Sapling: The Blade of Ahtol

by Dan Gillis

  Some person was moving about around her, swinging a weapon and shouting forcefully. “Get up! Get your butt off the ground and do something!” It was him. She was filled with hope and disgust all at once. Firah slowly pushed up to one knee, her head still reeling from lack of oxygen. Her rescuer was moving in and out of the swinging limbs of the Watch. They hadn’t bothered to draw their swords, and strangely their movements were stiff and lacked fluidity. Regardless, the sallow limbs moved fast. Their relentless attacks were also potent, their grazing blows causing him to reel. Yet he would recover each time, his weapon countering like the wind. His sword play was amazing and she stared in awe for a moment.

  Aware of her gaze, Shien lashed out at the girl near his feet. “What are you doing? Grab that sword!” He pointed to a downed guard’s weapon which rested in the scabbard upon the body’s hip. He barely had time to dodge a knotted fist before slicing upward and relieving his foe of that limb.

  “I can’t use that!” the girl shouted back to him, gaining strength and pushing herself up to her feet shakily. There were still four Watchmen left and Shien was slowly fading from exhaustion and pain. His mind was near irrational as he grimaced between strokes.

  “Useless, good-for-nothing …” Shien's irritated voice was cut off as he was pounded soundly in the gut and dropped him to a knee. He rolled backward by the legs of an advancing attacker, poking his sword out as he passed. He felt it enter flesh, but pain was beyond these men now. Shien had a clue as to what had happened to them. Poor souls; it was like hacking at deadwood. Thrusts with the blade would have no effect now as they were beyond pain. He had to completely adjust his technique to incorporate heavy slashes to dismember the animates. It was an exhausting task. As he swung again and again without remorse, he stole a glance at the trembling girl who moved here and there trying to avoid being grasped again. He noted that the assaults on his person differed significantly from hers. Shien had only one option; this pack was slowing him down, limiting his technique. He might lose his life if he couldn’t swallow his pride. Quickly he removed a strap and threw the pack toward the girl. “Look in there!” he stretched low under a knotted fist. Then a thought hit him harder than any blow. “Don't touch the swords!” he shouted into the night air.

  Firah’s heart jumped at his vocal command. Her temperature boiled at the absolute crass of this man. “I already told you I can't use them!” She ripped open the pack and saw two large slender objects she assumed to be the cause of his distress. Hurriedly, she looked further and saw a small weapon. She grabbed it and quickly removed the sheath. An abrupt feeling entered her whole soul as she stared at the midnight black blade. The feeling of clawing, tearing, vicious energy shot through her whole system in a moment. The shock was such that she almost dropped the weapon, but something caused her to hold on. Then the sensation ebbed and she dizzily lifted the dagger up to her eyes. There were no features upon it, only a blade of the blackest kind. The feeling while holding it was a peculiar rush - like taking a thousand breaths at once. Another shout broke her train of thought.

  “Wake up, idiot!” She turned in a blur of movement to see a massive limb slide through the air she had just occupied. She lashed out with the black blade. The arm of the attacker sizzled as it contacted the strange weapon. Her cut drove in and then upwards, completely removing the arm above the elbow. It was strange … she felt little resistance as she slid the blade through. As the other limb came across to maul her, she dived low and spun repeatedly striking the midriffs of her foe. The remains of the dismembered body fell at her feat, the torso twitching and struggling but having no legs to carry it. She stared in wonder at the incredible dagger in her hands. Then she saw in the corner of her eye another assault. “Watch your back!” the tactless man warned again. Firah had had enough.

  “Watch your own back, you Gnarel-brained, pig-faced …” She slashed out at the remaining enemy with ruthless efficiency, each stroke accentuated the words she spoke. “ … clumsy, selfish, midden-head!” Firah stopped suddenly. All was quiet around her. She was smattered in a sticky substance that smelled putrid. She looked around her slowly. Her companion rose quietly, holding his left shoulder, grimacing as he limped toward her. His expression was different now. He regarded her with a degree of awe and some wary revulsion.

  “You done?” he said as he pointed to her downed foe, what remained of him. Many of Firah’s attacks had been exacted in a brutal fashion, long after her opponent was incapacitated. Her mind had been so clear and lucid. Now she felt disgust and attempted to throw the black blade away. Her hand would not open to release the horrific tool of death. She stared dumbfounded and tried to pry her fingers apart. Nothing seemed to work, as her hand maintained a sticky, vise-like grip upon the hilt.

  Shien watched her with a look of strange curiosity. His eyes were drawn to the strange dark blade. The surface of the blade was clean and devoid of the gore which splayed across the girl’s arms. There was no light reflection at all upon its surface. He stooped down and picked up his pack. Shouldering it, he took a few painful steps away from Firah. Glancing back he saw she made no attempt to follow; she simply stood there staring in horror at the soiled blade.

  He spied movement down the road, shadowy forms moving silently from building to building. So, they were coming back to clean up what was left of him and the girl. He sighed deeply, and resigned himself to what would come. He couldn’t outrun them now and he wouldn’t be able to fight effectively at all. His fighting partner had not moved. She could still run if she could just focus her mind. He felt perhaps she had never seen combat like this - at its grisliest. Limping over to her, he touched her arm. Her eyes flashed to meet his; even in the dark he spied a trace of red within the gaze. It was cold like a tomb.

  “Listen, “he began, “you need to leave here. There are Defilers coming this way. You aren’t hurt and can outrun them still. Go before you can’t escape.”

  “You underestimate me.” The voice was strange, cold and full of malice. He was taken aback by her statement and strange tone.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore. We won’t be leaving here.” He pointed to a house near to them where several dark forms were moving in the dark. Soft scraping of sand penetrated through the deathly calm of the night. “It’s too late for both of us now. They are moving in to finish it.” Shien slumped down and resigned himself to Fate. Well, he had tried, but she seemed beyond reason. Bending down she brushed his arm, and, as he turned instinctively from the touch, blood from his clothes smeared against her. The girl picked up a fair sized stone that had come loose from the street in the fight. Her hand now hefted the dagger so easily he wondered what caused her previous struggle.

  "You simpletons think you can control me?" Her voice was strangely altered, like acrid blackness, pure evil. Slowly, Firah leaned back and cocked her arm as if to throw the stone.

  The Cerephor had reached out to his cadre-men and drew them into one sphere of thought. A linking of minds was underway and the Defilers were prepared to take the ‘prize’. They were preparing a complex and potent effect. The multiple weave would entrap her mind and body into a death-like state. Her body would stiffen and her mind would weaken, taking away any will to resist. They uttered the words infallibly. In unison, all would aid the weave's effectiveness and duration. As such, she would remain in the dormant state long enough to bring her to Nuril. Tonight would be the final stroke upon Mehnin.

  However, while completing the complex weave of strands from the Root, disaster struck the shadowed group. Their Cerephor took a large stone straight to the forehead, crushing bone and flesh. The Cere-Ashori collapsed dead in an instant. This sudden assault broke the critical link between the cadre-men in a terrifying way. The mind-Weaver’s last thoughts of fear and agony twisted back upon each of them binding them mercilessly. In the span of a breath each of the Defilers lay upon the ground, completely immobile from horror and shock. It was impossible to move and in vain they struggled against the effects their we
aves had sown. Groaning and wailing they writhed helpless upon the street as the two figures moved slowly away down the street and eventually out of sight. The prize had escaped. Tragically, the duration of the weave remained consistent, and the hapless Ashori lay prone and powerless upon the ground until the late morning hours. They were found by the change of the Watch lying next to the scene of massacre.

  The Shadow had narrowly passed over the Sapling but fled. The sun rejoiced and sent its blessings down upon the tender flowered plant. Yet, something was different, amidst the Shadow’s assault, a black seed had sprung up alongside the Sapling. They grew together now, winding about each other - the Sapling strongest in the day, the noxious weed in the night …

  A Mihyl’s Dream

  “Tehsa.”

  DARKNESS enfolds me. Suddenly, a light forms far within my mind. It is growing … growing. The light splits across my lucid thoughts. The colors of light are so brilliant … It’s blinding … Prismatic patterns of the flow pass me, while I soar through the chasms of my mind. Where am I traveling to? I am weightless … I move about on a whim. All is below me, yet as I look up … What is that? A vision of her is forming in the phantom clouds of my mind. My thoughts coalesce into a memory from the hidden past. I know this place. The images sharpen and become clear … the marbled halls of the Order.

  I see my young self hurrying up the even steps of the Hall’s front entrance. The stone is warm beneath my bare feet which tap softly across the marbled surface. A Convert of the Order moves slowly toward my young form. I dodge deftly around him, drawing a small frown from the robed superior. Piety and humility are the bulwark of the Order’s creed. I still have much to learn of such things. The look on the Convert’s face reflects a commonly held sentiment: here passes the next dropout. As the Convert gazes upon me, he shakes his head. Turning, with head bowed, he continues down the marbled steps into the garden.

  No one thought I had potential …

  I follow the small boy into the nave. The massive pillars flow upward in the hall; they are magnificently polished and clean. Just like the surface of still water … Many shimmering reflections dance upon the floor. I move about the main concourse, suspended in the air slowly becoming one with the memory and the past.

  The sun coursed through the clerestory windows as sharpened blades of light struck deep into the nave. Several robed figures entered the room, the light bending around their forms.

  “Where have you been Initiate?” A tall figure inquired as Zyr moved toward them at great haste. The addressor cradled an ornate scepter upon his arm. Zyr stopped in front of the bald man and looked up into the emotionless face. Stylized patterns traced along the hems of the smooth hung robes of the group of elders. The hemwork was carefully embroidered and bound as a testimony of service. They were an identification in the Order and everyone received a basic weave upon coming of age and gradually they became more complex as each member rose through the Order. The scepter carriers' robes were simple without hemwork.

  “Humble Servant,” the boy began in the customary greeting,” I was practicing in the south woods and lost sight of the sun behind the trees and …” The man raised an eyebrow at the explanation. Zyr noticed the subtle movement and ceased speaking, his youthful voice echoed softly in air throughout the immense chamber.

  “Initiates have specified time for training and study,” the tall man replied, as he gazed down with hazel eyes, which were endowed with the wisdom of age. They had seen many seasons. “You have neglected your books; I saw dust upon the covers as I inspected your room For-Mena. Meanwhile, your Kota have worn through at the palms,” He indicated to the lad’s padded hands, which were quickly hid from view. “It is the responsibility of every brother and sister to uphold high standards, especially for the benefit of our junior Initiates.”

  "Yes, Humble Servant." the boy half-mumbled. Zyr was puzzled at the statement, as he was not aware of any juniors since his arrival.

  Slowly, the group parted to make way for a small robed figure whose head was bowed. Gradually, the head rose, revealing a child’s face. It was a girl, and even at a young age her features were striking. Her eyes were a deep and radiant hazel which stared indifferently back at Zyr. Her face was smooth and near white; her lips delicate and supple. Dark brown hair was tied back into a simple bun upon her head. His eyes caught upon a shimmering green brooch encased in golden braids that served to clasp her tunic below her neck. She simply stood there regarding the lad.

  Finally, the Servant spoke. “Tehsa, you will follow the lead of your Mihyl,” he took a deep breath in and closed his eyes for a moment. “Zyr will instruct you in our ways. The role of a leader is an efficient guide toward humility and someday, Tehsa, you will have your turn.” The girl bowed low and all the robed party moved away. Soon the main hall was silent.

  How I hated her at that moment. I hated the new responsibility … All images blur while the players change, as if in some forgotten play. Why have I been brought here, into strange memories long buried? My form floats like a mist over the still lake of recollection. The motion ceases and I see it again as if for the first time …

  Zyr knelt uncomfortably on the stone. He leaned slightly against the wall and barely looked about the impressive room. His indifference was not indicative of the splendor of the Order's most noted enclosure. The decor of Initiate's Path was legendary. Indeed, not many places in Kenhar could boast such craftsmanship. There were intricate symbols carved upon the walls and floors. Each a story of countless hours spent in painstaking honing of stone and wood. It was a priceless treasure all bound within the confines of the majestically pillared chamber. The purpose of the room was simple but profound. New Initiates would face a crucial test that revealed their aptitude toward the power within the land and to which aspect they would become attuned. Yet, it was much more than a simple examination. Character, motivations and discipline were all determined as well through observation. It was a dignified occasion and all in attendance adopted a candor of the most heartfelt respect and solemnity.

  Zyr snorted loudly to clear some phlegm that had lodged most annoyingly between his throat and sinuses. He ignored the looks that were cast his way by other designated witnesses of the ceremony. He detested waiting for most things, but to wait upon the elders was most agonizing. He vaguely recalled the ceremony upon entering the Order as an Initiate. He felt as uncomfortable then as he did now. He glanced at Tehsa kneeling quietly in the center of the circular room with eyes closed. She was perched atop a cylindrical dais that rose several feet above the floor level. The dais was surrounded by a series of stone steps that branched out from the center in eight directions. Each stairwell pointed to a small mat several feet away which together circled the dais.

  Tehsa's expressionless face itched a raw sore in his mind. His crash course as senior member or Mihyl of the Tetsu was a disaster in his opinion. His careful regimen was disrupted beyond reason and she was all to blame. He glared in disgust as the Elders finally strode quietly into the room from the council antechamber. He maintained the stare for those whom he hated the most. Tey'ur received a particularly sincere dose of pure optical spite. Of all the Elders, the Warmaster was the only one who returned in kind - if briefly. The Council took their seats which were stationed evenly about the room, forming a circle about the Initiate seat. Tehsa kept her head bowed through their approach. 'She doesn't know them yet, or she would be running from this room' the young Myhil thought ruefully. If not for the binding oath he took upon his Acceptance Day, he would have stirred the dust mightily in his rapid departure. His glum musings were broken by the tap upon the stone by Greil, the senior member of the Council of Masters.

  “It is time to proceed. Is the Initiate prepared?” Tehsa dipped her head slightly lower in affirmation. “Very well. Brethren, please bring forth the Seeking Crystal.” Two robed figures bowed and stepped into a small enclosure. A new spark of insight shot through Zyr and he abandoned his misery. The crystal was unique: hewn from
a Deepstone cache somewhere within Tamers Reach. It was said each imbued stone held specific properties quite unlike any other material. The men appeared hefting a sizable load and shuffled carefully toward the near stairs to the dais. The crystal shimmered in the midday beams which streaked through its transparent facets. It was roughly three hand-spans in breadth and two in depth. The general shape was somewhat rounded but still somewhat abrasive and jagged along the surface. It was also rumoured that to attempt to alter a Deepstone may change its properties or destroy it all together.

  Zyr still knew little about Deepstone but he knew it was connected to the same power deep in the earth that he had attuned to. Any information on how to gain advantage over his peers was a top priority for the young monk. He paid close attention to the proceedings to gain any useful information. The senior Master of Arcane Lore nodded to the others and as one they assumed the Arc of Weaving. It was a traditional position made to access the potent energies from the weaving threads within the world. It was said to originate from some inexplicable being of power, but Zyr had difficulty believing such things.

  Each Master had claimed attunement to a different aspect of the raw power, all except Tey'ur. For some reason, he did not access it, but rather it was part of his whole being. His whole frame was imbued with it from birth. This was a rare occurrence in present times and it certainly afforded the recipient considerable abilities: enhanced strength, longevity, heightened perception to name a few. All of this served to create an indomitable war machine in the now Master of Arms. Truly, he had no rival in the field of war, which aggravated the ambitious Initiate intensely.