In the dusty cellar of a mage tower standing upon Misthearth’s southern shore, a young man named Marek read the pages of an old yet popular novel. The only thing unkempt about him was his hair, tousled by a restless hand.
The reading had been especially trying that day.
Lord Tirega led the charge, five hundred Casteran cavalry at his back. Their beasts most bold churned up the bountiful turf, eager for Ardean blood.
Though many had disbanded and fled to seek sanctuary in Stillwood Forest, the young Lord Calleus refused to cow. Inspiring courage in his comrades few…
Marek shuddered, holding the page with a finger. “Will you give us a break, Timlus?” he muttered. “Every time a scribe calls themselves an author, they fall in love with the sound of their own voice. Just tell the damn story!”
An urge to toss the novel aside nearly claimed him. Inwardly, he reminded himself that A River Crimson held value. Poorly written as it was, the facts included were backed by several sources. Leaning forward, he adjusted the wick of the oil lamp. For a moment, he delighted in the space he’d claimed. Perhaps his favorite place in the world, the corner of the tower’s cellar was quiet. Tucked away as he was, Marek felt safe here… and so very alone.
Marek read on with renewed determination. He managed to finish another two paragraphs that made his skin crawl. Both were extended metaphors, one to describe the might and greed of the invading force, the other to portray Ardean courage.
Relief flooded him when he found the section he’d been hunting for.
Half a day fate granted to wise Calleus. Not an hour did he spend idle. Mounting the hill, Calleus did survey the silver snaking river. “Fetch the spades!” he cried, and his ragged band obeyed. Five hours to divert the brook, two more to flood the plain.
“Stand with me!” Calleus shouted, his voice brazen and clear. “Stand against the tyrant and his host of thieves! Stand for Ardea, and let it be their wives that grieve!”
That familiar longing filled Marek’s heart. Acts of courage always stirred something in him he’d never given in to. With his Constitution, Marek wasn’t exactly the type to heft a spear. To do so would only invite pain and disappointment. Marek suppressed his stoked ambitions, furrowed his brow, and skimmed on. More focused than ever, he isolated the facts he came across.
Two ranks of ten macemen forming the front. Two groups of twenty spearmen on the flanks. Fifty archers at the rear.
“Loose!” Calleus commanded. “Let the River of Grass run red!”
For every knight that rode to slay them, a dozen arrows rained.
Marek let his mind wander for a moment. Witnessing the events in the sanctuary of his mind was always his favorite part of reading. For some reason, he could imagine the sight of battle with absolute clarity. Almost as if he’d stood on a muddy field himself in the distant past.
What would it sound like? he wondered. Then, suddenly, he could hear a chorus of tinny thwacks, heavy iron bodkins plunging through tempered steel.
Goosebumps covered his arms.
He read the end of the chapter then, no longer bothered by the author’s flamboyant style. It was the story he needed, and the historical facts buried in the novel all waited to be plucked out like gemstones.
Seeking to end a pointless war, Calleus charged the hampered foe. Macemen cracked down, shattering bronze helms of a foreign court.
The spearmen thrust from either side, hungry like the jaws of a bear. Men oppressed oft crave redemption, and that day it was served rare.
In less than an hour, it was done. The War of Thorns would end with the tyrant Tirega.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The fiend was cut down by Calleus’ stern blade, surrender given, and at last peace was made.
Marek closed the book. Sighing in satisfaction, he sat up and stretched his back. As sore as his spine was, Marek considered the evening well spent.
Briefly, he pictured himself hefting a mace and charging a knight on horseback. Even if the horse was stuck in a pool of muddy water, the act seemed reckless. No matter how many times he thought of it, Marek couldn’t quite imagine himself as a soldier of the line.
He wasn’t like Mags. For some reason, his best friend yearned for battle. She’d been seeking it out her entire life. There was another role Marek did yearn for, though. One that inspired him as much as it disturbed him.
Using a river as a weapon, he thought. If that isn’t a stroke of genius, I don’t know what is. Outnumbered and without cavalry, he still managed to win. Wonder what I would have done in his place.
As strange as his previous vision had been, Marek had no trouble picturing himself at the head of an army, sword held aloft. His voice commanding legions. His will dictating the fates of men.
Marek chuckled and set the book aside. “Ridiculous,” he chastised himself. “A commander needs to be strong enough to hold a damn sword in the first place. Let’s be realistic.”
He leaned back, finding a cozy nook between the old pillows Rauld had stored here long ago. Then he closed his eyes and completed his evening’s study.
As a Sigilist, many would expect him to level his Class by crafting sigils. He would have preferred it that way. Yet Marek wasn’t so fortunate. His uncle had encouraged him to take a Common Skill, one that Scholars and Administrators used. Intuit wasn’t flashy by any means. When it was used, none but the user could tell anything had happened.
Despite all this, Marek was proud of the Ability. It had become a lens with which to view the world. A way of interpreting information and analyzing situations or problems effectively.
Sure, he could more easily make a living with Imbue, the most basic Skill of his craft. It gave the ability to augment an object temporarily with a given Attribute. Had he gone that route, however, Marek would have bottlenecked indefinitely at Level 1. Lacking as his mana was, the young man couldn’t cast Imbue even a single time.
As bitter as his path had been, he’d made progress over the years. Through long hours of study, and by helping his uncle, Marek had risen to Level 8 Sigilist. Two more would allow him to unlock his second Class Skill. It was slow going. In fact, he’d been at his current level for well over a year. He felt on the cusp of a breakthrough, though, and he hoped tonight might be enough.
Marek quieted his mind. He relaxed his shoulders and filtered out all sensations. Then he grasped the knowledge he’d scrounged in his reading. The clipped historical accounts of the battle as well as the relevant section of the novel. Details most would overlook, Marek relished. Each fragment was valuable.
He ran a few of these through his mind to freshen the knowledge, reciting them from memory.
The Ardean mace was a notable addition in the Kingdom’s military history. Due to the evolution of the Brawler Class during the Quelling Rebellion, the newly enhanced Maceman Class became much more capable of wielding its chosen weapons. This competence led to a lengthening of the shaft, made possible by the strength of ironwood, a resource once common in Northern Ardea…
And on he went.
Marek knew if he had to write the information down, the wording wouldn’t be exact. Yet he’d studied the varied weaponry of the Five Kingdoms obsessively. The material never ceased to fascinate him.
He ran through several other notations he’d read regarding the equipment most likely worn during the famous battle: The weight of the plate armor the Casterans wore as well as that which clad the chests and flanks of their warhorses. The length and heft of the lances they carried. Oppositely, the specifications of spears as well as the draw weight and range of the Ardean Longbow.
When he felt all the threads of information come together, he could picture what the battle would have been like. Only then did he introduce a query—a “problem,” as he liked to call them. Such was the method in which he most commonly triggered his Skill to activate.
Would the Ardeans have succeeded if they’d not been able to flood the field?
Simple, sure, but those were the questions that often led to the best results. Intuit tingled at the back of his skull, a thread running down his spine. A brief sensation of cold stirred in Marek’s belly. A portion of his personal mana drained from his Core to fuel the Skill. Then, in a flash of images, Marek knew his answer.
Arrows smashing through armor. Too few perish, leaving hundreds of cavalry afield. The Knights trigger Charge, the Skill simple but terribly effective, speeding up their mounts and creating a spear of energy around the tip of each lance. Ardean Spearmen and Macemen tighten their line. They activate their own skills, Rampage and Inspired Blow chief among them.
In moments, the Ardean line was broken. Men skewered like squirrels and trampled under iron-shod hooves.
Marek cut off the stream of images. A shiver ran through him. They were more like visions. Graphic ones.
When he’d recovered, he threw a second query at his Skill. This time, he considered whether or not the spearmen forming the front line might make a difference. This time, more Casterans died in the initial charge, but the battle ended even quicker than before.
Marek tried twice more, adjusting variables. Only the second proved interesting. He’d been curious if the rate of flow of the river might change the results more dramatically. Surprisingly, a faster river slowed the irrigation, leaving them unable to finish their task in time.
He tucked away his insights, more out of habit than necessity. Each attempt drew power from his reserves. After the fourth, his hands were trembling.
“That’s it for the night,” he muttered as he rose on unsteady legs.
He wished he could see how much progress he’d made toward leveling his Class. His efforts had counted; that alone was his consolation. “Tomorrow it is, then,” he said, holding onto optimism like a shield.
A creak of wood interrupted his wandering thoughts. Slow steps descended the stairs into the cellar. Then an ancient voice, both kind and familiar, filled the cellar. “Marek? Did you nod off again, or is your nose still trapped between the pages?”