“This a strange lair,” Korg declared, running his hands against the polished obsidian stones. “Were you the one who vanquished the beast who once dwelled here, great one?”
Monus Stormshroud slowed in his steps, appraising Korg critically. He stood straighter and walked with powerful and confident strides the way a true warrior should, hoping that Monus Elk-Friend would deem him worthy of being bestowed this priceless piece of knowledge.
“Yes,” Monus finally said, turning back toward the path ahead. “Yes, let’s go with yes.”
Korg forced himself to hide the grin threatening to overtake his face, proud that he had passed this first test. It only made him more eager to demonstrate more of his virtues to the only man his father had considered his greater in battle.
“It must have been a tale worthy of the great sagas,” he guessed, then saw a chance to demonstrate his formidable intellect. “Yes! My father made mention of the southern skalds! The bards, they called themselves!”
“You are well-informed.”
He preened at the well-deserved praise. Hah! Just wait till he finally defeated his quarry and returned home with its carcass intact; Wyrhild and Gloska would never believe the sort of recognition he was receiving from the Monus Stormshroud!
But mere recollection of the skalds tales was only but the tip of the iceberg when it came to the talents of Korg, son of Gorth. He had trained in the arts of war with the tribe’s fiercest warriors, and he had learned the ways of the spirits from the clan’s wisest shamans. None of the latter could possibly compare to the Stormlord Reborn that he now walked beside, but he hoped to at least impress the great shaman with what little prowess he had in communing with the spirits.
He breathed in, drawing a trickle — just a trickle! — of his warrior’s rage. He spun that into emotion, into the vigour of life, into memory, threading the spool of that spiritual force into the world beyond with a silent plea to the local spirits.
What manner of battle was fought here, little spirits? he tried his best to ask. What have you witnessed in your endless vigil?
The spirits did not speak in words or images save to the greatest of shamans who were attuned to the spiritual world. As little more than a mere adept in the shamanistic arts, all he managed from the garbled mess that assailed his senses was the barest glimpse into the nature of the titanic battle that Monus Stormshroud had engaged in against the former ruler of this place.
“A bloodless victory,” he breathed, eyes wide with awe. “A contest of wills, and you sent the beast fleeing with terror with its tail tucked between its legs, never to return lest it face your ire.”
Alas, it wasn’t enough to impress Monus. Instead, the shaman merely grunted. “That is how a panel interview and merry retirement works, yes.”
Korg lowered his head, humbled that this must be common knowledge in the southern lands, but still fed another trickle of his own power to the spirits of the land as gratitude for their assistance. For a moment, he tensed, almost staggering as the power drained from him. After his earlier brief battle, he probably wouldn’t be able to enter another state of rage in the immediate future without some rest ahead of him. Calling on the spirits was taxing, and though the shamans of his tribe had informed him that it would become easier as he progressed further in both the paths of a warrior and shaman, he would admit that he was a lot more comfortable with the craft of warfare.
Speaking of warfare…
“Great shaman —“
“Wizard,” Monus sighed. “Or archmage. Whichever you prefer. Gods, has Gorth been going around telling the entire Thousand Spines that I’m a shaman?”
Korg winced. Yes, in his excitement, he had forgotten that wise though he was, the great Conjurer of the Heavens was a tad misguided when it came to his identity and destiny.
It was a shame, but Korg supposed it was to be expected. As his father’s stories went, if his good friend Monus Stormshroud didn’t have that single flaw, it would have been far too easy to mistake him for a deity returned from the Empyreal Battlefield.
“Archmage,” he said instead. “I… forgive me my impudence, but I must ask, for my strength is surely limited when compared to your own. If you are leading me to where you have sealed the beast, I would implore that you allow me a warrior’s respite, for I must regather my strength and focus my warrior’s heart before I am ready to —“
“No, Gor — no, Korg,” came a tired reply, and Korg wondered what manner of beast the shaman must have been fighting so early in the morning to already be battle-wearied at this hour. “There shall be no focusing of a warrior’s heart today, I’m afraid.”
“What about —“
“No, there will be no breaking of skulls, dismembering of limbs, or cracking of bones, either.”
Korg fell silent, his question answered. This must have been the fabled art of Divination that his father spoke of, one that the legends said Monus Stormshroud used to read and weave the currents of fate.
“But then… where are you guiding me to?” Korg asked. “The mead hall, perhaps? Or… the training ground?”
Alas, much as it pained him, even a friendly spar was probably going to be difficult in his present state. Sure, he could rely on his warrior’s instincts alone without falling into the passions of rage, but then he would not be able to bring his full prowess to bear. What would be the point of that?
“No, I suspect that would be the last thing we need right now.”
Monus glanced toward the side, where several unbloodied younglings of his southern kin were scurrying about, eyeing the living legend made flesh. They muttered among themselves, pointing fingers and whispering in hushed tones, no doubt awestruck by the great archmage. As soon as their eyes met, the shy puny little southerners ducked away, unable to hold the intensity of so powerful a gaze.
Just as his father’s tales went. There had been a time that he thought that they perhaps might have been slightly embellished, knowing his father and his love of the skalds’ sagas, but now that he was living the legend for himself…
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” Monus spoke, “but perhaps it would be best if you stopped thinking for a moment and just follow me to my office.”
That word was enough to send a harsh chill down Korg’s spine, every fibre of his being stilled as though a puny fawn before a mighty manticore. His father had spoken with whispered dread of this ‘office’ before — it didn’t exist in the north, for no honourable folk would subject another to such treatment — but in the south, such methods of torture existed. More than once, his father’s life had nearly been cut short by the agony of boredom that had awaited him in their dreaded ‘offices’.
Was he… was Korg about to be punished? But why? What had he done? Had he unknowingly insulted the great shaman? The stories did always say that though Monus Stormshroud was good and kind and just, to the enemies who earned his wrath and ire, he could be as his namesake itself delivering the judgement of the heavens…
With his head hung low, Korg mutely followed his honoured kin, knowing that in Stormshroud’s great wisdom this was surely punishment that he deserved, even if he knew not what his crime was
On and on they went through the snaking labyrinth of stone and metal that was this ‘academy’. More than once, Monus Stormshroud displayed the depths of his power, bidding the unseen spirits of the land that he’d tamed and subjugated to yield. Stone parted into the walls of the great cave and colossal doors of metal and stone receded into hidden crevices in the floor and ceiling, revealing passageways and staircases that had been veiled from sight.
Then, at last, came the dreaded words.
“This is the headmaster’s office,” Monus Stormshroud said. With a wave of his hand, the door opened. “After you.”
Korg, son of Gorth, gathered whatever remained of his strength and whispered a silent prayer to his ancestors for guidance.
Then, bravely, he entered.
-x-x-x-
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Not for the first time today, Monus Stormshroud felt completely out of his depth. Korg, son of Gorth, was so much like… well, Gorth, that it was always uncanny. Walking side by the side with him, it was almost like Monus himself had been replaced with a younger simulacrum of himself, reliving the memories of countless caverns and labyrinths that he’d braved beside his old friend.
Of course, he was still going to send a missive to the Thousand Spines demanding compensation for that ruined golem the boy had split in two with his freakish strength. It might take months, nay, years — couriers rarely made the trip that far up north, if ever — but it was the principle of it, damn it!
“I am ready, great sha — archmage.” Korg knelt before him, his obscenely large axe laid on the ground. Before he could even process that fact, the warrior continued speaking. “Whatever offense I may have caused, I am ready to receive whatever judgment you deem fitting.”
“… oh for Planes’ sakes,” Monus swore, shutting his eyes tight. “I really, really don’t have the energy to deal with this right now.”
Exiled Gods, he was definitely getting old. How had he managed to travel alongside Gorth Skullthumper for almost twenty years back in his youth?
Korg peeked up at him, saw that he indeed wasn’t about to deliver punishment — Monus wasn’t about to try to even begin following whatever chain of logic had led him to that assumption — and gingerly picked up his axe to sit on the offered chair.
“But uncle, if this isn’t the reason —“
Monus stared at him, a silent question asked through his raised brow. Thankfully, the boy at least recognized that.
“You are the sworn brother of my father,” Korg began saying. “Honoured blood kin to the Elk Tribe. If… if it displeases you…”
Several thoughts ran through Monus’ mind.
Firstly, was it his imagination, or was the boy embarrassed?
Secondly, had Gorth spent the last twenty years since his departure to his homeland telling stories of their adventures to all the tribes of the Thousand Spines?
Thirdly — and perhaps most importantly — when had he and Gorth ever become sworn brothers?
He considered the matter in his mind for a moment further, but decided to let things be. Perplexed though he was, past experiences with Gorth informed the present him that going down that line of questioning was almost certain to be a bad idea.
“Call me whatever you want,” he said, then paused. “No. I retract that. Wizard or archmage — and if necessary, I suppose you can call me your uncle.”
A bright smile spread across the boy’s face, and for a moment Monus’ breath caught in his throat.
“Uncle!”
Yes, this was definitely Gorth’s son, alright.
And, speaking of the matter of uncles…
Right on cue, a curt knocking on his door heralded Alendra’s arrival. He’d sent a brief Message to her while he’d been leading Korg to his study, but without the communication stone with him at the time and her still lacking sufficient mastery over the domain of Divination, he’d been unable to know whether she would be able to make it here.
“Enter.”
Korg looked curiously toward the new arrival. Alas, his upbringing in the harsh lands of the north unfortunately had not taught him the politeness of rising to greet a guest.
She’d been due to attend classes before this unexpected interruption to the academy’s coming-and-goings, and so Alendra Rhogard was dressed in her academy robes rather than the hexplate armour she favoured. The griffin of the Werland crest was proudly emblazoned upon her robes, and coupled with the sharp eyes she’d inherited from her father and the flowing blonde locks of her mother, there were few in the kingdom who wouldn’t recognise the princess on sight.
Korg frowned, scrutinizing her carefully. She knew who he was already — surely half of Aethergarde did by now, with how loud he’d bellowed and announced himself earlier — but still this first meeting between two descendants of the Kingdom of Werland’s and the Starhaven Accord’s greatest heroes was a monumental occasion. Neither of them spoke, both clearly lost for words.
Monus observed the two of them proudly, his old aching bones strangely revitalized, thinking to himself that yes, this — this was precisely what he had fought so hard for over the long years —
Then, Korg, son of Gorth, opened his mouth and said something stupid.
“Great archmage,” he asked uncertainly, turning to face Monus. “Is this the Aethergarde Conjecture?”
-x-x-x-
It was a puny little creature, but looks could be deceiving. He’d heard of the beast known as the mimic in the lands to the south, and it wasn’t too far-fetched to reason that a similar monster could disguise itself as a harmless-looking human to mislead and beguile.
But alas, he was a warrior, and his senses were sharp. The creature before him took the form of a maiden, lacking the powerful sword-arm and musculature of the battle sisters. Yet its presence betrayed it, for it took a warrior’s steps, careful and precise, and its gaze as it peered at Korg was that of a hunter measuring their quarry. Its movements were made to deceive, but the subtleties of its stance and the odd rigidity of its posture indicated that it was more used to wielding a weapon in one arm and bearing the weight of armour on its body.
Yes, he was certain of it. This was no hapless maiden. If not a monster, perhaps one of those rogues his father spoke of — a strange discipline of warriors who relied less on the strength of their bodies and more their dexterity and wit, willing to turn to honourless tricks if it meant emerging the victor. None in the tribe doubted they were deadly and fierce warriors, but there was no point in triumph if the victory was sullied by deceit.
“You know what?” Monus said. “I really should have known better. Shame on you, Monus.”
What beguiling trick of the mind was the creature using, that it now drove Monus mad with illusions? Korg gritted his teeth, ready to stand and fight even though his warrior’s rage was spent.
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“Sit, Korg,” Monus — his uncle; it was official now — said. “This is Alendra Rhogard. She’s one of the senior students of the academy, training to become a Spellbreaker.”
“You accept mimics as students?”
“No. And she’s Alendra Rhogard, Korg,” Monus said. “Rhogard.”
… did the creature also have a spell that allowed it to slow and slur the speech of others?
The creature cleared its throat with a feeble cough — no doubt another attempt at trickery — but Monus waved his hand and silenced her.
“Now, now, Alendra Rhogard, of the Werland-Rhogard lineage. Give him a moment; he’ll figure it out.”
Wait…
Rhogard…
“AH!”
He leapt to his feet, staring at her with wide eyes, a trembling finger pointed toward her. “You… no, it couldn’t be…”
“And there it is!”
“— a witch has transformed the great warrior Harold the Unyielding into a feeble creature!”
“…and there it isn’t.”
Korg laughed. Honestly, did they think him such a fool?
“That was a jest, archmage, a jest! Obviously, this must be the daughter… of…”
Wait.
“The unfinished saga!” Korg blurted out, a sudden burst of clarity washing over his mind. “Who was it in the end? Was it fair Edith or Sylene the Swift who won over the heart of noble Harold?”
“What?” Monus spoke, perplexed. “Sylene and Harold never had any romantic feelings toward each other.”
“But the Saga of the Indomitable, Part Sixteen, clearly said that…”
“There’s a saga?”
“One for every member of the Stalwart Companions!” Korg corrected eagerly, secretly glad that there was something he knew that the wise archmage didn’t. “Except, of course, for the greatest of them all, the wise shaman Monus Stormshroud — for him, there’s the Saga of Wrath, the Saga of Struggles, the Saga of the Stormlord Reborn, the Saga of Rivalries, the Empyreal Saga, the Saga of Six Sages, and who could ever forget —“
“Stop,” Monus interrupted. “I don’t want to know.”
Wisely, he shut up.
“Um,” came a voice from the door. “Were things the same with Gorth Skullthumper?”
“Oh, you have no idea.”
Korg hid a smile, for it seemed the southern historians hadn’t captured the grand tale in its entirety.
“Huh.” The sword sister — for the daughter of Harold of the Hundred Blades could surely be nothing less — made a sound of understanding. “Somehow, that explains a lot.”
She must have inherited her mother’s wisdom, for her mind to be so acute as to comprehend much with so few words. With no offense to noble Harold, his wit had unfortunately been lacking in the great legends, and therefore…
“He must have wed fair Edith!” Korg slammed a fist on an open palm, Blood Howl clattering to the floor as he laughed merrily. “Yes! Yes! Ingarr and Einhildr shall be owing me a great wager when I return, I think!”
“… you bet on who my father would marry?”
“Here’s some advice for you, dear girl,” Monus said, “just roll with it.”
It was sound advice indeed, and Korg nodded in agreement. “It lessens the impact, see,” he offered his own take. “When a blow cannot be avoided, it is sometimes wise to accept a disorienting injury rather than a crippling one.”
“Exactly.”
Ah, the kindness of Monus Stormshroud certainly lived up to its reputation in his dispensation of praise.
“I… see…”
Alendra Rhogard shook her head to clear her thoughts, but would no doubt return to revisit that wisdom at a more opportune time. Korg approved.
She offered Korg a small bow, and he remembered this southern tradition, and offered his own in turn. “As Uncle Monus said, I am Alendra Rhogard, princess of the Kingdom of Werland,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about your father from my own, Uncle Monus, Lady Sylene, Grand Artificer Oldham, Director Layla —“
Korg’s eyes widened with each passing name. Here were living legends, and she was just casually listing them as though it was nothing?
Belatedly, he realised it was his turn for introductions.
“I am Korg, son of Gorth, warrior of the Elk Tribe,” he said. “Though I may not yet have achieved my warrior’s glory, once I complete the rite of mok’garum, I shall be —“ He startled, whirling toward Monus. “The Aethergarde Conjecture! Please, my kin! I implore you, dispense upon me your wisdom and lore, that I may stalk the beast to its lair and riddle with holes its rotten hide!”
He inhaled deeply, ready to invoke the Crimson Challenge —
“Aaaand none of that, now,” Monus spoke, and a wave of power Silenced Korg. “Right. Straight to business then, I see. Let’s get this out of the way first: the Aethergarde Conjecture is not a monster.”
Korg frowned.
“Say it with me now. A Conjecture is not a monster to be slain.”
“A Conjecture is not a monster to be slain?” Korg asked, confused. “But then… my father… he was certain that you failed to defeat the beast…”
Monus stood, and began to pace back and forth, just like he did in the stories. “There exists an age-old question proposed by the ancient archmage Willodus Havenhall of Aethergarde,” Monus began. “It goes as follows: would a mage capable of knowing the precise location, momentum, and aetheric potential of all existence in a single instance be able to resolve past and future values at any other given time? Ergo, is existence deterministic in both the physical and aetheric?”
Korg stared mutely at him, waiting. He didn’t know why Monus was talking about this ‘question’, but still he let him continue. The wise shaman loved hearing himself talk — the tales testified that much.
“His response to the question, today known as the Aethergarde Conjecture” — Korg tensed at the mere mention of the dreadful creature — “was thus: not only is it fully deterministic, he conjectured that there exists a spell defined by some still-unknown function that would allow a diviner to observe and measure precisely that.” He peered at Korg. “Do you understand what that means, Korg?”
He considered for a moment what the archmage told him. It sounded meaningful, especially his emphasis on those last few words.
Still, it was all mage-talk, and therefore unimportant.
“Not in the slightest,” Korg answered honestly. “But it matters not. I do not need to understand how the beast came to be, for I trust in the justness of your cause. Now, where does the beast lie? Is it this foul warlock Ravenhall who I must slay instead? Is he the one who summoned this beast from the lands of darkness beyond?”
“One, it’s Havenhall, and he’s not a warlock; two, I’m afraid an actual warlock called Kaedaeus the Black has got you beat there by about four hundred years.”
“My honour has been stolen!” Korg cried out, feeling the cruel knot of despair twisting within him. “I demand the right to challenge Havenhall and his Conjecture! By mok’garum!”
Alendra Rhogard moved to stand by the edge of the table, watching the exchange between them with wide eyes. Was she aware of the foul creature as well? Did the mere mention of its name evoke such terror among the southerners?
“Look. The Conjecture isn’t a beast or monster or abomination or… well, bottom line is this — whatever you think it is, it’s wrong. Definitely wrong.” Monus paused meaningfully. “Instead, it is a statement. You know what a statement is, right?”
“A definite expression in speech or writing.”
He blinked, surprised, and Korg didn’t know whether to be offended at that.
“Huh. That’s… surprisingly accurate. Well, yes; that’s what the Conjecture is. Simply put, it’s a statement made a long time ago that has some implication on the nature of the world we live in, but no one can prove whether it’s true or false. Arcanometry’s the study of arcana or magic, by the way. When we talk about ‘defeating’ a conjecture, what we really mean is definitively proving beyond any doubt whether or not it is true or false.” He paused. “The Aethergarde Conjecture’s just a particularly famous one that centuries of wizards have tried and failed to crack. Even if such a spell should exist, it doubtlessly would be orders of magnitude greater than any spell cast before. The real beauty to it, in a way, is that despite the deceptively simple problem statement, it has resisted all attempts to be proven or disproven — and thereby remains unslain.”
The Conjecture was… a statement?
That…
That made absolutely no sense.
Weren’t mages supposed to be the smart ones? Didn’t the southerners belittle northern ‘barbarians’ like Korg, believing that their walled cities and their ‘institutions’ meant that they were wiser and smarter?
“You… the Monus Stormshroud, the Stormlord Reborn, greatest hero of all the Hundred Sagas — you were trying to defeat a statement?” he clarified, baffled. “And… you failed?”
More seconds passed.
Then, Korg understood.
His booming laugh echoed across the chamber. He thumped a heavy fist against his chest, a warrior’s salute for a jest well made. The two of them stared at him, looking somewhat unnerved.
“A fine joke, archmage! A fine joke indeed! I suppose this riposte is what I deserve for my earlier jest!” he said, smiling. “But please, enough riddles. Where is the Conjecture?”
“That was not a joke.”
Korg’s face fell, sensing that he was, unfortunately, completely serious.
“But then… my warrior’s honour… the mok’garum… how may I defeat this abominable statement?”
Come to think of it, how did one defeat a statement?
It sounded ridiculous, but was this why Monus and the other southern mages had failed?
That which steel could not carve in two, cold iron or silvered weaponry would be their bane. Creatures of flesh, Korg could rend and tear apart; creatures of shadow, Korg could beseech the spirits and the ancestors for guidance, if they would but hear his pleas. Creatures of the spirit could be cleansed by a warrior’s fury, and creatures of the mind required the heeding of the shamans’ wisdom.
But creatures of… what sort of creature was a statement, even? Monus had spoken of cracking one — perhaps a shelled creature, one adorned with armoured plates?
“I would advise, for your own sake,” Monus said gently, for he was kind in all things, “that you abandon your quest to unravel the Aethergarde Conjecture, and instead choose a more, ah, material quarry for your hunt.”
Korg shook his head resolutely. “No! I have sworn an oath!” he growled. “What manner of honourless creature would I be, if I were to abandon my hunt simply because I lack the strength necessary to vanquish my foe?”
His clenched hands tightened into fists, nails digging deep into flesh. The last embers of his warrior’s rage stirred within him, pounding to the tune of his rising indignation and frustration.
How? How did one defeat a statement? An axe would do no damage to it, for indeed there was nothing to strike. Even if he learned how to fully commune with the spirits to bring their full power to bear, it was just as unlikely that the great spirits could do anything to this dastardly foe.
What a cunning creature! Despite himself, Korg marveled at the ingenuity of it all. Why the need for armoured plates of a lumbering fortress or the unbreakable scales of a greatwyrm, when one could simply shroud itself in lies and deceit? Why the need for flight or fleetness of foot, when this crafty beast could simply flit about without a lair, eluding those who sought to track and stalk it? It existed without body, without form, twisting the thoughts of its pursuers in its web of the mind, never once needing to rest and recuperate.
“Korg,” Korg was faintly aware of Monus speaking, “I mean it. This isn’t your usual battlefield.”
He was right. Having challenged the beast in the past, he must have experienced it for himself.
A hunt, that was not a hunt.
But that — that was the key, wasn’t it?
“And that is why it shall be the greatest of hunts,” Korg declared, grinning. “When I return to the tribe with the beast’s inexistent carcass in tow, all shall know the name of Korg, son of Gorth — Slayer of Statements! Slayer of the Unslayable!”
“Don’t be a fool,” Monus chided, apparently unconvinced. “This is no contest of strength, child. I know how you and your father fight. A conjecture isn’t something that you can defeat just because you’re too angry to die.”
“He’s right, Korg,” Alendra now said. “I… may not have known your father, and I may still only be an academy student, but even I have heard of the infamous Aethergarde Conjecture. The wisest of archmages have tried and failed to find a satisfactory proof for centuries. This is a puzzle of the mind, a battle fought not with your usual weapons, but instead logic and facts.”
Korg only laughed. Didn’t southerners pride themselves on their supposed intelligence?
“You speak true,” he agreed. “I understand not your southern ways nor the magics you wield. I know that you southerners have tried and failed to vanquish this beast for centuries. In truth, I do not know how this battle can be won.” Still, he grinned, baring teeth. “But just as steel and sinew can do the Conjecture no harm, so too shall I not be destroyed by these logic and facts you speak of. I may not yet possess the means to harm this creature, but equally, this creature cannot harm me. This, I believe, is what you southerners call a ‘stalemate’.”
The simmering embers of his earlier battle fury blazed a second triumph, and he heard the faint pounding of battle drums of a distant battle. He understood, now. This vendetta would not end in a single hunt. This was to be a war of attrition, a tireless stalking of the prey until it had no other place to hide. It was no wonder, then, that the southern mages had failed to conquer this unnatural beast for centuries. They were weak, spoiled folk who dwelled in their silly little ‘fortresses’ and ‘academies’, lacking the warrior’s resolve of those who called the tundras of the Thousand Spines their home.
He would admit — this whole business was bizarre to him — but from the sound of things, all he needed to do was corner the beast with the very twisted lies it veiled itself in, and then go in for the kill once all the preparations were made. He needed a suitable weapon, for steel and axe were powerless against it, but only a fool of a warrior relied on one type of armament alone. The edge of his axe was sharp, but his wit would be sharper yet.
“Teach me your ways,” Korg implored solemnly. A wise warrior knew when to defer to the shaman’s wisdom, and Korg was no fool. “I am Korg, son of Gorth, and I am a fast learner. Tell me what your fallen ancestors know about the nature of this beast, that I may avenge their defeat by its phantom fangs and claws. Grant me the weapons to vanquish this creature that lies neither in the realms of man nor spirit, and show me the means to disperse its haze of lies and poisoned truths. So long as my warrior’s heart yet beats, this Conjecture shall not break me. Dorok-modam! This, I swear by mok’garum!”
Monus closed his eyes, battle-weariness returning to him. Korg felt a surge of guilt at that. Korg’s arrival must have interrupted his usual routine, for it was said that the great shaman hunted a legendary creature and feasted on its heart each morning. Many in the tribe were skeptical of that claim, since it wasn’t part of the official sagas, but perhaps there was some truth to it?
“You aren’t going to let this go, are you?”
“No,” he affirmed.
“No matter what we say or do — even if you have no idea where to even begin — you’ll try to devise a proof for the conjecture anyway.”
“Yes,” he said, quickly absorbing that newest piece of obscure lore. A statement can be defeated by forging and wielding the legendary weapon known as the ‘proof’. A tale worthy of the sagas!
“Just to check,” Alendra spoke. “You’ve never been taught rhetoric, logic, or arcanometry either?”
“Not even the once,” Korg said proudly. “You will find that there shall be no bad habits born from poor training technique, that I may quickly learn the art of your southern ways of warfare.”
Monus looked skyward. “Why do you do this to me, Gorth?”
Ah, this had to be the legendary Sending! The spell that allowed messages to be transmitted across great distances! From the legends, it was supposed to be impossible to speak to one in the Thousand Spines from the southern lands, for the distance was too great, but here was proof that Monus Stormshroud transcended even that limitation!
For several moments, he just stayed in his seat, resting his head in his palm.
Then, finally, he stood.
“Congratulations,” Monus Stormshroud said. “I suppose you’re our newest student. You’ll need to set up a curriculum in basic logic, rhetoric, and the fundamentals of arcanometry before we even begin to attempt tackling the more abstract disciplines. Alendra, I know I’m asking for a lot here, but would you please —“
“I’ll keep an eye on him, Uncle Monus,” she answered. “I… I feel that my family owes his a debt, anyway.”
“Don’t we all,” Monus grunted. “Oh, don’t we all.”
Korg’s heart leapt at the clear respect and sense of companionship they all felt toward his father, and wished only that he could follow in that honoured legacy.
“I’ll be honest with you, Korg. I have no damned clue whether you’ll be able to use magic at all. Arcanometry’s still possible without it, but without the experience of casting spells, it’ll be like trying to paint blindfolded,” Monus said, but then frowned. “Still… the manifestation of that rage of yours, earlier… it was almost like…”
“Like the spirits you conjured through the secret spell you learned after beating your spellbook into submission? Stormshroud’s Great Eminent Flaming Band of Righteous Wrath?” he asked eagerly. “I know! Saga of Struggles, Part Eight! That was one of my favourite tales in the sagas!”
Monus stared at him.
“Alendra,” he said, turning to Korg’s new sword sister. “Would you please escort Korg out of my office?”