by Will Wight
“Start running, Lindon.”
Chapter 16
After a week, Lindon could almost form a ball of Blackflame between his hands. It would explode immediately, so he’d taken to practicing bare-chested; otherwise, he would have burned away his outer robe on the second day.
Their attempts on the Striker Trial had been less than successful, as they had quickly realized that Yerin couldn’t destroy the targets. The black blobs floating behind the hazy wall of aura would just re-form if they were cut.
To destroy the targets, they needed Blackflame.
Lindon condensed another blob of dark fire, casting his palms in a deep crimson radiance. His mind and spirit were drawn to a point, utterly focused on his task, as beads of sweat rolled down his face.
The ball of burning madra between his palms swelled, growing until it was almost the size of a fist—a little more, and he could consider the first stage of the technique passed.
When he sent one more pulse of madra into the ball, it exploded.
He flipped onto his back, slamming his skull against the hard-packed earth and staring up into the blue strip of sky he could see through the opening to his canyon. His breaths came heavily as he tried to find his cycling rhythm, pulling his madra together for another attempt.
A red-tinged shadow loomed over him, and blazing red circles on fields of darkness swiveled to meet his eyes.
“Orthos,” Lindon panted, gingerly climbing to his feet so that he could bow. “It has been too long.”
The giant turtle grumbled something that might have been agreement. “I am not pleased,” he declared, snapping up a small boulder.
Lindon hurriedly pulled his sacred artist’s robe back up; he’d pushed it down to the waist, which was not a polite way to meet a guest. “Pardon, honored Orthos. I was not expecting a visitor.”
He had sensed Orthos’ presence growing closer, but the turtle had gotten close to the canyon many times over the last few months. He’d never entered. Besides, Lindon’s attention was devoted entirely to his half-formed Striker technique.
“With so much attention on your training,” Orthos said, “you should be making progress.” The last word was packed with such spite and rage that Orthos’ eyes went from red to the bright orange of an open flame. Lindon felt the radiance of the anger in his spirit, and he took a step back, instinctively cycling his madra for a fight.
Orthos snapped his head to one side, bottling up the anger again, mastering himself. “You see?” he said at last. “The pure madra I took from you is not enough to balance the corrosion any longer. I need to pour more power into you, and you are not ready. I am displeased.”
Orthos’ spirit was in better shape than when Lindon had first sensed it; the painful, burning heat was better contained, and now it moved in regular cycles instead of a wild mass of flames.
But it still felt like a volcano on the verge of erupting. “If you need some scales, I’ve Forged a few more,” Lindon said. He’d left his pack a few feet away, and he dug through it for a handful of blue-and-white translucent coins. He tossed them to Orthos, and they dissolved into pale blue streams in midair that sank into the turtle’s body.
If they made a difference, Lindon couldn’t see it.
“That will not be enough,” Orthos rumbled. “If it were, the Arelius family would have healed me already. They can afford more than a few low-grade scales.”
“I’m sure they would. They have great respect for you.”
Orthos snorted, blowing out a few inches of dark flames. “As they should. They serve me in return for my protection.”
Lindon hadn’t seen Orthos providing any protection; it seemed more like the Arelius family was protecting him. “Is that how you were injured?”
“Any dragon would defend what belongs to them,” he said dismissively. “Even if they died for it.” Orthos’ spirit was usually alight with arrogance, but he didn’t seem especially proud now, like he was talking about a usual chore.
“What threat required you to act personally?”
“A rogue Blackflame,” he said, as though it were obvious.
Eithan had said the Blackflames fell fifty years ago, but it hadn’t been so long since Orthos was driven mad by his own power. Were there still other Blackflames out there, struggling with their spirits as Orthos did with his?
If there were, would they see Lindon as a threat, or a potential recruit? Either possibility shook him.
Orthos dug a stone out of the dirt and popped it into his mouth. “This is a waste of time. Show me your ignorance, and I will instruct you.”
Before the turtle changed his mind, Lindon hurriedly adopted the basic cycling pattern lined out for this Striker technique, gathering madra in his hands. He held his palms only a few inches apart, focusing on the air between them, pushing madra into a ball.
The black flames flickered into being. They wanted to rush out, but Lindon held them in place, keeping them swirling in the air between his hands. He added another layer, then another, trembling with the effort of keeping the madra contained.
“I’ve seen enough,” Orthos said, knocking his front paw against Lindon’s hands. The Blackflame madra went out like a snuffed candle—fortunately not exploding—and turned away from Lindon. “I don’t know what the family called this technique, but it was made in imitation of a dragon’s breath.”
Lindon silently thanked Yerin.
“Watch me, and learn.” Orthos opened his jaws wide. Ruddy light gathered in his throat.
With both his eyes and his perception, Lindon focused on the technique. Madra flowed up from Orthos’ throat, gathering and stopping in the back of his throat. More and more madra poured into a black fireball that spun, faster and faster, until it grew to half the size of Lindon’s head.
Then Orthos compressed it so that it was no bigger than a fist, and poured more power into it.
The whole process only took a second or two, and Orthos packed down the energy three times, always keeping the ball of fire spinning. The turtle was holding the madra with his spirit, but he didn’t grip it tightly; he cupped it like an egg until he was ready to pack it down.
With a roar, Orthos released the technique.
Lindon had expected a rough cloud of flame billowing out of the turtle’s mouth. Instead, a dense, almost liquid-looking bar as thick as a man’s leg blasted into the sky. The Blackflame madra streamed into the air, smooth and compact, radiating heat.
The bar of black fire punched through a cloud, drilling a hole in the middle as it blasted into the sky.
Lindon stared up in awe. “It is an honor to be instructed…” He trailed off as he sensed a change in Orthos’ spirit.
The turtle stumbled away, each step thumping against the earth like he walked on a drum. His eyes burned orange, and Lindon felt such a confusing mix of emotion through their bond that he couldn’t separate one thread from another: anger, exhaustion, confusion, fear, and pride fueled one another, blazing into a hot mass.
There was a flutter of black robes, and Yerin came to a stop in front of Lindon, staring up into the sky. She raised her white blade to point at Orthos without looking.
“I don’t place a heap of bets, but if I had to bet a box of gold against a horse’s hair, I’d say that was your giant Blackflame turtle.”
“He’s not well at the moment,” Lindon said.
“You have a leash for him, true?”
Blackflame madra shot out of Orthos’ body like sparks from a campfire as he stumbled around, his spirit a mess of confusion.
“It’s spiritual damage built up in his channels. If I could get the Sylvan Riverseed—”
Yerin tackled him in the middle and scooped him up, throwing him over one shoulder. Before he could react, his world lurched as she leaped away.
Just in time. His spirit sent him a warning, and he flinched an instant before another wave of Blackflame blasted away a chunk of the cliff. Rocks the size of his torso rained down, and Orthos whirled on them,
roaring like they were his ancestral enemies.
They passed through one red archway and into the forest of pillars before Yerin let him down. “Is he going to trail us?” she asked.
“I don’t think he remembers we were there,” Lindon said. “I’ll see if he notices me this time or not.”
Yerin’s scarred face froze. “You’re…turning back?”
“I don’t want to,” he said apologetically. “I left my pack back there.”
***
Usually, there wasn’t much for Cassias to do in running the Striker Trial. He could guide the spears to some degree, or empower them with his sword madra, but none of that would significantly increase the difficulty or value of the test.
His real role was going to come during the Ruler Trial, the most difficult of the three Blackflame Trials, so he spent most of his time packing that course’s reserves with power. They wouldn’t run through that like they did through the Enforcer Trial, he could guarantee it.
Cassias was reading reports when he sensed Orthos’ arrival. He’d grown up with stories of Orthos, so he was initially nervous, until he reminded himself of Lindon’s contract. The sacred beast should be much more stable than before.
That was a relief. If he went crazy, the children’s lives weren’t the only things at stake: this course was a loan from the Empire, and it was worth more than the Arelius family made in a year. If Orthos ruined it, Cassias would have to answer to the branch heads.
Now that he thought of it, maybe that was why Eithan had left him in charge…
Shaking his head, he returned to his reports. The Jai clan had slowed their aggression, giving the family some breathing room at last. It seemed that having Eithan back and working was having some effect after all.
He was still working on the reports when he sensed the power of Blackflame blaze up. Cassias actually shouted and drew his sword, primed for battle, before remembering that the enemy was outside.
He manipulated the window, focusing on the Striker Trial—on Orthos. The turtle was going wild, spraying Blackflame madra in all directions, tearing up dirt and stone alike. He would exhaust himself in a few minutes, but if the contract wasn’t enough to restrain him, Cassias needed to call Eithan.
When he saw a figure in dark blue robes creeping closer to Orthos, Cassias first thought the window was malfunctioning. Lindon snuck up right behind the turtle, snatched his pack away—it had miraculously avoided obliteration—and dashed back toward the Enforcer Trial.
Orthos must have sensed his presence, but somehow, the turtle didn’t kill him.
Cassias let out a slow, heavy breath and returned to his table. Snatching up a fresh sheet of paper, he began a report to Eithan.
***
Lindon and Yerin didn’t attempt the Striker Trial again for a few days, instead hiding from Orthos. The turtle wandered back into the tunnels soon after venting his anger in the Trial course, but he didn’t go far. Lindon could feel him prowling in the nearby tunnels, like a predator waiting to strike.
He’d grabbed the Sylvan Riverseed and tried to use her to heal Orthos, but the turtle had tried to attack him on sight. So he’d stayed away, resolving to try again the next time Orthos regained his sanity.
Though Lindon stayed in his cave for three days, he didn’t waste the time. Instead, he tried out an idea.
He didn’t have the skill to keep Blackflame madra under control for as long as Orthos had. That was the result of years of practice, and Lindon wanted results now.
But it wasn’t as though he needed to pierce the clouds with his Striker technique. He just needed to hit some targets through an aura shield. So he asked himself: what was the minimum he needed to complete the dragon’s breath?
Lindon explained the process to Yerin as they finally snuck out of their caves and headed back to the Striker Trial. His pack was mostly empty this time, half-filled with a few necessities.
“I only needed something to hold the madra together for a few seconds,” he said as they stepped through the arch to the Striker Trial. “Once the madra is dense enough, it’s easier to control, and the dragon’s breath will go as far as I want it. So I came up with these shells: they’re made of pure madra, so they hold the Blackflame power in place just long enough before they melt away.”
The gray wall of aura boiled up, and Yerin scratched at her neck. “Cheers and celebration for you, but it doesn’t sound like you learned the Striker technique.”
“No, I did! I did, I’m just using some…props.”
She eyed him over one shoulder as she pulled her sword free. “You try out a technique for the first time in battle, and you’ll be walking away with your guts in your hand.”
Lindon reached into his bag, pulling out half a dozen blue-white globes the size of his hand. He set them on the ground as though they were made of glass; the slightest impact would reduce them to dust. Pure madra was not an effective weapon, even Forged.
“I’ve practiced,” Lindon said, though it had only been a few days. “Keep the spears away, and I can destroy the targets.”
“You might recall I don’t smile especially bright on cheating,” Yerin reminded him. “Don’t want you to take the wrong lesson.”
“I’m happy to practice the Striker technique when we get out of here. Once I get those scales, and you get your pill.”
She nodded to him. “We have a bargain.”
He stood, cupping an empty shell of pure madra in his hands, and they both faced the wall of aura. Three black blobs floated behind the hazy barrier, though they had been quiet so far.
The Striker Trial didn’t seem to respond to small movements, or the spears would never stop coming. Only large, quick motions attracted the course’s attention. Yerin stood perfectly still, Goldsign poised over one shoulder and white blade held off to one side.
Lindon clutched the pure madra shell in his hands and concentrated, sending a ball of Blackflame into the center. A dark stain showed through the semi-transparent madra, growing larger as he poured more Blackflame inside.
Always keep it spinning. Pack more inside. Keep it spinning…
His control slipped once, but instead of exploding, the half-formed technique ate through the inner layer of the shell like it was made of ice. The barrier was thinner now, but he continued pouring Blackflame inside.
After a few seconds, it melted through the outer bubble of madra, and Lindon was holding a rolling ball of Blackflame madra suspended between his palms. It was stable now, and much easier to keep under control; only while it was forming did it take concentration to stop an explosion.
“You close to done?” Yerin asked him, barely moving her lips. No matter how loudly they spoke, it didn’t seem to matter to the Striker Trial, but she had decided to stay cautious.
“Now,” Lindon said, and she stepped left. A spear shot out at her, and she slapped it aside, but another streaked through the air.
Lindon held the ball of black fire between his palms, raised it until it was level with one of the targets, and pushed.
A bar of Blackflame, thick as his arm, tore through the air. It streamed through the gray wall of aura, passing through the center target and blasting it apart like a wisp of cloud.
The other two targets both sent out Forged spears, and Yerin knocked them away, but more came. It appeared they were speeding up.
Lindon clenched his jaw as he watched the dissolving target. If it re-formed from this…
A gong echoed through the canyon. Maybe the same gong that had announced failure in the Enforcer Trial. And this time, the target didn’t re-form.
The spears were coming so fast now that Yerin’s motions were a blur. “Two…left…to go…” She forced out, in between blasting Forged weapons apart.
Lindon snatched up the next hollow ball of pure madra.
***
When the third gong sounded, Cassias stepped away from his paperwork. It had only taken them ten days for the Striker Trial, though he hadn’t watched their final,
successful attempt; Orthos must have given Lindon some pointers.
Cassias cycled his madra, touched his spirit to the silver aura around his sword, and readied himself. The Ruler Trial was his true test; he would pour everything he had into this one. They would either give up, or he would be forced to admit that Eithan had been right about them.
When he moved to the panel, he left behind the two reports that had arrived today. Both regarded the city’s Underlords:
The first message warned him that Jai Daishou had deviated from his schedule today. It seemed that he was going to take care of Jai Long’s rebellion personally. That was a relief to Cassias, though Eithan might take it differently; if the Jai Underlord was acting, then Jai Long wouldn’t survive to fight Lindon.
The second message said that Eithan had returned to the city. He’d left again only a week or so ago, and Cassias hadn’t expected him back for weeks, so Eithan must have received his report about Orthos. Other than the Underlord, there was no one in the Arelius family who could soothe Orthos without killing him.
Both letters contained valuable information, but nothing alarming. If Jai Daishou meeting with Jai Long was cause for alarm, Eithan would know and deal with it. Cassias could focus on his task.
In situations like this, at least, Eithan was reliable.
***
For months, Jai Long and the Sandvipers had waged a guerilla war against the Jai clan. That mostly meant ambushing them as they tried to sabotage the Arelius family, which was still enough to make Jai Long laugh.
Every time the Jai clan tried to capture another Arelius warehouse, Jai Long was there, gathering food for his spear. Every time they moved against Arelius street crews under cover of night, Jai Long spilled their blood in the streets. And servants bearing the black crescent moon were always right there to scrub it clean.
He was doing a better job of protecting the Arelius family than their Underlord was.
More than once, he’d wondered about the legendary powers of the Arelius bloodline. If they really could sense a speck of dust on a single tile at the top of a hundred-foot roof, as the stories claimed, then Eithan had to know what Jai Long was doing in the city. He could have stopped Jai Long at any time, removing a steadily growing threat to his own adopted disciple.
