Chapter 9: Failures
Phasmatis was jolted awake, as he was many mornings, by the violence of his nightmares. He saw that Garius Rabba and the elves were already awake, Gwynera was stirring, and Gleebeck was snoring blissfully. The kensai rose and refurbished himself, then woke the gnome. Gwynera had left the room while Phasmatis had prepared for the day, and returned in her military outfit, looking refreshed and awake. Garius Rabba had already appropriated breakfast, which they ate in silence. A sort of easy clockwork had formed quickly in the group; exactly who was the leader and who the followers wasn’t important. They knew what they needed to be doing, so they did. Even Dartellis played his part without complaint, as he, Talstran, and Gleebeck donned their fetters and headed out of the inn.
The horses Gar had secured the night before were good beasts, not prizewinners, but they were an invaluable asset. On horseback, they would conserve the precious commodities of time and energy, both of which they would need as much of as was possible. Dartellis was shocked at how stupid and dull they were; animals that lived with elves tended to exhibit extraordinary mental keenness, for anything wild flourishes with the steady presence of their kindred. But these horses were not wild; they were broken, tools that breathed. Dartellis sensed the sublimated fear the horses had for humans, the fear of servitude, and it incensed him. But Talstran assured him that many humans loved animals and treated them respectfully; Gwynera fervently agreed, of course. This was Ikinzar, where even humans felt like drab tools; it was nothing personal against humans.
“There is carefulness to your people’s ways,” Gwynera noted to Garius Rabba after they had left the city. “They laugh little, they tend to matters great and small grimly, and they seem to fear . . .”
“Themselves?” replied Gar wryly. “Yes, they do. Ikinzar, of the three subkingdoms of the empire, harbors the greatest, deepest of guilt. Seltland was born initially of simple farmers and friends of elves; Karada was established by blunt warriors, a large barbarian tribe that had grown tired of nomadic life. They are total opposites, one people of peace and thoughtfulness, the other of brute and brass. But they are both mostly obvious, honest in what they are. Ikinzar is another story. Our kingdom was established by kings of other, lost nations, by people of sophistication, by the civilized. People like that cause problems.”
Gwynera’s face looked puzzled. “I thought Ikinzar was the centre of the Tamian Empire’s religion. The priesthood is stationed here; more of their ranks are Ikinzarian than Karadian or Seltlander put together. So why the melancholy, why the guilt?”
Gar’s grin was becoming as expected as the rise of the sun. “Their guilt is older than the priesthood. The order of clerics was established by the Guardian of She, they say, many hundreds of years ago, to atone for the sins of Ikinzarian ancestors.”
“What guilt?”
His smile was less broad and less flippant. “It is a dark matter of wizards and other sorts of human monsters, and ties to some of the worst things Afanadar has ever known.” She had the sense that under his façade of calm was a deep-seated terror, the same one shared by all his people who truly understood their heritage. “It’s best not to talk of it, I suppose. Read of it in a book or ask some priest, but let the matters be while you’re on the road in this land.”
Gwynera had heard that Ikinzarians had many superstitions, and she now had some firsthand experience of it. She found it fascinating, but also scary, to see this ancient tension at work in the subkingdom. She supposed such tensions could be found in all sentient creatures; it was just a little easier to draw the lines in Ikinzar. But such lines, she thought, could be as misleading and destructive as they were helpful.
The dusty road stretched out before them as they marched towards their goal. Trees stood here and there, some strong and vibrant, others twisted and brittle. Insects buzzed with determination, and the higher the sun rose, the warmer the air became. It was summer, but with gloomy mountains to the north and a certain colorless aspect to the land here, despite its beauty otherwise, there seemed to be a limit to the sun’s shining. The legends were true, it seemed: it never got too bright in Ikinzar.
Travelers, often merchants or people heading to visit family, often passed by on the road. The merchants all seemed related: almost invariably, they were fat old men in bright silken robes, with dirty beards and squinty eyes. They usually had some sort of guard with them, a necessary asset in Ikinzar, which was notorious for its thieves and highway-bandits. Garius Rabba and the others were pretty consistently ignored by those men, who were consumed with their business and couldn’t care less about imperial affairs. Traveling families also gave them no trouble; some snorted derisively in the direction of the elves, but the authoritative glare of Garius Rabba kept them moving in silence. No one wanted to cause trouble for their kin.
Then, later in the day, a troop of thirty soldiers on horseback came thundering down the road. Their armor, heavy and shining in the sun, and their array of weapons, spears and swords flashing with disciplined menace, were quite the sight. The group’s leader halted them, and hailed Garius Rabba. He spoke to his companions, and turned to speak with the other officer.
“What is this business, solider?” barked the commander. He was one rank higher than Gar, and wouldn’t let anyone there forget it.
“We head for the Emperor, sir. These elves and their gnomish consort are being charged with crimes against the throne,” began Garius Rabba in his usual rhetoric.
“And where are their fetters?” he asked sharply. “They are not bound, commander. Crimes against the throne? What crimes? They are foreigners, not bound by our laws. They should be dead on some Aldarian cesspool of a battlefield, not gallivanting freely through the land.”
Gar nodded calmly. “I let them ride unfettered for practical reasons, sir. The crimes are matter of state; we are just escorts. I know little more than you. I’m just following orders—”
Irritated, the officer brushed Garius Rabba off and eased his horse closer to the others. He gazed at them with a sharp eye, the sort of keenness of a very experienced soldier. If he knew anything, he knew men, and gazing into the defiant eyes of the younger elf, he knew that this was no prisoner. The older elf also had a peculiar look of readiness; he looked prudent, not defeated. The woman’s soldier clothes didn’t quite fit; they were almost right, but were somehow off. Imperial soldier’s outfits were made with more personal care than that. And this other, the masked swordsman . . . He knew of no masked swordsman in the army.
“You are lying, Garius Rabba.” He turned angrily back to the commander. “Why are you here? Why are you traveling with these disgusting elven scum? Their heads should be on pikes; their diseased corpses should be disposed of in flames. No imperial verdict is necessary to execute hostile prisoners in the Tamian Empire. Tell me what is going on.”
Garius Rabba shrugged, eyeing Dartellis nervously. He knew the young elf had a hot, impetuous temper, and could see that the ranger was already losing his calm. Both hands were inside his robes, as he no doubt considered stringing his bow and putting an arrow through the officer’s throat.
“I am only following orders,” began Gar again, but the soldier ignored him and looked at Dartellis.
“So you were captured, were you? Serves you right, you disgusting, filthy forest slag. Too bad; your people could be busy having their forest orgies and romps in the leaves, but you—”
The officer had hoped to provoke the elf, to prove his belligerence and his case that both elves should have been fettered. He was puzzled, but mostly thought Garius Rabba was just being sloppy. He hadn’t expected treason, not quite, until the elven arrow was in the air. Before he could shout a command, he was dead, with Dartellis angrily gripping his ebony bow.
There was no time to reprimand Dartellis or to consider the situation civilly. Twenty nine furious soldiers charged the group, surging around Garius Rabba to fall upon Dartellis vindictively. Everyone was moving instantly; Talstran’s double-bladed sword swung free from his loose robes, Gleebeck pulled a dagger from his boot, and Gwynera began to call upon her primal powers. But no one responded as quickly or effectively as Phasmatis.
The kensai had no desire to fight these men, but he would not let their cause be thwarted here. He leapt from his horse like a black and grey breeze, elven steel flashing in capable hands. The soldiers were still focused on the rainforest-elves, their wrath incited at the death of their leader, and they barely noticed as the swift swordsman flitted through their ranks. Saddle straps suddenly snapped, cleanly cut, or horses collapsed, suddenly overcome with drowse. Several men slumped over in their saddles, unconscious. As the kensai became a whirlwind of confusion among the imperial fighters, moving too quickly for them to get a bearing on him, Talstran moved in steadily. He, too, left his steed behind, able to move faster and more versatile in smaller spaces, and two soldiers were slain by his hands almost instantly.
Gwynera hung back, and it was not until a few moments into the fight that she was able to help. Three men decided to bear down on Gleebeck, the brave gnome standing defiantly on his pony, dagger in hand. One man prepared to cleave him in two with a massive broadsword, but a nearby tree groaned and creaked, then bent over and snatched the warrior off his horse with its branches. Green and gold vines burst from the earth, glowing with aetheral force and tying up one horse’s feet, causing it to trip and throw its rider. Gleebeck let out a battle cry and tackled the last soldier head on. They rolled on the ground, the soldier nonplussed and the gnome scrambling, biting and stabbing with a vengeance.
Four warriors encroached now directly on Gwynera, having realized the threat she posed. She tapped again into her druidry, and cried out to the horses that bore her attackers. Run! she cried. Run away! Run free! Three obeyed instantly, turning and running at full speed, despite any efforts from their riders.
The fourth man, however, had trained his warhorse himself, since his youth, and Gwynera’s aether could not break their bond so quickly. He urged his steed on, spear raised and eyes afire, hands tight on the reigns. Gwynera’s breath caught; she was not expecting the horse to ignore her command, and she did not have more aether readied.
Phasmatis appeared behind him, and swung his blade decisively. The soldier fell from his horse, and the steed’s charge petered out. The kensai stood before his sister, his breathing steady despite his incredible exertion. She could not believe his power. It seemed that there was no limit to his skill.
The man at the ground cowered. “Please, please. Spare me. You . . . you’re not human . . . you fight like . . . like some sort of spirit. Don’t . . . don’t kill me, please.”
The kensai pointed to his stallion. “Go.”
Gratefully, the shaken man stood and remounted his horse, then turned and headed off. An arrow followed after him, though, and he slumped over, dead.
Phasmatis spun, enraged to see a triumphant Dartellis, his bow raised. He walked briskly up to the elf, struggling to control his anger.
“You are disgusting,” he whispered in fury. “I spared him.”
“You spare everyone,” spat Dartellis, gesturing to the impromptu battlefield. He had killed every soldier that Phasmatis had incapacitated.
The assassin roared, straining against the precarious bonds within the kensai’s psyche. He could feel the rage of the monster inside him, it hungered for blood, for punishment. It took all of his force of will to not strike the impetuous youth.
“You would do well to learn the value of mercy,” said Phasmatis hotly. “You do not want me to become your teacher.”
“Mercy won’t win this war,” replied Dartellis coolly.
Phasmatis clenched his sword hilt, and swung the blade making the elf flinch. It spun, and slicked into his scabbard. The swordsman glowered at him for a moment longer, then walked away.
“You have much to learn, boy,” said the kensai over his shoulder.
Before Dartellis could answer, knuckles smashed hard into his face. The young elf hit the ground, and put his hand to his face, more than startled. He looked up and saw Garius Rabba, but it hadn’t been the officer who had struck him. Closer stood Talstran, and the rage reflected in his eyes dwarfed anything the kensai had felt.
“Aye, lad, you’ve much to learn. You’re more trouble than you’re worth, do you know that? Thirty soldiers, Dartellis, thirty. If Phasmatis had not been here, we’d have all been dead. You disobeyed me, you undermined Garius Rabba, and you put all of our lives in danger."
“That foulmouthed fool dishonored us!” shot back Dartellis.
“Shut your bleeding mouth before I hit it again!” snapped the older ranger. “You cannot take a few insults? Where is your discipline? Phasmatis is right to call you a boy. Child is more apt, aye. And your disrespect for life . . . it’s . . . it’s outright human, Dartellis. You think yourself superior to them, but you slaughtered men you could never have beaten on your own. Fifteen of you couldn’t have done what Phasmatis did alone. I don’t expect you to hold to his vows, but . . . but you kill too easy. Far too easy.”
His words were weighted with a revulsion that wounded Dartellis deeply. “They were headed for Aldaria. They would have killed elves,” he rationalized, though it was a halfhearted reply.
“Aye,” replied Talstran, turning away. “And they would have done it bravely, and died bravely, not squandered life like a coward.”
They gathered their steeds and supplies, and moved the bodies of the Tamian Soldiers from the road. No one spoke as they moved on, even Garius Rabba’s ever present smile was no where to be found. Gwynera insisted that they stay and help the horses; each one that could be saved she lent aid, healing its wounds with her druidry and commanding them to go home, wherever that might be. Gar and Phasmatis dug a shallow grave for the deceased, scanty burial rights, but the best they had to offer. They moved on, and were grateful that no one else passed them again on the way that day. Dartellis, Talstran and Gleebeck had to wear fetters even while riding now; it would make the way more uncomfortable, but at least it would prevent a similar disaster from reoccurring.
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Night seemed the proper time of day in Ikinzar. It slipped over the north easily, like an old glove. Clouds hid the moon and the better part of the sky, and both a certain odor in the air and a light drop in temperature hinted at oncoming rainstorms. Ikinzar was famous for its thunderstorms, a result of clashing ecosystems, with the cold mountains to the north and tepid rainforest on its east southern border.
Talstran and Phasmatis sat together, watching their sleeping company, the quiet road, the brewing skies and the shadowed landscape. Elves sleep much less than humans, and Talstran slept even less here, in this foreign, cold land, his head gripped with tensions and worries. Phasmatis, too, slept less and less, the force of his nightmares having grown steadily more violent since his unforgettable confrontation with Draven. His curse had grown stronger, it seemed, in synchronization with the battening of is brutish alter-ego. But the kensai could pay it no heed; there were other battles ahead.
“I worry for the lad,” said the ranger softly.
“You worry for everyone,” chided Phasmatis gently.
“Aye,” grunted the elf. “But more for him than most. There is so much anger in that one, Phasmatis, so much blood-thirst. His behavior, his attitudes, they ruin more than just our chances. They ruin the elf he is becoming.”
“There is greatness in him,” replied the kensai mildly.”
“There’s a lot in him, and a lot of it isn’t great,” replied the ranger. “We are warriors, Phasmatis, we accept it. We fight, we even enjoy it. I am not so strict in my ways as you; I have not the skills to hold your vows, nor the moral fortitude. But when I fight, like you, I fight for a purpose outside of myself, never forgetting that if I must take life, it is a grave means, but never an end. But Dartellis . . . he kills to kill, thinking those he fights deserve to die. It is a travesty to be such a warrior; it is such attitudes that birth tyrants, fanatics and wars such as this very one.”
Phasmatis gazed thoughtfully at the sleeping elf. “Look at him, Talstran. He sleeps heavily; it is a sleep of grief, I think. He wants to please you, and to be a man of honor. Certainly, his ways and his beliefs are set askew, but such is to be expected of youths who live through such a chaotic time. Set his path straight, you have the power to do that for him, but to do so, you must not lose faith in him. Consider his shame, Talstran, this day. He wants to be good, and as long as that wish is there, you need not lose hope.”
Talstran nodded, then grinned wryly. “How did you get to be so wise?”
Laughing quietly, Phasmatis shrugged. “I had a good teacher.”
“Yes, your mentors at the School of Seh have done you well.”
“They taught me much, Talstran Tartessis, but you are the only teacher I’ve ever truly had.”
The ranger smiled and nodded in thanks. “I worry for you as well, though. You sleep little, and when you do, it is restless, anxious. Your curse seems to have worsened.”
The swordsman was silent for a moment, then gestured helplessly. “What am I to do, master? The nightmares are worse each night, each dark dream aches as if I bathe in ice. But I know no cure. I’m beginning to lose hope that there is one at all.”
“Your curse befits the unrepentant, Phasmatis, and none I know have felt deeper remorse or gone through more severe lengths to change and better himself. I am proud of you, lad, as proud as any father has ever been of his son. You want nothing more than to be good, and as long as you want that, you need not lose hope.” Talstran pointedly echoed his former pupil’s words, clapping one gloved hand over the swordsman’s shoulder.
Hidden by the white mask, Phasmatis smiled broadly. Whatever the state of the world around them, master and student sat together felt right, side by side again, ready to fight for the same prize.
“Go lay down, lad, and get some rest. I’ll finish out tonight’s watch.”
Talstran watched over them, his eyes wandering to what stars could be seen. Phasmatis spent an hour or so meditating, calming himself and subduing his chaotic subconscious as much as was possible, before slipping into fitful dozing.
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No, you’re eyes . . .
“I told you,” replied the assassin desperately, “I told you not to look!”
The man clutched his face, stumbling away, his babbling incoherence gaining momentum as the curse took hold. The assassin raged, helpless to stop it.
Demons live in your eyes, he sobbed, I see them, I see what you’ve done . . . You . . . monster.
“No!” screamed the assassin, reaching out. “I am no monster! Take my hand; not one step farther, or you will fall!”
“Get away from me! Get away from me, or I will tell the Iron Fist what you’ve done to me, you wretched sorcerer. Don’t touch me . . . I see what you did to her, you monster, I see it in your eyes! Shrieked the man, backing away in terror.
“No, wait, stop!” shouted the assassin, trying to grab his arm. “You will fall!”
Eyes burning, the man stumbled away, shouting, I can see them, Phasmatis, you killed them. Oh, by the immortals, so much blood
stains your hands, your eyes . . . Get away from me, get away!
He stumbled, disoriented, flailing to keep the assassin at bay. The ledge . . . terrified, he tried to flee the assassin, to escape the visions . . . My eyes, my eyes burn, you killed them, I killed them, sobbed the man in wild shrieks.
He plunged.
The assassin screamed, helpless.
“Wake up, kensai!” urged a voice, a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t touch me,” snapped the swordsman harshly. He was immediately on his feet, sword drawn and gleaming in the growing sunlight. Dartellis stepped away, shock and fear mirrored in his large, elven eyes.
“Kensai, we are to go, before the sun rises fully. You were having a nightmare.”
“Don’t ever touch me,” hissed the swordsman. Without another word, he turned to preparing his bedroll and other supplied for their departure. Dartellis backed away farther, then looked questioningly at Talstran, who sat nearby on his horse.
The older ranger shrugged. “He’s not a morning person,” he offered dryly.
Gwynera waited until they were setting out to approach the kensai, nudging her steed beside his as they walked behind the cautious Garius Rabba.
“Are you okay, Phasmatis?”
The kensai looked at her through his ebony glass eyes, and for the first time she felt tangibly the enormous gulf created between them by that mask. Not just between him and her, she realized, but everyone. Even with all of his companions around him, the kensai was more alone than anyone Gwynera had ever met. Anew, she felt grief at the pain she had caused him. He looked away.
“Thank you, I’m fine.”
The disciplined warrior’s outburst had set a subdued tone for their journey that day. Though his face could not be seen, they could feel something seething in the kensai, an anger more deeply seated, more horribly grotesque than anything Dartellis had ever displayed. Last night, Phasmatis thought glumly, silently, he had lost a battle in his dreams. The words he had shared with Talstran had been well-said, but he could not escape the sight of blood.
“It is my fault,” he whispered, voice hollow.
“What?” replied Gwynera, puzzled.
“The men Dartellis killed. Their blood is on my hands.”
She scoffed. “You did no wrong. The fault is his.”
“They would not all have died, Gwynera, if I had not been there. He is right, you know. Mercy cannot win this war. What good is it if I open my enemies to death by another’s blade? My oaths are not broke in fact, perhaps, but if all I can do is line up foes for the slaughter, then I am no better than Dartellis. I am worse, for I lack the stomach to commit the act myself, and leave it in another’s hands, to sin in my stead.”
“Press your jaws,” snapped Gwynera. He looked at her, surprised, but obeyed the Athylorian phrase and said nothing. Her voice grew tighter and angrier with each spoken word. “You are a fool, Phasmatis. You’re too hard on yourself. You are incredible; without you, this quest could not be possible. Would you rather wallow in self-pity while your friends need you? No, of course not. Be silent of your guilt, Phasmatis, for you are as guilty, if not far more guilty, for acts of the highest valor, as you are of acts of shame!”
The assassin growled and sprang from his seat, sword flashing. To him, her hard words were an angry challenge; he could divine no deeper meaning in them than this. No one challenged the assassin and lived. He knocked his enemy, his prey, from her seat, held her to the earth, squirming in fear and pain, as his blade spun in the air. There were no thoughts; there was only the thirst for blood.
Gwynera’s shrill scream resonated sharply as the assassin moved in for the skill. Talstran spun on his horse to look back at them, his eyes widening in horror, but he wasted no time to act. Fetters shaking off angry hands, the elf draw his blade and leapt from his horse, and was atop the other swordsman before any damage could be done. Two blades spun and struck, sending out a furious shower of sparks. Ebony eyes met elven, one set cold and the other furious.
“Think on what you do, lad. You nearly killed your sister. Do you wish to break your vows so horribly? Kill me instead, if you can.”
Awareness struck Phasmatis hard as he looked into the fierce eyes of the ranger. He gasped in effort, not at the sword pressed against his own, but as he fought down the demon devouring his soul. The internal maelstrom raged on for minutes, but finally it subsided, and when it did the kensai dropped his blade and collapsed into Talstran’s loving, fatherly arms, weeping.
“You are my master yet,” he whispered.
“Aye, lad, for as long as you need me to be.”
When he had calmed again, the kensai apologized profusely to Gwynera. She forgave him readily, but kept a distance from him she had not before. He knew she was afraid of him now, and that knowledge hurt Phasmatis deeply. After such an assault, it would take much to restore the deep trust they had once shared.
“Well, well,” said Gleebeck, chewing thoughtfully on a thumb-sized pebble. Gwynera turned to him expectantly, and he shrugged. “Don’t take it personally, that is all this gnome means to say. Since I have known Kensai, his heart has been troubled, this is true.” He took the wet rock from his mouth and offered it to her. “Would you care to have a bite, well, well?”
Gwynera made a face. “No thank you.”
He shrugged again, and popped it back into his mouth. “Well, no wonder you humans are so cranky This gnome would be cranky if he didn’t chew a good rock, well, yes, indeed.”
The druidess smirked. “We’re not gnomes, though.”
Gleebeck’s face became extremely pensive, and then, after a moment of deep thought, he nodded and said, “Don’t hold it against yourself, in any case, no.”
“What, not being a gnome?” she snorted.
He gestured in serious affirmation, and said, “After all, nobody’s perfect, well, well.”
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