their shattered weapons the only monument to their lives. In the distant gloom I heard voices hissing accusations: “Bastard ...monster ...devil ...thing!”

  I fought down a powerful urge to flee before realizing they did not speak to me. These voices tormented the dreamer, not the intruder. To make myself heard over their recriminations, I had to find Radovan where he lay within this nightmare.

  I called his name. The sound of my voice hushed the whisperers, but only for a moment. When I called out again, they raised such a clamor that I could barely hear myself.

  “Radovan, if you can hear my voice, come to Dragon Temple!”

  The cacophony grew louder each time I shouted. Yet somewhere behind those damned voices I felt another intruding presence directing the whisperers. It remained invisible, but I felt a great hot mass looming just behind me. Whatever it was, it did not welcome my intrusion into the nightmare.

  “Radovan, can you hear me?” Through magic of his own, my hidden adversary changed my words. “Radovan, I burn in the dragon’s pit. Avenge me!”

  After several more futile attempts to relay my own words, I canceled the spell rather than repeat the false message. Regaining consciousness in the arcane library, I found myself sweating and shivering. Who was this interloper who interfered with my message?

  Jade Tiger was the logical suspect. Yet something about the hidden presence within the nightmare seemed wholly different from the court eunuch. Despite the inherent subtlety of illusion magic, it was a far more aggressive and masculine presence.

  I had another arcane foe to consider, and I did not know his identity.

  The question worried at me for days after the event. With trepidation, I attempted the dream spell again each night, but I failed even to reach Radovan’s nightmare visions. No amount of perusing the Persimmon Court library or my own recollections of magical theory provided an insight into the problem. Yet nothing could distract me from pondering the issue until Master Wu announced the impending second trials.

  Anxiety permeated the Cherry Court. Every disciple hoped to improve his standing since the first trials, none more than I, who had the least to lose and the most to gain.

  My martial skill was now such that I had little fear of retaining the shameful appellation “Least Brother,” but placing higher than least was no longer satisfactory. To start, I would have my revenge on Runme, Karfai, and the others who bullied me. Yet shaming my adversaries was no longer my principal ambition.

  I intended to defeat Kwan at sword.

  The morning of the second trials, we woke to the sound of singing and the smell of hot noodles. The cool of early winter had made us huddle under our covers, and a blast of cold air sent a wave of complaints through the dormitory. Mon Choi held open the door, allowing fat flakes of snow to drift in. His enthusiastic whoop brought us all out of our pallets before I had time to realize that Master Wu had not awakened me for kitchen duty.

  “Look!” Mon Choi pointed out the door. “Our elder brothers greet us.”

  A parade of gray-clad monks hurried toward the refectory from the Plum Court gate. They ranged in age from barely older than the novices to ten or more years older. The foremost bore heavy pots and stacks of steam baskets. Others carried bundles of the gray robes we would wear upon completing the second trials, while those bringing up the rear carried racks of steel swords, knives, and spears to the practice yard.

  We donned our brown novice robes and emerged from the dormitory to join the elder brothers. They responded with friendly greetings until we reached the shelter of the refectory, where they laid down the feast and opened the lids to a general gasp of delight. Not only did the feast smell delicious, but my first taste contained a startling discovery.

  I would have testified to the severest Egorian judge that the meal contained meat, but the elder brothers assured me it was all bean curd prepared via a culinary secret. With a wink, Elder Brother Deming said he looked forward to sharing recipes with the latest First Brother of kitchen.

  The food was so delicious and plentiful that most of my fellow novices returned for second helpings. Kwan caught me observing the phenomenon and offered a conspiratorial nod when he saw that I too resisted the bounty and ate sparingly. The trials would be more difficult for those who overindulged. In a moment of gratitude for his friendship, I lay a hand on Mon Choi’s arm as he reached for his bowl again.

  A glance at our elder brothers’ expressions confirmed my suspicion that the generous feast was a trap. Some could barely conceal their smirks, while two that I presumed to be the First Brothers of their cohorts exchanged furtive whispers as they observed our behavior. The second trials had begun.

  Once all the new students had an opportunity to overindulge, our seniors led us outside. Brother Deming gestured toward the gate leading to the Plum Court. “After today, you shall don the gray robes of our order, and that door will remain open to you.”

  While we dined, the elders swept the snow from the central training ground and erected racks of staves, spears, knives, and swords around the perimeter. Beneath a canopy on the southern edge of the courtyard sat Princess Lanfen and Jade Tiger. No longer disguised as a man, the princess wore a gown of royal yellow, while Jade Tiger favored a robe of deep crimson. To either side of the pavilion stood their guards, the tassels of their spears gradually accumulating caps of snow.

  Masters Li and Wu sat on unsheltered mats to the north. The elder students took their places on the east and west. Their Eldest Brother, a muscular man of perhaps thirty years, led them in a brief ch
eer for us juniors. We novices took out places in the center, four ranks of four. We bowed to the royal entourage, then to our elders on the east and west, and finally toward our masters.

  Master Wu stood to address us.

  “You came to Dragon Temple as heroes of many towns and distant provinces.”

  “Some more distant than others,” added Brother Deming. The elder monks laughed, but none of my fellow aspirants reacted. Master Wu’s eyes remained upon us, but he did not so much as glower at Deming for his interjection. I sensed they had choreographed the outburst to test our discipline. Another trifling test passed.

  “Upon acceptance as disciples, you became brothers dedicated to perfecting your bodies, minds, and spirits. Today you shall demonstrate how well you have learned.”

  Master Wu sat, and Master Li led us in eighteen prayers to Irori. Afterward, he quizzed us on the history of Dragon Temple and its mission to safeguard the royal embassy to the Gates of Heaven and Hell every twelve years. After our repeated recitations throughout the year, Master Li’s questions posed no challenge, even to the uncultivated minds of Runme and Lu Bai. In less than an hour’s time, it was clear that even the masters were ready to dispense with the trials of mind and spirit and move on to the trials of the body.

  Master Wu announced the first martial trial: fist. Eight of the elder brothers stood to act as judges, with at least one watching over each of the bouts. Unlike the first trials, a single blow was insufficient for victory. To prevent mortal injuries, the elder students would declare a victor when it became obvious to them that one had gained a decisive advantage.

  My first opponent was Yingjie, the pock-faced youth who had twice defeated Kwan in staff. His unarmed skill was also formidable, but he favored long foot strikes and showed little talent for innovation. I blocked three kicks before catching his ankle and twisting him to the ground. Two firm strikes to the back, and our judge declared him defeated. Surprised, Yingjie bowed and accepted his defeat.

  I struggled to demonstrate the same grace after I faced Kwan in the second round. The bout lasted less than ten seconds before his fist snaked through my defense to leave the impression of his knuckles on my chest. Three more such blows, and the judges deemed me the loser.

  Mon Choi defeated me in the first round of wrestling, pinning me so quickly that I heard the judge’s decision in the same breath with which he had signaled the contest begun. Mon Choi resisted his natural urge to apologize, and I endeavored not to thank him for a quick end to that hated contest.

  The next contest was in staff, leaving the bladed weapons for last. The only two I had never defeated in staff were Kwan and Yingjie. Not only was I spared facing either of them in the first round, but they were pitted against each other. This good fortune reinforced my determination to win, and I surprised even myself by rendering my opponent unconscious with my first thrust.

  Kwan required a few minutes to defeat Yingjie before he was paired against Karfai and I with Runme. Within a minute, Kwan prevailed. Moments later, so did I.

  Certain that my streak of good fortune would soon end, I made a silent prayer of thanks to Desna when I faced Harbin. The carpenter had proven one of the more skilled fighters generally, but staff was not his strength.

  Harbin took the initiative. His attacks were firm but cautious. The rhythm of our strikes accelerated, but Harbin maintained a balanced defense, intending to weary me. A few months ago, his strategy would have prevailed, but I had grown strong. I feigned a grunt of exertion and exaggerated two parries. On the third I rolled low and struck his inner thigh, an inch below disaster. When he flinched from the blow, I reversed the staff and rapped his head. He wobbled and fell to one knee. The judge’s hand rose to indicate my victory.

  For the honor of First Brother in Staff, I faced Kwan.

  No sooner had I heard our elder signal the start of our fight than Kwan pushed me back with dizzying ferocity, his staff appearing like a dozen stalks of bamboo flying at me. The moment I stood to repel his advance, he beat my staff aside and struck me five or six times with the butt before I fell onto the courtyard floor.

  The astonishing speed of his victory dispelled my hope of defeating him in sword. The best outcome I could now imagine was victory over anyone I faced before Kwan.

  To heap despair on my loss, my first bout in spear paired me with Yingjie.

  Only Kwan regularly defeated Yingjie in spear. I imagined the First Brother’s face in place of Yingjie’s and considered how I might have blunted Kwan’s overwhelming assault with the staff.

  Immediately I discarded the thought as a mistake. Yingjie favored a long stance and point attack, completely unlike Kwan’s Forest Storm style. Instead I imagined myself above the Moutray River of my youth, my heels upon the cliff, my target Yingjie’s right cheek.

  At the signal, I acted first. No feints this time. I struck at his face. Yingjie parried, twirling his weapon to trap my spear with his tassel. I cut below to evade the bind and thrust again at his cheek. His head drew back to avoid the point of my spear, lowering his own point. I cut above his guard and attacked the other cheek.

  Mindful of his eyes, Yingjie retreated. I followed, pressing, binding, cutting above his weapon, encircling his guard, drawing a relentless spiral toward his face until the point of my spear licked in to cut his cheek.

  Yingjie hesitated in anticipation of the call, but the judge said nothing. In that moment, I turned the point and bloodied his other cheek.

  The judge raised his hand in my favor, but he stared at me. Whether his gaze held accusation or disbelief, I could not tell. He had to wonder at the ferocity of my attack. In Ustalav, Yingjie would now be considered a more marriageable man with the Lepidstadt scars upon his face. But of course here my tactic appeared merely cruel.

  Perhaps it was cruel. I felt the disapproval of our audience but looked away. To defeat my rivals, I might require more cruelty yet.

  The next two bouts were briefer still. After cowing him with feints to the face, I pinked Karfai on the arm and shoulder before he conceded defeat. In the next contest I threatened the same to Mon Choi before chasing him out of bounds. My heart sank as he bowed and praised my victory, offering thanks that I had not disfigured him.

  Again I faced Kwan, but this time I was prepared to repel his first attack.

  Yet it did not come.

  Instead Kwan moved to outflank me. Once more he had me on the defensive from the start. I gave ground as he stepped to the side. He shrugged a feint that should not have gulled me yet did. Each time I launched the high attack, he retreated beyond reach. He kept me at bay, forcing me to dance to his tune.

  I changed tactics and lowered my spear—too soon! Kwan beat my point to the ground and ran forward, stepping on my spear as he beat my head on either side. With a whoop, he set his foot upon my chest and drove me to the ground. The tip of his spear hovered above my eye, and I heard the unrestrained cheers of the other monks, even the elders.

  Even, to my regret and shame, Mon Choi.

  My face burned with multiple shames. My loss to Kwan was the least of them. Worse was the knowledge that my brothers—no longer so-called, but my only current peers here or anywhere the world—found such common joy in my defeat.

  Worst of all was my growing suspicion that I deserved no better than their disapprobation. All could witness how I had let my arrogance exceed my ability. And yet I could not quench my desire to defeat Kwan, no matter the cost.

  I could not reach him at knives. Harbin slipped a blade under my guard and creased my belly with the edge of his butterfly blade. For an instant he appeared almost as surprised as I at his sudden victory. While I withdrew to bind my wound, he raised his weapons in triumph at the call. Shortly thereafter, he slunk away from defeat after Kwan gently pressed his blades against Harbin’s throat.

  The first three bouts in sword were over in
moments. Inevitably, Kwan and I faced each other at the end. He had come through the first five challenges unscathed. My wounds were largely superficial, but I could still hear the echo of his staff upon my skull.

  From the moment our duel began, we moved as through a shared dream. Kwan did not repeat his ruse of the dragging foot, and I abandoned the aggression of my spear attack. Instead, we assayed each other’s minutest defenses with every gambit in our respective repertoires.

  Kwan leaped and flew, whooping like a crane, screeching like an owl. I was the serpent to his bird, evading his strikes with precise economy. The edge of his blade caressed the fabric of my robe but never cut it.

  A hundred times the judges witnessed glancing strikes, but they checked their eager hands as they saw the hits caused bare scratches. They awaited a more substantial blow to declare a victor.

  I did not consciously employ Avistani forms, but rather blended the Dragon Temple style with tactics from fencing schools in Cheliax, Andoran, Taldor, Ustalav, and half a dozen other lands. Kwan did not need such knowledge, for his was a natural skill, innovating and adapting to every change of attack. Later I would sit and contemplate in awe the manner in which he appeared to invent an entirely original form of swordplay as we fought.

  We dueled until the morning shadows shrank beneath us. Our sweat dripped pink upon the ground, the frost long since thawed by our ten thousand steps. We had cut each other’s sleeves to ribbons. Kwan ripped away his tunic, revealing the perfect bronze muscles of his arms and torso. The sight of a dozen shallow scratches my sword had left on his skin inspired a new attack, one of my own extemporaneous device.

  Dodging sideways, I moved to outflank him. Kwan matched my movement. I reversed it, and in the instant before he reacted, the point of my blade inscribed two faint lines upon his shoulder.

  The cost to me was a similar scratch, but neither of us landed a blow sufficient to prevail.