It is astounding how little we know about the so-called Barbarians, the Adjhin’tor. While both parties undoubtedly committed horrendous atrocities during the war, calumniating the Adjhin’tor as uncivilized savages who only seek to kill and rape is nothing but political propaganda.

Their culture reaches further back than the founding of our nation, and their use of the Arts shows us that we might even learn from them. Their berserkers, called Ravuhn in their language, somehow start enhancing their body while still at the stage of a User, something previously considered impossible. Now I know how they do it.

I wonder, would it be possible to combine our use of the Arts with the body-enhancement of the Adjhin’tor? My path is too set in stone to try, but what if I were to take an apprentice? No. That’s not something I would want to unleash on the world. Too much blood has already been shed.

Excerpt from Of righteous Evil, chapter 2: The War against the Adjhin’tor. Written by Elusco, bane of the Sadmora. Published in 540 a.f, banned throughout Ceraviehl in the same year. No known copies exist.

Nothing disturbed the eerie silence of the woods. No birds were chirping, no rabbits hopping around. Like a lone wanderer, the wind searched its way through the trees, the branches swaying ever so softly in its caress. Located to the side of the mountain range separating Ceraviehl from the Steppes, the woods very rarely saw any human visitors.

After all, nobody wanted to accidentally stumble across a Chimera that just so happened to take a stroll through the forest.

The woods near the mountain range were dangerous. Not because of the forest itself, but rather due to the mountain range towering above it. One tale spoke of an adventurer encountering a tribe of Endru, their avian forms soaring high in the mountains.

But be it tale or truth, there was one thing that everybody agreed on.

The mountain range was not uninhabited. Nobody had ever ventured deep into the mountains, and those who did never came back. Henceforth, people steered clear of the forest near the feet of the mountains.

Most people, anyway.

A man and a boy stalked silently through the forest, their dark-green cloaks making them blend in with their environment. Not a stick was broken under their feet, not a branch was bend in their path. Suddenly the man stopped, pointing at something in the ground in front of him.

The boy understood the unsaid question and went down on his knee to inspect the tracks. Dozens of small footprints littered the ground. Each had made three small holes in the earth, two at the front and one at the back. Judging by the freshness of the tracks, the beasts had passed through recently.

The boy spoke, his gaze still focused on the ground. His voice was barely audible.

“Derots.”

The man nodded. Holding an elegant, but simple bow in his hand, he began to follow the trail. The boy tailed him, eyes darting from one side to the other.

They had left the cabin just after sunrise. Equipped with both bow and spear, master and apprentice went out to hunt. Now, they followed the trail from a pack of Derots, the same creatures Tom had told the boy to avoid just a few fortnights prior.

Derots were fast and ruthless predators. Their long claws and lithe bodies made them a serious threat for many inhabitants of the forest—especially so in numbers.

Weaving their way through the dense woods, the two continued their silent walk. A while later, Tom stopped again and turned toward Silas. The old man tapped his ear.

The sound of something sharp repeatedly scratching against wood came from their left. Tom’s voice was low as he spoke.

“Ahead of us lays the pack. It’s a small one, probably around five strong. We are each going to take one shot before switching over to the spear. Don’t let them get near to you, or things can get nasty very quickly.”

Silas took a deep breath to calm his nerves. The sounds were getting louder with each step. Hidden behind a thick bush, they observed their prey. Ahead of them, three Derots stood around a dead rabbit. Sharp teeth ripped out huge chunks of the unfortunate rodent.

A fourth one raked its claws against a nearby tree, its long snout still red with blood. It was slightly larger than the rest and had matt black fur instead of dark green, like the others.

Pointed ears twitched as it sharpened its claws.

While Silas had heard of Derots before, he had never actually seen one, let alone a whole pack. Despite them being rather small, the boy knew not to underestimate the creatures. He shuddered.

A movement from his left caught his attention. Tom first pointed to the larger Derot sharpening its claws, then to himself. Nodding, Silas chose one of the smaller Derots near him. Almost in perfect sync, master and apprentice nocked an arrow each.

Focusing completely on his target, Silas drew the bow. With the weapon in his hands and the Derot in his sight, all of the earlier anxiety dissipated. After drawing the bow as far as he could, Silas exhaled, letting go of the string.

Silas’ arm vibrated as he watched the arrow fly toward the Derot.

It struck the unsuspecting four-legged creature straight in the chest, causing it to stumble. Opening its mouth in a short-lived screech, it collapsed after a few heartbeats. Tom’s arrow had firmly pinned the creature against the tree. Limbs growing slack, the creature was dead in an instant.

Both arrows had hit their respective targets almost simultaneously. The remaining two Derots locked their gazes on Silas, baring their long teeth. Hind legs catapulting them forward, he dropped the bow and grabbed his spear.

He took a step back to stand beside Tom. Glancing to his left, he did a double-take as he looked at the empty spot beside him.

Tom was gone.

Hands clenching on the spear, Silas watched the two Derots approach him. Where was his master? There was no way he could fight both Derots all by himself, and neither could he outrun the nimble creatures. He had to fight them.

A shaky whimper escaped his throat as he saw a third Derot emerging from a bush far to his right. The two other Derots were almost upon him by now. Reaching out with his magical sense, Silas connected his Inner Landscape with the spear in his sweaty hands. Gnarly stood on his shoulder, amber eyes completely focused on the incoming creatures. With only a couple of feet between them, one of the Derots suddenly jumped and lunged itself toward Silas.

A heartbeat passed as Silas locked gazes with the creature.

Arms moving in a practiced motion, his spear struck to meet the creature midway. The Derot impaled itself on his spear, the weapon piercing it deep in the lower chest. Snarling viciously, its forelegs reached toward Silas. Claws glinted in the midday sun. With every movement, its body pushed itself further onto the spear in his hands. Dark blood flowed along the shaft of the weapon and coated his hands.

Silas almost didn’t register the second Derot lunging at him.

He swung the spear around to stop the incoming creature. However, the other Derot was still impaled on his spear, its arms and legs flailing around as it tried to reach his hands. The spear was too heavy. He wouldn’t be able to make it in time. But Silas was an Artist now. He had more than the strength in his arms. Adrenaline coursing through his body, Silas desperately pushed energy through the connection and into his spear.

The previously heavy spear immediately jolted to the right to meet the Derot in mid-air. His grip on the spear slipped, his hands sliding forward a few inches.

But a few inches were enough.

Pain shot through him like a scorching blaze. Multiple long and deep lacerations exposed the flesh and bone of his hands. Silas almost lost control of the spear as the impaled Derot collided with the one jumping at him. As if it weighed nothing at all, the lunging Derot got catapulted away and crashed into a nearby tree. The sharp crack completely drowned out the dying screeches of the Derot still impaled on his weapon.

Hands quivering in pain, Silas strained to push the dead creature off his weapon. A low hiss made him abruptly stop. The third Derot, the one coming from his right, was almost upon him. He immediately let go of the spear, frantically shielding his face with his arms as the creature lunged at him.

The Derot landed right on his arms, its claws latching themselves deep into his flesh. Silas screamed. He instinctively stumbled back, desperately trying to shake the creature off. Its hind legs continued to slash at his chest. He was out of options. A treacherous root caught the heel of his right foot, and he lost his balance.

Silas fell.

It was at this moment that he truly feared death. The creature bared its long fangs at him, spittle dropping onto his chest. Then the Derot bit down. His arm first cracked, then broke entirely. Yellow, slit-like eyes stared into his. This was it. He would die here, without ever having awakened his first affinity. Without ever having avenged his pa—

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A wooden spike from behind his shoulder shot forward. The Derot screeched in pain as it hit the creature right in its eye. “Creak!” Another projectile barely missed the other eye as the creature moved its head at the last moment.

Silas needed his spear. Gnarly’s attack had momentarily dazed the Derot, but he had to kill it now. Concentrating on his newfound Artsight, he could sense vaguely the weapon laying somewhere to his left. A glint of metal caught his attention. The weapon lay just a few feet out of arm’s reach, too far for him to grab it in time.

There was nothing he could do. Why had his master abandoned him? Desperation gripped his heart and stopped the breath in his lungs. Silas froze, unable to move.

Fear.

Once more, it was his fear that took control. His parents had died because he had been too afraid to defend them. And now, Gnarly was bound to share the same fate. All of it because he was too afraid. Too weak.

Silas screamed.

However, this was not a scream of pain or desperation. Instead, it was born of pure, unadulterated rage.

Rage at his inability to protect those around him.

Rage directed at Tom, for abandoning him.

Rage directed at the world, for making him suffer.

Like a fire spreading through him, the blazing fury completely extinguished the cold fear that had crept into his bones. Mouth twisted into a snarl, Silas stared at the Derot on top of him. His Inner Landscape latched onto the spear. The tip moved to point at the creature’s head.

Reaching out to Gnarly, Silas funneled both his and Gnarly’s power into the spear and willed it to strike at the Derot. His Landscape was almost drained, but he didn’t care. Like a bolt released from a crossbow, the weapon exploded forward.

The creature didn’t even get to react. Squishing open like a ripe berry, the Derot’s head was completely obliterated as the spear went straight through it. Blood gushed out of the open neck as the creature collapsed onto his chest. He vainly tried to cover his mouth and nose from the gore as he shoved the creature off him. He spat, large blobs of crimson landing beside the dead creature. Retching, Silas tried to get the metallic taste out of his mouth. Puke joined the blood covering the ground as he emptied his stomach.

Legs shaking with the effort, Silas stood up. He grimaced as he looked down at his arms. The bone stuck out in various parts, and the blood kept flowing unhindered. Pain gradually overwhelmed the fleeting remains of adrenaline still coursing through his body. He groaned, trying to stay conscious.

Silas knew he needed to stop the bleeding, but he didn’t have any bandages with him. Cutting the cloth of his half-shredded shirt would theoretically be possible, but he knew he didn’t have the strength to do so. He could hardly stand as it is. His shoulders slumped. Gnarly tried to comfort him, but no amount of ear-patting could help him in his current situation.

“To be honest, that went better than I expected,” a voice came from above.

Silas raised his head. Face serene, his master slowly floated down. As if nothing had happened, the old man calmly looked down at the swaying boy.

The boy’s fists clenched. “I almost died! Where were you when the Derots attacked me?”

Tom cocked his head. “Oh, me? I was up in that tree, watching you,” the old man said, gesturing to a rather large tree above them.

“Why didn’t you help me?” Silas screamed.

“That is a good question, my young apprentice. However, I think we should head back to the cabin before answering that one. You look a bit unsteady on your feet, are you feeling alright?”

That did it for Silas. The pain in his arms was almost unbearable at this point, his vision swam, he was completely covered in blood and gore, and now his master stood there asking him if he was alright?

Pulling all his remaining energy from his Inner Landscape and pushing it into the spear lying beside him, Silas commanded it to shoot at the old man. Tom’s wrinkled face did not change one bit as he saw the weapon approaching. Instead of piercing him in the chest, the spear did a graceful arc around him before settling itself on his back.

“Of course I will take the spear for you, since you so kindly asked,” the old man said. “Now, you might want to sit down before—"

However, Silas could not hear him anymore. For the third time since meeting his master, he lost consciousness.

***

Dozens of leaves rose from the ground, cushioning Silas’ fall. In an instant, the leaves formed a solid bed under him. With the unconscious boy on top, the bed floated toward Tom.

“Creak creak creak!” came from somewhere between the leaves.

“Don’t you worry Gnarly, I’m healing him already. It’s not half as bad as it looks.”

With a lazy wave of his hand, the gore flew off Silas and the bleeding stopped. The bones reformed themselves and the muscles started to knit themselves back together. Flesh and skin contracted as if pulled by dozens of unseen strings, and the various lacerations on his arms and chest were closed within the span of a few heartbeats. Not a single scar could be seen.

“You see? He’ll be as good as new in a day or two. Besides, I think he learned a lot during that fight,” Tom commented to Gnarly, who emerged from the bed of leaves.

The wooden creature wildly waved his arms around. “Creak! Creak creak creak!”

“I could have intervened during any moment, he was never in any serious danger,” Tom assured Gnarly.

“Creak, creak!” One finger pointed at the unconscious form of Silas. “Creak?” Gnarly glared expectantly at the old man.

Tom held his hands up. “Alright, alright. I admit I may have been a bit hard on him. No need to scream at me like that,” he grumbled.

The two of them spend a few moments in silence, the bed of leaves floating smoothly alongside the old man as he walked. After a while, Tom turned his head to glance at Gnarly.

“What do you think, when is he going to make his first empowered shot?”

Gnarly looked at the sleeping form of Silas beside him. Putting one wooden hand on his head, Gnarly spoke, or rather creaked, with confidence.

Tom’s eyebrows shot up. “You think so? I have to admit, I’m curious to see when he’ll get the hang of it.”

The two continued their idle conversation as they made their journey back to the cabin. It must have made for a bewildering sight. A tall, old man dressed in a dark, green robe with a floating bed of leaves and an unconscious boy on top of it. All the while talking to a little wooden creature that could only voice one sound. If anyone were to see them, they would surely be more than a bit perplexed.

Not that anybody would be able to sneak up on the old man living in his cabin, of course.

***

Silas woke to a soft pain in his nose. He groaned in annoyance, trying to protect his nose from any more pulling. Gnarly let out a few high-pitched creaks at seeing him finally waking up, his arms now pulling at one of Silas’ fingers.

“Don’t disturb the princess, Gnarly, she needs her beauty sleep.”

Confused, Silas opened his eyes. His wooden companion stood right in front of his face, amber eyes looking expectantly at Silas. In one corner of the cabin sat Tom, hunched over a booklet lying on a small table. Silas watched his master dip the feather into his quill as the events from the fight came to him.

Hands clenched on the soft furs. “Why did you abandon me like that? You left me to die, you stupid old—"

The words got stuck in his throat as Tom turned his head. “I did not abandon you, I was merely watching you. Besides, you were never in any real danger, so no need to make a fuss about it.”

Tom calmly returned his attention to the book before him, unbothered by Silas’ anger. The quill scratching against the paper was the only sound filling the otherwise silent cabin.

What did the old fart just say? Silas still remembered how he had fought to keep the Derot away from his face, how it had bitten down on his arm. Silas remembered the sound his bone made when it eventually broke, and the biting pain when the Derots’ teeth sank deeper into his flesh.

“Making a fuss? I almost bled out from my wounds, and you say I’m making a fuss?”

He opened his mouth to say more, but was interrupted by Tom. “And how do you feel now, princess?”

Silas’ eyes bulged. “Stop calling me princess!” he shouted, Tom’s impassive demeanor only further enraging him.

“How do you feel, apprentice?” the old man asked calmly, not even looking at Silas as he continued writing in his book.

“How do I feel? I feel fine!” Silas screamed. The boy paused. He felt fine? Looking at his arms, he was surprised to see them completely healed. Not a single scar could be seen. How had his wounds healed already?

Tom grunted. “That’s what I thought.”

“How long did I sleep?” Silas asked, trying to make sense of the situation.

“Barely a day,” Tom replied offhandedly.

Either the old man was lying, or he had somehow healed him. And while his master might be many things, Silas didn’t take him to be a liar.

“I didn’t know you were a healer,” the boy said slowly.

Tom was silent for a while. He continued writing in the book in front of him, strands of light grey hair partly obscuring his face.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, apprentice.”

Silas tried to peer through the curtain of grey hair. “Anything else I should know about you?” he asked his master.

“I don’t like to be asked stupid questions.”

One day, the old man would get it all back. Silas relished that thought. He glanced at the small bookshelf beside the door. A heavy tome caught his attention as he stood up, its spine slightly protruding from the rest—Tom must have read it recently. “Of righteous Evil, by Elusco, bane of the Sadmora” read the cover. Silas skimmed over the first page.

In retrospect, I realize that even those famous heroes had as much blood on their hands as I do now. Ignis is the best example. The revered defender of the pass, incinerating hundreds of Adjhin’tor with a swipe of his hand. I was there, in the spring of 534. I heard the screams, smelt the burnt flesh, and saw his smile as he hovered above the swath of scorched corpses. This was not a hero—but neither am I. Not before, and certainly not after I took his life.

“I never knew the infamous bane of the Sadmora wrote a book.” Of course the Bane tried to justify killing Ignis, one of the Guild’s greatest heroes who ever lived. Silas was just surprised he hadn’t heard of the book before.

The scratching of quill against paper abruptly stopped. The cabin darkened. Silas tore his eyes away from the book. The old man was completely still, the hand that held the quill stopping just above the inkpot. Tom’s voice was unnervingly calm as he spoke.

“Put that back. Right now.”

Silas put it back. “What, am I too young to read books like these?”

“You are free to read any of the books on my shelf. Just put them back where they belong, if you so please.” Tom dipped the quill into the inkpot.

“What? You just told me to put that weird book back!”

“I did no such thing.”

Silas could feel his teeth grinding against each other. He took the book back out. However, the cover had completely changed.

How to avoid getting hit on the head: a guide for young apprentices, and stupid people. Read to find out which one you are.

What? He glared at his master’s back. Silas opened the first page.

Many young apprentices seem to actively seek reasons to get hit on the head. This book aims to give those in need, or pain, a way to minimalize future repercussions of not keeping their hands to themselves.

Hint, hint.

What in Herald’s name…

He skipped a couple of dozen pages. A sentence seemingly wrote itself on the previously empty page. Don’t you have better things to do, apprentice? Or should I get my staff? Silas hurriedly closed the book and shoved it back into the bookshelf. A snort came from Tom’s back.

“I’ll be outside, training,” Silas said after snatching his spear.

“Good idea.”

A cool breeze greeted Silas as he stepped out of the cabin. The trees were shedding their leaves, various shades of orange, yellow, and brown dancing through the air. He had surprised himself during his fight against the Derots. If he could command the spear to shoot forward like an arrow, what else would he be capable of?

Behind him, Silas heard the cabin door close, the wood groaning in protest. He continued practicing, his spear flowing from one form into the next.

“Glad to see you’re not cutting yourself anymore.”

Once. It had happened once. Silas glared at the old man. Tom simply returned the stare, his face unreadable. For a while, neither did so much as blink. Both fought a silent battle, neither one wanting to be the first one to give in. However, the old man’s stare was chiseled from stone. Silas eventually gave up winning the staring contest and averted his eyes.

“Now that you have successfully found the pointy end of the spear, I think we can move on to the next lesson,” Tom announced.

Gripping his spear, Silas forced himself not to attack the obnoxious old man.

“What’s the next lesson, master?” he said through gritted teeth.

Tom smiled.