Tales of the Implock - Chapter 023

∼ Resolve ∼

‹ Artorian Lucius ›

Across a vast skyline of white and blue, the celestial realm, Sol, in the heavens high above, cast its divine radiance.

Marbled buildings lined the cradle of mountains, exquisite architecture reached for the skies, and suits of gleaming silver armor and ribbons of sapphire sailed overhead, golems, with coattails of blue painting streaks in the air above the spirited city.

They were colossal entities, wielding white ivory spears as they glided on the wings of wind, as inexorable as the turning of day and night, determined to serve one goal. Guardians they were, protectors of light.

It was what made the city of Lucia; the City of Light. Capital of the Kingdom of Lucia, the Bastion of The Realms of Men, and home to the famed Widow Queen and her royal progeny.

Casting its reach towards the sea, the Crown Citadel displayed its splendor to all of the city, touching the clouds, like an unattainable height for any but the royals and virtuous gods residing above.

Annexed to the side of the citadel, was a platform, hoisted over the sea of white and blue.

The song of sword against sword rang out, rapid and fast, yet without cadence or harmony. A shriek of metal followed as a sword was sent flying, clattering to the marbled platform.

On his rear, Artorian looked up at Val, who, uncharacteristically, was frowning... "What's on your mind," He asked.

"Nothing," Artorian grunted curtly, getting back to his feet.

"Do not take me for a fool, your sword speaks even louder than your brooding."

He did not answer, simply moving to pick up his sword, but a flick of Val's blade slid it away, out of reach. Scowling at Val who merely raised a questioning brow, Artorian finally gave up with a sigh. "I can't help but think we're wasting my time,"

"Wasting time? By honing your swordsmanship?" asked Val.

"Wielding the sword is my calling, as so it was my fathers. But..." He hesitated, lifting his hand to let white strands of light trail between his fingers. "As a mage, I can do so much more."

"No offense, Uncle." He added hastily, realizing what his words implied.

Val simply shook his head. "A mage would rather face an army, ten thousand men strong - than a man, with the strength of thousand."

"But even my father, the strongest swordsman, was not able to stand up to the Elven Autarch and her magic," Artorian countered. "He died to only wound her."

"Your father did a lot by simply wounding her, he dispelled the entire Elven Invasion." Val reminded the youth. "But then again, your father was far from the strongest swordsman."

Brows raised, Artorian looked dubiously at the black-clothed and dangerously handsome man.

"When I was in The Shaar," He settled in. "I witnessed The Prince of the Sands, the heir of the Sha'kar. I beheld swordsmanship with my very own eyes. Your father was a talented swordsman, best of all Argon. But to the Prince? He was but that."

"Is the Prince of the Sands not just a myth from a thousand years ago? When I was younger, I overheard some of the fleet admirals talk stories and legends about the Vermillion Sands from their travels through the Cradle."

"Oh, he's very much real, and very much still alive. Older than a thousand dances of Sol and Lune."

"A thousand years old?" Artorian mused skeptically.

"Now that's a whole other story, a long one with blood-soaked tellings. But yes, the Sha'kar are an ancient race, and his skill with the blade is even more mythical than his age." Val walked over, and picked up Artorian's training sword, a simple blade of white steel. "You should not aspire to become as powerful as your father," He said, fixing the youth with a piercing gaze, those black orbs locking Artorian in place. "You think your father would want you, his legacy, to merely cease at his own achievements? You have to reach higher."

The passing of time seemed negligent at that moment as something passed between the two. Artorian's eyes, the gray-white of his irises burned a new fervor for the briefest of moments—a wrathful red. With the fires of ambition lit within the driven youth, Val could only smile.

He threw the sword, barely giving Artorian the time to ready himself as Val's onslaught was upon him. They sparred for hours, till Artorian was soaked and drenched, sweat licking fresh cuts.

"Come on, Arty ∼ what did I say about using too much thinking? The mind is a valuable tool, but instincts are just as vital to your prowess as a warrior. Where they fail, your mind refines - where your mind fails, your instincts unveil your potential."

"And what did I say about calling me Arty!" Artorian grunted, fainting to suddenly lunge and deliver a blinding thrust, yet only to be deftly dodged, Val's body as elusive as a ghost.

A peal of ethereal laughter bewildered Artorian's senses, Val somehow having disappeared from sight. Feeling the world underneath him disappear, Artorian was sent to the ground for the umpteenth time that day.

"Good, that was excellent." He chuckled.

"Say you, I wasn't even able to see the hem of your robe..." Artorian groaned.

"It was still an excellent improvement from just this morning," assured Val.

Helping him back up, the tall black-clothed man patted him on the back consolingly. "As I said, following and honing your instincts are just as important as bettering your mind. But while the fervor of your emotions has to be inflamed, so do you also need to calm your head. How about you have a little fun? I see how you're looking at that maid of yours." Val's eyes jumped, cocking his head to the lone girl standing over by the racks of weapons and various training utilities.

She was a beautiful girl, blonde and fair of skin, about a couple of years older than Artorian himself. Amelia, the maidservant who has been with Artorian most of his life.

Blushing, Artorian took a swing at Val, who just flicked away the blade with the back of his, not even looking at it.

"It doesn't have to be her, any of the maids would do just fine to make you experience the spirit of life. You know your mother - she has vetted each one, making sure none of them are able to carry child. So even if your pull-out is as poor as your swordsmanship, there is no need for you to worry." Val laughed, batting away a couple more swings from the flustered prince.

Sol went to dusk, and Lune came to glow its twilight - but the sounds of grunts and cutting still filled the air atop the platform outlooking the city. Val had already gone back, but Artorian had not left despite his promises to get rest. The fire lit by Val within Artorian still burned bright, and he felt near manic to spent it all.

Never had training felt this good, the ache of his muscles and the groan of his bones. Yet, his considerable growth in skills and mastery had proven the worth of his training. But even through the haze of his need to grow stronger, he still knew the importance of rest and the consequences of continuing on too far.

Walking over to the weapons rack, Artorian wiped the sweat trickling down his white locks of hair and face. Amelia was still here, doing miscellaneous work all while waiting for him to finish. He briefly paused to think back on what Val had said. He had never done it with any of his maids, even though that was simply a part of their responsibilities as maidservants to him, all willing and ready if he merely uttered the words.

Amelia has even been offering herself since the time when she had noticed him begin to look at her in a - different light.

Yet, he could not bring himself to do it. Amelia was his, and would always be his for the rest of his life. He was the prince, heir apparent to the crown of Lucia, and she was his maidservant. But the relationship between him and his maids would always be just that. He could not do that to her, or himself. Or so he assured his own mind.

Thoughts suddenly derailed, Artorian paused. It was quiet up there, on the training platform, the only two people being him and Amelia. There were guards close by, just beyond the gates to the citadel, but they were alone nonetheless. It was faint, but he felt... something. The wards, protecting the training field - they were down.

A moment's notice later, the sizzle of a blade tearing through the air right beside his head screamed in his ear. His mind failed him, but his instincts prevailed.

Heart in his throat, Artorian fell into a roll, and dashed away, noting the small blade embedded deep into the rack of weapons. It had been not but scant inches from ending his life. "Intruders!" He bellowed, calling to his guards who should be already storming out here.

His blade brandished, the sword he had been just about to put away, he faced his attacker - or rather, attackers... He managed to spot three black figures before one was already atop him, a curved blade whispering its descent. The instant his sword met his assailant, he knew he was greatly outclassed.

The weapon bit through his, and only his timely reaction had him evade being cut in half.

"Where're the gods' damned guards?" His thoughts howled.

Amelia screamed. "Watch out!" But it was already too late. Five figures, each one wearing midnight-black robes and masks with no slits or holes for any facial features, descend on Artorian, blades poised to kill.

He knew it was near suicide, but he had no other choice. He called upon his raw, and chaotic mana. Yet before he managed to unleash the rampaging power, of which he had no control or experience, a streak of darkness flashed in his eyes.

Hot blood spilled across his face, staining his tongue and making him taste iron. Falling to the ground before him, lifeless, three assassins laid dead. The two other remaining hadn't survived scotch free either, as one was missing a hand, and another an entire arm. They moved like jumping shadows, both fleeing. But Artorian realized too late that one was not retreating, but dashing straight for Amelia. "No!" Artorian yelled, panic welling up inside him.

She had a blade to her throat, pale and ashen as she stared wild-eyed at Artorian from halfway across the platform. Appearing beside Artorian, Val made it known who had saved him. His face was a rictus of anger, one of such chaotic ire that Artorian did not know whether to take him for man... or a monster.

The other retreating figure did not make it far, as something massive shot through the air, screaming the sound of doom. Exploding into a cloud of rubble and debris, the assassin had been pulverized more than impaled by the huge ivory spear now embedded deep into the marbled platform.

A great whirring consumed the surroundings as three colossal figures rose all around the platform, each one a gargantuan suit of armor that radiated with palpable power, dispelling the night with an azure glow. They poised to attack the intruder, not even hesitating to make Amelia a casualty.

Val raised his hand in a fist and all the golems froze. "You're okay, Arty?" He asked, gaze fixed at the assassin who held the terrified Amelia.

Artorian couldn't even care that Val had called him Arty. He merely nodded stiffly, shock running in his veins and petrifying his muscles.

"You have to... you have to save her," Artorian uttered, feeling weak and pathetic having to rely on another to protect one dear to him.

Val tsked as he took in the black-masked assassin.

But suddenly, he shot forward, faster than Artorian could feasibly perceive. He thought he even saw the black-robed swordsman turn into shadowy smoke as he blurred, but he could only take it for a trick played on his eyes.

Val's sword plunged through Amelia's right, impaling her - and the assassin. Before the blade to her throat could part her delicate flesh, Val's hand had shot up and grabbed it, barehanded, which made fresh blood trickle down his wrist. Amelia mewled in pain, and Artorian's heart croaked all the same. Pulling the blade out, Val disarmed the assassin, kicking his crippled form away from Amelia who crumbled to the ground.

Running over and crouching beside the whimpering maidservant, a hot pool of blood collecting beneath her, Artorian put pressure on the wound.

"She will be alright, I hit no vitals, she will recover with a healer," Val assured Artorian from behind him.

As if summoned by his words, guards burst through the large gate to the citadel, priests in the white robes of the Blessed Virtue rushing behind. They all went to Artorian, fussing about him and making sure he was unharmed, and at his insistence, he managed to get most of them to save Amelia.

Looking at Val who was standing over an unmasked assassin, Artorian walked over.

"They got through the wards... and where were the guards?" He asked, somehow not being able to meet the gaze of the uncle who had just run Amelia straight through.

"Dead," Val responded simply.

Artorian finally managed to raise his eyes to that of his mentor. "And how did you know I was in danger?"

But Val did not answer, a foot pressed to the chest of the assassin. It was first then Artorian realized that he was already dead, a foul substance frothing at the assassin's mouth, writhing almost like living creatures.

"Don't get too close, it's worm mouth. Poison." Val warned Artorian.

"He killed himself?"

"Yes, but unfortunately, even if I had been able to stop him; look," said Val, moving his sword to expose more of the assassin's mouth.

Artorian's eyes widened slightly at what he saw. "No tongue?"

Val nodded, wiping off the tip of his sword on the corpse's robes.

"They are not from Argon. Probably hired from the Old World since they were able to break the citadel's wards so easily, ancient artefacts and tools." He crouched to remove and inspect some odd instruments that even Artorian could tell were suffused with highly potent magics. "The magi of Arcanum are the only ones on Argon who have the ability to do that."

"It has to be the Cassians," Artorian grit his teeth.

"The Crimson King has grown daring, with his latest exploits, sending reinforcements to the north to quell the lizards. This was very likely  him too, and it would seem we have no way to prove it to the magistrate."

Artorian looked to the prone Amelia, a host of priests and red cloak healers around her. A fury, different from the one lit by Val, came aflame in his heart.

Mortius thought he could get away with this? To kill him, hurt his people, and steal away his destiny? Make him look a pathetic and worthless fool?

Artorian felt not rage... but something... else.

Something alike, and unshackled in nature.