retorts, averting his eyes to imply he didn’t notice.
“Many of the soldiers have already passed away,” the arcane master admits, patting his basketful of captured spirits. “And now, here they are. The dead are not at peace. I believe a vial curse has sprung forth from that tower. Just as the Subrosians feared.”
“That can’t be true,” he breathes, eyeing the shapeless mist within his bottle.
“I would enjoy such a hope. However, the evidence allows me no such luxury. The King has agreed to a reaver regiment to combat the growing ghost population,” his greatfather beams with pride.
“Why in Termina would Igos agree to fund ghost hunters?” He immediately responds.
“Your ignorance astounds me, foolish child,” the dangling ghost chimes in.
“Quiet, you!” He snaps, knocking a knuckle against the sturdy glass. A confused expression from his teacher prompts the obvious explanation. “Got myself a talker,” he smiles, shrugging his shoulders.
“Impossible,” his greatfather breathes, his sturdy stare shifting from his pupil, to the vial, and back again. The unbelieving expression remains upon his face when the voice of a soldier rings out from deep within the castle.
“Assassin!”
Pride
“I’m sorry. It’s my duty,” the young soldier apologizes.
“Are we seriously going to do this every day?” The frustrated young man argues back, holding out his arms in disbelief. “You know who I am.”
“Still, I’m required to—“
“Whatever,” he interrupts, already running late. “Can I go now?”
“Yes, you’re free to go,” he absently responds, scratching at the air. “Next!” Proceeding through the checkpoint en route to the training barracks, the young reaver glances over his shoulder to see the line of people simply intending to leave town has already doubled in size this morning. The attempt on the King’s life, and the multiple suicide bombings succeeding it, have resulted in a military presence the kingdom has never known. Squads of soldiers march down virtually every street, and checkpoints have been erected between every district to halt the influx of militant Subrosians. The newspapers claim the threat is under control, but estimates the number of casualties to have climbed over two hundred. Flyers hanging from the checkpoint proclaim, ‘Help us fight back!’ complete with a citizen pointing out a hiding extremist to a soldier. The military commanders as well as the King himself have asked that any suspicious activity be reported, fear of Subrosian sympathizers a growing concern as their continued infiltration seems impossible without some manner of internal support. The times are changing, but for most Ikanians, the change seems to be every bit as welcome as it is ignored.
“Good of you to join us,” his greatfather nods as he enters the training barracks.
“Sorry I’m late,” he exhales, taking his place amongst his peers.
“Your fellow reavers-in-training have each taken on an alias. I fear the coming war will prove difficult regarding this faction’s secrecy, and your identities are now vitally important,” the master explains, intensifying the sheer gravity of the situation they all face. “You are only to use each other’s aliases from this day forward. Phantoms and zealots alike could use your family’s name to their advantage. Do not forget this.”
“What will my name be?” The tardy member of the ensemble asks.
“Blasphemer,” Garo answers, content to ridicule his captor as escape is currently impossible.
“Walked into that one,” he admits, eyeing the cloudy container after an exasperated sigh.
“You seem to have an inexplicable connection with the departed,” his teacher starts, regarding the bottled spirit momentarily, still hanging from his disciple’s belt. “It is because of this I have chosen the name Geist,” he imparts, reading his reaction. Seeing no objection, he continues his lecture. “I will be honest with you, the King has seen fit to endorse this regiment purely for political purposes. You’ve heard the stories of ghosts and hauntings. Igos merely wants the citizens to believe he is doing something about it. Neither he, nor his council, believe there is a growing danger of manifestations from the beyond, but the threat is every bit as real as the Subrosian extremists.”
“Are we meant to combat the extremists as well?” Another student inquires.
“If it comes to it, yes,” he responds with a solemn expression. A general uneasiness falls over the assembly with this revelation, but their teacher has prepared words of assurance. “We are not soldiers. This is not a brigade of the King’s army. I have decided our role will be that of peacekeepers. In the coming months you will learn a vast array of new skills, but the most important of these will be discernment. To know when to act, and when to stay your hand,” he pauses, scanning the faces of his disciples as he paces back and forth before them. “However, that is an ongoing lesson. Today we will delve into conjuration, the most effective form of magic in regards to the undead.” With that, the group of students spread out into their typical training formation, and await instruction. “As most of you know, Geist here is an adept conjuror, and will be assisting me during this particular course,” he points out, grabbing an expected expression of shock from his student. Unprepared for such a responsibility, Geist awkwardly moves out of formation to observe his handful of peers. The day’s training seems to last far longer than any other, but in due time, the sun climbs high out of the student’s view, hanging at its highest point in the sky as training concludes.
“Better!” The inexperienced instructor exclaims. “To see every detail of its shape in your mind is more important than the physical appearance itself. Close your eyes if it helps you to focus,” he explains, surprising even himself with his ability to articulate the method. Catching an approving nod from his own teacher, Geist feels the last of his anxiousness leave him as the long day draws to a close. He would have never believed he was capable of teaching anything, the mere thought of such responsibility never crossing his mind. Still, his greatfather seems to have proven his prudence, as he often does, and now the instructed has become the instructor. The majority of the group are far from achieving his level of skill, many of them having excelled in the elemental fields, but their strong understanding of the fundamentals will undoubtedly accelerate them to the upper echelons of comprehension. The most concerning factor in Geist’s mind has become the regiment’s size, or lack thereof. If the ghost population is exploding as his greatfather has warned, they certainly stand no chance with their paltry numbers. With or without his master’s approval, he knows recruitment will prove essential in the coming weeks and months.
“Excellent, Azrael. Soon you will see the potent current of confusion lessens as you progress upstream,” the master magi proclaims, turning from his one-on-one instruction to address the bulk of his class. “That is enough for today, everyone. Continue to practice, but do not attempt to interact with your conjurations just yet. That is a lesson for another day.” The majority of the students seem to radiate a positive outlook, despite the daunting task before them. Their rapid comprehension has instilled them with a sense of purpose, imperviousness even, and as they make their way into the afternoon sun, an unspoken vow of respect is communicated through unconscious gestures between them. Heading back into town, Geist eyes a stout old man making his way to the barracks. While he is clearly younger than Geist’s greatfather, he carries the same air of timeless reverence in his methodical mannerisms. Curious about the man’s identity, and even more so, why he is meeting with his greatfather, Geist is soon distracted by the spectacle ahead.
“Of course I’m an Ikanian citizen!” Cale shouts at the checkpoint guard aggressively. “How many suicidal zealots have you caught with this stupid nonsense? You jerks are accomplishing one thing, and one thing only. Harassing law-abiding citizens!” He continues to rant as the irritated line of people behind him grows. Several individuals move over into the adjacent line when th
e confrontation shows no signs of ending.
“It’s a simple question,” the soldier protests, growing agitated himself. “I’m just doing my job here.”
“Well your job is pointless,” Cale quickly responds, not backing down. “They pay you to waste everyone’s time?”
“Everyone would be on their way by now if—“
“No,” he instantly interjects. “Wrong. I didn’t set up a checkpoint. I’m not the one—“
“Hah! That’s right,” Geist cheers, thoroughly fed up with the checkpoints himself. “Tell him!” Simply shaking his head at his friend, Cale takes a deep breath as a special forces regiment appears in the distance, making their way to the checkpoint. The few citizens still waiting in Cale’s line seem far more annoyed by his disobedience than the checkpoint itself, several palming their brow while others shift their weight and exhale impatiently. Entertaining as the situation is, Geist catches wind of a conversation as the line next to his moves forward.
“I don’t know if it’s allowed, I mean—“ Azrael, a fellow reaver-in-training starts.
“What’s the harm in asking?” His friend retorts.
“If what is allowed?” Geist chimes in, leaning closer.
“My older brother has been asking about what we’re