Chapter 20 - Whereto now for the warrior-poet? (Training arc)

　　The prince pushed his leftover slop aside, thought it timely to excuse himself...

　　"I had... juuhwel," said the captain suddenly, eyeing Cedric`s bowl like a lion a forgotten carcass.

　　"And now?" asked the prince as he slid the bowl towards the captain, his eyes conveying a wordless `enjoy` in the most royal of manners.

　　"Gnej... box is buried...but where?"

　　The beach—the prince saw it now in his mind`s eye. Artisan and his box, the digging. Seeing far... too far down in the man`s worn-out essence. Soulgazing.

　　Just as the prince saw right to make remark, the captain ceased his groping and gnashing—the gruel had gone. All down his gullet. But the bowl... the man placed both hands briefly over the bowl, covering it and then uncovering, deliberately without a doubt.

　　This bore too strong a scent of ritual to the court-grown prince—he knew of the many saintly orders and their fantastical beliefs... and surely, he had witnessed this precise act before. A lingering trace, the thought not fully formed... but the prince was certain—he had seen uncle Gustave perform it; this in courtesy to the large bald man he had sat with at the dais. A monk, though the name or his order escaped the prince. But there was more—this quaint handshake come parting time, his uncle and the monk clasping deep at the other`s elbow. The free hand placed over one`s own heart.

　　It was worth a try—something was off with this captain: a sunken man, not a doubt there; one with the blood-earned bearing of a lower lifeform... though also a swordsman of some sophistication, a tactical thinker in his own right.

　　"You have my thanks for the company," said Cedric as he rose, turning toward the captain with extended arm, clasping round the elbow. And lo and behold... the captain did the same—his free hand moving to his heart but then quickly back as his eyes looked at Cedric`s eyes and... ah, too late.

　　Busted.

　　"You bastard, don`t play coy with me," the prince roared, "What`s your angle, lay low and then what?"

　　The captain pulled the prince swiftly aside, glowering at a high-numbered rookie who had seen the prince flare out fierce—and without a fist flying in rebuttal; the captain`s go-to tie-breaker in an argument ordinarily.

　　"Not so loud, please," pleaded the captain, fully sidelining his feral facade... though it was not forgotten; the blood of three men hung clustered round his cheek and lip: his own and that of the watchman`s. And then there was sixteen—the convulsing dead meat of him still spackled to the floor where they fought and ate, blowflies now flocking for a feast of their own.

　　"Who are you?" asked the prince in acquiescent tone—he would rather this charlatan for a friend than foe. Be it at a fair distance. More than a slop-grubbing arm`s length away.

　　"I don`t know—really I don`t." The captain hurried the words out, for the prince seemed as patient as a wolf in winter. "My mind`s gone dark but these hands remember, acting it out still, doing what they must`ve done in life. I prayed a lot is what I gather—can`t stop myself though it`s no good to me now. If it ever was." A whisper now, the two sitting turn-backed away from the numbers and the watchman who was dozing off, big-bellied from feeding, the bulk of him pushing out on his plated iron that was not his but some damn dead kid`s.

　　"Then what am I to make of this... farce?" Exasperation shone like sweat on the face of the prince.

　　"Maniacs, the whole lot of them," said the captain of his crew. "But I got them thinking I`m worse—only way to survive as long as I have... ah, that`s beside it all—all that matters is I`ve always done right by the Blackroses," said the captain, nodding up at the symbol on Cedric`s forehead. "Towering figures down here... most of you—Alaric made high chieftain, reigned under Gorkon for decades; Byron was a breath below at chieftain but got a lot of respect still; then Gustave was no good of course, that one cracked at raid captain. Oh, and then of course there`s Rodrich, who..."

　　"Gustave—my grand-uncle, what of him?" the prince cut in, thinking broken thoughts of the warrior-poet, noble brother to his king-grandfather Byron.

　　"Why must I be the bearer of bad news..." The captain looked suddenly shy, almost sorrowful. "He didn`t have it, Gustave Blackrose—lost his mark at the second stage of evolution. Don`t worry yourself though," said the captain in hasty addition, "You`re nothing like him—didn`t have the voice of command."

　　Cedric saw the warroom fading wanly before him—the man who had taught him the way of the sword and the word, stoic in battle and fierce in court, councillor supreme in the closed-door sessions. A goblin. A failed goblin at that.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

　　"The voice..." started the prince, mind reeling but trying dearly to appear or to be undeterred by the faltering... his mentor, his favourite Blackrose. "Is that when lightning flashes and I feel alive almost, the rage or fetid despair...that is what you call command?"

　　The captain bobbed his head in fervent assent. "Mark of a true ruler—destined for great things... goblin things, but great regardless."

　　There were too many paths for the prince to steer the talk towards, all of them as bleakly unappealing as the grey-tinted goo they had gorged on.

　　"Where are they now, my ancestors?" asked the prince finally.

　　The captain shrugged. "Here or there," he said. "Somewhere is for sure—no one leaves ever. But their minds will have gone. Might be the great king Rodrich`s one of them mid-ranks chained up and howling in the night... happens to us all in the end."

　　"And your box," the prince furthered his enquiry, fearful of stalling too long and staying stuck in it. The fear. "The jewel, what of that?"

　　"In the ground. Beach or plains or... forest," the captain shuddered. "Gone to me now. They tell it the once, where they bury your things. Then never again."

　　"The rookie games... how many times..." Cedric`s question lingered like a memory—as a boy, folding his grand-uncle`s pale cold hands around the hilt of his sword a final time... then they entombed him and thought him honoured. But he was goblin instead.

　　"Three," said the captain. "But I`m on a good stretch now—fifty years give or take."

　　"Why are you still..."

　　"Small?" The captain cut in, completed the question. "I can`t crawl in that egg again—did it one time and it`s hell in there; body gets cooked alive, mind made a scramble, what`s left of it at least. No, I`ll be a rookie-looking old fool till I die." He shuddered. "Hey, put in the word for me when you rise to second-stage—there`s talk that I`m fading, body giving out with age... that I`m due another round of the games but I can`t do it no more. Please. I`ll tell you all you want in turn."

　　"The box..." said the prince, circling back but nodding—yes, he`ll put in the word, whatever that means. If it suits him that is, and right now it suited him to say so.

　　"There`s two—the mind box and the s..."

　　A sharp bell, harder than the noontime break one.

　　In blistering unison, the numbers and the watchmen lined up and filed in, all back inside the main halls.

　　The captain jumped up as well—put on his captain face, that narrow-eyed hostility, the silent threat you couldn`t fake but can. "Mines," he said to the prince. "Talk... again." Back to his old sparse syllabicity.

　　"Hey," the prince shouted after, then made pace so his words wouldn`t fall on stray ears. "To cover the eyes is to see the truth—the creed of your cult, I just remembered. What the sign means after supper, blessing the bowl and all that. You were a Twilight Truther. Their flag is an eye..."

　　"With a veil over," completed the captain, shaken. "See truth through obscurity." Tears welled up, and then he shook his head, looked all grim and mean and violent again. "Don`t talk to me of that. I am dead to the world above and can`t have it halfway."

　　The prince nodded, wanted to ask more about many things—harmless things like mining and where the hell they were all going—for they were starting to be surrounded by other mean bodies... when suddenly a shrill voice gave the call of "Blackrose!"

　　Turning around, the prince saw the registrar—no, someone like the registrar: a wispy weak man in a dangerous afterworld, clutching a little notebook.

　　"On Gorkon`s order are you to report to the librarian, Blackrose." Again the same high-pitched loudness; this little fool was taunting hell—a whole squadron of arena-weary warriors stood before and behind and around him.

　　The prince approached, half-expecting the man to be snuffed like a candle before he got there, muscling through the sweat- and blood-stained brawn of the crowd and... no, quite the opposite: the warriors moved almost gently around him... this feeble figure who had simply stood his ground—remarkably self-imposing for one so unremarkable.

　　"No mine duty for you... how unfortunate," said the registrar-looking man, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. "It seems dregs can now be scholars." A hard look at Cedric, who did not stir save for inside, flaying this talking worm alive in his mind`s eye. And with the violence came visions of Gendrin—bashing the bastard`s brain right in.

　　"When can I see Gorkon?" asked the prince, eager to pursue the prospect`s path, the promise of station and power. The thirteenth class for only the finest of hatchlings.

　　"When he wants to see you," said the man as he walked on without looking, expecting the prince to blindly follow. "Scholar`s hall is past your quarters and to the left—all the auxiliary branch workstations are. The fine arts: healers, trappers, tinkerers, scholars..."

　　"Builders and foragers," the prince broke in, speeding past the parts he knew. "You`re a scholar, then?"

　　The man gave pause, jaw clenched as he cast another hard glance at the prince, a look that lingered. On the symbol on his forehead. On the arena plaque still hanging around his neck. "When I was young and inexperienced, thirty-one." Stepping off straight after speaking, like he had seen all that need seeing. "I am lorekeeper now, which you would do well to remember—a second-grade class... and soon on to third-grade, the final ascension. Seer or statistician, I have not yet decided. Both are possible with an intellect like mine!"

　　This one had just made the prince`s list. Behind Gendrin and the darkmage... but before Gorkon. Three sentences in and already a deep loathing had developed. A true talent indeed, this lorekeeper.

　　"..." Cedric sought to speak as they strode on, but saw then a familiar hobbling—it was Artisan, stepping through the crowd toward them, a new and better brace affixed to his bad foot.

　　"Would that this old mind could join you in study," said Artisan, sounding strong, his body now spared from the strain of suffering. Somewhat. "I was not yet wise when I read On myths and malice—ah, but it is all so relative. How dim we all must seem when measured against a master." A nod in deference to the lorekeeper who raised his chin, looked stately and grave for all to marvel.

　　"We convene later," Artisan added, a quick wink at the prince so that they shared the humour—placating to the prideful... this fool of a lorekeeper seeming none the wiser.

　　Their paths split and the prince then pondered, thoughts never straying to the wayward walk of the warrior-poet. No, his mind was like a scholar`s, so fixated. On myths and malice.