by J. T. Wright
Cullen’s amusement faded as he stood his ground, waiting for the Dread Knight to come to him. A wave of fear emanated from the black-armored Knight, and a roar emitted from its helmet. Cullen had lied earlier when he said the Knight was Level 90. The truth was the Undead monster was over Level 100. Cullen thought that fact would unsettle the Lieutenant, and he had kept it to himself. Alistern couldn’t Identify an opponent whose Level was so high anyway.
Now Cullen wondered if the Trial was playing a game. Level 100 Dread Knight against a Dread Naught? What a joke! How was he supposed to perform a deed worthy of his Class and Level up with this shitbird as an opponent? Cullen could only think of one way.
The wave of fear that normally paralyzed its prey spread out from the Dread Knight and, seeing the Sergeant motionless, the beast sneered in its helmet. Habmal the Devourer had been responsible for the destruction of Windshire Stronghold, the ruined castle that lay behind him. True, the Al’rashian King had killed him before the battle ended, but he had still commanded the force that fought in that final battle.
Even battle-hardened Al’rashian warriors had faltered at the effects of this wave of fear. This human axman was nothing compared to those that had called themselves Dusk Wraiths had been. See how the puny human cowers, unable to lift his weapon!
Habmal would strike him down, the shod hooves of his mount would crack the axman’s bones and… Habmal was airborne! His trusted mount no longer carried him! The head of the man’s axe rested in the dirt as if the man lacked the strength to lift it. Had that not been the case? How was he able to hew through the armor of Habmal's mount with so little effort?
Habmal felt the bond between himself and his mount dissolving, and seconds later, he felt the impact of his body plowing into the hard-packed dirt of the battlefield. He lay there, stunned. He had suffered no damage, but the emotional trauma was devastating. The ever-striking lightning of the Trial intensified, mocking the Dread Knight’s fall.
It only got worse. Sergeant Cullen stored Peacemaker and approached the fallen Knight. Two hands clamped themselves onto Habmal's boots. He grabbed the shamed creature by the ankles and with a grunt and a twist, lifted the Knight off the ground.
It required constant spinning to keep the dismounted beast off the ground. Not a style of combat that Cullen was used to, but he grunted, and kept stepping, adjusting to his new nine-foot-long, man-shaped club. To the Sergeant’s delight, the horde which had made room for their commander’s charge rushed forward.
Twirling and stepping, Cullen became a blur. His howling blunt weapon became the stone that the Trial beasts crushed themselves upon. It was glorious, a brand-new way to prove the superiority of his Class. All too soon, Cullen received the notification that he had performed a deed worthy of his Class and could now level up.
With a final spin, Cullen slammed the Dread Knight against the earth. The Knight bounced twice before laying still. Cullen’s boots stomped dizzily on the beast’s form, crushing bone and armor, and then skull. It was so hard to level up these days, Cullen had almost forgotten how good it felt. He retrieved Peacemaker; there were still plenty of Undead to…
Cullen realized his mistake. The Final Guardian had been defeated. The Trial was cleared. Shit! He hoped Alistern had gotten enough kills to Level. It was too late to regret all the free XP that would go to waste because of his premature stomping. The world went white.
Chapter 39
The Orc’s red sword went up. Trent blinked. Even if he had been strong enough to fight the Orc, he was completely disarmed. He had weapons in Storage but no time to bring them out. With his eyes open, he could at least face what was coming.
What he found himself facing was a pair of massive wooden doors. He reached out and thumped them with the hilt of broken Strife. The doors were real. The Orc was gone, and the dirt beneath his feet had been replaced by dressed stone. What was going on?
The Trial, Lands of the Undying Lord, has been cleared. You may collect your reward.
Ah! The Trial had been cleared. It hadn’t been two months yet, and Trent didn’t think the final Guardian had been with the Orc forces. Sergeant Cullen must have done something.
Sorrow and Strife had been broken, and without blades, they couldn’t be sheathed. Regretfully, Trent put them in Storage. He hoped they were repairable. He hadn’t known it was possible to break soul-bound weapons.
His body felt heavy, a result of using the active Ability of Heart of the Inferno. Trent had refrained from using that Ability up to this point because the slight increase in Strength it provided came at the cost of all his Stamina. By all rights, he shouldn’t be able to stand right now.
A quick check informed him that he had less than half his Stamina left. The Ability must have been cut short. He didn’t remember doing that. Was it because the Trial had been cleared? Was it even possible for him to use Heart of the Inferno for a few seconds at a time? He would have to experiment with that later.
Pulling his thoughts back to the present, Trent tried to pull the giant doors in front of him open, but the carved wood resisted his efforts. They stood twice as high as he did. Trent couldn’t decide if the doors were beyond his ability to open, or if they weren’t meant to open. He turned around. He needed to collect his reward if he wanted to leave the Trial, but where was the reward?
Had he thought the doors were massive? The hall where he found himself standing redefined the meaning of that word. Soaring ceilings, rows of stone pillars, high windows, the hall could have held several thousand people without feeling cramped.
Tattered banners and ragged flags hung from the walls. Trent studied them as he walked forward. His footsteps echoed around the room at first, which Trent found odd. It must be a trick. He learned to step lightly over the past month, even without Stealth being activated, his steps shouldn’t be loud.
Keeping his eyes peeled, he walked forward, looking for his reward. At the end of the hall, Trent noticed a figure sitting in a tall straight-backed chair. He quickened his pace. The chair, the throne, sat atop a dais, and the man seated on the throne wore a crown of beaten metal. Trent stopped at the bottom of the broad steps leading to the dais.
There were many things Trent didn’t understand yet. Many things he hadn’t experienced. But he could speak and communicate, and he knew what he was seeing. Only one person wore a crown and sat on a throne.
“Are you a king? Or a Keeper?” Trent asked hesitantly.
The man on the throne leaned forward. His golden eyes narrowed. Golden eyes, very much like Orion’s silver eyes, but these eyes were solid orbs. Trent wasn’t sure the man was even really looking at him. The eyes weren’t all that reminded Trent of Orion. The coloring was wrong, eyes that were golden instead of silver, hair that was silver instead of black, but the man’s angular face was clearly Al’rashian.
An Al’rashian King? Orion had said the Al’rashians hadn’t had a king in a thousand years. They didn’t have Royals or even Nobles any longer. The highest rank of the scattered clans was Elder. Did Elders wear crowns?
“King? I was a king once. If any still consider me such.”
No, not Orion, Trent realized. Once the man spoke, he pictured Duke Lewis. The two shared the same voice, the same presence. Commanding, stern, and formidable, this man and the Duke were cut from the same cloth. So similar they could have been brothers, though they looked nothing alike.
“King? I don’t know. But Keeper? Yes,” the man continued, “perhaps I am a Lord now. The Undying Lord of the Lands in which you now stand.”
In Trent’s unearned knowledge, Kings wore stately robes, but this Undying Lord wore armor. Matching his crown, the metal of the armor was plain and beaten, rent in places, and covered in blood. As a Keeper, he was terrifying. Trent was glad he wasn’t an enemy.
“The Trial said you could see me, child of Al’rashia.” The Keeper stood and slowly descended from the dais. “I confess, I didn’t think it possible. It breaks so many rules. And yet, here you are.”
The Keeper stood before Trent and Trent struggled not to step back. Standing over six feet tall with broad shoulders, dressed in blood-soaked armor, the Undying Lord was more intimidating than any Undead or Orc.
“Darak Fairdor, once King of Al’rashia, now Keeper of this Trial.” the former King offered Trent a sweeping bow. “How may I address you, Child of Al’rashia?”
Trent started to return the bow, but something within him told him a bow wasn’t enough. Trent knelt. He lowered his head and pressed his right fist to the cold stone floor, his left went to his hip where his sword should have hung. “Trent…Trent Embra, Your Majesty. But I am not truly Al’rashian. I'm a Summons.”
The words fell from his mouth in a clumsy rush. This was a formality. Keepers knew what the Trial knew, and Trials knew everything about their challengers. This Undying Lord already knew Trent’s name, just as the Keepers could see that he was a Summons. He was proud to be considered Orion’s brother, but with his secrets laid bare before a Keeper of a Trial, he felt too embarrassed to claim a heritage.
Trent’s face flushed as Darak threw back his head and laughed. His mirth echoed around the vast hall, and each chuckle struck Trent like hammer blows. The King knew he was false.
“You kneel before me as only a member of the Dusk Wraiths would, with violet eyes hidden behind a mask, and you deny what you are?” Darak reached down and drew Trent to his feet. “You are new to the blood, Trent Embra, but you are a true Child of the People!”
Trent didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know why he’d knelt like that. It just felt right. And he didn’t know who the Dusk Wraiths were, though he heard Orion mention them.
Couldn’t the King tell what he was? He was spared having to reply when Darak gestured, and two chairs and a small square table appeared. The Keeper guided Trent to a chair before taking one himself.
“Sit, drink, Trent Embra.” An ornate golden goblet filled with a clear liquid was pushed into Trent’s hands. “It has been too long since I have had the honor to drink with a violet-eyed Survivalist.”
Trent removed his cowl and sat in the indicated chair. The liquid was sweet on his tongue and more refreshing than a Stamina potion. Trent felt aches he had learned to ignore disappearing. The weariness that he’d carried for weeks was banished with a single sip.
“There are many things I would speak to you about, Trent Embra, if only we had the time. We already push at the edges of what is allowed.” Darak summoned a goblet of his own. He did not drink at first, merely held it in both hands, and peered over it at Trent. “I saw when you woke those eyes of yours, Trent. A thousand years waiting for my people to use this Trial to strengthen themselves, and the first time it is cleared, a Spirt Summoner and a violet-eyed Al’rashian appear. Perhaps…
“Why do you call yourself a Summons?” The question was abrupt, and Trent almost choked on his drink at its suddenness.
“Because I am, I came from a Summoning Stone. I think… I only remember being in the Trial, I…” Trent spluttered and stammered and ran out of words.
“Who told you that you were a Summons?” Darak seemed both angry and saddened. His fingers tightened around his cup.
“My master, and another Keeper, a Spirit of Flames. A Keeper can see…” Trent trailed off. No need to tell this Keeper what Keepers could see.
Darak was shaking his head. “Your master is this Kirstin Al'dross, yes, Al'dross. The Dross clan must have fallen not to recognize what you are. Perhaps there is none of the Dross Clan left. Bide a moment, Trent Embra. I would look into this.”
It was hard to tell, but Trent thought the King’s golden eyes clouded over. The boy fidgeted in his chair, unsure of what Darak was doing.
The Land of the Undying Lord was an Instant Trial, capable of appearing anywhere in the Infinite World. As Keeper, Darak had the Ability to examine not only the challengers of his Trial but also the places from whence they came.
“Al'drossford, Lewis Al'dross, a Baron of the kingdom, but a Duke of the World. What…
“Al'verran Kingdom, the Verran Clan, no wonder. They could never be trusted. Some of them perhaps, but most…
“They practically invite Tribulation with these policies. But this Lewis Al'dross, this Sergeant Cullen. Sergeant? Ha! If we had a thousand men like him, Hambal would have been defeated rather than killed.”
Minutes passed. Trent listened intently as the Keeper muttered to himself. Trent knew almost all the words that were spoken and yet still couldn’t make sense out of any of it.
“I see!” Trent almost spilled his drink. Those words had been directed at him. Darak’s eyes were clear and bright again. “I see why another Keeper might think you a Summons. And your own confusion is understandable.”
Darak took a long drink and then set his goblet aside. “There are many types of Summons, Trent. You’ve seen Orion Embra's Spirits, these are a good example. They are contracted Summons in their most basic form.
“Nearly all Summons are Spirits which are given form when contracted. This form is determined by the needs and Class of their Summoner. Without a Summoner-type Class, an Awakened may only form one contract, and that contract must be formed in a Trial. The type of beast that a non-summoner can contract with is actually a Trial Beast.”
Trent tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He was a Trial Beast? What did that mean?
“Worry not, Trent Embra, you are not a Summons and not a Trial Beast given a permanent form.” Darak chuckled, seeing the expression on Trent’s face. “You are a Bond, and if I am right, you were never meant to be Bonded with Kirstin Al'dross.
“Bonds are unique to Al’rashians, and you are unique even among Bonds,” Darak continued. “My people have lost this part of their heritage due to the kingdom’s fall. Your sworn brother, Orion, may someday restore the practice, but I think you were meant to be first. A guide, if you will.
“You are Al’rashian!” Darak said forcefully. “And you would have been from the beginning if that girl Kirstin Al’dross had not forced the Bond as she did. You were not meant for her, and so her human bloodline confused the matter.”
“But the other Keeper called me a Summons, and if not Lady Kirstin…” Trent didn’t know what to believe.
“Your Bond is weak and fading; it gives a similar feel to the contract of a Summons. When the Bond fully breaks, we’ll know the truth of the matter.” Darak reached out and placed his hands around Trent’s. “It will be hard for you, Trent Embra. I wish I could face it with you, but you will have to stand alone.
“When a Summoned beast’s contract is sundered, the beast isn’t freed. It either dies or waits for another to take up its reins. A Summons’ will is drawn from the will of its Summoner. They need direction. They must be given purpose.
“But a Bond, a Bond has true life, independence. They draw strength from their partner, but they do not require it. They serve their Bond holder, but out of affection, not enslavement.”
‘I don’t think I am what you describe. I,” Trent took a deep breath, “I had to serve. I had to obey. If I didn’t, the pain…”
“Your Bond was forced.” Darak gripped the boy’s hand and squeezed it. “If my guess is correct, you were never meant for the girl. I think the Trial intended you to serve her father. If he had held the Stone that contained your Bond, the binding would have been natural. Not only would you have been Al’rashian, but you would also have awoken the bloodline in this Duke Al’dross and…
“This is all conjecture, Trent Embra.” Darak leaned back and put a hand to his forehead. “Your Bond is weak and fading, obviously forced. Your Attributes are weaker than they should be given your potential. Your master is unsure of you while her family is drawn to you. I will not swear to you that you were meant for the Duke, but I will swear that the daughter…”
Trent’s face was twisted up in distress. He wanted to deny the Keeper's words but couldn’t. It was painful to hear that his life might have been very different if not for one thou
ghtless act. He wondered how things might have played out if his Summoner, his Bond Holder, was a man like Lewis Al’dross.
He hadn’t interacted with the Duke much at all, and if he were asked, he would say he found the man intimidating. Intimidating and frankly a little scary. The Duke was a great deal like Sergeant Cullen. They both radiated strength and confidence, but where the Sergeant’s power was honest and wild, the Duke’s was controlled and….
And he didn’t know what. He’d only met the man once. If Tersa were here, she’d tell him to stop being stupid. She’d say, “Just because you’re a stupid jerkface doesn’t mean you have to act like one!” Or something like that. She’d probably hit him or shock him, all for his own good.
“Time grows short, Trent Embra,” Darak said softly. “There are many things that I would speak to you about, but your companions have been suspended so that we might have this chat. The Trial doesn’t like to do things like that, and it urges me to hurry.”
Suspended? What did that mean? A tremble ran through Trent’s body. He opened his mouth to voice the questions in his head, but before he could get the words out, two small chests appeared on the table. His reward? Why were there two?
“Normally, I have only a small say in the rewards that the Trial gives to challengers,” Darak continued. “This time, the Trial has allowed me to include a short letter for your sworn brother, Orion. I will probably have to pay a price for that; it more than bends the rules.
“For you,” Darak’s hands rested on the lids of the boxes, “I must offer you a choice. In the box on the right, you will find a sword and an Ability, as well as 5 Free Skill and Attributes Points.”
The Keeper grimaced and tapped the second box. “In here is the reward I would have you choose.” He paused, his head tilting as if listening to a voice only he could hear. He coughed.
“I must tell you, in the first box, the Ability is Swordborn. It is a very useful Ability for a Swordsman. That Ability paired with the sword the Trial intended for you, your Class will grow faster than you can imagine.”
