The Sands, Zerial
“Faster, Faster, FASTER RECRUIT SEBASTIAN” Sir Roderick thundered from behind us as he ran us ragged around the training yard. "Endurance is the king - no! The emperor of combat, recruits! A man with no endurance in a fight for his life had better be lucky because if not he will surely be dead! Endurance and technique are the pillars of a Knight of Hexenguard! No wimpy ass boy is going to achieve status as a squire, much less knighthood, without both of those things" Roderick us them relentlessly around in a large loop. His expert eye gauged when a recruit was truly at their limit and when they were just feeling sorry for themselves.
After another seven laps, completing a grand total of - oh. Only seven. Less than a mile. "PATHETIC," bellowed Roderick, barging in amongst the us like a raging bull. It was actually pretty good for a group of preteens who had never really exercised properly to run this far this fast after three weeks of training, but Roderick would sooner fall on his own sword before complimenting a recruit. "All of you, stance one, now" Roderick called and we scrambled to get into a horse stance with our training spears held out horizontally at arms length. This was Roderick's favorite time to lecture, because recruits who focused on their own misery as opposed to his words would fail his quizzes later on - also given during extreme physical duress because a recruit who couldn't recall information under pressure was useless to him.
"What is the best weapon to use against an armored target?" Roderick asked calmly as he paced in front of them.
"SIR, THE BEST WEAPON TO USE AGAINST AN ARMORED TARGET IS A MACE!" Screamed Sebastian at the top of his lungs.
"WRONG!" Shouted Roderick as he pushed Sebastian over into the sand. "PUSH" and Sebastian immediately forced his body to comply, beginning to perform pushups as fast and accurately as his tired body could.
"NEXT" Roderick called out, pointing at me.
I panicked. Blunt weapons were a good answer to armor! If blunt wasn't right.. "SIR! THE BEST WEAPON TO USE AGAINST AN ARMORED TARGET IS A POLE-AXE!" i hollered, thinking that i hit on a good idea. A proper pole-axe had a hammer, axe head, and spear!
"Good answer..." Roderick started to say before suddenly pushing me over. "NOT. WRONG. YOU! PUSH. YOU! ANSWER!" as I began to do push-ups in the sand the recruit next to me, Uriel, screamed out his answer - also wrong.
Before long the entire row of recruits had exhausted their choices. Nearly every weapon had been called out and yet Roderick had called them all sorts of names for being so stupid and not using their brain.
"The answer is simple, and it is something you all failed to provide" Roderick said unreasonably. "The best weapon to use against ANY Target is your FUCKING HEAD! AND NOT LIKE THAT ZERIAL," Roderick's voice boomed out, singling me out for face-planting into a wooden dummy, as if I had done so on purpose. "Everything is situational! And you need to have context of the situation in order to decide on the best course of action as rapidly as possible! Is the enemy also mounted, as Knights would usually be in a traditional setting? Or is it a company of heavy infantry? Are you fighting on a castle wall? Do you have access to a circle of mages?" Roderick lectured. By this point he had swapped roughly half the class over to jumping jacks, as our arms were to weak to do more than 20 pushups in a row, especially after holding a ten pound spear out for so long.
The lessons continued painfully, as when one muscle group grew exhausted Roderick would swap us rapidly to utilize a different set of muscles.
"And so now we come to the three pillars of a warrior! Endurance, Technique, and Intelligence!" Roderick said, contradicting himself and making up things on the spot. Truthfully there were so many factors to consider that it was irrelevant to assign any one part importance over another. But the purpose of these lessons was not actually to teach - although learning did occur - the purpose was to break us recruits until we were quivering piles of meat, perfect clay for Roderick to mold into merciless killing machines. True education on combat and warfare would come in later years. Hexenguard was known for the quality of its professional military nobility. Many of the knights from Hexenguard would go on to attend the Royal Institute of War where they would learn advanced knowledge of how to kill and conquer in the name of their King.
Roderick turned to his sergeant-at-arms and nodded. He needed a break.
Sergeant Miller saluted Knight Commander Roderick and took his spot.
"REEEEEEEEEEEECRUITS!" he cried out, imitating the brutal voice of Roderick effortlessly. "AAAAAAAATENNNNNNNNNNNNTION!" came the expected cry, and we hastened to obey, forming into neat and orderly lines. There were four rows with twenty recruits per row - quite a few more recruits than normal on account of the upcoming war. "Recruits today we will begin to discover the beauty of MARCHING!" The Sergeant said, and then called the recruits to order before turning them left and marching them across the yard. Once he approached the wall he called for us to halt and march in place with our training spears held in a professional upright grip. Any recruits who failed to hold their spear perfectly were singled out by a swarm of men-at-arms who were the true professionals of marching.
"ABOUT... FACE!" Came the measured call from Sergeant Miller, who then proceeded to march us in the opposite direction as his subordinates continued to swarm the recruits in frenetic activity, correcting mistakes and singling people out for intense one-on-one training sessions to correct their many deficiencies. No one was spared this process as the experienced men seemed to be able to find something wrong no matter how much the we tried - by design. No one can be perfect but that did not stop these unreasonable men from demanding perfection in all things.
These recruits, who though the height of suffering was being forced to run, push, jump, and pull themselves into exhaustion thought that simply walking back and forth across the training area would be easy but we soon learned that the opposite was true - boredom was a punishment unique to itself. After roughly an hour of the men-at-arms hazing the recruits Knight Commander Roderick came out and assumed command of them once again - and all he did was march us back and forth again and again for hours. The relief soon turned to boredom which eventually became pain as our feet, calves, thighs, and arms cried out their own individual aches and pains. This lesson continued until the sun began to set and we could see relief on the horizon - they would be allowed to gather food and head to the scriptorium soon!
But Roderick dashed their hopes easily by calling for the gates to be open after maneuvering the recruits to face it in a column. Sergeant Miller came back out and took control and taughtus all the joys of a forced march at a crisp military pace of 120 steps per minute. As the column ate up the miles we began to fall out of formation and yet those who could continued to march, stepping over their comrades who had collapsed from exhaustion with questions in their heart.
"Leave the weaklings to die" Miller said heartlessly, "And close the gaps in that formation or we will start running. Do not make me instruct you to do so again," and still we marched on. Past the castle walls, into the forest along a rough dirt road towards a local town. Never did we see the men-at-arms pacing us stealthily, collecting the fallen recruits and chucking them carelessly into a wagon. Today was their first true test of endurance, as we would march under the light of the moon until midnight where we would be allowed only bread and water before a four hour sleep, interrupted by an hour of watch each for those who did well and two hours for those who failed earlier.
Eventually we were allowed to collapse into quivering piles of meat. The men-at-arms arrived with a cart of those who had fallen out - roughly a quarter - of the forced march and forced to climb down. They were given a mere half-loaf and some water and forced to be the first ones who stood guard. I fell asleep for the first two hours I was allotted immediately, before being forced awake roughly with the tip of a boot and made to stand my hour. At roughly four in the morning by Sergeant Millers precious time-keeper we were reformed for march and marched in the opposite direction and back into the training yard, arriving around noon.
Squashing our desperate hope for some rest, Knight Commander Roderick was there waiting for us as fresh as a daisy and meaner than a freshly castrated bull.
"Did you have a nice little walk?" Roderick asked us evilly. "No? GOOD. RUN." and just like that he was chasing the us across the yard, laughing evilly and waving his sword around like a lunatic. "I HEARD YOU LITTLE FUCKS DROPPED AFTER ONLY THREE MILES. YOU DIDN'T EVEN MAKE IT TO THE TOWN. IS THAT WHAT THIS GENERATION IS? IN MY DAY WE MARCHED TEN MILES IN AN HOUR! PATHETIC" Roderick was clearly lying but it was not like we knew what was even possible. All we did was feel wretched for ourselves and run even more...
The Scriptorium - Tika
"Wake up Sebastian!" Tika amplified his voice with the Sacred Arts, causing the drowsy boy to clatter out of his seat and onto the floor. These things were designed this way, and Tika once again was reminded that the recruits would not learn much for the next few weeks. Exhaustion from the Sands followed by the warm and comfortable atmosphere made it a supreme task for us to remain awake. It was advantageous for all students to learn in a calm, comfortable, and relaxed environment. With proper motivation, which could come from the instructor or their own personal drive to learn and succeed, they would learn plenty!
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It was why Tika and Roderick worked so well together. Everything was a lesson. What was taught out in the Sand was reinforced in the class. Discipline. Attention. Alertness. We had finished their first forced march and the subsequent day of rough training. Already three recruits had been dropped from the course of instruction. They would gain the opportunity to try again, but only once more. If they could not succeed after two tries they would be sent to a more relaxed military academy if they persisted in receiving another chance - persistence was rewarded regardless of failure.
"Today we will be covering a subject that should give you recruits a little bit of energy..." Roderick said to the reduced class. Only the recruits were in this class at the moment and a watchful squad of men-at-arms lurked behind them. At this juncture of training they would begin to mix the relaxed classes that Tika ran with the hectic terror of the Sands. The men at arms were watchful for slacking recruits who they would snatch up at the drop of a hat and take them outside for a little... instruction time on the importance of discipline.
"Magic." Tika continued. You could have heard a feather hit the floor from how quiet the room suddenly became. Every eye, even those of the men-at-arms was laser focused on Tika. "Magic, or the Sacred Arts as they are properly called in Hexenguard... The will of the World. The Breath of the Gods. Cosmic Energy. Force and Flame, Sorcery and Destruction. With it, the Practitioners of the Sacred Arts can heal or destroy. Alter and create or reduce and remove. The fundamental nature of the Sacred Arts is to change the underpinnings of reality as we know it to produce an effect. Overt Effects. Subtle Effects." Tika paced at the front of the class, his passion for the subject lending a gravity and seriousness that drew in his audience. He loved this. He loved the Sacred Arts, and teaching them was a joy every time.
Tika centered himself and reached into the core of his being. A non-existent wind rustled hair and clothing as mage-lights lining the walls began to dim as Tika began to rotate the core of his soul, creating a vortex of energy within himself. Invisible to the observers who waited with baited breath Tika's world was awash in the colors of the world from all ends of the spectrum of light - even those not normally visible to human eyes. He could see it all, the strings and rivers of the universe power that ruled reality and bathed the world in it's majesty. A sight that still awed and humbled the mighty mage to this day.
Suddenly the wind stopped and the lights dimmed so much as to be nonexistent. But light shone from Tika's fist held commandingly in front of him. A multicolored hue that shimmered every color possible, and even merged to produce things that defied words - colors that were not colors. Shades that did not exists. Blue that was red and green that was purple. Black that was also white. Though frail it seemed to all those present that Master Scholar Tika was mighty in that moment, his face thrown into sharp and savage relief, a brutal light shining in merciless eyes and a rictus of a grin stretching across his demon-like face. Elation and wonder turned rapidly into horror and fear for the recruits - even the men-at-arms, who were all hardened combat veterans, and who had seen such things often felt the stirring of terror in their hearts.
At this moment it seemed that the center of the universe existed in Tika's fist, as if all of creation and all of the demons in all of the hells could be unleashed from his fist.
"ThIS is PoTEntIAL YoUNG ReCRuiTS" Tika's voice came across as a whisper on the wind, the roar of a dragon on the horizon. "THIS is THe EsSenNnCE of MMMAAAAGIIIIICCCC!" Tika's cry elongated in an inhuman way a the end of his statement. For every second that passed it seemed that the danger in the room increased exponentially. Surely this would be their end. This would end the world. It was there! "POOOOOOOOTENTIALLLLLLLLLLLL!" Tika screamed and with a bang the ball exploded, showering us in harmless light and sound-waves. We were plunged into a darkness darker than black, more complete than death. I felt not the soft cushions under my butt nor the hard wood of the desks.
"Potential is Magic and Magic is Potential. Potential is the Sacred Way, the Sacred Art. To harness Potential is to harness the Cosmic Will of the Universe" Tika's voice carried itself across the void to our ears. Light shone once again as the mage-lights re-established themselves and bathed the room once more in their comforting brilliance. Tika looked haggard and old once more, but the shadow of eternity lingered in his eyes, the mantle of power he obviously wielded seemed to crush ua into our seats. Where before stood an old codger now stood a master of destiny.
I sat mesmerized. Where others had felt terror i felt only familiarity. Where others had seen death approaching, I felt creation in it's shadow. Everything for me had felt reversed. I said nothing but my feverish gaze locked onto Tika's fist and refused to leave it. Tika noticed but said nothing. Long had Tika suspected that I was capable of looking beyond potential's tendency to destroy into it's ability to create. This was the sole criteria for training the Magi of the Kingdom. A temperament suited for creation and healing that soothed the worlds tendency to corrupt and destroy. It was not to be for me. I was due to inherit, and thus the possibility of wielding potential would forever be denied me upon pain of death.
If Tika had even for a moment read my mind - a capitol offense in this kingdom - he would have immediately sought to change my destiny. It was rare for the uninitiated to see the shadow of potential in both ends of the spectrum. That hinted at a capacity for the Sacred Arts that could become as deep as the oceans and as unyielding as the mountains - a rare occurrence amongst rare occurrences. The markings of an Arch-mage such as Tika himself was.
"Master Scholar Tika... If Magi are capable of such acts, why are they not the ones who command the world?" I breaking the brittle silence at last.
"An excellent question, given the nature of man and the nature of power. Before I answer, pray tell me what the nature of man and the nature of power is?" Tika reversed the line of questioning and caught me by surprise. Luckily this was an answer I was prepared for, as my father and I had many conversations as such. I found the Sacred Arts a fascinating topic to consider.
"Um. Master Scholar, the Nature of man is to seek providence and power in order to increase his standing, rank, and lot in life. The nature of power is to be sought and to corrupt in turn, causing others to seek power in return to punish injustice. They are related because, in general, man is greedy at heart and power seeks to be sought. That is as the temple of the Gods teach us!"
"Very good Zerial, very good. Now, if the nature of man is to, in essence, seek power then it is an easy leap of logic to assume that those who practice the Sacred Arts would naturally seek to rule. Indeed, such instances are not only statistically and historically relevant there is even the Mage Empire of Estoria across the ocean! They have a magocracy where only those who are capable of magic are entitled to marry into the royal bloodlines! The answer to your question is simple. The ability to do as I have just done, to wield potential in it's raw form is the sign of the Arch-mage. Very few in this world can see both the light and shadow of potential clearly enough to harness potential in it's raw form." Tika paced at the front of the room as he lectured and he did not need to look at his students to know that he had their complete attention. This night would be etched into their memories and souls until their dying day. A common effect when witnessing raw Potential.
"The magocracy stands as the preeminent example of both the good and bad that mage-kind can cause. It only stands as an empire because the societal norms and the rule of law are enforced in such a way as to prop up that power structure. This creates instance where the political powers are heavily entrenched and the commoners and non-magical nobles alike will fight to maintain the structure. This ensures that even when their Empire is not headed by an arch-mage they are not vulnerable to outside influence or rebellion... Zerial, tell me what that means," Tika turned and maintained eye contact with me.
"Master Scholar... this means that... their structure is strong enough to withstand troubling times... because everyone believes that they benefit from the system in some way, or maybe they are too weak or disorganized to change that system... and so even when they do not have a powerful mage as their Emperor, they can maintain their sovereignty until such a time as one is found?"
"Close enough... Now lets continue" Tika turned and pulled out a heavy leather tome...
I lost myself in thoughts as Master Scholar Tika began to discuss the history of magic as it pertained to Pervalia. I had felt such a strong connection to the mysterious and chaotic-yet-ordered ball of potential. It seemed to scream of destruction and whisper of creation. That alone was impressive for the uninitiated to grasp even a hint of definition but it went a step further. To me it seemed as if the potential itself was out of balance. As if the potential of chaos and destruction was an order of magnitude stronger... no, not stronger... more prevalent than the potential of creation and order.
Unknown to all but Master Scholar Tika, Gerald watched from a balcony above the students. Nothing escaped Master Tika's eyes, but he knew that the man would not miss seeing his adopted son exposed to raw potential without his oversight. While Gerald liked to pretend to take a hands-off approach to his son, Tika knew that the man watched his progress like a hawk. His duty demanded no less.
Gerald's thoughts were his own though as he considered the vacant expression on Zerial's still-processing face. It was not a surprise to him, personally, that potential had such an impact on Zerial. His genealogy would tolerate no less than a fascination. Gerald and Jarold had gotten into quite a bit of mischief themselves at the same age when the realms of magic were breached...