Brightflame Accension (Book 1) (8 page)

“I’ve had enough of the mob myself. Alcohol isn’t allowed in barracks, but some fool pilfered several casks of ale from the kitchens anyhow. I would not be present when they are discovered.”

“These beds…”

“Were made this morning for incoming recruits,” Art said, striping off his Lumberton tunic and crawling beneath the covers of a bed adjacent to Will’s. Doing the same, Will curled up under thick blankets, savoring the comfort of a true bed, and fell asleep.

The Beast Inside

As was his custom, Will awoke early the next morning. Pulling back the red blankets covering him, Will gaped in awe at the splendor around him. A plush rug with the Lumberton crest on it covered most of the flagstone floor, portraits of terrifying warriors hung upon the walls, and five beds sat neatly in each corner of the pentagon shaped room. Lying neatly at the foot of each bed was a stack of luggage, books, armor, and the occasional sword, battleaxe, bow, or quiver. Red covers were pulled snuggly around the occupants of each of the beds.

Will then noticed that a large case was rocking violently, threatening to topple the luggage laid on top of it. Will hurried over to the chest and hastily started shifting the equipment on top, not noticing the bed before him was empty. A loud thumping and a muffled shout came from the truck. Will hesitated before opening the rocking luggage, but he released the metal latches anyway. 

“Patrick?” Will said in surprise, heaving Pat out of his enclosure. 

“Will, you saved me!” Pat exclaimed, blinking in the bright sunlight shining through the stained-glass windows. “Last night, I was telling a third year cadet how I had been apprehended by Professor Nailfram. He and his friend told me to shut it, but I hadn’t finished the story yet. So, they took me here, emptied my suitcase and shoved me in,” Pat took a deep breath then, continued, “All night, I lay crumpled up in there feeling lonely and quite cramped-”

“Okay, Pat, I think I got it,” Will interrupted, feeling very much like the cadets must have the night before. 

“No, no, that’s not the worst part. After an hour, or maybe two hours, it’s hard to tell time locked in your own trunk, I started rocking and kicking and–” At that point, Will ignored the blabbering Pat and began to rummage through the pile at the foot of his bed. 

The first thing Will inspected was a fine sheath with patterns of gold inlaid along the length of the metal. Written in nearly indecipherable handwriting, a note hung off the sheath. It read, “Dear Will, I’ve procured for you your own blade. Like mine, it will channel your power, which you will soon find useful. May this blade serve you well. Your mother and I send our love and blessings. Love, your proud father.”

Will gazed in astonishment as he pulled the sword from its sheath.  The sword, engraved with runes he could not identify, glinted in the early morning sun. Will, impressed with the beauty of the sword, gripped the handle. At his touch, the sword shone brightly. Blinded by the sudden light, Will dropped the blade. The illumination faded, and Will saw that the weapon now glowed pale blue. Covering his eyes, he risked picking up the sword once more. This time, no blinding light issued from the blade, but the blue glow pulsed stronger upon contact.

Will realized that had Pat finally stopped talking in order to admire the craftsmanship, but the silence didn’t last long. “Incredible! That’s dwarven steel,” Pat said, momentarily stunned, before launching into a story about the grandeur of his grandfather’s weapons and armor.

Placing the mysterious sword down, Will looked next at his heater shield, chain mail, and suit of plate armor, all of which, according to a second note, were commissioned by Matthew as well.

A loud knock on the door startled Will and roused those still sleeping.

“Oy! Recruits, wake up. Time for breakfast!” The hoarse voice of their faction’s head faded away as he went to wake the other students.

Art dressed sleepily, yawning loudly as he laced his boots. Two other boys crawled slowly out of their beds as Will, Art, and Pat left the room. Shuffling behind the other cadets making their way to the Feasting Hall, the three discussed the day’s coming activities.

Entering the Feasting Hall, Will was met by the smells of bacon, ham, eggs, biscuits, and fruit and the sounds of hundreds of people eating, conversing, and finding their tables. Taking a seat at the far end of the Lumberton table, Will noticed Nailfram glaring at him. Art hastily grabbed at a plate of bacon, but Will could not eat; he was nervous in anticipation of the day to come.

When all had eaten their fill, Boewdard stood up and spoke to the attentive crowd, “Go now to prepare for your lessons. First year recruits, remain seated a few moments.” He smiled at Will, Art, and the rest of the first years as they took their seats.

When the room was quiet and the older lordlings had vacated, Boewdard spoke again, “Recruits, today you will be taking all your classes together. You will be taking qualification tests for lessons throughout the day. You have completed many trials thus far and performed admirably; these final assessments are merely to determine how best to instruct you and in which subjects you are expected to excel. Do not worry if you should not succeed; remedial training is offered here at the Academy.” Somebody at the Scalefire table sniggered. “First, be ready for the Combat, Magic, and Beast Mastery Tests. You will be allowed to prepare for the Survival, Herblore, and Astronomy Tests after break. All recruits will learn their history. Ready your body and your mind, for you will need both if you are to succeed at Bladebeard Academy.”

“History?” Art frowned. They walked slowly to the Pit. “How is a history lesson supposed to save me from an untimely demise? Will history intercept the blade? Will ancestors long dead return from the void to save my skin? I think not.”

Pat chuckled, “No, Arthur, you have the wrong impression of history. History is the story that binds us all to common purpose. Much can be gleaned of the present when history is dissected.”

Art looked skeptical. The two argued the rest of the walk, but Will was without opinion on the matter.
Should I have studied?
Will thought plaintively .

Will slipped chain mail over his tunic and, reaching for his plate armor, he spotted a note attached to the chest piece. This letter was scrawled in neat, dark letters, reading, “Plate armor worn on special occasions only. The Blademaster will notify you at such times.”

Will sighed with relief; he didn’t know how to put it all on, much less how he was supposed to fight burdened down by all that metal. Will threw some quills and blank scrolls into a haversack. Shouldering his light bag and strapping his elegant sword to his hip, Will and Art jogged outside, not wanting to be tardy for the test in Combat. 

Following a pack of other students, they crossed the courtyard and the elegantly carved wooden bridge to arrive on an open lawn. A large group of people stood at the far end.

When they approached the class, Will and Art were greeted by a tall, young man whose muscles rippled underneath his black tunic. “William Stormhand, I’ve been dying to meet you!” he said, shaking Will’s hand vigorously. “And you must be…”

“Art Tablegrou
nd.”

“A Tableground, of course,” he shook Art’s hand as well. “I knew your brother, Melvin, back when we were recruits green as grass. A good man and an even better shot. He tried to shoot an apple off Little Lucy’s hand once. He missed by a fraction and struck her fingers. Lucky thing he was a handy healer as well,” he laughed and Art smiled. “I’m your Master-at-Arms, Modwyn Gohagger. In truth, I
dislike the formal title. Call me Modwyn if it please you, I don’t much care.”

Modwyn turned and addressed the class, “This is Combat. It’s bloody, it’s taxing, and, should you pass today’s test, it will prove to be a valuable addition to your instruction here at the Academy. In this test, I’m looking to evaluate your raw fighting ability, to discover your brawler’s spirit. When I call your name, step forth. You will duel me, and I will judge your potential accordingly. Let us begin!” Modwyn said cheerily, drawing his sword from its sheath hanging from his waist. 

“Arthur Tableground, care to bloody me up first?” Modwyn called, walking a little bit away before turning to face his opponent.

Art grimaced and clenched his chipped battleaxe tightly. He strode to open ground scant yards from where Modwyn himself had stopped. Art smiled nervously and began.

In his initial strike, Art swung hard at Modwyn’s waist but was deflected easily. Art staggered back a few paces before spinning around to powerhouse Modwyn. The instructor simply leapt aside; he wasn’t making this easy. Art fought for about a minute more before he was panting hard. In desperation, Art heaved the axe above his head and came down with all his remaining strength. With a clash of metal on metal, Will saw Modwyn’s sword fly through the air and stick point-downward in the soil.

Quick as a flash, Modwyn whipped out a curved hunting knife and pressed the blade against Art’s chest. “Good, Arthur, but never let your guard down even if victory seems imminent. There is always room for a counter-attack when fighting a skilled opponent,” Modwyn instructed. He released the pressure from Art’s heaving chest. Art dropped his axe and wearily clasped arms with Modwyn. Dragging his axe over to Will, Art plopped down, a tired grin on his face.

The trials proceeded, some resulting in failure, but more achieved some degree of success, although, in the end, no one had truly bested the indefatigable Modwyn. While many of the female recruits were not trained well enough to wield their weapons with any effectiveness, including, to Art’s disappointment, Maribelle, Will was astonished to see the cunning and graceful Vivyan nearly best Modwyn in a most interestingly strategic fight. After a time, however, Modwyn used her faltering speed to his advantage, finally wresting the thin blade from her hands.

“Daniel Ogdin, give me your best.” In answer, Ogdin strutted to where Modwyn stood waiting. The boy wore no armor and wielded no weapon. Will nudged Art, smirking at this boy’s folly. The Scalefire recruits laughed knowingly. Ogdin raised his hand to silence them. The other recruits looked at him with disapproval, pondering his sanity.

Then, with an inhuman roar, Ogdin began to thrash uncontrollably, looking as if he were in great pain. As quickly as the seizure had begun, it ended. He froze, his scream died, and his body contorted unnaturally. His face stretched into a muzzle, his limbs were elongated, and his ears grew, cropping to a point. All the while, dark hairs sprouted from his skin. The transformation was complete, leaving everyone openmouthed with faces equal parts terror and amazement.

In Ogdin’s place stood a massive wolf. It was not like any wolf that Will had ever seen, that is to say one that stands upon four legs, but a beast of legend, one whose lanky arms almost brushed the ground as it stood upright on its powerful hind legs. Claws as long as daggers reflected sunlight as the transformed Ogdin towered over Modwyn, who was now grinning at the wolf.

“Ah, yes, a lycanthrope. Good work, Daniel.” The beast roared at the idle talk, charging Modwyn with incredible speed. Modwyn dodged the advance with equal swiftness. Not allowing Modwyn to recover, Ogdin mauled again. Sword met a powerful swipe of claws; however, the extreme force of the blow sent both Modwyn and his sword flying. Morphing quickly, Daniel became human again, hooting with laughter.

His face flushed, Modwyn picked himself off the ground. Next, he singled out several weak-looking recruits, mercilessly embarrassing them. Though however fast or hard he struck his victims, Modwyn took care to never draw blood.

Pat was unfortunate enough to be one of these, failing miserably to land a blow before Modwyn grew bored, disarming Pat with a single slap of the flat. Pat waddled back to the other students murmuring something about his grandfather.

“Hostice of Wittenstaak,” Modwyn called. A skinny girl with dark skin that contrasted sharply with her silvery hair walked slowly forward. She drew a short dagger from her thin sash, bearing a smile reminiscent of Ogdin’s before his transformation. Will wondered how she could even dream of dueling anybody with that butter knife she wielded. 

“Ready?” she asked coldly. Raising her hands, her hair flew wildly about her face as if a mighty wind was buffeting her, though the air was still. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the yard was engulfed in thick, black smoke. Will could not see Hostice, or Modwyn, or even his own hand inches from his face, but he smelt something awful, like rotten eggs. The rank cloud was dense, and Will was choking on the acrid smog. He looked around desperately, but of course, he could not see. Then, he could not think straight. It was as if the fog had settled in his brain as well, weighing down and confusing his very thoughts. Panic coursed through his veins.

Through the foul smoke, Will heard the girl’s frigid voice inquire triumphantly, “Did I pass?”

Modwyn reply came in a gasp, “Naturally.”  The smoke dissipated slowly, and the girl, her hair back hanging quite placidly about her face, strolled over to her Scalefire friends, who grinned maliciously. Modwyn rubbed his throat for a moment, thinking. Will blinked, astonished by the power he had just witnessed.

Shaken, Modwyn cried out the final name, “Lastly, William Stormhand.” Will did not flinch as his name was called. His mind was on other things, such as the mysterious powers possessed by Ogdin and Hostice.

Will drew the sword his father had given him and noticed that the blue runes now shone red. Will also spotted fear in Modwyn’s eyes and heard the gasps of his classmates. Like a river breaking a dam, he felt a rush of power flow through his body. He smiled demonically.
What a feeling!
His eyes glowed red like his sword, his face contorting into an expression of rage. Modwyn’s eyes widened as Will charged ferociously.

Boldly, Will kicked Modwyn, connecting solidly with the Master-at-
Arms’ chest. Stunned, Modwyn had the air knocked out of him and fell, gasping for air, to the ground. Wasting no time, Will swung down aiming for the heart. Modwyn blocked the crimson sword just in time to spare his life, but the effort was not without consequence. Red sparks danced along the blades as they collided, Modwyn’s finely crafted sword melted away into a fine powder, falling lightly upon Modwyn’s face. The warrior was defenseless against a power greater than any he had faced that day or any day before. The dusted face froze in an expression of terror.