Chapter 18
Orc culture is a close-knit community of nomadic tribes. Some are friendly and trade regularly; others are war-oriented, preferring to pillage and raid. Regardless of the tribe’s interactions, it is tradition to have a fearsome family name, such as Skullcrusher, Blooddrinker, or Fleshrender.
Day 102, Quenchenday
I sat in a worn-down wooden chair, the cushion leaking cotton. The room was thick with the smells of old leather, old paper, sandalwood smoke, and a slight undertone of sweat.
Before me was a desk that would have been too large for any other instructor, but for Mystagogue Thrasher, it still seemed small. The office was comically tight for his massive frame. He had to squeeze through a door that only came up to his shoulders and shuffle sideways to get behind his desk.
The office had peeling striped green wallpaper. The right wall held a bookcase with tattered books, a hologram picture frame of an Orc tribe bartering with Humans, and a large, padlocked steamer chest. The left wall was bare. On the back wall, at his eye level, was a shelf of fine, dark-stained wood with Elven scrollwork. Atop it sat a series of fine china: a pearl-lined, ivory-white tea set with cups so small he could have swallowed one without noticing.
His desk was a dark-stained wood matching the shelf. His seat was a Titanic-sized, ancient swivel chair. Atop the desk were four neat stacks of paper flanking a holo-keyboard. To his right was an old-fashioned inkwell and a massive feather quill.
As I took my seat and gawked, the instructor made his way behind the desk, the chair groaning under his mass. He pulled free a pair of full-moon spectacles and perched them on his broad nose.
He looked me up and down before activating his therra-node. “Slate Twenty-three. Maverick, if I remember correctly,” he rumbled, thumbing through files.
“Y-yes, sir. My name is Iver Maverick. I’m so sorry for what happened. I acted without thinking.”
He held up a large, well-manicured finger. I watched in dread as his eyes skimmed my file. He was going to see I failed Social Studies. I was going to get kicked out, my memory wiped. I was going to be homeless again. I was going to die and get flayed eternally in the Hells because I was too greedy for knowledge.
“I can see here you excel in the analytical side of studies but come up short in Social Studies. Your comprehension of mystech and scientific fundamentals is remarkably advanced. But there are notes that you seem socially challenged.”
He closed the window on his therra-node. His monolithic gaze fell upon me, forcing me to look at my clenched hands as a blush rose to my cheeks. Socially challenged was putting it nicely. I’d call it socially stunted. At the thought of my father, my eyes began to swim. Droplets pattered on the back of my hands.
“Do you know why I called you in here, Mr. Maverick?” his voice was calm and patient.
I clenched my eyes shut and gave a quick nod.
“Why do you think I brought you here?” he queried.
“The fight,” was all I could manage before I choked on my words and curled in on myself.
“Yes, but not for the reasons you think.” I could almost hear the smile in his words. When I was sure he wasn’t going to shout, I slowly uncurled. I wiped my face on my sleeve. “W-what do you mean?”
“Mr. Maverick, you know what tomorrow marks?”
“The start of a new quarter?”
He gave a single slow nod. “Just right. Now, there is something that will be announced tomorrow. A new factor for Slates to keep in mind. Do you want to guess what it is?”
I numbly shook my head.
“As we have for the past three hundred years, in the second quarter, the Slate class is introduced to the Scoring Factor. Starting tomorrow, you will have to contest with other students. Each sect will award points for specific tasks, such as dueling. I won’t go into detail, but I will say you earned one point for the Silent Heart Sect, two for the Burning Hand Sect, and a Hero Point. These points will be used to gauge your talents and help place you in the best-fitting sect.”
“But what if the points I score aren’t for the sect I desire?” I felt a fleeting panic.
“Not much can be done. Your chosen sect is based on your point scores and end-of-year tests. If you pass for multiple sects, you can turn down any beyond the one you want. In fact, it is encouraged to only join a single sect.”
“Why? I thought being a Mastlok was an honor.”
“It is an honor, but a great burden. Taking up studies from two sects means you will need to cut back on mundane studies.”
Personally, I was fine with that. Why learn grammar when I could learn to craft something to help me slay monsters and hunt murderers?
“But Master, what if I want to become a Mastlok because I know I am less proficient in the sect I want? If I can pass for both, could I join both?”
He rubbed his brick of a chin. “I suppose, if you truly wanted to, we could allow it. But once you start, there is no turning back. Should you fall too far behind in either study, your memory will be wiped, and you will be excommunicated.” Those last heavy words pinned me to my chair. His eyes bore down on me with the weight of a War Machine’s foot. After a moment that felt like minutes, he took a long blink and picked up a sheet of paper. “Any questions?”
“Umm, yes, sir. Why couldn’t I just revert to a single sect if I failed?”
“For security purposes, each sect keeps classified information separate. This is a form of damage control. Mastloks are put under a great deal of pressure because they are a weak point in our security.” He lifted his eyes, which now held only idle curiosity and something like sympathy. “Which two sects were you looking into, and which is your talented field versus your desired one?”
I shifted, leaning forward, futzing with my thumbs. “W-well, sir, I know it probably sounds stupid, but I w-want to join the Burning Hand and C-Crimson Blade. My talent is in c-crafting.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “But I want to—no, I need to be a field agent, an adventurer.”
He set the sheet down and propped his elbows on the desk, lacing his fingers. “Before I continue, I need to make one thing clear. A dream is nothing to be mocked. I’ve spoken to students who aspired to pass the year and others who, I make no joke, aspired to literal godhood. I’ve seen a boy with more muscle than brain become a fluent caster. I’ve seen a timid girl become a fierce warrior. The only limits are those set by your own mind. But I must ask, why become an adventurer? I’ve seen your scores. You could excel in the Burning Hand. I would assume a hunger for fame, but you don’t claim to need to get in. You claim you deserve it. Those who seek fame are often shallow. But in you, I see no need for money or admiration. So, Iver, what drives you to follow a path of blood and dread?”
Tears of hope welled in my eyes. But when he asked what drove me, I flashed back to my father’s murder. The tears of hope dried. Tears of pain rose alongside a gorge of hate. I bit it down with a clenched jaw. When I opened my eyes, I knew he had seen the change by his single arched brow.
“I’m sorry, sir, but my purpose is ironclad. I need to find the murderer of my father. Adventurers can pass borders with little effort and have the best training. I will hunt that man to the ends of Anogwin and across as many realms as I need until I get my justice.” Halfway through, I lost sight of him, my mind visualizing the chase. I shook myself back to the present as he began to speak.
“Your goal of justice is admirable, but you must remember that to fall too far into hate is to lose yourself. If the hunt for blood is all that matters, you have lost sight of the beauty of life. Don’t forget what it means to be alive. Your family, your friends, your hopes for who you want to be after you have your justice.”
“I don’t have any other family,” I hissed with venom. A moment later, I realized how I was speaking and clamped my lips shut, muttering a hasty apology.
His only response was to shift from one arched brow to the other. “Truly, son? You have no other family?”
“Check my records,” I mumbled. “I’ve never known my mother, and my father was disowned. The only family I have left is Thallos, and I barely know him.”
Thrasher plucked his glasses from his nose. “I am aware of Master Thallos. He is a… unique character. I wouldn’t put faith in him, nor would I forget him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is not a nice man, but he means well. You should never cut out family unless they are truly bad to you. He rarely takes on apprentices, but those who pass his training are some of the best.”
“Wait, what? Thallos takes on students?”
“I can’t speak to that until the time is right. But you are focusing on the wrong aspect. You can’t toss him aside. You also shouldn’t forget your friends. I saw you fight back there. You did not bear arms alone. Vengeance is not the sole purpose of life. You need to find joy and passion with those who care about you.”
“And what if my joy comes from fighting? You’ve seen my lack of talent. How can I achieve my goals if you say they are reachable?”
He flashed a half-smirk. “I never said they would be easy. But if you try hard enough, I have a feeling you can reach those peaks. Again, I’ve seen you fight when life is on the line. You have the spark, the fire of will needed to be a real warrior.”
“But if I have that spark, why can’t I win a single sparring match? All I’ve ever done is fail.”
“Have you ever thought you kept losing because you didn’t have something to fight for? When that boy’s life was on the line, I was at the door when you jumped into action. I watched you, Iver. You saw a life in danger and leaped in without thinking. You made a choice in heartbeats and never thought twice.”
“Wait, you saw the whole thing?”
He gave another slow nod. “We instructors often take lunch with students in case moments like this occur. While we admit students will die, we will keep an eye on a promising student if they are in danger. It's not uncommon for a talented student to be bullied for their talents. In those circumstances, we are allowed to intervene.”
