The Slime Farmer

"Inizar!"

A wall of flame, bright and scorching, met them as Sarel, without breaking stride, almost negligently tossed a flat card at it. Stone grew between them and the flames.

The orange colored glow of Sarel's power steadied Defi. He settled into a rhythm of exhale and inhale, viciously crossing weapons with a man who used two blades.

It was not a style of swordsmanship Defi had ever encountered before.

How interesting.

Quick strikes, quick retaliation, a swift and deadly style, but also – Defi ducked and kicked at the man's knees – quick to destabilize. He staggered back at the opponent's too quick recovery.

He was not fast enough. Blades slid against his, nicking flesh.

The man grinned. "Too slow."

Defi parried, parried again, slowly being pressed back.

"Inizar!" He heard the word again; it was swiftly becoming familiar.

"Sarel!"

"I'm busy! You haven't finished that one yet?"

He had thought himself a good swordsman, a fair dueler. And yet, he faltered here? Should he blame it on the unfamiliar balance of the stolen sword? The unfamiliar style of the opponent? The strange sorcery of the people?

His lips curled up, baring teeth. After what he said to Aire, this was the extent of his training?

Not hardly.

Sharpen your mind, harden your body, steel your heart. And behind all, the soft encompassing flurries of the Current.

He had not trained since the Treachery. But he had done all three just the same, had not forgotten the old oaths. His body moved and his sword flashed as he stepped into a dance.

He moved between and around the blades, letting them slide past, ignoring the numerous slight cuts, viciously taking what openings presented themselves.

"You've got some skill, you. But still, aren't you bleeding a little too much?" To match his words, his eyes leered feverishly at the blood staining Defi's tunic. A pale pink tongue licked lips blown dry by panting breaths.

"I'm not the only one."

The man laughed. Sparks fell over his body, the pale color of fine jade.

He ripped off his sleeve unexpectedly, baring the wounded arm, and laughed.

Defi understood the action when the large wound started to close.

In Ascharon, there was even sorcery like this?

Ontreans used the Current to benefit both body and mind. Each successive tier of mastery gave an adept chances to grow faster and stronger in body, quicker and more powerful in mind, more understanding in wisdom, but nothing to the effect Defi saw happening before his eyes.

A show of invulnerability, a trick to demoralize.

Defi smiled slightly.

The man's brows wrinkled together in confusion, anger. "What's so funny?"

Defi attacked, fiercer than ever, blows harder, strikes more precise. The most brutal dance, relying on strength and ruthlessness to overwhelm – what did two blades matter when the wielder could not take advantage of the openings?

Still, such a dance could not be held for long. And the moment Defi let up, those twin blades would once more come at him like a windstorm.

He hesitated.

No.

The moment he began this attack, it could only end in this.

Even with arms likely battered by Defi's blows, the man partially blocked the sword aimed directly at his throat. Blood gushed down the dirty white of the enemy's shirt.

The enemy snarled. "How are you…!"

A dark shadow flashed in his peripheral vision. Defi ducked, instinct roaring to the fore.

The arrow struck the earth like a message from heaven, and exploded.

"Sarel, archer!"

Had that been aimed at his head?

How harsh...

The twin bladed swordsman recovered quickly, launched himself at Defi.

Defi lunged.

The sound of a blade sliding into flesh and bone was indescribable. Horrifying. Unforgettable.

It clung to Defi's ears even as he turned away without hesitation, rushing one of the two sorcerers throwing all they had at Sarel.

Another arrow whistled past Defi.

He ignored the explosion, drove the sword into the sorcerer still standing. The flame-user dropped with a cry of pain. The other, distracted and already massively injured, wasn't able to stop the lance of stone that pierced him through.

Another keen whistle. They ducked. Explosion.

Sarel cursed.

Defi slumped against the garden wall.

The archer had not aimed at them, but at the building. The explosion scorched the outer wall of the orphanage, half blowing up one of the shutters.

It was clear provocation.

"Roof across the street," said Sarel. "I'll take care of it. Stay here."

Defi's lips twisted, but he swallowed the protest. She was the more mobile of the both of them. He could barely move through the pain of numerous cuts.

She took out a card, slapped it against the ground.

It disintegrated, and a tremor shook the buildings on the whole street violently. Defi idly hoped the people in their houses had their important ceramics secured properly.

No one could keep their footing in that earthquake.

Sarel sped across the street almost faster than Defi could blink, disappearing into the building.

Defi waited.

His eyes were on the sky.

Three dead bodies lay nearby, two directly his contribution.

The blood…it felt so sticky on him.

It was one thing to learn from a lecture that on the battlefield, survival depended on placing your life above that of an enemy. It was another thing entirely to feel this knowledge mix with the self-loathing and exultation that came with having experienced it in real life.

The building across the street crumbled into itself.

Defi stood slowly, limped toward the destroyed door. He paused, then turned back and gathered the cards strewn around the bodies of the two sorcerers.

Aire and Falie would know how to use them, certainly.

*

*

Natanel, former captain of the 3rd armored company of the 37th Imperial Division, had never thought to find himself fighting beside a known rebel.

"I'm retired," she said, larger than usual incisors showing in her smile. "Now can we blow those things up, or are you going to detain me, imperial dog?"

Natan turned away. "I need to get closer."

She smirked, tossed a sigilcard onto the water. She stepped onto the solid surface it formed on top of the lapping waters. "No talent making emblems that do anything other than kill?"

"I use mass-produced." He stepped onto the translucent platform beside her.

"Chelua, you're boring."

He studied the bands of water crawled up his legs. He moved, testing the resistance of the water-bands. Loose enough. He knew the basics of glyphmaking well enough to make modifications to the mass-produced sigilcards. He just never saw the point of making his own. His sword had been more than sufficient of a weapon for his years in the military.

They sped through the water, forming a sharp wake.

Natan took out his sigilcards. Most mass-produced cards never went above a level three. With a little tweaking however, any flame-aligned card could explode with power greater than its level rating.

The seakrait hissed at them as they neared and lowered itself into the water. The danger of seakraits was their speed beneath the waves, the reason why more than one person was needed to subdue one.

His companion tossed out a watercage, negating that advantage. The rebel Emra was known for her tactics and trickery, he recalled. The seakrait lashed and writhed violently inside it.

His eyes gleamed. "My turn."

The water exploded around them.

"I thought you used the cheap stuff!"

"I do."

She laughed, ignoring the seakrait blood and bits all over her. "Maybe you're a bit more interesting than I thought."

"I prefer boring."

She laughed harder. He impatiently directed her to the next target. It had been a while since he used his sigilcards.

The level ranking of a mystic animal depended on utility, power, and danger. Admittedly, it was more the latter two that was taken into consideration. Level ones were the weakest and mostly were summoned for utility like striped bulls for draft animals and monkey-hawks for post. Level tens were the most dangerous, and needed entire expeditions to capture or kill them.

A seakrait was a level four. Aggressive, difficult to control, with the strength and swiftness to hold off a team of experienced hunters.

So when the dockworker boss Natanel saw six – six! – seakraits rise from the waters of the lake, he immediately had the warnings sounded and all the people capable of helping called to the docks.

He knew some of the residents of the town came to live here because of the relative isolation and independence of the Lowpool, but he'd thought violent criminals would be less tolerant of the slow pace of life in the town.

Shows what he knew.

"What in the name of the Seven-Colored is that?" his companion yelled.

He turned.

A massive slime rose from the waters and engulfed one of the seakraits.

"Ah," he said. "That's...Turq."

He had wondered if the krait skeleton the boy Defi had sold some days ago to the fishers guild was in fact the reason the slime he had was such a large size. This was confirmation. But then, if the seakraits had been in the lake for days, why did they choose to attack now?

The slime propelled itself near them and engulfed their target.

Emra yelled in protest. Natan pushed down his matching disappointment.

Shouts sounded nearer the shore.

Another large slime, greener and with dark spots speckled in a line across its sides, was floating on the water. Natan could just barely make out the pattern of coils inside it. How many slimes did the boy have?

The last seakrait was embattled nearer the shore. Kern and Hames, both farmers if he recalled, had it restrained in chains made of water while others attacked it. A long, pale blue seakrait corpse was floating nearby.

"Let's go back."

"We barely did anything!"

"Do you want to continue this lovely cruise on the lake?" He waved at the battlefield. The fight had gone more smoothly than he expected.

She pushed him into the water.

Thankfully, it was near the shore.

He pulled himself up the docks, to see the others defeat the last seakrait. Movement near the warehouses caught his eye. Instinct blared.

"Enemies!" he roared.

Emra attacked immediately. As did Hames. But too few of the people here were battle-savvy enough to immediately arm.

Too late.

Within seconds, a number of his dockworkers had blades to their throats. Those who had heeded his warning unconscious and restrained.

He cursed at himself for not seeing it. He always had been more focused on the immediate problem, which was why he had never sought to rise above the rank of captain.

The greater problem now was: What were the odds that a pack of seakraits would have survived the damned Treachery intact?

He snorted inwardly.

Lower than the odds of there being an attack on the Lowpool, to be certain.

He eyed the mass of armed men surrounding those who had fought the seakrait. Half of them were showing Colors openly. Idiots. Why waste your energy on showing off?

Still.

His people were battered and exhausted, despite the slimes taking half the seakraits for their own. He made a note to gratefully thank the boy summoner. Their only casualties were broken bones. For a civilian town facing a pack of seakraits, this was an unbelievable victory.

But this, against humans…

This was not a fight to be won head-on.

His shoulders tensed and relaxed. "We will cooperate."

He glanced back. The waters of the lake were still and clear, no sign of slimes or seakrait corpses. His lips twitched.

**

**

*

Notes:

Inizar – the safety word for mass produced sigilcards, also known as the standard 'activation word'. To prevent activation accidents with sigilcards that are not custom-made.

Emblem – the overall design used to focus power into a particular effect. The components of this design or pattern are made of glyphs.

Colors – an Ascharonian term for sorcery, as the use of power is often accompanied by a show of light in the colors of the rainbow. A term taken from the patron deity of Ascharon who gave the people power, who is at times called the Seven-Colored.

[In certain other worlds, an emblem would similarly be called a 'runeworking' or a 'seal array' or various other terms appropriate to the locality. – from the journal of the Magician of Dimensions]