Axiom

by Dennis Vanderkerken

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “That’s askin’ to die! Nothin’ passes through teh forest. Everyone and everything just dies!” Fellhammer coughed and hacked on his breath, beating his own chest to get that bad swallow out. “Hunters, search parties, raiders, and clerics alike fall to the phantoms of teh grove. We’ve got deeply written history and orders to avoid steppin’ foot in! Death is as guaranteed as the Ebon Plague.”

  Artorian sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “It’s the only place with enough height to get above the walls even with an arced shot. I can practice the shots here, and I may have a way to detect where raiders are inside of the castle, but it’s a moot point if I can’t actually take enough of them down to cause the needed panic.”

  The Head Healer was particularly interested in that last word and put aside the absolute insanity of the plan. He wasn’t about to stop a man who was already knowingly walking into a situation where he was going to die. “A few arrows don’t cause a panic, my friend.”

  Artorian eased himself out of the cot and stood, brushing his robe off. “It will not, but this may. Extinguish the flames, would you?”

  The Head Healer picked the torches off the wall and doused them in a bucket of water. The last one out made the tent enter a pitched darkness. That didn’t last very long, as Artorian started counting, and a burning, red glow built where his eyes were.

  “Ten.” Right away, Hadurin could tell Artorian’s irises were bright red and glowing.

  “Fifteen.” It became more than just a glow; a crimson tint emitted from Artorian’s eyes so strongly that it was downright unsettling.

  “Twenty.” The tint flared so brightly his eyes may as well have been flames.

  “Twenty-five.” There it was. The crimson flames now looked like searing orange and white eyes, burning and surrounded by an unsettling red gloom. The view completely obscured the old man’s features, his eyes unnaturally large and threatening in the dark. Hadurin felt as he was back on the fields with the undead, except that these unnatural eyes held a far deeper dread.

  “Alright, alright. Stop that. You’re giving me the shakes, and I’m not sure if I want to run or strike ye.” The glow died back down significantly faster than it came, and the cleric re-lit the torches. “What was that?”

  Artorian rubbed his eyes and sat back down on the cot. “Not quite refined Essence cycled to the eyes, given an identity to increase the visual effect and potency rather than push added sight. With specific units of corruption in particular measurements, I see something I’ve come to call infrared. It came with the benefit that I could make some truly scary eyes, and in the dark, it’s all you can see. Now, imagine that while those eyes are looking at you in the distance, every now and then, one of your comrades just… dies.”

  The cleric nodded, both pleased and impressed. “That’ll start a nasty rumor, and they won’t be keen to send people out to explore. If I didn’t know better, I’d call that being attacked by a phantom of teh forest. Yer going to need a real good bow.”

  Artorian scoffed at such obvious truth. “I take it you’re on board?”

  Hadurin gave him the flattest, most severe look he’d ever levered on the crazy man. “An old soldier just told me that he’s going to stroll into the abyss itself, punch demons, and all so that he can rescue people that he loves. With the clerics here, you can afford to push past the point of safety—you are even willing to die, so long as your mission succeeds. I am firmly of the belief that I know the look of a man who thinks like that. Celestial knows I’ve buried many men over my career. Making light of the serious, being jovial about the end, and underneath it all, you’re dead tired.”

  It was Artorian who was full of surprise. He didn’t think someone could read him so well. “What a book I must be to you to be read so easily.”

  The Head Healer scowled and extinguished the end of his herb cigar. “A book I’ve read the ending of too many times. Come back alive, ya fool. There are people here that thrive because you’re around. You can’t throw yourself into the jaws of death that easily. We’re going to open your meridians, ready you up, and set up the best counter-ambush the Fringe has seen in a hundred years.”

  His hand slapped a hand to Artorian’s shoulder. “I have Irene for a check-up later. Get out of here and rest. I’ve got a Keeper to cobble a plan together with.”

  A rare occasion in his life, Artorian did what he was told. He clasped wrists and counted it as a cordial goodbye. Artorian heard the healer mutter, ‘Stubborn idiot,’ as he left, but it lacked negativity; he didn’t think on it any further. Yvessa was waiting for him at his abode with a nasty expression on her face.

  She said nothing as he approached, just sharply pointed at the door. Silently, he entered the building, and she followed him in. He quietly shuffled in and hung his robe. Being properly dressed today, he then undid his gi and hung that up as well, leaving him with a simple shirt underneath. He settled into his pillow-laden, slice-of-heaven bed and relaxed under the starlight. That checkup had taken ages thanks to the audience.

  Yvessa eased into her usual seat and seriously controlled herself before speaking, “So Tibbins fainted.”

  The matter of fact statement made Artorian simply nod.

  “That meant I had to give Irene the entire report by myself. By. My. Self.” She took a deep breath, calming herself with a controlled nasal exhale.

  “I am going to be on you like salt on the plains. Every. Single. Day. For the next few weeks, until Keeper Irene has a properly compiled report on the daily activities of a hidden cultivator who, on paper, is listed as bedridden for three years. I have seen unwritten reports that already have that line on them. I had to explain, in detail, the ridiculous, impossible chaos that follows in your wake, and I had to start from our expedition. Tarrean, on top of now handling severe depression, also can’t escape the endless nagging of not one… but two Keepers.”

  “Do you have any idea how draining it is to even have a single Keeper chasing you down? They’re working so long into the nights that they’ve taken to falling asleep on that massive pillow kept in the middle of the cloister structure. You know the one. Your practical joke.” Yvessa was venting, fuming as the conversation switched between irritation and badly needing to get things off her chest.

  “Can I say that I’m glad it is getting some use?” Artorian quipped. When Yvessa was all out of things to say about that joke, she was out of breath. Through all of this, she had braided and unbraided his beard twice out of frustration.

  “Why aren’t you talking anymore? You usually can’t wait to get a clever word in on someone.”

  “Would you believe I learned my lesson?” Artorian voice held a hint of mirth, but he sobered quickly. “Can I just remark… you held your own against Irene through all of that?”

  Yvessa frowned and threw her hands up. “Yeah?”

  The grandfather kindly smiled and, with much satisfaction, praised her, “I’m so very proud of you.”

  Yvessa was stunned, mouth slightly agape. She didn’t know how to feel. “You just can’t help but catch people off-guard, can you?”

  The frustration thawed from her face as Artorian sat up to embrace his caretaker. He spoke as she crammed her stressed face into his shoulder. “I remember a shy, little girl who was trying her best to keep her confidence together. Look at you now, standing up against a Keeper! I told you could do it! After all, I believe in you.”

  He let go when she pushed away and took his time re-adjusting to his bed. “Ow!”

  Yvessa had punched him in the shoulder without a word. She pouted and glared at him. “You keep treating everyone like they’re your children. I’m not a child.”

  Artorian closed his eyes. “That doesn’t make you not family, my dear. It is the role of a grandfather to stir the pot, and I am happy to be a grandfather to all who find themselves in need of one. I am the warm coat in a cold winter, a listening ear for a heavy heart, and a funny voice with a big nose for a sma
ll child who can’t help but cry.”

  He sighed and pressed fingers over his forehead. “Hadurin, my friend, I’m afraid you were right.”

  Yvessa had a quick look around but didn’t see the Head Healer. The old man must have been talking to himself. “He isn’t here, Artorian. Are you… seeing him right now?”

  “I certainly have my work cut out for me. Oh, I’m going to be so tired, but I’ll be back. I’ll have to make it back.” Fingers snapped in front of his face as his caretaker tried to pull him back to reality.

  “You’re slipping. What are you getting into now to make life hard for me?”

  A small chuckle left Artorian. “Scheduling! Mornings, train with Initiates. At noon, eat. Then at high noon, cultivate. Assist in the medical wing all late afternoon, then eat again. End the schedule by alternating between days of basic sparring and archery from a bit before sunset to evening curfew. Sleep. When the merchant comes, I need a chat.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t believe that one bit. You on an actual schedule? As if.”

  Yvessa was immediately suspicious. She pulled his blankets over him and tucked in the puffy sides. “I am going to be here at sun-up with my paper and board in hand, and we’re going to record all the things you’re up to. I’m not letting you wiggle out of doing actual work! Go to sleep, grandpa.”

  Artorian couldn’t help but feel delight, and his expression reflected the feeling. She’d never called him by that title before! Hadurin had most definitely been right… his suicide mission needed to turn into just a mission.

  He couldn’t knowingly end the happiness even one person had due to his presence. He was going to have to put actual work in so he could survive. He fell asleep before realizing it, and Yvessa didn’t leave until she was sure he was out.

  Tomorrow was sure to be interesting.

  Chapter Forty

  Yvessa spent the next few months bashing her face into what had become a sizable clipboard. That infuriating Elder was actually sticking to his schedule with a painful amount of accuracy, and her days were so predictable that they’d become horribly boring.

  She could abyss-near tell the time based on when the old man was doing something. She was there every morning when he woke, holding his breakfast bowl in hand. He ate and was followed to the front gate where he joined Initiates in the training morning run. Ten laps around the entire cloister later, and it was time to wash in the stream. Artorian then ate again and spent hours in bed where it looked like he was resting. That was merely the lie visible on the surface.

  Yvessa was getting very good at cycling Essence sight to keep track of what her favorite eccentric was doing, and in truth, it made her feel terrible about her own daily cultivation speed. Even with her fractal, she wasn’t drawing in nearly the amount his strange sun-Center was. Every addition to the array of circles just kept on increasing the amount he drew in.

  He was taking in but a fraction of what was available to him. It blew her mind that he was taking in only a tiny amount compared to what he could if he didn’t care about refining. Therein lay the issue for him; it was the refining that took time. Unlike her fractal, which pulled purity and repelled corruption, Artorian’s rings relied on centrifugal force to move energy of a certain ‘density’ to a higher or lower layer.

  That interaction mostly just broke her brain as the number of rings—and thus layers—wasn’t one she could count. It didn’t help that almost every week another meridian was opened. That would then alter the entire process of his inner workings, which made things just a tiny, little bit more efficient. Still, unlike her passive fractal, Artorian expended a significant amount of Essence to keep his operation running. He needed to cultivate every day without fail even if just to purify his body and Center.

  Becoming a cultivator when old had significant drawbacks, and he was going to need decades and decades to do what a Beast Core could have done in a few minutes if his body could have handled it… but that option was gone. As an upside to his technique, breakthroughs were much easier. It came with the cost that figuring out his ranking was a hazy headache at best, but that was a minor annoyance in comparison to the luminous benefits.

  Sure, the sunlight Center was slow in its own way, but once the downsides were accounted for—downsides counted in decades—he’d outstrip a fully formed fractal by leagues so long as he took no critical injuries. Actually, making it to that age was no longer just a passing dream but a possible reality. The caretaker was forced to take a daily break in order to cultivate herself but always found that the old man hadn’t budged when she returned.

  From Artorian, Yvessa gained stacks of notes on medical procedure, organ placements, appropriate treatments, differing methods of potion application, sickness markers, and a full treatise on crystal venom. She carried enough documents on her person that some of the Initiates had taken to ask her for details on certain procedures since she had the notes readily available. When Artorian was present in the medical tent, she was his shadow.

  Except for the one day a week when there was a class trip of every single healer to the stream. Acolytes and Initiates alike were present to take notes on the tribulations and effects of the opening of a meridian at an advanced age. On days where things didn’t go as planned, he experienced the effects of opening more than one meridian.

  Any day where one of the senses of the old man were affected, they found it was going to be a gruesome endeavor. Severe scrubbing was required to get the gunk off him when the more severely affected meridians opened. His skin alone had forced such a severe reaction that the Initiates had outright fled, then avoided being downwind while a face-masked Acolyte team took a full hour to scrub him clean.

  On the plus side, his physical injuries now looked like cuts instead of sandpaper wounds. Considerably less gruesome overall. After a full medical examination back in the tent with another compact round of lectures and note-taking, Artorian was excused. He picked up a recurve bow from requisitions, complete with a full complement of arrows.

  That was normal and just fine. What wasn’t so great was how Artorian focused more on striking his targets through high-arched trick shots rather than direct collision. While he didn’t skimp on basic footing and form, he took far too long to fire a single arrow. To the bow users among them, it felt like he was nearly mocking their training.

  Artorian let the side of his robe down so it wasn’t in the way of the string. Holding the weapon firm during aiming, he gently let it swing as an arrow flew free. His feet were positioned in a stable ‘L’ shape, legs slightly bent at the knee as he pulled. The bow clearly had a draw strength too high for a non-cultivator.

  The *twang* that reverberated each time an arrow loosed made it vanish from the bow entirely. A telltale *thock* became a common impact sound as the arrow hit somewhere on the target. It wasn’t often in the middle, where the target was situated, but after mere weeks, he was scoring hit after hit. When asked, he mentioned that he’d done bow-stuff once or twice before.

  With this sly fox… they didn’t quite know if he’d been hunting for two decades or had never picked a bow up before that day. Still, it was a strange thing to watch. The old man held his shots until suddenly he didn’t.

  *Thock*!

  Another successful strike to a target that should have wildly blown off course, but no amount of wind ever seemed to deter his arrows. A few of the seasoned archers had come asking how he’d pulled that off, but the answers had been… cryptic. “The wind is your friend, if only you take care to see in which direction it wants to play.”

  He even offered to show them, but the archers could not seem to understand what he did. The interesting part came in later weeks when Initiates started carrying moving targets. They’d agreed only because he’d requested the training be in the dark, and the chance of an arrow hitting a target was slim to none. That had proven to be a horrific lie. The *thock*! of arrows striking the wooden target scared the abyss out of the recruits. It also loosened certain coin purses as o
ld-man archery was a prime subject for gambling.

  On days where there was no archery, Artorian joined in on hand-to-hand training. What should have been self-defense was instead an onslaught. Keeper Irene had decided that on those days, she needed to relieve some stress. Great anticipation spread through the camp like wildfire anytime the call went out. “Artorian is fighting Irene!”

  The first fight they’d ever had set the pace, the betting rate, and the guaranteed high-attendance rate as several of the Initiates went full-fanboy.

  “I am done with you. I have had it.” Irene power-walked on to the field and threw her papers to the ground. That was the first sign that told everyone something was amiss, and it momentarily hushed them as it stole attention. The second sign was that she erupted into a Choir combat-chant and charged right at the gi-clad old man without so much as a warning.

  A roaring outburst boomed from the excited Acolytes, followed by a collective gasp from the Initiates as they were about to see a slow, old man get decked in the face hard enough to send him flying farther than Keeper Kendra. To their amazement, Artorian held aloft a single finger. With a small, circling inner arc, he pushed on Irene’s wrist as she flew by. His left foot shifted backward; his right shoulder pivoted to fill the space she’d previously been occupying. Her punch missed wide, her balance was gone, and Irene barreled right into the mud with all the velocity she’d built up.

  Artorian just blinked, quizzically observing his finger while stroking his beard. “Peculiar. Is that how this works?”

  Fury embodied shoved upward with a wet *thud*. Covered in mud, the irate Keeper didn’t care if that was a fluke. The surprise humiliation filled her with blind, irrational rage. She pounced on him with all the ferocity of a Morovian Liger, which just so happened to be the name for her particular combat-style. “Artorian!”

  It was a back and forth that was difficult to follow until the old man slipped and failed a block or deflection, unable to get in a single offensive strike on her while Irene continued pounding him like a hung slab of meat. “You. Messed. Up. My. Filing. System!”