Sons of Ironstorm - Book 4: Griffon's Stand

Kata

With the Kata open in front of him on the table, Ciradaan carefully moved through the forms illustrated on the creamy white pages. Unlike the hand to hand combat forms long taught by elvish masters, these particular forms, called the Forms of Light and Sound, were to channel personal energy and magic within one's body to strengthen the body and heal wounds. At least, with his somewhat limited knowledge of old elvish, that's what he understood they did.

First Light of Dawn followed Spring Winds in the Mountains, right on the heels of Pounding Surf on the Shoreline. One after the other the white-haired Sylvasin performed, keeping one eye on the page in front of him, and the other on his shadow as it moved in synchronicity with his body.

Then, as he finished the last movement, a dramatic swing of both arms coupled with a twist of his body, he felt it. A tingle of energy, deep within, coming from the very core of his being. As smoothly as he had performed the last form, it moved out of his core to slowly fill the rest of his body until even his fingertips tingled. Nostrils flaring, he stared at his shadow. Had he managed to use the forms to collect sufficient energy to do what he next planned? Only one way to find out:

"Vatre'vetae prestanje'kor tamne'kada'bre!" <<Fire and Wind, be my resort and my strength, and grant me the power to achieve victory!>>

It was an ancient elvish spell to prepare the body for battle by strengthening the flesh and gathering the will. It was also by far the longest spell Ciradaan had ever cast, and the most complicated. And, as a surge of fiery agony surged into him at the completion of the summoning, it was also the most painful.

"Uhhhhh," the white-haired elf groaned, falling to one knee as the fire, rushing through every part of him, filled him with enough agony to steal away his last iota of strength. Feeling the room beginning to spin and his breathing begin to labor, Ciradaan slowly fell back until he was flat on his back, bright lights flashing in his eyes so frequently he was blinded.

Then, as abruptly as it had hit him, the pain was gone. In its place was overwhelming energy, buoying him up and erasing all fatigue so quickly it enabled Ciradaan to snap back to his feet with a whip crack ca'sae move. He then whirled through a taut series of practice forms called the Dance of Shadows with so much speed, he couldn't physically follow his own slashing hands and stabbing feet. Yet, with a clarity he had never before experienced, he knew exactly where all his limbs were, both motionless in space, and on the move through it. And, not only did he know where they were, he found himself in absolute control of their movements, demonstrated when he terminated one Dance of the Shadows form in mid-motion to begin another without missing a stroke or wasting energy and motion.

Still filled with the spell's power, he then barked out the next spell he had memorized from the Kata:

"Teva'thalon litho'kratae do'Anar'se sa'ata'thae!" And with a shimmer nearly identical to the magic used to summon the Wielders' reactive armor, Ciradaan found himself sheathed head to toe in tlyph-etched, dark grey plate steel, perfectly fitted to the lean king and feeling as if he had worn it his entire existence. The Sword of Aesthegon finished the picture by silently moving through the air to attach to the chest piece's backplate with a quiet 'snik'.

<<Frost me,>> he breathed in astonishment, eyes wide as he stared down at himself.

Ciradaan now wore the magical armor of the ancient elves, the very steel that had protected the last high king, Aesthegon, and his sons in battle against the Kaal Eran during the first War of the Shadow. Expecting it to have a weight similar to the reactive plate he had been wearing, the white-haired elf was instead surprised to find it weigh nearly nothing at all across the stress points of his head, shoulders, arm joints, and hips.