Storm of Prophecy: Book 1, Dark Awakening (16 page)

Vincent put his hand to the gold colored pad on the wall near his door, feeling the engraved flower with its leafy petals all coming out from the center. It was cold and solid under his hand, and he could feel the bumps on the surface. As per his touch, there was a click and then he pulled the door open. Once inside, he closed the door and put his hand to the identical pad on the other side. There was another click, and the door was now locked.

Vincent’s room was small and for the most part utilitarian. The room had one bed and an open chest at the foot of it where he stored some of his clothes and a few other belongings. Vincent had few possessions, and so the chest had plenty of space left in it. A light orb that was smaller than his fist was attached directly to the right wall, and always kept the room lit with a dim glow even when he was sleeping. There was a way to increase its intensity, but Vincent had never mastered it, and so did not bother with it right now. He took off his cloak, set it atop the open chest, and pulled his sword’s baldric over his head, leaning it against the bed next to his side as he sat down to think. He held up the right side of his face with one hand, keeping his elbow resting on his knee. His other hand rested atop his other knee.

A prolonged search of the city or the surrounding countryside and forest was out of the question. There wasn’t enough time left in the day to try and scan the forest, and a trek there would probably prove equally as futile as all his others. He could walk the streets of the city forever without seeing even once the man that Stan and Craig described to him. And that search would only have meaning if he hadn’t died during the raid or if they were even telling the truth. At the moment, their information was all Vincent had, and it wasn’t much. He thought back to the word they both remembered and tried to think of where it might take him.

He eventually concluded that the best possible way to make use of the word provided would be to research it in one of Gadrale’s libraries. But which one? There were two inside the keep and at least three others in buildings out on the campus. He found himself getting frustrated at the difficulties. Looking up a word like that could take a very long time, and he wasn’t even sure which language it was in. Vincent was a fluent speaker of Elvish since there were many Elves at Gadrale and it afforded one the chance to learn, though he had never studied the written language.
Kargoth
didn’t seem like an Elvish word to him; it was too coarse, too rough, more like a Dwarven word, or else a primitive word in one of the ancient dialects of men.

He reminded himself of his time constraint. While he was debating in his mind where to look for the translation of a single word in their chant, the dark cult was probably plotting
its
next move. He absolutely hated the disadvantage that put him at. They had already stolen something from the vault, and now they were far ahead of the game simply because they were so hard to trace. What he needed to do had to go faster. Try as he might, the only way he could think of to make that happen was to take Arrendis’ advice, and seek to involve others in his clandestine intervention.

If Stan and Craig were telling the truth, then he already had two allies. Unfortunately, he couldn’t be sure of that, and Master Clemens had seen to it that they would both be far too occupied with guarding the vault to be of any help to him, at least for the rest of the week. After that week was over, his own time would become more limited again when he would be forced to resume guard duty himself.

Vincent had many minor friends and acquaintances who at least treated him fairly and held no open prejudice toward him. These ranged from those who liked him and got along well with him to those who merely tolerated his presence or kept any dislike of him to themselves. The rest either didn’t have contact with him and didn’t know him or were his direct adversaries.

With Arrendis unable to spare himself for fear it would look suspicious, and Stan and Craig keeping constant guard, Vincent had very few people he could rely upon. Those that he thought he could, would have to be convinced without them potentially revealing his activities. The only person besides Arrendis he now felt safest about trying to involve in his search was his cousin Karl, yet his own cousin had before expressed displeasure when Vincent had suggested the idea of pursuing it, and warned him not to. He still didn’t know that this whole time Vincent had been doing it anyway.

Instead of trying to speak with him outright, Vincent thought it might be wiser if he arranged to have a private meeting with Karl. Karl might not be the only one he could count on though. There was one person he knew for sure whose endless energy, enthusiasm, and ambition would never let him get away without taking up the challenge of seeking out and battling hostiles. That person was Rick, the boisterous red-mustached pyromancer. It was a calculated risk, but if he was going to take a chance with Karl, then he thought he might as well take the same chance with Rick.

Vincent immediately formulated a plan in his mind to visit them right after they got out of their classes and arrange a meeting later that night. In the meantime, he set about finding something useful to do. The thing that came first to his mind was to get in some more sword practice. It was what he did most before the bloodbath in the vault’s hall the other night, and now he had more reason than ever to try to be the best wielder of a blade that he could possibly be.

Though he feared another encounter, and absolutely detested the prospect of killing again, he had to be ready when the time came. Toward that end, he put his sword back on but left his cloak behind as he went out of his quarters and ventured to the stone courtyard that lay between the fortified wall and the keep. He had taken a left after exiting the keep’s main doors instead of a right, and had gone to a wide space near a corner of the wall where he knew that there wouldn’t be very much foot traffic.

He practiced every stroke and every form that he knew, and built up a sweat from the exertion. When he was done, he climbed the wall’s stairs to the ramparts surrounding the keep. He first asked an army officer’s permission if he could borrow a few of his men for training. As usual, the officer agreed; he and any others leading men on different parts of the wall were already used to having Vincent come to them with this request. Since there were more than enough soldiers manning the wall, Vincent never had to train with the same men each time unless he felt like helping give them extra practice to maintain their own skills.

Wizards saw Vincent as not really one of them, but the disposition of the soldiers manning the keep was somewhat different. Since they recognized that he was not quite an ordinary man like they, he could never quite fit in, yet it was also noticeable even to him that they did respect his prowess. Far from being considered one of their brothers in arms, Vincent caught whispered rumors passed around behind his back that he was a demon with the blade and that his incredible skill was the result of “black magic tainting his sword.” They seemed to think that this was the source of his fighting talent and not years of harsh practice without its aid. Vincent had long ago given up on trying to convince anyone otherwise; he didn’t see the point. Those he had tried with had never believed him, and fame was never something he really wanted. It was not important to him that they know how good he was: There was only good and then there was dead; impressing others was the most inconsequential aspect of training. Today, like on other days, he proceeded without paying heed to any such attention he received.

Vincent asked for volunteers and selected four that had swords and shields. He then instructed them to stand around him in a circle. As a speed and endurance drill, he had each of them meet one of his swings in sequence while he tried to move as fast as he could to build up a rhythm.

The pattern was forward, rear, left, right. Vincent would make an overhead swing, and the man in front would block. Each of the others had to block a diagonal swing or a horizontal slash, which he alternated the direction of during every round. It was safe since each man knew what he was supposed to block and when. Since there were four, each man was also guaranteed enough time to keep up for his next turn.

Soon the clanking from the sword clashes became so rapid that it transformed into one undulating and unending sound. Vincent swung furiously, bringing forth all the speed he could and then kept trying to go beyond it. He thought only of where to move his feet and where to bring the blade; he was oblivious to all else. The shock from the impacts kept traveling through his sword and into his arms, adding their own peculiar ache to his muscles.

One man shouted out, asking another on the wall for a replacement. Vincent clashed swords with him several more times before the new man finally stepped in just in time to meet Vincent’s next swing. Vincent ignored the switch, too lost in his own world to care. It didn’t matter to him that one man had become bored; he just kept swinging anyway. After two other men did the same, Vincent felt his own strength start to wane. When he finally stopped, he noticed that some of the new men were slightly winded, and realized that the others hadn’t actually switched off from boredom. Vincent thanked all the participants and slid his sword back into it’s scabbard while he tried to catch his breath.

A breeze swept across the battlements, cooling his sweat and his damp shirt. While Vincent recovered, he went to stand near a gap in the crenulations of the wall’s edge, looking out at the campus below, and then he looked further to see the city of Gadrale beyond. As he continued panting from the exertion, he thought back to the things Arrendis had said to him on the roof of the keep and thought about his own place in all of it. When he was done, he went and asked the same officer which of his men was most in need of training, and offered to help give him extra practice.

The soldier brought to him, Patrick, was a little shorter than he and appeared young, perhaps not even eighteen. According to Lieutenant Johnson, he was the worst in the unit. Vincent practiced with him by having him press a constant attack to Vincent while Vincent blocked. At each turn, Vincent gave him pointers on how to swing and complimented him each time he improved in order to encourage him. Vincent was exhausted, and so for his own gain, he wanted merely to practice thinking of and using reactions. The mutual benefit occurred because he was also able to help any weaker soldiers he did this with to grow stronger. At the moment they didn’t have any sticks to use for practicing more sophisticated dueling in a safe way, and so Vincent congratulated the young man once again before parting and heading back to the keep.

He glanced up once at the position of the sun before he went down the steps and noticed that it was late in the afternoon, almost evening. There were a few more hours left before Karl would be getting out of his last class. In a way, Vincent felt as though he had just gotten out of one of his own. It pained him that he had to think that he was sacrificing research time on training, yet he also felt relief since he hadn’t been able to train for a few days. Tomorrow would be a rest day for him, and he and the others could begin looking for that word in the texts. Regrettably, his friends would be able to spare less time for it than he. Though he would have to do most of it himself, any help was better than none.

Vincent visited a well on the first floor of the keep and drank his fill. Afterward, he went to the dining hall and stood in line while he waited for it to settle in his stomach. He reasoned that either Rick or Karl would have eaten their supper already and were now in their last class of the day. Dinner was steak with a potato and a small piece of bread on the side; it was satisfying.

When Vincent finished eating, he went back to his room and took off his sword’s baldric so he could sit down more comfortably on his bed once again. Time management was constantly on his mind, and there was still some left before Rick and Karl were free to talk to him. To pass the time, he fished out a whetstone from the open chest at the foot of his bed, drew his sword, laid the blade flat on top of his knees, and began sharpening it. It’s edges had sustained only minor damage and dulling despite the punishment he had put it through, but it was important to maintain discipline. There were times when he used his magic to sharpen or repair it; today that wasn’t necessary.

To wait for Karl to get out of his last class, Vincent traveled to the second story below ground level and stood outside one of the many doors attached to the single hall that this floor comprised of. Karl’s last class took place in one of the external basement levels. Vincent was just starting to think he should have brought his whetstone with him when a door on the left side of the hall opened up, and students wearing green robes and dresses started pouring out. Strangely enough, each were carrying a rock in their hands of varying sizes, or else floating it along in front of or behind them. A few merely used their power to pull theirs along the ground to follow them as they walked. Vincent knew that geomancers were concerned with the knowledge and control of such earth materials, but he didn’t understand the purpose of their keeping a rock handy in this way.

Karl came out last, dragging along with his power a wide flat rock bigger than his head. It was a bluish gray and made a scraping sound as it was pulled. He was talking with a stocky old Dwarf man with long white hair and a long white beard. Vincent recognized him as one of the masters on the council he had spoken in front of that morning. Though he didn’t know his name, he had already guessed by his green robes that he was the resident Master of Geomancy at Gadrale’s campus.

The gruff deep voice was imparting some final lesson of the day to Karl. “…control, understanding, and awareness of the very rocks and dirt beneath your feet is perhaps the most crucial thing you can learn and be conscious of. Much more so than the construction of elementals or any of the dynamics involved with them.”