by J. T. Wright
The nobleman’s delicate features made him look almost as pretty as some women Trent had met. His auburn hair was carefully styled, and the dust of the road avoided settling on him as if it knew better than to sully his clothing. That was probably the result of an enchantment, and it looked like one that everyone in the group possessed. But from the way Seth held himself, it was apparent that he thought himself above the rest of the world, and the dirt should share his opinion.
“Soul-bound equipment? In the hands of a beggar? Colonel, you must have a Mage capable of severing his ownership. If not, you know the alternative method, I’m sure.” Seth’s eyes gleamed with avarice. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his lips.
“Nephew!” Vanessa spoke sharply, and the look she directed at Seth caused even that self-satisfied man to wither. “In these lands, we do not rob or murder travelers! You seem to have forgotten that your family name does not put you above the law. Do not make me remind you again!”
“Ladies, if you are through, we should be on our way,” Colonel Bromden suggested. Trent felt a wave of gratitude for the man.
“Of course, Colonel,” Eliora assented. “It was good to meet you, Trent. Perhaps we will run into one another again.”
Trent offered a short bow and muttered a goodbye. In the future, if it were up to him, Trent would never cross paths with anyone who chose to travel with a person like Seth. He watched the women mount and the procession resume, and once the last soldier passed by, he continued on his way, a little faster for the interruption.
His armor came back out of Storage. The comforting weight settled on his shoulders, and Trent swore he wouldn’t go without it, or his sword, from now on. It might not have been able to protect him from a hundred mounted soldiers, but it bolstered his confidence, nonetheless.
Trent would not practice Acrobatics for a few days. Instead, he aimed all his energy into increasing the level of Dash. He even activated Steady Footing to make sure nothing tripped him up. The girl, Eliora, had said they came from Bellrise. Trent wondered what he would find there.
**********
Two days later, Trent had the answer to his question. Or very nearly. The walls of Bellrise could be seen in the distance, less than half a mile away. Inside those walls were shops that might sell the equipment and supplies he needed. They also promised to contain people, but Trent was not sure he liked the idea of meeting more strangers. He was trying to decide whether to enter the town, or bypass it, when his journey was interrupted again.
The road was empty except for Trent and one other. That other was small; Trent could step over it without any trouble, yet it barred his way more thoroughly than the soldiers had. Upon seeing the mounted troops, something inside Trent had squared his shoulders. This tiny obstacle, however, made Trent want to run back to Al’drossford.
Seeing the situation from afar, it would have looked ridiculous. A Swordsman whose path was blocked by a rodent? He must be a coward. A Commoner could stomp the animal flat with one foot! But if you were standing in Trent’s shoes, you would understand. You would feel his anxiety.
It wasn’t a rodent stretching out its long slender body that was regarding Trent. It was a ferret, with jet black fur and red glowing eyes. This was no animal. It was a Beast, as strong, or more likely, stronger than any Trent had yet encountered.
The boy held himself immobile as the ferret rubbed its paws together. “No greeting for me, brother? No ‘well met,’ or ‘how was the hunt’?”
Trent expected the Beast to be capable of speech. No creature possessing the power the ferret clearly held was simple. If the ferret’s voice were deeper, a growl instead of a squeak, a growl you could feel in your bones, well, Beasts followed their own rules regarding what was appropriate.
What Trent didn’t expect was the delight in the ferret’s words. There was laughter mixed in with the questions that made no sense. The ferret dropped to all fours and took a step forward. Then it was gone, replaced by a Dire Wolf, a Wolf larger and sleeker than Arakai, the Wolf which had pulled Ranar’s wagon.
“Well,Trent Embra, do you have nothing to say?” The laughter was still in the ferret turned wolf’s voice, but it was mocking now as it said Trent’s name. It stalked forward fluidly. Trent tracked it with his eyes until the Shadow Wolf disappeared behind him.
When the Beast stepped back into view it had changed again. Now it wore the appearance of an Al’rashian. It looked like Trent, if Trent’s skin was dipped in shadow and his eyes burned red, “What do you remember, Trent Embra? How much of you is left?”
The shadowy Al’rashian reached out a hand and pushed Trent’s mask up. “Do you know why your eyes are like that?”
“I am Al’rashian.” Trent enunciated each word carefully; his fear was changing into anger. This creature’s actions and questions prodded at his sense of pride.
The shadow creature threw back its head and howled laughter to the sky. “You were always Al’rashian! What else could you possibly be? That choice was never up to you. But violet eyes? Those you would have chosen in memory of me.
“A memory you have lost.” No mocking laughter now. There was sorrow in the Beast’s voice now. “Why do you reek of forgotten magic? Have you met one of the three?”
Trent was lost by the sudden change of topics. The creature didn’t wait for him to respond. “And there’s a hole where your Bond should live. The Wizard wouldn’t bother doing that. The Dragon would never harm you, and if you had met her, we wouldn’t be speaking, because you would be too busy being digested.”
“My Bond was severed,” Trent said uncertainly. “And that’s none of your…”
“Severed?” A hand reached out and grabbed the back of Trent’s head. The creature pulled him forward until their foreheads were touching. “I do not speak of what that arrogant girl did to you. That was no Bond! There is a hole inside of you, a hole where your companion, the companion that is the birthright of all Al’rashians, should live! Who has done this to you?
“You will not speak? I do not blame you!” A second hand settled on Trent’s shoulder as the creature continued to hold him in place. “You may never have a Bond, but there is still a place for a familiar within you. I swore… but that vow was made before… you are too weak.”
The creature released Trent, only to reach down and grasp his forearms, his vambraces. “But there is a place for me until you are stronger, isn’t there?”
The Beast let out a long sigh. “You will be stronger. I can wait. We will hunt together as we did. But first, there is one way I can help you.” The black Al’rashian released Trent’s arms and stepped back. The shadow’s left hand streaked towards Trent’s chest, and before Trent could scream, long fingers pushed through his clothing and entered his body.
Trent expected pain. He looked down to see the gaping hole in his chest that must be there. He wondered how he would stop the blood flow the injury must have caused. When the Beast withdrew its hand, Trent was surprised to see his clothing intact. There was no agony or unrelenting pain. It was like nothing had happened.
But something was different. One shadowy hand held a crystal now, a blood-red diamond. The Beast stared at it with disgust. “You are done with this!” The creature brought the crystal, the Ability Stone that held Fairy Cloak, to his face. Trent winced at the crunching sound of shattered glass that came from the creature’s mouth as it ground the stone to dust.
The Beast swallowed and licked its lips. “An Ability created with old magic. It would have harmed you more than it would have helped, but there is no denying its power. What I can provide now does not compare, but I think you will find it more useful.”
The Beast took hold of Trent’s forearms once more. “When you see Ranar again, tell him he is a decrepit old man, too blind to see, and too weak-willed to act. Master of the Dusk Tower? He had you within his hand and let you slip away. He’s not fit to be his own master, much less the Tower's!
“We will hunt together again when you are st
ronger, brother. You were never one to accept protection, but for all the times you looked out for me, the least I can do is provide you with an upgrade. I will be with you but sleeping. I can offer no aid, but I will always be there at your side, as I should be. Be well, Trent Embra.”
The figure split into two, and where his hands had touched Trent’s vambraces, it stuck, flowing into the armor. Trent’s forearms grew cold as his equipment shifted and grew. Extending in both directions, soon a shadow covered Trent’s arm from fingertips to elbow. The blackness solidified, and the vambraces Trent had worn since he had found them were replaced.
The item that had once matched his mail now went with his cowl. Trent didn’t think they could be called vambraces any longer. They had become long gloves that clung to him like a second skin. He flexed his fingers, and the material didn’t hinder his movements.
A red jewel covered the first knuckle of his right hand and a brown stone, the knuckle of his left. These were the Elementals that had taken up residence in his armor. He extended Earth and Fire Manipulation one after the other, but if the Spirits were upset by the change to their home, he could not sense it. They slumbered as peacefully as ever, though, at his contact, he felt a slight plea for sustenance.
It was a request he ignored. The Spirits didn’t require food, but Mana matching their element would help them develop. Trent wanted to provide for them, but they had outgrown Charms, and he hadn’t learned any stronger Spells yet.
Spiritual Gloves of the Hunt
Rare item/ Excellent Quality
Soul-bound/will grow with user
Armor Rating 40
+1 Level to all Blade Skills while equipped
Trent told himself he should be pleased with the changes he found using Appraisal. Up to this point, besides a decent armor rating and a home for sleepy spirits, his vambraces had not been especially useful. His armor rating was double now. and the increase to Skills like Thrust and Slash was unbelievable. Still, Trent wasn’t pleased!
He was resentful. The shadow knew things about Trent! Knew things that were hidden! They would meet again when Trent was stronger? Yes, they would! And when they did, Trent would know the things the shadow knew, even if Trent had to cut the answers from the creature’s hide!
Trent was tired of words like “weak”. He was sick of hearing how he had potential, despite his pathetic Attributes. He was fed up with running into men he could not defeat and Beasts that could hold him in place with a glance!
He looked towards Bellrise. The instinct to avoid the town was gone. Why should he extend his walk by going around? He would find out what was beyond those walls and only then finish his Class Quest. Trent was through with hiding and fear.
Chapter Three
Even before the Awakening, the gods chose Champions from among mortals to serve their interests. Champions were blessed with extraordinary strength and Abilities. Those chosen were to Adventurers what Adventurers were to Commoners. Champions developed quickly, and there were few within their level range that could stand against them.
Most gods simply picked a Champion that suited them. Others required their chosen ones to pass a test. One such god was Sallor, god of murderers. It was not an honor to be chosen by Sallor. He was worshiped by Assassins, who preferred to ply their trade rather than clear Trials and fight Beasts.
When Sallor needed a Champion, he chose thirteen people and imbued them with a Trace of divinity. To become Sallor's Champion, all you had to do was gain all thirteen Traces by murdering the others chosen. Even those who worked as killers for hire flinched at the thought of attacking other men and women just like themselves, Assassins, who would know you were coming and would prepare to greet you.
Martin Vane leaned against the wall of a tavern called The Lucky Pig and cursed. His legs were crossed in front of him and his arms were folded over his thin chest as he glared at the traffic passing on the streets of Bellrise. Young Adventurers from the local Academy were skipping off to delve the Dungeon, and housewives were picking over the goods of the open-air market. No one paid any mind to the ordinary-looking man glowering at them.
Martin knew how he had ended up in this sickeningly cheerful town in the middle of nowhere. Bad luck! Martin was a Level 20 Thief and a Guild member with a Copper Token, but he never set foot in a Trial unless times were hard.
Pickings had been slim in Bellrise. The town was too small and the Adventurers too poor to accommodate Martin's tastes. Purses here never held silver, much less gold. Martin rubbed at his forehead at the thought that he might need to work the Dungeon if he wanted to keep sleeping indoors.
Martin had reacted the way most did when Sallor's eyes fell on them. He swore and railed at the uncaring god, while constantly looking over his shoulder. Then in a fit of inspiration, Martin had joined a trade caravan heading for far off places. Those chosen couldn’t kill him if they couldn’t find him!
For a year, Martin’s fingers had rusted while the caravan traveled. He could hardly steal in such a closed society. Merchants and Guardsmen with missing purses would not have any trouble finding the Thief in their midst when that word was clear on Martin’s Status. He had gone a little wild when they finally reached a city. He picked a few pockets he shouldn’t have and left one step ahead of the noose, by jumping onto a ship heading north along the Streg River.
After six months aboard ship, the captain had demanded almost all of Martin’s coin because of the unconventional way the Thief had booked passage. Six months to end up in a Barony with empty pockets and no way out. And the Guardsmen were no slouches here. Martin had some small success robbing naïve Adventurers, but he was painfully aware of how much he stood out.
It was Sallor’s fault! Martin was a Thief, not an Assassin! Sure, he had slit a throat or two. He'd given the knife to a few people who objected too loudly when he tried to take an item he thought should belong to him. Why would that draw the attention of a god of murder?
He could not even hide. He could feel the Trace of divinity inside him. If he came within sight of another of the twelve that shared his misfortune, that divinity would mark his position like a flare! He could only run, and running had brought him to Bellrise.
Bellrise, with its cheerful townsfolk and optimistic Adventurers! The Adventurers were the worst. Martin had joined the Guild because a Token could open doors that lock picks couldn’t, but he was no delver. He laughed at those idiots who risked death for coin. Coin that Martin could find on the streets.
The Adventurers in the Al’verren kingdom were the stupidest Martin had ever encountered. He had been warned by members of the caravan not to speak of the most common truths. Here, talking of Levels and Classes could get you executed faster than murder. The king employed more spies than soldiers to make sure his people were kept ignorant. Martin couldn’t fathom the cost, but what was truly unbelievable was how easily the Al’verren citizens swallowed the lies!
Take this Swordsman sauntering through the city gate. Battered armor, worn scabbard, and not a thought in his head. This idiot was probably proud of his ragged appearance! He probably thought that mask made him look mysterious! All the while blissfully unaware that the outside world…
Martin’s nose twitched. It did that when it smelled an opportunity. His arms fell to his sides and his legs uncrossed. Martin hated Warriors like the one looking around Bellrise. They were arrogant and proud, thinking themselves above it all. He hated them all, and they were his favorite marks.
This Swordsman was new. Martin was sure he had never seen the man before. Looking closer, while the Swordsman’s armor and weapon looked cheap, that hooded mask and the arm guards that covered to his elbows told of wealth. Sure enough, a fat purse hung from the man’s belt.
Martin slipped into the crowd and fell in behind the Swordsman. There were enough people about to cover his movements, and Martin quickly closed with his target without drawing attention. A sharpened piece of metal, a knife without a hilt, fell into Martin’s palm. The Thief
strolled past the Swordsman and, without looking, his blade went to work. Purse strings were no match for a Level 20 Thief.
At least, they weren’t usually. Martin was jerked to a halt as slender fingers closed about his wrist and held him fast. Had he misjudged? The Swordsman did not look like a high-leveled Adventurer. Just one with a bit more luck than most. How had Martin been caught?
A practiced flick sent Martin’s blade back into his sleeve, and he belligerently demanded, “You got a problem?”
Trent did not miss much since he’d gotten the Perception Attribute. Sometimes he noticed too much or concentrated on seemingly unimportant details. He was sure the fingers of the wrist he held had brushed his belt pouch. There had been a glint of metal as well.
That glint was gone now, and Trent thought he might have made a mistake. The man had brushed against Trent accidentally; had he overreacted? His reactions had nearly gotten him in trouble in Al’drossford. He had thought he was beyond that now, but apparently not.
Why would this brown-haired man with the narrow face have touched Trent’s pouch anyway? All that was inside was a sharpening stone, flint and steel, and a few odds and ends he had picked up. Trent wore the pouch because he had always worn it. He was sentimental about it, but anything he valued went into Storage.
Trent dropped Martin’s wrist. “No, no problem. Excuse me.”
Martin’s nose twitched again, and his ears perked up. This was no experienced Warrior. The man’s, the boy’s, voice was young. Behind that mask was a fresh face and wide eyes, no doubt. Martin, being twenty-three himself, must be years older. It was only right to lend the junior a hand. That way he could find out where the Swordsman would be staying, and when he took off the expensive looking bits of gear…
