Chapter 7 — Enlighten

  “Ain’t a chance! Double it!” A cry of cheering and laughing followed the announcement.

  The autumn air bit at their lungs—woodsmoke, sweat, and wet wool—while the camp’s noise rolled like distant thunder between canvas and cannon.

  “Easy, Jeb, that kid is as fast as lightning. You keep losing, you’ll be out of your socks soon!” Jeering from the crowd of soldiers circling the two men. Well, more accurately, the man and the boy.

  The young man in the middle felt like a king from the attention he received. His older brother, John, stood near him, giving him a reproachful look, but wasn’t stepping in, for once.

  He couldn’t help but mock the much older man across from him. “You’ll be eating with the pigs you keep losing your money like this, Corporal Jebidiah.”

  The red mustached man across from him scowled. “Hobble that lip, Delaney, and scamper back off if you ain't got it in ya! Maybe your little keeper over there will take you back to your mother, where you belong.”

  Thomas just smiled wickedly back at the Corporal. He nodded and handed the green back to the Instigator of the duel, Henry Smith. The blonde Corporal held the bill up and shouted, “A one-dollar bet. That will be two to you, Jeb!”

  The corporal didn’t even hesitate, handing over almost a week’s wage to Henry, to the cheers of the two dozen men gathered.

  Shouts of, “Get em Jeb!” and, “Show the greenhorn how a real man moves!” All of it was good fun except for the half-dozen who had already lost a fair amount to the kid.

  Henry moved between the men and held up a coin, a hay penny. Holding it above his head dramatically, “Final round, Delaney is on a hot streak. Can our noble Corporal win back his pride, or will youth once again prevail! All bets should be in.”

  As everyone looked at the hats passed around, it was clear who they thought would win. This just made the ill-tempered Corporal scowl and shout, ‘Give me the damned coin so we can be done with this farce!”

  Henry smiled, “Of course, remember gentlemen. Jeb, hand open, waist-high, coin flat in the palm. Delaney, hands at your side.”

  “Get on with it!” a seasoned vet called.

  Henry handed the coin to Jeb, who snatched it and held it flat on his palm, his hand rotated so it sat open to the air. Delaney stood a few feet away, his hands at his sides, his smile growing as he watched the older man staring at his torso, watching his every move.

  Henry stepped back, dropped his hand, and said, “Go!”

  Delaney didn’t move, just stood smiling at the Corporal. Heartbeats passed, the corporal was soon sweating, he shouted, without looking up, “Come on! I ain’t got all day!”

  "For ye have need of patience, that, after ye have done the will of God, ye might receive the promise,” Thomas said with his lilting voice.

  Henry said, “Good verse. Hebrews correct?”

  Thomas turned his head and nodded, “Hebrews 10:36. It’s a favorite of mine. Patience is a true virtue. Through patience, we shall receive-” quick as a flash, his hand shot from his side. He still was holding Corporal Smith’s gaze, his fingers snatched the penny out of the waiting palm of Jebidiah before the man had time even to flinch. His clammy hand snapped shut after Delaney was already holding the penny before his eyes, “-our promises.”

  A moment of silence before the men all started to shout and whistle at the speed. A few jumped forward and threw their arms around Thomas.

  “Kids faster than death!”

  “You need to be at the circus, Kid!”

  On and on, a few moved in and grabbed Jebidiah as the older man fumed, trying to reach the cocky young man who had just shown him up. A few thanked him for showing the belligerent man up. Another passed him a few dollars for his winnings. His older brother John pulled him away, waving people off. The scowl on his face told Thomas everything he needed to know.

  As they walked off towards their camp, John started in on him, “You know, it’s not always a good thing to stir the pot like that. Jebidiah has a.. reputation.”

  “Why do you think I wanted to sucker him in. Keep him from paying for those girls outside the camps. Help them avoid those beatings.” Thomas’s earlier smile had melted away. He had known the Corporal was a brash gambler who thought himself invincible. “Figure I’ll buy our drinks after tomorrow.”

  “You can’t just-”

  John was cut off as from behind they heard the laughing calls of their friend Corporal Smith, “Delaney! You little sneak! Where’s my cut?” As Thomas looked back, he saw Smith jogging, smiling, approaching.

  Thomas rolled his eyes, “You're cut? For what? Helping explain the rules of a game we’ve been playing since we could crawl?”

  Smith pulled even and looked hurt; he was the best actor in the Second Division. “Tommy! You cut me deeper than any knife.”

  This did get a smile out of John as Thomas spun on the taller, handsome man, “Hey! I told you not to-”

  Now John cuffed him on the head, “Watch how you talk to a superior officer, Private!”

  Thomas spun to get John, but Henry grabbed him, putting him in a headlock. “It ought to be the stocks for you, Tommy.”

  As they made their way back to their camp, John and Henry teased the young man, trying, as they called it, “To keep him from getting an even bigger head.”

  As they approached, there was movement, packing, and breaking down camp. Henry called to a soldier moving about, “Soldier! What’s this? I thought we were staying the night? What’s the order?”

  The soldier saw who was speaking and cut a quick salute, the fun atmosphere of earlier dying away. “Orders straight from McClellan. We are heading to Sharpsburg. Reb forces are pushing in.”

  Henry saluted the soldier before glancing at John, “Better go check in with Sumner.”

  Thomas and John both saluted their friend. Thomas was starting to feel his smile creeping up. He turned to John, who was starting to look pale, but moved into camp.

  Thomas followed after, “First battle, we’re going to kick those traitors out of Maryland for good!”

  Men were moving about quickly; The Second was a well-oiled group. John looked at his brother’s excitement and stopped, “Listen, Tommy, I know what you're thinking and feeling, but... I was at Fair Oaks. This is not something to be excited about.”

  Thomas half-listened, thinking how glorious it would be if they were somehow the division to finally beat back Lee. John scowled at his day-dreaming brother, “You’re hopeless, you know that?”

  “I don’t know what you're worried about. You know I’m too quick to get killed.” He smiled, trying to get his brother to roll his eyes, like he always did. John just looked at him, true worry lining his young face.

  His older brother held his gaze before he patted him and said, “I pray to God that is true, Tommy. Just promise me you’ll stay with me tomorrow. Whatever may come.”

  Thomas smiled back, “Of course! How else will you write back to Ma and let her know your little brother single-handedly made Lee surrender?”

  This got the eye roll, and the two brothers moved into camp. Beginning the well-practiced routine of breaking down their tents.

  Thomas, the whole time, bragging to anyone he could get to listen to how he would kill a hundred rebs before the week was out.

  John was watching him. Thomas knew he was worried, but he would show his brother that there was nothing to worry about.

  Somewhere beyond the jokes and wagers, war waited with its mouth open, patient as a grave. Looming, waiting, ready to feast.

  Blood. Blood and screams. Empty eyes staring. Staring....staring... laughing

  Jolting up with a scream dying in his throat, Sayer looked around the grassy clearing. The sun was rising over the trees, and the direct light felt incredibly hot on his exposed skin.

  Cold dew slicked his spine, and the swamp’s breath—rot, moss, and old water—crawled into his nose like an accusation.

  As the memories of the previous day rolled back into his still-scrambling mind, his breathing calmed, and his heartbeat slowed. “Dreams are back. Almost thought they wouldn’t follow me... what I wouldn’t give to be back in damnation.”

  Sayer’s thoughts rolled on like this before he looked around the camp and realized he was short one walking corpse. He stood, feeling the dried blood from the previous night try to stretch, causing there to be a painful pinching sensation as his clothes stuck to him like glue. His clothes were still covered, far clearer now in the light of day, showing just how filthy he really was. The thick liquid had dried into a dark brown stain on his pants and torn shirt.

  Assessing his state, he sighed and took off his shirt, tossing it aside, leaving only his pants and boots. The pants may be dirty, but he had done enough walking around yesterday with his roger swinging in the wind to last a lifetime or two.

  His boots were fine, and the gear he took from the two attackers still lay nearby. “At least the old man didn’t rob me.” He walked over to the water, bent down, and drank deeply, trying to ignore the bits that floated on the once-clean spring. He scooped up a few handfuls of water and washed his hair, the deep grey strands having clumped together painfully with gore. For the next few minutes, Sayer tried to clean himself as best he could. At one point, he used his torn and dirty shirt to rinse, wiping away the filth.

  When he was satisfied, curiosity about something took hold, and he knelt by the pool and watched as the water settled again. Slowly, the small pool turned glassy once more. Sayer had found himself curious about something he hadn’t given much thought to. Bending over the water, he looked at the reflective surface. The image of his face looked back out at him. It wasn’t clear, but what he could see, he took in.

  He moved his hand over his face, somewhat disbelieving that the reflection was really him. Gray eyes, deep-set and ringed in darkness, his face sharp but not as gaunt as it had once been. His brows are curved and full, his lips larger than before, wider as well. His hair was the final major change, thick, grey, and hanging nearly to his shoulders. Curly compared to his once-greasy straight hair. The water didn’t do the coloring justice, but everything looked the same, gray like an artist who only had one color to paint with.

  He rubbed at his jaw, which was completely smooth, making him feel a bit naked. Not having any hair at all... in fact, no hair anywhere, that was not on his head or by his eyes. He snorted, thinking about what Bill would have said. The rough cowboy’s voice sounded in his head, “Damn Delaney! Put on a dress, and you’d make a drunk man confess his love.”

  He scrunched his face, not liking how pretty he was now. “No one will take this face seriously... I need a few good scars or some burns.” He had been somewhat attractive in his past life. However, years of hard life, war, and smoking had turned him skeletal and haunting to those who encountered him. Now he understood why those bandits last night looked at him the way they had. He just sighed, “Gonna make things harder if you don’t have a face that can blend into a crowd, Thom... Sayer.” He still wasn’t used to the change.

  Sayer just shrugged and moved over to the pile of gear he had taken from the bandits. Searching bags and satchels. Finding mostly moldy provisions, what looked like bandages, and small flasks of something that smelled like donkey piss that burned his nose fiercely...that he stored for later. He also found some flint, a pouch of dry herbs that smelled sour, and, to his great excitement, a small amount of paper that had to be for rolling. “Jackpot,” Sayer grinned.

  He decided to roll a bit of the dry green herbs in the paper, scrounged in the fire, and found a small coal at the bottom. With some coaxing, he managed to find a small red bead. With hopeful wonder, he dragged in the wonderful smoke, and… coughed, choking as the terrible fumes entered his lungs. He tried a few more inhales. Not only did the smoke try to kill him, but he also couldn’t feel anything coming from his attempts. Scowling, he stomped the thing into the grass.

  Frustrated, he stored anything that seemed somewhat useful in bags he tied to the belt he had taken from the Kynari; he wrapped it around his waist; it was tight, needing to be tied and buckled on the very last hole. The thing had been a good head taller than Sayer, yet its waist was far smaller. The Orc’s belt would have fit even worse, it having been built like an outhouse.

  As he stood observing the clearing, he felt awkward. Boots, stained pants, a leather belt with a mismatch of bags, and shirtless, his torso bare. “I must look like some weird vagrant.” He noticed the bodies near the treeline. Squinting, he realized there was something up, and he made to move when he heard a voice from behind, “Ah! Awake, finally, my boy?”

  The old man’s voice carried that same dry warmth as yesterday, like a door creaking open for a joke.

  Sayer spun, shaking his head in agitation while gritting his teeth, “I swear! One of these days, you’re going to get a bullet in the eyes you keep sneaking up on me.”

  Ammon kept walking towards him, seeming not have a care in the world, “A bullet? Between the eyes... is it like a rock or a projectile? I’ve heard similar expressions with them.”

  Sayer ignored the question, his irritation at the old sneak causing him to accuse, “And where have you been off to? Just gathering a few more of your friends to try and ambush me?”

  Ammon frowned before he caught on and laughed, “My child. If I wanted you dead, it would be a rather impossible predicament for you to escape from. I would definitely not resort to such, “ he waved his hands towards the corpses, “ineffective elements as those.” Sayer just watched him, crossing his arms, his irritation still in his teeth.

  Ammon just shrugged and moved to the camp.

  Sayer noticed something different as he passed him. A new walking staff led the hunched, robed man's way. This one was black and slim, almost like a rod of dark metal. The full length was almost as tall as the hermit.

  “Found yourself another stick? Magic that one from nowhere as well?”

  Ammon waved his staff over their campsite, and everything popped from existence with a blink. It barely stirred anything in Sayer now. “Nope. That is why I was away. I have a few stashes scattered around the swamps, just in case I find myself in need.” He held the black staff up, saying, “I figured I could use another catalyst since my primary one seems to cause you a great deal of... issues.”

  “Catalyst?” Sayer was still not convinced there wasn’t something going on here. He had given more thought to yesterday's events, and some issues had arisen with the Old Man. Sayer’s eyes flicked to the chain that was visible around the old leathery neck. Then back to the hermit.

  “Yes. Catalyst. An item that is used by all classes that have magic spells that need more than just their own mana to cast.”

  Sayer brightened a little. “Looks like he is still in a sharing mood today.”

  Out loud, he asked, “That stick helps you cast magic? What about the magic I’ve seen you use without it?”

  Ammon was moving towards the bodies of the bandits as he answered back, “The few spells you may be referring to are either far too low to require more than a base amount of my own mana, or they were cast from items on my person.”

  Ammon stood over the bandits. Sayer noticed the strange way they were already sinking into the grass, making him a bit uneasy as he watched the Old Man. “Like the land is trying to pull them down into it.”

  There was a shift in the bodies as Ammon stood near them, the cause unclear to the young man. Then he walked back to Sayer, holding something in his hand. He tossed it to him, and Sayer caught it before his brow furrowed at the strange object. Ammon spoke, answering his questioning look, “That was hidden on the Orc. A talisman of sorts, the catalyst that allowed him to cast such an impressive spell last night... well, maybe not impressive, after it backfired the way it did.”

  “This thing is a catalyst?” He held what looked like a red cloth wrapped around some coin. It was tied together with twine. The cloth was soaked in something that had dried red. Sayer looked between his object and Ammon’s staff. “Catalysts can be this different from one another?”

  “Yes. They come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. So long as they are crafted to help with conducting mana, catalysts can be almost anything. Which is why you should always assume someone has a catalyst stored on their person to help with the control of mana.”

  He wanted to ask more, but Ammon held up a hand to stop the question. Sayer scowled, thinking this was going to be an attempt by Ammon to go back on his word, but Ammon smiled warmly behind his grey beard, saying, “Do not fear. We have a long walk ahead, especially if we wish to reach my sanctuary before nightfall.” Ammon seemed to notice Sayer was again without a shirt, and with a pop, a new one floated to the ground. This one was a light green linen shirt.

  Sayer, mollified for now, grumbled a thank-you, picking up the shirt and covering his torso. “This sanctuary. Why is it so important that we go there?”

  “Good question!” Ammon spun on his bony heel and began walking, calling, “It will be the place that will allow us privacy to train and prepare you for your task. I have been preparing and planning for your arrival for some time, my boy.”

  Sayer followed after the quickly moving grey robes, feeling that, once again, he was putting faith in Ammon, but, perhaps for the first time, he was beginning to be less nervous of the hermit. Something about Ammon, not just the generosity to clothe and arm him, but his entire bearing, had started to give reason to suspect that, whatever the story, Ammon did in fact wish to help him. “This sanctuary is in the swamp still?”

  “Yes, but in a more secluded part that many have forgotten to time and history. Within a densely packed forest of cypress trees that hides everything. The first graves of my people can be found there. Well, actually, of our people, my boy.”

  “You always say ‘our people’. What exactly do you mean by that? You’re not Chosen, or a Grayman... right?”

  “Ahhh! Right. You may have noticed yesterday that, while wearing my pendant, it adds some coloring to keep people from noticing our grey complexion, but I am in fact a grayman myself.”

  With this announcement, he turned with surprising alacrity, holding out the staff and bowing at the waist. Then, with a flourish, he continued on his walk through the tree wall. Sayer observed that the hunch did not seem to affect his agility. Once again, thinking that the old man's age might be a well-crafted disguise by itself. Ammon continued, “That brings our race's total head count to twice what it was before you got here.”

  Sayer pushed through the low branches of the trees, feeling the strange, comfortable coolness of the clearing melt away into muggy heat. The smell of a humid swamp smothered everything else again.

  Ammon’s declaration was interesting. “Besides you, there was no one else? Did they all die, or is our shared race something that is not normal?”

  “No... There were once many of us.”

  “Hmmm. Is this result tied to something? Normally, the extinction of a people or their extermination has a reason. Even if it's a bad one.” Sayer's boot sank deep as they came clear of the wall and back into the shadowy cypress trees of the swamp. He pulled it free with a curse as the cries of birds, buzzing of thick swarms of insects, and splashing of invisible things reached him now that they were clear of the trees. It wasn’t as oppressive as the area he had awoken in yesterday, but he admitted to himself he would have preferred to remain in the clearing to this.

  Ammon seemed completely unbothered by it all as he started down the worn game trail that moved off through the dense vegetation. His voice carried differently now; he spoke, but everything was quieter, the air thick holding onto his words as he answered, “Hmmm, yes. Nice to see you have a mind for reasoning and not just violence.” He was quiet for a few beats before he continued, “When Belfast was condemned by his siblings as evil, their disciples sought to wipe out all races that were considered his children. The undead races. Vampires, Liches, and the Grays are the most prominent. All subraces. All with a history of mistrust from the rest of Alcondria, so we tried our best to stay hidden away.”

  Ammon walked for a bit in silence. The only sound was the soft tread of their boots and nature, before continuing, “In the end, it wasn’t enough for us to be away from the others. To make our home in a part of the land that was not wanted. They still hunted us. Rounded up any who bore the mana of our Lord and extinguished their flame. Until I was the only one.”

  Sayer walked in silence, knowing that this story had played out more than once where he was from, and feeling some sympathy for Ammon. “Yet you remain... that must be-” he thought of something then that caused him to pause for a beat, before asking, “Didn’t you say the imprisonment of Belfast predates the corruption of Alcondria? That was over two thousand years ago... are you saying you are over a two thousand years old?”

  Ammon lifted his hand and did a sign that Sayer easily understood as “Eh”. Before the grayclad man spoke, in obvious amusement, “Changing your mind about how I look pretty good for my age after all, huh?”

  Sayer couldn't help but laugh at the mummified-looking man. Funny enough, he wasn’t in shock anymore from moments like this. In fact, to his surprise, he was beginning to enjoy these revelations.

  Once upon a time, he was a young man who loved the mysteries of life and often got into trouble for his daydreaming and fantasizing. Years of hard military service and loss had broken that intimate part of him, but here on Alcondria, a small spark had been rekindled in the ashes of his soul.

  He asked, “Is that common for graymen? You said we are undead. So, undying?”

  “Ahh, sort of. We, as graymen, are not undying. A few of the other races could live forever, but very rarely did any choose that path. As graymen, we die, just as all other mortal races die... Well, except for you with your gift from Belfast.... and a bit for me... but we are very, very rare exceptions.”

  “I see... I guess it wouldn't make sense for us to be the only ones left if our race were actually immortal.” As he thought, he followed up, “So then, what's your secret? Why have you lived so long?”

  Ammon just raised his staff above his head and said, “Magic.”

  “A bit of a weak answer.”

  “Yes, and it's also the correct one, my boy.”

  Sayer wanted to ask him more, but Ammon spoke next, “I have a question for you, my young compatriot.”

  “Yes?”

  “You are obviously very inexperienced. No offense intended, but usually the Chosen are... impressive. The ones who have appeared here are exceptional, and I have learned that their numbering system means some have lived many, many lives. Yet, Belfast chose you. Someone who has only lived one.” He looked back, making sure Sayer saw. Beneath his beard and hood, he held only curiosity when he asked, “Would you tell me your story?” I wish to know more about how someone who has lived just one life is more worthy than those who have lived many. We have a long walk, and if you grow tired of talking, I will take over, and we can switch until we are both satisfied or come to blows, annoyed with one another. Deal?”

  Sayer walked for a bit, chewing everything over in his mind. He had never been one to share his past willingly. Especially with someone he had known for such a short time, but as he watched the gray-robed man's hurried steps, he felt something. Something in him, for the first time since Marshal McConnell, shifted, and he said, “Ok. This better not be another attempt to avoid answering my questions... but it’s not like I really need to hide anything from you.”

  As they walked, Sayer started. For the next few hours, he talked. About his life on his family's farm. His father, mother, and brother. How his parents had intended for him to be a man of god. His youth was filled with endless singing and scripture studies. Hardwork on his family's farm. Youthful hijinks with Lin and Pete, before he turned seventeen and chose to follow his brother into war.

  Sayer had found himself enjoying his story to this point. Remembering those happy early days of his life. Enjoyed explaining how he had been so gifted in singing, and that he had learned that his reflexes were something every other boy had been jealous of. He didn't hold much back up to this point... but then he got to the turning point of his life... Antietam.

  He had gone quiet. Small flashes coming back to him. Ammon seemed to pick up on this and said, “I’ve heard enough stories in my life to guess at what comes next, so don’t feel obligated to expound, my child. You went to war and had to do what warriors are often asked to do, and you witnessed the horrors they endure in that life. How long was this war for you?”

  “I was gone for a little over three years. I was given opportunities to write home... I didn’t much. I also never tried for a furlough. I was, “he paused, thinking back, feeling a phantom in his hands, “Too busy seeking bloodshed to think of those I loved.”

  “Yes. An addictive misstress indeed.” They walked in silence for a few minutes. Focused on their path, before Ammon asked, “What came after the war for you?”

  Flashes of the events played out in Sayer’s thoughts, but just like every other time, something reached up and dragged them back into the abyss within his mind. The memories of that time were fuzzy.

  He told him what he could remember. Of coming home. How he ended up in a fight with a man who had a lot of power. Killing him and many of his men and fleeing west. How the consequences of his actions burned away anything he called home. How he killed a few dozen bounty hunters and lawmen that hunted him, before one found him, and talked him into coming with him to a faraway land. How he had spent his life in the service of this man, away from the people who wanted him dead.

  “Really? What luck to find such a good man during a time when you were still reeling from everything else.”

  “Yeah. I spent seven years riding with him till I died at the hands of a girl whom I almost killed. Almost breaking the one rule I had been able to stand by.”

  Ammon had heard the anger in his words. The anger Sayer had for himself, but to Sayer’s surprise, Ammon had stopped. He almost ran into the Old Man’s back before he turned to face Sayer. “Wait… How old were you when you died?”

  Sayer shrugged, “I was twenty-eight. Why?”

  “You only lived twenty-eight years before dying?” The old man was staring open-mouthed before laughing and saying, “Well, now it all makes sense... and yet I have so many more questions! You weren’t some ancient warlord of death, or a general that led his army through hell... My boy, were you really barely more than a child before you died?”

  Sayer stared back, his own mouth open, but just a gurgle of sound escaped his throat as his rage strangled him. Sayer couldn’t believe the ancient bastard spoke such an insulting question. “How dare... I-”

  Ammon’s eyes had gone wide, like he had realized just what he had spoken. He cut Sayer’s rage off, hands raised to placate, “Sorry! Sorry! Not what I meant, Sayer. I only meant that for one so young, it is obvious you have lived a life that would be full for a dozen men. Yet it was a very short life. It was just surprising, I'm sorry.”

  Sayer’s anger was tempered, but he felt that the old fool was just trying to manipulate him. Ammon continued, “I have just come to know how many lives Chosen on Alcondria have lived. Belfast picked none of them, but he chose you, and I have come to learn that not only have you lived just one life, but that it was short and filled with sorrow.” Ammon held his gaze before sighing and saying, “Please forgive me, Sayer. I’m old, and I have grown stubborn in my beliefs on how the world works. There may be more moments like this. I hope you will have patience with me.”

  Sayer was still trying to tamp down the anger that had burned in his gut at the old man a few moments earlier. He managed to grit out, “I will try to have patience, but we will probably have a few more of these moments. I have always had a bit of a... temper,” he admitted, as tension left his jaw, “But I was raised that if a man asks for forgiveness for his words, to try and forgive. I am just not very good at it, and I’m guessing you are going to test me on this.” He shrugged and said, “Anyway. That’s me and my story. I think it’s now time for us to switch. Care to answer more of my questions?”

  Ammon seemed to relax at the young man’s words, his eyes watching Sayer closely, appraising him once again. “That is a great lesson to try to learn, my boy. I will, of course, be happy to answer your questions.”

  As they continued on their way, Sayer asked his most pressing one, “Any idea what happened yesterday? How did I come to be within Legion’s domain with no recollection of what happened?”

  “No. Unfortunately, everything I have tried to learn has led me to believe we may be missing something, but I don’t know what. For someone who is brand new to our world, to enter that God’s Domain, no matter how the rules are bent to make you impossible to kill. It is a mystery to me how you ever managed that feat.”

  Sayer frowned, trying to decide if he believed Ammmon’s answer on this. “So if what I did was so different, what normally happens? After two thousand years, surely there have been enough Chosen who could have taken on Legion? Or any of the other Gods. Why are they still here? Why don’t the Chosen storm them?”

  “Well. There are a few rules to know about challenging the Gods in their domains.” Ammon stopped at a fork in his way before taking the smaller, less trodden path. It looked like it was leading down into a darker area of the swamp. Deeper into the Cypress trees. Sayer looked at the path and was worried they would soon be walking into mud and bog again. The smell of wet earth was growing stronger as they moved.

  “I think it’s important to explain how the Domains were first formed, as they are both a blessing and a curse. I know that much of the information you obtained before coming here is about before the collapse and corruption of Alcondria. So I will start where I think the Agents of the One information ends. When the Gods fell, they went on a genocidal campaign to wipe out all life from Alcondria. It was a brutal war. That was only stopped and held back by a group that no longer exists today. The Heroes.”

  Sayer remembered a small snippet about how the Hero’s guild was one of the most powerful groups in pre-corruption Alcondria. “I remember something about them. They were a group of elite warriors, right?”

  Ammon nodded, “Elite is putting it lightly. Remember what I told you about the tiers? Well, this is what lies at the very pinnacle of that system. The first four tiers are all considered achievable through work and natural ability. Still, the final tier, tier five, was only possible through the Gods themselves blessing someone in their pursuit of power. The final tier is often referred to as the Hero tier or Heroic tier, and there was once an entire guild of tier five heroes who tried to help steer Alcondria for its betterment.”

  Ammon waved a hand and continued, “Where the Radiant Imperium and Ashen Banner Confederacy fought over land or political control of Greatmere, the Hero’s Guild was the force that tried to better the lives of all Alcondria, not just Greatmere, but every island, ocean, and tundra. Their leaders saw themselves as helping hands without borders, discrimination, or allegiance to any other power.”

  “And what happened? If the Gods were the ones who helped create the Heroes, I’m guessing that when the Gods fell, it meant there could no longer be new Heroes? Did they slowly die out?”

  Ammon’s response didn’t come right away; his face was away from Sayer, so when he heard the obvious heaviness in his tone, he was caught off guard by the sadness. “Yes. They died out, but not slowly. It was the Heroes who saved all of Alcondria. They fought the Gods. In their terrible, corrupted state, they nearly destroyed the world, but the Heroes contained them. Managing to kill six, while losing thousands of their numbers. When it was clear that they would not last to kill the remainder, they committed the ultimate act of heroism.” Ammon looked back at Sayer, his face a mask of sorrow, “They used their remaining members to create the domains. Great spells that were powered by their own life force. These domains pulled in the Gods, trapping them in an eternal cage fueled by their own power. If the Gods were sane, they would know to stop emitting constant waves of magic, allowing the domain to fall. But they are beyond reason, and continue to power their own confinement in their crazed state. Their own power blocks them from leaving.”

  “Why not do this at the beginning? Create these barriers and try to save more of their people?”

  “Because with the domains come the reason why no one can kill the Gods.” Ammon had led them into a part of the cypress forest that was almost pitch black to Sayer’s eyes. As he looked around, it was hard to see where they were going. Luckily, Ammon seemed to be giving off a soft glow. He wasn’t sure if this was on purpose, but it allowed Sayer to see where he walked.

  Ammon continued, “Imagine that the domains are a tight net with teeth on the inside. Built much like the divine cage that the One has created around the corrupted worlds in its own body. It lets small amounts of mana into our worlds, but it is built not to let anything out, so the corruption stays trapped. This is why creatures can still be born in the corrupted worlds, even though we are cut off from returning to the stream of eternal life until we are purged of the corrupting force.”

  “So when you enter a domain, it’s one way? There is no escaping till the God is dead and no longer fueling its cage?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That still doesn’t answer why the Chosen haven’t killed the remaining Gods. Surely with a few thousand, they should be able to kill just one? Even if they are not tier fives, as you already explained and I have proven, a tier one can kill a God. Why haven’t they done more?”

  Ammon had slowed, looking to his side, his eyes seeming to watch something. Sayer turned to look, but he could barely see ten feet into the blackness. The vegetation around them creating an impenetrable wall. Ammon answered him as he scanned the dark, “Yes. Good questions. The issue lies with the domain, which only lets in so much before it snaps shut. As you enter a domain, you create a ripple. No matter how you space it, try to circumvent it: the domain will only let in four challengers at a time, after which it becomes impenetrable until the four either win or die. By the time the domain opens again for more challengers to follow, we believe the God must be fully healed. As attempts to line up endless challengers have only led to death. No one knows why it’s four, but it is. Some say that there is something divine in it, but it is a solid rule all the same. Only four may enter at a time. Meaning that four people must have the power to kill a God.”

  Things were becoming clearer to Sayer. Not only were the people of Alcondria without their strongest fighters, blocked from attaining the tier that allowed them to fight the Gods, but the only way to even reach the Gods was subject to strange rules that kept them from meeting them in numbers. “So four-tier fours stand no chance?”

  At this, Ammon snorted, “Of course they stand a chance. Haven’t I told you that... but remember that the Gods killed thousands of Heroes, and in the end, they needed to resort to sacrificing themselves just to try and contain them. An ant has a chance against a lion, but what really is that chance?”

  Sayer rolled this over in his mind. Even more confused about how it would have been possible for him to have killed Legion. It all just seemed too impossible. A creeping thought played in the back of his mind, but he brushed it off like a tick. “How? How is it possible that I killed Legion?” He held up his hand as Ammon made to answer him, “I know what you have said. Anything is possible, but it feels like... that is not exactly true.”

  Ammon turned his attention to Sayer, saying, “And yet. You stood upon the bodies of Legion. No one else. Just you... So while it seems impossible, it isn’t, and we may be able to recreate it. We don’t yet understand how we will. Perhaps it will come to us, but for now, I think what we should focus on is how killing the remaining five will be achieved.”

  Sayer hated leaving things unanswered. The years of working with the Marshal had turned him into an obsessive person. Unable to easily let a loose thread go until he found where it led, it may be best to move on for now. He had many other things he needed to focus on... for instance, he finally asked Ammon, “What are you looking at?”

  Ammon had returned to staring into the dark forest. “There are mobs out in the woods.”

  Sayer immediately felt confusion, but he stuffed it down. “Remember. Nothing is the same. Everything is strange. Adapt.” Ouloud, he asked, “Mobs? Like, groups of people with torches and fury?”

  “Hmmm, no. Mobs are a term we gave to creatures that are not naturally born into this world. Creatures of corruption who are created through the combination of the trapped and tortured souls in purgatory, and the land's magic being twisted from the corruption. Mobs are mindless things that are seeking to kill anything that moves and breathes. They are a plague that form when a tortured soul re-enters Alcondria from purgatory, completely insane, after having consumed and twisted together thousands of souls on the other side. When they enter our world, they cause a type of tear that causes more souls to bleed through and form mobs of corrupted creatures.”

  Sayer just sat staring at Ammon, ninety-nine percent of what had just been said going completely over his head. Ammon seemed to pick up on this, as he looked at the younger man, wryly smiling, “Not a problem for us to deal with right now. This group has only recently formed. We will need to return to clear them sooner or later, but we have more pressing needs. Mobs and bosses will need to wait.” Ammon turned and continued on his way, his soft glow fading and making Sayer follow.

  As Sayer stood where Ammon had been and looked into the dark, he thought he saw something deep within it: red dots that seemed to be following him like eyes. He felt a prickling of needles down his neck as the red beads disappeared into the dark.

  Sayer thought to himself, “Just another confusing horror to add to the list.”

  Ammon started talking again, “So, to conclude our past subject. The Gods are trapped in domains created by the final brave Heroes. These domains only allow 4 people in at a time. Once you enter, you cannot escape, but since you can’t stay dead, we have found a very useful counter. Do you see now why you are so important?”

  “I’m starting to get it. So, I can go into the domain, die, come back, enter the domain, repeat until I win?”

  “That is the idea.”

  “Yet, I will need to do it alone... so I will probably die a lot?”

  “More than a lot. You will die beyond count, my boy.”

  “...Wonderful.”

  Ammon laughed before saying, “Do not feel too hopeless. One of the reasons I am taking you back to my home is to try to help train you. Almost two thousand years have been given to me to prepare for your arrival. Belfast entrusted me to prepare his Chosen to be built around the idea of killing something that far outstrips them in power. I have studied and found the best class, abilities, and skills to help you specialize in facing a single overwhelming opponent.”

  At the mention of abilities again, Sayer asked, “That reminds me. When will I get my first abilities? You said it will be my reward for growing, or leveling, or whatever. When will I get my first one? I was thinking about that fear spell the orc used and was curious if I would have something similar.”

  Ammon nonchalantly answered, “Oh, you already have some abilities. All classes start with at least one or two, and every race has some innate abilities.”

  Sayer stopped his boots sliding in the soft mossy ground, a brief bolt of rage before he calmed, “And... Why have you not told me this yet?”

  Ammon noticed his halt, for he turned, looking confused. “But I did tell you. I taught you how to look. It’s within your core, like your attributes and status.”

  “....What?” Sayer quickly looked into himself; he had done this enough now that it happened quickly. He saw the same information he saw before. His name and attributes. “I don’t see anything besides what I read to you last night.”

  “Well, that’s because you are just looking for your basic status. You have different groups of information inside your core. Try thinking instead about wanting to see your abilities.”

  Sayer just stared at him. Ammon seemed to forget just how little his companion understood constantly. He wanted to strangle the old man. Patiently, with gritted teeth, he asked, “Ammon. Is there anything else I should know that seems obvious to you, but I would have no damn idea about?”

  Ammon could sense his tension and was smart enough not to infuriate Sayer again today. “Not that I can think of my boy, but I will try to think if there is anything I’m forgetting.”

  “Ok... thank you.” Sayer rolled his eyes and looked inside. Instead of just wanting to see his own information, he focused on abilities, and, just like that, a new page of information seemed to materialize in his mind's eye.

  Abilities

  Class Total Abilities: 1

  Name: Hunter’s vision

  Cast Type: Internal Self-cast

  Cast Time: Instant

  Cost: Twenty Mana

  Racial Total Abilities: 3

  Name: Chosen Tongue

  Cast Type: Passive

  Cast Time: N/A

  Cost: N/A

  Name: Chosen Growth

  Cast Type: Passive

  Cast Time: N/A

  Cost: N/A

  Total Divine Blessings: 1

  Name: Chosen of Death

  Cast Type: Passive

  Cast Time: N/A

  Cost: N/A

  Sayer read through the information. Questions about what each one meant flooded him. He read them off to Ammon before asking, “Why doesn’t it tell me what they do?”

  “Well, they are your abilities. You are supposed to know what they do.” Sayer made to snap, but Ammon quickly added, “No worry. I know each one. Though your Chosen abilities, I have only heard from others about.”

  “Ok, can you explain them?”

  Ammon waved him on, “Yes, but let's keep moving. We are drawing close to our destination, and I would like to be back under my own roof.” As they continued their trek deeper into the ever-growing gloom, Sayer had noticed that they had started to rise, slowly, but surely.

  Ammon explained, “Hunter’s Vision is your only ability that can actually be cast. The rest are passive. Meaning they are in constant use, and don’t require you to spend any mana on them. Hunter’s Vision is a very simple spell. When you cast it, you will be charged twenty mana. It will then greatly sharpen your vision. You will see more clearly and farther. Though it can be disorienting.”

  “If it requires mana, how will I use it?”

  “Don’t worry. You have enough mana. If I had to guess, your capacity is somewhere around fifty. We will need to get you assessed by someone who can give us an exact answer, but there are ways to test and see.”

  “Can... can I try it out now?” Sayer felt a wave of excitement at the idea of using magic for the first time.

  Ammon turned to face his young follower, “Sure. It’s rather simple. It follows much the same logic as everything else, and luckily, this one will not need to be spoken out loud. The internal tag in its description means you need to think it clearly to cast it.”

  Excited, Sayer focused on this information, and sure enough, as he thought clearly in his mind,

  Hunter’s Vision

  His eyesight did something that made him cry out and stumble back in confusion. Everything around him seemed to brighten and zoom in rapidly. He reached out to catch himself on a tree, but missed, as the tree happened to be twenty feet away, before he fell forward and watched the now-clear rock on the ground warp and slam up to meet his face with a crack. Quickly ending his first experiment with magic with a white-hot flash.