Chapter Eighty Nine - 089
Step forward.
Foot angled toward the enemy, spear up. Keep your spear up!The origin of this chapter's debut can be traced to N0v3l--B1n.
Twist. Foot strike! One! Two!
Faster!
Faster!
Vessilia panted, sweat streaming down her forehead and back, soaking her padded training garb. The spear, a wooden one with a lead center, was slick in her grip as she thrust forward. An arm of baked clay swiped up at her, deflecting the blow upward, while a second arm jabbed for her throat. She spun to the side, flowing outside the strike and swung the blunt end of her training spear toward a smooth orb atop it all. The combat Golem took the blow and rotated, following her agile form as she maneuvered around it, blocking two more swift strikes from her spear.
Faster!
Vessilia ducked under the Golem's wild swing, catching its knee on the haft of her spear and shoving downward. She rolled, flexed, and popped to her feet just out side its range. But the Golem was fast, just as fast as she was; it oriented on her in seconds. Which was exactly one second too long to avoid her thrust.
The tip of her spear pierced the clay dummy with a muted *crack* and neatly split its head in two.
Haah haah. Vessilia's breath was harsh and ragged. That fight took...entirely too long.
The combat Golem, while only Clay and thus of moderate difficulty, was still too much for her. No matter that she had fully Tempered her Body in these last few months. She still was not there yet. Not even looking at the Golem's shattered head and sagging body made her feel better. I should have bested that in seconds!
She sat heavily in the matted grass, still lush despite her trampling feet. The Upper Ward of the Guild's citadel, the Eyrie, was a prized training ground. It was both littered with obstacles and special training equipment like enchanted combat Golems, but also expansive gardens. Tall trees, jewel-colored flowers, and perfectly manicured hedges filled the ward, framing and containing various training areas. Iron, Bronze, and even Silver Rank Guilders would have killed to train in these gardens. The skies were blue, the sun hot, and the breeze constant and cooling. Vessilia had zero reasons to be unhappy or discontent.
Yet she seethed.
Sitting in the thick grass beneath the looming spire of the topmost floors of the Eyrie, Vessilia fought to find her center. Her calm was upset at the start of each spar; the moment she spied the spindly body of the automaton begin to move. Clay Golems were sleeker than their more advanced brethren, made for those just beyond their first Temper, more focused on speed than strength. Whenever the creature struck at her, all she could see was an assassin in black leaping from the shadows. One that dropped her without effort or care, who had made her abandon her charges in a city of death. Abandon her friends.
Vessilia took a breath. And another. She attempted to slow her racing heartbeat and still her raging blood.
I am more than this, she breathed through her center, expelling worry and terror. I am more.
"Milady? Is everything...are you unwell?"
Vessilia cracked an eye and frowned at the voice, one that belonged to a young woman dressed in a pale yellow jacket and dark blue pants. She had long brown hair tied up into a warrior's knot, a mace at her waist, and a bandolier of knives across her chest. A bronze medallion dangled out of her open collar.
"I am fine, Liandra. Thank you." Vessilia stood up and distanced herself from her nosy minder. That was what she was, after all; a spy, an interloper. Set upon her by her father's Hand when he was too busy to watch her himself. When word reached the Duke that his only daughter and heir was grievously wounded in a deadly training mission gone wrong, he had dispatched his Hand to find her and keep her safe. Ever since the trial Vessilia hadn't been alone, not even while training.
The trial.
Her mind wandered back three months ago, only hours after she had woken up confused and alone in a healing ward in the Eyrie. She'd been gathered up by the Guild Elders and marched into a dark circular room filled with seats, both surrounding the center and behind a large, ornately constructed bench. Seven judges sat in attendance, and the seats were all filled with murmuring folk that grew silent as she entered. They had stared at her with a mixture of pity, anger, even dismay. Vessilia didn't know what to make of it, not until the judges began their questions.
"You were lured into the Foglands under false pretenses, yes?" One judge asked down a narrow nose.
"Yes, but--"
"Were you used as a tool, a way for Magda Aren to further her own personal agenda?" Another interrupted.
I'm not too late! She mentally crowed.
Within was a large circular space dominated by a rectangular table and ornate, padded wooden chairs. The walls were paneled with dark, polished wood, expensive and well-crafted to Vessilia's discerning eye. A crystal chandelier hung from above, filled with magelight that illuminated the entire chamber. Seven Guild Elders sat in the chairs, all of them embroiled in a heated debate.
"--Festival cannot be done with the Inquisition barring the gates. I do not know how we can expect anything else." A heavy-set man with huge sideburns and fists the size of hams grumbled. Elder Hyde, she recognized.
"We've brought in entertainers from Bel Atol and Levantier, had them come a month back now. Luckily well before the Inquisition stoppered our gates." A plump woman with grey-streaked red hair smiled. Elder Regis. "I don't see the problem."
"We've more than enough food and entertainment. What Elder Hyde is suggesting is a dearth of out of city guests; the Festival of the Spheres has always drawn in the smaller villages from beyond the Pass." Slender, silver-haired Elder Teine nodded at the rotund Hyde. "I agree. Visitors have historically generated the most revenue during this event. Is it worth it to even hold such festivities, especially in the face of the increasing beast assaults?"
"The Inquisition is a thorn in our side, one that must be removed with the utmost caution. The Festival will occur as planned." A powerfully built man in a silk doublet rapped a knuckle against the table. Elder Fairbanks, de facto head of the Protectors' Guild in Haarwatch. "What of the wall, Elder Latvere? How is our defense against the beasts?"
A man with pale blonde hair and a narrow face sighed. "Well enough. The beasts grow stronger and more numerous by the day. The Tin Ranks are getting a decent amount of experience, though nowhere near the same as with a horde surge."
"The Inquisitors help us hold the gates against the beasts?" Fairbanks' eyes were mild but there was a tension across his shoulders Vessilia didn't understand.
"They do. I cannot fault them on that account." Elder Latvere sighed again. "I just wish they'd learn to get along with our people."
Hyde laughed, a big, boisterous chortle. "Pathless protect us from his own zealots."
Fairbanks managed a thin smile. "And what of the hunter? The one that attacked the Acolyte? Has he been found yet?"
Latvere shook his head. "No. Still at large. At this point, I doubt they'll ever find him."
"Good for him," grunted Elder Holt, a large man with a wild salt and pepper beard. "Bloody their fuckin' noses. The bastards."
"Careful, Holt," smirked a woman with gauntlets on her hands. Vessilia recognized Elder DuFont. "The Master Inquisitor has surprisingly good hearing."
"Katan oversteps himself, and we all know it," growled Holt, his tone not quieter at all. "He'll only be happy when he can burn this entire city to the ground."
"Be that as it may, you all know Master Inquisitor Katan is not overstepping at all. The power he wields is real and backed by the Heirophant himself." Elder Fairbanks shook his head slowly, his mane of dark brown hair flowing with the movement. "As long as they have the scent of blood, they are a hound that will not heel. We must give them nothing. Understand?"
Significant looks were exchanged, and Vesillia's eyes darted between each of them during that brief silence. She was missing something. But what?
"Elder Teine," Fairbanks' voice cut through the silence. "Have your preparations been completed?"
"Yes. It took entirely too long, but we've finished the last of the construction this week." The silver haired man smiled, his teeth perfect and white. "The survivors will not be found. I believe....at..aft...."
Survivors? Vessilia's concentration had been slipping as the script-cipher deteriorated, but that sharpened her attention. Unfortunately, that's when the cipher really began to degrade. The spearwoman fought against the failing runes and poured more of her limited Mana into it, hoping to hear something--anything--more.
"--something is here."
A sudden and furious flare of Mana was her only warning, and it was a lifetime of training that let Vessilia throw herself backward in time. The white doors exploded outward, becoming a storm of wooden shrapnel in an instant. The carpeted floor and opposing wall were shredded to pieces in a fraction of a second. Vessilia gaped, panic gripping her heart like a vice and she found herself frozen. Not by a Status Condition or Skill, but by sheer terror.
Suddenly, a furious gust of wind swept through the hall, pushing Vessilia's body back another few steps even as it hurled shrapnel back into the Elders' chamber. Hands of steel grabbed her shoulder and waist, and before the spearwoman could react, she found herself sailing through the air outside. Only then did she get a good look at who held her: her father's Hand, Darius Reed. He regarded her with flat, emotionless eyes that gave Vessilia goosebumps and a new sort of terror.
She'd have rather been discovered by the Guild Elders.
At least they might have only killed her.
