MaerBear
patreon
Chapter 27: Choosing a New Path
🕑 Added 2023-07-12 07:00:05 +0000 UTCHamsa’s blade froze halfway through the whistling strike. Horses.
He sheathed his weapon and wiped away some of his sweat, trying to keep the grin off his face as he approached the gate to the campground. A single flake of snow floated down and landed on his nose, melting before it even made contact. Winter had found the valley. Training season.
The wooden doors opened revealing a full squad of warriors on horseback. Scaled mail kalantar armor gleamed even in the grey light that trickled through darkening clouds above. The mail extended along their limbs meeting greaves and vambraces and helmets. Faces hidden under helms shaped to suggest beasts of legend.
The Asbar.
A large man rode at the head of the group—though they all looked like giants under all that steel, seated upon those massive horses—and a huge, rune engraved scimitar hung at his hip, gold filigree tracing the sheath. Uncle Hamun. The Scythe of Karula.
Hamsa remembered himself and saluted.
The knights made their way through the gate but halted before him.
“Is that Little Ham saluting?” said his uncle.
He didn’t redden or stutter. He was an Asbar candidate, after all. “It is me Sir Hamun, Blade of Thousands.” They may be bound by blood, but that was no excuse to skip out on using honorifics.
“You’ve grown. Your father will be pleased.”
Then the warriors continued on their way, horses tearing the soil of the path with giant hooves.
The arrival of the Asbar and the first snow were sure to mark the beginning of great changes around camp. But Hamsa couldn’t allow himself to slacken. To bring honor to his name he had to sharpen his edge. He began his return to their pod site. Everyone else was still at drill, but as a son of swords he was expected to continue his study of the family martial arts. They may want to start all members of the army training together to build trust and camaraderie—indeed, that was the function of everything this past month, from the pods camping and cooking together to the shared drills and lessons—but the top brass weren’t fool enough to blunt the edges of their elites in the process.
Speaking of edges, maybe he should take some time to care for his own sword. It had been a while since he’d oiled-
#
Ren laughed uncontrollably. Melfina had a wicked sense of humor, and some very coarse thoughts about the men hidden beneath the armor that had just entered the camp.
It was easy to forget that she was a powerful and terrifying warrior when she made scandalous commentary on the nature of the great warriors’ hidden “virtues”.
“I swear,” she said, “men like that spend so much time playing with the swords at their hips, they barely know what to do with the ones between their legs.”
He cracked up so hard that his attempt to hammer in a stake for his bivvy missed, instead slamming the rock down on his thumb. “Aziroth’s flaming horse-”
Shit. He cut himself off. That was no thing to say before a lady, let alone a warrior of her reputation. Besides, parvethi curses were frowned upon in Ardus, where the god of light was the only officially acknowledged divinity.
“Go on,” she said, “Aziroth’s flaming horse what?”
“Genitals?” he tried.
“Come on, you can do better than that. I’ve met parvethi before. You won’t burn my ears by saying it properly.”
It was easy to forget how harsh she could be in training when she teased like this. In truth, he was relieved that their one on one training was over. He couldn’t take much more of her style of teaching.
“I could never besmirch the honor of such an esteemed maiden.” He could fire back too now.
She crinkled her nose. “You’re the worst, Little-Knife.”
That was another thing he’d learned about her. She was obsessed with weapons, and referred to anyone she felt close to as some kind of blade. He didn’t love what it said about her view of him that she called him both “little” and “knife”.
Her eyes gleamed with evil glee. Yes. She knew how the doubly diminutive moniker stabbed at his pride.
“Pardon this Little-Knife.” He bowed, causing her scowl to deepen. “The lady is indeed correct. My wisdom is too lacking, the edge of my wit, too short. I should never have introduced such a suggestion in the presence of your innocence at all. Indeed it seems your virginal mind has been corrupted with lascivious thoughts indeed. Craving nothing but-”
Then she was upon him, his back slammed into the earth, his breath squeezed out of him. And her dagger pressed to his groin.
In her world, this kind of thing was a harmless joke. It hadn’t felt that way at first, of course. Sharp steel in your nethers was about as welcome and humorous as shit in your stew. But now he was able to see it as the sign that he’d won the exchange.
Their guest—who Ren had just noticed—seemed not to be privy to the subtleties of their position. Hamsa stood at the edge of the campsite, bloodless like old meat, hand gripping the hilt of his naked blade. His eyes passed back and forth between Ren and Melfina, before catching on the red streaks in her hair. A beat passed in which nobody moved, then his weapon was sheathed and he stood in a salute, lowering his head.
“I welcome the esteemed Flame-Blade to our pod’s campsite. I cannot claim to know what he has done to offend you, but I ask that you allow me to share the weight of my little brother in arms’ sins.”
Melfina looked from the muscular boy back down to Ren beneath her. “See?” she said. “He thinks you’re little too, Little-Knife.”
They locked eyes for a tense moment, wills straining, then she fell off him in a giggling heap as he rolled onto his side, clutching his ribs and sucking air between his own fits of laughter.
After the hysterics devolved into wheezing breaths to catch air, Hamsa spoke again. “It seems I have misjudged the situation?” He was red, though he hadn’t allowed a single muscle on his face to move. “In that case, I merely ask if there is any way I can be of service to you, honored lady.”
The corner of her mouth twitched downward, but a grin remained. “Not at all, warrior. I admire your commitment to your comrade.”
“We are all brothers—and sisters—of the sword. We will be bound by more blood in our service than any family by breeding. A true leader cannot turn his back on his men any more than a father on their children or an older brother on a younger.”
“Well said.” Melfina rose and dusted herself off, sheathing her dagger and running a palm over the sheaths that sparkled over her body, so shiny that he had mistaken them for jewelery one night in a dark alley. “I should be heading off. You boys-” she winked “-don’t have too much fun while I’m gone.”
That woman really just couldn’t help herself, could she.
Then she was gone, leaving the confused look on Hamsa’s face as the only sign of her passing.
“So… you’re back, then.”
“I am.”
“Some of the men saw you called to the command tent, then packing up. I wondered. But you look much better.” His eyes scanned Ren. “Stronger, less pale.”
“Well, however I look, I promise I feel ten times better than that.”
“Dealt with the poison?”
Ren nodded.
“Glad to hear it.” Hamsa placed a hand on the pommel of his sword. “You missed the medic exams. Decided to join us men of war?”
Ren’s cheer faltered. The only military paths he’d looked into were medic, which he’d missed his chance for, Asbar, which only took martial prodigies or those trained from a young age in proven martial arts (he was neither of those), and basic infantry, which was a dead end that wouldn’t let earn him enough to make a dent in his family debt even if he survived the front lines. “I… haven’t figured out what path I’m going for yet.”
Hamsa scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I have a little time this afternoon, little brother. How about we take a walk around the grounds and check out the different options. All week, units from every branch have been showing up for the recruitment after the trials and to begin winter training.”
“I’d love to.” He really would. “But I don’t want to distract you from your training.”
“I need to clear my head anyway.”
Ren looked down. He was filthy from his week in the woods. The fresh tunic in his pack should help him look presentable enough not to get stopped on their walk around camp.
“What happened to your scar?”
Ren froze with his shirt half way off.
“Medicine,” He answered, not knowing how to say that a one eyed beggar and his pet awakened badger had healed him before a martial hero renown across the spice road personally mentored him in the basics of cultivation. Thankfully, the fresh garment hid his smirk as he pulled it on. “Ready.”
The son of swords left it at that and led the way to the beaten path that wound through the camp. After several minutes, they passed a mountain of lumber stacked against the walls of the fort.
“You ever wonder what all that is for?” asked Hamsa.
He had wondered.
“Well, in winter, which is typically our season for training here in the North, since the roads are less traveled and the northern hordes can’t make it through the mountain passes to harass the borders, everyone lives in barracks, and theory lessons happen in halls.”
“What barracks.” Ren looked around, mystified. “Halls?”
“It’s a longstanding Ardinian tradition to build and take down the structures every season. My father says it goes back to the days before the Red Dragon Empire, when the Hammer Sage first roamed our lands. Before Ardus took up the teachings of Light, it was a land of craftsmen. Well, not in the western plains where the tribes roam, but all along the River Ardus, and the lands north of Katarn.”
They passed the last stack of lumber and came upon a collection of loaded up wagons that hadn’t been there before. Soldiers in red and grey stood alert, spear tips gleaming above them, red ribbons twirling in the breeze beneath the steel.
Hamsa continued, “it’s also supposed to be some kind of team building exercise. Though unlike how everybody participates in basic training together when they come in, the Asbar and the higher ranks get to sit it out. Now that the Asbar are here, I bet we’ll pause training to build the camp up starting tomorrow.”
As they walked, Ren noticed more things that were new. All the empty space in the fort had been filled with gear or people. Just as the new gear contained real weapons rather than the wooden practice blades, the new people had a sharper edge to them. Many were scarred, and all carried in their movements a deadly intent.
A group of muscular men—and one abnormally large woman—dressed in blue edged military greys were busy at work, unloading circular targets and massive longbows from wagons for inspection before loading them back up. Would he even be able to draw one of those once?
“The archer core,” said Hamsa. “A tactical necessity for any deployment. Check out the ones with the hawks sewn into their shoulders. Those are the elites who accompany the Asbar on operations.”
Taking time to really look, Ren noticed the patches on some of their uniforms. Most of those were accompanied by extra scars.
“How much do new archer core recruits get paid?”
“Worried about money?” Hamsa frowned, and Ren was sure he was being judged. “Is that why you’re here?”
“It’s not like I don’t care about protecting Ardus.” That wasn’t technically a lie. After all, his family lived here. “I just need enough to send home for my family.” Their status as debt-indentured wasn’t anybody’s business.
Hamsa’s expression softened but didn’t go away entirely. “I suppose we all have our reasons to fight. But if you don’t have a reason to fight beyond desire for money, you’re no better than a mercenary.” He spat the word like a curse. “I would never trust a sell-sword to stick by his comrades when the danger gets real. Just as likely to get a knife in your back if you trust one to hold a shield by your side.”
Men facing down a beast of shadow and terror, with a body that stretched for miles, all standing strong, right up to the moment they were flattened. A man roaring his wrath and will against a power that swallowed him. A pair of legs, standing for a moment, as though loyally waiting for their owner to return, before toppling.
Ren couldn’t say he agreed with this condemnation of mercenaries, but he wasn’t going to argue that point now.
He shook his head and breathed, steeling himself, pushing the memory down. No. He needed to focus on here and now. His family needed him. Both their fate and his own rode on the decisions he would make this coming month.
Comments
Thank you! It really means a lot to me to hear that.
Zephyr Auraeus
Loving the story!
Ah man, i really want to info dump! But I also don't want to spoil anything. Immortals are heroes because mortals don't have a higher classification (nor the ability to really differentiate), but immortals do have higher ranks. I want to nerd out so I'll try to find a balance and share a bit about 3 different paths to power :) Only read this if you don't mind knowing more than you are supposed to at this point. (not plot details, but stuff knowledge that Ren is going to be trying to unravel as the story progresses) Traditional cultivation is essentially about gaining power through the understanding of ones self and the internalization of external energy, making it a part of the self. The traditional paths are about increasing one's metaphysical/conceptual mass in order to exert control over things outside the self. With enough power they are able to not only exert direct control over the world, but to forcibly pierce the conceptual membrane that separates the Great River (basically raw power/source code of existence) and draw from it directly. But aside from some physical benefits, a cultivator is limited by their ability to harness their power through techniques/skill/conceptual power. Think of it like if you had a sword and I had a barrel of gasoline. The gasoline is potentially more dangerous, for example if I rigged a flamethrower, or built a vehicle that ran on that fuel to direct that destructive potential. But if i put it in a squirt gun it's not going to stop you and your sword. In this case, the vessel for the gasoline is a metaphor for the fact that with a superior energy resource, cultivators can sustain and develop much more powerful techniques and abilities than non-cultivators. One can also gain power by harmonizing with things instead of controlling them. Rather than making the sense of self more dense and explicit, one can expand the sense of self, fuzzing the edges of where your self ends and the concept or object in question begins. That is what one can achieve at the highest levels of mastery and comprehension of the path of the sword (or any other specific path). Such a person would be able to call upon the metaphysical/conceptual mass/power of swords and work together with that power, rather than relying on their own internal power. So it is theoretically possible for a properly attuned mortal to achieve a conceptual level of power through sheer mastery/understanding. The amount of power accessed depends on the level of mastery/understanding and the capacity to align oneself with the concept. Certain groups, typically those who live more in tune with nature, use various substances to connect to internal (higher) realms of existence, and can call down power from beings in those realms while in such trance like states. These people I would classify as borrowing power. TLDR; Internalized Power, Harmonized Power, and Borrowed Power.
Alzerak
cool, I assume immortals are usually heros, what other paths are there other than cultivation to come to power
