Chapter 4: The Source of Strength

It had been days since he had seen any Elder. After Mistress Lila had left, a disciple had come to collect him, saying that it would be best for him to stay with the other children in Master Erebus’ Sanctum. During that time, he had learned the real reason all the children were under the care of the Master of Death - it was a lesson that the Elders had tried to teach him, but he hadn't truly accepted.

To be one of them was to hold the balance of thousands of lives in your hands. From a young age, these children were taught that - to take lives when necessary, but to hold a life in their hand and know it for what it was.

Perhaps they could not understand the nuance needed to be a disciple of any other Elder, but they could easily understand that the wages of sin were death, that mistakes had consequences. Black and white, but an important lesson, nonetheless.

The other children were taught to control their powers, under Master Erebus. They were not permitted to actively use it (unless their power was something passive, like Zoe's night vision) without an adult present. And those with particularly destructive powers, like pyromancy, were forbidden from using them unless in the presence of an Elder. Particularly the Master of Death, who James discovered had the ability to nullify all powers within a certain radius of himself. Though James couldn't access his power yet, he still felt the nullification in his bones, a sickening, oppressive feeling that he hated utterly.

When they weren't practicing control, the other children were helping around - the kitchens, the lavatories - all manner of menial tasks, which for James had once been the purpose of having servants. The only task he was familiar enough to help with was butchering animals for the kitchens. This particular task was one that all the disciples had to help with at one point or another, even if they tended to faint at the sight of blood. Feeling an animal go limp under your hand, feeling something warm and alive seize up and die was… an experience.

In his spare time, he had taken to studying on the grassy hill overlooking the training courtyard. As disciples sparred beneath him, James flipped through pages on the Uthwan Dynasty that was supplanted by the Empire of the Sun, through florid accounts of the historical wars between the elf and the dwarf, the ascendancy of the orc, and the Fall of Magic. It was more than he had ever thought he would learn of history. His mother and his sister had always used to say that as he was the male heir of the main branch of the Greyfield family, he would have to learn of the history of Corith and of Briarcliffe. Now, with both of them dead - he felt a dull pang of grief at the thought, though it was not as sharp as it had been only a few days ago - he was learning of Corith and the Empire and the hundreds of other kingdoms and nations and city-states that laid claim (or had once laid claim) on the lands of the Continent. It was a strange thought.

A shadow fell over his page, or rather, over him. James looked up slowly, only to see a red-skinned orc towering over him. There was an unreadable expression on its shadowed face, every skin-fold and scar looking all the more menacing.

“And what, pray tell,” it growled, making James gulp, “are you reading?”

Oh.

“A Brief History of the Continent, Sir,” James answered, voice a little shaky. He turned the book to show the cover.

“Ah. Dry in some places, but no less illuminating for the simplicity of the tome. I approve. Have you reached the section on the Yald-Temora War?”

Caught off-guard and feeling more than a little wrong-footed, James hesitated a moment before turning back a few chapters. The Yald-Temora War was only one war in a long stretch of conflict within the fertile lands of the central Continent (a place he could tell, through the maps provided, that was now the Scorned Lands), though this war in particular was unique in just how swiftly it ended once the Temora responded to the initial inclusion by the Yaldi armies.

The massive orc had crouched down next to him. It reached out with a large, clawed digit, turning the page with a surprising gentleness. It tapped a map on the page, which marked notable sites and military movements.

“This is one of my favorite wars to analyze in the entire history of the Continent,” the Elder intoned, lips stretching behind its tusks in a semblance of a smile. “First, the war was won through purely military tactics and might, with none of the magicky cheating seen in other wars. Second, the Temoran commander is an absolute inspiration. He was decisive in all things, both in his offensives and decisions to sacrifice land and manpower.

“The Yald, though mightier in the prowess of individual warriors and their general sphere of influence, were drunk on overconfidence and divided by the ego of the individual to a point where they could not respond effectively to the Temoran counter-strokes.”

“I did think it was weird, that a much smaller nation could win against a stronger one without some hero killing the enemy leader and saving the day,” James wondered aloud.

“Ah-ah,” the orc admonished, wagging its finger. “Battles may be won by heroics, but wars are ended by the concerted effort of armies. And politics, I suppose.”

“Well, Temora barely had an army, compared to Yald.”

“True. They were more akin to guerrilla troops than an organized army, but they were coordinated, able to exploit the glory-seeking individual commanders in the Yaldi army to utterly rout them. Take a look at the battle for Westin,” the Elder lectured, pointing at one of the cities. “Scouts - and all logic, really - reported that Westin was the next target for the invaders. The Temoran commander emptied the city well ahead of time, sending its residents away from the conflict and setting the stage for a master-stroke.

“He allowed the city to be taken by the invaders with no resistance whatsoever. In a stroke of genius, or perhaps luck, only one Yaldi general and his troops arrived at Westin, intending to batter down the gates. He had sabotaged his allies, even poisoning his fellow generals, to ensure that the glory and plunder of Westin would belong to him alone.

“Once the invaders had fully entered the city to loot it, Temoran soldiers lit the city on fire with arrows. Trapped inside, the invaders were burned where the stood, and the few stragglers or those who stumbled out the gates were easily picked off by small squads of Temoran soldiers. They dealt a crippling blow to the Yaldi infantry within a single day.

“This was only one of the many tactics the Temoran commander employed in his campaign, using familiar terrain to surround the enemy and limit the effectiveness of their numbers. Death traps like this empty fort, or mental games to wear down and cripple the armies - utter genius, I tell you.”

“In a way, they did need a hero to win - they would have been doomed without the Temoran commander’s tactics,” James decided. “Was that why the creature tribes and clans were pushed back by the humans of the Empire? No heroes or tactics?”

If the Elder was at all offended by being called a creature, rather than a being, it did not show it.

“At the start of the war, perhaps,” the orc allowed. “But the fragmented groups and historical conflicts made it rather impossible for all the Peoples to work together until it was too late. Most importantly, in a long and drawn-out war like that one, the most important factor was simply numbers.”

James scratched his head. “I think Mistress Lila mentioned that humans had the numbers to hold the land they took…”

The orc snorted, the warm gust of breath fanning across James’ face and making his hairs all stand on end. “You humans breed like rabbits,” the Elder guffawed. “In twenty, thirty years, your population could replace itself. Not so for dwarves or orcs or elves, especially. Our lifespans are measured in centuries rather than decades, and yet we still only have a couple offspring in our lifetimes. It is not difficult to rationalize how humans have so easily infested the Continent.”

Infested. James bit back an angry retort. If the Elder could let his ‘creatures’ slide, then James should too.

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

“I thought you were all about fighting,” James said instead. “I didn’t know you knew so much about tactics-”

“Didn’t know about tactics?” the orc drew itself up to its full height, nostrils flaring. Its lips curled back in a snarl. “I am Master of War, boy. All matters of war are my prerogative.”

In that moment, James found himself wondering why this Elder wasn’t more feared. The orc clenched its hands, muscles bunching in its neck, ready to pummel James for the insult. James hugged the book to his chest, shrinking back. Should he run? Somehow, he knew he couldn’t get far.

Suddenly, the orc became limp and slack-jawed. Its hands unclenched, and its beady eyes became distant. Most interestingly, there was a bluish tinge around its head.

The source of the blue tinge made themselves known in short order. James whirled around as he heard soft footfalls on rustling grass, carrying the scent of incense. Another Elder approached, human by their look. Deep blue and purple robes, shot through with gold and silver threads, swallowed the mage’s thin frame. A strange, peaked cap hid their eyes and much of their close-cropped white-blonde hair. They held one pale hand out, claw-like, from the heavy folds of the robe, a swirling cerulean orb in the center of their palm. A thin, silvery strand connected this orb to the tinge around the orc’s head.

The Master of the Arcane sighed, tossing their head. James caught a glimpse of a pointed ear, clearly marking them as a non-human, though everything else looked entirely human - this must be one of the halflings, then. Half human and half… elf, based on their build and height. Could a human truly lower themselves to breed with an elf? Or maybe it was the other way around, with how the stories spoke of how the elves seemed to look upon all other species with contempt.

To James’ surprise, the Elder lifted their sapphire-topped staff and tapped the orc’s head.

“The only reason he’s not completely stupid,” Master Morgan groused, “is that he has a skull so thick that it can protect that brain of his when he does go berserk. Or when he hits his head because he forgets he needs to duck under doorways.”

James inched closer, and the Elder fixed their pale eyes on him. It made him far more nervous than he thought it would, though he stood his ground and didn’t shrink away.

“Can you hold it like that forever?” James wondered.

The Elder shook their head. “Once he realizes that his mind is trapped in a very pleasant dream, he’ll start fighting my control. And it won’t end well if we let him break out, rather than letting him go, since the fight will have him slipping into the Red Haze.”

“Does… does it get that angry often?”

This time, the Elder did notice his choice of word to describe the orc, shooting him a disapproving look. Still, the halfling snorted, rotating the orb in their hand. “‘Often’ is an understatement. The orc species happen to have relatively tiny frontal lobes, which means their impulse control is shot to bits.”

With that, the Elder let go of the spell. Groggily, the orc lifted its head, blinking away the last dredges of the spell. Its beady eyes passed over James’ comparatively diminutive form, a flash of confusion crossing its features, before it laid eyes on the other Elder present. The confusion dissipated, coalescing into incandescent rage.

With a roar of fury, he orc launched itself at the mage, claws extended and mouth slavering. James held his breath.

And the orc bounced off an iridescent blue shield.

“Not in front of the younglings, Leo,” the halfling said, rolling their eyes. A subsequent spell restrained the orc, chains of pure magic holding it to the ground.

“That’s cheating,” the orc growled. It struggled against its restraints, but James could see the fight leaving the tense lines of the orc’s back. Its muscles loosened, good sense overriding the innate need to beat the halfling into pulp.

“Power is power,” the mage shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what form it comes in.” The shackles slackened, and then faded.

“I still firmly believe that the only respectable mages are war mages,” the Master of War grumbled, rising onto its haunches. “The rest of you rely too much on your power to be functional beings.”

Master Morgan laughed. “I am more than functional, thank you.” Sparks began to dance across their limbs, now outstretched. “A little extra power never hurts.” To James, they said: “I would be honored to guide you along the paths of the arcane, should you have the Magegift. I’m sure you could do far better than being a brute.”

With that, they pushed themselves off the ground in another display of magical prowess, gliding through the air and then zipping away.

“I, for one, hope you do not have the Magegift,” the remaining Elder said, under its breath. James was still looking at the dark speck in the sky was Master Morgan, wishing he had a cool power like that.

“All mages,” the orc continued, louder this time, "think they are better than the rest because they are able to utilize their gift to order the universe to their liking.” It ground a fist into its palm. "They’ll all get humbled one day when they realize that the entire universe will never truly bend to their will. They are still just as small as the rest of us.”

“Maybe they think they can make a difference, with the power that they have,” James countered.

“One mage? At most, they burn a town down or enact a ritual that kills them and their entire village to summon a demon that eventually consumes itself without a caster to keep it in this plane,” the Elder snorted. James gaped. “No. Real change happens with the concerted effort of millions. Should each being pick up a shovel and start digging, we could level mountains.”

“Armies rather than heroes,” James murmured, understanding.

“Exactly. And you, young one, ought to start putting some meat on your bones. I suspect your power is martial in nature, based on what the Hound described to us, but power like that is nothing without the training to refine it.”

James made a face. “What kind of training can I even do if I can’t reach my power yet?”

“We ought to start by teaching you to spar,” the orc thought aloud. “Lila surely explained it to you - if we can recreate the conditions or the situation of your Awakening, we might be able to figure out exactly how to activate your power.”

With a firm hand (a very large hand, by James’ reckoning), the Elder began leading him forward. Perhaps James was too preoccupied with the potential implications of training, or that he would be put back in that terrifying-exhilirating-intense-indescribable state that was all he remembered of that night. Perhaps he was simply acknowledging that there was no one better to train him in the ways of a warrior than the Master of War himself. But James found himself being led along, and he wasn't flinching away from the touch of a creature like an orc.

It didn't matter, soon enough. The training courtyard was filled with all sorts of creatures, some of which weren't even humanoid. They were clapping each other on the back, shaking hands (or whatever hand-like equivalent they possessed), and helping each other up, entirely uncaring that they were separate species. Even the other humans didn't seem to care that they had to make nice with mere creatures!

Master Leonidas set him to sparring against a little goblin, saying that others would thrash him by sheer mass or reach advantage. James grimaced, looking down at his sparring partner. It was visibly young, he supposed, smooth green-tinged skin where Master Edmund’s had been wrinkly and grey. But the sharp teeth and floppy ears, which bobbed up and down when it bowed to him to signal readiness to spar-

James figured he ought to bow back, since all the other disciples seemed to be doing so before a bout. It would be unseemly if he was the only one who looked… uncivilized.

As soon as he had raised his head from the shallow bow - more of a nod, really - the goblin was on him. In a panic, James rolled away from those extended claws. Could he kick it away? Grab it? What was he supposed to use to win? All those thoughts fled his mind when it pounced again, teeth gnashing. James couldn't dodge fast enough. It was just a pinprick of pain where the claws had scratched, at first, but after half a dozen exchanges, the goblin managed to score a deep gouge across James' calf that had him howling in pain.

This was nothing like the night his sister died. Nothing like the rush of righteousness, the all-consuming rage that fueled his strikes. Here and now, all he felt was the acid sting of pain and the clawing, choking feeling of shame and certain defeat. Blood seeped through his trousers, damp against his skin. Through the fog in his head, he saw the Elder pull the goblin away and send it back into the crowd.

“It was far too presumptuous to assume it could be forced out of you just by putting you in a fight, hm?” the orc mused, thoughtfully stroking its chin. “In any event, it is clear as day that you have no inkling of what a true spar is like. Well, more training is certainly in order! We'll start at fifty pushups and situps a day, and at least ten circuits around the arena. I shall ensure the Hound knows to refrain from any weapons training with you until you have familiarized yourself with hand-to-hand.”

The Elder walked away, nodding to itself.

“Wait! But what about my leg?” James called out, hating how choked he sounded. His cheeks were damp with tears.

“Ah. See yourself to the Infirmary. Someone will patch you up. ‘Tis but a scratch, after all!” With that, Master Leonidas disappeared into the throng.

Sitting in the cold sand, blood still leaking through his fingers, James had a series of realizations.

First, he was a complete and utter failure. A shame on his family, for being unable to save any of them, and a shame on his entire species, for being unable to even fight off a baby goblin.

Second, every Elder he had met so far, with the exception of Mistress Lila and Master Erebus, were strange and terrifying and he did not really like any of them. Sure, they were powerful, but it was just different.

Third, in conjunction with the Second: he was going to train and get stronger and more powerful, and then he was going to activate his power and become the best in the world. He was going to get Master Erebus to train him into the best assassin, and he was going to ask Mistress Lila to tell him exactly who was involved so he could go back to Corith and get revenge for his family.

With resolve in his heart and a gnawing hunger in him to do more, to be better, amplified by the sting of defeat, James stood on shaky legs and began limping forward, through the throng of creatures and humans that looked at him oddly and turned away. Unwilling or perhaps unable to help or sympathize.

That was fine.

James knew, from the depths of his heart, that he could - no, would - make it on his own.