The first few miles out of town are nearly as safe as being within Nodkis’s walls. I observe all the travelers we come across—identifying marks, distinctive gaits, how perceptive they appear—and take note of who in my group they seem to consider. Many linger on Vong, which surprises me at first. My suspicions about their intentions are soon diffused by waves, nods, or smiles of acknowledgment from both parties. After observing Vong’s behavior at his family’s restaurant, I guess that many of the caravaners have met him there, where he is as social as a butterfly.
Though I am quite distinct in appearance, and quite difficult to miss given my size, Vong’s family also has an exotic appearance that must trace their lineage to…
It clicks in my mind quite suddenly. The decorations in the restaurant and distinctive features of the Vong brood match up with what I know of Nikori, a strange empire to the east and one of the five nations that make up the Hegemony of Kzartosha. Though ruled by kobolds, humans from Dromatica, and probably the Moran Vanguard, have spread into the region and adopted the traditions and values of the Nikoriko. This must be the Vong family’s origin.
When I was employed by the Demonologist in Tarstin, I had little opportunity or desire to learn about this neighbor to the north, However, I would have had to be utterly witless to learn nothing of the social and political climate in the nearly five years I spent in a Hegemony member nation.
I mentally catalogue this information for future use. Knowing a man’s heritage is nearly as good as reading his diary, in many cases. I’ll need to find a book on the Nikoriko and their traditions, so I set a trigger in my mind to prompt me to do so upon our return to town.
At Val Maxis’s tower, I learned that there is magic for this. While I will, no doubt, procure this magic in due time, I can achieve similar results through the lifetime of careful mental exercises and memory techniques I employ. This was the only way I was able to devote myself to my scholarly pursuits, such as wizarding, without being discovered by my family. Though at first a necessity, I feel a sense of pride that I carry nary a written word on me, but for my tome of incantations. My spellbook is safe from most eyes that would pry, excepting for other mages. Yet there are no notes in its margins, no sheafs of parchment tucked in between pages with diagrams and calculations, nor any companion journal to explain my methods or expertise. For all anyone might know, were someone ever able to look through my spellbook, they would think they were looking at a copy of Draconic poetry—a mightily unpalatable compilation because dragons are among the most savagely conceited creatures in existence, according to my research. I haven’t met one to confirm it.
When the party makes camp for the evening, and Vong begins his now-familiar clattering of pots and pans and emptying the contents of his massive pack to prepare supper, Rakatha begins Apul’s training.
Rakatha draws his sword and nods for the boy to follow suit. Pil manages to wrest the sword from its scabbard by employing all four of his limbs, and holds it limply. Rakatha walks over and adjusts his stance, kicking his feet apart, squaring his shoulders, and positioning his grip. Satisfied, the hulking brawler goes several paces away and takes an intermediate stance—what I had learned as mahdasht, or longpoint—looking over his shoulder to watch his young charge mimic him.
He nods and launches into a long and complicated routine of attacks, blocks, and parries against an invisible opponent. It includes sophisticated footwork, spinning, and lunging to deliver heavy blows in the blink of an eye.
It’s terrible to watch.
I glance at Pil who is, quite understandably, lost. His wide-eyed expression reminds me of my stupid, little goblin tribe some seventeen years ago. Having just lost their leader to an ill-advised raid against the Eighth Lord in the cursed city of Imraku, they revered me—a wayworn traveler—after one, simple cantrip.
The memory of those goblins has me feeling an acute longing to be back amongst those cretins. Their loyalty to me was unquestionable. It was a pity I couldn’t protect them when their rival tribe sneaked in to slaughter them. I would trade them for my current band of idiots in a moment, were it an option.
Though it might be less painful to turn away, I watch Rakatha’s inept instruction. If the barbarian has anything to offer me, it seems he will undoubtedly parade it in front of this waif.
Is he actually trying to impress the lad? Wasn’t he paying attention to the dilation of they boy’s pupils, sheen of sweat, or nervous fidgeting when he first approached? The young Pil is enamored with Rakatha in the spirit of whatever moronic fairy tales he’s heard about this brute of a man.
How does a former slave carry such a reputation? Perhaps I need to learn more about these gladiatorial games and try my hand at slaving again. No doubt the slaves here on the continent are much more pliable than the defiant islanders I oversaw in my youth. The Shattered Coast is no place for weaklings, but even island folk know to submit to their superiors when they are caught. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Elysians sold into slavery merely believe they are under a new contract.
Elysians and their endless contracts!
The martial demonstration before me is over after fifteen minutes. Did I learn anything useful? Doubtful. Pil certainly didn’t.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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