The guard force at the MageSchool consisted of forty men, but only half of them were actually academy graduates. The rest were local men from the guard garrison of the city of Sampo. These local men worked at the school for many reasons, but the biggest reason that they signed up was for the experience of working with the academy graduates. The populous of the Kingdom of Dremaldria looked up to academy-trained warriors as the best in the known world, so these local men were surprised to see a mere MageSchool student holding his own against them.
Some of the academy graduates were irritated at being shown up in front of students and fellow guards. Justan wasn’t oblivious to their grumblings, but he was so focused in his determination to improve, that he ignored them. Luckily, Riveren and Zambon were able to calm down their peers and keep the situation in check. There was one thing, however, that he couldn’t help but be nervous about. The stares and whisperings of the other students grew more intense every day.
After finishing his morning exercise and eating a quick breakfast, Justan usually had to hurry to get to his morning class. Since he had come to the school so late in the year, the wizards were doing one-on-one tutoring with him to get him up to speed. The morning class was always long and on some days lasted until lunch.
The teachers of this morning class rotated every week. It seemed as if the entire faculty had heard of Justan’s situation and every one of them wanted to try their hand at solving the puzzle of the interesting young man. Some of the wizards even decided that the best way to find out where his true abilities lay was to skip the preparatory training and try to teach him spells.
Offensive spells were the easiest to learn, so they started with those first. Offensive spells were any kind of magic that affected an object. Everything from healing, to making a storm, to lighting a single candle was considered to be a use of offensive magic.
Every wizard or wizardess that taught Justan came away impressed with his eagerness to learn and how quick he was to catch on to the most difficult concepts. They also left bewildered at his lack of magical control. No matter how hard he tried, he could not handle the simplest offensive spell. In fact, Justan hadn’t been able to produce any outward manifestation of his magic since the day that Locksher had tested him.
The wizards coaxed and teased and tried just about every tactic known to help Justan, but it was as if he had no offensive magic at all. Justan grew frustrated as well, for this was the type of magic that he had figured to be most beneficial. What good would he be on the battlefield as a magic user if he couldn’t strike an enemy with his power or even heal a friend?
Justan struggled until the wizards began trying to teach him defensive magic. Defensive spells were mainly used for negating or changing offensive magic. For instance, a wizard with powerful defensive ability could deflect a fireball or dispel an illusion.
Defensive magic was usually taught last because you had to have an understanding of the way offensive spells worked in order to counter them. Justan was once again the exception. Defensive magic came easy to him. He seemed to have a natural knack for looking at simple spells with his mage sight and knowing how to block them. He didn’t even know how he did it. It was instinctive.
He wasn’t able to counter anything complex yet, but the professors told him that it was only a matter of time. Justan didn’t like that answer. He never had been patient and his time was limited.
Justan's volunteer work in the library began just before or right after lunch depending on when his earlier classes ended. He was one of five students working under Vincent and it soon became evident to Justan that the absent minded gnome’s other assistants took advantage of him. Vincent would send the students off on some errand, and they would just wander off and do whatever they wished, knowing that the poor gnome would completely forget where he had sent them.
This annoyed Justan. He made it a point to be completely honest with the librarian. He always finished every task for the gnome with precision and never took advantage of the gnome’s lack of memory. Vincent noticed this and soon they developed a good friendship. This was beneficial for Justan, because Vincent knew every inch of the library and every book in it. If Justan needed to know where to find something while he was studying, the gnome was more than happy to help. Besides, Justan didn’t find his time assisting the gnome to be any bother at all. Most of the errands that Vincent sent him on were research oriented and Justan found it fascinating.
After their “volunteer” work was over, the students were all given free time before their next class started. Justan usually stayed in the library working on personal projects. He took particular pleasure in reading their books on battle strategy and warfare. Justan also made it a point to study the books that Vincent told him his father, Faldon, had read when he had visited the school years ago. Every one of those books had something to do with the Bowl of Souls and becoming a named warrior.
It was intriguing information. The bowl used some kind of process to delve into the mind of a person and take measure of their soul. One thing that stuck out to Justan was that whatever magic the bowl used to recognize a named warrior or wizard, it did not use any of the four elements to do so. There were many eyewitnesses that had watched the entire naming ceremony with their mage sight and none of them could see the magic of the bowl occur.
One day Justan came to the last book that his father had read before leaving the school. It was about the history of the naming ceremony. He found several passages referring to the first appearance of the bowl. The Bowl of Souls was not just a regular magic item, but a gift from the Prophet himself.
As soon as he read that, he understood why his father had never undertaken the naming ceremony. Faldon had once met the Prophet. Justan remembered the night his mother had told him the story.
It had been a cold evening and Faldon the Fierce had been away on academy business for an entire month. They had both missed him dearly. Justan, who was only eight at the time, had been bored that night and begged his mom for a story. He was always begging her for stories.
Darlan was a great storyteller. She spoke with emotion and had voices for all the different characters. Often times she would invite the neighboring children in and give out cookies. The kids would fill their front room and eat while she told her tales. Justan had fond memories of those days. When Darlan was talking, nobody picked on him or bothered him about being clumsy. Those were the only times Justan felt like he had friends.
That night, he had begged her for a story about his father. She had been reluctant at first. Justan wanted tales of Faldon’s heroism and daring and his mother did not want Justan following in his father’s footsteps. She didn’t want to worry about him running off to war. But for some reason that night she had relented.
“When your father was a young man just starting to make a name for himself as a warrior, he had been little more than a talented ruffian. Sure, he took on the evils of the world like goblins and orcs and their like, but he also took advantage of his skill and charged heavy fees for his services. If he ran a monster off of someone’s land and the owner wouldn’t pay, your father would more often than not just take the money. No one dared stop him.”
“No way!” Justan had said. “Dad would never do that.”
His mother smiled and patted his cheek. “Oh sweetie, of course he wouldn’t now. But we are talking about young Faldon, before he became the man he is now.”
She went on with her knitting and continued the story, “Your father’s existence went on this way for several years until he grew restless. His work was profitable, but his reputation didn’t grow as quickly as he wished. He began looking for other ways to gain it. Soon he became obsessed with finding a worthy weapon to help him build his name.”
“The Monarch!” Justan had cried with excitement. He knew the sword well, he had helped his father polish it many times.
“Yes, yes. Now don’t get ahead of me, sweetie. Faldon undertook a journey to the vast reaches of the northern wilds and
was gone for a long time. Most people who knew him assumed him dead, and to tell you the truth, not many missed him. But one day he came back with what would become his famous sword, The Monarch. He returned from the journey wilder than ever and people began to call him a name worthy of the warrior he wanted to be. That was when they started calling him Faldon the Fierce.
“Now that he had a reputation, his fees grew as did the danger he placed himself in. With his powerful sword in hand, he did not believe he could be defeated. But not long after finally gaining the reputation he so craved, Faldon grew bored once more.”
“But he was famous now, right?” he had asked.
“True, but he was restless. Once again, there was something amiss. Finding out what was missing in his life became his new obsession. Now, Faldon’s parents had always taught him that the Prophet was a wise man with all of the answers to life’s questions, so he quit his freelance mercenary work for what would thankfully be the final time and he took off on a journey to find the Prophet.”
Justan had listened with rapt attention. The idea of his father meeting the Prophet was something he looked forward to bragging to the other kids about. All the children in Reneul knew about him. In fact, just about every man, elf, dwarf, or gnome in the known lands had heard a story or two about him. Some loved him, some feared him, but all respected him.
It was well known that what he did shaped events, but he moved quietly taking care to avoid drawing attention to himself. The only time that he had ever taken a position of prominence was during the War of the Dark Prophet when he led a small troop of people to the Dark Prophet’s lair and destroyed him. Since then, years at a time would go by when no one would hear of him.
Scholars had written volumes upon volumes about the Prophet and his name showed up in all the histories. Some said that he had been alive from the beginning when the world was created. Others felt that the prophet was not just one man, but a series of men that passed the mantle down from generation to generation. Some thought that he was a scoundrel and a con artist, while others saw him as a savior to the people.
“Your father traveled the land, prepared to pay the man whatever price or perform whatever service necessary to get what he wanted. He never considered the possibility that the Prophet would refuse to speak with him.
“He searched far and wide, plying people for information on the whereabouts of the mysterious figure and finally, though it took two years, he had the location pinned down to one small section of forest in the land of Whippuol.”
“Where is that?” Justan had asked.
“I don’t know. Far far away, sweetie. When Faldon got there, he searched the forest with an excitement he hadn’t felt in a long time. He searched for two days without sleeping until he collapsed with exhaustion. When he awoke, there was a man sitting on a nearby rock.”
“What did he look like?”
“Well, your father called him . . . nondescript. He didn’t look like anyone special. The man just sat there and peered at him and chewed on a piece of grass.”
“‘Are you he?’ your father asked.
“The man gave him a questioning look, took the stalk of grass out of his mouth, and said, ‘He who?’
“’The Prophet’ Faldon said.
“‘Oh him.’ The man grunted and waved the suggestion away. ‘Well, he is known to roam these parts.’
“‘Well, man, where is he?’ Faldon snapped. He was tired of the way that every time he thought he was getting close to finding the Prophet, things fell apart. ‘I must find him!’
“‘Him? The Prophet?’ The man chuckled. ‘Why do you want to talk to that old coot?’”
Justan laughed. “He was the Prophet alright.”
“Now you are smarter than your father was,” his mother had said approvingly. “Your father said, ‘There are things I must know and only he can tell me!’ He was angry by this time and shouted ‘Do you know where he is?’
“The man cocked his head. ‘Even if I did know where he is, why would I want to tell you?’
“Faldon snarled. He had forced his way through enough obstacles in the last two years and the last thing he needed was a balky stranger getting in the way. So he pulled The Monarch from its sheath on his back and lifted it threateningly toward the man, the magnificent blade glinting in the morning sun. ‘Here is one big reason to tell me!’ he said.”
Justan nodded. Now that sounded like his father.
“‘Well, with that attitude, I’m not telling you anything,’ the man huffed, folding his arms and raising his chin. ‘Why would the Prophet want to speak with someone so rude? Besides, if you would swing that sword at a defenseless man, how do I know you wouldn’t swing it at him?’
“Now Faldon was taken aback by the man’s lack of fear. He wasn’t used to being treated this way and part of him felt like striking the man down for his impertinence. However, as rough as his tactics sometimes were, Faldon had never killed an innocent man.
“‘Don’t you know who I am, old man? I am Faldon the Fierce, a great warrior! Not just some thug looking for a fight!’ The old man still didn’t show any recognition, and Faldon sighed. He took a purse of coins out from under his jacket and tossed them at the man’s feet. ‘Very well, I see that your price is different. These coins are yours if you tell me where to find him.’
“‘I see.’ The man looked at him with disgust. ‘It is evident to me that you are not so much fierce as stupid. You assume that everyone is like yourself, either frightened or greedy.’”
Justan had gasped, his hands flying to his mouth. No one spoke to his father like that. Darlan had smiled knowingly at his reaction.
“Faldon had enough. He surged forward and threw a wicked punch with his right hand, putting his back into the effort. As Faldon’s fist arced through the air, the old man shouted a single word.
“‘STOP!’
“Your father’s arm jerked to a stop so abruptly that it wrenched his shoulder and his fist came to a halt right against the man’s cheek. The nondescript man reached up with one hand and grabbed Faldon’s fist and squeezed. Faldon could feel the bones in his hand grinding together. He fell to his knees with the pain.
“The man looked down at the warrior with deep disapproval. Your father told me that there was such an aura of authority about the man that he practically glowed. As the man spoke, Faldon no longer had any doubts about his identity. His voice echoed with the power of a thousand wizards. This was truly the Prophet.
“’Faldon, son of Gustaf, what do you have to say for yourself?’ the Prophet said.
“‘I . . . I am sorry, sir.’ He responded. Faldon had finally found the man he had sought so single-mindedly, but instead of triumph, he felt only shame and he didn’t understand why.
“The Prophet released his hand. The air around the man crackled with invisible energy and your father had no doubt that the man could pull the entire forest down around him with but a thought.
“‘I have known that you would be coming, child.’ The Prophet crossed his arms and stared down at him. ‘It is no mystery to me what is plaguing your heart. You have lost something.’
“‘Yes!’ Faldon cried out, sure that now he would get his answers. ‘Please tell me what it is! When I struck out on my own, I was determined to make my mark on the world. Now I have finally secured my name, but there is still something missing. What is it?’
“‘Faldon, you have forgotten all that your parents taught you,’ the prophet said and those words struck your father like a blacksmith’s hammer.
“‘What? What do you mean?’ he stammered, though he knew what the Prophet was talking about.
“‘I cannot give you back that which you have lost,’ the Prophet said. ‘But I will offer you one piece of advice that will help you find it. Every day, ask yourself if you are the type of man that your father would admire. When you can answer that question yes, you will find what you are looking for.’”
With that, Darlan stopped and stared int
o the fire knitting away.
Justan had scratched his head and waited with frustration until finally blurting, “Then what? What did he say?”
She shrugged. “The Prophet left. Later Faldon would not be able to remember exactly what the Prophet looked like, or how he had left, but he never forgot his words. Your grandfather Gustaf had been a great and kind man. He had always taught Faldon to do what was right and treat people with respect.
“Your father changed after that. It wasn’t long after his experience with the Prophet that he entered the Training School and later the academy. He realized that he had wronged many people. You see, he had always thought that the thing missing in his life was something physical, something that he could touch. He had pushed everyone out of the way so that he could obtain it. But he discovered that it was something inside of him that was missing. It was in the academy that he found out what it was.”
Messenger of the Dark Prophet (The Bowl of Souls: Book Two) Page 5
