by Jason Howard
The announcer boomed, “NOW BEGIN!”
At first it was a furious and difficult fight, see-sawing back and forth. Both fighters came close to defeat, and both endured hard strikes to their armor. But soon, Artem’s graceful footwork and pinpointed power attacks began to wear his opponent down. Artem attacked with ferocity, but he also made sure to put himself in a good position to defend or attack in the next sequence of the battle.
The crowd started to lose interest in Artem’s opponent, and were all soon shouting Artem’s name. And, at one point, they started chanting Zac’s name, a homage to one of the greatest fights they’d ever seen.
Zac flushed with pride and sat up straighter as he heard his name leaping from the lips of so many thousands.
When Artem’s opponent was thoroughly exhausted, Artem backed him up against the curved wall at the edge of the coliseum floor. He dispatched him with a devastating combination that rattled the man’s sword from his hands. Artem finished with an elegant thrust that brought the point of his halberd under the man’s chin. The man raised his hands and yielded. Artem didn’t even have to finish the strike.
Zac was screaming, now one of the faces in the crowd, feeling the victory as if he was holding the halberd himself.
When the moment ended, Zac looked around for the Guardsman that had brought him the king’s orders. He was gone. Zac wondered what the orders meant. Was it an award ceremony? Or had Ryder revealed his lineage to the king’s men? Would he be imprisoned for running away from his duty as a slave? Would he be put to death? Or was it something else? The questions swirled through Zac’s mind. Maybe he should just run. Then he looked over at the City Guardsmen. They would have taken him by force if he was being arrested. Or so he hoped.
Chapter Thirty
The Beholden
Rumored to be the most powerful criminal organization in Ascadell, they are said to be engaged in the trafficking of illegal weapons, slaves, prostitutes, narcotics, gemstones, poisons, enchanted items, and drugs. Allegedly they are engaged in espionage, bribery, strong-arm tactics, gambling rings, organizing underground no-holds-barred fights, burglary, robbery, assassination, bookkeeping, fencing stolen items, the administration of services involving dark magic and alchemy, counterfeiting, and more. Some believe they don’t exist. Legend has it that the organization was created by an ancient deity, called The Eye, who selects each new Beholden leader and inhabits their mind.
Cera was considering eating her own forearm. She had chuckled at the absurdity of the thought. After all I’ve done and all my close scrapes with death, this is how it ends? I’m starving to death in a prison cell, looking at the meat of my own arm. She no longer had a grip on her thoughts, couldn’t even think of a plan to escape the cell, or rather, the oversized coffin where they let the prisoners live until they succumbed to malnutrition or illness.
She was in one of the lowest levels of the Sal Zeronian dungeons. She could hear rats gnawing at the bones of a corpse in the corner. Her magical abilities had been deadened by a gemstone embedded into the shackles on her ankles. It was too dark to see. There were far-off and occasional moans, and other than that there was silence. She could have been dead, floating in the purgatory between Heaven and Hell.
There were footsteps and torchlight that came through the small, barred window on the door to her cell. She rejoiced—her ration of porridge (she got one per day) was on its way.
Her eyes widened in surprise when she recognized the face, half lit by torchlight, that appeared in the window—not one of the dungeon guards . . . it was . . . no . . . it couldn’t be . . .
“Zed?” she asked.
She heard a key being inserted into the door, and a lock click open. Next to him were two dungeon guards.
“We n-need privacy,” Zed said to them, extending a sack of coin.
“We’ll be close,” one of them said, but they took the coins and headed back down the passage, out of earshot.
“Zed?” she asked again. But it was a pointless utterance. He could be no one else. He was skinny as a skeleton, had handsome eyes and a chiseled jawline, and was tall and stood with perfect posture. As usual, he was immaculately dressed. He wore a fashionable scarf and a beautiful turquoise gemstone that dangled from a silvery chain. Seeing him, after so long, was a shock.
“Cera. How have y-y-y-y-y-you b-been? I’ve . . .”
She waited as his lip quivered. His stutter was always worst at the beginning of a conversation. It was like he needed to get warmed up. His stutter never fully went away, but it did get better after a few minutes.
“. . . missed you,” he finished.
His stutter made him seem nervous and a bit manic, but she knew that, in truth, it revealed nothing about his mood or state of mind. He used the stutter, hid under it. It was just one of his many tools. Some would see his delicate frame, hear his stutter, and foolishly underestimate him. Cera had learned long ago that he was a force to be reckoned with. His mind, whirring behind his rapacious eyes, never stopped scheming.
“How did you find me?”
“I have a . . . a … a . . .” Frustration flared in his eyes. He whispered, “I have a job for you.” When he whispered he stuttered much less frequently. He used it as a way to overcome sentences or words that were giving him a particularly hard time.
“I’m a bit busy at the moment.”
He laughed, too loud and for a long time.
“I’ll get you out of here.”
“That’s ridiculous—”
“I can. I have a s-secret that I can use.”
Cera didn’t like the way he said that, with a greedy smile on his face. After all, he held one of her secrets too. A very dangerous one.
“What secret?”
“That’s unimp-p-portant. The p-point is that there is a government official who will ensure that you get a change in sentencing.”
The torch in Zed’s hand flickered wilder for a moment as a down draft exhaled through the dungeon passage. His eyes, focused on her, were hungry and amused. But they were almost always hungry and amused, of course they were—they belonged to Zed.
“What kind of change in sentencing are you talking about?”
“You’ll be found n-not guilty for most of your charges, because someone framed you.”
“Too many people know that I did those crimes, there’s no way you can get my sentence changed.”
“I have scapegoats that will plead guilty to your crimes. They owe me their lives and have families to . . . preserve. I will compensate their families and . . . leave them intact.”
Cera’s eyebrows raised at that.
Zed said, “Have you ever thought about enlisting in the Ascadellian Army?”
Her eyes tightened in confusion.
Zed waited for an answer, his smile growing.
“No,” she finally said. “What are you talking about?”
“Instead of rotting here and then being executed, you’ll serve time in the Ascadellian Army. And you’ll be recommended and accepted for a v-v-v-v-v-very important mission. A mission I want to know about. You’ll be rep-p-p-porting back to me with a speaking stone.”
“What’s the mission?” she asked.
“I’ll tell you in due time. For now, let’s get you into a nicer, more humane cell. One without so many rats. Are you . . . are you ha . . . huh . . . are you . . . are you . . . hungry? Of course you are. I’ll make sure they get you a decent meal.” Zed pulled a brass key from inside his cloak and opened the cell door.
“I didn’t say yes to your mission.”
Zed laughed, turned and started walking. He left her in the dark. Cera jogged after him and caught up to the torchlight just as he was yelling for the guards to rejoin them.
“D-d-d-don’t try and run off. Remember, you owe me this favor. Cross me and I’ll tell the others that you’re still alive. And you know they’ll find you, no matter where you hide. I know a certain someone that would like to see you again.” He winked at her.
He gave an exaggerated bow and said, “Gladly, m-milady.”
With a flourish he turned on heel and lead her down the dark hallway amongst the moans of the starving prisoners and thick dungeon shadows.
She cursed herself for asking, but couldn’t help it. “No one knows, right?”
“No worries my, d-d-dear. The other Beholden—all of them—still think you’re as d-dead as a drag-d-dragon.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Conduit Classes:
There are three classes that rank conduits. The weakest are “Raw” conduits. Then there are “Rising” conduits, and finally “Risen” conduits. All conduits start out Raw. Although there are many Raw conduits, most are so weak that they can only do minor hexes and jinxes. Rising conduits are extremely rare. There are only a handful of Risen conduits in Ascadell.
If a Raw conduit starts out with the ability to make a spark, he will probably spend years learning how to produce real flame and earn the rank of Rising. That same conduit may never become a Risen mage. If they spend decades training and learn how to do feats, like channeling a fireball bigger than themselves and hurling it at their enemies, they can qualify to attain Risen status.
During training, conduits who wish to excel must pay careful attention to their health by dieting and staying physically fit. If they overextend themselves by training too hard they can get serious mental and physical injuries. Some have even died. Many Rising conduits choose to maintain their abilities rather than attempting to become Risen. Much like physical training, if a conduit stops training for long enough their abilities will dwindle and their progress will disappear.
–An excerpt from chapter two, page twenty-three of Historeum Arcania, a textbook used at Ascadell’s Arcane Academy.
Ivor’s intense gaze didn’t leave Cera for what seemed like an eternity. They sat in an expansive courtyard, deep within Castle Sal Zerone. Beautiful flowered vines snaked up and down the cracked stone walls. The walls seemed to hold the dome of the pristine morning sky. Cera waited for Ivor to say something. She didn’t look away, and she didn’t break the silence.
“You do have a lot of power,” Ivor finally said. “I can feel it. And one of the deans of the Arcane Academy has recommended you for this task, despite your . . . history.”
Cera almost laughed aloud. Zed had a dean in the Arcane Academy wrapped around his finger? He truly did have his tendrils everywhere.
Cera just nodded.
“We need the most powerful conduits in Ascadell for this mission, and I have assembled four others. But my gut tells me that one more is necessary. It will be you if you pass my test.”
“What test?”
“This one.”
Bluish energy exploded from Ivor’s palms, and Cera’s eyes widened. She raised her palms and fired her own blast at Ivor just in time. Her orange energy smashed into his. For many long moments, the streams of energy fueling the glowing spheres melded together, screeching like metal scraping across stone. The brightening balls of orange and blue swayed in the crystalline morning air between them.
Then Ivor redirected his blast, smashing all the energy into the ground. Dust leapt high and the sound of the explosion echoed violently through the courtyard.
Cera tried a few attacks, but Ivor deflected the first few with a shield spell and absorbed one of them to get energy for his next spell.
Ivor waved his arms and tendrils of dirt shot up, forming ropes to ensnare Cera. Cera leapt into the air and with a thought her jump turned into flight. She hovered above the tendrils and shot a wave of energy down at them. They brittled and turned to dust.
Ivor ran at her, his hands glowing. Cera produced her shortswords, and charged them with her crackling orange energy. They fought like that for a time, his enchanted hands smashing her enchanted weapons. She dipped below a spark-laden punch and felt her hair singe. She blasted Ivor back with a pocket of arcane energy that exploded from under his feet like a geyser. He was on his back when she prepared to put a shortsword to his throat to show that she had won the battle—but Ivor brought his palms together, and energy exploded from his very skin, a bubble of it throwing her back. She hit the ground, landing butt-first and somersaulting backwards. She was frustrated—he always seemed to have a counterspell or a backup plan.
A globe of wet energy landed next to her on the ground, and it burst into an evil, choking mist. Cera felt her skin numbing. She was blind, and her limbs seemed to be filled with molasses. She struggled to her feet. Then fell again. Ivor was standing over her, his eyes wide with excitement.
He waited till the effects of his paralysis spell faded. When she got up he was smiling.
“You pass the test,” he said, reaching to shake her hand. She ignored this.
She was breathing heavy, and her battle rage wasn’t spent. She exhaled slowly. Finally she shook her head and said, “I didn’t know I was here to take a test. Had I been prepared I would have annihilated you.”
Ivor’s smile disappeared. Then he said, “You’re strong, but not that strong. I am a Risen mage, did you know that?”
She shrugged. You’re an old man, and I’m getting stronger all the time. Someday we’ll do this again and I’ll crush you.
“It will be a long time before you can beat me, young sorceress, so you can put that thought away.”
Her eyes widened. How did he . . . ?
He chuckled and said, “I wasn’t reading your mind, just your facial expression.”
She said nothing.
“Welcome to the Nightblades,” Ivor said, reaching to shake her hand again. He gave her his best disarming smile. She didn’t know if she liked or believed his smile, but it was definitely warm and friendly.
She shook his hand and asked, “What are the Nightblades?”
“A group of heroes that will go down in history as saviors of the people. Your name will be forever remembered and your legacy will be a shining one!”
Cera was annoyed by his bluster and his big, friendly smile.
***
Althos looked up at the castle nervously and then back at Zac. ‘Are you sure I’m allowed in here?’
Zac shrugged. ‘Not really sure . . . but they’ll definitely tell us if you’re not.’
Artem had also been visited by one of the City Guardsmen and told to report to the castle. He patted Althos on the head and stroked his scaly neck in an attempt to comfort the nervous sheelak.
Zac hadn’t yet seen Castle Sal Zerone up close at night. Thousands of torches lit up the suspension bridges between the tall spires. The gold and silver emblazoned double doors glinted with their light. The guards, standing in neat rows, glanced at Althos. They let him pass when they recognized Zac and Artem from First Blood, and Zac showed them the permit Darius had given them. Their small measure of fame was already proving convenient. The guards bowed with respect as they passed.
Zac looked back and recognized some of the other fighters from First Blood also approaching the castle. Kell, the one who Artem had faced in the championship round nodded respectfully to Artem and then Zac. Zac also saw Ryder approaching, flanked by City Guardsmen. Ryder gave Zac a stiff wave. Zac could detect tension, but no malice in his demeanor. He waved back.
Zac turned back toward the castle. Zac’s anticipation made his palms sweaty and his mind race. He realized that he was probably the only free Raezellian that had ever stepped through the towering double doors of Castle Sal Zerone.
***
The chosen ten First Blood fighters gathered in the main hall of the castle. They were still battered and bruised from the fights despite the exertions of flesh mages who had mended their most serious injuries.
They were quiet as they stood together, the high-ceiling staring down at them with its glittering chandeliers. Thick, ornate carpets below them muffled their footsteps while immaculate marble statues along the walls scrutinized them.
They were all startled by the noise of a door
whooshing open at the head of the great hall. Ivor emerged.
“Welcome to Castle Sal Zerone, gentlemen. Follow me.”
They followed Ivor to a courtyard that was surrounded by the walls and towers of the castle. It was bordered by the lush flowers and ferns of a beautiful garden. There were a few torches but the lighting was dim. Ivor put his palms together, then separated them, circling his hands like he was spinning an invisible ball. A fireball began to form out of thin air, and it grew until it was almost blinding in its fury. Ivor, with a flick of his wrist, sent the fireball high into the air where it hovered.
“It was a little dark out here,” Ivor explained.
Ivor walked around the courtyard, his hands leaving blue trails of magic floating in the air like banners behind him. The magic floated like a mist and slowly disappeared.
Ivor came back to them after the ritual was complete.
“That was a silence spell. There are too many windows overlooking us to take any chances that our meeting will be overheard.”
Zac ached to ask what this was all about but didn’t for a second entertain doing it. The last thing he wanted was to speak out of turn and draw attention to himself.
“Lanthos will be here shortly,” Ivor said as he read their curious expressions. Ivor noticed Althos, then gave Zac an inquisitive look.
“He goes everywhere with me,” Zac offered weakly.
“You’re responsible for keeping him quiet and undisruptive,” Ivor replied.
Zac nodded.
It was probably only a short time that passed—but it seemed to stretch on forever. At one point, Artem and Zac exchanged a nervous glance that said nothing but conveyed the tension and unanswered questions welling up in them both.
Eventually, quiet conversations began. A man with a warhammer tattooed on his throat and the back of his neck said something to the tall swordsman named Kell.
