BT IV - Chapter 27

Snow.  It fell gently from the sky, drifting in the garden outside while Victoria stoked the fire.  Andres lifted his morning tea to his mouth, taking a sip and smiling at the peaceful scene outside.

Grene’s Corner wasn’t a large village.  500 or so citizens lived in the town proper while another 1000 lived in the surrounding countryside, farming rice in the Raan valley and corn in the highlands surrounding the great river that cut through the territory.  Idley, Andres made a note to talk to his father about the census numbers.  If he was to become one of Grene’s Corner’s defenders, he would need to know more about the estate.  It would hardly do for him to not know the first thing about the people under his care.

“You should go and take breakfast with your father, young master,” Victoria remarked, taking a step back from the fire to admire her handwork.  She was wearing a black and white lace outfit that was fashionable amongst maids in the Grand Duchy of Thune, but Andres had never thought of her as his servant.  Ever since his mother had died in a dungeon break and his father had thrown himself into the management of the estate, Victoria had been the one that raised him.

Micah set down his cup of tea and stood up, letting the heavy quilt fall off of his young frame.

Andres frowned.  Who in the name of the Sixteen was Micah?

“Move along now,” Victoria called out.  “Your father has been up since the crack of dawn pacing back and forth.  He’s trying not to rush you but I swear, the Lord seems more invested in finding out what your blessing is than you.”

“Come now,” Andres replied, picking up a night robe from beside his untouched bed.  “For all he knows, I didn’t receive any blessing at all.  I could barely sleep last night. I was so consumed with worry.”

The fire crackled, a log breaking and shifting in the cast iron fireplace before sending a cloud of sparks up the chimney.  Victoria just rolled her eyes at him.

“Enough of that young master, we both know that you are destined for greatness.  The town priest to Luxos even said that you had been marked by Ankros when your father called upon him to bless your twelfth birthday.  The only question is whether the blessing was Rare or Mythic.”

He ran to the door, opening it before pausing and looking back and winking mischievously at the servant.

“Mythic.”

“Of course it is,” she replied with a snort, pushing the logs around in the fire with a metal rod. “I wouldn’t expect any less from our prodigy.”

The door closed behind him, so it might have been Andres imagination, but he could have sworn he heard the old woman’s voice as he ran off.

“Your mother would have been proud Andres.”

His step faltered for a second.  Flashes of his mother in Basil’s Cove warred with another woman in her mid 30s clad in a robe and wielding a pair of wands.  Confusion and sadness struggled inside of him before a clank from downstairs snapped Andres out of it.

He kept running, but this time, there was a frown on his face.  Something was wrong.  Today should be something special, a chance for him to celebrate his accomplishments with his father.  Instead, worries and anxieties were nagging him, but that wasn’t right.

Andres wasn’t an anxious person.  From a young age he had been skilled at riding, swordplay, first aid, and even scholarship.  Grene’s Corner wasn’t a large estate, but there was little doubt that he was the most promising youth in generations.  Outside of his mother’s death, Andres had lived his life without any real concerns or regrets.  Even the sadness of her passing didn’t last all that long.  She died heroically, saving dozens of her comrades and was commended as far away in the capital for it.  As much as Andres missed her, her death was a source of pride for both him and his father.  She was a genius and a hero, just like he would be.

Every minute of Andres’ days were spent knowing that he was the best, and that it was only a matter of time before he acquired a blessing and a class to match his abilities.  He trained with his father’s guards during the day, hunting wild animals and even monsters.  At night, he studied magical theory, taking to the strange diagrams and esoteric mana spell descriptions like a fish to water.

That was why his sense of unease was so strange.  There were monsters and blessed that were stronger than him in the wider world, but none of them would be near his quiet home.  Andres would have the time to train and become powerful fighting against the two small dungeons monitored by his father’s estate, and given the strength of his blessing-

“There you are my boy!” His father, Franque’s voice boomed through the heavy wooden door to the dining room.  Andres felt a stirring of wind around him as the old man’s blessing rustled his robe and hair.

A second later the doors slammed open and Franque swept through the archway, a giant grin on his face.  Andres’ father was massive, half again as tall as the 16 year old boy and broad enough to take up most of the double doors.

He grabbed Andres in a bear hug, lifting him up into the air and spinning him around once before setting him back down.  Behind him, in the main dining hall the clink of plates and utensils marked the movements of the estate’s other servants as they set the table.

“Father!”  Andres sputtered as the big man ruffled his hair.  “I’m an adult now, there’s no reason for you to keep treating me like a child!  I have a blessing and everything.  Once I get a class I’ll be able to help clear the dungeons and keep the peasants safe with you.”

“Oh?”  Franque asked quizzically, a twinkle in his eye.  “You must have fooled me.  You might have turned 16, but to a father, his son will always look like a little boy.”

“Now tell me Andres, your blessing, will it permit you to get a class as a spellsword?  I don’t want to know details, that will come later, but can you inherit the family sword style?”

“Of course.”  Andres grinned back.  He’d do more than inherit the family sword style.  He’d refine the martial art and take it to new heights.  He’d push past the rank of manor lord and get the Grand Duke to recognize their family.  They’d be barons by the time he was done, ruling over 5 manor lords of their own.

Still, he couldn’t help but shake the anxiety.  In the back of his mind, something didn’t feel right.  He couldn’t put his finger on what was off about the situation, but-

“Perfect,” Franque continued, not giving him a moment to think.  “Now tell me, what is the secret to my Blood Moon Swordsman class?  What will you need in order to inherit it?”

Part of Andres rebelled, trying to return to his earlier worries, but he ignored it.  Ordinary people were anxious all the time, and as strong as he was, Andres wasn’t a god.  Worrying might be a new thing for him, but it was perfectly natural.

“Uh,” Andres stammered before his memory kicked into gear.  “I need a Body and an Agility of 8, Wind Affinity above 4, and I need to kill a monster above level 10 without assistance before I gain my class.”

“Perfect,” Franque replied happily.  “And now before we go in so that I can formally present you to the Baron’s representative so that we can organize your first dungeon run and earn you that class, how are your abilities?  Will you be able to become a Blood Moon Swordsman?”

He nodded, drawing another beaming smile from his father.

“Great!” Franque boomed, slapping him on the back and dragging him toward the dining room.  “I’ll leave the big reveal to you over breakfast.  Then we can get you registered as my heir and head into the dungeon.  As soon as you have your class, you can get started on the real work of becoming my successor.”

Warmth filled Andres chest as he walked into the room, his father’s meaty hand on his shoulder.  Five places were already set, one for him, one for Franque, and three for the two men and the woman that were visiting from Baron LaMonte’s castle.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Franque began, motioning with his free hand toward the table, “because Pierre has put together a wonderful breakfast for all five of us.  I’ve had his quail egg omelets before and they are spectacular.  Likely not quite as good as what the Baron serves, but-”

“After the testing Lord Jemmel,” one of the men cut in.  He was tall and reed thin, his skin sickly pale, almost verging on an unhealthy yellow beneath his formal robes.  “We need to verify your son’s blessing and class before we can register him as your heir.”

A strange expression flashed across Franque’s face, and once again Andres’ unease returned.  The Baron’s representatives were strong.  Unsurprisingly, the Baron and his two sons were the most powerful blessed in their isolated corner of the Grand Duchy, but as Franque’s liege, their family had always had cordial relations with the noble.

Andres had spent his entire life knowing that he was just as talented, if not more so than the Baron and his sons, a prodigy that would revolutionize their family.  There wasn’t any reason why he should feel trepidation when thinking about the LaMont family, yet here he was.  Concerned over nothing once again.

“You do realize that Andres will need to go into a dungeon before he can unlock his class, right?”  Franque asked.  “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to want to have some food in me before I spend the morning fighting stone ants.”

“Fine,” the thin man relented, producing a dimly glowing sphere from the sleeves of his robes.  “We will ascertain the nature and rarity of his blessing.  Then we will have breakfast and travel to the dungeon with you so that we can log his new class.”

Franque gave Andres a gentle shove, smiling at him while he gave a nod of permission.  He shot back a quick smile of his own before turning to the baron’s man.

The spellcaster coughed pointedly, directing his gaze toward the murky orb in his right hand.  Andres gulped.  His father’s hand pushed Andres gently, sending him stumbling a step forward.

Andres took a deep breath, quashing his lingering concerns.  He fixed a serious expression on his face and walked around the breakfast table.  Both of the tester’s companions, clad in gleaming breastplates and with long curved blades at their hips, stepped aside letting him approach the sickly spellcaster.

The orb was cool under his hand, tingling slightly like it carried a static charge.  A thrill ran down Andres back, causing the hair on the nape of his neck to stand on end.  The examiner reached out, grasping his wrist and placing his thumb on the collection of veins just below the heel of Andres’ hand.

“Andres Laurent,” the spellcaster began, his voice slipping into the formal tone of someone reciting a well practiced written formula.  “Do you promise to answer truthfully, knowing that all of your reactions are being monitored and recorded?”

Andres nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed nervously.

“You need to say yes or no,” the man said tiredly.  “The orb only picks up verbal responses.”

“Yes,” Andres replied.  His throat was dry, and now that the Baron’s representative was touching him, every scrap of anxiety and concern from earlier in the morning roared back to life.

“Mr. Laurent,” the examiner continued, formality creeping back into his voice.  “Today is the day of your 16th birthday, the day when youths receive a blessing from the Sixteen.  Tell me, have you received such a blessing or will you be joining the ranks of the forgotten?”

“I have,” Andres responded, straightening his back and locking his eyes with the older man.

The skinny spellcaster didn’t really seem to care.  He simply nodded, moving on to his next question.

“Which of the Sixteen has blessed you and what is the strength of your blessing?  If you have developed an elemental affinity, now is the time to recite it as well as its strength.”

“My blessing comes from Ankros,” Andres replied, excitement building inside of him.  Finally, he’d have a chance to brag a little bit, to show exactly how special he really was.  “Air affinity of 6, and-”

He paused, letting the moment drag out for a second.  The examiner was practically rolling his eyes, but Andres didn’t really care.  This was his moment.

“Mythic rarity.”

“Mythic!”  Franque shouted, leaping up from where he had been sitting, his eyes wild.  Even the examiner’s bored expression broke, revealing both shock and something harder beneath.

“Your mother would be so proud!”  Franque’s voice boomed through the dining room as he ran over to Andres, wrapping him up in the second bear hug of the day.  “A Mythic blessing from a major god?  There must only be 3 or 4 of those under 40 in the entire Duchy!”

“Two actually,” the examiner replied, laconic expression back on his face as he pocketed the enchanted orb.  “And that includes your son.  There are a number of Mythic blessings from intermediate gods, and even two of the Chosen, but I think you underestimate how lucky your boy is.  His abilities and talents go so far beyond the ordinary.  If he survives the next 20 years, there is no doubt that he will become one of the pillars that the Grand Duke relies upon.”

“Do you hear that?”  Franque asked excitedly.  “I knew you were destined for big things Andres, but at this rate you could end up becoming a senior noble before you’re 40!  Gods, just imagine where you could go if you truly put your mind to it.”

“Quite,” the examiner responded with a tight smile.  “Now, if you are going to force us to eat breakfast before we visit the dungeon, I say we get on that.  My companions and I are on a tight schedule and we have much to report back to Baron LaMont.”

The meal was wonderful.  Andres’ father employed the best cook in Grene’s Corner, and Piter had journeyed deep into their icebox for the occasion.  No expense was spared as dish after dish fit for high nobles was laid out on the table in front of them.  Even the Baron’s inspectors seemed impressed, but that was far from Andres main focus.

Eggs, sausage, aged cheese, and fresh toast.  All of it went into his mouth in under a minute.  Andres wasn’t entirely sure that he properly chewed the food.  After all, he was too preoccupied with visions of the future, of him gaining levels and establishing himself as one of the Grand Duchy’s pre-eminent spellswords.  Image after image flashed through his head.  In some he was defending Grene’s Corner from a massive army.  In others, he was receiving awards and noble titles from the Grand Duke himself.  In still more, women were fawning over him.

Every concern and worry that had dogged him for the past couple of hours evaporated.  He was going to be famous.  He was going to be a star.  Soon everyone would know his name, and his father could rise above administering a small farming estate like Grene’s Corner.

After breakfast, he was practically vibrating with energy.  Andres had never rushed through donning his chainmail and strapping his sword to his waist so quickly, but every second not spent in the dungeon felt like it was wasted.

Intellectually, he knew he was being irrational.  So long as he defeated a strong enough monster, his class was already set in stone.  From there, it was only a matter of gaining enough levels and acclaim to leave his imprint on Karell.

As for the monster itself?  Level 10 was a bit high.  Andres had managed to kill plenty of monsters between levels 2 and 5 in training, but the final step was a bit dangerous.  His father and the observers wouldn’t intervene unless his life was at risk, but that just meant he’d have to try it again later.

Despite that, he had faith.  His father’s guards had nothing but praise for his footwork and sword skills.  He had sparred with them daily, and despite their levels and blessings, Andres won occasionally.  Even without access to his mana, he was confident that he had the stats he’d need to take down a stone ant myrmidon.  Then, he could get his class and focus on leveling.

“Ready?”  His father asked, a knowing smile on his face.  In front of them sat the entrance to the dungeon, a giant pile of sand with a person sized hole dug into the top.  Beside them, the three blessed that served as Baron LaMont’s examiners stood in a cluster while all five of them were eyed nervously by the guard that Franque had stationed at the dungeon to keep commoners from hurting themselves.

Andres just rolled his eyes.  Of course his dad knew how excited he was.  Andres was practically vibrating as he hopped from foot to foot.  It was impossible not to see that he could barely restrain himself.

A Mythical blessing from a major god.  What kind of idiot would be upset with that?  Even if it was something that seemed underwhelming, there’s no way that the gods could have created a worthless blessing with that rarity.  There would almost certainly be some sort of way to turn it into something overpowered and unstoppable if he just spent a minute to think about it.

“We’re going in,” Franque said, more seriously as he nodded at the examiners.  The rail thin spellcaster nodded back, and Andres’ father drew his sword before clambering up the side of the dungeon hive.

A second later, Andres followed him.  The loose sandy soil of the mound sipped under his metal boots, a strangely familiar sensation, and then he was on top of the dirt pile.  One deep breath later, Andres was falling into the hole

His feet hit the packed dirt at the bottom with a dull thump.  As soon as he had his bearings, Andres moved down the hallway toward where his dad was standing so that the Baron’s examiners could follow them down the entrance.

He drew his sword, changing his grip and stance on it three times before settling on brilliant flare, an offensive form focused on disorienting and disabling his opponent.  Then, finally, after almost a minute of fidgeting the thin spellcaster began climbing down the ladder into the dungeon

By the time all three of them had slowly lowered themselves into the cramped tunnels of the ant warren, Andres thought he was going to go insane.  Of COURSE he could have gone rung by rung down the ladder himself, but that wasn’t the POINT.  He couldn’t take a class until he killed a myrmidon, and he couldn’t start venturing into the dungeon to kill the myrmidon until everyone was there to witness the event.

It was almost like the Baron’s representatives were trying to drive him mad.  Even after all three of them were clustered at the base of the ladder, they were still checking their equipment and talking to each other.

Andres went through the motions of brilliant flare’s basic thrusts, slashes, dodges and parries.  After his first iteration, he glanced back only to notice no meaningful progress amongst the examiners.

Three more runs through the moves in the cramped confines of the tunnels, and Andres was sweating, but they were ready to go.  Franque led the way, killing the stone ants they came across, usually 2 or 3 workers or individual soldiers.  For a level 30 blessed like Andres’ dad, they were barely enough to slow them down.

Finally, the 5 of them came to a large cave.  Alcoves filled with eggs lined the walls, but more importantly in addition to 6 warrior and about 20 worker ants that filled the room, a large milky white ant with gigantic mandibles sat in the center of the chamber.

Andres gripped his sword tightly, shifting his feet into brilliant flare.  He took a step toward the huge ant, and it fixed its gaze on him, clacking jaws almost the size of his chest together in agitation as it rumbleed to its feet.

“Focus on the myrmidon!”  Franque shouted, darting forward with a halo of wind rustling the air behind him.  “We’ll handle the rest of the ants and keep them off of your back.  As soon as you down the big one, get out of the room so that we can use our more powerful attacks without risking you.”

“Got it,” Andres replied, but Franque was already in action, his sword a blur as it punched through the stone ants’ armor, and pared legs from their rocky thoraxes.

He charged the myrmidon, leading with a thrust into the stoney armor of its face.  For a second, Andres felt surprise fill him as the monster let the blow land, instead opting to swipe at him with its razor sharp mandibles.  Then the surprise disappeared as his sword clattered ineffectually off of its armor, barely taking a chip out of the rocks that protected the monster

Luckily, he’d practiced the brilliant torch stance until his hands bled.  It wasn’t the best at defense, but for all the myrmidon’s strength and durability, it wasn’t terribly agile.  Andres’ feet shuffled across the packed dirt of the floor in short swift motions, pulling him away from the monster before its jaws could close on him.

WIth his next attack he tried a slash, darting in and slamming his blade against the thick armor of its thorax.  Once again, the blow did little beyond removing a chunk of stone.  Maybe it shaved one hit point off, but Andres wouldn’t bet on the prospect.

His feet danced across the ground, spinning him along the monster’s side before it could pin him down long enough to land an attack.

He figured out the trick of fighting a myrmidon with this third attack, a pinpoint accurate thrust that punched through the paper thin armor around one of its leg joints.  Even then, he didn’t have enough strength to push his sword all the way through the creature.  Instead, the ant's body entangled his sword for a second, catching it and holding it tight before Andres was able to wrest the weapon free in a spray of ichor.

That was it.  Andres let a mad smile consume his face.  He might not have the strength or magic to do real damage to the creature, but so long as he was precise with his attacks, he could disable its legs one by one.  Then, when they myrmidon was limping and immobile, he could find a way to-

A flash of pain exploded in his back, and Andres was thrown a step forward.  He looked down in shock to see a spear made of wood sticking out of the front of his chest, its tip still dripping with his blood.

Then the pain doubled as his nerves finally realized the severity of what happened to him.  Andres heard a shriek, and he wasn’t sure if it was him, but the agony coursing through his body made it hard to care.  Woozily he turned to look at where the Baron’s soldiers stood, grouped around the entrance to the chamber.

The two melee fighters had their weapons out, but neither of them were attacking the ants, instead their eyes and weapons were trained on Andres’ father.

“Why?” Franque growled, knuckles white as he gripped his sword tightly, ants long forgotten.  “Why Jean?  We were never friends but there was no bad blood between us.”

The tall, thin spellcaster just shrugged and flicked a finger in Andres’ general direction.  The spike of wood slid out of his back, spilling his bleeding body at the foot of the injured myrmidon.  

“It wasn’t personal,” the examiner replied.  “Blame your son for being too talented.  The Baron has two sons, and only one can inherit.  An accident needed to happen in one of his fiefdoms so that the title could pass on to Baron LaMont’s second son, and you’ve done nothing but turn yourself into a target.  One child and no extended family meant that we could pull it off, but it wasn’t like the two of you were quiet about your boy’s talent and ambition.  We both know that he’d be appealing to the Grand Duke for the entire barony in a decade, and he’d likely have it granted to him.

“No,” the man continued.  “It’s cleaner this way.  The two of you died in a dungeon raid.  We investigate in Baron LaMont’s stead and find that you haven’t been properly pruning the dungeon leading to the monsters growing out of control and report that it was your own negligence that ended you.  Everyone but the two of you wins so no one looks any closer at the mystery.”

“I’ll kill you!” Franque screamed, charging toward Jean only for the two guards to intervene.  The man blocking his path with a large shield while the woman’s counterattack drove the swordsman back.

“No,” Jean said, his tone simple and matter of fact as he brought his hand up to his mouth, palm extended and blew some sort of dust off of it and into Franque’s snarling face.  “You won’t kill me.  You might not realize it, but you’re already dead.”

Another scream filled the room, but Andres’ vision was fading away.  The world was cold and his limbs were heavy.  Too heavy.  Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t move his arms from the dirty floor.  It was like all the strength had left him.

Andres closed his eyes.  Fighting through fuzzy thoughts, he couldn’t help but feel anger toward himself.  Something had felt off all morning.  His instincts had tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen.  He was too concerned with what would happen in the distant future that he couldn’t even notice the danger lurking in front of him right now.

Gods, if only he wasn’t so naive.

Then, the myrmidon's jaws closed on his chest, ripping his life from his body.