Paragon of Destruction

Here, the roads were much quieter than the streets had been, though there was still a good bit of traffic, with farmers and merchants bringing goods to and from the city.

As Arran made his way north, he relaxed a bit, enjoying the sunny countryside while thinking about the weeks that lay ahead.

From what he had heard these past few days, he now understood that the situation in the Sixth Valley was far more complicated than he had expected. With several factions fighting for power, choosing the wrong novice to join could be disastrous — deadly even.

Yet so far, Arran had only seen a handful of Shadowflame novices in Hillfort, and of those, he had only spoken to two. If he was going to make the right choice, he would have to step up his efforts in finding information, and he would have to do it before the tournament.

The tournament itself, meanwhile, provided as much danger as it did opportunity.

Arran had little doubt about his ability to do well in the tournament, but doing so would inevitably draw attention, and not necessarily the good kind.

If he was lucky, a good performance in the tournament could draw the attention of the more powerful novices, perhaps giving him and Darkfire a strong ally when they crossed the border.

But at the same time, he understood all too well that showing too much power during the tournament would turn him into a target for the enemies of whichever novice he chose to join.

And then there was the auction.

Arran’s void bags weren’t quite as full as they had once been, but he had little interest in what he could gain from the auction. Whatever it was the novices could offer for a fighter — even a strong one — could hardly be worth much to him.

Still, the auction was probably the best chance he had to get a look at the novices he would be up against across the border, and for that reason alone, he would watch, even if he did not take part.

He sighed deeply, understanding that he had much to do and little time.

Yet worrying now would do him little good, and he decided to focus his attention on the matter at hand. And after that, when he knew the truth about Stoneheart’s supposed army, he would try and find out more about the other novices in Hillfort.

He walked for over an hour, but finally, about half a dozen miles from the city’s northern edge, he saw what looked to be a small band of mercenaries on the road ahead of him. These, he thought, must be some of Stoneheart’s recruits.

He quickened his pace to catch up, but when he approached them, he saw that up close, they more resembled farmers dressed up as mercenaries than they did actual mercenaries.

What little armor they wore was old and ill-fitting, and the swords at their sides did not seem to be in much better shape.

Worse, among the twenty or so men and women in the group, there wasn’t a single one who didn’t look either several years too young to fight or several decades too old.

"You there!" he called out.

Several of the people in the group turned their heads toward Arran, and a moment later the group came to a stop.

"What is it?" one of the men asked. He was thin and gray-haired, and looked to be on the wrong side of sixty by at least a decade.

"Do you know where I can find Stoneheart?" Arran asked.

"We’re on our way to join Lord Stoneheart now," the man said. "You’re looking to join, too?"

"Maybe," Arran replied. He took another look at the group, then asked, "Why do you want to join him?"

"Gold, of course," the man answered with a cheerful laugh. "A week or two ago, one of his men came to our village. Said Lord Stoneheart will pay anyone who can lift a sword five gold just to join up, and another five after serving for a year."

Hearing this, Arran frowned. "You’re joining for gold?"

"Of course," the man said. "Just five gold pieces’ll buy you a farm, and a good one at that."

"Not much use for gold if you’re dead," Arran pointed out.

The man chuckled in response. "We’re farmers, lad. We’re used to dealing with bandits."

"If you join Stoneheart, you’ll be dead farmers," Arran replied.

Without waiting for the gray-haired man’s response, he turned toward the largest man in the group. Middle-aged and with dark hair that only showed a few streaks of gray, this man stood at least half a head taller than Arran, and his shoulders carried the muscle of decades of farm work.

"You!" Arran said. "Draw your sword."

"What?" The tall man looked at Arran with a confused expression, seeming unsure of what to do.

"Draw your sword," Arran repeated, "and strike me. I’ll give you ten gold right now if you draw even a single drop of blood."

The man drew his sword, but he still hesitated for several seconds. After a few moments, he finally swung a half-hearted blow at Arran.

Arran slapped the blade away with his hand before it could touch him.

"Again," he said. "And make it a real strike."

Once more the man struck, and this time, he put some effort into the blow.

Arran slapped the blade away effortlessly, and now, some gasps sounded within the group of farmers.

"Again."

Emboldened by his previous two blows, the man finally stopped holding back and struck out with all his might in a heavy two-handed blow.

Arran caught the blade mid-strike with his hand, stopping it dead in the air. Then, holding the blade in his hand, he effortlessly ripped the sword from the tall man’s hands and tossed it aside.

"Beyond the border, you will face enemies far stronger than me," he said in a soft voice. "If you go, you will die."

The gray-haired man looked at Arran with a fearful expression, but still, neither he nor the other farmers appeared like they were about to heed Arran’s advice.

"But the gold..." the man began.

Arran reached for his void bag and took out a handful of gold. Without looking at it, he threw it on the ground.

"Take that, and go back to your farms," he said. "Or join Stoneheart, and see how much good gold will do you in the grave."

He waited no further, ignoring the group of farmers as he continued along the road. He had done all he could, and then some. Whether they continued on their foolish path was their own decision.

As he walked, he found himself cursing in anger — anger at Stoneheart for recruiting people who could barely defend themselves, and anger at the farmers for being so willing to throw away their lives.

He arrived at Stoneheart’s camp a little over half an hour later, and although his anger had subsided somewhat by then, after just some minutes in the camp his jaw once more stiffened as he looked around in disgust.

The camp was large and crowded, holding hundreds if not thousands of tents, with throngs of people slowly moving between them.

Some of the people here looked to be mercenaries or other fighters, but the vast majority were clearly like the farmers Arran had met along the way — untrained, ill-equipped, and wholly unprepared for whatever they would face if they crossed the border.

Arran spent some time looking around, and as he did, his mood grew darker and his heart heavier.

Several of the youths in the crowd seemed like they had barely even reached their teens, and for every well-equipped mercenary in the masses there were at least a dozen farmers who would be more comfortable holding a rake or sickle than a sword.

"Where’s your badge?" a voice suddenly sounded, interrupting Arran’s thoughts.

"My what?" Arran looked at the man in front of him, and saw that it was likely a mercenary or soldier — wearing armor and seeming comfortable with the sword at his side, Arran figured him for one of the few people in the camp who had actually been in battle before.

"Your badge," the man repeated. "Have you gone through recruitment yet?"

Arran shook his head. "I just arrived," he said with a noncommittal shrug.

The man let out a frustrated sigh. "You gotta get a badge before you can find a tent," he said. "Come along and I’ll get you sorted."

As the man made his way through the camp, Arran followed silently behind him.