Elian no longer sensed anyone trailing him on the way to the Cauldron. Whoever his stalker was probably got tired of waiting for him to exit Gideon’s carriage to mug him. Or worse. More likely, it was Elian who was tired. He pictured a warm dinner of roasted faeboar—they had preserved plenty of its meat in its own lard—before taking a beautiful sleep. Imagined sounds of crackling skin and sizzling fat of the faeboar filled his ears as he ignored the brawls among pilgrims along the way. There was even a small riot on Energy Hill, with fire dancing on the roofs of some shops. It was immediately put out by a flying mage spraying water down.
These people should learn to relax.
The Cauldron was more peaceful than other areas because it was mostly populated with brewers and merchants interested only in production and money, not in Penitent high scores. Elian didn’t see any red robes. He exited the gates of the Cauldron, expecting it to be the start of his peaceful night when he spotted splashes of red illuminated by lantern balls in the distance.
“What are Faridar’s followers doing there? Are they headed for—?” The red robes took the left turn to Borlen’s camp. Elian hurried back to the gates to alert the guards about a possible disturbance. They didn’t seem to want to move at first, but their reactions changed when he mentioned Borlen’s name.
“Magistrate’s pinky!” exclaimed a burly guard. “It escaped my mind that Borlen set up his camp that way.”
“What’s the matter?” the second guard asked.
“That was Naamon!”
“Accursed fingers, is this going to be a repeat of last year?” The two guards hurried away before Elian could ask what was going on.
Elian thought of following them to make sure they called for reinforcements but from the tone of their conversation, he needed to find Borlen fast. Very fast. He ran out of the town. Through the trees, he saw the lantern balls of the red robes fan out in front of the wagons.
Even before Elian could reach them, shouts reverberated through the lantern-lit forest—a man who probably was the leader of this group of red robes and Borlen were yelling at each other in Tellerin. Elian found it hard to follow their words because he wasn’t fluent in their language. Their clipped manner of speaking wasn’t helping.
From what Elian could gather, Borlen and the other guy were fellow tribesmen. And they had quite an interesting history.
Borlen used to be a Faridar supporter? Elian wasn’t too sure if he translated that Tellerin line correctly. He listened more as he circled the large group of red robes, stalking among the trees to their side. Borlen’s group was smaller in comparison. Only the men accompanied Borlen; the women and children stayed in their wagons.
“I’ve made my choice, Naamon!” Borlen shouted. “We all did. We’ve thrown our lot with Penitent Tharguras, and here we shall stay.”
“You are wrong, you traitor!” yelled back Naamon. “Penitent Faridar completed his Tribulation with nary a scratch to his defenses—proof that the Magistrate’s favor is upon him. Come, return to the fold. Let your support lay where it should.”
Elian snorted. Not a great idea to call someone a traitor when inviting them back to the group. Then again, emotions and overzealousness impaired reason. Add the tumultuous past of these two, and Elian was worried things would escalate badly. Did those guards really call for help?
“Right or wrong is yet unseen,” said Borlen. “Whatever the future may be, regret does not fill our hearts. We stand steadfast in our choice.”
“You’ve made your choice to betray me and the Tellerins. You’ve betrayed Faridar, the Champion Penitent of our people.”
Faridar is a Tellerin? Elian started to piece together their backstory as the shouting continued. This Naamon guy converted Borlen to follow Faridar a long time ago. Together, they worked to bring other Tellerin tribes behind Faridar. Elian wasn’t quite sure what caused their rift, but they seemed to have fought and injured each other.
Naamon showed his upper right chest to Borlen, pointing at it and cursing. Elian assumed those were Tellerin curse words from the horrified gasps of the crowd. He couldn’t see Naamon’s injury from his spot at the end of Borlen’s group. Good thing he reached them without any red robe attacking him. He slowly inched to the middle to help if ever things went out of hand.
“After the success of our Champion Penitent in enduring his Tribulation,” said Naamon, “now is the time to let bygones be bygones and be one again. I’m prepared to lay down my grievances if you lay down yours.” He extended a hand to Borlen. “Let’s wipe the slate clean and start anew.”
Borlen swatted Naamon’s hand away. “You tell me that after cursing twelve generations of my ancestors to my face? Insincerity reeks from your skin.”
“Let me tell you a secret, lost brother of mine,” said Naamon, still not lowering his hand. “Preparations for Penitent Faridar’s next Tribulation are underway. So successful was his Tribulation this morning that plenty of resources were saved. There are talks of the seven priests lending him armor from the golden halls.”
“Lies!” Borlen said. “Those are for Enlightened Penitents!” He followed it up with a string of words that drew outcries from everyone. Something about betrayal and a dead wife. The rest of the sentence might be obscure curse words Elian didn’t know about.
Naamon roared and made a throwing motion. His robes wildly fluttered as gusts of wind howled through the trees. Elian saw light bending around the almost transparent force Naamon gathered around his arms. Borlen pushed aside those near him.
Elian ran towards them. But he was still far as Naamon brought his hands down.
A basketball-sized compressed air hit Borlen and sent him crashing into a wagon. Naamon rotated his hands to call up a flurry of blades, the expected follow-up, taking advantage of the turmoil of air after his first attack. Wind blades caught some light from the lantern balls as they swirled around Naamon.
“How dare you speak my wife’s name!” Naamon swept his arms across his chest. The wind blades hurtled towards the wagon Borlen crashed into.
Elian jumped in front of the wind blades, crossing his arms in front of him. From the size of the blades and the speed of their spin, he gauged he could take them head-on. He gathered Aether in his skin to reinforce it, a body tempering of sorts but with Aether Magic.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The wind blades tore his clothes, cut into his skin, and bit into his flesh. Not too deeply. It still stung. Warm blood flowed out of the wounds, streaking down his arms and legs as the cold forest wind blew over them.
“Who… are you?” Naamon lowered his hands and backed away. Cries of a child coming out of the wagon’s wreckage broke the silence of the crowd. People gathered to dig her and Borlen out. Naamon looked behind Elian and then at his hands. “What have I done?”
“You’re doing what’s right!” One of the red robes strode forward, his hands bursting into purple flames. “This is the time to settle this once and for all!”
Elian clenched his jaws. The pattern of the sparkles and the unnatural movement of the fire—energy-based conjuration. Magic. His right leg twitched to the side. But he willed himself to stay.
“I’m Elian Wards of Gilders! I was on my way to Frothlake when I met Borlen,” Elian said in barely passable Tellerin. He pressed on, capitalizing on the crowd’s surprise that he spoke their language. “They invited me to witness the Tribulation of Tharguras, and so I did and was inspired to become a Penitent. I don’t know Tharguras or Faridar. But I do know they’re all great men for enduring the tests of the Hundred-Armed Magistrate. Whatever is going on here is not… uh… great.”
What a lame ass speech. Elian wanted to dig a hole and hide under it until the Giants trampled these lands. Speeches were for charismatic people like the Great Hero Salvinor.
“This isn’t your fight, Gilderian,” said the man with purple flames. “Step aside. Or better yet, join our side.”
“I’m not on anyone’s side,” Elian said. “Let’s calm down, okay?”
Buying time until the guards arrived was all he could do. These idiots didn’t know he had zero Magic Resilience. If they did, they’d have torched him to get to Borlen. Given that he took on Naamon’s wind blades, the others wrongly assumed he had high magic defenses as well.
Or maybe I’m the idiot. When spells started flying, what should he do? He was weaker than a child when it came to defending magic. His thin layer of Aether reinforcement would break against a proper spell.
“Don’t stick your nose in the conflict of others.” A red-robed woman speaking Angloise pointed a sword made of writhing yellow energy at Elian. Another magical attack. “Leave if you value your life, Gilderian. We don’t take kindly to strangers impeding our way.”
What am I supposed to say to angry crackpots out to kill? Public speaking wasn’t one of the skills Elian prepared for his rewind. In retrospect, he should’ve practiced giving speeches since he was supposed to inspire and gather armies. Too bad he lost his time travel ability.
“I’m a Penitent of the Hundred-Armed Magistrate,” Elian said. “I’m sure some of you are too. There’s no need for bloodshed among us.”
“Blood debt for betrayal,” said the man juggling purple fireballs. “This is the Tellerin way. Useless to make you understand” He raised his hand, winding up for a throw.
Elian bent his knees, about to charge and tackle the man. But he didn’t immediately move. Then he felt the wind stop. A barrier divided the two groups. The man threw the fireball and it spread into a purple haze on the transparent wall.
“That’s enough, all of you!” An amplified voice shook the leaves of the trees. Two mages wearing the colors of Energy Hill floated above them. It was the older man with a long beard tied in golden ropes who spoke. “The party’s over.”
“But, sir,” said the younger mage. ‘They weren’t having a party. We were called for a disturbance.”
“Bah, you know what I mean. All of you, go disperse! Return to your camps and go to sleep or I will put you all to sleep myself!”
Elian remained standing in front of the transparent barrier, staring at the red robes on the other side shooed away by a squad of guards with enchanted halberds.
Would tackling that guy have worked? Elian couldn’t have remained standing to die.
But if he reached the man with purple flames, the woman would’ve cut him down with the energy sword. Elian knew things would’ve played out that way. The other half of his mind telling him to run stopped him from charging.
They saved me from making a choice, he thought, looking at the two mages bickering above him.
In his past life, Elian wasn’t too keen on sacrificing himself to save others. Surviving as long as possible to gather information for the rewind was his mission. Knowledge was his priority. Any people who died because he held back on heroics would be saved in the next timeline.
It was different now. People who’d die were dead. But it was also, in some ways, the same. He couldn’t jump in and sacrifice his neck because there were no more retries. If he died, events would unfold mostly the same as before, ending with a Giant victory.
If a situation like this came up again—and he was certain it would, many times more—what should he do?
Before Elian could arrive at an answer, Casimir appeared by his side with a bottle. “Brother Elian! Are you okay? Here’s a health potion for—”
“I have potion allergy.” Elian cracked his neck, bringing himself back to the reality at hand. “Ointments and bandages will do. My wounds aren’t too bad. How’s your uncle?”
“Priest Thalman saved him. Come see for yourself.”
“Huh? Thalman’s here?”
It turned out that the priest wasn’t at their camp. Thalman had sent Borlen a few pieces of armor as help for his next Tribulation. Borlen wore them, anticipating trouble when Faridar succeeded in his Tribulation.
“These are made by artisans of the Merl Kingdom.” Borlen pulled aside his torn robes to show more of the gleaming green metal underneath. “It nullified most of the force of Naamon’s strike, but getting thrown back still took its toll on my old self.” He stretched his body and winced. “No lasting injuries; that is the important part. How are you, brother? Wounds and blood mar your body.”
“Looks worse than it is.” Elian cleaned his injuries with Casimir’s help. He slathered herbal ointments over his stinging wounds before wrapping them. “Lucky that Priest Thalman gave you the armor today. Divine intervention?” Elian didn’t believe in that, but maybe he should because there were actual deities in this fantasy world.
“In some ways,” Borlen said. “It strengthens my conviction. But I’m also not one to label every coincidence a miracle. Priest Thalman is the most helpful among the seven. He doesn’t shy away from interacting with the people. It was only a matter of time until he visited us and offered his help. In truth, I’ve been meaning to ask for aid for my Tribulation. It came faster than expected.”
“Even before you asked, technically,” Elian said, continuing to patch himself up. He’d smell of herbs in class tomorrow. “Speaking of aid from the priests…” He didn’t know if continuing the question was a good idea. “Naamon mentioned that Faridar is going to borrow—”
“Impossible,” Borlen curtly cut in.
“Why not? I mean, if he has the money to rent it. I don’t understand why only Enlightened Penitents are allowed to wear those armor.”
“It’s not a matter of money, brother. Those suits of armor are invaluable. If they are severely damaged, repair might be impossible. And so, only the strongest of the strongest Penitents can petition to borrow it. The approval of all seven priests is required because they have to assess if the Enlightened Penitent would succeed without irreparable damage to the equipment.”
“I’m assuming that the seven priests have worn at least one suit of armor from the golden hall.”
Borlen nodded. “That is so.”
“And when the priests of their time judged them incapable of succeeding without damaging the armor, then that’s when they—”
“Stop their journey of penitence and become Stagnant,” finished Borlen, his expression sour. “Let us leave this topic, brother, for it reminds me of Naamon’s falsehood. Dinner awaits. It might’ve gotten cold because of the untimely arrival of the unwelcome.”