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[tamrend]

The Calling

Ariana

Ariana gazed up at the ceiling, observing every crack and crevice of the vaulted space. When she closed her eyes she could still see it, etched into her mind’s eye with perfect detail and clarity. The sharpening of her memory had been gradual at first, but in the space of a few killings had accelerated to the point that she now possessed perfect recall. She had only to concentrate and she could relive any moment she had experienced in the last six months.

Six months. Six more killings. She could only imagine what new changes, what enhancements those six deaths had given her.

Next to her, the man sharing her bed began to snore. She turned on her side to study him. Moonlight glistened in his beard and cast the crooked outline of his nose in sharp relief. She reached out her hand touch the smooth skin of his cheek. There was warmth and nothing more, sensation without feeling. She had invited him to her room without really knowing why. She’d played along with her body’s impulse, and once it was over, the only change from before was a vague sense of panic, as though she’d forgotten something vitally important. Which was, of course, impossible. She couldn’t forget now, even if she wanted to.

It had been days since she last slept. She knew her body would have to rest soon, but she wanted to delay it for as long as possible. She stood up out of bed smoothly and silently. The air was deeply, bitingly cold on her bare skin, raising tingling gooseflesh. The man slept on as she dressed, drawing on tall boots over her fur-lined leggings.

It was time to move on, she reasoned. If she stayed in one place for more than a few years, people began to notice that she didn’t appear to be getting older. They began to wonder, and then to ask questions. Too many questions tended to be bad for business.

Ariana reached beneath the bed and withdrew a leather bag with a drawstring. She opened it to check the contents. Inside it was a handful of silver and gold coins and a smaller, wrapped bundle that contained over a dozen perfectly cut gems, each one a moderate fortune, representing years of bounties. She bent once more and drew out a knife sheath. The blade quivered as she strapped it to her side.

She slipped through the common room with hardly a glance thrown her way. She stepped outside and snow squealed and crunched beneath her boots. Her breath frosted as soon as it touched the air. She stopped and looked back at the inn, feeling the stirrings of fear in her breast. She had finally come to it now. The nightmares that haunted her sleeping mind, the force that kept calling her west. She had tried to deny it, but it drew her on, the pull growing stronger by the day.

She turned from the inn’s softly burning lights. She lifted one foot slowly and set it down again in front of her. The knife quivered against her thigh, perhaps sensing the change that was to come. The next step was easier, the fear giving way to inevitability.

[Mercenary]

Cast out, as so many practitioners of arcane magic before me had been, I found the sort of solace that only solitude could bring one. “The cold and lonely road I travel,” I mused. “And bloody dark.” I added to my own thought, gathering my cloak about me more tightly. I had ridden hard all day and all night since leaving my father’s castle. It was therefore reasonably to be expected that my horse was beginning to slow. His fortitude so far had been impressive. It is an interesting trait that animals possess, the ability to discern between situations where their absolute and unflagging cooperation is required and those where it is not. Horses, it seems, always ride harder when the life of their rider depends on it, and even with less urging than in peaceful times. I patted the chestnut on the neck and dismounted.

So many of the difficulties of everyday life I had lived so long without. Even having been discredited and financially ruined, I would still live without them. Magic and privilege are in that respect similar. I gathered some branches together and strode a ways off the highway before setting them down in a heap. With the flicker of a thought the wet branches caught fire easily. I tied the recently stolen warhorse up but I knew it wouldn’t be necessary. He felt an inexplicable sense of loyalty to me, inexplicable to him because I had instilled it. I melted the snow off in a small circular radius around the fire I had created and sat down. Pulling out the few possessions I had been able to gather up before escaping: a dull blade from the smithy, a small satchel of traveling food, and an archaically decorated, slim, black volume.

Sitting down by the fire, I began to reflect on the day’s events. My father had loved me and no amount of delving into the arcane magics would have changed that. His nobles, however, were a different matter. I have observed that when given a reason to think they are somehow magnificent, men of little real worth or consequence are apt to defend their power by persecuting others. My father was ailing, and the issue of who was to take the throne on his departure had become one of some divisiveness. He was of course insistent that I, his firstborn and only son, should take the throne upon his death. His vassals were of another faith, however. They would have as their new king Lord Duncan, arguably one of my father’s most brilliant army commanders and without a doubt the wealthiest and most respected of his noblemen.

A few weeks prior, my father had decided that he would resign his throne while still living, and delegate it to me. Word of this had gotten out, doubtless by some betrayal, and Duncan marched on the capital at the head of an army of my father’s finest soldiers. I had stayed with my father even until the very end. I’d have gladly died in his defense. But for every line of veteran soldiers my mighty waves of flame could reduce to ash Duncan could field still more. My father pleaded with me to flee but I would not. Seeing this, he decided to force my hand. He fell on his own sword that I might be compelled to flee. I made sure his sacrifice was not in vain and, even as exhausted as I was after such a heroic expenditure of energy, made my escape.

I turned my attention to the slim volume in my hand. It was one of the few works in my father’s library that had escaped my attention. I flipped carefully through the pages but never seemed to come to the end of the book. Finally, after what seemed far longer than should have been possible for such a short work, the writing stopped. But, to my further amazement, the pages continued. “A book that can never be finished. Marvelous.” The pages near the non-existent end were blank, presumably that I should continue it. I set it down again. There would be plenty of time to study it at length. As I lay trying to drift off to sleep, exhausted but unable to find peace, I stared up at the night sky. It was an interesting thought, and one I had had often, to think that my pursuers and I both gazed upon the same stars, the same moon. To be so divided and yet united in something so simple and universal filled me at last with the peace I had been seeking.

[Snowglare]

The rain would wash his sin away. Doran was sure of it. The rain of molten fire that would greet him in Hell. This rain... This rain was only water, and would scarce wash the dirt away. It was just as well. He'd long ago decided that the gods meant for him to live. Life was his punishment; if it lasted long enough he might well be forgiven. But he didn't want forgiveness, he wanted to go back, to undo what he'd done. But that was impossible. The gods had made sure of it, lest men like him find easy redemption. He was undeserving, like a sycophant knighted for his so-called loyalty.

The rain left clear, deep footprints in the mud. They would be upon him soon. He was ready. Not to die, he silently lamented. Not this day. This day their arrows found his cloak, while his sword found their bellies. Afterwards, he wondered if the dead men weren't worse off than him. Their entrails strewn about, their blood pouring forth willingly, made thin by the water. And who's to say they'd find salvation on the other side, or that he wouldn't? Marla could be waiting for him, could already have forgiven him. She would understand his delay. She always understood. He couldn't go yet. It wasn't his decision to make.

He buried the men in shallow, unmarked graves. The rain would wash away the dirt and scavengers would tear their bodies apart. He didn't care, it was only a token gesture. They'd have given him even less. His head they would give to the king, who would use it to decorate his castle walls. His body they would strip naked, taking all he didn't need. Perhaps they would have used his sword to kill another like him. An outlaw like him. The thought angered Doran for some reason. Didn't outlaws deserve death? Didn't he?

Marla filled his thoughts, as she always did in the forest. As children, they were never far from it, just as they never feared it. You couldn't fear what you loved. They tried to chart the forest once, found they didn't care, and fell asleep deep within, far from home. They made their way back the next day without difficulty, but their parents were nonetheless upset. For the next month they were forbidden to enter the forest. They would have been safe there, he realized. That day, if they had gone into the forest. They were always safe there. Some magic protected them. It was so close. So close.

Tears came, and Doran prayed.

[proudfoot]

I hide behind no steel or stone.
Let them come.

The words were emblazoned on a dark obsidian panel, affixed to the base of the granite statue at the head of the great hall, the statue of Melkiza Sangloria, the great hero. They were his battle cry, his call to friend and foe alike. I had read them many times, and heard them spoken aloud even more. Every social gathering, every meal time, every night before I went to sleep. They were the token of my family; the strength of my bloodline.

I hated them.

For my entire life I had been indoctrinated with teachings of the might of the family name, the power of my inheritance, the pride I should feel at being one of the privileged: a prince in the House of Sangloria. Every day and every night I was told fantastic stories of the courageous acts of my ancestors; of their brilliant achievements, their innumerable victories in battle, their insurmountable superiority over all of mankind. And I was to be the next great Sanglorian king.

There is nothing I wanted less.

Power and might had never appealed to me. The sword and the sceptre were foreign implements; I would rather have pen and paper than mace and shield. I perceived no glory in victory; what pleasure is there in being someone’s better? I had seen my father and watched the life he led. He was the most powerful man in the most powerful kingdom in the world, or so my tutors led me to believe. But I did not want to be like him. He was lonely and sad, grey and old.

But I had no choice. I had been born into privilege; I was obligated to my duty. I studied and I learned, I trained and I grew, until the day of my father’s death, when I set out to claim my right to the throne in combat, seeking to overcome my opponents in the great Tournament of Succession.

The fact that modern-day politics dictated that I could not lose, no matter the opponent, was both good and bad to me. Of course, no one told me I would eventually win by default: they were too busy telling me how much better I was than the rest of the kingdom, telling me that victory was my birthright. But I knew this was not the case. No first-born son of a Sanglorian king had ever lost a Tournament of Succession. Bribery and blackmail saw to that. But did I truly want to win? Of that, I am not sure.

These thoughts ran through my head as I kneeled beside my bed. Today I had officially written my name on the tournament sign-up sheet as the masses watched and cheered. Soon I would participate in and win the tournament I had no desire to enter.

I lowered my head to my folded hands and cried.

[Zulehan]

Light braves my cell. Better not let them see that. They'd go nuts. Poor thing'll be whipped to death by big fat old nuns.

Suddenly it's a whole lot more light, and I groan and double over in pain. It pierces my eyeball, my eye socket, goes straight through the bone and juice to the core of my head, and I burrow my face in my pillows and blankets and wretch in pain. These aren't eyes. They're testicles, and I just got a swift kick to the scrotum.

So maybe it's not so bad that they sealed off the windows and don't let the light in here.

"I'm sorry Sammy, butcha gotta get some food in ya, or you ain't never gonna get better." Glenna, the big burly old church lady that tended my eye and ribs. She's such a worrywort. She cares, but boy, she's strict. "Here, I'm leavin' a plate of food on the table next to the bed. When I leave, you eat it all up, mmkay?" I grunt in hopes of driving her off, satisfied. I can't really seem to get ahold of myself enough to do much more.

But she's not gone yet. "Oh, some tall old man, dressed nice, he came and left a note here for ya. I don't want you straining yourself to read it, now. Wouldja like me to fetch Mother Lydia? She's taken some readin' lessons."

Oh no. "No, no, that's quite alright!" I manage to moan, muffled by the covers I'm borrowed into. "I'll read it later! No rush," I nervously spout. "Thanks a lot!"

"Okay, I'll leave it here for you. Don't you go reading it any time soon. If you need anything, just knock at your door." And finally, she leaves. Another burst of light--this time I'm prepared, and fully protected--and the door is shut again. Just a shy, dusty beam left so I can see to eat.

My eyes are finally recovering. One is smashed shut voluntarily by my eyelid, the other oozing and bloated under a thick cloth wrapped around my head. As the focus of pain leaves my eyes, it stalks, lupine in its efficiency, right down to some broken ribs, and dully picks at them. They're not too bad. Maybe not even broken. I can deal with it.

I put up a good fight, if I may say so myself, but there were at least a dozen guards at the gate. Doran managed to escape; I saw him running with a speeding panic I never would have guessed I'd see from a man so damned dour and proned to moping and sighing. They roughed me up pretty bad before their Captain Gregor arrived and pried them off of me. Since Gregor and I had an "understanding," he deemed that I was free to go.

I went, alright. After some talking and conniving with Gregor, I went straight to the church, and fell flat at the door. I woke up in this room, all dark and dusty and being bandaged and fretted over by big old Glenna.

I don't know what happened to Doran. My "understanding" with Gregor lifted the bounty from his head. But I really don't know what he got in trouble for. So who's to say there aren't still people out there who don't care about the bounty? Who just want him dead?

Graham, the tall old man that dresses nice, is a good friend of mine. He's the kind of guy you can go to ask what material the local cobbler uses to make his shoes, but has never met the cobbler, or just about anyone else here in town, as long as he's been here. The note he left will surely clue me in on Doran's well-being, and perhaps his whereabouts.

As I start to sit up, the wolf named Pain sees his opportunity, leaps roaring from my ribs into my head, and I'm thrown back against the bed again. Okay, so maybe I'll read the note later. I've got time. I get pretty good care here so far, since I also have an "understanding" with the head clergy of this town. Funny, that. Some pay me for the stuff, others pay me to keep the stuff away.

Whatever. I win either way.

[Jazzmosis]

Why or how Frailyn arrived here was irrelevant, now. He stood, alone in the dense thickets. Perhaps it was chosen by the gods he no longer believed in that he would be alone, lost in the forest. He wanted to scream in anguish at his cruel fate; but it seemed pointless since nobody would hear it.

He had never been a bad person - not exactly the kindest of souls, but never the worst. During his younger years, he joined a small group of teenage renegades, commiting crimes; petty theft, acts of vandalism. However, once he reached his twenties, he decided it was no longer worth being an outlaw. Frailyn settled down, taught himself the sword, and the mastery of the bow.

Eventually, he married a fair maiden. Her name... it would never escape him. Naya. Together the two spent years together. Frailyn wept as he recalled these torturous memories. After roughly five winters, Naya and himself decided to visit a famous city. On the way there, his old gang of youth thugs confronted him. Apparently, they were upset about his leaving without notice.

Frailyn's sobbing nearly became uncontrollable.

The thugs tried to mug him to regain their lost time and effort "moulding" Frailyn. While he fought them with relative ease, they took Naya by knife and put it to her throat. Threats were bellowed, from the thugs and himself, he remembered that clearly. He recalled immediately giving in to their demands, handing over his money, his shoes, his possessions - anything he had of value. Seemingly unsatisfied, the thugs made off with his things, and his beautiful bride, Naya. Or at least they tried. Frailyn remembered attacking, no weapon in hand, with such fury that the thugs ran off in fear.

Frailyn looked at the scar in his arm. It paled in comparison to the wound in his heart.

During his fury, he had taken a sword in his left arm, using it to block a blow heading to his face. Although it hurt beyond comprehension at the time, Frailyn still managed to scare his foes off. But not before, in a panic, they took off with Naya.

Frailyn recalled passing out from the pain, and awaking days later. He spent a week searching for Naya, before finally finding her corpse; tattered, beaten, scratched, and eventually he found a knife that had been used to slit her throat.

He sobbed uncontrollably - the memories he had spent so long trying to forget always came back.

Why she was murdered remained a mystery to him; Frailyn eventually decided Naya had fought back and was killed. Probably *****, as well. The widower had attempted to find her murderers, but in the end he only became lost, and without a hope to cling to. It was as if they had disappeared off the face of the earth.

A year had passed since that, and Frailyn was now 29 years old. He had abandoned humanity. From time to time, humanity found him, but he tried to escape his pain by wandering the world. Now, as he wiped away his tears, he had yearned for human contact. But in his efforts to escape pain, he had lost himself in these dense woods. And with each passing day, his pain grew more intense and his hatred and fury for the murders grew.

Frailyn killed when he had to; in his travels he found a sword.

He continued to walk, forcing each step. Exhaustion overwhelmed him, but he knew that an end to this infernal forest would come soon.

Why had the gods abandoned him? Why had he abandoned himself? It didn't matter now; all that mattered was getting out of the forest.

[Üdorim]

'Name?'

'Mayanna.'

The clerk dropped the point of his quill and looked up at her impatiently, 'your family name, miss.'

'Twelvetree.'

Mayanna Twelvetree sat across from a tired looking clerk, fidgeting with her hair and trying hard not to appear comfortable in her tall cushioned seat. She had after all spent the last fortnight on horseback, and the worn leather contours of the chair were whispering to her; ease back and rest for awhile. It was an annoying test of willpower, but a proper lady shouldn't let herself be caught relaxing into a man's seat. The clerk dutifully went on inscribing words and names on the parchment in front of him.

'The duration of your stay?' the clerk stated more than asked.

'I accompany my step-brother to the Tournament Of Succession. He was given a late entry into the tourney and I will be leaving with him when he is done.' she said.

'No more than two weeks stay, then,' he noted on the papers. 'Nationality?'

'Sanglorian.'

The clerk looked up once more, 'you have a Moranian name, miss.'

'I, as was my brother, was given the name by my father, who adopted the name himself from his wife. It's Moranian custom,' she finished.

The clerk tapped his quill against the parchment impatiently, leaving a small trailing line of dots, 'what was his legal name prior to that, miss?'

'I told you. His name is Twelvetree.'

The clerk sighed and gave in. With a final flourish of the pen he signed the form. He dabbed the tip into the inkwell and handed it to Mayanna, 'just make your mark at the bottom and your papers will be complete.'

Mayanna signed with exhausted hands and laid the quill to rest by the inkwell. The clerk blew gently to dry the ink, and then handed over her papers in a roll. 'Enjoy your stay, and may Tristan Sangloria fare well against your brother.'

May Tristan Sangloria fare well against your brother. Loyal words, legal words, religious words. A coward's words. Mayanna walked away from the guildhouse and onto the cobbled streets where a light rain drizzled over the rich and the poor indescriminately. She made her way quickly to the inn where she was staying, worried about the dye in her wig, even though she knew she needn't be. She'd been careful in selecting the dyes and stains to use in this kingdom's weather, so much different from the desert.

When she entered her room she took off the blonde wig and unrolled her own shoulderlength auburn hair; a dead giveaway she was a foreigner. She loosened her limbs and shook her body out, stressed from walking like a Sanglorian slut. The damn women were so hard to imitate with her lean and, she was resigned to it, hipless body. Made her wonder if it wouldn't have been smarter to travel farther east and try somewhere else.

Of course, only the tournament in Sangloria rewarded performance with position. No other kingdom in the world did so; it was why so many nobles were only brutes with nothing but steam between their ears. But she didn't know if she even wanted that position anymore, to be a noble. The need for it in her heart had been quenched by the rains of this place, and all she had left was the smoldering desire for revenge.

Looking out the window at the grey skies outside, she decided that she would leave. After she had beaten as many so-called nobles as she could, gouged out the eyes of as many as possible, she would leave. She would get far in the tourney and withdraw with a noble position, she was sure. Then she would cast that noble position aside to her imaginary step-brother, and leave them both in Sangloria. Something was calling her from beyond the city's walls, and she didn't understand what it was. She thought she had known its source before she came here, but now ... She unrolled her second set of papers and looked at them a long time, before storing them alongside the papers for Coran Twelvetree, the lithe blonde Sanglorian fighter.

She layed down in a real bed for the first time in weeks, and listened to the rain splattering on the roof above her. The same rain is falling on the palace roof, she thought. So why is the King given dominion over men, if the gods weep over his kingdom?

[Mercenary]

The wan sun had long since been up, its pitiful rays diminishing the cold with all the efficacy of a child’s bare fists pounding on an oaken gate. My entire body ached from the long ride and the day’s expenditures. My overuse of magic the previous day had brought the headache I normally endured to a point of such exquisite and unmarred agony that I could scarcely employ my mind in any other endeavor, no matter how small or trifling. I would have to make a point of not expending myself so utterly unless there was a dire need.

I gathered up my things and quickly was off on the road. My pursuers would be days behind me after my lightning-quick ride of the past day and a half, but there was no point in being too lackadaisical. The chestnut’s gait resembled that of a tired old mare, not the powerful, young warhorse I knew him to be. I considered invigorating him with some simple magic but the mere thought brought my headache, which had been receding slightly, once again to full crescendo. Right, no more magic for several days.

Finding myself incredibly bored on the plodding mount I decided to chance a read of the black book. The language at the beginning was in a fine hand, probably that of a commissioned scrivener, and was very elevated. It was too much for my mind to handle in its current state. “There must be some way to diminish this damn headache!” My fingers seemed accidentally to slip from the page I had been reading. The book opened to a page much further in and on it was a rather messy jumble of letters that were just barely decipherable.

“The reader will excuse my imperfect hand as my current predicament dictates that this must be written from the back of a near-galloping horse. The thought has just occurred to me that nowhere in any of the classical texts is there any reference to the methods of coping with magic-exhaustion. This being, I think, one of the magician’s most paramount concerns I will here detail my own methods. First, let it be known that sleep, counter-intuitive as it might seem, is the most detrimental of all activities to which the magician might commit himself. Magic's employment is similar in many respects to the consumption of ale. It should not be used on an empty stomach, and the consumption of good food and drink will aid the magician greatly in his search of comfort and repose.”

I immediately took out a hardened travel biscuit and began to eat it. It was so rock-hard, in fact, that I had to consume it very slowly, letting my saliva soften it enough to chew. The effect was instant and extraordinary. The headache, while still not reduced to those levels to which I was accustomed, had been greatly lessened. The enchantment on the book had to have been one of sweeping and extremely powerful proportions. Not only were its pages endless, it had a tendency to flip to a page pertaining to what the reader was considering. I had to wonder, though, what had brought it into my father’s possession. Perhaps he had been a close friend to a wizard when he was younger? I wondered, too, what had caused the book to pass from the wizard’s hands to my father’s, especially considering that my father was no mage himself. My headache having been reduced, and my curiosity having been piqued, I was eager to return to my study of the book. It would seem to have as its focal point the practical applications of magery, something no other book I had ever read could claim. I had never used magic on any large scale before the past few days, and as such much of what I knew was derived from ancient writings and classical theory.

“Further, if I may be allowed to continue with my alcohol metaphor, the prolonged employment of magic presents certain health risks to the mage. These health risks are purely physical however, so one may practice and practice without ever entertaining the thought of some day being made into an invalid. It is difficult to articulate exactly what these risks are, as different authorities have wildly differing opinions on the subject, but I will offer some symptoms I have personally observed in myself and in my colleagues.”

“Those wizards who specialize in the lighter disciplines, that is, in healing and other so-called holy magicks, have less to fear than do their peers. Theirs is not a profession without risks, however. The effects on users of this sort of magic seem to be largely focused on physical strength and constitution. They demonstrate characteristics that might only be otherwise observed in sufferers of anemia, their dexterity and vigor resemble that of the terribly old and decrepit, even if they are young. Often their hair begins to fall out, and in the well-advanced stages they may cease to be able to grow hair at all. Further, their blood does not clot correctly at wounds and so they must take great care should their skin be broken.”

As I was already pretty well invested in the darker magical disciplines I skimmed the remainder concerning light mages, earth mages, death mages, and all manner of elemental mages until finally I came upon the section that interested me, dark mages.

“The dark mage has more to fear from the negative effects of magic use than does any other sort of wizard. At the beginning of this passage I introduced the idea that all the effects of prolonged magic use concerned physical traits, let me now introduce one small caveat to that general rule; the practitioner of dark magic is subject to an unceasing and malevolent mental assault by all manner of demon and spirit. They are frequently corrupted by the dark spirits with which they are in constant communication. Furthermore, the enormous mental strain of fending off so many demonic beings on a daily basis is in many cases instrumental in establishing mental illness. Only one further difficulty confronts the dark mage and that is the deforming of his flesh. I have observed, though rarely, dark magi who have become so deformed by the practice of their art that they resemble the demons that they summon. Their skin becomes ruddy and coarse, cracks and fissures begin to emerge, giving their countenance a distinctly reptilian appearance.”

“The young practitioner of dark magic who may be reading this might well become discouraged upon discovering what horrible maladies await him. Take heart, young mage! For though your price is higher than that of your colleagues so, too, is your reward. Of the few dark mages I have met, and there are precious few of them, not one possessed anything less than the capabilities of even the grandest of light or elemental wizards. And there are certain measures to be taken in preventing the onset of these deformities. I met a wizard once who, though quite insane, was an intensely powerful dark wizard and yet he possessed none of the lizard-like traits that so characterize other dark magi. Just what methods he used I am not well educated enough to be able to describe here. I leave that to the budding dark mage who may be reading this to discover. But, let him know that there is indeed hope.”

[proudfoot]

Uharo wiped the sweat from his face with one forearm and let his sword-arm drop, his longsword hanging from his hand. Across from him his opponent stood and waited with a smirk on his face.

“You grow tired, Uharo,” said the man, chuckling softly to himself. “I would have expected more from you.”

Uharo’s face tightened in rage; he fought to hold it in. Losing his temper had cost him before. He wouldn’t let the taunting get to him this time. He raised his sword to continue. The man across from him did likewise.

“Prepare yourself, Uharo. I’m feeling… cruel, today.” The smirk grew into an open-mouthed grin of anticipation.

Uharo leapt forward, bring his longsword down in a sweeping arc which was easily deflected. Uharo moved with the parry, allowing his sword to be swung around to his side, pivoting with it until he stood sideways. He put the momentum to use, bringing up one leg into a kick aimed at the other man’s chest. The man jumped back and laughed.

“Come on, Uharo. Such simplicity from someone with such a big mouth. I grow tired of these games.”

Uharo bit back a cry and thrust his sword toward the man’s face. It was easily slapped away.

“You’ll have to do more than that to win the tournament, young one,” taunted the man. “If you don’t improve yourself by then you’ll be out after the first round.”

“Shut up!” screamed Uharo. His chest heaved with rage as the man laughed. Uharo stumbled back against a wooden wall and clutched the handle of his sword with both hands, his knuckles white and his face a contrasting red.

“I thought you were motivated, Uharo. I thought you wanted to become a great fighter. But at this rate you’re only going one place, and that’s the loser circle. I don’t know why I’ve even bothered to train you over these few years. I always knew you’d be a failure.”

Uharo raised his blade in front of his face. “I won’t lose,” he said quietly. “I don’t know where I might end up, but I know it won’t be here, stuck in a worthless hole, in a dead-end job, lording over a handful of children.”

The trainer’s eyes narrowed into slits and he grimaced. “You, young friend, are out of line. I think it’s time you go to bed.”

“I think not.”

“Uharo,” said the trainer, “go to bed.”

“Hikana,” said Uharo, his face a mask of defiance, “go to hell.” In one fluid motion Uharo dropped his sword, reached down to his leg, gripped a smooth knife by the blade, swung it out of its holster, and let it fly toward his teacher’s head.

But his teacher was faster still. In a blur of movement he dodged and countered, flinging two razor-sharp needles at the speed of sound. They knifed through the air and found their mark, piercing Uharo’s ears and pinning him to the wall. Uharo screamed.

The trainer stood and stepped in front of Uharo, his face a livid contortion of red. “This session is over. Go to your room and stay there.” He turned and walked away

Uharo reached up to the quivering two-millimetre-wide needles and gripped them. He ripped them free with a cry and sunk to his knees, holding his head as blood mixed with tears.

[Unvision]

“Closing time,” he announced, wiping out a tin mug with a stained rag. “Any last orders?” He finished drying it and flipped the mug upside-down before setting it on the shelf behind him.

The bar was the only place in the small tavern still lit and the only place still occupied. This was how it ended every night. The same three patrons on the same three stools at the bar, the same tired atmosphere, the same reek of ale and vomit and the same fogged up lantern struggling to illuminate the same scene.

All three of his customers set down their mugs and pushed them across the bar. That was part of the tradition too. The keg was almost empty. He filled the tankers half way then split the remaining trickle between them.

He took a scrap of paper from beneath the counter and scratched another tick on it next to each of their names with a bit of charcoal.

“Ya don’t mean’a tell me yer gon’ter charge us fer that?” slurred the gentlemen in front of him, waving his hand in the general direction of the mug and coughing, his breath mingling with the general foulness of the air.

“We all know ya’ don’t have any money left anyway. I’d put money down that you ain’t paid fer a drink in a year and you’ll never pay fer a single one of these marks!” belched his companion.

They all laughed and hiccupped and drained their mugs and stumbled out of the bar and into the cobbled street. The bartender wiped their mugs with the same dirty cloth and kicked the logs in the fireplace apart so only ashes and dying coals remained. He felt along his calf to make sure the knife was still there, grabbed the lantern off the wall and the keys from beneath the bar and went into the street. The room was finally smothered into darkness as he closed and locked the door and headed in the direction of the docks.

#

Waves slapped lightly against the bulkhead as the moon reflected off the water and made ghosts on the pilings. The bartender carried his lantern down the main dock past the sloops and ketches and turned onto a smaller dock. He walked down the weather-grayed planks and set his lantern down in front of an old cutter that was missing its sail. Other boats and pylons absorbed the waves here and the boat barely rocked as he stepped easily up onto the deck. He yawned, walked to the end of the boat and pissed into the harbor before walking around to the front of his boat to pick up his lantern. Finally he descended into the cabin and blew out the wick.