by K M McGuire
Bubbles of snot dripped from his nose with pupils so dilated Voden was unsure if there was any color to them at all. He might have been young, considering how worn his skin appeared for someone who he thought must not be much older than himself. The man’s eyes darted back and forth, shaking Voden with his jittery hand. His clumpy hair puffed in the wind, billowing putrid aromas of dirt and filth. Voden found it hard not to wince.
“They are watching!” said the man, frantically whispering his paranoia to Voden. Voden could not pull himself away. “The circles in the sky… the lights above! The Vedra! They bide their time…they watch! They watch!”
“Wha-what are you talking about?” Voden stuttered.
The man swung Voden viciously, so his shifty eyes could stare fully into Voden’s. “Those that rule the sky! The ones who control the world!” he began, his voice now rising. Discomfort crept along Voden’s spine, but he was still unable to loose the man’s grip. He pulled Voden in closer, his eyes, deepening with frantic horror. Voden looked for Andar and Razar, but he could not catch sight of them. “The towers in the sky! Soon, we all will be their slaves! Zagarlime will consume the world!”
“Leave him be!” roared Razar, stepping quickly over to Voden. He was a mountain of anger as he lifted his hammer-like fists, and the man shrunk at Razar’s shadow. He released Voden and moved a few paces back, holding his hands across his face. Razar ushered Voden away.
“They are coming for us all,” the man called desperately to Voden. He joined his companions, and they all began to chant. “The sky will rain the heavens down on flesh. Perish or become the slave! The darkness will fall upon the earth. There will be none to save.”
Razar pushed the boys along, muttering curses under his breath, but the vagabonds seemed to have forgotten about them and stared up at the sky, as if waiting for it to fall.
“What was that about?” Voden finally asked when they were far enough away.
“I shouldn’t have taken that road. I know better than that! They think the world is about to end, and they made themselves outcasts with their conspiracies. The price of being crazy.” Razar sighed shaking his head.
“So, no one helps them out?” Andar asked, looking concerned.
“It’s not whether or not we can help,” Razar said with a sigh. The path veered to the left, leading back to the forest. They headed under an arch, similar to the ones lining the road to the city. It seemed they were headed towards the craftsmen’s district, where swords and armor hung from almost every wall in the trees. The trees echoed the churning ring of tinkering hammers, beating their power against molten steel. Finally, Razar finished his thought. “It’s not easy helping those who don’t accept it. It goes nowhere.”
“I don’t know,” Andar said, looking off into the blacksmith’s shop as they passed. His eyes hungered after the sparks that fired out with each strike, like glowing sweat flung to the air. “At least some compassion may get them away from the doom and gloom.”
“The sages feed them,” Razar assured him. “The issue is not that, though prideful beliefs soak up all the malleability of the mind.”
“It’s easier to look through your eyes than someone else’s,” Andar muttered, just loud enough for Razar to hear. He seemed to be talking more to himself. “You don’t have to say you’re wrong when you only see as you always have. There are no sides when you refuse to see differently, only a point to fixate on. To me, that’s utter apathy, at the very least, to yourself. A foolish man gives no room to question his own actions; a wise man will question even his thoughts.”
Again, the curious look crept onto Razar’s face, though he said nothing. They walked through the district in silence until they walked onto a dirt trail, leading up a hill. They huffed as they crested the top, looking down into a small valley, divided by fields that were arranged with straw mannequins and others with archer ranges. A few individuals were shooting bows behind an aged rope, while in one of the others came cries of sparring rods that rang with painful snaps. It was quaint enough, secluded from much of everything else, and Voden found it surprisingly pleasing. As they headed down into the training fields, he saw some of the trees were morphed into crude scout towers, facing the straw targets far in the distance. They headed towards a fenced-in section that had straw covering the dirt, and a large log sat upright in the center. There was a bin by the fence with the hilts of wooden swords sticking out.
Razar walked over to the bin and turned to Voden and Andar, crossing his burly arms. “Here we are,” he said, pulling a sparring sword out of the bin.
The polygons slid down Andar’s arm, the blue strip of light pulsing eagerly as it moved. It was mesmerizing to watch the light follow the shapes as it filled along the edges that suddenly veered at hard angles.
“I think you should forget a real one for now,” Razar muttered, though his eyes could not hide his interest in the moving polygons. Razar grabbed a second sword and tossed one to Andar and Voden. Andar snatched the pommel from air. Voden tried to react the same, only for the sword to smack his finger and fall to the dirt.
Razar chuckled, and Voden felt his face flush, sheepishly picking up the sparring sword. “It appears you may need more help than I thought.” He stepped into the sparring field and grabbed his own sword, placing it against his shoulder. Nervously, Voden followed Andar inside the fence and stood in front of Razar. “Let’s see your stance,” he said.
Andar snapped into a vigilante stance, and Voden struggled to match his. For a moment, Razar stared at them, saying nothing as he paced and studied the boys. Andar stood much more confidently than Voden, compounding the tension in his knees. It was a bit unfair, he felt, knowing Andar was better equipped for swordplay.
“It’s okay,” Razar said, walking over to Voden. His voice was kind as he adjusted Voden’s arms, sliding his hands into a better grip. “It becomes an extension to yourself. Your hand and sword merged into one. It makes more sense over time. Treat it like it’s a woman; she’s sharper than you. Fiercer.” He gave Voden a strange look, which caused Voden to swallow, and he tried to keep himself from quivering in the awkward position Razar set him in. “Well, that’s good enough for now. It’s enough to start.” Razar centered himself in front of the two boys. “Swordplay is both physical and mental. If you lack the agility for either, you will fall victim to it. Here, you are going to learn discipline, power, and wits. This is the core that will keep you alive.” He started swinging his sword at an unknown foe, swinging and parrying attacks. “Watch my feet,” he called to them. The motion was fluid, weaving in and out of steps with impressively graceful movements. Finally, he ended the demonstration and looked at the boys. “Like music or poetry, one must know the patterns to make a piece flow. But knowing only the surface makes for mediocre artists. To recreate the beauty you see is one thing, but to take a step even further is to make that which is unseen alive. What lies in the mind, and then bringing it to life, is what makes the masters pull away from the rest. Swordplay is not so far from that. Learn your weapon and create with it. Your surprises will make those with whom you battle falter.”
And so, Razar began the lesson, showing them basic strikes, and he taught them proper swings and jabs. He criticized their every fault, from the tiny footing errors to the miserable swings that Voden made. Razar forced their limbs to remember every action so they moved naturally with the sword. The whole morning was spent smacking the log over and over again, and Voden’s hands began to tingle, forming blisters that kept tearing open. Razar pressed them hard until he was sure they could not manage much more, and then he brought them water to drink. They took the water thankfully and sucked it down almost as fast as it came.
“I think we can turn our minds elsewhere for now,” Razar said eagerly, unable to shroud his contentment from the boys. Voden had hung himself against the fence, catching every bit of air he could. “It might be worth seeing what that bow can do.”
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Razar s
aid, fascinated. He held the crossbow as if it was some sacred relic. He looked at Voden, eyes sparkling with delight. “Please tell me you know how it works.”
“I think so,” Voden said, taking the bow back. He held the contraption, flipping it over. He looked at the rounded features, slowly remembering what Koruza had taught him. “This thing fills with air. I brought the device that compresses it.” He pulled out the contraption for the tiny canister, and Razar’s face became as joyful as a child. “You place the canister here and then crank this. I guess it draws in air and somehow packs it in there. I’m not sure how it works, to be honest. Koruza has a way of boring you.” He looked over the steam-powered bow. It was a beautiful piece of engineering. “Oh! It also has this container on the side for the bolts, so when you press the trigger, it sets the next bolt, so you can keep firing.”
Razar’s eyes grew wide. “May I?” he asked, lifting his hands towards Voden.
Voden obliged.
Razar walked towards the rope laying on the ground. He squared himself up, pointing the device towards the large, circular target. It was a fair distance downrange. Voden assumed it was nearly fifty yards or more. In a snap movement, Razar pulled the device up and fitted it snugly against his shoulder. He looked over the device one last time, and the three of them held their breath as he pulled the trigger. A metallic thunk burst from the bow, expelling a small bolt downrange, followed by a softer thunk as it embedded itself into the target, just shy of the center circle. A loud hiss blew from the cartridge, spinning the clicking gears inside, and it aligned another bolt and set the cord to the firing position.
Razar turned to the boys, hoping they held the same expression of enjoyment. “I’m going to have to get one of these!” He breathed extatically, running his eyes over the crossbow. He looked downrange, inspecting his shot. “It has great range! I want to try some other distances.”
He moved down the line of targets until he found himself standing at the longest range. He squared up again and shot. The bolt plopped into the ground just before the target, and the bow whirled and readied the next shot. Razar stared at the device rather annoyed. Finally, his eyes caught sight of something on the bow.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, waving to Voden and Andar.
He pointed to a round dial attached to the cord at the back of the device. He rolled the dial until it clicked, and with it, the cord groaned as it tightened. “This is incredible! I’m pretty sure this is how you compensate for distances.” He lifted the bow and shot it again. The bolt split through the air, this time hitting just under the center. Razar smirked at his accomplishment, and perhaps his spark of wit, and turned to the boys. “Well, I may have to practice a bit, too, there seems to be several functions to test. I may know a blacksmith who could learn a great deal from this,” he muttered, handing the bow back to Voden. “For now, let’s practice on shortrange. No point working on distance yet.”
For the rest of the day, Razar taught them about minimizing their target area and stance, adjusting his knowledge to fit the new device. He helped them with their aim, pushing their arms around and sliding their legs to positions to help stabilize their shooting. Finally satisfied, he allowed for them to shoot. They blew through the bolts, having to change out and fill canisters while they waited their turn. After each turn, Razar would walk down to the targets and retrieve the bolts, and when he returned, he would tell them where they went wrong. Voden found he grasped the concepts much faster than Andar, which really pleased him, because he now felt he had an upper hand on him for the first time. It felt…natural. Not to say Andar was bad, his grouping was not nearly as tight as Voden’s. Voden had the better eye.
The sun lowered into a sky of brilliant reds that had begun to paint the field, and Razar decided it was time for them to head back. They merrily passed through the crowds, ignoring the cries of people trying to work deals with vendors, or the scattered rantings, or the friendly gossip that made up the noise Voden chose not to hear. Listening was like trying to hold liquid at this point. Voden was so exhausted, he made little attempt to even allow for his eyes to look outside of the path they walked. There would be more time for that in the days to follow.
Razar congratulated them on their way home, praising them for their promise. He made comments about how they could improve, but overall, he smiled and gave them high marks. There were sages wandering the streets, urging people to pay tribute to Sedar before the full moon to appease the Zemilia and gain its blessing. A few tiny Tastin children scurried across Voden’s path, laughing wildly as they chased each other with sticks, pretending to be knights. His eyes followed them a moment, watching them living in dreams that weren’t so far away; both dream and reality were not so different from one another.
The Eternal Tree was lit by the blue orbs, and the twinkling made him think of a mother ringing for her child. A slow wash of sympathy swept through Voden, thinking of the Wailing Mother. Perhaps there was much more truth to the story than he realized. They trekked across the branch bridges, and as they went, Razar greeted random individuals passing by. The sun fell drowsily below the horizon, and by the time they returned to Razar’s house, the sun soaked the sky in a sheet of cool, deep purple. Now, the blue lanterns bloomed with their glory, awakening the spirits inside for the advent of night.
Razar opened the door, where they were greeted by a hefty aroma that aroused the hunger they had forgotten. They filed inside and found Vec across from the drunkenly wavering hearth, where its ambience gurgled warmth. Vec looked intently at the same book as before, and when he saw the three of them standing by the stairs, he set it down and came to greet his friends.
“The warriors return!” caroled Vec, mockingly.
Razar paid no attention to Vec and headed into the kitchen. “Yael, how did everything go today?” he asked. She stepped out of the kitchen, wearing a once neat apron tied around her waist, and her hair was tied in a frustrated bun where a few strands of hair had escaped, causing her to blow at them.
“Not bad. Vec scared off a few seedy people,” she blew harder at the strands of hair. “I could have done it, but I wanted to make sure Vec had something to do,” she added, shooting Vec a playful look.
“I think it would have been interesting to see how you would have responded to those lumps,” Vec jeered back, pointing his finger at her. “You seemed to be quite content standing behind me while I dealt with them!” He smiled, looking keenly at Razar. It seemed he recognized their banter, and he shared a smile with them.
“Glad there weren’t any problems,” he sighed, turning back to Yael. “Is dinner ready my acorn?”
Yael glared dangerously at him, her face burning red. She gave herself a moment to cool off before she spoke. “Yes, I was getting ready to dish it out when you came in. Go sit.”
She waved them away to the table, leaning forward in their chairs, anxiously trying to calm their stomachs a few moments longer. Yael finally brought out their dinners, handing everyone their share, which they took gratefully. They spooned the warm stew to their waiting stomachs. All the noises were extinguished besides slurps and moans, the scraping of utensils, and finally, heavy breaths of satisfaction.
Voden leaned back in his chair, his bellybutton ready to invert itself. He stretched along the comfortable chair, making room for his meal to slowly ease his body into a catatonic state. Now, the sores from his aching body quieted to a dull thump. Vec followed Voden’s lead, placing his brawny arms behind his head, contentment spreading over his face.
“Ahh” Vec expelled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Yael, your skills confound me. That tasted divine! Touched by magic!”
“Perhaps there was a touch of that in it,” chuckled Yael, accepting the compliment.
“Have you ever heard the tale of the Pillars of Knowledge?” Vec inquired, as if he had set her up to ask this. He leaned forward, placing his bulky elbows against the table. Voden glanced at Vec, finding the question odd. He remembered the fable from his storybooks,
and a queasy feeling barred his mouth from saying a word. Yael, on the other hand, held an expressionless composure.
“No,” she said. She placed her spoon neatly on the table, then crossed her arms. “Enlighten me, though. I’m curious.”
“It was something I read recently,” Vec began, straightening excitedly. Razar contorted his face. “I’m a bit surprised. You seem like you haven’t heard of it either,” Vec glanced over to Razar.
“I know it. It’s your reasons that keep me quiet. Is there a point?” Razar asked gruffly.
“It would depend on your perspective, I guess,” Vec shrugged. “Sometimes, the reason a story sounds so bizarre is that it teaches us something deeper about the world. Sometimes it’s good to remember how the ancients saw things. There could be insight we overlooked.”
He had gained their attention, and no one spoke. He cleared his throat, preparing for the journey he wished to take them on. “At the dawn of the ages, the early sentients lived together—all one race at the center of the world. In those days, they pondered after the dome of the sky, wondering of what rested Beyond. So, the greatest of minds gathered under one banner, working to erect two spiraling towers to reach the heavens. They called the mighty obelisks the Pillars of Knowledge.
“When the Ones that Watch saw this, discomfort fell over them as sentients continued to build higher into the sky, closing the gap between them and the dome. In time, the sentients neared the point where they could all but touch the veil that separated them from the Beyond. In desperation, the Ones that Watch flicked the pillars, causing them to crumble to earth, and a curse fell on the sentients. In their descent, the races were created, and they were scattered to the winds. It was also believed that when the Ones that Watch touched them, the sentients sapped also a gift: the gift of the arcane. Since it was not natural for the sentients to wield, it came at a valuable cost; the gift that was stolen syphoned from everything around it, eating away at the world.”
