I wondered if the day Al became a warrior might come sooner than I expected.
Training in magic in this world was similar at times to training in acting and calligraphy. To speak the Words, it was necessary to enunciate them precisely in terms of both pronunciation and volume, so vocal training was mandatory.
Similarly, to use the characters — that is, the Signs — it was necessary to write them precisely, so penmanship practice was a requirement.
As a result, a sorcerer’s handwriting was naturally beautiful. I had heard that sorcerers who worked for powerful figures often served a second job as their scribe. I was no exception to this rule; Gus’s tough education had made sure that I could write quite beautifully.
I was in my office.
My quill, made from a beast feather, slowly traveled from left to right across the paper as I carefully wrote down the concise and formal message that I’d come up with in advance. I was using the very best quality paper I could get my hands on, and the same for the ink.
I finished writing and used some sand to absorb the excess ink. After folding the paper neatly in thirds to hide the text, I folded it again in thirds horizontally and prepared to apply the seal.
I slightly warmed some scarlet wax over a flame, dripped it onto the paper and sealed it, and then pressed the signet ring I’d made just last year onto the wax. It left behind a symbol of a flame shining on a ring of fate inside a shield. It was my family insignia, the crest of Maryblood. I’d had quite a few ideas for it, but ultimately I’d settled on a “ring and flame” symbol for Gracefeel, and a
“shield” symbol to represent a knight.
Lastly, I made sure that the front had both my signature and the name of the recipient: Bishop Bart Bagley.
“Good.”
The letter contained a request for Bishop Bagley to search the libraries for some information for me.
I thought back on those words that the Lord of Holly had spoken in his domain in the woods.
— The fire of dark disaster shall catch in the mountains of rust. That fireshall spread, and this land may all be consumed. That land is now a den ofdemons, wherein the great lord of miasma and wicked flame slumbereth upon themountain people’s gold.
And then there was what I’d heard from the dwarves.
— The dragon is coming. The dragon is coming! The dragon is coming!
Valacirca! Calamity’s sickle descends upon you!
Based on what I knew now, I needed to have some research done in the temples and the Academy where the sorcerers assembled. After all, I was going to be up against a formidable opponent.
If “the fire of disaster” and “the lord of miasma and wicked flame” in the Rust Mountains had been a General-ranked demon, I would have been confident that I could scrape out a victory. Even if he had followers with him, I could manage something. I had built up enough experience over the last two years that I could say that for sure. And even if the worst came to the worst and it all looked hopeless, I still had my trump card, Overeater. As long as I didn’t make a mistake and get killed out of nowhere — and of course that was always a possibility in any battle — I could win against a General. But…
“Valacirca.”
If I remembered correctly, it was an Elvish word that referred to the Northern Sickle, a constellation made up of six stars. It consisted of two stars connected like a handle and four curved like a blade. Each of those stars had the name of one of the six main gods: the god of lightning, the Earth-Mother, and the gods of fire, fae, wind, and knowledge.
“Calamity’s sickle, the sickle of the gods—”
And the name of a dragon.
This dragon was feared enough to have earned that big of a name from the proud race of the elves. I was certain that it had to be a dragon in the true sense of the word, and it must have existed since time immemorial.
I’d never fought a dragon. They hadn’t even turned up in Blood’s heroic stories. So it was virtually impossible for me to even guess at their strength or my chances of winning.
Born at the time the Progenitor created the world, the dragons had wielded their power in the battles between the good and evil gods, power that was said to be unmatched by any except the gods themselves. They had huge, supple bodies covered in tough scales, and they possessed the innate intelligence to manipulate Words. They had strong wings to catch the wind, fangs as thick as trees, and claws as sharp as the finest blades.
Most of them had now vanished from the world. There was one theory that it was because the battles between the gods had reduced their numbers too severely, and another that they had left the confines of the physical world behind and ascended to the dimension of the gods. Whatever the truth of these theories, the fact of the matter was that there were hardly any dragons left in this world.
Only the many ornate legends about them and the various demidragons that were said to have been their minions long ago were left as proof that the dragons had once existed.
“A dragon…”
To repeat: their power was second only to the gods. Even the Echo of Stagnate had been hopelessly dangerous, and that was after Gus had destroyed one half of his physical body and probably put him in a weakened state. He had brought me to the brink of death. If the goddess of the flame hadn’t come to my rescue, I would have died then and there. I remembered the terror the god of undeath had made me feel. A shiver ran down my spine.
“An Echo and a dragon…”
Which was stronger? I didn’t know. But I was certain of one thing: there was no chance at all of a dragon being significantly weaker than Stagnate.
I wanted to be extremely cautious. That was why I’d decided to send a request to the bishop to see if he could find out anything that could help me while I still had time to spare. All kinds of books and a lot of talented people were collected at the temple and the Academy to which Gus had once belonged.
Apparently, the temple and Academy even had the occasional elf who had left the forest in search of knowledge sign up. There was a chance that some old oral lore would turn up.
I breathed out slowly to calm myself down.
I took a little bit of pride in my strength — I was a man, after all, and a warrior trained by Blood. But at the same time, there was something I’d learned from all the battles I’d fought. Battles represented reality at its most cruel, treacherous, and unforgiving. Once one started, it was almost inevitable that someone would die.
“God…”
My hands were shaking for the first time in a while. This was an opponent who was at least my equal and probably stronger. There was a serious likelihood I could lose. It was an opponent who would probably steal away my life with heartless brutality.
“Oh, man…”
I found myself thinking about Mary. I remembered her hugs and the pleasant smell of fragrant wood burning. Will. William. I heard her voice, my mom’s voice, calling my name.
I murmured quietly. “I’m scared…”
“Don’t be so feckin’ gutless!”
I jumped. I was sure someone had heard me.
“Come on! Again!”
The voice was coming from outside the window. I looked out. Menel and Al were having a mock battle.
“Hah!” Wearing armor and holding the practice sword I had made in his hands, Menel effortlessly kicked Al over. “What’re you doing hesitating to hit me when I’ve got armor on? You’re more of a softy than Will. A pushover!”
Menel provoked Al and frowned down at the dwarf as he lay on the ground groaning. “Come on, what’s wrong? Giving up already? Gonna turn tail and run home, rich boy?”