Cries of a Wounded Soul

Chapter 5

Tomas? A faint voice pierced the dream fog. Do you hear me?

A pleasing warmth flooded my heart. Aria. I hear you.

I need to talk to you. A mental sob shook her, reverberating into my own soul. It's hard to hold on.

I shall always answer your call. I found Obeus, although I didn't know he was your father, nor that he was as warm and cuddly as a rabid warthog.

Aria chuckled. Never had such a simple laugh lifted my spirit. She replied, True, but past the shell, his heart is as soft and warm as a little bunny. That much I learned in my years with him. How does he fare?

He is an old man, but there is still wit to his mind and fire in his eyes. I shared a mental image of Obeus.

Aria gasped. How long has it been?

Twenty-two years and one day since the Sacrifice.

I had no idea. Time is an intangible thing here.

Projecting as much confidence as possible, I restated my oath. We shall come for you. That I promise. Be strong, Aria.

Through our mental link, I felt her spirit lift. Thank you, Tomas. Truly, you are my hero.

*****

Sitting behind his desk, the Commandant frowned as he read the letter Magus Obeus drafted for me. Then he read it again, deepening his expression. Bushy black eyebrows lowered, partially obscuring narrowed eyes as he looked up at me. "You are not Blood Born. Why does he want you to train with the new mages?"

Standing before him, I shrugged. "It is a mystery to me too, sir."

"The old man is losing his mind," he huffed, turning his eyes down and returning the letter. "Very well. Report to the quartermaster. Dismissed."

The supply sergeant was a more talkative man, but it took the rest of the morning and half the afternoon to get a uniform, assign me a barracks bed, and fill in all the paperwork. His parting words didn't fill me with confidence, saying, "Good luck. You're going to need it."

The training grounds consisted of a huge grassy field, parts worn to bare ground by the pounding of many boots, surrounded by a number of stone or timber structures in various states of repair. Archery targets, stick figures representing enemy, and mock fortifications sprinkled the grounds. At a far corner sat a sort of obstacle course constructed of rope and wooden poles. Scores of soldiers in dark-blue uniforms practiced their art at various stations. 

The afternoon was unusually hot and still, and the air shimmered with rising heat. But as a blacksmith, I knew heat and drank plenty of water before venturing out. Gauging from the collapsed condition of two soldiers carried away from their drills on stretchers, some did not.

My boots kicked up fine dust as I made my way to a far corner of the grounds where twelve young mages trained, eight men and four women, under the tutelage of an older woman of stout muscular build. They all wore the same blue uniform as mine. By their example, I rolled up my sleeves as I walked. Standing in a straight line, the mages launched pulses of blue from their hands at distant mock targets, blasting them with varying degrees of accuracy and force.

But I had no access to Magic, and I felt like a lamb being sent to play with the lions.

Every mage wore the Bond, a dark sweeping tattoo on their left arm applied by an Oracle. With it came respect and high social status, but also strict obedience to the king. Should a mage rebel, the king could chant a simple spell, thus altering the magic ink into a deadly poison. Hidden somewhere within the palace, the king kept a 'Book of Death', listing each mage by name and their specific death phrase. Mages were just too powerful not to be controlled.