039 – Broken
***
My vacation from the other disciples couldn’t last forever. After serving their sentences as instructors for the novices, Zambulon, Yurk, and Hwilla returned to the Hall of Discipline. The task of teaching was not really that harsh of a punishment. Yurk actually enjoyed his time roughhousing with younger students. Zambulon hated it for the symbolic loss of status and the feeling of being pushed back instead of moving forward toward his goals.
Putrizio met with us in the Hall of Discipline as the disciples moved back into the dorm rooms. He said no more of their prior misbehavior, but was notably more stern than usual. Any more screw ups would bring punishments for us all.
“Zambulon, you have sufficiently mastered your first tier one technique. While you should work to improve its rank, at this point studying a second technique is more pressing. Having multiple techniques gives one more tactical options in a battle. Think over what you want to develop. Since you have an attack, a defensive technique might be wise, or an enhancement to your physical abilities.”
“Yes, fightmaster.”
“You are, in my opinion, fit to graduate to an unmasked swordsman. Once the dark lord arrives, I will recommend you for a field mission as a final test of your skill. Keep in mind that becoming a swordsman is the first step on a long journey, not a destination. Don’t let a title or office go to your head. You will be mixed in with people with decades of experience and high rank fighting techniques, so have some humility and common sense out there.”
“Thank you, fightmaster,” Zambulon said.
“Fightmaster Putrizio. I have a question. How are techniques graded by tier?” I asked.
Putrizio twirled his sheathed sword in the air. “It’s all balderdash. Rubbish. I hesitate to even explain it to you for fear of corrupting your young mind. Many centuries ago a famous swordsman named Smarkenomer created something called the ‘Smark System’ as a way to rate the power of magical techniques. It’s not a highly accurate system, but people stick to it out of sheer obstinacy.
“The general idea is that techniques fall into three tiers of complexity. To learn higher tiers, a swordsman must first focus on the appropriate method (augmentation, enhancement, or projection). Anyone can learn a third tier technique. To learn a second tier technique, you must favor that method. And to learn a first tier technique, you must wholly specialize in it.
“Ranks are a grade of raw power, regardless of complexity. Some techniques are very simple but strong. Those would have a low tier and high rank.”
“Wouldn’t a specialist with a top-tier, high-rank technique be the best?” I asked.
“Becoming a specialist is a hard thing to accomplish. It requires that you never advance a technique from another method past the basics—tier three, rank one. With that handicap, most people do not survive long enough to attain one of those superlative techniques. Thus only a handful of eccentrics pursue specialism, often hermits and monastic types who sequester themselves from the world.
“On the other end, generalists tend to come from self taught swordsmen. Some are wanderers, mercenaries on the march, or nobles who spend more time managing their fiefs than studying the blade. They end up with only basic techniques at decent ranks. Such swordsmen never rise to prominence for their martial prowess.
“There is a reason every major sect teaches a balanced style that focuses on two methods and forgoes a third. It’s proven effective. I encourage my disciples to stay balanced, but every swordsman must follow their own path and make their own choices. This isn’t a formal sect. I won’t force you to give up your strange passion for projection.”
From what I understood of sects, they had rigid and dogmatic training. Each style had a catalog of signature techniques, and students could only learn from that limited set. The sect elders frowned on eclecticism, so adopting foreign techniques was forbidden. While that sounded overly strict, they only picked students who matched their styles well. Anyone who didn’t fit in would be sent to study at a more suitable place.
“Hwilla. It’s also too early for you to choose a method or style,” Putrizio said. “But while studying, you should judge which techniques feel the most natural to perform and satisfying to learn. That will help when the day comes for a decision.”
“Yes, fightmaster.”
“Yurk. Your path was clear from the start. Just keep practicing.”
“Okay.” He gave a thumbs up.
Yurk followed the Path of the Jock. He was going for a balance of augmentation and enhancements. Augmentation would make him strong, and enhancement would make him super extra strong for a short time. It was a simple, direct style that lost out on the range and tricky attacks of projection. Technically, Yurk was the opposite of me, which meant I must have followed the Path of the Nerd. I was totally fine with that.
When fightmaster Putrizio concluded the day’s lesson I slipped out of the Hall of Discipline. Leaving the other disciples alone for a bit might help erase some of their resentment. Things would go back to normal in time, I hoped. And the good news Zambulon received might alleviate his anger toward me.
The citadel buzzed with activity. All the crews worked day and night to prepare for the coming of the dark lord. Many of them now regretted the bribes they took to do frivolous work, such as installing Veylien’s chandeliers, because they now had to rush to finish their important tasks, such as installing chandeliers in the dark lord’s throne room.
Out in corridors, Hwilla caught up to me. She grabbed onto my arm and pulled me close.
“Strythe! I’m so sorry. I never meant to leave you in that cauldron. I thought the others were there to let you out,” she pleaded. The skull mask hid most of her face, but not her large eyes welling up with tears. “Don’t hate me. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? ‘Sorry’ doesn’t cut it. I endured hours of torture because of you.”
“Strythe. Don’t go. We’re fated to be together. We’re in love. So please forgive me. Let me make it up to you.”
“This can’t be forgiven or fixed. You repulse me. If there was ever any chance of our union, it is now utterly extinct. I would rather date a troll or a goblin than you.”
“I feel terrible about what I’ve done,” she sobbed.
“Good. You should feel terrible. But please do so somewhere else.”
I yanked my arm away and turned my back on her. Crushed by the sudden refusal, she ran back to the girl’s dorm room with tears streaming from her eyes.
In truth, I wasn’t really that angry. I could forgive her later on, provided she got over her unhealthy infatuation with me. But that wouldn’t happen without some cruelty on my part. If I had to break a girl’s heart to get her to leave me alone, then get a broom and dust pan, because I would stomp it smithereens. Once a situation involves life threatening danger, social niceties and sparing people’s feelings become much lower priorities. Her love was going to get me killed, one way or another.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
As cruel as that might sound, it would be worse to string her along with false hope. A solid rejection made a clean break. She would cry, feel miserable, recover, then move on. It would be awkward for awhile, but I preferred that to the alternative.
Breaking things off with Hwilla wouldn’t win me any points with Zambulon. He would hate me for making her cry. But that was a no-win situation. If I didn’t break up with her, he would hate me as love rival. This option was the least bad.
I could not believe I had to deal with adolescent drama on top of all my other problems. My first life involved none of this nonsense, because I dedicated myself to my studies and avoided any sort of romantic entanglements. In school, I had only a few friends and almost no social life. So, although I was about six years older than the other disciples, not counting years spent in a coma, that didn’t give me more experience or wisdom about matters of the heart.
***
Nimblesto wanted that glowing orb so bad. He scratched up the lid to the iron box in frustration.
“Nimblesto hate box. Hate lock!”
“Well, you’re just going to have try harder. How can you call yourself the best thief, if you can’t pick a lock?” I asked. The goblin threw a broken lock pick at me. “Quit breaking those. They take time to make.”
The thief specialized in sneaking and stealing, and dabbled in throat slitting, but life in the Spitpoison Valley had not given him much opportunity for lock breaking. He didn’t understand the inner workings of human-crafted locks until I chalked some diagrams for him on the workshop walls. With that picture book guide, he jiggled the metal picks inside the lock for hours. His tiny hands gave him an advantage for manipulating the tools. He often boiled over with rage and threw little fits, but this was the first task that kept his attention for more than an hour. He really wanted that red daemon core.
“Hate lock. Hate human. Hate box. Hate–” The lock clicked and the latch fell open. The goblin’s dark mood instantly transformed into sheer jubilation. “Ha ha ha! Nimblesto beat lock! Nimblesto smart, fast, best. Lock weak. Humans weak. Goblins best.”
He rolled around on the ground laughing and holding his sides. When he finally calmed down, he opened the lid to the box’s dark interior.
“Where glogloball?” he gasped.
“I moved it, of course. The orb is now inside one of these seven other boxes you see here. Each one has a lock with a slightly different design. They’ll provide a good challenge to you.”
“Which box?”
“You’ll have to discover that for yourself.”
“Human trick goblin! Human stink.”
“I spend all day practicing, so you can do a little self improvement too. It’s good for you.”
The goblin threw himself on the boxes and scratched at them in anger. He shook them furiously, but I had placed round objects inside each one. He couldn’t find the right one that easily. With much growling and cursing, Nimblesto attacked the next set of locks.
While he mastered the thiefly arts, I worked on my own projects. Besides the daemon core itself, I had collected the shattered bits of horn from the fallen golem. Rare lunar essences infused the chunks of red crystal. At the moment, they had no use, but they might be ingredients for alchemic medicines. Or, I might use them as components for some future item of my own design.
Alchemy required a storehouse of rare essences. Dead monsters provided the richest source of those essences, so my future adventures would involve butchering their corpses. Not a pleasant thought. Most of them would be much gooier than Old Stoney the golem. I had already sifted through the trolls’ hunting trophies and collected a good number of useful tusks, claws, horns, and bones.
“Hello! Are you home, Master Strythe?” Zvidsi, dressmaker extraordinaire, entered the workshop. “I’ve brought you some leather working tools.”
I helped her carry a box full of equipment inside. Zvidsi often added fur collars and lining to her pieces. I needed these tools for more utilitarian purposes with stiff leather, making scabbards and straps and pouches. Animal skin, although grisly, made an excellent material.
“Master Strythe. I heard that you made some young girl cry. You must be more careful with your words. Don’t you know that women have very tender hearts?”
“How did you hear about that?” I asked.
“Well, a workman saw it happen, and a minion overheard it. Then they combined their stories and passed it on to another. Eventually it leaked up to the servants in Veylien’s apartments. The story might have been exaggerated by the time it reached me, however. According to what I heard, you told the girl you would rather date a troll or a goblin.”
“No… No, that’s fairly accurate.”
“Oh, you rake! So cruel. Now that you’ve broken a poor girl’s heart, you must be ready to move on to your next conquest. I’ll have you know that I’m quite conquestable.” She fluttered her eyelashes at me, dramatically.
“Please. Zvidsi. You’re the only normal person I know in this citadel. Well, halfway normal. If you start getting emotional, I’ll be left totally adrift.”
“Oh, you’re no fun, Strythe. You have to learn how to flirt a little. Think of your image. It’s a vital part of being a dashing swordsman.”
“Dashing? Never heard of it. Is that a magical technique?”
“Is it ever! I’ve met a few swordsmen with some amazing techniques, let me tell you.” She fanned herself, dramatically.
Zvidsi was an artistic type with a big personality, not exactly the sort of person I dealt with in my first life.
People who could not fit in to our Ancient society—those prone to conflict, or who found it impossible to stick to a regular schedule, or who were just plain strange—often went to the Hall of Craftsmen to become artists. They ‘expressed themselves’ by making handicrafts: furniture, jewelry, paintings, sculptures, ceramics.
Citizens enjoyed these unique items. Although industrialized mass production provided for all our material needs, the goods our factories produced were all the same. People didn’t always want such simple items. For special events, such as birthdays, tradition was to give a handmade gift from the Hall of Craftsmen. Those unique items served as keepsakes that would preserve the memory of the day. So even though crafting items by hand was economically inefficient, artists and artisans had a value that could not be easily measured by straight forward logistics.
My lack of sentimentality and artistic appreciation did not come from my foreign culture. The Ancients passionately loved art and architecture and theater and music to the point of distraction. Not understanding those topics was my own personal quirk. And it was the same with romance; I always avoided it like a disease. Back in the Community of Scholars, more than one person had referred to me as a ‘human golem.’
“Hate box!” Nimblesto snarled.
“Oh, my! Is someone else here?”
“That’s just our local goblin translator,” I said and thumbed toward where Nimblesto battled the locked boxes.
“Oh! You’ve dressed him in a little coat. How cute. And look at his little red hat!”
“Redcap,” Nimblesto corrected her.
“Why it’s adorable.”
“Goblin no doorbell.”
I said, “He’s not cute. He’s a hideous monster with pointy teeth.”
“Yes, but he’s a tiny hideous monster. And when something ugly shrinks enough, it becomes a special type of charming.”
“Hmm. That must explain Veylien’s weird little dog monster…”
“Master Strythe, this isn’t the goblin you were talking about dating, is it?”
“No. I don’t think he’d like that. Nimblesto’s only passion is for stealing things. So keep an eye on your jewelry when he’s around. That patchwork coat of his has a lot of pockets.”
“Ha ha. I better get going, Master Strythe. There’s no time for me to dawdle. Come show me the things you’ve made when you finish.”
“I will. Thank you for all your help, Mistress Zvidsi.”
Zvidsi didn’t want to be gone from Veylien’s apartment too long. More importantly, she didn’t want to be at my workshop, a place Malisent sometimes visited. The two women still hadn’t spoken with one another after their separation. Zvidsi couldn’t work up the nerve to face her former employer.
That was another job beyond my skills. I was clearly unqualified for repairing broken relationships.