Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Challenge
Michael awoke to a dull, slow flash of light. He groggily opened his eyes to see that the underside of the bunk above him was pulsing gentle yellow. Michael carefully stood, so as not to wake Flinn, and sat down on his dishevelled bed. The glow was coming from a very lightly carved rune glowing with sunny light before fading away again on the underside of the top bunk. When it was dark, the lining was almost invisible.
To his right dozed Carlisla, smothered in her own frizzy hair, mumbling, “Can you turn that off please?”
Michael whispered, "Sorry," and instinctively reached up to the swirling shape. As soon as his fingers entered the same space as the magical hue, the light snapped off and he heard the door to the room click open.
More light entered the dorm room as the door was pushed open, revealing Amekot in his usual formal dress standing in the hall.
Michael frowned, knowing he should probably stand, but something kept him seated. “Amekot?”
The man’s hair was richly oiled, his beard was neatly trimmed and his coffee-coloured eyes were twinkling and bright. “Do you have a moment, Mister Williams?”
Michael looked at him for a sharp moment and then came away with a flowering anger. He was looking at a man who hadn’t lost a moment’s sleep. “Sure. I’ll be second.”
Michael closed the door none-too-kindly and pulled on some fresh clothing, taking his sweet time. He grabbed his bow and a quiver of arrows before stepping into the hallway with the fortress commander.
Amekot folded his hands politely and asked, “Michael, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind manning Flinn’s guard-post this morning? Given... events, I think we should give him the day off, don’t you?”
Michael couldn’t help but agree but caught himself before nodding along in any kind of pleasant way. He pointedly replied, “I’ll help Flinn out, sure.”
The aristocrat smiled in his performative way. “Great. Your post is on the Eastern gate turret. It’s simple enough. You’ll be primarily watching for Nikereus’ forces, but if anything else unexpected comes along, just ring the bell attached to your turret. One bell means a messenger arrival. Two means you want an advisor. Four means an emergency assembly of forces.”
Michael knitted his brow in confusion. “Not three?”
Amekot shrugged and said, “You wouldn’t think more than one person would miscount to two, but it’s happened. Four is slightly more distinct. And lastly, if you hear anything like the sound that the Reaper made yesterday when it manifested, forget counting, just ring as many times as physically possible and run.”
Michael felt his face pale a touch and nodded.
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
“Good luck,” Amekot said with a smile, then turned and left down the corridor.
Michael sighed and went back into his room before heading off, helping Flinn up to his bed, not wanting to leave the young man slouched on the floor.
The spearman didn’t speak to him as he crawled back in bed, but Michael knew better than to take it personally.
*****
Guard duty consisted of very little actual work in the end. Mostly it employed his ability to stay warm before the sun had risen and to appreciate the gorgeous scenery.
Michael was sitting on the battlement, breathing steadily through his fear of heights when armoured steps approached behind him. He already recognised the muted shifting metal to be Jack’s armour. It made a distinctly quiet noise compared to the Iron Suits of Bawdion.
The warrior cleared his throat all the same, removing his plumed helmet. “Michael.”
“Mornin’ Jack.” Michael noticed his mace was back in its sheath, stiffly held under the weight of his absent-minded hand, as it always seemed to be. “What can I do for you?”
Jack’s much-scarred face softened at his gentle tone of voice and the man looked awkwardly at his feet. “I was hoping you’d consider joining us in the Arena for some further training. I know yesterday has people distracted, as is fair, but Nikereus needs our attention too, I’m afraid, and our time is stretched terribly thin.”
Michael nodded, eager to get off the wall when he noticed the man pursing his lips. Through his many scars, blackened eye and hard demeanour, Michael gently realised he was anxious about something. “Is there something else, Jack?”
The armoured Riniglacian blinked and his unease vanished behind a hardened face. “Nothing. Come along, the next guard shift is about to rotate over.”
Michael followed the quiet warrior down the steps of the great wall and they headed toward the arena.
The fortress moved with a lazy morning flow, but everyone was quiet. Since the arrival of the Monarch of Stone the breakfast chatter and gentle hum of instruments had been somewhat suppressed, but today, beneath the added layer of Ilo’s fall, it became unbearably silent. Blacksmith hammers fell in the distance, but they didn’t interrupt the tension, rather they seemed only to outline it.
As they passed by the forum, Jack asked, “Have you eaten?”, casually glancing over the scarcity of Legacies but making no mention.
Michael nodded, his heart warmed by the though. “Grabbed something on my way to the wall, but thanks.”
The sound of the iron portcullis rattled him back to reality. As his ears took in the sound of the metal clangs and clatters, Michael realised it was accompanied by the low roar of a crowd.
“Is there training on, already?”
Jack didn’t answer and ran into the arena. Michael took off after him and as they rounded into the fighting grounds, he came to find Flinn standing on the arena floor in his battle armour and that the stands were full to their brim with spectators.
Jack marched up to the dark-haired warrior and said, “Flinn, you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”
Flinn’s gaze was hazy and tired and he looked to Jack sadly and replied, “I’m doing what anyone would do.”
Michael frowned and ran up to the two of them, asking, “What’s goin’ on?”
“Alexander!” a dark voice roared from the gateway.
Michael turned to see Magnus, cloaked in black with his scythe in hand storming into the arena, his red-eyes glowing. “A summons? You think you can summon me like some household dog?” In his left hand was a scrunched roll of parchment, knuckles white in the crushing grip.
Flinn move passed Jack and Michael and stepped up close to Magnus. He was calm and still on the outside, but his gentle voice was colder than a still winter. “Consider yourself challenged, for the insults you laid upon my friend who gave his life while you cowered in the dark.”
Flinn spoke softly, but the entire Arena heard it.
Magnus bared his pale teeth in a smile as Flinn spoke and for a long moment he didn’t say a word. His eyes blazed like blood-washed rubies. When he finally did, he uttered only, “Pick the weapons.”