Soul Fire

Soul Fire - Chapter 3

"Dathion, you look bored. Would you like to teach the day's lessons in my stead?"

Malithas's voice meandered through the haze of Dathion's latest distraction. The prince's gaze remained fixed through the windows of the practice hall, where a pair of five-man Swiftrider patrols stood arrayed in full battle garb.

Swiftriders represented the finest scouts of the Asillian army. They also formed the elite vanguard of any assault, or at least they used to. Endless years of peace had diminished their function. Rare skirmishes against bandits, and those who flouted the law, constituted the only modern confrontations. Nevertheless, a relentless commitment to training ensured they would be better prepared for combat than other peacetime soldiers. True guerrilla fighters, their unorthodox tactics and weaponry lent an unexpected edge to Asillian battle strategies. It was normal to find them arranged for deployment across the Asillian plains, the most common of the mounted troops to still see significant service. They formed the eyes and ears of the kingdom, often assuming the role of messengers, couriers, and even fast traders.

But not today.

Wooden spears were replaced with iron-clad battle lances, secured through eyes of metal above heavily laden saddle bags. Riding bows, the staple ranged weapon of Asillian mounted archers, did not feature in the Swiftrider arsenal. Instead, they employed crossbows. On most occasions, the quivers lashed to their backs and saddles remained empty, but today they bristled with the forked ends of bolts. Usual banners were absent, with bright colors abandoned in favor of natural hues of sky blue, earth brown, and field green. Even battle helms and barding were arranged on the soldiers and mounts. Padding wrapped the hooves of their mounts and their armor incorporated soft leather, with cloth woven around metal to muffle creaks and rattling. The stifling heat from the armor must have been suffocating. These men did not want to be seen nor heard.

But by whom?

Their presence had to be related to his father's conversation, the late night discussion in the palace lib—

Air exploded from Dathion's lungs. He struggled to breathe. He knew he had fallen when muscles aching from last night's exertions screamed violent protest at the unyielding academy floor. His shins burned from being kicked away and his back smarted from where the strike of Malithas's hilt had forced him over his instructor's leg. Everything had happened so fast. With all the grace of a pregnant mare he'd broken his fall using his face and stomach, which was at least preferable to his neck. 

With his lungs still trying to expel air they no longer held, he marveled at the reflection of his instructor, which swam against the polished slats of cool oak that pressed against his freshly bruised cheek. Some aspects of Malithas's body were elongated while others looked shrunken. In particular, parts of Malithas's head were distorted out to the side, lending a satisfyingly demonic appearance to the man who towered over him. Dathion labored to inflate his chest while glowering upward at the master tutor of Asillia's aspiring warriors. In return, the grizzled instructor torched Dathion with the furnace of his steady gaze.

"Everyone take note. When facing one's enemies, your focus must be unwavering. If your attention is fixed anywhere but on your opponent, the likelihood of victory is scant indeed."

Malithas offered his hand to lift Dathion back to his feet. The prince's cheeks burned from the blood that rushed to them and the battered side throbbed. A quick glance at the other students spied a handful of smirks.

"For those of you finding Dathion's predicament amusing, he accepts your offer to join him."

All smiles vanished.

"If he is wise, Dathion has newfound respect for his opponent and I expect you all to take heed. Anyone willing to find humor in my struggles, is someone I would not want by my side on the battlefield."