Brightflame Accension (Book 1) (6 page)

The summoned younglings stepped forward; there were about fifteen in total. The remaining recruits watched as those chosen were put through several tests of agility and speed. The assigned tasks included jumping from various heights, leaping across gaps, and running through a small maze of wooden posts that the participant had to dodge lest he get bludgeoned by a heavy club that rotated quickly when triggered. When all were done, they were pulled aside by a woman garbed in a flowing dress. More were called.

Will watched impatiently as all the other recruits finished their assessments. Sweaty and panting, Art returned to Will’s side. “How did I do?” he managed to huff into Will’s ear.

“I thought you ran well… so long as it was in a straight line,” Will added with a smile.

Art appeared too winded to argue, simply nodding his concession. “Haven’t you been summoned to perform the tasks?”

Will frowned. He was the only recruit who had not yet been tested.
Had they forgotten me?
But this worry soon proved groundless as Bottleleaf announced Will’s name.

“Now, students, we have a special treat. William Stormhand, son of General Matthew Stormhand, thrice Anointed Defender of the Empire, is among us this night. I ask him now to step forward to be tested.”

Every eye found Will. He felt his stomach tighten with the pressure. Was he any more talented than the other recruits, many of whom having received training from a true Master-at-Arms?

His father’s reputation had preceded him again, yet Will was not inclined to disappoint the eagerly watching crowd.

At Bottleleaf’s request, Will began to run. He sprinted to a point and back, then repeated the distance backwards. Shuffling sideways, Will felt the eyes of everyone analyzing his every motion. His lungs burned from the exertion as he pushed himself off the ground. A shout, and he dove to the ground again. In his haste to comply, Will slipped, hitting the grass much harder than he had meant to. The breath was knocked out of him, and he struggled to regain his feet. Again, Will ran to where Bottleleaf stood.

Fighting for air, Will waited for the instructor to finish scrawling his comments. Now that he had paused in his activity, Will saw poorly disguised leers and heard snide laughter. A voice sounded from the crowd, shouting an insult to the great delight of the mob. Will’s ears brightened, and he was glad the darkening sky hid his embarrassment.

“Come this way, William,” Bottleleaf said, making a flourish with his quill. Leading him to a long beam stretching over a deep pit, Bottleleaf instructed Will on the next task.

Walking out confidently enough, Will made it to the other side of the pit without falling. With less poise, Will began to cross the pit again, this time backwards. A gust of wind buffeted his left side. It was part of the test, Bottleleaf had warned. But the knowledge did not make the task easier, as Will nearly slipped. A few of the onlookers chuckled. The sound of their laughter distracted him, and with his next step, he was again assaulted by a torrent of air. Will fell off the narrow beam. Landing heavily on his feet at the bottom of the pit, Will frowned. He had failed.

Clambering out of the hole with the assistance of a thin rope dangling down for that purpose, Will was met by Bottleleaf, who was scribbling something very quickly on the parchment. “Good effort, Master Stormhand, good effort.” He frowned at his comment and hastily added another line. “At Bladebeard Academy, you will find that there are three main factions. Each looks to service its respective flavor of recruit, if you might forgive the expression. I must ask you now, would you care to be a warrior, wielding a sword or axe at the head of the Imperial armies, or a mage, casting spells to weave the destruction of the enemies of the Empire?”

“Was there not a third option?” Will asked, massaging out a cramp in his thigh.

“Yes, there is to be sure. Based upon your particular abilities, however, I would humbly suggest that you refrain from enrolling in the faction of stealth. Master Stormhand, with all due respect, you are not destined to be a scout or an assassin. Your decision?”

Will did not revel in the idea of becoming a sneaking murderer, so he did not press the subject of the third faction. “I would be a warrior, I believe. I know nothing of the magic or spells, but with a sword, I think I can make a difference.”

“Well said, a warrior at heart then,” Bottleleaf said rather disappointedly, scribbling a symbol next to Will’s name. “Nonetheless, if rumors have it true, you are quite ready to absorb at least some knowledge of magic. Standing before me now, I can definitively say that you positively radiate power. It would be a shame to waste such fascinating potential. You must allow me to instruct you in the rituals of the divine arts, but for now, your decision to be on the front lines will stand. It is, I suppose, beneficial for a mage to know the mentality of the swordsmen around him.”

His list finished, Bottleleaf rolled up the parchment, causing it to vanish up his sleeve with a jerk of his arm. Will’s lungs had not stopped burning before Art was at his side.

“I failed,” Will frowned, walking back to their small fire. The flames had died, but the coals were still hot; it did not take much coaxing before the kindling caught and a warm fire danced once more.

“Everyone did on that blasted beam. Unfortunately, it was all the worse for you because the kind listmaster deemed it prudent for you to be showcased by yourself.”

“Their laughter was aimed at me.”

“Well, you did not excessively impress anyone,” Art chuckled, but seeing the horrified look on his friend’s face, quickly added, “Not that you did terribly, by any means. I say it was just that people might have been expecting more from the son of
the
Matthew Stormhand.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Will smiled wryly. He had tried his hardest, but there was a nagging belief in the back of his mind that he could have done better.

Bottleleaf, having finished discourse with the sallow woman in the dress, addressed the mob of first-year recruits. “We must depart for the Academy early upon the morrow, so find a spot to settle for the night and sleep. Any recruit found wandering the camp or fornicating after curfew is sounded will be punished.”

“Bah, the night is ruined then,” Art laughed. “With all these warrior maids about, there was bound to be one to my liking. Maybe one lucky woman would’ve bed you, too. Though after that abysmal display of coordination…” Art danced to his feet avoiding a punch jokingly aimed at his shoulder.

“While you’re up, check on the horses would you,” Will called to Art’s back as the Messenger Knight’s eighth son strode off to refill his water skin.

They slept that night, having doused the flames, on the chill ground. Will slept easily, knowing that no enemy would dare sweep down upon them in the night. The sheer number of swords, no matter who wielded them, was surely enough to turn any bandit’s blood to ice. In trusting that he would be kept safe from enemies inside the camp by his proximity to Art, however, Will was wrong.

Halfway through the night, a rustling in his blankets roused him. Confused and groggy with the soreness that comes from sleeping upon stony earth, Will felt a body lean against him. Warm with desire and stinking with lust, the girl in his blankets was completely nude.

“Does it please my lord?” She said, groping for Will’s crotch.

“I’m no lord. What are you doing here? And stop,” he hissed sharply. The night was dark, as clouds had drifted across the sky to obscure moon, yet Will could still see that the girl was no longer smiling.

“I want you, my lord. A young warrior must see his needs be met. Surely, you must have great needs for you are a great lord,” she reached her hand to Will again, but he caught it.

“I will not be caught with you in my bed roll,” Will said, releasing her slender hand. “Who are you?”

“A maid!” she nearly shouted. “A fair maiden!” Will put a hand to her mouth to quiet her. He doubted that, but when he dared lift his hand away from her face, he saw that she had not lied entirely. Peering through the dark, Will thought she was attractive in the sense that she was not unattractive. Nothing about her gave Will pause or made his heart jump in the manner that seeing Vivyan had.

“Get gone,
fair maid
. I have no needs you can sate,” Will lied, pushing the woman from beneath his blanket. When she stalked away, disappointed, he felt the uncomfortable stiffness more acutely.

Tales Told

“She what?” Art asked incredulously as he led Old Sam away from the tryst to follow the caravan of recruits. Their pace was slow, allowing Will and Art to walk alongside their horses.

“Climbed into the sack with me,” Will responded. He had scanning the crowd around him, but the fair maid was nowhere to be seen. For that, he was glad; he did not know how to address her in the light of day.

“Closest you’ve gotten to using your manhood for something useful, I reckon.”

“It was,” Will answered truthfully.

Art sniggered, “It’s probably best you hadn’t. Unused, you might have only lasted until she unlaced your britches. Would have ruined everyone’s night.” He laughed again and was joined by Will, who was more amused by the incident during the night than embarrassed.

“I couldn’t. You heard Balding-leaf, no fornicating after curfew. I’m not seeking to break rules the first night.”

“A eunuch’s edict. Things would have played out differently if this fairest of maidens had crawled under my blanket,” Art boasted.

“I never saw you leave the fire once after curfew, even though you groused about needing to make water for at least an hour.”

Art frowned, “She was a camp follower looking to get big with some little lord’s bastard. Most like you weren’t her first stop or her last. When it’s birthed, she’d have badgered you until you took her and the babe in. My father has cautioned me against her type.”

Will hadn’t thought of that. Art continued, “Nay, it’s best you kept your britches on. Most wouldn’t that night.”

The convoy of mounted recruits continued south for hours, moving slowly across the land like a fatigued snake. Will rode only intermittently, preferring travelling by foot to exhausting Soulfire with the extra weight. They forded a swift river, almost losing a black mare and her rider to the current. By nightfall, horses and recruits alike were in need of rest. Will and Art ate rations of a cold stew and black bread provided by camp cooks before settling down and promptly falling asleep.

The fair maid did not visit Will again that night. Nor did she crawl beneath his cover the night after. By night, Will slept in peace and by day, he walked alongside Art, keeping content despite his growing weariness of travel.

For five days, the caravan made its way south at a snail’s pace. Sometimes, the recruits passed within sight of a castle or fortress. When that happened, armored knights and ladies in their finest rode out to watch the procession. Peasant children in the villages they passed scurried alongside the line of recruits, squealing with joy when Will boosted one up into Soulfire’s saddle.

“I’m riding a true knight’s ‘orse,” the little boy said, grinning happily. He was missing a front tooth, but already a new one was halfway grown in its place.

“Someday, you will be a strong warrior too,” Will said to the delight of the boy and the envy of his playmates who scampered underfoot.

“You’ll have a horse and a sword, to be sure,” Art said kindly. “But a knight’s most important weapon is his wits. Even the scrawniest knight can defeat a dragon, if he keeps his wits about him.” The toothless smile flashed brightly at that.

All too soon, they left the villages behind and the castles as well, venturing off the worn road and into the wilds again. On the sixth day, Bottleleaf announced that, by evening, the recruits
would arrive at the Academy.

“Look presentable, please! No recruit should look sullied at the welcoming feast,” he shouted to the camp as they packed up their tents for the final time. “Ready your horses and meet me back here. Back at this spot, this very spot!” Bottleleaf yelled importantly.

Will retrieved Soulfire and led the colt back to the bonfire before which Bottleleaf was mounting his jennet. Rubbing the warm neck of his steed, Will waited for the other students to saddle and ready their mounts.

“Let us embark,” Bottleleaf cried as he nudged his horse to a walk.

“Wait! I don’t have a horse,” a plump boy cried out. “Mine ran off in the night.”

“More like he ate it in his sleep,” Art whispered to Will.

“Well, find someone with whom to ride,” said Bottleleaf, with a clinking of his bracelets. “Or walk,” he commented, looking condescendingly at the boy’s rotund midsection.

The kid scrambled over to Art and asked for a ride, “I can’t keep up walking all day. Please, could I perhaps ride your horse? Only for a few hours, I swear.” To his credit, Art did not protest, allowing the fat boy to clamber into the saddle of his old horse. Immediately, the boy began speaking, his pudgy cheeks and double chin flapping.

“You are most kind. My name is Patrick Chandelamp, grandson of Charles Chandelamp the hero of…” Patrick blabbered on, but before the line of horses had begun to depart in earnest, Will and Art had stopped listening.

The day passed quickly as most recruits were anxious to get to the castle. Cresting a grassy knoll, the first of the caravan spied their destination. It was several more minutes before Will was in sight of the massive black castle overlooking a river that reflected the orange red sky of dusk. Nestled in a valley but raised on an immense hill, the castle was a mass of turrets and tall towers surrounded by a wall forty feet high. Torches lined the wide, worn, dirt path that snaked to the heavy portcullis and thick, oaken gate. The awed recruits crossed the intricately carved wooden bridge over the shining river.

“The Academy,” Patrick said with a tone of wonder.

“Aye, and look, its oaken maw stretches wide to consume us all,” Art commented as the enormous gate lurched open, ancient hinges squealing in protest.

“A new life awaits beyond that gate. May we find honor and glory in all things we do,” Will said, solemnly reciting a phrase he had heard his father murmur in prayer a hundred times.

They rode through the entranceway in silence. Then, Patrick erupted excitedly, “Grandda told me that there are heavy enchantments protecting the castle. But he says that he broke them once, and he says to me that I have the potential to do the same. Imagine! That power runs in my veins.” Art’s scowl grew darker as his horse stumbled due to the excess weight of Patrick, who clung tightly to Art’s waist.

“The only thing you have the power to break is Old Sam’s back,” Art grumbled, irritated. Fat Patrick Chandelamp had either not heard the insult or paid no heed to Art’s foul mood, for he continued to cling tightly to Art’s waist.

Beyond the tall barrier, Bottleleaf dismounted. The recruits followed his lead. Then, as one, the horses walked away.

“Where is my horse going? Man, where did Kilric go?” a tall boy with coarse, black hair demanded of Bottleleaf. The arrogance in his voice was almost tangible; he was not a boy accustomed to taking orders but giving them.

“Worry not, I have sent them to the stables so that they may rest and be attended to after their long journey,” Bottleleaf said, attempting to placate the boy. The boy glared at Bottleleaf with detestation before turning his back and disappearing into the crowd.

Following Bottleleaf, the recruits began up the path. As they approached the main keep, Will was filled with wonder. Everything looked magnificent; the battlements reigned above regally, the grounds were meticulously kept, and the keep itself seemed carved from a single stone so elegant was the masonry. The scale and majesty of the castle struck Will at once.

As the great doors of the keep slid smoothly open, they revealed the Blademaster standing in the middle of an open-air courtyard. Filled with fountains that trickled peacefully and gardens of bright flowers, the courtyard boasted of a beauty and wealth that Will had never before imagined.

“Recruits, follow me to the Feasting Hall,” Blademaster Boewdard spoke, his voice carrying over the whispers issuing from the students. Walking through the courtyard, the Blademaster pushed open a pair of immense doors reinforced with heavy iron bars and entered. The interior walls were of gray stone and lined with statues, tapestries, and doors. Will ran his hand across the smoothness of the wall as they continued down the hallway. The Blademaster stopped at another pair of doors that dwarfed the rest along that particular hall. These doors had been carved to depict a bear standing on its hind legs, a dragon issuing a stream of fire, and an eagle spreading its wings. Placing his immaculate hands upon the doors, the Blademaster gave them a shove.

Will was not alone when he gasped at the sight of the Feasting Hall. The walls were made of white granite, and so great was its height that the raftered ceiling was lost in shadows. In the center of the colossal room stood three massive tables at which sat a hundred warriors. Every one of their eyes found the newest recruits as the latter slowly filed into the hall. Above the tables and the staring soldiers hung three tapestries, each depicting an animal. There was a silken black dragon sprawling menacingly in front of a blue background, a proud golden eagle with its wings outstretched before a purple background, and a shaggy white bear prowling its red field. Behind the seated warriors, on the far side of the hall, the smaller Lord’s Table sat on a ledge so that the Masters-at-Arms could overlook their charges.

Starry eyed, Will gaped at the grandeur. Will smiled, noticing the way Art’s eyes sparkled with wonder as if they had been thrust into a dream. 

“Grandda told tales of the feasts held at Bladebeard Academy.  Food imported from all corners of the Empire,” Will overheard Pat informing a red-haired girl.

“First-year recruits, before you eat, you must be organized into three factions: Scalefire, Soardale, or Lumberton,” Blademaster Boewdard said importantly, indicating the tables over which hung the dragon, eagle, and bear respectively.

“Come this way, towards the pedestal,” the Blademaster instructed, walking towards a small stand Will hadn’t yet noticed. On top of the pedestal, a stone bowl was filled with a clear liquid that sparked electrically.

“Step forward your name is called,” Boewdard ordered. An ancient man, quite capable despite his great age, ambled to the bowl, placing three jugs on the pedestal.

The crowd already seated at the tables fell silent as Boewdard peered down at Bottleleaf’s long list. “Annah Lee, of House Wynder.”

A nervous-looking girl stepped forward. She hesitantly crept toward the bowl filled with the unknown liquid. As the elderly man whispered something in her ear, her face grew pale. Then, tentatively, she raised one of the jugs. Pouring its contents into the bowl, Annah Lee then set the vessel down and dipped her hand into the bowl.

Will’s eyes widened
with astonishment. The instant she had touched the liquid, the girl was engulfed in flames. As she screamed, the students seated at the tables laughed raucously. The flames turned purple, then formed into a fiery, soaring eagle that circled her, transforming her emerald green dress into a black cloak emblazoned with the eagle crest on her left breast.

The children under the eagle tapestry applauded loudly and cheered as the relieved Annah Lee picked her way through the tables to her seat.

“Daniel Ogdin, of House Ogdin,” Boewdard shouted over the murmuring crowd. The tall, proud boy, who had confronted Bottleleaf, strutted forth. He poured one of the jugs into the basin, plunging his hand in without hesitation. A black dragon burst out of the stone bowl, spitting blue flames that engulfed Daniel, replacing his purple tunic with a black one adorned with the Scalefire emblem. Daniel smirked, looking over at the insignia on his chest, and strode over to the closest table.

“Scalefire is the faction most infamous,” Art whispered in Will’s ear.  “Few students who come out of it become-”

“Ryan Ollie, of House Boarder” 

“Good knights or gladiators.  They all join -”

“Henry Wood, of Westerlynn Keep.”

“The Liberator of Shadows,” Art murmur in an ever-softer voice. Will gave him a confused look. Seeing it, Art elaborated, “The Shadow Liberator, nobody knows his true identity as no one has ever caught a look at him and lived long enough reveal it. Your father led the Imperial army against him and his bastard army of supporters. But the Shadow is cunning, shrewd, cruel, and hell-bent on toppling the Empire, so your father never got a proper crack at him.” 

“Beckah Svensdotter, of Kalmar Slott.” 

Will and Art were now two of the last remaining who had yet to be summoned. Will began to feel nervous in his stomach. His innards did a
back flip as he heard the words, “William Stormhand.”

The hall suddenly fell silent. The profound silence only agitated the butterflies that already fluttered violently about in Will’s stomach. Art nudged him in the back, and Will took a step forward. Then another. He kept his eyes on the sparking fluid.

“Alright then, William,” the elderly man whispered. “Your faction has already been chosen based upon previous evaluation, which I might mention spoke highly of your natural prowess. The bowl stunt is just a prank of sorts the Blademaster enjoys putting on to impress the new recruits. It will not hurt, I promise. So if you will,” he said, gesturing to the leftmost jug. Will stepped up to the bowl, and calmly poured a heavy liquid into the basin. Then, taking a slow breath, Will thrust his hand into the bowl’s gooey contents.

His hand tingled, and Will felt a twang pulse up his arm and through his body as flame flickered around his hand. Finally, after two seconds that felt like an eternity in front of the audience, a blaze rose out of the bowl and distorted into a great, burning bear which rounded Will several times, leaving him standing at the pedestal wearing a light tunic that felt as if it had been brought inside after spending a day under a warm sun. Will stared down at his chest; on his left breast a bear rear proudly upon its hind legs. The Crest of Lumberton.