Chapter 18
Orc culture is a close-knit community of nomadic tribes. Some tribes are friendly and regularly trade with other peoples. Some tribes are war-oriented, preferring to pillage and raid nearby settlements. Regardless of the tribe’s interactions with outsiders, it is tradition to have a fearsome family name. Surnames among Orcs follow a common theme, such as Skullercrusher, Blooddrinker, Fleshrender, and so on.
Day 102 Quenchenday
I sat in a worn-down wooden chair, the cushion leaking cotton from a burst seam on one side. The fabric of the cushion was just as worn as the wood, feeling somewhat scratchy where it touched my bare skin. The room was thick with an odd combination of smells: old leather, old paper, sandalwood smoke, and a slight undertone of sweat.
Before me was a desk that would have been far too large for any other instructor, but for Mystagogue Thrasher, it still seemed small. On the topic of small, the office was almost comically tight for the Half Orc’s massive frame. The instructor was forced to squeeze into the room through a door that only came up to his shoulders. He was then forced to shuffle sideways across one wall of the room to squeeze in behind his desk that only just barely seemed to fit him.
The office was furnished with the lightly stained wood trim around striped forest green and moss green wallpaper that was peeling in spots. A quarter of a wooden pillar of matching wood was slotted into each corner of the room. Each pillar was topped with a carving of vines bearing blooming lotus flowers. Along the right wall was a bookcase, neatly lined with tattered copies of various books, a hologram picture frame displaying a three-dimensional freeze-frame painting of an Orc tribe bartering with Human tradesmen for bread, and a large steamer chest with a thick padlock sealing it. I recognized the painting. I couldn’t tell you the name of it, but it was one of the few fine art depictions of Orcs at peace with other peoples. The entire left wall was totally bare, that being the wall he had to shimmy across to get to his desk. I guess he had to leave it bare or have the way blocked, or the wall mounts dropped every time he passed by. The back wall only had one thing to provide decoration, and I personally found it the most shocking of a room that baffled me. At the top foot of the wall, at the Orc’s eye level when he hunched to fit in the room, was a shelf of fine dark stained wood, Elven scrollwork carved into its face and edges. Atop the shelf was a series of fine china. A pearl-lined, ivory white tea set made of up a stout pot and three cups that would have fit in a Ceangar’s hands. Those cups were so small compared to the massive man of culture (because that had to be what he was) that he could have swallowed a cup and not even noticed.
His desk, which took up the vast majority of the room, was a dark stained wood that matched in color and scrollwork to his shelf above his seat. His seat was a Titanic-sized, ancient swivel chair from the early ages before the industrial era, meaning that the chair was handcrafted to fit someone of his girth. Atop the desk were four neat and precise stacks of paper flanking a holo keyboard and display screen. To his right was an old-fashioned inkwell and feather quill. The inkwell was the size of a bucket, and the feather that the quill was made from was from some monster of impressive size. A roc, maybe? Or a dire griffin.
As I took my seat in the guest chair and gawked at the room, the instructor made his way behind the desk, the chair groaning under his dense mass. He swiveled into his desk, opened a drawer that was out of my sight, and pulled free a pair of full moon spectacles that he perched atop his broad nose. The glasses frames barely fit his face, and there were no arms, their sole point of contact being the bridge of his nose.
He looked me up and down with a critical eye before activating his Therra-node. I watched in terror as Mystagogue Thrasher gestured his way through the node’s UI, looking for something. “Slate twenty-three. Maverick, if I remember correctly.” He rumbled. He clearly was thumbing through files, looking for mine, no doubt.
“Y-yes, sir. My n-name is Iver Maverick. And I’d just like to say that I’m so sorry for what happened. I acted without thinking, and I deeply regret taking those actions.”
He held up a single large and well-manicured finger, a sign for me to wait till he was finished reading. I watched in absolute dread as his eyes skimmed over my file. He was going to see that I failed social studies, and that was only going to add to my punishment, along with the fight. I was going to get kicked out of the academy for sure. I was going to have my memory wiped, and I was going to be a homeless orphan again. I was going to die of starvation or freeze to death next winter. And after I died, no doubt I was going to be ferried across the black river Stignis to be pushed into the Hells because I suffered from the Bane of Power. Damn my need for knowledge. I should have stayed a simpleton because now I was going to get flayed eternally because I was too greedy for knowledge.
“I can see here that you excel in the more analytical side of studies in the mundane classes, but you seem to come up short in social studies. According to the instructor's notes, your comprehension of mystech and scientific fundamentals is remarkably advanced. But there are also notes that mention that you seem socially challenged.”
He closed the window on his Therra-node, the glow in his eyes winking out. His monolithic gaze fell upon me, forcing me to look hard at the hands clenched in my lap, even as I felt a burning blush rise to my cheeks. I knew that I was struggling in social studies. Given that the only people I felt comfortable around I either saved from harm or they had saved me. I made a mental note to psychoanalyze myself later. Everyone, other than Nel and Rose, I couldn’t help but feel like they were planning to harm me in some way. Even the teachers that tried to be supportive gave me a sense of looming menace. Socially challenged was putting it nicely. I’d call it socially stunted. My only interaction with people up till coming here consisted of abuse in some form mostly. Even my father was prone to slapping me when I misbehaved. At the thought of my father, my eyes began to swim. I felt droplets patter on the back of my white-knuckled hands as they clenched my pant legs for dear life.
“Do you know why I called you in here, Mr.Maverick?” His voice sounded calm, patient, and reserved.
I clenched my eyes shut and gave a quick, over-exaggerated nod.
“Why do you think I brought you in here?” the master queried in honest curiosity.
“The fight.” was all I could manage to say before I choked on my words and curled in on myself, making myself as small a target as I could manage.
“Yes, but not for the reasons you think.” Even with my eyes squeezed shut, I could almost hear the smile in his words. He was just as calm and patient as before, but this time, there was a softness and warmth to his words that drew me from my shell after a long moment of quiet. When I was sure that he wasn’t going to shout or throw something at me, or throw me for that matter, I slowly uncurled. I wiped my face on my sleeve, leaving a trail of dampness and snot along the fabric.
“W-what do you mean?” I stammered.
“Mr.Maverick, Iver, you know what tomorrow marks?” he asked, hinting at something.
“The start of a new quarter?”
Mystagogue Thrasher gave a single slow nod that conveyed years of wisdom in the single motion. “Just right. You planted your blade in the beast’s heart, so to speak. Now, there is something that will be announced tomorrow to all the Slates. A new factor for Slates to keep in mind when being placed later in the year. Do you want to guess what that new factor is?”
I numbly shook my head, my eyes locked on his broad nose so as not to make eye contact. What other factors could there be? We had mundane classes and sect training. We had to pass no less than five of the mundane classes and were required to be proficient with at least one sect course set. Are they going to give us some kind of advanced martial training course that we all need to pass to stay in the academy? If that was going to be the case, then I was dead.
“As we have with every year before you for the past three hundred years, in the second quarter, the Slate class is introduced to the Scoring Factor. Starting tomorrow until your final day at the academy, you will have to contest with other students with this factor. I will give you the simple version to explain what you just did in that cafeteria. Each sect will award points to students who perform specific tasks, such as dueling each other and winning. I won’t go into detail, but I will say that you earned a point for the Silent Heart Sect, two points for the Burning Hand Sect, and a Hero point. These points are going to be used to gauge your talents and tactics outside the classroom to help you get placed in the best fitting sect.”
“But what if the points I score aren't for the sect I desire?” I felt a fleeting panic rising in my mind at the thought.
“Not much can really be done about that, I’m afraid. Your chosen sect is based on your point scores and your pass/fail results from the end-of-year tests. If you receive passing scores for multiple sects, then you are given the option to turn down any beyond the one you want to join. In fact, it is encouraged to only join a single sect.”
“Why is it encouraged? I thought being a Mastlok was an honor.”
“While it is an honor to be a part of multiple sects, it is a great burden. Most students’ schedules after their first year are specially tailored to balance between sect and mundane studies. But taking up the studies from two sects means that you will need to cut back on mundane studies.”
Personally, I was fine cutting back on mundane studies. I found little use in learning punctuation and politics when what I really wanted to do was make a difference with a blade. I was starting to come to terms with the fact that I was more talented with a wrench and welder than I was with a blade and bow. So, if I had to, I was going to become a Mastlok between Crimson Blade and Burning Hand. Why learn grammar when I could learn how to craft something that would help me slay monsters and hunt murderers?
“But Master, what if I want to become a Mastlok because the sect I want to join I know I am less proficient with? If I can receive a passing score for the sect I want as well as the sect I know I am more proficient in, could I, in theory, join both?”
Mystagogue Thrasher rubbed his brick of a chin between his thumb and the crook of his forefinger in thought. I was amazed watching how easily that massive slab of bone and meat he called a chin fit so easily into his hand. In fact, when cupped in his hand, his chin almost seemed to be a normal size if you could take out the context that the hand in question could palm a grown man’s skull like a small orange.
“I suppose that if you truly wanted to take that path, we could allow it, but only if you can receive the passing scores and understand that once you start down that road, there is no turning back. Should you fall too far behind in either study, you will have your memory wiped, and you will be excommunicated from the order.” Those last heavy words weren’t the only thing to pin me to my chair with dread. His eyes yet again bore down on me with the weight of a War Machine’s foot, a weight that would shake the earth and powder stones.
I pressed deeper into my chair. Simultaneously trying to get away and not show fear. After what could only have been a moment pinned to that chair but certainly felt more like long minutes, he took a long blink, pushed his glasses up his nose, and picked up a sheet of paper off his desk to read it over. “Any questions?” After the look he had just given me, these words seemed so casual and ephemeral.
“Umm, yes, s-sir. I was wondering why I couldn’t just revert to a single sect focus if I failed out of the other?”
“Because, my dear boy, for security purposes, each sect has classified information that it keeps separate from the other sects. We do this so that if a field operative is captured, he or she can not give any more information than what is known to their sect. Think of it as a form of damage control. For this reason, Mastloks are put under a great deal of pressure in training because they are a weak point in our security system.” He lifted his eyes to gaze at me again. This time, those hickory brown eyes didn’t press down on me with intent or meaning, only idle curiosity and something not unlike a warmth of sympathy. “ Which two sects were you looking into joining, and which is your talented field, and which is your desired field?”
I shifted in my seat from pressing back against the chair to leaning forward, the chair creaking with the motion. I kept my eyes locked on my hands in my lap as I laced my fingers together and began futzing with my thumbs. “W-well, sir, I know it probably sounds stupid, if not crazy, but I w-want to join the Burning Hand and c-Crimson Blade. My talent is in c-crafting.” I stammered out, my voice thick with timidity. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep, centering breath. I had never made this confession to a teacher before, let alone one in his position who had seen my lack of combat prowess. I readied myself for the Mystagogue to burst into roaring laughter. “But I want to, no, I need to be a field agent, an adventurer.”
The massive gentleman set down the sheet in his hand back into its original pile with an unexpected amount of grace and precision, the page falling evenly in line with all those below it. He propped his elbows atop his desk, the wood of the furniture both below his arms and beneath his frame letting out a ghostly groan, and laced his own fingers together in an arch that hid his lips as he leaned in close. “Before I continue, I need to make one thing very clear. A dream is nothing to be mocked. I’ve spoken to students who only aspired to pass the year, and I’ve spoken to others who, and I make no joke, aspired to literal godhood. Your dreams and desires are nothing to be mocked. I’ve seen a boy with more muscle than brain become a caster so fluent he could form a spell in heartbeats strong enough to withstand a bullet after only a year in his sect. I’ve seen a timid girl who could barely lift a blade become a warrior so agile and fierce that the rest of her class dreaded facing her on the field. The only limits that are going to stop you are those set down by your own mind. But I feel I must ask, why become an adventurer? I’ve seen your scores in crafting and technical theory, you could excel in the Burning hand like few others before you. I would assume it to be a hunger for fame and glory, but most that seek that don’t claim to need to get into the sect. Rather, they would claim to deserve it, or to aspire, or some drivel along those lines. Those who seek fame and glory are often shallow and petty. But you… In you, I see no need for money or admiration. So, Iver, what drives you to follow a path of blood and dread?”
As he spoke, I felt tears well up behind my eyes, tears of hope. Hope that I could truly become something better if I tried hard enough. But when he asked me what drove me, I flashed back to those moments of my father’s murder. Watching the masked man walk away from my father’s bleeding form. I dried my tears of hope. I felt tears of pain rising alongside a gorge of hate that burned my throat. I bared back those tears with sheer will and squeezed eyelids. I bit down on the burning gorge with a clenched jaw and tongue pressed to the roof of my mouth so hard it had a burn all its own. When I opened my eyes, I knew that he had seen the change by his single arched brow.
“I’m sorry, sir, but my purpose is ironclad. I need to find the murderer of my father. Adventurers are allowed to pass borders with little effort, they have resources other hunters don’t, and they have the best training for dealing with any number of dangerous situations. I will hunt that man to the ends of Angwin and across as many realms as I need till I can get my justice.” Halfway through speaking, I lost sight of the Mystagogue. I stared off into the distance, visualizing myself chasing that bastard across the Iron Desert, over the Devil’s Spine mountain range, and across the barren icescape of the Northern Ice Wastes. I was dragged back to reality as I thought of the irony of casting him in the Hells or in Pandemonium. I shook myself back into the present moment as Mystagogue Thrasher began to speak.
“Your goal of justice for your father is admirable, but you must remember that to fall too far into hate is to lose yourself. If the hunt for blood is all that matters in the end, then you have lost sight of the beauty of life. I can already see those shadows behind your eyes, young man. Don’t forget what it means to be alive. Your remaining family, your friends, your hopes of who you want to be after you have found your justice.”
“I don’t have any other family,” I hissed with venom. A moment later, I realized how I was speaking, clamped my lips tightly shut, and pressed my gaze into my lap even harder than before. I muttered a hasty apology even as I squeezed my arms and legs closer to my body, trying to make myself as small a target as I could possibly manage.
At first, his only response was to shift from one arched brow to the other. “Truly, son? You have no other family?”
I mumbled my response. “Check my records. I’ve never known my mother, and my father was disowned by his clan. The only family I have left is Thallos, and I barely know the man.”
Thrasher plucked his glasses from his nose and massaged his brow with his free hand. “I am aware of Master Thallos. He is a…. Unique character. I wouldn’t put faith in a man like him, nor would I forget about him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that while he is not a nice man, he means well. And that you should never cut out family unless they are truly bad to you. He very rarely takes on apprentices, and those he does take often are put through great ordeals. But those that have passed his training are some of the best.”
“Wait, what? Thallos takes on students? What does he teach?” I was so very confused by these comments.
“I’m afraid that I can’t speak to that till the time is right. But you are focusing on the wrong aspect of what I have spoken about. You can’t toss him aside when he could help you through this emotional turmoil. You also should not forget about what your friends can do. I saw you fight back there, you did not bear arms alone and should never forget that you are not alone. Vengeance is not the sole purpose in life. You need to find joy and passion with those who care about you.”
“And what if my joy comes from fighting? You’ve seen my lack of talent. How can I achieve my goals if you say that they are reachable?”
I saw him flash a half-smirk at me. “I never said that those goals would be easy. But if you try hard enough, I have a feeling that you can reach those high peaks that you seek. Again, I’ve seen you fight when life is on the line. You have the spark of the intent, the fire of will needed to become a real warrior.”
“But if I have that spark, then why can’t I win a single match in sparring during martial combat classes? All I’ve ever done is fail and fail hard.” I snarled at my fists, not daring to make eye contact. I found that it was easier to talk to the Mystagogue when I wasn’t making eye contact. I stuttered less and felt that I could be more emotionally honest, which he didn’t seem to be offended by.
“Have you ever thought that maybe you kept losing because you didn’t have something to fight for? When that boy’s life was on the line, I was at the door when I saw you jump into action. I watched you, Iver. You tried to ignore what was being done till his life was on the line. After that moment when you saw that a life was in danger, you leaped into action without thinking. When you needed to act, you did so. You made a choice within the span of a few heartbeats, and you never thought twice until it was too late to turn back, and even then, you kept going.”
“Wait, you saw the whole thing? I thought that you only came in at the end.” I pressed as I tentatively raised my eyes to his.
He gave another slow nod. “We instructors often take lunch with students just in case moments like this occur. While we admit that students will die during the training year, we will keep an eye out if a promising student is in danger. It's not uncommon for a talented student to be bullied and abused because of their talents. In those circumstances, we are allowed to intervene.”
