Swordborn

Chapter 1: Cold

Cain shivers in the ice storm. A mage stands on the balcony above, holding his glowing hands over the wooden railing. Blue energy shoots from the mage's palms, fueling dark clouds with elemental magic. The clouds swirl just below the ceiling, flooding the chamber with hail and sleet. A second mage stands on the opposite balcony blasting white energy from his palms, creating hurricane winds, the two mages working together to create an icy gale that howls through the chamber.

Cain slowly raises his crossbow, arms stiff from the cold. Through the wind and sleet he can barely see the archery target on the far end of the room. He struggles to remain focused while his body is pummeled by hail, the pain almost more than he can endure.

The ring on his left hand glows with dark energy. He forms an image of the glowing ring in his mind, then imagines energy flowing from it. Through his thoughts he wills the black glow to travel from the ring into his hand, from his hand into the crossbow, from his crossbow to the arrow. The arrow flickers with dark magic, a soft, comforting light that cuts through the storm yet bears no warmth.

Cain holds his breath, blocking out the pain as he focuses on the target. He takes aim, an expert marksman going on instinct, then squints his stinging eyes and fires. The arrow flies through the wind, then fizzles and disintegrates halfway to the target. Cain curses as he exhales a cloud of cold air, his consciousness returning to the pain.

"Try again!" A mage shouts down to him. Cain raises his tired arm and attempts to grab another arrow from the quiver on his back. His arm shakes violently, and his hand is slow to respond. After several attempts he finally closes his fingers around fletching and pulls an arrow free.

Cain holds the arrow shaft in his teeth while he sets the string on his crossbow, then slides the arrow into the groove. Again he wills dark energy into the ring, then into his hand, the crossbow, the arrow. The energy is held within the arrow by his thoughts, the greater his attention the stronger the hold. The exercise makes him forget the pain, makes him confident though he's fading from fatigue.

Harsh winds sting his face and he winces in pain. Cain wipes ice from his eyes, then locates the blurry target in the distance. He holds his breath, eyes fixed on the target, and fires.

As the arrow is released Cain feels the energy in the arrow tearing away from his mind, like a bandage torn before the wound has healed. Again his attention breaks and his awareness returns to the savage gale, the pain returning in force. His fortitude crumbles. Again the arrow flies straight through the wind, again it fizzles and disintegrates before reaching its goal.

Cain yells words of anger that are lost in the wind, then strikes the wall behind him with the back of his numb fist. Dark energy travels from his hand to the wall, spreading through the grains in the wood like a sickness. The boards disintegrate where the energy touches them, eating a large hole in the side of the trial chamber. Icy winds rush through the hole into the warm spring day. The winds in the chamber calm, the clouds clear, and Cain notices he's standing knee-deep in freezing slush. He looks up and sees two mages glaring down at him, their arms crossed.

"The trial is over!" One of the mages shouts. Cain lowers his gaze to the slushy floor, anticipating what he knows is coming.

"You have failed," says the second mage. Cain flinches, the pain of failure far worse than the stinging in his limbs. He hears the two mages walk along the balconies, then exit through separate doors, each slamming the door shut behind them. Cain flinches with each slam, the jarring sounds writing the truth of the mage's words upon his aching pride.

Spring air rushes into the chamber through the hole in the wall, warming Cain's sore back and arms. His muscles loosen, his back relaxes, and when the numbness subsides he feels his skin stinging bitterly. He examines his bare arms, both completely red, covered with hundreds of tiny gashes from the hail. He shakes his head in disgust and kicks the slush.