Chapter 18: First Blood [ 1 ]

When Sigurd came back to his senses, the first thing he noticed was that the ground beneath his feet had changed.

The smooth black stone of the eastern training grounds was gone, replaced by damp earth covered in layers of moss, fallen leaves, twisted roots, and unfamiliar plants.

For several seconds he simply stood there, blinking as his vision adjusted to the dimness around him. He was in a forest, although calling it a forest felt inadequate.

The trees surrounding him were enormous, their trunks resembling gigantic pillars holding up an entire world above his head. Some were wide enough that Sylvia’s manor could have disappeared behind them.

Their bark was dark brown and deeply ridged, with thick vines winding upward until both vanished into the canopy hundreds of feet overhead.

Leaves larger than carriage roofs overlapped one another in countless layers, forming a vast green ceiling that blocked most of the afternoon sun.

Only thin shafts of pale light managed to penetrate, falling between the trees like distant spotlights and illuminating drifting pollen, insects, and patches of silver mist hanging close to the ground.

Somewhere far away, something released a deep call that rolled through the forest and faded into silence.

Sigurd barely had time to appreciate any of it before his stomach violently turned.

His face went pale. The world tilted beneath him, his balance disappeared, and a horrible wave of nausea surged from his stomach into his throat.

Sigurd staggered forward, caught himself against one of the enormous roots, then bent over and vomited everything he had eaten that morning onto the moss.

His sword nearly slipped from his hand as another wave hit him. He remained bent forward afterward, breathing through his nose while his stomach continued threatening rebellion. Whatever had happened between the training ground and this place had apparently disagreed with every part of his body.

"Ah. Right. I probably should have warned you about that."

Osric’s voice came from somewhere above him.

Sigurd slowly raised his head.

The instructor stood comfortably atop a thick tree branch nearly twenty feet above the ground, one shoulder leaning against the trunk as though he had been there all morning. His coat moved slightly in the breeze, and his wine flask had somehow returned to his hand. When Sigurd glared at him, Osric’s mouth twitched.

The old instructor placed the flask away, straightened, then gave Sigurd an exaggerated bow from his branch.

"Please forgive me, Tenth Young Master," Osric said with such obvious sincerity that it became insulting. "I was simply overcome by my desire to deliver your promised reward as quickly as possible. In my excitement, I seem to have teleported us without requesting your permission. An unforgivable failure of etiquette on my part."

Sigurd stared at him.

Osric maintained the bow.

Sigurd had dealt with professional killers, intelligence officers, corrupt officials, mercenaries, smugglers, and several people who could lie while looking directly into a surveillance camera. Somehow, the sarcastic bastard standing on the branch managed to irritate him more efficiently than most of them.

"Your apology is terrible," Sigurd said.

Osric straightened. "I thought it was heartfelt."

Sigurd rolled his eyes and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The nausea was already beginning to fade, allowing him to examine his surroundings more carefully.

There were no roads, walls, cultivated fields, or signs of civilization anywhere nearby. Even the Vis in the atmosphere felt different. It was thicker than at Sylvia’s estate but far less controlled, carrying an almost wild quality that made his Nascent Core react faintly.

Sigurd looked back toward Osric. "What does bringing me into the middle of this place have to do with my reward?"

Osric was about to opened his mouth.

Sigurd’s expression changed.

Something had entered the range of his senses.

He turned his head toward the darkness between two gigantic trees. At first there was nothing. Then a flock of small black birds exploded from the canopy several hundred feet away. Leaves shook. A branch snapped with a sharp crack, followed by another farther to the left. Whatever was moving wasn’t wandering aimlessly. It was approaching them, and it was approaching quickly.

Sigurd’s hand tightened around his sword.

The forest suddenly felt quieter.

He could hear the rustle of leaves overhead, his own breathing, and the faint scraping of something moving across bark. The presence was difficult to describe. It wasn’t merely the sensation of another living creature nearby. There was pressure accompanying it, something instinctive that made the muscles along his back tighten before his conscious mind had identified the threat.

Sigurd looked up.

Osric was grinning.

Not the amused smile from earlier.

This one was worse.

"Oh, that," Osric said. He crossed his arms and settled comfortably against the trunk. "This is a test. Consider it part of your reward."

Sigurd’s eyes narrowed. "What test?"

"Your first real combat experience." Osric continued to grin wildly.

Sigurd stared at him for half a second.

Then his expression darkened. "You brought me into a forest and attracted something here?"

"Correct."

"I’m seven."

"Also correct."

"You are a terrible instructor."

"I’ve been told." Osric’s grin widened. "Enjoy yourself."

Sigurd was about to ask exactly what kind of lunatic considered being attacked by an unknown creature a reward when the presence suddenly accelerated.

His attention snapped forward.

Something crashed through the undergrowth.

A gigantic shadow burst from between the trees and landed less than thirty feet away with enough force to shake the earth beneath Sigurd’s boots. Leaves jumped from the ground. Dust and fragments of bark erupted around its paws, and a low growl rolled through the clearing with enough force that Sigurd felt the vibration against his chest.

The creature stood nearly eight feet tall at the shoulder and stretched more than fifteen feet from its blunt snout to the end of its heavy tail. It resembled a wolf only in the broadest sense. Its body was covered in coarse charcoal fur broken by dark red streaks running along its shoulders and spine.

Thick plates of natural black armor grew over its chest, forelegs, and skull, overlapping like scales forged directly into its flesh. Two curved ivory fangs protruded beyond its lower jaw, each nearly the length of Sigurd’s forearm.

Its paws were enormous, ending in hooked claws that sank into the soil beneath its weight, while a line of short bone spines ran from the back of its head to the base of its tail.

But its eyes bothered Sigurd most.

There was nothing mindless about them.

Four amber eyes sat in pairs along the beast’s armored skull, all of them fixed directly upon him. Its nostrils widened as it inhaled his scent. Saliva hung between its exposed fangs, striking the ground in thick drops while the muscles beneath its fur shifted with every slow movement.

Vis rolled from the creature in waves, turning the air around it strangely heavy. Sigurd felt pressure settle across his shoulders, and for the first time since awakening his Martial Soul, his body responded to another creature with an unmistakable warning.

Danger.

Sigurd lowered his center of gravity and brought his sword forward.

"Ferocious Beast," he muttered.

"Correct," Osric called from above, sounding entirely too relaxed. "Armored Bloodfang. Low level. Common enough in this part of the forest, though adults are considerably stronger than ordinary wild animals. Dense muscle, reinforced bones, armored skull and forequarters. Good sense of smell. Aggressive when provoked."

Sigurd’s eyes flickered upward for the briefest instant. "You provoked it?"

Osric rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "I may have borrowed something from its den."

Sigurd’s gaze hardened. "You’re insane."

"Probably. Keep your eyes forward."

The warning came just in time.

The Armored Bloodfang lowered its enormous head, and the ground beneath its front claws cracked as its muscles contracted. Sigurd immediately recognized the change in posture. Whatever differences existed between Earth and Eden, predators still telegraphed certain movements through their bodies.

The creature’s hind legs compressed. Its shoulders lowered. Its claws dug deeper into the soil.

It was preparing to charge.

Sigurd adjusted his grip.

This wasn’t Osric.

There would be no wooden sword tapping his knee when his stance became sloppy. No instructor would stop the exchange and explain what he had done wrong.

The creature before him wasn’t interested in teaching him anything. If those jaws closed around his body, being the Tenth Son of House Zierghardt wouldn’t make his bones any harder to crush.

Strangely, the realization calmed him.

His breathing steadied. The sword in his hands suddenly felt familiar in a way training never had.

The Armored Bloodfang growled.

Then it vanished from where it stood.

The ground exploded beneath its paws as the massive beast shot forward with terrifying speed, crossing the clearing far faster than something of its size had any right to move.

Sigurd’s pupils contracted as fifteen feet of armored muscle, claws, and exposed fangs rushed directly toward him.

Above them, Osric’s grin disappeared.