Chapter 15

Panting, Cassias fell back against the wicker chair. He'd exhausted his madra so quickly that his soul felt numb, and his limbs trembled.

Four months. The Enforcer Trial was only supposed to take a few weeks, but considering the circumstances, Cassias would find it hard to say they’d failed.

Even after the fall of the Blackflame family, the Naru used this course to train their disciples. But they only ever trained teams.

This Trial had been built to test a single disciple on the Path of Black Flame, fighting with four of their closest protectors. None of the participants would be higher than Lowgold, but the five would have been trained to cooperate since childhood.

The bodyguards would fight as a unit to keep the soldiers away so that the Blackflame could concentrate on holding their Enforcer technique—what Lindon and Yerin called the Burning Cloak—for the duration of the course.

In this Trial, the Blackflame was never supposed to fight. It was a test of teamwork and spiritual endurance.

No one had ever thought to make it a rule that you couldn’t challenge the Enforcer Trial twice in one day. Theoretically, it was impossible: the Burning Cloak put too much of a strain on the body to maintain for long, and even the Blackflame family had to cleanse their madra channels after an attempt. When you added in the injuries that a team would inevitably collect during a run of the course, it was a rare five-man squad that could complete a Trial run once a day.

‘The dragon advances’ was the advice for anyone attempting the Trial: they had to act so that the dragon, the Blackflame sacred artist, continually advanced. If they slowed, they would inevitably get bogged down in combat and lose control of the Burning Cloak.

Lindon and Yerin had evidently interpreted that advice differently. They relentlessly advanced until the Trial broke before them.

Any Blackflame Highgold would have had the skill and power to do the same, of course, as would many of the top-tier geniuses from the clan…but none of them would have needed a second attempt. Endurance didn’t come into it when you blew through the Trial on your first try.

But Lindon and Yerin had challenged the course until the course gave up. Yerin was a Sage’s disciple, so she should be expected to produce miracles, but Lindon? How did he have the madra capacity to fuel both his Bloodforged Iron body and the Burning Cloak? While carrying the crystal and fighting at the same time? Even accepting that, how had he cleansed the damage that Blackflame madra must have done to his madra channels?

What had Eithan done to him?

When Cassias thoughts turned to Eithan, his heart sank. He was not looking forward to bringing Eithan the news.

The Underlord would be insufferable after this.

***

Lindon and Yerin both collapsed after completing the Enforcer Trial, bleeding into the dirt.

Now that they had reached the Striker Trial, they could walk back through the stone columns freely without the Enforcer Trial coming to life and spitting out soldiers. Once Lindon could move again, he resolved to spend an hour doing nothing but walking through the empty Enforcer Trial, just to prove he could.

The Striker Trial itself was an open field of scorched, blasted soil, with another red arch in the distance. Another stone tablet and pedestal waited for them near the entrance, and Lindon wanted to drag his broken body over and start reading the introduction to the Striker technique.

But Yerin had already begun limping back toward their caves, so Lindon followed her. The slab of rock would be there when the wound in his thigh closed.

And now, though Lindon had prepared to challenge the Enforcer Trial for several more days in a row, they were back home so easily.

The Blackflame-scorched crab meat and fiery berries had never tasted so good.

“...they tried to bury me with their bodies,” Yerin said, waving a stick in the air like a sword. Her forearm was wrapped in white bandage, as was her entire left eye and her right leg, but none of it affected her motion with the stick. “Had to scrape and claw my way out. Toward the tail end of it, I had my master's sword in this hand, a soldier’s sword in this one, and my Goldsign launching every technique I could. My madra's going out like a river, and I can barely see. I think for sure they’re going to bring me down again.”

She tossed her stick into the fire, grinning. “And then two of them turn like they hear something. They're off like arrows, and that's the straw that tips it. I cut through the rest and come through, looking for you, just in time to see you smack one to pieces against a pillar. If that's not a story worth crowing about, I've never heard one.”

Lindon's pride helped distract him from the throbbing pain in his thigh and shoulder. He pressed his fists together, looking at her. “I would never have passed without you taking more than your share. Gratitude.”

She half-heartedly kicked dirt at him. “I don't need that. Not like it was your Trial alone, was it? Goldsign did what I wanted it to that time, and I'm this close to Highgold. I know it. Didn’t have to crack my master open or anything.”

A drop of rain hissed as it fell into the fire. Another sent up a puff of dirt as it landed nearby, but he was sitting with his back to the cave. An outcropping of stone kept him dry.

Lindon stared into the remaining flames, thoughts growing heavy. Yerin stuck a hand out, testing the rain, and then slipped over to his side of the fire to join him.

She sat with him, shoulder to shoulder, for a minute or two before speaking out. “A worry shared is a worry halved.”

Even halved, he had enough worry for both of them.

“Still a long way to go before Truegold,” he said, voice dry. “What do I have left, six months?”

“I'd be cracked in the head if I said I was going to hit Truegold in six months,” Yerin agreed. “Especially if I was starting from Jade. There are ways to pump you up on the day, just for one fight, but none of them are stable for your health.”

“Then…what am I doing?”

She stayed quiet, looking into the fire with him. The rain picked up, slowly dousing the campfire, turning the dark, greasy flames to smoke.

“Back home, they'd have named me heir to the clan by now,” Lindon said. “Jade before seventeen summers. They'd call me a genius, or blessed by the heavens. But that’s not enough to keep me alive.”

She leaned her shoulder into his. “Back in your home, they stacked up pebbles and called them mountains. When you left, you slipped out of a trap. As for dying…” She gave a soundless laugh. “Not your problem alone, is it? Eithan’s to blame for dangling you over the fire; he’ll have to do his share of pulling you out.”

Yerin slipped her hand into his and gave him a squeeze. Her fingers were rough and callused. “I’m here too, for all that’s worth. Don’t want to see you buried yet.”

Lindon’s heart hammered, and he had to concentrate to control the flow of his madra. He had lived in this valley with Yerin for the past half a year, but the contact between them had been almost entirely related to the sacred arts—she would give him pointers during practice, or discuss that day’s attempt at the Trial, or help him catch food. They had both been aimed at the Trial like a pair of hawks unleashed for the hunt.

Now, this simple contact felt like sinking into a warm bath after a long day working in the snow. He squeezed her hand back without a word, and she left it there as they leaned against each other.

Together, they sat and watched the rain.

…until they heard the scream.

It started as a distant shriek, but rapidly grew closer. Yerin was on her feet with weapon in hand instantly, her silver Goldsign arched and poised.

Lindon rose more roughly, favoring his wounded leg, but he had recovered enough Blackflame madra to begin cycling for the Burning Cloak. If this was a fight, maybe some unexpected beginning to the Striker Trial, he would be ready.

Eithan slammed into the ground a second later, face-first, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Both Lindon and Yerin took a step back, coughing and waving dust away. When the cloud cleared, the Underlord was still lying there spread-eagle, turquoise-and-gold robes settling into the dirt, his yellow hair a mess around him.

He suddenly convulsed, making a choking sound as he sat bolt upright. An instant later he hacked a mouthful of mud onto the ground, grimacing at the taste.

“That was more of a—ah, let's say—rapid descent than I intended,” Eithan said, rubbing dirt from his face with the heel of his hand.

The top of the cliff loomed over them, scraping the sky. He had to have fallen over a hundred feet, if not more. “Underlord, are you...are you all right?”

Yerin folded her arms. “Takes more than that to ruffle your feathers, doesn't it, Eithan?”

Eithan spat some more mud onto the ground. “I'm not so sure. My feathers might be intact, but my ribs are going to have some complaining to do for the next morning or two.” He coughed loudly into his hand, and then inspected his palm.

“It’s a pleasure to see you, after all this time,” Lindon said. “Are you here because we passed the Trial?”

“You mean, why did I fall out of the sky and onto my face just now?” Eithan asked, rising to his feet and brushing himself off. “A wise question. I've been keeping an eye on you, as I promised, and now that you've cleared the Enforcer Trial—none too soon, I might add—I decided to pay you a visit. And as I was making my way to you, I...” He coughed once more, more lightly this time. “...slipped.”

Yerin looked him up and down. “Underlords slip off rocks every day, do they?”

“I don't make a habit of it, but it was a steep descent, as you can see.” He gestured to the cliff, which was the next best thing to a sheer wall. “Even I make mistakes from time to time. Anyway, I was waiting for the most appropriate time to make my entrance, and...well, it was raining.” He held out a hand. “Looks like that's cleared up, and just in time!”

His grin returned in full force, and he bulled forward before Lindon could ask any more questions about his entrance. “Half of your year remains, as I'm sure you know, so I come bearing gifts.” He turned to Yerin, giving a shallow bow. “For you, little sister, I have located that greatest of rarities: a Spirit Manifestation pill.”

Yerin stared blankly at him. “If you're expecting me to start dancing for joy...”

“The Spirit Manifestation pill is very delicate and expensive, refined from some of the most valuable herbs and blood essences on the continent. It takes decades to finish, and each individual elixir can be considered a refiner's masterpiece!” Yerin didn't seem impressed, but Lindon was leaning forward, eyes wide.

If Yerin's gift was so rare and valuable, he could only imagine what was coming his way.

“Each pill is customized to the individual consuming it,” Eithan said proudly. “In this case, it will fill you with enough sword madra to help you break open the boundary to Highgold…without disturbing your master’s Remnant in the slightest.”

Now Yerin's face paled, and a hand moved down to the red rope wrapped around her waist. Lindon always tried to avoid looking at the belt; it seemed to squirm in the corner of his eye, and in his spiritual senses, the rope felt like it was soaked in blood.

“Light dawns! Yes, you can stay ahead of your...rude lodger, there...and keep your master’s memories for as long as you like.”

Yerin drifted toward him as though sleepwalking. “Do you have that pill tucked away? No, not unless you've put a veil over it. Where did you leave it?” She looked like she was going to seize him by the collar and start shaking.

He held up a hand. “It has taken me months of hunting, bartering, and begging to secure a half-finished pill, and it has to be completed to your personal specifications. I have the best refiner in the family working on it whenever he's not occupied with other matters, but it will still be many months before it is finished. However, when it is complete...” He folded his hands together respectfully. “...well, I regret that the honored Sage of the Endless Sword will not be there to witness your glory.”

Yerin stalked away, leaning with one hand against the cave wall, breathing heavily. Lindon wished there was something he could say to her, but he was still wondering about her “lodger.”

In spite of himself, he was somewhat disappointed by that. She knew all about Suriel, but she hadn't trusted him enough to tell him her secret. It wasn’t as though he had any right to know, but would have been nice.

“And for you, Lindon,” Eithan said, interrupting his thoughts. “I've located a Blackflame Truegold’s scales. Pure scales are useful to anyone, as you know, but scales from the Path of Black Flame could save you months of cycling.”

The implications of that were not lost on Lindon, and he dropped to his knees, bowing deeply. “This one cannot express his appreciation, Underlord.”

Eithan waved at him irritably. “None of that. I need you with a straight spine, not a bent one. Stand up.”

Lindon did so, but he still pressed his fists together in a salute.

“The scales are up for auction in three months’ time, after which I will bring them back to you,” Eithan continued. “I will hold it as a reward for completing the third Trial. With the aid of the scales, you could reach the peak of Jade in an instant, and then Orthos could take you to Gold. Lowgold fighting against Truegold...”

He rubbed his chin. “...well, it's not as though it’s never happened. Your Path is suitable, and a heron could technically kill a lion, if it poked the beast's eyes out at exactly the right moment. But, ah, I still wouldn't bet on the heron.”

That dampened Lindon's enthusiasm considerably. Judging from the Underlord’s words, advancing to Lowgold was the best he could hope for, and it still wouldn't change his fate.

“If you can complete the two remaining Trials in six weeks each—much, much faster than this one—you’ll have plenty of time to process those scales! So now that you’re properly motivated: fight, fight, fight!”

Lindon sat staring at nothing for long after Eithan left.

Suddenly the future looked so bleak.

***

Lindon knelt in front of the Striker tablet while Yerin stood over him, listening.

“With the power of the dragons, the Blackflames destroyed their enemies. Their allies feared them, but...” Lindon hesitated in front of a group of four characters stacked together. They seemed to be some sort of idiom, maybe a proverb that had once been common.

After he thought he had it, he continued. “A ruthless enemy is a reliable ally. When their enemies were no more, they had peace.”

And that was the legacy he was inheriting now: a Path of ruthless destruction. It was a sobering thought.

He ran his finger down the tablet, skipping past the madra diagram and the description of the Striker technique—he would need Yerin to help him decipher those anyway. He landed on the words in the center of the stone.

“The dragon destroys,” he said aloud.

The dragon advances.

The dragon destroys.

“Makes you ask what the third stone says,” Yerin said. “The dragon dances, maybe. The dragon naps. The dragon takes a break because he already killed everybody.”

Lindon skipped to the Striker technique. “Fierce…River of…Fierce Flowing Breath. I’m fairly sure that’s what it means. They certainly say 'fierce' twice.”

Yerin folded her arms. “It’s dragon breath.”

She pointed to the pictogram of a man projecting a line of fire from his hands. It was next to a picture of that same technique streaming from a dragon’s open jaws. “Maybe they called it Fiercely Fierce Breath, but everybody knows what comes out of a dragon’s mouth.”

Lindon looked at the loops indicating the madra flow, and at the characters floating over it. “Would you mind teaching me, then?”

She rapped her knuckles against the stone. “I could tell you without reading them. Cycle your madra to the palms of your hands and keep it there. Let it build and build like you've stopped up a river, and when it's just about to burst, push it out.” She shrugged. “My Striker technique starts the same way, except through a sword. And mine has three more steps.”

Lindon looked at his hands, gathering madra into his palms while trying to focus on maintaining his breathing and cycling according to the diagram all at the same time.

Yerin grabbed him by the arm. “Maybe take a step or two back, if you don’t mind. I'm not looking to roast today.”

Lindon bowed in apology, moving ten steps to the right and contemplating the broad, blackened expanse of hardened dirt that was the Striker Trial. He was itching to see what they'd have to face in the Trial itself, but one step at a time; he wouldn't even be able to start without the ability to execute a Striker technique.

He steadied his breath, focusing first on the madra diagram, making sure that his madra was flowing through the right channels. Then, once he had his madra moving in the right direction, he ignored it.

In the last few months, he'd gotten something of a sense for the nature of Blackflame madra. He could move by feel, without relying on convoluted patterns, gathering power in his palms and letting it pool there. He had done something similar with the soldier earlier, pouring raw power into the projection and letting it explode.

He held both hands out toward the empty space. Nothing visible changed, but he could feel the madra building and building, the pressure growing, until his hands felt like they would dissolve from the inside.

In that moment, he gathered the force of his spirit and shoved.

When Lindon had first learned the Burning Cloak, the technique had started thin, weak, and inefficient. He had worked for months to increase its potency, to use its power effectively. He had expected something similar with the Striker technique: this first attempt might produce nothing more than a tiny tongue of flame, but he would build it up to a roaring dragon's breath.

So when the madra burst out of him in a furious, flaming storm of black and red, scorching the air in an explosion that sent him tumbling backwards ten feet and coming to rest in a tangle of limbs, he was...surprised.

Yerin waited for him to stumble to his feet and press his hand to his skull, checking for bruising, before she nodded sagely. “Yeah, that's how it happens.”

The dirt was blasted away in a starburst pattern where Lindon had been standing. It wasn't deep—the soil here was packed tight, and had been charred over and over for years—but it stood out. The aura seethed in his Copper sight, the black and red powers boiling, but they slowly calmed.

“It didn't get very far,” Lindon noted, steadying himself against the cliff wall. That explosion had singed his hands, even though it came from his own madra—it must have ignited the air. His Bloodforged Iron body was already drawing power to the injury, sapping his core further. That one technique had taken more out of him than five minutes with the Burning Cloak.

“River doesn't get too far without banks,” Yerin said. “Out of control, it's just a flood. Spills everywhere. You want it to go where you want it to go, you have to guide it.”

She tapped the stone again. “There’s a pointer here. Push it outside your body, but keep it under control.” She held her hands a few inches apart as though cupping an invisible ball, and swirls of sharp silver energy began collecting in the air between them. They whirled and slashed in bright flashes, as though she’d contained a dozen blades of light.

“Pack it together,” she continued. The silver light bunched up into a ball the size of his thumb, but she kept pouring more madra into it. “Then, when you can’t keep it dammed up anymore…” A wild, spiraling blaze of silver light whirled between her hands. “…let it go.”

The ball flew out of her hands, a silver fist-sized spiral of sword madra. It spun erratically in the air, going no more than a yard or two before it slammed into the ground.

The technique exploded.

A thousand sword slashes detonated in all different directions, slicing the air, carving hundreds of crisscrossing grooves in the earth. Some of them looked deeper than the length of his hand.

The storm of sword energy faded, leaving Lindon stunned. “Have you used that technique before?”

She shrugged. “Pulled that out of thin air. Not really a winner for me; it only goes a step or two, see, and I could do it faster with my sword. Sword madra likes to move, not to be bunched up like that. Should be stable enough for fire madra, though.”

It hadn’t looked anything like the diagram: she’d fired a twisting ball, not a stream of energy that struck in a line. But different aspects of madra should be expected to work differently, and this technique had been developed for Blackflame.

Lindon was expectant as he held his hands about six inches apart. Even if he ended up with an explosive fireball instead of a dragon’s breath, that was a more devastating weapon than he had now.

Cycling his madra according to the Striker technique’s pattern, he gathered power in his palms. Then, focusing on the space between his hands, he let the power flow out.

The air between his hands blew apart.

This time it wasn’t enough to knock him away, but he did stumble back a few steps, his hands scorched. The front of his outer robe had started to unravel, and his belt was singed.

“You’ve got to keep hold of it,” Yerin said.

“That’s what I’m trying to—” he said, before his second attempt exploded.

After three more failed attempts, Lindon eyed the far side of the Striker Trial grounds. They were mostly identical to the Enforcer grounds, with one notable exception: there was no crystal ball on the pedestal next to the tablet, and no pedestal on the other side. Obviously he wasn't supposed to carry anything across.

Judging by the nature of the Trial, he had to assume he was intended to launch a technique all the way over there. But if he wanted to extend his Striker range from a few inches to over a hundred yards, then he had to hope his talent as a Striker exceeded his talent as an Enforcer.

“I can practice tonight,” Lindon said, putting his hand on the pedestal. “Let’s get started.”

Yerin rubbed a thumb along one of the fresh scars on her jaw. “Looks like you're trying to fly before you grow wings, if you ask my opinion.”

Lindon was already gathering madra into his hand. One hand, this time. “We have to see how far we have yet to fly, don't we?”

“Truth.” She drew her sword eagerly—he'd known he wouldn't have to do much to convince her. “Light this fire,” she said.

It took him a few more seconds to push the madra through his palms, and this time his madra was recognizable as fire. It spilled all over the pedestal, doing no damage whatsoever to the smoky crystal or the stone, and only knocked Lindon's arm back instead of his entire body.

The technique didn't stretch any further, but progress was progress.

As soon as his madra entered the crystal, circles came to life all over the Trial grounds. The ground rumbled, and a field of hazy gray light sprang up in the center of the field.

There was some good news: at least he didn’t have to hold the technique this time, as he had for the Enforcer Trial.

The scripts continued working, making more changes, but Yerin reached down and hefted a rock twice the size of her fist. With a casual flip of the wrist, she hurled it half the length of the grounds, into the gray wall.

The rock sizzled and disappeared.

“As you’d expect, they won't let you just walk through.” She flicked her sword, and a rippling wave of silver-tinged light sliced through the air. It passed through the gray field intact; Lindon could sense its energy streak past the aura barrier.

So madra passed through, but not solid objects. Fascinating.

Shadows gathered past the gray wall, visible as though through dirty glass, but Lindon jogged up to the transparent wall itself. “Is this a technique, do you think, or some kind of script?”

Yerin had followed him, though she watched the shadowy figures gathering on the other side rather than the wall. “Could be either one, I'd say. Gathers up destruction aura into one place, leaves madra alone.”

Lindon opened his Copper sight, and sure enough, the entire wall was a hazy mass of black, twisting lines that carried the meaning of destruction, dissolution. They meant 'the end.'

He focused back on the physical world, looking for the edges of the wall, sending out his spiritual sense to probe for the script that had projected it. “Blackflame has a destruction aspect. I wonder if I could—”

Yerin shoved him aside as something heavy passed through the air where his head had just been.

He caught a glimpse of the weapon as he fell to the dirt: a heavy stone spear.

More spears flew out of the gray wall, flicking out in rapid succession, each aimed at Yerin. She moved quicker than Lindon could follow without the Burning Cloak active, ducking one spear, knocking a second off course with her Goldsign, and sidestepping the third.

The spears flew back to the end of the grounds, clattering to the ground just before the entrance arch.

The instant Lindon started backing away from the wall, a spear struck like a lightning bolt, flying straight at him.

The Burning Cloak ignited, and he shattered the spearhead with his fist.

Chunks of stone started dissolving as soon as the spear broke—Forged madra, then. Just like the soldiers.

That was a relief. Real stone would have been much more difficult to deal with than a Forger technique.

He waited a breath for another spear, but none came. Then he took a step back.

Two spears flew at him, one on top of the other.

Even in the Burning Cloak, he couldn't keep up, smashing one aside but taking a grazing cut to the inside of his arm from the second. And the Cloak would fall any second; he didn't have the madra to maintain it, not after botching all those attempts at the Striker technique.

He froze in place, trying to conserve madra and movement, and no more spears followed those two.

A steady stream of spears flew out at Yerin, who slowly retreated.

“Stop moving!” Lindon called, and Yerin froze after snatching two spears out of the air.

The remaining spears clattered to the ground, blood flowed down Lindon’s arm to drip from his fingertips, and Yerin stood panting with a spear in each hand.

The wall remained still.

Cautiously, Lindon let the Burning Cloak drop. The blazing black-and-red energy around his body faded.

Though it was difficult to see through the cloudy wall of gray aura, he could make out a few shapes: three irregular balls of shadow, each floating in midair, clustered in a rough triangle with about twenty feet between them. The balls were only the size of his head—at least, as far as he could tell—but they bobbed and flowed like liquid.

While moving his body as little as possible, Lindon raised his voice. “I see three dark spots. Do you think they could be the source of the spears?”

“Targets, I'd say,” Yerin responded.

“Could be both.”

Very slowly, Yerin hefted one of her spears. “Let's test it.”

In one smooth motion, she hurled the spear.

Another spear shot out at her, but she ducked and let it pass over her head. At first Lindon thought the weapon she'd thrown would dissolve into the gray wall, but then he remembered it was Forged madra: the destruction aura would just ignore it.

But it was also a moving object.

Another spear launched from the other side, striking Yerin's spear with a sound like a tree splintering. They clattered to the ground, slowly breaking apart.

“That's a neat little trick,” Yerin said, still crouching with her one remaining spear.

Lindon thought he had the measure of it now. The wall was to keep them from closing the distance, to force them to use Striker techniques, and the spears were to keep pressure on them. They needed to knock the three targets down without attracting the attention of the spears, so they needed to be fast without much movement.

He could see the path laid out for him: he'd have to throw fire quickly and precisely, while still defending himself from the spears. It would take months of rigorous practice to train his reactions, not to mention building up his spirit. But Eithan had only allotted him six weeks for this Trial.

He needed a shortcut.

Lindon wanted to go back to the cave and start working, but he was stuck frozen in the center of the Trial grounds. He hated to ask, but with his madra as weak as it was, he could only think of one way out. “Forgiveness, but...do you think you could cover me as I run?”

“If I can't, worst thing that could happen is a spear through the back.”

She said it like a joke, but he was already picturing a spear thick as his wrist impaling him through the ribs. Even his Bloodforged Iron body couldn't keep up with that.

He stayed still. “I'm sure that a spear to the back is nothing to you, but even with my Iron body, I’m not sure if I want to—”

“Start running, Lindon.”