by J. T. Wright
Trent dropped his purchases and hurriedly removed his last treasures. The hides came out first, and Ranar looked at them amused. The armor was obviously made by an amateur and had little value. They would be worth next to nothing even if they hadn’t been torn and blood-stained. Trent’s age was displayed at this moment. The boy was like an unAwakened child trying to trade shiny pebbles for candy.
When the chest was placed at his feet, Ranar forgot he was an eccentric merchant. It was a Paragon who stood before Trent now. A Paragon who removed his floppy brimmed hat to reveal flashing silver eyes. “Where did you get this? Do you know what this is? How is this even possible? Answer me, boy!”
Trent wanted to, but he couldn’t. The air had become thick and refused to enter his lungs. It was with the greatest effort that he managed to gasp, “The Trial, it’s a box from the Trial!”
Ranar reined in his power. He hadn’t meant to terrify the boy, but clearly, that was what he had done. Before him, a Level 9 Awakened was nothing. If he didn’t keep that in mind, it was too easy to overwhelm the lesser being.
“You’re Al’rashian!” Trent kept to his feet with difficulty and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. Arakai, giving his Bond-mate a displeased look, slipped by Ranar and sat down next to Trent. He licked at the boy’s hand to remind him that he and his master were friendly and not horrifying Beasts to fear.
“Yes, Trent Embra, I am Al’rashian. I am Ranar Wygon of Clan Wygon, and I am pleased to meet you.” Ranar bowed low, sweeping the hat in his hand behind his back. Straightening, he continued, “But we must speak of this chest. You took it from a Trial? That is obvious. You must never speak of this to anyone. You must never show it to a soul, not your closest friend nor your most trusted companion. This is more than a simple box. It is a piece of a Trial.
“Do you understand what that means? No, you don’t. Items placed in your Storage are safe from the machinations of men. This box, anything you place in this box is safe from the gods! They cannot touch it, they cannot sense it, they may not even be able to see it!”
Ranar rubbed his forehead as he mused. He attempted to put on the guise of a merchant again, but he only partially succeeded. What Trent had shown him was too unsettling.
“We have an opportunity here, young master. I can see that these hides of yours have been crafted into armor. The work of your own hands, yes? Yes, rough but promising work. I will trade these two books for them to encourage you. And a sewing kit so that you might produce more elegant works in the future. Don’t underestimate the Sewing Skill. Level it, and I think you will find it consistently gives an increase to Dexterity.”
Two books and a pouch were pressed into Trent’s unresisting hands. The pouch was like one he had seen once in the hands of a master tailor. The books were unfamiliar. He glanced at them. One, thick and heavy, was titled, A Complete History of Al’rashia, penned by Imrihil. The second was barely more than a cover and a few sheets of paper but bore the name, A Compendium of Skills, Classes, and Abilities, compiled by Althea.
Trent put the sewing pouch in Storage and started to hand the books back. He didn’t want books! He wanted Fireball! Ranar snapped his fingers in front of Trent’s face, causing the boy to hold his tongue.
“Listen well, young Trent Embra,” he spoke impatiently, “these books are important. They contain truth, and truth is not always welcome. Place them in the chest, put the chest in Storage, and never take them out unless you are alone! Never tell anyone that you possess them!”
Knowing no other response would be accepted, Trent nodded. He knelt and did as he was instructed. After the chest was secured in Storage, he stood. Questions about the books and Ranar’s identity whirled in his mind, but he could not voice them.
Ranar set a hand on Trent’s shoulder. “We are well met, young Survivalist. And we will meet again. But for now, our business is concluded. Your Sergeant will be here soon. Come Arakai, we must be off.”
Arakai growled, “Be well, Survivalist,” and followed Ranar to the wagon.
For what felt like ages, Trent stood there, as if he had forgotten how his body worked. When he finally made himself turn around, the wagon, its owner, and the white wolf were gone. It was like they had never existed.
Trent had been standing on the carpeted wall, but now his boots touched the earth. He would have dismissed it all as a dream except for his barren Storage, and the three Skill Stones, and two Charms laying in the dirt. He picked them up with trembling hands. These were the Skills of a Swordsman that had been denied him. He learned them and his new Spells with mixed emotions.
Orion had been reluctant to speak of the Survivalist Class. Even after the ritual of blood gave Trent the right to hear the secrets of the Al’rashian people, Orion would answer no questions.
Tersa had still been present, after all. Her changed Status made her an Embra, but she wasn’t yet one of the people of Al’rashia. Some things would have to wait, was all Orion would say.
But Ranar…. Ranar had offered the hint: Descended from the hunt, refined in the flames of war. The words meant nothing to him, but he felt a stirring in his chest, and a feeling of defiance and violence swelled within him, banishing the lingering disorientation that Ranar’s outburst had caused.
“Tersa, are you safe? What happened while I… why the fuck are you out of uniform? Blood and ash! What are you wearing? I don’t recall authorizing…”
Upon Sergeant Cullen’s arrival, the fire that was building in Trent sputtered and died. Cullen harangued Tersa for fifteen minutes while the girl stammered explanations about traveling merchants, new Skills, and equipment. After making sure that Tersa was safe and lecturing her for reckless, unauthorized purchases, Cullen led the way towards Al’drossford.
The Sergeant kept his eyes peeled for traps and signs of whoever had summoned a Greater Ice Serpent. Although none appeared, he never relaxed his guard. He almost snapped the head off the runty Recruit that joined him and Tersa, thinking the boy an ambusher. After remembering the boy had been with them all along, Cullen never directed another word in Trent’s direction.
Chapter 22
The Elwire tree was a highly sought-after resource. Every part of an Elwire tree could be used by Alchemists and Craftsmen. Blades carved from its branches were harder and sharper than steel. Its roots and leaves were essential ingredients in dozens of exotic potions. The wood of its trunk, when used in construction or the crafting of bows and staffs, held enchantments better than almost any other material you could name.
Despite its versatility, products made from the wood of an Elwire were rarely seen for sale. The trees had a life span of thousands of years. Only twice during this time was it possible to cut into an Elwire; when it was young, and after it had died. Even the leaves of a living, mature Elwire couldn’t be plucked without the use of tools that were nearly as scarce as the trees themselves.
The towering Elwire at the edge of Blackmire Swamp was a well-known local landmark. Soaring over the bog, the tree could be seen from the road two miles north. Greedy eyes that spotted it knew they were halfway between the Trial towns of Kilpond and Smooth Meadows.
Orion had seen the tree months ago, and like all the others, had harbored dreams of collecting its timber. It was a day’s walk past the tree when he encountered the Adventurers that had pursued him into the swamp and forced him to escape into an Instant Trial.
One hundred feet off the ground, Orion now found shelter in the Elwire. Sitting cross-legged on one of its broad branches, Orion was pensively studying the land below. In his hands, was an Elwire leaf. He had been lucky, finding three of these leaves at the base of the tree. What others sought and never acquired, Orion had stumbled across. Perhaps, this marked a turning point for the exiled Al’rashian.
Orion could sell one of the leaves to an Alchemist for as much gold as he could carry with both hands. If he encountered an Archmage and offered the leaf in trade, with a little bargaining, Orion was sure he could convince the spel
l caster to imbue several Beast Cores with tier‐three Spells. That was how valuable the plant was.
Imbuing a Beast Core meant losing a Level in whatever Skill or Spell was applied. Years of effort might be lost in the act. An Archmage would still consider an Elwire leaf worth the trade.
Orion lightly ran a finger along the edge of the leaf he held. He was careful, not because the leaf was delicate. It wasn’t. He was gentle because the leaf’s edge was razor sharp. Used as a throwing weapon, supported by the proper Skills, the innocuous green leaf could pierce shielding Spells and shred armor.
The tip of Orion’s finger bled where he had pressed a little too firmly, but the Al’rashian didn’t notice the cut. He was too wrapped up in what was happening below him.
Miles of open fields bordered the edge of Blackmire swamp. They were fertile plains, as far as the eye could see, without a structure or stone to break the monotony. The occasional Adventuring party would hunt these plains, but the area was large enough that you could go weeks without running into another Awakened. Such was not the current state of affairs.
Orion had finally discovered why he hadn’t encountered a Lizardmen patrol in days. Hundreds of hunters and warriors had left their swamp and were gathered near the Elwire. Possibly every able-bodied member of the local tribe was there unless the tribe was far bigger than Orion guessed.
The assembled army hadn’t noticed Orion, sitting concealed in the boughs of the giant tree. It would have been a simple thing for Orion to descend and slip through the brush until he arrived at the road. Once at the road, a few days, maybe a week of travel would see Orion to safety, or if not safety, at least to civilization.
But Orion didn’t go. The same scene that had drawn the Lizardmen and prevented them from noticing the Al’rashian, captivated Orion. Most of the gathered tribe was idle. They stood with weapons held low and stretched their necks to watch but made no noise.
One Lizardman, a Shaman, if Orion was any judge, was the only Awakened there performing any action. The Shaman stood far apart from his people, his scales, speckled grey and white, showed his age. The Spells he cast from the staff in his hand, demonstrated his artistry, his command over the Mana at his disposal.
Chanting and stomping, the Shaman unleashed a wave of magic at his target. That target was a motionless pile of muck that had formed on the plains. To the untrained eye, the expanse of mud that the Shaman attacked was no different than any section of Blackmire swamp. All that set it apart was its presence on the plains.
Orion knew better. He recognized a Mud Elemental when he saw one. Spirits of Earth and Water, stronger than any of the Elementals that Orion had formed pacts with, Mud Elementals weren’t often observed in the Infinite World. No Spirit who chose the path of combined Elements was.
Like any creature or Awakened, once an Elemental reached a certain stage, it could choose to become more. Fire Sprite, Nyad, Dryad, and Whisp were just a few examples of the ways an Elemental could grow. Spiritual life was diverse.
Those that had the opportunity to combine the Elements might not chose to do so. It was harder to progress this way. Orion spared a thought or two to wonder what had made the Mud Elemental decide on its course.
However, most of Orion’s attention was on the Shaman's performance. Orion didn’t recognize the Spell that he cast. It had to be tier-four or higher. The wave of charged Mana swept towards the Elemental and surrounded it. At the center of the boggy pit, arms and hands created from mud and silt struck out forcefully, attempting to bat the Spell aside.
This had worked previously against other attacks. Against Earthen Chains and Water Shackles, the Elemental had been triumphant. It failed this time. The Shaman had learned, and instead of hitting the creature directly, his Spell enclosed the body of the Spirit and lifted it from the ground. A fluctuating blue ball formed six feet off the ground and held the raging Elemental prisoner.
The watching Lizardmen stomped their feet and slammed their tails against the dirt as they cheered for their Shaman. Orion reserved judgement. He could tell that the Shaman was attempting to separate the Spirit from the source of its strength, but he doubted this would work.
For one, the Elemental was no small fluttering dot. Its body, when forced into a sphere and compressed by the Shaman's spell, was tens of feet in diameter. To grow that large without the aid of a Mage or Summoner, the Elemental was probably almost as ancient as Blackmire swamp. The swamp and the Elemental might even share an origin.
The second reason Orion believed this battle far from over was the Shaman’s power. An inhabitant of the swamp, the majority of the Lizardman's spells were of Earth and Water. They were Spells that were completely ineffective against the Spirit, and if the Mud Elemental was contained now, that was only because it hadn’t found a way to absorb the watery prison that surrounded it.
The Shaman discarded his staff and began to weave his hands in intricate patterns. His chanting became more urgent as a staccato hooting was issued from his elongated muzzle. Orion cut his finger again as he stared intently.
The ball containing the Elemental was being compressed further and further. Once tens of feet around, it was now the size of a fat man’s torso. The fluid prison began to harden as the Shaman adapted the Water Spell to one of Ice. Taking on the appearance of an immense, translucent, blue and white crystal, the prison stabilized and, for a moment, it appeared the Shaman had won.
Orion was impressed. He couldn’t envision the skill or power it would take to accomplish what the Shaman had just done. He also couldn’t imagine what had driven the Lizardman to perform this feat. Mud Elementals were passive. They harmed none and were highly resistant to physical and magical attacks. It was a waste to assault it this way. The Shaman's apparent victory was impressive but futile.
Mana drain was more difficult to spot in Lizardmen than it was in A'lrashians or humans. Orion might not have seen the signs even if he’d been closer. Beady black eyes that were tinged red, the drooping frill about the Shaman’s neck, and the short, ragged breaths drawn in through flared nostrils could have been mistaken for signs of age, or physical exhaustion.
Qoeveht, the Lizardman Shaman, knew he was nearly spent. He was also aware that his modified Water Prison would only hold for so long. For now, the Mud Elemental had been captured. Maintaining the Spell was less costly than forming it, but if Qoeveht's apprentice didn’t appear soon with Warriors and enchanted chains, there might not be time to drag the imprisoned Spirit away.
They must succeed! The tribe had plans for the plains. They would never have meddled with the Elemental otherwise. The Spirit was respected by the inhabitants of Blackmire, and within the boundaries of that swamp, they honored it.
Qoeveht felt a pang of sorrow looking at the trapped Spirit, which was visible as a stain of brown within the blue crystal. It was a depression he had battled since deciding on this course of action. The Spirit was practically an ancestor of the tribe, but need outweighed respect, and the tribe needed the fertile plains. The Spirit must not be allowed to convert the soil to mud and extend its territory!
Where was that lazy egg of an apprentice? Qoeveht would have the tailless blunderer’s hide made into boots if he didn’t arrive soon. If the apprentice's sloth wasted Qoeveht’s efforts, there wouldn’t be a hole deep enough to hide him from the Shaman's wrath!
As if sensing his teacher’s displeasure, O'kanti, the Shaman’s apprentice, burst out of the crowd of waiting tribesmen. The frill at O'kanti's neck was rigid with agitation as he hurried the five Lizardmen following him to greater speeds, with frantic gestures and slapping tail.
The Warriors were dragging thick, heavy lengths of chain behind them and moved as fast as they were able, but that wasn’t good enough for the red-scaled apprentice. O’kanti urged the Warriors to hurry with one breath while insisting they be careful with the chains in the next. Iron, especially enchanted iron, was scarce in the swamps. The heavy chains must not be damaged!
Not that they would be
. The soft ground wouldn’t scratch the chains even if they were hauled for a hundred miles. But the apprentice couldn’t help but worry. O'kanti would be weeks re-growing a tail if he let his master down! The worst would be the beating. The indignity of being beaten with your own tail was an experience O'kanti had no desire to go through. Not again.
It would help if he could enlist the aid of the tribesmen that had gathered, but that action would only infuriate his speckled teacher. The Hunters were here out of reverence for the Spirit not to assist in its capture. Qoeveht would not allow that! This was work for Shamans and Blessed-Scaled Harbingers, no one else.
Seeing his apprentice appear brought some relief to Qoeveht. Noticing that the apprentice was leading but not helping the Warriors drag the chains, caused the Shaman nostrils to flare. Boots were too good for that lazy red egg! His hide would be made into the small under-clothing the soft-skins liked to wear. O’kanti’s eyes would be dried and used to create a rattle for children. His teeth plucked and…
Whatever dire plans Qoeveht might have made for O’kanti’s teeth were interrupted as the thunderous sound of a landslide erupted across the plains. A wave of force picked Qoeveht up and flung him backward. Shards of ice, propelled by that same energy, pierced the tired Shaman’s scales, drawing blood. The ice was from Qoeveht's own Spell. The prison was broken! The Spirit was free!
Qoeveht rolled to crouch on all fours then staggered to his feet, his tail lashing about furiously! The ice that had broken his scales evaporated, allowing blood to pour from his wounds, as the Mana that formed it dispersed. The Mud Elemental splashed to the ground, and Qoeveht braced himself for its revenge. One of the muddy appendages that the Spirit had used to block his earlier Spells would be enough to crush the Shaman to a pulp.
As Qoeveht tensed, blood squirted from his wounds. He needn’t have bothered. The Elemental plopped to the ground, spread out to its original size, and lay there. Orion could have told the Shaman that was what would happen.
