Farmers & Mercenaries Read online

  Sarlimac nodded. “If you looked upon it with the Sight now, you would see the blue Spectals are motionless. This is because there is nothing left in the parchment that will burn. It has no stored energy—potential—left in it to create fire. As you learned from your studies, the color of the Spectals indicates their potential. Blue shows you an item having no more potential to burn.”

  “Alas, Sier, there are no blue Spectals within the lab table.” Alant’s interruption came close to being considered rude, yet in his excitement, he forged on. “Granite cannot burn, so why would it not have blue Spectals in it as well.”

  “Ah, except the granite has never had the potential to burn. The blue Spectals indicate that an item does not have the potential to burn currently. However, the material holding the blue Spectals has the potential to burn in one of its other forms. Like the ash that used to be parchment sitting on the table, two distinctly different states of the same material. Now, as a Shaper, you will be able to reach out and manipulate the Essence within an item, to change the hues of the blue back to the greens of un-burnt parchment, speeding up the Spectals once more, so to speak. I am simplifying the process, of course. Alas, it would take several aurns, at least, for even a Master Shaper to return a single sheet back from ash to parchment. Much easier to simply get a new piece from market.” He laughed to himself. “Remember, just because you can accomplish something by manipulating the Essence, does not mean it is the best way. Shaping the Essence is a painfully slow process, as you now know. Still, this is how a Shaper would manipulate the burnt and ruined parchment back into a crisp new piece.”

  “Sier, does this mean a Shaper would use the same method to manipulate the parchment and cause it to catch fire?” Alant loved probing questions. “By changing the Spectals blue and slowing them down?”

  This caused Sarlimac to laugh aloud, something Alant had never before heard him do. “I am afraid not. A Shaper could manipulate it into ash, or rather parchment that no longer has the ability to burn, yet the act of catching it on fire would be too fast. We Shapers do not have the ability to instantly change the Essence. As I have said, it would take me the better part of several aurns to change the ash on that table back into a clean piece of parchment. Even the Elmorr’Antiens do not possess the power to manipulate the Essence fast enough to make something burst into flames. Even though they are the strongest with the Essence, it is not as if they can look at a thing using the Sight and have it burst into flame.”

  “How are they stronger in the Essence than us Humans?” Alant yearned to learn about the Elmorian people.

  The most powerful Shapers on the Plane, and soon they will be teaching me!

  The Sier smiled and shook his head gently. “That is unknown to us. We are divided into two main schools of thought when it comes to the Elmorr’Antien’s power over the Essence.” Sarlimac leaned back against his chair, the leather creaking as only old leather could. “Some believe the Essence itself created their race. Others think they have a different physiology, allowing them to interact with the Essence in a more natural way than other races. This would make them superior to us, whether it is by creation, or a chance of nature. Many Shapers, however, reject this. They cannot stomach to think they may be inferior.” He scoffed. “They believe that the Elmorr’Antiens are privy to some great secret. Something they hide from the rest of the Shapers on this Plane, and thereby keep themselves superior.”

  “Which do you believe, Sier?”

  “It does not matter what I believe.” Smiling, Sarlimac patted his student on one knee. Alant shot him a hurt look, generating a small grunt from his teacher. “I have no knowledge to prove whether either of these theories are correct. I know only what I can do, and that is all that concerns me. Now, come.” Standing, he made his way to the door. “You have packing to do, and I need you to run a few errands for me in town.” He stopped at the door and turned.

  “Alant?”

  “Aye, Sier.”

  “I want you to know—the other Siers will not tell you this—you are the strongest student we have had here at the Chandril’elian in living memory. No one I know of has ever gained the ability to hold the Sight of the Essence and discern items, one from another, after only two turns of the seasons. Even gifted Initiates take four or five turns to advance that far.”

  “My thanks to you, Sier, I—”

  His instructor interrupted him with a wave of the hand. “You have a long career as a Shaper ahead of you, son. I do not want to see you forfeit it.” The plump old man bit his lower lip as if he was unsure of whether to continue. “I do not deny that it is a great honor to be invited to train in Hath’oolan by the Elmorr’Antiens. At best, only one Initiate every few turns of the seasons is invited. Yet be wary, a few who have gone before you have failed to return.” It seemed to Alant that the Sier wanted to say more, yet the old man turned and hurried from the room leaving Alant standing in stunned silence.

  Some Initiates have failed to return?

  The noise of the crowd deafened Klain. When he had first stepped into the arena, he could not believe so many Humans existed on the entire Plane, much less in one building.

  The number is meaningless to me, yet my Keeper said the Grand Coliseum held thousands by the thousands.

  The floor of the arena spanned hundreds of paces across, most of it covered with sand packed down by the multitudes that had fought here over the ages. The wall surrounding the fighting area stood well over ten paces high, its top half covered in a larger-than-life-sized fresco depicting combat of every conceivable type—man against man or beast or thing—all frozen in mortal struggle, paying no attention to the carnage strewn at their feet.

  The throng packing the seats around the arena floor varied from one another as much as the stone carvings on the walls—a sea of bodies, wailing and screaming. A clash of color and movement.

  I fear they will crash down like a tidal wave of flesh onto the sands that surround me.

  A crystal-clear blue sky shone down as Klain surveyed the scene. The death dealt here this day before he had taken the field still in evidence all around. Bits of armor, steel and flesh lay scattered near large bloody stains in the sand. The only bodies remaining, however, were the score or so he had killed since taking the field.

  Fighting non-stop for near two aurns, Klain sensed his primal edge waning. The battles thus far had been comprised of single opponents or small groups of Humans. The Julitans of the Games had thrown them at him in succession, with only enough pause in between for slaves to rush out onto the field and clear away the weapons. The stench of death filled his nostrils. The slaves had left the corpses to bloat in the warm springtime sun to remind the crowd of what they had paid to see.

  He found each opponent sent against him more skilled than the one before.

  Now they all lay dead in the sand.

  The taste of blood from one of the brothers he had just slain still filled his mouth.

  They never protect their throat well enough when they face my fangs. It is as if they see them for show. The fools.

  Sunlight glared off the battered shield in front of him, sending a bolt of pain through Klain’s eyes, ripping his mind back to the present. He knew a killing stroke would follow. Crouching low, Klain sprang toward the blinding light, his long tail lashing out to provide extra balance. Smashing against the shield, he drove the warrior protected behind it back and to the ground. Letting momentum carry him through, Klain hit the ground, tucked into a tight roll, and tumbled into a crouch. In one graceful, fluid motion, he turned and spun on one knee, facing the Human he now fought. Alas, instead of seeing a man floundering on his back, or at best struggling to rise, the warrior who had cunningly used the glare of the sun to his advantage, crouched before Klain on one knee in a mirror image of Klain’s own stance. The Human’s sword and shield were back in play. The two stood together with deliberate slowness, each eyeing the oth
er—weighing.

  This Human moves with a quickness and grace belying his size. He will not die as easy as the others. He has skills they lacked.

  Flexing his paws, feeling their sharp claws curl into the pads on his palms, Klain studied this new opponent. They circled each other. Still weighing, measuring. Klain smelled no fear from the man. The warrior seemed old. What little of his face that showed through the helm’s visor looked withered and wrinkled. This stood in contrast to the strength and power evident in the man’s arm as he gripped the hilt of his sword.

  Alas, the God of Time has already begun to pull the skin down low under those strong arms of yours.

  The Human’s armor bore none of the fine decorations most of Klain’s earlier adversaries had fancied. It showed its age—mended here and there—yet looked well kept and in good repair; reinforced at all its points of weakness.

  I will find no chinks there.

  Klain had noticed how the crowd’s mood changed when this Human took the field. They still created the dissonance of noise, although more reserved and sheltered, as if the crowd had become one large being, holding its breath in anticipation—or maybe awe.

  They see this one as the grand finale. The one meant to end this day’s Games with the death of the beast. So be it.

  A rumble emanated from Klain’s chest and he let out a vicious roar, hoping to unsettle the man. The warrior took this as an advantage and lunged, spinning his sword in a high diagonal arc.

  Jerking back to avoid the killing stroke, Klain saw the true danger too late. The edge of the warrior’s shield smashed into the back of Klain’s head like a hammer. His vision darkened as the ground rushed up and smashed him in the face. In blind panic he scrambled across the ground, spitting out sand and blood. Trying to distance himself from the blade he knew would now be seeking a taste of his hide, Klain raced across the arena floor. His paws picked up the vibration of his opponent’s footfalls as the Human gave chase. Even though Klain could not see him—stars filled his vision—the pads on his paws told him the direction and distance of the man with the sword. Klain knew when the warrior lost ground, and when he stopped his pursuit altogether.

  Scuttling away a few more paces, Klain came to a stop to recover. The yells and screams of the crowd, which had risen in anticipation of the beast’s defeat, had now degenerated. He shook his head to clear his vision. The thick mane of hair surrounding his neck swayed with the motion. Head throbbing, a lance of pain shot down Klain’s spine in a wave of agony. Blood trickled from his scalp, ran down the side of his neck, and stained the honey-gold fur of his shoulder a crimson red.

  The pads on the bottom of Klain’s paws picked up a slight vibration resonating through the ground, and he knew the old warrior advanced once more. He turned to face the Human, and noted that his flight had taken them to the opposite end of the arena. With a slow, deliberate movement, Klain brought a paw to the back of his head, probed the fresh wound, and again considered this adversary as the Human strode closer. He saw no fault in the warrior’s guard—shield held for protection, sword poised to strike or defend. Klain could still smell no fear on the man.

  As the distance shrank, Klain’s sharp ears picked up a wheeze coming from within the man’s helm. Watching, he noted the warrior’s thick chest rising and falling as the Human gulped down air.

  You have revealed your weakness old man. You need me to die quickly before you are spent.

  Withdrawing a blood drenched paw from the back of his head, Klain’s knees buckled. Stumbling forward, he barely kept his footing.

  At this show of weakness, the warrior picked up his pace.

  Staggering backward, it was all Klain could do to keep the two of them far enough apart so that neither could attack. The man bellowed and charged with a fresh burst of speed. Klain quickened his retreat, then turned and ran. Awkwardly, he weaved off in different directions, searching for an escape. The beast let the pads of his hindpaws keep track of his pursuer.

  Once the Human broke from the chase, Klain slowed his blind flight, yet he continued for another fifty paces. A hindpaw snagged a dip in the sand, flinging him forward hard onto the ground. Flopping over, Klain glared at the Human and let out a low growl, baring his long fangs. Scrambling back on all fours, he sought to add distance between them. His strong arms gave out as he reached the body of a little man he had killed in an earlier bout. The man’s weapon was gone.

  Alas, I do not seek his weapon, just a weapon.

  Using the dead man for support, Klain turned his back on the Human and fought to rise. Before he could fully stand, his hindleg gave way, dropping him to one knee. Grabbing the back of his head, a jolt of pain shot through him. Peering over his shoulder, he saw what he already knew—the old warrior advanced, about fifty paces away now, walking at a steady gait toward him. It was satisfying to see the man’s sword and shield both hung heavily to his sides. Placing his paws on the chest of the dead body, Klain leaned on it and struggled to rise once more. With his entire being, he concentrated on the information emanating from the ground. The vibrations picked up when the Human began to run.

  Waiting, Klain ignored his ears—the noise of the crowd overpowered the sounds he needed to hear anyway—and relied on the pads of his hindpaws to judge the distance between them.

  Thrum, thrum, thrum, the warrior’s feet hit the ground.

  I can see you in my mind’s eye. Twenty, ten, five.

  Klain rose, spun, and launched the dead man’s body in one fluid motion. Blood sprayed as the force of the spin tore away strings of flesh that still clung to the corpse’s face.

  The warrior thrust his shield forward to fend off the sudden attack. With tremendous force, the body struck the Human’s defense like a ballista bolt, shattering the man’s arm. Corpse and shield slammed into the man’s chest. His feet flew out from under him as they continued on their path. The back of his head hit the ground first after the two bodies collided onto the arena floor. A tangle of arms and legs skidded across the blood-soaked sand.

  Without hesitation, Klain pounced. He crashed down on the old fighter before the two bodies could slide to a stop. Grabbing the warrior’s helm by its face guard, Klain jabbed his sharp claws through the eye slit, digging them into the unseen flesh within. The sound of the man’s scream bit at his ears as he pushed his claws as deep as they would go. Hooking his thumb under the chinstrap that held the piece of armor in place, it became wrapped in a spongy, warm embrace as it penetrated the soft fleshy underside of the Human’s jaw. His arm muscles bulged under the strain of closing his fist over the front of the face armor. A crackling of bones rang out from the helmet, and the screams emanating from it became a gurgle. Klain listened with satisfaction to his foe choking on his own blood. Ripping the helm up and off, the beast tore away whatever part of the warrior’s face he still held in his grasp.

  Klain had planned to use the piece of armor as a weapon to bash the man’s head in, yet what he saw gave him pause. He knelt there, straddling his downed opponent, arm raised high in the air, fixed.

  Although the Human still lived, his face was horrifying to behold. Klain’s razor claws had penetrated the flesh below the eye sockets on either side of the man’s nose, his thumb had hooked deep under the chin. Everything in between—nose, mouth, cheeks and jaw—had ripped away with the helm, leaving a gory, gaping hole where the old warrior’s face should have been. Tattered flesh and juts of broken bone formed a gruesome bowl-like shape now rapidly filling with blood. The shredded remains of a windpipe twitched, spraying out a fine mist of red fluid. The blood splattered Klain’s fur-covered chest as the last of the Human’s breath escaped his lungs. The man’s left eye slipped from what remained of its broken socket and tumbled into the destroyed fissure of his face. The right eye, still surrounded by most of its bony socket, focused on the sky, never to see its blueness again.

  Standing, Klain dropped his arm to his side
and stared down at the corpse. His hackles rose. The icy hand of terror gripped his core. He whipped around, searching for the source of his unease. Then he knew.

  Silence!

  Surveying the stands, Klain tensed his muscles in anticipation of the next test to be thrown at him. The crowd stood, leaning over the rails. All sound fled from them. Fear burned deep in Klain’s veins.

  How can I survive a host that will not rest until I bleed out my life for them? It is not me against those they send to kill me. It is me against them! I cannot win.

  The full weight of the arena crushed down then, forcing his shoulders to slump with dejection. The fights of this day fled his mind. Never before had Klain known defeat.

  And with defeat, comes death…

  Then, as if someone flipped a switch, the crowd exploded into a cacophony of voices. Sound hit him from every side. He discerned nothing specific. The mass of noise sounded like a mountain collapsing into the sea. A rumble of jeers, shouts and yells.

  Still, one word became clear. Starting on his left, in a small group at first, it caught like wildfire until the entire crowd picked up the call.

  “Kith! Kith! Kith!”

  It rumbled on and on until every voice in the arena took up the call. They chanted so loud Klain reeled toward unconsciousness. Wave after wave struck him. He turned in a slow circle, truly seeing the crowd as never before. They chanted not for his failure, his destruction, nor his death…

  They chant for my VICTORY!

  “KITH! KITH! KITH!”

  Raising the gore-filled helm he still clutched in his paw high above his head—bits of flesh and bone dangling from the neck hole and blood oozing down his arm—caused the crowd to go mad. He would not have believed it could grow louder, yet he was wrong. The very air screamed out in agony. Clamor fell from the stands like torrential rain.