The Last of the Sages
By
Julius St. Clair
Copyright © 2016 by Julius St. Clair
All rights reserved. This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The Sage Saga
The Last of the Sages (Book 1)
The Last of the Sages (Book 1 Deluxe Edition)
The Sage Academy (Book 1.5)
The Dark Kingdom (Book 2)
Hail to the Queen (Book 3)
Of Heroes and Villains (Book 4)
The Legendary Warrior (Book 5)
End of the Fantasy (Book 6)
Rise of the Sages (Book 7)
Ancient Knights (Book 8)
The Last War (Book 9)
The End of An Era (Book 10)
Hail to the King (Book 11)
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1 – Slacker
Chapter 2 – Orientation
Chapter 3 - Tests
Chapter 4 – Eidolon
Chapter 5 – The Siege
Chapter 6 – Shattered Dreams
Chapter 7 – Change
Chapter 8 – Haze
Chapter 9 – Prattle and Allay
Chapter 10 – Pain
Chapter 11 – The Final Test
Chapter 12 – Truth
Their Present…
Our Future…
Chapter 1 – Slacker
His father chose his words carefully.
“Man up.”
It was a simple phrase, yet it humorously summed up his entire philosophy, particularly when it pertained to his son.
Direct and painful.
Always to the point.
James asked him once why every word that seethed out of his mouth was so intentionally hurtful, but the only answer he received was that his father hated saying the same thing twice. By being so blunt, no one could ever forget his words.
And he was right, of course.
Even when James was only half-listening, somehow the cruelty made its way into his subconscious, keeping him up at night and forcing him to mull over the same words spat at him each day.
Lazy. Worthless. Good-for-nothing.
Words he eventually believed…and it wasn’t like he had anything to prove to the contrary. He was a teenager on the brink of adulthood, living with his single father on a dying, makeshift farm, and he had no desire to learn the family business. Or anyone else’s for that matter. He was completely satisfied enjoying a life of leisure.
And funny enough, it was not like his father had the farming knowledge to impart to him in the first place. He didn’t know a single thing about his “trade,” yet he had still started a farm despite the fact, and no one questioned his authority to do so.
He was that feared amongst the villagers.
Over time, James had learned to keep quiet whenever he was publicly in this man’s presence, but his father had made it a mission to turn his son into a man, and therefore, his tactics were getting more forceful and desperate with each passing year. He had begun yelling at James more and more as he grew, screaming over how he should wake up at four in the morning to prepare the pig feed or use that joke of a rototiller to plow through the rotting cornfields. And it was all for naught as James just ignored him.
Until now.
Now, things were different.
Maybe his father was just jealous.
Perhaps he was getting fed up with his son’s extended sleeping hours or his daily playtime with friends while he toiled away in the fields.
Either way, no one ever expected him to go this far.
“You can’t be serious,” James said as his father dropped the eggs he was carrying onto the floor rather than the iron skillet. His father bit his lip at the lost breakfast as James sighed heavily. He could see that his father’s frustrations were about to manifest in more familiar ways.
“I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired of you being lazy all the time!”
“What?!” James scoffed, trying to hold back the chuckle under his breath. When his father got angry, it was hard to understand him. James had once told him that he should get that slurring thing checked out but he hadn’t thought that it was funny. Neither did James.
“Are you even listening?” his father spat, his cheeks gaining some color behind his farm-tanned skin. He brushed a hand through his dirt-matted hair, causing some foreign particles to fall onto his recently washed hands. James made a mental note to skip breakfast.
“Believe me, I’m trying.”
“Honestly, James. What would you do in my situation?”
“Study linguistics.”
“Son, talk to me like a man. None of that child-game stuff.”
“All I want to know is why you would sign me up without asking me. You’re always telling me to ‘man up’ but you never give me a chance to.”
“I’ve given you a chance for nineteen years. Nothing’s changed. You never take the initiative. All you do is lie around and eat. When you’re not doing that, you hang out with your friends. At least they’re trying to accomplish something. At least they make their parents proud. Whenever our neighbors ask me how you’re doing, I have to change the subject because it makes me ashamed that you’re my son.”
“Ashamed? Yeah, you should be because you’re the parent. You’re the one who’s supposed to raise me and teach me but you don’t. You work all day on a farm that never produces crops and nearly kills off all of its animals before winter even hits. You get up early and work all day and you have nothing to show for it. Nothing. You’re supposed to be my role model, but there’s nothing to model myself after.”
“So you become a bum.”
“At least a bum’s free to make their own choices. I choose to sleep in and chill with my friends because it’s what I like to do. What’s the point in working when there’s no reward in the end?”
“I have to provide for you,” he snapped.
“Yeah, but I don’t have a family to take care of. All I have is you, and as my father, you don’t even help me. All you do, whenever I try to make something of myself, is criticize me, and I don’t need that from you. You give up on me before I barely get my feet on the ground.”
“I’m not giving up on you. It’s just that I really think the Academy will be good for you.”
“Why? Because someone else will be teaching me?”
“Obviously I don’t do a good enough job.”
“I said all that stuff to make a point, not to shut you out!”
“I guess we really are related then, because that’s exactly what you’ve done to me since you were able to talk—shut me out. Nothing I say, no matter how I say it, gets through to you. So now, I’m trying fresh tactics.”
“Dad…but the Academy? If I…I mean…if,” James sighed heavily and quickly wiped away the tear that was welling up in his right eye. “Even if I survive the training, I’ll just get killed as soon as I go out onto the battlefield.”
“Good,” his father said coldly. “The fear will build character.”
“Dad, give me another chance. Please.”
“No, I’m done with that. We’re trying something new.”
“Have you even fought a day in your life? Seriously, when was the last time you stood for anything? Refused to give up on something?”
“I refused to take no for an answer with your mother.”
“I believe that’s called extortion.”
“You know, smart guy…you wouldn’t be here today if she hadn’t married me.”
r /> “Guess I owe you a resounding thanks.”
“Besides, you should be worrying about yourself instead of what I accomplished in life. Whether I had to fight or not doesn’t make a difference. I worked hard to keep this farm running and the only reason you’ve enjoyed being a bum all day is due to my labor.”
James laughed at that last part.
“Dad, you’re too funny. The only reason we’re still alive is because you probably got a side job somewhere. We both know that field isn’t producing a thing.”
His father became solemn then, turning to the ice box to scavenge together a new meal. James sighed and slouched in his seat. As his father began rustling through the contents, James glanced around the kitchen, already missing one of his favorite spots in the small two-story ranch house. The kitchen was about as big as a walk-in closet but it still managed to boast an ice box the width and length of an adult. There was an impressive counter that swung half-way through the room, closing off the wood burning stove and a cupboard which held hundreds of hand-stocked jarred food, courtesy of his father’s labor. The candles that lit up the room were strategically placed in each corner of the room, with one hanging on a shelf just above the stove for a little extra light while his father added the right spices to his signature raccoon stew.
The floor was spotless, and the word “rat” would never be uttered there. The neighbors dreamed of such a kitchen. The Alter family wasn’t rich by any stretch of the imagination, but that didn’t stop them from being the envy of many. Visitors just couldn’t wrap their heads around the lavish décor, and the other three rooms of equal size, composing the living room, his father’s bedroom and his son’s. For James to have his own room, it classified him as a king and no less than a spoiled brat by even the best of his friends. James had to admit that although the farm was by far the bane of James’ existence, he did feel a small sense of pride over their home.
He tried not to dwell too much on the details of how they were able to live in such a place lest he uncover some mystery that would result in their eviction—like his father was actually involved in crime or something of that nature. How his father could afford the lease on the village’s equivalent of a mansion was beyond everyone, including James. But despite the mystery, James wasn’t about to jeopardize his lifestyle for a little peace of mind.
Still…it was a beautiful home. The very least he could do was help with the cleaning.
James focused his eyes aimlessly on a random corner, shamefully realizing that he had no part in helping his father with the upkeep of their home. But as soon as the guilt came, it left, as it always did.
It was a horrible practice of his—to forget. He could have probably avoided a lot of heartache and turmoil in life by replaying the events of his history, but it was hard for him to remember anything he didn’t find important.
Sure, he could listen well enough.
The problem was that he just didn’t care.
So even though he felt bad for a moment, the feeling passed just as quickly. And in the end…he shrugged off his temporary shame and went through the motions that would ultimately lead to the end of the conversation.
“I’m sorry,” he replied autonomously. “I should’ve done more…especially after Mom left.”
“I understand you needed time to cope. You were little, and I know how much of a Mama’s boy you were—”
James’ apologetic demeanor cracked.
“—but I think four years is more than enough time for—how old are you now? Twelve?”
“You know I’m older.”
“I just call it like I see it.”
“Hey, is there an early carriage to the Academy? I think if I pack really fast, I can get there ahead of schedule. You know, decorate my dorm room.”
His dad laughed. He got the message.
“We’ll have plenty of time apart before tomorrow comes,” he said. “Though it seems like an eternity.”
“Tomorrow? What do you mean? I only have one day? One day?! Is that really all?”
“What does it matter? Am I cutting into your beauty sleep?”
“No, I mean…I only have until tomorrow to listen to your sarcasm and insults? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I’m overwhelmed with joy.”
“About to cry, aren’t you?” his dad smirked and James responded in kind.
It was a moment that occurred all too often. A mutual understanding laced with sarcastic humor. An understanding that let them both know that there was no point in wasting each other’s time. Their relationship wasn’t working, and as a result, his father had decided it would be better for them both if James left.
James didn’t blame him. He knew he held his father back. From his dreams, his work, his honor. He was ashamed of his son and it was painfully obvious—the distant gaze in his eye whenever he stared at his son; the clench of his fists whenever James opened his mouth in defiance. Every day that James lived in his house was one day closer to him losing his sanity.
Better for his son to leave now so that he could live his life free and clear. Or at least until James died...then he could go to the village square with a new song—one of his courageous son, who bravely joined the most dangerous academy in the whole world and fell by the sword with great honor and dignity.
It wasn’t said between them…but they both agreed that he wasn’t coming back.
No one returned from the Sentinel Academy.
No one.
There were no such things as parades or welcome home celebrations, letters sent home, or postcards from exotic locations. Death had become so common for the families of the recruits that some even had a funeral for their sons and daughters the day after their departure. Still, the Academy would never close, no more than a morgue could. As long as there were warm bodies to fill its walls, the Academy would always be in business.
No one knew much about the school and what lay inside. There was simply an unsaid agreement that it was essential for their survival. No one talked specifically about what they were being protected from, but the citizens—especially the adults—were undeniably afraid of…something. A creak of a settling building brought sighs of discomfort and yelps of surprise. A citizen running a little too fast for the general populace’s taste brought about cries of worry and a wave of shutting doors and windows.
And through the panic, their children suffered even more—of a fear of the unknown, never given an explanation as to what horrors ailed them so. The children were simply expected to obey their parents’ orders, because it was said to be what’s best for their well-being. And James realized that this was the reason no one would come to his aid if he announced his father’s wrong. The youth may secretly uproar, but only in secret—over the fear that their own parents may see their disobedience and think they too needed a lesson in maturity.
A lesson the Academy was sure to teach.
James wasn’t completely oblivious. He understood the purpose of a training school. Whatever enemies the Kingdom had, whatever evils were outside their walls—it was necessary to keep them at bay. The Sentinel Academy—the training facility for the Kingdom’s infantry…they had to be doing an adequate job, even if no one ever returned to confirm this belief. But James knew he couldn’t survive there. There was no doubt about that.
And that’s why he decided to run away.
Sure he’d pack, say his good-byes, and even head in the Academy’s general direction, but he would never make it to the entrance. When it came down to it, he’d rather betray his Kingdom than be sent off to die. It was finally time to gain the freedom he had longed for and who knew what services he could offer another village or another Kingdom? There had to be a better life than this.
“I guess I’ll say my good-byes in the morning,” James replied, getting up to go to his room. “Until then, take care.”
“You’re not going to spend some time with your dear old dad?”
“See you tomorrow,” James said bitterly.
; He made his way upstairs, climbing each step sluggishly as if they pulled at his soles. Still, it was the burden wrapped around his shoulders that really bothered him. He had dreamed of leaving his father for as long as he could remember, but it was undeniable that he had a good thing going on at home. Free food, free shelter, no debt and the only downside were his father’s random, irrelevant lectures. The thought “Mom would let me stay forever” crossed his mind, but he let it pass quickly. He didn’t think of his mother much, and there was no point really. Except for a few mementos and trinkets of nostalgia strewn around the house, a stranger would barely even know she existed.
Lazily, he sludged through the organized mounds of junk cluttering his room, making it feel like a crawlspace. Thank the Maker I haven’t attracted any major insects over the years, he thought. Actually, there hadn’t been a single fly buzzing around the house in months. The notion was strange to him but he soon shrugged off the thought. The insects wouldn’t be missed.
He plopped down on his sanctuary as hard as he could, knowing the goose feathers would envelope him like a cloud. It felt just as soft. He often found himself on his bed and not just for sleeping. It was his self-proclaimed “thinking cap.” And as if on cue, as soon as the silk-like pillow caressed his cheek and the blankets caressed his skin, the dam broke, and a flood of memories poured through his mind—faster than he could sort through. There was no rhyme or reason behind what he chose to think about.
Usually, the flood would consist of what was for dinner that night or who was interested in whom at school. This time, however, it was all about the Academy. And the influx of worry was so strong, it felt like the levees were going to crumble and he was going to lose himself in a never-ending depression.
The Academy.
That Oblivion.
That suicide mission.
The recruits worked so hard to defend a Kingdom that never seemed to be attacked, and it wasn’t really worth protecting. He had heard that nearly half of the recruits didn’t even survive the training. What kind of regiment was that?
James sucked his teeth in disdain and pressed the pillow firmly to his ear, as if he were closing the door to a vault. Shutting his eyes as tight as he could, he concentrated only on the darkness engulfing his vision. And before he knew it, he was asleep.