Garm knelt down and picked a black rose from the endless field. He held it up to his face, twirling it about with his fingers. The black petals began to twitch… and then exploded outwards as a mass of flesh.
Opposite Garm, Durran panicked and jumped back at the unexpected sight. Garm could see his face morph with surprise, his sole desire becoming getting away. And the man did—he jumped back near fifty feet, practically flying in the sky. Garm had summoned some of his favorite creations, an Order of the Rose specialty: bats of flesh and skin, knives attached to their wings. Deadly, numerous creatures.
Fighting was different when souls battled. This battle was a representation of something their minds could not comprehend. It was like living in a lucid dream—will alone could conjure all manner of assaults, oddities. Garm had neglected to inform Durran of this, but the boy was sharp—he was sure things would be figured out quickly.
“Back when I was alive, I could make one of these bats with a single arm,” Garm called out to Durran. Voices reached everywhere in this strange realm of the soul. “Enough skin for the wings, enough bones for the important bits… I look forward to trying it out again with a different set of hands, this time.”
“Keep looking forward,” Durran called back, unbothered. Garm was surprised by his mental fortitude. He flailed about in the sky, falling. The boy was as sharp as Garm had expected, though—wind around him swirled, then morphed into a giant gray wyvern, lifting him up into the sky. “When we’re finished with this, I’ll be sure to enjoy it on your behalf,” the tribal answered back, vigor, excitement, and fear marking his voice.
“As green as you are? It’ll be some years before you come near my expertise,” Garm refuted with a grin. He held his hand out, a spell matrix swirling. When it completed, wind billowed beneath his feet, and he burst upwards into the sky. “That’s why you’ll lose.”
“You’re aged,” Durran refuted, wyvern gliding about. “Senile, even. Not a chance for you.”
“Tell me, then,” Garm began, his bats rising up alongside him. “What made you as you are? Cynical, bitter?”
“This is a fight, not a spar,” Durran cut him off, then threw his glaive at Garm. “No time for talk.”
“Fighting like this isn’t as you think,” Garm shook his head, then easily maneuvered around the glaive. It crashed to the sand below, spreading a black could of debris across the landscape. “Talk doesn’t distract. We’re souls, now, not brains. The least we can do for the loser is carry on some memories. I’ll remember you, to be sure. To prove my point… how about I break the ice?”
Garm sent forth his summoned bats with another spell, and the creatures frenzied to obey. They sought their target like a locust plague. Garm controlled them, talking all the while.
“Myself, I learned the world was a hellscape as soon as I was old enough to understand what ‘hellscape’ means,” Garm explained. “Parents dropped me in the canals at Nodremaid. I clung to the walls, not one year old—or so I’m told. It was a long time ago. Probably seven hundred years.”
Durran struggled to contest with the bats, casting impotent magic, killing one or two at a time. “You’ve got me beat there,” Durran admitted. “In terms of tragedies, at the very least. My parents were decent. I was the last and eighth child.”
Durran’s wyvern braced, and then spun about in an impossible manner, obliterating too many of the bats. Garm readied high-ranking electric magic—the knives stuck in the wyvern’s flesh would attract it, making aiming easier.
“But you were the heir to the tribe?” Garm questioned, sending a bolt of lightning as thick as a pillar forth. The wyvern howled as it struck its wing. “Unless your tribe has some bizarre, meritorious succession, let me guess—they all died.”
Garm battered his opponent with powerful lightning magic, booms echoing out across the infinite landscape. Magic cost nothing but willpower—might as well use the expensive lightning magic, he figured. But Durran stepped atop the snout of his wyvern, grasping its horn. He leapt from its maw, and the horn he held morphed into a glaive. In not half a second, he closed the vast distance between them with an inhuman jump.
“They died, yeah—putting it simply,” Durran confirmed, then slashed at Garm. The High Wizard could only raise his arm up to receive the blow, reeling away a great distance. “My uncle drove my older twin sisters to suicide. Don’t know why, but I can guess. Guy was always a worthless creep. Without proof, without any testimony besides mine, the tribe left him unpunished. He was respected. They didn’t know the details. So, he got off, scot-free. I didn’t like that.”
Durran’s glaive morphed back into a wyvern, and he pursued Garm. “I found out, then, that if you want something, you have to make it happen. No one else will advocate for you,” he continued, wyvern rushing down at Garm.
“You killed him? Good man,” Garm complimented, then prepared a wave of wind to block the approaching pair. “People that toy with kids, they’re like rabid animals—the best thing to do for all parties, the animal included, is end them.”
“Funny,” Durran laughed as he approached. Garm sent out his wind magic, and the wyvern rider was knocked off the back, falling towards a field of roses. “Some people would say the same of necromancers. Tell me, then—no parents, one year old… how’d you live?”
“On the streets, obviously,” Garm answered. “The streets of Nodremaid, they’re rough—Guardians of the Low Way patrol about. These things,” Garm explained, conjuring a spell matrix as he landed amidst his field of black roses. At once, several of the roses blossomed into the Guardians of the Low Way. Unlike those Argrave and his companions had seen, these had not degenerated—they looked solemn, encased in iron masks and bearing sharp weapons. “It was a struggle to stay alive.”
“But one year old, no matter how talented… someone had to help you,” Durran insisted, collapsing just opposite Garm amidst roses. He rose to his feet, glaive ready to meet the approaching Guardians.
“Someone did help,” Garm confirmed. “A teenager. Helped me learn the streets, gave me some food… then, when I was eight, he tried to sell me to some High Wizard of the Rose for experimentation. Idiot just got captured alongside me. No one misses street urchins, you see.”
Durran had a captivating, dance-like fighting style—he would cast magic with one hand, letting it hang in the air for a moment, then he’d cut the spell with his glaive. The spell would wreathe around his blade, adding significant power to each of his attacks.
“How do you do that?” Garm tilted his head, watching.
“Glaive’s blade is wyvern bone,” Durran explained as he dealt with the Guardians. “Magic is in their body. As such, spells can attach to the blade, I found out. It’s a neat trick.” He punctuated his explanation by throwing the glaive still wrapped in flames at Garm.
Garm ducked, conjuring a wall of earth to be doubly safe. The glaive sunk deep into the earth, poking out the opposite side. Durran vaulted atop the wall, lunging at Garm. The High Wizard was prepared—he used blood magic, conjuring a bloody sword and thrusting in one swift motion.
Durran twisted, barely avoiding being impaled, but the sword still grazed his abdomen. He landed atop Garm and forced him to the ground, then grabbed his hair, punching with his free hand. The blows hurt enough to remind Garm that he was alive, and that he still had a chance.
Garm prepared a powerful spell, but Durran scrambled away, moving back behind the wall. Garm rose to his feet, walking backwards with blood trickling down his face. His injuries soon faded as his body reconstituted itself—another benefit of the realm of the soul.
“Since we’re talking, I assume you didn’t get experimented on by that High Wizard?” Durran questioned.
“Wizards get arrogant,” Garm explained. “They don’t really expect someone to hit them in the head,” he wiped the blood off his face, noting the irony. “I got the jump on him. He never expected an eight-year-old to know how to kill people, but on the streets of Nodremaid, you learn early.”
“And you got away?”
“Framed the kid who sold me,” Garm said proudly, stalking around the earth wall. Durran was gone. “Some of the guy’s wizard friends came by to check on him later that day. I told them I was his hidden son, and that my would-be seller had killed him.”
“Terrible lie,” Durran admonished.
“It was a damned great lie. You had to be there,” Garm turned his head to where the voice had come from. Just then, Durran lunged out. He conjured sparks, then swung his glaive. Garm ducked the lightning-wreathed attack, then tackled the man’s knees. They both fell to the ground, and after a brief scuffle, Garm knelt atop Durran.
Garm smiled, ready to return what he’d just been given. “As a matter of fact, they inducted me into the Order of the Rose because of that lie,” he disclosed, then punched Durran with one hand. The other prepared a spell.
Durran retrieved his glaive and swung it. Garm had been prepared to grab the shaft, stopping it, but it morphed into a dagger midflight, cutting Garm’s throat. With blood pouring out, Garm fell backwards, and Durran got some distance. Garm didn’t neglect the spell he’d been preparing, this time—a great lance of wind as big as Durran himself surged out, catching the man in the torso.
Durran flew backwards and collapsed. Silence set in as the both of them recovered from the devastating exchange.
Garm was the first to sit up. “Gods above…” he rubbed his bloodstained, but healed, throat. “You got far too good at this far too quickly.”
Durran struggled to sit up, his torso still slightly gored by the powerful spell. He glared at Garm, not with hatred, but with fierce competitiveness.
“Rest of your siblings—what happened?” Garm questioned.
“Died in battle,” Durran explained. “They died against other tribals more than they did Vessels, can you believe that? We were pushed to near-extinction, and still, they fought amongst themselves. Absolutely moronic.” Durran rose to his feet, torso still a wreck. “But… they were family. Made the mistake of thinking I could do something good, for a change.”
Garm stood, brushing his clothes off and readying himself. “Made that mistake once or twice, myself. It’s why we’re here, now.” He laughed, then shook his head. “Thought maybe I could do better by my son than I was done.” His smile faded. “But he was the one to kill me. My last student. My only child.” He stared at Durran, true emotion coming through. Then, as if it was all a lie, that cynical grin returned. “Only child I knew of, at least.”
Durran took a deep breath and exhaled. “I think I get it. All this fighting—it’s just pageantry. End of the day, it’s like you said. This is just a battle of will.”
Garm nodded. “That’s right. Maybe my son wasn’t my last student, after all. You should be honored.” Garm fixed his robe. “Unlike last time, there’ll be no dying.”
#####
Argrave sat by the great willow tree, staring out of the opening in the mountain they resided in at the edge of the world. An endless plain of skies waited beyond. He held Garm’s letter in hand. He had read it countless time, but even now, it wasn’t setting in. He started to read it again.
Argrave,
You might be furious. You might be feeling betrayed. You might be feeling saddened. Perhaps that last one is wishful thinking on my end.
But, at the end of the day, this was my choice. Doing this was my only chance at real freedom. I know that you’ll disagree. You probably would have done much and more to return me back as I was. But that’s just the thing; I hate relying on others, and I hate being in debt. You seem a bad debtor, moreover. Galamon told me of his ten-year sentence to servitude.
Don’t rip up the page, I’m just joking.
So, I concocted this little scheme. I’m sure Galamon or someone else explained things to you. Or maybe things have already finished, and one of us told you. Quite frankly, I don’t know how this ends. Might be Durran walks out. I’d give him 99% odds. Might be I walk out. I’d give me 100% odds.
You can see why I avoided gambling. Too much confidence in the unlikely.
Regardless, I’m leaving this writing here as a contingency of sorts, to explain things. The Alchemist graciously helped me write out all the spells I know. Just as Durran, you and Anneliese are free to learn from the books.
The more important matter: my eyes. I’ve had the Alchemist remove my eyes. I suspect the eyes of an A-rank mage will be immeasurably useful to you, for reasons I doubt I need to explain. My ascension to A-rank made them different from others’ eyes, too—you can cast spells with them. The Alchemist confirmed he would be willing to help you with that. It should work flawlessly. You and Anneliese can decide who gets them—Galamon has already refused.
Of course, I promised the Alchemist you’d do something for him. Ask him for the details. It’s nothing big. In fact, you’d already intended to do it.
I don’t care for sappy stuff, but I wish to let you know I consider you a friend.
See you soon, or never again.
Garm, High Wizard of the Order of the Rose
