Tarnava — 14 YBB
You won’t be the only one. Many of the novices here have lost someone close to them. In a sense, when you come here, you lose everyone close to you.
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Murentam Valley — 15 YBB
After the attack, the men returned to the castle one by one in a state of traumatised silence. All of the rumors, all of the whispers; it was all true. Evil magic was afoot in Murentam. No one had to say it. Saf could tell they were all thinking the same thing by their dejected thousand-mile stares. Each man had a family they cared about, children and wives and brothers and sisters. Unwillingly, they imagined their kinfolk as victims of the nightmare massacre that had played out earlier.
And who do I care about most? Saf shuddered as an image of the creature standing over Divia flashed through his mind. Then Mina, Ahera, the twins. What did we do to deserve this?
Some of the castle guards, informed about the attack, passed them going the other way. Saf was thankful no one expected the timber crew to clean up the bloody aftermath of the attack. It didn’t seem like any of the men could do any real work at the moment. Ahead of him, they advanced apathetically like a string of sleepwalkers.
Entering the castleyard, Saf dodged huddles of serving girls and men-at-arms, already engrossed in conspiratorial chatter. It was a good time at Murentam to be a gossip, if nothing else. Saf sought out one of the small courtyards on the southern side of the castle, a humble undecorated quadrangle ringed in arcaded galleries. It was empty.
At first he had wanted to be alone, to think and unwind, but being left alone with his thoughts turned out not to be so relaxing. Saf’s mind flipped maniacally through the dozens of unanswered questions that had forced their way into his life over the last few days. The pale, bloated corpse floating in the cistern. Young Henerick turning towards him in the dim hallway, sword in hand. The reflection of the mysterious patterns on his back in Sir Henerick’s mirror. Mina’s cryptic demurrals on the subject of his past. And between and behind all these memories, the horrifying thing that had just effortlessly decapitated two grown men.
Divia found him first.
“Hey.” She sat down on the bench next to him, tucking her long red hair over her right shoulder.
He gave her a weak smile. “Hey.”
“Are you alright?”
“Well, considering.. I think I’m the most alright I could be.. rather than.. you know..”
“I know.”
Neither of them said anything. But it was nice just to have her there. His thoughts settled down, losing their masochistic frenzy. A finch darted into the courtyard and hopped around the flagstones, pecking at something in the seams.
Soon Ulliam, Tammus, and Ahera joined them. Ulliam had a ball of tightly knotted rags in his hands.
“Come on. Let’s play a game. They gave everyone the afternoon off because of what happened.”
Divia frowned. “Really?”
Ulliam shrugged. “Better to distract ourselves somehow, I figure.”
Saf slid off the bench to join them. “Where’d you get the ball?”
“I ‘borrowed’ it from the new blacksmith.. it was out by the forge.”
Saf grinned. The four of them, Divia watching, set themselves up to play three-ball. The rules were simple, one thrower against three defenders. The defenders had to stay confined to a small area. In this case they decided to use one of the flagstones. The thrower stood several paces away, and had to shout out a target and then try to hit that person with the ball. The trick was to throw as quickly as possible after choosing your target, before the defenders could reform with that person behind the others. If the throw failed, the target became the next thrower.
Ulliam went first, nailing Ahera with the ball as the defenders tripped over themselves trying to rearrange. The finch that had landed in the courtyard earlier, spooked by all the activity, flew away in search of calmer foraging grounds.
As they played, Ulliam and Ahera couldn’t help but prod Saf for details about the monster that had attacked the woodcutters. Everyone had started calling it the “Thin Witch”. Saf did his best to answer their questions without actually reliving the memories.
Ulliam had developed a theory that the fellspawn attacks were related to the murders.
“It only makes sense. Think about it. Someone, maybe more than one someone, has been killing in cold blood, and Oruvar is punishing us with these creatures. Or the killers made a deal with some demon to help them in their conspiracy, and the other end of the bargain is letting out these things..”
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Ahera wasn’t convinced. “The animals were getting attacked since before Kar died, remember.”
“But not before Nota, if she was murdered..”
“If.”
Divia piped in from the side of the game.
“Have you all ever thought about leaving here. I mean, by Goddays, we’ll all be of age and not bonded to Murentam or anything. We could stick together, go to Tarnava or something.”
Saf loved the idea of striking out with his friends, seeing a real city, and building a new life away from the nightmare Murentam was becoming. But with his Marks, it would be suicide to move to any place in which he might be more likely to encounter the Emperor’s Mages.
The others were noncommittal.
“I don’t know,” Tammus said. “We’d need money to lodge and travel, and we’d need some way to earn more money once we get there.”
Ulliam felt the same. “For once I agree with this oaf. You two have letters, maybe get a job with that.” He gestured at Divia and Saf. “But us.. it would be hard going.”
“You two are learning to fight, at least,” Saf said bitterly. “That seems a little more useful at the moment. Can’t make a fellspawn go away by reading to it.”
With Ulliam distracted by the conversation, Tammus shouted Ulliam’s name and let loose a ripping throw that caught his twin in the crotch.
“You cheating chucklefuck, I was in the middle of talking!” Ulliam picked up the ball and launched it back at Tammus.
As so many of their games did, it degenerated into a fight between the twins, who slung potshots back and forth until Ulliam misfired wildly, sending the ball soaring onto the eaves above the courtyard. It stayed there, unreachable.
Divia sighed.
“I hope the blacksmith didn’t see you ‘borrowing’ that.”
*****
Saf woke up from a fitful night’s sleep earlier than the others. It was still dark, with no hint of sun coming into the sleeping chamber from the hole in the wall. He could hear Ahera twisting under her blankets. He guessed her sleep was as disturbed as his had been, dreaming anxiously of dark magic and monsters. On the other hand, Tammus was belting out hearty, irregular snores. Maybe his dreams were a more secure refuge.
I’m starting to get good at creeping out. Saf was almost out the door when he thought he heard his name whispered.
“Saf”
He heard it again and turned around. It was Divia’s voice, but to Saf’s relief she seemed to be talking in her sleep. Everything she said afterwards was unintelligible, muttered under her breath. He listened for a few seconds and then slipped out, easing the door closed behind him and lifting it so that the wood didn’t scrape the stone floor.
He had gone to sleep early the previous night so that he would be able to wake up before dawn, so that he would be able to do what he was about to do without anyone to reprimand him. The hallways were clear, and the guards posted on the castle walls did not turn around to notice him stealing across the yard. A few of them seemed to be asleep. Considering the circumstances of the past few days, the negligent guards made Saf very nervous.
So be it. Saf entered the armory. If the men-at-arms of Murentam were sleeping on their watches, that just proved his point. He would have to learn how to defend himself. He wanted to learn how to defend himself. Gods damn whatever Jamin said, with his ridiculous militia selection and his blustering speeches. Saf was done putting his safety in other peoples’ hands.
He pulled a practice sword from a pile in the corner of the building and lined himself up next to one of the sword pells, padded wooden dummies the fighters used for practice. The moonlight streaming through the rafters barely illuminated Saf’s surroundings, but gradually his eyes adjusted.
First he practiced the forms he had seen the recruits practicing. Thrusts, swings, low cuts, overhead strikes. He made sure to restrain contact with the dummy to light taps at the end of each sequence. The guards might get curious if he made too much noise.
The hardest part was the balance. Each rapid movement of the sword left Saf off-kilter, nearly tumbling to the floor. Bit by bit, though, Saf’s sword strokes got more precise, his stance more stable, his sequences longer.
Now he was working up a sweat. His muscles ached. This is what I want, Saf reminded himself. I can’t stop now.
He went back to work, falling into a trance-like state: hit, spin, block, feint, hit, hit, hit.
Saf was totally absorbed now. Every imaginary hit landed. Every step fell perfectly.
Hit. Hit.
Lurch. The effect was sudden.
Numbness and disorientation flooded Saf’s body.
He tripped and sprawled onto the hard-packed armory floor. Saf could feel the Mark on his right shoulder blade tingling. It had happened again, the Mark activating. He steeled himself and got back to his feet.
Mina had told him not to try to learn more about his tattoos, but if he wanted to be able to fight he couldn’t ignore his powers. More than anything, he needed to figure out how not to use them. The other night they had saved him by depositing him back in his room, but just now they had sent him tripping to the ground. Saf thought about what had happened. In both cases the Mark had been activated by an intense mental state. In the first case the result had been movement over a long distance, but what about the second case? I moved to the spot I was just an instant before, throwing me off balance.
Saf rubbed his shoulder and squared off against the practice pell again. Striking with abandon, he reached the previous intense state quickly. Sure enough:
Lurch.
In a blink Saf had moved a fraction of a foot. Staggering, he nearly remained upright, but slammed into the dirt. He got up. Again.
Hit. Hit.
Lurch.
Hit. Hit.
This time Saf felt it coming. He had a heartbeat to prepare for the Mark to kick in.
Lurch.
He stumbled but stayed on his feet. The preparation had allowed his mind to remember the stance from the position his Mark was about to send him to, making the transition much easier.
Saf repeated the cycle again and again, until he could stay upright reliably. With enough anticipation, he found he could even stop it from happening. He just had to pull back a bit from his heightened mental state in the moment before the Jump.
Can I make a Jump at will? Can I control how far back I Jump? The questions welled up endlessly. Saf was learning how to stop his Mark from hindering him in a fight, but could it help him?
Saf shoved his curiosity to the back of his mind and redoubled his attacks on the dummy, now uninterrupted by his powers. His hits landed cleanly one after the other. His movements flowed together naturally. He imagined the dummy was the Thin Witch. Smash. He imagined the dummy was his arch-nemesis, the water bucket he lugged up and down from the river. Smash. He imagined the dummy was Young Henerick. Smash.
He was so buried in his sparring practice, he didn’t notice the room lightening until it was well past dawn. Saf stopped, panting heavily. He put his equipment back. As he turned towards the door to leave, he froze.
Jamin stood there, his face stony and expressionless.
“Not bad.”
The captain of the guard walked past Saf into the depths of the armory without waiting for a response.