Volume 2: Arc 1: Chapter 6

AUTHOR'S NOTE

As some of you may have noticed, I have begun to post an edited version of my story at fleenyworks.com

This wasn't always the plan but I felt it necessary to create a site for my own works and a few others. While I like RRL a lot, it does not provide for many quality, edited works. Now, I know a lot of you like the series here. Probably, all of you. This is not to detract from any of them. I like them too; however, many of the series in the top fifty are filled with grammar, plot, style, and character mistakes/contrivances that could be fixed by editing.

The main purpose of the site will be to provide quality novels of at least novella length (60k) that have been or in the process of being edited. The point for my site is to help amatuer authors become semi-proffessional authors and, perhaps, someday publish their works.

Right now, the site is only at 30% of what I want it to be and so it might seem lacking in many ways. But please, go have a look around. I won't stop posting here but I will continue to work on my site and edit my story over there. Most likely, though, after volume 2, I will only post arcs or volumes in bundles here while I write my chapters there.

Also, if you have a web novel of your own you want on my site, please contact me. The site won't be functional for a few months so this is just a preliminary conversation.

Also, please rate me here. http://www.royalroadl.com/fiction/1666

Thanks for listening!

October 18, 32 R.E

The next day, Rajac sat slumped on a tree-log as he clutched a warm cup of coffee. The rhythmic beat of hammer-on-nail rose from the valley below as construction began on the ruined manor a little ways off in the distance.

Rajac cast a baleful eye in its direction. He could just see the tops of its shingled-roofs in the misty morning. With a sigh, he set the cup of coffee down on the trimmed grass and rubbed eyes that ached of more than just tiredness.

“So…” Dalom chewed out the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. He clutched his own cup of coffee in a hand bronze as a bust.

“How do you feel?”

Rajac looked up. A weariness overwhelmed his entire body due to his exertions from the previous day.

“How do I look?” Rajac asked. There was a wryness to his expression as he hunched over and looked out from eyes, stained red, and shadowed by deep, purple bags.

Dalom chortled. There was still that hint of sadness he expressed the previous day. His slate-grey eyes hinted at it as he said, “Not great. But, then again, that’s why you are here.”

Rajac’s muddled thoughts cleared somewhat at the comment. ‘Perhaps it was the coffee finally kicking in.’

“And why…exactly…am I here?” He narrowed his eyes as he spoke. While Dalom seemed helpful, Rajac still held doubts about his trustworthiness. He had never met an Expert who went of his or her way to help another expert. It just was not done.

Why was Dalom so willing to help?

Dalom sighed as though he glimpsed the thoughts that swirled behind Rajac’s words.

“Rajac, you have seen so little of the world.”

Dalom glanced up at Rajac’s horns.

“While five centuries might seem a long-time to your race, it is not so long for Experts who reach a certain station in life. I am not so powerful, but, I have come into contact with those who are. And, let me tell you, the Ventros are known within their ranks. A few even reside among them. Your race’s plight is known to many but that story has been repeated a thousand-thousand times. Many races, once powerful on the Mortal Plane, are destitute, some even extinct.”

Rajac knew who he meant. The Immortals. Those who had broken through the level 500 threshold. A surge of joy, mingled with jealousy, swept through his body as he thought about the Ventros who succeeded where he still struggled.

“There are others then.” Rajac surmised. “Others like me, I mean,” he said as he referenced his horns.

“Oh sure,” Dalom said. “Though, I’ve never met any. And I doubt you will either. They won’t travel down from the Immortal Plane to help the remnants of your race any more than the ancestors of my clan will descend to aid me and mine.”

“Are you certain?” Rajac said. “Do they not care about their brethren?” Rajac felt anger rise in him at their selfishness. He, who had struggled for years to bring his race back to prominence, could have been aided by those who call the Ventros their race.

“Rajac,” Dalom said. There was a gravity in his voice as he continued, “You have met a few Experts in your life, yes?”

Rajac nodded as he reached for his coffee once again. The steam that had wafted from the surface of the amber-colored liquid had dissipated long ago. As Rajac picked up the mug and took sip of the cooled liquid, Dalom stood and brushed his white robes free of the smattering of leaves that clung to them like flies caught in a web.

As he walked over to Rajac, Dalom said, “And what did you think of them?”

Rajac shrugged, uncomfortable with the question. It was not just a simple summation of Experts. It was also a self-analysis. Who was Rajac? Who did he see himself as?

For a time, as Dalom stood over him, Rajac remained silent, his head bowed toward the grass below.

“We are…selfish to a fault. Those we love, we keep close to the vest; otherwise, they are ripped from us by the demons we call enemies.”

Rajac’s voice was hesitant as he spoke and his confidence slipped with each word. Was this truly what he thought? What did that say of him? What exactly were the Ventros to him?

Would he have freed his race from Gaya’s control if he had not needed them?

No. That was the truth of it.

And now, what did he feel for a race who held many he loved and many he felt, well, nothing for?

He didn’t know.

“So you see,” Dalom said as he rested a hand on Rajac’s shoulder. “They don’t see the Ventros as brethren. They have their own clans, their own families. One’s responsibilities can’t be stretched thin as I believe yours have.”

Rajac looked up in surprise. How did Dalom know anything of his responsibilities?

A faint smile touched Dalom’s lips as he said, “Rajac, you are not as unknown in these parts as you would like to think. There are few enough experts in this world that, this close to the Western Territories, it was easy to find more about you.”

“And how much did you find out?” Rajac said, careful to enunciate each and every word. He tensed inside as he awaited the wealth of information Dalom no doubt possessed.

Dalom laughed heartily as he sat down in the grass next to Rajac. “Not as much as you might think. You were careful. I commend you for that. Even in your darkest days, you kept a head on your shoulders.”

“Well that’s good at least,” Rajac muttered; though, he relaxed at Dalom’s words as he waited for him to continue.

The smile slipped from Dalom’s face. “I did find out some though. There are more than a few that know you were betrayed by your friend who slew your sister. In fact, that was the primary reason I decided to help you.”

So he knew. Rajac let out a sharp, almost pained, breath. “And why is that? You wish to fix all the wrongs in the world? Even an Immortal or a God, even, would have trouble with that.”

Rajac spoke through gritted teeth as his eyes bore holes into the ground. The mug in his hand splintered audibly as his body coiled like a spring.

Dalom jerked back in surprise. However, it took him only a moment to collect himself.

“Hmm,” he mused as he lifted his chin in one hand. “I think I was wrong. You have a little pride in you at that. Though, it is interwoven so deeply into your thoughts about your sister and your race, that the events that caused your sister’s demise, have utterly shattered any confidence you once held.”

Each word Dalom spoke, slow and steady, felt as if a blunt instrument pierced Rajac over and over again.

“You hide your face just as you hide yourself. Emotions lay forgotten as you ceaselessly train. Nothing impedes you, and so, you will eventually breach each threshold but you will block yourself from the pain you once felt. Your friends will become distant, soon, they will stop writing you all together. You will think it is due to your own nature, and thus, your pride will wither even further. When they die, as they must, you will go on alone, searching, but never finding what you once had.”

Dalom spoke as if from experience and as Rajac looked into Dalom’s eyes, crinkled with age, he saw wetness there. A small seed of sorrow formed in Rajac’s breast then. Again, he had acted the selfish fool. So focused was he on his own problem, his own worries, his own views, he had not stopped to think of the man who was right in front of him.

A man who helped any in his path. Be he a client or a spite-filled Ventros with the pride of Vagabond.

Guilt overwhelmed him as he pushed himself off the log so he stood face-to-face with a somber Dalom.

“You experienced something similar, didn’t you?” Rajac asked, his voice as quiet as the sway of the wind. The beat of the hammers punctuated the silence that followed as both men stood, silent.

“Aye,” Dalom finally said in a strained whisper Rajac almost did not hear. “Nearly two-hundred years ago now but I’ve never forgotten. Never.”

Rajac hunched his shoulders and averted his eyes, uncomfortable with the intimacy of the moment.

Dalom, though, spoke as if he had not noticed. “I once was in the Azor army. This was nearly two-hundred years ago, mind you. Like all Experts, I passed the level 100 threshold through sheer effort and will and was summarily recruited to join Azor in a bloody war with Gerosh. I was young and newly-married when I joined up.

We lived in Vasat then, as well. As I left, she made me promise to return.”

Dalom shrugged with nonchalance but Rajac could tell there was pain in the way he spoke. His motions were too sharp and his voice too mellow.

“Cliché, you might say. But, it meant something to me then and it still means something to me now. As the war waged on, I, and the other Experts, drove Gerosh’s army back towards the border; however, Azankar, who was King of Gerosh at the time, called his ally Mushan into the war. You probably know what happened. Mushan and Gerosh have traditionally been allied for centuries and every war ends the same way when it involves both of them.

Soon, they surrounded our army and decimated our ranks. Of the five-hundred experts in our army, only two-hundred or so survived. Azor, however, was not so lucky as us. Nearly two and five cities were burned. Vasat, I am ashamed to say, was one of them.”

A tear rolled down Dalom’s lined face. He let it continue to slowly roll down his cheek as he spoke in a cracking whisper, his emotions plain for all to see. “My wife did not survive. No body was found but none needed to be. The city, burned to a crisp, was empty by the time I arrived. The inhabitants either dead from fire or starvation. I tend to believe she died in the fire. It would have been quicker that way.”

Rajac did not know what to say. At least, he was there for his sister’s death. Dalom was in a far off place as he fought a war that effectively killed his wife. Rajac had been able to spend time with Nisa before her death. In fact, he had seen her the day she died. She had been so happy then.

Happy he was home, content with life, and hopeful for the future. Does Dalom ever wonder what his wife felt in the weeks, days, and minutes before her death?

Finally, after minutes of silence, Rajac spoke, as his fingers, white with tension, dug into the palms of his hands. “What was her name?”

“Salayi. Her name was Salayi.”

Dalom crumpled to the ground. The pain, even after all this time, too much to bare. A groan emanated from his lips as he fought to voice the pain he felt. He curled himself into a ball and groaned, once again, as tears poured freely down his face.

Rajac felt empathy for the man. The man who, for all intents and purposes, was a healer by nature was so broken by his own past. Rajac walked over to him and grasped his shoulder warmly. He knelt down next to Dalom then as Dalom continued to be wracked by his pain. For a long time, both men remained on the ground.

They were a silent consolation to the other as both recognized the pain in each other’s hearts. Try as they might, little could fix this ailment. Pride was merely a parameter to their happiness. In time, pride could be regained. Pain like this, however; even time could not heal this wound.

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