by J. T. Wright
“Let me? She insisted! Said I wouldn’t look proper without them.” Trent let the doubts about his Class slide and began tugging at his cuff again. “This shirt feels weird.”
“It’s a perfectly good shirt. You look as pretty as a maid in it. If there’s a beauty competition later, you should enter.” Kerry pulled his feet back as one of Evelyn’s strikes came perilously close to his ankles. “With that shirt and the ribbon in your hair, you'll win for sure.”
“You boys ready for the burning?” Jeb planted himself beside Kerry with a groan, sparing Trent from having to decipher what Kerry’s beauty competition comment meant. “You've chosen a prime location for viewing.”
That prime location was at the bottom of a small hill, some distance away from the rest of the festival. Kerry and Trent had followed a group of men carrying logs here, with the intention of helping set up for whatever the burning was. Their help had been turned down, and they settled for watching as the men piled the logs in a square pit.
“What is the burning, Jeb?” Looking around Kerry could see the rest of the crowd making their way over to form a circle around the log filled pit. The previous jubilation that had marked the day was gone. Solemn faces and quiet murmuring replaced the celebration as people found places to sit.
Jeb took the wooden sword from Evelyn and pulled her into his lap, hushing her complaints before answering Kerry. “The burning is for watching, Kerry boy, and that’s all you need to know for now. Unless you’re planning on settling down in these parts. With Cally perhaps, hmmm?”
Kerry made a gesture to ward off evil while giving Jeb a dirty look. Any comment that might have accompanied the gesture was lost as a rhythmic thumping began to sound from the top of the hill. Looking behind, Trent and Kerry noticed the festival musicians had stationed themselves there and were beating out a steady cadence.
The instruments they struck were made of hide stretched over a framework of wood, and though the musicians were only using thin sticks to strike them, the sound they created could be felt in the bones. Hypnotic and powerful, the drums stirred all present, and Kerry clutched his hands together with anticipation, wondering what the instruments summoned. That was the feeling they evoked, the sense that an army was approaching.
As the sun drifted downwards to rest at the edge of the horizon, the watching crowd parted for a group of ten men that walked forward, matching their steps to the beat of the drums. On their shoulders, the men carried an intricately carved and constructed replica of a castle, a fortress, ten feet high and twice as long. The drums beckoned, and the men answered their call, moving purposefully to lay their burden on top of the pyre.
The drums stopped with a suddenness that made Kerry sit up straight and catch his breath. As one, the bearers, freed from their labor marched back the way they had come, and the parted crowd filled back in to cover their retreat.
“It’s Al’drossford.” In the silence, Trent’s whisper rang loudly, starling Kerry.
“It’s a castle, not a city,” Kerry whispered back. He had grown up in Al’drossford and was intimately familiar with the city’s design. Nothing in the wooden carving brought to mind the streets of his home.
“Not the city, the Keep,” Trent answered. He swallowed, trying to push down a lump that suddenly obstructed his throat.
“Not Al'drossford,” Jeb said in a low serious voice. “Older than that, much older. Now, hush.”
Kerry barely heard Jeb. He had lived in Al’drossford for fourteen years, and never once seen the Keep. He could describe the bridges across the Streg River and knew almost every point of interest from the outer wall to the inner, but beyond those guarded inner gates was a blank. Why would Trent think the carving was of the keep? How could he know what the Al’dross Stronghold looked like?
Kerry would have blurted out these questions despite Jeb’s remarks, but the drums came again, silencing him better than Jeb’s raspy murmur could. The same cadence, slow and driving, and once again, movement from the crowd. Elder Geisel stepped out this time, her grey dress and white apron replaced by a crimson robe.
In her arms, cradled like a child, she carried a sword. At first, Kerry thought the blade was made of metal but straining his eyes, he saw the sword was crafted from wood, the same dark wood as the castle. Kerry glanced at the toy Evelyn held in her chubby hands. There was no comparison to be found there.
Evelyn’s prized blade was little better than two boards stuck together and lightly shaped. The sword that Geisel held carried the weight of a true weapon. Single-edged, with a broad blade that bore a noticeable curve and a long hilt meant for two hands, it was easy to imagine a warrior wielding the sword to drive off an invading army. Under the influence of the drums, it was even easier for Kerry to imagine himself as that warrior.
Geisel’s stately stride brought her before the unlit pyre, and Kerry expected the drums to halt again as she came to a stop. Instead, the drums sounded louder, pushing at Kerry, demanding… something. He felt the urge, the need to move, but just like everyone else, he kept to his seat. Whatever the drums called for, it wasn’t meant for him.
Wrapped up in his own thoughts, Kerry did not see Trent stand. His fluid movement wasn’t enough to break the drums’ spell. Trent pulled on his gloves, equipped his cowl, and tugged his mask into place, all without being noticed. Not by Kerry, at least. At the pyre, Geisel bowed. Turning, she noticed Trent’s preparations, and the gleam that lit her eyes said she approved.
The rhythm of the drums spoke to all, but what they stirred in Trent was unique. Everyone wanted to move, each in their own way wanted to act. Only Trent was unable to remain still, unable to resist the call. There was something required of him. His feet carried him to Geisel, and his hands took the hilt of the sword of their own volition. Geisel surrendered the sword with a sad smile, then she was gone, and Trent was left alone before the image of a castle that wasn’t the one in Al’drossford.
The drums paused after one last thunderous beat, for the briefest of moments, and when they resumed, they were wilder, fiercer than before. Swelling in sound and speed, the drums crashed with a sense of urgency, and a howling from the assembled crowd answered them. Kerry shivered as black-cloaked figures swept out from all sides to converge on the pyre, screaming in rage and anguish.
The sun had set without fanfare, and without anyone to light it, the pyre erupted with fury to replace it. Flames licked at the sky, illuminating the surroundings while deepening the shadows and threatening to consume the replica of a long-forgotten fortress.
The black-cloaked figures rushed to where Trent stood with his back to them. He turned to face them, sword held in both hands, low and steady. His mask was void of features, but the cloaked attackers tossed back their hoods to reveal masks of their own, and theirs were anything but unexpressive.
Leering faces, twisted in evil grins, and eyes weeping blood, there was more expression but less humanity on the faces of the figures as they broke apart to dance with abandonment in circles around Trent and the burning fortress. The screams that issued from their throats were wordless, yet still obscene, as the dancers twirled and leaped, kicking their legs high and throwing their arms wide.
Kerry did not recognize the faces depicted on the masks. Trent did. In his mind, the dancers became what they represented: Terrors and Fleshlings, Beasts and Orcs. He held his sword and waited. The enemy would come; they had to. This was a battle already lost, and all that remained was one last act of defiance.
The dancers produced weapons of their own and came for Trent in a flurry of movement. The end had come, and Trent joined the dance. The drums instructed him, and his body moved in a way that he had always actively repressed. Ocean Meets the Shore was a Technique meant for the blade in his hands, but it was beyond his capability to utilize.
In a true battle, Trent would be hindered by the Skill. Tonight, with drums to guide and an experienced blade to show him the way, Trent learned what could be accomplished with the Al’rashian’
s greatest sword form. Dancers tumbled as Trent swung the Al’rashian longsword. Wood whistled over heads as monsters in masks slid underneath and narrowly missed bodies, as dancers flipped themselves in response to Trent’s movements.
Rolling to their feet, cloaks swirled as men and women continued to circle the fire and throw themselves at the Swordsman before the pyre. It could have lasted forever, but Al’rashia was no more and Windshire Stronghold had fallen. The dance had to end as well.
None of Trent’s strikes had connected with flesh; he had enough awareness of himself to hold back. It was a near thing, at times, as fire and drums forced his heart to beat wildly and his blood to pulse. Then the last foe presented itself, and the drums screamed into Trent’s mind, demanding he deliver a blow to finish things. The armored Knight that flowed towards him, the one three times taller than any man had a right to be, had to die.
Trent’s blade was a blur, both from the speed with which he struck as well as the power he imbued in his sword. Wood cracked, and the dancers let out one final howl as the Knight was split at the waist and the torso of the enemy, a mannequin built of straw and twigs, fell into the fire to burn with the Stronghold.
Kerry had come to his feet at some point. He couldn’t say when; he didn’t know how much time had passed. Sweat covered his face as if he had been one of the dancers, and he expected to see the masked Swordsman collapsed on the ground. Kerry felt like doing so, and he had been an observer. It was unreasonable for the Swordsman to have the energy to stand after participating as he had.
And he did fall, though not how Kerry envisioned. Turning back to the pyre, the Swordsman mimicked the motions of sheathing his sword and then, holding the blade close to his side, he knelt. On one knee, Trent bowed his head and pressed a fist against the soil.
“A head lowered in reverence, a hand to earth for what must be protected, and another to hilt for the means.” The drums had stopped, and again Kerry couldn’t say when the change had occurred. When Geisel spoke into the stillness, he jumped, drawing an amused look from Jeb.
In her crimson robes Geisel stood over the kneeling Trent and cast a handful of herbs into the fire. The flames burned higher, turning from red to a brilliant blue, and then she knelt beside Trent and placed a hand on his back. “We remember the Fall of Al’rashia.”
The crowd echoed her words, all except for Kerry, whose mouth merely hung open. From a hundred feet away, Kerry could feel the heat of the pyre and he couldn’t understand how Geisel and the Swordsman could stand so close. When he found his voice, all Kerry could say was, “Jeb, what was that?”
“The Burning of Windshire Stronghold, or how it might have happened.” Jeb cleared his throat and set Evelyn aside long enough to stand. “None can say for sure; no one saw it happen. Ha! None have ever seen it danced this way in more years than I care to think.”
“You let children watch this?” Kerry waved a hand at Evelyn, whose round red cheeks wore a grave expression that was unnatural on the tiny girl. “It will give her nightmares! Noemi's mercy, it’s gonna give me nightmares!”
“Our kids are made of sterner stuff than you, Kerry boy.” Jeb placed his boney chin on Evelyn’s head and gave her a squeeze. “They watch so they’ll remember after we're gone. Later tonight, parents will tell the story of the fall and hand out sweets. It’s tradition.”
Kerry didn’t have anything to say to that. He stared at the flames which still burned blue, and then at Geisel and the Swordsman who knelt there. He gave out a choked gasp when the embroidery on Trent’s sleeves identified the figure he had thought was just another dancer.
Dropping his gaze, Kerry found Dreq was sitting beside him, but Trent was long gone. “He… He really is a Swordsman, isn’t he?”
“He told you he was,” Jeb chuckled. It was a tired, weak noise conveying that he was as drained by the night as Kerry was. “I swear, Kerry boy, this is what gets you into trouble. You don’t pay attention.”
**********
It would take the rest of the night for the bonfire to burn itself out. Trent, Kerry, and Jeb, along with all the single young people from the surrounding farms, had volunteered to watch it and make sure the flames didn’t leave the pit. That was the reason given anyhow.
The truth was that once the older folks had taken the children to bed, a new festival began. Less skilled but more enthusiastic musicians played long into the night while the young Awakened men and women laughed and danced. Barrels of cider were broken out, and liquors with a kick were passed around. A few older Farmers like Jeb made sure that the revelers kept away from the fire. Otherwise, they stayed out of the way, content to watch and drink and share stories of past festivals.
Kerry expected the Farmers’ daughters that had chased Trent all day to swarm over the violet-eyed Swordsman once their mothers weren’t watching, but other than Jeb, the locals avoided Trent. However, it wasn’t the cold shoulder that Kerry had received earlier. Instead, Trent was subjected to looks of reverence and near worship for his exploits during the burning.
Only Evelyn still had the courage to treat Trent the same way she always had. Her parents had dragged her off hours ago, protesting and complaining the whole way. She would have taken Dreq with her, but the Pup had hidden himself behind Trent and refused to answer the girl’s calls. That might have set the tired six-year-old to kicking and screaming, but Trent had forestalled it by taking out a small carving knife. Evelyn watched with bright eyes as Trent turned her wooden sword into a much more refined toy weapon, and she solemnly promised to practice what he had taught her before letting her parents carry her to bed.
Geisel had never reclaimed the wooden Al’rashian longsword from Trent after the dance, and while the true Festival of the Fall took place around him, Trent sat with it in his lap, trying to reclaim the feeling the blade had given him during the dance. It was no use. No matter how hard he concentrated, he could not hold on to the mastery that had swelled up while he defended the burning castle.
He ran his bare hands along the wood and sighed. If there had been fewer people present, he might have stood and gone through the forms that had always tripped him up. It was probably a good thing the Farmers and Militia members were here. It would have been discouraging to have performed so well without conscious knowledge only to fail when he tried to relive the moment.
“You’re a Swordsman, and you have the Detect Trap Skill. That I can accept!” Kerry blurted out the words he’d been holding back, and Trent welcomed the interruption. “It’s unusual but not unheard of.”
In fact, many of Kerry’s instructors had told the Academy students, repeatedly, that anyone could learn Detect Trap. It was easier for Archers and Rogues, but it wasn’t a Class-specific Skill. There were many Skills, like Harvesting and Herbalism, that anyone could learn with the right affinities and enough effort.
“But how did you know the dance?” Cider sloshed in Kerry’s mug as he gave a frustrated swing of his arms. “And how could they let you? It looked dangerous! You almost hit some of the dancers! You couldn’t possibly have practiced!”
Trent saw his opportunity and carefully baited his trap. “How do you know what sub-levels are? It’s the same thing.”
“That… that has nothing to do with anything!” Kerry shook his head and pulled the hide that Trent had lent him more tightly around his shoulders. “Everyone knows about sub-levels; it’s not the same at all!”
Trent bit his tongue in frustration. It would have been acceptable if Kerry had avoided the trap, but the barrel-shaped youth blundered through it like it wasn’t even there. Maybe verbal Traps were different from tripwires after all.
“It's ancestral knowledge, Kerry boy!” From his place on Kerry’s left, also wrapped in one of Trent’s hides, Jeb helped the young warrior completely avoid the conversational bait Trent had laid out. “It's in the blood, bred in the bones, dipped in the mucus. How could he not know?”
“You’re drunk old man.” Kerry tossed a pebble in Jeb’s direct
ion and took another drink from his cup. “And making less sense than normal. You don’t just know a dance that complicated–"
Kerry broke off with a yawn. His eyes slid shut, and his mug fell from his hand as he slumped over asleep. Jeb and Trent were startled by the suddenness of it. Jeb struggled to his feet, almost falling over backward when his nose unleashed a sneeze that wracked his whole body.
Casting a wide-eyed look around, Jeb spotted what he had missed before. Young lovers huddled before the fire, dozing against each other’s shoulders. Gruff old Farmers snored where they sat, and young people yet to partner off slept in unnatural positions in the grass where they had fallen while dancing. The music had ended without Jeb’s noticing, and prized instruments lay forgotten on the ground as their owners’ soft breathing played a different kind of melody.
“Damn it, Gran, you witch!” Jeb grumbled, trying to fight off the sleep which threatened to overtake him. “I'm not a child! You can’t tuck me into bed whenever you feel like.”
His protests useless, Jeb let out his own yawn and fell over next to Kerry. Realizing what was happening and thwarting it were two different things. Had he seen it coming, Jeb still would have fallen prey to the sleep which crept up on the wind.
Standing with the wooden sword in hand, Trent swallowed as Geisel stepped into the light. The flickering firelight added more lines to her face, making her look like the witch Jeb named her. She had changed back into her dress and apron, and she winked at Trent as she took another pinch of dust from the pouch in her hand.
She sprinkled the substance directly into Jeb’s face, saying, “He was always a stubborn child.”
“Witch?” Trent asked softly, his hands shifting on the hilt of the weapon that, outside of the night's festivities, was as much a toy as Evelyn’s sword. He tossed it away and drew Sorrow and Strife. In the face of Geisel’s power, the bone handles of his knives hardly reassured him.
“An insult, not a Class. The fool knows I'm an Herbalist,” Geisel said dryly, tucking her pouch into the pocket of her apron. “You won’t need your weapons, Trent Embra.”
