LCoT chapter 41

“You almost left us to die.”

“Well, I thought we would never win.”

Orlan and his seven, and Gael and his five, stood far in the distance of the compound after they had returned from their patrols of the surrounding buildings—if you could call them that.

“Well, I almost died,” he said, before he was interrupted.

“You there! Who’s in charge?”

“I am.”

“Don’t be foolish, girl. You’re much too small, and you are not pure.”

“I said I am,” Clara repeated, and her hands began glowing.

If she wasn’t going to be listened to, then all Clara had to do was burn her face off—and as though sensing the atmosphere, the twelve teenagers under Gael and Orlan stared, readying themselves for a fight.

Dea chuckled. “Girl, you may command all these children, but you won’t win a fight against me.

This manor is under the ownership of House Morkan.”

“She’s right, Clara. She was the one,” Orlan said, “the one who was with the Goliath lord, Arlath.”

Clara looked up and past the human and saw the large Goliath, with a banner flying red and... [trailing text], headed toward the manor.

“Go inside. Tell Marcus and Ivor to come out here right now.” She made her voice louder. “Those of you who can’t fight yet, follow Gabe. Go into the manor.”

She watched as nine of the scrawny boys and girls left for the manor, leaving behind six standing against her.

“Aren’t you going to run as well, girl?”

“No.” Her answer was daring, and it had the warrior woman raising her eyebrow at her.

“What’s going on here?” Ivor said as he walked out of the manor too.

“Tell these children to leave this area. Lord Arlath wants to make this his hosting ground for his company.”

“There must be better places than this broken manor. Have you told your lord about this fact?”

“We did, but he is Arlath. Only a few can stand in his way when he wants something.”

“There are better places to stage his company than this one.”

“There are, but this one interests me,” Arlath said, getting off his horse and walking over to the group.

“Lord Arlath.” Ivor avoided everything not to get on his knee and bow. He held his hand to his heart.

“Member of the Duskguard. What are you doing here?”

“My days of fighting for the lords are over.”

“The Tides never stop. A true warrior knows this.”

“This one says she is in charge here. Is this true?”

“Yes.”

“And by what right?”

Seeing what they were trying to do, Marcus spoke.

“The Church had seen it right to give us a seal of House.”

“And does anyone who asks for one get one?”

“No. I was tested by the warriors of the Church.”

“You were tested?” Tulrun repeated. “Don’t lie, halfblood.”

“That’s enough, Tulrun,” Arlath said, cutting him off, and looked at Liala. She nodded.

And he did not miss the boy’s eyes settle on her as she used her mage sight.

“We have a right to be here,” Clara said.

“Is that so? What say you, Goliath?”

“I still think there is a better place to host your fighting company than here.”

Marcus watched purple psychic aether leave one of the shadows, and from what he could tell, Arlath, the Goliath lord, was talking to someone.

That brought up another question—was whoever was communicating with Arlath sent to spy on them?

Was he the reason they were here, insisting on staying at the broken manor? No matter. He had to think so, and from now on, before he did any of his secretive projects, he would have to use his arcane sight to watch for spies.

Marcus missed the fact that as much as he analyzed the group, they did likewise to him and his group. His eyes took them all in as he measured them—before landing on the most dangerous of them.

He did not miss Arlath flinch and raise an eyebrow as he held his gaze, the Goliath’s hand going slowly to his sword.

The action caused Ivor to tense.

“If you wish to stay, House Morkan welcomes you—”

“No. I am in charge. I say who can stay,” her eyes landing on Marcus for support.

“You don’t understand,” Ivor tried to say, his eyes falling onto Marcus as well.

Marcus, however, was not present in the moment. His eyes were fixed on the Goliath’s sword.

Everyone followed Marcus’s gaze, and for a moment, there was a brief silence as they waited for him to speak.

Marcus watched them all. On the other hand, Arlath the Lord was casting some sort of mage sight, and Liala, the other Goliath, was doing the same. What he feared was that the magic they were using was different from his.

Ivor was growing tense by the minute. After what he had just seen on the catch paper about the boy’s affinities, it took everything in him not to return to his previous assumptions. Only this time, he would have to take the boy on the run along with him.

Vega was often unbothered by most things—after all, he was considered a close aide to one of the strongest men in the mountain cities. The only time he was rattled was when Arlath would decide to hold his sword—or when it came to anything to do with the famed blade, The Scarlet’s Brand.

“What are you doing?”

“Your House Morkan—is that what you call yourselves?” The question was pointed at Clara.

“Yes,” she responded.

As a show of good faith, he unbelted the holster of his sword. “You must be their champion—of this House Morkan.”

“No. You can’t challenge him. He’s just a boy,” Ivor started.

“Be at ease. For a warrior, the boy cannot match me,” Arlath said, but he missed the look of uncertainty on Ivor’s face as he walked past the half-Aasimar, half-Goliath, and stood in front of Marcus.

“As I said before, a show of good faith—from one champion to another,” Arlath said, looking down at the much smaller half-Aasimar.

Arlath held his sword forward, willing Marcus to take it.

Unlike the former filthyings, who did not know the significance of what Arlath was doing, the aides did know what he was doing—rather, they did not understand why he was doing it, and why he was asking a halfblood to hold The Scarlet’s Brand.

Marcus had been intrigued by the sword ever since he had laid eyes on it, and seen the different enchantments on the blade—the way it was woven, the aether forming a sphere.

“Take it,” he said, and Marcus was rather obliged to take it.

“Why?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the pommel and handle of Scarlet’s Brand.

“A test.”
----
After what Finn, his Zarynth assassin, had seen, he had told him about the boy—he had to know.

Of his aides, only two of them had been chosen by him. The rest had been for alliances and for the state of his people back in Driftspire.

Liala and Vega had strong bloodline magics, and it was rare to find others with strong bloodline magics—much less those with two.

Arlath had promised himself that if he ever found a person—one with no affiliations with the other houses and with the potential to have an innate magic, as he suspected the boy had—he would allow them to join him as his aide.

The boy may not have had an innate magic from bloodline, but he surely had one from the arcane. And he had a prime affinity of five or six in his bloodline aether, which was something Arlath could use. He could mould and give the boy an innate magic of the Red.

Tulrun was no fool. He knew what Arlath was doing was wrong. From the beginning, when they had chosen to come here, he had known something was off.

There was the mutt who had chosen to call herself the leader, and then there was the two-eyes, who was an abomination to his people. They all stood there in front of their path as though they were equals—and they were not.

The number of men and women who could face Arlath in the mountains and put up a good showing were but a handful.

The fact that he was even entertaining this was a show of his strength—and his character.

He simply did not see them as worth. They were like the many commoners who came together with dreams of starting a noble house and reaching the peaks of the mountains.

If Tulrun had been in their shoes, he would have given himself to serve under the House of…

Worse was—they were halfbloods. All they were good for was being a servant house.

All that changed when Arlath offered the young man—not that much older than—to hold his sword.

His eyes darted around to the others, but he was not under some charm or illusion spell.

The looks on the others’ faces did not lie. It was really happening.

Arlath was letting one of the seven sacred blades be handled by a two-eyed abomination.

“You cannot let him—” Tulrun began, only for Arlath to silence him and the others with a rise of his hand.

Marcus did not take hold of Scarlet’s Brand. He turned to the side where Ivor stood to ask, but the man’s mouth hung open in disbelief—like the others.

This is what he had wanted—to learn about the enchantment on this sword.

As casually as could be, he stepped forward, his left hand in his pocket, and with his right hand reached and touched the sword.

What he felt next, he did not expect.

When Marcus held the hilt of the sword, he had expected to feel a surge of power—maybe a feeling of strength.

What he did not expect was the weakness, dizziness, the loss of balance.

He stumbled backwards and away from the weird-looking sword.

As soon as he had touched it, his body had been drained of all its strength.

Where he had felt strong and ready one minute, he now felt weak and unprepared.

And the spells—the bloodline spells that he had held onto in his mind—were all gone, stripped away from his mind and body.

He felt naked and completely unprepared for a fight now.

And looking at the tall Goliath, he knew it too.

The moment he touched the hilt of the sword, he was assaulted by a flood of things all at once.

First, the bloodline spells he held in his mind were stripped away.

Then, for the briefest moment, his bodily senses picked up to their highest: the light was too bright, breathing too loud, and the wind too wet and cold against his skin.

Then the world froze, just for a moment—everything moving extremely slowly.

Just as his fingers wrapped around the hilt of the sword, he felt like an entirely new creature—bred for war and nothing else.

In that smallest of moments, he felt like he could lift the world on his shoulders and run across the mountains, jump as high as the birds.

All of this in just those few moments.

Then, as Ivor had warned him before, the spell broke.

His aether was nothing. And the backlash of holding onto the enchanted sword made the joints in his entire body ache.

The moment the sword had been in his hand, the amount of magic it demanded was just too much.

His bloodline affinity was high enough for him to develop an innate magic with it,

but whatever spell was woven into the sword was too demanding on his bloodline aether reserves.

He let go and staggered back.

He did not know what he had just witnessed.

That single spell in the sword was so powerful that he could not handle it with his aether.

Had it been arcane, shadow, or psychic, perhaps he would have had a better chance.

But whatever that spell was—it had to be, at the very least, royal magic level strength… or stronger.

The spell did everything that was possible for those who used bloodline magic.

He looked at his hand, suddenly afraid—not of the man—but of the sword, and the sort of power it offered Arlath.

And now that he thought about it—he knew: had Arlath wanted him and the others dead,

they would have been dead—without a word ever leaving their mouths.

Now, if he could make an enchanted weapon like that for himself—then that would be something.

To those watching, it felt like one minute his hand touched the sword, and the next he flinched and stumbled back, holding his hand and frowning.

Arlath knew what the sacred blade was capable of.

In fact, he was one of five people alive who knew what the blade was truly capable of.

He would have to add the half-Aasimar in front of him to that list.

He wondered if that would be enough to get the boy wanting more of the power—and thus, wanting to join him.

Like the many who had touched Scarlet’s Brand before, the sword had a way of showing people its power.

And of those it had shown its power—of those who had touched it—only a few remained.

All the others were cut down by Arlath as they challenged him.

Would the boy be the same? Go into a rage and try to take the sword from him?

He waited, stepped, and watched.

But he shouldn’t have been surprised.

The boy had an innate magic of the arcane—which meant he was still balanced enough, despite having all his blood aether taken from him.

And the weary look he leveled at him was also amusing, to say the least.

It was as if he was realizing just how dangerous he was—

No… not him.

The sword.

Arlath watched the boy look down at his hand, concerned.

“You dare—” Dea began.

“How dare you! Lord Arlath has given you such an honour, to hold the Red Blade, and you act in such a manner!” Vega drew his sword. “I should cut your hands off!”

“The halfblood doesn’t know what it means. Let me cut him down,” Tulrun said.

But as nonchalantly as one could be, Arlath spoke, tying his sword back to his waist.

“Do you have any words for me?” Arlath asked.

Marcus looked up at him—and to his surprise, he did not show as much fear as he did when he looked at the sword.

“No.”

“Well then.”

He turned back to Clara, who was still staring, agape and afraid because of what Marcus had done.

“I have shown you good faith. Will you host my company?”

Clara, her head bobbing faster and faster after what Marcus had done—

All she could think was: go along with what the Goliath wanted.