Record of Ashes War

Chapter 13 - A Trial of Strength

Sar'tara stepped down from her Mother's lap, still struggling to stifle her runny nose. Ny'Danis' gentle fingers passed across both cheeks, wiping away her tears. Sar'tara glanced at her sister. There was hardly any displeasure on Kiali's face. It seemed that she passed her Trial with less difficulty. Sar'tara puffed out her chest, happy to know her sister had succeeded. The Selharr would finally be able to hold their heads high again soon. She stood up straight beside Kiali and awaited Ny'Danis' orders, blinking hard to rid the sting in her reddened eyes,

"You did well to regain your wits before the end, Sar'tara. Most would have broken by that point." The deity's look of compassion was replaced by one of sternness. There was no respite to be had. "Wounds suffered on the alter plane do not exist here, as I'm sure you're already aware. Your quivers have also been filled again. Are you both ready?"

Sar'tara nodded. She sucked in a breath as two white gates formed before them. She looked to her side, finding a sliver of confidence from Kiali's reassuring smile.

"Begin the second Trial," Ny'Danis commanded.

Sar'tara stepped through the gate. White surrounded her when she came out the other side. There was nothing to lay her sight on. She shivered as a chill breeze brushed by. She took a step forward. The bare soles of her feet found familiar ground. She was on grass. Wet grass as if dawn had just arrived. But that was all she knew. Everything else was enshrouded in mist. Sar'tara waved her arms around but the mist did not disperse. Discomfort settled in her heart. Lingering fear of oversized insects still shadowed her thoughts. She couldn't see, and thus couldn't use her bow. She drew her two knives and took cautious steps forward.

"Survive."

The hollow voice of Ny'Danis echoed through the air again. A single word command. Something, or someone, would try to kill her. A Trial of skill or strength. The cowardly shadow within her told her to cry out. Told her to ask what it was she was surviving from. Sar'tara snapped her head around at the sharp whistling of wind. Her legs moved slower, joints stiff from both cold and fear. She bit her lip, nearly drawing blood. This couldn't go on. Fear would addle her mind and reactions.

Years of hunting taught her better than to cry out when blind. There was another predator on this plane besides herself. Or multiple predators. Be it in the shape of an animal or a person. She was in unfamiliar territory. She had no bearing on her environment. It was better to not reveal her location to whatever lay hidden in the mist.

The voice commanded her to survive. She recalled Stel'Na's words. To always remain alert. Sar'tara stood still, trying to pick up hints with her other senses. The air carried not a scent but that of damp soil. Nor did it carry any sound save for the cold breath of wind blowing here and there. She crouched low. Her feet swished as she shuffled along the wet grass. A habit picked up from years of hunting experience.

A figure soon appeared inside the thick fog. It was hard to make out at first. But the closer she approached, the more it looked like a person. Was this person a friend or a foe? Sar'tara edged closer, moving on the tips of her toes. Her grip around the handles of her knives tightened, her breathing softened, and her heart was more subtle than a lonely drop of water sending the minutest of ripples in an empty pond. In that moment, she was no longer a person. She was a part of the mist. One with it. The figure in the mist was holding a spear. Sar'tara let herself relax, seeing the familiar weapon. A Mäkhain huntress. Others taking the Trials at the same time?

She stood up straight, opening her mouth to speak. "I-" Sar'tara snapped her jaw shut. The Trials are to be conducted alone.

Survive.

This was no ally. Sar'tara scowled, annoyed with herself. She was still afraid. She had wanted it to be an ally. She bent lower, brandishing her knives before her face while her hunting eyes searched for a weak link through which to sink those bone fangs.

The figure turned around at the slight shuffling of Sar'tara's feet. She took a step back. Another chill breeze prodded her from behind as if it were a spear point urging her to move forward. The figure looked nothing like a person. It was entirely white just like the mist. A pale blue outline around its body separated the thing from blending in with its surroundings. There were holes where the eyes should have been. A strange pointed helmet was above its head. It looked to be wearing a long outfit akin to a dress, but not quite. In its right hand it held a spear, and in its left, a strange round block like object.

Sar'tara didn't know what to make of it. She cocked her head to the side, not sensing any hostility from the figure. Not sensing any life. Its lack of presence delayed her reactions to its movements. She noticed the butt of the spear too late. It struck her below the chin and she fell back, head ringing and vision briefly clouded in a white brighter than the mist. But more than anything, she felt the cold of the wet grass upon her back. It brought her back to her senses.

The ghastly figure stood before her, right arm raised. It thrust down with its spear. Sar'tara rolled away just in time. What is it? Why can't I sense any life from it? The figure's head slowly turned towards her. Survive. That command rang clear in her mind. But some of her movements were still rigid. She crouched low, teeth clenched, and pounced just like a wolf hiding within brush. The ghastly figure brought its left hand forward. Sar'tara was stopped in her tracks by the round block it held and easily pushed away. She frowned, thinking of a way to bypass the object that shielded her assailer.

A hole opened up where the figure's mouth was supposed to be. The creature suddenly shrieked. A terrible and high pitched cry that caused Sar'tara to drop her guard and cover her ears. It charged at her with frightening speed, its feet making a strange sound as if it were being scraped against the wet ground. The round shield struck Sar'tara's face and she fell back once more. She smelled iron. Blood rolled down her nose. The figure stabbed at her again. She barely managed to deflect a fatal blow with her arm, the spear tip still biting into her cheek. Sar'tara kicked at the figure's legs. It came down on top of her and she stuck a knife into one of its eye holes.

And then it was gone. It vaporized into mist as if it had never existed. Its tools remained. A spear and a shield.

Sar'tara picked herself up. The sounds of heavy footsteps surrounded her. She couldn't see anyone yet. She wondered if they could see her. Whatever 'they' were. She was finally beginning to understand the nature of the Trial. It was a Trial to hunt. Hunt enemies she may one day face as a Guardian.

Sar'tara stood up straight, letting the fear bleed away from her. With the Trial's purpose figured, she felt confidence burn in her anew. She looked down at the tools before her feet. That ghastly figure was a soldier. The stories Ny'Danis would tell when she was just a child came back to her. The ancient stories about plains dwellers living beyond the forest. About their strange habitats called cities. About their armies that supposedly numbered tens of thousands. Their weapons among which they had spears and swords and axes crafted out of iron that was said to be found inside of rocks. She had always been curious about just how it was the people beyond the forest harnessed the power within stones. How it was they pulled out a substance harder than the stone itself and molded it into weapons. Sar'tara had thought that the Kreiva Vashiri would know, considering they knew how to smash stones with their fists. But she never had a chance to ask.

She stopped reminiscing about the past. She crouched low and sheathed one of her knives. With her left hand, she picked up the shield, recognizing its importance. It covered a large surface area and would provide much needed protection. She carefully made her way through the mist. The sound of footsteps had stopped, but her sharp ears picked up the sound of shuffling feet scraping the ground. Her foes were searching for her. She spotted another figure a short distance before her, its back turned. It glided about, moving its head from side to side. Sar'tara crept up behind it and plunged her knife into its back. The figure let out the same ear splitting shriek before vaporizing. Its cries alerted more foes. There were more footsteps now, marching, nearing. They sounded much closer than before.

Sar'tara looked down at the tools this figure had dropped. Another shield and a long knife like object with a double edge. No. This was a sword. The preferred weapon of large armies. Tens of thousands, Sar'tara thought. She wondered how so many people could exist at once. Were there deities capable of birthing children other than the three lesser gods that Ny'Danis had made mention of?

The blade's length was much greater than that of her knife. She decided to use it. It was heavier than she expected, but not unbearably so. Multiple ghastly figures surrounded her. Taking them all together would be foolish. She charged at the nearest one, this one holding an even longer sword with two hands. It didn't have a shield.

Sar'tara thought it would be an easy kill. She slashed down in an arc. The movement felt clunky and unnatural. It was much slower than if she were to use a knife. The figure parried the strike, a ringing sound following from the clash of metals. Sar'tara gasped in surprise. She didn't expect a weapon to be used as a means of defense. She drew back her hand, preparing to thrust, believing that a smaller point of impact would not be so easily blocked.

But it was easily dodged. The ghastly figure sidestepped her thrust and swung its sword with both hands.

Sar'tara raised her shield, her muscles still relaxed and her posture very poor. She expected the shield to defend her without fail. And defend it did. But the weight behind the strike was unexpected. Sar'tara was forced to the ground, her muscles vibrating from the impact. There was a deep gash on the shield. It wasn't impervious. It was just a tool. And tools can break.

Sar'tara quickly got back on her feet, heart erratic. More ghastly figures were beginning to close in on her. She bent her knees and stood in a position with her weight evenly distributed between both arms. An artificial time limit was closing its hands around her throat. She couldn't allow herself to be surrounded. The figure with the two handed sword charged at her. Sar'tara brought her shield arm up and moved her legs at the same time. Her mouth opened and she roared, fueling her limbs with a fury born from desperation. She used the shield to deflect the attack rather than absorb its full impact. Her sword arm came down, aiming at the undefended side of her enemy. Iron bit into mist. The figure vaporized.

A drum echoed in Sar'tara's ears. Her chest rose up and down with every labouring breath. The tools in her hands seemed much heavier than they'd originally been. The muscles in her arms had swollen more than she'd ever seen. She wondered if the tools were just another ruse. They were tiring to use, and yet, plains dweller soldiers were said to have wielded the weapons for days on end in gruesome battles.

Survive.

The huntress grit her teeth. She needed to adapt quickly, or she wouldn't return alive.

***

Kiali gasped for breath. Her legs ached, begging her to sit down. She felt as if boulders were bound to her ankles. She looked up, counting her remaining enemies, wiping away the sweat and mist stuck to her cheeks just beneath the eyes. Three more. Two with large swords, and one with a spear. The mist had cleared the more ghastly figures she'd slain. A Trial to test her strength and combat skill against soldiers of the outside.

The vast plains were littered with strange pieces of weaponry. Kiali hadn't bothered to use them. They were unfamiliar to her and would thus prove disadvantageous. She tightened her grip around the handles of her bone knives. The remaining three ghastly figures closed in from three different sides. Kiali slumped her shoulders, feigning a complete lack of strength. She'd recovered much of her breath.

One. Two… And Three! The Vashiri war cry escaped her lips as her foes came within lunging distance. These ghastly figures, Kiali had realized, had some semblance of emotions. They could at least feel fear or surprise. Taken aback by her cries, the spear bearer before her dropped his guard, Kiali's knife soon finding its throat. She spun around to face the other two, dancing between the lengths of their swords, knives flashing and finishing her task. At last, Kiali let herself fall to her knees for a much needed rest. The Trial was over.

But no oval gate formed before her.

Instead, a strange cry sounded behind Kiali. Something not human. But not entirely feral enough to strike fear into her heart. She turned around to face the sound. She sucked in a quick breath and held it as she forced her aching legs to stand once more. Kiali grit her teeth, a slight tremble in her arms. One more foe remained.

***

Sar'tara leaned against a spear. Her body was drenched. Whether that was due to the mist or her own sweat, she didn't know. Her arms were littered with small cuts from which thin lines of blood flowed. The weapons of plains dwellers were hard to wield. She'd barely managed to survive. Just when she thought she had been adapting to using a sword, the blade of the weapon had broken in two. She was forced to discard it and pick up a nearby spear to use. Her final enemy had been a ghost soldier with a two handed blade. Sar'tara had been too tired to make swift strikes. The soldier blocked all of her attacks. In the end, she'd made the decision to discard the shield and use the spear with both hands. Her victory was a narrow one.

The Trial is over now. Surely. But that wasn't the case. A cloud of mist gathered before her very eyes. It turned into another ghastly figure, but much larger than the rest and with… four legs? No. It was another soldier riding atop a horse. A beast of burden and war. Ny'Danis had said that horse riders were the strongest warriors on the battlefield. That their only counter was a spear bearer.

The rider wore a strange outfit. He didn't have empty holes where the eyes should have been. Rather, his head was covered entirely with a helmet. The helmet had slats through which one could see, but the openings were too small to precisely stab through in the heat of battle. The rider held a strange diamond shaped shield and its weapon of choice was some sort of a flail. It was an odd weapon that Sar'tara didn't recall her Mother mentioning. A handle with some manner of clinking iron rope attached to it. At the end of the length of rope was a ball with spikes protruding from it.

A strange cry erupted from the horse. Sar'tara considered her options. The length of the spear was long enough to keep her enemy at bay. But was it strong enough to resist the charge of such a large beast without snapping in two like her sword before it? Am I strong enough to withstand a charge without being trampled? She didn't believe it. Something scratched at the back of her mind as the rider charged towards her. Memories of a weapon that Ny'Danis had mentioned in her stories. A weapon that bore similarities to a spear. A javelin. A throwing spear. It was a risk. She would lose her weapon for it.

It didn't matter. The field was littered with weapons.

But the horse was too fast. It closed in on her, its rider swinging the flail above his head. Sar'tara lunged to the side, thinking the dodge an easy one. The rider lashed out with his weapon, causing her to cry out as the spikes of the iron ball bit into her shoulder. The spear fell from her hands. She clutched her wound as the rider pulled a set of reins attached to the beast and forced it to wheel around for a second charge.

Sar'tara's knees stiffened. She snarled as she crouched low, forcing the fear out of her body. Her first task was to dismount the rider. She needed to break the horse's legs or just kill it. But she couldn't stand in its path lest it just trample her. She couldn't strike it from the side. The flail would rip her skull apart. Her bow would be the key. Sar'tara waited for the horse to approach again. She lunged at the last possible moment with as much strength as her legs could muster. The rider lashed out. It missed her side by a hair. In a swift movement, Sar'tara drew her bow and nocked an arrow.

The rider forced the horse to turn around once more.

Fingers slid away from the bowstring. A familiar twang rung in Sar'tara's ears as the arrow flew. The horse charged, its rider shrieking while spinning the deadly flail above his head. The arrow found the horse's skull. It cried out and fell forward, vaporizing like every other enemy. The rider atop it was sent flying forward. His head struck the ground in a strange manner and the body bounced once before sliding to Sar'tara's feet. It then vaporized as well.

Sar'tara cocked her head to the side and crossed her arms. "So that’s how you kill a horseman… Or should I have shot him through the eyes?"

A bright arching gate opened before her. The way back to Illusterra, her home plane. She stepped through, her Mother's beautiful grove welcoming her just as warmly as the last two times. She felt refreshed. Her fatigue was no longer. Her injuries, all gone. The Forest Deity stood before the First Tree, Lorian. She smiled at her daughter. Kiali was there as well, chest rising and falling quickly, tan skin shining from the sweat upon it. Sar'tara bit her lower lip, feeling a pang of jealousy at having been beaten twice now. Though, she was more proud of her sister than anything.

"Well done, my children. You have done well to complete the Trial of Strength. Sar'tara, your skill with foreign weapons and your ability to quickly adapt to your situation was most impressive. And Kiali, your sharp wits and skill with your knives is deserving of utmost respect. You make your tribe proud. This Trial is where most Selharr Vashiri fail. Robbed of their vision, their familiarity with the bow causes them to lose sight of their years of hunting knowledge."

"And I imagine the Kreiva pass this one with ease, given their brutish strength?" Kiali asked.

"Indeed. Some finish with fatal wounds upon their bodies. But the wounds as I mentioned are not retained when you re-enter this plane."

"Mother, I've always wondered, but do you decide which of the Vashiri you bear in your womb?" Sar'tara asked.

Ny'Danis smiled. Her majestic wings fluttered, accentuating her beauty. "I do, child. You must be wondering why it is I did not only bear Kreiva Vashiri if they are the most likely to succeed the Trials." Sar'tara nodded in response. "The Krieva are strong. It is the way in which I have created them. They are born with a fraction of my strength. That fraction is something the Selharr and the Mäkhain lack. That fraction is also their limit. They grow possessing the powers of nature, their bodies akin to stone, and their legs like the roots of great trees. All of them grow up proud, believing their might to be supreme. Their pride is, however, their undoing. They tend not to think rationally when hunting or fighting. Their strength makes up for it during hunts, but as you know, it does not help them against weapons and traps very well. Of course, every Guardian must also know humility. Kreivan Guardians do come to terms with what they lack."

"Then do their retired Guardians not pass this teaching on?" Kiali asked.

"Alas, years of pride is not something so easily gotten rid of. My Kreivan daughters are stubborn. Thousands of years, and not one of the Kreiva Vashiri returned to their village after attaining the seat of a Guardian. They all remained this forest's defenders until death took them. My defenders," the deity finished with a smile.

"Can you not create the perfect child? One without pride?" Sar'tara asked, frowning.

Ny'Danis blushed. "I do not choose the personality of the child I bear. I merely choose whether I grant the child a fraction of my power or not."

"Then why is it we are excluded from receiving your power, Mother?" Kiali asked.

"The Kreiva Vashiri have a limit to their strength. They are likely to pass the Guardian Trials because they harness my power. And after passing the Trials, that power is increased, though slightly. They are valiant warriors who defend the Papillion Forest from outside forces. But they will never be capable of using my full powers. Of wielding the nature commanding strength that I possess. That is what a real Guardian can do. The Selharr and the Mäkhain are to pass the Trials on their own. They are to prove they are worthy vessels for the latent potential running in their veins. The strength of a deity. Each successful Trial grows the vessel's strength. Without passing the Trials, that strength cannot be utilised. It would kill you if you tried using it now. Thus, I only teach you how to use it after you've passed the Trials."

"Then are the Selharr and Mäkhain alike?"

"In that sense, yes. But you are all alike to me. You are all my beloved daughters."

Sar'tara crossed her arms. "Then… does that mean Sister Stel'Na can command nature? Then wouldn't she have used it during our battle with the Kreiva?"

"My strength is to be used strictly to defend this forest, our home. It is not to be used against your own siblings. Stel'Na knows this. And I'm sure she was pained by this knowledge. Come. You have two Trials remaining." Ny'Danis spread her arms and opened two gates again. "Go now. My blessings are with you, always. I shall hope to see you on the other side."

Both huntresses sucked in a deep breath before entering their third Trial.

***

The Union's army had long since crossed into Xenarian borders. They would know, sure enough. But they would learn of the attack too slow to mount an effective response.

Two more days. Two days till arrival. The Sun crossed his arms. He glared into the horizon, its lines blurred by the darkness of night. He could see the shadowed top of Lorian, the Mother Tree. Years of preparation had led to this moment. He could taste it —a mellow dewdrop at the tip of his tongue. Vengeance mere inches from his grasp. This time, he wouldn't lose.