“No. No. No!”

Enoa heard Jim from the forest path. He wasn’t screaming, not like his refusal to train the night before. But his voice carried far enough to guide Enoa into a broad clearing with a floor of stones and moss.

Orson nodded to her as she approached. He was fitting the sunglasses back over Jim’s eyes. The android stopped speaking, as soon as the sunglasses were tightened into place. Jim’s posture relaxed, and his head fell down to his chest. He went motionless.

“See,” Orson said. “This is useless.” Sirona and Jaleel watched him from the far side of the clearing.

“Not going well?” Enoa asked.

“We don’t even made it past ‘en garde’, before he starts freaking out.” Orson rolled his eyes. “My regular practice will have to be enough. I don’t have time to get Jim calmed down every five minutes.”

“Don’t be mean to him.” Sirona jumped up from the ground. “He seems kinda sweet in his own way.”

“Yeah!” Jaleel said. “Jim is our friend now. He just wants to go sightseeing.”

“I’d probably be nicer if one of his cousins hadn’t tried to take out my eyes just a month ago,” Orson said. “Besides, he can’t hear me. He’s turned off.”

“We should be happy he doesn’t want to hurt you, Boss,” Jaleel said. “That’s way better than what we saw with the other androids. Jim can’t help who his family is.”

“He isn’t wrong,” Sirona said. There was an odd tone to her voice, and Orson responded with only a deep breath. “And that’s okay. It looks like I’ll have to step in and whip you into shape.” She ran around the clearing, where an actual scroll was unrolled, held open by stones. “I’ll have to beat you up with the Twelfth Form.”

“Don’t do the sword thing,” Orson said. “That always stresses me out.”

“I’m doing the sword thing!” Sirona gave Orson no chance to argue. The air between her hands burst into flame with a blast like a firecracker. Tongues of flame formed a thin pillar in the air, flickering but contained. Sirona placed both hands below the fire, as if gripping a sword’s hilt.

“En garde!” she said, and she raised her ‘sword’ in a defensive stance in front of her face. “Show me your best move, Captain.” Orson took his own sword, but he waited.

Sirona struck with no second warning.

The red flame clashed with the sword. They met with another firecracker pop. Sirona struck fast. She jabbed the fire at Orson’s shoulder and then low toward his legs. He blocked both.

Enoa rounded the clearing. She gave a wide berth to the sparring duo and crouched beside Jaleel at the other end of the stony ground.

“Are you done with your training?” Jaleel looked away from the colors of the sudden sword fight.

“I think so,” Enoa answered. “I ran through all my usual transmutations. I did a couple explosions, some fog and some bullet rain.” She lifted her left wrist and her SITE bracelet. She angled it toward him.

“And I found an easier way to bring back old holograms.” She held her right hand to the spot where the bracelet’s band met its screen. A hologram flickered into life above her arm.

Congratulations (new user)!

You have a strong grasp of the intermediary techniques. However, please document a broader array of skills. Refer your mentor to section 37 of the handbook for more specifics. This and your Dawn Project must be verified before you can be elevated to Journeyman at level 25.

RANK: Apprentice

LEVEL: 19

SHAPE: Anemos

MODE: Training

“Wow!” Jaleel angled his head to read the hologram. “That’s three or four levels just in the last couple weeks. You’re speed-running your training.”

“I don’t have a lot else to do,” she began. She was fast because she’d started long ago, because she’d been preparing since childhood. She’d become a proper Shaper like Aunt Sucora had wanted. Now she was going to Knightschurch, also like Aunt Sucora had wanted. Not Nimauk in origin…

There was a louder explosion from the sparring match and Jaleel looked away from the hologram. Enoa was spared from sharing more of her thoughts.

“Is this it?” Sirona shouted in an affected lower voice. “Is this all the skill of the great Orson Gregory? I will make short work of you!” She launched herself straight up into the air. She jumped up from the balls of her feet like a cat, and she came crashing down, fire-first, aimed at Orson’s head.

But the fire sword redirected the attack. Sirona was thrown sideways by the force of the recoil from the firecracker explosion. She fell away, but landed on her feet.

She attacked again. This time she jumped around Orson. She propelled herself behind him with another great leap.

Orson caught the new attack with the edge of his sword. Sirona backpedaled and this time kept her distance.

“I prepared myself for your cheap humor, Gregory!” Sirona bellowed in her affected voice. “But you are so quiet. No jokes for me?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Orson answered. “When did you start working on impressions? There is zero overlap between what I want to say to you and what I’d say to Helmont in a fight.”

“This is the legendary wit of Orson Gregory?” Sirona removed her left hand from the bottom of the fire she held. A second flame formed above her other closed fist. “I know all the oldest techniques with all the most pretentious names. Now, prepare to die!”

She struck with both flames, one high and one low. Orson angled the sword to take both attacks, but that was only the first strike – just the first in a whirling pattern of red light that soon engulfed them both as Sirona wove and jumped around him.

“Woah,” Jaleel said. “Is that how Orson got good at all this?”

“Maybe.” Enoa sensed motion in the air back along the path. She focused on it. She saw the faint glow she knew meant Kol, and there were two others with him.

Melanthymos and Aneirin followed Kol through the trees. They watched the elaborate sparring, but neither of the combatants spared them more than a glance.

Sirona tried another leap over Orson’s head. This one ended in a somersault above him, both flames extended. She spun down in a blurring, burning wheel.

Orson jumped away from her. She landed on one foot and stumbled aside.

Orson advanced now. He took a wide swing at one of the flames. It burst on contact and dissipated. Sirona jumped again, but this time she retreated. She took a few deep breaths, winded. She looked back at Orson in quiet surprise. Then she smiled. She ran at him again.

He swung at the remaining flame, but Sirona opened her hand and let it vanish in a single puff of smoke.

She caught Orson by the front of his coat. He twisted the blade away from her. She jumped up, as if in some wild head-butt. But she stopped short, and she kissed him. His stance relaxed. He slid his free hand to the small of her back.

“I win!” Sirona threw her arms in the air. “If I was like the combustion monks, I would have breathed fire at you and cooked you. But I spared you.”

Orson returned the sword. “You cheated.” There was a suggestive edge to his voice. He took a step toward her. She backed away, but in two more steps her caught her around the waist and pulled her to him. He cupped the back of her head and kissed her, taking his time. She gripped his upper arms and leaned against him.

“Maybe you win,” she said.

“No,” Orson said, his lips still against hers. “We both win.” They laughed together.

“Boyfriend Orson even sounds different than regular grump Orson,” Jaleel whispered. “I was going to make a PDA joke. But I don’t know her that well yet. I feel like she might be somebody who can get offended.”

“Could be.” Enoa returned to her work with the SITE. She traced the rest of the bracelet band, searching for more hidden controls.

“Traveling the world, fighting all the time has made you pretty good,” Sirona said, still ignoring everyone else.

“Just pretty good?” Orson asked.

She scowled and bellowed in her mock villain voice. “You may even live up to your reputation, Orson Gregory. But.” She returned to her normal voice. “You need to be prepared for the unexpected with your new friend the baron. Even if you can outfight his swordsmanship, we don’t know all of the other powers he has.”

“When you ran at me,” Orson said. “I didn’t want you to get hurt. And I don’t think old Helmont’s gonna try to plant one on me in the middle of a fight.”

“Maybe he will!” Jaleel called out. “Maybe this is how he flirts. He thinks he’s in some kind of enemies-to-lovers romance. He was super disappointed you ran away at the Pinnacle. You rejected his advances.”

“Well, he’s not my type.” Orson nodded to Kol and the others. “What’s up?”

“Max and Dr. Stan believe they know how Helmont will be taking his forces to Knightschurch,” Kol said.

“Neat.” Orson wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his gloved hand.

Kol continued. “Helmont has a Naval battle group, a group that hosted one of the relics that was removed from the Dreamside Road trove before it was lost.”

“We’re just here to see how quickly Helmont will slice you up if you go to that island,” Melanthymos said.

“Stay with your love and friends,” Aneirin said. “You have life. So live!”

“Did you tell them about this, Kol?” Orson asked.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“We know enough to get the gist from the way you’re all running around,” Melanthymos said. “You’re not exactly Hierarchia Central Command. Other than some fair swordsmanship, I don’t know why everyone’s so damn worried what you’ll do. It might all be luck, but there’s not enough luck in the world to save you from Helmont. He beat me. He beat all of us. And you’ve got no real power. You’re just clever man living out some dumb, boy fantasy with a few rare toys.”

“How did he beat you?” Orson asked. “Specifically you?”

“He could hurt me just by touching my blood,” Melanthymos said. “And he didn’t even need a proper facsimile or any tools, just the blood sample was enough.”

“Wrong,” Orson said. “He attacked what he knew. He had your blood. And he knew my boot and my pistol. That’s why I could get away, but you needed help just to stand up. He attacked my stuff, but not me.

“That’s what so many of you powerful people forget,” Orson continued. “This isn’t comic book bullshit. We’re all made of meat. Or just about all of us. Helmont didn’t have to beat your powers, just your body. That’s how I usually win too, and it’s how I’ll beat him.”

“Orson’s good at this,” Sirona said. “And this is far from the first major fight Orson’s had.”

“I don’t care about other young pups or half-machine freaks,” Melanthymos said. “If you go to that island with no flying boot, he’ll just cut you down.”

“You cannot fly,” Aneirin added.

“I’ve seen Orson do these things before.” Enoa stood again. “I saw him beat a Hierarchia Shaper. This Shaper defeated Archie Grant. He derailed a whole train. But Orson won. I’m really tired of everyone being so obsessed with these powers and with Shaping. All of us are just whatever genetics or magic training we have.”

“What are you arguing about?” Melanthymos asked. “That’s why you’re here too. If you didn’t have your aunt’s gift, nobody’d give a rat’s ass about you after your key was claimed.”

“I know that!” Enoa yelled with more force than she intended. “I know that’s why I’m stuck here, in danger all the time. And if I wasn’t a Shaper I’d never have to listen to all the miserable things you’re always saying.”

Melanthymos rounded on Enoa. “If having sense—”

“This!” Aneirin spoke up, loud enough to interrupt the argument. “His sword.” He pointed to Orson. “Thousand Destiny! Great warrior carries Thousand Destiny. Maybe he wins? Destiny protects him.”

“If I win,” Orson said. “I did it. Mine isn’t one of the thousand names.”

“How is this?” Aneirin frowned. He looked to Sirona and back to Orson again. “You broke the prediction? The… the prophecy? The story?”

“I stole the story.” Orson grinned, all teeth.

“Stop!” Sirona leaned up to him and ran a hand along his jaw. “You didn’t steal it. You earned it fairly.”

“I stole it fair and square.” Orson took her hand. His smile softened.

“The thousand names don’t matter anymore,” Sirona said. “It’s your destiny. You have every right to the sword and all that it can do.”

“I don’t want to talk about this again,” he said. “I already can do what I need to do with it.”

“You won the sword,” Aneirin said. “But no ignitions? Helmont knows the ignitions.”

“Yeah,” Orson said. “So it’ll suck even more for him when he loses anyway.”

“You’re delusional,” Melanthymos said.

“What is all of this?” Kol asked. “None of the materials about your arsenal described your sword’s lineage.”

“Yeah!” Jaleel said. “All you told us was that you weren’t supposed to have it.”

“I’m not,” Orson answered.

“I should’ve brought my work computer.” Sirona still leaned against Orson, but she drew a small phone from her pocket. She pressed at the screen with her free hand. “Ophion left all of his informational cue cards for the next Truce Keeper. I turned them into nice Powerpoint presentations. I could explain this.”

“You have fantasy exposition Powerpoints?” Jaleel asked. “Do you have to explain lots of things?”

“Every so often,” Sirona said. “Keeper of the Truce is also a keeper of lore. The presentation about the Covenant and their swords is a really good one too. Let me see if I remember it. I’ve had to give this explanation a couple of times so I have some notes.” She took a deep breath.

“Our world was once rich in miracles.” Sirona’s voice changed. Her words took on a mysterious edge, cold and serious. “Every land had legends proven true and powers beyond explanation, mysteries of the body, mysteries of the elements, powers over fate and unseen things. But when all this world’s peoples were separate, held apart by the countless leagues of land and sea, those powers remained sundered as well.”

Enoa thought about leaving. No one was looking at her. Melanthymos had fully turned away. It would be simple to slip off, unnoticed. And what did she need to know about ancient swords and who owned them?

“This…” Sirona paused, whether for emphasis or because she struggled to remember more of the speech. “This was not to last. When those ancient miracles met one another…” She groaned. “Damn! How does it go? Well, there’s a bit about how war happened as technology made the collisions of legends inevitable. Until…” She paused. “I think I remember now.” Then her voice returned to its serious tone.

“Until a new power rose, one with knowledge of the intertwining secrets. A covenant of twelve familial houses formed for knowledge and power. They were the first to document the mysteries and look beyond the legends of their own time and people.

“And they were armed, each line, with blades of cloven aether, trapped eternal fire in the shape of great swords. Twelve lines, each to their own hue, split from the unbroken aether white.”

Sirona took another deep breath. “Then there’s this whole part about how the houses started killing each other for supremacy.”

“Straight up Game of Thrones shit,” Jaleel said. Sirona chuckled.

“Many of the lines were lost,” Sirona continued. “Their families broken. The aether fires and mysteries squandered. But they were the first, and their way of secret knowledge birthed the formal adventurers guilds and eventually the Hierarchia of our own time. And some of their relics survived. Some persisted. Some are still yet to be found.”

Enoa considered the sheathed sword at Orson’s back, the natural powers of fire and earth, Aneirin’s old fairy tale magic. All of it was claimed and taken by the Hierarchia. The collision of legends, like Sirona had said. Now, they were all living through that collision, the remaining mysteries of the past and new mysteries for the future, brought together.

Sirona tapped at the phone screen again. “I’ll skip a lot and focus on Thousand Destiny. Uh. It was a great weapon, last of a dead, lost line. But before its final heir died, a prophecy was read from the touch of its already-ancient hilt. The heir recruited the help of a great psychometrist whose eyes were sightless, but who allegedly could see an object’s past and predict its future, with a touch of the hand. This psychometrist made the prediction of the thousand destinies. That sword’s old name was forgotten. But the weapon would survive, and it would carry a new name. Thousand Destiny would wait until our world of unimaginable technology, ruled from cities of steel and glass. Many might wield the blade in our time. Many might claim it, but it would survive and it would see battle again.

“And there’s a whole cavern in the North Sea where all the potential names the psychometrist predicted are etched into the rock. The sword was buried there for many years.” Sirona leaned up and kissed Orson’s cheek. “But they were wrong, for probably a hundred reasons, and instead it’s Orson’s destiny. The end.”

“Cute,” Melanthymos said. “But you left out the part where Helmont kills him and takes it. Did you bother checking if Helmont got his name on that cavern wall? Maybe Gregory here’s just holding onto it for him and that prophet didn’t bother jotting down your boyfriend’s name?”

“What do you actually want any of us to do?” Enoa asked. “I might really care what you have to say if you didn’t just tell us all nonstop how death is inevitable.”

“Well,” Melanthymos looked to her. “If you did more than give me new reasons to think you’re all too stupid to live, I might care enough to say something else. Now, we see Gregory’s got fate against him too. I thought he must at least have some real luck on his side, but it’s just moving him into position to hand that sword to the baron.”

“If we’re too stupid to live,” Enoa said. “What does that make you? You’d still be a prisoner without Orson. He’s the only reason you’re free right now.”

“And we all had the luck to escape,” Melanthymos said. “And he’s throwing that away to give everything to the baron.”

“Neither Helmont, nor Grover Melledge is named among the thousand,” Sirona said. “Helmont has no better claim than Orson, if you care about that.”

“You’ve got the list handy?” Melanthymos asked.

“I do,” Sirona answered. “I’ve had it handy since I was fifteen. Because my name is there.”

“Then maybe he’s holding onto it for you,” Melanthymos said. “You take it up in revenge after—”

“Stop,” Orson said. He spoke with grave certainty and even Melanthymos stopped short and looked back at him. “Enough. All of you. Kol, you said your brother and Dr. Stan found Helmont’s plan. Let’s see what they’ve got. Either we all hand over our keys and hide the rest of our lives, or we get rid of Helmont. I don’t speak for anyone else, but I’d rather die than hide, so let’s see what the bastard’s doing and take the fight to him. Either way, this is almost over.”

* * *

Operative Divenoll joined a crowd of over one hundred officers. In that sea of white, only Divenoll wore armor tinged with the black, red, and purple of the former intelligence corps.

The ocean was perfect and smooth around them. Divenoll felt no motion beneath them. He felt nothing from the ship’s movement but a slight tugging at his legs and the breeze across the flat surface of the deck.

The gathering surrounded Helmont and six of his seven knights. The baron turned in a slow circle. All wore helmets, but Helmont looked to them each like he knew them.

“We will reach Knightschurch tomorrow,” Helmont called. “There, we will face a power that the world has not known in its full strength in centuries. Tomorrow, we may face not only the greatest living masters of old sorcery, but also some of this world’s greatest sword masters, as well. All of you know your own Shaping, and you will rely on your training in combat. But many of you are merely proficient with a blade.

“Today, you will train to defend yourselves well enough to bring your Shaping to bear. Sir Merrill is the last scion of House Dommik. Theirs was the fourth form. Their house was founded by the risen squires for the original three royal houses. The fourth form favors decisive attack. It is more suitable to weapons with a greater reach. Sir Vergil will help me demonstrate.”

Divenoll forced his way through the crowd. Two Shapers turned toward him, but neither spoke. They knew his armor. He passed between them, until he reached the inner ring, where Helmont stood facing Sir Vergil.

Both had drawn their swords. The baron’s rapier sent odd dancing violet light around the circle. And the metal of Virgil’s sword seemed to catch the sunlight in odd reflections, like there was faint writing down the length of the long blade. Vergil stood at the far end of the circle, his upraised weapon almost as long as he was tall.

Helmont raised the rapier. “Begin.”

Sir Virgil advanced. He stepped with his feet even and parallel. He did not charge. He walked at a measured, watchful pace.

Helmont did not move in answer, but he kept the rapier raised, point-outward in defense. He didn’t budge until Sir Virgil stood within swinging distance with his great sword.

Sir Virgil struck. He swung with his arms, not his shoulders, a quick motion, faster than would seem possible. It was a subtle attack that the long weapon could turn into a killing strike.

But Virgil’s sword found nothing but the open air.

Helmont spun away from the blade, with a twist and flourish that Divenoll could not follow. The baron now stood beside his student. He raised the rapier in a strike at Virgil’s side.

The knight’s sword met the rapier. Virgil spun the blade with a twist of his wrist that brought the sword back in front of his face.

The blades clashed for an instant. The rapier’s contained fire flickered like a flame stoked with new fuel. And writing danced down the knight’s sword. Divenoll saw it clearly then. There was a script that came alive in the heat from the sun and burned brightly against the rapier’s overwhelming fire. But the metal of Virgil’s blade withstood the heat from the rapier.

Helmont struck again, quick jabs and close attacks. Virgil backpedaled and spun the blade with his arms. He flicked the rapier aside with the sword’s edge, matching jab after jab until his sword also glowed. The letters could still clearly be seen – a complicated, looping script.

But Helmont was too close, and the rapier was too thin. The larger blade did not turn him aside. Helmont’s motions were easy. His movements looked perfect to Divenoll, a flawless example of the technique he’d mastered. No strike from the large weapon forced the baron away.

Helmont regained his position, again and again. Always. None of Virgil’s strikes bought more than a heartbeat. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough to free him from the baron’s onslaught or to change the momentum of the contest.

Sir Virgil leapt backward and pulled his sword inward. He fell into a crouch and made a desperate sweep with his sword. He struck at a height that could take the baron in the gap just above his armored boots.

Helmont vanished again, disappeared in motion. Did he fly? Did he take to the air to save himself?

But then the baron stood from behind his student. Virgil froze.

The rapier’s point waited only inches from the side of the knight’s neck. Sir Virgil released his sword and let it fall with a thud that reverberated even through the carrier’s deck.

“The fourth form is the auroch’s way.” Helmont sheathed his sword. He offered a hand to help Sir Virgil back to his feet. “It is respectable. It is very strong, but it cannot defeat the speed of a killing strike from the twelfth form. The griffin will always take the bull, even the lost bull of the legendary past.”

He clasped Sir Virgil’s shoulder. “Strong impersonation, my boy. Very good.” He said this in a softer tone, where only the inner ring could hear him. There was real admiration there and pride from the baron to the closest of his knights.

“I follow and teach that twelfth form, the most complex of the old ways,” Helmont continued. “My body knows all its secrets. Even House Vuett, its founder, did not master all the intricacies. Like everything in the Liberty Corps, it is old theory made real by our sweat and our might. Only some of you have had any need to study this form. But every one of us knows its thinking and its lethal power.

“Today will be spent in training, our final preparation, but I have been preparing you for years or decades.” He looked back to Sir Virgil. “Some I’ve been preparing for most of your lifetimes. And what you witnessed here, the mastered theory against the plodding, overcome tradition – that’s what waits for us tomorrow if we are ready. I will be watching all of you today. We have six hours until sundown and we will use them.

“Freedom and might!” Helmont called.

“Liberty Corps forever!” All responded. Divenoll added his voice to the cry. He joined his voice with the swordsmen and knights, Shapers all.

“Tomorrow,” Helmont said. “Our true quest begins at Knightschurch.”