Chapter 20
In the Aegis Academies, student murder isn’t uncommon, sometimes disguised as accidents, other times performed in broad daylight. The only trainees protected from attacks are the Slates. Even when a Slate murders another student, the punishment is more akin to a slap on the wrist.
Day 120, Quenchenday
“Yo! Skavy horned freak! I challenge you,” came a rough voice from behind me. We all turned. Rose stepped aside to reveal a group of four students: two male Humans, a male Elf, and an Orc girl. The Wild Elf was pointing a steel training Katana at me.
Ferris and Nennel jumped to their feet.
“What’s the matter, Skavy? Already crying ‘cuz you know how bad I’m about to beat your ass?” the Elf sneered.
Nel and Ferris stepped forward, but Rose set a hand on their shoulders. “I think it’s time Ives stands up and takes a win.”
“You sure?” Ferris asked.
“He needs to prove to himself he can fight back,” Rose said, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Come on now, Ives. Time to prove you’ve got enough backbone to break theirs.”
I wiped my face with a shaking hand. Ferris and Nel stepped back as I stood, my gauntleted hand on the training blade at my hip. Rose whispered in my ear, “If it helps, think of it like a game. Think with tactics, but don’t fight your instincts. Most of all, believe you’ve got this.”
I closed my eyes, took a centering breath, and slid into a combat-ready stance. I double-tapped my therra-node to start recording. Resting my left hand on the hilt, I looked the Elf dead in the eye. “Bring it on, shark-tooth.”
With my therra-node, I mentally tagged each opponent: Redhead, Stout, She-tank, and Wilder.
I drew my blade, holding it in a defensive stance. I caught something out of the corner of my eye. In a corner of the dining room stood Mystagogue Thrasher. The moment we made eye contact, he gave a single, sure nod.
I brought my gaze back to find Wilder charging, his Katana raised.
CRAP! Tactics and instinct? Fuck! What do I do?!
He closed the distance in seconds. I saw the blade coming down and did the only thing I could think of. I leaped back, switching my stance. The blade passed by a hair’s breadth. He was exposed. I waited for his blade to swing past my waist, then pivoted, spun away, and threw my momentum into a strike at his leading ankle. As his blade hit the floor with a CLANG, my sweeping strike caught his posting foot and threw it out from under him. I followed through, taking another rotation. As he struck the floor, I drove my gauntleted right fist into his gut. I watched with satisfaction as the wind left his lungs.
I staggered back, dizzy, and knelt over him. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
He gasped, “Fuck you!”
“Well, you’re well enough to curse me. I think I earned a point,” I said, standing with a proud grin. I sheathed my blade and turned back to my friends. I spread my hands wide. They all wore looks of pride. I began walking back when I saw Rose’s eyes go wide, focusing behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. The fight wasn’t over.
I heard two sets of steps. There was something more, a sense of nearness, of harm. I could almost feel the bloodlust. I threw myself to the side, rolling. As I rolled, I pulled my shortsword free again, landing in a crouch, holding the blade above my head to deflect.
I felt a moment of satisfaction when I heard footsteps land behind me and could feel the blow coming. That satisfaction shattered when the strike landed on my fingers. I felt bones break. Two of my fingers shattered. I barely held onto my weapon long enough to deflect the attack. As I heard metal clang on tile, I dropped my blade and turned, my fingers raging with pain.
In that moment, I gave silent thanks for all the beatings from Rose. That was the only reason I pushed through. I pushed to my feet. A body mass came into sight. I turned and drove my gauntleted fist into their chest, staggering them. As I made contact, I triggered my shock-barbed bites but didn’t release the charge.
The redhead was to my left. Stout was the one who broke my fingers. But where was She-tank? I threw a roundhouse kick at Stout, knocking him further off balance. Before he hit the ground, I triggered the current. I pulled my fist back and retracted the barbs.
Redhead saw the pause and rushed me, lashing out with a metal-plated gauntlet. I couldn’t move in time. I saw it angled for my jaw and waited, throwing myself back at the last moment to minimize the damage. It landed, and while it hurt, no bone broke. I sidestepped, recentered, and took aim with my gauntlet.
He lashed out again. I bobbed under the blow, rose on the outside of his swing, and turned my back to him, grasping his wrist and raising my shoulder against his elbow to form an armbar. I had been taught the shoulder throw but had never managed it. This time, as I pulled his wrist and thrust my shoulder up, I pulled it off flawlessly. He was flung over my shoulder and slammed to the floor. I took the opportunity, wrenched his wrist, and drove my elbow into his, forcing the joint to bend the wrong way. I heard it pop.
He was screaming. I used his damaged arm to yank him up and into my knee, which I drove into his jaw. His head snapped back. My critical mind was disturbed by the ease with which I had just damaged him, but my instincts were in the driver’s seat.
I turned to find Stout back on his feet, holding a metal cudgel. That was what broke my fingers. I was itching for payback. He swung at my head. I ducked under it, stepped in, and drove my fist into his jaw with an uppercut. I drove my foot into his knee as he staggered back. I heard him scream as he fell.
I stood up straight, my head buzzing, coddling my broken hand. But the sense of danger didn’t abate. It intensified. I only had a second before I heard Nel shout my name. “IVER!” I turned just in time to find a blade tip aimed at my face.
I panicked and threw my head left. A dagger point grazed my cheek, drawing blood. A real dagger. I followed the blade to a hand, the hand to She-tank. For a girl built like a brick house, she was disturbingly agile. In reaction, I grasped her wrist and wrenched it. She gasped and dropped the weapon. I let go just in time for her to lash out with a second blade. I saw the flash of steel before a burning pain pierced my shoulder, locking the joint. I screamed in anguish.
Tears ran freely as I glared at her. She legitimately wanted me dead. She ripped the blade free, and a new wave of agony forced me to my knees.
“I’m going to butcher you for the fiend you are,” she snarled, scooping up her dropped dagger.
I clutched my shoulder with my broken hand, blood gushing. I had to think fast. My mind was a haze, but I needed to get out of this. I couldn’t focus past the pain. I heard her chuckle. I closed my eyes, terrified, but I was not about to die there. My hands shook. A simple stabbing wouldn’t stop a real warrior. I needed to man up.
I would not die there. I mentally pushed the pain aside until all I felt was a dull throb. The hairs on the back of my neck were stiff. As they reached their peak, I rolled right, landing on my bad shoulder, and the wall I had built against the pain shattered. As I landed on my back, I saw she had tried to stab where my head was. The blade was buried in the table. I threw a kick at her elbow, forcing her back. She righted herself and leaped at me, blades aimed for my head.
On my back, I swept my broken hand across my face to deflect her strike. It barely worked. My hand was in agony. I heard the blade strike the floor beside my head. She pulled the blade back as she aimed her other one at my chest. I threw my fist at her face and fired my shock bites in sheer panic.
They latched into her face, but she kept coming. I lost all sane thought. I shot two smoke pellets at her and gave her a face-full of Secorus gas. She still pressed on, a shifting cloud of gas and smoke bearing down on me.
I triggered the electric current. Her body locked up mid-stride and toppled. Electricity arced through the cloud. I rolled aside as she hit the floor and moved to stand—right into the charged gas.
I had been shocked before, but those small zaps were nothing like this. The voltage struck me like a shot from a gun. My muscles locked, twitching. My chest locked, my lungs spasming. I felt my heart beat erratically. I toppled back, out of the cloud. My body fell back under my control. I gasped for air, dragging myself to my feet. I was brought up short. My shock bites were still locked in her face. I fumbled to release them, the interface hard to work with a broken hand. I managed to retract them as the cloud dispersed. She lay on the floor, her eyes rolled back. But she wasn't the only one. Just past her was a table of three unconscious students. I kicked myself for the oversight.
A slow, rhythmic clapping pulled me from my thoughts. I cringed. It was a winged ass I knew all too well. I looked to my friends for help, but they weren’t looking at me. They were looking past me. Nel and Ferris with confusion, Rose with eyes that looked about to bulge from their sockets. I turned to look over my shoulder, my motions slow. What I found was shocking.
Instead of Mallrimor, it was Thallos, my Wild Elf uncle, clapping as he strolled forward, a proud grin on his face. “Uncle?!” I blurted out. A wave of murmurs washed over the hall, culminating in Rose wailing, “WHAT?!”
“What are you doing here?” I asked, confounded.
“In the dining hall? Iver, I know I’m good, but I still need to eat,” he joked.
“No. What are you doing here at the academy?”
“Did you take too many blows to the head, boy?” He pointed to his skull. “I’m an instructor. I told you the day we got here.”
I cast my mind back and realized it was true. “But if you’re a Mystagogue, why have I never seen you or been in your class?”
He rested a hand on my bad shoulder, causing me to wince. “That, my dear boy, is because I am a Mastlok instructor. I select only the best students I think could be talented Mastloks and… pluck them from normal classes for a special training regimen. And from what I just saw, I’d say you could make a talented Mastlok.” He said this last bit with a gush of pride, running a hand through his hair and taking a dramatic stance.
What in the hells was he doing? Posing? My gaze was brought back to center by Mystagogue Thrasher stepping up, arms crossed. “Mystagogue Kiem, you know full well you cannot sponsor a student for exclusive training without formal permission from the Mysteriarch. While Mr. Maverick’s feat is impressive, it doesn’t meet the standards for recruitment prior to the standard date.”
“Oh, come on, Thrasher. Don’t be such a sour-bite. I’d say three MV points and four CV points is a reasonable score for early admission.”
“Five Craft Vector points? Are you including the three collateral subjects?” Thrasher asked, pointing to the unconscious students.
“Why not? Would you rather they be HV points? They didn’t see it coming,” Thallos pointed out.
“They were unintended collateral. They are not valid points,” Thrasher corrected.
“Why do you have to be such a spoilsport? Don’t you think we should push him to become more?”
“I do see the boy’s talents, but I will not move in haste, only to have him become overwhelmed.”
The large Orc turned to me. “Forward the recording of the fight to me, Slate. After that, step outside for a few moments before heading to the medical center. You’re going to want some air.”
“Y-yes, sir,” I stammered, stopping the recording, labeling it ‘4 on 1 attack’, and flicking the file to him. I began to make my way outside on rubbery legs.
“Oh, and Iver,” came the Mystagogue.
I turned. “Yes, sir?”
“How about you take your friends with you? I think you’re going to want the company.”
