Chapter Four

Chapter 4

Mountainfall was a sight to behold. Built on the narrowest part of land separating the continent of Man, known as Ayan, from the Mystic Mountains, it resembled a mountain of its own. It’s solid stone walls, a legend in their own right, dominated the landscape. Great gray seamless masses of smooth granite, worn to a dull sheen from rain, wind, and the passage of time. The walls spanned the entire width of the narrows, merging with the high cliffs to either side. They were impregnable, impossible to scale, and too thick to break. Standing two hundred feet tall, forty feet wide, topped with ramparts and sentry posts, the walls were but the beginning of Mountainfall. Directly behind the walls stood massive towers with battlements leading directly to the top of the wall. The towers were strategically placed every five hundred yards from one another for the entire span of the wall. Red and gold banners carrying the burnished black image of a standing Grizzly Bear topped the towers, flapping in the morning breeze.

Further behind the legendary walls of Mountainfall lie the Citadel, the seat of power and home to King Thorvald Stormson. He was known to his people and enemies alike as the “Bear of the Walls”, genuinely loved by his people. He is a kind and considerate king, but when roused to fight, few could stand his equal in battle. His trusted great sword, “Tyr”, always at his side, he stood as guardian to his people. His duty to his people wasn’t his only purpose. King Stormson was also a defender of the Mystic Mountains, keeping those who would dare attempt to enter them away by penalty of death.

Behind the great Citadel lie the training grounds. The morning sun, still hidden behind the great walls, had not yet had the chance to evaporate the dew that coated the grass and cobblestone. All was quiet except for the sound of steel being drawn from the scabbard. Valsigian Hunterson began to move through his forms, his sword slicing through the air in precise movements, making barely a sound. His body, honed by years of training and discipline, was well muscled. His sword felt like a feather in his hand as he worked through his morning routine. His broad shoulders and toned arms just beginning to glisten with sweat as he pushed himself relentlessly. His stance was powerful, his legs moved in perfect synchronicity with his torso. His feet falling silently, precisely placed, perfectly balanced. Valsigian felt his father’s sword to be an extension of his body, a part of him that had become inseparable from the whole. He was one with the sword, his control and precision rivaled that of even his greatest teachers.

Valsigian was an impressive sight to behold, his golden blonde hair fell across his shoulders in waves. His piercing sky-blue eyes, focused and determined, were a window to his soul. They revealed the strength of his will and the storm that coursed within him. He stood six feet and two inches, shirtless, to avoid the confines of cloth constricting his movements. His tanned skin, smooth except where scars marred him, reminders of lessons learned, hard-fought battles, hard-won victories. His face comprised a strong chin, chiseled jawline, and what would have been a straight nose but for the many times it had been broken. Somehow, this didn’t distract from his striking handsomeness; it added to it, giving him the look of a man born for war. There was a hint of roguishness as well, the look of a man that knew he wasn’t half bad to look at. It didn’t surprise him that, for some reason, the serving girls and some of the ladies of the court always managed to find themselves strolling through the training grounds in the morning while he went through his forms.

He continued through his forms, shifting his grip on the hilt of his sword, pivoting his hips to extend the thrust of his blade. Each motion measured and controlled, precise, meant to deliver a lethal strike. He understood that every slight motion meant the difference between life and death. Every nuanced movement, practiced and deadly. His mastery of the forms demanded respect, not simply for the way he learned the forms, but for how he perfected them. He was a blade master in his own right, a man obsessed with detail. He wasn’t arrogant, but he was sure of his skill.

As the sun finally breached the top of the walls, his sword sailed through the air, creating the faintest whisper as it sliced the first rays of the sun, glinting off his well-polished blade. Valsigian knew he needed to be ready, for what, he did not yet know. The sound of steel on steel began to reverberate through the training grounds. The other Squires had finally begun to ply themselves to their routines. He continued through his forms, dancing from one to the other like a man possessed. He began to embrace the Blessing, feeling the elements around him. As soon as he did, he could feel the life around him. The Ivy that clung to the walls, the paving stones of the courtyard worn smooth by the passage of feet and time. He felt the smooth stone of the walls, the grit of the cobblestone, the slickness of the grass and gravel beneath his feet. He imagined the countless duels that had been fought over the centuries right where he now stood. Valsigian felt a kinship with the men who came before him, the ghosts of the past rising to strengthen him, to help him grow.

The Citadel’s grand halls began to accept the sun’s light through its stained glass windows. The great hall stood silent at this hour, its doors closed until the King decided to hold council. Beyond the Citadel, the sacred rectory awaited, its hallowed halls beginning to receive the first whispered prayers to Zerathis. His mind began to wander, his thoughts no longer focused on his forms or his connection to the Blessing. There was something else on his mind, something he had been training for his whole life. Tomorrow, he would kneel before his King, he would be granted the title of Knight. This is what he had been training for, what he had wanted for as long as he could remember. Yet, there was something else, something deeper, something unknown. Not doubt, not fear, but a shadow of something he could not quite grasp. He felt cold in the knowledge that something wasn’t right.

To counter his feelings, he embraced the Blessing more forcefully. As his sword continued to move through the forms, he shut out the outside world. Freeing himself from distraction, his focus sharpened once again. He wove a fine thread of brown Earth from his free hand, the ground under his feet shifted slightly, responding to the command of his will. Then he wove a thicker blue thread of Water with his sword hand, it arced from the tip of his sword to the intended target. A tendril of water rose from the fountain near the training grounds, winding its way through the air until it was dancing around his sword. His focus was absolute, he was balanced, ready to unleash the threads of power at his command. Closing his eyes, he turned his focus inward, searching for calm, for patience. As he began to find his center, a vision broke his concentration, the Mystic Mountains, they called to him. His eyes flashed open, the water splashed at his feet, and the ground settled. “Shit”, he cursed under his breath.

“You lost your concentration.” A robust, familiar voice said. Valsigian glanced over his shoulder to see Titus Voth, First Knight, giving him a knowing look. His mentor’s sudden appearance didn’t surprise him. Titus’ armor was impeccable, worn but clean. His expression was blank.

“I’m focused,” Valsigian said, knowing it was a lie the moment the words left his lips. He could tell by the look on Titus’s face that he knew it was a lie as well.

Titus crossed his arms, leaning back against the waist-high stone wall that surrounded the training grounds. He looked at his pupil, observing his body language. “I’ve always been able to tell when you're lying to me.” Titus uncrossed his arms, adjusting his sword belt as he stepped away from the wall towards Valsigian. “You can go through your sword forms in your sleep, your aptitude for Weaving the Blessing continues to amaze me.” His steely, gray eyes seemed to bore into Valsigian’s soul. “Tell me what's distracting you.”

Valsigian lowered his eyes as he paused to consider his answer. How could he explain his dreams? Visions of the Mystic Mountains haunted him while he slept. He could feel the mountains tugging on his subconscious, calling to him even after waking. Would Titus think he is going mad? He finally said with a deep exhale, “I’m just nervous about the ceremony tomorrow.” He hoped Titus would believe him.

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The First Knight’s eyes softened a little, pretending to buy what Valsigian was telling him. “Tomorrow you will take the oaths, swear fealty to the King and Mountainfall. This is what you have prepared for your entire life. You are ready.”

Valsigian gave a nod of acceptance, relieved that Titus had believed him. As he turned away, he considered his teacher's words. Was he ready? He knew Titus wouldn’t say he was if he honestly didn’t think so. It wasn’t his skill with blade or Blessing that gave Valsigian pause, it was this desire to go where men were forbidden to tread. To answer the call that tugged at his very soul.

The sound of approaching footsteps distracted him from his internal struggle. He glanced up to see Harmon Krull striding towards him. His dirty blonde hair unkempt, his clothing rumpled like he had just crawled out of a haystack somewhere after a long night of drinking. He wasn’t even slightly handsome, not even in a drunken brawler kind of way. His nose had been broken more times than Valsigian’s, and it showed. The crest of his nose had been bashed in so many times that it appeared to have flattened into his forehead, the end of his nose slightly twisted to the right. His cheeks and chin could use a visit from a razor, as the scraggly growth that sprouted there looked like a patchwork of rat hair stuck to his face. “I see the golden boy is up to his little tricks again,” he said with thinly disguised malice. Valsigian maintained his calm demeanor, even as he moved his hand to rest on his sword hilt. Harmon was an ass, bigger, stronger, but an ass nonetheless. He was older than Valsigian, but not as skilled. Harmon had been training for a few years longer, but Valsigian had surpassed him in skill. This caused Harmon’s jealousy of Valsigian to fester and grow into an unhealthy obsession.

“I don’t have time for you today, Harmon,” he said flatly. “I’ve got more important things to deal with than your sarcasm.”

“Oh, is that so?” Harmon said in a mocking tone. “The golden boy is so much better than the rest of us.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned forward. “Do you think you're special? That your ability to Weave the Blessing makes you so?” His muddy brown eyes looked at Valsigian with contempt.

Valsigian didn’t look away, didn’t back down. If Harmon wanted a fight, he would give him one. He gave the scowling Squire a frosty stare as he said in a low voice with a little malice of his own, “It doesn’t make me any better than any man here.” Valsigian paused, knowing what he was about to say would anger the man. He leaned forward, gripping the hilt of his sword, he gave Harmon a wink and a smile, “Except for you.”

Harmon’s eyes widened at the insult. “Is that so? Why don’t you prove it then!” he yelled as he drew his sword.

The training grounds suddenly grew quiet at Harmon’s challenge. Spectators began to gather at the waist-high walls. Ladies out for their morning “walk”, other squires here for training, and some of the other knights who had come to supervise the morning routines. Even a few citadel servants slowed their pace to observe what was to come.

First Knight Titus Voth strode forward towards the young men, his face carried no emotion, a visage of stone. “By right and by code, one squire may challenge another,” he said loudly so all could hear. “The laws of Mountainfall allow for a fight to the first blood. There will be no lethal strikes, no maiming blows. A Healer will be available to tend the loser's wound.”

A woman in yellow robes with swirls of gray mist at the hem and cuffs made her presence known as she strode towards the sparring circle. She was from the Order of Spirit and Mind, a Healer. Their use of the Blessing allowed them to weave the elements of Spirit with the other elements to mend flesh and knit bones. They could even use the element of Time to stop blood loss while they healed deeper wounds.

Valsigian drew his sword. “I accept your challenge,” he said with enough steel in his voice to match the ring of steel being drawn from his scabbard.

Harmon widened his stance, bending his knees, ready to strike. “I’m going to teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget, golden boy.”

Valsigian assumed a defensive stance, raising his sword, pointing it at Harmon’s chest. “Let’s see if you’ve gotten any better since the last time I beat you.” To make Harmon even more infuriated, he gave him another wink. Titus had taught him that an opponent's anger, when exploited properly, could be an excellent advantage. Valsigian wanted Harmon to be as angry as possible, knowing it would send him into a blind rage. A man who fought with anger had no time to think of anything else.

It worked, almost too well. Before Titus could even give the command to begin, Harmon lunged towards him, sword ripping through the air. Valsigian twisted, moving to the side as the blade whooshed past his left ear. Harmon recovered quickly from the missed attack, swinging his sword back towards Valsigian’s chest with a heavy two-handed form designed to knock an opponent off balance. Their swords rang out as they clashed together. Valsigian deftly deflected the blow towards the ground, causing Harmon to redirect his energy to maintain balance. The squires reset, circling one another, looking for an opening. Harmon was a brute, stronger, more impulsive. His skill with a sword was well known. He had spent years practicing the forms, making up in sheer strength what he could not master through skill alone. Valsigian, on the other hand, was calculating, controlled, and measured. His movements were like a dance with his sword, one the extension of the other, a master of the forms.

Something called to Valsigian, something from deep within. He noticed a faint golden glow at the edges of his vision, the world seemed to slow. Harmon, noticing his opponent's sudden shift in focus, pressed his attack. He lunged forward again, going straight for Valsigian’s exposed side, intending a slice along his ribs. Valsigian saw it coming, it was as if he could see the move before it happened. He focused on this new feeling, lightly embracing it, testing it. The world seemed to slow further as he did, his vision came into sharp focus, his hearing was enhanced, and his skin seemed to dance with sensations that were new to him. Valsigian parried the blow with inhuman quickness. He reached for the Blessing and weaved a thin brown thread of Earth, ever so slightly, causing the ground beneath his opponent's feet to loosen. Harmon’s feet slipped out from under him. Valsigian deftly cut a thin line across his right shoulder as he fell. Blood began to soak through the tan cloth shirt he was wearing. The cut was so precise, so light, that Harmon wasn’t even aware that he had lost the fight until Titus pointed to his wound, “Blood has been drawn, Valsigian wins!”

Harmon stared at his shoulder, disbelief blooming on his face, followed by anger. “That’s not possible! I had you, you cheated!” he yelled. “Nobody can move like that, you used the Blessing to do that somehow!”

“Perhaps if you practiced your Weaving, you could do that too,” Valsigian said as he sheathed his sword and began to walk away. He wondered to himself, “Did I cheat? What exactly did I do back there? What was that glow? How could I tell what he was going to do before he did it?”

Valsigian turned to look back at Harmon, watched as he picked himself up from the ground, and began dusting himself off. The Healer walked over to the injured squire, she moved with a grace that drew the crowd's attention. She was tall for a woman, slender in her build. Her yellow robes moved with her in a way that seemed almost unnatural. Her mouse brown hair was tied back in a utilitarian braid, her brown eyes were soft, caring, and full of intelligence. She exuded power, not in a dangerous way, but in a way that tolerated no nonsense. She wore a golden bracelet on her left wrist, inscribed with the symbols for Spirit and Mind.

Harmon’s anger was replaced by a sudden look of annoyance. “It’s just a flesh wound,” he stammered. “I don’t think I need…” His words cut off as the Healer raised her hand. The crowd hushed, as all eyes turned to watch. She began to Weave Time, small silver strands, fine as silk threads, emanating from her fingers, stopping the flow of blood trickling down his right arm. Someone in the crowd gasped at the sight of Time being Weaved, an element typically associated with less-than-desirable occupations. The Healer then placed her right hand over the wound. Harmon jumped slightly at the contact, sucking in a hissing breath as if in pain. Threads of yellow Spirit and blue Water surrounded the Healer’s hand, rippling and pulsing as they knit the flesh beneath. After only a few seconds, she removed her hand, the threads of her Weaves dissipating. The cut that had marked Valsigian’s victory was no more, not even the slightest trace of a scar remained. Harmon rolled his shoulder, testing the newly healed skin. He looked at the Healer, not a trace of thanks in his eyes as he spat, “You could of at least left the scar.” He then pointed at Valsigian, the constant sneer reclaiming its place on his face, “This isn’t over, golden boy, not by a long shot.” With that, he turned on his heels and stalked away from the training grounds.