A
Dagnyr stared unhappily at his image in the mirror, surveying the new uniform he had been given.
“I look ridiculous.”
His Cadre Kosar’s face appeared in the looking glass, over Dagnyr’s shoulder.
“The face of the Ourth is the least part of it,” the Kosar pronounced. “Its truth is in its depths.”
B
The two kuru examiners, in their dark robes and protective masks, kept shaking their heads over the results of their evaluation of the adolescent Delve, Dagnyr Perildar.
“His potential in nullification is very high,” the one observed, not for the first time.
“Yes, but these others? Conjuration and evocation? Once in a while a recessive bloodline might come up with one of the kuru of the other Veer, but two, possibly even more? How impure is his blood?”
The first examiner shrugged. “We are not the Deralfmar, to kill our young for their imperfection. Give him to the Olo Feradir. They are all decidedly…eccentric. His oddness will stand out less there.”
The second cocked his head in thought, then nodded. “Yes. The Olo Feradir.”
C
“Do not wear your pride on your sleeve, Perildar. We are not like the other branches of Veer, who crawl upon the surface. We dwell within the Deep, and know our place is closest to the Ourth. Advantage is always better to seek than retribution for wounded pride. And like the Ourth, be slow to anger, but when you do resort to violence, do so with the abandon of a Great Tremblor or an Eruption of the Ourth’s Fiery Blood, to devastating effect.”
D
“Could you explain to me, again, why you cast a poison gas spell at me?” Dagnyr asked, painfully, from his bed in the Olo Feradir infirmary. His breathing had returned to normal, but speech was still difficult.
His Kuru master looked put upon, but after a sigh, spoke.
“You have the ability to detect the type of spells, and an opportunity to nullify them. But you must learn how to do each of those much more quickly, so they become essentially instantaneous, or they’ll do you no good on the battlefield. I think we’ll leave that rasp in your voice. It will be a reminder of the importance of doing do.”
E
“Secrets should be treated like coins, Dagnyr. You should be neither spendthrift nor miserly. Secrets are only as valuable as they are secret. Should the information you hold close become generally known, it is worthless. So when you reveal a secret, think not of it as an expenditure, but an investment yielding return. And always, always, seek advantage.”
F
Dagnyr stood at the edge of the underground waterfall, soaked to the bone by the spray, as he worked the bow again and again, loading and firing at a target a few dozen yards away. He didn’t ask, but his Cadre Kosar had become used to answering regardless.
“Because on the surface, you’ll have to deal with rain and other water falling from the sky. Not our element, of course, but still one you must become inured to. And while I’m speaking to you, knock off the fancy talk. We all know you’re smart enough. You don’t want the other Veer, or any of the other Races, figuring that out. They’re leery enough of us as it is. Let them believe we’re the working-class Veer. Like everything else, demonstrate your intelligence only when it’s to your advantage, and never too often.”
G
The Inquisition Board consisted of three members, Dagnyr’s Kuru Master, his Cadre Kosar and the Olo Feradir Maluntir, and they sat behind a stone table.
“Dagnyr Perildar,” the Maluntir began formally, “This Board has reviewed the incident that occurred at your detachment’s daily sparring period five days ago. Needless to say, it is unfortunate that one of your fellow Feradir has been invalided as a result of the actions you took. However, according to the Kuru examiners, while your…particularly ability in fisticuffs is unique to the knowledge of the Delve, they believe that its manifestation is recent enough that you had no culpability in the resulting injuries to your sparring partner. It could have been even worse, were it not for the dampening spells on the sparring pits that are supposed to prevent any injury nearly this consequential. You are cleared of any wrongdoing. For the preservation of your comrades, though, any further training will have to occur in actual combat.”
The three members stood as one, in a rare display of formality among the Olo Feradir. “This incident is dismissed.”
Dagnyr didn’t feel the least bit better because of that. And neither, he suspected, would the fellow members of his detachment. Maybe he should take up the suggestion he become a battlefield sniper. They worked alone, mostly.
H
Dagnyr, though still a very young boy, had wandered many leagues from his home before finding, through a tiny tunnel inaccessible to anyone older, a place of the Angrie Ourth. Small rivulets of molten rock dripped through channels in the stone, gases belched from stone vents from time to time, and he could hear the rumbling of great plates of the Ourth’s armour grinding against each other, competing for dominance.
He admired the Angrie Ourth, feeling at home in its tumult. And then the Angrie Ourth spoke to him.
I
He watched, reclining on his cot, as the female Olo Feradir finish dressing, then turned to the door to his room. As a combat sniper, he rated quarters of his own, but they weren’t elaborate.
As she rested her hand on the latch, she looked back at him.
In his second battle, Dagnyr had been the sole Battlefield Sniper assigned. He’d sped through the throng of combat, found the enemy leader, not a caster in this case, and took him with a single arrow.
And then the enemy had turned on him, and he fled, using the escape and evasion techniques he had been taught.
Catching his wind, up to his chest in muddy water in a dank and stagnant fen, all he could think was, “So this is what victory feels like.”
“We both know what this is, right?” she asked. He nodded.
“Olo Feradir,” he responded, allowing the requisite tiny trace of disappointment to cross his features as required at moments such as this. “First to fight. Most likely to die. No attachments.”
She nodded, though not with enthusiasm, then abruptly turned back to the now-open door and left.
J
He thought he’d lined up the perfect shot. He’d somehow evaded the enemy soldiers until he’d reached a spot where he had a good angle on the mage leading them, one who was especially fond of lightning bolts and fireballs. He’d even negated a fireball, saving some of his colleagues, before taking the shot. But somehow, instead of impaling the mage’s head, the arrow had gone into his left arm. At which point, instead of reacting as anyone normally would when hit by an arrow, the magician had simply turned toward Dagnyr as he was trying desperately to reload. The mage has wound up to cast a fireball, when another arrow took him in the back of the head.
Dagnyr released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Fortunately, when the Olo Feradir sent a battlefield sniper into the field for his or her first battle, they assigned a veteran to back him up. His life had been saved.
But he wasn’t looking forward to the derision, however friendly, he would receive from his fellow Feradir for having to be bailed out.
K
His parents were rarely at home at the same time, so Dagnyr had been exultant that he had found them together on his return from the Angrie Ourth. They had been in some discussion, intense given the quiet, terse nature of their talk, when he’d walked in on them. They’d stared at him a moment, blinking, and then his mother asked where he had been. He’d explained and showed her the viola he had Taken from the Angrie Ourth, discovered as he had left the chamber where the Ourth had spoken to him. His parents had exchanged looks.
Then he had offered to play for them, and he noted some apprehension subtly displayed on their features. But they had pretended delight at his impromptu concert, and he had begun.
Their apprehension grew rapidly more visible as he perfectly executed a piece of music he had never heard before, a strange medley that surely must belong to the Surface of the Ourth.
His hearing was more acute than even they suspected, so he had heard his mother lean over to his father and whisper in his ear, “We should have him tested.”
L
Dagnyr, on his first training cycle with the Olo Feradir, had found himself immediately cast out of the comfortable embrace of the Ourth onto the Surface. He’d been given a crude map and told to find his way to an objective a mile distant and back. He’d fallen over tree roots, was covered in mud, and bled freely from the scratches left on his skin by a bewildering variety of otherwise harmless looking vegetation. He was glad to be back at the entrance to the Ourth, but had taken hours and hours to accomplish his goal. He presented the talisman he’d been sent to retrieve to his Cadre Kosar. He’d expected a harsh tongue-lashing, but the Kosar had just nodded, and commented, “Well done.”
Well done?” Then, belatedly, “Kosar.”
The instructor had shrugged. “You’re the first one back with what you were sent for. Others have returned as well, a few long ago, but none of them made it as far as the objective. You’re well-suited to the Surface, Feradir.”
“Just wonderful,” Dagnyr replied. Then after a moment, “Kosar.”
M
In his second battle, Dagnyr had been the sole Battlefield Sniper assigned. He’d sped through the throng of combat, found the enemy leader, not a caster in this case, and took him with a single arrow.
And then the enemy had turned on him, and he fled, using the escape and evasion techniques he had been taught.
Catching his wind, up to his chest in muddy water in a dank and stagnant fen, all he could think was, “So this is what victory feels like.”
All prose by R. Perry
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