Stumbling to the side so he wasn’t directly under the cloud of metal shards, Nathen collapsed to the ground panting. It felt like that trial was only a few minutes yet he was exhausted.
“The stairs have claimed more lives than the others combined,” the Custodian explained.
“Would you really have killed me if I’d run,” Nathen asked, rolling his head to look at the suit of armor.
“Yes,” it confirmed simply, “seven people before you have started climbing the stairs, six of them perished. Three by my hand, two became trapped between fears and died of dehydration and the final attempted to rush the stairs and died before making it halfway.”
“What killed him?”
“The sudden rise in pressure on his mind, the trial is more than simply testing your ability to persevere. In fact each trial exists as much to prepare you to wield the Storm Blade as it is to prevent misuse of its power,” the Custodian explained as Nathen got his breathing under control, “an awakened item isn’t a simple object, it has a soul, a will of its own. The Tempest King founded Templeholm, cutting it from a great stone, in reverence to the gods. Thus the Storm Blade refuses to be wielded by one the gods haven’t approved of.
“The Tempest King was a master of the blade, thus the Storm Blade requires a certain level of skill in its wielder. The will of the Tempest King was powerful, enough that all of humanity once followed him, and the Storm Blade grew to match. Those lacking spiritual strength will find themselves consumed by the soul of the blade,” the Custodian paused as Nathen stood, “in times of great need these restrictions can be lessened for a time, hence the pact the blade offers.”
“So… what now?” Nathen asked, looking at the cloud of steel that started around chin height for him, just above the floating hilt of the weapon. Now that he was closer he noticed that the cloud wasn’t static, each of the shards were slowly moving. They seemed to come in layers, with the outer most shards orbiting one way while the next layer in drifted the other, but some shards ignored these layers, gradually moving between them or up and down within the cloud. Despite the chaotic movement the shards never touched, in fact they never seemed to get closer or further from one another as if each shard was surrounded by an invisible bubble. Yet, if he was careful, he found he could pass his fingers between the shards. He didn’t risk touching one as each and every one seemed razor sharp.
“Now, you must make contact with the spirit within the sword,” the Custodian said, “take hold of the weapon and make it yours.”
Slowly, carefully, Nathen reached under the cloud of metal and grabbed the handle. As soon as his hand made contact every shard of metal froze where it was, and an odd presence seemed to fix its gaze on him. It was hard to explain, it was the feeling of being watched but with no apparent source, not even the empty gaze of the Custodian had created this feeling. More than that, however, was a lingering sense of danger that came with the feeling. It was like he’d just woken a great bear that had been hibernating, and now it was gazing at him through tired eyes, trying to decide if it was worth killing him.
Nathen froze for a long moment as the sword seemed to consider him, but quickly tightened his grip on the weapon, attempting to pull it from the air but the hilt refused to budge. He could feel the spirit observing him become angry, or perhaps annoyed was more accurate, but instead of backing down he grabbed the hilt with his second hand and glared into the cloud of metal.
All of his focus was on the weapon as he struggled to pull the hilt from where it seemed frozen in the air, but no matter how hard he pulled it refused to move even a little. Deciding that wasn’t working he paused to think about it, the blade seemed only mildly annoyed by his attempting to rip it from the air, but not seriously. In fact when he stopped the feeling dimmed, as if the spirit was considering going back to sleep after dismissing him. With a scowl he tried to pull the weapon down, rather than towards him, as if unsheathing it from the air and, to his surprise it shifted a millimeter. As it did the cloud of steel shards contracted slightly. The spirit of the weapon seemed as surprised as he was by that, but he couldn’t pull it further.
Desperate, he thought back to the slow movements of the shards, and twisted the handle. The shards moved in time with the hilt turning, and after a quarter turn he felt more than saw the handle drop another fraction, the centermost shards nearly touching. With a grin he began turning the handle again, it felt like he was putting together a puzzle, or picking a lock, twisting the handle until the shards lined up and the handle dropped another tiny bit. He had to keep constant pressure on the hilt or it would rise back up and his work was undone.
The spirit of the sword wasn’t still, it had been slow to wake and react, but once Nathen figured out the trick he felt it examining him more closely. Once the first shards made contact with one another, forming a narrow, jagged wire of steel in the middle of the cloud he felt the pressure mounting. It was familiar, reminding him of both the fear he’d felt while climbing the stairs and the sense of wrongness from the mantis he’d encountered in the forest. He could feel his Dangerous Mind ability activate, sending a surge of strength to his arms while forcibly rejecting any attempt the sword’s spirit made to influence him. His scowl deepened and he redoubled his efforts to pick the lock that was assembling the sword. Layer by layer the shards came together, all the while the force on his mind grew. Had he not experienced the stairs it might have overwhelmed him, but he was now used to it. As the handle was pulled lower and lower it became harder to keep it in place while twisting it, and he found it easier to manage with the same grip he used when wielding the weapon.
Nathen was lost to his own world, closely watching the shards closest to the growing blade for where they’d line up to the jagged metal that had already formed. Doing so he found he was completing each layer faster than the last, yet he persisted. The spirit of the blade seemed to be growing weaker after a point as well, the previously bestial sense he’d gotten from it had become less feral, more tamed.
He was so focused he was surprised when he realized there were no more shards, that the pressure on his mind had faded from anger into a grudging respect. Letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding he inspected the completed Storm Blade. It was remarkably plain, the shards had fit together so neatly that it looked like one piece of metal. The perfectly straight edges were polished while the narrow flat of the weapon between them was rough and dull, lacking a fuller or any kind of embellishment.
It was clearly a finely made blade without flaw but hardly resembled a legendary weapon. The balance was perfect, the grip fit in his hand like it was made for him and it was lighter than it seemed, but Nathen thought that the blade failed to live up to what he’d imagined it as.
As soon as he thought that he felt a surge of indignation from the weapon, as if it too was upset but didn’t appreciate him pointing it out. Yet behind that was a sense of assurance, like it knew it would grow to surpass his expectations, but wasn’t there yet. With a smile Nathen flourished the blade, getting a sense of how it felt, the tip whispering through the air as if it could cut the wind itself.
“So, what now?” Nathen asked, looking up to see the Custodian motionless, both hands extended with a sheath offered to him. With a grin he took the sheath and found it fit the sword perfectly and he quickly fixed it to his belt where his past weapons had hung.
“Is there anything else I should know?” he asked, looking at the Custodian again, only to be confused as the suit of armor remained static and silent. As he refocused on his surroundings he noticed that everything felt off, the distant tinkling of water from the fountains on the far side of the hall was missing, the light from the braziers dimmer. Looking at the pillars the flames seemed to be fading, slowly becoming but glowing coals rather than the large fire that had lit the hall for days while he’d fought against the Custodian. The added rooms, the food, any indication of the training he’d accomplished or the greater abilities of the vault were missing as well.
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Returning to the construct, Nathen gently touched one of the outstretched gauntlets and they felt hollow, nothing like the hands that had so skillfully wielded a weapon against him. More confident he rapped his knuckles against a pauldron, hearing nothing but a hollow echo and rattle of metal on metal.
For a long moment he considered that the trials had been but an illusion, a figment of his mind. What if he’d simply walked into the vault and become lost in his mind, experiencing days, perhaps even weeks of time in his mind as his body slowly climbed the stairs and grabbed the weapon. What if it had taken him days to reach the stairs, had the spell somehow sustained him as well? Were the trials even real or were they different for each person?
Nathen shook those thoughts from his head, turning to leave, but pausing to look at the Custodian’s motionless armor one last time. He smirked, all doubt banished from his mind, and confidently strode down the stairs. Behind him the suit of armor remained still, no presence within it to watch him leave. But, upon its breast, in contrast to the dull time worn metal of the armor was a single bright scratch where Nathen had landed a hit.
\*\*\*\*
The High Bishop of the Protector suddenly straightened, cutting off what he’d been saying midsentence. Like the rest of his church at Templeholm he’d been busy preparing for the defense of the city. While he wasn’t a combatant he still felt an urge to protect. Part of that urge was simply who he was, even before being elevated to Bishop he’d had a strong protective instinct. After his spirit had been infused with that of his god it had been heightened further.
“Father?” one of the priests asked him, concern clear in his voice.
“Continue on without me,” the bishop replied, standing and rushing from the room. It was rare that he felt surprise from his god, much more surprising was the reason behind it.
He quickly rushed from his church, ignoring the looks of confusion from other priests and the Slayer Knights who were present. He quickly made his way to the center of the temple district atop the great stone of Templeholm to where the six largest churches stood, though one could be forgiven for thinking they were one church from how they were merged into a single six pointed building. He pushed through the great double doors to the Temple of Earth, passing through the mostly empty halls before reaching a circular room in the exact center of the six churches. It was round and large enough to host a round table around which six figures waited for him.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Well what?” one man, easily the youngest at the table, asked. He wore light blue robes, had his feet up on the table and hands behind his head, seemingly relaxing despite the situation.
“Someone broke into the Vault of the Storm Blade!” he nearly shouted.
“No one broke into the vault,” an older man sighed, his dark blue robes were more flowing and while he looked relaxed he was more subdue about it than the previous.
“Then how could someone have taken the blade!”
“They passed the trials,” the only woman present said simply, standing out from the others in her bright white robe.
“That’s impossible,” the Bishop of the Protector insisted, “no Herald of a God of Man may attempt the trials.”
“If you remember, our patrons weren’t consulted when that was decided upon,” the man in dark blue said dryly.
“It was still your gods that created and maintain the vault!”
“Look, even if someone managed to break in, so what?” the youngest man in light blue asked, stretching out his hands to give an exaggerated shrug, “they got their hands on a sword, big deal.”
“That blade can not be allowed to be fully unlocked,” the High Bishop insisted, nearly slamming his hands on the meeting table, “surely you understand the importance of the weapon.”
“Our gods enshrined the weapon in the vault at the request of the Tempest King, to test those who might desire it’s power,” the woman replied, “they did this out of respect for him, it was you who made it key to your pacts.”
“You benefit from the pacts as much as us! If humanity dies out-.”
“You’re under a false assumption,” the woman in white interrupted, “I more than anyone know how much suffering there would be, the God of Light is no fan of death. And is a big fan of what humanity has accomplished. But we won’t interfere without good reason. Unlike the Gods of Man, the Gods of Nature will continue to exist after our kind has left this world.”
“If you have an issue with it,” a man dressed in all black to the extent that even his face was covered spoke up, “then deal with it yourself.”
Of course the High Bishop of Dark would say that, the Bishop of the Protector groaned to himself. The God of Air’s lackadaisical attitude was also unsurprising, it was their nature as much as it was in his to protect. But to not have heard anything from the Bishop of Earth was a shock, so he turned to face the large man in robes of brown who sat, straight backed, arms folded and eyes forward, as if he couldn’t be bothered with this.
“High Bishop of Earth,” the protector entreated, but was interrupted before he could continue.
“Quiet,” the large man’s voice was as deep and rough as the stone his god represented, “I find myself upset as well, but not with the state of the vault. I find fault with your completeness, your pact should have been made solid, but you left a crack. One which now has begun to spread.”
“What crack?”
“One it isn’t our place to point out,” the Bishop of Water said, shooting a glare at the Bishop of Earth.
\*\*\*\*
“What is this?” the town guard captain asked, standing in the middle of the road facing down a column of mounted Slayer Knights. At their head was Gregory, Lex and a few more respected Knights.
“We’re going to fight the Mutts,” Gregory replied simply, looking at the single line of guards to either side of the gruff captain.
“If this is some attempt to go out in glory, there are better ways to die.”
“We’re not planning to die,” Lex responded, “we’re going to buy you time to reinforce the city.”
“Is that so,” the older man said skeptically, running his eyes down the line of Knights, all of whom confidently met his gaze. After a heartbeat of silence, even the watching civilians and street vendors remained silent, he shrugged, “alright then.”
“Wh-what?” Gregory stuttered as the Guard captain led his men to the side.
“Give them hell Master Ascender,” the Captain replied, motioning forward to the open gate.
“Just like that?”
“If an Ascender, a Herald and a few hundred Slayer Knights say they have a plan, who am I to disagree?” the old man shrugged again, “we’ll make the most of every hour you buy us.”
“Th-that’s…” Gregory stumbled over his words again before taking a breath, “with luck we’ll be back before the siege starts, but more likely we’ll be back just after they begin to surround you.”
The Captain simply nodded and Gregory nudged his horse forward, quickly followed by the rest of the Knights. While only a fraction of the knights were fit to fight from horseback they all knew how to ride, as such the Knights had purchased every horse capable of carrying a man to be found in the city. Most were little more than draft horses, good for carrying goods but untrained for combat. A dozen carriages were fit in the middle of the column, each loaded with supplies to either support the knights or carry out their plans. The entire column was loaded for speed more than endurance, they had food and water for a week. The Knights were used to living off the land so they might be able to squeeze a few more days out of it that way, but they weren’t planning on a long campaign.
Gregory led the entire column north, some Knights who were trained and ready to fight from horseback broke off to cover the column to range ahead. The entire column hadn’t even cleared the city before the outriders hit the first roving feral pack of Mutts, and mere minutes later a second squad could be heard entering a charge.
“I didn’t expect him to just… let us go,” Gregory admitted as they rode.
“He’s not a fool,” Lex replied, “he’s been captain of the guard in Templeholm as long as I’ve been alive. He’s been through multiple swarms by the Mutts. He’s seen what Ascenders can do so, honestly, having his confidence is rather… comforting.”
“I-,” Gregory paused as a horn sounded from the leading scout squad, they’d spotted a pack and gone to intercept it. Looking over his shoulder the line of Knights behind him nodded and kneed their horses ahead to take over their position, “I think the line of Knights behind me swayed his decision more than me being an Ascender.”
Lex didn’t respond, simply smirking as Gregory turned to speak with the knight riding on his other side. He might not realize it but this grouping of Knights would never have come together without him. Being around him felt… safe. Like everything would be alright if you just did as he said. She knew everyone felt the same, and that it wasn’t simply an Ascender thing. She’d met other Ascenders, and while they felt powerful none of them had made her feel so comfortable following their lead. Idly she wondered if this was how people felt around the Tempest King.
Shaking the thought away, she turned her attention to the task at hand. The column was making good time, with any luck they’d reach the crevasse one Knight had told them about before nightfall. From there things would get busy.