A Legacy of Blades - An Epic Tower Fantasy

Grayle, after endless hours of contemplation, had finally settled on a name for his Challenge. His homeland, L'moore, had a tradition of garbing their Challengers in a new name, almost as a second skin, a metaphysical armor. He had only decided to try his on that day, but he had a good feeling about it. Those feelings struck him sometimes, some confluence of events pointing him in the right direction, a gut instinct that told him this was the way things were meant to be.

Of all the names he had debated, Grayle felt most confident when he imagined himself entering the Tower wearing this name. The Tower itself would determine when and where he ended up, its judgment seemingly unknowable in these things. The unified people of L'moore had simply accepted the Tower's wisdom in these things and trusted it to guide them as optimally as possible. Who was Grayle, not even yet a Challenger, to challenge the wisdom of ages?

Yes, he thought, this will be a fitting name for me. I have a feeling it will bring me into the pull of great things, and that I'll influence more than I know. There is power in a name, and the time is right for this one.

The sages of his people told stories of the Barbarians, from before the unification of the people, who fought for the right to challenge the Tower, when the land was merely blessed by the gods to be an entrance to another world, and no Tower yet stood. Only the best, the most ferocious and powerful warriors, ever entered that world, and they were not known to come back. No, theirs was a journey seeking the pinnacle of power, grasping with all their might to become something that had not been seen in Ages, since a time only gods and the Ancients remembered: a true master.

Grayle couldn't help but ponder the fate of so many warriors from the time before unification. Perhaps one day some of those warriors might return. Gods only know why the Tower would have kept them from returning, though. Maybe it knows something we don't, or maybe it's in the timing. Grandad does like to harp on the importance of timing.

An internal alarm went off, telling Grayle he would be late for his meeting with his grandad if he didn't hurry. "Shit, it's that time already? He won't let me hear the end of it if I'm late, today of all days. Not that I have more days to ruin. Gods, wouldn't that be an impression to leave the family with. Grayle, the boy who couldn't keep track of time."

"Twelve minutes late, boy," Grayle's grandfather admonished him when he ran breathless into the vacant council room.

While no longer a councilor, the man held a position of respect for his long service to the people of L'moore. Rumor held that, were it not for his efforts, not to disregard the others who bought victory through sacrifice, the Unification War would have ended very differently, likely plunging the people into a renewed Age of Darkness.

Ruminating on the way things might have gone was a useless endeavor, though, when, of course, they didn't, so Grayle never spent time pondering such 'what ifs.' His concern lay ever in the promise of things to come and choosing the right path at the optimal time. All roads lead to home, after all, but what sights lurk along each path undoubtedly differ.

"Well, by some measure, you're right, Grandad. It all comes down to your perspective on time. If I'd come earlier, I might have chosen the wrong name. Any later and I'd certainly be a different person than I am." Grayle gave his grandad a serious look; they were in the council chambers after all, and seriousness was of import here, but the smile in his eyes gave away his humor. "I'm Grayle, now, by the way."

"Grayle…" The old man chewed on the name while he thought it out. "Yes, I think it's a fitting name. It's about time you selected one, regardless of your ramblings. Our time is short, now, as you've decided you are assuredly not late. Tell me, what can our people offer a Challenger?"

Right, I should take this more seriously. It's hard not to see him as Grandad. I guess that wasn't quite a formal enough greeting. He's here to give a Challenger the blessing of the people, as a member of Leadership, after all. Gods, you can be an idiot sometimes, Grayle.

Grayle bowed low at the waist. "Elder, I ask your forgiveness for treating this meeting with undue levity. You have been gracious in granting me such a formal audience." He paused a moment before straightening up once more. "Elder, I can think of no greater gift in this moment than the blessing of our people. To go and see the mysteries the Tower holds, knowing I have the full support of my homeland, is a gift beyond any I might ask."

A smile, one Grayle might have missed had he not known the man so intimately, twinkled in the Elder's eyes, without ever disturbing his face. "Child, there is no apology needed. You are right that our mortal minds have no true grasp on the intricacies of time. What seems rigid and set to us may appear more fluid from other points of view." The man paused to gently tug on his white beard, which, along with the braid on his head, reached his shoulders. "While you ask for nothing of us, it is tradition to bestow a gift upon all Challengers. Our artisans work tirelessly to hone their craft and provide such treasures for us. I, with the help of a few others, have selected a gift for you, if you would honor us by receiving it."

Grayle stood unsteadily, a bit shaken by the news. The blessing of Challengers was common knowledge, but gifts? Nobody ever spoke of gifts.

"I…" Grayle began, "I couldn't possibly deserve such generosity."

"Child, you haven't even seen what we offer yet, though I see it surprised you. We keep the gifts a secret, so people do not attempt the Challenge out of greed. A blessing is all but worthless, to anyone but its recipient, but a gift?"

At these words, the Elder pulled out a long box. It wasn't so long as to contain a martial weapon of any great stature, but long enough as to hold something more than a trinket, nonetheless.

"Within lies a gift, chosen for you, that bears the blessing of our people. The council gathered with the leaders of our artisans and prayed that the protection of Hope might take root within this gift, as they do for all our Challengers. You all attempt something greater than you know, and every warning the Tower has ever let escape tells of the dangers of overconfidence. Do not let yourself fall victim to yourself. Remember your people, as your people will remember you."

The Elder motioned for Grayle to move closer and receive the gift. "Go, sit and witness your people's hope."

Grayle sat, the box in his lap, as he looked around the council chamber. Evidence of interwoven cultures lay everywhere he looked. Some areas were clearly influenced by one culture dominantly, and each had its seat of power, but even there, the touch of the other cultures was evident. Tears welled in his eyes as the significance of the room took on new meaning in his eyes.

"I've been blind to so much. How…how could I have missed so much that's been right before my eyes my whole life?"

"The things before us are often taken for granted, before we are ready to see their value. It isn't that they held less importance for you, simply that it wasn't time for you to see their significance. Now, on the eve of your departure, it is time for you to see the world through fresh eyes. Now, open the box!" He said these last words with the energy of a grandfather eager to see his grandson open a present.

Grayle slowly pried open the lid, the box itself a masterwork in his eyes. Inside, laid out on a bed of soft purple, there was a dagger. That description didn't do the item justice, though. The blade was longer than a dagger had any right to be, and yet shorter than a short sword. It shone with a reflected light, no dusky iron visible in its making. A script crawled up the blade in words he didn't recognize, but he felt, with certainty, that the blessing of his people dwelt within these words. Its hilt was a masterwork alone, leather-bound and polished to perfection. Small gemstones, nothing precious and yet things of beauty, were set into the pommel. When he could finally pry his eyes away from the blade, they strayed back to the mysterious stones.

"Ahh, yes." His grandfather stood in front of him. Grayle hadn't seen the man move, so enraptured was he by his gift. "Those are a special work, one the artisans use in all gifts. You will find them quite useful, should you discover their secrets."

Forgetting the ceremony dictated by their setting, Grayle set the box aside and jumped up to wrap his arms around the Elder. "Thank you, grandad! No, thank you, L'moore! I'll do what I can to deserve your gift!"

"Child, for those brave enough to make the Challenge, no thanks are needed. We only wish to give you the best chance at returning to us." He held his grandson for a time, and neither could quantify the embrace. Finally, he released the Challenger. "Go, Grayle. See your home through fresh eyes. Bring us with you, that you may never be alone in your journey."

Grayle stooped to pick up the box, glancing at its contents and closing it carefully. Holding it under one arm, firmly latched, he stood up to bow to the Elder, one more time.

The old man had turned his back on the boy. Grayle gazed upon the Elder's back, grateful for the bond between them. He moved to the entrance, took one last look around, and exited through the polished wooden door. The door shut on well-oiled hinges, closing the old man in, alone. The boy never saw the proud tears in his grandfather's eyes.

"I'll see you at home, child who has become the Challenger, Grayle, one last time."

The streets held a mystique in the hours before the setting sun painted the world in hues of red. Even before twilight, the soft light of early evening spoke of mystery and the promise of tomorrow. Grayle walked slowly through streets he had known his whole life. He was in no hurry, as he could see all the places that lived in his memories in the course of a leisurely stroll.

How strange it is, Grayle thought, that the place holding so much of my life is, in fact, so very small. That a place binding so many cultures could be so contained. It is a wonder our ancestors have made. I can only dream of the great city L'moore might become.

As he walked, he passed familiar faces in the streets, each nodding, some looking closer, recognizing the badge pinned to his sleeve, and bowing in honor. The place was a family grander than he had ever understood.

The council chambers stood near the center of town, near the Tower, but kept at a respectable distance. Gardens occupied most of the area in this central district, but a few buildings pockmarked the greenery. Across the way, Grayle spotted the Barracks, where the commanders of the city defense met to organize in times of need. Not far from the council chambers, he knew the Artisan House stood. Across from that, he gazed at the Orphanage.

Odd that they included that building among such prestigious names. Here is the House of our finest artisans, where the greatest masterworks of our people are planned. Here is the Grand Council, where decisions are made for the good of all. Here is the Barracks, where we work hard to ensure your safety, not that there has been great need of that for a few generations, still, it's better to be safe than sorry. Just ask that guy, he's as sorry as they come. And here, last but not least, is the Orphanage, where our lost children run amok.

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He knew, in fairness, that the building served a much greater purpose than that. It was a symbol of their people's unification, that no child would be left to suffer, and that there was always a home for those other societies might have left behind. Despite his jests, he saw clearly now that his people did more than practice unity. They embodied the cultural family that so many aspire to, yet strive not to fall short of. A selflessness that ran deeper than he'd realized in his youthful naivete.

Standing there, observing the motion at the heart of his city, he couldn't help when his attention was drawn to the Tower. His people held it in a place of reverence, but most averted their gaze, superstitious of its rumored abilities. It was said to be an Object of Power, built on a Site of Significance. These rumors trailed back to the time before unification, so long ago, and were nearly lost in the wars that marred the Ages between.

Staring at it now, he felt a pull. Strange as it sounded, even to him, he felt like it knew he belonged to it already. In that moment, the thought of walking on those grounds, strolling those gardens, was more frightening than spending a week outside the city's wall unarmed. He felt a thread, an intangible…something…that wanted to pull him inward, but it was patient.

Is there more to the Tower's opening than mere timing? None of these lofty houses dare stand too close to our precious Tower. Too afraid of unwittingly entering as a Challenger, I'm sure. I was always amused and doubtful of the rumors of children straying too close to the Tower and being spirited away. We're all told that the Tower only opens once a generation, but standing here now…I wonder. Could it have more control over the timing?

A chill swept through him before he let the thought finish. Could it mark the people it chose, making their own choice an illusion? Am I marked?

Beyond uncomfortable with where his thoughts had led him, he turned and walked, fast as he could, to the city's outer districts. He didn't even notice as he automatically greeted those he encountered, his thoughts on the Tower behind him. It was no thing of great stature, but it was growing. Is that really our doing, though?

He fled from the Site, but felt his mind trapped in its embrace.

Bare dirt stretching before him, Grayle looked out at a field of memories. He stood at the training grounds of the martial school. From the time he elected to become a Challenger, his time here was set in stone.

Three years, where did they go?

The ghosts of years gone by danced across the hard-packed earth before him, as they did from time to time. One moment, he saw a score of scraggly youths running laps, one of many exercises they were tasked with to shape their transformation into warriors.

None of us could have imagined the suffering that choice would bring, but it's hard to argue with the results. Sure, it weeded out those not cut out for the life of a Challenger. What did we start as, twenty-three hopeful faces? He laughed, remembering the suite of emotions they'd all experienced, the triumph of overcoming another day's trials, the sadness of seeing a friend give up, and the elation at seeing a rival fail. The six of us from our class who made it through the Crucible definitely appear to have been remade. I always thought it a bit on the nose when the instructors referred to the program as the Crucible, but maybe there was something to it.

When his mind fought its way free from those thoughts, he saw the field covered in pods, each devoted to a particular drill. The members of each class that made it through the early days of the program were arrayed across the grounds. Every morning, they would all gather, once the young ones had finished their physical training, and split into pods. Each spectral pod represented a class, some having long taken up their Challenge, each going through various exercises with all manner of weaponry and tools. The echo of clanging blades rang out vividly in his mind.

Gods, I hated those early general weapons classes. I felt so lost, felt like I was going to give up half the time. I remember thinking I'd never find my calling back then. A smirk wrinkled his normally passive features. Nearly everyone had found theirs by the time I figured it out. Sure, we were all adept enough with any weapon, and there were always those who didn't find their resonance and went with a basic weapon specialty, but I was so sure that wouldn't be me!

The timing just wasn't right, I convinced myself. Sword and shield, everyone said. Then, they were sure dual blades would be the answer, but nothing. I remember the instructors' faces as I tried any combination I could think of. Some looked insulted at the pairings I created, but I wasn't going to be deterred by tradition. Grandad always told me that a flexible mind will find an answer. No, it wasn't until I had a short blade in one hand, a short, hooked sickle in the other, and a short bow strapped to my back that I felt any resonance at all.

His thoughts drifted to the box, and the blade nestled within. It would be perfect for his style. The blade made up the more offensive aspects of his…unique…fighting style, while the sickle served as a more active means of defense. He had discarded the idea of a great weapon early on, and a shield had never felt right to him. Two blades felt too unwieldy, he needed more freedom. The sickle provided him with that, and he appreciated that it kept his options open for other quick strikes. The short bow, kept in a quick-release strap on his back with a handful of arrows, made up for his complete lack of range. He knew the moment he took to the sparring arena that day, this was a winning combination for him. There wouldn't be any time he was without an answer, and he was agile enough.

I always did like the days we ran obstacle courses. Some of these oafs have the footwork of a punch-drunk laggard. Only makes sense I'd resonate with a weapon-style more focused on footwork. The instructors didn't seem to share my enthusiasm, though.

The scene before him faded into the depths of memory, only for another to spring up in its place. Five ghostly Instructors stood around a slightly younger Grayle, who was not yet Grayle, while various other teachers led those specialized in their schools through exercises meant to hone each student's advantage with their chosen weapon.

Every evening, the boys who had chosen a specialty trained with masters from their school.

"The boy insists he resonates with these tools, but we have no one to teach such nonsense." Instructor Damar's face, even in the memory, was pale with anger at the boy's assumed jest.

The apparition of Lead Instructor Tarim stood impassively nearby, merely watching his compatriots' debate over what they should do with the boy. Two of the Instructors stood forward, while the other two stood back, indicating their passive interest in the boy.

"I say," Instructor Chaeramos spoke up, "We should just let the boy train himself. If he insists on picking such a foolish specialty, one nobody has ever specialized in, for that matter, then I say we let him pioneer his own path, if it even exists."

There were nods of agreement from the gathered instructors. After a moment, they looked to Tarim. As one, they intoned, "Lead Instructor, lend us your wisdom."

He was silent for a moment, pensive, and then he spoke, "Are we not all relative masters of each tool we carry? Damar, I have seen none as adroit with a bow as you, surely you have something to teach the boy?"

"Sir, he doesn't wish to fight like a bowman. My tactics will be lost on him."

"Surely, not all of your skills rely on distance. You would not surrender just because the enemy closed with you. Could you not teach him those tactics, along with enough normal tactics that he might adapt and predict his enemy? That should not be beyond one of your skill."

Damar bowed his head, shamed at the simple solution he had refused to see. He stepped back in line with the silent Instructors.

"Chaeramos," Tarim continued, "You are as adept a dual wielder as I know. Surely, you can teach him the finer points of the style, adapting slightly to his off-hand weapon. Many use a parrying dagger. Do you refuse to train them simply for not being true dual wielders?"

"No master, but none of them wanted to also use a bow."

"None here shall call me master," Tarim said with finality. "Let me worry about that."

Chaeramos firmed his spectral face before nodding once and stepping back into the line.

"I shall teach the boy how best to meld the styles to create one more uniquely suited to him."

The Instructors gaped at the Lead Instructor's declaration. He oversaw the education of all the students, but it was unheard of for him to take special interest in anyone. Damar couldn't withhold his outburst. "Sir, just because his grandfather is…"

"Bite. Your. Tongue." A rare touch of color painted Tarim's face, the most evident sign of rage he had shown since the rumored death of his dearest ally. "I do this, not out of respect for any man, nor repayment for any service, but as a course of necessary action. This boy has no more choice in his calling than did any of you. A rare seed may be discarded for its difference. It requires the most uncommon nurturing, but can grow to be more beautiful and hardy than any common plant. I do this, that our school's legacy might echo through history, and even if the boy falls short, it is not water wasted."

Grayle, who was not yet Grayle, stood with his head bowed through the whole exchange. Grayle watched from his future perspective, unable to see the mix of fear, anger, and joy that he knew raged within the boy.

A year you trained me, Lead Instructor, and I have flourished from your guidance. A smile crept over him. Gods, the look on Damar's face when I won the tournament at the end of the year. The other five in my class all went with a traditional route, but they were wholly unprepared for me that day. I know they whispered that it was favoritism, but I could read their every move. They had no spirit! I would have beaten them, each, ten times out of ten, but let them have their hateful theories. At least Orlein stood by me at the end, even if Rhame pulled the other three to his camp. I'll just have to keep an eye out if I run across them in the Tower.

More scenes crawled by before him, but these stood out to Grayle. Each marked an important moment in his journey, a moment he remembered fondly as a stepping stone to the present.

What are memories but footsteps leading to this moment? At least these were meaningful. The year I spent trying to discover my magic was a complete and utter waste. Time after time, it just led to disappointment and failure. Gods help me, I'd better discover it in the Tower, or my Challenge is already over.

A ringing sensation in his mind interrupted his ruminations. Looking at the sun's low positions, he knew he needed to make haste to his family's compound. Luckily, it wasn't far. Farewells were never easy, and this time would be no exception. Still, Grayle knew he would regret it if he didn't make the most of the time he had left with his family.

After a night spent laughing, dancing, and crying with his family, Grayle stood ready, fully equipped for battle and to issue his Challenge. He hadn't been prepared for how meaningful last night would be, from his conversation with Elder Grandad, to his experience with the Tower, to his remembrances of his days training, to a simple night surrounded by his parents, siblings, Grandfather, and other family members.

As close as he felt to his family, he felt a renewed kinship with his people, even Rhame. He saw more clearly how interwoven their lives were, how the success of one enriched the others, and how another's failure brought support from a network of individuals, some never even noticed for their contribution.

Everywhere he looked, he saw the tapestry of L'moore. It wove together fabrics from all the scattered tribes and created one People, far richer for their differences. The martial school gained the best techniques from across their homeland, honed through countless ages. The artisans would never have created masterpieces like the one on Grayle's hip if they hadn't learned to work together.

The scholars, those who studied magic and knowledge, incorporated each other's insights to create a more complex understanding of magic than any imagined possible, even if the subject could never fully be understood. The sages created a more complete image of their history, from the Barbaric ages to the present. So many events seemed unlikely even after the passage of untold years, yet still, it was the story of L'moore.

Shit, I mostly missed the speeches, getting lost reminiscing like that. I never philosophized like this before last night. What have you done to me, Grandad?

"…Tower, we await your guidance!"

You're an idiot, Grayle. I nearly did miss the whole ceremony! I've got to be more aware in the fut…

And with that, the Tower summoned him. He felt the intangible cord grow taught, pulling him inexorably inward as his mind flashed with a series of images. The Tower, taller than it was now and more well put together, a yawning pit, a city, stretching into the distance. The last reminded him of home, of L'moore, and in that flash he knew its name.

I'Lamora.

It was Time. Grayle's consciousness faded, and the next thing he knew was a room in the Tower, perfectly constructed for him.