Chapter 11: Good News, Bad News

Maritza strutted down the corridor in long, quick strides. Ronan had to push himself to keep pace with her, and he got the sense that she was challenging him to see if he was ready to be deployed into training. To keep his mind off the discomfort in his throbbing abdomen, Ronan focused on the thick, curly blonde hair in Maritza's ponytail. He watched it bob up and down with each of her fast steps, then nearly toppled over Maritza when she came to a sudden halt at the door to the training grounds.

Ronan tried to play it cool when she spun around, but Maritza noticed the bead of sweat dripping down the side of Ronan's head. She opened the door and signaled for him to head through first.

The training grounds was a huge and open area packed with an assortment of tools that the Temple of the Serpent could have only dreamed of. Lines of humanlike dummies made of stripped wood occupied a wide section of flat dirt. Few trainees entered the zone for fear of messing up their pressed white pants or dirtying their nice boots. Straw targets made for archer's arrows were on the opposite end of the dummies, though the trainee archers were too busy comparing the size and craftsmanship of their arrows to knock one and shoot it. Polished swords sat on iron weapons racks, and the swords were so clean and without any dents that Ronan wondered if they'd ever been used at all.

Maritza made for a stall in the corner of the grounds that was surrounded by blooming white flowers. As she and Ronan walked past the other trainees, they all shifted where they stood. Some blabbered a cordial greeting of "Lady Maritza," while others attempted to make themselves appear busy.

Only a trio of trainees were clashing swords and did not stop at the sight of Maritza. Of the three, a handsome young man with a set of dirty blonde hair that swished in front of his cobalt eyes stood out. He fenced two beautiful young women at the same time. The three moved in tandem, clashing their thin blades expertly and with a swiftness that made the whole ordeal seem like a talented dance.

The blonde man clashed his sword against the training weapon of one young woman, then immediately flipped into a one-handed cartwheel. His foot in the air, he kicked away the wrist of the second woman, smacking her sword blade-first into the dirt. Laughing to himself, the man rolled onto his feet and blocked a final sword slash from the first woman. She jolted backwards as he peeled his blade from hers so fast he launched a flurry of sparks out at Ronan's comfy linen shoes. The sparks flew and the man smirked arrogantly.

But Ronan sidestepped quick enough to make the blonde man glare. He looked at Ronan disappointedly, scoffed, then continued his training.

Ronan laughed to himself and continued with Maritza, who was unphased by the childish antics. That fancy looking blonde man would need to try a lot harder with Ronan; over a decade of constant harassment had sharpened Ronan's reflexes, and with his body at a good weight and operating on a full stomach, Ronan felt like he was in control.

Maritza and Ronan stood in front of the stand. The counter was filled with markers shaped like little flags and sharp pins, as well as many compasses. Mounted on the stall wall was an enormous map of the land.

Maritza traced a finger from one edge of the map to the other.

She said, "At first I was dubious of your claims about The Temple of the Serpent. After all, you were on one side of the world and then on the other, a journey that could've been made only by extreme magic."

A swarm of blue butterflies fluttered out from under the petals of the white flowers around the tactician stall. Maritza's Mark of Butterfly steamed and glowed a pearly white, and the blue butterflies landed on her arm and hand.

"If there is one good thing I inherited from my father Bellamy," she said, "it's his espionage magic. I sent butterflies over to the Temple of the Serpent, and the helpful little spies have confirmed your stories."

Very seriously, Maritza looked at Ronan and declared, "Your temple has fallen to the Hellsworn."

The butterflies on her arm flapped their wings and darted about, as if upset at the mention of such an evil word.

Ronan swallowed but nodded. He formed a fist and said, "Then let me fight with your people. Train me and I'll help defend this temple."

"That's my first choice," Maritza admitted. She glanced at the Mark of Serpent on Ronan's left arm. She was disturbed by it, for she felt an incredible and familiar strength from his tattoo. And yet, confusingly, Ronan held no rank.

"The good news," Maritza said, "is that the Hellsworn Army is hundreds of thousands of miles from here. So we have ample time to prepare."

"And the bad news?" Ronan asked, trying to sound hopeful.

"The bad news is that the council here will require some convincing. My word alone might not be enough to sway them that this threat is real."

Ronan rubbed his chin. "There's a bread man, I mean, a baker," he said, correcting himself. "His name is Habbot."

At the sound of Habbot's name, the butterflies on Maritza's arm flew up and above the two Nightblades. They circled happily above Maritza and Ronan.

"The baker Habbot and I were attacked by a Slaug that looked to be infected by Hellsworn magic. If Habbot can show you to the Slaug's nest, then you may be able to convince the council that the Hellsworn's magic is closer than it might seem."

Maritza nodded soldierly. "I'll proceed with this information. In the meantime, we'll need to find a more permanent spot for you in our temple."

"We can't have you lounging in the hospital ward all day," she teased.

"I'm happy to earn my place here," Ronan winked.

Maritza clasped her hands behind her back. The butterflies flew up and away and over the walls of the training grounds.

"Very well," she said. "I'll look into setting you up with an apprenticeship under a Master. I'll be in touch, Ronan."

Maritza turned to walk away but Ronan caught her by the arm.

"Wait," he said.

Maritza glanced at Ronan's hand on her skin and allowed herself the softest of smiles. She looked to the young Nightblade.

"If you see Habbot," Ronan said, "please thank the baker for saving my life."

Maritza lingered for a second then said, "Noted," before strutting away.

Grinning, Ronan observed the map again. It was a big world out there, and he wondered how many stories he'd heard about Nightblades in the world would turn out to be false. He then wondered how much of what he'd grown up learning about the world had been true.

Ronan winced as a pebble hit the back of his head and knocked him from his contemplation.

"Look at Ike's new mangy mutt," the blonde man Ronan had seen training before said. His piercing cobalt blue eyes irritated Ronan.

"I am Alfred of Augustate," the blonde man said, sweeping a tuft of hair away from his brow. "That means that whoever you are, you're in my lands."

The two beautiful women that Alfred had been sparring with cackled obnoxiously. They both set their pretty arms on Alfred's shoulders and got close to him.

"Well, Mr. Alfred of Augustate," Ronan said sarcastically. He bent down to retrieve the pebble that had been thrown at his head. "I think you may have dropped something."

With his newfound strength and confidence, Ronan reared his hand back and prepared to launch the stone at Alfred's face.

"I'd like to return it to you," Ronan sneered.

He went to throw the stone but before it could be released from his hand, his wrist was grabbed. A large man with a trimmed yet bushy red beard clenched Ronan's wrist in his burly hand.

"That's enough," the towering and burly man said. "Alfred, stop being such an ass. All that fancy swordplay and you're still an empty idiot."

Ronan smirked, and the two women on Alfred's shoulders turned their lips in disgust.

"Master Farrier," Alfred mumbled through clenched teeth. "Always a pleasure to see you."

Farrier released Ronan's hand. Farrier's head of red hair was split into two perfect curled waves, and he wore a black cuffed shirt with an apron the color of quartz.

"The pleasure is all yours," Farrier said with a booming voice. "Now get out of my sight, before I see that you never hold another sword that I've made again."

Alfred glared at Farrier but still gave the Master a small bow. He and the two women walked off, checking over their shoulders spitefully.

"As for you," Farrier said, crossing his arms and grinning. "I hear you're in need of an apprenticeship."