Malcolm yelped. It was a miracle his ear was still attached to his head since Guard Blake seemed hell-bent on pulling it off on their march across town. Fancy getting dragged out of the arena at the best bit! He peered hopefully down at his shirt. The fighter’s blood had spurted for miles, and the look on Ganoir’s face as he watched his own legs disappear was like… Well, Malcolm didn’t know exactly what it was like because Blakey yanked him out before he got a proper chance to see, but he didn’t look happy. Hardly surprising, mind. It wasn’t every day that a monster got the better of a fighter, especially not by ripping him in half.
At the end of the street, the guard hauled hard to the right. Malcolm’s feet parted company with the ground, and Mona’s inn swung into view. He had precisely two minutes to come up with an excuse fit for his brother. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed, practising. “I swear on your life I’ll never go there again.” He had planned to go straight to the town hall, but an unguarded arena entrance? They practically invited - no, no, they forced him in! He groaned. Declan wouldn’t buy it. Malcolm renewed his pleas. Of all the days in all his fifteen years, he could not afford to mess up on this one. “I need to go back!” he wailed. “Please, Mr Blake! Let me go!”
Blakey sighed and tightened his grip. Malcolm was a decent lad, but he was far too interested in all that new-fangled monster fighter nonsense. It was about time Declan found his kid brother a new hobby or more chores, or both, at the same time, and the sooner the better. If he didn’t, the boy was going to end up dead, and Blakey certainly didn’t relish being the one to deliver the news. The old guard shuddered. It had been bad enough telling him about Hob.
Malcolm gritted his teeth. If he was going to make a run for it, he needed to do it now. He took one last breath for luck, yanked his head away and dived for the grass. He needn’t have bothered. Blakey had his feet back on the path so fast he glimpsed daylight through his nostrils. “Please, Mr Blake!” he begged. The door was in sight. More importantly, so was his brother. “Please, Mr Blake, I need to go back! Take me back!”
“Take him back.” Declan shifted from foot to foot under the guard’s solemn gaze. Of all the days for Mal to bring trouble to the door, he had to go and pick Choosing Day! “Malcolm needs to go back, Mr Blake, b-but I assure you I will be dealing very strictly with him just as soon as he returns home with his stone. You can count on me, and, of course, er, thank you for your time.” Declan patted his pockets then bit his lip.
“Don’t you worry yourself,” said Blakey. As if he’d take money off a couple of kids! They both looked like they’d not seen a square meal in months. Everyone knew Mona had an inn to run, but the older lad made her a fortune with that baking skill of his. No doubt, she hardly paid him either. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if the kid was paying her! Half the town said Mona had an irresistible bargaining skill. Mind you, the other half called her mother and supped their evening ale with the branch off a rowan tree shoved down their trouser leg. He shook his head, casting an eye around the sparsely furnished hut. “You two managing alright, are you?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr Blake,” chorused the brothers.
“It’ll be easier now too, you know, once Malcolm gets his stone.” Declan threw a pointed look over the guard’s shoulder.
Blakey blinked. Stone? It wasn’t Choosing Day again so soon, was it? He’d have to get the healers to give his head another wobble. Choosing Day was make or break for a kid. Young Declan had the right of it. Punishment would have to wait. The old guard raised a hand in salute. “Right you are, lad. Back to the town hall it is then! About turn, Malcolm! Quick march!”
Mal didn’t need telling twice. He hit the path at a sprint. “By the way,” Mr Blake called back, panting already. “Mrs Blake says to tell you, er… What was it again? Er - we’ve been let down. Yeah, that’s right. Her sister can’t make Sunday lunch after all. You boys would be doing us a favour.” Declan grinned and closed the door.
Once they were out of view of the inn, Blakey slowed the pace. A fast walk covered just as much ground as some crazy run. Even better, a fast walk with a couple of nice little breaks in between. Slow and steady wins the race. Old Jenks had that skill, and he was the fastest mailman in town. Mr Blake sank onto the nearest step. “Hurry up!” he yelled to Malcolm’s fast disappearing back. “You need to get a shift on, you know! You don’t want to be missing out on all the best ones, do you?”
“Yes. No. Thank you, Mr Blake!” Malcolm managed to wave without breaking stride. The old guard smiled and leaned back against the sun-warmed wall. Choosing Day, hey. He remembered his own like it was yesterday. By the time Malcolm was out of sight, Mr Blake was fifty years behind.
Mal skidded to a stop outside the town hall, his hand poised above the handle of the huge oak door. This was it then, but he needed to calm down first. Decisions to last a lifetime were being made in there. The urge to hurry nagged at him. He squashed it down and focused his thoughts inwards. For about the millionth time since it appeared that morning, the scroll behind his eyes unfurled: Skill-stone. The swirling green letters sent a thrill through his core. He'd never get tired of seeing that word – never. Except maybe he would if it was the only word his scroll ever held, and the chances of that happening were getting higher with every second he spent staring at the door instead of opening it.
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He was late. The room held almost a hundred people. The choosers stood around the edges. The centre was filled with waiting family members and those elders who couldn’t let anything happen in their town without their noses being firmly in it. The prospective sponsors stood at the back - less than usual this year. Some held signs declaring their profession and the skills they sought. Others wandered the hall, closely followed by the floating orbs of yellow light that came courtesy of the Luminates. Mr L himself stood below the biggest orb. The strain of keeping it afloat told at the edges of his fixed grin. The illumineer had never made a secret of his disappointment in the stone he chose. Even so, he’d made the best of it. Last month, he opened a shop on the main street. Every time Mal went past, it was packed. Mr L was keeping his balls in the air. Malcolm needed to do the same, no matter how late he was.
In one corner, wooden stairs led up to a platform ringed by a string of green flags where the officials waited – the choosing area. Mayor Hardwick paced in tight circles, throwing longing looks at the door and diligently avoiding his wife’s glare. Next to him, Wordsmith Mathers, the representative of the menagerie, stood with his eyes closed and his head bowed – a picture of saintliness, unless he’d nodded off again. The other man on the platform had been the talk of the town for days. He was the representative of Fowk Island. They sent one every year because - according to Benson the butcher - Fowk didn’t trust Feor to organise a piss-up in a barrel. This year, they hadn’t sent just any old official. They’d only gone and sent the chief archivist himself! Malcolm was standing in the very same room as the man in charge of the whole archive hunt. Now was the time to make a good impression.
The queue to choose a stone stretched the full length of the hall’s perimeter. Malcolm rubbed his ear. Regretting his life choices was getting to be a habit. If he’d stayed at the town hall in the first place, he wouldn’t be the last in the queue. No, not the last. He cast a consoling look at the slight, dark-haired girl slipping into line behind him. Funny, he’d never seen her around before. He smiled kindly. Suspicion flared in her eyes. Malcolm gulped and turned to carefully examining the bottom of his shoe.
At least, the line moved quick enough. No sooner had a chooser picked a stone out of the bag, than they were escorted by a waiting guard straight to the sponsors – a picture of smooth efficiency! The mayor’s wife smiled to herself. Word of Feor’s excellent new mayoress must have travelled far for them to send the chief archivist. Well, it was about time their tiny island finally did something impressive. She shifted slightly to check exactly how impressed the archivist was with her smoothly efficient Choosing D-
“YESSSS!! GET IN THERE!” Albert, the blacksmith’s son, jumped the string of flags and careened off the platform, arms in the air. “YESSS! I GOT SHOOT! I GOT SHmmmf!”
A guard’s meaty hand slid over his mouth. Nobody was supposed to find out what was written on someone’s stone until after they’d told the potential sponsors. It looked like no one had bothered to let Albert in on that. Unless blurting out his stone was a ploy? Malcolm stood on tiptoe, craning his neck. If it was a ploy, it was a good one. A crowd of wannabe sponsors flocked towards Albert. Even the chief archivist had a glint in his grey eyes. He gathered up his silver cloak and marched down from the platform. The last Mal saw of Albert was his wild grin vanishing beneath a wave of the most powerful organisations on the island, all vying to make the blacksmith’s son their newest recruit.
Malcolm sighed. The word etched on a chooser’s stone wasn’t guaranteed to get them a combat skill, but when that word was shoot... He reached for his dictionary. It fell open at the extra pages he’d stuck in at the back. His list. Six hundred and fifty-three words. All the words he thought would give him a good chance of triggering either a combat skill or a monster related skill. Next to each word, Mal had painstakingly written out a list of skills including that word. They were all combat skills of course. In tiny letters, he’d even added notes on how he could use each skill to fight the greys. Granted, some of his ideas were a bit out there. He’d had to get creative. The best ones he’d learned by heart. It wouldn’t look good if he fumbled his spiel, not with the chief archivist around. He looked like a man with no time for fools.
Right on cue, the archivist emerged from the crowd of sponsors, ushering Albert ahead of him like a prize pig. He neatly swerved the blacksmith’s handshake and strode back up to take his place on the platform. Mal sighed. Bang went his chances of winning the chief’s favour! He returned to his list, lips moving as he silently chanted. It seemed like no time at all before a small hand nudged him. Strewth, he’d been so wrapped up in his list, he’d almost missed the damn choosing! He grinned his thanks to the girl behind, who was now casting suspicious looks at the ceiling, and hurried up the steps.
The archivist’s stare was like a physical force, cold and insistent. The man must have activated a scroll seeing skill - clear as daylight maybe. Malcolm opened his eyes so trustworthily wide they stung. It made no difference. The stare pinned him in place. Eventually, the archivist sniffed and waggled his head in a vague approximation of a nod. At last!
Mayor Hardwick thrust out the bag. It was deeper than it looked. Malcolm’s arm was in up to the elbow before his fingers even brushed the bottom. On Choosing Day last year, by the time the boy at the end of the line got to the front of the line, the only stone left was a tiny chip with the word ‘of’ on it. The boy’s family disowned him the very next day. Mal swallowed hard. His fingers danced over the remaining stones. None felt big enough to hold decent words. Only two felt whole! Imagine Declan’s face if he came home with half a word – like that would keep Mona off their back.
“Time!” snapped the archivist, snatching the mayor’s arm away.
“Hang on! I haven’t -” Malcolm’s protest died on his lips. The decision was made.
He didn’t want to look at his stone in front of everyone. He’d waited fifteen years for it. This was something private, not a thing to share with strangers. At least, the sponsors weren’t paying him any attention. No one seemed remotely interested in what the poor, scruffy kid had chosen. They were all too busy making sure they secured themselves a worthy protégé. Malcolm uncurled his fingers. He gazed down at the tiny grey stone with its two engraved letters.