Fireside Fluff #6: Failures

What is Fireside Fluff?

Fireside Fluff is a recurring segment in which your humble author presents an original work of fiction set in the Kings of War universe. Each segment contains one chapter in the ongoing story. So pull up a chair, fill your mug with some heady Dwarven ale, and settle in for a tale quite unlike any you’ve heard before…

First time readers, welcome! Please start the story at the beginning:

Failures

Freya returned each night the following week, trying, and failing, to animate the young oak tree. Drustan stood watching silently over her shoulder all the while, stoic and enigmatic as always. Lessons had ceased entirely. Instead, Freya would head straight to the underbrush, gathering her will and concentration as best she could, spending thirty-odd minutes glaring at the sapling and waiting for something to happen. It never did.

After yet another attempt, Freya turned to Drustan and threw up her arms in exasperation. “A little instruction would be appreciated. Can’t you give me any advice?”

Drustan made a point of folding his arms.

“Hmph,” she muttered darkly, “some teacher.”

“There are some lessons you must learn on your own,” Drustan observed. “Do not return until you are certain you will succeed. Fail again, and I am afraid our arrangement will come to a close.”

“Wait,” Freya pleaded, her anger deflating, “you can’t be serious?”

Drustan was already retreating into the wood. “Give it some time, child, for I do not jest,” he called over his shoulder. “Your heart will know when the moment is right. Fare thee well.”

And with that, he was gone.

***

The next few days dragged on. Without the nightly lessons to look forward to, Freya felt purposeless. The menial chores of the Sisterhood once gave her solace, but now they provided her mind with too much time to think, to dwell, to doubt. What if this was the end? Her innate magical talent left to wither and die without proper tutelage. The opportunity for magic had arisen so quickly, and now it might disappear just the same. These thoughts ebbed and flowed, gnawing at her acutely at the worst of times and receding to a dull thrum in those precious few moments where she was distracted by training, sermons, or spending time with Agnes. At least she was getting more sleep.

Meanwhile, rumors had begun to circulate throughout the order. News of Freya’s gift had somehow leaked, and the sisters were making up wild stories. Freya noticed it in the looks they shot in her direction, and the way hushed conversations would come to a deliberate pause when she passed. Despite the presence of magical colleges in the capital, and the army’s reliance upon war-wizards and priests on the field of battle, the average Basilean remained wary of magic. It was too often associated with daemons, whom they feared, or elves, whom they distrusted. Agnes, ever her faithful companion, kept her abreast of the worst of it.

“Freya,” Agnes approached her one evening on their way to the dining hall. She caught up to her friend and kept pace, which was no easy task given their difference in height. “The other girls are, well, they’re talking about, you know…” she trailed off, her bright eyes shifting nervously about.

“Oh, Agnes,” Freya sighed. “I’m not concerned about what the other girls think. Honestly, I’ve enjoyed the distance they’ve kept from me.”

“About that,” Agnes tried again. “At first it was just gossip. Claiming you used magic to defeat Abbess Marion, and complaining that it wasn’t fair. But now,” she panted, clearly out of breath, “they’re growing afraid of you. Saying you consult with dark powers, that you’re a traitor.”

Freya halted abruptly and turned to Agnes, hunkering down so they were on eye level and placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s all nonsense, Agnes. It’s best to just ignore it and let it pass.”

Before Freya could stand back up, Agnes gulped audibly and spoke with a pained expression, “They’re saying it’s why your father died. That he was a servant of the Abyss whose true nature was discovered when he was conscripted and that he was… executed.”

The weight of the words hit Freya like a blow to the stomach. She couldn’t breathe. She felt her blood turn to ice in her veins. It obviously wasn’t true. Right. Right?

After several prolonged moments of stunned silence, Freya focused her gaze back on Agnes with steel in her eyes. “Who?” she whispered, her voice laced with rage. “Who is starting these obscene rumors?”

Agnes felt a pang of guilt as she watched her friend’s reaction. Maybe she shouldn’t have said anything. Too late, now. “It’s Clarissa,” she confided. “I mean, most of the girls are talking about it. But it’s Clarissa who’s leading the charge.”

Of course, it was. At nineteen, Clarissa was the oldest of the initiates. She was taller than most, almost Freya’s equal, and had strawberry blond hair that glowed in the sunlight which she tossed vainly over her shoulder when she laughed. Her features were striking, appearing both beautiful and dangerous. Her sharp nose matched a sharper tongue, and the influence she held over the other girls was irrefutable. Freya did not care for her in the slightest.

They made their way into the dining hall and situated themselves in the corner, where Freya could surreptitiously keep an eye on the rest of the sisters. Sure enough, Clarissa was presiding over a table of her followers. Every so often she would look in Freya’s direction, cover her mouth with her hand to feign discretion and say something that would elicit laughter from the table. With each smirk, Freya could feel her the ice in her veins first thawing, then approaching a boil. They didn’t seem to fear her, so much as mock her.

Agnes kept trying to distract Freya with conversation, but to no avail. Worried that her friend was about to do something rash, she opted for the last resort. “Is any of it true?” she asked tentatively.

Freya turned her head slightly to regard the younger girl. “I mean, I know your father wasn’t an Abbysal spy,” Agnes added with a nervous laugh. “But, what about the gift? Can you really cast magic?”

Freya took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She hadn’t even touched her food. Agnes was her only true friend at the convent, and she deserved to know the truth. “That,” she responded with a conspiratorial grin, “remains to be seen. Let’s go.”

The pair cleared their plates and headed out for the evening sermon, without so much as a backward glance.

***

Early the next morning the sisters gathered on the dew-covered field for training. The girls, well used to the routine, were scattered about engaged in their warm-up exercises. Some were jogging up and down the length of the field while others held various stretches for their legs, arms, and core. The training was rigorous, and Abbess Marion did not abide by easily preventable injuries such as a pulled muscle.

The Abbess paced amongst the girls with her arms folded behind her back, offering terse corrections to their form where she saw fit. Satisfied, she raised her hands above her head and issued two brisk claps, prompting the girls to wrap up their individual activities and assemble silently before her, awaiting instruction.

“Today we will practice our hand-to-hand combat. While we strive to perfect our proficiency with weapons, it is equally as important that we are able to defend ourselves without them. The enemy can strike at any time, catching us off guard and ill-equipped. Weapons can just as easily be lost or broken in the swirl of melee. Pair up, stand within grappling distance, and wait for my command.”

The girls hastened to form two lines, standing opposite their opponent. Freya took her place and looked for her usual training partner, Tia, a girl of similar skill and age who always afforded her a cool indifference. They trained well together but did not otherwise share many words. Freya, a fellow introvert, appreciated their working relationship. Tia, however, was nowhere to be found.

Instead, Clarissa sauntered into place opposite Freya with a derisive smile. Freya narrowed her eyes as Marion’s voice cut across the field, “Remember the drills we have practiced. The goal is to maintain your center of balance, look for weakness, and bring your opponent to the ground. Lock arms.” The girls reached out and grabbed one another’s forearms, just below the elbow. “Begin.”

Freya gripped hard and was forced to take several steps backward as Clarissa pressed forward with explosive strength. With considerable effort, Freya was able to push back and regain her balance. Clarissa glared at her with a cruel glimmer in her eyes as they began to move in a clockwise circle. Freya was awash with emotion. Frustration at the lack of progress with her magic, fear of failing Drustan, anger at Clarissa for spreading such vile rumors, pain from the loss of her father, and determination not to be embarrassed in front of the sisters swelled inside of her.

“Traitor,” Clarissa baited, her voice pitched low so only Freya could hear.

“Am not,” Freya grunted in reply, seizing the opportunity to take Clarissa down. She took a powerful step forward and her opponent seemed to buckle under the pressure. Clarissa, however, expected the attack and shifted her weight so that they were now standing side-by-side. She then twisted her arms and hips in a uniform motion, which flipped Freya over her knee and slammed her onto the ground with a painful whump. Freya gasped for air as she lay on her back, which was numb from the impact.

Clarissa delivered a swift kick to her kidney, unseen by the Abbess. Freya’s vision swam as Clarissa leaned in and whispered, “What are you going to do about it?” before retreating several paces and standing at attention.

Freya stood up and dusted herself off, aware of the laughter coming from several of the girls nearby. She met Clarissa’s gaze, unflinching.

 I know just the thing, Freya thought, the metallic taste of blood on her tongue.

“Again!” Marion ordered.