Author's Notes
Onrac is the city with the Sea Shrine, where you fight the Water Fiend, Kraken. That's not important to my story, just reminding people which city we're talking about for those that have played the game. Unlike Jrist, which is also featured in this chapter, I did not make Onrac up.
Lux Aeternaby
Steven Mayo
Book I ~ The Meager
Chapter 8 ~ The Love Below Pt. Two
The great cat-like beast marked the boundaries of its cage by walking in incessant, hungry circles, always staring out with its grim yellow eyes. It was monstrously large for a cat, even for a tiger, whose shape it most distinctly resembled, and all muscle, as any of its ferocious lunges into the metal bars made clear. They were bending just slightly. Along with its extraordinary size the tiger had two front canine teeth over six inches long, with both inner ridges and points as sharp as any forged blade. But perhaps most amazing of all was the creature's fur, not that it was too fine or bushy, the pelt would not be a waste but not suitably luxurious either, but that it was an incredibly peculiar hue of dark purple, with deep black spots running laterally over the back and hind legs. In the night the tiger would blend well enough with the shades of jungle canopy, but under the sunlight one could not ignore the brilliant violet sheen of its coat. Black panthers had been seen often enough hunting on the edges of the Onrac forest, but never a beast of this color, indeed, never this beast. The purple tiger halted its spiraling march momentarily to press its face up into the bars and stand high on its back legs, letting out a guttural hiss. A hefty metallic clang answered its paws as they collided down with the surface, but the beast did not return to circling. With another hiss it shot its right arm, bearing wide the five inch-long claws, out through the bars and slashed into the grass, reaching as far as it could. And sitting not a foot away, close enough that the slinging dirt and grass splashed onto his feet, was Herrik Gipson. He shook the dirt off his right foot, not even looking up.
Herrik was busy chewing a crude wooden lead pencil between his front teeth, deeply in thought. He wore khaki clothing, light traveling clothes that ironically he preferred when he didn't have to go anywhere, and for the day his glowing red hair was let hang lazily down, as he kept it when it he didn't have to see anybody. Along with the pencil he had only a thick journal, with pages bent and folded with wear. It was open to a mostly empty page opposite a page filled with a sketch of the caged tiger. Written across the top in Herrik's professional hand, as he called it, was the word Sabertooth. He seemed to take no heed of the snarling creature's attacks and growls, but only sat like tree stump, lost in his thoughts. Eventually he concluded on something to say and wrote down in the journal, rather small and sheepishly,
Only eats meat.
He wasn't very good at this part of things. Passionately he could orate every idiosyncrasy of any animal he'd met, listing volumes of facts from average height and weight to attack patterns and habitat, and had become very good at testing for this information when it was not obvious, for instance by offering vegetation to such beasts as the sabertooths, quickly to realize they'd have no taste of it. But he didn't have the patience for written words, or for sketches for that matter, since his realization of the tiger on the page was lucky if it could be called a vague example. All things get better with time he thought to himself whenever he thought about it at all, which was every time he set out to catalogue his thoughts in writing, but in two years of practice there had been no improvement. It just didn't come to him like hunting the creatures did. He recognized this only with sleepless frustration. Annoyed with himself, he slashed through his previous marks and added a new, equally unimportant thought,
Only eats meat. Larger than most tigers.
But Herrik only had to look at those words for a moment before they too were crossed out, the young monster hunter shaking his head in disbelief at his difficulties at what should come so easily. Then finding himself disgusted with everything he'd written down he tore out the page and put the tip of his pencil to the clean one below. Might as well start with the name, he thought.
"Magnificent creature!" said a gentle voice behind him, and with his lips instantly curling into a smile, Herrik turned around to find a short, stocky man in work pants and a white buttoned shirt looking down at him. The man had a face covered with milk-white hair, beard and mustache and countless whiskers, and he wore a flat-top hat with a narrow brim and gray ribbon tied around it. He held a long and wide leather flap used for rolling maps under his right arm. "It really is, Herrik, an astonishing find."
"Professor Maddox, I hoped you'd come by," Herrik said as he stood and shook the old man's hand. "It's more astonishing than you know. The fur, you notice the color of the fur?"
The professor raised his hand as if to make the young man yield, "Herrik, my lad, there's something I want to talk about."
"There's always something you want to talk about, it can wait, it can wait." Herrik was smiling very intently now, and though he had only the one smile he really knew how to use, it injected itself like an infection into any who saw it. He moved closer to the cage and rounded about to give a demonstration.
"But I really would like to discuss this while the time suits us," the professor said.
"The fur, professor, surely you find the color out of the ordinary."
"Well yes, but…" the professor instantly flustered in the face of Herrik's zeal, hard-bitten by his own love of science.
"And had I found him somewhere in the Onrac forest, or even as far off as the Cardian Islands I might have agreed with you, but to find this marvelous beast I had to search the hidden places of the world," Herrik said, to which the professor sighed and let his yielding hands slouch to his sides.
"Hidden places, Herrik?"
"Absolutely. I'll admit I was finally beaten over by the myths of a great monster dwelling in the north lake that feeds the falls and runs into the Onrac River. So I hiked along its path, with a canoe of course, for the trip back, but when I came to the mountain wall it was too steep to climb. But I found something better. A cave, behind the great waterfall, and the walls of this cave run with dark purple stone, identical to the sabertooth's fur."
"So," concluded the professor, not showing signs of surprise, "What would seem nature's folly is truthfully its miracle. Time and again we've discovered this together, lad. I think we should…"
"Oh, but that's not the half of it, professor," Herrik shouted energetically. "Watch, watch!"
Herrik ran over to his journal lying on the ground, shook it up in the air, and scooped up the small flat mirror that fell out. When he stood upright he spun his head in towards Professor Maddox and gave a boyish grin, to which the professor only shook his head acceptingly. And then Herrik called out:
'Hey! Hey!" and the giant, fanged tiger perked its ears and stopped circling once more. It scrunched its eyes menacingly, filled with hatred. Herrik looked up quickly and found the sun, and then he held the mirror low and cast the white rays into the cage over the face of the sabertooth. The purple cat looked confused for a moment, but then it blinked tightly and turned away, annoyed.
"What did you notice about the eyes, professor?"
"What was I supposed to notice, Herrik?" questioned the professor right back, eager to finish this up and get to his topic which he felt quite dire. Herrik realized this, but didn't show that he cared.
"The eyes didn't reflect the light."
"Sun's bright today."
"Professor, cat eyes glow in the dark and they shimmer under bright light. Every one I've ever dealt with has been that way, check the journal if you like." The professor did not check the journal. "So why, professor, why would this cat, and a cave dweller at that, not require darkvision or at least low-light vision?"
Against all the responsible powers in his body Professor Maddox could not ignore the question, it stuck him as precisely as would a blade, and he rummaged through his tired brain for the answer, returning with nothing but mystery.
"It is a strange scenario," said the professor.
"I thought so too," Herrik responded, happy to have found the man's interest, "but the answer, now that's really amazing! Come on, come on!"
Herrik tugged hard at the professor's arm, and caught off his balance, the professor hopped over on his left leg and dropped the leather flap, which fell into the soft dirt with an impressive thud.
"What? Have you got every map from the college in there?" Herrik said mindlessly as he pulled the old man behind a slab of wood that was propped up just by, long and wide enough to completely cover them from view. The red-haired monster hunter quickly sparked up a flame in a pile of roughage that had clearly already been prepared and once it began to climb he threw a long stone over it.
"Let's give things a few seconds to die down," he said. "Now, this works better at night but you should find this suitable enough." The professor only widened his hands in a gesture of agreement, acknowledging the futility of trying to stop things now that the young boy had really gotten into it.
"Ready," said Herrik. He grabbed a short-handled, wide-bladed shovel that was laid down next to the plank and held the blade up above the top of the wood. He bounced it a little, and swayed it back and forth, never letting much more than the top of the handle breech over the rim of the plank, but there was no apparent reason for it. By the time he brought the shovel down, the professor had gone to itching his plump, sunburned nose and wearing a face of confusion.
"Nothing right?" Herrik asked rhetorically, "Well, how about this?"
Then Herrik lifted his hand above the rim of the wooden plank and spread out his fingers, and then proceeded to bounce and sway it around just as he had the blade of the shovel. The professor wanted to find a sterner way to indicate his confusion, but then the sabertooth in its cage about ten yards away started to growl, beginning with an upset hiss. It spit and yelped a few times and finally settled for growling from its chest, and then the silence fell once more, and likely it had returned to frustrated pacing. Herrik looked at the professor intently, knowing just what he would say, but wanting to hear it first.
"So the instinctual animal can recognize foe from … gardening tool. I wish you would just tell me…"
"Not quite, professor, not quite. Now watch."
Herrik grabbed the long stone, which actually represented a shovel in its basic dimensions, out of the fire with a thick cloth and, as he had everything else, held it above the lip of the wooden barrier. Within instants, the angered sabertooth set to his snarling once more.
"It's heat, professor! It sees heat! Even in the middle of summer a canyon breeze would mist the cave I found cool to the skin, and no manner of camouflage from any prey could hide it from a hunter that sees body heat."
Professor Maddox was suddenly struck with a sad feeling, one of severed attachment and abandonment that he had trouble curbing. He did not allow it to show. He tried to voice affirmation.
"It's," and he paused for effect, shaking his head, "It's a remarkable discovery, Herrik. Really remarkable!" Herrik laughed brightly.
"Thanks!" Herrik jumped to his feet, pressed out the small fire, and walked over towards the cage, ignoring the tiger's attempts at slashing him. The professor stood and then picked up the heavy leather flap he dropped. He stood for a moment watching the young man, just a month over twenty, as he walked around the cage, speaking random things. The sour feeling within was so difficult to decipher. He understood at least his affections for the boy, the father-like affections the entire town had developed for the strange red-haired kid that could master any beast. It was such a terrible burden watching him go. Then, feeling almost sick with a sudden urge to out with his concern, the whole reason he'd come, the professor approached.
"I plan to see if the curator will let me have one of the monstrous iguanas..." Herrik was saying, "...from the reptile exhibit to test its sight with a cold-blooded creature. Maybe its sense of smell is also…"
"Herrik, what day is it?" asked the professor with definite force.
"Huh?" was all the Herrik gave back, but he did stop and look.
"What day is today? The date?" Professor Maddox asked again, standing still and trying to be tall.
"You come all the way out here to ask me that?" Herrik said jokingly. "Let's see, I left on the seventh, so ..." He counted days off on his fingers.
"The thirteenth," he finally said.
"Fifteenth, Herrik. It's the fifteenth." The professor remained still, and the young man cocked his head slightly, half-confused, half-looking for the point. "You were out for two days; doc didn't think you were going to make it this time."
"Out for two days?"
"Do you remember, Herrik? Do you remember bringing that monster into town with only an inch of life left? Do you remember collapsing just before the tavern fountain? Anything?"
Herrik was startled and uneasy. He walked over to the professor slowly, bewildered.
"Collapsed?" he questioned distantly.
"That creature, the tiger, must've put up a fight, more than even you could handle."
"But I don't feel injured." Herrik was looking around not only his body but the grounds, as if he was scanning for a charging enemy. Out for two days? It was completely blank. The vast expanse of the Onrac field suddenly felt small, and he paranoid.
"Yes, yes, but you never do. Time and again you've proven to us your threshold for pain, and poor Doctor Thane could make his life's work of your incredible resiliency, but I must again urge your caution. Whether you feel it or not this dangerous lifestyle of yours has repercussions. Life threatening ones."
"I ... I don't remember any of it."
"We'll let that speak for itself." The professor patted the young man on the back, who then knelt down by his journal and became stationary. When the professor knelt down beside Herrik, wincing at his painful joints, he was heartbroken by the incredible look of loss drawn on Herrik's face. It certainly appeared that more than two days had just been stolen from the lad. He ruffled his beard in his hand and thought of what he could say.
"Look, Herrik my boy, your contributions to this institution, to this entire city, have been and continue to be incredible. You have a gift, and more raw talent for what you do than anybody I've ever heard of. But more important, Herrik, than these stunning creatures you bring to the institute, is you. Onrac would rather have you than animals to fill up its zoo and bring tourists. Your coming was mysterious to us, but now your presence is too endeared to be broken by the claws of some beast. This thing you do. People rally around you for it, your drawing power is unquestionable. Don't let it be the end of you."
Herrik felt both obliged and grievous, almost drawn to tears. He ran his hands through his long, red hair a few times and remained silent on is kneeling legs. He didn't want to hear what he was afraid the professor was really trying to say.
"You mean for me to stop?" he asked lowly, his voice depressingly sullen. And to this Professor Maddox found a warm and friendly smile.
"No, my boy, of course not. I don't make your decisions. I was just worried, that's all. Caution is what I mean." The professor stood and patted Herrik once more on the back. He stretched his old spine with a groan. "Why, that'd be like taking your life away myself. You're a bright kid, and filled with an uncommon zest for life. The joy you put into everything you do revives this old man's heart, but the love below, Herrik, the love below is in your animals. We all know it, and we want you to remember that though it be love, it's not worth dying over, not when the reward is better. So caution, that's all I came to say."
The young man kneeling on the soft grass now looked as if he himself had just been revived and given a golden world to rule. He brought out that perfect smile of his and beamed it out to the old man standing above him.
"I will, professor, I will," he said, and was then struck with a desire to flip through his long journal. All those many adventures and bested monsters, still there to last, not going away. He sailed through every encounter with vivid memory, and for the moment didn't even get down on himself when he saw the jagged, hasty lines of his amateur sketches. He realized one instant that he couldn't remember a time when he'd felt more proud of his work, and he forgot the foreboding gap covering the past two days of his memory. He felt bulletproof. It was more than a few minutes before he realized the professor had not gone, had not even budged, actually. He looked up.
"I wish you would let us pay you," the professor said.
"Not that again! My answer's always been no. We both know that I don't need money."
"But we need to give you money. It would make everybody more comfortable, to alleviate some of the liability, I think."
"But at that point it would be a job, professor," Herrik said, standing and throwing down his journal and pencil. "And a job just isn't how I feel about it. The love below, right? It's in the animals. What could money do? Besides, I get my rewards, something better than gold."
"I know, my boy, I know. You do it for us, and that's commendable, but why not can we do something for you in return?" The professor had done his best to maintain a calm, fatherly, and scholarly voice. He outstretched his hands to punctuate his words.
"My dear professor, for ten years now you've been all I know of a father," Herrik placed both hands on the shorter man's shoulders and looked in deeply, "You can trust me as you would a son. You do so much more for me than I do for you. You do more than enough."
Without waiting for a facial response, Herrik released and turned back to the sabertooth cage, wanting to place his eyes elsewhere.
"I will not take pay for the animals. The love below."
"Well, you are going to take something," the professor pulled out front the leather flap he'd been carrying and started to untie the middle fasten, "And this is non-negotiable."
"Oh, what's that?" asked Herrik, smirking. He came back around and faced the old man square.
Professor Maddox loosed the flap, and swung it open, revealing in its folds a vibrant, shimmering blade. A longsword, the handle was of intricately carved steel, finished with spirals of blue silver, and the two sides of the hilt were fashioned like dragon heads, the artisan smith accounting for every nook and scale. Metal fire wreathed from their mouths and coursed down the handle to the base where they burst in an octagonal flare of spikes. And the blade itself was a dim and somehow calming aqua, as if to look upon the steel was to look upon tranquility itself. The pulsing aura of the sword ran watery lines over Herrik's face, like the shadows of a dormant sea. And ornately etched along the blade was a name in the glyphs of the ancient language.
"This is Drâco, sword of dragons. The ancient creatures know no greater fear than a blade such as this, but its power goes beyond the winged ones. The might in this sword casts a terror in nature itself when in the wrong hands, but in your hands, will be a just ally. Take it, and master it."
Herrik, already having formed his love of blades for many years past, felt his knees weaken to the brink of buckling as he took the sword by tip and hilt. His breaths became like heavy sighs, his eyes as bright as if he were cast into a star.
"How ... how did you get this?" His voice weak and stammered with awe-found shock.
"A story for another time, Herrik. Put those thoughts aside. Use it now. Drâco will be your servant." The professor summoned from his wise age the full power of eloquence. He stepped backwards with arms spread wide to the side, creating a reach of space before the Dragon Sword's new bearer. "Swing!"
Herrik took the thick hilt, unsure of the random pattern of bulbous blue swirls down the shaft, but instantly it felt as if the handle molded to his hand, fitting his contour naturally, and the sword became light, almost floating in his grasp save for the very tip which seemed to yearn forward and down. Drâco wished to swing itself. Lost in his amazement, Herrik sliced the blade gracefully through the air and felt yet another wave of serenity wash from head to toe, skin to bone, as he heard the delicate song of the vibrating blade.
He took the blade through every formation he knew, beyond impressed at the unique but unquestionably perfect balance of the sword's weight. But a few moves into it he realized that the whistle of the blade was not controlled by how swiftly he swung, but that it was actually singing, the sincere, soft melody of an ancient lullaby. Two thousand years into the past that song had been sung by the mothers of the world's descendants and now once again with glory graced the good earth with vitality. The young monster hunter of Onrac swung that sword until he giggled with delight, until he was singing loudly along with the soaring melody like a boisterous drunk. So ridiculous it seemed from a distance that even the professor laughed heartily. At long last, Herrik finally came down.
"Beyond words, professor, it is truly beyond coherent words." He took it again by tip and hilt and held it up to the professor as if showing off a discovery. "Though, I must admit it is curious that you advise me towards caution and then give me a sword with which to slay dragons."
"Just be sure to slay the dragon instead of trying to capture it, Herrik. That's the caution. I'm quite sure that a blade so fine will keep you safe, whatever choice you make, as long as your choice be for good."
"Well, in that you can always trust me."
"As I always have, my boy," said the professor with one final double pat on the back. "As I always have."
Then Herrik went back to his forms, moving in close to the caged tiger and laughing at the creature's dazed, frightful reaction to the blade. And only yards away, watching with the mien of a goodly king, the old professor revered his knight.
********************
By the time noon had come on the third day, with the sun perched in the gray sky amongst heavy funereal clouds, it seemed the countryside had set its will against the light warriors. The combination of the balmy air, feeling of a sickly moisture as if the morning dew never drifted to the grass, and the quiet, torpid character of the adventurers had tarried their progress to a near crawl. Coming into the northern country they were leaving the relatively lush grounds of inner-Corneria, and so they had found no place better than the dusty roadside to make camp. Sleep was difficult and unsteady for all, and under the bitter memory of the tavern the night before, the day's road gave no absolve. The only warranted condition of travel was the silence, a shadowy vow among them, they starved for no conversation; doubtless a key element in the waning rate of their march, with no one attempting to boost them forward, no talk of spirit. Once the sun hung at three o'clock and the swamp-like, mushy heat of day was unbearable, the promise of an open tavern and a soft bed somewhere in the city of Jrist seemed just a dream.
Darrin Sylum led them, if for no other reason than it felt as if someone needed to be in front and none of the others was willing. But regardless, once there he became territorial of the position, he wanted to be there. Whenever they arrived at the distant Commerce City, he wanted to arrive first, if even by a few meager steps. And pacing those steps next behind him were the young two, Seville and Edrick, whom in the face of such strange feelings realized that paramount was there friendship. If something had been severed between Edrick and the Knight of the Coast over the events at the tavern, and Seville couldn't discern if it had, that something Seville would also have to question. He liked the knight, how could you not? But when times were down, even facing all his knowledge of the clergyman's bumbling disposition, he trusted Edrick. They two were something special in this whole mess, Seville thought. It was happening because of Professor Sylum, and because of Herrik Gipson it would succeed, but plain old Edrick and Seville would go down in the history books. Somehow they were the ones that mattered.
Opposite his usual placement, Gipson trailed, and by more than a usual share of tracks. The spires of his scarlet hair, the only thing that didn't seem to age, were allowed to hang low, unconsciously fitting his low demeanor. So many things on his mind it seemed, but actually it was one thing that was spread over so many parts of his life. So few masked as so many, but so real and comfortable and safe. He'd fight it if he could or wanted to, fighting was all he knew how to do, but eventually, no matter the battle, things were going to change. The priest, Edrick, or Good Edrick, as Gipson found himself calling the lad in his mind, had just as well shot an arrow through him, but he was happy to receive it. Things have to change one day. He thought of how hard life would be for him in the future, and he gripped the handle of a dull silver and blue sword sheathed around his belt, as one might put his hands in his pockets.
Only the recession of the dark clouds just in time to allow the horizon to display its final chromatic flurry of reds and purples gifted the warriors enough cheer to continue when evening came. The pace even quickened a little, finding they had plenty of energy for the circumstances and each of them secretly desiring at least some good effort for the day. As the sunset settled into its fieriest hues, the light warriors even let out a group sigh, wondrously happy to see the large city of Jrist lying humbly on the horizon. So they would make it after all, within the next hour if their newly freshened step held. But, there was one more delay before the first leg of the Lux Aeterna was done.
A strange echoic popping sound surrounded them. They each perked their ears and scanned the circle of their vision, uncertain of whether it came from the western forest or eastern sea. The sound was pronouncedly crisp, but dark and heavy at the same time like an ogre clapping his claps, only sporadic, quick and slow, overlapping bursts. The four men pooled together.
"What is that?" Edrick stammered, worried.
"The sound is foreign to me," said Gipson, and that couldn't be a good thing. As they stood the sound continued its random occurrences, but the volume neither rose nor fell. It was just a distant, stationary sound.
"Master Gipson?" Seville said imploringly, to which the knight looked all around again and then became burdensomely still, feeling the movement of sound. His demeanor was trance-like, near meditation. But then just as quickly his eyes snapped open, and holding a sword firmly by the hilt, he said "This way!" and started jogging north along the line of the forest.
The distance was not so far as the culprit noise made it seem. Careening inward around an abrupt turn west along with the border of the wood, they were nearly plunged into a circular assembly of covered wagons, five from Gipson's immediate count. Slowing and approaching the wide, wagon-enwrapped disc of grass all but the knight was jumping jerkily to each recurring pop, which at this distance was like a medium-pitched boom. They sight before them as they passed between two of the wagons set them aback with mystery and wonderment.
Five traveling peddlers, by their clothes, and a half dozen in day clothes, likely from Jrist, stood in a natural enough gathering but all faced in the same direction, looking out through a wide gap of space that opened on the first woody pillars of the forest. The two front men, both salesmen, lifted long, narrow contraptions up and held them firm to their shoulders, letting the long mouth of the things point to the trees. There was a loud call of "Ready!!!" and instantly followed the shattering crack of noise. Puffs of white smoke released from the cylindrical ends of the odd devices, and jagged splinters burst radially out from the tree trunks, all fast as magic! So fast that a second shot came before the four light warriors had the least registered what happened. After the third display of smoke, destruction, and alarm, the presumed residents of Jrist jumped into happy applause, talking now like a reverent mob.
"Wonderful, wonderful!" the light warriors heard as they moved in closer, "This is gonna change the world!"
"Change the world?" asked Gipson, skeptically.
The salesmen and townsmen wheeled around in surprise and though the people of Jrist stepped back and squinted questioningly, the peddlers instantly went into their act.
"That's what you heard, sir," said a man in festive, magenta cloth, clearly now the leader of them, "And hardly could a truer thing be spoken."
The salesman waved two of his helpers over; they brought the machines. The Jrist-folk continued displaying their distrust of traveler's, but also showed in interest in hearing the pitch once more. It must really be a fantastic product if it can draw people out of a town near evening.
"The roots of our marvelous product began to grow three hundred years ago, a time pitting the fearless brawn of mighty Corneria against Elvish villains from the south. 'Twas the time for which we hold the festival occurring in the capital this very hour. Unfortunately, the battle was turned sour by the Elves' dastardly weapon, the cannon. And fortunately, times have moved passed that, but all is not safe." The salesman was filled with hand motions like a magician feinting the audience before his spell. "Once sewn fields have now fallen into ruin, prosperous sea merchants find themselves landed and grown old as the waves rage with peril, and the king himself has a daughter stolen away. The world had become ensnared by chaos, and only those strong and prepared will survive to see the good times returned."
He stopped there for a pause to let such dire words sink in; Gipson noted dully enough that the tradesman had enthralled the townsfolk once more.
"We, good gentlemen travelers, provide that preparation, and though it may seem late in the coming, it is well early enough that yourselves are not yet considered late."
"Why do salespeople always talk funny?" Seville thought to himself and shifted his weight.
"What do you sell?" asked Sylum, an endless buff for new things, but when he spoke Gipson sighed very quietly and walked around his companions so as to be in the back, vehemently disinterested. Since the knight had been disinterested in everything that day, the group, beyond Seville of course, read no implication off the action and eagerly awaited the salesman's response.
"Perhaps a demonstration will best prove our case, hm?" said the man in magenta cloth, waving to the others.
"We saw your demonstration walking over," Gipson said.
"Ah, but only so close can you respect the ease of the thing. Presenting the Version One Single-Shot Hunting Rifle, or as we like to throw around the campfire, the Hand Cannon, and from loading to firing is less than twenty seconds."
Next to the pitcher, the demonstrator cocked open the long shaft of the rifle and fed in a cylindrical iron pellet with a bead on the end, and then closed the thing back up. He pulled back a switch near the trigger.
"Ready, sir!" he called dramatically, as if it were some military display.
"Pull, and fire at will!"
The man thrust the rifle up to his shoulder and aimed into the trees, found his mark, and shot. At this distance the report of the rifle was ear-splitting, everyone but the salesman and Gipson flinched. Once the smoke had risen slightly into the air and begun to dissipate the man in magenta turned back.
"Marvelous accuracy, marvelous power. You could take down an elephant, or even an Anklo-beast with only two shots, maybe one if your sights are true. All you need is the gun itself, a stock of ammo, and one of our patented cleaning kits , and in your hometown you will forever be acknowledged as Master Hunter. And in dark times like these, when the enemy comes, you will show them power unlike what they have ever seen. Now who could say they've no interest in such amazing science."
"Twenty seconds?!" Gipson broke in with a condescending sneer, "I could have loosed four arrows in that time, man."
"Indeed, your skills with the bow may be very considerable, but the arm of our rifle reaches far beyond the arm of any man and his archaic weapon. Consider this, if you would…"
The leader waved once more to his partners, and one of them quickly loaded his rifle and faced off the opposite direction through another gap in the caravans. He lifted the rifle to the ready position and aimed it at what seemed a tall metal canister set against the backdrop of sea. There were five of the canisters, all in a row with the first on the left knocked over.
"They are filled with superheated water. When the bullet strikes, it will pierce through and vent out a jet of steam, that will be proof of success." The salesman looked rather hard at Gipson, almost a challenge. "That mark is two-hundred and fifty feet away."
The riflemen took time setting his aim, employing the most minor of adjustments, taking long enough that the spectators started noticing sounds like birds and the movement of the winds. But finally, the man depressed the trigger, the booming pop came, smoke misted up into the air, and the second canister from the left sprayed steam out from its midsection and was thus propelled back. The Jrist-folk instantly went into applause, and the lead peddler gave a content look to Gipson.
"Imagine that kind of range on the battlefield, sir traveler."
"Why imagine what I've already seen?" Gipson responded, taking down his bow and pulling out an arrow.
"Your mad, man," said the salesman.
"As is relying on powder that could burst in your face, step aside."
The rifleman gave Gipson his room, and the grand red knight readied his shot. It seemed he was taking the same care as the demonstrator, since the resonant snap of the bowstring did not come as quickly as in Gipson's usual style. But he seemed more in thought than in a mind of target practice, and the predicted coarse of the arrow did not flux. Ending a quiet moment holding everybody on a leash, Gipson lowered the bow and arrow, still looking to the distance. A ridiculous shot of course, but knowing this man, Seville had little doubt of success, so he decided to break in.
"Too difficult for you, Master Gipson?" he joked, and got an even better laugh within when he heard one of the further salesman whisper to his partner "Did he say Gipson?" The knight turned.
"Never, for me, Seville. Too easy, that's all." And then the knight used his smile for the first time all day and pulled out two more arrows.
Feeding them strongly between all fingers but his thumb, Gipson once more aimed his bow, now loaded with three arrows, off towards the canisters. He made the pull quick, set the coarse, and released, as if he were aiming only twenty feet away. Then came that majestic flight through the air, and the complimentary drama, the tongue-holding, breath-stopping awe of anticipation. Something these rifles lacked.
"My god," said the man in the festive clothing, "It looks that they will go over."
"Not quite," Gipson retorted.
The lances of sky started a quick descent, and as they fell every set of eyes in view was for that moment tethered to the success of the shot. Then they struck, and from the top of each standing canister came a feather-white up-shooting geyser of steam, so perfectly from the top that the pressure forced them down into the earth, but did not tip them either way.
"You did not knock them over?!" shouted one of the peddlers.
"No, no, I felt the game needed some challenge," Gipson answered, "So I just nicked off the caps."
"Splendid, Master Gipson, splendid!!!" Seville shouted happily.
A joyful commotion rose up among the townspeople. The clapped and hollered, and one young woman even called for an autograph. The peddlers, however, were tense and paranoid, humbled. They looked between each other, looking for one who could divert the shame, but none of them had a strategy. The man in magenta especially seemed to melt back into the others and disappear from sight.
"And therefore, sir tradesman, we will have to decline your offer for today. I'm all the cannon we'll need," Gipson said, and there started to walk out, almost as if to avoid the voluminous applause of admiration from the Jrist-folk. Even if one of the other light warriors had truly wanted a gun, it wasn't doing to buy now. They each gave a victorious smirk, and quickly followed after the extraordinary bowman.
When they caught up to his rabbit-like stride and tried to speak to him, anything from questions to simple congratulations, he gave meek answers and seemed little interested. In fact, you'd almost think he was sad about the entire event, given the dark and empty stare that lead him forward. They were confused by it; Edrick even was frightened by it. He did not slow until the city was upon them, but then only tried to find an inn. Whatever reason for the sudden haste, the light warriors at least felt that some of their loyalties had been re-sewn even if only weakly so. They somewhat proudly followed the mysterious but great Herrik Gipson, master of all.
An ethereal halo of purple was all that remained of the sunset, and the night's crickets had begun their serenade, but another melody hung on the air, quiet and motherly. It was a calming progression of notes, serene and almost tender, sounding as if it were sung by some lady of the lake. Like a siren song, it drew the tired Seville out from the edge-of-town inn, and he followed the sweet crescendos and vibratos to the grass-line just before the beach. There he found Herrik Gipson sitting alone with his legs crossed and a book pulled before him. Also he swayed a dim watery sword out before him, as gentle as it might sway in a breeze. The weakly pulsing haze of aqua shining off the sword gave him just enough light to see. Seville stopped a moment, considering going away, but since he had come within a hundred feet, the knight already knew he was there.
"Come, come," Gipson said without turning towards, and Seville was greatly relieved to hear the friend in his voice. He walked up quickly to where the knight sat, pressed scattered fragments of reed to the side, and sat next to him. He noticed that the book before Gipson was one of the full-sized monsters manuals. As he got comfortable, Gipson slammed shut the book and scooted it under him.
"Ya know, I don't think it's normal for a sword to sing, you might want to get that checked," Seville said, and the old man chuckled appreciatively.
"This song," and he rested a moment, letting a few bars of the melody pass, "This song was sung in the Ancient times, a simple lullaby. The words, could Drâco sing them, speak of little more than resting beds and gentle stars. It was nothing to them, you see, just a song, not caring that it might be the most beautiful sound in this world over two-thousand years later."
Seville cast interested eyes, but found nothing to say at the moment. Gipson continued to sway the blade and produce the poignant notes, but he talked openly to the young man sitting next to him, taking his free hand to annunciate further.
"The ancients, you see, were masters of knowledge and science, always making discoveries, inventing things, but they placed little precedence in ceremony. Especially, they gave no value to the concept of age. Well, what an odd concept. This world relishes, cherishes its old, its old people, its old things, its old traditions. And here I have the oldest sword in existence singing the oldest song in existence. Can you even imagine such a thing? Over two thousand years ago this blade was forged. And to them, that would be nothing."
"I hadn't taken you as a lore man." Seville said.
"No, and you shouldn't, it's really not my field. But certain things do draw my interest. Old things, for instance."
"Well, the world is filled with the past."
"But it's more than that, Seville, more than that," Gipson said and he spun himself towards Seville to speak more forwardly. He let the sword down to the grass, but the singing continued, for at least a brief moment. "The world is becoming the past. Look at it! The centennial, all those things filling the booths, or that ridiculous display today. People are creating again, they've begun to discover things anew."
"The better to the world then. The ancients are a revered notion." Seville was becoming excited by Gipson's oddly placed passion. The knight was alight with interest, but skewed his words to make them sound more like a warning.
"I suppose so. But now the old will fade, like the Dragon Sword. Its powers have waned for many years now, but even tonight I recognize the hue is weaker still. Things now begin to change."
Seville contemplated a moment, sad to hear such dark comments from a man he'd come to intimately respect. At his last words the knight dropped his eyes down into the grass, like a child might when losing interest. But the down-curved shape of his brow, something he'd never seen from Gipson, was a dire effect on the visage.
"There is more on your mind, Master."
"Many things, Seville, many things." He looked up and traced the faded line of the sunset with his eyes, and then he turned to Seville and looked very deeply in.
"How old do you think I am?" he asked, placing much wait on what Seville felt was a silly question.
"What?"
"How old do you think I am? Seriously."
Seville raised both hands to either side and shook his head questioningly.
"I don't know. I guess I'll go with the professor's choice, forty-five. Seems close, I suppose." To that Gipson laughed out loud, but not meanly, rather, self-approvingly. It was such a self-fulfilling question.
"I'm sixty-seven."
"Impossible!"
"I know I don't look it, and in fact, it doesn't even feel that way, but it's the truth." Gipson never told anybody his age, so what was normally so plain a detail caught Seville back like a strike to the chest.
"There's … there's just no way!"
"Thank you, I know I look good." Gipson smiled warmly, "The hair, especially, should have grayed by now. But my bones are old, and my mind is old."
"How's that? You've got crisper reflexes than anyone I've known, and your hearing is beyond challenge."
"Hunter's training, Seville, that's all. And now my training will prove worthless because the new age is going to forget about me."
Seville, still wracking his brain to discern the old man within the fit knight before him, hated to hear such talk.
"I don't think this age or any age will soon forget the coming of the light warriors, Master Gipson."
"Light warriors?" Gipson asked distantly, studying the white tides with his eyes, "I'm not so sure about all of this, Seville. That vibe I had two mornings back is gone now. We're walking into a trap, I guarantee you."
Seville suddenly became very frightened, shaking at the portentous thoughts.
"Then we will stop!"
"No, we won't stop. We will continue, if we have faith in the good doctor. And I know you have more faith than me."
"Professor Sylum doesn't know anything about adventures, he gets everything out of books!"
"But he believes what he gets out of those books. And I'm ready to trust someone with their beliefs."
"How do you mean?" said Seville, energetic and fearful. His neck was craned inwards and he hung on every dire word of the knight, but Gipson did not respond immediately. He let things settle a little. 'How do you mean, Master Gipson?"
"You will have to keep my age a secret from the others, Seville. That's what I mean. It's an act. Everything's an act."
"Hiding your age, especially in so odd a case, is nothing to lament."
"But it's all an act. The sales pitch I do at the festivals for this damned book," Gipson pulled out the Monsters Manual and threw it away into a high patch of grass, "Or the battle displays. Those rifle salesmen, just an act for them. And you Seville, that little display of yours last night was quite the act. It's all an act. And it's not gonna last, Seville, it's not gonna last. Eventually, the act you put on will go out of style, and it hurts!"
Seville was almost brought to tears, and such emotional weakness angered him. But the great knight's voice was so final, piercing and infinite.
"What has brought this on?"
"Just, everything. Those contraptions selling over in the field, today. Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous. But, that's where things are headed. They will sell; they will become popular, and in a decade nobody will even know what a bow is. I'm surprised it didn't come sooner."
"But you reminded at least a dozen people of just what a bow is today. They won't forget. The world is not ending, Master Knight." Seville grabbed Gipson by the shoulder and spoke loudly, and the knight responded acceptingly.
"Not for all of us!"
"Not for you! You are the Herrik Gipson, the most renowned hunter of all time."
"But it came at a price, Seville, it came at a price."
"What do you mean by these thoughts?!" Seville was frantic.
"I want to give you advice by them, something I've just figured out for myself today."
"Advice?"
"You must learn how to change. Not today if you don't want, I can't chide anyone for taking the easy road, but someday you must learn to change. So that when the world asks it of you, you can do it. I always took the easy road, did what I knew to do to make people like me, and just stuck to it for so long. Never growing."
"Your road was not easy, it was filled with danger, it's all recorded in your book. How can you look away from that? It's vulgar to cast away what people love you for."
Gipson chose another moment to rest from the conversation, and once more Seville could tell that the fragile thoughts were aching in the knight's mind, screaming to get out, but he wouldn't let them. Gipson then turned back towards the shoreline, no longer facing Seville, and pulled out the miniature book tied to his belt.
"My age is not the least comparable to the secret I keep for you, I should tell you a larger one," Gipson said slowly, with much thought on his choice of words. "This book, and others like it, the dragon one, the elemental one … I didn't write them."
"But…"
"You asked me how I ever wrote a book, that night at your godfather's tavern."
"I didn't mean to insult … or … I was just…" Seville just didn't know what to say.
"And the answer is I didn't. I have a ghost writer, he's a very good friend named Maddox."
"But do you lie about the within."
"No, of course not. The information is true, just the presentation is false. Only one thing in here is mine." Gipson flipped open the small book and turned to a page.
"What's that?" Seville found himself more interested in this small piece of information than in the secret he had just learned. Given a few moments for it to sink in he wasn't that surprised. Gipson never did strike him as a writer; it never did seem to fit.
"One sketch, and just this one."
"Sabertooth Tiger?" Seville looked up with a confused brow.
"My favorite monster." Gipson tried his best to smile, but it was little more than a weak grin.
"Well, I don't look down upon you for it. How could I? You've got over a foot on me." And Gipson chuckled to that.
"No, only I look down upon me for it. It's probably the last chance I had to change my life and do something greater with it, but I didn't because I wasn't ready. So just learn to change, Seville, and avoid a pain you can't imagine." Gipson seemed to be finished this, tired of talking and venting. But Seville finally had something he could respond to.
"I know pain, Master Gipson." Seville lifted his right sleeve and revealed the ghost rot inflicted arm, the sores glowing the odd shade of dim purple they always did in the twilight. "And if this is any indication, I may have no more time than you to learn."
Gipson sighed heavily. Not for a single second on the three days of journey thus far had he forgotten about the rot, even when it seemed the others had. Only when Sylum gave Seville his dosage of medicine was it ever brought up.
"How is it?" he asked, sounding wise.
"No pain yet. Professor Sylum's medicine is very good. But I am still afraid of it."
"That's good. It shows your mind is still where it should be."
"You've been very protective of me."
"You've been wise enough to allow it. I can protect you from monsters, but I can't protect you from the world."
"Change, again?" Seville asked, slightly wishing the topic would drift away.
"Change. If we've both no time left, then we will make our last stand together, and my first charge will be to put faith in the professor, after all, we can't prove that he's lead us astray, and the journey is young."
A sudden warning called back to Seville, and under his breath he said, "I would rather you trust in Edrick."
"What's that?"
"Oh, nothing … just thinking of bad dreams."
"Well, stop, you don't want to give yourself another one."
And there the conversation really did halt for along time. For at least half an hour they sat and let the stars open their eyelids so they could glow down onto the sparking ocean. The soothing sound of the waves made them docile, and though the night had contained talk of dire things, they allowed themselves to become comfortable, drifting with the ocean jostle. The night had assumed it full crystalline grandeur by the time either of them moved, and it was Gipson, who chose to rearm fearsome Drâco and once more fill the air with beauteous song. The blade seemed to know that the air was quiet, so it dropped its volume as if not to disturb the sleeping life. If Seville had ever known his mother, he liked to imagine she would have sung such a melody to him in the cradle. Voice now filled with friendly, humorous fervor, Gipson spoke.
"Ya know, if you can get your mind out of legend, this is the greatest sword in the entire world." He smiled.
"Out of legend, Herrik?" It was often dangerous to call a knight by his first name, but finally it felt right and necessary.
"Well, the Dragon Sword can only be bested by a legendary sword," Gipson said to which the young man looked towards intently. "Excalibur, Sword of the King. I don't know which king, and since it cannot be forged without a substance no longer on this planet, I'd say it's a safe bet that mine is the best."
"You're the best for a lot of reasons, knight, I'm sure the sword just goes with package. But can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Your ghost writer, Maddox? He's not … ya know … really a ghost is he?"
Gipson discovered anew that smile he used to push heckler's out of a crowd and said, "Come now, you must let an old man keep some of his secrets."
"But…"
And over the many repetitions of the ancient lullaby the two men, forty-seven years apart, laughed and joked about each of their own adventures. There for a moment, lost in a past filled with so much happiness, they stopped worrying about change's coming. Among your friends, there is no time left for the great design of things.