Umber

Serge overhears a moment of conflict between Blastir and Achomed. (sab)

Serge hears what, in tone if not volume, sounds like an argument. Curious, he moves slowly towards the voices, staying out of sight.

“They ask good questions, little brother. Tell me again that you are sure that we are doing the right thing,” says Achomed, “for I am not so sure. We assume a great responsibility by taking the young ones from their homes and families. The cause must be just as great.”

“Frankly, they annoy me,” replies Blastir. “They act as if we were the irresponsible ones, not they.”

“That is total conjecture. They are responsible. When the moment comes, they will – ”

“…be responsible, yes. I thought that we had had this conversation already. I have laid out my evidence. It is not conjecture. Perfect information does not exist, and you are a fool for hoping to find it, and even more a fool for waiting until after it comes to decide what to do.”

Achomed’s voice is strained, but he keeps his composure. Blastir paces as he responds. “Little brother, you begin to annoy me. You know that I consider it to be disrespectful to – ”

“No more words! I challenge you, O honorable warrior, to silence! Here, brother, are the training swords. Let your argument speak with these.” Blastir looks at him sideways. “I will take the cracked one, so as to force myself to limit my blows. I wish only to silence your tongue, not your pride.”

Achomed’s face flickers, but accepts the wooden training sword. Leading Blastir, he walks to the mat in the center of the room. Before he can get there, Blastir extends his index finger and jabs it at his exposed back. The very air ripples and distorts, and Achomed is flung into the air and hurled face-first against the far wall. Tumbling as he falls, he stands and dusts himself off.

“You keep falling for that one,” jeers Blastir. “No, little brother,” Achomed responds, “I keep hoping you’ll learn the value of fair play.” Blastir walks back to the center of the room. “And I keep hoping you’ll realize that there is no such thing as cheating in the world. There are those who survive, and those who die. There is the hammer, and there is the nail.” With that, Blastir jabs his finger towards Achomed again.

As before, the air contorts, but this time Achomed merely plants his feet against the onslaught. The stone beneath his toes cracks and a table behind him smashes itself to splinters against the wall, but he stands firm. “And there is also the hand that wields the hammer and the Mind that directs the swing. If your highest aspiration is to be a tool, then so be it.” He charges.

The training sword flashes up, then down in a perfect arc. Blastir dodges. Achomed, sensing something wrong at the last second, reverses his swing and strikes at empty air. There is a grunt, and Blastir tumbles backwards from his true location, flips, and leaps at Achomed.

Unsurprised, Achomed meets his leap with a perfectly placed blow. The sword slips through Blastir’s warding hands, matches, anticipates his twisting as he tries to avoid the blow. The training sword catches Blastir directly on the forehead, and he crumples –

Something strange happens. Serge can feel it in his gut, a strange twisting sensation, an uncomfortable premonition of danger.

The training sword catches Blastir directly on the forehead, and shatters. He tumbles past, laughing. “You should not have taken the cracked sword, O brother. You might have had me there.”

Achomed, scowling, grabs a new blade, and lashes out again. But Blastir anticipates his strike, catching his arm. The sword’s progress is halted, then forcibly reversed. Achomed moves with the reversal, seemingly attacking, forcing his opponent to jump or be struck. But this counter-strike proves to be a ruse as Achomed grasps his brother’s hand as he jumps, tumbling backwards, feet lashing out and up, kicking Blastir across the room.

Blastir does not look amused. “So much for fighting fair, big brother.” He closes the distance between them in a single step, and strikes with fists, feet, elbows. The blows rain in, five, ten, twenty in a second, confusing Achomed’s responses, striking home. Tottering, Achomed attempts to regain mastery over the situation, initially not even attempting to parry. Slowly, surely, he stops first one strike, then another, until finally none make it past his guard. Blastir’s frustration grows and his blows go wilder, faster. By comparison, Achomed seems to actually move less and less, meeting each incoming strike with its exact counter and a minimum of effort.

Blastir, breathing heavily, steps back. “Well done, O honorable master.” He bows, placing palms together, then down. As he does so, his third and fourth fingers curl inward; his wrists snap down. Achomed, in the process of placing his feet together for the return bow, seems to slow…

The seconds tick by and Achomed continues to move into position, but now his motion is nearly imperceptible. Blastir, smirking to himself, steps forward. “O Brother, did I not think that you have a lesson to learn about Truth, I might actually feel bad about this. His fist moves backwards, then forwards, turning to steel as it does, moving faster than your eye can follow, smashing at Achomed’s unprotected skull.

But Achomed’s hand moves yet faster, catching Blastir’s. He meets his brother’s surprised eye. “But truly you have taught me many lessons, dear brother. Far more than you could ever know.”

“Do you counsel that we abandon the plan, brother?” responds a shaken and defeated Blastir.

“I do not. But we must always think on what we do, and why. Could not we be the cause of the world’s final grief? It is hubris to think oneself more powerful than one truly is, but it is equal folly to deny the truth in the name of humility. Our vision must be unclouded, our judgment beyond reproach. The fate of the world itself may depend upon it.

“Let us keep our eyes wide open. Who knows from what quarter the threat may come?”

Blastir begins to respond, but a twitch of his head indicates that he has spotted Serge. “Apparently, the threat comes from within,” he snarls. “We have been spied upon!”

Serge realizes that everything he has seen until now has been not a physical confrontation but a philosophical one. He cannot be sure that he really sees what happens next…

From a hundred feet away,

Blastir steps forward, body stretching
  Achomed does not move            to form a blur in time and space
           but ceases to be and between               then a sphere of roiling matter.                                                      you and Blastir appears a glowing blade, straight and true.
I do not like spies!
He is          mine to punish
          NOT.                  Leave him!
I           WILL
       YOU          WILL NOT
I WILL
            Not. Calm thyself. He has done nothing.
I WILL
            you will not

Serge has heard the howling of demons, the ear-splitting shout of Orcus, the rage of the five heads of Tiamat. But, quiet as it is, the growing calm and total self-control of the last statement strikes him just as powerfully.

The sphere’s churning slows and re-forms as Blastir. “You are correct, brother, as always.” He nods in Serge’s direction. “Apparently I have picked up some of the bad habits of the half-elf. I apologize for my outburst. There has been much turmoil of late, and I suspect many of deception.”

The shimmering blade rings slightly. “Yes brother, I do not discount the possibility of self-deception as well. I shall leave, and meditate on what has happened this day.” Blastir turns and soundlessly leaves the room. The sword blurs, and Achomed stands in its place, and the faint scent of incense fills the room.

Achomed looks to Serge, leaning shakily on the training sword. “It is good that you and your companions have come; it is also good that you are leaving. Good luck. The thoughts of the Order go with you. May you save us all, from the greatest threat of all – ourselves.”

Serge notices how pale and haggard Achomed actually is. The confrontation over, his energy spent, he sags to the floor. Is his hair a bit greyer than it was before? It is hard to say. Serge walks from the room, leaving Achomed to his thoughts and himself to his own.