Brightflame Accension (Book 1) (5 page)

“What do you mean?”

Art took a long draught from his water skin. “Bladebeard Academy. Its charge and duty is to eat up talented recruits and spit out officers. Young lads and ladies alike are transformed from novices greener than grass into battle-hardened commanders in the field. We are to be men of authority and guile, masters of warfare.”

“This Academy is well-known for this?”

“It’s the best,” Art beamed, resting his head against his saddlebags and gazing at the stars.

“If you survive the training,” Will added.

“I’ll make it,” Art said confidently. “It’s you, farm boy, who ought to worry.”

“I fret only that my boots will go uncleaned when you drop out.”

Art laughed quietly. Minutes later, Will was alone with Art’s light snores. He sat up, listening to the horses’ grazing and counting stars. The night sky was brilliantly studded with the pricks of light and free of obscuring cloud.
No outlaw would attack this night,
Will thought,
the moon makes light enough to see for miles.

The waning moon rose and fell; Will watched its progress pensively. His thoughts were of his father mostly, Matthew’s past that he had kept hidden from him, but also of his mother, Lumina, the horses, and home.

The Brute, the Mage, and the Sneak

“There it is,” Art declared.

“That’s it?” Will said doubtfully.

“A tryst if I ever saw one.” 

Art woke Will late that morning, ate another meal of bread and salted pork, and rode for not three hours before Art spotted a speck on the horizon. Will was surprised. Despite his belief that the pair of them could have continued to ride through the night and arrive at their destination, Will had not expected to come upon the camp so soon.

As they continued closer, Will could begin to discern individual tents and horses and people. The meeting ground consisted of a small group of tents with fifty some people milling around horses tethered to posts, conversing in excited whispers. The youths were dressed in all manners of colors, mails, and tunics. Some proudly strutted about in thick mail shirts with family insignias displayed boldly upon their chests, and others strolled the camp in faded britches and plain, earthy-colored cloaks. Many were armed; swords, axes, and daggers were strapped to the waist of nearly all of the young warriors, male and female alike. Will had never seen so many boys and girls his age. The girls, especially, attracted Will’s attention. They did not wear dresses or long-sleeved tunics as he was accustomed to his mother donning, but rather these girls were garbed in men’s clothing: vests, mail, and trousers.

As the new arrivals dismounted, a short, balding man scurried to hover by their sides, a look of importance written in his expression. “Names?” he grumbled, looking at a long scroll in his small hands. Before Will or Art could answer, however, the gentleman smiled gently, “Oh, but where are my manners? Welcome to Bladebeard Academy and our staging camp,” he said rather grandly. He looked flustered despite his lofty voice. Will could hardly blame him for that; keeping track of all the recruits would prove a difficult task. Weapons and young boys seldom coexist without breeding strife.

“Again I ask, what are your names?” he repeated, sounding once more as he looked, exhausted.

“Arthur Tableground,” Art said. The man before them scanned his list then ticked off the name with a colorful quill pen.

“Tableground… Sir Clark the Messenger Knight has sent us another of his seed. How many more has he to give, I wonder?”

“I’m the last.”

“For now,” the man with the list chuckled. “It would not be unlike Sir Clark to bless the world with a few more babes. The more the merrier, I say. Not a bad apple in the bushel. It was a pleasure to instruct your brothers.”

“Thank you, sir,” Art nodded at the compliment.

“And you, youngling with the pretty horse? Your name?”

“William Stormhand.”

The man suddenly stood straight and alert, beaming at him with gloriously white teeth.

“Son of Matthew Stormhand? I did not know he had a boy. But, how glad I am to meet you. You know, of course, that I served under your father before I became professor at Bladebeard.”

Will shook his head. “I’m afraid my father has not mentioned…”

“Naturally, some men do not wish to bring the war home with them. Battles oft do not make for fond memories. At any rate, I am Darius Bottleleaf. As I possess a certain aptitude to the subject, I will instruct you in the Divine Arts for your tenure at the Academy,” the short man said hastily and with a nervous bow that was graceful despite his ill-fitting clothing. The overly large robes he wore were blood red with a black crest on the left breast. Upon his wrists, the professor had placed a multitude of bracelets that added a dainty jingle to the sounds of the camp whenever he made a gesture.

“A pleasure it is to meet you, sir,” Will said, casting a glance towards Arthur, who shrugged. Bottleleaf crossed out Will’s name on his checklist with a flourish, leading the pair and their horses to the tethering posts. As they walked, Will marveled at the sights they passed.

It was the fair at Jaohn all over. Instead of travelling salesmen and bards, however, it was young warriors and Imperial recruits that occupied the tents. One group of girls in particular caught his attention. Embarrassingly, Will was discovered openly staring at a beautiful, raven-haired girl, who blushed and smiled at him. Art made a chivalrous bow when the rest of the group looked their way, which the girls returned with laughs and jeers instead of curtseys. Will chuckled at him too, receiving a dirty look and a punch in the arm. 

“This way, sirs,” Bottleleaf said, smiling at Will pleasantly. The short man parted ways with them at a tent that housed four older women, tottering away to greet three newcomers each riding a horse as white as clouds. 

“Well, we’re here,” Art yawned, patting the flank of his old horse. He glanced back at the group of girls once more before looking around. “Think there is anywhere to eat around here?” he asked, smelling the air about them.

“Oy, you, Long-hair!” one of the women in the tent shouted at them. “Long-hair comes and gets hisself a haircut.” She brandished a crude pair of scissors.

Art looked aghast. “Stay away from me, crone. Keep your shears to yourself.”

“Young, green Long-hair needs haircut. Recruited he is, haircut he gets.” She beckoned Art and Will closer, but only Will heeded her summon.

“That’s a good recruit. He stays still, and old Myrtle won’t snip his little ears off.”

Not reassured, Will submitted himself to her shears. Though old, her hands were steady, slicing through inches of his blond hair with every cut. It wasn’t long before she stood back to observe her handiwork. A single snip later, she was finished. The elderly woman mussed his hair and bid him good luck in his training.

Art was not so willing to sacrifice his brown locks, which were longer than Will’s had been by near half a foot. In the end, it took all four of the old women to chase him through the tent, scissors waving wildly in the air, before Art sat defeated in the chair.

“Old Myrtle would think that she wants his manhood off, the way greenie Long-hair fights her. No matter; all Long-hairs become Short-hairs before good recruits go to the castle. Old Myrtle has been chip-chopping Long-hairs for days and needs rest. Not so young as she used to be, Old Myrtle. Thanking the good gods that green recruits here are some of the last. And there is no needs to cut little ladies’ long hair. Old Myrtle doesn’t see why not. Long-hairs become Short-hairs. It don’t matter whether they lords or urchins, it shouldn’t matter if they girls or boys. But Old Myrtle only is told to cut the boys and cut the boys is what she does. You’re done now, green boy. You can open your green boy’s eyes now. See, Long-hair puts up struggle, but Short-hair is obedient. Train well, Short-hairs, the Empire needs you.”

Art ran his hand ruefully through the short crop of hair left to him. To Will, touching his own head felt foreign.
But what isn’t at this point
, Will thought sadly.

“Tickle-brained hag,” Art cursed grumpily.

Will chuckled. Art had not taken kindly to his new haircut, cursing Old Myrtle at every lapse in conversation. They sat around a small fire leaning against their saddlebags, roasting a brace of hare on a spit. A pair of young pages had tended to the horses. Will and Art had spent the evening walking through the camp, occasionally talking with another fresh recruit, but mostly sticking to themselves.

They had seen two fights. One was a small fistfight between two rival families; the other started when a lordling’s son attempted to fondle a passing girl and ended with the boy bleeding heavily from a knife wound he’d received on the upper thigh.

“Could have been worse,” Art had commented, squatting next to the moaning noble as he rolled on the ground clutching at his leg. “Her aim was just a little low. Overestimated you by a couple of inches, I’d say. Be glad about that for once, this time it works in your favor, eh?”

The wounded boy had tried to seize Art’s collar, but fell back with a cry of pain. Will then guided Art to an empty plot where they now sat by their small fire, watching hungrily as the fat crackled and dripped off the hares into the flames.

“Look,” Will said, pointing to the group of girls who had taunted Art’s courtesy. They were weaving slowly but steadily through the crowd towards them. 

“Come to laugh at the way we cook our dinner, no doubt,” Art muttered, looking sullen. The girls arrived, the boys made no move to stand, but Will smiled up at them. The raven-haired girl Will had admired earlier spoke first.

              “I like your haircuts; they suit you.”

Art grumbled something incoherent in response.

“Since we’re all fresh recruits, I thought might introduce ourselves,” she smiled brightly; she had a pretty smile. “I’m Vivyan Payne. This is Maribelle, Heather, and Beckah,” she said, her eyes on Will.

Tall, lean, and lithe in her movements, Vivyan was a beauty in all respects. Golden-brown eyes stole Will’s breath straight from his chest, and the manner in which her hair carelessly cascaded over her shoulders, glistening in the dim torchlight and waving gracefully whenever she stirred, had Will enthralled. With a rush, Will noticed that her eyes had not left him since her approach.

“I‘m farm boy,” Will grinned, hoping his smile could hide his nerves from the girls. Art guffawed; however, the girls looked confused.

“What the simpleton means to say is, ‘In all my years alone on my plot of land, I’ve never beheld anything so ravishing as you. It’s an honor to be acquainted with such a divine creature.’ But I’m afraid this one’s not much for words,” Art teased. The girl Maribelle laughed with him.

“And that’s why he keeps you around then?” Vivyan’s lips curled in jest. “Because you’re a big sack of syllables?”

“You wound,” Art declared, feigning injury.

“I’m Will, if it pleases you milady,” Will offered.

“It might,” Vivyan said playfully, “if you live up to your surname. However, from where I stand, Stormhand, your hands look rather common.”

“Will Stormhand,” the girls tittered.

It was an annoying sound, Will thought. He had a sudden desire to be left alone with his hare that had now cooked to perfection.

The silly laughs paused for a moment as the girl named Maribelle spoke. “Who are you, Wind Bags?” said Maribelle, peering at Arthur. 

“Arthur Tableground,” he said proudly.

“I know your father, then. He has delivered many a message to my lord father, Sir Rees.”

“Lord Rees Vandigort of Quelling Shore? Well met, fair Lady Maribelle.”

“Well met indeed, Wind Bags,” she winked.

Vivyan spoke before Art could continue, “It would appear your conies are well-roasted; we had best take leave and let you eat in peace.” Will noted how sweet and melodious her voice was. Never had he been so incapable of intelligent thought as he was in that moment.

Far too late, Will called, “Goodbye,” but he spoke to their retreating backs and received no answer. Will settled back, leaning against his pack, and began on his hare. He had wanted to say more, something humorous that would have made Vivyan laugh, but the time was past. Reflecting upon the conversation, Will felt inane. How could a single conversation make him feel so uncomfortable?

“You feeling well?” Art asked Will who sat staring at the fire.

“She was beautiful,” Will murmured, lost in the flames.

“The whole pack was rather attractive, to tell it true. I’ve had women before but never one that looked so… fit. They seem to flock to me. You could study me for years and never discern the source of the phenomenon. I couldn’t tell you which feature the females are so enamored with,” Art boasted.

“Most like it’s your innate ability to keep-”

“Silent!” shouted a voice that echoed through the camp. “Let us have silence!” The crowd of recruits obeyed, falling quiet. The voice began again, “Soon, we shall be continuing on to the Academy.” Will located the source of the projected voice. Addressing the audience assembling before him, the man stood on a wooden dais. He wore an enameled breastplate over a mail shirt of blue steel; his white cape flowed gently in the light breeze. Shaggy hair and beard were black as a night’s sky, and he had pitch black eyes to match. “Welcome, recruits, to Bladebeard Academy. Your fellow charges eagerly await your arrival, so upon entering the Academy please make to the Feasting Hall, for I am sure you all must be hungry. And after that, to bed; you have traveled far and will need the rest,” As he finished, a great cheer from the students rose up; apparently they were as in need of a proper bed as Will was.

“Ah, and if for some reason, you do not yet know my name,” he added, stepping back up to the platform, “I am Boewdard, your Blademaster, who births and enforces the rules at the Academy. My word is final and is law. I am the Emperor, if you will, of Bladebeard Academy. Fear not, however; I have faith that none of you will have need to face my justice.” The Blademaster finished and stepped down from his platform.

“Oy, step this way! Recruits, step this way!” Bottleleaf called, guiding the mob of youths towards a large bonfire. “Like herding trolls,” he muttered under his breath as he passed Will.

Following the balding man’s instruction, Will and Art were forced to squeeze past the massing recruits. When they arrived at the fire, Will spotted Vivyan, who winked at him. Upon seeing Maribelle, Art fell silent, blushing a brilliant pink when she smiled at him. “Children, children, come now, closer to the fire. We will be setting out for the Academy soon. It is only a short journey, but before the sun rises and we depart, we must again take an assessment of your abilities.” Will cast a sideways glance at Art who cocked his eyebrow. His many bracelets clinking, Bottleleaf pulled out his checklist and began to rifle off several names.