The Ashenborn Read online

  “Good spar, Seph,” Cordoc said.

  Jakobin smiled. “Perhaps we will fight in the Ashen.” His eyes flashed.

  Selaphiel’s eye brightened. “Our strengths complement each other; we are unstoppable when we are together.” He and Cordoc grasped arms respectfully.

  Jakobin smirked. “But in the Ashen, we will not be fighting beside each other,” he said, pushing off the arena.

  Cordoc nodded. “A truth for both,” he said, examining his bruises. Both his and Selaphiel’s arms were painted with fading marks.

  The attendant chuckled. “My princes, you each did wonderfully. You are each beyond most of Lifesveil’s swordsmen.”

  They valued these words, as he had trained each of them numerous times in the art of deflection, sword fighting, bow mastery, and other skills essential for those called into battle. Most importantly, though, he had taught them how to fight together, utilizing each other’s strengths and covering for each other’s weaknesses.

  Cordoc bowed to Selaphiel, then to the attendant respectfully. “And a most wonderful teacher you have been.”

  Selaphiel agreed.

  The attendant bowed back and said, “All three of you have my blessings, and I wish you the best of luck.”

  Cordoc again thanked him, and they moved into the outer hallway.

  “At least I have a strategy for the tournament,” Jakobin chuckled as they entered the hallway.

  Selaphiel rolled his eyes. “So that is why you watched us.”

  “Always expect Jako to do something to benefit himself,” Cordoc said mockingly. “Here I thought he was a fan of watching us clobber each other.”

  Jakobin looked at them both confidently. “As fun as that is, you can both laugh and make fun, but soon I will be wearing the mask of Archkyris. I won’t have to try very hard to do it either.”

  “There are confident men and then there’s Jakobin,” Selaphiel laughed, realizing his statement rhymed.

  Cordoc shook his head.

  “Speaking of which,” he said, turning to Selaphiel.” “Which dragon mask will you take to represent you?”

  Selaphiel shrugged. “I suppose I’ll pick it according to the hue of my magic.”

  Cordoc turned to Jakobin. “What about you?”

  “Red, of course.”

  “Well, I guess that leaves blue for me,” Cordoc said. “We never really vary from what is normal. Maybe one day we will do something unexpected of us.”

  “Maybe,” Jakobin said.

  Zarx’s muscular frame rounded the corner ahead of them, and upon seeing the princes, the general shook his head.

  “Practicing even up until the tournament I see,” he said with fondness.

  “Well, one can never really be too prepared,” Cordoc said, rubbing his arm where Selaphiel’s blows had landed.

  “Says the loser,” Jakobin snickered. Cordoc furrowed his brow slightly as he glanced toward his brother.

  Selaphiel shrugged.

  Zarx grinned. “Well, you need to be with the others at the moment. The masks will be selected soon. Though I do not see them all being taken with only you three choosing them.”

  “Correctly said; they wait on us,” Jakobin said as he walked through the foyer into the larger hall. The hall was decorated with awards and signs of tournaments won by the three princes in previous years. Shelves mounted on the walls held chalices and sculptures that had been awarded to them for their achievements. Most of the wall was covered with the names of Cordoc and Selaphiel. As the youngest, Jakobin’s name appeared infrequently, but it was there.

  Selaphiel noticed Jakobin looking at the wall as they walked. “Maybe this will be your year, Brother. There’s always a chance …” he trailed off. Jakobin didn’t reply, his face impassive.

  Zarx waved them to the door leading outside. Selaphiel and Cordoc continued, the light making them squint, blinded for a moment. Four horses were tied outside the armory waiting for them. Jakobin had already slipped past the other three and untied the fourth horse. He mounted and took off, leaving a trail of dust behind him on the cobblestone road. The clop of his horse’s hooves faded away quickly.

  “Your brother is always overly eager, isn’t he?” Zarx said, watching the dust swirl.

  “Eh,” Selaphiel said as he mounted the nearest horse. “Maybe sometimes.”

  “Always,” Cordoc said, as he followed Selaphiel’s action. With a huff Zarx also mounted his horse, a large coal-black stallion, which was adorned with white dragon embroidery and a golden talon insignia, representing the highest ranks in the military guard of Lifesveil.

  The horses cantered one by one behind the other at a steady pace. The large, ornate temple of the Ashenborn loomed close by, its luminous white marble structure gleaming in the light of the sun, making it hard to look at. The expanse of courtyard that they were heading toward came into view, adorned with multiple flags representing different kingdoms.

  The large white dragon of Archkyris was the largest, representing the rule of the High King. Below it flew the flag of Lifesveil, yellow with an eight-pointed silver star. The noise of the arena reached them, causing the horses to hesitate. The horses continued only at the urging of their riders. A loud trumpet called, and they were greeted by several Silver Talons, who bowed as they passed. The door to the inner court opened with a creak. Inside, they spotted Jakobin handing over the reins to his horse, with a satisfied look on his face. After the other three dismounted, servants took the horses. Zarx motioned toward another door to his left.

  “This way. I will go now to sit by your father’s side. The best of luck to each of you, and do us proud by at least one of you winning,” Zarx said, grinning.

  “Zarx is in rare form today,” Cordoc said, not ever having seen Zarx so expressive.

  “He’s usually pretty bland, if you ask me,” Selaphiel joked.

  They entered the room and were embraced by the warmth of the inner quarters. The inner room was decorated with flags identical to those outside, each highlighted with torches. In the center were the masks of the Ashenborn Tournament, known as Ashenveil and reserved for princes or men of Lifesveil. Men stood lounging against the walls, whispering amongst themselves. The whispering stopped when the princes came in.

  “Awkward,” Selaphiel whispered.

  “Anyone you recognize?” Jakobin asked, scanning the room.

  Cordoc whispered, “There is Prince Thornbeorn of the northern kingdom of Wulvsbaen.” He nodded toward a man with reddish hair and armor that had white fur garnishing it.

  “Have you had any contact with him?” Jakobin asked.

  “Only in dealings in diplomacy, but nothing so casual or interesting as this,” Cordoc said.

  “A strange man to wear fur in such a hot climate as Lifesveil,” Jakobin said.

  “They say ice runs through their veins,” Selaphiel said.

  Cordoc sighed. “Ice is a solid. Do you not remember our lessons?”

  Selaphiel shrugged. “You know how people speak of old wives’ tales. Besides, you act like I was not in those exhausting classes with you all these years.”

  Selaphiel shook his head with disgust. If there was one thing he hated, it was being cramped up in a small room for hours on end.

  “People also say they do not feel pain, because the cold has frozen any feeling in them,” Jakobin trailed off, a smile forming. “But that is lunacy of course.”

  Thornbeorn’s gaze met theirs with a curt nod. The other attendants continued talking amongst themselves, seeming to no longer be interested in their presence. Every so often a glance would come their way, but they did not make much of it. The center table in the room held the eight dragon masks, each a different color. Each represented those of honor who had once inhabited Lifesveil. Red was once worn by Nathan The Strong; blue by Lekoan The Wise; brown by Galfik The Shield; pur
ple by Goias The Mind; black by Kale The Merciful; gold by Sephora The Kind; green by Dragos The Healer; and finally silver by Tansae The Brave. Each were heroines or heros of the past who had crossed blades with Dothros and had died to protect others from the reaches of the darkness that would otherwise have swallowed all the kingdoms of Archkyris.

  Cordoc went first, grabbing the blue dragon mask. The crowd looking around them whispered. Selaphiel grabbed the yellow-gold mask. Jakobin approached and grabbed the red mask, a serious look on his face. The remaining masks were removed, as only princes or men of Lifesveil could wear them. The ones unworn would be displayed as memorials for this special day.

  The rest of the attendants carried their own masks, symbolic in some way of house or kingdom. The princes noticed men wearing skulls, a blue fox mask, and even one that appeared to be an owl mask. Selaphiel eyed his own mask suspiciously before strapping it on his head.

  “I was worried that it would somehow make it hard to see, but there is not a problem,” he said, moving the mask to ensure a snug fit.

  Cordoc rubbed his finger across the blue mask and turned it around in his hands. With a loud trumpeting noise, the doors opened, and the light of day rushed into the room.

  “Come forward,” came the familiar voice of Alanias. They all filed out quietly, awkwardly bumping into one another.

  After all the men had exited, the door swung closed behind them, a noise that could not be heard above the roar of people. Around 6,000 people from different kingdoms were housed in the upper seatings, and center was the throne of the king for observation of the events. Men and women cheered, making the air vibrate. The arena encircled them; the flags of Lifesveil decorated it. It stood massive, looking like a giant stone wheel.

  “Welcome to the Ashenborn Festival,” Alanias said vibrantly, his voice carrying from his throne.

  “Today, we will celebrate the lives of the Ashenborn, and those who have given their lives to protect us.” His voice continued to grow louder.

  The crowd grew silent as Alanias spoke.

  “Many know those who died to save us all, and their names are written upon the tapestries hung throughout our kingdom,” he said, motioning toward various colored sigils.

  “To be Ashenborn is to serve others, and to quench the flames of the wicked.”

  The crowd was silent, clinging to the aged king’s words.

  “My sons have chosen to honor them by wearing their masks, but I ask of you, how will you honor them? With just words? Or how we present ourselves with our own lives?”

  Alanias smiled, his eyes slightly damp; emotion swelled within him, as his affection for all there could be felt.

  “May your fires burn bright! Fight for honor outside of yourselves! Fight diligently for one another!”

  The crowd roared, yelling the names of the men and women who had fallen. This was not just a festival for the Ashenborn but for all those who died giving their lives in any conflict.

  Alanias closed his eyes for a moment.

  “The one to win will receive the white dragon mask, which guarantees title and the promise of trial of Bright Flame, the most sacred ritual of our heroes and heroines.”

  Jakobin turned to Cordoc while eyeing the competition. “Who do you think will win?”

  Cordoc ignored him, paying attention to his father’s words.

  Alanias cleared his throat.

  “Derrick, our Ashenborn Elder, will read the names of those participating in the first round of competition.”

  The sky darkened as the dragon flew over the sun. The brown dragon glided over the crowds and landed beside Alanias with an earth-shaking thud. Flames flickered from its nostrils as it roared a trumpet of a growl. The dragon turned and spewed a large torrent of bright red flames. The crowd erupted in applause. The dragon began to shrink and within seconds reverted to his familiar human form with a blinding flash of light.

  Derrick spoke, not appearing winded at all after his transformation. This was a sign of his power; young dragons needed time to recover after changing. He looked regal, his jeweled sword strapped to his side.

  “On behalf of our King Alanias, and the High King Archkyris, we of Lifesveil welcome you to the Ashenveil.”

  The crowd cheered and clapped their excitement. Derrick paused to allow the noise to settle.

  “The Ashenveil is held to celebrate those who gave their lives to protect us in the War of Stones. That was long ago, but it is still relevant to us now.” Derrick paused and displayed the various masks, then spoke the name of each fallen Ashenborn that had not been selected by the princes. He recounted the sacrifices of the heroes and heroines of the past, and emphasized how they would be remembered.As he began to finish, his emotion was evident, and his eyes revealed that he had been around to live the stories he was telling.

  “We have a free Yadir, and it should never be relinquished, nor should we ever forget the reason we celebrate. With that being said, I present your contestants!” Derrick announced, motioning toward the men in the arena.

  The crowd thundered in response.

  “The first competition is the crossing of steel. Contestants may not dismember or kill each other. Magical power is permissible, insofar as the same rules are followed. Any killing will be repayed blood for blood. I will see to that myself. Enjoy these matches!”

  Derrick’s voice echoed through the areana.

  He motioned toward where the princes stood.

  “The first two contestants are Prince Jakobin, who has chosen the Red Dragon, surname the Strong of Lifesveil. His opponent will be Prince Tsain of Mavet, bearing the skull and symbol of his kingdom.”

  “That was quick,” Selaphiel said.

  He was a little surprised that one of them had been chosen for the first fight. The royal horns and drums echoed the excitement in the air. He had hoped none of them would be the first to fight so they could size up the competition.

  Jakobin strapped on his dragon mask and accepted a large two-handed sword. Jakobin’s neck was tense. Tsain, a large muscular man with stark, silver hair, grabbed two large scimitars, one in each hand. He wore a mask that resembled a black skull with trees for horns. The trees looked as if they grew from the eye sockets of the skull, its roots grasping onto the inner eye. Both participants stepped into the center of the courtyard, and the remaining men were directed to stand on a railed ledge overlooking the scene. Alanias beamed with pride to see his son approach the arena. This meant just as much to him as it did to his sons. Jakobin looked toward his father and raised his sword to him. The crowd cheered in delight.

  Jakobin lowered his shoulder and felt the weight of the sword in his hands. He let it rest for a moment and tightened his grip on the pommel. He lifted his sword above him and yelled. He turned to Tsain. He couldn’t see the eyes of his opponent because they were hidden by the eye sockets of the black skull. The loud trumpet call sounded, signaling the beginning of the duel. Tsain moved forward clumsily, with raw power rather than skill at his disposal. The way he carried himself was familiar to Jakobin. Dozens of the guards and men he had trained with were less agile than he, and he could always determine by the way they walked how strong they were.

  Jakobin couldn’t help but notice that the veins in Tsain’s neck were visible. With the first move, Tsain danced to his right with both scimitars coming from either side; with a quick side step Jakobin moved away from the blow, blocking the left weapon with a spark of steel. His hands jolted at the first impact. A cheer from the crowd echoed through the arena, even though to him it was a jumbled gargle.

  Shaking off the blow, he swung with all his might, catching Tsain off guard only for a moment before he leaped out of reach.

  “So much for brutish strength,” Jakobin whispered bitterly.

  Continuing his swings, Jakobin stepped forward. Tsain quickly crossed his blades in defense, blocking him, before p
ushing Jacobin backward, causing him to topple into the dirt. Dust floated around him. A downward slash from Tsain slammed against the side of his sword and held him in place. With a push he rolled away from it and moved into a crouching position.

  Jakobin could feel how slow he was as he moved to reposition his sword. He could taste steel in his mouth.

  “You shouldn’t have used such a heavy weapon against me,” Tsain said in a crisp foreign accent.

  Jakobin laughed and dusted off his back, still able to hold up the sword with one arm, but the motion was nothing more than a feint. He had hoped to go a little longer, but he knew lighter weapons suited him.

  “You would do better if you had two more. Besides it’s not that heavy,” Jakobin said as his magic flashed. Jakobin grabbed and twisted the pommel of his sword, causing the small divot in his blade and hilt to separate into a second smaller sword, which he then removed from the larger blade. Jakobin now had two swords, neither of which were compromised by the division.

  Tsain snorted, “A well-crafted weapon. Very deceptive.”

  Jakobin swung the smaller of the blades around in a circle, making a whistling noise. Tsain sneered and lumbered forward. With a clank and spark from the blades, he pushed Jakobin again. The exchange was quick but ineffective for both. They both backed up and met each other blow for blow in a blur of motion.

  Jakobin noticed that Tsain was slipping, and his clumsiness was more pronounced. Jakobin smiled confidently at the change of pace. With a quick correction, Jakobin swung his blades up, hitting the blades out of Tsain’s hands completely. He nearly laughed as he imagined the expression beneath the mask. Before Tsain’s swords had even settled on the ground a few feet away, Jakobin had already lowered his shoulder and knocked him to the ground. Tsain rolled with ease out of his reach and retrieved one of his swords.

  “I had no idea Mavet has such strong swordsmen,” Jakobin smiled.

  The black skull mask tilted with amusement, clearly aware of the sarcastic nature of the comment.