8:30am – Telgradian proving grounds – 10km from Garah.
Atlas skirted around a pile of brown frosted leaves, the innumerable flashing fragments shining in the brilliant wintry dawn light, for today there was no weather; no wind, no cloud, just sub-zero temperatures. Even the leaf stems lay white and sharp. Ahead the narrow Frach path glistened like white quartz, carving a snow-capped forest in two before arriving at a wasteground clearing.
All this beauty over everything ugly. And here I am to add to it with a sparring session on a cold winter morning.
Revaan paused, his breath rising in visible puffs. He remembered why he came, even though he didn’t want to. He had agreed to some "refresher" course in close quarter combat. He'd gone to the second highest authority available to him, Flexton Ra, and asked for Keats specifically to train him, something that had surprised the councillor. Keats was a member of the Telgradian Royal Guard, an elite unit, far stronger than the common soldier. Atlas needed to talk to Keats, though, and this was the only way of getting hold of the bastard, apparantly.
There was no wind and were it not for the biting cold Atlas wouldn't have noticed the air at all. He was more accustomed to these temperatures meaning moisture, but it was tinder dry and dehydrated him every bit as fast as summer heat. With each breathe precious drops deserted him and his headache grew. The snow at his feet was looking more inviting all the time and so every few minutes he ducked down to take some and place it on his tongue to melt.
“General Revaan.”
The first man that walked into the clearing looked liked an aged version of Keats. At first his eyes were cast to the snowy earthen floor and then he seemed to suddenly realize he was at his destination, at the rendezvous. He lifted his head. His face had the same structure as Atlas’s, high cheekbones and symmetrical. He had the same gold eyes and pale skin. He was still slender despite his years, toned and not at all stooped.. Around his eyes were laughter lines in just the right amount. Revaan supposed that he was often happy, but at that moment he was deadly serious.
The second man was Keats, the enigmatic messenger from the previous night.
Atlas raised a hand to wave. The man’s face split into the smile Atlas had imagined him to wear often. Then he came over in fast easy strides, ones that crunched in the snow, with Keats by his side.
“Atlas, good to meet you. My name is Osho, I’m responsible for your refresher training.”
His face shone in the dawn light which was beginning to pour over the glade. Osho gestured to his left.
“This is Colonel Jaeger Keats. He is a serving member of the Telgradian Royal Guard, and he will be putting you through your paces today to make sure you can handle the rigours of battle, just in case you run into any trouble. Remember – you have only been out of Kokushi for three days. We aren’t expecting you to pull up any trees yet, so take it easy, and just try to familiarise yourself with your skills. Now, I’ll leave you in Keats’s capable hands.”
Osho gave a final respectful nod towards the pair, and turned, striding back through the clearing from the direction he came.
There was a moment of silence. The two men stood face to face, a couple of feet apart. Atlas studied Keats carefully for a moment, looking for a change of expression, but none was forthcoming.
“When you came to see me last night, you talked about “what they’ve done” to me, and “being the best of them.” What was all that about, Keats? You shot off before I could ask.”
Finally, Keats broke his expression, laughing.
“That? A heavy night on the old tipple, must have been pissed as a fart when I dropped in on you. I’d come from an officer’s retirement bash in the mess. We tend to get a bit heavy duty in there when it comes to the ale. Magic stuff.”
His tone was jovial, but not particularly convincing.
“Bollocks. You weren’t pissed. I couldn’t smell so much as a whiff of beer on your breath.”
Keats shrugged.
“Is that so? Well, maybe I can handle my drink better than most, mucker, but ale is ale. Does things to the mind, you know. You’d know plenty about that an’ all. But I’ll tell you what, general. If you can beat me one on one, it might just be enough to clear the hangover and get the old memory working again. What do you think, you up to it?”
Atlas smirked, brushing his hair back.
“Yeah, I’m up to it, but if you won’t come clean about these little secrets, I’ll just have to beat them out of you!”
He suddenly jerked forward, throwing a crisp right jab at Keats’s left cheek. Keats saw it coming and pivoted on his right foot, bringing his body ninety degrees and blocking with a solid left palm. He stepped in towards Atlas, counterattacking with a low right kick. Atlas quickly crouched, throwing up left arm to block the kick. A shooting pain shot up his arm and shoulder like a lightning bolt as the boot connected with his flesh.
“Quick and instinctive. Good!” Keats said, grinning. “This might just be worth missing breakfast for!”
“You’re starting to piss me off!” Atlas growled. “Arrogant little shit!”
Atlas pulled his arm away and rolled backwards. The snow peeled from the ground as he went, lifting bits of debris with it. Untucking out of the roll, Atlas staggered backwards a few more yards and righted himself. Keats looked bemused.
“Why did you do that? Putting distance between us? It won’t matter, I can close that gap in an instant!”
Suddenly, a faint glow appeared in Atlas’s eyes. His smile was wry. Through his eyes Keats could see something, a gold-orange circle around their pupils. Then, Atlas raised his right hand, outstretching two fingers together.
They were pointed directly at him.
“Dakuatsu forty: Shinohai!”
A blanket of silence covered the clearing. Nothing happened.
Frustrated, Atlas tried again.
“Dakuatsu number forty!...”
Shit!
“Performance issues?” Keats asked, mockingly. “Don’t worry, happens to a lot of men. One out of ten I hear. Still, practice makes perfect.”
Suddenly, Atlas felt naked and vulnerable. He tried to deflect.
“Who are you, really?” Atlas enquired. “I know enough about Dakuatsu to know that casting a forties tier spell without an incantation would raise a few eyebrows here, yet you were almost expecting it and only seemed to be surprised when it failed. Why?”
Keats stayed silent. Atlas detected something at this moment, a similar feeling to that he felt when Councillor Ra was briefing him. Was it suspicion? Just what was it that people were trying to hide from him?
After a moment, Keats sighed heavily, and shook his head.
“You want to take all the fun out of it, don’t you? Let me show you how it’s done.”
He outstretched his right arm, revealing a black tattoo that spiralled up like twisted vines to his bicep. It began to glow a scarlet hue as Keats pointed two fingers at Atlas.
“Let the scales fall from their eyes, the blind, and let them know their own powerlessness. Let the wind carry their ashes to the sun, and scatter them."
Shit! A full incantation for…
“Dakatsu number forty: Shinohai”
There it was, from the tips of Keats’s gloved fingers... a colossal grey wave of razor sharp ash, sweeping towards Atlas at over one hundred miles per hour. It was rushing, racing, roaring towards its target with a frightening pace.
Atlas’s body was paralysed with fear, his breath coming out short and sharp. He knew he had to run, but his legs refused to move. He watched, eyes glued, as the wave surged in, threatening to destroy everything in its path. It was unbelievably strong, powerful, almost unstoppable.
“…Ugh.”
His lanky arms twisted to protect his body from the constant slashes of Shinohai’s relentless cloud of razors. His skin, cracked and rough, stung bitterly as he awaited his enemy's next assault, but it did not come. His body remained tightly knotted, still anticipating Shinohai's next blow; once again, it did not come. Blood seeped from a hundred small cuts over his body, his clothes torn where the ash had slashed him, and though he expected a follow up, there was nothing. Atlas finally crumpled to his knees, his heart racing, his breathing laboured. He was alive, but he was hurt.
Keats sighed, ravelling his cuff back down to the wrist. He was smiling as he trod over the bloodstained snow, leaving a trail of bloody bootprints behind him. As he reached Atlas, he knelt down and spoke into his ear, almost mad with delight.
“Now that’s just magic! That’s what I want to see! Survival instinct! Anyone else would have needed peeling off the walls with that level of attack.”
He wiped the saliva from his lips, and coughed. Atlas looked up, clutching his injured torso, cradling his slashed right arm.
“I want to make you remember, Revaan. There’s power in you. I’m talking about real, tangible power, not just fighting spirit, or will to survive, or any of that crap. Don’t keep me waiting long for it! I’ll see you soon!”
Keats spun to greet some approaching attendants, who were appearing just through the tree lines. They carried water, medical supplies and other small items, and as they came across the clearing Keats passed them on the left, heading for the path to Garah.
“He’s ready. He’s definitely ready for this. Get him a towel or something.” He said, wryly grinning to himself. "Looks like he forgot to bring one after all."
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