Chapter 4 - Enter the trial grounds (Rookie Games arc)

　　The voice echoed off the ancient stone walls—Welcome to the rookie games!—each word multiplying in the confined space.

　　But the words or their meaning was not foremost on Cedric`s mind.

　　Gael was.

　　A trickle of light seeped through as Cedric neared the bend at the corridor`s end. By Gael`s word and by Gael`s presence, the prince had grown to believe in the forces of nature, in light and in darkness. They were not only external realities; no, they held meaning in the mind. He believed that because he chose to—and so a ribbon of daylight filtering in, after dark times of death and loss, is more than a mere scant strip of illumination. It is the herald of a new beginning. Purged from darkness, a new beginning for the mind and heart.

　　Hope is everything.

　　As Cedric rounded the bend and the light grew thick, a thankful smile curved around his lips. Thankful for the breath he drew now, for having survived an unjust death. Thankful, if only for the chance to set some of it right.

　　Blood had been spilt, princely blood at that. And blood was owed. Cedric vowed again, here, in the light of a new day, to slay the betrayers, Gendrin Honikom, the darkmage, and all their allies in the shadows. He would raise armies, legions upon legions of frenzied goblins—a warband the like the world has never seen. He would raze fields and towns and cities, siege strongholds, even topple kingdoms if that`s what it took. He would have his vengeance, and if others had to burn along the way, so be it.

　　"... Welcome to the rookie games!" repeated the voice, its tone tinged with a sharper edge.

　　The prince tore his eyes away from the splendour of the light and saw the soldier standing there—a seasoned warrior by the look of him, the scar-flecked green of his skin yellowing from the years of service, marching and skirmishing under a hot midland sun. Cedric wanted instinctively to grab the veteran by the shoulder, to commend him for his tireless devotion... but this was an impulse born of a bygone age. So he dismissed it.

　　And when the goblin veteran stepped forward and cleanly into sight, the prince was glad he had resisted the innate call to praise. Bestowing it would not have fared him well.

　　The veteran wore more than only the scars of his warrior history. Clad in a cloak woven from bone, he towered over the hatchling prince. His hollow gaze was matched by the eyes of the slain, gleaming still from the skulls socketed in his spaulders. A tribute to the fallen; a warning to those yet to fall.

　　The oldest trick in the tome, Cedric thought—frightening the new recruits into early submission. But the prince stood tall and proud, meeting the soldier gaze for gaze... unadorned in this life, undeterred in all lives.

　　"Pick one," said the bone-warrior without warning, both hands suddenly outthrust. In the right he held a wooden spear, the tip slathered with purple paint. In the left there was a buckler and a dagger dipped in dripping yellow.

　　Wooden toys were not weapons. The prince felt the stain of affront come curdling up... but like a summer wine he corked it, bottling it for storage till it was time for the season of his wrath. Time is what he needed most now—weeks and months and maybe years. As long as it would take for this ghastly body of his to mature. And to gather an army—legions upon legions. Green-clawed fury everywhere.

　　One did not play at war. But if he had to, then he would. He would win these... rookie games. For glory and rank he would win.

　　The prince in him had favoured both versatility and durability on the battlefield—heavy armour always, and a sturdy shield should ever he move without his honour guard. And though a lot had changed, this had not. If anything, defence would prove all the more pertinent, given this feeble new form of his.

　　The buckler and yellow dagger then. The bright colours were as unsightly as they were irrelevant. No information to go on.

　　"Take to the fields and find the entrance to the tribe`s great halls. Rise tall and honour yourself—bring havoc to those wielding the opposing colour." The soldier handed Cedric his chosen armaments. With a grave look he continued. "Shield yourself from dishonour and emerge unscathed—the mark of the enemy is the mark of death." Under the rattling of bones, the grizzled veteran stepped away, turning his head toward the sun-scorched fields beyond.

　　The prince thought the objectives clear—team-based scouting and survival... and so he moved to survey the trial grounds. Its landscape was a stark contrast of open space and natural barriers. Some six hundred feet to the left, there rose a scraggly hillside with peaks so high they might scrape the heavens. To his right, at a similar distance, the sea stretched out, its surly waters glinting under the sun. Leagues of grassy fields beckoned directly ahead, encroached upon by a forest-like outcropping dead-centre, its dense foliage creating an island of shadow amidst the flatland expanse.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

　　He could skirt the forest`s edge—there remained narrow passes both left and right... and besides, he did not relish the prospect of trawling through vines and shrubbery, all under the canopied shade of high-roofed leaf trees. A veil of uncertainty is what that was. He would make better time circumventing it entirely.

　　Would he take to the far left, seeking the safety of the hillside, strafing along the ridges of its sloping land, or...

　　As the prince looked out over the beachside route, his mind was swayed. There he saw the remains of an old mooring post standing out against the shoreline, a solitary sentinel by the sea. Coiled around it was an anchor rope, and Cedric could almost feel the texture, its thick strands frayed yet strong. Yes, that would do. He would fashion a makeshift harness out of it to bind the buckler to his back, relieving his hands of its weight.

　　Under the blaze of a noonday sun, Cedric stalked off toward the mooring post, his dagger and buckler held aloft even though the path seemed clear. Without discernible danger. Yet it was the unknown that daunted him most.

　　He scanned the coarse ground for prints... but rife with grasses and vegetation, it held no markings. Pressing further shoreward, the soil started turning to sand. And his steps grew heavier. Step by sinking step he advanced on the shoreline—there where the sand is wet and compact. Firm footing is no less vital than the blade in the master`s hand.

　　As he trudged on, the prince scanned the ground for footsteps. Finding none. At first.

　　There—half a stone-throw away. Goblin-made prints... deep and pronounced but fading. Failing to the wind`s shifting of the sands. Trailing towards the mooring post, then vanishing deeper down. Lost to the slopping of the sea.

　　This changed nothing. Whether made by wandering prey or a fiendish trapper... it mattered not. The prince had a clear path before him. And he would walk it to completion. He needed the rope, for the buckler was both a bastion and a burden.

　　Bounding past the loose stretch of sand—blisteringly hot sand for a bootless being as he—Cedric soon reached the relief at the water`s edge. Cool and firm... proper duelling ground if it came to that. With a wary eye training along the vast space of his surroundings, the prince made way for the mooring post, snaking along the watery path where the sea broke against the sand.

　　He tried to match a face to the footprints, reasoning with the mind of a man and not a beast. Surely he could outwit them. It would be one of the four—those who had entered the trial grounds before him. The girl mage, the clubfoot, the scout, the huntress.

　　The trail was neat and even, so the clubfoot could be ruled out. The trail was deep and pronounced, so the mage and scout were made improbable. They were both small and light, whereas the huntress was bulky—sheets of muscle over winter-ready lard. She had shown a more head-on stance as well... more direct. Cedric could imagine it—her plodding relentlessly toward a prey and calling it hunting. The thought never crossing her mind: might I be both hunter and hunted? It made sense the more he considered it. She was heavy enough to leave deep imprints... and careless enough not to erase them. She would pick the spear, too. No use for a thick buckler thinks the thicker mind.

　　The huntress then.

　　Could he take her in a fight?

　　Without a doubt he could. She had the brawn, but he had the lifetime of skill. He would parry and he would thrust, block and then flourish. And she would wither under a prolonged assault.

　　Cedric kept steady pace, nearing a set of dunes that looked larger now than they had before. But not far beyond them lay the mooring post, where finally he would absolve himself of the weight of this buckler and...

　　He saw something.

　　Something moving or shifting or twisting behind the second and highest dune.

　　Raising his buckler, Cedric stalked up to the first dune, rounding it in slow and measured step. Watchful as the eagle, he peered for signs of a trap, scouting as well for a possible second assailant. He refused to be caught in a two-pronged attack; the last one had cost him everything already. And he could not afford to lose more.

　　The sand cracked under his wary gait as he ambled past, advancing to either prize or peril. He felt good and strong, princely almost... battle-lust surging like a thing alive.

　　There was no one at the first dune. No one except for him. And what he had now was a fine vantage point—a beautiful clear view of the second dune.

　　He loved it in a way. War. It made him better, sharper, stronger. And right now, though these were mere wooden weapons, he felt golden... could smell the blood almost. He would bring hell to her, the huntress. Like a god of war would she see him, striking in blind and inexorable fury.

　　Scouting for further movement behind the second dune... a second or two is what he gave it. Then he flashed forward, shrouding his imminence with the ambient sound of the flood tide crashing to shore. Leaping, dashing, barrelling on, he surged headlong past the first dune, looping around to gain first strike advantage. An assault from the back.

　　Rounding the second dune, he was primed and he was ready. Ducking low, he gathered momentum for the final lunge, positioning himself at the back end of the dune, close to the thick of whatever action lay hidden there.

　　The prince lunged forth, flawless in execution. He saw the back of his foe, a burly female sitting down. It had worked, his plan... and he would strike first. And last.

　　It was the huntress alright. He had been right in deducing that. Here she was, utterly unprepared. With her back to the enemy.

　　An ambush from behind was not glorious. But it was a victory still.

　　So Cedric charged at her and... the huntress turned her neck to face him, a look of utter defeat written in the dark of her eyes. Her hands had ropes around them like a prisoner`s might.

　　"Calm down... scary," said a voice from the side in broken goblin speak. A hatchling`s mutterings.

　　It was the hunchbacked runner-up sitting there in languid recline, sharpening the shafts of a hacked-up spear, one dribbling purple paint. A fine enough weapon once, fit for a huntress.

　　"Knew you would come... but late... we hurry," said the hunchback, holding a yellow dagger in ostentatious view. To signal to the prince: we are allies in this game.

　　"Sit, prepare... danger ahead," added the hunchback, staring off into the void with killer eyes.