Harald froze, staring at the familiar, crabby script. For how long had this envelop sat here? Had his father written it the day he’d descended into his final raid, or years before that, leaving it there for the right moment?

There was no way of telling.

“What is it?” asked Sam, drawing closer.

Harald pried the envelop free. Turned it about. Stiff, square, light. It wasn’t sealed. He opened it and drew out a simple card.

Your inheritance is yours once you are worthy.

Gustav is the key. Strike with the right energy.

Kill your masters.

That was it.

Harald turned the card about, blinked, felt his heart pounding, pounding, pounding.

Four years his father had been gone and dead, and now his voice seemed to echo from beyond the grave. Harald heard the words in that familiar voice, cutting and cruel, commanding and brooking no denial.

He handed it wordlessly to Sam.

“Gustav?” She stared at him, wide eyed. “The training mannequin?”

“Must be. He named it after Gustav the Just when he found out I idolized the fallen king. His idea of humor.”

“The mannequin’s attached to the floor. Perhaps it’s a… lever? Some kind of trigger to open a door?”

Harald took the card back, reread it. “What the fuck, Dad?” Did he have to be so obscure? “The ‘right energy’?”

Sam shrugged. “Perhaps he wanted you to be strong enough? Maybe you have to hit it with enough power?”

“One way to find out,” said Harald, and he ran from the room. Down the landing, the stairs, across the hall, to tear down the stairs into the basement and then into the gym.

The faint radiance of the scale-lanterns bathed everything in a dull, golden glow. Harald walked up to Gustav and stared at the mannequin.

Faceless, battered, and made from ironwood imported from Mithlorniel, it had been one of Father’s prized possessions. The technique behind its construction was said to come from Dumrûn, but required expertise with which to engage; his Father had strictly forbidden him from ever practicing with it.

Harald stepped in close. It had a core of living darksteel, observable only at the joints. No legs, just a darksteel strut that could twist and lean and dodge. Its arms hung limply by its side, but Harald had vivid memories of them spinning to life, extending impossibly far to strike at this father, retracting to block, moving so quickly they blurred.

And the smooth head. Little more than a dark oval of scarred ironwood, yet somehow radiating a sense of intelligence, an impossible aura of power.

“Father said its weakest setting would break my arms if I messed with it,” said Harald.

“You’ve grown since then.”

“But I don’t even know how to activate it. There are no buttons. I don’t recall his ever speaking words to awaken it or anything.”

“Isn’t it living darksteel?” Sam crouched beside the central spoke. “I don’t know much about it, but I don’t think it ever… turns off? You should probably just be able to punch it and it’ll respond.”

“Great.” Harald windmilled his arms. “With my fists? A sword?”

Sam glanced at him, equally mystified.

The idea of punching the ironwood was not appealing.

“The right energy,” he whispered. “That means the living darksteel can read my… intent?”

“It has to be.” Sam rose and surveyed the room once more. “But that also means the entrance has to be somewhere in here, right? We overlooked it.”

“If Father went to this length to hide it, knocking on the wall with a hammer won’t do much.” Harald blew out his cheeks and raised his fists. “Well. Here goes.”

“Be careful,” said Sam helplessly, backing off.

Harald stepped in close to Gustav. It didn’t move, didn’t betray any sentience. A straight jab to its head? Should he put on sparring gloves to protect his knuckles? No. That was probably the opposite of what his father had imagined when he’d stipulated the ‘right energy’.

Harald took a deep breath, and fear twisting his innards, stepped in and jabbed Gustav in the head.

It felt like punching the wall. At the last second he checked his blow, and still it stung, pain flaring in his wrist and knuckles.

Gustav didn’t respond.

“Damn it,” hissed Harald, shaking out his hand. He stepped in closer, adopted a fighting stance, and then tried for a light combination of blows, a round-house at the chest, uppercut at the breadbasket, a couple of jabs and then a slightly harder cross to the face.

He accomplished nothing but hurting his hand.

Gustav ignored him.

“The card said ‘once you are worthy’,” said Sam. “Perhaps you need to get stronger. It might be keyed to how hard you can hit it?”

“That’s not good.” Harald backed away, rubbing at his hand. “Unless I try a sword strike? Dad would fight it with weapons.”

“You’ve had three days training.”

“You think Countess Sonora will care?” Harald strode over to Vic’s training bags. They kept them down here when not drilling. He opened one and pulled out his dull training longsword. Considered it, then returned it in favor of the scabbarded blade he’d never yet used, the one with a live edge.

He pulled the plain scabbard off and admired the sword’s length, how light it felt yet how vicious.

“Do you want me to get your own sword?” Sam still sounded dubious. “The expensive one?”

“Let’s try with this first,” said Harald softly. “That sword… it feels like it belongs to the old Harald.”

He moved to stand before the mannequin and adopted the Tower stance that Vic had taught him. Blade vertical, hands with a gap between them, shoulders back, chest puffed out.

Was it his imagination, or did he feel like he suddenly had Gustav’s attention?

“Follow the blade,” said Sam softly. “Strike and pull back.”

“Right.” Harald inhaled, then let out a cry and stepped forward, swinging in a diagonal slash at the mannequin’s chest.

The blade flashed then clanged against the iron wood, bouncing off as if on a shield. Harald, breathing sharply, leaped back, expecting the arms to whirl around and strike him.

Nothing.

“I saw them shiver,” called Sam excitedly. “Just before you hit.”

Harald blew out his cheeks. “So it felt the blow coming in and didn’t bother to respond?”

“Well.” Sam shrugged. “You’ve only been training for a handful of days. Your father probably didn’t think that enough.”

“I need to unlock the vault.” Harald glared balefully at the innocuous Gustav. “I need to prove my worth before the duel, or by whatever deadline the Countess Sonora gives me.”

“Then -” began Sam, but Harald stepped forward again and this time struck with savage anger. The blade flashed, clanged off Gustav, and sent a jarring vibration down its length into his hands.

“Nothing that time,” said Sam.

Harald closed his eyes. He summoned Ustim’s sneer to mind. Thought of the man’s betrayal, his con.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Anger stirred within him.

Then he summoned Yeoric’s visage. Thought on how the bully had pushed him around, squeezed his shoulder, lorded his physical superiority over him.

The sparks of his anger grew and became a flame.

His father, four years gone, leaving nothing but a cryptic note that taunted his inability.

Lucine’s cruel laughter. Evernessa’s false flirtation.

Vic dealing with him as Victor Carmine.

This whole city, obsessed with scales and power at all costs.

Anger suffused him. But it still wasn’t enough. So he thought on his own stupid, round, ugly face. His belly, his weakness, the way he’d gasp and cough as he puked after pushing too hard these past few days. His pathetic stats, his life spent whining, his excuses, his weakness, his wasted potential.

He thought of Vorakhar taking advantage of him after he’d been savaged to death by rats.

Harald’s eyes snapped open and with a cry he burst forward. He swung the blade with all his strength, pushing it forward, slashing at Gustav’s ironwood torso, chest out, shoulders back, manifesting his strength -

Gustav blurred, spun, and a battering ram smashed into Harald’s shoulder with enough force to send him tumbling to the side. He lost his grip on the sword as he fell to the mat, rolled over and ended up on his back.

“Harald!” Sam was immediately by his side. “Your arm, is it…?”

Harald lifted his right arm, flexed it. The pain was horrendous, his forearm and hand numb. “Not broken. Almost, I think.”

“It moved so quickly. I couldn’t even warn you.”

Harald forced himself to sit up, cradling his arm to his chest. He glared at Gustav. Wished it had a face so he could focus on something.

But no. Just a bland, much abused wooden mannequin.

That had been his best. He’d summoned all his energy, his anger, his ability for violence, and he’d gotten the mannequin to respond.

But no door had opened. No trapdoor manifested.

Nothing.

“I’ve got a lot to learn,” he grated. “And very little time to do it.”

“Here you are,” said Vic, entering the gymnasium with a smile. “And training at blades! Ho ho, don’t tell me this means you’ve not found the vault and are hoping to instead simply win the bout?”

“We got a clue,” said Harald reluctantly. “Did Countess Sonora back the loan?”

“Of course she did.” Vic beamed down at him, hands on his hips. “She just adores me. The second I crooked my finger she came running, undoing her purse strings with unseemly haste. Her father, were he alive, would have been horrified.”

“Is that so?” Sam crossed her arms.

“All is indeed resolved. The Horizon’s Whisper has been secured, but the Lady, well. She had her own terms.”

“What terms?” asked Harald.

“A gradated repayment table. Beginning tomorrow at Six Bell you’ll owe her an Aurora Veil Driftshell for each day that passes as interest.”

“Wait,” said Sam. “One per day?”

“Why, Sam, it’s a sweet deal. Harry-boy here assured me that there was a vault laden with scales on the premises. If you repay her tomorrow, you’ll have secured a hundred thousand Copper Moon loan for only a thousand.”

“But if we don’t?” Sam’s shoulders slumped. “Two months’ of accrued interest will be almost an entirely new Horizon’s Whisper. If Harald wins, he’ll have to give both of Yeoric’s scales to her.”

“It’s a cruel world,” said Vic with a lazy smile, “and Countess Sonora has been forced to become cut throat in order to survive its iniquities. Also: it’s a done deal. The paperwork is upstairs and ready for your signature. But tell me: you have a clue? And it apparently involves training with blades?”

“Here,” said Harald, drawing his father’s card from his doublet and holding it out to Vic, who scanned it then stared at Harald in confusion. “Gustav is the name of this mannequin. I’ve been trying to strike it with the ‘right energy’, whatever that means. I’ve only been knocked on my ass for my efforts, though.”

“Fascinating.” Vic studied Gustav. “Why, this is a delightful little machine. I hadn’t noticed it before.”

“It has a core of living darksteel,” said Sam reluctantly. “The body is ironwood.”

“I can’t pretend to know much about all that, but I do have some experience with training dummies.” Vic glanced at Harald with a smile. “Perhaps I can give it a try? If all that’s needed is a forceful blow, then I’m sure I can provide.”

“Have at it,” said Harald, despite his misgivings. He wanted to be the one to conquer the mannequin. He wanted to be the one that passed his Father’s trial.

But Countess Sonora’s repayment schedule made it too expensive to console his pride.

“A little room, if you will,” said Vic, drawing his rapier with a flourish. “This could get flashy.”

Harald rose, still holding his near-broke arm, and together with Sam drew back almost to the wall.

Vic eased himself into a combat crouch, feet shoulder width apart, the heels in line, his blade rising to point at the mannequin’s chest. The blade was long, beautifully crafted, and looked an extension of Vic’s arm, which trembled not at all.

For a moment all was still, and somehow, in a way he couldn’t define, Harald felt an intensity build up around Vic the second before he lunged.

His forward foot snapped forward as he pushed off, knee moving over his foot as his arm extended, driving the point of his rapier directly into the mannequin’s chest.

But the speed. One moment Vic was simply standing there, at ease, and then a lurid blue flame wreathed his sword, ghostly and barely visible, and he lunged with explosive power.

Gustav rotated and bowed back so that Vic’s strike missed, its arm swinging around with wicked speed. But Vic recovered by pushing off his front foot, springing back and twisting to avoid the blow.

Flickerflash and it was over, Vic laughing delightedly as he paced back and forth, slashing at the air with his blade, eyes locked on the mannequin.

“Why! What a delight. It’s not an artless dummy after all. Let us try again!”

And this time he dropped into a deeper stance, blade rising before him, and again he lunged, blade burning blue, but this time when Gustav bowed away Vic was ready, and raised his rapier to block a blurring blow.

Harald lost track of what took place next. There were a series of clacks as Vic moved with unparalleled speed and dexterity, parrying and ducking Gustav’s blows as his own slashes and thrusts probed the mannequin’s defenses.

Gustav swung at Vic from both sides, but the swordsman blocked and fended off the attacks by forming a defensive barrier of rapid, interlocking parries, blocks which he then turned into attacks, so that when he deflected a blow he was able to thrust and press his own strikes once more.

One, two, three seconds was all it took. Vic swerved and leaned, ducked and lunged, and then his rapier point slammed home into Gustav’s chest, its length briefly burning blue once more as the sword flexed.

Vic leaped back with a slightly breathier laugh, and put up his blade, brows raised as he glanced about them.

Nothing.

“That was a palpable blow!” protested Vic. “I struck it with enough force to pierce a man in a full suit of armor. Come on!”

They all gazed about the gym.

Nothing.

“Bah,” said Vic, slashing his blade in annoyance. “Perhaps your father intended you to disinter the old king and mutilate his corpse.”

“No, it has to be this Gustav.” Harald shook out his arm.

Sam looked pensive. “It has to be that ‘right energy’ line. Perhaps it’s keyed to Harald’s essence in some way, and will only open to him?”

“Well, you’ll have to progress rapidly with your training,” said Vic, sheathing his blade. “If you lose to Yeoric we’ll both be in deep water, and that I can’t abide.”

“Both?” asked Harald.

“Yes.” Vic narrowed his eyes. “Part of my convincing Countess Sonora to countenance this loan was agreeing to punitive terms of service should you fail to find the vault and lose to Yeoric. Which, may I add, is therefor no longer an option. We’ll either find this vault, or I shall employ every trick and stratagem I’ve ever learned to help you win that duel.”

“Thank you, Vic.” Harald tried not to feel touched. “I appreciate it.”

“Oh, don’t get all melodramatic on me.” Vic scowled. “This is a wager on my part, one that should—and will—prove remarkably lucrative. I agree that there is a hidden room somewhere in this house. All we need do is train you to the point where you’re able to make Gustav here reveal the vault to us all. We’ve two months in which to do so. Surely your father didn’t expect you to become a hero out of legend first.”

“Right.” Harald stared at Gustav. “I just need to hit it the right way and it’ll surely unlock the door. Then we pay off Countess Sonora, and I can focus on defeating Yeoric and getting my scales back.”

“Not to mention using whatever wealth is in this vault to Ascend your Throne,” said Vic. “We’re going to need to do that as soon as possible. It will empower whatever class actives and passives you unlock, and give you an edge over poor, lumbering Yeoric, who is somehow still laboring with one Throne.”

“I need a Zenith Tide for that,” said Harald ruefully.

“Which we can get from the auction,” piped in Sam, eyes gleaming. “That can go through now that Ustim can’t lock down our resources. Perhaps that’s what’s needed for Harald to force Gustav to reveal the vault: he needs a class and an Ascended Throne to go with it.”

“By instinct I want to mock everything you say,” allowed Vic, “but that does have the ring of truth to it. So, we have a plan.”

“This was meant to be my sixth day,” said Harald. “Has that changed?”

“Oh Harry-boy, do try to keep up.” Vic’s smile was pitying. “We are now business partners in this venture. Of course everything has changed. It has gone from a merely personal endeavor to one with immensely lucrative potential. We’re going to skip days six and seven, and go right to the heart of your training.”

“Me included,” said Sam.

Vic rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately, yes, the help will also benefit from my wisdom.”

Sam narrowed her eyes.

“We shall proceed as follows: tomorrow you’ll begin to train under a proper instructor who has had copious experience with the longsword. She’ll be coming here to continue your instruction, whereas I shall assume a more managerial role, taking note of your progress and identifying weaknesses. Sam, you will assist Harald in losing weight, gaining strength, and developing the elan that he currently lacks. We must also ensure that he is getting sufficient food and rest; each seventh day will be one of enforced idleness, so that our boy here can consolidate his gains and recover.”

Harald tried not to feel a sense of rising excitement. But the prospect was thrilling.

“Now, this training will do wonders for his physical stats,” continued Vic, “but that is simply not enough. In time, high level sword instruction may unlock a class, but we don’t have the luxury of waiting for the Fallen Angel to take notice. No. We must accelerate the process by engaging in that time honored tradition of instigating the bestowal of a class.”

“We’re going into the dungeon?” asked Sam, face lighting up with excitement.

“We are indeed.” Vic’s smile was feline with its predator amusement. “Nothing, absolutely nothing expedites the awarding of a class like putting your life on the line. I’ll do a little research and determine which level would be best. It must be sufficiently lethal that Harald is pushed to his limits, but not so dangerous that he’s killed out of hand.”

Harald took a deep, shuddering breath. “All right. New instructor tomorrow, a refined training regimen, more food, more rest, and then a dungeon raid soon.”

“Precisely.” Vic smiled. “Then, as soon as we’ve stripped this old house of everything of value, we’ll get you to absorb a Zenith Tide and Ascend your Throne. Which should, if all goes well, lead to your opening your father’s mystical vault, and general merriment and celebration for all.”

“Yes,” said Harald, fierce determination rising within him. “Absolutely.”

“Good.” Vic glanced at Sam. “Oh, you’d best see to preparing our new instructor’s room. She’s quite particular about cleanliness.”

Sam swallowed down her irritation. “All right. I’ll see to it now.”

“And we’d best hide the remaining wine bottles,” added Vic. “You do know how Evernessa likes to drink. We wouldn’t want to sabotage her ability to teach.”

“Evernessa?” Harald gaped. “She’s going to be my instructor?”

“Of course, Harry-boy!” Vic wrapped his arm around Harald’s shoulders and began guiding him out of the gym. “There are only two things she can do better than play her fiddle, and one of them is swing a longsword.” Vic grinned wolfishly. “Why do you think they cast her out of the Conservatory?”

“I’d no idea,” said Harald, trying to imagine the dark-haired Evernessa swinging a blade.

“Oh, there is so much about this world that you don’t know, despite my efforts these past four years.” Vic laughed and gave Harald a push. “It’s going to be an absolute delight to open your eyes.”