Harmonic Magic Series Boxed Set

by P. E. Padilla

  Their mission had been uneventful. On the way back to the temple, they were able to discuss many things.

  “One must see the beauty in everything,” Torim Jet told her. She was sitting on a log near the fire they had started, elbows on her knees, her chin cradled in her palms, staring at him. By the rohw, he was beautiful!

  “That is why I paint, why I create the murals and the pictures I do. I want to capture the beauty of life and share it with others not so fortunate to be able to see it themselves.”

  “But Master,” Palusa Filk objected, “everyone can see beauty. When someone is beautiful, it is no great task to notice it.” As she said it, she flushed slightly, thinking about how much her friends talked about Torim Jet. She was glad of the firelight so that he would not notice her rapidly reddening face.

  “Ah, but you miss the point, Palusa Filk,” he said softly. “I speak not of common beauty, the shape of a face or the pleasing appearance of a person’s form. I speak of true beauty, the beauty within. I am not speaking of people, though it is the same for them. I am speaking of all things.”

  He adjusted his seat to look more directly into her eyes. “The rohw infuses everything, and there is beauty in its flow. A stone would not seem beautiful to many, but it is powerful, unmoving, strong in its belief that it must stay in its place. I would say those qualities make it beautiful indeed.”

  She thought about it for a moment. She herself had been told that she was “cute,” or even “attractive,” but never beautiful. She had a pleasing form to her, she thought, the result of years of physical training. She was slender, standing only five feet and four inches tall, with hair so pale it could be called silver, cut short for ease of caring for it. She had never put physical appearance first in her own life, so why did it matter so much to her how others appeared? Was she not judging Torim Jet on his appearance? Was she not excited to spend time with him because of how he looked?

  “I see you are thinking on what I said,” he smiled at her. Her heart fluttered, though she was determined not to allow his appearance to affect her.

  “Consider this,” he said, eyes narrowing to show seriousness, his cool blue eyes meeting her pale green. “Rindu’s daughter, Nalia, is reportedly so horribly ugly that she and her parents have chosen to hide her face behind a mask so as not to insult others’ honor, yet I tell you that there are few I have ever met that are as beautiful as she.”

  He paused then, seeming to wait to see if she would comment. She remained silent.

  “Her heart is pure, she is as honorable as anyone I know, and she applies herself fully to whatever she does,” he continued. “She, at her young age, is a master at both the physical combat of the Sapsyra Shin Elah and also the use of the rohw. What say you to that?”

  Palusa Filk considered for a long moment. She understood what he had said. She felt embarrassed that she put so much emphasis on physical beauty. She would have to meditate on this. She dipped her head in a small seated bow to the master.

  “I understand,” she said. “I will think more on this. Thank you for your enlightenment.”

  “It is ever my greatest responsibility and joy to share what wisdom my age has given me. But it is late and we must continue our journey toward home early in the morning. We should sleep now.”

  They slept the night peacefully, waking before the sun came up. They meditated for a short while, ate a light meal, and headed toward home.

  Late in the morning, the two were traveling through a lightly wooded area south of Kokitura Mountain when they heard the sounds of battle. Torim Jet had looked at her then, his face set in concentration.

  “Do not take chances,” he said to her. “If we can be of aid, we will do our best to be so, but you are yet a disciple and I would not have you injured or killed. Watch for my direction.”

  She nodded.

  As they came quickly into a small clearing, she could not help but to drop her jaw in open astonishment.

  There were approximately thirty armed soldiers, all wielding bows or crossbows. They had encircled two others and were firing arrows and bolts repeatedly at them, laughing while doing so. The two were moving weakly, jerking as each projectile struck them. Both had a dozen shafts projecting from their bodies. The blood was so thick, it was difficult to tell that their robes were originally off-white. They were Zouyim.

  A rage as none she had ever known took hold of her. Before she could think, she found herself with her triple staff in hand, rushing in toward the closest attacker. The three sections of the staff, each a bit more than two feet long and connected together with a length of chain, blurred in the filtered light as she swung them, breaking bows or arms or skulls.

  Arrows came at her, but the aim was not precise and she was fully in harmony with the song of battle, so none touched her. Most she just dodged. She deflected the remaining few with her whirling staff. These creatures would be called to account for what they had done! She continued to go through them like a child stomping on the ferns that surrounded the area.

  After a moment, when clarity of thought returned to her, she looked over to see Torim Jet. He was using his straight sword, dancing in and out of the soldiers, flicking his blade amongst them. Each time his blade shot out, one of the attackers screamed or dropped to the ground. He was magnificent in his fury, each strike perfect, piercing some vital area.

  She dodged a sword strike from one whose bow she had shattered. Spinning, she batted the sword aside with one of the end sections of the staff, kicked the assailant in the head with her back foot, and continued the spin to land a devastating strike with the other end section of the triple staff, causing the soldier’s head to explode like a melon dropped from a great height.

  When she came to rest after the spin, she realized that there were no attackers left standing near her. Torim Jet had two more fighting with him. Or, more correctly, he had two who were merely awaiting death at his hands. He delivered a straight thrust with the sword, angling it perfectly in between the ribs to pierce one attacker’s heart. He was dead before he knew to fall. Spinning to gain momentum, Jet swung his sword out, lopping off the sword hand of the last remaining attacker. He performed a perfect aerial wheel and his sword came around again, almost completely severing the head of the man. With just a bit of flesh keeping the head attached to the neck, this one too fell to the ground.

  Master Jet landed gracefully, sword outstretched and legs bent in the perfect picture of a low guard position. He looked around, noticed there were no enemies left, and stood, flicking his sword to shake the blood from it. He then calmly wiped the blade clean on the clothing of the nearest attacker.

  He wasn’t even breathing hard.

  She, however, was. She slumped, then, hands on her knees, triple staff dropping to the ground. She breathed in and out in a controlled manner, fighting off the adrenaline and rage that had taken her.

  “Are you well, Palusa Filk?” he asked her, concern painting his face.

  “Yes. I am but winded. I will be fine.”

  Nodding, Torim Jet went to the two Zouyim who were lying still on the forest floor. As he came close, one of them stirred.

  “Is that you, my brother?” the man whispered. “Is that you, Torim Jet?”

  “It is,” he said as he looked over the other man’s injuries. “I am sorry I was so late. If only we had come sooner.”

  “No. No,” the monk wheezed. “It was an ambush, well planned. If we were together, all would be dead.” He grew quiet for a moment and Palusa thought he had passed.

  “Tell the brothers,” he said so softly she almost couldn’t hear as she was checking the other Zouy for signs of life. There were none. “Tell them of this. Be wary. We are hunted.”

  The monk muttered something Palusa Filk could not understand and then he grew still. When she looked to Torim Jet, he shook his head sadly.

  Palusa Filk came out of her recollections as Rindu spoke.

  “It is as with the other reports. There have been elev
en of our brothers and sisters murdered in this way. There is no doubt, the Gray Man is sending predators out to eliminate the Zouyim in the only way he can, by trickery.” His normally stoic face looked to be carved from stone, even more emotionless than normal. She knew it meant he was fighting the rage that was inside of him.

  Ardu Sett bowed his head. The Grandmaster looked older than the last time she had seen him, no doubt due to the reports of monks being ambushed and killed. “It is so. I would not have believed anyone capable of such wickedness, but it is so. It is as you have warned, Brother Rindu. It is my failing that I did not heed your wise counsel.”

  “No,” Rindu protested. “It is a hard thing to decide to commit to war. You were wise to counsel caution. I know this. However, now is the time for action, I believe. We cannot allow this to pass. As it is said, ‘The wise man will discuss matters, but when the sword is drawn, the tongue is a poor defense.’”

  Torim Jet cleared his throat softly. “At the end, when we came upon the soldiers, they were not merely killing an enemy in war. They were enjoying sport. They were joking as they shot arrows into my brothers. They were laughing. I felt my balance shift precariously. I wanted to kill each soldier twice, and painfully. I maintained my discipline to perform the task at hand, but just barely.” He put his head in his hands. “I would not see any other Zouy face this. Dying in battle is honorable, but this…”

  Rindu put a hand on Torim Jet’s shoulder. “We are of one mind on this, Brother Torim. I propose that we create small groups, predator hunters, that we turn their strategy against them. When our brothers and sisters go on missions, I suggest we sent a group of predator hunters ahead of them to clear the way. We will hunt these soldiers down, attack them before they can set their ambush.”

  Ardu Sett’s head jerked up. “Are you suggesting that we lower ourselves to their level of dishonor, Brother Rindu?”

  “Not at all. I suggest that we confront them on equal footing, with no ambush and no traps. We will walk into their camp and do battle, honorably. It is dishonorable to set traps and lie in wait, but fair combat? That is honorable.”

  The masters considered, many of them nodding their heads. After a few moments of quiet discussion, all looked up to the Grandmaster. He looked to each and they nodded. “It will be so. Brother Rindu, would you make preparations and assign the teams?” He looked to have aged another ten years in the last few minutes.

  Torim Jet spoke up. “I would like to be on one of the predator hunter teams. I would do my best to prevent this from ever happening again.”

  “Me, as well,” Palusa Filk interjected, feeling herself flush at doing so. She was still a disciple and had no right to speak during this meeting, but she could not help herself.

  Ardu Sett shook his head and began to speak, but Torim Jet spoke first. “Grandmaster, I would have Palusa Filk on my team, if you see it as appropriate. She performed admirably in a stressful situation and I would like to continue her training. She would be an asset to my team.”

  “Are you sure of yourself, disciple Filk?” the Grandmaster asked. “Are you fully aware of what you are volunteering for?”

  “I am, Grandmaster. I, too, would do my best so that a tragedy like this would never happen again.”

  “Very well. Torim Jet, I will entrust her into your care. You two may leave so the masters can discuss other matters. Report to Brother Rindu this evening.”

  Bowing, Palusa Filk followed Torim Jet from the meeting hall.

  Chapter 6

  Business was good, Scrin Tael thought as he looked over the forty soldiers of Hunter Unit One. He was proud of them. They had trained hard, become a formidable fighting unit and, more importantly, they followed his commands without a thought. They had racked up more kills than any two other units combined. They would continue to do so.

  “Jak,” he called out loudly, “get the men settled and the watches set. We’ll be up early. There are more monks to kill.”

  The man smiled and started barking orders to the others. Tael always referred to them as his “men,” but there was a fair number of women in his unit also. Some of his best soldiers were women.

  He was proud of how Jak had grown into his abilities. He was one of the best combatants in the unit, was in the top few in hunting skills, trap-setting, and tracking, and Tael had made him his second-in-command. It had only been a few short months, but he had really stepped into line.

  Their missions had been very successful. It was the same simple process over and over. Travel to an area where some of the major roads passed through and wait. Find locations where they could post lookouts so they had advanced warning. Camp nearby and then bide their time. The monks, always on some sort of errand or another, pass by. Then the soldiers had but to funnel the monks into the traps they had set and the game began.

  Their strategy had not failed yet. Their plans addressed all contingencies. Once you understood that the Zouyim monks were human, albeit almost superhuman in their fighting ability, traps could be designed to counter their formidable skills. Ranged weapons were the key, of course, and lots of them. Every one of his soldiers had deadly aim. He made sure of it.

  With dozens of sharp projectiles heading toward them, a few were bound to find their target. Keep them at a distance, injure them one or two arrows at a time, and it was a foregone conclusion that they would fall. Simple and effective. His unit had killed eight of the monks this way. Tomorrow or the next day would make it ten or eleven. The meddlesome monks were due to pass through the area they were in now. When they did, his men would be there to meet them.

  All of the Hunter Units carried message birds with them. Every time they killed a monk, they would send a bird back to the Gray Fortress to report it. If they didn’t make any kills, they would send a bird every ten days to check in. They got no return birds, of course. They didn’t stay in the same place for long.

  Tael’s unit would send the next bird the day after tomorrow if nothing happened before then, and he didn’t like to send messages without reporting kills. If luck was with them, tomorrow would bring another two or three monks into his traps. He smiled at the thought.

  After a dinner of stew and hard bread, the men settled into their tents or into bedrolls in the open, still fully clothed and armored with weapons close at hand. The weather was mild and the air pleasant, perfect for sleeping. The sentries had been put into place and things were quieting down in the camp.

  The commander of Hunter Unit One went through the checklist in his mind. They had set the ambushes. Watchers were in place to sound the alarm—the cry of the Ahu bird—in case monks were traveling at night. The men had been trained and drilled so that they could mobilize within seconds of the alarm. Yes, everything was ready. All they need do now was wait. Scrin Tael settled into his bedroll and quickly went to sleep.

  “Ho, soldiers!” a voice rang out in the night air. “Do you desire honorable battle, or do you only attack from hiding as little children, afraid to join battle on even terms?”

  Scrin Tael was on his feet, his sword drawn, before he even realized he was awake. He ran from his tent, looking around, trying to figure out what was going on. The fires had been allowed to burn down to low embers, not providing any light, but the moon lit the clearing in which they were camped. Men were coming to their feet, taking up weapons, and looking around, confused.

  There was movement at the edge of the clearing. Tael looked just in time to see swirling white robes illuminated by the moon. He heard a grunt and watched one of his sentries slump to the ground.

  Then the Zouyim monk was in amongst the men who were standing, spinning robes making it difficult to see exactly what he was doing. Whatever it was, Scrin Tael saw the effects. Every time the monk moved, another of his soldiers died, some silently and some with loud screams. In the midst of the camp, only one or two of the unit soldiers had their bows up and ready. The ones that did hesitated in firing, afraid to hit their comrades.

  “Shoot him,” Scri
n Tael screamed. “Don’t hesitate. Kill him.” He ran toward the monk, sword at the ready.

  Several arrows zipped by his head. The monk barely moved, shifting just enough to dodge or deflect the projectiles. He hardly delayed in his killing to do so.

  “It is much harder to kill a Zouy when he knows you are there, do you not agree?” the monk said, not even breathing hard as he slashed the throat out of another soldier. Tael was still a dozen feet from him.

  “It is good to engage in honorable battle. Is that not so?” the monk continued as he twirled, cut an arrow out of the air with his sword, and continued in his spin to remove the hand of a soldier attacking him with a long knife. The commander was almost within reach of the monk.

  The men around the camp had finally organized themselves and a dozen of them had their bows up and ready. Tael knew that he may get hit, but he trusted the aim of his soldiers. “Shoot, all of you. Shoot!”

  He heard the twang of what could only have been two or three bows. The monk dodged the arrows easily and dispatched another soldier that had come at him with a spiked club. Tael spared a moment to glance at the bowmen and was shocked to see another set of swirling white robes moving through his men, killing them with ease.

  And then he was in front of the first monk.

  The Zouy was bald and probably twenty years older than Scrin Tael. His robes were darkened with blood, none of which was his own, Tael thought, and the curved sword held in the monk’s hand dripped of the stuff.

  “You are the commander, no doubt,” the monk said to him. “It is an honor to engage in combat with you. Fairly. Without traps or trickery.” The man bowed to him. Actually bowed.

  While he was still bowing, Scrin Tael attacked as quickly as he could, swinging a downward diagonal cut with his sword, trying to get the monk to raise his guard. As his blade came near the monk, he pulled back on the hilt, allowing the tip to pass in front of the monk’s weapon, and then switched direction into a horizontal cut from the other side, turning the blade once more to transform the motion to an upward diagonal cut, coming in from under the monk’s sword. He had won more battles with this single move than all his other techniques combined. It had never failed.