Chapter 3: A Hero is Born Bored
Vurrmen ruins, Oaklore Forest
Damien took his blade in both hands and swung with all his might, cleaving through the foul-smelling rat man mid-charge, narrowly avoiding the blade of its wickedly curved knife. "Brilliant idea, Kuss," Damien growled, taking a step back to keep his back protected by the knight. "I should have known when you volunteered it was for something stupid."
Sir Kuss parried a strike from another rat man with his sword, kicking it in the chest with a steel-shod boot, throwing it to the ground. "It wasn't stupid, it was funy! And please, use my full title. You know it doesn't sound right without the Sir."
Damien blasted a third rat man with crackling energy, sending it flying through the weak, rotting stone of a half-collapsed wall. "You wanted to steal VurrMen dung to hide in Sir Prize's pillow! How is that not stupid? And just so you know, 'sir' is a title of respect, and right now I don't respect you very much."
Sir Kuss turned towards Damien for a comeback, and failed to notice as a bomb, its fuse sparkling, landed at his feet. Damien heard the sound of the burning fuse and swore, spinning around and reaching his hand out, a gust of wind picking up the bomb and sending it back at the VurrMan that threw it before it exploded. Sir Kuss froze, realizing that he just barely avoided being riddled with shrapnel, before turning back to face the threat. "Fair enough."
Fortunately for them, the VurrMen seemed to have gotten the point, scurrying back into the darkness of the sewers below. They waited for a moment, in case more explosives were thrown their way, but nothing happened. "Alright," Damien muttered, stabbing his blade into the ground so he didn't have to hold it up. The blade was surprisingly light for its size, and as he fought, it seemed to give him strength, but once the fighting stopped that strength always vanished. "Sir Vey's map leads us to here," Damien pointed ahead, to the sewer grate the rat men had fled into. "This should lead us straight to their leader and his stash of rotting Mollo fruit. Hopefully we can also learn something about why these rats would want to make mind-control serum in the first place. Can I trust you to watch my back down there without getting distracted looking for something you can prank someone with?"
"You could always go by yourself," Sir Kuss replied, glancing back the way they came. "After all, you're the one with the giant magical death sword," he gestured at Damien's blade, still sticking out of the stone. "You'd probably be fine."
"I am the one with the magical death sword," Damien agreed, trying and failing to keep the frustration out of his voice. "And only two weeks ago I had never touched a sword in my life. So, I would like it if I had someone with a little more experience watching my back, even if he is a dunce."
Damien couldn't see through the visor of Sir Kuss's helmet, but he was pretty sure the knight was giving him a less-than-friendly look at that moment. "Then can I use the giant magical death sword?"
"No."
"But that's not even the only magical weapon you have!" Sir Kuss objected.
"If you wanted to own one of Sir Jing's weapons, you should have climbed the storming mountain and fought all of those elementals yourself," Damien growled. "It took me a full day to dry off and I still find myself experiencing random bouts of static cling. Besides, I didn't bring any of those with me. I don't have one of those magical bigger-on-the-inside bags Maya says some adventurers have. I just have a regular backpack, so I can't carry a bunch of weapons on me all the time. So, you'll have to do with the weapons you brought yourself. Now, are you going to help, or am I going to have to tell Rolith about your dung quest?"
"Ah, don't tell the captain!" Sir Kuss groaned. "I don't want to be put on latrine duty again."
"Then let's get going."
. . . . .
The road to Oaklore Keep, Oaklore Forest
If there was one thing Jonathan did not expect to find on his grand adventure, it was boredom. But after two weeks on the road, taking the road from Fairglade through Greenguard Forest and finally into Oaklore, he was starting to wonder if things were really as bad as the Book of Lore made it out to be. In the two weeks of travel, he hadn't encountered any shambling skeletons, rampaging dragons, or even bandits. He was starting to wish he had taken that turn south to visit the capital, rather than continuing east. He had never seen the capital city of Swordhaven before, but his mom told him stories of the city's beauty and grandeur, with its towering spires, grand walls, and wide, open streets bustling with life. At the time he had believed he didn't have time for sightseeing, but now he wondered if he had missed a huge opportunity.
More than that, he was beginning to wonder if this whole adventure was a mistake. Why did I come here? Now that he was thinking about it, he found he couldn't stop and quickly realized he needed to sit down. He found an overturned log by the side of the road and sat down on it, pulling out his cube and twisting it around in his hands, quickly finding himself unable to get back up, all motor functions besides the twisting motion of his hands seeming to shut down.
"What am I doing?" he asked himself quietly, the cube spinning faster in his hands. "I left home because a book told me to? It didn't even tell me to! I just read it and took it as an invitation! I didn't even tell Mom and Dad. What do they think of this? Are they worried? Have they been looking for me? Why didn't I tell them? And Selena! What if she tried to follow me?"
Jonathan felt his head spinning and realized that he was breathing much too fast, and that at some point in his monologue had slipped off the log into the grass and curled in on himself. For a moment he didn't know what to do, his breathing getting faster, the spinning getting faster, until he finally caught ahold of himself. He closed his eyes and worked to slow his breathing, willing his muscles to unclench and let him move again. "I did this for a reason," he told himself. He looked inside himself, to that place he had first felt the strange pull and found it still there. Something he couldn't fully describe, pulling him forward, towards… something. He didn't know what it was, but he knew that it was important.
Finally able to move again, he pulled himself up from the ground and dusted himself off, shaking the anxiety out and slipping the cube back into his pack. He looked up the path and saw a cliff running alongside the road, overlooking the countryside. "That looks like a good place to get some perspective," he told himself, beginning the uphill trek to the cliff. "Just need a different perspective."
. . . . .
Oaklore Keep, Oaklore Forest
Damien looked over the note in his hands, his brows knitting together, reading it again under his breath. "First shipment arrived. We are interested in Mollo Mind Serum. Will purchase rest of the fruit for your asking price. Will be in touch. Sepulchure." Who was this Sepulchure? Whoever he was, he seemed to have been the buyer for the VurrMen's attempted mind control drug. Why would he want something like that?
"What do you think, Kuss?" he asked the knight as they neared the keep. "You know anything about this Sepulchure guy?"
"Just rumors," Sir Kuss answered. "Some kind of dark warlord. Wherever he goes, darkness follows. That's it though."
"So we've got some big bad guy hiring rats to make him mind control juice. That's just great."
Damien had been at the keep for almost two weeks now, and he hadn't gotten any closer to tracking down the bandits who destroyed his village. The bandits were frustratingly good at staying hidden, apparently keeping a low profile since the destruction of his village. Even the keep's scouts, Sir Valence and Sir Vey, hadn't been able to find out where the bandits were hiding. After several days of searching himself, Damien had to admit it wasn't just incompetence on their part to blame. So instead, he had busied himself in other ways. Getting to know the knights, fighting box-obsessed goblins and rat people, scaling stormy mountains covered in elementals, even a dip into a haunted tomb.
The Knights of the Pactagonal Table proved to be an interesting lot. They all came from noble families of a very particular variety, specifically ones whose family name paired with the title of "Sir" to make a word. It was supposedly a great honor for a family to be inducted into the Pactagonal order. It didn't make much sense to Damien, but he didn't expect to understand the logic of the nobility. Beyond their peculiar naming convention, the knights proved to be a good group, skilled warriors all, though some, like Sir Kuss and Sir Prize, were a bit more trouble than they were worth. Captain Rolith was particularly noteworthy, as skilled with leadership as he was with his massive greathammer. And having seen him in action, Damien was certain he never wanted to be on the receiving end of one of those hammer swings.
"I'm going to write up a report to give to the captain," Sir Kuss said as they approached the gates. "After he reads that note he will want as many details as possible."
"Just make sure you stay on track," Damien told him. "Don't run off and prank Sir Prize or anything like that. This is important."
"Don't worry. I like jokes, but I know when to get serious."
"That has yet to be proven."
They nodded at the knight standing by the gate and walked in, Sir Kuss running off to write up his report (hopefully). Damien looked around for Captain Rolith, knowing he would want the information they had found as soon as possible. As he searched, he spotted Maya, the keep's librarian and resident Loremaster, waving at him as she exited the library, a book in her hand as always.
"Sorry Maya," Damien said, jogging up to her. "I don't have much time to talk. I need to see the captain."
"Oh," Maya looked downward, her face crestfallen, her pigtails almost seeming to droop. "I think the captain is just inside the tree. He was working on some reports when someone came to the keep asking for him."
"Anyone we know?" Damien asked.
"I didn't recognize him," Maya answered. She picked her head back up, sliding her glasses back along her nose. "After you speak to the captain, would you like to visit me in the library? I've found some interesting books on magic I think you'd be interested in."
"Sure," Damien replied absentmindedly, already turning to head into the trunk of the giant oak at the center of the keep. "See you later." He hurried into the tree, gripping the note in his hand and wondering what sort of person it was that Rolith was talking to. A messenger from the king? Someone from one of the local villages, reporting another attack? Damien almost hoped it was the second one. Dark lords were important and all, but after two weeks of waiting he was itching to finally get his hands on some bandits.
. . . . .
Cliffside view, Oaklore Forest
Jonathan gazed off the edge of the cliff, breathing deeply of the chill, near-winter air, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, and smiled. Looking out at the vast stretches of forest beneath him, the road cutting through like a river, he felt at peace. He was on the right path.
"This is the perfect day for adventure," he told himself. "Great things are coming… I can just feel it!"
Then Jonathan was knocked off his feet by a sudden torrent of wind, almost sending him rolling off the cliff as something massive and red flew past him. He picked himself up just in time to gawk in shock and awe as he gazed at the unmistakable shape of an immense red dragon soaring above him. Then, to his even greater shock, the dragon banked in the air, its massive bat-like wings stretching to catch the wind as its arc took it back in his direction. Jonathan scrambled to his feet as the dragon landed at the base of the cliff with a thud, the tremors from the impact almost causing him to lose his footing a second time. The beast was so massive that as it stood at the base of the cliff, its head reached over the top, staring directly at him with bright yellow eyes nearly as big as Jonathan's head, those eyes situated in a head Jonathan was fairly certain was larger than his entire body, with fangs large enough he would need to use both hands if he wanted to properly grab ahold of one.
"A DRAGON?!" Jonathan couldn't think. He could only stare. He had heard stories of dragons all his life. He had read about them in the Book of Lore. But never had he imagined he would meet one face-to-face. It was terrifying and beautiful all at the same time. He knew that it could end his life with a single snap of its jaws or a single fiery breath, but he couldn't make himself move to run or duck.
Aren't new adventurers supposed to start out fighting bandits or giant rats or something? he wondered to himself, his brain unable to come up with anything more useful. Guess the real world isn't like the stories.
The dragon let out a growl that reverberated in Jonathan's bones, his armor ringing as if it were trying to harmonize with the beast as it reared up its head. Oh no, he thought. Here it comes. It's going to attack! He pulled out his sword, not knowing what good it would do but not knowing what else he could do.
Then, to his surprise, the dragon lowered its head, revealing two figures sitting on its back. One was a moglin, a tiny creature no more than two feet tall with bright red fur, large protruding ears, wide black eyes, and a tiny black snout, standing on two legs and holding a small staff. The other was an old grey-haired woman, sitting somehow elegantly in a long white hooded robe adorned with gold, one hand resting on a strange black chest. The moglin hurried forward, his tiny legs moving furiously, and stopped on the dragon's neck, facing Jonathan.
"Hiyas!" the moglin told him with a wave and a bright smile. He walked off the dragon's neck then, glancing behind Jonathan before turning back towards the beast. "The path is clear, Priestess!"
The old woman, the priestess, stood gracefully, taking the strange black chest in her hands as she walked forward. The chest was adored with gold, the front covered with the symbol of a dragon's head, almost identical to the one on the cover of Jonathan's book. "Please pardon us friend," the priestess asked, her voice sweet and motherly, "we are just passing through." She then walked off the dragon's neck onto the cliff, smiling and giving Jonathan a nod before walking past him, the moglin following close behind.
The dragon pulled its head back up once she left, but Jonathan almost didn't notice. He had thought only moments ago that nothing could be more shocking than the sudden appearance of a dragon, only to be proven wrong almost immediately. Who was this woman? Who was that moglin? Why were they riding a dragon? What was that box? Why did it have the same symbol as the book? What was going on here?
The flood of questions was only halted when Jonathan realized the dragon was staring at him, its large yellow eyes calculating. There was real intelligence behind those eyes, and Jonathan got the sudden and irrepressible impression the creature was considering whether or not to eat him. Before he could decide what to do with that realization, the dragon growled and leapt into the air, knocking him flat as a hammer of wind struck him from the downward thrust of the dragon's mighty wings. Jonathan lay on the ground stunned, staring after the dragon as it vanished from sight.
"What was all that about!?"
When he finally recovered his wits Jonathan stood back up, shaking himself off. I need to catch up to that priestess, he thought. I need to figure out whatever is going on here. He turned to follow the priestess but was stopped as he noticed a leather pouch sitting by the side of path.
"What is this?" Reaching down, Jonathan picked up the pouch and held it open to catch the sunlight, which glinted off what appeared to be almost two dozen gold coins. Twenty gold? Jonathan thought in shock. That could get you food and lodging for almost two weeks pretty much anywhere!
"Miss! Um, priestess!" he called, quickly closing the pouch as he realized who it must belong to. "I think you dropped your money pouch!" But she was already out of sight. Gripping the pouch tightly, Jonathan broke into a jog, racing after her. He soon caught sight of her and her moglin companion as they stopped in front of a large fuzzy grey lump on the ground.
"Oh my," the priestess exclaimed lightly. "Who put this carpet in the middle of the forest?"
The "carpet" shifted as if waking up and began to rise from the ground, quickly becoming quite obviously not a carpet.
"Oh noes!" the moglin cried. "That is not a carpet Priestess… it is a gorillaphant!" The massive beast turned around then to face them, standing about seven feet tall and nearly as wide, with massive forearms that reached to the ground, thick legs, and large tusks on either side of its mouth. The beast roared and the moglin moved to protect the priestess, holding his tiny staff in front of him. "I will protect you priestess!"
With an almost casual motion the gorillaphant kicked at the moglin, striking him solidly in the chest and sending him flying, his tiny body landing at Jonathan's feet in a tumble. "Are you alright?" Jonathan asked, kneeling down and helping the moglin to his feet.
"I'm alright," the moglin answered. "But the priestess!"
"Don't worry little guy," Jonathan told him, taking his sword in both hands. Alright Jonathan. This is it. Time to be a hero. "We'll save her." As the beast moved to attack the priestess Jonathan leapt forward, striking at its back with his sword with all his strength. The blade struck hard but only left a shallow, ragged cut, and Jonathan realized too late as the beast roared in pain that he had never thought to sharpen the sword, a sword that hadn't seen use in almost two decades. "Avatars," he cursed, right as one of the gorillaphant's massive fists collided with his chest.
Jonathan hit the ground hard, all air knocked from his lungs, a sharp pain letting him know the blow had probably cracked a rib. Then a wonderful feeling spread over him and the pain was gone, and he looked up to see the moglin standing next to him, his staff glowing with soft emerald light. "Thanks, little guy!" he said, jumping to his feet. He felt better now than he had in weeks, and he smiled as he faced down the gorillaphant. "Alright big guy," he said with a grin. "Let's see what you've got."
The gorillaphant moved to gouge him with its tusks and Jonathan dodged to the side, grabbing hold of the tusk and using the momentum of the return swing to throw himself onto the beast's back. Once there the creature tried to buck him off, but he held on tight, and when it tried to swipe at him with one of its massive hands he struck out with his sword, eliciting a cry of pain as it jerked its hand back, away from his blade. As continued to buck, Jonathan almost felt for a moment like he was back home, riding one of the neighbor's bulls after a poorly thought-out bet with some of the village boys, holding on as the bull charged wildly through the fields in its attempts to throw him. After a few more moments of failing to throw him off, the gorillaphant leapt up and backward, and Jonathan moved just in time, quickly jumping off its back before it landed on the ground with a crash, something which would have certainly crushed him if he had remained there. But with the creature flat on its back Jonathan took the opportunity, grasping his sword with both hands and slamming down on the creature's temple with the flat of his blade, putting all his strength behind the blow. The gorillaphant's eyes went crossed for a moment before closing, the creature's body going limp.
"I'm sorry about this," Jonathan told the unconscious creature, "but you really should learn not to attack a lady."
"Thank you for saving me brave warrior," the priestess said, Jonathan spinning around to look at her. "May I know the name of my hero?"
"But priestess…" the moglin said, moving to stand next to her. "You said his name was Jonathan and he is the one who is destined to-"
Jonathan was shocked to learn they knew his name, but at the word "destined" he blinked and couldn't keep himself from blurting out: "What?"
The priestess looked at the moglin with a soft smile and sighed deeply. "Twilly…" Taking a breath, she turned back to Jonathan, broadening her smile. "Alas, we are out of time. Good warrior, I must ask an important favor of thee. Would you please let Captain Rolith know that we're taking the shortcut? He's just ahead in Oaklore Keep." She pointed down the path, to where Jonathan could see a massive keep in the distance, built around the largest tree he had ever seen. She smiled again, but this time Jonathan got the impression there was more to the smile than just pleasantries. "I am certain we will cross paths again."
Twilly piped up: "Especially since he is going to take that Black Dragon Box and-"
The priestess sighed again. "Twilly…" And with a gesture from the priestess they both turned and walked off into the woods.
"Wait!" Jonathan called after them, realizing he had been stunned both frozen and silent yet again. "What is going on!? Oh, and I think you dropped your gold!" But they didn't turn back or slow down. He moved to chase after them, but remembered the message the priestess told him to give to the captain of the keep. Whoever this priestess was, she seemed to be important. If she wanted him to give a message, it was probably important too.
"Well…" he muttered to himself. "I doubt my day can get any stranger than this. I guess now I just go ahead to the keep and deliver the message." He headed toward the keep, still trying to wrap his brain around all that had occurred over the last several minutes.
. . . . .
Oaklore Keep, Oaklore Forest
Damien found Rolith on the second floor of the tree, speaking with a young man Damien did not recognize. Captain Rolith was a powerfully built man, standing over six feet tall and covered in heavy plate armor that he seemed to have no issue moving in, a massive greathammer slung casually over one shoulder. But this stranger was even taller than the captain, nearly six and a half feet tall, with the build of someone who had worked all his life, though his youthful face and the loose fit of his armor indicated he had more growing yet to do, at least outwards if not upwards. He had a simple longsword at his side and a pack strapped to his back.
Damien realized then the usually jovial captain was not in his typical good spirits, his grip on his hammer tightening, his face going white as he listened to the boy.
"WHAT!?" Rolith finally exclaimed, the shout taking Damien aback. The captain usually spoke powerfully, but he rarely shouted, especially with such emotion. "You saw the priestess, Lady Celestia herself, on your way here? Why did you not tell me sooner!?"
"I-I was just telling you-"
"And she isn't going to stop here at the keep?" Damian got more worried still, hearing what he thought was genuine panic in the captain's voice. "The forest is crawling with bandits that are looking for her. She is in grave danger… you must go after her!"
At the mention of "bandits" Damien's ears perked up. "Captain, I can help," he interjected, both Rolith and the newcomer turning to look at him. "If these are the bandits I think they are, I have experience with them. Plus, you've seen me fight. I'll help him save this priestess." Damien didn't know why bandits would be searching for this priestess or why she was so important, and he didn't care. He felt the fire burning within him again, and he gripped the handle of his sword, feeling its power flow into him. Nothing else mattered, as long as he found those responsible for the destruction of his home and the murder of his parents.
. . . . .
Jonathan's head was spinning. Dragons, mysterious priestesses, even more mysterious boxes, destiny, and now he was getting shouted at by a knight captain because he did exactly what the mysterious priestess told him to do. It was all too much. So, when someone spoke up offering to help, he was very glad to hear it.
But when Jonathan turned around to look at the volunteer, he didn't know what to think. The guy didn't look much older than Jonathan himself, though he was considerably shorter than Jonathan was. His hair was shock white, something Jonathan had never seen before on anyone other than the very elderly, contrasting sharply with his dark skin. He had a fierce expression and something in his eyes that Jonathan wasn't sure he liked. He seemed to be dressed in the robes of a mage, but rather than a staff he had a sword at his side that seemed to be made at least partially of bone. Looking at that sword felt wrong, almost making him sick to his stomach, and he had to look away.
"Thank you, Damien," Captain Rolith said, relief evident in his voice. "I'm needed here, and all the knights are busy with various missions, or I would send a squadron with you. Go quickly, you two. Find the priestess and make sure she is safe."
"Alright, follow me," Jonathan said, hurrying back out the keep towards the direction the priestess and Twilly went. "I'm Jonathan, by the way."
"Damien," the other boy replied. "Now let's find those bandits."
. . . . .
"The short cut," Oaklore Forest
"Give us the Box, priestess, and we'll kill you quickly."
Jonathan and Damien stopped at the sound of the voice, crouching to hide in the underbrush. "We don't have a lot of time," Jonathan whispered, pulling out his sword as quietly as he could. "I can head in first, so they focus on me, since I have armor. Then you can throw magic at them, or whatever it is you do."
"Whatever you say, beanstalk," Damien replied, pulling out his own sword.
Beanstalk? Jonathan shook his head at the urge to ask what that remark was supposed to mean. They didn't have time to waste. Jonathan charged out of the underbrush, expecting to find a full band of bandits surrounding the priestess and her moglin friend. Instead, her fuzzy companion was nowhere to be found and the priestess was facing only a single man, the black chest resting against a tree behind her. An elegantly, if a bit extravagantly, crafted sword rested against the man's shoulder, the silken violet cloak wrapped around his shoulders contrasting sharply with his rough bandit attire. No, not a man, Jonathan realized. A boy. He doesn't look any older than I am!
"Jonathan!" the priestess exclaimed upon seeing him. "We must protect the Black Dragon Box at all costs!"
Black Dragon Box? Jonathan wondered, glancing at the chest. So that thing is what this is all about then? He stepped between Celestia and the boy, holding up his sword. "Leave him to me, Lady Celestia."
The boy smiled at him, taking his own, much more impressive, sword in both hands. He had deep shadows beneath his eyes, black hair slicked up and back, an iron band like a strangely limited helm or a cheap attempt at a crown circling his brow. There was a hungry look in his eyes, like a feral cat.
"I don't know who you are or why you want the box," Jonathan told him, "but you'd better-"
"My name is Drakath!" the boy exclaimed in a nasally voice that cracked halfway through his own name. "I am the leader of the Darkwolf bandits and the rightful ruler of this land." His eyes narrowed, moving to the Box behind Jonathan and the priestess. "That box is the key to my throne, and there is no way that I'm letting a peasant like you keep it from me."
. . . . .
What is taking him so long? Damien wondered, itching to get it over with. Stop chatting and hit him! He almost couldn't believe they had come out all this way for this. This spoiled brat with his silk cape and blade with a gilded hilt? He wasn't a real threat. Get take him out and we can-
"I am the leader of the Darkwolf bandits" cut through Damien's thoughts like a blade, piercing his soul. He didn't hear anything this "Drakath" said after that, a red haze settling over everything. He saw his village burning, the bandit standing over the bodies of his parents, the buckle he had taken from the bandit's bones. "The Darkwolf bandits." He gripped the handle of his dark blade harder, the sword seeming to fill him with strength as his vision tunneled, until all he could see was the self-proclaimed leader of the monsters that had taken everything he cared about from him.
. . . . .
"Stand down," Drakath commanded, "or, like the trash that you are, you will be blown away by the winds of my great destiny!"
Someone's full of himself, Jonathan thought. "You talk big, but-" Jonathan didn't have time to finish his sentence as a bolt of fire the size of his head flew over his right shoulder, singing his face as it passed. It would have hit Drakath in the chest, but the self-proclaimed bandit king dodged to the side just in time, rolling across the ground as the fireball crashed into the ground behind him with an explosion. Several bandits dropped from the trees, surrounding him, the priestess stumbling backward in surprise. Drakath looked up from his place on the ground, indignation and rage turning his face red as he shouted, "Get him!"
. . . .
"The brat is mine!" Damien exclaimed as he charged through the underbrush, the plants withering before him as he ran, his dark blade in both hands, filling him with power. He didn't wait to see if Jonathan had heard him, Drakath's prone form the only thing he could see. Drakath's eyes widened when he saw him, immediately turning to the blade in his hands. Good, Damien thought. Let it be the last thing you see. He leapt forward and struck, the brat barely rolling out of the way of the blade as it cleaved into the earth, jumping to his feet.
"That sword should have been mine," Drakath hissed as he held aloft his own blade.
"Then you shouldn't have left it lodged in the mass grave you made of my home," Damien hissed back. He threw out his hand, feeling the power within him screaming to be let out, and let it fly, a bolt of lightning streaking from his fingertips towards Drakath, only for him to catch the lightning with his blade, the electricity arcing off the steel and into the ground before dissipating.
"You're going to have to try harder than that." Drakath remarked, the most arrogant grin Damien had ever had the displeasure of seeing spreading across his face,
Damien didn't deign to reply, simply swiping his arm through the air, calling upon his power again, calling a burst of wind that knocked the brat off his feet before charging in with his blade in both hands, the weapon almost seeming to laugh in anticipation as he struck.
. . . . .
"The brat is mine!" Jonathan heard Damien shout, and that was perfectly fine with him. He had a bunch of other bandits to deal with. He parried a strike from one bandit's cudgel, dodged out of the way of a second, only to get hit in the side by a third, the impact denting the plate and knocking the breath from his lungs.
"Don't be rigid," his dad's voice came into his mind. "Remember to move. You're not a statue."
Jonathan let his body follow the momentum of the hit, dropping to the ground and rolling out of the melee, jumping back to his feet. For a second, he was back in the space between the barn and the house with his dad, a long stick gripped tightly in his hands.
"Don't hold your sword too tight," his dad told him, brandishing a stick of his own. "You want your grip to be strong, but flexible. Give yourself full range of motion."
Jonathan moved in to attack, swinging his blade at the foremost bandit as they turned towards him. The bandit moved faster than he expected, hitting the blade aside with his cudgel before striking back at him.
"You're a big kid," his dad's voice told him, "and you're only going to get bigger. Take advantage of your reach. They can't hit you if they can't get close."
Jonathan parried the strike, lashing out with a series of quick jabs that forced the bandit to back up.
"Once you have the advantage, don't give them the opportunity to take it from you. Push your advantage. Keep them on the defensive, and soon they will give you an opening."
Jonathan pressed forward, swinging at the foremost bandit again, who jumped back from the blade, knocking into his companions and giving Jonathan his opening. He leapt in, striking the bandit across the temple with the flat of his blade before charging into the next one shoulder-first, hitting him hard in the chest with a solid steel pauldron. Two down, he took a step back and faced the final two, who now seemed much more cautious about fighting him.
Standing there, the blade in his hands, facing those two opponents, Jonathan's blood was singing. He felt light despite his armor, the blade in his hands seeming more an extension of his arm than a weapon he was wielding. This felt right. Like he was finally doing what he was always meant to do.
"Why are you teaching me how to fight?" Jonathan remembered his younger self asking. "I thought the wars were all over."
"The wars are all over," his dad agreed, "but someday, you may need to defend yourself or others from people who, for whatever reason, would rather hurt people than help them. I hope that day never comes, but if it does, I want you to be ready."
I'm ready.
One of the bandits moved forward and Jonathan struck, moving faster than he had known he could to strike the bandit's cudgel out of his hands, sending it flying into the woods before punching him in the gut with a steel-gauntleted fist, dropping him to the ground. The final bandit, looking at his fallen companions, turned and ran, fleeing into the woods. Something within Jonathan urged him to chase after the bandit, but he was not here to fight. He was here to do what heroes were supposed to do: protect people.
. . . . .
Damien swiped with his blade, knocking Drakath's sword out of his hands. He moved in for the final strike, but Drakath leapt forward and grabbed for Damien's blade, straining to tear it from his hands. The brat was surprisingly strong, and they both fell to the ground, wrestling for the blade. Damien felt a strong grip on his shoulder, and he was suddenly torn from the melee, his blade spinning out of both his and Drakath's hands as Jonathan kicked the bandit lord in the chest, forcing him to the ground, coughing and hacking as he searched feebly for his sword. "Impossible!" he gasped, finally grabbing hold of his gaudy gilded blade. "You got lucky this time, peasants!"
"Luck had nothing to do with it," Jonathan said proudly, his hand still grasping Damien's shoulder. "And the names are Jonathan and Damien. Remember them."
Damien wanted to strike out and incinerate Drakath right where he kneeled, but the fire in him was gone, all the power and energy vanished as soon as the sword left his hands. And now, Jonathan's firm grip on his shoulder kept him from going after his blade, and he felt too weak to struggle or object. He could only glare at Drakath, wishing his hatred were enough to tear that monster apart.
"Oh, I will…" Drakath coughed out. "You can count on that." His eyes turned to the sky, and he shouted with all the breath he had: "Master, I need you!" There was an explosion of dark power, and suddenly Drakath was gone. Jonathan's grip loosened and Damien slumped to his knees, staring at the spot where the monster who killed his mother had been.