Legend:
"abyss": Aure's equivalent of "hell"
"heartbeat": Aure's equivalent of a second. Sixty is a minute.
“bell”: In towns, the first bell is rung at 6am. Each bell is rung in 2 hour intervals. Also used to denote 2 hours.
“salle”: “Room” in French, but in this context, it’s a room for martial training.
Punta: “Point” in Italian. The top third portion of the blade of the sword.
Half-sword: A longsword grip in which the master hand grips the handle as per normal, but the off-hand grips the blade in its top quarter. It can now act as a short spear.
“Mordtschlag”: In German, literally “murder stroke”. A strike executed when the longsword is held by the blade instead of the hilt. It can now act as a warhammer or mace.
Master cut: A sword stroke where one defends and attacks simultaneously.
Gods/deities:
Fronde, the Almighty
Maldin, Death
Gerund, Order
Fingarr, Chaos
There are Four who govern Aure: Fronde the Almighty; Fingarr, Lord of Chaos; Gerund, Lord of Order; and Maldin, Lord of Death. There are those who speak of a fifth- Fenetre, but I assure you, if Fenetre was real, his temple would not be considered a cult; nor would his followers, lunatics.
~Comment by Scholar Amrund on the gods
The lone sight of a pot cooking over a magical blue fire broke the landscape of snow and wood.
Awareness. Echaron opened her eyes, and was immediately met by blinding white light. Yelping, she pulled her hood over her head and buried her face into the snow, letting out a groan.
What in Fronde’s name just happened? She only knew that she felt terribly dizzy. Something nice was cooking somewhere ahead, and it was rather warm for a winter morning, but that was it. There was a throbbing pain coming from her abdomen, her body felt uniformly tired, and she could feel the weak ripple of someone, somewhere close… None of which made her feel any safer.
My sword. My dagger. My bag.
Face still buried in her hood, Echaron’s hand lazily reached for her right hip where her bag was supposed to be. Her fingers closed around the stiff leather bag, then travelled down its belt, eventually stopping at the dagger’s hilt. She let out a sigh of relief. That was most of her belongings accounted for. But on the other hip, all that was left of her sword were the leather loops of its strap.
Another groan.
Echaron never thought that she would be weary enough to stop caring about the sword after all they had been through, but that’s exactly what happened. To the abyss with it. Leave me alone. Maldin can have it. I just want some damned sleep.
Abyss, I’m going mad.
‘Is that the way you wake up all the time?’ said a male voice, somewhere across.
Echaron felt a mild jolt run down her spine, and she briefly thought to attack the stranger, but her utterly drained body, loath to comply, gave a non-committal flop of the arm in the general direction of the dagger, legs giving a little twitch as she let out a third groan, after which she fell motionless.
Snow crunched. ‘Rise and shine, my friend,’ said the voice, now next to her ear, ‘it’s midday already! Or are you so close to the Divide that I should tip you over-cliff?’
‘Shaddup,’ she replied, voice muffled.
‘In case you haven’t noticed, swordsman, you owe me a debt.’
‘For what?’
‘Saving your life.’
‘No you didn’t.’
‘Can’t you remember?’
‘Is there something I should have?’
‘Alright, get up and look at me.’
The man grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her into an upright sitting position. An intense pain then shot through her abdomen, and she gave a yelp, arms hugging the wound, doubling over into him.
He jumped. ‘Fingarr! Are you quite alri...’
She curled up harder, groaning.
‘Okay, stay calm-’ he said, trying to follow his own advice, eyes darting around the camp for his scepter. Seeing it beside the fireplace, he reached for it and, steadying his trembling hand, brought it over Echaron’s head. The heartstone atop it glowed blue. The man squinted in concentration, and struck her once as it turned red.
Echaron twitched, then stilled, her breathing slowing, arms relaxing.
‘Are you… Uh… Alright?’ The man asked. He shook her once.
‘Yes,’ Echaron said after a dozen heartbeats, looking up at him with a placid expression, eyes wide. ‘Quite fine. What just happened?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing at all,’ he said after a moment of hesitation, laughing nervously, releasing his grip.
Echaron gave him an odd look, then brought her legs to a more comfortable position, massaging the ache out of them. She felt like she had just walked a thousand miles. What had happened?
Fragments of imagery flashed into her mind as she recalled. Last night. Assassins. A semi circle with a pair of crossed daggers on top...
I got stabbed. Yes, I remember now... So, he did save me then? Damn it, I hate owing debts... But I’m not complaining. Thank you Fronde for your unending abundance of goodness, mercies, blessings... Goodness...
'Who are you?' She asked, looking up at him.
The man suddenly beamed, as if he had been waiting for the question. ‘How nice of you to ask! Magi Errant,’ he chirped, stretching out a hand. ‘Ernest of Hensig.’
Echaron, somewhat taken aback by his cheer, wearily raised a brow. ‘Errant?’
The hand wavered. ‘Yes, do you have a problem?’
‘No… But are you quite sure? Magi Errant?’
‘Yes. I traverse the lands in search of adventure, saving lives and righting wrongs. Do you have an opinion I should know?’
She gave the man an odd look. ‘Well… No, but…’ Echaron started, but stopped. What should I say? Don’t see many of them around? Not a very practical profession? You’ve got to be a mad man? Deciding against adding any of her thoughts, she shook his hand firmly. ‘Echaron, freelance mercenary.’
‘Relatively good day, Echaron,’ he said with a smile, withdrawing from the handshake, turning to move. ‘Now-‘
Echaron held up a hand to halt him as her mind suddenly filled with questions. ‘Where are we? Where did you find me? Where is my sword? And why did you save me?’
He first gave her a blank look, but quickly reoriented himself. ‘Oh, yes, the sword-’ Ernest reached over to the sword that lay next to the magical fire, dragging it into Echaron’s hands. She gripped it tightly and held it up to her eyes, staring hard at the ornate R on the blade's base, feeling a certain peace settle over her, as if receiving an old friend. Did I actually think to let Maldin have this sword? I must have been going mad!
‘Remarkable piece of bladesmithing, I must say,' Ernest continued, looking in the distant horizon. 'No rusting despite the blood… Anyway, you were the side of the road with four corpses of men I assume you killed. As for why,' he looked at Echaron. 'I was just passing by when I saw you. At first I thought you dead, but your blood was red, so I picked you up, and now, we're in a nearby clearing. It would weigh heavily upon my conscience if I left a dying man to die.’ He straightened, drawing Echaron's gaze. ‘Now, where was I? Oh yes! Goat stew?’
She stared at him for a few moments before replying, ‘Yes please.’
Ernest rose from his seat, searching his backpack for bowls and spoons. Echaron watched as he trudged over to the pot to ladle the stew. She suddenly remembered that she had a flask of whisky in her bag, and excitedly shoved a hand inside to rummage through- but when she took the flask out, she found it empty. Echaron scowled at it and threw it into the snow.
‘You were bleeding to death,’ Ernest said as he ladled.
‘Yes, you have my thanks.’
‘But the blood didn’t stop.’
Echaron raised a brow. That happens often enough, so why does he mention it? Either he's a fool or something's gone wrong...Why do I have a feeling it's the latter? ‘Well... Not entirely unexpected,’ she said slowly.
‘Okay, I think I should change my wording,’ Ernest said, briefly turning to give her a severe look. ‘I mean, it wouldn’t stop.’
Echaron absently lowered her sword,considering his words a little more carefully. Wouldn’t stop? If I understand him correctly... ‘What?’
‘You heard me right,' he said crisply. 'Enchanted weapon, probably. I fixed up some of the internal bleeding, but something's preventing me from sealing it completely- it keeps reopening. The linen helps a little. Do you know who attacked you? It’s unlikely that mere bandits would possess such a weapon.’
Echaron pushed back the pang of fear as she realized the enormity of her situation, and looked down. A piece of linen was bound around her waist, almost soaked through with blood. She tentatively placed a hand over it, but felt nothing. ‘I don’t know… They looked like assassins, so that’s likely. You’re a Magi, right? Can you fix it? Like that trick you did just now?’
She jumped when he suddenly slapped a spoon against a bowl, and looked up to see him standing two paces away, glaring back. ‘Pay me a thousand gold pieces.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Surely you jest!’
The tension remained for a few more heartbeats, then, his expression dissolved into a smile. ‘Oh, alright, I was joking… Here’s your share-’ he moved over to Echaron to offer her a bowl of stew.
Somewhat annoyed by his joke, she said, ‘Thanks,’ quickly and received the bowl.
‘Don’t say thanks just yet,’ Ernest said. He spooned the stew into his mouth, and made a face. She felt her stomach lurch. It was only after some staring that she finally decided to give the stew a taste, so she did, and she frowned. It was a tasteless concoction with goat meat like leather soles, and in normal circumstances, she would have sought revenge against the cook for the torture of her tongue. But then, nothing mattered when your stomach was empty. Echaron was happy just to have something warm.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve always been a terrible cook,’ Ernest said with a sheepish smile.
‘It’s, uhh, edible,’ she said, hungrily downing the stew.
‘That’s… Good to hear. As I was saying… Oh, yes, where is your destination, if I may ask?’
‘Teleraed,’ she said in between mouthfuls.
‘Oh, that’s good. Good indeed…’
‘Why?’
There was a prolonged silence as he repeatedly opened and reopened his mouth in search of words, and finally, he spoke. ‘Okay, let me explain. That trick I did for you was to temporarily numb pain for a couple of bells, and every battle Magi knows it. It doesn’t solve the problem though- that is, you’re still bleeding to death.’
'So you can't stop it?'
‘I happen to know a very talented Magi Medic in Teleraed who may well know how to solve your problem.’
‘Oh.’
‘We shall be moving off once you finish the-’
Echaron seemed to be startled by something, holding up a hand to quiet him. Ernest looked at her puzzlingly, and watched as she set the bowl down, shakily rose to her feet, and readied her sword.
‘What is it?’ He finished.
‘There are others here,’ she said, glancing both ways. ‘Ready your scepter.’
Ernest stared at her, incredulous. ‘Okay, Echaron, was it?' he started. 'Are you quite sane? I hear no one-’
That was when he heard the distant crunching of footsteps. It sounded like a whole group.
‘Okay, I take that back,’ he said, nervously setting his bowl aside and scrambling to his feet, scepter in hand. 'Right! You go hide somewhere, I'll fight them off. That would work.'
Echaron gave the clearing a cursory glance, and rolled her eyes. ‘Magi, the only way to “hide” in this place is to run.’
He stared at her with disbelief, then gave a look as well. ‘Okay, damn it, I just realized-’
Their conversation was cut short as the shrubbery to the side burst open with three men, covered in furs, brandishing swords. Ernest suppressed a frightened shout, while Echaron simply glared. Bandits? To realize his fears, he heard more footsteps, and turned to see two others flanking them on the other side. The Magi felt the cold sweat on his head, nervously wringing his scepter. Fighting on both fronts? I'm doomed if they get into range!
‘I take those two,’ Echaron said quickly, setting out to move, dragging her sword tip behind her. But Ernest immediately reached out and grabbed her shoulder.
‘What, are you crazy? ’ he said, spinning her around. ‘You can barely lift your sword!’
At his words, Echaron glared at him, opening her mouth to retort, but found no words. She cursed. ‘What do you propose, then, dammit? I know that magis are pretty damned helpless when it boils down to a melee.’
Yes, stop reminding me already, dammit! Ernest scowled at her, watching frantically as the men closed in. Three on one side, and two on the other. Fronde help us!
‘Just… Stay close! Use your sword if they close in!’ he said, trying to feel brave, pointing his scepter at the group of three.
Echaron hesitated, then gave a curt nod.
One of them stopped in his tracks, eying the scepter, nervously glancing at his comrades. Another slowed his pace, lowering his stance, but the last one continued his mad charge, letting out a battle cry.
Silently praying for Fronde's protection, Ernest stepped back, violently jabbing the scepter towards the man’s midsection. A pulse of blue light shot out, piercing through the man with a spray of blood, throwing him back five paces. He screamed as he tumbled violently into the snow, gave a few rolls, and became motionless.
‘Behind!’ Echaron yelled. Ernest whirled around, just in time to see a flash of steel, then a loud clash as she beat it away. The man cursed, and had pulled back to launch another attack- this time at Echaron- but Ernest frantically lunged forward, jamming the pickaxe head of his scepter into the man's eye. He shrieked, dropping his sword to grasp the scepter, and Ernest threw his twitching body aside, a look of revulsion on his face.
As that happened, Echaron blocked the next attack from her right flank in half-sword, kicking the bandit in between the legs, causing him to stumble back. Ernest seized the momentary opening, his heartstone glowing as he swung his scepter at him. A blue line of light was traced across the bandit's chest along the path of the swing, and he fell as his torso exploded in blood, screaming.
The Magi turned away from the sight to face the last two men, and, as he did so, whispered prayers for dead spirits to Maldin under his breath, out of sheer habit. He was remotely aware of Echaron's gaze on him then, but could not read her expression.
‘S-Step aside, Magi,’ the nearer bandit said. ‘We’re only here for the lass!’
Next to him, he felt Echaron stiffen, and he raised a brow. Okay, Echaron’s a lass… Not that I knew, but…Saves me the trouble of asking. So, surprise, surprise, they're assassins! Are they from the same group of assassins who attacked her? Why do they dress like bandits? ‘Why would you want to do that?’ He said.
The man gave a nervous laugh. ‘W-We’re hired and tha’s that! Now, will you step aside?’
Ernest puffed out his chest. ‘Would a Magi Errant allow an innocent lady to be assassinated before his very eyes?’
At that, the man's expression changed completely. 'Magi Errant? You's got to be joking, Magi!'
Ernest's expression darkened. 'That is of no relevance.'
‘Look, Magi!' the man continued. 'It’s not like she’s yer wench-'
'No she isn't-'
'-And she ain't no innocent lass if someone wanted her dead! So just give her to us, an’ we’ll all lead happy lives!’
‘No chance in the abyss-’
‘Well she’s not yer wench, and you pro’ly don’ know her, else you’d have left her to die-‘
‘Enough!’ Ernest roared, swiping the air with his hand. ‘I will not be persuaded. You have only two options at this point. Either you run or you die.’
'Wha’?'
'You heard me! Five heartbeats!'
The man looked horrified, and gripped his sword with trembling hands. For a moment it looked as though he would run.
‘Four…’
‘Look, mate, if we’d known a magi was gonna be here-’
‘ Three…’
‘You don't even know the lass! Think, dammit-’
‘Two…’
At this point, the bandit abandoned all hope for negotiation, readied his sword, and threw himself into a charge, letting out a cry.
Ernest glared, waiting for him to come a little closer, and violently swung his scepter down in a hammering motion. Eight paces away, a blue light flashed down on the man, smashing him into the ground. His head split, and he fell dead mid stride, his face buried in the snow. And that was the end of him.
The Magi turned to face the last man, anger flashing in his eyes.
The terrified man stood his ground at first, but, utterly shaken by the brevity of his comrades’ deaths, he dropped his sword and fled. Ernest stood watching until he disappeared completely into the woods, then turned back to Echaron, the scowl still fresh on his face.
‘Impressive magic,’ she said before he could open his mouth.
He stood staring for a moment, then removed his scowl. ‘What? Well… Why, thank you,’ he said quietly, clearing his throat, scratching the back of his neck. 'Thank you very much.'
She looked at him for a moment, then sheathed her sword. ‘I’m... sorry. For bringing you trouble.’
‘No, no, it’s fine,' he said quickly, waving dismissively, avoiding her eye. 'I’m a Magi-Errant, after all. Completely justified. I don't grieve the death of assassins.' Ernest breathed in deep to calm himself, then walked over to one of the corpses, heaving it by its arms. 'You did well. They would have chopped me to pieces if you weren't there.’
Echaron shrugged, following him as he threw the corpse on another. ‘They wouldn't have been there in the first place if I wasn't. I owe you many debts.’
‘Don't fret. We’ll see how you can repay me when the time comes.' He turned the glow of his scepter heartstone from blue to yellow, and swung it towards the bodies, whereupon snow flew to cover them. 'Are you quite sure you can’t remember who you offended?’
At that, she actually laughed. ‘I offend so many, Magi! So many…’
Ernest shrugged, walking over to each of the other corpses in turn, burying them in the same manner, Echaron watching placidly from the side. ‘Doesn’t make it any easier to find the mastermind…’ he mumbled as he finished burying the last, gazing at the sky. ‘Well, it’s about two bells to dusk now, so I’d suggest we make a move... Don’t want to get there too late, now. I’ll carry the pot.’
'Wait! A… question, Magi... Ernest,' she said, halting him. 'Do you always bury your dead?'
Ernest paused for a moment, pondering his words- but then shrugged, finding nothing to say, taking towards the camp. ‘I try to respect my dead.’
Echaron laughed. ‘Admirable, Magi. If I tried to respect all my dead, I’d spend half my life digging graves.’
The magi turned to look at her for a few heartbeats, but then, staying silent, turned back to continue his walk.
They spent the next few hundred heartbeats without conversation, finishing the rest of their bowls, packing up Ernest’s belongings, then proceeding to start their two bell walk to Teleraed.
‘Did you recognize the coat of arms on the assassins’ gambesons, by chance?’ Echaron said, breaking th silence.
Ernest shook his head. ‘I didn’t take particular note. Describe?’
‘A semi circle with a pair of crossed daggers on it.’
He halted his pace, inhaling sharply. ‘Blood Moon clan?’
Echaron stopped as well, turning to him. ‘You know?’
‘I vaguely remember reading about some cult with that insignia, but for all the wrong reasons,’ he said, then gestured for them to resume their pace.
‘Why?’
‘Their initiation ritual was the funniest thing I’ve ever read.’
Echaron frowned.
And they spent the rest of their journey in general silence.
Author: Working towards brevity, fluidity and clarity... Except I would be a poor judge.
Edit: Major edits. This shows that writing in the middle of the night is a bad idea... Removed big words and added more of my characters' thoughts. Was the transition from Echaron to Ernest's POV smooth enough?
Hopefully I caught all the main nitpicks.