Chapter Eighteen: Unsettling Omens
Avis opened his mouth to swear. Normally Jerrod would force him into a sparring bout whenever he uttered profanity; the Cleric said that he had to be at least thirteen years old to use those words. But this time, despite still being a little over one year short of his mentor's cut-off age, the boy couldn't help himself.
The reason he was going to swear was because there was a giant fist of super-compressed dirt rushing straight towards him. But before the young Mahjarrat even had the chance to speak, the earthen fist crashed into him, sending him flying.
Avis slammed into a tree and slid down to the ground, pinpoints of light dancing before his eyes. When he wiped his nose, his hand came away bloody.
"What in hellfire was that?" Jerrod thrust his face into that of his pupil, his fiery temper blazing in his eyes. "Unless standing there like a half-brained lout was what you were planning ahead of time?"
"I froze, alright?" Avis picked himself up, spitting a globule of blood out of his mouth. "I can't do it. I just can't do it!"
"You can do it," Jerrod straightened up and stepped back, taking up an offensive position once more. He gestured for his pupil to do the same. "You may learn many times faster than a normal mage, but that still doesn't mean you're not going to have to bleed to get to the top. Now assume your stance."
"You don't understand!" Avis exclaimed. "We've been at it for a week, trying to spar with Earth, and I can barely throw a handful of pebbles! At least with Water I was able to master the most basic forms, by now, but Earth is…it's just…it's different."
Jerrod let out a quiet sigh and relaxed his stance. "Interesting…" he murmured, momentarily losing himself in thought. He then returned to his senses, saying to Avis, "Go and get a fire started. We'll eat dinner early, today."
For almost every single day since Jerrod had brought Avis to the Virid Swamp, he had worked the boy to the bone throughout the morning and afternoon, stopping only for a small lunch break. But the past few months of Avis's life had comprised of little more than sparring and sleeping.
So when Jerrod suddenly stopped training in the middle of the afternoon and basically said that they would take the rest of the day off…well, it was a little surprising.
Still, Avis did not question why Jerrod wanted to break for the rest of the day. He decided to just be grateful for the unusual change of routine and leave it at that.
While Jerrod ventured out into the woods to get their dinner, Avis gathered twigs and dead branches for the fire. After he accumulated a good armful of firewood, he returned to their quasi-campsite.
Avis had watched his teacher use Fire to light campfires in the past. Usually all the Cleric would do was to shower the dry leaves and kindling with sparks, which would in turn light the rest of the wood. When Avis lit the fire, however, he was forced to use a piece of flint and a steel ring, like a common man without the ability to use magic. During his earlier days of traveling with the Cleric, Avis always used to crouch by the fire, hold his hands over the kindling, and try his utmost to invoke the fourth element.
It wasn't like he was trying to make a wave of fire to burn a forest down—all he needed was a few measly little sparks. But no matter how hard he tried, he just wasn't able to pull it off. Had he been a human mage, all he'd have to do is draw from the power of a Fire runestone, or—in Jerrod's case—an elemental staff, fueling the spell with his own energy. But he wasn't a human mage. He was Mahjarrat. The power was already inside him…and unless it was Awakened, he would never be able to invoke it. It occurred to him that perhaps all Mahjarrat had to undergo their own personal journey to Awaken their powers.
Then again…none of the other Mahjarrat had spent their entire lives thus far believing they were Human. Had Avis grown up the Mahjarrat way—whatever that entailed—he doubted he would have been forced to travel to the elemental temples to jump start his powers. After all, he hadn't needed to visit the Air Temple; he had developed the powers of that particular element on his own, due to his environment and lifestyle.
Failing once again to conjure any Fire, Avis gave a quiet sigh of resignation and pulled out the flint and steel, striking the metal ring several times against the rock, producing a small shower of sparks. It always took several tries before any of the sparks actually caught in the kindling.
When they finally did, Avis bent down almost all the way to the ground and started blowing on the sparks from the side, giving the nascent fire the oxygen it needed to survive. The flames quickly spread to the smaller branches after several puffs of air.
The pale-skinned boy stopped feeding the fire before he got light-headed and crawled over to a nearby boulder, resting back on the rock. He stretched out his legs and pulled off his boots, resting his feet close to the fire's warmth.
Soon, Jerrod returned from the woods. He carried a pair of dead rabbits and a handful of small, jade-green leaves. "We're in for a treat," the Cleric said, dropping one of the leaves into Avis's lap before sitting on the opposite side of the fire. "Found some Northerner's Weed out there—very good for the belly. Used to grow in every ditch, once upon a time, the old folks would say…unfortunately, it's become something of a rare find, these days."
Avis sniffed the leaf and tasted a small piece of it. It tasted slightly peppery, but still managed to leave a refreshing aftertaste.
Jerrod reached into his satchel and pulled out the rest of his herbs and cooking gear. He fashioned a cooking pot out of Earth and filled it with water, which he had extracted from a nearby stream, keeping it hovering around one of his hands until he had completed the pot.
Jerrod drew a small knife and set about skinning and preparing the two rabbits for the stew which he was about to make. He cooked the rabbits while the water heated up. The water was ready by the time the Cleric was done, and he started adding the appropriate seasonings.
Avis watched his teacher prepare dinner. Once the stew was finished, the Cleric filled his two wooden bowls, passing one of them to his pupil. Jerrod did not speak while he prepared dinner, nor did he speak while he ate. He had come to love dinnertime during his earlier travels with Athellenas. In that regard, one of the things he had always abhorred from those days was when he was interrupted in the middle of their evening meal. And it had happened more often than he would have liked.
Avis did not know why he did not dislike his teacher. Jerrod was usually sarcastic and gruff with him, he was ruthless during their sparring bouts, and he worked the boy to the bone every single day. He had even broken Avis's jaw during one of those practice duels. Of course, although he was ruthless and demanding, he was not cruel. And unlike Saradomin, Jerrod seemed to care about him more as an actual person—not as a mere tool to use against Chaos.
But regardless of his strengths and weaknesses, Avis had to admit that Jerrod was an excellent cook. Dinnertime was quickly becoming his favorite part of the day, too.
After he finished his stew, Jerrod took out his small, shiny wooden Badb pipe and lit it, taking a puff of the sweet-smelling pipeweed smoke. The pipe had once belonged to Farrah al-Ibn—the old Menaphite who had raised Avis from infancy. Farrah had given Jerrod the pipe as a parting gift when the Cleric had gone to Ullek to get Avis away from Thammaron's hordes.
Jerrod rested back against a tree, setting his empty bowl aside, turning his gaze back to his pupil. Then, at long last, he began to speak of what had been on his mind, earlier. "Elemental magic is the most powerful and basic form of magic," he said to Avis, pausing to take another puff from his pipe. "A mage is able to use and master all four elements. However, as you know, each person has his or her own natural element; an element that is in tune with their soul and personality. It is always easier for a mage to use his natural element than it is for him to use any of the other three. But there is a flipside to this—each element has its opposite. Much like North is opposite to South, or East to West."
"So a person has an even tougher time mastering the opposite of his natural element?" Avis asked, opening his mouth and speaking even before he realized it.
"I'm still going to remind you that you interrupted me, again," Jerrod grunted. "But I'll leave it at that because you are correct. My natural element, as you know, is Water. Fluidity, adaptation, flexibility. I didn't have too much trouble mastering Wind and Earth…but I had a devil of a time trying to master Fire."
"If your natural element is Water, why do you use Fire so often?" Avis queried, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"Because, as an element, it posed the biggest challenge to me. If I used only the elements I was comfortable with, I would be crippling myself as a mage. It would be like exercising only your strongest muscles, while leaving your weakest to atrophy," Jerrod replied. He then hesitated for a moment before adding, "Also because it's bright and it burns things."
Avis's brow creased in a slight frown. He could never really tell when his mentor was joking.
Jerrod took another puff from his pipe, blowing a perfect smoke circle into the air. He watched the smoke circle rise and disperse for a few seconds before continuing. "Neither Wind, Water, nor Earth are your natural elements, as we've seen, which means your element is Fire. Not surprising, considering what—who you are," the Cleric remarked. "What makes this interesting is that, even though your natural element is Fire, you did not have too much trouble with Water, Fire's opposite. I believe you are having trouble with Earth because of your childhood. Fire may be your natural element, but your life in Ullek developed your proficiency not with Fire, but with Wind. And Earth is Wind's opposite."
"O-kay…" Avis cleared his throat, mentally sorting out what the Cleric had just said. "I can't hurl rocks because I spent my childhood blowing wind. Got it. So, how do we…uh, fix that?"
"It all has to do with the style, with the nature of the element," Jerrod explained. "Your natural element is Fire. I've observed your fighting style; quick, relentless, aggressive strikes. Perfect for your element. You grew up as a thief, however. Your lifestyle required you to be formless. Too fast to pin down. Evading your enemies and tiring them down was how you survived."
"I guess that makes sense…"
"But consider Earth, now. Earth is everything Air is not," Jerred reiterated. "Earth is solid. It is stubborn, unyielding, resolute. You've lived as a thief for too long, boy. If you want to master Earth, you're going to have to learn to hold your ground when necessary."
"Holding my ground?" Avis arched an eyebrow—a habit he had started to pick up from his teacher. "Are you saying I have to become hopelessly stubborn to levitate rocks?"
"It is an issue of confidence," Jerrod clarified. "You need confidence to master the elements. You yourself said, not two hours ago, that you could not use Earth. That translates to, No, Jerrod, I don't have the confidence I need," the Cleric spoke in a mockingly high-pitched voice, earning a dirty look from his pupil. "You don't need to remake your personality to master Earth…you simply need to discover more of it."
The Cleric hesitated, taking several more puffs from his pipe. After he gently exhaled another lungful of smoke, he said, "Perhaps I have been going about your training in the wrong manner. Perhaps it was a mistake to have you start out by dueling with Earth. You'd managed with Water, so I'd hoped…" the Cleric then shrugged and straightened back up against his tree. "Well, in this case, you'll have to learn to crawl before you can walk."
"Fun."
"Very fun. Now if I were you—and I thank the Gods every day that I am not—I would try and get some rest," Jerrod exhaled another breath of smoke. "We'll be quickening our pace, tomorrow. Eight leagues east of here is a town called Agoras. I know a blacksmith there, and we can get you fitted with a proper blade. If we keep our feet light and swift, we should be able to make it there by dinnertime."
Avis took this news in stride. Basically, his mentor was saying that they were going to be walking all day tomorrow. Walking was good. Walking all day meant no sparring, which in turn meant no more bruises or broken bones, for the next day at least. His jaw still ached every once in a while, an uncomfortable reminder of the time Jerrod had shattered it with the pommel of his sword.
"G'night," Avis murmured as he curled up on the ground near the fire, laying down his pack and using it as a pillow. He was asleep within half a minute of closing his eyes. This was yet another skill the boy was honing during his travels—the ability to fall asleep anywhere, anytime. Not that he had much practice falling asleep at any time of the day, however; Jerrod kept pushing him hard all day long.
The Cleric listened to the sounds of the forests. It was the ides of Novtumber—still mid-autumn—so the crickets and the other critters of the woods had not yet gone into their winter sleep. Soon, the chirruping and skittering were joined by the sound of Avis's breathing as he sank deeper into his sleep.
The corner of Jerrod's mouth twitched upwards in a faint half-grin as he reclined back against his tree. He breathed out another puff of smoke, tightening his mouth and trying for another smoke ring. He did not quite get it, though, and by then the pipeweed in the bowl was finished. The older man gave a weary sigh and tapped the residue out of the chamber and stowed the pipe back into one of his inner pockets.
This was one of the Cleric's favorite parts of the day and night, after dinnertime, of course. After the boy was fast asleep, the best thing for Jerrod to do was relax—something he had become quite adept at in the decade he had spent living as a hermit. The Cleric gave a quiet sigh, watching the fire dwindle down into smoldering embers. He held up his hand and drew upon the elemental energy of his nearby staff, conjuring a small flame over his palm. He flexed his hand, weaving the mote of fire in between and around his fingers. The idea of burning himself did not even cross his thoughts as he absent-mindedly twirled the fire.
For a while, the Cleric made no sound, remained perfectly still. The only movement about him was the diminished firelight reflected against his stormy gray eyes. Starting to feel the chill of the night with the absence of the fire's heat, Jerrod reached back and pulled his cowl over his head, casting his face into shadow.
The aging man lost himself in memories of old adventures and battles, scrapes with the monsters that dwelled beyond the River Salve, beyond the Wilderness borders. The Cleric rarely allowed his thoughts to wander on such tangents, but every once in a while he could not help himself. He thought back on the wild, bloody mess that had been his childhood and youth, his days of living off the land while traveling with Athellenas. The two of them had made quite a team—the vast majority of their exploits were not known to the common populace…and they probably never would be. Some secrets were best left as secrets.
Jerrod had devoted his life to the Church of Saradomin, and to the Centralian Empire. Together with Athellenas, he had neutralized threat after threat, always in a state of constant vigilance, protecting Centralia's borders, as well as the welfare of the Church. And he had done a magnificent job of it, too. Jerrod the Lightbringer was still a name that was known throughout the lands. And so, it sometimes confused him when he looked for the pride he had in these accomplishments…and instead found emptiness.
The Cleric had no wife, no children. He did not remember his family—they had been killed during the destruction of Harrow's Stead, the town Jerrod had been born in, at the hands of the Mahjarrat Hazeel. He was raised to adolescence on Entrana, trained in the ways of the Paladin when his magical prowess was discovered. From there, it was on to the second act of his life; his and Athellenas's self-declared war against darkness, which ended after he went on to become the youngest ever Priori of the Church. Later came the clash of beliefs with his fellow Priori, the disagreements, the rifts…and then the exile. Eleven years spent living in the Virid Swamp...
There was the sound of skittering, coming from behind the Cleric. He did not have to turn around, for its source—a bushy-tailed red squirrel—scampered past the middle-aged man, sniffing around his satchel, no doubt able to smell the herbs that were being kept inside.
A strange thing, Jerrod mused to himself, to do as much as I have, to see as much as I have seen… And yet still feel a measure of dissatisfaction. In a way, even a common farmer with a loving family…even a common farmer has still experienced more than me.
Jerrod arched an eyebrow at the squirrel, who was still pawing at his satchel, searching for food. "What about you, eh?" he asked the squirrel. "Do you think I've wasted my life?"
The red squirrel actually broke off its search to glance at the Cleric for a moment. It then seemed to give up trying to rifle through the satchel, skittering over to the pack that Avis was using as a pillow. Jerrod followed its progress, and as he glanced at the boy's sleeping form, his earlier thoughts simply seemed to melt away.
The past no longer mattered. No, his life had not been a waste, a struggle against futility. Regardless of how he felt about his prior deeds, the Cleric had now been given a purpose. According to the Prophecy, Avis was supposed to end this seemingly-endless war. If that prophecy was accurate, the world's fate rested with the boy…and the boy's fate rested squarely with the Cleric. This was the culmination of all the experiences of his youth—after all, who would be better suited for the task of training a Mahjarrat than a man who had quite literally spent his entire life thus far fighting darkness? And even more important; a man who had spent his entire life thus far fighting darkness...and who had survived.
"You're getting sloppy, old man…" Jerrod murmured. "And you lecture the boy for not having control over himself… Perhaps you should follow your own teachings."
The Cleric chuckled to himself, rising to his feet. He stared into the embers for another few seconds before lifting his booted foot and stomping them out.
Avis opened his eyes to darkness, shaken from his dreams by his mentor. The boy blinked several times, trying to will away the weariness. He noticed the absence of the usual faint daylight and grumbled quietly as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Why're we getting up so early? It's not even dawn, yet…"
"It's sunrise, actually," Jerrod corrected his pupil, sliding his pots into his satchel. "Clouds are blocking out the sun. Storm's coming…big one, by the looks of it. Could even be unnatural."
"Unnatural storms?" the boy remarked. "Can't be a good sign."
The Cleric had to agree. His thoughts turned to Athellenas, wondered how the Centralian Warmaster was faring. He had heard tales of disturbing happenings in the Hallowlands to the east, but nothing more than rumors and gossip. It was high time he learned what was happening in the world around him—his time spent training Avis had put them in a state of isolation. Perhaps it would soon be time to break that pattern, especially since their current route took them very close to the River Salve, Centralia's eastern border.
It was not until long after sunrise that the daylight was able to penetrate the clouds, lightening the black veil in the sky to a dark shade of grey. Avis and Jerrod hiked through the forests for several hours straight, pausing only for a quick lunch in a glade they happened to pass through. By mid-afternoon, they emerged onto a road—a dirt road, obviously; paved roads existed only in the cities.
The road was devoid of travelers. Again, this was nothing out of the ordinary; the Stellantae Province, which encompassed the northeastern reaches of the empire, was rather lightly populated. The only real population centers in the province were its capital, Saranthium, and the smaller city of Avarrocka. The rest of the province's inhabitants comprised of hunters and trappers, woodsmen, and a handful of what had to be the hardiest farmers this side of Tethys.
Still, though…considering this road ran to Avarrocka, Jerrod found some small measure of surprise when they came across no other travelers after another few hours. The route was deserted.
Overhead, the clouds hung heavy in the sky, almost as if they were about to collapse and fall to the earth. Far to the east, the clouds looked almost black in comparison to the grey veil over Stellantae. Faint flickers of lightning could be spotted if one was patient enough to gaze closely at the horizon for a short while.
The more Jerrod glanced at the weather, the more it unnerved him. His earlier guess that the storm was unnatural had been just that; a guess. But now he was beginning to think that he had actually been right. And, though he was no fortune-teller, he did not need a master of divination to tell him that unnatural storms probably did not mean anything good.
It had to be getting close to evening by the time Avis and Jerrod drew near to Agoras. It was always more difficult to tell the time on days as cloudy as this, but Cleric was still able to make a good guess.
"We'll be reaching Agoras within the hour," Jerrod said. "We'll head to one of the inns and see about acquiring a room for the next two or three nights. Now, this is our first time in a population center since Aeriose…you remember the old drill?"
"Everyone who lives there is a Zamorackian spy who wants to gut me in my sleep, so don't wander off by myself and let Jerrod do all the talking, because Jerrod knows best," Avis sighed, reciting the exact words Jerrod had said to him before they had entered Aeriose, down in the southeast, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "Would you like to hold my hand, too?"
Jerrod aimed a cuff at Avis's ear, but the boy brought his left arm up out of reflex, batting the Cleric's hand away. Even as his hand was knocked aside, the Cleric whipped his other hand around and seized Avis's wrist. He jerked the boy forward and spun him around, wrapping an arm around his neck in a chokehold, holding him fast for a few seconds…then he released the boy, but not before landing a powerful flick to the temple.
Avis sucked in a breath through his teeth, massaging the sore spot on his left temple, falling back into step with his mentor. "Did you really have to do that?"
"No," Jerrod answered evenly. He then shrugged, adding, "But you gave me lip. You do realize that if you give me lip, I am obligated to inflict some form of pain in response?"
"I think I figured that out by the end of the first week," Avis nodded.
"Aye, that you did," Jerrod rumbled with laughter, recalling with some measure of amusement Avis's first days of training in the Virid Swamp. Sure, perhaps he had failed to completely pacify the boy's more rebellious streaks…but he damn well had taught him a thing or two about fighting for his life. Even now, the Cleric was reasonably confident that his pupil could easily outmatch the vast majority of magic-users in Gielinor with the sheer, raw energy that was pent up inside him.
And they were only halfway there. Until Jerrod could devise a way to make Avis face his enemies head-on, the boy would continue to struggle with the use of Earth…and he had not even been Awakened at the Fire Temple, yet. Although Jerrod suspected that Avis would not have any trouble with Fire; it was, after all, the young Mahjarrat's natural element. But still…he had not been completely Awakened yet, and time was running against them.
The town of Agoras was built in an open meadow, next to a large lake. Farmers tended to the lands surrounding the actual town—it was a combination of the wares of these farmers and the goods yielded from the lake that kept this town fed. Jerrod also believed they dabbled in the lumber business, and their metalworking was pretty satisfactory as well.
Teacher and student emerged from the thick of the woods into the outskirts of town, which was simply open farmland, dotted with the occasional house. Or, rather, dotted with the occasional ruin that had used to be a house. They had emerged from the woods onto the crest of a gently-sloped ridge, which gave them a fair view of Agoras and the surrounding acres of farmlands. They could see the columns of smoke still rising into the sky—most of the farmhouses had been destroyed, and a few of the actual farms had been put to the torch as well.
The smell of burned crops still hung heavy in the air. Though the clouds overhead continued to thicken, the wind had yet to pick up, so the smell was here to stay.
Jerrod and Avis stopped dead in their tracks as they took in the sight of the devastated farmlands. "What happened here…? Were they attacked by bandits?" Avis murmured quietly, if only to break the silence. Getting no response, he looked up at Jerrod. "Master? What do you think?"
The Cleric's glance flitted upwards toward the storm clouds again, then back down to the fields. "I am at a loss," the older man admitted, absentmindedly scratching his beard. "Bandits in this region are not exactly uncommon, but they usually stick to fleecing merchants on the roads, as we have already seen. Raiding a homestead would be bold for them. Attacking a town?" Jerrod sighed, shaking his head. "No. Agoras is small, but it is not that small. And it possesses walls. But then that begs the question: if bandits are not responsible for this…who is?"
There was only one way to find out.
Saying nothing more, Jerrod and Avis set off down the slopes of the ridge into the fields. It took a little less than an hour's walk to reach the town's walls, moving at a brisk pace. They continued, unmolested, until they reached the town gate, which was shut. Unusual to have a main gate closed during the daytime…but the attacks of the unknown assailants, the ones who had burned the homesteads…that was rather unusual, as well.
"Hold fast!" a booming voice, layered with the smooth, almost nasal Forest Accent, which graced most who lived in the northeast. A flaxen-haired man stood on the ramparts over the main gate, longbow in hand and drawn, arrow nocked and aimed straight at the Cleric. Even under the helm that he wore, his drooping mustache was still visible. "That is far enough, stranger."
Jerrod exhaled sharply through his nose, subtly tightening his grip on his staff. In his voice, however, he betrayed nothing of his inner tension. "The hospitality of Agoras appears to have lessened since last I came," the older man remarked.
The mustachioed man on the ramparts did not lower his bow. "When last you came, our citizens were not being slaughtered by creatures of darkness," he retorted. "I am sure you noticed the subtle differences in the landscape, when you crested the ridge?"
Jerrod gave a grunt to the affirmative. "I noticed," he replied, making a note of the archer's words for future reference. "Your caution is well-understood, but, in this case, unnecessary. We have business in your town."
There was another hesitation from the archer. He said something, but it was too quiet for Jerrod to pick up his words. A second man appeared on the ramparts, and the two archers conversed for a brief moment. The first man did not take his gaze off the Cleric, to his credit. After the second man retreated, the mustachioed archer addressed Jerrod once again.
"So you say… What business, then, would you have within our walls? Speak quickly."
Jerrod knew that the guard could have simply told him to bugger off, so the fact that he was actually taking some measure of interest in the Cleric's motives was a good sign. If he allowed them entry, it would save Jerrod and Avis the effort of having to sneak in later at night.
"I am known to your blacksmith, a man named Reyton," Jerrod explained. "I would solicit his service in acquiring a new blade."
"You travel from the direction of Avarrocka; why would you not procure a new weapon for yourself in the city?" the archer still did not sound entirely convinced, but it was honest questioning, now, in the place of blunt skepticism.
Fortunately, Jerrod had an honest answer for that question, too. "Reyton once served in the Legions as a weapons master. I would trust him over a stranger in a large city."
Another silence.
Then, "Very well, you may enter. Be warned, however; this will be reported to our Magistrate, and he will confirm your claims with Reyton. If there is dispute…there will be consequences."
"Gratitude," Jerrod bowed his head slightly in thanks as the archer signaled for several unseen men to open the gate, which they did, laying bare the way into Agoras. The older man glanced down at Avis, meeting the boy's gaze. "Well done on the whole 'keeping your mouth shut' routine. Well done, indeed. Now let us go…warm beds and a hot meal await."
And with that, teacher and student fell back into step with one another and crossed the threshold of the main gate, paying no attention as it boomed shut behind them, sealing Agoras off from the outside world once more.