Activity

Here is my try:

Moniker: @sparrowhawke

Details: 1143 words, 6:22 min. audio

Audio: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1P9S15_W8C7LZtrX5J8i17-bhapBR8fnV/view?usp=sharing

Text:

The steel is smooth under my fingers, the blade as sharp as my tongue. Words written in the Forgotten Language, the Eling, curl around the handle, carved into the ivory. They’re thin and discreet–my opponent won’t know they’re there until it’s too late. They are more than letters or designs though. They were carved by a Petromagus and are filled with the power of aether. When I hold the knife in my hand and speak the Eling words, aether will flow into me and strengthen my Resolve. When I throw the knife, the blade will claim another victim. And I will claim their Resolve.

I sheathe the knife and then tighten the leather braces on my arms. These, just like the knife, have Eling written on them. So do my belt, cloak, and every weapon I own. They match the markings tattooed on my body. Those match the birthmark on my neck, the patch of skin that hailed me as the Warrior of Namule. As it is on the back of my neck, I have never seen it, but I can feel it. And not just when I’m touching it.

I pull my hood over my head, grab my spiked staff, and leave my room. Eling runes carved on the stone floor glow as I step on them. At the flick of my hand the flame of a torch on the wall changes from the natural orange to green then blue then purple.

The door at the end of the hall opens and out steps Crin, my mentor. He’s balding and his scraggly beard hangs over his sagging belly, but people say he used to be handsome. I have a very hard time believing that.

“I was just coming to see you,” he says as he closes his door. He’s holding a scroll in one hand and a piece of chalk in the other. I frown.

“I’m not going to defeat the Rissians if all we do is talk about how to defeat the Rissians,” I say.

He shakes his head. “You need to know the enemy.”

“I’m not going to know the enemy from reading old myths.”

“They’re not myths. They’re exaggerated histories. You must not only know how your opponent fights, but also how he thinks. Then you’ll be able to anticipate his every move.”

He passes me. “Come.”

I begrudgingly follow. I was hoping to get in some good knife-throwing practice today, not another lesson with Crin the Cranky.

We navigate our way through the passages of the fortress until we end up in the inner open-roofed garden. It’s peaceful here, all flowers and birds and marble statues. One is still broken in the grass. I accidentally knocked it over during staff practice and apparently nobody has bothered to clear it away.

The sky is reddening but I still keep my hood on, especially after Crin tells me to put it down. That just makes me want to keep it on even more.

He sits his fat bottom down on one of the marble benches. I stand and fold my arms.

“What’s the story today, Crinky?” I ask.

He exhales, obviously annoyed with me. Good. Maybe he’ll leave me alone to break another statue.

But he just unrolls the parchment. It’s a small map showing Rissa and Adabar, the border between the two countries clearly delineated in dark red ink. “Red for blood,” Crin says. “Blood you will avenge.”

“So far the only thing I’ve avenged is the statue over there, and I couldn’t care less about him.”

“Could care less,” Crin corrects.

“Whatever. What were we talking about again?”

“Blood.”

“Ah yes, a lovely subject.”

Another exhalation, this one so breathy I’m glad Crin isn’t an Aeromagus.

He continues. “The blood of the Adabarans. Of our ancestors. Of us.”

“Obviously not my ancestors, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

Crin ignores me. “The Rissians attacked us first. Unprovoked. They crossed the Rift and came to conquer us. And they did, for a time.”

“Then we beat ‘em all up and kicked them out and now they’re back in the west plotting how to take us down again and blah, blah, blah.” I finish the story for him.

“That is a rather simplified version of it.”

“I like simple things.”

“I’m sure you do.”

It’s one of Crin’s few insults I’m more shocked than offended. I know he hates me, but he hardly ever says it out loud.

“Malar,” he says, putting aside the map, “you really do need to understand these things. This is the reason they’re fighting and the reason you’re fighting.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, I’m not fighting. I’m standing in a flower garden listening to an old man tell me a bedtime story.”

“You could be sitting if you wished.” He points out the empty space on the marble bench.

“I know why I have to fight, Crin. What the Rissians did, what they are doing is terrible. Unforgivable. But you’re not helping. I’m the most powerful fighter we got and while thousands of our soldiers are dying, you’re keeping me cooped up here so I can look at maps. Frankly, it’s insulting.”

He looks down at the ground, suddenly very interested in the flora. I hope he’s not trying to make some metaphor like last time.

“You’re right, Malar,” he says. “You should be out fighting. But you’re also not just a throwaway soldier. The Warriors of Namule are more than soldiers–they’re thinkers. Our best philosophers have been from the Warriors. That’s all I’ve been trying to teach you.”

“And I guess I appreciate that,” I say slowly, trying to sound diplomatic. Still, it’s very hard to churn out the words. “But I’ve been doing this for years. I’m ready to fight now. I may not even live to be a philosopher.” I pull out my knife. “This is why I’m alive,” I say, laying it out in my hands. “To fight and die for Adabar.” I say it in Eling and the letters on the handle glow white. “That’s all I want to do.”

He takes the knife and brushes his fingers over the Eling script. “I know. I just hoped you could have been different. Could’ve lived longer.”

“I was born to die, Crin. And if I don’t do that, then I won’t have lived.”

He smiles. It sounds also like one of those dumb platitudes he’d say and I guess he’s proud of that. I want to forget I said it.

“You’re right.” He rolls up the scroll and puts his hand on my shoulder. The garden is dark now, but his white beard and bald head are clear in the moonlight. “Tomorrow, you’ll fight.”

He hands the knife back to me. It’s heavier, although it’s not glowing anymore, and I know it’s done it’s job.

It’s just stolen part of Crin’s Resolve.