10
Servants of the Blood Moon
Every damned moron thinks it’s just hack-and-slash.
A spell here and a spell there, then you’re the Lord of Stupidland.
It took five days before Encratas came back from his scouting trip. Pavel thought it was an unbelievably fast journey to the far side of the canyon and back. An observation which led him to wonder what enabled the battlemage to travel so quickly. But he doubted if Encratas would share the secret with him given Pavel’s current level of expertise.
The dead had been looted, examined for clues, and then buried. Even mangled and unidentifiable chunks were hurriedly checked before putrefaction set in. Pavel discovered he wasn’t disgusted or repelled by the grisly task. Especially when he had to use his bare hands in rooting through the gore and body parts. The pair did notice that one common trait among the dead were the decorative tattoos found all over the bodies.
Though the marks followed distinct motifs, there appeared to be a structured pattern in the way they were made. Another observation was that two pairs had identical themes. Sheqer volunteered the view that the motifs might represent schools of expertise or style within the assassin’s guild. The way the marks were made and the number of brands could indicate their ranks.
If rank was commensurate with the patterns I have seen, then I was extremely lucky, thought the apprentice. Sheqer’s cloud helped, but I doubt if that’s all there was to it.
A notion came to mind, and he confronted the bard.
“Was anything else in that mist, Sheqer?” asked Pavel suspiciously.
“It conceals, deadens sound, and… greatly lowers the reaction speed of people caught in them. Unless excluded by the spell.”
“Oh.” Pavel immediately determined that he was indeed fortunate. Without the delaying effects of the spell, he would have been dead at the hands of the first group. All the dead were high-ranked bastards, and his attacks could have been easily avoided if the assassins had been moving at peak efficiency and speed.
“You cheated,” laughed the man weakly.
“Of course.”
***
Encratas now faced the pair in Pavel’s room, taking a chair and leaving the two to sit on the bed.
“Assassins, eh? And you say their bodies were marked by extensive tattoos,” summarized the hermit. The battlemage had already examined the holes in the tower walls and gone over the equipment left by the dead men.
Pavel nodded. He could see the man was visibly upset. Encratas didn’t say anything in reply but instead stood up.
“That was admirably handled, I have to admit. But it’s but a probe, I must say. I know how they work. And think,” commented Encratas.
The apprentice and the bard didn’t say anything. They could feel the heightened apprehension coming from the man. The hermit must have realized something.
“I’ve got a lot of things to decide, Pavel. For now, at least they’d think I did it. But such a misconception wouldn’t last. They have powerful mages, and they’ll know it’s you,” said the battlemage. “Quite unfortunate, given that you still have a long way to go in your training. A mere Azat won’t be able to survive their lethal interest. They’ve got too many servants willing to do their bidding.”
“Who are they then? I have to admit they were well-prepared for the defenses of your tower,” inquired Pavel. It would nice to put a name to those dead faces.
“The Servants of the Blood Moon. At least that’s their name in this region. It becomes Dark Moon or something similar in other kingdoms. But they’re all connected. Part of one powerful and hidden Assassin’s Guild stretching across almost all the lands and kingdoms. This sect, the Blood Moon, is the oldest, and, I assume, the primary and decision-making group,” replied the man, brow deep in thought.
“But there is one consideration which would put you on their list way above my name. They’ll know about you whether we like it or not,” continued the hermit, turning to Pavel, mingled concern and pity in his eyes.
Pavel couldn’t help but give a crooked smile at the speaker. The man didn’t know what he had been through, and could there be anything worse in his future?
“You are an Azat of an Order I long thought had died out. An initiate and lower than a squire. It’s a long way to the next important rank, that of a Sidi. Still, your presence and existence mean the Order still exists. These assassins were the principal instrument of its elimination. A live Azat walking around meant they had failed. You are now their mortal enemy, a grievous oversight to be rectified. A walking symbol of their one failure. They pride themselves on not having failed a commission in their entire history. Until now,” said the man.
***
The apprentice noticed the bard was smirking at him when Encratas left the room. After the ominous disclosures, all the hermit added was that things would change, and he had to consider what to do. Given everything the battlemage had revealed, the expression on the bard’s face was irritating, to say the least. Pavel didn’t expect to be walking around on a death list with a rank higher than his mentor. It might be flattering to persons with a questionable sense of prestige, but it was a dubious honor he didn’t need. He punched the demon in the chest. Sheqer shrugged it off as if it was nothing.
“And may I ask why the violence, oh Ill-Tempered-and-Now-Marked-for-Death Master,” remarked the piqued bard.
“You didn’t have to adopt that kind of attitude. I am the mortal one.”
“It just gladdens me that at some time in the future, you would be in the direst of straits and have to allow me to take a human soul. Or souls, hopefully. I wonder if the humans of this reality taste the same?” replied Sheqer thoughtfully.
“Damn you, bard,” cursed Pavel mechanically. He was trying to consider the knowledge given by the hermit and the demon was making it difficult to concentrate.
“Oh, I already am. According to concerned persons of an opposite metaphysical bent. Though those humans of my persuasion might say I am blessed. And what’s this obsession with naming things with the word blood in them? Blood Moon. Blood Kingdom. Blood Circle. Blood House. So many.”
Pavel laughed. The demon might be irritating at times, but Sheqer had his moments. And he didn’t doubt that the question was asked in all seriousness.
“Don’t worry, Sheqer. In the long run, we’ll probably run into the others you mentioned. You can ask them the question yourself,” he replied with a great deal of amusement.
***
The following several days were marked with a heightened intensity in training. Pavel could see that the hermit had a lot on his mind. However, his focus on the apprentice’s training became genuinely terrifying. It was as if Encratas wanted to cram as much learning and exercise as he could into a limited period, a length of time only the hermit knew as of the moment.
“The corrupted High Council and the Servants were working together. Now I understand how the Order, already few in number, were killed off,” remarked the battlemage during a break in their practice. “Forget the formality and minor training for the intermediate rank of Bohater. You need to be a Sidi as soon as possible. Only at that rank could a human think of a chance of surviving what’s coming your way. Remember, better men have died. Though being treacherously killed off might have hugely contributed to their defeat.”
But you’re more than human, a voice reminded the Azat.And a more than ignorant one, countered a more rational part of his mind.
“What does being a Bohater entail?” Pavel inquired. There were obviously ranks within the Order, but so far, he knew only the Azat, the Bohater, and Sidi. He didn’t doubt that there were other higher ranks, even if one were to go with the military grades as an analogy.
“It’s primarily a formality. The assignment to a mentor of a higher rank, usually an experienced Sidi. If you’re accepted by one, then your senior takes care of your training until he or she believes you capable enough of taking the test to advance to the Sidi level,” explaine
d the hermit. “Being an Azat merely means one is a part of a pool of candidates. You’re prepared by your sponsor and given a few magical skills and rudimentary education in the lore.”
“You knew the Order?” asked Pavel, munching on bread. If the hermit’s assistant was the one cooking and baking, she was one hell of a cook. Not that the apprentice would admit that he recognized that Tip—her name, according to the hermit—was a she.
Encratas had made it clear before that he wasn’t of the Order, but of a member of the High Council of Mages. He wasn’t part of its core, the August Seven, formally referred to as the Alta Sep, though he was friends with some of the High Mages belonging to it. However, the hermit ignored Pavel’s query about his rank within the Council.
“The last ones – Dorengil, Matris, and Hsien. There was a lot of cooperation then between the High Council and the Order. Kouvas was the third-highest ranking among the mages during that time. But even then, the leadership couldn’t find out why or how the members of your Order were being wiped out. Even lowly Azat such as yourself found themselves poisoned or murdered. Now I know the why and how as well as about the deaths of Metier, the Prime of the Council, and his successor,” replied Encratas sadly.
“May I ask you something? It’s a personal question. You don’t have to answer it if you believe it goes beyond what’s being asked of you,” said the Azat. He had been burning with the desire to ask but was held back by the strange circumstances which brought him to the hermit.
“Ask away. As you said, I don’t have to answer anything,” grinned the man.
“Why are you doing this? I mean training people. It’s obvious you don’t relish the task,” asked Pavel.
Encratas merely stared at him with a wry expression on his face. Then he exhaled heavily, and to the Azat’s surprise, answered the question.
“Fated. That’s what I am. Like you. Unfortunately, I have been remiss in my tasks and obligations,” said the battlemage in a voice marked with sadness and regret. “I believe that if I’d followed my instincts and the warnings I received, things would have turned out differently. Friends would still be alive and the threat of a High Council comprised of ambitious and powerful mages wouldn’t exist. It’s a difficult subject to think about – possibilities and what ifs. But I do have other sins which demand redemption. That’s what made me sever my connections to the servants of Order and the High Council. But as you can see, sometimes, small omissions lead to bigger threats. I was a proud and stubborn man, Pavel. Remember that when you get too big for your breeches.”
***
“This is a healing potion,” Encratas said, dangling before Pavel a small transparent flask containing a dark green liquid. The apprentice knew about such concoctions, but somehow, he thought it should be blue in color.
“I’ve heard of them,” answered Pavel.
“Then you know the darker the hue, the better and more powerful it is,” replied the battlemage. “But as an Azat, I doubt if you have learned about the minutiae of such things.”
The man explained that potions, except for a few types used in healing, were dangerous as a rule. Use over time could damage a human’s internal organs, addle the brain, or lead to addiction. It would be better to use the magical energy one could access to achieve the same results. The resultant degree of aid sought might be less, but at least it would be what the body could absorb. Or one could try to find magical objects that provided the same effect. Such magic was of a passive kind and posed no danger to the user unless they were cursed objects.
There were rituals and artifacts which could enhance mortal capacity for such power, but they usually tore at an unprepared human’s mind and psyche, eventually resulting in madness and death. Only a few mages or powerful individuals could accomplish the required rituals correctly, not that such mortals would ever admit to being able to perform it.
“But the negative effects have never dissuaded others from using other kinds of mixtures. Alchemists are the usual sources of such brews. The madder the alchemist, the more dangerous the product,” said the hermit.
“Like?”
“Strength and speed. Increased muscle mass. Heightened acuity. There are lots of possible results. You could grow scales as armor on your body if you wanted. But as an Azat, limit yourself to healing and antivenin ones for now. There are exceptions, but their use requires the capacity and body of one far above a mere Azat. The energy lines of your body might have been prepared for the casting of magical spells and conjurations for your present level but altering one’s physical mass is a totally different and dangerous endeavor,” warned Encratas.
“Energy lines?” remarked Pavel, caught off-guard by the lesson.
“You must be incredibly lucky to survive those assassins, if you didn’t know about the preparation for being an Azat. Then again, I doubt if your name is on the list with the Council. I suspect Hsien. It’s something he would do. He must have done the rite without your knowledge and didn’t report it. I guess the Primor must already have doubts about the Council at that point. Hsien could have planned to continue your education at some point. If all you have is the knowledge that you’re an Azat and some basic magic spells, then we’re in for a tough time. Hsien should have given you more than you got before he went off and got ripped to pieces,” said the hermit. “Unfortunately, we might not have the time for you to reach the Sidi rank.”
“What’s a Primor?” asked Pavel. This was all new territory to him.
“Oh, my aching head! The highest rank in the Order. All Primors collectively decide on matters involving your sect. But I guess you now get to determine issues all by your lonesome. Enough rest. Come, let’s jump into a subject which might save your ignorant ass someday,” answered the battlemage. “It’s a Sidi skill, but you need the basics now. Anything more complicated than that would be dangerous.”
“Why?” the trainee asked again. He felt stupid and ignorant at the same time. No. Pavel admitted he was uninformed, though the question did sound moronic.
Encratas rolled his eyes, muttering something which the apprentice didn’t catch.
“The feedback, you fool! Using magic is like using fire. Or acid. Or whatever is liable to kill you. The energy has to follow your will and conform to a pattern you have set. Otherwise, everything you release is bound to return to its source. You. All that energy. At the same time, in the form you have created.”
“Oh.”
“By Fate, you were not even told that basic precaution? If it was Hsien, he must be sufficiently preoccupied to miss that dangerous part. Or he must be desperately pressed for time. Every damned moron thinks it’s just hack-and-slash. A spell here and a spell there, then you’re the Lord of Stupidland. Even mules have better sense. And I don’t have enough time to teach you how to handle an offensive conjuration,” sighed Encratas heavily. “No matter. You’ll have to manage somehow.”
The ability his mentor was discussing involved the use of illusions. Specifically, the impression that one had immediately moved from one location to another within a specified area. But in Pavel’s instance, such a spell had to be cast before entering combat. It probably wouldn’t last long since the moment an attack was made by the caster, the spell dissolved. The battlemage gauged that Pavel still sorely lacked the required mental focus to perform more complicated illusions.
A trained Sidi could cast the spell again in the middle of battle since such a warrior would be mentally trained to disassociate the conjuration from the actual fighting. It did come with a warning not to use it against god-like entities and beings of similar power. It would be a waste of magical energy as those bastards, as categorized by Encratas, could see through any visual deception.
“So, there’s no such thing as magically moving from one place to another? Unless through a portal, of course,” asked Pavel.
“Of course not! Unless you’re a being of pure magic and can utilize the energy around you. For mortals like us, our physical bodies can’t flow through the
ether. Portals don’t move us from one location to another. It just makes the distance between the two points negligible,” explained the hermit.
“Flying?” continued Pavel, though, at this point, he was already teasing.
“That you can do. Let me find a pair of giant wings, strap them to your back, and throw you off any of the tower’s cliffs,” replied the hermit caustically.
11
More than Mortal
“Oh, and that Blood Bitch
on the far side of the canyon is your Sidi quest.”
Then came a day when Encratas was nowhere to be found, though Tip was in the tower. Inquiries with the uncooperative assistant didn’t result in any information, nor was any instruction given as to Pavel’s routine for the day. It had been almost a month, and thankfully, no further deadly visitations happened. Pavel shrugged at the vague, monosyllabic responses of Tip and went down to the encampment to train on his own.
“You know, Master. Underneath all the glamour is a beautiful woman. I could sense a firm and sharp edge, but still a gorgeous female,” whispered Sheqer.
“Huh?” reacted the apprentice. Pavel had been so busy thinking about his training sequence that he almost missed the bard’s rambling.
“Tip. I was talking about Tip, or whatever her real name is. I said I believe she’s a real looker under that disguise.”
“I really wouldn’t know, Sheqer. Though Encratas has already taught me the basic spell for looking beyond illusions, I still can’t see through her disguise,” said Pavel.
“Must be a Seeming. One granted by a magical object or artifact. Those are disguises difficult to look through or dispel. I guess Master Encratas has a lot of those toys stored away. Interesting,” said the bard, looking up at the tower.
“And you are not to go exploring in the battlemage’s absence. You run the risk of being suspected of being a pervert or a rapist if you go up now,” warned Pavel.
My Name is Ruin Page 10
