Lanton

The Past

"Loyalty is a contract, and all contracts must be upheld, or we are nothing more than beasts." -excerpt from First Principles by Ven Praxus

"I'm sorry, Wick. I don't know why you can't equip skills past level two. There isn't anything in the Limitadus that talks about it. As far as I can tell, there isn't actually anything wrong with your body," Berrma said gravely.

They were all standing near the Glimmerrest wormhole, waiting to send Vein off to Simmerest. The small girl clutched Berrma's admission letter. Her body was all nerves except her eyes, which were fixed on the glowing mouth of the worm.

Berrma turned her attention back to Vein and said, "A pilgrim named Emory should be on the other side to greet you."

Wick didn't want to think about his new predicament, and asked the woman, "Her room and board will be paid for? I don't have to fork over any money?"

Berrma nodded. "Our order pays for all of it, but you can only enter on recommendation."

Vein glanced to Scout. "Are you sure you don't want to come with me, Scout?"

Scout looked torn, but didn't move. "I want to, but I have responsibilities now. Once the guild writ is signed, I'll be head of the Association of Apprentices."

Vein cracked him a grin, as if she knew his answer all along. "You better not be as weak as you are now when I see you in a year."

Scout gave her a thumbs up. "If I am, you have full permission to put your foot up my butt."

"Sounds like that's something you'd like," Vein shot back quickly, maybe a little too quickly, because Scout blushed at the comment.

Wick rolled his eyes. Ugh. Hormones. It was time to step in and remind her what her real purpose was in going to Simmerest. "Vein, Scout's not the one I'm worried about falling behind. Do not try your best, be the best, or you'll fall behind."

Vein stiffened. Wick was sure he'd hit the right sore spot to motivate her. It wasn't much of a stretch that an orphan girl who chose to act as Scout's second-in-command rather than becoming an apprentice didn't want to be left behind.

Berrma sneered. "You're a twisted little sleaze, aren't you, Wick? You can't even say goodbye like a proper kid."

Wick summoned his new skill, Aqua Stream from his hand and dabbed his eyes so that the water dripped down his cheeks. "There. Tears. You happy?"

Vein lifted her chin defiantly. "No. He's right. I'm not going there to make friends."

"Exactly." Wick nodded. "I don't need friends. I need equals. Understood?"

Scout, face resolute, added, "Strength in loyalty."

"Loyalty in strength," Vein answered, testing out the new Apprentice motto.

The worm stopped glowing. One of the guards ushered for Vein to step through. No tears were shed, and they watched silently as the girl walked into the dark mouth alone.

Despite Wick's darkened mood, he felt a flutter in his chest. Only days earlier, the girl was a whip-smart street orphan. Vein was now on her way to become as strong as Berrma at the epicenter of the pilgrims' power. It always felt good to see an investment grow. One day, she'd use her strength for his cause, for his benefit.

His plans were finally coming together.

The worm glowed again, and another guard yelled, "Southern Border! Second portal of the day."

"Second portal?" Berrma asked the guard.

"Yeah," the man replied. "A group of forceknights left on the morning schedule, probably to pick up some kids who turned sixteen or eighteen this year."

Wick frowned at that. Forceknights only came to pick up young men and women for their mandatory military service after the new year. On top of that, only one or two were needed for smaller cities like Outlast. The guard had said there was a group, which implied more a couple of people.

Berrma gave a shrug, passing the guard a wolfish grin and a few coins. "Probably chasing a bunch of deserters. Outlast more than likely has a few of those."

Her tone was casual, but Wick noticed the slight tension in her voice. What was that? Worry? It put him on edge.

Very few of the several dozen people waiting in line stepped forward. There wasn't much in south Vandia except for a few notable craftsmen and trade routes by the ocean.

Scout and Wick followed Berrma past the gate of the wormhole. Their clothes were packed away in backpacks. When they were halfway through the darkness, Scout said, "Wait. There weren't any sorcerers cleaning people off in the Southern Border."

"Yes," Berrma confirmed, her tone careful.

"Poorer areas don't have the taxes to justify bringing in sorcerers from those parts," Wick said.

The darkness illuminated in an infinite array of colors. Wick broke apart and felt like he'd never come back together only to find himself tumbling midair into a pile of hay that lingered with the scent of horse dung. Of course, he was covered in slime.

Scout was still screaming. Wick sprayed them all down with his new water skill. After changing their clothes, they bought the first cart back to Outlast. It had only been a day since they'd left, but Wick couldn't help but feel like everything had changed.

The strengthened sphere in his pocket was proof of that. On the flip side, he was now burdened with the knowledge he could never equip skills beyond level one. Bad luck and good luck. If one came, the other would too.

--

Before their cart entered Outlast, Wick knew something was up. The gate guards looked tense, and the city itself was quieter than usual. Berrma hopped off the cart before entering the city gate. Many of the sockets that held her knives now held small wadescrolls. She looked serious and said to Wick, "I need to see Graves. I'll find you later. Keep your head down."

The pilgrim blurred, disappearing as if she had never been there at all. Scout looked to Wick, worried. Wick nodded to the city guards and whispered to Scout, "Sharpen your eyes, but remember that we're just children. Lanton can't touch us anymore now that Rax and Graves are on our side."

"Hold," one of the gate guards said. It was Sokol, the same young man Wick had spoken to before. Sokol seemed to recognize them. He gave them a smile that was half-friendly and half-guilty.

But it wasn't shameful like it had been before. That meant it wasn't Lanton that had the city tight as a lizard's hind legs. Wick asked, "Sokol. What's going on? We were only gone for a day."

Sokol sighed, rubbing his hair. "Forceknights came this morning. Maybe two dozen of them. They ain't like Tad and Lark who come by every new year. These are tough men, the kind who volunteered to stay to fight the oreads, if you get my drift."

"Why are they here?"

"Don't know exactly. It's all hush hush. Haven't seen the mayor or his son out since then. Maybe they're in trouble," Sokol said hopefully.

Wick's heart skipped a beat. He hoped that was the case. But he remembered what he'd learned about luck. Good and bad. Sure, he'd just received terrible news that his future as a sorcerer had been practically stunted, but the past six months had otherwise been peaceful. Was not being able to use level two skills balance enough?

"I'm not the one who is in trouble," replied a boy nearby who looked to be fourteen or fifteen. His black Vandian hair was cut neatly, and his skin was a lighter tan than most, meaning he didn't get outside much. He was strikingly handsome, his confident smile emphasizing the luxurious garment he wore.

Behind him stood a pretty girl with her hands clasped sheepishly together, her eyes downcast and her hair green.

Without having ever met the boy, Wick knew who it was. He jumped off the cart. Scout took his time stepping off since he wasn't so spry.

Wick said, "Lanton."

Lanton, the mayor's son and the architect of so many of Wick's setbacks, bowed politely, as if he were on stage receiving a large applause. "I'm glad introductions aren't necessary. We can make this quick."

"You don't think burning the food supply I had worked so hard to build for my band of orphans was introduction enough, or sending Pebbles to beat the ever-loving Crawl out of me?" Wick asked. He wasn't angry, just curious.

The mayor's son had never bothered meeting with Wick in person. Why show up now?

Lanton waved Wick's comment away as if shooing a fly. "The past is the past. You see, I thought you were an outsider. But after seeing what you've done for the good children of Outlast, I see we are on the same side."

Scout walked up next to Wick. He titled his head to look behind Lanton, and blurted. "Pebbles?"

"It's Emilia, now," Lanton snapped. His nose wrinkled into something more primal than a snarl, and it gave Wick a sharp shiver. Wick caught the faint blue color of a bruise hidden behind Pebbles' makeup.

"Pebbs? Are you okay?" Scout asked again, ignoring Lanton.

Lanton's expression was something Wick had only ever seen in beasts. The fact that it was hidden so thinly behind whatever facade Lanton was trying to effect gave Wick pause. He put a gentle hand on Scout, and said, "Go to Trip."

"But Pebbles," Scout said worriedly.

Wick pressed down harder. "You need to make sure the apprentices are okay. Go."

Scout's back straightened, and he hurried away as fast as his lungs would let him, occasionally looking back toward Pebbles' direction. Once the boy was gone, Lanton's gaze fixed on Wick.

"I really am sorry about what happened, Wick. Once I discovered that you were manipulated by that outsider just like everyone else in this city, I realized you were just as much a victim to that scum as myself," Lanton urged gently. He pulled Pebbles forward by her wrist. The girl stared hard at the cobblestone street.

"You see, mistakes can be made," Lanton continued, brushing the back of his hand softly on Pebbles' bruised face. He patted her cheek, and it spoke volumes to Wick that the girl didn't flinch. Wick couldn't see a single trace of the hard-chinned strength in the orphan girl who'd beaten the daylight out of him.

Lanton lifted her chin upward, and she matched his gaze. His expression was pure love, but not the kind some of the sailors talked about at the market. It was the love a master had for their favorite puppy. "And that's what forgiveness is for, isn't it my dear Emilia?"

Wick scoffed, "So she's going to ask for my forgiveness?"

Lanton's attention was all on the girl, and he said, "No. I forgive her. I forgive you, my Emilia, for pushing my anger to the point I had to hit you. You won't let that happen again, right, Emilia? You won't make a monster of me? I'm supposed to be your hero."

Pebbles' mask cracked at Lanton's words, and beneath that crack was the wide-eyed naive hope only children had. Maybe at one point in Wick's past, the sight would have hurt his heart a little. Or he might have told himself Pebbles got exactly what she deserved. Now, he was just annoyed with Lanton's over-the-top indulgence.

From Lanton's reaction, it was clear he wasn't expecting to see Wick. He was just wasting Wick's time.

Wick walked past the two. He said, "Well, it was fun watching your little game."

Something tight as a steel vice gripped around Wick's non-spade wrist, and he stopped dead in his tracks. It was Lanton's hand. Wick winced at the strength of the grip. Lanton's strength was nowhere near on the same level as Berrma's, but more than even a strong adult could muster. How was a thirteen-year-old kid able to have so much power?

It was only because they were inches away from each other that Wick finally had a good look into Lanton's eyes. The whites were edged in blue. Wick said, "You snuffed a manna pot?"

Lanton shrugged, as if the threat of his grip didn't exist. He said, "Like I said, I'm not here for you. Tell me where he is, and I'll be sure to request for a full pardon."

Request? Lanton was the most powerful political figure in Outlast. Wick felt the sphere in his jacket pocket pulse, ready to send out Cut (50) if need be. He said patiently, "I honestly don't know where Graves is. I went to Glimmerrest for a day and just got back. Berrma disappeared when we reached the city gates. Whatever problems you have with him aren't mine."

Lanton's smile widened, and Pebbles' hopeful expression went white. Wick noticed his wrist was still held tight. He was sure Lanton had enough strength to rip his arm off if he needed. And he'd just shown how capricious he could be with Pebbles. Lanton bared a shallow smile. "Of course, Wick, of course. But again, you mistake me. I'm not looking for Obadiah. Where is the scribe?"

With those words, Wick knew instantly something much worse than the grip on his wrist was happening. Something was at play, and he suddenly felt as if he was just a piece on the game board. Lanton had called Graves by his first name. Wick was certain the Graves persona relied only on the last name, but it wasn't a stretch that the mayor's son learned it. It also meant Graves wasn't in Outlast, but Rax might be.

However, Lanton had asked for the scribe, and not by first name. That meant he knew what to look for, but not exactly who. It implied that although Lanton was acting to benefit his own goals, he was also led there on someone else's orders. He, too, was just a piece on the board, but he didn't know it.

Wick's mind raced. He had gotten all the information he needed, and he pulled on the power inside his sphere-golem. Of course, since its connection to him was by will instead of vocal commands, he didn't have to speak the words.

A perfect blue arc of Cut tore through Wick's leather jacket, smacking into Lanton's hand. It was only ten Cuts. There wasn't any need to kill the guy.

Lanton snarled. His embroidered tunic was torn. A terrified Pebbles ran away.

As soon as the pressure lifted from his wrist, Wick jumped back. He saw Lanton was hurt only a little by Wick's Cut (10). With his jacket torn, the sphere-golem, Wick's glass amulet, and several items he'd been packing spilled out. Luckily, the string holding his glass amulet still clung to his neck.

Wick grabbed the sphere and summoned Cut (30), but Lanton blurred, only to appear again in front of Wick. The sphere fell away. Lanton's hand lashed out, coiling his steel grip around Wick's neck. Despite the wild rage in his blue-tinged eyes, Lanton's voice was eerily friendly. "Why do you play the villain? The hero always wins."

Under all that pressure, two of the pieces suddenly fit together for Wick. The manna pot. Lanton's ridiculous strength and speed. It wasn't even a fraction of what Wick had encountered from Berrma, and Lanton's movements lacked her practiced grace. Wick choked out, "How in the Deepest Hells did you get a forceknight's skillcard?"

Lanton frowned. "Emilia did say you were smart."

His frown confirmed the truth for Wick. Lanton asked again, "Where is the outsider who killed my mother? If you tell me, I'll ask them for a pardon and allow you to live in the city. Where is the scribe, the one with the mask made of Arach bone?"

Wick had no idea what Lanton wanted with Rax, but he had made a deal with the masked scribe. Once you made a deal, you stuck to it. The sphere-golem was behind Lanton on the ground. He was about to summon three hundred fused Cuts on Lanton, and was sure the effort would both destroy his second-level golem and kill the mayor's son. It seemed like a fair trade.

But a thin man in heavy robes with a white oval mask stepped out from the side of a building. Rax. His voice was muffled, but it seemed to ring through Wick's body. "No need to bother the boy, little tyrant. Here I am."

Lanton's expression was a mix of fear, madness, excitement, and pure hate. The grip around Wick's neck released, and Wick couldn't help but notice it was the second time someone had tried choking him out. It already felt like a cliche to him.

He coughed, gathering his strength and breath again. He picked up the sphere golem in his hand. Lanton didn't turn away from Wick. Instead, both of his hands blurred, and Wick felt like he'd been hit with a one-tonne lizard right in the chest. The breath he'd just regained spilled out of him, and he flew backward into the stone street like a doll. He tasted blood on his lips.

Through his blurred vision, he could see Rax hadn't moved forward to help Wick. He also hadn't moved back after seeing the display.

Lanton chuckled darkly. "Finally, the true villain appears."

He reached inside his pants' pockets and pulled out three vials of liquid blue smoke, manna pots. Lanton smashed them on the cobblestone and sucked in the smoke. Wick's mind offered up how much the three manna pots would have cost. It was a ridiculous amount. He was sure his ribs were broken, but he couldn't help but feel envious that the mayor's son had so much damn money.

Lanton's shoulders heaved up and down, the veins in his neck visibly larger. "They said to bring you in alive, but I'm not going to let you get away. I know now that you were the one who killed her."

"Oh, well that's interesting. I don't think I'll need the kami for this," Rax said leisurely. "Berrma, if you would."

The pilgrim blurred into existence next to Rax, pulling out an actual sparkflame. She ignited two of the scrolls she had bought that were attached to her fighting leathers. The wadescrolls burned so quickly into ash, it was as if they had never been there.

Two blue glyphs floated in the air where the wadescrolls had just been burned. Lanton was a flying arrow, leaping straight at Rax with a maddened scream.

Rax casually flipped two of his fingers on his left hand, and the floating glyphs twisted together, their light growing brighter than any skill Wick had ever seen, changing from blue to a crimson red.

Lanton was half a foot away from Rax when the red light formed a wall between them. The wall held, and Lanton smashed into the wall, crumbling to the ground unconscious.

Rax snapped his finger and the red wall formed into a ball around Lanton, trapping the mayor's son.

By the Crawl. What had the man just done? That wasn't sorcery. Skills were only to come out from the body. Wick had never heard of anyone reshaping the enchantments other people set off. It wasn't possible.

Berrma said, "We should kill him."

"Not until we find Obadiah to fix this mess," replied Rax.

From the tone in her voice, Wick was sure she meant him, but in a single pained blur, he found himself next to Rax beside the corner of the building. Rax leaned over him, and said delightedly, "Oh, Berrma. I knew it. The boy is like me."

What was he talking about? The pain in Wick's chest was too sharp for him to say anything out loud, let alone stop Rax's hand from touching the glass amulet revealed to the open from his torn leather jacket. Rax asked, "Where did you get this?"

Wick responded the only way he could. He coughed more blood.

"Right," Rax whispered. "Berrma. Just one level-one is fine."

Berrma frowned. "It's my only healing scroll."

"I'll get you a new one once we get out of here. We need to hurry," Rax said. His voice was patient but commanding.

Berrma used the sparkflame to burn one of the many remaining scrolls attached to her fighting leathers. The scroll burned into ash, leaving only a blue glyph hanging in the air. Scrolls weren't supposed to work like that. The enchantment was supposed to release the skill immediately.

Wick made sure to memorize everything that had happened.

Rax twirled his finger, revealing the small dot on the back of his hand. The released skill twisted around Wick and darted into his body. He felt warmth flooding through him. It was the oddest thing. He could even feel his broken ribs snapping back into place and his lungs knitting themselves back in order. Even his burned chakra path was healed.

He released a grateful breath and blurted out angrily, "What in the Crawl is happening?"