Visions: Knights of Salucia - Book 1

by C. D. Espeseth

  Wayran felt his cheeks colour. Bree had also changed dramatically from an attractive girl into a stunning and trendy young woman.

  “What you got there?” Bree asked. “Looks important.”

  “Ah….I don’t know,” Wayran said as he only half-registered her question. He was still getting over how she had seemed to be impressed by his physique. He had been sure his crush on her had been only one-way.

  Wayran then realised she was still looking at the book in his hand. “Oh, it’s a book, but you have lots of books. Where I found it is probably more important.”

  “But look here,” Bree said while pointing as she went to take the book from him. Wayran instinctively held on to it. “Easy now,” Bree said, “I’m not going to bite, and I’ll give it back.” She held out her hand. “Can I please see your book?” She rolled her eyes at him.

  Wayran handed it over, somewhat embarrassed but also slightly excited by how close she was standing. He steeled himself against the butterflies in his stomach and tried to reassert some cold logic into himself. He wasn’t just going to give the book away, no matter how worthless it might be, or how pretty the person asking. It was a link to what he could have been.

  “See here?” Bree pointed to something in the corner. “That’s the crest of Mannford.”

  “Mannford?”

  “Robert Mannford,” Bree said and scoffed. “You know, the guy who was supposed to be some sort of all-powerful wizard or something? The legendary Jendar inventor who disappeared?”

  “Right, yeah, I think I’ve heard the name,” Wayran lied. He didn’t want to look stupid.

  Bree looked at him sceptically, then pointed to the walls of the entrance behind him. “Well, you see all those glowing surfaces you just touched?”

  Wayran nodded.

  “They all have the same mark.” Bree put the book down and started sorting through the shards of the black casing on the desk. “Here, look.” She picked up a triangular piece and held it up to the light of the lamp for him to see. “Just there.”

  “Ah, yes. I see it.” It was the same symbol that was on the corner of his book. “What does this mean then?”

  “Probably that Mannford’s group made the book as well, or it was the property of his House, or something like that. Talbot will want to see it. He loves anything Mannford-related. He’s in the library, probably at one of the reading desks near the big window.”

  Wayran assured Bree that he knew how to get there. He had visited Chronicler Talbot in exactly that spot dozens of times. He set off down the hall to the library.

  Chronicler Talbot sat at his usual table with a quill and inkwell at his side, a series of Jendar surfaces laid carefully around him, and a notebook directly in front of him. Talbot tapped on one of the surfaces in a certain sequence, nodded and made a note.

  “How many is that today, sir?” Wayran said softly beside the large Chronicler.

  “Seventy-three,” Chronicler Talbot sighed without looking up at Wayran. “I’m off my pace today. No one else calls me sir and actually means it like you do, Wayran.”

  Chronicler Talbot carefully put the quill down and turned to face him with a smile. “You’re back from the Wastes already? How was it?” He eyed Wayran’s uniform with a cocked eyebrow.

  “Eventful,” Wayran groaned. “A bit too eventful unfortunately.”

  “Explain?” Chronicler Talbot prompted.

  “Well, the short of it is my glider was destroyed along with enough santsi globes to keep me penniless for life; then my brother and I stumbled into an incredible Jendar building. We were nearly killed, a few times, and once by a giant white Roc. Which is how I got this beautiful scar on my head.” Wayran pointed to the now bright white line of hair on his head. “Then I was kicked out of the Stormchasers. But on the bright side, I brought back this ratty old book.”

  “Well, that does sound eventful,” Chronicler Talbot said. “And you’re in luck: ratty old books are one of my specialties. Let’s see it then.” The Chronicler nodded towards the book Wayran held.

  “It must have been important for you to take this above the other treasures,” Chronicler Talbot said as he took the book reverently. “What made you choose this?”

  “Well …” Wayran thought back to the ghostly blue figure which had spoken to him. “It was next to a dead man. He looked like some sort of king, I thought.” He struggled to explain. It had all been so surreal. “When I came close to to the dead man, his ghost stood up and spoke to me.”

  “Incredible.” Chronicler Talbot was entranced, hanging on his every word. “What did he look like – no, even better: what did he say? Could you make out any of it?”

  “He was tall, regal-looking. He seemed like a man who was used to getting his own way. And no, I couldn’t understand what he was saying to me. Trying to read Jendar is one thing, but hearing it spoken is entirely different. I attempted to copy some of it down though. Phonetically, that is. Here is what I heard as best as I could interpret it.” Wayran handed Chronicler Talbot a piece of paper which had the words he had copied from his arm on it. “Also, Bree thought you might be interested in the crest on the back cover. She says it’s Mannford’s crest?” Wayran pointed at the corner of the book.

  “What’s this?” Chronicler Talbot flipped the book over in his hands and his eyes widened. The Chronicler looked back at his papers slowly, and then quickly flipped open the book and started to try and read the first page. Then Talbot stood up, covering his mouth with a shaking hand.

  “What is it?” Wayran asked.

  “Wayran, my boy,” Chronicler Talbot said, almost breathless. His eyes were wide with shock. “This – this is the personal journal of Robert Mannford.”

  “What? Really? How can you tell?” Wayran asked excitedly.

  “Because –” The Chronicler put his finger to the words on the first entry and read aloud: “‘My name is Robert Mannford, and I saved the world by killing it. Now, I sit here, watching the world die around me, knowing I had to do it, knowing I am the monster who caused this …’” Chronicler Talbot paused to take a moment to shudder.

  They stared at each other for a long moment.

  “Wayran,” Chronicler Talbot held up the book as if it were the holiest of artefacts, “you’ve just found what could be the most important book ever written.”

  Wayran opened his mouth to respond, but his heart skipped and his mouth went dry.

  A metal-faced man with red swirling eyes was staring at them through the window.

  Wayran shouted as he pointed, yet as soon as he had moved, the strange man disappeared from sight. Wayran sprang to the window, his hands hit the glass and he pressed his face up against it to try and see where the man had gone.

  A cloak flapped from around the corner of the building.

  “He’s not getting away this time,” he growled to himself. “Stay here, Chronicler!” he shouted, “Protect the book. I think something’s followed me back from the Wastes!”

  Chronicler Talbot’s face drained of colour as Wayran ran from the room. This mysterious red-eyed man was linked to what happened to him in the Wastes, Wayran was sure of it, and he was going to find out just what in the nine hells was going on.

  25 - Brothers at Arms - Wayran

  Another year has passed – another year of dwindling hope.

  And as ever, my silent companions, with their damnable red eyes, watch me. Swirling and swirling.

  I don’t think they trust me anymore.

  - Journal of Robert Mannford, Day 001 Year 50

  Wayran burst from the front of the Chroniclers’ Artificium at a full run, chasing the flap of a cloak as it whipped around the corner.

  Not this time. Whoever it was stalking him, he wasn’t about to let him get away again. Not this time.

  Wayran ducked through the small stone archway into an open garden. Dry leaves whipped around him, and he caught sight of a fleeing figure just as it disappeared through an identical archway on the other side of the
garden.

  This person was bloody fast, whoever it was.

  “This way,” a voice said as Wayran ran through the archway. It sent shivers down his spine.

  He saw the man standing at the end of the colonnaded arcade branching off to his left. How in the … this person was almost too fast. Impossibly fast.

  But he’d be damned if he was going to give up now. Wayran sprinted after the figure, who paused to watch him approach, those strange swirling red eyes boring into him as he ran.

  Just before Wayran got to him, the man turned and disappeared through the doorway.

  He followed, and then a wall of noise hit him as he ran straight into a person’s back.

  Wayran grabbed hold and whipped the figure around.

  “Hey!” a young man yelled, and stared angrily back at him. His eyes were brown, not red.

  “What are you doing?” The young man twisted so Wayran lost his grip.

  “Sorry,” Wayran said, confused. He looked around and saw thousands of people cheering, and all eyes were pointed towards a central ring. “I thought you were someone else. Sorry.” Wayran held up a hand to show he meant no harm. “Did you see someone run past?”

  “No.” The young man eyed him. “That’d be quite a trick, mate.”

  “What?” Wayran asked, still trying to get his bearings. He was at the initiation ceremony. That must be what this was. The central ring was the sparring ground.

  “Running past. That’d be quite something with this many people crammed in here,” the young man said. “You know what this is all about anyways? Someone told me to show up to the parade grounds at four bells. So here I am; but now what?” The young man was slightly shorter than Wayran and had cropped brown hair. He looked lanky, athletic, and had a somewhat roguish quality to the way he bounced around. “Name’s Kevin by the way,” he said, extending a hand in greeting.

  “Wayran Spierling.” He grasped Kevin’s hand and gave a quick smile. Kevin’s ‘t’s sounded more like ‘d’s, and there was a bouncing musical quality to his words. Tawan, probably, if Wayran got the accent right. “I’m pretty sure this is the initiation ceremony,” Wayran responded to his question.

  Where had the red-eyed man got to? Surely a person like that couldn’t hide in this. No, he wasn’t hiding, Wayran realised. Somehow he had given Wayran the slip, again.

  The clock tower boomed out four long ringing notes. The crowd began to hush as their anticipation grew. Wayran turned to go; he had lost the red-eyed man, but Chronicler Talbot still had Mannford’s journal; he needed to get back to the Artificium.

  “Hey, where you going?” Kevin asked. “Off to find another group of mates?”

  “No, no. I …” Wayran hesitated. He wanted to know what was in that journal, even though that was a part of the life he had been banished from. But he needed to stay and get this ceremony over and done with. He sighed inwardly; Chronicler Talbot would definitely keep the book safe, so he didn’t have to get back right away. Besides, it would take time for the Chronicler to translate a lot of the journal. “I don’t really have any other mates here; I was just distracted.”

  “Speirling, huh?” Kevin asked as he quirked an eyebrow at him, apparently accepting Wayran’s weak explanation. “Any relation to Natasha Speirling?”

  “You could say that. She was my mother,” Wayran said as he remembered the hurtful words of Matoh at their mother’s tree.

  “Well, we know how you got in then, eh, mate,.” Kevin elbowed him in the arm and winked.

  Wayran felt his cheeks warm in embarrassment; this was the first of many who would think that. He tried to come up with a response. “Well – it’s not like – well, maybe, but – my qualifications are more than adequate.”

  “I’m just ribbin’ you! More than adequate, ha ha,” Kevin laughed, “My pa was in the military. Jason Bertoni, maybe you heard of him? Died at Istol, same as your ma?”

  Wayran hesitated, as he had never heard of a famous Bertoni, but he didn’t want to offend.

  Kevin didn’t wait for his answer. His very eyes seemed to laugh as he continued, “Ease up, brother. Loads of people here have family in the military. Everyone has to have decent qualifications and we all’s got to pass basic training anyways before we get any sort of rank. If you’re here, I’m sure you deserve it just like the rest of us.” Kevin clapped him on the back of the shoulders, “Lighten up, mate! This is gonna be great!”

  “You know we’re supposed to fight at this, right?” Wayran asked.

  Kevin’s smile could not have been filled with more mischief. “Oh, I know. That’s why I’m looking forward to it. I plan on making my tussle quite memorable.”

  “Don’t you think it a bit barbaric on the first day?” Wayran said.

  “What?” Kevin looked over at him almost offended. “Are you kidding? This is a great way to meet people and make friends.”

  “By punching them in the face?”

  “Of course!” Kevin threw his hands up with excitement. “Haven’t you ever been in a bar fight? Two big louts start jawing, they introduce their knuckles to each other and at the end of the night they’re buying each other drinks and singing side by side with matching split lips.”

  “No,” Wayran shook his head. “I can honestly say that’s never happened to me.”

  “Well, you are in for a treat, mate! Probably gonna meet your best friend in that ring there.” Kevin nodded to the square of sand, already rolling his shoulders and jumping up and down occasionally.

  This – somewhat disturbed – Tawan was certainly up for it. Wayran couldn’t help but be drawn into his enthusiasm, and found himself cracking a smile.

  “That’s the spirit mate,” Kevin said, practically buzzing.

  The crowd went silent.

  The captain had finished his inspection of the centre square and stood waiting for the murmurs to dissipate.

  “I am a Fellow here at the Academy, but out in the field I have the rank of Captain. So you grubs will call me Captain Miller. I am your drill sergeant from this moment on and I have the honour of opening this year’s initiation ceremony. It is your first step to becoming a Knight of Salucia!”

  A cheer went up from the crowd and the hairs on the back of Wayran’s neck rose.

  “You will be seeing a lot of me shortly; which you may learn to dread!” A malicious grin crept onto the captain’s square clean-shaven jaw. “You’ve all been selected on your previous accomplishments, and they must have been exceptional for you to be here now.” The captain’s deep, gravelly voice boomed through the parade grounds while he slowly paced from one side of the square to the other. “But as of today, that means nothing. Your past has got you this far, but your future belongs to me.” His grin was almost evil. “Tonight is your first opportunity to impress me and to show your nation why you were allowed through those gates.”

  Nervous and eager faces looked at each other, at the new people they had just met; more than a few had grins on their faces, just like Kevin did, but no one dared speak.

  Wayran looked up and saw that the upper terraces were filling rapidly with people. Officers of all ranks, the sandy-brown uniforms of general academy staff, red Corsair uniforms, the aprons of kitchen staff, the long flowing blue robes of Singers with their golden embroidery; there were even a few long white coats emblazoned with the red santsi, shield, and sword of the Syklan Order up there. In moments, all four storeys surrounding the central square above them were filled with people.

  As if as one, they all began to stomp their feet. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Louder and louder.

  Wayran could feel his breath quicken, his heart pounding to the rhythm.

  Captain Miller picked up two staves and the crowd roared. He walked to the edge of the square and slammed one into the fine white sand, standing it upright. Then the captain slowly strode to the other end of the plaza and repeated the gesture. He raised his arms in the air. Silence followed.

  “You want to be knights, do you? Well, knights
like to fight!” Captain Miller yelled. Thousands of voices roared as one and Wayran felt his stomach lurch.

  “The staff is your first weapon, and today is lesson one.” He paused as the officers on the terraces all gave a unified “HOO-RAH!” to punctuate his statement. The young recruits jumped at the boom of voices.

  “The rules are simple! Start when I say ‘fight’, stop when I say ‘stop’.” He grinned menacingly. “And win. It’s important to win.” Another roar swept through the crowded terraces. The eyes of young faces on the ground level were now filled with a mix of excitement and nerves. The very stones under Wayran’s feet seemed to shake from the noise.

  “Everyone gets a turn; I want to hear cheers when I call out names!” Captain Miller motioned another officer to him. She held out a sack and the captain put his hand in and drew out a piece of paper. “First up: Jerome Dangstrom!” He paused after the eruption of noise. A confident-looking young man stepped onto the fine white sand. He was tall, lean and had very long arms.

  “And your opponent: Kevin Bertoni!” Another cheer echoed through the square.

  “WOO!” Kevin gave a holler. “They obviously want to start this party off with the main event, eh?” He winked at Wayran and smacked himself in the face. “Yeah!” Kevin yelled, and began jumping through the crowd towards the square.

  Well, he’s excited. Wayran watched Kevin jostle and chest-bump people out of his way, grinning the entire time like a madman. He wished he felt excited like that. Maybe they won’t call my name; I was a late entry after all. But Wayran knew he was being silly. He was more than capable in a fight, but the crowd and its energy scared him.

  “Save it for the fight, son!” Captain Miller’s voice boomed over the crowd. He was smiling at Kevin. The captain took up position in the centre of the square with both the young recruits standing at the staves stuck in the sand at either side. Jerome’s tall and lanky frame looked taut, like a ship’s rigging taking a strong wind.