''Chosen 8''

      '' Chosen 8''

      By;fernand jiro

To understand the past is to know the future.

Proverb from Clan Roaz

 

                “More food!  More Ale!  More dancers!” bellowed Mornic with childlike glee as he raised his mug into the air.  Even though the constant murmuring and music of the tavern atmosphere drowned his shouts out the elderly priest grinned ecstatically.  With another gulp from his mug Mornic let out a contented sigh and looked to the stage again as a new group of dancers appeared to entertain the crowd.

 

                To his right sat Citro brooding over their circumstances.  He attempted to slink lower in his chair to hide from any attention Mornic might have brought.  With a continual sweep of his eyes he kept a constant vigil of their surroundings.  Much to his relief it seemed as if Mornic was actually one of the quieter patrons to the establishment, as well as one of the more polite.

 

                “Come’ ere!” shouted one of the other patrons while attempting to climb up onto the stage, his eyes set on the lead female dancer.  The dancers kept to their routine while two stage guards quickly tackled the unruly patron and hauled him out the front door.  A burst of laughter filled the room while the dancers, seemingly unfazed by the interruption, continued with to the end of their routine.

 

                “An excellent performance!” exclaimed Mornic at the end of the show, jumping to his feet and applauding vigorously.  “The fire dancer near the beginning was most talented!”

 

                “Please Sir Kaliste, can you try to keep yourself from being noticed,” Citro grumbled.

 

                Mornic sat back down, keeping his eyes fixed on the stage for the next show.  “You do not agree?  She was very…exhilarating.”

 

                Citro gave Mornic a cross look.  “This is not about that dancer.”

 

                “She was also quite attractive, if I might add.”

 

                “Sir Kaliste,” blurted Citro, struggling to hold onto his patience.  “Please focus.”

 

                As the next show began Mornic again jumped to his feet to applaud.  “I am perfectly focused, my brooding friend.”

 

                “I am not speaking about the girl that is center stage, my priestly friend,” Citro replied in a dry tone.

 

                Mornic laughed as he sat back down and looked to Citro.  “You seem distracted.”

 

                “We are alone in a strange land,” Citro stated firmly.  “We do not know where we are, where our companions are, or how we can return home.  The past three days we have had done nothing but visit taverns and other places of…entertainment, all at your request.”  Citro paused for a moment before saying, “Why does a priest wish to visit such places?”

 

                Mornic sat back in his chair and smiled.  “I go where I am led.  Besides, ‘Demon’s Landing Tavern’ has a pleasant ring to it,” he added with a mischievous grin.

 

                Citro scoffed.  “You believe this is a place that the High Father would lead you?”

 

                “Would a temple be more to your liking?” Mornic asked.

 

                “A temple will at least have some answers.”

 

                “What questions do you have?”

 

                Citro’s patience began to buckle as the circular conversation worn on.  “Sir Kaliste,” he growled softly.

 

                Mornic grinned as he softly spoke.  “This land is called Coradain.  It borders several other nations with many lucrative trade agreements and alliances throughout this area.  There is one major rival in a neighboring kingdom but at the moment they are at a stalemate, one that promises to last as both are part of some form of alliance.”

 

                A dumbfounded expression slowly crept across Citro’s face.  After a moment of stunned silence he murmured, “How…”

 

                “By listening,” Mornic replied as he pointed out to the crowd.  “There are a few foreign words but most is rather understandable and surprisingly similar.”

 

                “You were expecting they talk in a different way?” Citro asked.

 

                “Language, my friend, is different everywhere.  Though all the Crowns speak the same there are differences, quite noticeable ones.  It was not hard to imagine that people so far away from us would speak with entirely different words.”

 

                Citro pondered the thought a moment.  “But…they speak…”

 

                “As I said,” replied Mornic.  “There are a few foreign words but most are…”

 

                A loud crash interrupted Mornic, startling both of them, as a pale looking man burst into the tavern.  The sound was barely noticeable to the crowd as a whole and only those nearest the door took notice of the incident, including Mornic and Citro.  Stuttering as he talked, the man tried to pass on what seemed to be urgent news to the owner of the tavern.  Mornic pointed in their direction and listened as intently as he could.

 

                “That’s nonsense!” the tavern owner shouted.  “This is a reputable establishment and does not need the likes of you spreading rumors like that!”

 

                “I tell you it’s true!  I saw it with my own eyes!” replied the man.  “The whole High Honor Guard had to subdue it!”

 

                The tavern owner waved to one of the stage guards and pointed to the frantic man.  With a nod and a somewhat sadistic grin the guard approached the man and took a firm hold onto the back of his neck.  After a small struggle the man was thrown out onto the street to the sound of applause for the ending of the show on stage.  Under cover of the cheering crowd three hooded figures silently made their way to the bar.  After a brief exchange of words with the tavern owner the figures silently left.

 

                Mornic arched his eyebrow as he watched the three leave.  “Very strange,” he whispered.

 

                “Hmm?” murmured Citro.  “What did you say?”

 

                “Nothing of consequence,” replied Mornic as he returned his gaze to the stage.  Citro shrugged, giving up on trying to understand the priest’s way of thinking.  Mornic chuckled to himself as memories flooded his mind.  The images of that special night so long ago were vivid in his mind as a realization came to him.  “Royalty is such a burden,” he thought with a mischievous smile.

 

                A sudden, large uproar broke Mornic’s train of thought.  A fight had broken out near the stage, injuring one of the stage guards.  The other did his best to hold his side but to little avail as two of the more rowdy men climbed on stage to claim a private show for themselves.

 

                “Ah…you’re a fine looking young one,” snarled the larger of the two men as he grabbed for one of the dancers.  Both were unshaven and covered in filth, which dirtied the costumes of any dancer they reached for.  Most of the dancers fled backstage, only two being held captive.

 

                The smaller of the two cheered out.  “We’re going to have fun tonight, right Carwe!” he shouted.

 

                “Yes we are, Ferd,” the taller man, Carwe, replied as he sniffed his dancer’s scent deeply.

 

                After another cheer an empty bottle flew through the air and shattered on Ferd’s head.  Carwe watched his accomplice falter back a few steps, letting his dancer run away, then turned to see Citro slowly approach the stage.

 

                “I do not believe they wish to go with you,” he stated flatly.

 

                Cawre furrowed his brow.  “What’d you say?  Ferd, get him,” he ordered with a motion of his head.

 

                Ferd jumped down from the stage and charged Citro.  The royal guard calmly sidestepped at the last moment and launched his fist into Ferd’s gut, sending the would-be kidnapper to the floor in pain.  Then with a kick of his right leg Citro sent Ferd flying onto his back.

 

                “As I was saying,” Citro stated again,” I do not believe they wish to go with you.”  He slowly turned his eyes to look into Carwe’s.  The dancer broke free as her captor’s arms slowly loosened around her and ran to freedom backstage.

 

                Carwe looked back to the fleeing dancer then to Citro.  Without saying a word he jumped down and slowly approached the would-be hero.  Citro stood there calmly, watching his moves carefully.  In an instant Carwe lunged to Citro, a dagger suddenly in hand and aimed for Citro’s torso.  With another sidestep the royal guard grabbed Carwe’s wrist and twisted, adding his free hand to Carwe’s shoulder for leverage, sending him to his knees and the dagger to the floor.

 

                Citro quickly pushed Carwe further down, almost to the point of falling over, and held him there until the other stage guard could get to them.  “Thank you, sir,” he said politely before taking Carwe away.

 

                Mornic slowly strode up beside Citro with a large smile, saying, “Very well done, my friend.”  A plentiful bounty of ideas sprung to life as he glanced around.  “Perhaps we can use this to our advantage.”  Citro looked sideways to Mornic, not sure what to make of the priest’s tone of voice.  Mornic turned and began to walk to the tavern owner, his classic smile etched upon his face.

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

 

                Outside of the Demon’s Landing Tavern the three robed figures mounted their horses and rode off at full gallop.  They pushed their horses as hard as they could passing through the dense forest off the main trail.  Light from the sun overhead pierced through the green canopy when it could, causing tricks of light and shadow to be played on the minds of the riders.

 

                One of the riders suddenly stopped his horse and called out to the other two.  “This is madness!”

 

                The leading rider halted his horse and turned to look back.  “Madness?” he asked calmly.  “If it is true then I have to see it for myself.”

 

                “But a demon strong enough to require the entire High Honor Guard?”

 

                “Which is why we must see to this immediately, Nimen,” replied the lead rider.  “If the High Honor Guard was truly called on for such a creature then it is a matter of urgency that we find out what it is.  If not then we must quell the rumors.”

 

                Nimen was silent a moment, contemplating what was just said, then nodded his head.  “As you wish.”

 

                The third rider motioned ahead of them.  “We should be on our way.”

 

                “Of course Rukus,” acknowledged the lead rider.

 

                They took off again as fast as they could along a path they knew all too well.  Subtle landmarks told them which direction they should go.  It was a path that only they knew of, one they took when secrecy was important.  It was off the main road that led to Baslaen, the capital of Coradain, that many travelers took if they wished to visit.  There would always be too many people along that road for the three riders to do their business.  It would always be impossible to ride out in the open, especially now with rumors spreading of a demon attack.

 

                The sunlight nearly blinded them as the three riders burst out into the open from the woods.  Before them, towering proudly, stood the brilliant white wall of Baslaen, surpassed in height only by the glistening palace itself.  For a brief moment the riders stared in awe, never ceasing to be amazed by it.

 

                Rukus rode ahead to a tall hedge near the wall and dismounted.  The other riders followed and waited as Rukus slid behind the hedge.  After a few moments he came out again with a nod and led his horse with him, disappearing between the hedge and wall.  The other two riders dismounted and did the same, slipping between the hedge and wall and entering a small passageway through the wall and down under the city itself.

 

                There was an extensive series of catacombs under the city with several entrances scattered randomly around the wall behind similar hedges.  Torches spread throughout the catacombs provided dim lighting.  The horses with the riders were specially trained to handle the enclosed environment though the riders knew that the faster they made it through the catacombs the better it would be for all.

 

                After several twists and turns the riders began to climb a shall slope up into hidden room.  They unsaddled the horses before carefully leaving the room into a stable.  Each rider took his horse to its respective pen and quietly slipped out into a connected hallway inside the palace.  They made their way to a side room where they removed their hooded robes.

 

                Rukus was a lithe man with long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail.  He stood with perfect posture and balance, always seemingly aware of his surroundings with his dark blue eyes constantly scanning everywhere.  He wore loose fitting clothes of subtle shades of white and light blue.  After removing his robe Rukus moved to the door to make sure act as scout.

 

                Though he was about the same size as Rukus; Nimen was much sturdier.  He had short, curly blond hair and pale blue eyes that seemed to almost exert a force of their own.  There was a commanding presence about him, one that could be felt through his eyes if he stared a person down.  The dominance of red throughout his clothing added to his presence.

 

                “Seems we are being sought after,” Rukus commented as he gazed out from the slightly cracked door to see a patrol of guards passing by.

 

                “Oh?” asked the last figure.

 

                “Where is he?” shouted a voice from the hallway.

 

                “It would seem that ‘we’ actually means him,” Nimen replied to Rukus as he pointed to the last figure.

 

                Rukus nodded.  “I would have to agree.”

 

                A panicked voice echoed through the hallway.  “If we can’t find him it will be our heads!”

 

                “Should we help them?” Nimen asked Rukus with a chuckle.

 

                In a calm, serious voice Rukus replied, “We could take the prize for the find.”

 

                “You both are forgetting one thing.”

 

                “What?” asked Rukus and Nimen together.

 

                With a calm, soothing voice the last figure murmured, “Since our goal is to go out there eventually, and I am going of my own free will, no one will take a prize.”

 

                “He has us there,” Nimen stated.

 

                Rukus nodded and opened the door.  “After you then, your Highness,” he murmured with a bow.

 

                Two guards passing by at that moment looked into the room with widened eyes.  Nimen walked out first calmly as if nothing was out of the ordinary, followed by his ward and Rukus taking up the end.  The two guards merely stared at the three figures walking as if nothing was happening until they turned out a corner and out of sight.

 

                “That…that was the prince wasn’t it?” asked one of the guards.

 

                Prince Jalen strode calmly through the hallways of the palace even as guards and servants stopped to stare in awe and wonder.  The looks in their eyes at least confirmed urgency to the rumor he heard at the Demon’s Landing, if not the actual rumor itself.  His long brown hair, hanging just past his shoulders, flowed gently as he walked through the halls at a slightly fast pace.  The light from windows glittered of the golden inlaid fibers of his tunic white tunic, almost creating a soft aura around his body.  As Rukus and Nimen seemed to be opposites in many ways, Jalen was the balance between them in many ways.

 

                The bright light of the throne room poured out into the hallway as the guards standing watch opened the door for the prince and his companions.  A gentle smile spread across Prince Jalen’s thin face as he paused a moment to accept the radiance that engulfed him.  Both Nimen and Rukus halted as well to wait for him.  After only a brief moment of stillness Jalen resumed his proud stride into the long throne room.  The light that surrounded them came from illumination orbs created by skilled smiths educated in the ways of enchantment.  It always awed Jalen and gave him comfort that the throne room had not seen a shadow for thousands of years.

 

                “Where have you been?” boomed a voice from the other end of the throne room.

 

                “Patience father,” the prince replied as he raised his hand to the king.

 

                “Do not lecture me about patience!” the king replied.

 

                “King Fuolan,” interjected Nimen.  “It is our fault.  We distracted the prince from his duties.”

 

                King Fuolan paused a moment then relaxed in his throne with a soft laugh and gentle smile.  “It is a high crime to lie to your king, Nimen.”

 

                Prince Jalen strode past his companions, walking down the long forest green carpet that lead to the thrones.  He knelt humbly before his parents before speaking.  “I took Rukus and Nimen to a tavern outside of the city.  I bare the responsibility of our actions alone.”

 

                “Your actions may have saved you, my son,” replied Queen Yelse.

 

                “So the rumors were true then, mother?” asked Jalen as he rose to his feet again.  “There was a demon?”

 

                “There still is,” replied a voice that quietly emanated from the side.  Jalen looked sideways to his right to see a well armored man limp toward him.  His armor was damaged in several places revealing wounds that had been tended to recently.  “We could not kill the beast.”

 

                “Where is it then, Malick?” asked Nimen.

 

                Malik glowered.  “Down in the deepest pit we could find, a fitting prison for such a monstrosity.”

 

                Jalen stepped closer to examine Malik’s wounds.  “What happened?”

 

                Lowering his head, Malik spoke softly to recant the battle.  “An explosion rocked the northern pass through the hill lands early in the morning.  A small expedition was sent immediately to investigate.  One of the two seers with them was able to communicate the danger just before being slain.”

 

                Rukus stepped forward, asking, “What was the motive of the creature?”

 

                “Death,” Malik growled.

 

                With a nod Rukus continued.  “Who lead the expedition?”

 

                “Jornar did.”

 

                “I see,” Rukus murmured in a soft voice.

 

                Jalen looked back to Rukus for a moment and saw what he was thinking then looked back to Malik.  “It was then that you ordered the High Honor Guard to assault the demon?”

 

                Malik nodded.  “The king was in a prior engagement and could not be disturbed and since you were not available I made the decision.”  Jalen noted the bite of venom in Malik’s voice.  “We found the beast too much for a full attack…losing many brave souls in its path of destruction.  After the first wave we knew it would not succeed.”

 

                There was a brief pause.  “But,” Jalen murmured as he sensed hesitation in Malik’s words.

 

                “I called forth the channelers to bind the beast’s power.  With its claws cut we easily overwhelmed it.”

 

                “So now the channelers are below keeping it alive but powerless, correct?” Jalen asked.

 

                “Yes,” replied Malik.  “Until we can ascertain exactly what it is and where it came from it was decided that the beast must be kept alive.”

 

                Jalen nodded.  “I see.”

 

                Malik furrowed his brow somewhat.  “You do not seem pleased with the tactics used.  Perhaps if you had been available…”

 

                “Hold your tongue!” shouted Nimen.

 

                Jalen calmly lifted his hand to stop Nimen’s oncoming verbal assault.  “What’s done is done,” he said softly.  “Now if you will excuse me.”  He turned to face the king and queen.  “Father, mother,” he said with a deep bow then turned to exit the throne room.

 

                “Where are you going, son?” asked Queen Yelse.

 

                “I must attend to some personal matters before I speak to the High Honor Guard to apologize for my absence.”

 

                Queen Yelse nodded.  “Be well my son.”

 

                Jalen smiled to his mother before continuing out of the throne room.  Rukus and Nimen followed closely behind.  When they had left the room Malik hobbled over to stand before the thrones with a lowered head.  After a brief moment of stillness and silence the king spoke.

 

                “Is there something further, Malik?”

 

                Malik stood slowly, painfully.  “I do not wish to spread ill will, your Highness, but…”

 

                “Speak your mind,” glowered King Fuolan.

 

                “As you wish, your Highness,” Malik replied after a moment of hesitation.  “Your son and I were trained together throughout our childhood, as it has always been with our families since the founding of the High Honor Guard.”

 

                “Yes.”

 

                Malik continued as he chose his words carefully.  “The prince always seemed to have a natural talent, a gift if you will, for the training and subsequent challenges of the High Honor Guard.  I am sure you have noticed his…lack of focus?”

 

                Queen Yelse leaned forward in her throne.  “Are you suggesting that my son does not care to defend his kingdom?  If so…it is a serious accusation.”

 

                “Your Highness,” responded Malik with a low bow, tensing up as pain bolted through is body.  “I merely report what I have noticed.  This is not the first time he has been away while he was needed.  If I recall correctly the bandits of Vastue almost succeeded in deposing you.  Was the prince not away on some personal exploit at the time without anyone’s knowledge?”

 

                “Massath was quite capable of handling those vagrants,” replied the queen.

 

                The king stood slowly with a stern look on his face.  “Your observations have been taken into account, Malik.  We thank you for your service to Coradain.  A great tragedy has been avoided by your quick actions.”  The king bowed to Malik before continuing.  “You are dismissed.”

 

                Malik knelt again, the pain obvious in his face.  “As you wish, your Highness.”

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

 

                After leaving the throne room the trio walked for a few minutes in silence without any rhyme or reason to their directions.  Jalen lead while Rukus and Nimen followed without question.  They walked the halls without uttering a word to each other, each knowing that who would speak first.  Finally Jalen broke the silence.

 

                “Jornar,” he murmured softly.

 

                Rukus nodded.  “Indeed.”

 

                Nimen arched his brow before realizing what they meant.  “You believe Jornar attacked without provocation?”

 

                “It is…was in his nature,” replied Jalen.  “Either Malik disregarded a first strike on Jornar’s part, the seer with him did not project the entirety of the expedition, or the being held below is truly a demon of destruction.”

 

                Nimen stopped suddenly.  “I do not care for any of those choices,” he stated flatly.  “The High Honor Guard does not strike first but if necessary we strike last.  It is one of our highest codes.”

 

                “It is not a pleasing thought.  Neither is the idea of a seer not projecting,” commented Rukus, “but there does not seem to be any other answer at this time.”

 

                “We must keep our eyes open,” Jalen stated.  “Bringing something of such power into the very heart of Coradain is not a very wise maneuver, even if the High Honor Guard was at full strength.  I am surprise father agreed to it.”

 

                “Because of Massath,” Nimen stated flatly.

 

                Both Jalen and Rukus turned sharply to Nimen then to each other with knowing looks.  Jalen lowered his head.  “It is not something Massath would have done though.”

 

                “No,” replied Nimen.  “But the king’s decision may have been swayed because Malik is Massath’s younger brother.”

 

                “It is not beyond comprehension,” Rukus murmured.  “Massath’s leadership of the High Honor Guard was always well beyond excellence.  Perhaps the king believed some of that brilliance wore off on Malik.”

 

                Jalen’s eyes widened for a moment as he looked up into his companions’ eyes.  “We must be wary.  There is movement in the shadows.”

 

                Nimen looked around slowly, eyeing the corners and small spaces.  Rukus coughed softly and whispered, “He spoke metaphorically.”

 

                A shade of red swept over Nimen’s face at Rukus’s words.  “I…knew that.”

 

                They shared a smile before continuing on their way.  “We must seek out Massath,” Jalen added after a long period of silence.

 

                Nimen furrowed his brow.  “He is undertaking the Ordeal.  We would be forbidden to leave the palace if anyone knew our destination.”

 

                “Then no one will know,” Jalen replied confidently.

 

                “It might seem odd if all three of us were to disappear,” mentioned Rukus.  “Again.”

 

                Jalen paused in mid-stride.  “These are odd times.”

 

                “When do we leave?” asked Rukus.

 

                Before anyone could answer Nimen interjected, “What about the demon?  Perhaps our investigations should start with it.”

 

                “No,” Jalen said flatly with a small shake of his head.  “It will be guarded and watched very closely.  Our safest route is to disappear and bring Massath back.”

 

                “And if he is not finished with the Ordeal?” asked Rukus.

 

                “We do what we must,” Jalen answered before continuing on down the hallway.  Rukus and Nimen looked to each other then hurried to catch up.  “We will leave before sunrise tomorrow.”

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

 

                The evening sun sent out the final rays of light for the day as it passed below the horizon for its nightly rest.  Nocturnal creatures began to wake, their new day beginning.  Leaves rustled and flew as the wind picked them up for a twilight dance.  All the activity of the day was slowly replaced with the activity of the night.

 

                At the Demon’s Landing Tavern the activity changed little.  The patrons and visitors cheered as they drank and went about their business, talking about their adventures or gambling in various card games.  The faces had changed but the atmosphere was the same, one of drunken joy and inebriated contentment.

 

                Sitting in a corner tucked away from view was Mornic staring into a half empty mug of ale.  Instead of the carefree spirit that cheered for exotic dancers earlier in the day, the aging priest sat in quiet reflection.  He moved little for a long time as those around him drank, talked, and gambled.  There was the occasional fight but it was always broken up before things could get out of hand.  Mornic had to smile at his own genius when thinking about the situation.  Looking up he saw Citro watching him from the far side of the room.

 

                The royal guard was now a tavern guard, hired after Mornic spoke to the tavern owner.  His smooth tongue won Citro a job and both of them temporary accommodations.  The look on Citro’s face told Mornic he was not enjoying his new job but both knew it was necessary for the time being.  Food and shelter had been harder and harder to come by.  Mornic was fortunate enough to have some trinkets from the Church that was valuable enough to sell for some money.  That money was dwindling however and they needed someway of surviving.

 

                Citro carefully watched as Mornic slowly rose to his feet, with staff in hand, and made his through the tavern to the stairs leading up to the second floor.  There was awkwardness in his step and a subtle slur in his movements.  It was somewhat unsettling to Citro to see the priest in a state of drunkenness, one of the leading figures of the Church turning to mortal vices in order to cope with the current circumstances, but there was little he could do about it now.

 

                As Mornic reached the top of the stairs he began to move less by will and more by momentum.  A small shift in his weight would change his direction this way and that until he finally reached his room.  He fumbled with the door for a moment before finally gaining access to the room, pausing a moment to look around.  It was furnished modestly with two beds and a dresser with a mirror.  Between the beds was a nightstand that held a small vase with a single purple flower.  Outside, beside the door, was as small candle that the staff of the tavern lit at night.  Mornic did his best to lift the candle without dropping it and, as carefully as he could, lit the five candles that hung on a stand near the door to provide light for the room.  There was another stand on the opposite of the room that Mornic neglected to light.  Instead he replaced the candle on its hook on the outside of the room and entered, closing the door softly.

 

                “What a life such as we live,” he murmured as he stumbled to the dresser, “that we may entertain those on high.”  Mornic looked into the mirror and squinted, trying to make up for his failing vision and blurred sight brought on by the nights drinking.  He thought about the quote he murmured that was from one of the famous storycrafter Roku Bensin’s plays.  He could not remember the name or the plot, only the line that seemed to fit his life so well.  “What rubbish!” he exclaimed.  He slumped down, leaning against the dresser, and began to breath long, slow, deep breaths.  “Life must be a cruel play.”

 

                He slowly stood erect and removed his robe, letting it drop to the ground.  His eyes drifted down to the image of a tiger tattooed to his chest.  For what seemed like an eternity he stood there staring at the deformed image.  It was stretched in awkward ways, pulled over his chest and stomach.  Memories of the past filled his mind, the barriers he put in place weakened by the drinking and exhaustion of the day.  The barrage of images wracked his mind as Mornic stood there, accepting their vengeful attacks.

 

                The staff he held in his hand slowly slipped from his grip and fell to the ground, the clanking of wood against wood startling the priest back to the present.  He looked down to it with a sigh and a hard swallow.  Again the images filled his head, more focused in theme and nature.  Memories of his life prior to the monastery assaulted him with barrage after barrage.

 

                “The Tiger,” he murmured softly.  “The…Infamous Tiger, Champion of Tournaments.  What a wretched…pitiful existence.”  Mornic sighed softly, failing to convince himself that he did indeed, in a small way, miss his youthful days as the champion, and to some the scourge, of the Tournaments.

 

                More memories assaulted his mind’s eye as he stared at his staff.  They came to life as he fell deeper into their grasp.  He could feel the wind blow, causing sand to wear against his exposed skin.  Sweat covered his body as the sun bore down onto the sand covered arena floor as he stood before a familiar looking young man.  Both men stood in the middle of the small arena facing each other.  Both men held a staff in their hands.  The young man held his awkwardly in a defensive position while trying to hide the frightful look in his eyes.  Mornic calmly rested it against his shoulder as he stood relaxed.  His symbol, the tiger tattoo, was exposed on his shirtless torso for the man to see as he covered his excellent physique.

 

                “Are you ready, Lord Jaedan?” asked the young man.

 

                A grin slowly spread across Mornic’s face.  “You sure you want to do this, kid?  I never go easy on an opponent.”

 

                “I…I am not some dog you can kick around!” shouted the man.

 

                Mornic shook his head, his long, black, wavy hair swaying carefree across his face.  “I do not know whether you are brave, foolish, or incompetent.”  Mornic locked eyes with the young man before him, staring deep into them.

 

                “This is the only recourse I have left!”

 

                A look of realization suddenly appeared on Mornic’s face.  “If this is about the harlot then you are both foolish and incompetent.”

 

                “Shut up!” shouted the man as he charged Mornic.  “I will make you pay, Jaedaen!”

 

                Mornic shook his head and readied himself just before his attacker came into striking distance.  With a quick swipe he was able to deflect his opponent’s clumsy attack and counter with another swipe across his face, sending him down to the ground.

 

                “What a wretched…pitiful existence,” he commented to the defeated young man.  “Next time know your place.”  Mornic turned and walked away, shaking his head.

 

                “Jaedaen!” exploded a shout from behind.  Mornic turned to see the young man charging again.  In a brief instant Mornic reacted by thrusting his staff forward, striking the young man’s throat, collapsing it.  The man fell to his knees, struggling to breathe, before falling down to the ground.  He lay there completely still at Mornic’s feet who only stood staring.