by Scott Baron
“Had this been an actual bout, you would be dead,” Ser Baruud said to the assembled gladiator trainees watching the demonstration. “And if you are dead?”
“You cannot achieve fame and glory,” they replied in unison.
“Exactly.”
Charlie rubbed his head as he climbed back to his feet and checked his fingers.
No blood, he was pleased to note. He had bled often in the first months of training, but he healed exceptionally fast––which had caught Ser Baruud’s attention early on, making him a favorite sparring partner for full-speed demonstrations. As his reflexes improved and his training began to sink in on a muscle-memory level, however, the bleeding occurred far less frequently.
“Do you know your error, Charlie?”
“Yes, Ser Baruud. I was watching the staff and not your shoulders and hips. Your body will telegraph the strike more than the staff will.”
“Very good. But there are exceptions to that rule, are there not?”
“Yes. You can feint and misdirect, using false movements to give the impression of one attack, while actually launching another.”
“So it is,” the master said, pleased with his pupil.
There were students who had been training with Ser Baruud for years, many of whom were actual gladiators now, returning to hone their skills further between bouts. Charlie, on the other hand, was as green as they came in the ways of their gladiatorial games. However, his completely blank slate gave Ser Baruud something he had dreamed of. An untainted mind with which to work.
The others had watched the bouts since childhood and knew the moves and spells from years of observation. Charlie, on the other hand, was an open book, and quite willing to do as his master taught, even if it didn’t entirely make entire to him. For that reason, as well as his already-present skills in some rather unconventional hand-to-hand combat that he brought along from his homeworld as well as his brief stint with the pirates, he had quickly become a favored pupil.
“Everyone, partner up and run the drills again. Charlie, come with me.”
The students took up their weapons and set to their assigned task, while Charlie followed Ser Baruud to the gardens.
A chessboard sat as they’d left it, the game half-completed. Charlie had crafted it for his master after discussing the Earth game often called the game of kings. One that taught strategy as well as patience. It was the one thing Charlie could best his master at, though he had suspicions that advantage would be very short-lived.
“Tell me, Charlie, you fight well, and you are more of a thinker than most who pass through my doors, so why are you still not living up to your potential?”
Charlie took a deep breath and studied the board, finally sliding his rook into position. “I don’t know, Ser. I want to do well. Hell, I need to do well if I don’t want Gramfir to have me killed when I return. But I’m not supposed to be here. I have a life. A life on a planet where slavery was abolished centuries ago. And now here I am, someone’s property, with no free will.”
“There is always free will, Charlie. Even for those bound in servitude. It just presents itself in different ways than you expect.” He moved his bishop. “Check.”
“Maybe it does, but I’m just not getting it,” he replied, sliding his queen and taking a knight.
“Use your circumstances to your advantage. Do you believe I was always as you see me now?”
“No, of course not. You were once a slave, just as we are.”
“But the others, they fall prey to the myth of the man rather than the reality. To them I am this infallible guru, but you, Charlie. You realize the truth. Even a teacher has to rise from the mud and be formed into his final shape. Check.”
“So you’re saying I’m mud? I feel so much better now,” Charlie said with a wry grin.
“You have it in you. The potential. I can feel it. You just need to stop holding yourself back.”
“I’m trying. It’s just hard, is all.”
The black-haired Wampeh studied him with his unsettling eyes. “I believe you think too much. You need to think less, and believe more.”
“I’ll try harder,” he replied, moving a single pawn. “Oh, and that’s checkmate.”
Ser Baruud studied the board, pleasantly surprised. For the great master, it was a pleasure rather than an annoyance to be defeated, for with every such loss, he learned that much more.
“I wish you to try something, Charlie,” he said, reaching into his pocket, removing a very slender golden band. Charlie recognized it. A konus, though an incredibly slim one. “Put this on and come with me.”
He accepted the device and slid it over his wrist, a low tingle settling into his skin where it rested, then followed his teacher back to the training grounds.
“Hurzahan, come here and power yourself,” Ser Baruud called to one of his senior students.
“Um, what are we doing, Ser Baruud?” Charlie asked.
“We are not doing anything. You are going to use your konus in live combat.”
“Did you say live?”
“Do not worry. Your device is very weak, and Hurzahan has excellent control of all gladiatorial weapons. You may be sore after, but no real harm will befall you.”
Charlie wasn’t so sure about the whole idea, but he stepped into the training circle just the same.
You’ve got this. You know the words. Just remember what you learned.
He had spent many hours memorizing the relatively short list of spells given to him many weeks prior and felt confidence building inside of him as he was finally getting the hang of keeping them separate from the list of other words already rattling around in his head.
With the konus on his wrist, he couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t a magical ability deep within him now triggered by the device resting on his skin. The folly of a man from a world with no powers.
“Prepare,” Ser Baruud ordered.
Both men settled into their fighting stances.
“Begin.”
“Nari Pa!” Charlie shouted, hoping to quickly stun his opponent. His konus did nothing. “Nari Pa!” he said again to no avail.
“Uzri ho,” Hurzahan calmly said. The spell lifted Charlie into the air and flipped him once before unceremoniously dumping him to the ground.
He jumped to his feet and rushed the more-skilled opponent, hoping to catch him off guard.
“Kika rahm,” the man said, sidestepping the attack and landing a gentle, but firm, magical slap on his face.
“Eefanguley!” Charlie shouted, trying to bowl his opponent over. Again, nothing happened, but this time he at least felt something tingling in his wrist. Hopefully it was the konus trying to work.
Damn thing doesn’t have any power, he griped silently, while Hurzahan landed spell after spell on him, sending him tumbling to and fro.
The fight continued, yet the novice human could not land a single blow on his opponent, while at the same time he took a beating. It was a relatively gentle beating, but a beating just the same. Over and over, Charlie was knocked to the ground, but each time he forced himself back to his feet. The spell commands just weren’t coming to him, and all the hours of practice seemed for naught.
Frustrated, Charlie threw out his hands. “Azkokta!”
A dark energy began to pull from his chest and into his arms, building in strength as it moved toward his hands. Ser Baruud leapt in front of him. “Vafangoolvavia!” he shouted as he snatched the konus from Charlie’s wrist.
The feeling in his chest immediately dissipated just in time for him to feel the blow of a full-force “kika rahm” send him flying. When he came to, he was still lying in the dirt, but all of the others had left. All but Ser Baruud, who sat looking at him with a strange and frightening look.
“Where did you learn that spell?” he finally said, a calm yet angry energy in his voice. Charlie knew, somehow, that his very life depended on the answer.
“A Wampeh. Someone I saw in one of my first days as a slave
. He was fighting a group of men. He said it then, and I remembered it. It was one of the first spell words I heard.”
“And do you know what this word is?”
“A powerful blow.”
“No. It is far worse. This word is a death word. One of the forbidden, known only to a handful of the Wampeh Ghalian.”
“The what?”
“They are an ancient order. Men and women of my race who possess great power, but who also use it to cause harm to others. They are assassins of the highest degree. For you to have been allowed to hear this word and live was a mistake they should never have made.”
Charlie thought back to that day, to his saving the man’s life just before the spell was cast. “Are you going to kill me?” he finally asked.
Ser Baruud thought long and hard, staring at him until the silence threatened to unsettle his mind. “No, Charlie. I will not. Not today, anyway.”
He rose and began walking away.
“Wait. Will you still train me?”
A pause.
“You still wish to learn?” Baruud asked.
“Yes. Please. Help me understand this. Why was the only spell I could even start to make work one of the worst imaginable? Am I cursed?”
“You show a willingness to learn from your mistakes.” A long silence hung as the Wampeh master considered his pupil. “I will continue to train you, Charlie,” he finally said. “And what you should really be asking is not why you were unable to tap into the lesser spells, but why you were able to even come close with one of the most potent ones. And using an underpowered konus, no less. Now, your training is over for today. Eat. Build your energy.”
“Yes, Ser Baruud.”
“Clear your head, Charlie. We renew this training tomorrow. Now go eat. Find me when you are done.”
Chapter Sixty
The Wampeh master was sitting tranquilly in the small meditation garden adjacent to the training grounds. It was outside the main walls of the facilities, and animals and curious wanderers periodically disrupted the order of things, occasionally making a bit of a mess of the vegetation and overturning the low seats.
Ser Baruud, however, seemed almost pleased by this, taking the time to put things back in order as just one more form of meditation. An opportunity to calm his mind through simple actions that required little thought.
Today he had no such work to do and was sitting tranquilly beside a large, weathered rock, one small section of it polished to a high gloss. He looked up at Charlie with a calm and assessing eye as he approached.
“Come, sit with me,” he said, offering a cup of tea.
“Thank you, Ser Baruud,” Charlie said, taking the offered seat.
They sipped tea in silence a few moments, the Wampeh master slowly rubbing his hand across the smooth part of the rock, as if stroking a cat.
“Do you know why you have such difficulty with casting spells, Charlie?” he asked.
“I think it’s my pronunciation. When I got flustered, I must not have been saying things right.”
“And the killing word you attempted to use? How was it that particular spell nearly worked?”
Charlie hesitated. “Well, to be completely honest, there are some commands I’ve known for a while. Since I was taken captive. A lot, actually. I sing them to myself to help remember them. Because I’ve repeated them out loud and in my head so many times, the words are easier to say.”
Ser Baruud looked at him with a curious expression.
“You have learned other spells, you say? Yet no one taught them to you?”
“That’s right. I...” he hesitated. “I learned them in hopes of one day using them to escape. Please don’t tell Gramfir. He’ll sell me for Zomoki food.”
The great gladiator let out a low laugh.
“Oh, I will not see you fed to the animals, Charlie. But now my suspicions as to your problem are confirmed. You keep talking of these spells as though they are mere words. Your mind will not allow you to accept that this galaxy is different from your own. I admit, I, too, found it difficult to accept that a world such as yours could exist. One where not magic, but this thing you call ‘tech’ ruled the lands. But once one accepts that there are places ruled by laws of nature far different from any we understand, then all one must do is learn to work by those new rules, no matter how foreign and illogical they may seem.”
“What are you saying? You believe me about technology?”
“Yes, Charlie, I do. The concept, at least, though the actual function still evades me.”
“Everyone else calls it tech-magic.”
“It is what we know in this galaxy. But magic for us is a term for things of power, just as you use the word technology. Consider them interchangeable, at least conversationally.”
“But the Tslavars said they could feel no power in my tech. No one could. They don’t understand how it works, and that makes everyone uncomfortable.”
“I know. Just as I know where your mind is stuck in these matters. We have discussed many things during our chess matches. You open up more than you realize as we play those games.”
Charlie hadn’t thought about it much. He assumed the Wampeh had simply been absorbed in learning the new strategy game from another world. But as he reflected back on their games, he supposed they actually did have a bit of a psychologist’s couch feel to them as well.
“You used the game––something from my world that made me comfortable––to dig around in my head.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but yes. And I see your problem. You witness magic around you every day, Charlie. Our entire galaxy functions by it. Yet you still call it ‘voice command,’ as if it were technology from your world despite accepting it for what it is.”
“Right, different tech for different galaxies.”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. In this galaxy, there are hundreds of billions of stars, and of those, there are hundreds of millions of planetary systems. And of those, there are hundreds of inhabited worlds, though many speculate there could be tens of thousands of them, and exploration is constantly occurring. As you’ve seen, different species possess different abilities, though those who can wield power without external aid are extremely rare.”
“Hence the konus, the slaap, and the claithe.”
“Exactly. Tools that store power for those without, as well as focusing that of those who already possess it. These powers evolved over millennia, you see. The radiation of a tiny handful of suns in this network of systems interacting galactically, creating a solar harmonic between the worlds. It is an invisible force of immense power, able to be stored in some devices. And some evolved to be far more attuned to it than others.”
“That sounds more like a superhero origin story than magic,” Charlie noted. “Makes me expect to find a big chunk of Kryptonite laying around somewhere.”
“You use humor to hide your confusion and fear, and that is normal. But I want you to try to understand that magic is not voice command of a technology device as in your world. Magic is power. Power in the air. Power in the void of space. Power that certain sound combinations tap into.”
“So, voice control.”
“No, Charlie. The voice is only the smallest part of it. The trigger, if you will. It is the visceral feeling, the intent and will within the caster that ultimately makes a spell work.”
“And these words, they just stumbled upon them across all those systems?”
“Actually, yes,” Ser Baruud replied. “What you hear now are the combined learnings of hundreds of worlds, the knowledge pooled as contact and alliances were formed. The spells themselves are not true words, in the sense of language. They are sound combinations that transcend language. You may have noticed that even without translator spells these words sound the same, yes?”
“I was wondering about that, actually.”
Baruud smiled. “Good. You have been paying attention. These spells were discovered by accident. Sounds and thoughts uttered c
ausing things to happen. And even then, only for the smallest fraction of beings. That power is incredibly rare. Those who possess that kind of internal power move on to become mesters, emmiks, or, for the truly powerful, vislas. These beings dedicate their lives to training, gaining more control of their power, while pushing the boundaries of spells, expanding our magical knowledge. That was how the Council of Twenty was formed.”
“The what?”
“A group of the most powerful vislas and power users from twenty key systems. They rule the others, keeping order. Once, they promoted peace, but now they focus on amassing more power and control, though with every new power-using planetary system discovered that is not under their rule, their power seems to weaken. It is the unusual way of the galactic network. Contact triggers a connection and ties the worlds together in mysterious ways mere men cannot fully understand.”
“But what about the Ootaki? Or the Drooks? They have power, as you describe it, yet they are sold off as animals, essentially. Where’s the upside for them?”
A sadness flashed across Ser Baruud’s face. “Those who possess power but either not the ability to use it––such as Ootaki––or are limited by a single use for their power––such as Drooks––were seen as tools. Organic versions of slaaps, konuses, and other devices that store or control power.”
“That’s horrible.”
“That’s how it has always been,” Baruud replied.
“But I still don’t understand how these spells came to be. Even if people stumbled upon sounds and feelings that made these solar-spawned powers react, a full-fledged magic-based society would take centuries to evolve.”
“Millennia, actually,” the pale man replied, stroking the smooth area of the rock beside him. “Do you see this, Charlie? A massive rock, jutting from the ground. Rough, hard, set in being exactly what it is. A rock. But time alters things, with a little help. This spot was as rough as the rest of it when the first builders broke ground here thousands of years ago. One of the master builders took to sitting in this very spot, absentmindedly stroking this very rock as he pondered his next designs. When he died, his apprentice adopted the habit. Over time, all of the masters of this estate have been drawn to this place. This innocuous rock. And all have caressed its surface.”
