Severance Lost (Fractal Forsaken Series Book 1)

by Unknown

  Slate grabbed his staff and ran for the Arena entrance as the crier announced his name. Slate sprinted through the tunnel, flipping over his staff and landing on one knee in the dueling courtyard. The crowd cheered loudly at his now familiar entrance.

  “Weighing in at 260 pounds and wielding the broadsword, Magnus Pudriuz!”

  An equally large cheer arose for Magnus as he stepped into the courtyard and extended his broadsword into the air. Slate saw why it would be easy to cheer for Magnus. He was a physical specimen and looked the part of a tournament champion. His arms were the size of Slate’s legs and his leather armor needed to be specially made to fit his large frame.

  Slate and Magnus bowed to the Crimson Guardsmen in the Arena and turned to face each other. Magnus glowered and remained standing during Slate’s bow, impressing Slate. Many contestants attempt to rattle their opponents with fear, and Magnus had a talent for it. It was a valuable trait, but it was a gimmick. Rainier’s quiet confidence threatened Slate much more than Magnus’ glowering. Slate extended his staff to cross Magnus’ broadsword. Magnus swung at Slate’s staff in a display of strength rather than simply crossing it. Slate loosened his grip on his staff and allowed it to fly through the air upon contact, landing ten yards away. Magnus and the crowd laughed at his expense while he went to pick it up, but his feint allowed Slate to judge the power behind Magnus’ blow and found that Rainier’s advice was correct. He would need to avoid direct engagement.

  As the laughter died down, Slate entered into a defensive fighting stance and tried to appear frightened. He considered pissing his pants to heighten the effect, but the look on Magnus’ face showed that his acting was convincing enough without that embarrassing ploy. The bugle sounded and Magnus rushed Slate. Slate took a few shuffling steps backward in a continued display of fear as Magnus began to lower an overhead swing that would have snapped his staff in two. Before it found its mark, Slate launched himself to the side, easily avoiding the slow powerful swing. He planted the staff into the ground and altered the momentum of his body, swinging toward Magnus’s backside. Before he could turn, Slate delivered a powerful kick to the back of his knee. Magnus didn’t drop, but his balance faltered. Slate swung the staff into his other leg and toppled the large fighter with one final, well-placed blow to the back. Magnus landed face-first in the sand and the bugle sounded. The crowd applauded after coming to grips with this quick change of events. Slate ran back to the tunnel entrance and left Magnus cussing and swearing after Slate as he picked himself up from the ground. Before he reached the tunnel, he heard the crier say, “Let’s hear it for Slate Severance, who just won his tournament match in record time!” Slate raised his staff for the crowd but didn’t slow down.

  Rainier met him at the tunnel and fell into a jog at his side. Slate thanked him for his insight about Magnus but found Rainier quiet on their return to the tent, where Lucus awaited.

  “Let us talk quickly before the headmasters of the guilds arrive. Our time is short.”

  “The headmasters of the guilds are visiting?” Slate questioned.

  “It is tradition for the heads of the guilds to meet each of the final contestants before the championship bout. It is a great honor, but you must handle these meetings correctly. The Crimson Guard is filled with people whose skills and talents are only exceeded by their egos and personal agendas. You must tread carefully during these meetings. Do not promise anything to the headmasters until you have a better understanding of the consequences. How much do you know of the Crimson Guard?”

  “Nothing,” Slate acknowledged. “Most people from Pillar spend their entire lives working in the mines. My father was enlisted in the King’s army and taught me to fight, but I know little of the guilds or the guard.”

  “King Darik commissioned the Crimson Guard to train the land’s most promising warriors in the guilds. No member of the king’s army can question or accuse a member of the Crimson Guard since their directives come directly from the king. All Guardsmen belong to one of three guilds: Bellator, Sicarius, and Ispirtu.

  “Bellator specializes in various fighting techniques and the use of weaponry. Its headmaster is the famous war hero, Villifor. He will undoubtedly be interested in having you join his school regardless of the outcome of the championship bout. Magnus was his prized recruit and your showing in the semi-finals will have piqued his interest.

  “Ispirtu trains all of the mages that enter the Crimson Guard. Their headmaster is a powerful wizard named Brannon. I advise added caution when speaking with Brannon. He is not only the headmaster of Ispirtu but also the father of your finals opponent.

  “Sicarius is the last guild. It teaches stealth, strategy, and the art of deception. I do not know the name of Sicarius’ headmaster and if you learn it, I suggest you promptly forget it for your own safety. Members of Sicarius gather information for the king and conduct covert operations.” Slate heard a large commotion of people approaching outside of the tent. Lucus said, “That will be Villifor. His fame draws large crowds and his personality does little to discourage the practice. May your tongue be as swift as your staff, Slate Severance.” Lucus raised his cloak and discreetly exited the tent, leaving Slate to feel like a leaf blowing in the wind. Unsure of the proper protocol for meeting a war hero or a headmaster, Slate waited outside the tent entrance.

  Villifor struck an impressive figure on his approach, surrounded by admirers and greeted by well-wishers. Upon identifying Slate, Villifor hailed, “Good show! Well fought, Slate Severance!” Villifor grasped his forearm and continued loud enough for his entourage to hear, “Let us make our introductions in private. I promise to be brief because I know the importance of preparing for battle.” Villifor strode into the tent leaving Slate and Rainier to follow in tow. Slate wondered if Villifor’s last statement was meant to discourage his entourage from following into the tent or to encourage them to wait outside until Villifor emerged.

  The blankets and lounging pillows spread across the tent floor by Rainier’s servants provided the best place to meet despite its informality. Villifor relaxed against a pillow and gestured for Slate to join him. Rainier sat next to Slate without an invitation to join the conversation. Villifor continued with a raised eyebrow in Rainier’s direction, “You defeated Magnus by mixing guile, cunning and decisive action to overcome physical inferiority. Had you faced Magnus in ten consecutive fights, he would have bested you nine times.” A twinkle appeared in his eye. “In battle, you only get one opportunity. Identifying weakness and exploiting it is often the difference between life and death. Commit to Bellator and your teachers can instruct you in the forms and techniques required to master your weaponry of choice. Master these forms to decrease the weaknesses in your fighting technique and more importantly . . . survive situations in which you should not.” Villifor’s eyes momentarily glazed, no doubt remembering some long past battle, before returning to focus on Slate. “There is no better place for a tournament champion to hone his skills than Bellator. You belong in Bellator, an instrument of the king’s will, and a protector of Malethya.” He stood up to depart and rejoin his mob of adoring citizens, finishing the conversation with, “Excel as a member of Bellator, and find your name sung in songs of valor with fame that precedes your arrival in every town.”

  Could this day become any more confusing? Lucus warned about the dangers of speaking too openly with the headmasters, and yet Villifor didn’t even provide the opportunity to speak. “What do you make of that?” Slate posed to Rainier.

  “You would be fortunate if your remaining two meetings proceed as smoothly. You learned that you are welcomed in Bellator, and I believe Villifor spoke plainly. Either he knew you had little experience in these types of encounters, or he did not wish to speak in front of me.”

  “Why wouldn’t he wish to speak in front of you?”

  “Because I will not be joining any of the guilds . . . I have other obligations to my tribe.” A complex mixture of pride and duty indicated a long conversatio
n would be required. Switching subjects back to the battle ahead seemed the best course of action. “Do you know anything of my opponent in the finals?”

  “You will be facing Lattimer Regallo, the son of Brannon. He has the potential to become a powerful wizard like his father, but he has been training for the tournament determinedly. His forms are well practiced but without the physical prowess of Magnus. I believe he will stay within his capabilities as a fighter, utilizing a stout defense to wear you down. He favors a long sword and shield.”

  “When is the championship match?” Slate was beginning to understand that the tournament ran according to its own timetable.

  “I am not certain, but I could inquire.”

  Desiring some quiet time to clear his head after a whirlwind day, Slate nodded in affirmation and looked toward the ground. Rainier understood his desire and stepped out. With the tent to himself, Slate sat against a lounging pillow and sorted his thoughts. He had landed a lucky blow to win his match against Rainier and now found the tribesman pledged to his tutelage without direction as to what should be taught. The terms and duration of this teacher/student relationship would have been cleared up by Lucus, but the meetings with the headmasters were a pressing priority. Villifor had praised him in one sentence and told him he would have lost nine of ten contests against Magnus in the next. His father would have told him to clear his mind and focus on his upcoming match against Lattimer or to prepare for meeting the headmasters from Sicarius and Ispirtu, but Slate could not concentrate on any of these things. He kept picturing Sana, the apprentice with the same drive and determination that reminded him of his early days of training.

  A knife blade touched his neck and he froze. His attacker whispered, “Only an idiot meets an opponent on an equal field of battle. Villifor can teach you a thousand ways to kill a man and yet the most junior member of Sicarius could have joined his group of admirers, killed him and left before that pompous figurehead even knew he was dying. Sicarius teaches you to master your surroundings. No door will bar your way. You could sit next to your own mother and she wouldn’t know it was you. Most importantly, no one will ever slip into your tent unnoticed and place a knife against your throat again. Sicarius is not for everyone. If you are successful in your missions, there will be no public glory. No one will tell your tale. If you are truly talented, the world may even forget your name . . .” Slate felt a slight electrical twitch against his neck before his eyes rolled up and he blacked out.

  When Slate awoke, he waited a few seconds for the fog to clear from his head. He resisted the urge to bolt upright out of worry that the headmaster of Sicarius could still be in the tent. Whatever the Sicarius headmaster had done to him left no lasting effects, but it was impossible to tell how long he had been unconscious. Rainier was not present so Slate presumed that he’d only been unconscious for seconds or minutes, not hours. Slate checked for signs of how the headmaster had entered and exited his tent. There did not seem to be a mark of any kind indicating entry under the tent walls or tears in the canvas. It was unsettling. During his search he noticed a note folded neatly on the pillow of his cot with a coin shaped object set atop.

  Slate,

  I offer my apologies for the details surrounding our first encounter, namely the knife and shock stick. Information is more valuable to the right people than any treasure and my identity qualifies as valuable information.

  For your first lesson from Sicarius, I will explain how I entered your tent and left you incapacitated, since it is undoubtedly on your mind. I used Villifor’s grandeur to blind you. You and Rainier turned to follow Villifor, which allowed me to slip into your tent unnoticed. I bided my time until I had you at a disadvantageous position. There are a number of more elaborate methods at my disposal, but I chose this simple plan to drive home a point; you are defenseless.

  In preparation for your training in Sicarius, I suggest utilizing your newfound role as a teacher to implement a game of stealth called Stratego. The game is quite simple in nature but complex in practice. You or Rainier will hold this token at all times. The other can earn the token by stealing it or through surprised incapacitation of the person holding the token. Incapacitation through direct confrontation is not allowed. Leave the frontal assaults to Bellator.

  From time to time I will check on you. Try to make it more difficult for me than it was this afternoon. If you decide to join Sicarius, I expect you to report to the guild with the Stratego token in your possession.

  Slate examined the Stratego coin. One side of the coin had the same insignia as the letter, and the second side was devoid of any markings. Its heft identified it as iron ore but not the typical hematite mined in Pillar. The coin intrigued Slate. The deformities within the iron ore gave the coin a dull reddish hue and yet the shape was perfectly formed. To be molded and engraved with the Sicarius symbol, the iron needed to be melted down, which would separate the iron from the stone deformities. Since this hadn’t happened, this seemingly simple coin was anything but simple. Not knowing the consequences of failing to heed the rules in the letter and the ease with which he had been incapacitated convinced Slate that maintaining possession of the token would be prudent. He wrapped it in a strip of cloth and tied the cloth around his arm.

  Rainier stepped into the tent and reported the championship bout was scheduled to occur just after sunset, leaving about one hour to meet headmaster Brannon and prepare for the match. Slate decided not to recount his introduction to the Sicarius headmaster for now, opting to prepare for his next battle instead. Slate gestured for Rainier to join him in the open area of the tent and began transitioning between several of his battle stances. The familiarity of the forms gave his brain a rest from the headmasters and helped keep his muscles limber prior to his final match. It also made him feel like he was at least attempting to live up to his newfound role as Rainier’s teacher, although Rainier easily followed the progression of forms.

  Toward the end of the progression, Brannon entered the tent. His entire being radiated a sense of superb confidence bordering on narcissism, and his elaborate robes enhanced the impression. The layered black and purple robes bore insignias of both Ispirtu and the house Regallo, signaling that his pride in the family name equalled his station as headmaster, a bold and unconventional statement. Brannon stood to the side and quietly waited as Slate completed his training forms, though he did so with an openly hostile stare. The reason for his angst was unknown to Slate; he knew that one never interrupted a soldier’s forms or a mother’s prayers.

  After his forms were completed, Brannon began, “If you are fit to join Ispirtu, you will follow proper etiquette. Typical punishment for failing to address the head of your order, in this case me, involves serving as a personal attendant until proper respect can be learned through servitude. Of course this assumes that you are able to join Ispirtu. Unlike the other guilds that will accept any farm boy capable of yielding a sword, training in Ispirtu requires the ability to perform magic. ”

  Brannon stepped forward and laid his hand upon Slate’s forehead. Similar to the way Sana had probed his injuries, Brannon’s touch did not end at his fingertips. It extended into every muscle limbered up from his forms and into the deepest cells of his deepest organs. Naked didn’t adequately describe the sense of exposure. Thankfully, Brannon’s probing lasted for the shortest of time periods, after which he spoke to Slate.

  “The champion of the tournament gets to choose his guild, but you do not have the spark required to be trained in the use of magic. If you win the tournament and choose Ispirtu, you will be the lowest member of the guild without the ability to conjure the simplest of spells. For this reason, we have nothing left to discuss. I bid you good luck in your remaining match and in your studies in one of the other guilds.”

  The Ispirtu headmaster exited the tent, and Slate drank a glass of water thinking it might cleanse the places soiled by Brannon’s probing, but time would prove to be the only effective cleanser.

  Rainier n
oticed Slate’s discomfort and attempted to refocus his Teacher on the upcoming match. He grabbed a long sword and shield and stepped into the open area of the tent. “I’ll show you Lattimer’s favorite forms.” Rainier’s expertise with these weapons no longer surprised Slate, and they sparred for a few minutes until the crier’s voice, magically enhanced to be heard throughout the arena’s grounds, drifted into the tent.

  “The final match of the tournament will begin shortly. Come take your seats to see the surprising upstart, Slate Severance, pit his skills against the tournament favorite, Lattimer Regallo!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  STONEHANDS

  Glowing orbs danced in the darkening sky, illuminating the multitude streaming toward the arena. The lights intermingled and darted while changing colors in a dazzling and unpredictable show. The orbs danced to pulsating changes in color and moved to the silent song being sung overhead. The effect was overwhelming and beautiful, and Slate realized the championship match would be an entirely different experience than his previous bouts.

  The skyward performance of the orbs was so spectacular that it distracted Slate from the other changes made to the arena for the championship match. Though the arena was elliptical in structure, it had been constructed in quadrants and each of the quadrants expanded outward by some magical means. The ground between each of the now disconnected quadrants had risen up to seamlessly connect one section to the next. The end result was that the arena had doubled in size to accommodate the masses wishing to watch the championship bout. Even to Slate’s untrained eye, the transformation of the arena must have required an exorbitant amount of magic.