Volume 1: Arc 3: Chapter 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I got a chapter out early!

This is the start of Arc 3. I chose to make the first three Arcs (just go with it) into one volume. During my proofing, I thought that I could tie the first volume together with this arc.

The first chapter is a slightly different style than I usually do so I hope you enjoy it. Also my proofing is taking forever! I'm nowhere near done.

If anyone wants to help, I would be grateful.

Also, tell me what you think of the story summary now. I changed it.

December 11, 29 R.E

The dimly lit bar was quieter than usual this night. Games of chance were put on hold and the loud, drunken laughter that filled the halls had dimmed to mere murmurs. It was all the cause of one man. Or something that looked like a man.

He had the form of a man, two arms, two legs, a strong jaw and thick eyebrows; however, thick horns jutted from his head and he had a taller, thinner frame than the humanoid races.

However, it was not his physical look that had so deformed the bar’s atmosphere; it was the airs he carried.

The ‘man’ sat at the bar, leaning over it slightly, speaking softly, to the barman on the other side who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. There was a tension about him; the emotion dense enough to be tangible, his dark eyes flicked between the densely packed tables, untrusting and hate-filled all at the same time.

Rajac sat brooding, hunched over the bar, and tall flagon of beer in his hand. He was already drunk; his head lolled as he tried to forget and remember all at the same time.

It had taken him a week to leave the cavern. Guided by his ball of light, he easily made it out of the cavern, finding himself on the edge of the Akiean Kingdom in the city of Baktush.

His clothes, a complete mess from the months underground, Rajac entered the city in the guise of a beggar. Soon after he entered, he stole a tunic and pants from a laundry shop and made his way to the nearest bar, spending some of his little remaining coin on a constant flow of drinks and food.

He tore into the food greedily and savored the taste just as he tried to forget how much the chicken leg he was gnawing on tasted like Kalos. It was all he could do not to spit out the meat; instead, Rajac took the tankard sitting near him and took a long gulp, washing the taste out of his mouth.

This pattern continued for many hours. The other patrons, wary of the madman, began to leave, citing numerous excuses as they, all the while, eyed the strange creature devouring food and drink at the bar.

“Tell me,” Rajac said, well into his drunken revere, “what news from the west?” The barman turned reluctantly from where he was sweeping the floor. He was an Akiean, more muscular than a human, but less apt to be venture into high-minded intellectual pursuits so common among the humanoid races.

As a whole, the Akieans were less likely to philosophize, experiment, or self-aggrandize their accomplishments instead, they would spend their time on more practical pursuits such as farming, tending herds, and war; all the while, they would remain humble. Few would ever rise above their station. It was just not their way.

But this time, most of the patrons had already left the bar making it well and truly quiet now. Darkness truly filled the establishment, the lanterns within the bar not strong enough to fully banish it.

“Well,” the barman said, setting his broom against the bar. “Azor surrendered to Mushan and Gerosh last spring. King Theodon’s forces lost momentum once King Esain joined on Mushan’s side. Eastern Azor was split between King Esain and Mushan.”

The barman moved behind the bar picking up a few tankards and dunking them into a barrel of water and soap. Taking a rag out, he began to polish the metal, taking the time to scuff out a few scraps along the edges. “The Western Territories have little information that leaves their forested expanse. Although, it is known that ‘dukes’ have begun to rise within the last decade, setting laws and controlling their domains. Many of the hordes that roamed there have now fallen under the banner of one of these men.”

So, nothing about the Ventros, Rajac thought as he attempted to think in his drunkenness. These Dukes, though, they might be trouble down the road.

“And the north?” Rajac asked. The barman shrugged half-heartedly. “Nothing much to tell. The Demi-Gods rule there as they have done since time immemorial. They never leave and we never go there. I’ve heard no recent news concerning those regions.”

Having asked all his pertinent questions, Rajac stood, pushing himself away from his stool with a squeal. The barman reflex flinched at the sound. “Where is the Identification Building? Surely, a city as grand as this has one?” Rajac said as he leaned over the bar, a spell of dizziness paralyzing him momentarily.

“’Round the corner.” The barman said. As Rajac turned to leave, the barman called after him, “You can’t go at this hour, they’ll throw you out on the street!”

But Rajac was already gone.

A few minutes later, Rajac stood in front of the Identification Building, swaying in the freezing wind. His drunkenness had abated somewhat as he walked, aided by the wind as his back.

Shaking his head once, Rajac pushed on the door to enter the squat, unassuming building. It did not budge. Locked.

Rajac had no wish to stay in this city overnight. With one strong shove, Rajac pushed into the door, splintering the wooden locking-mechanism.

Due the force of the shove, Rajac stumbled into the alcove that was the darkened hallway of the building. Soft snoring could clearly be heard from over in the corner. Blinking once, Rajac righted himself and peered towards the edge of the hallway where a door, slightly ajar, held a feint glimmer of light.

Maneuvering himself gingerly through the furnished hallway, Rajac reached the door. He still had no idea what he was going to do but he knew he had been too far long from his people. They would need him and the Identity Merchants’ Transportation Tertiary Magic was the quickest way to reach Cera Mountain.

He had heard, from various sources, that it could take, up to a year, to reach the Western Territories on foot from the Akiean Kingdom.

His patience had evaporated in the cavern like the mists departure at midday. It took a while for it to happen, but when it did, there was nothing left. Injuries or no, Rajac had a duty to his people and for far too long he had neglected that duty. It was likely they all thought him dead or captured along with Temos and the elderly.

At that moment, he wondered what Alberon had told them about the last moments of the battle. Did he tell of his cowardice or did he hide his shame behind half-truths and outright lies? Rajac could imagine what he would have told his family, who for so long, had hoped for Rajac’s return. Perhaps, they even thought him dead before the Ventros’ return.

But, when they had, that hope must have been rekindled like an ember finding a patch of dry grass. Alberon would have snuffed that dream forevermore with his trickery.

Setting his jaw, Rajac made up his mind in the exact instant he kicked open the door with all his strength splintering the frame into a thousand pieces.

It crumpled like it had been made from sand, only the hinges remained as Rajac strode through the door, a scowl on his face.

The snoring cut off abruptly as a figure inside the room gave a surprised gasp and sat up in his bed, looking slack jawed at Rajac. He was a youngish Akiean; there was not yet enough gray in his hair to call him middle-aged but his dark brows, contrasting his paled complexion, highlighted the lines that had begun to form at the creases in his forehead.

“Who are you?” The man asked. There was only a twinge of fear in his voice. Mostly, the man seemed to be in wonderment. “Rajac.” He said sternly as he stepped farther into the room.

“I have a few things I need from you. First, your name?” “Endal.” The man said shifting in his bed. He made another movement as if to rise and then looked back at Rajac questioningly. “May I?” Rajac nodded. This man was no threat to him.

The man rose, straightened his thin tunic, and ruffled out his pants before walking to a cupboard on the other side of the bed. He opened it and pulled out a long, dust-colored cloak before draping over himself like a blanket.

“Follow me.” Endal said in a bizarrely calm tone of voice as if this type of thing happened every day to him. Rajac followed Endal out of his small room to a room opposite it. He was perplexed by Endal’s actions but perhaps due to his drunkenness, Rajac felt only a little paranoia as he followed the man.

Endal opened the door and lit a lamp inside with a thin wisp of Fire Elemental Magic. Shelves lined the room stacked with books of all kinds. To Rajac’s eye, there was not a single space devoid of leather-bound parchment within this room.

With a sweeping motion, Endal pushed a stack of papers to the side of his desk and sat down behind it, curiosity the only emotion Rajac could read in the man’s face.

“Now, what can I do for you tonight Rajac?” Endal said as he reached under his desk and pulled out a thin, leather-bound journal. It looked as if it held no more than twenty pieces of paper.

“I need to go to the Western Territories. You have the fates possible way to get me there.” Rajac said sternly. “Oh.” Endal said, raising his eyebrows. “Someone has been telling our secrets. Who was it Tenai, Kuthrapi, Maji…” He said the last name almost eagerly.

“No.” Rajac said shaking his head. Then he paused. This might be the perfect chance to get rid of that cowardly old man. “It was Alberon.” Again Endal’s eyebrows rose. “Hmm. Well, he can blab all he wants. He’s the head Identity Merchant in Gerosh. Who would stop him except for the Goddess? And if she has not done so already, he had her approval, or at least, her grudging acceptance.”

Rajac shrugged. He would just have to find another way to deal with that old man. Kendal paused, noticing Rajac’s shrug. “You are a strange one Rajac. It is not every day you get woken by a stranger and live to tell the tale.” Endal laughed weakly.

“I have a use for you. Are you willing to fulfill it?” Rajac said, a bit of coldness entering his voice. Endal sighed, eyeing Rajac’s sword, “Yes. It seems I have no choice in the matter in any case.”

Endal thumbed the edge of the leather journal in front of him before looking back up at Rajac. “But when you came, I thought it was for a different purpose.”

“And that was?” Rajac said steadily. “To collect the level 100 skill tome.” Endal said as he opened the journal in front of him.

Rajac took an immediate step back, his drunkenness forgotten. How did he know? Rajac was even unsure that he had but, after mastering the Ventros Sword Style, he knew he had at least been close. “Relax.” Endal said, putting up a placating hand. “It is not hard to see once you have been trained in these matters.”

Endal pointed to Rajac’s chest and said, “The manifestation of your soul is still detached from you in obvious ways. You can use it but it does nothing except help sense the presence of those around you.”

“What is it supposed to do?” Rajac said curious, touching the spot where the ball of light, now the manifestation of his soul, resided. “That all depends on what you decide to do with it.”

“And that is?” Rajac said, and edge to his voice. He was already losing patience with this man. A small thought in the back of his mind urged him to kill the small-minded Identifier. Time was a precious commodity that this man seemed to be wasting. Would not the world be a better place without such a man? The world was a better place without Kalos.

Hadn’t Rajac disposed of him?

Rajac ignored the thoughts that hovered at the edges of his mind. He needed Endal no matter his doubts. Information was currency just as time. He was willing to waste some of it in exchange.

“After a mortal reaches level 100, he has many paths he can follow or, like a lone hawk, he can create his own path. The manifestation of the soul is the first and usually the last step many take in their journey to true mastery of Thantos. The soul is an ever-growing creature.

When an expert trains, they should naturally expand to compound the added strength one gains during his lifetime. As he crosses the threshold of level 100, the soul grows too much for the body to handle and expands outside the natural confines of the body to take form.

The soul, however, is a fragile thing. One small misstep and the soul could be shattered into a thousand pieces, destroying the expert in an instant. Many millennia ago, experts discovered that they had the ability to converge their soul with something to protect it and help it grow. Some chose their swords. Their iron became as hard as diamond and when they struck, the earth groaned with the strength of their blows. Some chose their minds. They thought of insurmountable technological innovations. Many of which stand to this day. Others chose their magic. Tertiary Magic was founded in this way.

A few chose their hearts. It is said, those who choose this path are both the strongest and weakest of the experts. For they choose immortality over all other advantages. While they are no stronger than one who has not reached this stage, they will laugh over the others corpses, withered by age.”

Rajac rocked back on his heels taking all this in. “How should I choose?” Rajac said, his eyes half-closed in thought. Endal shrugged, a sad smile on his lips. “I do not know. I was never able to soar that high. I know of very few who have.”

Rajac opened his eyes and looked directly at Endal who still wore that sad expression. “Is that why you decided to help me so readily?” Endal nodded, grimacing slightly. “Yes. There are too few experts of your level that exist in the world anymore. Even though your methods in entering my home were…unpleasant, you are important enough to where I can stomach that slight.”

Rajac pursed his lips annoyed. The man made it seem like he was at fault. The voices in the back of his head increased their pressure as they tried to warp his thoughts. ‘Kalos,’ they said, ‘was only the beginning. What you do now will define you for ages to come. Will you take insults on the chin or refuse to bow before any man. Who are you?’.

Rajac again ignored them. He was so so big a fool to listen to whispers in the night.

“Come, let me send you on your way.” Without asking permission, Endal touched Rajac’s forearm causing the, now familiar, gasp of pain. Placing a hand on the journal, Endal closed his eyes concentrating as black ink began to spread out on its thin, velum pages.

As Rajac rubbed his arm annoyed, Endal handed him the journal and said, “Here, this should give you the answers you seek. It describes the process of binding your soul to an object. And if your race has a boon for those who cross the threshold of level 100, then you will find instructions for that as well.”

Rajac nodded. And, once again, Endal touched his arm without asking, and Rajac, once again, felt that familiar pain followed quickly by nausea.

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